chapter three
He was out there not five minutes ago,” the old woman said, pointing through the window at the wooded part of the sprawling, uncared-for grounds. “Skulking, that’s wot ‘e was’, a thin, ugly brute with a fag ‘anging out of ‘is mouth and a ‘at pulled down over ‘is face like ‘e was ashamed of ‘is own ugliness.”
Joe Crawford thrust his hands into his trouser pockets and hunched his shoulders. “What did he want?” he asked, knowing who the man was and feeling a tightness in his stomach.
The old woman snorted. “ ‘Ow do I know? ‘ E said ‘e was selling insurance, but ‘e didn’t take me in. ‘E wanted to know ‘oo was living in the ‘ouse, but I told ‘im to ‘op it and I banged the door in ‘is face. You ought to ‘ave ‘card the way ‘e carried on, muttering and swearing to ‘isself. ‘E didn’t go far. Soon as ‘e got into the wood, ‘e dodged behind a tree, but I was watching ‘is lordship. ‘E’s still there now if I ain’t very much mistook.”
“All right,” Joe said, clenching his hands tightly. “I’ll see what he wants. You get on with your work. There’s no need to make a fuss.”
“Fuss?” the old woman repeated, her faded eyes alight with indignation. “
“Oos making a fuss?”
“Get on with your work,” snapped Joe, and he went out of the kitchen, through the big scullery, across the cobbled yard and into the garden.
It was a still, hot, bright afternoon. It was not an afternoon for fear, yet Joe was afraid deep down in his stomach which felt cold and tight. But that wouldn’t stop him going into the wood and hunting for the man in the black shirt. He had made up his mind that he’d show this man that it wasn’t going to be easy. If he showed him that then perhaps they would leave Kester Weidmann alone. Perhaps they’d think that whatever they had planned to do wouldn’t be worth the risk.
Joe didn’t really think that he could put them off, but he was desperate and he felt at least he had to try.
He walked down the winding path that led to the wood, his hands in his pockets and his head sunk down, feeling the old woman’s jeering eyes following him as she stood at the window.
It was cool and silent and dark in the wood. The sun penetrated the first fringe of the trees and then seemed to give up.
Although Joe was expecting to meet the man in the black shirt, he did not expect it to happen the way it did. He expected the man to jump out on him or he expected to come upon him hiding behind a tree or a bush and he expected there would be a struggle. But it didn’t happen like that at all.
He came into a clearing where the sun shone through the trees. It was a small, isolated glen surrounded by the trees and carpeted by grass and primroses. At the far end of the glen there was a great elm tree that had uprooted itself and had fallen years ago and no one had bothered to move it. The glen was a charming spot. The kind of place you would select for a picnic. It was an oasis in the silent, cold, hostile wood.
Joe was halfway across the glen, glad of the sudden sunlight, when he paused.
Butch was sitting on the fallen elm, his hat resting on the bridge of his nose and a cigarette hanging from his thin lips.
Joe looked at him.
“Hello,” Butch said, his big muscular hands folded on his knees.
Joe didn’t say anything.
“You know me, don’t you?” Butch said, after a pause.
Joe nodded. He envied Butch’s cold, unflurried confidence in himself and his strength.
Butch took his cigarette from his lips and flicked ash on to the grass.
“There’re only two of you, aren’t there?” he said, looking at Joe from under his hat brim. “You and the old woman.”
“It’s enough,” Joe said quietly.
Butch looked at him blankly. “The old woman’s useless,” he pointed out.
“What do you think you can do?”
Joe shifted his feet nervously, feeling the soft grass through the soles of his shoes yield to his tread. He didn’t say anything.
“If I were you I’d scram,” Butch went on. “I’d pull out while the going was good.”
“Not me,” Joe said, hunching his shoulders. “If people make trouble for me I make trouble for them.”
Butch paused to stub out his cigarette. He didn’t seem prepared for such obstinacy. “Yeah?” he said at last, pushing his hat to the back of his head. “Well, it’ll be your funeral.”
Joe flinched. “Why don’t you leave him alone?” he blurted out. “What’s he done to you?”
“Forget it,” Butch said standing up. “Nothing you can do will make any difference, so why don’t you get wise? Pull out while you’re in one piece.”
Some eight yards of grass separated them. They stood very still in the bright sunlight looking at each other, their shadows black and sharp on the grass.
“I’ll get along all right,” Joe said through stiff lips.
Butch wandered towards him until he was close and then he stopped.
Joe clenched his fists which were hidden in his pockets and again hunched his shoulders. His mouth was dry and his heart pounded, but he didn’t draw back, nor did he take his eyes from Butch’s cold, impressive face.
“If I thought you were going to be a nuisance, I’d kill you,” Butch said evenly.
Joe didn’t say anything. He stared into the empty eyes that threatened him and somehow he kept his fear a secret.
“I’m a killer,” Butch went on in a low conversational tone. “I haven’t killed a guy for a long time. It gets you if you keep off it for long.” I guess it’s in my blood. It’d do me good, but I want to be fair. I don’t want to knock you off unless I have a good excuse. It’s up to you. If you go away, I’ll have to forget about it, won’t I?”
“I’m not afraid,” Joe lied. “It won’t be easy. I’ll do what I can to stop you and to stop them.”
Doubt came into the empty eyes. “What can you do?” Butch asked. “You’re trying to stop a runaway steamroller.”
“They’ve been stopped before and they’ll be stopped again,” Joe said simply, aware of Butch’s doubt and feeling a spark of triumph light up in his mind. “It won’t be easy. I just want you to know that. I like to be fair too.”
Butch frowned. “You’re crazy,” he said, his black eyebrows drawn down into a frown. “A kid like you can’t do anything.”
“I’m just telling you,” Joe said, sensing that in some mysterious way he had managed to dominate the man in the black shirt. He knew it would only be a brief moment before Butch recovered. It would be dangerous and futile to say more so he turned abruptly and walked away, across the glen and into the dark wood.
He did not look back, but he knew Butch was staring after him, still doubtful, the ground, for a moment, cut from under him.
Joe walked steadily through the wood until he came to the big garden again.
His body ached with fear. His hands, still clenched tightly, were hot and wet. But that did not matter. He had stood up to the man in the black shirt and he had shown him that it would not be easy. That was all he could hope to do at the moment.
He went to the big garage, climbed the stairs and entered his small sitting room. It was a bright, clean room, skimpily furnished, masculine and hard. He stood by the window, his mind busy for some moments.
There was no doubt that Butch would kill him if he went on with this. Again he had no doubt in his mind that he would go on with it. He would stop them if he could. But suppose they went after him before he could do anything? They might. Butch might recover from his surprise and come after him right away.
He couldn’t afford to take risks. If he was killed who would protect Kester Weidmann? The old woman was useless.
The police? He shook his head. They wouldn’t believe him until it was too late. Besides they’d put Kester Weidmann in an asylum. He was sure of that. He didn’t want that to happen. The little man was harmless enough and he was happy in his sad way near the body of his brother. He wouldn’t last long if they put him away.