India Black and the Gentleman Thief

EIGHTEEN


“I was hoping you’d come for me, India. Now hand over your gun.” I did so reluctantly. Philip bent down gently and placed it on the floor, all the while covering me with his own revolver.

“What the devil are you doing here, Philip? You’re supposed to be on your way to India.”

“Some of the boys and I got off in Lisbon. Our services were needed here.”

“You wouldn’t shoot me, would you, Philip?”

The fellow took a deuced long time to answer. When he did, he didn’t sound entirely reassuring. “Let’s not put that proposition to the test. It would be best if you cooperated with me. I don’t plan to be captured, India. I don’t enjoy gaol. The food is terrible and some of the inmates could do with a bath.”

I didn’t really think Philip would murder me, but then I’d once been sure that he wouldn’t use me to steal the Rajah’s Ruby. That scenario had played out in my favour, but I wasn’t certain this one would.

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m sure you’ve twigged that you’re my hostage now. We’ll just walk out together.”

“And then?”

“What happens next depends on your friends downstairs.”

I couldn’t vouch for Homer but I felt sure that French would not do anything that would result in my being harmed. Unless he thought I’d surrendered myself to Philip to ensure my old lover’s escape. Oh, dear. I cast back over the past weeks. Had I been convincing when I’d assured French I had no feelings for Philip? God, I hoped I had, or things might get sticky.

“India?” French’s voice, coming from the hallway.

“Are you ready?” Philip grasped my right arm using his left hand. His right hand held his revolver, which he pointed at my head. “Open the door and step into the hall.”

I did as instructed. As I stepped into the corridor I saw French stalking slowly toward us. The big Boxer came up and locked on me, then realizing it was me, French let it fall.

“No luck?” he asked.

“Only the bad sort,” said Philip. He shoved me into the hall and followed on my heels. Then he clamped his arm tightly around my neck and pulled me to him so that our bodies presented a single silhouette. French’s arm jerked up and once again I found myself on the business end of his Boxer.

“Put it down,” said Philip.

“You’re not going to shoot her,” French said. “You had your chance to kill her on the Sea Lark and you couldn’t do it.”

“I was leaving the country. Since she posed no threat to me then I could play the gentleman and arrange for her escape. But the stakes are rather higher for me now. I don’t want to shoot her. God knows I’m fond of the wench. But I’ll do what I must to leave here a free man. Put down your weapon.”

You may have thought that I would say something idiotic like, “Shoot him, French!” but I chose not to for fear that French might actually fire the gun, and for fear that if he did he might miss his target and end up putting a bullet squarely between my eyes. Better to let this play out and see what developed.

French let the Boxer fall from his hand. The heavy revolver sounded like a cannon as it crashed to the floor.

“And now?” asked French.

“Tell your compatriot down there that we will be coming down the stairs and he should place his weapon on the floor. If he doesn’t comply, then I’ll shoot you.”

I could almost feel the anger rising off French. He leaned over the banister. “Homer, India and I have been taken hostage. We’re coming down. The chap up here has a gun pointed at India and he’s threatened to shoot us both. Put your gun on the floor.”

“Dammit, French. I can’t do that. Do you know how long I’ve been pursuing this bloody Greek?”

“I’m sorry, Homer. Please do as I ask.”

I heard a clunking noise as Homer placed his pistol on the floor of the entry hall.

“Step away from the gun, Homer,” called Philip. He waved his own weapon at French. “You lead the way. India and I will be right behind you.”

French walked slowly down the stairs. I stumbled along behind him, it being difficult to navigate a series of steps when a bloke’s got you in a chokehold. I could feel Philip’s breath on my cheek, hot and ragged. He was scared, poor chap, and that scared me. I hoped French and Homer wouldn’t mount a rescue operation once we reached the entry hall, for it was very likely Philip’s nerve would give way and French and I might end up in a touching farewell scene, if I lived long enough to participate.

We reached the bottom of the steps after an agonizing descent.

“Barrett,” said Vasapoulis hoarsely. “I’ve been shot in the leg, but I can still travel. Shoot them all. Then fetch my case from the library and harness the horses. Hurry, man!”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

“What? Why not?”

“Sorry, old boy, but you’ll only slow me down.”

“You won’t live long enough to regret that decision,” said Vasapoulis. “I’ve men all over the world. Your life is mine.”

I recalled the fate of Colonel Mayhew. I couldn’t help but feel that Philip had made a tactical error. Gaol couldn’t be any worse than being hunted across the globe by Vasapoulis’s henchmen.

“Oh, I can’t live like that.” Philip’s tone disturbed me. It was febrile and high-pitched and he sounded nothing at all like the suave fellow I knew. He dragged me closer to Vasapoulis and we looked down into that dark face, now twisted with pain. But there was no fear in the Greek’s eyes, only contempt.

“You and Welch were two of a kind,” said Vasapoulis through gritted teeth. “Two weak links. I should have killed you earlier.”


“You’ll never have the chance now,” said Philip. His body shook and I could feel the moist heat rolling off him. He aimed the revolver at Vasapoulis’s head.

“Don’t do it, Phillip. You can testify against him. The authorities will protect you,” I said.

A bark of laughter from Vasapoulis ended in a snarl. “I own the authorities. Your life is forfeit, Barrett.”

I sighed. Really, Vasapoulis was doing nothing to aid his cause, taunting and provoking Philip like that. The Greek surely knew what kind of man he was dealing with; Philip was a coward. But the prospect of being cut to ribbons did not entice. Under those circumstances, my former lover did what most men would do. He steadied his wavering hand and shot Vasapoulis in the face.

The noise deafened me, but the audacity of his act must have stunned Philip for he loosened his grip on my neck. French, dedicated agent that he was, decided that Philip was likely to be distracted, having just murdered the Greek, and launched himself at my captor. But Philip still had the presence of mind to raise his revolver and I tore loose from his arm, wrenching my neck but freeing myself for action. I shoved Philip’s arm skyward and there was a second great explosion as he pulled the trigger again. Then Philip stepped aside and shoved me at French and the poncy bastard crashed into me and knocked me arse over teakettle. I heard Homer shout and French grunt as the door to the house burst open and Philip pelted out of it. There was a mad scramble in the hall as Homer searched for his weapon and French scrabbled on the floor for the dead Greek’s gun, but by the time the two men had secured revolvers and followed Philip out into the night it was too late. The gutless poltroon had vanished into thin air. Homer and French spent a half hour crashing through bushes and checking the outbuildings but the search was in vain. Philip would be bolting over the hills, no doubt headed to the nearest bolt-hole he’d created for himself. I had no doubt he’d snatch the first opportunity to board a ship out of England.

As for us, we’d done well. The prime minister would be pleased that the smuggling ring had been broken up, and no one would mourn the loss of the thugs lying dead in the farmhouse. I knew French would disagree, but I had no qualms about Philip’s escape. I had no doubt that Vasapoulis was merely a cog in a machine, and that when it became known that Philip had shot the Greek like a rabid dog, someone from Vasapoulis’s organization would be on his trail. It would be a long time before Philip could rest his head at night without fear of being yanked out of bed and cut down. I cannot say the prospect pleased me. But for him, French, Vincent and I might be floating in the English Channel now. I felt we all owed him a bit of gratitude for that. However, I did not take kindly to being held hostage, nor did I approve of Philip’s attempt to shoot French. I wasn’t sorry to see Philip go. He needed a change of scenery, for England would be too hot for him for years to come.

I found a box of matches and a candle on the chest and lit the wick. The scene in the hallway was macabre, what with Vasapoulis and his henchman lying on the floor in separate pools of blood. I scurried upstairs and retrieved my Bulldog and French’s Boxer. I’d have been damned displeased if I had lost French’s gift. Then I went to the library. I rounded up all the loose papers and documents lying about and stuffed them into Vasapoulis’s case and carried it into the hall.

Homer and French returned, winded and irritated at Philip’s escape.

“Bastard,” said French.

“He is that. But he’ll be running for the rest of his life once the rest of Vasapoulis’s gang hears about this. They’ll be out for revenge. Philip will have to lie low for a long time. We won’t be troubled with him anymore.”

French came to stand beside me and rested an arm around my shoulder, pulling me close. “We?”

“Yes, we.”