alistairmaclean.nightwithoutend-第26部分

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rest　in　the　sport。
　
　Or　take　his　manager；　Solly　Levin；　or；　for　that　matter；　the　Rev。　Joseph　Small　wood。　Solly　wasn't　a　New　York　boxing　manager；　he　was　a　caricature　of　all　I　had　ever　heard　or　read　about　these　Runyonesque　characters；　and　he　was　just　too　good　to　be　true：　so；　also；　was　the　Rev。　Small　wood；　who　was　so　exactly　the　meek；　mild；　slightly　nervous；　slightly　anaemic　man　of　God　that　preachers　are　so　frequently　represented　to　be…and　almost　invariably　never　are　…that　his　movements；　reactions；　ments　and　opinions　were　predictable　to　the　nth　degree。　But；　against　that；　I　had　to　set　the　fact　that　the　killers　were　clever　calculating　men　who　would　have　carefully　avoided　assuming　the　guise　of　any　character　so　patently　cut　from　cardboard：　on　the　other　hand；　they　might　have　been　astute　enough　to　do　just　that。
　
　There　was　a　question　mark；　too；　about　Corazzini。　America　specialised　in　producing　shrewd；　intelligent；　tough　business　leaders　and　executives；　and　Corazzini　was　undoubtedly　one　such。　But　the　toughness　of　the　average　business　man　was　purely　mental：　Corazzini　had　physical　toughness　as　well；　a　ruthlessness　I　felt　he　wouldn't　hesitate　to　apply　to　matters　lying　far　outside　the　immediate　sphere　of　business。　And　then　I　realised；　wryly；　that　I　was　prepared　to　suspect　Corazzini　for　reasons　diametrically　opposed　to　those　for　which　I　was　prepared　to　suspect　Levin　and　the　Rev。　Smallwood：　Corazzini　didn't　fit　into　any　pattern；　any　prefabricated　mental　image　of　the　American　business　man。
　
　Of　the　two　remaining　men；　Theodore　Mahler；　the　little　Jew；　and　Senator　Brewster；　I　would　have　taken　the　former　any　time　as　the　more　likely　suspect。　But　when　I　asked　myself　why；　I　could　adduce　no　more　damaging　reasons　than　that　he　was　thin；　dark；　rather　embittered　looking　and　had　told　us　absolutely　nothing　about　himself：　and　if　that　weren't　prejudice　on　my　part；　I　couldn't　guess　what　was。　As　for　Senator　Brewster；　he　was　surely　above　suspicion：　and　then　the　startling　thought　struck　me　that　if　one　wished　to　be　above　suspicion　surely　there　were　no　better　means　of　achieving　that　than　by　assuming　the　identity　of　someone　who　was　above　suspicion。　How　did　I　know　he　was　Senator　Brewster？　A　couple　of　forged　papers；　a　white　moustache　and　white　hair　on　top　of　a　naturally　florid　plexion　and　anyone　could　have　been　Senator　Brewster。　True；　it　would　be　an　impersonation　impossible　to　sustain　indefinitely：　but　the　whole　point　was　that　any　such　impersonation　didn't　have　to　be　sustained　indefinitely。
　
　I　was　getting　nowhere　and　I　knew　it：　I　was　more　confused；　more　uncertain；　and　infinitely　more　suspicious　than　ever。　I　was　even　suspicious　of　the　women。　The　young　German　girl；　Helene　…Munich　was　her　home　town；　near　enough　Central　Europe　and　the　skulduggery　that　went　on　in　the　neighbourhood　of　the　iron　curtain　for　anything　to　be　possible：　but　on　the　other　hand　the　idea　of　a　seventeen…year…old　master　criminal…we　certainly　weren't　dealing　with　apprentices…was　ridiculously　far…fetched；　and　the　fact　that　she　had　fractured　her　collar…bone；　almost　sure　proof　that　the　crash　had　been　unexpected；　was　a　strong　point　in　her　favour。　Mrs　Dansby…Gregg？　She　belonged　to　a　world　I　knew　little　about；　except　for　what　slight　information　I　had　gleaned　from　my　psychiatric　brethren；　who　found　rich　fishing　in　the　troubled　waters　of　what　passed　for　the　younger　London　society：　but　instability　and　neuroses…not　to　mention　the　more　than　occasional　financial　embarrassment…were　not　criminal　in　themselves；　and；　in　particular；　that　world　lacked　what　people　like　Zagero　and　Corazzini　had　in　full　measure…the　physical　and　mental　toughness　required　for　a　job　like　this。　But　particularising　from　the　general　could　be　every　bit　as　dangerous　and　misleading　as　generalising　from　the　particular：　of　Mrs　Dansby…Gregg；　as　a　person；　I　knew　nothing。
　
　That　left　only　Marie　LeGarde。　She　was　the　touchstone；　the　one　rock　I　could　cling　to　in　this　sea　of　uncertainty；　and　if　I　were　wrong　about　her　so　too　had　been　a　million　others。　There　are　some　things　that　cannot　be　because　they　are　unthinkable；　and　this　was　one　of　them。　It　was　as　simple　as　that。　Marie　LeGarde　was　above　suspicion。
　
　I　became　gradually　aware　of　the　muted　clack　of　the　anemometer　cups　turning　sluggishly　in　the　dying　wind　above　and　that　the　hiss　of　the　Colman　lamp　had　bee　abnormally　loud：　a　total　silence　had　fallen　over　the　cabin　and　everyone　was　staring　at　me　with　mingled　puzzlement　and　curiosity。　So　much　for　my　impassive　features；　my　casual　negligent　ease：　so　clearly　had　I　betrayed　the　fact　that　something　was　far　wrong　that　not　one　of　the　nine　had　missed　it。　But　to　be　the　centre　of　attraction　at　the　moment　suited　me　well　enough：　Jackstraw　had　just　made　his；　entry　unobserved；　a　Winchester　repeater　cradled　under　his　arm；　his　finger　ready　through　the　trigger　guard。
　
　〃Sorry；〃　I　apologised。　〃Rude　to　stare；　I　know。　However；　now　it's　your　turn。〃　I　nodded　in　Jackstraw's　direction。　〃Every　expedition　carries　a　gun　or　two…for　coast　use　against　prowling　bears　and　wolves　and　to　get　seal　meat　for　the　dogs。　I　never　thought　that　it　would　e　in　so　handy　right　in　the　middle　of　the　ice…cap…and　against　far　more　dangerous　game　than　we　ever　find　on　the　coast。　Mr　Nielsen　is　a　remarkably　accurate　shot。　Don't　try　anything　…just　clasp　your　hands　above　your　heads。　All　of　you。〃
　
　As　if　controlled　by　a　master　switch；　all　the　eyes　had　now　swivelled　back　to　me。　I'd　had　time　to　spare　to　pull　out　the　automatic…a　9　mm　butt…loading　Beretta…that　I'd　taken　off　Colonel　Harrison：　and　this　time　I　didn't　forget　to　slide　off　the　safety…catch。　The　click　was　abnormally　loud　in　the　frozen　silence　of　the　room。　But　the　silence　didn't　last　long。
　
　〃What　damnable　outrage　is　this？〃　Senator　Brewster　shouted　out　the　words；　his　face　purpling　in　rage。　He　leapt　to　his　feet；　started　to　move　forwards　towards　me　then　stopped　as　if　he　had　run　into　a　brick　wall。　The　crash　of　Jackstraw's　Winchester　was　a　deafening；　eardrum　shattering　thunderclap　of　sound　in　that　confined　space：　and　when　the　last　reverberations　of　the　rifle…shot　had　faded　and　the　smoke　cleared　away；　Senator　Brewster　was　staring　down　whitely　at　the　splintered　hole　in　the　floor　boards；　almost　literally　beneath　his　feet：　Jackstraw　must　have　miscalculated　the　Senator's　rate　of　movement；　for　the　bullet　had　sliced　through　the　edge　of　the　sole　of　Brewster's　boot。　However　it　was；　the　effect　couldn't　have　been　bettered：　the　Senator　reached　back　blindly　for　the　support　of　the　bunk　behind　him　and　lowered　himself　shakily　to　his　seat；　so　terrified　that　he　even　forgot　to　clasp　his　hands　above　his　head。　But　I　didn't　care　about　that：　there　would　be　no　more　trouble　from　the　Senator。
　
　〃OK；　so　you　mean　business。　Now　we're　convinced。〃　It　was　Zagero　who　drawled　out　the　words；　but　his　hands　were　tightly　enough　clasped　above　his　head。　〃We　know　you　wouldn't　do　this　for　nothin'；　Doc。　What　gives？〃
　
　〃This　gives；〃　I　said　tightly。　〃Two　of　you　people　are　murderers　…or　a　murderer　and　murderess。　Both　have　guns。　I　want　those　guns。〃
　
　〃Succinctly　put；　dear　boy；〃　Marie　LeGarde　said　slowly。　〃Very　concise。　Have　you　gone　crazy？〃
　
　〃Unclasp　your　hands；　Miss　LeGarde；　you're　not　included　in　this　little　lot。　No；　I'm　not　crazy。　I'm　as　sane　as　you　are；　and　if　you　want　evidence　of　my　sanity　you'll　find　it　out　on　the　plane　there　…or　buried　out　on　the　ice…cap：　the　captain　of　the　plane　with　a　bullet　through　his　spine；　the　passenger　in　the　rear　with　a　bullet　through　his　heart　and　the　second　officer　smothered　to　death。　Yes；　smothered。　Not　cerebral　haemorrhage；　as　I　said：　he　was　murdered　in　his　sleep。　Believe　me；　Miss　LeGarde？　Or　would　it　take　a　personal　tour　of　the　plane　to　convince　you？〃
　
　She　didn't　speak　at　once。　Nobody　spoke。　Everyone　was　too　stunned；　too　busy　fighting　incredulity　and　trying　to　assimilate　the　meaning　of　the　shocking　news　I'd　given　them…everyone；　that　is；　except　two。　But　though　I　scanned　eight　faces　with　an　intensity　with　which　I　had　never　before　examined　people　I　saw　nothing　…not　the　slightest　off…beat　gesture；　the　tiniest　guilty　reaction。　As　for　what　I'd　secretly　hoped　for…a　guilty　interchange　of　glances　…well；　the　idea　now　seemed　hopelessly；　laughably　improbable。　Whoever　the　killers　were；　they　were　in　perfect　control　of　themselves。