Elephant Song - Smith Wilbur - Страница 53

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They were all locked.

In the garage wall nearest the driver's side of the Cadillac there was a door that obviously connected with the main house.  Chetti Singh would have to come through that.

He probably had another fifteen minutes before the fire alarm was reported and Chetti Singh came rushing into the garage to drive to the scene of the fire.  It was a long time for Daniel to wait, and he tried to put from his mind any consideration of the morality of what he was about to do.

Killing Chawe had been an act of self-defence, but Daniel had killed deliberately before, during the bush war.  However, he had never derived any pleasure or satisfaction from it, as some of the others had done.

Even though it had been his duty as a soldier, the sickening guilt and remorse after each episode had built.  up slowly within him.  That guilt had contributed overwhelmingly to the final revulsion and rejection of the whole ethic of the war which had led him to join the Alpha group.

Yet here he was preparing to kill again, in a much more cold blooded and calculating manner.  Those other nameless victims that he had left as blood-soaked bundles lying in the battlescorched veld had been patriots too, in their own light, brave black men, almost certainly braver than he, who had been prepared to die for their own vision of freedom and justice.  In the end they had succeeded where he had failed.  Even though long dead, their vision still burned brightly where his had dimmed and faded away.  The Rhodesia he had fought for no longer existed.  For him those long-ago killings had been an obscene ritual, without passion and, he now realised, without morality.

On the other hand, could he justify what he was about to do by the memory of Johnny Nzou?  Could he convince himself of the justice of it, become executioner when no judge had passed sentence?  Was there enough angry fire in his belly to carry it through?

Then he remembered Mavis Nzou and her children, and the fire burned up brightly.  He knew he could not turn away from it.  He had to do it.

He knew he would be sick with guilt after the fire of his anger had turned to cold grey ash, but he had to do it.

Somewhere in the house beyond the door he heard a telephone ring.

Daniel stirred, shaking himself like a spaniel coming from the water on to the bank, throwing off the doubts and uncertainty.  He tightened his grip on the stock of the shotgun and lifted it to high port.

There were hurried footsteps beyond the door, the lock turned and then it was thrown open.  A man came through.  The light was behind him and for a moment Daniel did not recognize Chetti Singh without his turban. He stooped beside the Cadillac.

His keys tinkled as he searched for the lock, and cursed softly when he could not find it and turned back to the light switch on the wall.

Light flooded the garage.

Chetti Singh was bare-headed.  His long, never-trimmed hair and beard twisted up into a top-knot on his head were lightly streaked with grey.

His back was still half-turned to Daniel as he fingered the bunch of keys, and then thrust one of them into the Cadillac's door lock.

Daniel stepped up behind him and poked the muzzle of the shotgun into his back.  Don't do anything heroic, Mr.  Singh.  Mr.  Purdey is looking down your spine.  Chetti Singh's body froze, but his head swivelled slowly until he was gawking at Daniel over one shoulder.

I thought.  . . he said, and then caught himself.

Daniel shook his head.  It didn't work out that way.  Chawe wasn't very bright, I'm afraid.  You should have fired him long ago, Mr.

Singh.  Now move around to the other side of the car, but move slowly.

Please let us keep our dignity.  He jabbed the gun into the Sikh's back, hard enough to bruise him through the thin cotton shirt which was all he wore above a pair of khaki slacks and sandals.  Chetti Singh had obviously dressed in great haste.

They moved in close file around the front of the Cadillac's fancy radiator grille to the passenger door.

Open the door.  Get in, Daniel instructed.

Chetti Singh settled himself on the gleaming leather upholstery, and looked up into the barrel of the shotgun only inches from his face.  He was sweating more heavily than the warm night air warranted.  Beads of sweat twinkled on his beaky nose and slid down his cheeks into the plaited beard.  He smelt of curry spices and fear, but there was a tiny spark of hope in his eyes as he offered the keys of the Cadillac to Daniel through the open door.  Arc you going to drive?  Here are the keys; take them.

I place myself in your hands, absolutely.  Nice try, Mr.  Singh, Daniel smiled coldly.  But you and Mr.  Purdey are not going to be separated for a moment.  just slide across to the driver's seat, nice and slowly.

Awkwardly Chetti Singh moved his big frame across the console between the seats, grunting with the effort, and Daniel prodded him with the shotgun.

That's it.  You are doing very well, Mr.  Singh.  He slid into the passenger seat as Chetti Singh settled at the wheel.  He held the shotgun across his lap, out of sight of any casual observer, but with the muzzle still pushed hard into the Sikh's lower ribs.

With his free hand he closed the door.  All right.  Start up.  Drive out.

As the headlights swept across the lawns, they lit the body of one of the Rottweilers lying on the grass.  My dogs, my daughter is very fond of them.  She has my commiserations.  Daniel gave the taunt back to him.

But the animal is doped, not dead.  They drove out into the street.

My shop, my supermarket in town is on fire.  I think this is your doing, Doctor.  It is an investment of several millions.  Again, you have my commiserations, Daniel nodded.  It's a tough life, Mr.  Singh, but worse for the insurance company than for you, I imagine.  Now drive to the warehouse please.  The warehouse?  Which warehouse?  Where you and Chawe and I met earlier today, Mr.  Singh.

That warehouse.  Chetti Singh turned in the correct direction, but he was still sweating.  The smell of curry and garlic was very strong in the confined interior of the Cadillac.  With his free hand Daniel adjusted the air-conditioning.

Neither of them spoke but Chetti Singh kept glancing in the rearview mirror, obviously hoping for assistance.  However, the streets were deserted until they stopped at a traffic light at the entrance to the industrial area.  Then headlights flooded the interior from the rear, and a Landrover pulled up alongside them.  It was painted grey and when Daniel glanced sideways at it, he made out the peaked cap brims of the two police constables in the front seat.

Beside him he felt Chetti Singh stiffen and gather himself.

Stealthily the Sikh reached out for the door handle at his side.

Please, Mr.  Singh, Daniel said pleasantly.  Don't do it.

Blood and guts all over the upholstery will ruin your Caddie's resale value.  Chetti Singh deflated slowly.  One of the police constables was now staring across at them.  Smile at him, Daniel instructed.

Chetti Singh turned his head and snarled like a rabid dog.

The constable looked away hurriedly.  The lights changed and the Landrover pulled forward.

Let them get ahead, Daniel instructed.

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