alistairmaclean.nightwithoutend-第16部分

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he　wound　in　the　stewardess's　back。　And　if　she　had　been　here　at　the　moment　of　impact；　that　was　the　wall　she　must　have　been　flung　against。　The　inference　was　inescapable…she　must　have　been　elsewhere　at　the　time　of　the　crash。　I　remembered　now；　with　chagrin；　that　I　hadn't　even　bothered　to　see　whether　or　not　she　was　conscious　when　we'd　first　found　her　lying　on　the　floor。
　
　Across　the　passage　in　the　radio　partment　I　found　what　I　was　looking　for　almost　immediately…I'd　a　pretty　good　idea　where　to　look。　The　thin　sheet　metal　at　the　top　left…hand　corner　of　the　radio　cabinet　was　bent　almost　half　an　inch　out　of　true：　and　it　didn't　require　any　microscope　to　locate　or　forensic　expert　to　guess　at　the　significance　of　the　small　dark　stain　and　the　fibres　of　navy　blue　cloth　clinging　to　the　corner　of　the　smashed　set。　I　looked　inside　the　set　itself；　and　now　that　I　had　time　to　spare　it　more　than　a　fleeting　glance　it　was　abundantly　clear　to　me　that　the　wrenching　away　of　the　face…plate　didn't　even　begin　to　account　for　the　damage　that　had　been　done　to　the　set：　it　had　been　systematically　and　thoroughly　wrecked。
　
　If　ever　there　was　a　time　when　my　thoughts　should　have　been　racing　it　was　then；　but　the　plain　truth　is　that　they　weren't。　It　was　abominably　cold　inside　the　chilled　metal　of　that　dead　plane；　and　my　mind　was　sluggish；　but　even　so　I　knew　that　this　time　I　couldn't　be　wrong　about　what　had　happened。　I　could　see　now　why　the　second　officer　had　sent　out　no　distress　messages。　I　could　see　now　why　he　had　almost　certainly　been　sending　out　his　regular　'on　route…on　time'　checks　to　base。　Poor　devil；　he　hadn't　had　much　option　…not　with　the　stewardess　sitting　there　with　a　gun　on　him。　It　must　have　been　a　gun。　It　was　no　consolation　at　all　that　the　crash　had　caught　her　unprepared。
　
　A　gun！　Gradually；　ever　so　gradually；　in　infuriating　slow…motion　process；　thoughts　were　beginning　to　click　into　place　in　my　numbed　mind。　Whoever　had　landed　that　plane；　landed　it　so　skilfully　into　the　blinding　maelstrom　of　last　night's　blizzard；　it　hadn't　been　a　dead　man。　I　straightened；　walked　forward　into　the　control　cabin　and　shone　my　torch　on　the　dead　captain　of　the　plane。　As　I'd　noticed　when　I'd　first　seen　him；　he　appeared　to　be　pletely　unmarked；　and　I　don't　know　whether　it　was　some　unconscious　process　of　logical　reasoning　or　some　strange　instinct　that　made　me　right　away　lift　up　the　crackling　ice…stiffened　tunic　j　acket　enough　to　see　the　black　powder…ringed　bullet　hole　in　the　middle　of　the　spine。　I　had　been　expecting　it；　I　had　been　uncannily　certain　that　I　would　find　such　a　hole；　and　find　it　just　there：　but　my　mouth　was　suddenly　dry；　dry　as　if　I　had　drunk　nothing　for　days；　and　my　heart　was　thudding　heavily　in　my　chest。
　
　I　lowered　the　jacket；　pulled　it　down　into　position；　turned　away　and　walked　slowly　towards　the　rear　of　the　plane。　The　man　the　stewardess　had　called　Colonel　Harrison　was　still　sitting　as　I　had　left　him；　propped　up　stiffly　in　a　er；　as　stiffly　as　he　would　remain　there　for　heaven　only　knew　how　many　frozen　centuries　to　e。
　
　The　jacket　was　fastened　by　a　central　button。　I　undid　it；　saw　nothing　except　a　curious　thin　leather　strap　running　across　the　chest；　undid　a　shirt　button；　another；　and　there　it　was；　the　same　deadly　little　hole；　the　same　powder…ringed　evidence　of　point…blank　firing　staining　the　whiteness　of　the　singlet。　But　in　this　case　the　powder　marks　were　concentrated　on　the　upper　part　of　the　ring；　showing　that　the　pistol　had　been…directed　in　a　slightly　downward　angle。　On　a　hunch；　but　still　like　a　man　in　a　dream；　I　eased　him　forward；　and　there；　less　like　a　bullet　hole　in　the　jacket　than　an　inconsequential　rip　one　might　easily　overlook；　was　the　point　of　exit；　matched　by　an　equally　tiny　tear　in　the　padding　of　the　upholstered　seat　behind。　At　the　time；　that　carried　no　special　significance　for　me。　Heaven　knows　that　I　was　in　no　mental　frame　of　mind　at　the　moment；　anyway；　to　figure　anything　out。　I　was　like　an　automaton；　the　movements　of　which　were　controlled　by　something　outside　me。　I　felt　nothing　at　the　time；　not　even　horror　at　the　hideous　thought　that　the　man's　neck　might　well　have　been　cold…bloodedly　broken　after　death　to　conceal　its　true　cause。
　
　The　leather　strap　across　the　man's　chest　led　to　a　felt…covered　holster　under　the　arm。　I　took　out　the　little　dark　snub…nosed　automatic；　pressed　the　release　switch　and　shook　the　magazine　out　from　the　base　of　the　grip。　It　was　an　eight　shot　clip；　full。　I　replaced　it　and　shoved　the　gun　into　the　inside　pocket　of　my　parka。
　
　There　were　two　inside　breast　pockets　in　the　jacket。　The　left…hand　one　held　another　clip　of　ammunition；　in　a　thin　leather　case。　This；　too；　I　pocketed。　The　right…hand　pocket　held　only　passport　and　wallet。　The　picture　on　the　passport　matched　the　face；　and　it　was　made　out　in　the　name　of　Lieut。…Colonel　Robert　Harrison。　The　wallet　contained　little　of　interest…a　couple　of　letters　with　an　Oxford　postmark；　obviously　from　his　wife；　British　and　American　currency　notes　and　a　long　cutting　that　had　been　torn　from　the　top　half　of　a　page　of　the　New　York　Herald　Tribune；　with　a　mid…September　date…mark；　just　over　two　months　previously。
　
　For　a　brief　moment　I　studied　this　in　the　light　of　my　torch。　There　was　a　small；　indistinct　picture　of　a　railway　smash　of　some　kind；　showing　carriages　on　a　bridge　that　ended　abruptly　over　a　stretch　of　water；　with　boats　beneath；　and　I　realised　that　it　was　some　kind　of　follow…up　story　on　the　shocking　train　disaster　of　about　that　time　when　a　loaded　muters'　train　at　Elizabeth；　New　Jersey；　had　plunged　out　over　an　opened　span　of　the　bridge　into　the　waters　of　Newark　Bay。　I　was　in　no　mood　for　reading　it　then；　but　I　had　the　obscure；　unreasonable　idea　that　it　might　be　in　some　way　important。
　
　I　folded　it　carefully；　lifted　up　my　parka　and　thrust　the　paper　into　my　inside　pocket；　along　with　the　gun　and　the　spare　ammo　clip。　It　was　just　at　that　moment　that　I　heard　the　sharp　metallic　sound　ing　from　the　front　of　the　dark　and　deserted　plane。
　
　
　CHAPTER　FIVE…Monday　6　P。M。…7　P。M。
　
　For　maybe　five　seconds；　maybe　ten；　I　sat　there　without　moving；　as　rigid　and　motionless　as　the　dead　man　by　my　side；　bent　right　arm　frozen　in　the　act　of　folding　the　newspaper　cutting　into　my　parka　pocket。　Looking　back　on　it；　I　can　only　think　that　my　brain　had　been　half　numbed　from　too　long　exposure　to　the　cold；　that　the　shock　of　the　discovery　of　the　savagely　murdered　men　had　upset　me　more　than　I　would　admit　even　to　myself；　and　that　the　morgue…like　atmosphere　of　that　chill　metal　tomb　had　affected　my　normally　unimaginative　mind　to　a　degree　quite　unprecedented　in　my　experience。　Or　maybe　it　was　a　bination　of　all　three　that　triggered　open　the　floodgates　to　the　atavistic　racial　superstitions　that　lurk　deep　in　the　minds　of　all　of　us；　the　nameless　dreads　that　can　in　a　moment　destroy　the　tissue　veneer　of　our　civilisation　as　if　it　had　never　been；　and　send　the　adrenalin　pumping　crazily　into　the　bloodstream。　However　it　was；　I　had　only　one　thought　in　mind　at　that　moment；　no　thought；　rather；　but　an　unreasoning　blood…freezing　certainty：　that　one　of　the　dead　pilots　or　the　flight　engineer　had　somehow　risen　from　his　seat　and　was　walking　back　towards　me。　Even　yet　I　can　remember　the　frenzy　of　my　wild；　frantic　hope　that　it　wasn't　the　co…pilot；　the　man　who　had　been　sitting　in　the　right…hand　pilot's　seat　when　the　telescoping　nose　of　the　airliner　had　folded　back　on　him；　mangling　him　out　of　all　human　recognition。
　
　Heaven　only　knows　how　long　I　might　have　sat　there；　petrified　in　this　superstitious　horror；　had　the　sound　from　the　control　cabin　not　repeated　itself。　But　again　I　heard　it；　the　same　metallic　scraping　sound　as　someone　moved　around　in　the　darkness　among　the　tangled　wreckage　of　the　flight　deck；　and　as　the　touch　of　an　electric　switch　can　turn　a　room　from　pitch　darkness　to　the　brightness　of　daylight；　so　this　second　sound　served　to　recall　me；　in　an　instant；　from　the　thrall　of　superstition　and　panic　to　the　world　of　reality　and　reason；　and　I　dropped　swiftly　to　my　knees　behind　the　high　padded　back　of　the　seat　in　front　of　me；　for　what　little　shelter　it　offered。　My　heart　was　still　pounding；　the　hairs　still　stiff　on　the　back　of　my　neck；　but　I　was　a　going　concern　again；　my　mind　beginning　to　race　under　the　impetus　invariably　provided　by　the　need　for　self…preservation。
　
　And　that　self…preservation　entered　very　acutely　into　it　I　did　not　for　a　moment　doubt。　A　person　who　had　killed　three　times　to　achieve　her　ends　…1　had　no　doubt　at　all　as　to　the　identity　of　the　person　in　the　control　cabin；　only　the　stewardess　had　seen　me　leave　for　the　plane…and　protect　her　secret　wouldn't　hesitate　to　kill　a　fourth。　And　she　knew　her　secret　was　no　longer　a　secret；　not　while　I　lived；　I　had　stupidly　made　my　suspicions　plain　to　her。　And　not　only　was　she　ready　to　kill；　but　she　had　the　means　to　kill…of　the　fact　that　she　carried　a　gun　and　was　murderously　ready　to　use　it　I'd　had　grisly　evidence　in　the　past　few　minutes。　Nor　need　she　hesitate　to　use　it：　apart　from　the　fact　that　falling　snow　had　a　peculiarly　blanketing　effect　on　all　sound；　the　south　wind　would　carry　the　crack　of　a　pistol…shot　away　from　the　cabin。
　
　Then　something　snapped　inside　my　mind　and　I　was　all　of　a　sudden　fighting　mad。　Perhaps　it　was　the　thought　of　the　four　dead　men…five；　including　the　co…pilot…perhaps　it　was　the　inevitable　reaction　from　my　panic…stricken　fear　of　a　moment　ago；　and　perhaps；　too；　it　had　no　little　to　do　with　the　realisation　that　I；　too；　had　a　gun。　I　brought　it　out　from　my　pocket；　transferred　the　torch　to　my　left　hand；　jumped　up；　pressed　the　torch　button　and　started　running　down　the　aisle。
　
　It　was　proof　enough　of　my　utter　inexperience　in　this　murderous　game　of　hide…and…seek　that　it　was　not　until　I　was　almost　at　the　door　at　the　forward　end　of　the　cabin　that　I　remembered　how　easy　it　would　have　been　for　anyone　to　crouch　down　behind　the　backs　of　one　of　the　rearward　facing　front　seats　and　shoot　me　at　point…blank　range　as　I　passed。　But　there　was　no　one　there　and　as　I　plunged　through　the　door　I　caught　a　fleeting　glimpse　of　a　dark　muffled　figure；　no　more　than　a　featureless　silhouette　in　the　none　too　powerful　beam　of　my　torch；　wriggling　out　through　the　smashed　windscreen　of　the　control　cabin。
　
　I　brought　up　my　automatic…the　thought　that　I　could　be　indicted　on　a　murder