Puppet on a Chain. Alistair MacLeanЧитать онлайн книгу.
the dark man’s hurried departure combined with my weaving staggering run and blood-streaked face had clearly alerted them to the fact that there was something amiss, for two of the immigration officials tried to detain me but I brushed by them – ‘brushed’ was not the word they used in their later complaints – and passed through the exit door the dark man had just used.
At least, I tried to pass through it, but the damned door was blocked by a person trying to enter. A girl, that was all I’d the time or the inclination to register, just any girl. I dodged to the right and she dodged to the left, I dodged to my left, she dodged to her right. Check. You can see the same performance take place practically any minute on any city pavement when two over-polite people, each bent on giving the right of way to the other, side-step with such maladroit effectiveness that they succeed only in blocking each other’s way: given the right circumstances where two really super-sensitive souls encounter each other the whole embarrassing fandango can continue almost indefinitely.
I’m as quick an admirer of a well-executed pas de deux as the next man but I was in no mood to be detained indefinitely and after another bout of abortive side-stepping I shouted ‘Get out of my damned way’ and ensured that she did so by catching her by the shoulder and shoving her violently to one side. I thought I heard a bump and exclamation of pain, but I ignored it: I’d come back and apologize later.
I was back sooner than I expected. The girl had cost me not more than a few seconds, but those few seconds had been more than enough for the dark man. When I reached the concourse, the inevitably crowded concourse, there was no sign whatsoever of him, it would have been difficult to identify a Red Indian chief in full regalia among those hundreds of apparently aimlessly milling people. And it would be pointless to alert the airport security police, by the time I’d established my bona fides he’d be half-way to Amsterdam: even had I been able to get immediate action, their chances of apprehending the dark man would have been remote: highly skilled professionals were at work here, and such men always had the options on their escape routes wide open. I retraced my steps, this time at a leaden trudge, which was by now all I could muster. My head ached viciously but compared to the condition of my stomach I felt it would have been wrong to complain about my head. I felt awful and a glimpse of my pale and blood-smeared face in a mirror did nothing to make me feel any better.
I returned to the scene of my ballet performance where two large uniformed men, with holstered pistols, seized me purposefully by the arms.
‘You’ve got the wrong man,’ I said wearily, ‘so kindly take your damned hands off me and give me room to breathe.’ They hesitated, looked at each other, released me and moved away: they moved away nearly all of two inches. I looked at the girl who was being talked to gently by someone who must have been a very important airport official for he wasn’t wearing a uniform. I looked at the girl again because my eyes ached as well as my head and it was easier looking at her than at the man by her side.
She was dressed in a dark dress and dark coat with the white roll of a polo-necked jumper showing at the throat. She would have been about in her mid-twenties, and her dark hair, brown eyes, almost Grecian features and the olive blush to her complexion made it clear she was no native of those parts. Put her alongside Maggie and Belinda and you’d have to spend not only the best years of your life but also most of the declining ones to find a trio like them, although, admittedly, this girl was hardly looking at her best at that moment: her face was ashen and she was dabbing with a large white handkerchief, probably borrowed from the man at her side, at the blood oozing from an already swelling bruise on her left temple.
‘Good God!’ I said. I sounded contrite and I felt it for no more than the next man am I given to the wanton damaging of works of art. ‘Did I do that?’
‘Of course not.’ Her voice was low and husky but maybe that was only since I’d knocked her down. ‘I cut myself shaving this morning.’
‘I’m terribly sorry. I was chasing a man who’s just killed someone and you got in my way. I’m afraid he escaped.’
‘My name is Schroeder. I work here.’ The man by the girl’s side, a tough and shrewd-looking character in perhaps his mid-fifties, apparently suffered from the odd self-depreciation which unaccountably afflicts so many men who have reached positions of considerable responsibility. ‘We have been informed of the killing. Regrettable, most regrettable. That this should happen in Schiphol Airport!’
‘Your fair reputation,’ I agreed. ‘I hope the dead man is feeling thoroughly ashamed of himself.’
‘Such talk doesn’t help,’ Schroeder said sharply. ‘Did you know the dead men?’
‘How the hell should I? I’ve just stepped off the plane. Ask the stewardess, ask the captain, ask a dozen people who were aboard the plane. KL 132 from London, arrival time 1555.’ I looked at my watch. ‘Good God! Only six minutes ago.’
‘You haven’t answered my question.’ Schroeder not only looked shrewd, he was shrewd.
‘I wouldn’t know him even if I saw him now.’
‘Mm. Has it ever occurred to you, Mr – ah—’
‘Sherman.’
‘Has it ever occurred to you, Mr Sherman, that normal members of the public don’t set off in pursuit of an armed killer?’
‘Maybe I’m sub-normal.’
‘Or perhaps you carry a gun, too?’
I unbuttoned my jacket and held the sides wide.
‘Did you – by any chance – recognize the killer?’
‘No.’ But I’d never forget him, though. I turned to the girl. ‘May I ask you a question, Miss—’
‘Miss Lemay,’ Schroeder said shortly.
‘Did you recognize the killer? You must have had a good look at him. Running men invariably attract attention.’
‘Why should I know him?’
I didn’t try to be shrewd as Schroeder had been. I said: ‘Would you like to have a look at the dead man? Maybe might recognize him?’
She shuddered and shook her head.
Still not being clever, I said: ‘Meeting someone?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Your standing at the immigration exit.’
She shook her head again. If a beautiful girl can look ghastly, then she looked ghastly.
‘Then why be here? To see the sights? I should have thought the immigration hall in Schiphol was the most unsightly place in Amsterdam.’
‘That’ll do.’ Schroeder was brusque. ‘Your questions are without point and the young lady is clearly distressed.’ He gave me a hard look to remind me that I was responsible for her distress. ‘Interrogation is for police officers.’
‘I am a police officer.’ I handed over my passport and warrant card and as I did Maggie and Belinda emerged from the exit. They glanced in my direction, broke step and stared at me with a mixture of concern and consternation as well they might considering the way I felt and undoubtedly looked, but I just scowled at them, as a self-conscious and injured man will scowl at anyone, who stares at him, so they hurriedly put their faces straight again and moved on their way. I returned my attention to Schroeder, who was now regarding me with a quite different expression on his face.
‘Major Paul Sherman, London Bureau of Interpol. This makes a considerable difference, I must say. It also explains why you behaved like a policeman and interrogate like a policeman. But I shall have to check your credentials, of course.’
‘Check whatever you like with whoever you like,’ I said, assuming that Mr Schroeder’s English grammar wouldn’t be up to picking faults in my syntax. ‘I suggest you start with Colonel Van de Graaf at the Central HQ.’
‘You know the Colonel?’
‘It’s