by the cluster of breadfruit trees. The archive case was securely under his arm; he knelt immobile in the moonlight and watched Piersall's house and grounds two hundred yards away. The body of the dead guard had not been found. Floyd's corpse had been carried into the house for the light necessary for a complete search of the dead body.
One man remained behind. The others had all raced into the eastern forests and down to the Martha Brae in pursuit of Moore and McAuliff.
That was precisely what Charles Whitehall thought would happen. And why he had not done as Barak Moore commanded.
There was a better way. If one acted alone.
The single Trelawny policeman was fat. He waddled back and forth by the wooded border of the lawn; he was pacing nervously, as if afraid to be alone. He carried a rifle in his hands, jerking it towards every sound he heard or thought he heard.
Suddenly there was gunfire far below in the distance, down at the river. It was full, rapid. Either much ammunition was being wasted, or Moore and McAuliff were having a bad time of it.
But it was his moment to move. The patrolman was hugging the edge of the forest, peering down. The gunfire was both his protection and the source of his fear. He cradled his rifle and nervously lighted a cigarette.
Charles got up and, clutching the archive case, raced through the tall grass behind the west flank of the field. He then turned right and ran towards Piersall's house, through the diminishing woods to the border of the entrance drive.
The two patrol cars stood peacefully in the moonlight, in front of the wide stone steps to High Hill. Whitehall emerged from the woods and crossed to the first vehicle. One door was open - the driver's door. The dim interior light shone over the black leather.
The keys were in the ignition. He removed them and then reached under the dashboard radio and ripped every wire out of the panel. He closed the door silently, ran to the second car, and saw that its keys were also in place. He walked rapidly back to the first car and as quietly as possible unlatched the hood. He yanked off the distributor cap and tugged at the rubber lid until it sprang loose from the wires.
He returned to the second vehicle, got in, and placed the archive case beside him. He pressed the accelerator several times. He checked the gearshift mechanism and was satisfied.
He turned the key in the ignition. The motor started instantly.
Charles Whitehall backed the patrol car out of the parking area, swung the wheel, and sped off down the drive.
Chapter Nineteen
NINETEEN
The doctor closed the patio door and walked out onto the terrace that connected Alison's and McAuliffs rooms. Barak Moore was in Alison's bed. She had insisted; no comments were offered, the decision was not debated.
Alex's upper left arm was bandaged; the wound was surface, painful, and not serious. He sat with Alison on the waist-high terrace sea wall. He did not elaborate on the night raid; there would be time later. Sam Tucker and Lawrence had taken positions at each end of the patio in order to keep any wanderers from coming into the small area.
The doctor, a black from Falmouth whom Lawrence had contacted at midnight, approached McAuliff. 'I have done what I can. I wish I felt more confident.'
'Shouldn't he be in a hospital?' Alison's words were as much a rebuke as a question.
'He should be,' agreed the doctor wearily. 'I discussed it with him; we concluded it was not feasible. There is only a government clinic in Falmouth. I think this is cleaner.'
'Barak is wanted,' explained Alex quietly. 'He'd be put in prison before they got the bullet out.'
'I sincerely doubt they would take the trouble to remove the bullet, Mr McAuliff.'
'What do you think?' asked Alex, lighting a cigarette.
'He will have a chance if he remains absolutely still. But only a chance. I have cauterized the abdominal wall; it could easily re rupture. I have replaced blood... yes, my office has a discreet file of certain individuals' blood classifications. He is extremely weak. If he survives two or three days, there is hope.'
'But you don't think he will,' stated McAuliff.
'No. There was too much internal bleeding. My... portable operating kit is not that good. Oh, my man is cleaning up. He will take out the sheets, clothing, anything that has been soiled. Unfortunately, the odour of ether and disinfectant