Fear is the Key by Alistair MacLean Page B

acolour-blind man wearing smoked glasses. I calledhim across.
    â€˜Room 14?’ I asked. ‘Which way, please?’
    â€˜Mr Brooks?’ I nodded, and he went on: ‘I’veleft all the keys ready. Down this way.’
    â€˜Thank you.’ I looked at him. Grey and bent andthin and the faded old eyes the clouded mirrorsof a thousand sorrows and defeats. ‘What’s yourname?’
    â€˜Charles, sir.’
    â€˜I want some whisky, Charles.’ I passed moneyacross. ‘Scotch not bourbon. And some brandy.Can you?’
    â€˜Right away, sir.’
    â€˜Thanks.’ I let in the gear, drove down the blockto No. 14. It was at the end of a narrow peninsulabetween the gulf to the left and a kidney-shapedswimming pool to the right. The garage door wasopen and I drove straight in, switched off the carlights, closed the sliding door in the near-darkness,then switched on the overhead light.
    At the inner end of the left-hand wall a singledoor led off the garage. We went through this,into a kitchenette, neat, hygienic and superblyequipped if all you wanted was a cup of coffeeand had all night to make it. A door led off thisinto the bed-sitting-room. Lilac carpet, lilac drapes,lilac bedspread, lilac lamp-shades, lilac seatcovers,the same excruciating motif wherever you looked.Somebody had liked lilac. Two doors off this room:to the left, let into the same wall as the kitchendoor, the door to the bathroom: at the far end, thedoor leading into the corridor.
    I was in the corridor within ten seconds ofarriving in the room, dragging the girl after me. Thecloset was no more than six feet away, unlocked,and my bag still where it had been left. I carriedit back to the room, unlocked it and was about tostart throwing stuff on the bed when a knock cameto the door.
    â€˜That will be Charles,’ I murmured. ‘Open thedoor, stand well back, take the bottles, tell him tokeep the change. Don’t try to whisper, make signsor any clever little jumps out into the middle ofthe corridor. I’ll be watching you from the crackof the bathroom door and my gun will be lined upon your back.’
    She didn’t try any of those things. I think shewas too cold, miserable and exhausted by theaccumulated tension of the day to try anything.The old man handed over the bottles, took thechange with a surprised murmur of thanks andclosed the door softly behind him.
    â€˜You’re frozen and shivering,’ I said abruptly.‘I don’t want my insurance policy to go catchingpneumonia.’ I fetched a couple of glasses. ‘Somebrandy, Miss Ruthven, then a hot bath. Maybeyou’ll find something dry in my case.’
    â€˜You’re very kind,’ she said bitterly. ‘But I’ll takethe brandy.’
    â€˜No bath, huh?’
    â€˜No.’ A hesitant pause, a glint in her eyes moreimagined than seen, and I knew I’d been mistakenin imagining her to be too worn out to try anything.‘Yes, that too.’
    â€˜Right.’ I waited till she’d finished her glass,dumped my case on the bathroom floor and stoodto let her pass. ‘Don’t be all night. I’m hungry.’
    The door closed and the key clicked in thelock. There came the sound of water running intothe bath, then all the unmistakable soaping andsplashing sounds of someone having a bath. Allmeant to lull any suspicions. Then came the soundof someone towelling themselves, and when, aminute or two later, there came the furious gurglingof water running out of the waste pipe, Ieased myself off the door, passed through thetwo kitchen doors and outside garage door justin time to see the bathroom window open and alittle cloud of steam come rushing out. I caught herarm as she lowered herself to the ground, stifledthe frightened gasp with my free hand, and led herback inside.
    I closed the kitchen door and looked at her. Shelooked fresh and scrubbed and clean and had oneof my white shirts tucked into the waistband