The House Of The Bears by John Creasey Page A

startlingly like Fyson’s. ‘Don’t worry,’ he went on, in a normal voice. ‘I’ve been practising that for six months. The day might come when I’ll fool someone. What about it?’
    Palfrey said: ‘Where is your car?’
    ‘At the foot of the hill.’
    ‘Let’s get him there,’ said Palfrey. ‘And get my wife to the car, too.’
    At the American’s insistence, they first took Fyson to his car. The man did not stir, but once he was sitting in a corner, with a large handkerchief round his head to keep the blood off the upholstery, the American insisted that he be given a shot of morphia.
    ‘I don’t want him to get away while we’re collecting your wife,’ he explained.
    There was no harm in it, and Palfrey humoured him before they went back for Drusilla. She was beginning to come round, and talking wildly.
    ‘But don’t you see, Sap, everything turns on Loretta’s fiancé. It must do.’ Drusilla had never said that to him; she rarely tried to guide him; she was against him taking part in such affairs, hating them because of grim memories of being hunted in Europe. ‘Of course it does. Everything turns on this man Garth, if you could only find him.’
    The American’s hand suddenly closed about Palfrey’s wrist. In the dim light from inside the car, Palfrey saw the man’s face, no longer merry and smiling, but grim and set. The American said, in a slow voice: ‘Say, what’s this about Garth? How do you know Garth? If you know Garth, you must know Fyson.’
    ‘I don’t know either of them,’ Palfrey hesitated, then moved his hand suddenly, gripping the American’s, and twisted slightly. The man gasped and stood transfixed.
    Palfrey released him. ‘Sorry. Showing off. Your grip isn’t good.’
    ‘Flying geese!’ exclaimed the American. ‘I didn’t think you had it in you. I asked for that.’
    ‘I’m in a hurry,’ said Palfrey. ‘Garth’s fiancée is lying dangerously ill at a sanatorium not far from here, and is asking for me. If I hadn’t taken the wrong road, I would be there by now.’
    ‘That’s a great pity,’ said the American. ‘Let’s get to my car. I guess I want to hear your story pretty badly, Palfrey.’
    ‘I hope to hear yours.’
    The American knew of a wide stretch of road not far down, where Palfrey was able to reverse. Once that nerve-racking job was over, the rest was plain sailing. At the foot of the hill, the American’s car was parked on a grass verge; it was a Packard with a roomy body.
    ‘I’ll come with you, I guess,’ he said. ‘It will mean tying Fyson up and leaving him where he can’t be found, and leaving the car here. You’ll have to bring me back tonight if I can’t get a taxi.’
    ‘I’ll bring you if it’s necessary,’ promised Palfrey.
    Together they lifted the unconscious man and carried him a little way up the side of the hill. There they left him behind a rock, bound and gagged.
    ‘I wonder what Inspector Hardy would think if he could see me now,’ said Palfrey.
    ‘Maybe you can tell him one day,’ said the American. They walked back to Palfrey’s car. ‘You’re sure Fyson won’t die on me?’
    ‘He won’t die. He’s well wrapped up and sheltered from the wind. I can’t guarantee that he won’t be spirited away.’
    They reached the car and, with a grin, the American held out his hand. ‘You’re with Mr. Nicholas Kyle,’ he said.
    ‘Good evening, Mr. Kyle,’ Palfrey said, gravely. He began to talk. The man who called himself Nicholas Kyle smoked cigarette after cigarette, but did not interrupt. Palfrey omitted only his conclusions about Morne’s visit to Mylem Pool, not seeing how that could affect Kyle’s interest in the affair.
    The lights of a town appeared as Palfrey concluded.
    ‘Well, that’s not bad,’ admitted Kyle. ‘It’s a story I would be proud to own myself, Palfrey. Are we in Wenlock?’
    ‘It looks very much like it.’
    The sanatorium, Palfrey learned from a policeman on traffic duty in the