The two masks of vendett.., p.23
The Two Masks of Vendetta, page 23
Freddie climbed down onto another fire escape at the other side of the building.
“Have you done this before?” asked Catriona.
“In my past life I was a cub reporter,” he quipped.
They climbed down the fire escape, down several floors, until finally they reached the bottom.
“My car’s parked in a garage off Broome,” said Freddie. “We just have to make it there.”
They ran across the street around to the garage. The police officers by now were climbing down the fire escape after them.
“Hey, stop!”
Freddie opened the garage door and they jumped into his convertible. He started the engine and sped out of the garage. The convertible turned right and headed uptown past the running police officers.
“I think we’ve lost them,” said Freddie, settling behind the wheel.
Catriona looked over her shoulder as a strong wind ruffled her hair. There was no sign of a police car following them. She glanced back at Freddie.
“I’m afraid the police will be after you for aiding and abetting.”
“In for a penny, in for a pound,” Freddie shrugged cavalierly at the wheel.
Freddie drove up Broadway and then turned right for a few blocks before turning onto Madison. When they reached Midtown, he parked the car in an alleyway a few blocks from the Kingston Collection. The rear door of the gallery was within sight, but they were far away so they wouldn’t be noticed.
“What do we do now?” Catriona asked.
“We wait,” Freddie said. “It’s a stakeout.”
A couple of hours later, dusk fell outside the Kingston Collection. They saw a black van pull up to the rear entrance. A man jumped out of the driver’s seat.
“It’s Jeroen,” whispered Catriona. “What’s he doing?”
“Looks like he’s putting something in the back of the van.”
They ducked down as the car passed them. Freddie turned on the engine. “OK, let’s follow him.”
They followed the truck as it rumbled through the dark streets of Lower Manhattan. Freddie kept his distance, mindful that Jeroen wouldn’t notice that he was being followed. The truck turned off Broadway and was heading into Tribeca.
“Where do you think he’s going?” said Catriona.
“It looks like he’s heading for the docks.”
Sure enough, Jeroen turned right. It was twilight and the docklands of New York were dark and shadowy. The Hudson River loomed ahead like a black snake. A full moon shone in the cloudless sky.
The truck rumbled into the docks, stopping a few feet from a pile of containers.
Freddie slowly pulled the convertible to a halt a few hundred feet from the docks. They crouched down in the front seats waiting to see what would happen.
Catriona saw Jeroen step out of the truck. He walked to the rear, opened the door and brought something out.
“What’s he carrying?” Catriona wondered.
“Looks like a box of some kind.”
He reached for his camera from the glove compartment and opened the car door.
“Time to take a closer look,” Freddie said.
Jeroen carried the box towards the cargo containers at the end of the dock. Another man approached rapidly. He was wearing a white vest and trousers, the familiar uniform of a longshoreman. Jeroen talked rapidly to him out of earshot.
A large cargo ship was docked behind them next to a tall yellow crane. In the foreground some container boxes were stacked, ready to be loaded onto the ship.
“Let’s try to hear what they are saying,” said Freddie.
They stepped out of the car and crept towards the men, staying in the shadows. A large container was tipped on its side with the lid open. They crouched down behind it. Freddie poised his camera.
“Look!” whispered Catriona. “The name on the side of the ship.”
It read Lady Scotia.
“So that’s the Lady Scotia,” marveled Freddie. “Of course, it all makes sense now.”
“Where do you think she’s going?” whispered Catriona.
“Possibly South America. Maybe Rio,” replied Freddie.
Freddie lifted his camera. It had a very long telephoto lens that allowed him to take good pictures of Jeroen talking to the longshoreman.
His camera clicked away taking half a dozen photographs. They would be valuable evidence in a court of law.
Catriona was pleased. She imagined herself dramatically walking into the jury box wearing a wide-brimmed hat and veil like Joan Crawford. Taking the witness stand, she would swear to tell the whole truth and nothing but. Below her, Grace was sitting in the dock looking drab in prison garments and a guilty expression etched across her face.
“Yes, your honor,” Catriona was saying to the judge. “I believe Grace to be guilty of murdering my husband.”
There was a plaintive meow and something jumped up onto the crate. It was a black cat.
“Shoo!” Catriona said.
Freddie was continuing to take pictures. The cat meows were getting louder.
“Please, go away,” Catriona said. She tried to shoo the cat away with her hands, fearful that its screeching would alert the men.
Freddie stopped taking pictures.
“Stay still,” he whispered to Catriona.
The men had heard something and were looking around. Catriona froze. Above her, the cat wouldn’t budge from the container but continued to meow. Worse still it had set off Catriona’s allergies. She was desperate to sneeze, but didn’t dare to.
“Did you hear something?” said the longshoreman.
Jeroen shone a torch in the darkness. He flashed it in Freddie and Catriona’s direction.
Catriona did everything she could not to sneeze, but the cat’s presence set off a violent reaction. Despite herself, she sneezed.
“Don’t move a muscle,” a voice said from behind.
Catriona looked up and saw that a gun was pointed at her head. A man she had never seen before, perhaps another longshoreman, was holding the gun. The cat jumped down and disappeared at the sight of the man.
“Come on, get up on your feet,” the man said in a thick Irish brogue.
He motioned with his gun for Freddie and Catriona to start walking towards Jeroen and the other longshoreman. As they got closer the Irish man shouted to Jeroen.
“Would you take a look at what I found hiding behind some containers. Taking pictures.”
Jeroen looked at them in fury. He started shouting obscenities in Dutch. He approached them, his face full of contempt.
“Hand over the camera,” said Jeroen. “Hand it over!”
Freddie reluctantly gave him his prized camera.
Jeroen opened the film compartment and tore out the strip. “So you won’t take any more pictures.”
“What are you doing here, Jeroen?” asked Catriona.
“I’ll be the one to ask the questions,” he spat.
“Looks like we’ve caught a couple of sewer rats.” The voice was soft and feminine.
A figure stepped out of the shadows. It was Grace. She was wearing a black hooded coat and dark trousers. Her face was pale in the moonlight, her lips red, and her eyes malevolent.
“You!” said Freddie.
Grace looked at them with a hard, smug expression.
“Freddie Swann,” said Grace. “You just don’t know where not to stick your nose or your camera, do you?” She turned to Catriona. “And, as for you, I knew you were trouble the moment Miles brought you home.”
Catriona smiled. “And I knew there was more to you than meets the eye. I mean, no woman could be that dull.”
Grace’s eyes flashed with fury.
“What are we going to do with them?” said Jeroen. “They probably know about the paintings.”
“We will take them out to sea in the Lady Scotia,” said Grace. “And then drop them overboard. No one will miss them.”
So it was true, Catriona thought. Grace was capable of murder. She wondered if she had killed Miles.
One of the longshoremen, whose name was Sparky, moved to tie up Catriona and Freddie with some rope that was lying on the docks. Sparky was an ex-boxer and had large, rough hands. As a boy he had strangled chickens with them.
“Listen, Grace, be reasonable,” said Freddie. “No one has to know about this. Don’t do anything that you’ll regret.”
Grace was finding Freddie’s pleas pathetic and endearing. She smiled again with malice. “Put them in one of the containers.”
Sparky grinned and opened the lid of one of the empty containers that was soon to be hoisted on board.
“Get in,” Grace shouted, pointing her small gun at them.
Freddie and Catriona didn’t move.
Grace cocked the trigger. “I won’t say it again.”
“Before we go in there, can I ask you a question?” Catriona said. “Did you kill Miles?”
Grace gave a hard laugh.
“I’m not going to dignify that question by answering it. Miles was my own flesh and blood, despite him being queer.” Her voice turned cold. “Now get in!”
Catriona looked at Freddie. He nodded and she followed him into the crate. There was straw at the bottom and nothing else, so they had to crouch down rather awkwardly inside.
“Bon voyage,” said Grace. “I hope you have a pleasant trip.” The two longshoremen lifted the lid of the container and started to seal it shut. “Give my regards to Davey Jones for me,” Grace added.
The lid was sealed and the crate boarded up.
Through the semi darkness, Catriona prayed. She never thought things would end this way.
21
Once the crate lid had been shut, Freddie and Catriona were trying to figure a way to get out. Their plight seemed hopeless. Some light filtered through the cracks in the wood but not much.
Catriona was glad it was too dark to see Freddie’s face, because she felt very ashamed. They were destined for a watery grave. She thought about the Pollack painting, Ocean Greyness, and how the swirling figures in the mass reflected her own state of mind.
“I’m sorry, Freddie.”
“What for?” he said, managing to sound cheery in such dire circumstances.
“For getting you mixed up in all of this.”
“Are you kidding? This is the most excitement I’ve had in years. It beats photographing the new Paris line, that’s for sure.”
“That’s sweet of you to say, but it may cost you your life.”
Freddie was silent.
There was a heavy clunking noise. The crane machinery started to work as a metal lifting hook was attached to the container. Then they felt it being lifted up into the air and towards the ship. The container swung back and forth in mid-air, making Catriona feel sick. Only a miracle could save them now.
Meanwhile Freddie was struggling to free his hands from the rope.
“I think I can break free from this,” he said, fidgeting with his binds.
Catriona tried with her hands but the rope was firmly tied around her wrists.
“Got it,” shouted Freddie as the rope fell onto the straw.
He turned around in the darkness and set to work on untying Catriona.
Suddenly the crate stopped in mid-air. Catriona and Freddie heard cries and voices. A couple of gunshots rang out in the darkness.
“What’s going on?” whispered Catriona.
“I don’t know.” He moved over to the side of the crate and tried to squint through the cracks in the wood. He could make out some men on the side of the dock in black suits carrying guns.
Catriona and Freddie were dangling in the air back and forth. The machinery started again and the crate was lowered back onto the docks.
“Open it up,” a voice said.
Catriona thought she recognized the voice, coarse and Italian.
There was some heaving clunking as the lid of the crate was removed from the crane hooks. Catriona and Freddie looked up as the lid was removed, revealing the New York starry night sky.
Some faces peered into the contents of the crate.
“Mrs. Kingston,” said a raspy voice.
It was Louis Ferrero. He chuckled.
“You do find yourself in the most unfortunate of situations. I open the crate expecting to find the Madonna and Child and what I find is you.”
He gestured for them to step out.
Catriona and Freddie climbed out of the crate. Catriona was rubbing her wrists and pulling straw out of her hair. She could see that Ferrero’s men were holding Grace, Jeroen and one of the longshoremen hostages. Sparky, the Irishman, was on the floor, bleeding from a gunshot wound in his leg, but no one seemed to be paying him any attention.
Ferrero took the cigar out of his mouth and threw it on the ground.
“Now what am I to do with you?” he said to Catriona.
“You could always let us go?” Catriona ventured.
Ferrero chuckled again.
“I’ll deal with you in a minute. First, I have more pressing matters.” He swung his gun towards Grace. “Now I’ll ask you again, Miss Kingston, where is the Caravaggio painting?”
Grace remained silent with a resolute expression on her face. Catriona had seen that look before and knew that Grace would not be easily swayed.
Ferrero cocked the trigger of his revolver. “My patience is running out.”
“For God’s sake, Grace tell them! Otherwise they will kill us,” Jeroen snapped.
“Shut up, you coward!” snarled Grace.
“Very well,” said Ferrero and lifted his gun and pointed the muzzle at Grace’s head.
“No, stop, wait!” Catriona cried out.
Ferrero sighed. “Mrs. Kingston, I’m beginning to run out of patience with you, too.”
“You don’t have to shoot,” said Catriona. “Grace will tell you where the painting is, won’t you?”
Grace looked at Catriona as if she was mad. “No, I certainly will not!”
Freddie interjected. “For goodness sake, Grace, just tell the guy, otherwise he’s going to kill us all.”
Suddenly they were interrupted by a loud voice that boomed through a megaphone in the darkness.
“This is the FBI. You are surrounded. Drop your weapons and put your hands up.”
Ferrero and his men whirled around, their guns pointing in the darkness.
“I said put down your weapons,” said the voice through the megaphone again.
“Fire over there,” instructed Ferrero at the empty blackness where the voice echoed from.
The men fired their guns towards the far end of the docks. In return, the FBI men retaliated with a round of bullets.
Catriona and Freddie were caught in the crossfire.
“Get down,” Freddie urged, diving to the ground.
Catriona dropped onto the hard tarmac. Bullets ricocheted all around them. They started to crawl away on the ground. One of Ferrero’s men turned his gun and shouted for them to stay where they were.
There was a lead pipe lying by one of the open containers ready for packing. Catriona picked up the pipe and swung it at the man who was holding the gun at them, knocking it out of his hand. It spun into the darkness.
“Run!” shouted Freddie. He took Catriona’s hand and ran. In her left hand, Catriona was still holding the lead pipe.
“Hey, stop them!” Grace shouted to Jeroen.
Jeroen started to run after the disappearing Freddie and Catriona, but was shot in the leg by one of Ferrero’s men. He cried out in pain and fell to the ground bleeding.
Freddie and Catriona ran behind one of the crates. Bullets cascaded around, chipping the wood and narrowly missing them.
“I wish I had my camera,” said Freddie, ever the investigative photographer. “This is priceless.”
“Who called the FBI?” wondered Catriona.
“I don’t know, but I’m glad they’re here.”
Ferrero’s men continued to fire their machine guns at the FBI. The agents retaliated with a round of gunfire.
One of the Italians was hit. Catriona recognized it to be Sonny, Ferrero’s lead henchman who had stolen the fake painting. His heavy bulk fell to the floor, blood oozing from his chest.
“Stop there! This is the police! No one move! Put your hands up,” said a familiar voice. “The game’s up.”
Catriona recognized the voice of Detective Radcliffe.
Another of Ferrero’s men started to make a run for it. One of the policemen shot him in the back and he fell with a heavy splash into the murky blackness of the Hudson River.
Catriona looked around but Ferrero had disappeared. The remaining few men put their guns down and their hands up. Slowly the police came from behind the containers, guns pointing. Catriona could see that Detective Radcliffe was with them.
They took Grace and Jeroen into custody. Ordinarily, Catriona would have smiled at the sight of the prim and proper Grace in handcuffs. Jeroen was nursing his leg and complaining loudly how much pain he was in, but elicited little sympathy from the officers.
Catriona looked at the lead pipe that she was clutching as a weapon. “Well, I guess I don’t need this anymore,” she said, and tossed the pipe to the ground.
Freddie and Catriona stepped out from behind the crates. She never thought she’d be so relieved to see Detective Radcliffe.
“Thank you, Detective,” Catriona said as the bulky detective came towards them.
“My men have been keeping a watch on the docks for some time now. We’ve been trying to crack Ferrero’s ring for months. We got a tip from one of our scouts there was some action down at the docks.”
She looked at Freddie and smiled with relief. “It’s over.”
“Not quite,” said Detective Radcliffe. “Mrs. Kingston, I’m placing you under arrest.”
Catriona’s hands were held behind her back and put in handcuffs.
“You too, Mr. Swann,” said Radcliffe.
Freddie’s hands were cuffed as well, and they were both bundled into the back of a police car.
22
