The Possessors

  He said to George, “Have you got the dice on you?”

  Douglas said, in an incredulous tone: “Dice?”

  A faint smile twisted the edge of George’s mouth. He had taken the point. The could eliminate Douglas, an unskilled player, fairly easily, and then settle it between them. He said, “Always carry them.” He brought the dice in their small leather case from an inside pocket. “No pot, though. I’ll go and recce for something.”

  Douglas said, “This is damn silly. It would be a lot quicker to draw lots.”

  “Less fun, though,” Selby said. “And we’re not pressed for time. We shall hear them if they start shifting that sideboard.”

  “I think it’s ridiculous.”

  But, having made his protest, he was, Selby thought, not unhappy. The odds were very much against his winning. He had a means of escape with honor.

  George, returning, said, “I’ve found this.” It was a weather-beaten blue plastic mug. “Not very wonderful, but it’ll do.” He broke the dice from their case. “Aces up, kings towards.”

  It was George who won the right to start, with a king against two knaves. He threw, and passed to Selby.

  “Two pairs.”

  There were aces and tens, with a nine. Selby took the nine out, and tossed it open. It showed a queen. He slid the mug to Douglas.

  “Full house. Queens on tens.”

  Douglas took the pot, looked under it, hesitated and, with a wry grin, brought the dice out. He left the two aces, and threw the remaining three. He passed the pot to George, without looking under it.

  “Four aces,” he said.

  George lifted the pot. The dice were ace, ten, nine. He said briefly, “Bad luck,” rattled, and threw. Having looked, he passed it to Selby. His gaze was fixed, unwavering.

  “Full house. Jacks on nines.”

  It was not there. Selby knew that with utter certainty. Another pre-emptive false call, as on the occasion when they had been dicing for the smaller, less frightening stakes of the night watch. George would have his escape with honor, too.

  He lifted the pot. There was nothing there at all—at least, nothing but a pair of nines.

  “Well,” he said, “that settles it.”

  “No!”

  He looked up and saw George staring at him, and realized that he had permitted himself to smile, and that George had seen it and known the conclusion he had reached about his play. He cursed himself for a fool, and said mildly, “Got to stick by the rules, George. We all agreed to the conditions.”

  “First life,” George said. He was smiling, also, but with anger. “Two to go.”

  “We didn’t say three lives.”

  “We didn’t need to. We always play three lives, except when it’s been agreed to the contrary. Fair enough, Douglas?”

  And Douglas, of course, had to agree. He nodded.

  “Yes, I would think so.”

  Selby said, “Two lives. How about that?”

  George nodded, satisfied. “Right. You’re away.”

  With a life in hand, Selby was in a position to make the running. He called three queens to Douglas, with knaves, nines and a ten under the pot. Douglas threw the ten for a full house, but looked under the pot and made the call without conviction. George took the top off, and showed an ace.

  “That leaves us then, Selby,” he said. He rattled, threw, and looked. “Well, I can’t afford a lot, can I? Pair of aces.” Selby took them, threw a third ace, was given a full house, hesitated, and accepted it. There were two tens under the pot. He threw them, called the fourth ace. George lifted the pot, and showed knave and nine.

  “Putting us level,” he said. “You’re away.”

  Selby threw, and looked at what he had got. A broken straight. He hesitated, realized that his hesitation had been marked, and said, “Nothing.”

  George reached for the pot. “I’ll take nothing.” He threw, glanced under very quickly, and pushed the pot back to Selby. He was smiling and watchful.

  “Three,” he said softly. “Three kings.”

  A pre-emptive call again. Nothing there, probably, but a pair of queens. Which would mean throwing two more queens, an unlikely proposition and one which George could scarcely accept. Taking the call would give him the easy way out, which his unguarded smile had accused George of taking. No, he thought with a quick surge of rage, and lifted the pot off the dice.

  There were three kings there.

  George picked up the dice, and put them carefully away in their case. His smile this time was triumphant.

  “Bad luck, Selby,” he said. “You can’t win ’em all.”

  16

  Before they left, they helped George to prepare for the fire. There were three cans of kerosene, and they used these to soak the wood of the wall near the oil tank. The oil tank itself George punctured by driving a spike in; oil gushed out onto the floor and the debris of wood and cardboard and bits of cloth which they had stacked around the base. Then the hole was roughly plugged with the end of a rope of cloth which they had made out of torn strips tied together. Some oil still oozed out, but not much. Their only means of illumination was the kerosene lamp, and they had to be careful to keep the flame away from the parts that had been primed for burning.

  “Not very elegant,” George said, “but I reckon it’ll do. O.K., off you go now. I should get as far away as you can. And keep moving. It’s a cold night.”

  Selby said, “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “I’ll feel better when you’re off the premises. No point in cluttering the place up.”

  They wished him luck, and he drew the bolts for them quietly and watched them slip out. The overhang from the veranda gave them cover for the first few yards; then there was the short distance to the outhouses, overlooked only by an attic window at the top of the house. Selby, when they had crossed and were in the shadow of the first outhouse, looked back and up at the window. There was no sign of a watcher.

  The half-moon shone through bars of high cloud, ribbed gray and silver. There was enough light for them to see their way, not enough to make them visible at any distance from the house, which, as they trudged on, faded into the snowscape, its presence marked only by two dim rectangles which were lamplit windows. It was bitterly cold, though fortunately without wind. They were dressed for an evening around the fire, and the chill struck hard at them. They had found an old raincoat which they had insisted on Jane wearing over her frock, but there had been nothing for the two men. Selby looked at his watch. Not midnight yet. A long night still ahead. They would certainly need to keep moving.

  Jane stumbled, and Douglas caught her arm to help her. He asked, “Are you all right?”

  Although they were well out of normal earshot, they spoke in whispers. She said, “Yes. Damn. Shoe full of snow, though.”

  Douglas said, “If we’d stayed longer in the house … we’d have been warm at least.”

  “Warm,” Selby said, “and possibly trapped. They could …

  He broke off, as the enormousness of it sank into his mind. They could have been trapped very easily. A barrier of some kind against the basement door to keep them from getting out that way. And warm … What if the enemy had thought of a fire, too? Easy enough to start, even without the oil tank, since the whole of the top part was in their hands. These wooden chalets went up like tinderboxes. They could watch the house burn, and then wait for the helicopter to come in. There was nothing strange about the sight of people standing around the shell of a burned-out house in the mountains. It must happen several times a year in Switzerland.

  “I’m glad we’re out of it,” Jane said. “Anything rather than being there, knowing they were above us.”

  Selby said, “Look, I’ve thought of something.”

  “What?”

  “Our job is to make sure we contact people from outside before anyone else can—just in case George’s scheme goes wrong. We’re heading for Nidenhaut. But the helicopter came up from the valley, and it came
in from the west. It would be dropping down by the chalet before we could have a hope of attracting attention.”

  They stopped and stood in the snow. Jane drew the raincoat closer around herself, shivering.

  “You think we ought to go the other way?”

  “I think we ought to split up,” Selby said. He was talking to Douglas. “You take Jane on toward Nidenhaut, in case they get through by road. I’ll go west.”

  “Do you think it’s wise—splitting up?”

  “I think it’s essential. We should have realized that before.”

  They seemed doubtful, but he cut short their hesitations. It made no sense to stand and argue in this cold. He walked away from them, taking a course to the west and downhill, as though he were making sure of giving the house itself a wide berth.

  When they were out of sight, he took a bearing on the distant lights and began the upward climb. Although it was so cold, he found himself sweating from the exertion. He came up well to the east of the house, and retraced the course they had taken to the rear of the outhouses. Checking the attic window again, he felt fear and, with it, irresolution. There were probably a dozen ways in which the scheme could go wrong, even with both of them. Which would mean them both finished off, and everything depending on Douglas and Jane being able to attract the attention of rescuers before the creatures at the house did.

  The window was empty as before, but he took a step back into the shadows. When one looked at it that way, it was absurd for him to go back. He should do as he had said he would—head westward away from the house, station himself where he would be able to wave to the helicopter as it came up from Montreux. That was the course that made sense. George—George was expendable, as they all were.

  The fear, which had raised his doubts, resolved them. He wanted most desperately to turn away, and it was that which made turning away impossible. He looked up once more, quickly, at the house, and ran across the powdery snow.

  He found the window which had been broken earlier, and hitched himself up. The door at the far side of the room was framed by lamplight. Keeping his voice low but pitched as far as possible, he called, “George.” There was no immediate reply. He called again, “George!”

  Letting him in, George said, “What the bloody hell’s the idea of this? Have you gone mad?”

  Selby said, “It’s quite simple. You can’t do this on your own. No one could. The odds against are ridiculous.”

  “On getting out? Maybe. But I can take that lot with me.”

  “You can’t even do that. If they come at you from both sides— you’re trapped and they’re not. You’ve got no retreat. The have.”

  “Do you think two makes much difference?”

  “Enough. If one of us is outside, covering the veranda with the gun, and the other ready to fire things …”

  “A gun with one cartridge,” George said bitterly. “They don’t know that. One shot will throw them back, at least long enough for us to start the fire and get out. That means two more of us to try and get hold of that helicopter before they do. Which is what counts.”

  “Yes.” George paused. “What about the other two?”

  “Stationed on the Nidenhaut road. They won’t come back.”

  “That’s something, anyway.” He grinned suddenly, cheerfully, like a boy. “I’ll admit I wasn’t exactly enjoying my own company.”

  “Anything happened up above?”

  “No. Not a damn thing. That’s what was beginning to get on my nerves.”

  Selby said, “It’s occurred to me that they might have the same idea.” George looked at him blankly. “Fire, I mean. But I don’t think they’ll do it without trying something else first.”

  “Any ideas about that?”

  “No. But I think we should have the door open, and one of us on duty there with the shotgun. The other on the alert for the stairs, and ready to start the fire.”

  “Makes sense.” He offered the gun to Selby. “You take this, then.”

  “It would work better the other way round.”

  His stare was distrustful. “Why?”

  “Two reasons. One is that I’m not used to the gun. The other is that when the second barrel has been fired, it may need to be used as a club. And you can put a lot more weight behind it than I can.”

  “Leaving you the fire job.”

  “Yes. I qualified for my Scout badge in a sogging wet April day in the New Forest. Arson is one of my few major talents.”

  George considered this. “O.K. But if I call you out, come at the double. Right?”

  Selby nodded. “Right.”

  Time passed slowly, and he felt, as George had done, the crawl of uncertainty against his nerve endings. Though it was nothing like so bad, he reminded himself, as it must have been for a man waiting by himself. He could hear the rhythm of George’s breathing, an occasional cough. From time to time they spoke to each other, but the great comfort lay in knowing the other man to be there. Communication between human beings might have its illusions, but there was no doubt of the stark reality of its absence.

  In his reflections he removed himself as far as possible from this place and time, because to be trapped in the present would be to think of Elizabeth, and thinking of her could serve no purpose. He reviewed again the cases he would soon be dealing with—if things went right— at the Clinic. The Minchin girl’s naevus, the craggy arrogant nose that Gordon Moncrieff wanted fined down and straightened, the breasts that Helen Enderby, a widow and anxious for reimmersion in matrimony, agonized over in front of her dressing-table mirror. He planned his campaigns against them in meticulous detail.

  Three o’clock. George shifted, breathing out heavily. He would be cold, stationed near the open door. Here, farther up the passage, it was not so bad. Selby had the lamp with him, but they had put it out when they started this watch. He felt in his pocket for the matches. For a moment of terrible apprehension they were not there; and then he found them.

  A sound. He looked at his watch again. Ten past four. The heavy dragging of wood, from the direction of the top of the stairs. There was a low whistle from where George was, showing that he had heard it, too, and then he heard George move quietly. He opened the door, and Selby saw him for a moment, silhouetted against the dim outside light. He opened the box of matches a little way, touched the matches reassuringly with his fingertips. The door was pulled to, with George outside. He felt frightened, and dreadfully alone.

  More dragging and then, unmistakably, the door being opened at the top of the stairs. Some light came obliquely to him. He pressed himself against the wall. Footsteps. A voice. He wanted to cry out. Elizabeth.

  “Selby?” she said. “Are you there, Selby? I want to talk to you.”

  Her voice, and yet not her voice. The inflection, the exact timbre, but not her. A hint of dragging, of deliberateness.

  “Come up here, Selby,” the voice said. And then, with grotesque obscenity. “Come on, darling.”

  Whatever it was that used her voice, he hated it as he had never hated anything in his life before. He could have torn the flesh that had been hers to get at the creature that inhabited it and betrayed it. If he had had the shotgun, he did not think he would have been able to prevent himself running forward and firing it.

  Another voice. Diana. “Jane? It’s me, Jane. It’s Diana.”

  And Mandy, calling to George. Selby listened and waited. There was a pause, and another voice which made his hair stand on end. The first victim, the boy Andy, speaking in a child’s treble but with the assurance, the authority, of an adult.

  “They may have gone out.”

  “It would be cold for them.” Deeping. “Can they stand these extremes of temperature?”

  Andy. “For a time. And they would be afraid. I think they have gone outside.”

  “We should be careful.”

  Peter, the voice still German accented. Each one individual, and yet, horrifyingly, stamped with a common identity, an absolute unity of p
urpose.

  Andy. “Yes. But much depends on this. We must risk losses. Follow me down.”

  He could trace their passage down by the movement of the light, but they were still hidden from him by the angle of the passage. If they came straight for the door … But he could hear them moving about near the foot of the stairs: they were searching the rooms there first. Although his nerves were screaming out for action, he managed to hold himself immobile. It had to be left till the last possible moment. He saw the light brighten as it came his way. Only then did he light the match and, bending down, put it to the oily trail.

  It began to gutter out, without catching, and he dropped it and fumbled hastily for another.

  Deeping’s voice. “What was that?”

  Now it caught, burning up and flaring toward the drum. Flames suddenly leapt high, so quickly that he was afraid the explosion would come while he stood there. He ran for the door, as a babble of voices was raised behind him, slammed it and turned the key on the outside. There was no sign of George. He raced for the steps that led up onto the veranda. He had reached the top and was running toward the French windows and the salon when the house seemed to explode beneath him.

  To his right, a great surge of flame crackled against the side of the house. He called to George, and heard him answer from inside. “You can clear off now! All under control.”

  A shot was fired, deafeningly, as he reached the hall, and he saw George standing at the top of the stairs, the gun pointed down.

  Selby shouted, “Close the door on them! We can’t waste time.”

  The dresser, still on its side, had been pushed away to the right of the doorway. Selby began heaving on it as George slammed the door closed. He could not shift it. Then George threw his weight against it and, with a protesting screech of wood against wood, it began to move. While they were still forcing it across, the door strained against the flimsy catch. But the catch held, and a moment later the dresser was in place, locked against it. They relaxed, panting.

  The top panel of the door heaved again under pressure, but the bottom half was anchored by the dresser. In the distance Selby could hear the crackle of flames, and smoke was beginning to drift across the hall from the salon. Curls of smoke, also, came through the edges of the door. The top bulged again, and the smoke was clearer.