A Match Made for Murder by Iona Whishaw (top 10 best books of all time txt) 📗

“Where’s my wife?” he demanded. “Lane!” He turned the handle of the locked door.

“Don’t get excited, there, partner. She’s fine. I put her in a very nice room with a sandwich and a glass of water,” the tall man drawled. “I even found her some aspirin. I mighta hit her a little hard. It took her a while to wake up and she did have a bit of a lump.” He chuckled and then moved in front of Darling and unlocked the door. Galloway was standing by his car, smoking.

Supressing a desire to punch the man, Darling pushed into the empty living room calling furiously, “Lane? Are you all right?”

The tall man strolled to a closed door and put the key in, turning it with a smile. “It’s a shame we have to wake her. Here you go.” He held the door open for Darling to precede him, but in the same instant saw his prisoner was not there. A dress, some pens, a lipstick, a compact were scattered across the unmade bed, lying near an open and empty handbag. Lane’s dress. Lane’s handbag.

Darling lunged for it and then threw it back onto the bed, turning to say something to her jailer, but he was already outside—shouting. “She ain’t here!”

Darling ran to the porch. Galloway had launched himself off the car and was tossing his cigarette into the bush.

“What have you done, you bloody moron?” Galloway shouted, pushing angrily past the tall man to look into the empty house.

“Look, I did exactly what you told me to do. I locked her in that room and gave her something to eat. She couldn’t have got out without someone helping her.” At this, the tall man turned and began to look through the living room and kitchen, trying to find any disturbance in things as he had left them the night before.

Galloway was back outside, walking along the road, looking for evidence of anyone passing, but then he shook his head. They’d passed no one on the road down to the cabin. With an oath, he ran back and began to look around the yard, searching for evidence his guest had gone somewhere on foot, but the scrub, dried pine needles, and rocky terrain gave nothing away.

Darling was looking as well, trying to imagine what she would do if she really had gotten away. He could very nearly smile at the thought of her doing a Houdini act and fleeing into the night, if he weren’t so terrified. He glanced sideways at Galloway who was kicking the tyre of the car. He seemed completely unhinged.

Darling thought about where Lane would go, and he tried not to look toward the south, through the stand of evergreens and down the side of the mountain. She certainly wouldn’t go back up the isolated road that had brought them here. Too much danger of meeting her jailer on his return. The quickest way to put distance between herself and the cabin was south, straight down the mountain. He was sober in an instant. What would this mean? He knew Galloway was armed, and he suspected the tall man was as well. And, though they had not said so, he was effectively their prisoner.

Galloway strode back into the bedroom, pulling up the bedclothes and scattering things onto the floor. He pulled open the wardrobe and uttered another curse.

“My flight jacket is gone! And Priscilla’s fur jacket. Someone must have come here and let her out.” He shouted for the other man. That means they must have planned to hike down, he thought. “You go down the mountain on foot. When you find her, march her to the road. We’ll pick you up. She wouldn’t have left in the dark, so she hasn’t gone far. And try not to kill her! What a bloody waste of time!” He took out his revolver and pointed it at Darling. “You’re coming with me. Who the bloody hell is with her?” he said, almost to himself.

The sun was up now, and the long shadows began to give way to a blanched landscape. The steep descending gully they were in fanned out finally, and they could see more of the city below. Lane stopped to assess where they were and how far from the nearest road.

“I’m tired. Can we rest?” Meg said.

Lane was about to point to a ledge just below them but the shot and then the bullet striking an outcrop not five feet away from them wiped every thought away.

“Down!” she shouted, grabbing at Meg and hauling her to the ground. Her heart pounding, she waited, unconsciously spitting dust out of her mouth. Meg was lying next to her, her eyes wide with fear, her handbag over her head. Lane put her finger to her mouth and lifted her head; she saw they were lying behind a slight rocky rise. Could she risk trying to see where their attacker was?

They were on the eastern side of the narrow, steep-sided gully they’d been descending, which now seemed like folly. She wished they’d picked the other side, as they’d have had more of a chance to escape to the road. Nothing for it. She pushed herself partway up with her arms and looked up at the terrain they had descended. The gunman was much farther away than she had imagined, still a small figure.

But he was a small figure, who by his movements carried a rifle in one hand and field glasses in another. “Damn. He’s still far from us but he has field glasses. And a rifle. We’re like fish in a barrel.”

“Wonderful. I’m lying here with a fur and an expensive purse getting shot at instead of sitting in comfort on a Greyhound bus getting out of here.”

“Damn! I can’t bloody see him now.” Lane swivelled her head to look directly down from where they were. There was an outcrop that rose like a great wall of rock some fifteen feet below and to the east of their position.