The Thousand Faces of Night

Marlowe looked into the wise, humorous face and liked what he saw. ‘Nothing I couldn’t handle, Papa.’

The old man’s eyes roved briefly over his massive frame. ‘I can imagine. It would take a good man to put you down, but there’s another kind of trouble that isn’t so easy to handle.’

Marlowe raised an eyebrow. ‘The law?’ He smiled and shook his head. ‘Don’t worry, Papa. They won’t come knocking at your door tonight.’ He raised his arm. ‘I can explain this. I was asleep in the back of a truck. Woke up to find some bloke going through my pockets. He pulled a knife and ripped my sleeve. I smacked his jaw and dropped off the truck. That’s how I arrived here.’

Magellan threw back his head and laughed. ‘Heh, I bet that fella doesn’t wake up till the truck gets to Newcastle.’

Marlowe sat down in a chair and laughed with him. He felt easier now and safer. ‘It’s a good job we were near here,’ he said. ‘I didn’t even know Litton was on the map.’

Magellan nodded. ‘It’s a quiet little place. Only seven or eight hundred people live around here.’

Marlowe grinned. ‘Seems to me it’s getting pretty lively for a quiet little place. What about the character I tossed out on his ear?’

The old man frowned. ‘Kennedy? He was working for me until a few days ago as a driver. Now he’s with Inter-Allied Trading.’

Marlowe nodded. ‘I noticed the fancy yellow van when I came in. Who’s this bloke O’Connor? The big boss?’

The old man snorted and fire glinted in his eyes. ‘He likes to think he is, but I remember him when he was small. Very small. He had an old truck and did general haulage work. The war was the making of him. He wasn’t too fussy about what he carried and always seemed to be able to get plenty of petrol when other people couldn’t. Now he has twenty or thirty trucks.’

‘And doesn’t like competition,’ Marlowe said. ‘What’s he trying to do? Put you out of business?’

‘He offered to buy me out, but I told him I wasn’t interested. The smallholding on its own isn’t enough to give us a good living. I have three Bedford trucks as well. Once a month we deliver coal round the village and the outlying farms. The rest of the time we do general haulage work. I’ve formed a little co-operative between seven or eight market gardeners near here. They’re all in a pretty small way. Together we can make it pay by using my trucks for transportation and selling in bulk.’

Marlowe was beginning to get interested. ‘Even so, there can’t be a fortune in that, Papa,’ he said. ‘What’s O’Connor after?’

The old man hastened to explain. ‘It isn’t the haulage work he’s interested in. It’s the produce itself. You see about eighteen months ago he took over a large fruit-and-vegetable wholesalers in Barford Market. Since then he’s bought out another and purchased a controlling interest in two more. Now he virtually controls prices. If you want to sell, you sell through him.’

Marlowe whistled softly. ‘Very neat, and legal too. What’s he got against you?’

The old man shrugged. ‘He doesn’t like my little cooperative. He prefers to deal with all the small men individually. That way he can get the stuff at rock-bottom prices and re-sell in Birmingham and other large cities at an enormous profit.’

‘Hasn’t anybody tried to stand up to him?’ Marlowe asked.

Magellan nodded. ‘Naturally, but O’Connor is a powerful man and Barford is a very small town. He can exert influence in many ways. Besides his more subtle methods there are others. A gang of young hooligans started a fight the other day in the crowded market and a stall was wrecked in the process. Of course, O’Connor knew nothing about it, but the stallholder now toes the line.’

‘What about Kennedy?’ Marlowe said. ‘Where does he fit in?’

The old man’s face darkened. ‘He worked for me for nearly six months. I never liked him, but good drivers are scarce in a place like this. One day last week he told me he was leaving. I offered him a little more money if he would stay, but he laughed in my face. Said he could double it working for O’Connor.’ He sighed deeply. ‘I think O’Connor is beginning to think he’s God in these parts. It’s difficult to know what to do.’

‘I suppose it hasn’t occurred to anybody to kick his bloody teeth in,’ Marlowe said.

Papa Magellan smiled softly. ‘Oh, yes, my friend. Even that has passed through my mind, but O’Connor’s business has many ramifications these days. He has imported some peculiar individuals to work for him. Anything but countrybred.’

‘Sounds interesting,’ Marlowe said, ‘but even that kind can be handled.’ He stood up and stretched, and walked a few paces across the room. ‘How are you going to fight him?’

Magellan smiled. ‘I’ve already started. My other driver is a young fellow called Bill Johnson, who lives in the village. O’Connor offered him a good job at better money. Bill told him to go to hell. I’ve sent him into Barford today with a truck-load of fruit and vegetables. He’s making the rounds of all the retail shops, offering to sell to them direct.’

‘And you think that will work?’

Magellan shrugged. ‘I don’t see why not. Even O’Connor can’t control everybody. He certainly can’t intimidate every shopkeeper in Barford and district.’

Marlowe shook his head slowly. ‘I don’t know, Papa. It’s a little too simple.’

The old man jumped up impatiently. ‘It’s got to work. He isn’t God. He can’t control everybody.’

‘He can have a damn good try,’ Marlowe said.

For a moment it seemed as if Magellan was going to explode with anger. He glared, eyes flashing, and then turned abruptly and went over to the fireplace. He stood looking down into the flames, shoulders heaving with suppressed passion, and Marlowe helped himself to another brandy.

After a while the old man spoke without turning round. ‘It’s a funny world. After the Spanish war when I returned home to Portugal, I found I was an embarrassment to the government. Franco was able to touch me even there. So I came to England. Now, after all these years, I find he can still touch me. Franco – O’Connor. There isn’t any difference. It’s the same pattern.’

‘You’re learning, Papa,’ Marlowe said. ‘It’s the same problem, and the solution is always the same. You’ve got to fight. If he uses force, use more force. If he starts playing it dirty, then you’ve got to play it dirtier.’

‘But that’s horrible. We aren’t living in a jungle.’ Maria had come quietly back into the room and spoke from just inside the door.

Marlowe raised his glass to her and grinned cynically. ‘It’s life. You either survive or go under.’

Papa Magellan had turned to face them. For a moment he looked searchingly at Marlowe, and then he said, ‘That job you’re looking for. Why go to Birmingham? You can have one right here working in Kennedy’s place.’

Marlowe swallowed the rest of his brandy and considered the idea. It was just what he was looking for. A job in a quiet country town where nobody knew him. He could lie low for a few weeks, and then return to London to pick up the money when all the fuss had died down. After that, Ireland. There were ways and means if you knew the right people.

The whole idea sounded very attractive, but there was the added complication of the trouble with O’Connor. If that got too messy the police would step in. Contact with the police was the last thing he wanted at the moment.

He put down his glass carefully. ‘I don’t know, Papa. I’d have to think it over.’

‘What’s the matter? Are you afraid?’ Maria said bitingly.

Her father waved a hand at her impatiently. ‘You could stay here, son. You could have Pedro’s old room.’

For several moments there was a silence while they waited for him to answer. The old man was trembling with eagerness, but the girl seemed quiet and withdrawn. Marlowe looked at her steadily for several moments, but she gave no sign of what she hoped his decision would be. As he looked at her she blushed and frowned slightly, and he knew that she didn’t like him.

He half smiled and turned back to the old man. ‘Sorry, Papa. I’m all for a quiet life, and it sounds to me as if you’re in for quite a party in the near future.’

Magellan’s face crumpled in disappointment and his shoulders sagged. All at once he was an old man again. A very old man. ‘Sure, I understand, son,’ he said. ‘It’s a lot to ask a man.’

Maria moved over beside him quickly and slipped a hand round his shoulders. ‘Don’t worry, Papa. We’ll manage.’ She smiled proudly at Marlowe. ‘My father had no right to ask you, Mr Marlowe. This is our quarrel. We can look after ourselves.’

Marlowe forced a smile to hide the quick fury that moved inside him. He was seething with anger, and mostly it was against himself. For the first time in years he felt ashamed. ‘We can look after ourselves,’ she said. An old man, a young girl. He wondered just how long they would last when O’Connor’s tough boys moved in and really cracked down on them.

He reached for his coat and kept his face steady. Whatever happened he wasn’t going to get involved. All he had to do was keep his nose clean and lie low for a couple of weeks and there was a fortune waiting for him. A man would be a fool to risk everything after five years of blood and sweat. And for what? For an old man and a girl he’d known for precisely an hour.

He buttoned his coat and said, ‘Maybe I’d better be leaving after all.’

Before Magellan could reply there was the sound of a truck turning into the yard outside. It halted at the door and the engine died. ‘It must be Bill,’ Maria said, and there was excitement in her voice. ‘I wonder if he’s had any luck?’

The outside door rattled and steps dragged along the corridor. A figure appeared in the doorway and stood there, swaying slightly. He was a young man of medium size wearing a leather jacket and corduroy cap. His fleshy, good-natured face was drawn and white with pain. One of his eyes was disfigured by a livid bruise, and his mouth was badly swollen, with blood caking a nasty gash in one cheek.

‘Bill!’ Maria said in a horrified voice. ‘What is it? What have they done to you?’