Алистер Маклин - When Eight Bells Toll

‘There’s no need to treat the matter with levity,’ Uncle Arthur complained.

‘In your own words, sir, if you can believe that, you can believe anything.’

‘You should have consulted me first, Calvert.’ Uncle Arthur shifted in his seat, an almost imperceptible motion, though his expression didn’t change. He was a brilliant administrator, but the more executive side of the business, the sandbagging and pushing of people off high cliffs, wasn’t exactly in his line. ‘I’ve told you that I came to take charge.’

‘Sorry, Sir Arthur. You’d better change that report, hadn’t you? The bit about the best in Europe, I mean.’

‘Touché, touché, touché,’ he grumbled. ‘And they’re corning at us out of the dark, is that it? On their way now. Armed men. Killers. Shouldn’t we – shouldn’t we be preparing to defend ourselves? Dammit, man, I haven’t even got a gun.’

‘You won’t need one. You may not agree with me.’ I handed him the Luger. He took it, checked the indicator and that the safety catch moved easily, then sat there holding it awkwardly in his hand.

‘Shouldn’t we move, Calvert? We’re sitting targets here.’

‘They won’t be here for some time. The nearest house or boat is a mile away to the east. They’ll be pushing wind and tide and they daren’t use a motor. Whether they’re rowing a boat or paddling a rubber dinghy they have a long haul ahead of them. Time’s short, sir. We have a lot to do to-night. To get back to Loch Houron. The expedition’s out, they couldn’t pirate a dinghy, far less five oceangoing freighters. Our friend Donald MacEachern acts in a highly suspicious fashion, he’s got the facilities there, he’s dead worried and he might have had half a dozen guns at his back while he had his in my front. But it was all too good to be true, professionals wouldn’t lay it on the line like that.’

‘Maybe that’s how professionals would expect a fellow-professional to react. And you said he’s worried.’

‘Maybe the fish aren’t biting. Maybe he’s involved, but not directly. Then there’s the shark-fishers. They have the boats, the facilities and, heaven knows, they’re tough enough. Against that, they’ve been based there for years, the place is littered with sharks – it should be easy enough to check if regular consignments of liver oil are sent to the mainland – and they’re well known and well thought of along the coast. They’ll bear investigating. Then there’s Dubh Sgeir. Lord Kirkside and his lovely daughter Sue.’

‘Lady Susan,’ Uncle Arthur said. It’s difficult to invest an impersonal, inflectionless voice with cool reproach, but he managed it without any trouble. ‘I know Lord Kirkside, of course’ – his tone implied that it would be remarkable if he didn’t – ‘and while I may or may not be right about Sir Anthony, and I will lay you a hundred to one, in pounds, that I am, I’m convinced that Lord Kirkside is wholly incapable of any dishonest or illegal action.’

‘Me, too. He’s a very tough citizen, I’d say, but on the side of the angels.’

‘And his daughter? I haven’t met her.’

‘Very much a girl of to-day. Dressed in the modern idiom, speaks in the modern idiom, I’m tough and I’m competent and I can take care of myself, thank you. She’s not tough at all, just a nice old-fashioned girl in new-fashioned clothes.’

‘So that clears them.’ Uncle Arthur sounded relieved. ‘That leaves us the expedition, in spite of your sneers, or MacEachern’s place, or the shark-fishers. I go for the shark-fishers myself.’

I let him go for wherever he wanted to. I thought it was time I went to the upper deck and told him so.

‘It won’t be long now?’

‘I shouldn’t think so, sir. We’ll put out the lights in the saloon here – it would look very odd if they peered in the windows and saw no one here. We’ll put on the two sleeping-cabin lights and the stem light. That will destroy their night-sight. The after deck will be bathed in light. For’ard of that, as far as they are concerned, it will be pitch dark. We hide in the dark.’

‘Where in the dark?’ Uncle Arthur didn’t sound very confident.

‘You stand inside the wheelhouse. All wheel-house doors are hinged for’ard and open outwards. Keep your hand on the inside handle. Lightly. When you feel it begin to turn, a very slow and stealthy turn, you can bet your boots, wait till the door gives a fraction, then kick the rear edge, just below the handle, with the sole of your right foot and with all the weight you have. If you don’t break his nose or knock him overboard you’ll at least set him in line for a set of false teeth. I’ll take care of the other or others.’

‘How?’

‘I’ll be on the saloon roof. It’s three feet lower than the loom of the stem light even if they approach from the wheelhouse roof so they can’t see me silhouetted against the loom of the stem light even if they approach from the bows.’

‘But what are you going to do?’

‘Clobber him or them. A nice big Stilson from the engine-room with a rag round it will do nicely.’

‘Why don’t we just dazzle them with torches and tell them to put their hands up?’ Uncle Arthur clearly didn’t care for my proposed modus operandi.

‘Three reasons. These are dangerous and deadly men and you never give them warning. Not the true sporting spirit, but it helps you survive. Then there will almost certainly be night-glasses trained on the Firecrest at this very moment. Finally, sound carries very clearly over water and the wind is blowing towards Torbay. Shots, I mean.’

He said no more. We took up position and waited. It was still raining heavily with the wind still from the west. For once the rain didn’t bother me, I’d a full set of oilskins on. I just lay there, spreadeagled on the saloon coach-roof, occasionally easing the fingers of my hands, the right round the Stilson, the left round the little knife. After fifteen minutes they came. I heard the gentle scuff of rubber on our starboard side – the side of the wheelhouse door. I pulled on the cord which passed through the rear window of the wheelhouse. The cord was attached to Uncle Arthur’s hand.

There were only two of them. My eyes were perfectly tuned to the dark by this time and I could easily distinguish the shape of the first man coining aboard just below where I lay. He secured a painter and waited for his mate. They moved forward together.

The leading man gave a cough of agony as the door smashed, fair and square, as we later established, into his face. I wasn’t so successful, the second man had cat-like reactions and had started to drop to the deck as the Stilson came down. I caught him on back or shoulder, I didn’t know which, and dropped on top of him. In one of his hands he’d have either a gun or knife and if I’d wasted a fraction of a second trying to find out which hand and what he had in it, I’d have been a dead man. I brought down my left hand and he lay still.

I passed the other man lying moaning in agony in the scuppers, brushed by Uncle Arthur, pulled the saloon curtains to and switched on the lights. I then went out, half-pulled, half-lifted the moaning man through the wheelhouse door, down the saloon steps and dropped him on the carpet. I didn’t recognise him. That wasn’t surprising, his own mother or wife wouldn’t have recognised him. Uncle Arthur was certainly a man who believed in working with a will and he’d left the plastic surgeon a very tricky job.

‘Keep your gun on him, sir,’ I said. Uncle Arthur was looking down at his handiwork with a slightly dazed expression. What one could see of his face behind the beard seemed slightly paler than normal. ‘If he breathes, kill him.’