Алистер Маклин - When Eight Bells Toll

Lavorski looked at Imrie, who nodded. ‘He would notice that. I advised against it at the time. Was there more, Calvert?’

‘Donald MacEachern on Eilean Oran. You should have taken him, not his wife. Susan Kirkside – you shouldn’t have allowed her out and about, when did you last see a fit young twenty-one-year-old with blue shadows that size under her eyes? A fit young twenty-one-year-old with nothing in the world to worry about, that is? And you should have disguised that mark made by the tail fuselage of the Beechcraft belonging to Lord Kirkside’s elder son when you ran it over the edge of the north cliff. I saw it from the helicopter.’

‘That’s all?’ Lavorski asked. I nodded, and he looked again at Imrie.

‘I believe him,’ Imrie said. ‘No one talked. That’s all we need to know. Calvert first, Mr Lavorski?’ They were certainly a brisk and business-like outfit.

I said quickly: ‘Two questions. The courtesy of two answers. I’m a professional. I’d like to know. I don’t know if you understand.’

‘And two minutes,’ Lavorski smiled. ‘Make it quick. We have business on hand.’

‘Where is Sir Anthony Skouras? He should be here.’

‘He is. He’s up in the castle with Lord Kirkside and Lord Charnley. The Shangri-la’s tied up at the west landing stage.’

‘Is it true that you and Dollmann engineered the whole plan, that you bribed Charnley to betray insurance secrets, that you – or Dollmann, rather – selected Captain Imrie to pick his crew of cutthroats, and that you were responsible for the capture and sinking of the ships and the subsequent salvaging of the cargoes. And, incidentally, the deaths, directly or indirectly, of our men?’

‘It’s late in the day to deny the obvious.’ Again Lavorski’s booming laugh. ‘We think we did rather well, eh, John?’

‘Very well indeed,’ Dollmann said coldly. ‘We’re wasting time.’

I turned to Charlotte Skouras. The gun was still pointing at me. I said: ‘I have to be killed, it seems. As you will be responsible for my death, you might as well finish the job.’ I reached down, caught the hand with the gun in it and placed it against my chest, letting my own hand fall away. ‘Please do it quickly’

There was no sound to be heard other than the soft throb of the Firecrest’s diesel. Every pair of eyes in that boatshed was on us, my back was to them all, but I knew it beyond any question. I wanted every pair of eyes in that boatshed on us. Uncle Arthur took a step inside the starboard door and said urgently: ‘Are you mad, Calvert? She’ll kill you! She’s one of them.’

The brown eyes were stricken, there was no other expression for it, the eyes of one who knows her world is coming to an end. The finger came off the trigger, the hand opened slowly and the gun fell to the deck with a clatter that seemed to echo through the boatshed and the tunnels leading off on either side. I took her left arm and said: ‘It seems Mrs Skouras doesn’t feel quite up to it. I’m afraid you’ll have to find someone else to–’

Charlotte Skouras cried out in sharp pain as her legs caught the wheelhouse sill and maybe I did shove her through that doorway with, unnecessary force, but it was too late in the day to take chances now. Hutchinson had been waiting and caught her as she fell, dropping to his knees at the same time. I went through that door after her like an international rugby three-quarter diving for the line with a dozen hands reaching out for him, but even so Uncle Arthur beat me to it. Uncle Arthur had a lively sense of self-preservation. Even as I fell, my hand reached out for the loudhailer that had been placed in position on the wheelhouse deck.

‘Don’t fire!’ The amplified voice boomed cavernously against the rock-faces and the wooden walls of the boatshed. ‘If you shoot, you’ll die! One shot, and you may all die. There’s a machine-gun lined up on the back of every man in this boathouse. Just turn round, very very slowly, and see for yourselves.’

I half rose to my feet, hoisted a wary eye over the lower edge of a wheelhouse window, got the rest of the way to my feet, went outside and picked up the machine-gun on the deck.

Picking up that machine-gun was the most superfluous and unnecessary action I had performed for many a long day. If there was one thing that boathouse was suffering from at the moment it was a plethora of machine-guns. There were twelve of them in all, shoulder-slung machine-pistols, in twelve of the most remarkably steady pairs of hands I’d ever seen. The twelve men were ranged in a rough semicircle round the inner end of the boathouse, big, quiet, purposeful-looking men dressed in woollen caps, grey-and-black camouflaged smocks and trousers and rubber boots. Their hands and faces were the colour of coal. Their eyes gleamed whitely, like performers in the Black and White Minstrel show, but with that every hint of light entertainment ended.

‘Lower your hands to your sides and let your guns fall.’ The order came from a figure in the middle of the group, a man indistinguishable from the others. ‘Do please be very careful. Slowly down, drop the guns, utter stillness. My men are very highly trained commandos. They have been trained to shoot on suspicion. They know only how to kill. They have not been trained to wound or cripple.’

They believed him. I believed him. They dropped their guns and stood very still indeed.

‘Now clasp your hands behind your necks.’

They did. All but one. Lavorski. He wasn’t smiling any more and his language had little to recommend it.

That they were highly trained I could believe. No word or signal passed. The commando nearest Lavorski walked towards him on soundless soles, machine-pistol across his chest. The butt seemed to move no more than three inches. When Lavorski picked himself up the lower part of his face was covered in blood and I could see the hole where some teeth had been. He clasped his hands behind his neck.

‘Mr Calvert?’ the officer asked.

‘Me,’ I said.

‘Captain Rawley, sir. Royal Marine Commandos.’

‘The castle, Captain?’

‘In our hands.’

‘The Shangri-la?’

‘In our hands.’

‘The prisoners?’

‘Two men are on their way up, sir.’

I said to Imrie: ‘How many guards?’

He spat and said nothing. The commando who had dealt with Lavorski moved forward, machine-pistol high. Imrie said: ‘Two.’

I said to Rawley: ‘Two men enough?’

‘I hope, sir, that the guards will not be so foolish as to offer resistance.’

Even as he finished speaking the flat rapid-fire chatter of a submachine-gun came echoing down the long flight of stone steps. Rawley shrugged.

‘They’ll never learn to be wise now. Robinson?’ This to a man with a waterproof bag over his shoulder. ‘Go up and open the cellar door. Sergeant Evans, line them up in two rows against the wall there, one standing, one sitting.’

Sergeant Evans did. Now that there was no danger of being caught in cross-fire we landed and I introduced Uncle Arthur, full military honours and all, to Captain Rawley. Captain Rawley’s salute was something to see. Uncle Arthur beamed. Uncle Arthur took over.

‘Capitally done, my boy!’ he said to Rawley. ‘Capitally. There’ll be a little something for you in this New Year’s List. Ah! Here come some friends.’

They weren’t all exactly friends, this group that appeared at the bottom of the steps. There were four tough but dispirited looking characters whom I’d never seen before, but unquestionably Imrie’s men, closely followed by Sir Anthony Skouras and Lord Charnley. They, in their turn, were closely followed by four commandos with the very steady hands that were a hallmark of Rawley’s men. Behind them came Lord Kirkside and his daughter. It was impossible to tell what the black-faced commandos were thinking, but the other eight had the same expression on their faces, dazed and utter bewilderment.