Алистер Маклин - The Golden Rendezvous

“I am genuinely sorry,” Tony Carreras said. He actually sounded as if he meant it. “Killing and crippling good men is an unforgivable waste. Well, almost unforgivable. Some things justify it.”

“Your humanity does you credit,” I sneered from my pillow.

“We are humane men,” he said.

“You’ve proved that all right.” I twisted to look at him. “But you could still show a little consideration for a very sick man.”

“Indeed?” He was very good at lifting eyebrows.

“Indeed. Dan’l Boone, here.” I nodded towards the sentry with the gun. “You permit your men to smoke on duty?”

“José?” He smiled. “José is an inveterate chain-smoker. Take his cigarettes away and he’d probably go on strike. This isn’t the Grenadier Guards, you know, Carter. Why the sudden concern?”

“You heard what Dr. Marston said. Captain Bullen. He’s in a critical condition with a hole through his lung.”

“Ah, I think I understand. You agree, Doctor?”

I held my breath. The chances were that the old boy haden’t even the faintest idea what we were talking about. But again I’d underrated his astuteness.

“For a man with a ruptured lung,” he said gravely, “there can be nothing worse than a smoke-laden atmosphere.”

“I see. José!” Carreras spoke rapidly in Spanish to the guard, who grinned amiably, got to his feet and made for the door, picking up a chair en route . The door swung to behind him.

“No discipline,” Tony Carreras sighed. “None of the brisk sentry-go marching and counter-marching like Buckingham Palace, Mr. Carter. A chair tilted against a wall. Our Latin blood, I fear. But I warn you, none the less effective a guard for all that. I see no harm in his keeping a watch outside, apart from jumping through one of the windows into the sea below – not that you are in any condition to do that anyway – I can’t see what mischief you can get up to.” He paused, looked at me consideringly. “You are singularly incurious, Mr. Carter? Far from being in character. Makes one suspicious, you know.”

“Curious about what?” I growled. “Nothing to be curious about. How many of those armed thugs do you have aboard the Campari? ”

“Forty. Not bad, eh? Well, thirty-eight effectives. Captain Bullen killed one and you seriously damaged the hand of another. Where did you learn to shoot like that, Carter?”

“Luck. Cerdan recovered yet?”

“Yes,” he said briefly. He didn’t seem to want to talk about Cerdan.

“He killed Dexter?” I persisted.

“No. Werner, the nurse – the one you killed tonight.” For a professed humanitarian, the death of one of his colleagues in crime left him strangely unmoved. “A steward’s uniform and a tray of food at face level. Your head steward – White – saw him twice and never suspected: not that he went within thirty feet of White. And it was just Dexter’s bad luck that he saw this steward unlocking the radio room.”

“I suppose the same murderous devil got Brownell?”

“And Benson. Benson caught him coming out of the radio room after disposing of Brownell, and was shot. Werner was going to dump him straight over the side, but there were people – crew – directly beneath. He dragged him across to the port side. Again crew beneath. So he emptied a life-jacket locker and put Benson inside.” Carreras grinned. “And just your bad luck that you happened to be standing right beside that locker when we sent Werner up to dispose of the body, just before midnight last night.”

“Who dreamed up this scheme of having the fake Marconi-man in Kingston drill through from the wireless office to the cold air trunking in Cerdan’s room below and buttoning the earphones permanently into the wireless officer’s receiving circuit? Cerdan, your old man or you?”

“My father.”

“And the Trojan horse idea. Your father also?”

“He is a brilliant man. Now I know why you were not curious. You knew.”

“It wasn’t hard to guess,” I said wearily. “Not, that is, when it was too late. All our troubles really started in Carracio. And we loaded those huge crates in Carracio. Now I know why the stevedores were so terrified when one of the crates almost slipped from its slings. Now I know why your old man was so damned anxious to inspect the hold – not to pay his respects to the dead men in their coffins but to see how his men were placed for smashing their way out of the crates. And then they broke out last night and forced the battens of the hatch. How many men in a crate, Carreras?”

“Twenty. Rather uncomfortably jammed, poor fellows. I think they had a rough twenty-four hours.”

“Twenty. Two crates. We loaded four of those. What’s in the other crates?”

“Machinery, Mr. Carter, just machinery.”

“One thing I am really curious about.”

“Yes?”

“What’s behind all this murderous business? Kidnap? Ransom?”

“I am not at liberty to discuss those things with you.” He grinned. “At least, not yet. You remaining here, Miss Beresford, or do you wish me to – ah – escort you up to your parents in the drawing-room?”

“Please leave the young lady,” Marston said. “I want her to help me keep a twenty-four hour watch on Captain Bullen. He might have a relapse at any moment.”

“As you wish.” He bowed to Susan Beresford. “Good night all.”

The door closed. Susan Beresford said: “So that’s how they came aboard. How in the world did you know?”

“How in the world did I know! You didn’t think they had forty men hidden up inside the funnel, did you? Once we knew it was Carreras and Cerdan, it was obvious. They came aboard at Carracio. So did those huge crates. Two and two, Miss Beresford, have never failed to add up to four.” She flushed and gave me a very old-fashioned look, but I ignored it and went on: “You both see what this means, don’t you?”

“Let him tell us, Doctor,” Miss Beresford said acidly. “He’s just dying to tell us.”

“It means that there’s something very very big behind it all,” I said slowly. “All cargoes, except those in free ports and under certain transshipment conditions, which don’t apply here, have to be inspected by Customs. Those crates passed the Carracio Customs – which means that the Customs know what’s inside. Probably explains, too, why our Carracio agent was so nervous. But the Customs let it pass. Why? Because they had orders to let those crates pass. And who gave them the orders? Their government. Who gave the government its orders? Who but the generalissimo – after all, he is the government. The generalissimo,” I went on thoughtfully, “is directly behind all this. And we all know he’s desperate for money. I wonder, I wonder?”

“You wonder what?” Marston asked.

“I don’t really know. Tell me, Doctor, have you the facilities for making tea or coffee here?”

“Never yet seen a dispensary that hadn’t my boy.”

“What an excellent idea!” Susan Beresford jumped to her feet. “I’d love a cup of tea.”

“Coffee.”

“Tea.”

“Coffee. Humour a sick man. This should be quite an experience for Miss Beresford. Making her own coffee, I mean. You fill the percolator with water–”

“Please stop there.” She crossed over to my bedside and looked down at me, her face without expression, her eyes very steady. “You have a short memory, Mr. Carter. I told you night before last that I was sorry, very sorry. Remember?”

“I remember,” I acknowledged. “Sorry, Miss Beresford.”

“Susan.” She smiled. “If you want your coffee, that is.”

“Blackmail.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake call her ‘Susan’ if she wants,” Dr. Marston interrupted irritably. “What’s the harm?”