Алистер Маклин - The Golden Gate

‘ “Submarine at midnight. Please provide transistorized transceiver small enough to fit base camera. Preset your frequency and mine and have submarine patch in on same frequency.” ’

There was a lengthy silence during which Hagenbach, perhaps very understandably, again reached for the scotch. The bottle was rapidly emptied. Richards finally passed his judgement.

‘The man’s mad, of course. Quite, quite mad.’

Nobody, for some time, appeared inclined to disagree with him. Richards, pro tem, the Chief Executive of the nation, was the man to make the decision, but, apart from his observations on mental instability, he was clearly in no mood to make any kind of decision. Hagenbach took the decision out of his hands.

‘Revson is probably a good deal saner than any of us here. He’s brilliant, we’ve had proof of that. Almost certainly, he lacked the time to go into detail. Finally, anyone here got any better idea – let me amend that, anybody here got any idea?’

If anyone had, he was keeping it to himself.

‘Hendrix, get hold of the deputy Mayor and the Fire Chief. Have those fires set. How about the fireworks?’

Hendrix smiled. ‘Fireworks are illegal in San Francisco. Nineteen hundred and six and all that. It so happens we know an illegal underground factory in Chinatown. The owner will be anxious to co-operate.’

Richards shook his head. ‘Mad,’ he said. ‘Quite, quite mad.’

From far out at sea came the first faint flickers of lightning and the distant rumble of approaching thunder. A now-recovered if somewhat wan April Wednesday, standing with Revson by the centre of the bridge, looked up at the indigo sky and said: ‘It looks like being quite a night.’

‘I’ve a feeling that way myself.’ He took her arm. ‘Are you afraid of thunderstorms as you appear to be of everything else?’

‘I don’t much fancy being stuck out on this bridge in the middle of one.’

‘It’s been here for almost thirty years. It’s not likely to fall down tonight.’ He looked upwards as the first drops of rain began to fall. ‘But getting wet I object to. Come on.’

They took their seats inside the lead coach, she by the window, he by the aisle. Within minutes the coach was full and within half an hour most of the occupants were dozing if not asleep. Each seat had its own individual reading light, but without exception those were either dimmed or completely out. There was nothing to see, nothing to do. It had been a long, tiring, exciting and in many ways a nerve-racking day. Sleep was not only the sensible but inevitable recourse. And the sound of drumming rain, whether on canvas or on a metal roof, has a peculiarly soporific effect.

And that the rain was now drumming was beyond dispute. It had been increasing steadily ever since the passengers had entered the coach and could now fairly be described as torrential. The approaching thunderstorm, though still some miles distant, was steadily increasing in violence. But neither rain, thunder nor lightning were any deterrent to the prowling Kowalski: he had promised Branson that he would keep his eye on Revson all night long if he had to, and that he clearly intended to do. Regularly, every fifteen minutes, he entered the coach, peered pointedly at Revson, spoke a few brief words to Bartlett, who sat sideways on guard, in the seat next to the driver’s, then left. Bartlett, Revson apart, was the only alert person in the coach and this, Revson suspected, was due more to Kowalski’s recurrent visits than to anything else. On one occasion Revson had overheard Bartlett ask when he was to be relieved and been curtly told that he would have to remain where he was until one o’clock, which suited Revson well enough.

At nine o’clock, when the rain was at its heaviest, Kowalski made another of his routine checks. Revson took out and armed his white pen. Kowalski turned to go. His heel was just descending the riser of the first step when he appeared to stumble. Then he fell, heavily, face-first out of the coach on to the roadway.

Bartlett was the first to reach him, Revson the second. Revson said: ‘What the hell happened to him?’

‘Lost his footing, far as I could see. Coach door has been open all evening and the steps are slippery as all hell.’ Both men stooped to examine the unconscious Kowalski. He was bleeding quite heavily from the forehead which had obviously taken the main brunt of his fall. Revson felt his head gently with his fingers. The needle protruded almost a quarter of an inch behind Kowalski’s left ear. Revson removed and palmed it.

Revson said: ‘Shall I fetch the doctor?’

‘Yes. Sure looks as if he needs one.’

Revson ran to the ambulance. As he approached, the light came on inside the ambulance. Revson took the aerosol can from O’Hare and thrust it into his pocket. The two men, O’Hare carrying his medical bag, ran back to the lead coach. By this time quite a number of curious journalists from the coach – activated, almost certainly, by the inbuilt curiosity that motivates all good journalists, were crowded round the unconscious Kowalski.

‘Stand back,’ O’Hare ordered. The journalists made way respectfully but didn’t stand all that far back. O’Hare opened his bag and began to wipe Kowalski’s forehead with a piece of gauze. His opened bag was quite some distance from him, and in the dim light, the driving rain and aided by the total concentration of all on the injured man, it was no great feat for Revson to extract an oil-skinned packet from the bag and send it spinning under the coach. He, but only he, heard the gentle thump as it struck the kerb on the far side. He then pressed in among the curious onlookers.

O’Hare straightened. ‘A couple of volunteers to help me get him across to the ambulance.’ There was no lack of volunteers. They were about to lift him when Branson came running up.

‘Your man’s had a pretty nasty fall. I want him in the ambulance for a proper examination.’

‘Did he fall or was he pushed?’

‘How the hell should I know? You’re wasting what could be valuable time, Branson.’

Bartlett said: ‘He fell all right, Mr Branson. He slipped on the top step and hadn’t a chance to save himself.’

‘Certain?’

‘Of course I’m bloody certain.’ Bartlett was justifiably indignant. He spoke again, but a crashing peal of thunder drowned out his next words. He repeated himself. ‘I was within two feet of him at the time – and I hadn’t a chance to save him.’

O’Hare paid no more attention to him. With the help of two others he carried Kowalski across to the ambulance. Branson looked at the group of journalists still there, caught sight of Revson.

‘Where was Revson at the time?’

‘Revson was nowhere near him. He was in his seat, five back there. Everyone was in their seats. Christ, Mr Branson, I’m telling you. It was a pure bloody accident.’

‘Must have been.’ Clad only in already totally sodden shirt-sleeves and trousers, Branson shivered. ‘Jesus, what a night!’ He hurried across to the ambulance and as he arrived the two men who had helped O’Hare to carry Kowalski came down the ambulance steps. Branson went inside. O’Hare had already had Kowalski’s leather jacket removed and his right sleeve rolled beyond the elbow, and was preparing a hypodermic injection.

Branson said: ‘What’s that for?’

O’Hare turned in irritation. ‘What the hell are you doing here? This is doctor’s work. Get out!’

The invitation passed unheeded. Branson picked up the tube from which O’Hare had filled his hypodermic. ‘Anti-tetanus? The man’s got a head wound.’

O’Hare withdrew the needle, covered the pinprick with antiseptic gauze. ‘I thought even the most ignorant layman knew that when a man has been injured in the open the first thing he gets is an anti-tetanus injection. You’ve obviously never seen tetanus.’ He sounded Kowalski with his stethoscope, took his pulse and then his temperature.