Jack Higgins - A Fine Night for Dying

A seagoing launch was moored there, a trim craft if ever he’d seen one. She was rigged for big-game fishing, with a couple of swivel chairs fitted to the stern deck and a steel hoist.

She was a beautiful ship, there was no doubt about that-a jewel in a jungle of weeds. He stood there looking at her for quite a while, then turned away.

A man was standing watching him from the shadow of an old barge. He was very tall and thin and dressed in an old reefer jacket, peaked cap and greasy overalls. His face was his most remarkable feature. It was the face of a Judas, one eye turned into the corner, the mouth like a knife slash, a face as repulsively fascinating as a medieval gargoyle.

“Admiring her, are you?” His voice was hardly more than a whisper, and as he approached, Chavasse noticed a jagged scar that stretched from his right ear to his windpipe.

“She’s quite a boat.”

“And then some. Steel hull, penta engine, radar, echo sounder. All that and thirty-five knots. You know boats?”

“A little. Are you Gorman?”

“That’s right. What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to take a little trip if your boat is available.”

“Fishing?” Gorman shook his head. “Too late in the day.”

“I was thinking of more than that,” Chavasse said. “The fact is I want to get across the Channel in a hurry, and a friend of mine told me you might be able to oblige at a price.”

Gorman looked down the creek, whistling softly. “Who is this friend?” he asked, after a short pause.

Chavasse managed to look suitably embarrassed. “To tell you the truth, he wasn’t really a friend. Just a bloke I met in a bar in Soho. He said that any time I wanted to get out of the country in a hurry, you were a good man to see.”

Gorman turned abruptly and spoke over his shoulder as he walked away. “Come up to the office. It’s going to rain.”

Chavasse went after him and mounted the rickety wooden stairs to the verandah. At the top, he paused and turned his head sharply, aware of some kind of movement down among the derelict boats. A dog, perhaps, or a rabbit. But it left him with a vague unease as he went into the office.

The place was cluttered with odds and ends of every description. Gorman cleared the table with a sweep of an arm and produced a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.

“So you want to get across the water pretty badly?” he said.

Chavasse placed his case on the table and unlocked it. He lifted a shirt and uncovered a thousand pounds made up of several neat bundles of English fivers and French francs. It looked considerably more than it was, and Gorman’s bad eye rolled wildly.

Chavasse took out two bundles of fivers and pushed them across. “That’s how badly I want to get across, Gorman. Is it a deal?”

Gorman’s smile was so evil as to be almost seraphic. He scooped up the cash and stowed it away in a battered wallet. “When do you want to leave?”

“The sooner the better, as far as I’m concerned.”

Gorman smiled again, that same seraphic smile. “Then what are we waiting for?” he demanded, and led the way out.

THE boat was called the Mary Grant , and she was every bit as good as she looked. Chavasse stood at the rail as they moved down the creek toward the open sea and took a few deep breaths of the salt air. It was good to be on the move again, even toward an unknown future. In fact, if he was honest with himself, that accounted for a great deal of the fascination in his work-quite simply the living from day to day, not knowing what lay around the next corner.

Waves started to slap against the hull with strange little hollow sounds that vibrated through the whole boat, as they left the shelter of the creek and lifted to meet the Channel swell. He moved to the wheelhouse and paused in the doorway.

“Where were you thinking of putting me down?”

“Anywhere you like,” Gorman said. “You’re the boss.”

“I was thinking of somewhere a little bit off the beaten track. The Gulf of Saint Malo or Britanny. I could move on to Marseilles from there.”

“Suits me.”

Gorman altered course a couple of points and Chavasse said, “I’ll go below and get a little shut-eye.”

“Best thing to do. Could get a little rough in mid-Channel. The glass is falling. You’ll find coffee in the big thermos in the galley.”

Chavasse went below to the main saloon. He was tired-damned tired-which was hardly surprising. He found the thermos in the galley, poured himself a cup and returned to the saloon. He drank the coffee slowly, going over the situation point by point. There was nothing to be gained from a confrontation with Gorman just yet, that could come later.

Quite suddenly, his brain almost ceased to function. God, but he was tired. He stretched out on the padded seat and stared up at the bulkhead. The ribs in the roof seemed to undulate slowly, like ripples on the surface of a pond, and his mouth was strangely dry. It was only in the final moment of his plunge into darkness that it occurred to his bemused brain that something might have gone wrong.

HE surfaced slowly, for the first few moments aware only of existing. The saloon was in darkness, that much was obvious, and he was lying facedown on the padded seat. He tried to move, lost his balance and fell to the floor, which was hardly surprising, considering that his wrists were securely lashed behind his back.

The Mary Grant was still moving, but as he tried to scramble to his feet, the engines were cut and she started to drift. There was a footstep on the companionway, the light was switched on, and Gorman appeared. He squatted so close that Chavasse was aware of the stale smell of sweat from his unwashed body.

“How are you then, matey?” Gorman patted his cheek.

“What’s the game?” Chavasse demanded, staying with his role for the time being. “I thought we had a deal.”

Gorman got up and opened the slim case, which stood on the table. He took out one of the packets of banknotes. “This is the game, matey-the green stuff. I’ve always had a feeling for it. It makes me come out in goosebumps all over. This little collection, I like so much that I can’t bear to be separated from any part of it.”

“Okay,” Chavasse said. “I won’t give you any trouble. Just drop me off at the other end, that’s all I ask.”

Gorman’s laugh was something to be heard as he pulled Chavasse to his feet and pushed him toward the companionway. “I’ll drop you off all right, matey, make no mistake about that. Right into the deep end.”

It was cold on deck, rain drifting down through the yellow light. Chavasse turned to face him. Gorman picked up a length of rusty anchor chain, and Chavasse said calmly, “Who taught you that little trick-Rossiter?”

It certainly brought Gorman to a stop. He glared at Chavasse, his eye rolling horribly, and when he spoke his voice was the merest whisper.

“Who are you? What is this?”

“It’s no good, Gorman,” Chavasse told him flatly. “My people know where I am. When I end up missing, you’ll have some tall explaining to do.”

He had completely miscalculated his man. Gorman gave a cry of rage, and his arm went back to strike, the length of chain cracking out like a leather whip.

It never landed. A hand emerged from the shadows and wrenched the chain from his grasp. Gorman spun round and Darcy Preston stepped into the light.

Gorman didn’t mess about. His hand went into his pocket and came out clutching a revolver, but he made the mistake of firing too quickly. The bullet plowed into the deckhouse and Darcy went headfirst over the rail.

Gorman peered into the dark waters and, behind him, Preston pulled himself over the rail, having swum under the keel. There was only one possible weapon, a long-handled gaff used for pulling in game fish, which hung on the side of the wheelhouse in a spring clip. As he pulled it free, the clip twanged musically and Gorman turned.