Alistair Maclean - Seawitch

«We're pretty sure their destination is the Seawitch. We're pretty sure they'll use a helicopter. Which helicopter and pilot would you use?»

«Lord Worth's. Not only are his pilots almost certainly the only ones who know the exact co-ordinates of the Seawitch, but those distinctly marked North Hudson helicopters are the only ones that could approach the Seawitch without raising suspicion.» Roomer reached for the phone, fiddled with the wave-band control and raised Lord Worth's house. «Jim?» «Go ahead, Mr. Roomer.» «We're coming back there. Look for Lord Worth's address book. Probably right by you in your radio room. Make us a list of the names and addresses of his helicopter pilots. Is the gatekeeper at the heliport on the radio-phone, too?»

«Yes.»

«Get that for us too, please.»

«Roger,»

Roomer said to Mitchell: «Still think we shouldn't warn Larsen about our suspicions?»

«That's for sure.» Mitchell was very definite. 'The Seawitch is Larsen's baby, and the kind of reception he'd prepare for them might be a bit overenthusiastic. How'd you like to explain to Lord Worth how come his daughters got caught in the crossfire?»

«No way!» Roomer spoke with some feeling. «Or even explain to yourself how Melinda got shot through the lung?»

Roomer ignored him. «What if we're wrong about Worth's pilots?»

Seawitch

'Then we turn the whole thing over to that ace detective, McGarrity.» «So we'd better be right.» They were right. They were also too late.

John Campbell was both an avid fisherman and an avid reader. He had long since mastered the techniques of indulging his two pleasures simultaneously. A creek, fairly popular with fish, ran within twenty feet of his back porch. Campbell was sitting on a canvas chair, parasol over his head, alternating every page with a fresh cast of his line, when Durand and one of his men, stocking-masked and holding guns in their hands, came into his line of vision. Campbell rose to his feet, book still in hand.

«Who are you and what do you want?»

«You. You're Campbell, aren't you?»

«What if I am?»

«Like you to do a little job for us.»

«What job?»

«Fly a helicopter for us.»

«I'll be damned if I will!»'

«So you are Campbell. Come along.»

Following the gesturing of their guns, Campbell moved between the two men. He was within one foot of Durand's gun hand when he chopped the side of his hand on the wrist that held the gun. Durand grunted hi pain, the gun fell to the ground and a second later the two men were locked together, wrestling, kicking and punching with a fine disregard for the rules of sport, altering position so frequently that Durand's henchman at first found no opportunity to intervene. But the opportunity came very soon. The unsportsmanlike but effective use of Campbell's right knee doubled Durand over in gasping agony, but enough instinct was left him to seize Campbell's shirt as he fell over backward. This was Campbell's downfall in more ways than one, for the back of his head was now nakedly vulnerable to a swung automatic.

The man who had felled Campbell now pulled him clear, allowing Durand to climb painfully to his feet, although still bent over at an angle of forty-five degrees. He pulled off his stocking mask as if to try to get more air to breathe. Durand was Latin American, with a pale coffee-colored face, thick black curling hair and a pencil-line mustache; he might even qualify as handsome when the twisted lines of agony ceased to contort his face. He straightened inch by inch and finally obtained a modicum of breath— enough, at least, to allow him to announce what he would like to do with Campbell.

«Some other time, Mr. Durand. He can't very well fly a chopper from a hospital bed.»

Durand painfully acknowledged the truth of this. «I hope you didn't hit nun too hard.» «Just a tap.» «Tie him, tape him and blindfold him.»

Durand was now a scarce twenty degrees off the vertical. His helper left for the car and returned hi moments with cord, tape and blindfold. Three minutes later they were on then1 way, with a rug-covered and still unconscious Campbell on the floor at the back. Resting comfortably on the rug were Durand's feet—he still didn't feel quite up to driving. Both men had then* masks off now—even in the free-wheeling state of Florida men driving with stocking masks on were likely to draw more than passing attention.

Mitchell glanced briefly at the list of names and addresses Robertson had given them. «Fine. But what are these checks opposite five of the names?»

Robertson sounded apologetic. «I hope you don't mind—I don't want to butt in—but I took the liberty of phoning those gentlemen to see if they would be at home when you came around. I assumed you'd be seeing them because you asked for the addresses.»

Mitchell looked at Roomer. «Why the hell didn't you think of that?»

Roomer bestowed a cold glance on him and said to Robertson: «Maybe I should have you as a partner. What did you find out?»

«One pilot is standing by at the airport. Four of the others are at home. The one whose name I haven't checked—John Campbell—isn't home.

I asked one of the other pilots about this and he seemed a bit surprised. Said that Campbell usually spends his afternoons fishing outside the back of his house. He's a bachelor and lives in a pretty isolated place.»

«It figures,» Roomer said. «A bachelor in isolation. The kidnapers seem to have an excellent intelligence system. The fact that he doesn't answer the phone may mean nothing—he could have gone for a walk, shopping, visiting friends. On the other- hand—»

«Yes. Especially on the other hand.» Mitchell turned to leave, then said to Robertson: «Does the gatekeeper have a listed phone number as well as the radiophone?»

«I've typed it on that list.»

«Maybe we should both have you as a partner.»

Mitchell and Roomer stood on Campbell's back lawn and surveyed the scene unemotionally. The canvas chair, on its side, had a broken leg. The parasol was upturned on the grass, over an opened book. The fishing rod was in the water up to its handle and would have floated away had not the reel snagged on a shrub root Roomer retrieved the rod while Mitchell hurried through the back doorway—the back door was wide open, as was the front. He dialed a phone number, and got an answer on the first ring.

«Lord Worth's heliport. Gorrie here.»

«My name's Mitchell. You have a police guard?»

«Mr. Mitchell? You Lord Worth's friend?»

«Yes.»

«Sergeant Roper is here.»

«That all? Let me speak to him.» There was hardly a pause before Roper came on the phone.

«Mike? Nice to hear from you again.»

«Listen, Sergeant, this is urgent. I'm speaking from the house of John Campbell, one of Lord Worth's pilots. He has been forcibly abducted, almost certainly by some of the kidnapers of Lord Worth's daughters. I have every reason to believe—no tune for explanations now—that they're heading in your direction with the intention of hijacking one of Lord Worth's helicopters and forcing Campbell to fly it. There'll be two of them at least, maybe three, armed and dangerous. I suggest you call up reinforcements immediately. If we get them we'll break them— at least Roomer and I will; you can't, you're a law officer and your hands are tied—and we'll find where the girls are and get them back,»

«Reinforcements coming up. Then I'll look the other way.»

Mitchell hung up. Roomer was by his side. Roomer said: «You prepared to go as far as back-room persuasion to get the information we want?»

Mitchell looked at him bleakly. «I look forward to it. Don't you?»

«No. But Til go along with you.» Once again Mitchell and Roomer had guessed correctly. And once again they were too late.