Десмонд Бэгли - Wyatt's Hurricane

Causton was interested. ‘Is it anything serious?’

Hansen shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t say so — Brooksie isn’t the nervous type.’

‘Brooksie?’

‘Commodore Brooks — Base Commander.’

Wyatt turned to Julie and said in a low voice, ‘What are you doing for the rest of the day?’

‘Nothing much — why?’

‘I’m tired of office work.’ he said. ‘What about our going over to St Michel? You used to like that little beach we found, and it’s a good day for swimming.’

‘That sounds a good idea,’ she agreed. ‘I’d like that.’

‘We’ll leave after lunch.’

‘How’s Mabel?’ asked Hansen across the table.

‘Nothing to report.’ said Wyatt. ‘She’s behaving herself. She just missed Grenada as predicted. She’s speeded up a bit, though; Schelling wasn’t too happy about that.’

‘Not with the prediction he made.’ Hansen nodded. ‘Still, he’ll have covered himself — you can trust him for that.’

Causton dabbed at the corner of his mouth with his napkin. ‘To change the subject — have any of you heard of a man called Favel?’

‘Julio Favel?’ said Hansen blankly. ‘Sure — he’s dead.’

‘Is he now!’

‘Serrurier’s men caught up with him in the hills last year. There was a running battle — Favel wasn’t going to be taken alive — and he was killed. It was in the local papers at the time.’ He quirked an eyebrow at Causton. ‘What’s the interest?’

‘The rumour is going about that Favel is still alive,’ said Causton. ‘I heard it this morning.’

Hansen looked at Wyatt, and Wyatt said, ‘That explains Serrurier’s nightmare last night.’ Causton lifted his eye-brows, and Wyatt said, ‘There was a lot of troop movement in the town last night.’

‘So I saw,’ said Causton. ‘Who was Favel?’

‘Come off it,’ said Wyatt. ‘You’re a newspaperman — you know as well as I do.’

Causton grinned. ‘I like to get other people’s views,’ he said without a trace of apology. ‘The objective view, you know; as a scientist you should appreciate that.’

Julie said in bewilderment, ‘Who was this Favel?’

Causton said, ‘A thorn in the side of Serrurier. Serrurier, being the head of government, calls him a bandit; Favel preferred to call himself a patriot. I think the balance is probably on Favel’s side. He was hiding in the hills doing quite a bit of damage to Serrurier before he was reported killed. Since then there has been nothing — until now.’

“I don’t believe he’s alive,’ said Hansen. ‘We’d have heard about it before now.’

“He might have been intelligent enough to capitalize on the report of his death — to lie low and accumulate strength unworried by Serrurier.’

‘Or he might have been ill,’ said Wyatt.

‘True,’ said Causton. ‘That might be it.’ He turned to Hansen. ‘What do you think?’

‘All I know is what I read in the newspapers,’ said Hansen. ‘And my French isn’t too good — not the kind of French these people write.’ He leaned forward. ‘Look, Mr Causton; we’re under military discipline here at Cap Sarrat, and the orders are not to interfere in local affairs — not even to appear interested. If we don’t keep our noses clean we’re in trouble. If we survive Serrurier’s strong-arm boys, then Commodore Brooks takes our hides off. There have been a few cases, you know, mostly among the enlisted men, and they’ve got shipped back to the States with a big black demerit to spend a year or two in the stockade. I was going to tell you this last night when that guy Dawson busted in.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Causton. ‘I apologize. I didn’t realize the difficulties you people must have here.’

‘That’s all right,’ said Hansen. ‘You weren’t to know. But I might as well tell you that one thing that is specifically discouraged is talking too freely to visiting newsmen.’

‘Nobody likes us,’ said Causton plaintively.

‘Sure,’ said Hansen. ‘Everyone has something to hide — but our reasons are different. We’re trying to avoid stirring up any trouble. You know as well as I do — where you find a newsman you find trouble.’

‘I rather think it’s the other way round,’ said Causton gently. ‘Where you find trouble you find a newsman — the trouble comes first.’ He changed the subject abruptly. ‘Speaking of Dawson, I find that he’s staying at the Imperiale. When Miss Marlowe and I left this morning he was nursing a hangover and breakfasting lightly off one raw egg and the juice of a whisky bottle.’

Wyatt said, ‘You’re not really on holiday, are you, Causton?’

Causton sighed. ‘My boss thinks I am. Coming here was a bit of private enterprise on my part. I heard rumours and rumours of rumours. For instance, arms traffic to this part of the world has been running high lately. The stuff hasn’t been going to Cuba or South America as far as I can find out, but it’s being absorbed somewhere. I put it to my boss, but he didn’t agree with my reasoning, or, as he put it, my non-reasoning. However, I have great faith in myself so I took a busman’s holiday and here I am.’

‘And have you found what you’re looking for?’

‘You know, I really fear I have.’

Wyatt drove slowly through the suburbs of St Pierre, hampered by the throngs in the streets. The usual half-naked small boys diced with death before the wheels of his car, shrieking with laughter as he blew his horn; the bullock carts and sagging trucks created their usual traffic jams, and the chatter of the crowds was deafening — the situation was normal and Wyatt relaxed as he got out of the town and was able to increase speed.

The road to St Michel wound up from St Pierre through the lush Negrito Valley, bordered with banana, pineapple and sugar plantations and overlooked by the frowning heights of the Massif des Saints. ‘It seems that last night’s disturbance was a false alarm,’ said Wyatt. ‘In spite of what Causton said this morning.’

‘I don’t know if I really like Causton, after all,’ said Julie pensively. ‘Newspaper reporters remind me of vultures, somehow.’

‘I have a fellow feeling for him,’ said Wyatt. ‘He makes a living out of disaster — so do I.’

She was shocked. ‘It’s not the same at all. At least you are trying to minimize disaster.’

‘So is he, according to his lights. I’ve read some of his stuff and it’s very good; full of compassion at the damn’ silliness of the human race. I think he was truly sorry to find out he was right about the situation here — if he is right, of course. I hope to God he isn’t.’

She made an impatient movement with her shoulders. ‘Let’s forget about him, shall we? Let’s forget about him and Serrurier and — what’s-his-name — Favel.’

He slowed to avoid a wandering bullock cart loaded with rocks and jerked his head back at the armed soldier by the road. ‘It’s not so easy to forget Serrurier with that sort of thing going on.’

Julie looked back. ‘What is it?’

‘The corvée — forced labour on the roads. All the peasants must do it. It’s a hangover from pre-revolutionary France which Serrurier makes pay most handsomely. It has never stopped on San Fernandez.’ He nodded to the side of the road. ‘It’s the same with these plantations; they were once owned by foreign companies — American and French mostly. Serrurier nationalized the lot by expropriation when he came to power. He runs them as his own private preserve with convict labour — and it doesn’t take much to become a convict on this island, so he’s never short of workers. They’re becoming run down now.’

She said in a low voice, ‘How can you bear to live here — in the middle of all this unhappiness?’