Десмонд Бэгли - Bahama Crisis

If there was anyone watching what I did next he would have thought I had gone around the bend. I stood with my back to the door, imitating the action of a tiger — the tiger being Leroy. I had no illusions about him; he was as deadly as any tiger — possibly more dangerous than Robinson. I do not think that Robinson was the quintessential man of action; he was more the cerebral type and thought too much about his actions. Leroy, however vacant in the head, would act automatically on the necessity for action.

So I imitated Leroy coming in. He booted the door wide open; I had to imagine that bit. The door swung and slammed against the wall. Leroy looked inside and made sure I was on the bed. Satisfied he stepped inside, fixing me with the shotgun. I stood, cradling an imaginary shotgun, looking at an imaginary me on the bed.

Immediately behind came Robinson. In order that he could enter I had to cease blocking the doorway, so I took a step sideways, still holding the gun on the bed. That was what Leroy had done every time — the perfect bodyguard. I looked above my head towards the roof and was perfectly satisfied with what I saw.

Then I studied the water pitcher and basin. I had seen a piece of a similar basin before. As part of my education I had studied the English legal system and, on one Long Vacation, I had taken the opportunity of attending a Crown Court to see what went on. There had been a case of a brawl in a sea-men’s hostel, the charge being attempted murder. I could still visualize the notes I took. A doctor was giving evidence:

Prosecutor: Now, Doctor, tell me; how many pints of blood did you transfuse into this young man?

Doctor: Nine pints in the course of thirty hours.

Prosecutor: Is that not a great quantity of blood?

Doctor: Indeed, it is.

Judge (breaking in): How many pints of blood are there in a man?

Doctor: I would say that this man, taking into account his weight and build, would have eight pints of blood in him.

Judge: And you say you transfused nine pints. Surely, the blood must have been coming out of him faster than you were putting it in?

Doctor (laconically): It was.

The weapon used had been a pie-shaped fragment of such a basin as this, broken in the course of the brawl, picked up at random, and used viciously. It had been as sharp as a razor.

I next turned my attention to the window curtain, a mere flap of sackcloth. I felt the coarse weave and decided it would serve well. It was held in place by thumb tacks which would also be useful, so I ripped it away and spent the rest of the daylight hours separating the fibres rather like a nineteenth-century convict picking oakum.

While I worked I thought of what Robinson wanted. Whatever Kayles had told him was a mystery to me. I went back over the time I had spent with Kayles, trying to remember every word and analysing every nuance. I got nowhere at all and began to worry very much about Debbie.

I slept a little that night, but not much, and what sleep I had was shot with violent dreams which brought me up wide awake and sweating. I was frightened of over-sleeping into the daylight hours because my preparations were not yet complete and I needed at least an hour of light, but I need not have worried — I was open-eyed and alert as the sun rose.

An hour later I was ready — as much as I could be. Balanced on a tie-beam in the roof was the pitcher full of water, held only in place by the spatula with which I had spread my butter. I had greased it liberally so that it would slide away easily at the tug of the string I had made from the sackcloth. The string ran across the roof space, hanging loosely on the beams to a point in the corner above my bed where it dropped close to hand. Lacking a pulley wheel to take care of the right-angle bend I had used two thumb tacks and I hoped they, would hold under the strain when I pulled on the string.

The pitcher was just above the place where Leroy usually stood, and I reckoned that a weight of twenty-five pounds dropping six feet vertically on to his head would not do him much good. With Leroy out of action I was fairly confident I could take care of Robinson, especially if I could get hold of the shotgun.

Making my hand weapon had been tricky but fortunately I was aided by an existing crack in the thick pottery of the basin. Afraid of making a noise, and thankful that I had destroyed the microphone, I wrapped the basin in the bed sheet and whacked it hard with a leg I had taken from the table. It had not been difficult to dismantle the table; the wooden pegs were loose with age.

It took six blows to break that damned basin and after each one I paused to listen because I was making a considerable row. On the sixth blow I felt it go and unwrapped the bed sheet to find I had done exactly what I wanted. I had broken a wedge-shaped segment from the basin, exactly like the fortuitous weapon I had seen in that distant courtroom in England. The rim fitted snugly into the palm of my hand and the pointed end projected forward when my arm was by my side. The natural form of use would be an upward and thrusting slash.

Then, after gently pulling on the string to take up the slack I sat on the bed to wait. And wait. And wait.

The psychologists say that time is subjective, which is why watched pots never boil. I now believe them. I do not know whether it would have been better to have had a watch; all I know is that I counted time by the pace of shadows creeping across the floor infinitesimally slowly and by the measured beat of my heart.

Debbie had said there were four of them. That would be Leroy, Robinson, Kayles and the man with the pistol — I did not think Debbie had counted Belle. Kayles was now dead and I reckoned that if the pitcher took care of Leroy and I tackled Robinson I would have a chance. I would have the shotgun by then and only one man to fight — I did not expect trouble from Belle. The only thing which worried me was Leroy’s trigger finger; if he was hit on the head very hard there might be a sudden muscular contraction, and I wanted to be out of the way when that shotgun fired.

Time went by. I looked up at the pitcher poised on the beam and worked equations in my head. Accelerating under the force of gravity it would take nearly two-thirds of a second to fall six feet, by which time it would be moving at twenty-two feet a second — say, fifteen miles an hour. It might seem silly but that is what I did — I worked out the damned equations. There was nothing else to do.

The door opened with a bang and the man who came in was not Leroy but the other man. He had the shotgun, though. He stood in the doorway and just looked at me, the gun at the ready. Robinson was behind him but did not come into the room. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘What did you tell Perigord?’

‘I still don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘I’m not going to argue,’ he said. ‘I’m done with that. Watch him, Earl. If you have to shoot, make sure it’s at his legs.’

He went away. Earl closed the door and leaned his back against it, covering me with the shotgun. It was all going wrong — he was in the wrong place. A break in the pattern was ruining the plan.

I said, ‘What did he say your name was?’ My mouth was dry.

‘Earl.’ The barrel of the shotgun lowered a fraction.

I slid sideways on the bed about a foot, going towards him. ‘How much is he paying you?’

‘None of your damn business.’

Another foot. ‘I think it is. Maybe I could pay better.’

‘You reckon?’

‘I know.’ I moved up again, nearly to the end of the bed. ‘Let’s talk about it.’

I was getting too close. He stepped sideways. ‘Get back or I’ll blow yo’ haid off.’