Десмонд Бэгли - The Spoilers

‘I’ve got an idea,’ said Parker. ‘Maybe we can flush him out.’

‘You mean flood the compartment,’ said Tozier. ‘Can it be done?’

‘Not water,’ said Parker. He raised his head and looked upwards. ‘On the foredeck just above us there’s the anchor winch. It’s run by steam taken from the boiler. I reckon I could take a tapping off the line an’ run it down here.’

‘And what would you do with it?’

‘There’s provision for fumigatin’ the ship — gettin’ rid o’ rats. There’s a gas line goin’ into each compartment an’ I’m pretty sure the one leadin’ into there is open. I find the other end an’ connect my line to it. A bit o’ live steam will bring Jack Eastman out o’ there like a scalded cat.’

‘You’ve got nice ideas,’ said Metcalfe. ‘Humane, too. How long will it take?’

‘Dunno; an hour — maybe two. It depends on what I find topside.’

‘Get cracking,’ said Metcalfe.

Jamil Hassan was a methodical man and it was unfortunate that the bureaucratic organization he worked for was unyielding in its procedures and tended to be compartmentalized. The news did not reach his office at all and it was only because he decided to have a mid-morning cup of coffee that he heard anything about it.

On his way out he passed the duty officer’s desk and automatically asked, ‘Anything happening?’

‘Nothing much, sir; just the usual. There was one odd thing — a report of a shooting on board a ship leaving Elgamhûrîa Shipyard.’

A young policeman who was writing a report close by pricked up his ears. Hassan said, ‘What was odd about it?’

‘By the time it was reported and we got a man down there the ship was outside territorial waters.’ The duty officer shrugged. ‘There was nothing we could do about it.’

The young policeman sprang to his feet. ‘Sir!’

Hassan eyed him. ‘Yes?’

‘Last night a man called Andre Picot was brought in for questioning — on your instructions, sir.’

‘Well?’

The young man fidgeted a little. ‘It’s... it’s just that I saw Picot leaving Elgamhûrîa Shipyard three days ago. It may not be...’

Hassan waved him quiet, his brain assessing facts like a card-sorter. Heroin — a large quantity of heroin — had left Iran heading westward; Picot, a suspected smuggler, had been questioned — unsuccessfully; Picot had been seen at Elgamhûrîa Shipyard; a shot — or shots — had been fired on a ship in Elgamhûrîa Shipyard; the ship had promptly left Lebanese waters. It was not much, but it was enough.

He picked up the telephone, dialled a number, and said, ‘Bring in André Picot for questioning, and get me a car.’

Thirty minutes later he was standing on the quay in the shipyard interrogating the officer who had made the investigation. ‘And the ship left after the shot was fired?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘What was its name?’

‘The Orestes. ’

Hassan surveyed the deserted quay. ‘And it was the only ship here. That’s strange.’

‘No, sir; there was a yacht. She left only five minutes ago.’ He pointed. ‘There she is.’

Hassan shaded his eyes against the sun and looked out to sea. ‘And you let her go? Was the owner here when the incident happened?’

‘Yes, sir. He said he did not hear or see anything. Nor did his crew.’

Hassan peered at the yacht. ‘Very convenient for him. Who is he?’

‘His name is Fuad, sir. He said he is to cruise in the Caribbean.’

‘By the Living God!’ said Hassan. ‘Did he? What is that at the stern?’

The officer strained his eyes. ‘A pile of canvas?’ he hazarded.

‘A sheet of canvas covering something,’ corrected Hassan. ‘I want a telephone.’

Two minutes later he was embroiled in an argument with a particularly stupid staff officer of Naval Headquarters, Beirut.

The Orestes plugged away on her new course and the loom of land astern had disappeared leaving only a cloudbank to indicate Mount Lebanon. Warren made himself useful by finding the galley and preparing a meal; corned beef from tins and flat loaves of Arab bread to be washed down with thin, acid wine.

As he worked he pondered on the relationship between Metcalfe and Tozier. They were both of the same stripe, both men of strong will, and they seemed to work in harmony, each instinctively knowing that the other would do the right thing when necessary. He wondered, if it ever came to a conflict between them, who would come out on top.

He finally decided he would lay his money on Metcalfe. Tozier was the more conservative and preferred his employment to have at least a veneer of legality. Metcalfe was more the amoral buccaneer, unscrupulous to a degree and adept in the department of dirty tricks. Warren thought that if it ever came to a showdown between them that Tozier might show a fatal flaw of hesitation where Metcalfe would not. He hoped his theory would never be put to the test.

He finished his preparations and took the food to the bridge. Metcalfe, because of his knowledge of ships and the sea, was now in command, while Tozier kept an eye on Eastman. Follet was in the engine-room, having released a couple of the engine-room staff who were tending the engines nervously under the threat of his gun. Parker and Abbot worked on the foredeck by the anchor winch, and Hellier stood guard over the hold.

Metcalfe called up Abbot to collect something to eat, and also brought Hellier up to the bridge. ‘All quiet?’ he asked.

‘No trouble,’ assured Hellier. ‘They’ve settled down.’

Metcalfe offered him a sandwich. As Hellier bit into it, he said with a wide grin, ‘You’ve now added piracy to your list of crimes, Sir Robert. That’s still a hanging matter in England.’

Hellier choked over the dry bread and spluttered crumbs. Warren said, ‘I don’t think Delorme will press charges, not with the evidence we have aboard.’ He cocked an eye at Metcalfe. ‘I wonder what she’s thinking now.’

‘Evil thoughts — that’s for sure,’ said Metcalfe. ‘But I’m more concerned about what she’ll be doing. She certainly won’t be sitting on her beautiful bottom. When Jeanette gets mad she becomes active.’ He nodded towards the foredeck. ‘How is Parker doing?’

‘He says he’ll need another hour,’ said Abbot.

Warren said, ‘I’ll take him some grub and see if he needs any help.’

Metcalfe steadied the wheel with one hand and held a sandwich with the other. ‘What a hooker this is. She might do nine knots if she could go down hill.’ He looked up. ‘What’s that gadget up there on the derrick?’

Abbot said, ‘It’s one of Dan’s tricks.’ He explained about the light ashore and the man in the crow’s nest.

‘Ingenious,’ commented Metcalfe. ‘Climb up there and see what you can see.’

Abbot went up the derrick and steadied himself at the top by holding on to the sighting telescope which was rigidly fixed. At that height, fifty feet above the water, he felt the breeze which stirred his fair hair, and the slow roll of the Orestes was magnified. ‘There are two more buttons up here,’ he shouted. ‘Eastman wanted two sets.’

‘Leave them alone. What do you see?’

Abbot looked over the bows. ‘There’s a ship ahead of us. I can see the smoke.’ He turned slowly, scanning the horizon. ‘There’s one behind us, too.’

Metcalfe clicked into alertness. ‘Overtaking us?’

‘It’s hard to say,’ shouted Abbot. He was silent for a while. ‘I think she is — I can see a bow wave.’

Metcalfe left the wheel, saying to Hellier, ‘Take it.’ Without breaking his stride he scooped up a pair of binoculars and went up the derrick like a monkey up a palm tree. At the top he steadied himself against the roll of the ship and focused the binoculars astern. ‘It’s Fuad’s yacht. She’s coming like a bat out of hell.’