A Fine Night for Dying (10 page)

Mallory sat there staring into space for perhaps thirty seconds, then he nodded. “Right, Paul, it's all yours. Find them—all three of them: Ho Tsen, Rossiter and Montefiore. I'd like to know what it's all about, but the most important thing is to bring them to a stop.”

“A dead stop?”

“Naturally. Seek and destroy. I can't see any point in taking half measures. It's completely your baby from now on. Use the usual communication system whenever possible to keep me informed. See Jean on your way out about money. Anything else?”

Chavasse nodded. “The man you've got keeping an eye on this bloke Gorman at Fixby—pull him off.”

“You're going down there yourself?”

“It would seem as good a place as any to start.”

Mallory reached for the phone. “I'll see to it now. Good luck.”

Jean Frazer glanced up as Chavasse emerged. “You look pleased with yourself.”

“I am.”

Chavasse helped himself to a cigarette from the box on her desk. The eyes were like black glass in the dark Celtic face. He looked like the devil himself, and for some reason, she shivered.

“What is it, Paul?”

“I'm not too sure,” he said. “It's been a long time since I felt like this.”

“Like what?”

“Personally involved in something. Me, Paul Chavasse, not just the Bureau. I'm thinking of an old man on his back on a south coast beach this morning who only wanted to see his son, and a fussy little woman who died alone, utterly terrified. A silly, stupid little woman who never hurt anyone in her life.”

He sighed heavily and stubbed out his cigarette. “I want revenge, Jean. For the first time, I want to take care of someone permanently for personal reasons. It's a new sensation. What worries me is how happy I feel about the prospect.”

 

HE parted from Darcy Preston with regret, for he had come to like the brilliant, sardonic Jamaican, and not only because of what they had been through together. As he packed one or two things, Darcy sat on the window seat and watched. He was wearing a pair of Chavasse's slacks, a polo neck sweater and a sports jacket in Donegal tweed.

“Sure you're okay for cash?” Chavasse asked, as he locked his suitcase.

Darcy nodded. “I still have a bank account here.”

Chavasse buttoned an old naval bridge coat that gave him a rather nautical air. “I don't suppose I'll be seeing you again. By this time tomorrow, you'll be on your way to sunny Jamaica.”

“Land of carefree calypso and shantytowns. Give me Birmingham any day.” Darcy grinned. “And what about you? Where do you start? At this place, Fixby?”

“Good a place as any.”

The Jamaican held out his hand. “This is it, then. Good luck, Paul, and next time you see Rossiter, give him one for me. Preferably with your boot.”

Chavasse had the door half-open when Darcy spoke again. “Just one thing. It's been eating away at me, so I've got to ask. Why did they kill Harvey that way?”

“I can only guess. They were probably in danger of being boarded. In a manner of speaking, they were destroying the evidence.”

Darcy Preston actually laughed. “You know something, that's really ironic. That's exactly what the blackbirders did with their slaves in the old days when the Royal Navy was on their tail—put them over the side in chains.”

He laughed again, but this time there were tears in his eyes, and Chavasse closed the door and left him there, alone with his grief in the quiet room.

F
ixby was a village in decline, the sort of place that had enjoyed a mild prosperity when fishing was still an economic proposition, but not now. The young ones had left for the big city and most of the cottages had been taken over by town dwellers seeking a weekend refuge.

Chavasse had himself driven to Weymouth in a Bureau car and completed his journey on the local bus. It was four o'clock in the afternoon when it deposited him in Fixby, where he was the only passenger to alight.

The single street was deserted and the pub, in strict adherence with the English licensing laws, had its door firmly shut. He moved past it and continued toward the creek, one hand pushed in the pocket of his old bridge coat, a slim leather locked briefcase swinging from the other.

The boatyard wasn't hard to find, a ghost of a place, a graveyard of hopes and ships, beached like dead whales, somber in the rain. There was an office of sorts, a decaying clapboard house behind. There didn't seem to be anyone about and he moved toward the jetty.

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.

This time he went by the manual. His arm swung up in a straight line as he sighted along the barrel with his good eye. Chavasse went for him, shoulder down like a rugby forward, sending him staggering against the rail. The revolver discharged harmlessly, and as Gorman straightened, aiming again, Darcy lunged with the gaff, the point catching Gorman in the right armpit. He went over the rail backward with a cry. By the time Chavasse got there, the dark waters had closed over his head.

“Hold out your hands,” Darcy ordered, and sliced through Chavasse's bonds with the edge of the razor-sharp gaff.

Chavasse turned, massaging his wrists to restore the circulation. “Now that's what I call a timely intervention. Is it permissible to inquire where in the hell you sprang from?”

“Glad to oblige,” Darcy said. “After you'd left, I thought about things for at least five minutes, then went downstairs to the garage and helped myself to your car. I left it at Hurn Airport and came the rest of the way by taxi. I was actually in Fixby before you. They serve a very nice keg bitter in the local.”

“Then what?”

“Oh, I hung around the boatyard awaiting events, as they say. I heard most of your conversation with Gorman, waited till you'd gone into the office, then came onboard and hid in the chain locker.”

“You certainly took your own sweet time about showing up, or was that just your sense of the dramatic?”

“As a matter of fact, I fell asleep. Didn't wake up till Gorman started thumping around and making all that noise.”

Chavasse sighed. “All right, what are you doing here?”

“It's quite simple. My brother was a criminal by every possible standard. He was a thief and a gangster, but he was good to me. If I said that I loved such a man, could you accept that?”

“Perfectly,” Chavasse told him gravely.

“He didn't deserve to die that way, Paul. He deserved many things in this life, but not that. When the time comes, I am going to kill Leonard Rossiter personally. We Jamaicans are a religious people, a proud people. An eye for an eye, the Book says, no more, no less. I will have Rossiter's life then, for that is the just thing.”

Chavasse nodded soberly. “I respect your feelings, I understand them, but between the thought and the deed is often a very wide gap, especially for a man like you. I can kill when I have to, quickly, expertly and without a second thought, because I'm a professional. Can you be that certain?”

“We'll have to see, won't we?”

“Fair enough. I'll get this thing moving; you dry yourself. We'll talk things over later.”

The Jamaican nodded and disappeared into the companionway. Chavasse went along the deck to the wheelhouse and started the engines. They made a fine lovely sound, and he pushed up the throttle and took the
Mary Grant
into the night with a burst of power.

 

“I always wanted to be a boxer,” Darcy said.

He leaned against the closed door of the wheelhouse, a blanket around his shoulders, a mug of tea in one hand, almost invisible in the darkness.

“What did Harvey have to say to that?”

Darcy chuckled. “He argued in percentages and he certainly saw no percentage in that. He always said a good fighter was a hungry fighter and I was anything but hungry. Mind you, he indulged me up to a certain point. I had lessons from some of the best pro fighters in the game. He had an interest in a gym in Whitechapel.”

“What made you choose the law?”

“With my background? A hell of a lot of people found that one funny. On the other hand, I knew every crook in Soho, which came in useful when I started to practice.”

“You were constantly in demand?”

“Something like that. I cleared out after Harvey's trial because I realized I simply couldn't continue with the kind of double life I had been leading. Went out to Jamaica and started over. A good move. That's where I met my wife.”

“Time and chance,” Chavasse said.