A Fine Night for Dying

Rossiter and Mr. Cheung were talking together in Cantonese. Chavasse strained every nerve to hear what was being said, but could only catch odd words and phrases. There was a sudden burst of laughter and then their footsteps drummed on the boards overhead as they walked away.

“What were they talking about?” Jones said.

Chavasse shook his head. “I couldn’t catch everything. Putting it together, it seems that Cheung has been sent from a place called Hellgate by a man named Montefiore. Does that make any kind of sense to you?”

Jones nodded. “Montefiore is something new, but Hellgate I’ve come across before. I overheard a conversation between Rossiter and Jacaud.”

Chavasse scrambled up the cross ties and looked down at the deck of the Leopard. It was a depressing sight, shabby and uncared for, festooned with nets and cluttered with lobster pots. The rubber dinghy had been inflated and a powerful outboard motor was attached to its stern.

“One thing’s certain,” he said. “If anything goes wrong, some of us will be swimming. That thing won’t hold more than four and make progress. Come on, we’d better get out of here.”

They scrambled back along the timbers and reached the beach again. As they moved up through the sand dunes, Jones chuckled.

“What’s so funny?” Chavasse asked.

“You are.” Jones contrived to look innocent. “Man, you’re the only Australian I’ve ever met who could speak French and Chinese as well as English. Those Sydney schools must really be something.”

“You go to hell,” Chavasse said, and moved on through the pine trees toward the inn.

WHEN they entered, Rossiter was standing alone at the bar and Mercier was in the act of pouring himself a brandy. The Englishman turned and smiled. “Ah, there you are. We were looking for you.”

“We felt like a breath of air,” Chavasse said. “Anything important?”

“I think so. You’ll be pleased to know we’re leaving tonight at approximately nine o’clock.”

“How long will the crossing take?”

“About seven hours. If the weather holds, you’ll be landed on a beach near Weymouth.”

“Will we be met?”

“Naturally. My colleagues on the other side will have you in London by nine A.M. at the latest. After that you are on your own.”

“And what happens if something goes wrong?” Jones said.

Rossiter looked faintly surprised. “But it never does, I can assure you. I’ll see you later.”

He went out, closing the door, and a small, trapped wind scuffled in the corners and died.

Jones sighed. “Wish I had his confidence. You think this thing is going to work?”

“Do you?” Chavasse said.

They challenged each other, each man’s thoughts unspoken. Jones broke first, his face creasing into a smile. “I know one thing. It’s certainly going to be an interesting night.”

CHAPTER 7

The jetty at night was a lonely place, a lantern on a six-foot pole the sole illumination. In its harsh light, the Leopard looked like less of a bargain than ever, old and ugly like a whore who has seen better days, caught without her makeup on.

Mercier was there as was Jacaud, working on deck when the party from the Running Man arrived. Rossiter led the way, carrying Famia’s suitcase. Where the girl was concerned, he was all solicitude, helping her to the deck and handing her down the companionway. The others followed, Chavasse and Jones taking old Hamid and Mrs. Campbell between them in turn.

Rossiter held Chavasse back, a hand on his sleeve. “A word before you go below.”

“Something troubling you?” Chavasse inquired politely.

“Your gun.” Rossiter held out his hand. “No nonsense, now. There’s a good chap.”

Chavasse shrugged, produced the Smith amp; Wesson and handed it over. “You’re the boss.”

“For a few hours more. Now let’s join the others.” He nodded to Jacaud. “Any time you’re ready.”

Chavasse went down the companionway to the cabin and found the rest of them already seated on either side of a central table, looking absurdly formal, as if it were some kind of board meeting and they were waiting for the chairman. Jones pushed up to make room for him on the padded bench and smiled.

“What kept you?”

Before Chavasse could reply, Rossiter appeared. He leaned on the end of the table, his hands taking his weight. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re about to commence the final leg of your journey. If the weather holds, and I can assure you that the forecast is a favorable one, you will be landed approximately seven hours from now in a creek near a small village not far from Weymouth on the English coast. A member of our organization will be waiting there to take you on to London by road. For the rest of the voyage, I must ask you to stay in your cabin. Are there any questions?” No one spoke, and he smiled. “You’ll find sandwiches through there in the galley, if anyone feels hungry, and a small stove on which you can make coffee. I’ll see you later.”

He left, and almost immediately the engines coughed into life and the boat started to move. Chavasse peered out of the nearest porthole and saw Mercier standing under the lantern on the jetty as the Leopard moved out to sea. He walked away and Chavasse sat down again.

Jones offered him a cigarette. “Well, what do you think now?”

“They seem to know what they’re up to.” Chavasse leaned across to Famia. “Everything okay?”

She smiled brightly. “Fine, just fine. Mr. Rossiter has been so kind. He gives one such a feeling of confidence. I’m sure everything is going to be all right now.”

“Let’s hope so.”

Chavasse leaned back. The business with the Smith amp; Wesson had given him something to think about. There could well be some sinister motive behind it. On the other hand, it was perfectly possible that Rossiter was simply taking every precaution. Not that it mattered, for Chavasse, who had long ago learned by bitter experience never to leave anything to chance, still had the Walther PPK automatic, which before leaving, he had strapped to the inside of his left leg just above the ankle with a piece of surgical tape.

He sat back, eyes half-closed, and watched Cheung, who was reading a book at the far end of the table on the opposite side, next to Mrs. Campbell. Chavasse wondered what it was, and in the same moment remembered two things: Rossiter’s excellent Chinese and the copy of the Quotations of Chairman Mao Tse- Tung he had seen in his room. Yes, indeed, the more he thought about it, the more interesting Mr. Cheung became.

With a love of the sea not unnatural in a man whose Breton ancestors had been voyaging to the coast of Newfoundland to fish long before Columbus had discovered the New World, Chavasse had been running a thirty-foot motor yacht out of Alderney for eight years and knew the Gulf of St. Malo and the general area of the Channel Islands like the back of his hand.

Because of this, he was able to keep a reasonably accurate check on their progress, not only from an estimate of the boat’s speed, but by direct observation of various lights that were familiar to him.

Although the weather remained fair, the boat pitched considerably in the turbulence common to the area because of the great tidal surge that drives in through the Channel Islands, raising the level of the water in the Gulf by as much as thirty feet. Both Hamid and Mrs. Campbell were suffering from seasickness in spite of the pills that Rossiter had handed round at the inn before leaving, and the old man didn’t look at all well.

It wasn’t just the pitching of the Leopard that was causing the trouble. There was an all-pervading stench of fuel that seemed to have gotten steadily worse for the last hour. Chavasse looked out of the porthole as they rounded Hanois Lighthouse on the western tip of Guernsey.

He told Jones, “A clear run from here. Shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours, if the weather holds.”

Jones made a wry face. “Much more of this and I’ll be sick myself. That fuel sure stinks.”

Chavasse said, in a low voice, “I’m not too happy about it. Think I’ll go on deck and have a word with our friend.”