The door at the top of the companionway was locked. He hammered on it with his clenched fist. After a while, it opened and Rossiter peered in.
“What do you want?”
“We’re getting one hell of a whiff of fuel down here,” Chavasse told him. “Old Hamid’s been sick several times now. He doesn’t look too good.”
Rossiter crouched down and sniffed. A frown appeared on his face. “I see what you mean. Better bring him up for a breath of air while I get Jacaud to check the engine.”
Jones and Chavasse took the old man up the companionway between them. There was a fair sea running, and a strength three wind, if Chavasse was any judge, but the old boat was coping nicely. The masthead light swung rhythmically from side to side. Jacaud crouched beside the bow hatch, which gave access to the engine. He disappeared from view, and Chavasse left Jones to look after Hamid and crossed to the open hatch.
There was only four feet of headroom inside, and Jacaud had to squat at the bottom of the short ladder while fumbling for the light switch in the dark. He found it, and in the sudden illumination, the trouble was plain enough to see, for an inch or so of fuel slopped around his feet.
He edged forward and disappeared from view, reappearing almost immediately. “How bad is it?” Chavasse asked, as he came up the ladder.
Jacaud ignored him, replaced the hatch and went aft to the wheelhouse. Chavasse returned to Jones, who stood at the rail with an arm around Hamid.
“What gives?” Jones demanded.
Chavasse shrugged. “Jacaud wasn’t exactly forthcoming. I’d say he has a leak in the fuel tank.”
“Quite correct.” Rossiter joined them, a match flaring in his cupped hands as he lit a cigarette. “As it happens, we have auxiliary tanks that carry enough fuel for the entire trip in themselves. Jacaud has switched over to them. I think you’ll find that things will improve very quickly now.”
“Do we have to return below?” Chavasse asked.
“One of you can stay up here with the old man for another ten minutes or so. He should be all right again by then.”
He went back into the wheelhouse and Chavasse turned to Jones. “You okay here?”
“Sure.”
“Good-then I’ll go below and see how the others are getting on.”
When he went down the companionway to the saloon, the smell of fuel still lingered, but it was nowhere near as strong as it had been earlier. Mrs. Campbell looked pale and wan, but Famia seemed fine, and Cheung leaned back in his seat, eyes closed, hands folded across his chest.
Chavasse glanced out of the porthole above his head. In the distance, the green-and-red navigation lights of a ship following the steamer lane that ran up-Channel from Ushant disappeared, as if a curtain had dropped into place. He peered out, frowning, and there was a step on the companionway.
Jones eased old Hamid into a seat and grinned. “Not too good out there now. Mist coming in off the water and it’s started to rain again.”
At that precise moment, the boat was rocked by a muffled explosion. Mrs. Campbell screamed as she was thrown half-across the table and Chavasse fetched up against the far wall. As he picked himself up, the
Chavasse hammered on the door of the companionway. It opened almost at once and Rossiter peered in, a gun in his hand. His face had turned very pale, the eyes glittered, and yet the gun didn’t waver in the slightest.
“Back you go.”
“Don’t be a damn fool,” Chavasse said. “If there’s trouble, we’ve got a right to know about it.”
“When I’m good and ready.” Rossiter pushed him back and slammed the door.
“What’s wrong up there?” Jones demanded. “It certainly didn’t sound too healthy to me.”
In the stress of the moment, his accent had undergone a surprising transformation, replaced by the kind of faultless clipped English common to the products of the English public school system.
Mrs. Campbell was sobbing hysterically and Famia was trying to comfort her. Old Hamid seemed to have come to life in some strange way and was on his feet, an arm around both women. It was Cheung’s reaction that was the most interesting. No panic, no hysterics. He sat at the table, face expressionless, eyes watchful.
Chavasse unscrewed one of the portholes and peered out. There was a smell of burning, and Rossiter and Jacaud were arguing in French just above his head.
“It’s no good, I tell you,” Jacaud cried, and there was panic in his voice. “The old tub has had it.”
“How far from the coast are we?” Rossiter demanded.
“Five or six miles-maybe seven.”
“Good-we’ll continue in the rubber boat. Get it over the side. Our friends at Fixby can run us back to Saint Denise.”
The rest of the conversation was blown away on the wind and Chavasse turned to face Jones, who knelt on the seat beside him.
“What’s going on?” Jones demanded.
“From what they say, the
“Can it be done?”
“I don’t see why not. It’s about six miles to the coast and they’ve got a good outboard motor on that thing. Of course, there’s only room for four passengers, but I shouldn’t think that will present much of a problem to Rossiter.”
The door to the companionway was flung open with startling suddenness, and Rossiter appeared, the gun in his hand. He waved it at Chavasse and Jones. “Right, sit down and stay down.”
They did as they were told. Chavasse leaned across the table and groped for the butt of the Walther PPK that was strapped to his leg above the ankle.
Rossiter nodded to Famia. “All right, Miss Nadeem, on deck.”
She shook her head, complete bewilderment on her face. “But I don’t understand.”
The mask of calmness cracked into a thousand pieces. He grabbed her roughly by the arm and cried wildly, “You want to die, do you?” He pushed her up the companionway. “Go on-get on deck.”
Mrs. Campbell sagged into her seat as Famia stumbled out of sight, and Chavasse said, “What do we do? Go down with the ship singing, ‘Abide with me’?”
Rossiter ignored him and spoke to Cheung in rapid Chinese. “On deck quickly. The boat is sinking.”
The Chinese man pushed past Hamid and Mrs. Campbell, and Chavasse leaned across the table, his hand fastening around the butt of the Walther. “I’ve certainly got to give it to you, Rossiter. It must have taken nerve to see Harvey Preston off the way you did, but this is even better. Four at one go…”
Rossiter turned and fired, blindly and in a kind of reflex action, the bullet splintering the bulkhead behind Chavasse and a foot to one side. Mrs. Campbell screamed again. Chavasse sent Jones to the floor with a shove in the back and brought the Walther up fast. The bullet caught Cheung on the side of the face, gouging a bloody furrow across one cheek, chipping wood from the doorpost as it went on its way.
Cheung didn’t utter a sound. He spun round and flung himself up the companionway, and Rossiter fired three shots wildly. Chavasse went under the table. As the echoes died away, the door was slammed shut and the bolt clicked.
He got to his feet and found Jones already on his way to the companionway. Chavasse got to him just in time and dragged him back as two more shots came through the door.
“Wait, man-wait! He was expecting one of us to do that,” Chavasse said.
They flattened themselves against the wall on either side of the companionway, and Jones said softly, “You know your business, I’ll say that for you.”
Chavasse grinned. “You don’t do too badly yourself for a barrister.”
Jones showed no surprise at all. “You know who I am?”
“Darcy Morgan Preston, age twenty-nine, profession: barrister; in practice in Jamaica since August 1967. Married, two children. You’re trying to find out what happened to your brother, Harvey.”
“And you know?”
