A Fine Night for Dying

“That’s right.”

Jacaud tried to inject a little friendliness into his voice. “I’ll drop in later, if I may, after I’ve seen what Gorman wants. I’d like to talk things over with you now that I’m leaving.”

“As you wish, monsieur.”

Mercier faded into the night and Jacaud continued on his way, walking quickly, without even the slightest hint of drunkenness in his manner. If anything, he was worried, for he was not overendowed with intelligence. Rossiter had left him strict instructions as to what he was to do and Gorman hadn’t entered into them at all.

The Mary Grant waited at the jetty, her engine whispering quietly. He went down the ladder to the deck and paused uncertainly. There was a movement in the wheelhouse and he went toward it quickly.

“Gorman?” he demanded hoarsely.

He reached the door, and the heart in him seemed to stop beating, for the face that stared coldly at him from the darkness, disembodied in the light from the binnacle, was one that he had never expected to see again in this life.

Chavasse smiled gently. “Come right in, Jacaud.”

Jacaud took a step back and the muzzle of a revolver touched him on the temple. He turned his head involuntarily and found himself looking straight at Darcy Preston.

Sweat sprang to his forehead, cold as death, and he started to shake, for what he was seeing simply could not be. He sagged against the wheelhouse door with a groan, and the Mary Grant left the jetty and moved out to sea.

BY the time they had anchored in Penmarch Bay, Jacaud no longer believed in ghosts, only in miracles, and a miracle was something that could happen to anyone. His awe had been replaced by anger, and he awaited his chance to strike. It came when Mercier arrived and tied up alongside in his old whaleboat. Preston went to catch the line he threw, leaving Chavasse in charge, who suddenly seemed to get careless. Jacaud grabbed for the gun Chavasse was holding, and Chavasse, who had been anticipating just such a move, swayed to one side and clouted him over the head.

The blow would have dazed any other man, sent him to his knees for several minutes. Jacaud simply rolled on one shoulder, came to his feet and dived for the rail. Darcy managed to get a foot under him just in time and Jacaud went sprawling.

When he got to his feet, he found Preston taking off his jacket. “Come on then, Jacaud,” he said. “Let’s see how good you are.”

“You black ape.”

Jacaud came in like a tornado, great arms flailing, hands reaching out to destroy, and proceeded to get the thrashing of his life, as Darcy demolished him with a scientific exactitude that was awe inspiring in its economy. The Jamaican in action was something to see, and hatred gave him an additional advantage.

Jacaud landed perhaps three or four punches, but everything else he threw only touched on air. In return, he was subjected to a barrage of punches that were devastating in their effect, driving him to his knees again and again until a final right cross put him on his back.

He lay there sobbing for breath, and Darcy dropped to one knee beside him. “And now, Jacaud, you will answer some questions, quickly and accurately.”

Jacaud spat in his face.

Chavasse pulled Darcy up. “Take a breather. Let me try.” He lit a cigarette. “We all hate you here, Jacaud. The Jamaican, because you and Rossiter drowned his brother the other week. Mercier, because you dragged him down into the filth with you. Me, because I don’t like your smell. You’re an animal-something from under a stone- and I’d no more hesitate to kill you than I would to step on a slug. Now that we know where we stand, we’ll try again. Where has Rossiter gone?”

Jacaud’s reply was coarse and to the point.

Chavasse stood up. “On your feet.”

Jacaud hesitated and Mercier kicked him in the ribs. “You heard the gentleman.”

Jacaud got up reluctantly and Chavasse tossed Darcy a coil of rope. “Tie his wrists.”

Jacaud didn’t bother to struggle. “You can do what you like; you won’t make me talk. I’ll see you in hell first.”

He raved on for some time, but Chavasse ignored him and walked to the stern, where the swivel seats were fastened to the deck for big-game fishing and the hoist and pulley were rigged ready to haul in tuna or shark.

“Let’s have him down here.”

Darcy pushed Jacaud forward, and Chavasse swung him around and looped his bonds over the hook on the end of the pulley line. “Here, what is this?” Jacaud demanded.

Chavasse nodded to the other two. “Haul away.”

As Preston and Mercier turned the winch handle between them, Jacaud’s feet left the deck, and in a moment he was three feet up in the air. He started to struggle, kicking wildly, and Chavasse pushed the hoist out over the water. Jacaud hung there, cursing, and Chavasse tried again.

“Ready to talk, Jacaud?”

“To hell with you-to hell with all of you.”

Chavasse nodded, Darcy released the winch handle and Jacaud disappeared beneath the surface. Chavasse gave him a full minute, checking his watch carefully, then nodded, and Darcy and Mercier cranked him in.

Jacaud hung just beyond the rail, chest heaving as he sobbed for breath. He started to cough, then vomited. Chavasse gave him a moment to collect himself.

“Hellgate, Jacaud, and Montefiore. I want to know about both of them.”

Jacaud cursed him, kicking out wildly. Chavasse turned and nodded, his face cold, and the winch creaked again.

This time he made it one minute and a half, and when Jacaud appeared, there was hardly any movement at all. Chavasse swung him in, and after a while the great head lifted and the eyes opened.

“Hellgate,” he said with a croak. “It’s a house in the Camargue near a village called Chatillon. Monsieur Montefiore owns it.”

“And that’s where Rossiter and the others have gone?”

Jacaud nodded weakly.

“And Montefiore, is he there now?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never met him. I only know what Rossiter has told me.”

“Why didn’t you leave with the others?”

“Rossiter wanted me to take care of Mercier-he thought he knew too much and he wanted me to leave openly so that questions would not be asked. I only had a lease on the inn. It’s up in a couple of months anyway, so I made it over to the old hag who works for me. I told everyone I was leaving for Corsica tomorrow. That I’d been left a farm by a distant relative.”

Chavasse nodded slowly. “So, you were to kill Mercier?”

Jacaud started to cough, then gave a strange choking cry. His body heaved as if he were in pain, and Mercier and Darcy lowered him to the deck quickly. Mercier dropped to his knees and put an ear against Jacaud’s chest. When he looked up, his face was grave.

“He is dead, monsieur. His heart has given out.”

“Let’s hope he told the truth then,” Chavasse said calmly. “Get the ropes off him and put him in the saloon.”

He turned and Darcy grabbed him by the arm. “Is that all you can say, for God’s sake? We’ve just killed a man.”

“One way or the other, he was due for it,” Chavasse said. “So cut out the hearts and flowers. I haven’t got time.”

He pulled free and went into the wheelhouse. He was examining the chart when they joined him. “I need a nice deep channel,” he said to Mercier. “Deep enough for the Mary Grant to sink into without trace.”

Mercier sighed. “A pity, monsieur. She’s a beautiful boat.”

“She’s still got to go,” Chavasse said. “Where would you suggest?”