'He'll never believe me,' she said wildly.
'When he gets within two feet of you, he'll forget all about the reasoning why. He's a man, isn't he?'
'You're a man. And you're only six inches away.' The eternal female illogic.
'I've told you how it is, if s my pension coming between us. Quickly!'
She nodded reluctantly and I disappeared into the shadows of the nearest cellar, reversed gun in hand. She called and he came a-running, his rifle at the ready. When he saw who it was, he forgot all about his rifle. Susan started to speak her lines but she might have saved her breath. Harry, if nothing else, was an impetuous young man. That wild Armenian blood. I stepped forwards, arm swinging, and lowered him to the ground. I tied him up and, as I'd run out of handkerchiefs, ripped away part of his shirt-front and used it as a gag. Susan giggled, a giggle with a note of hysteria.
'What's up?' Tasked.
'Harry. He's what they call a snappy dresser. That's a silk shirt. You're no respecter of persons, Mr. Calvert.'
'Not persons like Harry. Congratulations. Wasn't so bad, was it?'
'It was still horrible,' Again the hand to the mouth. 'He's reeking of whisky.'
'Youngsters have odd tastes,' I said kindly. 'You'll grow out of it. At least it must have been an improvement on the garlic.'
The boathouse wasn't really a boathouse at all, it was a large vaulting cave formed in a cleft in a natural fault in the cliff strata. At the inner end of the cave longitudinal tunnels stretched away on either side paralleling the coastline, until they vanished beyond the reach of my torch. From the air, the boathouse in the small artificial harbour, a structure of about twenty feet by twenty, had seemed incapable of housing more than two or three fair-sized rowing boats. Inside it was big enough to berth a boat the size of the
The berth was empty, as I had expected to find it. Our friends were apprehensive and on piece-work rates. It wasn't difficult to guess what they were working at, the working platform was liberally stacked with the tools of their trade: an oil engine-driven air compressor with a steel reservoir with outlet valves, a manually-operated, two- cylinder double-acting air pump with two outlets, two helmets with attached corselets, flexible, non-collapsible air tubes with metal couplings, weighted boots, diving dresses, life-cum-telephone lines, lead weights and scuba equipment such as I had myself, with a stack of compressed air cylinders at the ready.
I felt neither surprise nor elation, I'd known this must exist for the past forty-eight hours although I'd become certain of the location only that night. I was faintly surprised perhaps, to see all this equipment here, for this would surely be only the spares. But I shouldn't have been even vaguely surprised. Whatever this bunch lacked, it wasn't a genius for organisation.
I didn't see that night, nor did I ever see, the cellars where the prisoners were housed. After I'd huffed and puffed three-quarters of the way up that interminable flight of steps, I turned left along the passageway where we'd first seen Harry taking his ease. After a few yards the passageway broadened out into a low damp chamber containing a table made of beer-cases, some seats of -die same and, in one comer, some furniture that hadn't yet been drunk. A bottle of whisky, nearly full, stood on the table: Harry's remedy for garlic halitosis.
Beyond this chamber was a massive wooden door secured by an equally massive-looking lock with me key missing. All the celluloid in the world wouldn't open this lot but a beehive plastic explosive would do a very efficient job indeed. I made another of the many mental notes I'd made that night and went up the stairs to rejoin Susan.
Harry had come to. He was saying something in has throat which fortunately couldn't get past his silk-shirted gag to the delicate ears of the chieftain's young daughter, his eyes, to mint a phrase, spoke volumes and he was trying as best he could to do a Houdini with the ropes round his legs and arms, Susan Kirkside was pointing a rifle in his general direction and looking very apprehensive. She needn't have bothered, Harry was trussed like a turkey,
'These people down in the cellars,' I said, 'They've been there for weeks, some for months. They'll be blind as bats and weak as kittens by the time they get out.'
She shook her head. 'I think they'll be all right. They're taken out on the landing strip there for an hour and a half every morning under guard. They can't be seen from the sea. We're not allowed to watch. Or not supposed to. I've seen them often. Daddy insisted on it. And Sir Anthony.'
'Well, good old Daddy.' I stared at her. 'Old man Skouras. He comes here?'
'Of course.' She seemed surprised at my surprise. 'He's one of them. Lavorski and this man Dollmann, the men that do all the arranging, they work for Sir Anthony. Didn't you know? Daddy and Sir Anthony are friends - were friends - before this, I've been in Sir Anthony's London home often,'
'But they're not friends now?' I probed keenly.
'Sir Anthony has gone off his head since his wife died,' Susan said confidently. I looked at her in wonder and tried to remember when I'd last been so authoritatively dogmatic on subjects I knew nothing about. I couldn't remember. 'He married again, you know. Some French actress or other. That wouldn't have helped. She's no good. She caught him on the rebound.'
'Susan,' I said reverently, 'you're really wonderful. I don't believe you'll ever understand what I mean by my pension coming between us. You know her well?'
'I've never met her,'
'You didn't have to tell me. And poor old Sir Anthony -he doesn't know what he's doing, is that it?'
'He's all mixed up,' she said defensively. 'He's sweet, really he is. Or was.'
'All mixed up with the deaths of four men, not to mention three of his own,' I said. Sergeant MacDonald thought him a good man. Susan thought him sweet. I wondered what she would say if she saw Charlotte Skoura's back. 'How do the prisoners do for food?'
'We have two cooks. They do it all. The food is brought down to than,'
