The man nodded. “Maybe. What name were you given?”
“Cantlow.”
“I’m not Cantlow.”
That, Halfhyde thought, was probably true; the man had no military aspect and indeed looked more like a seaman. “Is he here?”
“No. I’m the only Britisher. So there’s no Cantlow, whether the name’s true or false.” The man paused. “You’ve told me your story. I don’t promise you can be helped, that’s not up to me. You’ll have to wait for Espinoza.” There was another pause, and again there was a threat in the voice when he went on, “Espinoza may have more questions to ask.”
“Then I shall answer them,” Halfhyde retorted evenly and sat down like the others. The man addressed as Raby had already slumped to the ground and lay in a heap, breathing stertorously. The air in the room was close, thick with humanity and the fumes of whisky coming from Raby. Halfhyde took stock of his situation. If this Espinoza was handling McRafferty’s passenger, he could already have removed his human cargo to be handy for embarkation. Halfhyde looked around warily. The men had a comatose look mostly, an aspect of resigned apathy. Possibly they had had a long wait in the clearing house, and they had acclimatized themselves to inactivity, preferring not to leave the place as Raby had done in case they should miss a suddenly announced sailing. They were a mixed bunch, some young, some old, some with their crimes almost written upon their faces, some with expressions of apparent innocence. Halfhyde sat in mounting impatience, knowing that he could be wasting his time. The wait, in fact, lasted a little over an hour, then footsteps were heard approaching the door. There was more than one man. The first in was thin-faced, dark, and was probably, Halfhyde thought, Espinoza. The next was a man like a gorilla, thick, deep-chested, heavily bearded and with longish hair. But there was a swagger in the walk, and the bearing was erect, the eyes hard and challenging, and there was the unmistakable stamp of the soldier.
Behind him came Bullock.
THERE HAD been no avoiding the First Mate. The man who had questioned Halfhyde on his arrival with Raby had drawn Espinoza’s attention to the newcomer. As Halfhyde got to his feet, Bullock’s face was murderous.
“What’s this mean? What are you doing here?”
Halfhyde smiled icily. “That is a question I might well ask you, Mr Bullock. I think you’re engaging in a very dirty trade, and acting strongly against the interests of Captain McRafferty. I shall ask you to desist, or—”
“Or nothing.” Bullock thrust his face close and brought out the revolver Halfhyde had seen aboard the Aysgarth Falls. “I warned you not to cross me. Just look around you, Halfhyde. You don’t imagine you’re coming out of this, do you?”
Halfhyde had no need to look anywhere; all the recumbent forms had got to their feet, seeing their safety under threat. The soldierly man’s eyes blazed in the light from the window, and he took a pace forward. He was pushed back by Bullock. In a thick voice Bullock said, “Leave him to me. Just leave him to me. I’ve a score to settle, and he’s mine.”
Halfhyde saw the fist come up, and he moved fast as he had done in Liverpool. Bullock was caught for the second time. Missing target, he was carried on by his own impetus and almost fell over. As he came back in, Halfhyde swung at him and gave him a glancing blow that almost tore off an ear. Bullock swore viciously, gave his head a shake, and lashed out blindly. He had no finesse, and Halfhyde parried him neatly and easily enough. But in the long run there was no chance; as Bullock went down flat with blood pouring from his mouth after a smashing left, Halfhyde was taken from behind by the man of military bearing, a heavy blow to the head with the muzzle of a revolver, and he fell beside Bullock, out like a blown candle.
When he came to his senses, with a violent, throbbing head, he was alone and no longer in the room where he had been struck down. He was in total darkness, and although he was not bound there was a feeling of constriction; reaching out and around, his hand contacted cold, damp walls set very close. He tried to sit up despite a spinning head, and that head smacked into what felt like stone. After a moment of near panic, he tried to relax and think out his situation, to force his mind to clarity. There was air; no sense of undue difficulty in breathing. Therefore there must be some contact with the world outside, though scarcely anything large enough to permit escape.
There was also total silence.
That he was in some kind of a cellar, he didn’t doubt, but the silence must indicate that he was not below the room where the men had been sitting out their wait for a ship. They could not all have been shipped out together. Escape from Chile was a matter for individual negotiation—it must be. Thus he was in some other part of the building or even possibly right away from it. In Iquique, the carrying of a supposed drunk through the streets would arouse no particular interest from passers-by.
Why hadn’t he been killed already? Was he, in fact, to be killed at all, would release come when the Aysgarth Falls was safely away, if
