Black Champagne

by George B Mair

  There was a slight creak outside and he leaned forward in anticipation: almost smiling as he sensed that this was it. His senses had been registering one hundred per cent and someone was shortly going to be very, very dead.

  He eased his gun out of the holster and sat, poised, as he picked up a whispered conversation just outside the door. He had heard not even one footstep. But somewhere he guessed that there was a tie-up with Grant and Krystelle. This was no pussie bag-snatcher exploring a room for the fun of it or with hopes of lifting a string of ice or a wallet of dollars. Silence could be as big a giveaway as anything else, and only a real expert, or experts, could be all that silent.

  But plan 5 said do nothing.

  Unless forced by unexpected circumstances!

  He grinned slightly. Were the circumstances unexpected?

  Clearly Harry had figured they were possible.

  There was a mirror flush with the opposite wall and at last he got a glimpse of two heads. One man was almost certainly the deck-hand he had marked on the yacht. But the other was the captain.

  The captain!

  Frank was now thinking with rapid logic. And only one thing seemed clear. Last night had been a frame-up. Which meant that their own local contact man had been marked as a link with Harry’s organisation. If not with Grant himself. Or even with Krystelle.

  His sister had spent several hours in a sailors, dive at Cha Town. Maybe she had given herself away!

  Until he remembered that Krystelle had never yet given anything or anybody away. Far less herself, which left only three other lines. Harry’s girl or his own. And the telephonist! Had conversation been monitored? He knew that Krystelle had phoned Grant from somewhere down town and called herself Pumpsi. Had she said just one word too much?

  Or the bell hop and that mammie he had passed on his way up? Could they be ruled out? He hoped so for their sakes. He disliked killing either women or teenagers because it wasn’t natural. But of course, if they got mixed up in business it sometimes happened.

  The captain was now leaning over Grant and looking at his eyes.

  The man was puzzled and whispering to the deck-hand.

  If he was a deck-hand!

  And then Frank stiffened. The sailor had produced a knife and was balancing it between fingers and thumb.

  He pricked his ears and cautiously worked his own gun fully clear of his clothes. He caught only one word ‘suicide’. The hissing ‘s’s’ sounded even more sinister given the French pronunciation and Frank saw that it was time to act. His silencer was the quietest thing possible and some of the charge had been taken from each bullet in the magazine. The gun had been fixed for close work with minimal noise and Frank sighed almost lovingly as he raised it.

  He saw that they were going to set a scene and figured that they would fix it to suggest a stab wound by Grant and then a bullet for himself. But if so they would first have to put fingerprints on both gun and knife.

  He smiled slightly when he watched the captain cautiously fold Grant’s hand around the hilt of the blade, and as a professional he also marked the care taken to guarantee that grip was convincing.

  The captain then wrapped the handle in a pocket handkerchief and handed the knife back to the younger man beside him.

  They looked at Krystelle and the captain pointed to the side of her neck just above the collar bone.

  Frank’s lips tightened. It was a messy way to do a job like that. And unnecessarily crude. An expert would have gone for the space between fourth and fifth ribs. Especially when there was so much time on hand.

  His gun was now half-raised and he decided to take the man through the side of the head. Fast and certain! About two inches above the right ear where bone was thin and there was least chance of a ricochet.

  But he knew that he would have to fix the captain in almost the same second though it was a temptation to try and make him prisoner. But Frank could see no point in it. The men tied up with the yacht. Their own local operative was clearly suspect by the opposition and the yacht for sure must be up to the neck in whatever job Grant was set on smashing.

  Frank was a firm believer in running no risks, and even a wound might cause a scream. He allowed the deck-hand to balance himself on his heels and prepare to strike. But he fired only when the knife was poised and on the backward stroke.

  He later told Harry that he guessed that the captain went in the same second, because both shots were almost simultaneous and the men certainly hit the floor in the same two seconds. Both men were dead when he reached them and bleeding was minimal. But he wrapped the deck-hand’s head in a bath-towel and thrust a hand-towel inside his shirt against the man’s chest.

  He sighed easily. It now remained only to get rid of the evidence. And more important, to find out if there was a rear guard on parade.

  Even a girl. Even a bell hop. Even an overweight mammie would be suspect if found between the room and the stairs. And if suspect they would have to die!

  He slipped the gun back into its holster and eased himself into the corridor. The place was clear.

  He sauntered downstairs and got a glimpse of the foyer below, but at that time in the afternoon even it was clear. And then he marked the cupboard where he knew household utensils were often stored. He had seen a large wicker basket on wheels inside one earlier that morning when chambermaids had cleared rooms vacated by visitors catching an early flight. It was a moment for brazen nerve so he walked inside, closed the door and changed into a porter’s uniform hanging on a hook in one corner. There was even a light switch, and he stared at himself in a mirror before thrusting some plugs of cotton wool up his nostrils, fixing a parting on the other side of his hair and slipping a set of teeth over his own uppers so that his cheeks were filled out and two prominent front teeth sat stupidly against his lower lip giving an illusion of an inane smile. He then lifted a floor mop, tucked it under his left arm and wheeled the large basket towards the elevator.

  No one paid attention as he crossed the foyer, and he even asked two ladies to leave the cabin so as to give him room.

  He was feeling on form, though he guessed that nothing could now save him except a blaze of self confidence. A minute later he wheeled the basket into Grant’s room, double checked that both he and Krystelle were still asleep and then loaded the two bodies into the container. He then returned to the corridor, found three blankets from a linen room nearby and packed them so that there would be no vibration, so that no blood would seep out through the basket work, yet leaving one on top to cover everything which mattered.

  He paused only for a glass of water, and then, lighting a cigarette returned to the elevator, dropped to the ground floor level and without haste wheeled the thing outside.

  There was a long gentle slope leading towards Charlotte Amalie a hundred or two feet below, but this was simply one more challenge to be faced and overcome. Could he wheel the thing to the water’s edge, load the contents on to a boat and get away with it?

  He glanced at his watch. Both Grant and Krystelle would have surfaced before he returned. And there was a theoretical risk that someone else might raid their room. But on balance Frank calculated that the risk element was negligible. The opposition had sent a senior team. They wouldn’t have anticipated anything going wrong and there was no immediate reason for them taking the risk of another visit.

  As he forced himself to whistle a popular calypso and headed for the town he recalled several craft tied up between Captain Cook’s Glass Bottom Boat and the main port. Given luck one of them would be both empty and big enough to accept the basket. But it would be a long walk! And coloured houseboys didn’t normally lug laundry baskets around in down-town Charlotte Amalie! If an observant policeman was on the ball there could still be trouble.

  He paused near the Spanish fort, parking the basket by a garage selling soft drinks from an automat and lowered two iced coffees. He had begun to sweat a little and believed in keeping up his fluid intake. But up to date no one had asked qu
estions and he was now more than half way home. He mounted the side walk and pointed away from the town to where Chusan lay at anchor. The bay curved inland and there were fewer people around. But although there were also fewer boats there were enough for his purpose. At least a dozen were tied up right on shore so surely one at least would fit the bill.

  Ten minutes later he sighed tightly with satisfaction. The craft was empty. There was no one in sight and it was large enough for his purpose.

  The afternoon was hot and more than usually humid, which played into his hands. Most of the tourists would be sitting at air-conditioned bars or, remembering the timing of excursions, touring uphill towards Drake’s Seat and Magan’s Bay. Locals would be having a siesta and only a few shoreside bums would be curled up under a seat somewhere away from the police. He eased the basket on to the deck of a small motor boat. It fitted as though made to measure and jammed neatly against the pilot’s hatch. The place was still deserted except for a few children playing in the distance, so he set his teeth and prayed that there was plenty of fuel as he switchen on ignition.

  She started third try and Frank cast off, his features relaxing into a slight grin of satisfaction as he pointed straight out to sea. It looked like a clean get-away and he adjusted the throttle to a speed which attracted no attention, took off his shirt and tied a gaudy handkerchief around his head. From a distance he might now pass for a visitor trying his hand at coral diving or something. The basket also seemed less conspicuous, and he figured that anyone interested would list it as a container for either fish or shells.

  The Rotterdam was still at anchor and he altered course to leave her more than three hundred metres to port. The decks were pretty empty but he couldn’t forget that a lot could be picked up through binoculars. He eased himself to sit with his back more or less to the liner and pointed straight S.S.W. by S. into the sun. It was as good a way as any of confusing possible observers and he was anxious to work hidden for at least a few critical minutes.

  He glanced towards the blue waters which surged around. The dorsal fin of a shark had broken surface at least once and he knew that barracuda sometimes fed close off-shore. In fact the seas over which he was riding held more beauty than any other area in the world—not excluding Australia’s Barrier Reef or the fantastic waters of Nassau. And he knew that in places the Caribbean was deep enough to conceal almost anything unless someone knew for sure precisely where to look.

  He was setting course for the channel normally used by large ships because he wanted plenty of depth. But he also wanted plenty of weight. When the basket sank it had to stay sunk. There had to be no question of mysterious bodies washing up on some glamorous fore-shore or later questions of identification arising.

  He watched the shark’s dorsal fin. It was following the boat, sometimes submerging, but more often swerving from side to side at least thirty metres behind.

  And then he moved. There was now nothing within lens range. No binoculars could pick him out, and he knew that this was the crunch. Sharks liked blood. So he would give it them. He opened the basket and heaved out the captain. The man was still warm and Frank held his head firmly against the side of the boat as he meticulously slit the corpse’s throat and forced blood from the wound. It hit the water as a sticky jelly, but for a few seconds, very long seconds, there was no response, until, suddenly, Frank saw the dorsal fin leap into action as it surged forwards and he glimpsed silver when the shark turned over in the water almost below him.

  ‘Cheers, captain,’ he whispered and slipped him over the side.

  There was a swirl of activity and he marked two more fins appear at speed as he stared hard at the water and cut back the throttle. It might be that a shape passing to starboard had been a barracuda! And anyhow he wanted to see what the sharks would do. The sea had become orange at one spot and pinkish foam now broke the blue surface where at least four man-eaters were banqueting on human flesh.

  Frank glanced casually around. The nearest yacht was at least a mile away. He lit a cigarette and forced himself to be patient. Boys like these monsters needed a second course, and the deck-hand was safer being digested than floating around in inner-space.

  He turned again to the basket. The watery turmoil was now settling down, but the fins were dashing desperately around as though looking for more.

  The deck-hand was more messy than the captain. His blood had seeped on to the blankets, but Frank pulled him carefully out and marked with satisfaction that his clothes were unstained even after the dead man had been gashed from ear to ear to titillate the fish before being pushed overboard almost on top of five heaving fins now close beside the ship.

  Harry watched the swirl for a brief moment. It looked as though the man was being turned into mince by the obliquely set teeth inside each of these slanted mouths. The fish were still turning on their side as they tore the deck-hand to pieces and Frank figured that not even Amazonian piranha would have done any better. Which was saying something, because he recalled travelling from Manaos to Belam years earlier on Hildebrand or some other such ship when a friend had fallen overboard. The river at that part had been full of man-eating piranha and although clothes were pulled out in less than ten minutes they held only a fleshless skeleton with bones bared clean as ivory. Even the brain had been eaten by ferocious creatures which had entered it through the foramen magnum. Quite an experience that had been! He shuddered, took a last look at the stained, swirling waters still broken by the gleaming flash of silvery bellies and then opened throttle.

  An anchor lay on the deck forward beside a coil of rope. He cut it clear and threw it into the basket. It snibbed close and Frank calculated that there was enough space between the wickerwork to guarantee that the basket would be full of water before it hit sea-bed.

  He stubbed out his cigarette, took a swift bearing and confirmed that he was still in deep water before levering the basket overboard. It floated for an agonising two or three minutes and then, slowly, sank almost alongside of him. The engine was only ticking over until the basket had fully disappeared, but then Frank gave it full throttle, pointed to the west of the island and almost skimmed over the surface towards land. He then hugged the coast, watching every landmark as he took a visual bearing on Saba island.

  He had off-loaded the evidence about two sea miles west of Frenchman’s Cap and four south of the Capellas. He now wanted to pass between Watter island and Saba, hugging the coast towards Botany Bay and Salt Cay where he would continue eastwards along the northern coast of St. Thomas towards Leeward Passage, after which, given luck and no eye-witnesses he would sink the craft and swim ashore near Frydenal. But during that last part he would operate in the dark, so again he cut throttle back and lingered, swimming from the vessel along the east coast of Brass island until the sky was again ablaze with the fantastic colours of a setting sun.

  He looked at it approvingly. Darkness in about half an hour! Real tropical blackness! And, thank God, or whoever looked after men like him, there was no moon. The whole thing had been too easy! And by now Grant would be awake. Krystelle would have fobbed him off with some sort of story, and they would probably be having a drink before dressing for dinner.

  So it was time that he started. A phone call to Krystelle was dangerous, but essential. And he hadn’t forgotten that there were three possible leaks, of which the telephonist was one. Which meant a session with the pocket Greek dictionary which he carried and preparation of a message. He was going to use the reverse code and Krystelle, who had now mastered Greek better than any of them would pick it up by ear if he spoke slowly. But there was no way round it. The phone was essential if only to doublecheck that they were still okay.

  He rubbed himself down, folded his clothes tightly and thrust them into a cellophane bag which he always carried with him. The thing was an obvious ‘must’ once one came to think about it, but he was big enough to give credit to Harry who had first thought it up.

  And then he pointed almost due east for Leewar
d Passage and the distant lights above Magan’s Bay. His navigation was bad, but he knew that he must leave them well to starboard with the lights of Hans Holk well to port and keep to the centre of open black water. Leeward Passage was deep enough for his purpose and he switched off the ignition only when he was half way through. It was then simple to open the cocks and scuttle her. He stepped out as she slipped beneath the black water, now dead calm, holding the cellophane package above his head and rolled easily on to his back. It was a short easy kick ashore and he landed less than a mile from the edge of a plantation, on the road which followed the north coast of the island.

  He dried himself by rubbing the water from his limbs and then mopping himself down with grass. A swift run around the trees and two cigarettes was all that was then needed to dry things thoroughly off before rubbing away the few particles of grass which were still sticking to the hairs of his thighs.

  He dressed, combed his hair by touch and strolled cautiously up the long slope which ended at the motor road. It was just under five miles to Charlotte Amalie and he reached the outskirts in one hour and thirty minutes, having first checked with a phone call to Bluebeard’s that all was well.

  His message had been in code, and as brief as he could make it.

  But Krystelle had picked it up as fast as he had expected and was now in the picture. She knew that the captain and deck-hand were dead: that their bodies were gone for ever: that Harry must have been spotted when picking up the powder container and that one must now operate knowing that at least both he and Harry, not to mention their contact man, must have come under suspicion through some unknown quantity. She also knew that the most likely leak had been a telephonist and would check as to who had been on duty when her ‘Pumpsi’ call had come through on the previous night. Given that background Frank also knew that his sister would tell Grant what was good for him, but more important, that she would now put herself completely in purdah where Harry and he were concerned, though still roaming Cha-Cha Town and the bars at night for that lead which might eventually take them to the men who mattered.