Black Champagne

by George B Mair

  Ferguson’s eyes were hard as granite. ‘In some things we think the same way. But I’m more interested in stopping the capsule leaving the district. A submarine you said?’

  Krystelle nodded. ‘Holds two people comfortably and three at a pinch.’

  ‘And with an escape hatch?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘So you expect your friend to surface and go ashore. But where?’

  Krystelle hesitated. The more she could direct attention away from Charlotte Amalie the better. ‘Tortola, St. John or St. Croix are the most obvious possibles.’

  Ferguson suddenly made up his mind. ‘We’ve talked too much. And there’s a lot more to know. You, David. Start talking about the roses and Playboy. What are the messages?’

  Grant smiled. ‘You were pin-pointed because your number one was arrested after shooting up the guillotine and he got the truth drug routine. So we just came here like homing pigeons to wait the arrival of your friend from Asia. The two codes also told us that the Admiral and Miss Sidders are on their way here via Miami and Puerto Rico. But I’ve no information as to whether or not they’ll be travelling alone or together.’ He paused while Ferguson watched him like a lynx. And then he took the plunge. ‘Maybe you don’t know, but your man in rue Méchain was a double agent who also worked direct for your U.N.O. friend who doesn’t trust anyone terribly far. He was also good enough to tell Professor Juin and the Admiral that he had been given detailed instructions to destroy you after your next meeting. Because it seems that your boss man feels you have too much “on him”. You could be dangerous. You might even sell out on him. So, Ferguson, you too are again on the hot seat.’

  There was a long silence while Ferguson sipped his daiquiri, and then slapped his thigh with an air of decision. ‘You sound convincing, David, and it had penetrated even my own skull that Mr. Big might begin to have ideas about bumping me. But,’ he added softly, ‘there’s only one little snag. Remember that trick you pulled in the Santé. Knocked me out and then gave me some truth drug when I was surfacing. You’ve forgotten only one thing. That other people can do the same. So we gave both of you the full treatment before leaving you to recover from a straight dose of Epontol. I can’t help telling you that while I admire you tremendously for the way you’ve handled this, that last part was sheer fantasy. Though I agree it was a calculated guess. And you were surprisingly near the mark, because that swollen-headed nincompoop from Asia is breathing down my neck a damn sight too much, and I expect him to have a go at bumping me just as soon as I’ve stopped being useful. We great minds again thought alike. But the price you pay for bluffing on a short hand is going to be heavy. For you, David, the piranha for sure.’

  ‘After Winston or before?’

  Ferguson smiled slightly. ‘Still playing the strong silent man even when facing death! Before, I think. It’ll do you good, even at the end of your eccentric life, to get finally put down by a couple of early teenagers.’

  ‘A couple?’

  ‘Why not? Two boys against one trained super-agent seems fair enough to me.’

  Krystelle’s voice was very steady. ‘I want to go at the same time. Why not make it a foursome? Four against two. And one of them a woman?’

  Ferguson sounded sceptical. ‘You seriously mean that you want to be bumped off?’

  Krystelle sensed that if she played the hand with sufficient expertise she could pull off a jackpot. ‘No. But I expect to survive. David and I are unbeatable.’

  It was a direct challenge to Ferguson’s vanity—which Grant knew was one of his most vulnerable spots—and he rose at once. ‘You expect to survive! Using what weapons?’

  ‘You said you followed duelling rules. We are being challenged by yourself and your team, so the choice is ours. And I want bare hands. Skin against skin and muscle against muscle.’

  ‘And you, David?’

  Grant followed her lead. ‘Hands only.’

  ‘When?’ Ferguson had snapped out of his lazy manner and was suddenly alert.

  ‘An hour, I think you said. But if we win, Winston goes free. Agreed?’

  ‘Far from it. If you do the impossible and win you’ll still fight again thirty minutes later. And so on till you do lose, because this time, David, it’s the end of the road for sure.’

  Grant risked a question. ‘I once gave you a last request. Will you do the same for me?’

  Ferguson stared at him icily. ‘Within reason. What do you want?’

  ‘A bath, a shave and some food.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Ferguson abruptly. ‘And you?’

  Krystelle reached for Grant’s hand and gently squeezed it. ‘I want to share his bath and his food. If this is our swan song let’s sweeten it a little.’

  Ferguson looked at the three boys behind him. Their faces were expressionless, but James had a glint in his eye which showed what he thought of coloured girls who bathed with white men. ‘You see,’ said Ferguson, ‘your morals offend these lads. But since they’ll all be facing you on the beach shortly maybe this is just the sort of incentive that might spur them on to give a little more of their own special brand of Hell than usual. I told you already that they don’t approve of that sort of thing.’

  Krystelle shrugged her shoulders. ‘Lots of things I don’t approve of either. And homicidal maniacal bastards are one.’ She had decided on the way out and since she herself was a mixed breed she knew what to say to sting most. ‘In fact,’ she added briefly, ‘they’re a handful of psychotic coloured trash and if they take my advice they’ll say their prayers before they start off.’

  ‘Cut it out,’ said Ferguson, and before Grant could move he had smacked Krystelle across the cheek. ‘You know bloody well that prayer is out in these parts. There’s no God. So keep the mouth shut or you’ll go neat to the piranha without a chance to draw blood.’

  Krystelle stared at the three boys and Grant saw her eyes blow up until her pupils looked like miniature saucers. She spoke for a moment in some unknown dialect and suddenly one of the boys lunged at her across the room, his fist clenched like bird’s claws as he dived for her face. ‘Quit it,’ snapped Ferguson and tripped Peter as he almost reached target. The boy fell on the ground beside the girl and she spat neatly on to his face, the blob of saliva landing straight between his eyes. ‘And now,’ said Krystelle curtly, ‘you’re cursed, Peter. You die after James before sunset. A man will take you, and you won’t do anything about it.’

  She looked coldly towards Ferguson who was standing, furious beside her. ‘And thanks for saving me, mister. But now I’ll tell you something. You too die before morning. I’ve got the gift and white magic is dangerous stuff. A girl is going to kill you, but before you die you’re going to chop your boss man.’ She held out her hands and Grant saw that she had drawn a swastika in reverse on each palm with lipstick or some sort of red pencil. ‘See that.’

  Ferguson hesitated and she spoke a second time. ‘See these, man?’

  He nodded.

  ‘See the way the cross is twisted?’

  Ferguson was half hypnotised and Grant saw that the girl was controlling him with a hypnotic force which almost reached himself. She was moving her hands in a tight circle and the crimson crosses were glinting sinister under the red light. The three coloured boys were also staring at them and their black skin had somehow blenched with fear. She spoke again and this time it was to them all. ‘These hands are going to kill you in one hour’s time, and then you’ll be thrown to the man-eating fish. Repeat after me. These hands will kill me.’

  The room was silent until Peter piped up in a sing-song voice. ‘Dese han’s gonna kill me. Kill me.’

  ‘You, James. These hands gonna kill me. Repeat. Same for you, John. Repeat it. And you, too, Ferguson.’

  Grant was astounded. The girl had hypnotised them in ten seconds flat, and then he saw that as she moved her hands the silver bracelet around her wrist glinted with every movement to cast a stab of brilliant darting light across the room. But the
girl’s eyes were also molten pools of danger and Grant sighed gently as he heard Ferguson say in a weird monotone, ‘I’m going to kill Mr. Big.’

  ‘You’ll phone him up before our fight starts and ask him to come down. We know he’s here.’

  ‘I’ll phone him up before the fight begins,’ said Ferguson in the same monotone.

  ‘And when he comes down to watch you’ll blow his brains out. Repeat, Ferguson, you’ll blow his brains out.’

  ‘I’ll blow his brains out.’

  ‘But you’ll pull the gun only when he has his back to you. Repeat.’

  ‘I’ll pull the gun when he has his back to me.’

  She turned to the boys. ‘You three will fight clean for five minutes, and then, John, you’ll strangle the fourth in your team. That’ll leave Peter and James who’ll stop fighting till you’ve carried the body to the fish. Repeat.’

  John whined out a plaintive wail in broad dialect. ‘Ah’ll throttle Sebastian an’ den ah’ll pitch ’im inta de lake.’

  She concentrated even more intently and waved the crosses in her palms in front of their eyes while she issued final instructions which meant death.

  Grant had seen many bizarre cameos in his time, but never anything to rival the picture of Peter, James, John and Ferguson staring at the crimson crosses on Krystelle’s hands while the darting sparks of light from her bracelet danced around their grimly set faces as they repeated orders which were their own death warrants. He waited until they had paused for breath and then he dared to interrupt. ‘One thing, honey chile. I kind of want Ferguson for myself. Try to let him know that we’re going to square this lot together this afternoon, but that I want a bath and shave first.’

  Krystelle smiled slightly. She wanted Peter and James for herself which was why she had allowed for five minutes. ‘You heard, Ferguson. We reached heah with no toilet things. Fix baths, showers, chow and a shave for David. Savvy?’

  Ferguson was now receiving and transmitting like an automaton. ‘Bath, showers, chow and shave.’

  ‘Then you fight. Got it?’

  ‘Then I fight.’

  ‘Anything else?’ Krystelle motioned with a hand towards Grant while her swollen brown eyes remained fixed in space somewhere around the heads of the immobile quartette.

  Grant thought for a moment of ordering Ferguson to fight clean. Until he remembered that that might handicap himself. Better to take everything as it came and beat Ferguson at his own game, clean or dirty. Nor was there any need to refresh Ferguson’s memory. Hypnosis of this standard worked like a charm, as he knew from personal past experience, and Ferguson would phone his boss man according to orders. Then after that he would kill him. It was a simple exercise which could hardly go wrong and he shook his head as he reappraised the situation. ‘Nothing immediate. But it would be handy to know where the exit door lies. We might need to use it.’

  Krystelle pointed a steady finger towards Ferguson. ‘Ring that bell and send for a boy who can be trusted. Then give me his name.’

  The man hesitated only for a second. ‘Jo Go-Go can be trusted.’

  ‘Then fetch him pronto.’

  Grant counted slowly to himself. It would be interesting to see how long it took for Ferguson to establish contact. Seven minutes later the door opened and Grant watched with cynical interest as Krystelle snapped out an order. ‘See dese han’s, Jo?’

  The boy looked at her curiously, glanced at her hands and was lost as a spark of light from her diamonds jerked against his eyes and he heard the girl’s voice come from a long distance. ‘Sleep, Jo Go-Go. Wahta boilin’ fo’ fish, but fish don’ know.’ And Grant smiled as he heard the familiar local slang phrase which meant ‘surprise! surprise!’

  ‘Now, Jo, Mistah Fe’gusson heah ain’t a Yankee man swalloin’ de ‘Meriken flag . . .’ (another local patois for ‘I’m not fooling’), and Grant again marvelled at Krystelle’s flair for getting hold of local colour faster than anyone else he knew . . . ‘yo’ gonna go ’long wit’ us an’ show us de way outa dis place when we go give de word. Savvy? Mistah Fe’gusson tell Jo himself. You talk, Ferguson,’ she snapped, her accent changing in a split-second from sing-song West Indian slang to crisp parade ground English.

  Ferguson’s voice was now very soft, almost a drone, and Grant relaxed with satisfaction as he heard the message repeated. ‘You go show this lady and gen’leman way out when they ask, Jo Go-Go. Not top side by lift unless dey ask but bottom side by sea lock. Savvy?’

  The boy repeated the message and then Krystelle seemed to slink into passive neutrality as she waved her hands. ‘You’ll wake up when Mr. Grant whistles the first line o’ Mary Ann.’

  Grant almost laughed aloud. Krystelle was dynamite, but with a sense of humour to the end. And using weapons too sophisticated for even Ferguson to estimate as possibilities. He kissed her gently and then began to whistle.

  Ferguson rubbed his head and mopped his brow. The boys snapped to attention, and then Ferguson took up the story where he had broken off. ‘Quit making trouble, you two.’

  Grant smiled slightly. ‘How about baths and food, Ferguson?’

  The man looked puzzled and then nodded towards the quartette of motionless boys. ‘Run that water. And fetch chow. Melon slices, a daiquiri each, some fish stew and a slab of ice cream. That do?’

  Krystelle stared at him with malignant satisfaction. ‘Sure, Mr Ferguson,’ she said at last. ‘That’ll do real good. Just real good!’

  Chapter Eleven – ‘Jump off and see the Gods’

  Krystelle sensed that something major was still bothering Grant. They had bathed and dined. Zero hour lay around the corner, but for most of the hour he had sat pre-occupied and refused to talk even in Arabic.

  She knew that he had been rocked by her show of hypnosis. And one part of her was glad to have been able to rise to the sarcastic crack he had made about needing another shot of white magic to get out of the mess. But there was more to it than that and she tried Spanish. ‘Worried, Señor?’

  He nodded slightly. ‘Try morse with your fingers against my leg. This place may be wired for sound.’

  Time was running short and it took more time than they could afford to spell out all that she wanted to say. But she condensed it to basic journalese. ‘Okay me.’

  He laid his hand on her thigh and a message flashed out almost too fast to interpret. ‘Place wired telly. Chance Asia watched show. What price getaway if rumbled?’

  She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Nix.’

  ‘Why no Bossman? Expected. Is late. Why?’

  She again forced a smile. ‘Any guess. Bet okay.’

  ‘Why five minutes? No savvy.’

  ‘Want Peter and James for self.’ Krystelle’s reply was succinct and rapped out with a near passion which underlined every letter.

  ‘Go chop chop?’

  ‘Si.’

  ‘Why you?’

  She stared at him curiously. In some respects David was very dense. ‘He after me. I chop. No like.’

  Grant’s fingers hesitated as he framed a sentence. The girl must be careful. Ferguson had said enough to prove that he rated the so-called commandos as near dynamite. ‘Softly catch monkey. Sure can do?’

  The pressure on his thighs was reassuring. ‘Si.’

  He tried another angle. ‘If telly on and wired sound plan check-mated.’

  She again shook her head, refusing to believe that luck could run against them all the way. ‘My bet okay. Hunch strong.’

  ‘Then rest. Message ends.’ He lay back and closed his eyes. If plans went according to schedule the balloon was due to go up most any minute.

  They were both tuned for anything, but when it came it came suddenly. The door opened and Ferguson strode in with an air of purpose. ‘Time to move, chaps. This is it. You won’t see the Winston event, which is now scheduled for later and right now it is you two against a foursome of Peter, James, John and Sebastian. All clear? No holds are barred and you fight with bare hands. Got i
t? The event will take place beside the lake and seconds will never be in the ring. You start when we get there. The others are in position.’ He was holding a repeater weapon at upper thigh level and both knew that they wouldn’t stand a chance if they moved an inch out of line.

  ‘After you, honey chile,’ said Grant softly, raising his hands to above shoulder level and standing aside while Krystelle slithered past Ferguson into a broad clean passage lined with shingle, but worn from gleaming rock dripping from the ceiling in a hundred thrusting stalactites. Yet the place was warm enough and there was a pleasant breeze which tingled their cheeks.

  Six more teenagers were on parade outside. Three were carrying knives and one had a gun while the other two leaned against the wall, dead-pan as Krystelle walked past and pointed downhill over two hundred yards towards a tiny lake.

  The passage crossed several other paths and then opened into a chamber larger than the average cathedral. Immense stalagmites pointed upwards behind the lake, some fusing with stalactites dropping down from the roof to form a background fantasy which was like a vast pipe organ. The lake itself, by some trick of light was pale blue in colour, but the rest of the place sparkled like crystal below a dozen or more panels of strip lighting which had been onlaid to the rocks, while there was a beach of fine sand running to the water’s edge and shelves of rock like massive tables rising at different levels to one side. Above the lake, and on the far side but cut inside ‘the organ’ Grant marked a platform or room gouged out of the cliffs, and saw that it had been laid with a few chairs and a table. There were drinks on the table and a box of cigars. The platform or room was large enough to hold a dozen people and it dropped sheer to the water below.

  The place was a dream world of breathtaking beauty and Ferguson paused as they entered the vast hall. ‘Have a look, have spectators,’ he said. ‘Your boss man as I remember.’

  Grant watched him carefully. ‘I thought we were going to have spectators,’ he said at last. ‘Your boss man as I remember.’