“If one is prepared to lay out sufficient capital on an affair such as this,” he said indifferently, “a large spy system is unnecessary. I even have the complete loading plans of the bullion vessel in my cabin. Most men have their price, Mr. Carter.”
“I wish someone would try me some day,” I said. “Well, there you are. The American Government has made no secret recently of its great success in recovering a large proportion of its gold reserves which went to Europe in the past few years. That bullion has to be transported—and part of it, I’ll bet my boots is in this ship we’re intercepting. The fact that it is not due to arrive in Norfolk until after dark is interesting enough in itself: what is even more interesting is that Norfolk, in this case, almost certainly means the Hampton Roads Naval Operating Base where the ship can be unloaded with the maximum security. And Norfolk, I would say, is the point that offers the shortest overland route to Fort Knox, where the gold will eventually be stored. How much gold, Carreras?”
“One hundred and fifty million dollars,” he said calmly. “You have missed very little. And nothing of importance.”
One hundred and fifty million dollars. I mentally examined this sum from several different angles but there didn’t seem to be any comment to meet the case, so I asked: “Why did you pick on the Campari?”
“I thought you would have guessed that, too. In point of fact we had three other ships under active consideration as well, all ships on the New York-Caribbean run. We have been studying the movements of all four ships for some time. Yours suited best.”
“You cut things pretty fine, didn’t you? If we had been a couple of days later in arriving at Carracio——”
“There has been a naval vessel, a frigate, standing by and ready to intercept you on a peaceful pretext ever since you left Savannah. I was aboard. But it wasn’t necessary.” So that explained the vessel we had seen on our radar screens at night after leaving Savannah: not an American warship, as we had thought, but the generalissimo’s. “This way was much easier, much more satisfactory.”
“And, of course,” I said, “you couldn’t have used the frigate for this job. Hasn’t the cruising range. Hopeless in bad weather. No derricks for heavy trans-shipment lifts. And conspicuous, far too conspicuous. But the Campari. Who’s going to miss the Campari if she’s only a few days late in arriving at her destination. Only the head office and——”
“The head office is being taken care of,” Carreras said. “You don’t think we overlooked the obvious, do you? Our own transmitter was brought aboard and is already in circuit. A stream of perfectly satisfactory messages are going out, I can assure you.”
“So you fixed that. And the Campari has the speed to overtake most cargo ships, it’s a good large seaboat for practically any weather, has first-class radar for picking up other vessels and jumbo derricks for heavy lifts.” I paused and looked at him. “We even have reinforced decks for gun-platforms both for’ard and on the poop. Most British vessels since the war have had those installed as a matter of course when building. But I warn you that they have to be strengthened from below with angle-irons, a couple of days’ job in itself. Without them, anything more than a three-inch will buckle and twist the plates beyond repair after even only a couple of shots.”
“A couple of shots will be all that we require.”
I thought about this last remark. A couple of shots. It didn’t make any kind of sense at all. What was Carreras up to?
“What on earth are you both talking about?” Susan asked wearily. “Reinforced steel decks, angle-irons—what is it all about?”
“Come with me, Miss Beresford, and I shall take pleasure in showing you personally what I mean.” Carreras smiled. “Besides I’m sure your good parents are becoming very anxious about you. I shall see you later, Mr. Carter. Come, Miss Beresford.”
She looked at him in doubtful hesitation. I said: “You might as well go, Susan. You never know what luck you’ll have. One good shove when he’s near the rail and off-balance. Just pick your time.”
“Your Anglo-Saxon sense of humour becomes rather wearisome,” Carreras said thinly. “One hopes that you will be able to preserve it intact in the days to come.”
He left on this suitably sinister note, and Marston looked at me, speculation taking the place of puzzlement in his eyes. “Did Carreras mean what I thought he meant?”
“He did. That’s the hammering you’ve been hearing, the pneumatic drills. There are prepared bolt-holes in the reinforced sections on the poop and fore-deck to accept the base-plates of several sizes of British guns. Carreras’s guns probably come from the other side of the Iron Curtain and he has to drill new holes.”
“He—he’s actually going to fit naval guns.”
“He had them in a couple of these crates. Almost certainly stripped down into sections, ready for quick assembly. Don’t have to be anything very big—can’t be, it’s a dockyard job to fit anything of any size. But it will be big enough to stop this ship.”
“I don’t believe it!” Marston protested. “Holdup on the high seas? Piracy in this day and age? It’s ridiculous! It’s impossible!”
“You tell that to Carreras. He hasn’t a moment’s doubt but that it’s very very possible. Neither have I. Can you tell me what’s going to stop him?”
“But we’ve got to stop him, John. We must stop him!”
“Why?”
“Good God! Why? Let a man like that get away with heaven only knows how many million pounds——”
“Is that what you’re worried about?”
“Of course,” Marston snapped. “So would anyone be.”
“You’re right, of course, Doctor,” I agreed. “I’m not at my best today.” What I could have said was that if he thought about it a bit more, he would become ten times as worried as he was, and not about the money. About half as worried as I was. And I was worried to death and frightened, badly frightened. Carreras was clever, all right, but perhaps a shade less so than he imagined. He made the mistake of letting himself get too involved in conversation: and when a man gets too involved and has anything to hide he makes the further mistake of either talking too much or not talking enough. Carreras had made the mistake on both counts. But why should he worry about whether he talked too much or not? He couldn’t lose. Not now.
Breakfast came. I didn’t feel much like eating, but I ate all the same. I had lost far too much blood and whatever little strength I could recover I was going to need that night. I felt even less like sleep, but for all that I asked Marston for a sedative and he gave it to me. I was going to need all the sleep I could get, too. I wouldn’t get much that coming night.
The last sensation I recalled as I dozed off was in my mouth, a queer unnatural dryness, the kind of dryness that usually comes with overmastering fear. But it wasn’t fear, I told myself, it wasn’t really fear. Just the effect of the sleeping draught. That’s what I told myself.
VIII.
Thursday 4 p.m.—10 p.m.
It was late afternoon when I awoke, around four o’clock: still a good four hours short of sunset, but already the surgery lights were on and the sky outside dark, almost, as night. Driving slanting rain was sheeting down torrentially from the black louring clouds and even through closed doors and windows I could hear the high thin sound, part whine, part whistle, of a gale-force wind howling through the struts and standing rigging.
The Campari was taking a hammering. She was still going fast, far, far too fast for the weather conditions, and was smashing her way through heavy rolling seas bearing down on her starboard bow. That they weren’t mountainous waves, or waves of even an unusual size for a tropical storm, I was quite sure: it was the fact that the Campari was battering her way at high speed through quartering seas that seemed to be almost tearing her apart. She was cork-screwing viciously, a movement that applies the maximum possible strain on a ship’s hull. With metronomic regularity the Campari was crashing, starboard bow first, into a rising sea, lifting bows and roll
ing over to port as she climbed up the wave, hesitating, then pitching violently for’ard and rolling over to starboard as she slid down the far shoulder of the vanishing wave to thud with a teeth-rattling, jolting violence into the shoulder of the next sea, a shaking, shuddering collision that made the Campari vibrate for seconds on end in every plate and rivet throughout her entire length. No doubt but that the Clyde yard that had built her had built her well: but they wouldn’t have constructed her on the assumption that she was going to fall into the hands of maniacs. Even steel can come apart.
“Dr. Marston,” I said. “Try to get Carreras on that phone.”
“Hallo, awake?” He shook his head. “I’ve been on to him myself, an hour ago. He’s on the bridge and he say’s he’s going to stay there all night if need be. And he won’t reduce speed any further: he’s taken her down to fifteen knots already, he says.”
“The man’s mad. Thank God for the stabilisers. If it weren’t for them, we’d be turning somersaults.”
“Can they stand up to this sort of thing indefinitely?”
“I should think it highly unlikely. The captain and bo’sun—how are they?”
“The captain’s still asleep, still delirious, but breathing easier. Our friend Mr. MacDonald you can ask for yourself.”
I twisted in my bed. The bo’sun was indeed awake, grinning at me. Marston said; “Seeing you’re both awake, do you mind if I have a kip down in the dispensary for an hour? I could do with it.”
He looked as if he could, too, pale and exhausted.
“We’ll call you if anything goes wrong.” I watched him go, then said to MacDonald: “You like your sleep, don’t you?”
“Just naturally idle, Mr. Carter.” He smiled. “I was wanting to get up, but the doctor wasn’t keen.”
“Surprised? You know your knee-cap is smashed and it’ll be weeks before you can walk properly again.” He’d never walk properly again.
“Aye, it’s inconvenient. Dr. Marston has been talking to me about this fellow Carreras and his plans. The man’s daft.”
“He’s all that. But daft or not, what’s to stop him?”
“The weather, perhaps. It’s pretty nasty outside.”
“The weather won’t stop him. He’s got one of those fantastic one-track minds. But I might have a small try at it myself.”
“You?” MacDonald had raised his voice, now lowered it to a murmur. “You! With a smashed thigh-bone. How in the——”
“It’s not broken.” I told him of the deception. “I think I can get around on it if I don’t have too much climbing to do.”
“I see. And the plan, sir?”
I told him. He thought me as daft as Carreras. He did his best to dissuade me, finally accepted the inevitable and had his own suggestions to make. We were still discussing it in low voices when the sick-bay door opened and a guard showed Susan Beresford in, closed the door and left.
“Where have you been all day?” I said accusingly.
“I saw the guns.” She was pale and tired and seemed to have forgotten that she had been angry with me for co-operating with Carreras. “He’s got a big one mounted on the poop and a smaller one on the fo’c’sle. Covered with tarpaulins now. The rest of the day I spent with Mummy and Daddy and the others.”
“And how are our passengers?” I inquired. “Hopping mad at being shanghaied or do they regard it as yet another of the attractions of the Campari—a splendid adventure thrown in at no extra charge that they can talk about to the end of their days. I’m sure most of them must be pretty relieved that Carreras is not holding them all to ransom.”
“Most of them are not caring one way or another,” she said. “They’re so sea-sick they couldn’t care if they lived or died. I feel a bit the same way myself, I can tell you.”
“You’ll get used to it,” I said callously. “You’ll all get used to it. I want you to do something for me.”
“Yes, John?” The dutiful murmur in the voice which was really tiredness, the use of the first name, had me glancing sharply across at the bo’sun, but he was busy examining a part of the deckhead that was completely devoid of anything to examine.
“Get permission to go to your cabin. Say you’re going for blankets, that you felt too cold here last night. Your father’s dinner suit—slip it between the blankets. Not the tropical one, the dark one. For heaven’s sake see you’re not observed. Have you any dark-coloured dresses?”
“Dark-coloured dresses?” She frowned. “Why——”
“For Pete’s sake!” I said in low-voiced exasperation. I could hear the murmur of voices outside. “Answer me!”
“A black cocktail dress——”
“Bring it also.”
She looked at me steadily. “Would you mind telling me——”
The door opened and Tony Carreras came in, balancing easily on the swaying, dipping deck. He carried a rain-spattered chart under his arm.
“Evening, all.” He spoke cheerfully enough, but for all that he looked rather pale. “Carter, a small job from my father. Course positions of the Fort Ticonderoga at 8 a.m., noon and 4 p.m. today. Plot them and see if the Ticonderoga is still on its predicted course.”
“Fort Ticonderoga being the name of the ship we have to intercept?”
“What else?”
“But—but the positions,” I said stupidly. “The course positions of—how the devil do you know? Don’t tell me the Ticonderoga is actually sending you her positions? Are the—are the radio operators on that ship——”
“My father thinks of everything,” Tony Carreras said calmly. “Literally everything. I told you he was a brilliant man. You know we’re going to ask the Ticonderoga to stand and deliver. Do you think we want it sending out S.O.S’s when we fire a warning shot across its bows? The Ticonderoga’s own radio officers had a slight accident before the ship left England and had to be replaced by—ah—more suitable men.”
“A slight accident?” Susan said slowly. What with seasickness and emotion her face was the colour of paper, but she wasn’t scared of Carreras any that I could see. “What kind of accident?”
“A kind that can so easily happen to any of us, Miss Beresford.” Tony Carreras was still smiling, but somehow he no longer looked charming and boyish: I couldn’t really see any expression on the face at all, all I could see were the curiously flattened eyes. More than ever I was sure that there was something wrong with young Carreras’s eyes: and more than ever I was sure that the wrongness lay not in the eyes alone but was symptomatic and indicative of a wrongness that lay much deeper than the eyes. “Nothing serious, I assure you.” Meaning that they hadn’t been killed more than once. “One of the replacements is not only a radio man but an expert navigator. We saw no reason why we should not take advantage of this fact to keep us informed as to the exact position of the Ticonderoga. Every hour on the hour.”
“Your father leaves nothing to chance,” I admitted. “Except that he seems to be depending on me as the expert navigator on this ship.”
“He didn’t know—we weren’t to know—that all the other deck officers on the Campari were going to be—ah—so foolish. We—both my father and I—dislike killing of any kind.” Again the unmistakable ring of sincerity, but I was beginning to wonder if the bell hadn’t a crack in it. “My father is also a competent navigator, but, unfortunately, he has his hands very full at the moment. He happens to be the only professional seaman we have.”
“Your other men aren’t?”
“Alas, no. But they are perfectly adequate to the task of seeing that professional seamen—your men—do their duties as they should.”
This was cheering news. If Carreras persisted in pushing the Campari through the storm at this rate, practically everyone who wasn’t a professional seaman was going to be feeling very ill indeed. That might help to ease my night’s labours.
I said: “What’s going to happen to us after you’ve hijacked this damn’ bullion?”
“Dump you all on the Ticond
eroga,” he said lazily. “What else?”
“Yes?” I sneered. “So that we can straightaway notify every ship that the Campari had——”
“Notify whoever you like,” he said placidly. “Think we’re crazy? We’re abandoning the Campari the same morning: another vessel is already standing by. Miguel Carreras does think of everything.”
I said nothing and turned my attention to the charts while Susan made her request to be allowed to bring blankets. He smilingly said he would accompany her and they left together. When they returned in five minutes’ time I had entered in the course positions on the chart and found that the Fort Ticonderoga was really on course. I handed the chart to Carreras with that information: he thanked me and left.
Dinner came at eight o’clock. It wasn’t much of a meal as Campari dinners went, Antoine was never at his best when the elements were against him, but it was fair enough for all that. Susan ate nothing; I suspected she had been sick more than once, but had made no mention of it: millionaire’s daughter or not, she was no cry-baby and had no self-pity, which was only what I would have expected from the daughter of the Beresfords. I wasn’t hungry myself, there was a knot in my stomach that had nothing to do with the motion of the Campari, but again on the principle that I was going to need all the strength I could find, I made a good meal. MacDonald ate as if he hadn’t seen food for a week. Bullen still slept under sedation, restless against the securing straps that held him to his bed, breathing still distressed, mumbling away continually to himself.
At nine o’clock Marston said: “Time now for coffee, John?”
“Time for coffee,” I agreed. Marston’s hands, I noticed, weren’t quite steady. After too many years of consuming the better part of a bottle of rum every night, his nerves weren’t in any too fit a condition for this sort of thing.
Susan brought in five cups of coffee, one at a time—the wild pitching of the Campari, the jarring, jolting shocks as we crashed down into the troughs, made the carrying of more than one at a time impossible. One for herself, one for MacDonald, one for Marston, one for me—and one for the sentry, the same youngster as had been on guard the previous night. For the four of us, sugar: for the sentry, a spoonful of white powder from Marston’s dispensary. Susan took his cup outside.
The Golden Rendezvous Page 16
