The Tightrope Men / The Enemy

by Desmond Bagley

  ‘Don’t worry; they’re not malarial.’

  ‘You mean I’m merely being eaten alive?’ Denison slapped at himself again. ‘Let’s get the water.’

  They went down to the water’s edge and Harding inspected it critically. ‘It looks all right; but we’d better boil it to make sure.’ They filled the buckets and then Harding straightened. ‘I wonder what that is.’

  Denison followed the direction of his gaze and saw a low wooden hut on the water’s edge about a hundred yards away. ‘A sauna probably. The Finns like to have them on the edge of the water so they can jump right in. You won’t catch me in there.’

  ‘It doesn’t look tall enough to be a sauna,’ said Harding. ‘The roof’s too low. I think I’ll take a look.’

  ‘The girls will be screaming for water.’

  ‘I won’t be a minute.’ Harding walked away following the shore line, and Denison shrugged. He picked up a full bucket and took it up to the main hut. Upon being told there was an insufficiency of water he went back for the other bucket. Harding called, ‘Denison; look what I’ve found.’

  Denison walked towards the little hut and thought Harding was probably right—the roof was so low that there would be barely sitting room in the hut, let alone standing room. He walked around it and found Harding squatting on his heels. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s a gun punt,’ said Harding. ‘Haven’t seen one for years.’

  From this side Denison could see that the hut consisted of roof only and was merely a shelter over a flat boat which looked like an enlarged Eskimo kayak. ‘So?’

  Harding shook with laughter. ‘Mannermaa told us not to bring a shotgun, and all the time he had this here. The old devil!’

  Denison bent down beside Harding. ‘I don’t see what’s funny.’

  ‘You wouldn’t. I bet the gun is up at the hut. I’ll have to see if I can find it.’ Harding pointed to the foredeck of the punt. ‘Look there; that’s where the breech ropes go.’

  Denison looked at the two eyebolts—they told him nothing. ‘You’re not being very comprehensible.’

  ‘I don’t suppose I am. These things have gone out of fashion. There are a couple still in use on the east coast back at home, but I didn’t expect to see one in Finland. You’ll understand better when you see the gun, if I can find it.’ Harding stood up. ‘Let’s go back.’

  They went back to the hut, taking the second bucket of water. On the way they encountered McCready who was just coming in. He seemed tired and depressed. ‘Not a sign of anyone,’ he said. ‘But that’s not surprising.’ He waved a hand at the marsh. ‘How deep would you say that water is?’

  ‘Not very deep,’ said Harding. ‘Not at the edges, anyway. Two or three feet, perhaps.’

  McCready nodded. ‘You could hide a bloody army in those reeds,’ he said glumly. ‘What’s for supper?’

  Denison smiled slightly. ‘I’ll lay you ten to one it’s bully beef stew.’

  ‘That’s not very funny,’ said McCready as he went into the hut.

  After he had eaten McCready felt better. It had not been bully beef for once and, with his belly full, he felt sleepy. He glanced at the bunks in the corner of the room where Diana and Lyn were already asleep, huddled in their sleeping bags. ‘Well, here we are—right in the middle of the bullseye,’ he said. ‘I suppose someone should keep watch.’

  ‘You get some sleep,’ said Denison. ‘I’ll toss with Harding as to who takes first watch.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Looking around for some kind of gun.’

  McCready came alert. ‘A gun?’

  ‘Something to do with a boat he found. He’s a wildfowler, you know. He didn’t make much sense.’

  ‘Oh, a sporting gun.’ McCready lost interest. He stretched for the coffee pot, refilled his cup and then produced a flask. He laced the coffee with whisky and offered the flask to Denison. ‘Want some?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Lost the taste for it?’

  ‘Seems so.’

  McCready put away the flask and sipped his coffee. ‘You can keep watch from the hut,’ he said. ‘Take a turn outside once every half-hour and keep an eye on the hillside. Not that it matters but it would be nice to have warning of anyone coming.’

  ‘They’ll come?’

  ‘If not today then tomorrow. We give them what they want and maybe they’ll go away. Maybe.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m not getting killed for the sake of a scrap of paper that doesn’t mean a damned thing. Anyway, we’ve got her to think about.’ He nodded towards the bunk where Lyn lay asleep.

  ‘Nice of you to be so considerate,’ said Denison.

  ‘Don’t be so bloody snippy,’ said McCready without rancour. ‘We didn’t ask her to come—she forced it.’ He stretched. ‘I’m going to bed.’

  Denison picked up the binoculars. ‘I’ll do a check outside.’

  He went out of the hut and looked around, studying the hillside through the glasses, especially in the direction from which they had come. There was nothing to be seen. Next he turned his attention to the marsh. A long way out there were dots on an open stretch of water which, through the glasses, proved to be birds. They were unmoving and apparently asleep. Too big to be ducks they were, perhaps, geese. Harding might know. Not that it made any difference.

  After a while he went back into the hut, moving quietly so as not to wake anybody. Harding had just come back; he beckoned to Denison and said in a low voice, ‘I’ve found it—and look!’ He opened the palm of his hand and revealed a dozen small copper cylinders rather like .22 cartridge cases without the bullets.

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘Detonators,’ said Harding. ‘I can’t find any powder, though. Come and have a look at the gun.’

  ‘All right,’ said Denison. It was something to do until he had to go outside again.

  He went with Harding into a room at the side of the hut which was used as a store. Rolled up netting hung neatly on pegs on the wall, and there were a lot of boxes which had been pulled away from the wall, presumably by Harding.

  ‘I found it behind there,’ said Harding. ‘Not so much hidden as concealed from casual eyes. I knew it must be somewhere around because of the punt.’

  Denison had not the faintest idea of what Harding was talking about but he obligingly stepped forward and looked behind the boxes. At first he did not realize what he was looking at; Harding had said something about a gun for a punt and that was what he expected to find—a shotgun to kill ducks. What he saw was something unexpected. True, it was a shotgun, as he realized as soon as his mind had shifted gear, but it was a shotgun of Brobdingnagian proportions.

  ‘What the devil…?’

  Harding chuckled. ‘I thought you’d be surprised.’

  ‘Surprised isn’t the word,’ said Denison. ‘Confounded is more like it. How long is this thing?’

  ‘A bit over nine feet, taking in the stock. The barrel is about seven feet.’

  Denison looked down at the monstrous object and bent to peer at the bore. He measured it with his thumb and found it to be over an inch and a half. He put his hand under the muzzle and lifted. ‘It’s damned heavy. How the hell can you shoot a thing like this? You couldn’t get it to your shoulder.’

  ‘You certainly couldn’t,’ agreed Harding. ‘I estimate the weight as something over a hundred and twenty pounds. It’ll fire about a pound and a half of shot.’

  ‘Well, how do you shoot it?’

  ‘It’s a punt gun,’ said Harding. ‘It lies on the foredeck of that punt. You can see that the breech ropes are attached—they run through the ring bolts on the punt and take up the recoil. The stock is merely for aiming it; if you put your shoulder to it when firing you’d end up with a broken shoulder.’

  Denison scratched his jaw. ‘An impressive piece of artillery. I’ve never heard of anything like this.’

  ‘It was developed early in the nineteenth century,’ said Harding. ‘The idea is that you lie flat in the
punt and propel yourself with paddles rather like ping-pong bats. It’s quite easy because once all the weight is in the punt it has a freeboard of only about four inches. You stalk the birds on the water—going among the reeds—and you aim by pointing the whole punt. When you’re in range you fire and, God willing, get yourself a dozen birds.’

  ‘Not very sporting,’ commented Denison.

  ‘Oh, it isn’t as easy as you’d think. Birds aren’t as easy to stalk as all that; they have more chance of escaping than you have of killing them.’

  ‘What kind of cartridge does it use?’

  ‘It doesn’t.’ Harding grinned. ‘Try going to a gunsmith some time and asking for quarter-bore cartridges—he’d think you’d gone mad. If you want cartridges you make up your own. You use ordinary black powder well rammed and with your shot on top with some wadding; you put a detonator on this nipple—I won’t now because it makes quite a noise even without a charge in the barrel—and you pull the trigger. Down goes the hammer on the nipple, the detonator explodes, flame shoots down the hole in the centre of the nipple and ignites the main charge. Bang!’

  ‘And the whole punt recoils a few feet.’

  ‘You’ve got the idea,’ said Harding. ‘The detonator is a modern touch. The originals used flint and steel—very unreliable—but with detonators you shouldn’t have one misfire in a hundred.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Denison.

  ‘But no use without powder.’ Harding patted the heavy barrel. ‘I’d have liked to try it out. Like Mannermaa, I’m not averse to roast duck.’

  ‘Are you averse to sleep?’ Denison checked his watch. ‘I’m going to wake you in two hours for the second guard duty. You’d better get your head down.’

  THIRTY-TWO

  Denison woke up because someone was shaking him. He moaned in protest and opened his eyes to see Diana bending over him. ‘Wake up—we’ve got a visitor.’

  He sat up and rubbed bis eyes. ‘Who?’

  ‘Come and see.’

  McCready was at the window, binoculars to his eyes. As Denison joined him he said, ‘It’s one of the characters from Kevo—not the Yanks, the other crowd.’

  Denison saw the man walking along the edge of the marsh towards the hut. He was about four hundred yards away. ‘Alone?’

  ‘I haven’t seen anyone else,’ said McCready. ‘This boy has his nerve, I must say.’

  ‘Perhaps he doesn’t know we’re here.’

  ‘Then he’s a damned fool,’ said McCready. ‘And they don’t send fools on jobs like this. Diana, stand behind the door with your gun.’

  The man tramped stolidly towards the hut. If it were not for his pack he would have looked like any holidaymaker on any beach. Within ten minutes he was within hailing distance and he put up his hands showing empty palms. Holding them up he came to a stop ten yards from the door and waited.

  ‘He knows we’re here,’ said McCready. He took a pistol from his pack and worked the action to put a round into the breech. He went to the door and held the pistol behind his back. ‘If he comes in you’ll be behind him,’ he said to Diana, and opened the door.

  The man still had, his hands raised as McCready said, ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I want to talk to Dr Harold Meyrick.’ The man’s English was good but heavily accented. Denison tried to identify the accent but made nothing of it.

  ‘What if Dr Meyrick doesn’t want to talk to you?’

  ‘Why not let him make up his own mind?’ asked the man.

  ‘Whom shall I announce?’ asked McCready suavely.

  ‘Shall we say…Herr Schmidt?’

  McCready had no trouble with the accent. ‘I’d prefer Pan Schmidt—and even then I don’t like it. Schmidt isn’t a Czech name.’

  The man shrugged. ‘Many people in Czechoslovakia have German names.’ When McCready did not respond he said, ‘My arms are getting tired.’

  ‘You put them up, you pull them down—but not just yet.’ McCready made up his mind. ‘All right, Mr Smith; step into my parlour.’ He opened the door wide and stepped back. The man smiled as he came forward, his hands still high.

  He walked into the hut and came to a dead stop four feet inside as McCready brought up the hand holding a gun. Diana closed the door behind him. ‘Search him,’ said McCready.

  Schmidt half-turned and smiled as he saw the pistol in Diana’s hand. ‘So many guns,’ he said. ‘I am unarmed, of course.’

  ‘There’s no of course about it,’ said McCready as Diana checked. When she had finished and found nothing McCready wagged the gun. ‘Now take off your pack—slowly.’

  Schmidt eased the pack from his shoulders and lowered it to the floor. ‘That’s better,’ he said, flexing his arms. ‘You people use guns too easily. That’s why I came with my hands up—I didn’t want to be shot by accident. Why did you shoot at me at Kevo?’

  ‘We didn’t,’ said McCready. ‘You ran into another crowd.’

  ‘You expect me to believe that?’

  ‘I don’t give a damn if you believe it or not—but you started a war with the United States. I was watching it—three of you against four Yanks. One of your chaps had a broken arm and an American had a bullet in his leg. I had a ringside seat on the other side of the river.’

  ‘So?’ said Schmidt. ‘The Americans also.’ He smiled pleasantly at Denison and then turned back to McCready. ‘What Dr Meyrick carries must be very important,’

  ‘And what is it to you?’

  ‘I’ve come to get it,’ said Schmidt composedly.

  ‘Just like that?’

  ‘Just like that, Mr McCready.’ He grinned. ‘You see that I know your name. In fact, I know the names of everyone here. Mrs Hansen, Dr Harding, Dr Meyrick and, of course, Miss Meyrick. It wasn’t hard.’

  ‘No doubt it wasn’t,’ said McCready. ‘But what makes you think that Dr Meyrick will give you anything?’

  Schmidt looked Denison in the eye. ‘I should think he values the safety of his daughter. It is unwise to go treasure hunting while in possession of a greater treasure, Dr Meyrick.’

  Denison glanced at Lyn, then cleared his throat. ‘But we have you, Mr Schmidt—if that’s your name.’

  Schmidt smiled and shook his head. ‘I can see you’re no tactician, doctor. You see, I am no treasure. I am sure Mr McCready is ahead of you in his thinking.’

  ‘You’ve got the place surrounded, then?’ said McCready.

  ‘Of course. There are more than three of us this time.’ Schmidt looked at his watch. ‘The time is up in twenty-five—no, twenty-four—minutes.’

  From the window Harding said, ‘He could be pulling a bluff. I’ve seen no one.’

  ‘The answer to that is easy,’ said Schmidt. ‘Call my bluff. I’m prepared to wait—if I can sit down.’ He took a very slow step sideways and hooked a chair forward with his foot, never taking his eyes off McCready’s pistol.

  McCready leaned against the table. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Tell me what Meyrick has that interests you Czechs so much.’

  A pained look appeared on Schmidt’s face. ‘Don’t be stupid, McCready.’ He jerked his thumb at Denison. ‘He babbled about it in Stockholm. He discovered what was in his father’s papers and where they were, and he talked about it to some Swedish friends. You ought to know scientists can’t keep secrets. But then he realized exactly what he was talking about so he shut up and went back to England.’

  He stopped. McCready’s face was blank. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Schmidt. ‘You know the answers. By then it was too late; the secret was out. Nothing travels faster than the news of a scientific breakthrough. Scientists like to believe in what they call the community of ideas, so the news got around Sweden, to Germany and to Czechoslovakia.’

  ‘And to the United States,’ commented McCready.

  Schmidt hunched his shoulders. ‘Everyone knows the reputation of old Merikken and everyone knows his history. The guess is that he put his papers somewhere for safe keeping. The
way you’re behaving leads us to think he buried them—or had them buried—somewhere in northern Finland. So it’s a treasure hunt, as I said, and you’ve got a map with a cross on it. That or the equivalent.’ He straightened. ‘I want it.’

  McCready slanted his eyes towards Denison. ‘You see what comes of talking too much.’ They were going to give in—that was the plan—but they must not collapse too easily because that would lead to suspicion. ‘Let’s be democratic,’ he said. ‘We’ll vote on it. Harding?’

  ‘I think he’s bluffing,’ said Harding flatly. ‘I don’t think there is anyone out there. Tell him to go to hell.’

  Schmidt smiled but said nothing. McCready looked at Denison. ‘What about you, Meyrick? You know the importance of this more than anyone.’

  ‘I’m not the only one to be considered,’ said Denison. ‘Let him have what he wants.’

  ‘Very wise,’ said Schmidt.

  ‘Shut up,’ said McCready unemotionally. ‘Diana?’

  ‘I’m against.’

  McCready turned his head. His face was away from Schmidt and he winked at Lyn. ‘What do you say?’

  ‘I vote with my father.’

  McCready turned back to Schmidt. ‘It seems I have the casting vote—yours doesn’t count.’

  ‘It will.’ Schmidt nodded towards the window. ‘My votes are out there.’

  ‘I think you’re going to have to prove that,’ said McCready. ‘You might be bluffing and you might not, but I’m going to call you regardless.’

  ‘This is more dangerous than a game of poker.’

  McCready smiled. ‘When you came in here you said you didn’t want to be shot by accident, so my guess is that if you do have a loaded vote outside you won’t use it too forcibly against this hut. You see, you’re inside it, too.’

  ‘It’s your guess,’ said Schmidt.

  ‘And it’s your life.’ McCready raised his pistol. ‘If one bullet comes into this hut you’re dead. If I don’t kill you Diana will. And there’s always Harding in reserve.’

  Schmidt looked around at Diana who had a gun trained on him. He glanced at Harding who had also produced a pistol. His hand went to the pocket of his anorak. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’