“Yes. And they found this man. He was dead then.”
“Is it Marius Wilde?”
She listened for another moment. “Yes. His papers show that. Moejiker says he recognizes him, too. It is Marius Wilde.”
The fat Dutchman began to bark sharp orders to the workmen, who scattered to perform the tasks he set for them. No one touched the dead man. He asked Trinka if anything had been disturbed, and she shook her head and said everything was being kept in order for the police, who had been summoned and would be here shortly from Amschellig, She asked a few questions of her own from a nearby workman then.
“Nobody knows where Marius or his brother lived,” she told Durell. “This man says they were rather snobbish. They acted in a very superior manner that angered everyone they worked with.”
“Does this man know Julian, too?”
Trinka asked a few more questions, and the workman shrugged. “He says yes, he knows Julian, and does not like him. He says both Julian and Marius were strange, even for Englishmen.”
“But they aren’t really English, are they?”
“That’s what they claimed to be.”
“How do they think Marius died here?” Durell asked. “They assume he slipped and fell. Why?”
“It doesn’t make sense. Julian and Marius were playing a desperate and dangerous game, for fantastic stakes. It doesn’t ring true that one of them should die as the result of a stupid accident.”
Before she could reply, Durell steped forward to check his hunch. The dead man lay apparently exactly as he had landed when he fell from the dike deck, sprawled with arms and legs akimbo, his head at a curious angle that indicated a broken neck as well as a crushed skull. But there was very little blood on the quarried rock. He knelt quickly beside the dead man. He saw that Marius Wilde, even in death, was only a weak facsimile of his brother Julian. Here was none of the savage, feline strength of Julian. This had been the weaker of the two, which explained Julian’s protective attitude. Weaker physically, yes —but there was evidence in the narrow, pinched face of a strong intellect, although everything was difficult to judge because of the gaping, toothless mouth. Durell thought about the total lack of teeth in a man not more than forty, and wondered how it had happened. Then, before anyone could object, he reached out and turned the dead man over.
He found what he wanted then, although just now it was of no help. He felt puzzled and confused, and looked up as Moejiker bellied up to him to protest his interference.
“What do you think you are doing? The police will not like this. Even though it was an accident, the law—”
“It was not an accident. Look here,” Durell said. He showed the Hollander the back of the dead man’s head. Most of the damage to the skull from the rock impact was high up. But just above the base, in the area of the medulla oblongata, where the spinal column joined the brain, there was a neat round hole, scarcely darkened with blood.
“This is a bullet wound,” Durell said flatly. He stood up, looked at Moejiker’s startled face. “Marius Wilde was shot. He was murdered.”
Ten
The police launch, summoned by radio, contained a quiet, efficient crew who went about their work with methodical Dutch calm. None of Moejiker’s impatient bellowing about delays in his day’s schedule made any impression. They asked questions, jotted notes, consulted with each other, interviewed Durell briefly, spoke to Trinka Van Horn at greater length. Trinka’s trim figure somehow crackled with authority when she protested against the delay they were causing. It was already past three in the afternoon, and Durell began to think of his coming meeting with Julian, whose demand for his brother’s safety would meet with an unexpected response now.
Durell kept his silence and left it to Trinka to explain what they were doing here. He considered a number of possible answers to Marius Wilde’s murder, but none of them held a definite answer. Someone had killed Marius and tried to make it look like an accident. Was the clumsiness deliberate, or had it been a real attempt to cover up the bullet wound? It could mean the difference between dealing with professionals or amateurs. Somehow, Durell tended toward the latter. But the killer’s identity, whether part of the Cassandra gang or someone completely unsuspected until now, defied speculation.
It was after three o’clock when Trinka told him they were free to go. “They have spoken to Flaas, from their launch radio. It is all right to return to Amschellig now.” She looked deeply troubled. “Do you want to go back with the police, or will it be all righit for you to return with the Suzanne?”
Durell smiled. “The Suzanne, by all means.”
“Good. Perhaps we can figure out this horrible thing.” She paused. “But this must not be allowed to interfere with your arrangements for Julian. We had better go now, if the fog isn’t to hold us up too long to prevent your return by six o’clock.”
Ten minutes later they ghosted through a dead-white world of mist and calm sea. Not a breath of air stirred. The water was glassy, with a slow ground-swell from the north. Jan Gunther used the auxiliary engine and Trinka acted as bow lookout, calling out buoy locations for the maze of channels they had to thread, now that the tide was ebbing so fast. Because of the chill of the fog, she had changed below into faded denim slacks and a tight-fitting, striped singlet that only emphasized the remarkable femininity of her tiny figure.
Durell sat quietly amidships and watched the white fog. He was aware of a complete normalcy of pulse and heartbeat. He had no symptoms of illness whatever, and for the first time since he’d met Piet Van Horn yesterday, twenty-four hours ago, he allowed himself a long sigh of relief. He had been prepared for anything. He had known the danger of infection from Virus Cassandra, and for a time this morning, because of the beating he had experienced yesterday, he had watched his physical reactions with some care. But he had not caught Piet’s infection. He had passed through the dangerous time period without developing anything. So he was safe.
Not that death was a stranger to him. Sudden, violent, ugly death was always with him, and in the solitary fashion of his profession, he knew he had to face it alone. Not that he was callous toward it. But it was a world at war, secretly and viciously, in which he moved and lived and worked. No quarter was given; none was asked. No bugles blew in triumph or to mark a retreat. If you failed or died, you were simply removed from the scene and your records disposed of. There was never a monument to mark the work you had done.
Marius Wilde’s death threw a serious monkey-wrench into the general plan that had been forming in his mind since he’d arrived at the Gunderhof Hotel. He would have to play it by ear for the next few hours, he decided—depending on what happened with Julian.
“Sam?”
He turned as Trinka spoke. She was looking back toward him from her lookout position at the bow. He got up and joined her.
“Listen,” she said. “We are being followed.”
“Here at sea?”
“Listen,” she said again.
Above the steady beat of the Suzanne’s two-cycle engine he heard the deep-throated mutter of a diesel motor, somewhere astern and off the port quarter. He looked that way, but only the bright white blindness of the fog greeted his search.
“How can we be followed in this?” he asked quietly.
“It’s a much larger vessel than ours—a large yacht, which has a lookout mast, or a bridge. The fog may only be a few feet above the surface of the sea here—maybe ten, fifteen feet at the most. Our mast may show above it. And they can see it.”
“Who would they be?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You’ve been here long enough to have a few ideas.”
She turned in quick hostility. “Do you mean I have not done my job properly? We have searched every island for twenty miles up and down the coast, Jan and I, day in and day out. But searching for the bunker, which is the job I was assigned to do, is worse than hunting for the proverbial needle in the haystack. If you think—”
H
e held up his hands to ward off her angry words. “You have a Spanish temper, Trinka. Take it easy. I implied nothing. I just thought you might be able to identify the boat, because of the diesel—”
She looked only slightly mollified. “There are a number of yachts around here of the that size—two German, a Swedish, an Italian publisher’s schooner—it could be anyone.”
“Why would anyone follow us now?”
“Have you no theories of your own?” she countered.
“None.”
“Well, I don’t like it,” she said flatly. “I would feel much better if we can get rid of them.”
“Maybe it doesn’t mean anything. Maybe they’re just following the same tidal channels to get back to Amschellig.”
“No. We have taken some evasive action. Jan turned out to sea several times, through quite tricky channels, just to see if the other boat turned, too. They are definitely trailing us.”
“Perhaps they’re lost and using our mast as a guide.”
She looked dubious. “Well, we shall see. Are you armed?”
“Yes.”
“I shall get a rifle for Jan,” she said.
She went below. Durell stood on the wet deck and tried to see through the blinding mist. The sound of the other motor, deep-throated and somehow ominous, seemed to come from every quarter. But he could make out nothing. Looking straight up, there was only the dazzling glare of water suspended in the air, brighter in one area to indicate where the sun was. Trinka was right. The fog that covered this area of the sea was only a few feet thick, a low creeping blanket that lay heavily on the oily surface of the water.
Trinka came back and put a rifle beside Jan, who sat at the wheel like a stolid graven image. She said something to the big Hollander, and Jan increased their speed and then suddenly put the helm hard over, making the Suzanne swerve sharply in her course. It was a game of blind man’s buff, Durell thought, in which their mysterious pursuer had all the advantages of not being blind at all.
The other vessel changed course with them, at once. And now the beat of the diesel engine came faster and louder from astern.
“Jan!” Trinka called.
The big man at the wheel shook his head.
“Can we do it?” she asked.
“Do what?” Durell interrupted.
“We were just abeam of Hovringen Shoal. The depth of water there at lowest tide is only four feet, and the Suzanne’s keel requires six feet, six inches. But the tide hasn’t run out all the way yet. There is just a chance we could get across and escape them.”
“Should we escape them?” Durell asked.
“Of course! Suppose they intend to kill us?”
“Why should they? How do we endanger anyone, except Julian? And why would Julian try to kill us before our six o’clock appointment is carried out?”
“I suppose you think we should let ourselves be run down and left to drown!” the girl objected.
“I think we ought to find out who is behind us, and why.”
She looked indecisive, then shook her head. “No. I cannot allow the Suzanne to be damaged. We’ll try the shoal. Jan, put her over again.”
The big man obeyed promptly. Durell, looking astern, heard the yacht’s engines aft quicken again. Now suddenly there came the loom of something sharper and more solidly white than the whiteness of the fog. Trinka drew in a sudden breath as the bow of a speeding vessel took shape in the mist astern—the high, ornate bow of a sixty or seventy-footer, at least. It came on fast, white foam boiling around the prow. Jan slapped his hand on their fog horn in desperation, and the sound boomed out all around them in frantic warning. The other vessel made no reply, paid no heed, and simply came on fast in a course meant to cut them off from the dubious safety of the shoal.
There was no doubt now. The other boat meant to run them down. And its size and power meant it could cut the Suzanne in half and keep right on going. It would be reported, if reported at all, as an accident at sea, thanks to the fog.
“Jan!” Trinka cried. “Hurry!”
“I do not think we can make it, Trinka,” the big young man muttered. “It will be a very close thing.”
Their course took them directly across the other vessel’s path. Whoever was at the helm of the diesel-powered yacht knew about the Hovringen Shoal and also knew that the larger vessel would quickly go aground where the Suzanne might float. No attempt was made to change course on the other’s part. But the throb of the diesel became a heavy, angry roar as the last ounce of power was applied to intercept the sloop.
Ahead, Durell saw the color of the Water change where the shoal began. A buoy clanged loudly in the tugging tide, and he thought he heard the crash of surf far ahead in the fog. But then the high bow of the white yacht was upon them. Trinka screamed. Jan Gunther gave a hoarse shout and lifted his rifle as if he could stop the other vessel with a bullet. There was no one to be seen on the other’s deck or behind the glass windows of the bridge. The bow loomed high, came smashing down at the sloop’s deck. Durell threw himself at the wheel, hurling his weight against Jan’s frozen grip. The sloop heeled, shuddered, and slid sidewise onto the sand bar.
There came a sliding, rasping sound and Durell was thrown from his feet with the grazing collision. He caught a line, felt someone slam into him, and caught at Trinka’s leg as the sloop yawed. The boom slammed wildly across the deck and the girl slid half overboard. The air was filled with a strange hooting sound from the other vessel’s horn. The high boiling wake lifted the Suzanne’s stern and shoved her farther onto the shoal. Something grated deep below, and the deck shuddered.
Durell struggled to hang on to Trinka leg; he pulled her back, caught at her groping hand, and hauled her to the deck beside him. The boom slammed viciously overhead. He heard a cry and saw Jan Gunther stretched flat as a swinging block caught the side of his head.
The other yacht was gone, swallowed by the mist. And there came another long, shuddering tremor as the Suzanne’s keel scraped bottom again.
“Are you all right?” he asked Trinka.
“Yes, I— Thank you. I’d have gone overboard if you—”
“Take care of Jan, will you? He’s been hurt.”
He shoved Gunther into the safety of the cockpit before snatching the spinning wheel. He had noted their course before, and now he tried to steady the vessel. The engine still ran, and they righted slowly, plunging on into the fog. The sound of the other yacht was gone, swallowed up by the mist and by distance.
Trinka looked up with Jan’s head in her lap. “His scalp is badly cut.” Her face was white. “Do you realize what just happened?”
“Somebody tried to kill us,” Durell said grimly.
“Yes. But why?”
“Because we are what we are, and they know it and don’t want us around to ask any more questions.”
“Was it Julian Wilde?”
“I don’t think so. Am I headed on the right course?”
She stood beside him. “A little more to port, just a few points. Are we over the shoal?”
“I think so.”
“It is all that saved us,” she whispered.
She began to tremble violently. Her lips were pale. She stared at the fog and started to speak again and bit her lip.
“It was a close one,” Durell said.
“I am sorry. I should have been prepared for it.” She tried to smile. “I will be all right soon. Thank you.”
He pulled her down beside him at the wheel. Her waist was slim and supple, her body firm under his grip. “Stop shaking, Trinka. It turned out all right.”
“I—I didn’t know I was a coward. I’d have gone overboard if you hadn’t caught me. And poor Jan—”
“Take care of him. It’s only a scalp injury.”
“You’re right.”
But she didn’t move. He handed the wheel to her and when he saw she held the Suzanne on course, he suddenly kissed her, hard and without inhibition, on her trembling mouth. Her body stiffened with
shock. Instinctively, her primness fought him, surprised. And she forgot her fear in the sudden anger she showed when she slapped him. “What do you think—”
He grinned. “Can you steer a straight course now?”
Her eyes blazed. “You—that was hateful!”
“Was it?”
“I was not so—not so helpless—I cannot think—” “Just steer the boat now, Trinka,” he said gently. “And keep your mind off what almost happened to us and concentrate on despising me. All right?”
For a moment she stared in unmitigated outrage. Then she saw his smile and her lips twitched. She looked down at their course on the binnacle compass and adjusted the wheel; then she smiled in return and laughed and said softly, “It would not be difficult to—to hate you very much, Sam Durell.”
“Work on it,-” he said. “And I’ll work on Jan.”
Eleven
They were back in Amschellig Harbor by six o’clock. Jan Gunther revived quickly, and by the time they moored, he was at the wheel again, apologizing in his clumsy manner for having been so careless as to let his head get in the way of the swinging boom. Trinka, however, was strangely silent until they tied up.
“Don’t you have any idea whose vessel that was?” Durell asked. “You’ve been here a week or more. Didn’t you recognize the yacht?”
“No, there are several of that size,” she said. “And I couldn’t see the name on the transom. I’m afraid I’m not as good an operative as I thought. The slightest crisis, and I came apart.”
“Not at all.”
“You could not depend on me again.”
“I may have to,” he said, smiling.
“But I have lost confidence in myself.” Then she brightened. “Perhaps it is only hunger now. It is almost dinner time, and I am absolutely starved!”
“Sorry, you’ll have to buy your own meal. I’m due back at the hotel for a date with Julian Wilde, remember?”
Then she returned to the problem, like a puppy worrying a bone. “But why should anyone want to drown us, when we are following Wilde’s instructions?”
He had several ideas about that, but he said nothing. He helped Jan check the bilges and strakes of the Suzanne, where they had been grazed, but the sloop had no leaks, and aside from an ugly scar in its paint the little boat was unharmed. Durell hurried through the examination, said his goodbyes, and left for the hotel.
Assignment - Lowlands Page 8
