by Jack Higgins
Chavasse reached for the file, turned it round and went through the photos it contained. There were several of Harvey Preston taken through the years, one on the steps of the Old Bailey after his trial, an arm around the shoulders of his young brother. Chavasse leafed through the reports, then glanced up.
“This is police work. Where do we come in?”
“The Special Branch at Scotland Yard has asked us to help. They feel this job requires the kind of talents more appropriate to one of our operatives.”
“The last time they asked for help, it involved me spending six months in three of the worst jails in Britain,” Chavasse said, “plus the fact that I nearly got my leg blown off. Why can’t they do their own dirty work?”
“We’ve worked out a suitable background for you,” Mallory said impassively. “Use your own name, no reason not to. Australian citizen of French extraction. Wanted in Sydney for armed robbery.” He pushed a folder across. “Everything you need is in there, including a newspaper clipping confirming your criminal background. Naturally you’re willing to pay any price to get into Britain, and no questions asked.”
Chavasse felt, as usual, as if some great sea was washing over him. “When do I go?”
“There’s a three-thirty flight to Rome. You should make it with a quarter of an hour to spare if you leave now. You’ll find a suitcase waiting for you outside. I had one brought over. A good thing you didn’t have time to unpack.” He stood up and held out his hand. “The best of luck, Paul. Keep in touch in the usual way.”
Mallory sat down, replaced his glasses and reached for a file. Chavasse picked up his folder, turned and went out. He was chuckling when he closed the door.
“What’s so funny?” Jean Frazer demanded.
He leaned across her desk and chucked her under the chin. “Prettiest looking Sheila I’ve clapped eyes on since I left Sydney,” he said, in a very fair Australian twang.
She stared at him in amazement. “Are you mad?”
He picked up his suitcase and laughed. “I must be, Jean. I really must be,” he said, and went out.
NAPLES
CHAPTER 3
The woman was an Indian and very young—no more than sixteen, if Chavasse was any judge. She had a pale, flawless complexion and sad brown eyes that were set off to perfection by her scarlet sari. Chavasse had seen her only once during the two-day voyage from Naples and presumed they were bound for the same eventual destination.
He was leaning against the rail when she came along the deck. She nodded a trifle uncertainly and knocked on the door of the captain’s cabin. It opened after a moment or so, and Skiros appeared. He was stripped to the waist and badly needed a shave, but he smiled ingratiatingly, managing to look even more repulsive than usual, and stepped to one side.
The girl hesitated fractionally, then moved in. Skiros glanced across at Chavasse, winked and closed the door, which didn’t look too good for Miss India. Chavasse shrugged. It was no skin off his nose. He had other things to think about. He lit a cigarette and moved toward the stern of the old steamer.
PAVLO Skiros had been born of indeterminate parentage in Constantinople forty-seven years earlier. There was some Greek in him, a little Turk and quite a lot of Russian, and he was a disgrace to all three countries. He had followed the sea all his life, and yet his right to a master’s ticket was uncertain, to say the least. But he possessed other, darker qualities in abundance that suited the owners of the Anya perfectly.
He sat on the edge of the table in his small cluttered cabin and scratched his left armpit, lust in his soul when he looked at the girl.
“What can I do for you?” he asked, in English.
“My money,” she told him. “You said you would return it when we reached port.”
“All in good time, my dear. We dock in half an hour and you’ll have to keep out of the way until the customs men have finished.”
“There will be trouble?” she asked, in alarm.
He shook his head. “No trouble, I promise you. It is all arranged. You’ll be on your way within a couple of hours.”
He got up and moved close enough for her to smell him. “You’ve nothing to worry about. I’ll handle everything personally.”
He put a hand on her arm and she drew back slightly. “Thank you—thank you very much. I will go and change now. I don’t suppose a sari would be very practical on the Marseilles waterfront at night.”
She opened the door and paused, looking toward Chavasse. “Who is that man?”
“Just a passenger—an Australian.”
“I see.” She appeared to hesitate. “Is he another like myself?”
“No, nothing like that.” He wiped sweat from his face with the back of a hand. “You’d better go to your cabin now and stay there. I’ll come for you later when everything is quiet.”
She smiled again, looking younger than ever. “Thank you. You’ve no idea what this means to me.”
The door closed behind her. Skiros stood staring at it blankly for a moment, then reached for the bottle of whiskey on the table and a dirty tin mug. As he drank, he thought about the girl and what he would do with her when things were nice and quiet and they were alone. The expression on his face was not pleasant.
THEY entered Marseilles on the evening tide and it was already dark when they docked. Chavasse had gone down to his cabin earlier and lay on the bunk, smoking and staring up at the ceiling, on which the peeling paint made a series of interesting patterns.
But then the whole boat left a great deal to be desired. The food was barely edible, the blankets dirty and the general appearance of the crew, from Skiros down, was pretty grim.
Using the information obtained by the Italian police, Chavasse had approached Skiros in a certain café on the Naples waterfront, flashing a roll of fivers that had set the good captain’s eyes gleaming. Chavasse had not used the criminal background part of his story; he had preferred to allow Skiros to discover that for himself. He had simply posed as an Australian anxious to get into the Old Country and denied a visa, and Skiros had swallowed the story. For the money, Chavasse would be taken to Marseilles, landed illegally and sent on his way to people who would see him safely across the Channel.
Once on board, he had deliberately left his wallet around, minus his bankroll, but containing, amongst other things, the clipping from the Sydney Morning Herald that spoke of the police search for Paul Chavasse, wanted for questioning in connection with a series of armed robberies. There was even a photo, to make certain, and the bait must have been taken, for the cabin had been searched—Chavasse had ways of knowing about things like that.
He was surprised he had gotten this far without some attempt to relieve him of his cash and drop him overboard, for Skiros looked like the kind of man who would have cheerfully sold his sister in the marketplace on very reasonable terms.
Chavasse had slept with the door double-bolted each night and his Smith & Wesson handy under the pillow. He took it out now, checking each round carefully. As he replaced it in the special holster that fitted snugly against the small of his back, there was a knock at the door, and Melos, the walleyed Cypriot first mate, looked in.
“Captain Skiros is ready for you now.”
“Good on you, sport.” Chavasse picked up a black trench coat and reached for his suitcase. “It’s me for the open road.”
Outside it was raining and he followed Melos along the slippery deck to the captain’s cabin. Skiros was seated at his table, eating his evening meal, when they went in.
“So, Mr. Chavasse, we arrive safely?”
“Looks like it, sport,” Chavasse said cheerfully. “Let’s see now, I gave you five hundred in Naples. That’s another five I owe you.”
He produced the roll of fivers and counted a hundred out on the table. Skiros gathered them up. “Nice to do business with you.”
“Where do I go from here?” Chavasse demanded.
“There is no watchman on this dock. No one will stop you when you p
ass through the gate. Catch the nine-thirty express for Paris. Wait at the bookstall on the platform at the other end, and you will be approached by a man who will ask you if you are his cousin Charles from Marseilles. Everything is arranged from then on.”
“That’s it then.” Chavasse still kept the bonhomie going as he pulled on his trench coat and picked up the suitcase. “Didn’t I see an Indian girl about the place?”
“What about her?” Skiros demanded, his smile fading.
“Nothing special. Just thought she might be on the same kick as me.”
“You are mistaken.” Skiros got to his feet, wiped his mustache and held out his hand. “I would not delay, if I were you. You’ve just got time to catch that train.”
Chavasse smiled at both of them. “Can’t afford to miss that, can I?”
He went out into the rain, moved along the deck and descended the gangway. At the bottom, he paused under the lamp for a moment, then moved into darkness.
Melos turned inquiringly to Skiros. “A great deal of money in that roll.”
Skiros nodded. “Get after him. Take Andrew with you. The two of you should be enough.”
“What if he kicks up a fuss?”
“How can he? He’s in the country illegally and the Sydney police want him for armed robbery. Use your intelligence, Melos.”
Melos went out. Skiros continued to eat, working his way through the meal methodically. When he had finished, he poured himself a very large whiskey, which he drank slowly.
When he went out, the rain was falling even heavier, drifting down through the yellow quarter lights in a silver spray. He moved along the deck to the girl’s cabin, knocked and went in.
She turned from the bunk to face him, looking strangely alien in a blue sweater and pleated gray skirt. There was something close to alarm on her face, but she made a visible effort and smiled.
“Captain Skiros. It is time, then?”
“It most certainly is,” Skiros said, and moving with astonishing speed, he pushed her back across the bunk and flung himself on top of her, a hand across her mouth to stifle any sound.
MELOS and the deckhand, Andrew, hurried along the dock and paused by the iron gates to listen. There was no sound, and Melos frowned.
“What’s happened to him?”
He took a single anxious step forward, and Chavasse moved out of the shadows, turned him round and raised a knee into his groin. Melos sagged to the wet cobbles and Chavasse grinned across the writhing body at Andrew.
“What kept you?”
Andrew moved in fast, the knife in his right hand glinting in the rain. His feet were kicked expertly from beneath him and he hit the cobbles. He started to get up and Chavasse seized his right wrist, then twisted the arm around and up in a direction it was never intended to go. Andrew screamed as a muscle ripped in his shoulder, and Chavasse ran him headfirst into the railings of the gate.
Melos had managed to regain his feet although he was retching. Chavasse stepped over Andrew and grabbed him by the shirt. “Was I really being met outside that station bookstall in Paris?”
Melos shook his head.
“And the Indian girl? What’s Skiros playing at there?”
Melos didn’t answer. Chavasse pushed him away in disgust, turned and ran back toward the boat.
THE girl’s teeth fastened on the edge of the captain’s hand, biting clean to the bone. He gave a grunt of pain and slapped her across the face.
“By God, I’ll teach you,” he said. “You’ll crawl before I’m through with you.”
As he advanced, face contorted, the door swung open and Chavasse stepped in. He held the Smith & Wesson negligently in one hand, but the eyes were very dark in the white devil’s face. Skiros swung round and Chavasse shook his head.
“You really are a bastard, aren’t you, Skiros?”
Skiros took a step forward and Chavasse slashed him across the face with the barrel of the gun, drawing blood. Skiros fell back across the bunk and the girl ran to Chavasse, who put an arm about her.
“Don’t tell me; let me guess. You’re trying to get to England, but they won’t give you a visa.”
“That’s right,” she said, in astonishment.
“We’re in the same boat, then. How much did he charge you?”
“He took all my money in Naples. He said he would keep it safe for me.”
“Did he, now?” Chavasse pulled Skiros up and shoved him toward the door. “Get your bag and wait for me at the gangway. The good captain and I have things to discuss.”
When he pushed Skiros through the door of his own cabin, the captain turned angrily, blood on his face. “You won’t get away with this.”
Chavasse hit him across the face with the gun twice, knocking him to the floor. He squatted beside him and said pleasantly, “Get the girl’s money. I haven’t got much time.”
Skiros produced a key from his trouser pocket, dragged himself to a small safe beside his bunk and opened it. He took out a bundle of notes and tossed them across.
“You can do better than that.” Chavasse pushed him to one side, reached inside the safe and picked up a black cashbox. He turned it upside down and two or three bundles of notes flopped to the floor. He stuffed them into his pocket and grinned.
“There’s a lesson in this for you somewhere, Skiros, and worth every penny.” He tapped him on the forehead with the barrel of the Smith & Wesson. “And now the address—the real address—where we can catch a boat for the Channel crossing.”
“Go to Saint Denise on the Brittany coast near the Gulf of Saint Malo,” Skiros croaked. “Saint Brieuc is the nearest big town. There’s an inn called the Running Man. Ask for Jacaud.”
“If you’re lying, I’ll be back,” Chavasse said.
Skiros could barely whisper. “It’s the truth, and you can do what the hell you like. I’ll have my day.”
Chavasse pushed him back against the wall, stood up and went out. The girl was waiting anxiously at the head of the gangway. She had a scarf around her head and wore a plastic raincoat.
“I was beginning to get worried,” she said, in her soft, slightly singsong voice.
“No need.” He handed her the bundle of notes he had taken from Skiros. “Yours, I think.”
She looked up at him in a kind of wonder. “Who are you?”
“A friend,” he said gently, and picked up her suitcase. “Now let’s get moving. I think it would be healthier in the long run.”
He took her arm, and they went down the gangway together.
FRANCE
CHAPTER 4
They caught the night express to Brest with only ten minutes to spare. It wasn’t particularly crowded. Chavasse managed to find them an empty second-class compartment near the rear, left the girl in charge and ran to the station buffet. He returned with a carton of coffee, sandwiches and a half dozen oranges.
The girl drank some of the coffee gratefully, but shook her head when he offered her a sandwich. “I couldn’t eat a thing.”
“It’s going to be a long night,” he said. “I’ll save some for you for later.”
The train started to move, and she got up and went into the corridor, looking out over the lights of Marseilles. When she finally turned and came back into the compartment, a lot of the strain seemed to have left her face.
“Feeling better now?” he asked.
“I felt sure that something would go wrong, that Captain Skiros might reappear.”
“A bad dream,” he said. “You can forget it now.”
“Life seems to have been all bad dreams for some time.”
“Why not tell me about it?”
She seemed strangely shy, and when she spoke, it was hesitantly at first. Her name was Famia Nadeem, and he had been wrong about her age. She was nineteen. Born in Bombay, her mother had died in childbirth and her father had immigrated to England, leaving her in the care of her grandmother. Things had gone well for him, for he now owned a prosperous Indian restaurant in Manchester and
had sent for her to join him three months before, on the death of the old woman.
But there had been snags of a kind with which Chavasse was only too familiar. Under the terms of the Immigration Act, only genuine family dependents of Commonwealth citizens already in residence in Britain could be admitted without a work permit. In Famia’s case, there was no formal birth certificate to prove her identity conclusively. Unfortunately there had been a great many false claims, and the authorities were now sticking rigorously to the letter of the law. No absolute proof of the claimed relationship meant no entry, and Famia had been sent back to India on the next flight.
But her father had not given up. He had sent her money and details of an underground organization that specialized in helping people in her predicament. She was disconcertingly naive, and Chavasse found little difficulty in extracting the information he required, starting with the export firm in Bombay where her trip had commenced, passing through Cairo and Beirut, and culminating in Naples with the agents who controlled the Anya.
“But why did you give Skiros all your money?” he asked.
“He said it would be safer. That there were those who might take advantage of me.”
“And you believed him?”
“He seemed kind.”
She leaned back in her seat, head turned to look through her own reflection into the darkness outside. She was beautiful—too beautiful for her own good, Chavasse decided. A lovely, vulnerable young girl on her own in a nightmare world.
She turned and, catching him watching her, colored faintly. “And you, Mr. Chavasse? What about you?”
He gave her his background story, cutting out the criminal bit. He was an artist from Sydney who wanted to spend a few months in England, which meant working for his keep, and there was a long, long waiting list for permits. He wasn’t prepared to join the queue.
