A Fine Night for Dying

by Jack Higgins

  Chavasse took out two bundles of fivers and pushed them across. “That’s how badly I want to get across, Gorman. Is it a deal?”

  Gorman’s smile was so evil as to be almost seraphic. He scooped up the cash and stowed it away in a battered wallet. “When do you want to leave?”

  “The sooner the better, as far as I’m concerned.”

  Gorman smiled again, that same seraphic smile. “Then what are we waiting for?” he demanded, and led the way out.

  THE boat was called the Mary Grant, and she was every bit as good as she looked. Chavasse stood at the rail as they moved down the creek toward the open sea and took a few deep breaths of the salt air. It was good to be on the move again, even toward an unknown future. In fact, if he was honest with himself, that accounted for a great deal of the fascination in his work—quite simply the living from day to day, not knowing what lay around the next corner.

  Waves started to slap against the hull with strange little hollow sounds that vibrated through the whole boat, as they left the shelter of the creek and lifted to meet the Channel swell. He moved to the wheelhouse and paused in the doorway.

  “Where were you thinking of putting me down?”

  “Anywhere you like,” Gorman said. “You’re the boss.”

  “I was thinking of somewhere a little bit off the beaten track. The Gulf of Saint Malo or Britanny. I could move on to Marseilles from there.”

  “Suits me.”

  Gorman altered course a couple of points and Chavasse said, “I’ll go below and get a little shut-eye.”

  “Best thing to do. Could get a little rough in mid-Channel. The glass is falling. You’ll find coffee in the big thermos in the galley.”

  Chavasse went below to the main saloon. He was tired—damned tired—which was hardly surprising. He found the thermos in the galley, poured himself a cup and returned to the saloon. He drank the coffee slowly, going over the situation point by point. There was nothing to be gained from a confrontation with Gorman just yet, that could come later.

  Quite suddenly, his brain almost ceased to function. God, but he was tired. He stretched out on the padded seat and stared up at the bulkhead. The ribs in the roof seemed to undulate slowly, like ripples on the surface of a pond, and his mouth was strangely dry. It was only in the final moment of his plunge into darkness that it occurred to his bemused brain that something might have gone wrong.

  HE surfaced slowly, for the first few moments aware only of existing. The saloon was in darkness, that much was obvious, and he was lying facedown on the padded seat. He tried to move, lost his balance and fell to the floor, which was hardly surprising, considering that his wrists were securely lashed behind his back.

  The Mary Grant was still moving, but as he tried to scramble to his feet, the engines were cut and she started to drift. There was a footstep on the companionway, the light was switched on, and Gorman appeared. He squatted so close that Chavasse was aware of the stale smell of sweat from his unwashed body.

  “How are you then, matey?” Gorman patted his cheek.

  “What’s the game?” Chavasse demanded, staying with his role for the time being. “I thought we had a deal.”

  Gorman got up and opened the slim case, which stood on the table. He took out one of the packets of banknotes. “This is the game, matey—the green stuff. I’ve always had a feeling for it. It makes me come out in goosebumps all over. This little collection, I like so much that I can’t bear to be separated from any part of it.”

  “Okay,” Chavasse said. “I won’t give you any trouble. Just drop me off at the other end, that’s all I ask.”

  Gorman’s laugh was something to be heard as he pulled Chavasse to his feet and pushed him toward the companionway. “I’ll drop you off all right, matey, make no mistake about that. Right into the deep end.”

  It was cold on deck, rain drifting down through the yellow light. Chavasse turned to face him. Gorman picked up a length of rusty anchor chain, and Chavasse said calmly, “Who taught you that little trick—Rossiter?”

  It certainly brought Gorman to a stop. He glared at Chavasse, his eye rolling horribly, and when he spoke his voice was the merest whisper.

  “Who are you? What is this?”

  “It’s no good, Gorman,” Chavasse told him flatly. “My people know where I am. When I end up missing, you’ll have some tall explaining to do.”

  He had completely miscalculated his man. Gorman gave a cry of rage, and his arm went back to strike, the length of chain cracking out like a leather whip.

  It never landed. A hand emerged from the shadows and wrenched the chain from his grasp. Gorman spun round and Darcy Preston stepped into the light.

  Gorman didn’t mess about. His hand went into his pocket and came out clutching a revolver, but he made the mistake of firing too quickly. The bullet plowed into the deckhouse and Darcy went headfirst over the rail.

  Gorman peered into the dark waters and, behind him, Preston pulled himself over the rail, having swum under the keel. There was only one possible weapon, a long-handled gaff used for pulling in game fish, which hung on the side of the wheelhouse in a spring clip. As he pulled it free, the clip twanged musically and Gorman turned.

  This time he went by the manual. His arm swung up in a straight line as he sighted along the barrel with his good eye. Chavasse went for him, shoulder down like a rugby forward, sending him staggering against the rail. The revolver discharged harmlessly, and as Gorman straightened, aiming again, Darcy lunged with the gaff, the point catching Gorman in the right armpit. He went over the rail backward with a cry. By the time Chavasse got there, the dark waters had closed over his head.

  “Hold out your hands,” Darcy ordered, and sliced through Chavasse’s bonds with the edge of the razor-sharp gaff.

  Chavasse turned, massaging his wrists to restore the circulation. “Now that’s what I call a timely intervention. Is it permissible to inquire where in the hell you sprang from?”

  “Glad to oblige,” Darcy said. “After you’d left, I thought about things for at least five minutes, then went downstairs to the garage and helped myself to your car. I left it at Hurn Airport and came the rest of the way by taxi. I was actually in Fixby before you. They serve a very nice keg bitter in the local.”

  “Then what?”

  “Oh, I hung around the boatyard awaiting events, as they say. I heard most of your conversation with Gorman, waited till you’d gone into the office, then came onboard and hid in the chain locker.”

  “You certainly took your own sweet time about showing up, or was that just your sense of the dramatic?”

  “As a matter of fact, I fell asleep. Didn’t wake up till Gorman started thumping around and making all that noise.”

  Chavasse sighed. “All right, what are you doing here?”

  “It’s quite simple. My brother was a criminal by every possible standard. He was a thief and a gangster, but he was good to me. If I said that I loved such a man, could you accept that?”

  “Perfectly,” Chavasse told him gravely.

  “He didn’t deserve to die that way, Paul. He deserved many things in this life, but not that. When the time comes, I am going to kill Leonard Rossiter personally. We Jamaicans are a religious people, a proud people. An eye for an eye, the Book says, no more, no less. I will have Rossiter’s life then, for that is the just thing.”

  Chavasse nodded soberly. “I respect your feelings, I understand them, but between the thought and the deed is often a very wide gap, especially for a man like you. I can kill when I have to, quickly, expertly and without a second thought, because I’m a professional. Can you be that certain?”

  “We’ll have to see, won’t we?”

  “Fair enough. I’ll get this thing moving; you dry yourself. We’ll talk things over later.”

  The Jamaican nodded and disappeared into the companionway. Chavasse went along the deck to the wheelhouse and started the engines. They made a fine lovely sound, and he pushed up the throttle and to
ok the Mary Grant into the night with a burst of power.

  “I always wanted to be a boxer,” Darcy said.

  He leaned against the closed door of the wheelhouse, a blanket around his shoulders, a mug of tea in one hand, almost invisible in the darkness.

  “What did Harvey have to say to that?”

  Darcy chuckled. “He argued in percentages and he certainly saw no percentage in that. He always said a good fighter was a hungry fighter and I was anything but hungry. Mind you, he indulged me up to a certain point. I had lessons from some of the best pro fighters in the game. He had an interest in a gym in Whitechapel.”

  “What made you choose the law?”

  “With my background? A hell of a lot of people found that one funny. On the other hand, I knew every crook in Soho, which came in useful when I started to practice.”

  “You were constantly in demand?”

  “Something like that. I cleared out after Harvey’s trial because I realized I simply couldn’t continue with the kind of double life I had been leading. Went out to Jamaica and started over. A good move. That’s where I met my wife.”

  “Time and chance,” Chavasse said.

  “As I told your Mr. Mallory, Harvey got a letter to me detailing what he intended to do. When he didn’t turn up, friends notified me and I decided to follow in his footsteps. It seemed the logical thing.”

  “Does your wife know?”

  Darcy grinned. “She thinks I’m in New York on legal business.” He emptied his mug and put it on the map table. “And what about you? How did you get into this kind of work?”

  “Time and chance again.” Chavasse shrugged. “I have a language kink. Soak them up like water into a sponge—no work in it at all. I was lecturing in a provincial university and finding it pretty boring, when a friend asked me to help him get his sister out of Czechoslovakia. It had a ring of adventure to it, so I gave it a go.”

  “And succeeded?”

  “Only just. I was in an Austrian hospital with a bullet in my leg when Mallory came to see me and offered me a job. That was twelve years ago.”

  “Any regrets?”

  “It’s too late for regrets. Far too late. Now let’s come back to the present and discuss what we’re going to do when we arrive at Saint Denise.”

  BRITTANY

  CHAPTER 11

  They made such excellent time that it was only nine-thirty as they approached St. Denise. There was a small bay with a deep-water channel marked on the chart about a quarter of a mile to the east, and Chavasse decided to give it a try.

  He couldn’t have made a better choice. The bay was almost a complete circle, no more than a hundred yards in diameter, and guarded by high cliffs that gave excellent cover from the sea. They dropped anchor and went below.

  Chavasse put his leather business case on the table, opened it and tossed a couple of packets of francs across to Darcy. “Half for you, half for me. Just in case.”

  “You mean I’m getting paid, too?”

  Darcy stowed the money away in an inside pocket and Chavasse pressed a hidden catch and removed the false bottom of the case to reveal an interior compartment. Expertly packed away inside were a Smith & Wesson .38 magnum revolver, a Walther PPK and a machine pistol.

  Darcy whistled softly. “What is this, Prohibition?”

  “Nothing like being prepared.” Chavasse offered him the Smith & Wesson. “Guaranteed not to jam. About the best man-stopper I know.” He dropped the Walther into his pocket, replaced the false bottom in the case and stowed it away in a locker under the table. “And now for the most interesting act of the evening.”

  They rowed ashore in the fiberglass dinghy, beached it and scaled the cliffs by means of a narrow path. The sky was blue-black, and every star gleamed like white fire. There was no moon, and yet a strange luminosity hung over everything, giving them a range of vision much greater than might have reasonably been expected under the circumstances. They made rapid progress through the scattered pines and soon came to a point from which they could look down into St. Denise.

  There was a light here and there in the cottages and several in the downstairs windows of the Running Man.

  “How do you intend to play this thing?” Darcy asked.

  “By ear,” Chavasse told him. “Strictly by ear. Let’s see how many guests are at the party first.”

  They went down the hill, scrambled across a fence and continued along a narrow country lane that soon brought them to the outskirts of the village. Here the cottages were spaced well apart, each with its own small patch of ground under cultivation.

  They passed the first house, and as they approached the second, Darcy placed a hand on Chavasse’s sleeve. “This is Mercier’s place, or did you know?”

  “Now that is interesting,” Chavasse said softly. “Let’s take a look.”

  They moved across the cobbled yard and crouched by the window. Light reached out with golden fingers into the darkness, and through a gap in the curtain they could see Mercier sitting at the kitchen table, head bowed, a bottle of brandy and a tin mug in front of him.

  “He doesn’t look too happy,” Darcy said.

  Chavasse nodded. “Didn’t you say something about his wife being an invalid?”

  “That’s right. Hasn’t been out of bed in four years.”

  “Then she’s hardly likely to interfere if we’re quiet. Knock on the door and then get out of sight. I’ll handle him.”

  Mercier was slow in responding and his footsteps dragged strangely across the stone floor. He opened the door and peered out, took a step forward, an anxious, expectant look on his face. Chavasse touched the barrel of the gun to his temple.

  “One cry and you’re a dead man, Mercier. Inside.”

  Mercier moved backward and Chavasse went after him, Preston close behind. He closed the door and Mercier looked from one to the other then laughed abruptly.

  “This’ll be a surprise for Jacaud. He told me you were both dead.”

  “Where is he?”

  “At the Running Man, entertaining his cronies from the village.”

  “And Rossiter?”

  Mercier shrugged. “They came back this morning, just before noon, in the Englishman’s boat.”

  “That would be a man called Gorman?”

  Mercier nodded. “We’ve done a lot of business with him in the past. He’s always in and out of here.”

  “What about the authorities?”

  “In these parts, monsieur?” Mercier shrugged. “People mind their own business.”

  Chavasse nodded. “What happened to Rossiter and the others? Are they still at the Running Man?”

  Mercier shook his head. “Monsieur Rossiter left just after noon in the Renault. He took the Indian girl and the Chinese man with him. The Chinese man was heavily bandaged about the face.”

  “How did the girl look?”

  “How would you expect her to look, monsieur? As beautiful as ever.”

  “I don’t mean that. Did she seem afraid at all—afraid of Rossiter?”

  Mercier shook his head. “On the contrary, monsieur. She looked at him as if he were…” He seemed to have difficulty in finding the right word. “As if he were…”

  “God?” Darcy Preston suggested.

  “Something like that, monsieur.”

  He was strangely calm and unafraid and the answers came readily. Chavasse let it go for the moment and carried on. “Where did they go?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea.”

  “Come off it, Mercier, you can do better than that. Try Hellgate, for a start, and Montefiore—don’t tell me you’ve never heard of them?”

  “Of course, monsieur. I have heard those two names on several occasions—snatches of conversation between Jacaud and Monsieur Rossiter, but that is all. To me they are names and nothing more.”

  He was speaking the truth. Chavasse was certain, which didn’t seem to make any kind of sense.

  “What’s happened, Mercier?” he said s
oftly. “You’re a different man.”

  Mercier turned without a word, walked to a door, opened it and stood to one side. “Messieurs,” he said, with a small hopeless gesture.

  Chavasse and Preston moved to join him and looked into a small, cluttered sitting room. A plain wooden coffin rested on the table, a candle at each end.

  Chavasse closed the door gently. “Your wife?”

  Mercier nodded. “Not a day without pain for four years, monsieur, and yet she never complained, although she knew there could be only one end. I tried everything. Big doctors from Brest, expensive medicines—all for nothing.”

  “That must have cost money.”

  Mercier nodded. “How else do you think I came to be working for an animal like Jacaud? For my Nanette—only for Nanette. It was for her that I endured so much horror. For her and her alone that I kept my mouth shut.”

  “You’re saying you went in fear of your life?”

  Mercier shook his head. “No, monsieur, in fear for my wife’s life, of what that devil Rossiter might do to her.”

  “He made such threats?”

  “To keep me quiet. He had to, monsieur, particularly after a trip some weeks ago when I sailed on the Leopard as a deckhand.”

  “What happened then?”

  Mercier hesitated, and Chavasse said, “Let me tell you what happened after we left here last night. The Leopard went down in the Channel; did Jacaud tell you that?”

  “He said there had been an accident. That the engine had exploded and that the rest of you had been killed.”

  “He and Rossiter left us to drown, locked in the saloon,” Chavasse said. “The woman and the old man died trying to swim ashore.”

  Mercier looked genuinely shocked. “My God, they are animals, not men. Why, only the other week, monsieur, on the occasion I was speaking of earlier, we were sighted off the English coast by a British torpedo boat. We had only one passenger at the time—a special trip for some reason.” He turned to Darcy. “A West Indian like you, monsieur.”