The Man from the 'Turkish Slave'

by Victor Canning

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  hidden talent rediscovered

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  Contents

  Victor Canning

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Victor Canning

  The Man from the 'Turkish Slave'

  Victor Canning was primarily a writer of thrillers, and wrote his many books under the pseudonyms Julian Forest and Alan Gould. Among his immediate contemporaries were Eric Ambler, Alistair Maclean and Hammond Innes.

  Canning was a prolific writer throughout his career, which began young: he had sold several short stories by the age of nineteen and his first novel, Mr Finchley Discovers His England (1934) was published when he was twenty-three. Canning also wrote for children: his The Runaways trilogy was adapted for US children’s television.

  Canning’s later thrillers were darker and more complex than his earlier work and received great critical acclaim. The Rainbird Pattern was awarded the CWA Silver Dagger in 1973 and nominated for an Edgar award in 1974.

  In 1976 The Rainbird Pattern was transformed by Alfred Hitchcock into the comic film Family Plot, which was to be Hitchcock’s last film. Several of Canning’s other novels including The Golden Salamander (1949) were also made into films during Canning’s lifetime.

  Chapter One

  Peter Landers paused at the head of the broad steps. He stood there, absently strapping on the wrist-watch which had just been returned to him. His eyes went up to the sky, marking the small puffs of cloud racing before a strong southerly breeze. It was a fine, sparkling Spring morning, rich with sunshine. A morning, he thought, when a man ought to find it good to be alive; a morning when a man ought to be up-and-doing, a morning to make the spirit sing. But the morning did nothing for him.

  He came down the steps slowly, his hands in his pockets. He was a man of thirty-one, of middle height, well-built with a hard, muscular body. His navy-blue suit was shabby and creased, his shoes were worn, and he moved with a heavy carelessness. His face was tanned by the sun, the corners of the blue eyes netted with fine wrinkles which had come from his years at sea. It was a square, open face which normally would have been pleasant with a cheerful set to the lips; but now it was troubled, the face of a man who finds no comfort in his own thoughts.

  He had had plenty of time to think and to be alone with his thoughts. Behind him were seven days in gaol for committing a breach of the peace, seven days full of bitter reflection. In the last four years his temper had grown short and, after a few drinks, the bitterness inside him had made him quick to strike, eager even to seek a quarrel. But this was the first time he had been in gaol and he had had plenty of time to think about himself and to see himself clearly. It was an ugly, disturbing picture.

  Overhead a pack of gulls came flighting in from the Sound, heading for the uplands where the ploughs would be drawing rich, red furrows across the Devon soil. The breeze sweeping up the road was full of the smell of the sea. At the edge of the pavement, beyond the foot of the steps, the wind fretted at the young, green leaves of a laburnum tree. Parked under the tree was a black saloon car.

  Peter crossed to the car and got in. Marston, elderly, neat and a little fat, drove off without a word. Peter could see that he was angry. They went down into the centre of Plymouth, then up around the Citadel and out along the road that ran beneath the broad sweep of the Hoe. Marston pulled the car up short of the pier and they sat there with the waters of the Sound, running a little high with white caps from the breeze, open before them. Peter looked at the sea and, as always, it stirred affection in him. There it was clean and wide and vigorous … It made him feel shabby and dirty.

  Marston passed his cigarettes to him and said, ‘Maybe I should have paid your fine.’

  ‘You did well to save your money. A few nights in gaol was what I needed.’ Peter’s voice was harsh with self-contempt.

  The tone surprised Marston. In four years he had seen Peter go downhill, watched him turn into a man who gave no care to himself and resented advice.

  ‘You sound as though you might be coming to your senses.’

  ‘It’s a bit late for that.’ Peter ran a hand over his short brown hair. Four years too late, he thought. The damage was done. He turned to Marston, his lips set in a wry smile. ‘Don’t waste your time on me.’

  ‘I don’t intend to waste any time on you. I’ve wasted it before, but not any longer. I wouldn’t be here now if your father hadn’t been my friend.’

  ‘You’ve done enough. You’ve got me jobs and, one way and another, I’ve mucked them up. I’ve got into trouble and you’ve helped me out, and I’ve thanked you by going on just the same.’ Peter laughed dryly. ‘Just drop me off in the town and forget about me.’

  Marston was silent for a moment. Then he said quietly, ‘So you’ve seen yourself at last, eh? And you don’t like it.’

  ‘I know what I am, if that’s what you mean. A ship’s officer with a reputation… unreliable, a drinker with a damn bad temper—’

  ‘I didn’t mean that. I mean that you’re scared—’

  ‘Like hell I am!’ Peter turned angrily from Marston.

  ‘Oh, yes, you are,’ Marston insisted firmly. He put a hand on Peter’s shoulder and jerked him round so that they looked one another in the face. ‘You’re no fool and you’re not kidding me that you don’t care a damn what happens to you. This last week has given you time to think. That’s what I hoped for. You’ve had a glimpse of your future and you don’t like it. And you’ve no one to blame except yourself!’

  Peter made a move to turn away, to get out of the car, but Marston held him by the shoulder. ‘I’m not letting you go. You’re going to listen to me. Four years ago your wife went off with another man and took your child with her. After your divorce you began to drink. What for? To soak up your hurt pride?’

  Everything Marston said was true. Peter could admit that to himself now, but he was still far from being able to admit it to anyone else. To hear Marston state the truth so bluntly raised his temper. Of course he’d been a damn fool, but it was only now that he realised it. After the loss of his wife and child he had let himself go, begun to drink, lost his job as second officer with the Freestone Line, tossed away a fine career …

  ‘So you lost your wife. So it was a blow—but it happens to hundreds of people, and they don’t all take your way out. Are you surprised that the future doesn’t look good for you after the way you’ve carried on?’

  The cold metal of the door handle was in Peter’s hand. He had only to push it and step out, to be free of Marston. At any other time before this he would have gone, but to-day something stayed him. The thoughts of the last seven days had eaten into him.

  Marston guessed what was in his mind. He’d known Peter from a boy; childless himself, had taken a pride in him and�
�since the death of Peter’s father—had felt even more responsibility for this obstinate, easy-going Cornishman.

  ‘You get out of this car, Peter, and I’m finished with you.’ Marston’s voice was determined.

  Peter turned back and, for a moment, there was a hint of a smile about his lips. ‘I’m not getting out. But you’re wasting your time. You’ve done too much. You get me jobs and I muck ’em up … Something just gets into me.’

  The smile warmed Marston, took his anger away at once and stirred all his affection for Peter. He said gently, ‘I’ve got a job for you. The last one I get. Muck this one up and I’ll never do another thing for you.’

  ‘What is it?’ Peter asked. The kind of job open to him now gave no encouragement to his hopes or self-respect.

  ‘Third officer with the Turkish Slave. She gets in from Rotterdam to-day and pulls out for Brazil—Santos, I think—to-morrow. As a ship, she’s nothing. Panama registry, mixed cargo, dirty, undisciplined, and the pay’s not good.’

  Peter laughed. ‘Just my ticket, eh?’

  ‘Absolutely. An officer who’s a drifter, can bend an elbow with the best of them, somebody with an indifferent reputation … that’s what the Turkish Slave wants. Do you want it?’

  ‘You know I do. I have to eat, and jobs don’t come easily for me.’

  There was a note of dejection in Peter’s voice that stirred Marston. ‘Good. And now I’ll tell you something. There’s another side to this job … something that calls for a different man than the one you’ve been these last four years. This is just the right job for a man with a fine naval record, a steady, reliable man who can face a risk with anyone. The kind of man Sir Andrew Freestone likes aboard his ships.’

  Peter sat there silent for a while. Long ago he had given up all hope of returning to his old line, or getting a job with any decent company. He looked out over the grey rocks, across the sweep of green and blue sea to the faint line of the horizon.

  ‘What’s behind all this?’ he asked.

  ‘A great deal for you—if you make a go of it. Rogers will tell you about it.’

  ‘Rogers?’

  ‘He’s staying at the Lockyer Hotel. I was at school with him. He’s an investigator employed by a big group of insurance companies.’ Marston paused then, as he reached for the engine switch, went on, ‘Peter, it’s a good man who doesn’t make a few mistakes in this life, and not everyone gets a chance to wipe them out. I’ve had a tough time with Roger and Sir Andrew over this. There were other people they could have used. I don’t want to go to the Lockyer Hotel unless you’re going to pull your weight.’

  Peter tossed his cigarette out of the window. ‘Let’s get down to the hotel right away.’ The morning which had seemed to offer nothing as he had come out into the sunshine was now full of promise.

  Mr. Rogers was a tall, clumsily-built man with a large white face that was like the side of a chalk cliff. Until he spoke he looked awkward and uncertain, but his voice was heavy, deliberate and almost menacingly precise. For some time they sat in his room and talked generally, but Peter was aware that he was being watched and studied. It was not a feeling he liked and he was glad when Rogers eventually turned to him and said ponderously, ‘In the last three years, Mr. Landers, there have been many big jewel robberies in England and on the Continent which have cost the companies for which I work something over half a million pounds. Many prominent people have been robbed and no trace of the jewels has ever been found. They are not handled through the ordinary channels. We are convinced that the jewels are shipped across to South America, broken up there and re-sold. The Turkish Slave is one of the ships used. You have, I imagine, Mr. Landers, the normal man’s regard for the safety of his own skin?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Well, on this job, cultivate an abnormal regard. Some months ago we put an officer aboard the Slave and he was lost, drowned at sea. We have lost other men from other ships. Heroics are of no help to us at all. We don’t want the small fry, the masters of ships. We want to catch the big boys, and to discover how the whole organisation works. You need do no more than keep your eyes and ears open and avoid arousing suspicion. When you get to Santos—if you have any information—telephone our man in Sao Paulo.’ He handed a piece of paper across to Peter. ‘Memorise the name and number. I should mention that if you find out anything of real importance there is a substantial reward attached to this commission. Does that interest you?’

  Peter stirred and the edge of a smile moved around his lips. ‘I have the normal man’s regard for money, Mr. Rogers.’

  ‘Good. You might like to know, too, that Sir Andrew Freestone has the same feeling about money. He is a big stockholder in one of our principal companies. He can be a very grateful man.’

  Marston stood up. ‘Very grateful. Don’t ask me how I did it, Peter, but he’s promised you a job with the Freestone Line if you make a success of this. It’s your chance.’

  Peter rose. He could not say anything, but he knew that Marston would realise how he felt. Within him already was a new confidence, a new vigour and determination as he thought of the chance of getting back into a job in which he could take pride … of the chance of regaining his self-respect.

  The Turkish Slave was dirty, undisciplined and, Peter suspected, only just sea-worthy. The captain was French, the first mate a Dutchman, and the gin and schnapps bottles were brought out early in the day. There was an irony about his position now which amused Peter. Before this he would have taken his drink with the rest of the officers and enjoyed it. Now he found that he had little desire for it and had to take it to keep up his part. It should have been easy to play the part demanded of him—after all that was the kind of man he was— but now it had suddenly become a series of deliberate actions which, no matter how natural he made them seem to others, he had to school himself to perform.

  The Slave went down to Lisbon, then further south to Lagos and finally headed out across the Atlantic for Santos. Peter, after a few days, was accepted without reserve by the officers. He drank with them, went on shore leave with them and made himself one of them. Before, he would have enjoyed it all in a wild, uncaring way, forgetting so many things of the past in their company and the ease of a shore spree. But now there was a purpose with him, the knowledge that this was his chance to get back, the break he had always secretly wanted and which now he was determined not to lose.

  He kept his eyes and ears open; he tipped his gin away secretly when he got a chance, and never once did he see or hear anything to arouse his suspicions. The Turkish Slave seemed just a dirty, general cargo boat, and her officers and crew just the rough and tumble mixture he would have expected on such a ship.

  They had bad weather until they were three days out of Santos. On the evening of the first fine day the captain announced that it was his birthday and gave a party in his cabin. There was a great deal of drink and horse-play.

  Peter took two drinks and was sipping his third, waiting for a chance to tip it away, when the cabin started to lurch and sway. He saw the faces of the other officers spin round him in the smoke-filled atmosphere and, as he grabbed for the table, he guessed what had happened. His drink had been tampered with.

  He felt himself lifted by the armpits and was hauled away to his bunk. Sometime later he came round, his head spinning, his body hot and feverish in the stuffy cabin. Stupid with drugged drink still, he groped his way out and along the forward deck to find a spot to sleep in the cool. Even in his dazed condition he had a nagging conviction that he ought not to sleep, that there was something for him to do, but he could not fight against the blackness which was invading his mind. He slumped back against the deck and slept.

  It was the ship’s tom-cat that woke him three hours later. Ears cropped from a hundred dock fights, its scarred pelt stiff with salt, it came across the forward deck with deliberate, muscular steps, swaying slightly to the ship’s movement. It thrust its face against his neck with pugnacious affection. He pushed it awa
y, half-asleep still. It came back and sat on his chest, purring loudly.

  He woke and saw its yellow eyes, full of ruffianly contempt.

  Beyond the cat was the white, rust-patched run of the deckhouse and, above that, the close-fitting dark serge of the night sky.

  He pushed the cat away again and it went, taking with it what remained of his sleep. He lay there, his head throbbing. He ran his hands through his hair and stared up at the night sky, his face touched with a grimace of self-disgust as he rolled his dry tongue around his mouth. Somewhere aft a door opened for a moment and a thin complaint of radio music escaped into the hot night. He felt ill and bemused.

  Rising to his feet with elaborate caution, he felt in the pocket of his shirt for a cigarette and found only an empty packet. Very gently he moved around the starboard side of the deckhouse and the dark world took uncertain shape under the faint glow from the bridge.

  Beyond the deckhouse was a roped-off gap in the rail where a storm two days before, had carried away a section. Standing by the gap were the captain, the first mate and a seaman. As he approached, silent in his rubber-soled shoes, he saw the captain hold out a bulky parcel and drop it overboard. A dog yapped excitedly. Below the rail he heard a voice curse angrily. The dog was silent. He went to the side and looked over.

  Below, dimly seen in the gloom, was a long, sturdy-looking fishing boat. The sail was dropped in a loose heap of canvas across the deck. Its motor was running gently and it was close alongside, keeping pace with the ship. On its deck the dark shapes of three or four men moved. A small shaft of light escaped from an after hatch making a pool of reflections over wet fish scales where the catch lay in an open well forward of the tiller. The dog barked again. He saw it run along the edge of the well and stand at the open hatch, a small white terrier mongrel with a fluffy, corkscrew tail and a black patch over one eye. The whole scene was blurred by the darkness and his own spinning senses.