by John Kerr
Charles Hubbard, a retired, silver-haired Englishman with a home on Cable Beach who was Mrs Henneage’s companion for the evening, smiled pleasantly and said, ‘Well, Dulci, my dear, we’d best be on our way.’
‘Need a lift?’ asked Sir Harry.
‘No, thank you,’ said Mrs Henneage as she totted up the score. ‘Charles is driving me home,’ she added, intending to dispel any impression of a romantic liaison.
‘Blasted rationing,’ grumbled the Englishman. ‘I’ve got just enough petrol to get me to town and back.’
After seeing his guests to the door, Oakes turned to his old friend and said, ‘What do you say, Harold? How about a nightcap?’
Christie hesitated, listening for the sound of human activity in the mansion. ‘Sure,’ he said after a moment. ‘And if it’s OK, I was planning to spend the night….’
‘Why not?’ said Oakes, feeling his anxiety beginning to subside. ‘I insist.’
As Oakes was finishing his drink, the clock over the mantel in the spacious study chimed a quarter past the hour. ‘That’s it for me, Harold,’ said Oakes. ‘I’m turning in.’
‘Go right ahead,’ said Christie. ‘I think I’ll read for awhile.’ Both men looked up as a faint flash of lightning illuminated the curtained window, followed by an answering rumble of far-off thunder. ‘Storm’s on the way,’ said Christie, in reply to which Oakes merely grunted.
‘Night,’ said Oakes with a yawn.
‘Night, Harry.’ Christie watched as Oakes walked slowly from the room.
One after another, the downstairs lights blinked off, leaving only a solitary lamp in the study and the lights in an upstairs bedroom. The quarter moon had risen, only to be swallowed up by a swiftly advancing line of menacing clouds, leaving the grounds surrounding the mansion in utter darkness. Concealed behind a thick tree trunk at the verge of the lawn, a dark figure carefully watched as Oakes trod up the open staircase to the master bedroom. The still, oppressive air was disturbed by a distant boom, and flashes of lightning blossomed in the dark clouds. After another ten minutes, the light in the study winked out, and moments later Harold Christie appeared on the stairs and upstairs gallery before entering the bedroom adjoining the darkened master suite.
With a cool breeze stirring the treetops, the black-clad figure moved swiftly across the lawn and disappeared beneath the staircase. Thirty minutes after the guest bedroom window went dark, the figure silently crept up the stairs and, as the tropical rain began to pour, moved furtively along the gallery, stopping at the door to the master suite. The doorknob turned silently, without resistance. The intruder stepped noiselessly across the threshold, holding a length of pipe and a tin of kerosene, and paused to study the dim outline of the bed, draped in mosquito netting, and listen to Oakes’s laboured breathing. Moving quickly to the bedside, the intruder gently placed the kerosene on the carpet, drew back the mosquito netting and, with a grim smile, slowly raised the pipe and then delivered a crushing blow to the old man’s skull, like a hatchet on a stick of firewood. Uttering a deep groan, Oakes somehow managed to sit up, clasping his hands to his bloodied face. A second blow, with a two-handed grip, brought him down again, silencing his groans. As a flash of lightning briefly illuminated the scene, the assailant grabbed the kerosene and doused the body and blood-soaked bedcovers, setting them ablaze with a single match. As macabre shadow-men danced on the walls, the figure backed away from the flames, taking a Chinese screen that stood next to the bed and placing it against the window. Pouring out the remaining kerosene, the killer struck a second match and tossed it on the floor.
As rain poured down in sheets and wind swayed the trees, a second figure crouched behind a tree, maintaining a solitary vigil. When bright light suddenly flashed in an upstairs window, the observer dropped to one knee, fascinated as an eerie, orange glow flickered in the window and then was abruptly blotted out. In the next instant, the door flew open, momentarily revealing the flames blazing inside. In the darkness and pouring rain, a figure could be seen dashing from the burning room before disappearing in the shadows. And then, in an arc of silvery lightning, the pale face and dark hair of a fleeing form were etched for a moment on the lawn, racing away from the mansion into the stormy night.
In her haste to make up time, Evelyn jammed down on the accelerator, glancing at the speedometer in the faint light of the dashboard. She entered the curve going much too fast, struggling to maintain control as the rear end of the car drifted onto the gravel shoulder. She eased off the accelerator and slowly exhaled, willing herself to be calm as she listened to the slap of the wiper blades. In a few more minutes she would be there. With the storm and petrol rationing, the town was empty. She parked at the end of the street and switched off the ignition. Two men appeared in the headlamps: one wearing a hat and long coat, the other in a uniform holding open an umbrella. Evelyn reached for her purse and let herself out.
‘You’re late,’ said Nils Ericsson in the dripping rain.
‘Yes,’ said Evelyn, trying to calm her racing heart. ‘I, ah, got caught up …’ She froze as a bolt of lightning struck a utility pole, followed by an earth-jarring crash.
‘It’s past ten,’ said Ericsson, glaring at her. ‘But let’s go onboard before we’re electrocuted.’ The uniformed man ushered her down to the dockside where Ericsson’s forty-foot motor launch was waiting. Another uniformed man, a carbine slung over his shoulder, came to rigid attention as Ericsson stepped across the gangway. Evelyn could see two more men bending over a chart-table inside the cabin. The guard helped her across the gangway to the deck. As she alighted she turned to Ericsson.
‘Can we still go,’ she asked, ‘in this weather?’
‘Of course,’ he replied, ‘though I assure you the seas will be rough.’
Evelyn walked past him into the brightly illuminated cabin, panelled in gleaming walnut with polished brass fittings. Following behind, Ericsson barked a command in Swedish to the men by the table and then turned to Evelyn.
‘Look at you,’ he said, examining her drenched coat and tangled locks. ‘You’re soaked through.’
‘Yes, well … I was having trouble with Father’s car, and the rain began pouring.’
‘I see,’ said Ericsson with a frown. ‘Let’s get underway,’ he said to the captain. Quickly saluting, the officer called out commands to the deckhands. A shudder passed through the boat as the powerful engine came to life.
‘I suggest we go below,’ said Ericsson, shrugging off his raincoat. Evelyn made her way down a steep, narrow staircase into a small but elegant salon furnished with a sofa and armchairs. A well-stocked bar was built into the bulkhead. As Ericsson appeared behind her, she removed her rain-soaked hat and shook out her hair.
‘Let me get you a towel,’ said Ericsson, as he helped her out of her coat. ‘And something to drink.’ Evelyn planted her feet apart to compensate for the rocking motion as the boat gathered speed. ‘What will you have?’ asked Ericsson, when he returned with the towel. She gratefully dried her face and patted her damp hair. The boat lurched violently and seemed to buck, causing Evelyn to stumble sideways, though Ericsson remained stolidly in place. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said with a smile. ‘The sea will smooth out.’
Feeling a bit queasy, Evelyn said, ‘I’ll have a whisky and soda.’
As he turned to pour the drinks, she peered out of a porthole into the blackness, listening to the vibration of the powerful engine and the pounding waves. ‘There you are,’ said Ericsson, handing her a crystal tumbler.
Accepting the drink, Evelyn sat in an armchair, aware that the boat was moving very swiftly, easing the pitching and rolling. Ericsson, standing with one hand on the sofa, raised his glass and said, ‘Skaal.’
Evelyn took a sip, which seemed to calm her nerves. ‘How fast,’ she asked, ‘is this boat?’
‘Sixty knots, seventy perhaps. But not on a night like this.’ His sentence was punctuated by a flash outside the portholes and a clap of thunder. ‘I should imagine,
’ he continued calmly, ‘the captain is making fifty knots. You see, Evelyn, this boat was built by a highly successful rum-runner from Miami. Fastest in the Caribbean.’ Sitting comfortably on the arm of the sofa despite another violent lurch, Ericsson sipped his vodka. ‘The poor fellow lost everything with the end of Prohibition, and I picked up the boat for a song. Well, not quite a song.’
Hoping to draw him out, Evelyn feigned interest in the particulars of the vessel. Like most yachting enthusiasts, Ericsson never tired of the subject, and happily obliged her with a detailed description. After more than an hour had passed, Evelyn yawned and said, ‘I assume you have accommodations for your men?’
‘For the Germans, you mean?’ he asked, as he walked over to pour another drink. ‘My crew are all Swedes and have their own berths.’
‘Yes, for the Germans,’ said Evelyn as casually as possible.
Ericsson smiled and said, ‘We’ve converted the cargo area – where the rum was hidden – into rather cramped sleeping quarters.’ Evelyn merely nodded and sipped her drink. ‘I assume Hamilton will be alone?’ asked Ericsson.
‘Oh, yes,’ replied Evelyn, ‘though it’s possible Sir Philip’s servant may be with him.’
‘Hah,’ said Ericsson derisively. ‘I assure you they’re no match for my men, and we’ll have the advantage of surprise.’
‘I see,’ said Evelyn quietly. She tried to imagine the café where Tom would be waiting and the trap he was preparing. She intuitively believed that Tom would succeed, that within a few short hours the nightmare would be over.
Ericsson walked around the sofa and stopped to fix Evelyn in his pale-blue eyes. ‘Can you imagine Hamilton’s surprise,’ he asked, ‘when I explain that you’re working for our side? That all along you’ve been helping the Germans?’
Staring back at him, she could feel her heart pounding, and her mouth was almost too dry to speak. In her desperation, she had failed to consider what Ericsson might say to Tom. If Tom were planning to kill him, it wouldn’t matter … but he’d distinctly told her they were going to take him alive. And so now, after all that she’d risked, in the end Tom would know.
Ericsson gave her a curious look. ‘Evelyn,’ he said, ‘… is something the matter?’
Pressing her lips tightly together, she slowly exhaled and said, ‘Perhaps I’m a bit seasick.’
‘Pardon me, sir.’
Both turned to the first officer. ‘We’re within sight of the lighthouse,’ he reported. ‘I suggest you come on deck to observe our approach, as conditions are quite marginal.’
‘I’ll be right up,’ said Ericsson, placing his glass on the table. ‘Evelyn, I want you to stay below.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
THE POWERFUL STORM raced across the narrow coral island, leaving the settlement of Hope Town in blackness, with lingering flashes of lightning, and awash in churning rivulets. Seated at a table in the small café, Hamilton listened to the rain on the corrugated roof as he sipped black coffee. Ten minutes earlier Carter had reported from his lookout that a large powerboat was docking at the marina. Hamilton glanced at his reflection in the window in the glare of the overhead light and checked the time on the clock. Ten till one. As the minutes slowly passed, his mind was beginning to play games – imagined voices in the back room amid the sounds of the storm, visions of men moving along the street in the darkness. Hamilton laid his palms flat on the table, straining to detect the slightest sound above the steady drumbeat of the rain.
Ericsson had chosen a team of three of his best men, with a fourth left behind to guard Evelyn. He’d considered sending her alone to the café, with his men following behind, but rejected the scheme as too risky, as Hamilton might try to use her as a hostage. She was better off out of the way, to be used as a bargaining chip if the situation required it. He observed the efficiency with which the Germans blackened their faces and donned their gear: black sweaters, pants and boots, knives strapped to the ankles, and pistol-grip Schmeisser sub-machine-guns slung over their shoulders. With the advantage of surprise, the raid should be over within seconds. Nor would they have any difficulty locating him, as the lights burning in the café above the waterfront were visible even in the pouring rain. Before heading out, Ericsson took a few steps down the staircase, pleased that Evelyn was comfortably on the sofa where he’d left her.
‘We’re off for your friend,’ he said with a smile. ‘It appears that he’s waiting up for you.’
Evelyn nodded, clutching the derringer concealed under her purse. ‘How long will you be?’ she asked, willing him to descend the rest of the way.
‘Thirty minutes, I should think.’ With his hand on the railing, Ericsson took another step.
‘Where are the crew?’ she asked, stalling for time, her finger on the trigger-guard.
‘I’ve sent them out to check on the storm. But don’t worry, I’m leaving Heinrich to look after you.’ A tall man in a khaki uniform with a peaked cap appeared on the stairs behind Ericsson and descended quickly into the salon, his hand on the grip of a sub-machine-gun. ‘Goodbye,’ said Ericsson as he started up the stairs. ‘I shall return shortly.’ Biting her lip, she relaxed her grip on the pistol and watched him disappear into the wheelhouse.
Slipping on his coat and hat, Ericsson hurried onto the deck where the commandos were waiting. With a glance at the sky, he turned to the leader and said, ‘Everything’s ready?’ When the man nodded, Ericsson said, ‘All right. You know what to do.’ They crossed the lurching gangway and headed for the humble collection of buildings ringing the waterfront. When they reached the first building, the point man turned and said, ‘I’ll reconnoitre. Stay here with the others.’
Within minutes he returned, darting around the building where the others were sheltering under the eaves. ‘Well?’ asked Ericsson impatiently. ‘Is he there?’
‘Yes,’ replied the man in a whisper. ‘I could see him in the window. And he’s alone.’
‘What about the back of the café?’
‘All quiet. The only light is in the front room.’
‘Excellent. You know the plan.’ The men nodded and moved out in a crouch.
Hamilton glanced at the clock as the minute hand clicked. Instinct told him that the action would begin within minutes, in all likelihood an assault through the unlocked front door. He reached for the cigarettes on the table and extracted one, briefly examining it before placing it between his lips and picking up a nickel-plated lighter. He started at a brilliant arc of lightning that coincided with a deafening crash, plunging the room into darkness. Damn, he silently cursed. A power outage, the one thing he hadn’t planned for.
‘Tom,’ whispered Carter from behind the counter. ‘Light this.’ He tossed a candle in the dark, which luckily landed at Hamilton’s feet.
Crouching along the side of a building, Ericsson and his men froze at the errant lightning strike. Staring ahead into the next block, they perceived that the light in the window had been suddenly extinguished. Each of the low buildings looked just like the others in the darkness and steady rain. ‘What now?’ asked the leader.
‘We wait,’ whispered Ericsson, ‘to see if another light comes on.’
Hamilton reached for the candle, feeling oddly relieved, no longer a sitting duck under the bright light. Though his plan assumed Ericsson’s men would storm the building, there was always the chance he’d make an easy target for a sniper. He flicked the lighter and held the flame to the candle’s wick. Propped in the coffee mug, it cast a flickering light across the room. They would know where to find him, but he would have the advantage of the dim and irregular illumination.
‘Just as I predicted,’ Ericsson said confidently when the flickering light appeared in the window. The commandos moved quickly toward their target, in single file in a low crouch with hands on the grips of their Schmeissers.
Evelyn sat facing her guard with her hands on the purse in her lap. As her fingers traced the outline of the tiny pistol she bitterly considered that she
’d forfeited her one chance. Either way now, if Tom succeeded in capturing Ericsson, or the other way round … she was doomed. Her only hope to avoid exposure had been to shoot Ericsson before he left the boat.
‘Pretty,’ said the guard unexpectedly.
‘What?’ said Evelyn, raising her baleful eyes.
‘Pretty,’ he repeated with a smile, motioning toward her with the barrel of his gun. ‘Niedliche mädel.’
Averting her eyes from his gaze, she realized in an instant what she had to do, an absolute imperative arrived at without rational deliberation. Looking back up at the man, she smiled suggestively, which evoked an expression of pleasurable surprise. He took a step closer, allowing the gun to hang from its strap, removed his cap and smoothed his short, blond hair. Opening her purse, Evelyn reached for her lipstick. Holding the man in her eyes, she took off the cap and made an elaborate display of applying it. As she pressed her moist, red lips together, she slowly eased her hand under her purse. She smiled at the guard, who was watching her with an amused expression, his weapon pointing uselessly to the side. Holding the man in her gaze, she suddenly raised the derringer and jerked the trigger. With the sharp report, the man toppled backward, a strangled cry in his throat, as a puff of smoke curled from the squat barrel. Evelyn sprang to her feet and examined his motionless body. With lifeless eyes staring up at her, a crimson stain slowly spread across his khaki shirt. With her heart pounding, she seized her purse and coat and bounded up the stairs, praying that the sound of the pistol had been muffled by the downpour. A glance confirmed she was alone. Pulling on her coat, she hurried onto the deck and across the gangway. She looked into the town and then at the bright beacon of the lighthouse, flashing out to sea through the rain.
Bathed in the flickering candlelight, Hamilton placed the cigarette between his lips, holding the lighter in his right hand and listening for the slightest sound. Vaguely perceiving motion outside the door, he flicked the lighter and lit the cigarette. In the same instant the door flew open and three black-clad figures burst inside, training their guns in all directions.
