Redcap

by Philip McCutchan

  The next thing was transport.

  Making for the pool of stagnant, dirty water which gave Solli its only apparent reason for being, in the faint hope that he might find a camel which somebody hadn’t waited to mount, Shaw’s eye was caught by the glitter of the moon on metalwork in the open doorway of a lean-to shed inside a courtyard. He stopped, stared, pulled himself over the low wall and went inside.

  Of all things, it was a motor-cycle.

  Progress—and Shaw found time to thank God for it—had come to the oasis of Solli. Probably it belonged to some young spark who wasn’t at home and the elders, in their panic, hadn’t been able to work the thing. Unless it was out of juice. Shaking with excitement, Shaw opened the tank, thrust in a handy stick. It was about a quarter full. The canal was . . . how far? Those men had said Solli was between Zagazig and Ismailia, and Shaw knew that those two places were about fifty miles apart, maybe a little less. And Ismailia was on Lake Timsah, hard by the canal itself. So at the outside the canal couldn’t be more than fifty miles away and was almost certainly a lot less. If he could hit the road running alongside the canal, he could run quickly down into Suez—-if the petrol lasted that far—and hope to pick up the liner there, for surely she would have waited a while for him before giving up hope.

  Shaw grasped the machine, wheeled it out into the rutted street, got astride and kicked the starter. After two false starts, it roared into noisy, exultant life. That wonderful sound gave him back all the heart he needed.

  He raced the machine flat out, roared away from Solli on the road to the north along which they had come earlier. He hoped to find a road crossing it, a road leading into Ismailia. As he passed the Tower of Silence he looked towards the death cart with its load beneath the moon. The vultures were starting in already, not waiting for the tower this time.

  Shaw smiled to himself. Somehow, he felt, he must have shaken their faith in human nature.

  He kept up his speed and sent the motor-cycle flying in a storm of sand and dust along the road, a sweaty, dirt-streaked figure bent low over the handlebars, a grotesque sight in his shroud as the garment billowed out behind him in the wind made by his passing. Some distance along he hit the hoped-for roadway leading off to the right, and he turned along it, trusting that it was the one which would take him into Ismailia. Luck was with him, for he had struck the road from Bargum, and it wasn’t long after that that he saw the waterway ahead, saw the lighted superstructures of ships passing along. It was a north-bound convoy in transit, just entering the northern sector of the canal as it came out from Lake Timsah. There was no sign of any shipping bound south, but then the next convoy from Port Said would not leave until midnight. There was still a chance of catching the liner.

  Shaw ditched the motorcycle just before he hit the canal road a little to the north of Ismailia. There was in fact little petrol left in the tank now, and the best thing would be to try to jump a lorry—he could get away with that all right in the darkness and with his knowledge of the language.

  He was walking along the roadway, making for the town, when he saw a car coming up in a cloud of dust from the direction of Suez. He saw it clearly, because the headlights of a car coming from the opposite direction were playing on to it. He gave it little more than a casual glance, intending to keep out of its way more than anything else . . . until he saw its number-plate.

  He recognized it as bearing an American registration. Very likely that car belonged to a Canal Authority’s pilot.

  Shaw stepped into the road, waving frantically.

  The car swerved and the driver put his hand on the siren and kept it there. Shaw moved across, planted himself firmly in the car’s path. It pulled up, the driver leaned out. He cursed at Shaw. He was a burly, red-faced man bearing the stamp of the sailor and Shaw felt that his guess had been the right one. Besides, the oaths were unmistakably American. Shaw held up his hand and grinned. He said,

  “Sorry. I only wanted to ask you something.”

  The driver gaped at him. “What in hell’s name are you?” he asked incredulously.

  “British subject,” Shaw told him briefly. “Name’s Shaw, Commander Shaw of the British Navy.” He looked down at his shroud. “This rig’s against me, I know, but I can’t go into details . . . I’d like to know if the New South Wales is still in the canal.”

  “She’s not. She’s gone through.”

  Shaw’s heart sank. “Has she cleared Suez Roads?”

  “Uh-huh. She was in the last southbound convoy, next ahead of the ship I was taking through.” The pilot peered closer at Shaw. He demanded, “Say, what is all this, huh?”

  “We’ll skip that, if you don’t mind.” Shaw thought fast. “Will you take my word for it that it’s desperately important I get to a British Consul as fast as possible? It’s a matter of international importance.” He looked direct at the man in the car, conscious of his unprepossessing appearance as the shroud flapped about him in a light breeze, of his face, bruised and swollen from the blows given him by the police in Solli. He asked, “Can I get in? I suppose you’re going to Port Said?”

  The American gave him a long look, nodded, jerked the door open. “Get in,” he said briefly. “I’m going right through.”

  “Thanks.” Shaw climbed in. As the driver started up he looked sideways at Shaw.

  He said, “You’re the guy the New South Wales left behind, aren’t you?”

  “You’ve heard about that?”

  “Sure I’ve heard about that!” The voice was very unfriendly. “You realize she missed a convoy all because of you? We heard you were dead.” He breathed heavily. “Some people . . . bloody thoughtlessness! I don’t know what you’ve been up to, but I’ve a darn good mind to hand you over to the local authorities just the same.”

  “On the face of it,” Shaw said quietly, “I don’t think I’d blame you if you did try doing just that. But I’ll guarantee you wouldn’t succeed, chum!” He raised his voice as the pilot interrupted. “Just a moment . . . ever been in command of your own ship?”

  “Uh-huh. Five years. And I wouldn’t have missed a convoy for a bloody passenger, not on your life I wouldn’t!”

  “Exactly. And neither would the Master of the New South Wales.”

  “Come again? I don’t get you.”

  “Don’t you?” Shaw murmured. “What I’m trying to say is, that the Captain wouldn’t have waited unless he had some good reason—unless it was important that I should get aboard. He wouldn’t have waited for—well, just for any passenger. Now d’you see?”

  There was a pause; then the pilot said slowly, “Okay, I get you. Or do I? Sorry. Could be that you’ve been having a rough time, I guess, huh?” He glanced at Shaw. “Or would you rather say no more about it?”

  "I would. And thanks.” Shaw sat back in relief, pulled his shroud round his body. The night air was chilly, but it wasn’t as chilly, as terrible, as it had been at the top of that tower. Shaw could still feel his flesh crawling at the thought of that, could still feel the pain of the open beak-wounds too. They drove on fast, without saying much, and they were soon into the outskirts of Port Said and then it was not long before they pulled up at the offices of the British Consul. Shaw thanked the pilot, who drove away, and then he went inside and found an Egyptian clerk.

  The clerk tried to eject the weird, filthy figure who kept insisting he was Commander Shaw, Commander Shaw whom the clerk knew to be dead. The Consul, he said, was not in the office at this hour. Shaw snapped, “Then find him, and find him fast. I’ll wait.” Angrily he sat on a chair in the waiting-room. The clerk dithered. Shaw said threateningly, “If you don’t so something quick, I’ll personally see that you’re kicked out of the Consulate for good.”

  The young man looked at him sharply, carefully, then shrugged his thin shoulders and sighed. The man spoke perfect English and he carried an air of authority . . . but how could a dead man . . . he shrugged again. Stranger things had happened in the Consulate before now. He picked up a
telephone, spoke into it volubly.

  Half an hour later the Consul arrived, glanced at Shaw, went into a huddle with the clerk in his private office and then Shaw was brought in and the clerk disappeared.

  The Consul, who was a short, pleasant man with a ready smile, asked, “Have you any means of identification, of proving what you say?”

  “None. Why don’t you contact the Ambassador in Cairo? I’ve an idea he’ll know all about me.”

  The official gave him a keen look. He murmured, “If you are Shaw, we’re not exactly in total ignorance about you here, old man. You’d better tell me everything in detail.” After Shaw had gone through everything that had happened since he’d come ashore from the liner, the Consul asked him a number of pertinent questions about the ship and he appeared satisfied with the answers. He said, “All right, Shaw. I believe you. As it happens, I’ve already been in touch with the Cairo Embassy about you and I understand they’ve had word from some V.I.P. in London. They were extremely worried about your ‘death,’ I might add!” He smiled. “Come to that, so was I. Just give me time to make some arrangements, and then I hope we can put you on your way by air.” He added, “It’ll have to be a bit of a wangle. I don’t say you’ve necessarily broken any of the local laws by coming back to life—but you’re a trifle unpopular with the authorities, or you would be if it was known you were alive.”

  The Consul made several telephone calls, and while he was doing this he turned Shaw over to the clerk and told the latter to see to it that the Commander had a wash and a meal and some decent clothing, also some attention for his injuries. And within a couple of hours a refreshed and reinvigorated Shaw was sent for again and told that a car was waiting to rush him to Cairo and he’d better hurry. Just before he was smuggled into the car, the Consul had a word with him and told him that efforts would be made to find out the political affiliations of the policemen who had taken him off, and of the local agents of Ycecold Refrigeration, but held out little hope that anything would in fact be achieved. Then, a minute later, the car was speeding out for Cairo and the British Embassy. Shaw took this opportunity to have a nap in the car: on arrival in Cairo he was taken to the Ambassador himself, to whom he made a full report of proceedings for transmission to Latymer in London. The Naval Attache fixed him up with a new revolver, and soon he was rushed in another closed car to the airport; within ten minutes of his arrival there he was airborne, heading out for Aden; and a signal had gone out to the Master of the New South Wales informing him of Shaw’s re-appearance.

  Judith was tremendously happy and relieved when Sir Donald gave her the news, and when Shaw rejoined the liner she was waiting at the head of the accommodation-ladder as his boat from Steamer Point came alongside. For his part he was vastly relieved to find her safe and sound, and to hear that nothing had happened during his absence. After a word with the girl, he spoke to the senior man of the MAPIACCIND guard who told him all was well with REDCAP.

  A few minutes later he was reporting to the Captain.

  He told Sir Donald the whole story. He said, “I’m sure Andersson gave those louts the tip—told them to start the fun. I think we ought to have an unofficial copy of any cables he sends or receives from now on, sir. Can that be done?”

  Sir Donald nodded. “I’ll see to it if you want me to. But if he’s a wrong ’un they’ll be in some sort of code, of course.”

  “Yes, but it might help.” Shaw leaned forward. “Look, sir. You say if he’s a wrong ’un. He’s no more a refrigerator salesman than I am! There can’t be any more doubt about him now.”

  The Captain rubbed his chin thoughtfully, sighed. “Possibly, but it doesn’t help much. There’s still nothing conclusive to go on.”

  Shaw said savagely, “No, and I’m trying very, very hard to make myself see that we’ll get further in the end by giving him all the rope he wants now. All the same, I’d dearly love to take a swipe at him. And then put him under arrest and land him here in Aden, whatever my chief says. My God, sir—when I think about that filthy tower, and what may be in that man’s mind. . .

  “What about the ship—what about the chances of some sort of explosion aboard, Shaw? Isn’t it time we had a search made, now so much more has happened?”

  “No, sir, not in my opinion. Give me a little more time yet. I don’t believe that will happen now—I reckon they’ve got a better use for REDCAP than just blowing it up.” He lit a cigarette. “It won’t happen while Karstad—Andersson’s— aboard anyway. He’s not immortal.”

  “Suppose he goes ashore in Colombo? We’ll be in there all day, you know.”

  “Well, sir, if he does, we can always think again. Most of the passengers’ll go ashore, I take it, and that’ll make it easier for the crew to search the ship quickly if necessary. If he has planted anything, he’ll have allowed himself plenty of time to get well clear of an atomic blast from your reactor, sir!” Shortly after, the liner left Aden and that night Shaw was having a quiet drink by himself in the tavern when Anders-son approached, immaculate as ever in cream sharkskin, seemingly cool despite the close, crushing heat. Shaw, looking up, met his eye.

  Andersson smiled genially. He asked, “Do you mind if I join you, Commander?”

  “Do.”

  Andersson eased his heavy body into a chair, snapped his fingers at a steward, called for a whisky and soda. Then he asked, “A few little—ah—adventures in Port Said, no doubt?”

  Shaw said coolly, “Yes. A few little adventures.”

  The man gave a guttural, coarse laugh. He said, “Ah, my friend, I understand! I myself was young once.” His drink came then and he took a gulp, wiped his lips and his forehead with a silk handkerchief. He asked, “And the young lady, Miss . . . Dangan?”

  Shaw’s hand jerked a little as he heard the significant hesitation. He said sharply, “What d’you mean?”

  Andersson sniggered, making a lewd, suggestive sound of it. “She did not object?”

  “Object?” Shaw’s face hardened. “I don’t understand, I’m afraid. What’s it got to do with you anyway, Mr Andersson?”

  Andersson stared out across the lighted decks, into the darkness of the sea swishing faintly past below. He said, “Oh . . . nothing, nothing. Forgive me.” Then he turned his head, and the penetrating eyes held Shaw’s as he went on in a soft, enfolding tone: “There are things, are there not, which it is better not to pry into. There can be danger in so doing, is that not so?”

  “I don’t think I quite follow.”

  “No?” Andersson leaned close and Shaw smelt stale cigar smoke. “Then let us make a hypothesis, Commander. Things have happened aboard this ship . . . poor Gresham’s death, your—ah-—little misadventure in Port Said.” He held up his glass, looked quizzically through it to the lights beyond. “I am a man of the world, Commander. And it seems to me that perhaps—some one—is sticking out his neck a little far, and that this is irritating to another party. Now then. Let us suppose further—suppose that the sticker out of necks has a lady friend ... let us, for simplicity’s sake, call her Miss Dangan. That name is as good as any other, is it not? Now it could be that the third party, this angry one, while having of course no personal interest in Miss Dangan, might be tempted to bring harm to her unless the first man began to mind his own business. In which case, whatever might happen to the young lady would be the fault of this sticker out of necks. Q.E.D.l” Andersson smiled. “However, enough of such supposings! I wished merely to say how very sorry I was to hear of your troubles in Port Said—and to express the hope that such need not occur again. Also to say that possibly you are fond of the young girl.” Taking up his glass, he finished the whisky and soda and got to his feet. He said, “This hypothetical third party of ours, the angry one. There would be nothing which could be done about him.”

  “He could always be arrested, Mr Andersson.”

  “No doubt, Commander Shaw. But think how stupid that would be.”

  “Why?”

  “Work it out for yours
elf, my dear fellow! And in case you should be tempted to jump to certain conclusions, I had perhaps better tell you that I, Sigurd Andersson, am an unofficial agent of the Swedish Government, for whom I hold a watching brief on . . . certain matters concerning their interest in MAPIACCIND.”

  Shaw stared at the man. Andersson looked into his face and laughed. He said, “When you check that, you will find it is quite genuine, I assure you.” He laughed again and then moved away, leaving Shaw to stare after him with murder in his heart and a claustrophobic feeling of impotence, of acknowledged inability to pull the man in. Of course it would be genuine; Karstad was too experienced at the double agent game, would have taken great pains to give himself unbreakable cover. It would be a tricky business, to interfere with the agent of another Power, however ‘unofficial’ he might be—especially when there was no proof of anything at all. And now it looked as though Andersson might have tumbled to Judith’s real identity.

  The liner took her departure from Guardafui, last point of land in Africa, headed out across the Arabian Sea past Socotra for Colombo and Australia. And during the next few days odd and disquieting rumours—and they were still no more than rumours really—trickled into the world’s capitals and appeared in short summaries in the roneo-ed sheets of the liner’s wireless Press News. Shaw read these reports with his early morning tea, saw how they were beginning to confirm what Latymer had told him about the movements of troops in the Far East. His imagination wandered northeast across the seas to the unknown lands, recalled the almost astronomical numbers of the armies which could now be mobilizing, visualized the paddy-fields and the shops and the modem factories emptying day by day as men were called up for service and concentrated in the assembly areas, saw in his imagination the movements along the rutted, terrible tracks, men and pack-mules force-marching, the mechanized and armoured divisions moving faster and more easily for the ports and the airfields, the technical units converging on the areas where the nuclear stockpiles lay. Maybe he was exaggerating, giving his imagination too much play, but what he saw in his mind as he read those sketchy reports was a mixture of Gresham and Latymer and himself, and it worried him. When news grew scarcer the reports indicated, as unconfirmed rumours, that some foreign newspaper correspondents had been arrested, cut off from their news outlets except for the transmission of presumably prepared bulletins approved by the Central Government.