by Colin Forbes
'Anything happening?' Paula asked.
'No change. I'll probably be up all night watching the ship. You'd better get to bed. It has been rather a full day.'
'I'm not sleepy any more. And I feel hungry again. I could just devour a chocolate sundae. Why don't we watch from my room? It's more comfortable up there.'
'Good idea. So long as I'm not disturbing your beauty sleep.'
They had just walked back to the courtyard when Vanity's car appeared down the drive and parked. She was driving and Newman was sitting alongside her. She was giggling as she got out.
'What have you two been up to -1 mean the part you can tell us about?' enquired Tweed.
'We've had such fun.' Vanity said, throwing her arms round him and giving him a great big hug. 'I like you.'
'You're supposed to like me,' Newman retorted. 'We found a most intriguing and obliging pub.'
'He means I've had too much to drink.' Vanity told them with a wicked grin. 'Actually Bob drove there and back. I just took the wheel at the top of the drive. I hoped I'd bump into you, Tweed. Then you'd think I'd been very wicked.'
'You mean you haven't been?' Paula asked with a look of mock innocence.
'I could do with a Grand Marnier.' Vanity said at the top of her voice as they entered the lounge.
'But what would a Grand Marnier do to you?' Newman suggested.
'Let's find out!'
'It will end up with me carrying you up to bed.'
'Can I give a hand?' called out a jolly, red-faced man with a pronounced Yorkshire accent. 'I'm rather good at helping maidens in distress.'
'This one isn't distressed yet.' Vanity told him. 'And what makes you think I'm any longer a maiden?'
There was a burst of laughter, in which Tweed joined, among the guests seated on couches. Paula, seeing a glass of Grand Marnier sitting at the edge of the bar, strode forward and grabbed it, bringing the glass back into the lounge. As she sat down to sip it while Vanity glared at her in pretended fury, Paula saw Maurice with an empty champagne glass in front of him. Nield was sitting in the other lounge, grinning.
'Maurice, you've got an empty glass,' Paula said as she went over to him. She drank half her Grand Marnier, then tipped the rest into his glass. 'Bottoms up, down the hatchRIGHT SQUARE BRACKET'
'And all that jazz.' Vanity added merrily. 'Look what I've found perched on the bar.' She held up a glass of Grand Marnier. 'There's a magician hiding behind that bar.'
'I am going to have to carry you up those stairs,' said Newman, and sighed loudly. 'The things I do for England.'
'Had we better get up to my room so you can watch that ship?' Paula whispered to Tweed in a very sober voice.
'Good idea. We get VB before dawn or not at all.'
'Want me to come?' Newman asked in a quiet, serious tone.
'I told you to look after Vanity.' Tweed replied with assumed sternness.
'I don't understand where Vanity comes into all this.' Paula said as they mounted the staircase.
'If she comes into it at all.'
'Oh, we're back to playing hard to get...'
Moloch, wearing the shabby raincoat and the peaked cap, was close to the waterfront of Falmouth. At that hour the town, hemmed into its valley, was deserted. He drove the Ford Escort slowly along Market Street, then stopped once again to make sure he was not being followed. He had done this half a dozen times during his journey from Mullion Towers. By his side on the passenger seat was the briefcase, complete with chain and handcuff.
As he listened, he heard the most nerve-racking noise break the silence. Peering up out of his window he saw the source of the terrible screeching which got on his nerves. A row of huge seagulls, perched on a gutter above several buildings, was looking down at him as though about to swoop in a concerted attack.
He pursed his thin lips, thinking he'd like to shoot the whole row of birds. After glancing several times in his rear-view mirror, he drove on a short distance, then swung left under an archway down a ramp leading to the water's edge.
Stopping the car, he flashed his headlights four times, then switched them off. Now all he had to do was to wait. The launch which would take him to the Venetia was moored a distance out to avoid attracting attention. It would take a little while before it berthed at the bottom of the ramp to take him aboard.
Moloch found the waiting a test of endurance. Normally so active, he hated sitting in the car, unable to do anything. He picked up the briefcase, attached the handcuff to his left wrist, and then there was nothing to do but wait in the exposed position he felt himself to be in.
He wished he had Heather with him. She would have helped him to pass the time. It had been bad luck that she had slipped on the steps of the wine cellar. Anyway, he told himself, that's the last of my bad luck. Out at sea they seemed to be having trouble getting the engine of the launch started. He began to worry that they might never get it moving. That would be a disaster. He was anxious that the Venetia should slip away into the open sea while it was still dark. He forced himself to be patient.
* * * *
In his stationary powerboat, Marler, anchored close in to the shore where he had a wide view of the Venetia, sat with a fishing rod held in both hands. Unlike Moloch, he could wait for hours without fretting.
Much earlier, he had driven down to the Marina Hotel at the edge of the harbour, a large white building on two levels with a staircase leading up to the restaurant. Parking his car, he had mounted the staircase, wearing oilskins he had purchased from a nearby shop selling fishing tackle. He had also purchased a rod and other equipment a fisherman needed. Hoping no one would notice, he had left his golf bag in the cloakroom, accepting a ticket.
'I'm willing to pay good money to hire a powerboat,' he had mentioned at the bar with a glass of beer in front of him.
'Might try Ned. The big man further along the bar. But he'll charge you. All depends on whether he likes the look of you,' the barman had informed him.
Marler had decided to talk in his normal upper-crust voice. This might give Ned confidence that he could afford to pay whatever price was asked.
"The barman said you were Ned,' Marler had begun, placing his glass of beer on the counter. 'I'm looking for a powerboat to hire.'
'Cost you - just supposin' I decided to oblige you. What you be wanting a powerboat for?'
'I'm an international photographer. I've been commissioned by Time magazine to take pics of the Cornish coast at night. The moon is up, so this would be an ideal time.'
'I've heard of Time magazine. Anyone who works for them makes a packet.'
'I survive.'
'You won't get one anywhere else at this time of night. And I'm relaxing. Shop's closed, so to speak.'
'What would it cost to open it up?'
Ned, who towered over Marler, gave him another look, took a drink of his own beer, then named an exorbitant price.
'That includes a deposit?'
'That's extra.'
Ned named another outrageous price. Marler nodded, drank a little more of the beer he hated. He pretended to be considering the amount.
'I'll need identification and references, too.' Ned added.
Marler reached into his pocket, brought out a wad of banknotes, counted them, pushed them along the bar.
"There are your references.'
He was thinking he could almost buy the powerboat for the amount Ned was asking. He waited while Ned carefully checked the money. He waited again while Ned finished his glass of beer. Never hurry locals in Cornwall.
'Because you looks like a gentleman I'll do you a favour, let you have the powerboat until dusk tomorrow. Follow me.'
The large sum of money had vanished inside Ned's worn sleeveless leather jacket. Which is how Marler came to be sitting in the powerboat hour after hour, his fishing rod gripped in bom hands. The golf bag lay out of sight on the deck. The funny thing was Marler had no interest in either fishing or playing golf.
49
Tweed
was peering through his field glasses again from the window in Paula's room. He had drunk two cups of coffee, had left a refill untouched. Paula felt she would like to confiscate the binoculars.
'Probably nothing will happen tonight - or rather this morning. It's well after midnight.'
'If you want to get some sleep that's all right by me.' Tweed said amiably. 'I'll go down on to the terrace.'
'I'm not the least bit sleepy. I wonder how Newman and Vanity are getting on.'
'You shouldn't ask questions like that.'
He had just spoken when there was a tapping on the door. Unlocking it, Paula found Newman outside, invited him in.
'Come in and join the party. The night watch goes on.'
Newman grinned and walked over to stand next to Tweed. He took the glasses handed to him, examined the Venetia from stern to bow.
'I'd say that something is happening,' Newman commented.
'What's going on?' Paula called out as she dashed over.
'Look for yourself. There's a lot of crew moving about on deck. At this hour I find that unusual, prophetic.'
'They do seem very active,' she agreed, focusing the glasses. 'Almost as though they're getting ready to set sail.'
'We need a better vantage point,' Tweed decided. 'Bob, I'd like you to drive me back along the coast so you can park under that big hotel facing seaward. We'll have to be quick.'
'Wait for me,' said Paula, putting on her fur coat. 'It will be chilly down there on the front.'
Unlocking the front door to the exit from Nansidwell was like solving a cipher. Newman was fiddling with the bolt when Paula pushed him aside.
'Let me do it. I watched the proprietor locking up when we were last here. He showed me how to get out.'
In no time at all she had the door open. They ran to Newman's car. Tweed sat next to him as Paula dived into the back. Newman revved up before backing and turning up the drive.
'You'll have woken up everyone in the place,' Paula scolded him.
'We all sleep too much.' he replied.
Tweed sat in silence while they were driven down the hill and past the marshes on their left. In a few minutes they were moving along the front. Newman parked below the large hotel Tweed had mentioned.
'You see.' Tweed told them as they stood on the pavement above the sea, 'we have a ringside view.'
Paula inwardly agreed he was right. They were gazing out across a sea as calm as the proverbial millpond and the centrepiece was the great yacht, ablaze with lights.
'I'm waiting for a launch to leave that ship to pick up Moloch from the harbour.' Tweed remarked. 'Unless we've missed that while we were driving here from Nansidwell.'
'I doubt if we've missed anything.' Paula told him, 'considering the speed with which Bob drove us down here. He seemed to think he was competing in the Grand Prix.'
'I did that once.' Newman replied. 'Came in eighth. You have to practise at anything if you're going to come out tops. Look at the way Marler goes down to the firing range in Surrey at every opportunity.'
'By the way, where is Marler?' Paula enquired.
'Mooching around somewhere, I imagine.' Tweed said.
'Mooching around under your instructions, I'm sure.'
Like Tweed, Marler was also expecting some kind of launch to leave the Venetia to pick up Moloch, assuming he was sailing from Falmouth that night.
Anticipating that it would be a cold job, Marler wore several woollen pullovers under his suit and oilskins. By now his gloved hands were freezing. To keep his fingers agile, he made a point of taking off his gloves at intervals and wrapping his hands round one of the coffee flasks he had brought with him. Then he would drink some of the hot coffee.
As he did so he studied the decks of the Venetia. Like Newman, he had observed the constant activity. To keep his presence secret he had resisted the temptation to use his monocular glass. For all he knew, men with powerful binoculars on board were scanning the shore for any sign that they were being watched.
He doubted whether they could see him, tucked away as he was under the lee of the outer harbour. Behind him rose a row of whitewashed houses with grey tiled roofs. There were no lights on in any of the houses at that time of night.
Occasionally he would slip inside the control cabin, where he had earlier closed the curtains. He sat by a small gap he'd left between them, smoking a king-size while he watched. Then he returned to the outside world and his fishing rod.
How would I try to sneak aboard that ship if I were Moloch? he mused. The best bet, he decided, was to take out a large craft filled with a party of hired revellers. In this way Moloch could conceal himself among the crowd.
Holding the fishing rod, he settled down to wait. So many men would eventually have found such a vigil getting on their nerves. Not so Marler, accustomed to his own company. Patiently, he waited.
Someone else, not two miles away from where Marler waited, was having more trouble controlling his impatience. Seated in the Ford Escort, he kept the engine running to maintain some degree of warmth inside the car. Moloch had an urgent desire to get out, to walk up and down the ramp, but he forced himself to resist.
What infuriated him was the time the men aboard the launch were taking to get the engine to start. If Brand had been aboard, he reflected, he'd have got it started at once - because Brand would have checked the engine beforehand, would even have had a second launch in reserve.
'I'm the richest man in the world.' he said to himself, 'and here I am, parked in an old car in the cold, unable to do anything but sit and stare.'
He wished he had brought Heather Lang's hamper with him, but in his haste to leave Mullion Towers he had forgotten about its existence. He felt hungry when he recalled seeing Drayton cutting ham sandwiches in the kitchen while the doctor examined Heather. He was also beginning to feel very thirsty - and not a damned thing inside the car to drink.
He comforted himself by clasping the briefcase nestling in his lap. Inside was the equivalent of many times the value of the Crown jewels. And still he had to wait for the launch to start moving. Already it was the longest night he could remember.
I'll sack the man in charge of that launch, he thought viciously. Put him ashore without any money at some place like Naples.
Earlier he'd had the radio on, turned low, but had then decided it might give away his presence. Reluctantly he had turned it off. The only sound then was the gentle splash of the sea swishing at the bottom of the ramp. It did nothing to curb his growing impatience.
'No sign yet of Moloch going aboard,' said Newman, standing on the front. 'Unless he's already aboard. It could have happened while we were driving from Nansidwell.'
'I don't think so.' said Tweed. 'If mat was the case the vessel would have started moving by now.'
Paula was walking up and down the front, stamping her frozen feet to get the circulation moving again. Her gloved hands were inside the pockets of her fur coat. There was no one else about. Since arriving they had seen no traffic pass along the road behind them.
Newman started banging his gloved hands together, his field glasses looped round his neck. It was surprising how cold it was at that hour. He put it down to the fact that they were standing on the edge of the motionless sea.
And, he said to himself, the real trouble is we were in California just long enough to get used to the heat.
Only Tweed seemed unaffected by the waiting, by the cold. He stood in his raincoat quite still, like a Buddha contemplating eternity. It reminded him of the old days when he was in hostile territory in a foreign land, waiting in the night for a certain figure to emerge from a building.
'Sooner or later it will happen,' he said as Paula returned. 'And when it does I expect all hell to break loose.'
'It would make a change.' Paula commented.
'Wait until you experience it.' Tweed warned. 'It could be a little too dramatic for your liking...'
50
Moloch could hardly believe it. The launch was pr
oceeding to the ramp, its engine chugging over happily. He flashed his lights again, turned off the motor, left the car. Standing at the top of the ramp he glanced round. No one else was in sight. He pulled his cap down further over his high forehead, marched down to the water's edge, his briefcase in his right hand, the cuff attached to his wrist.
The launch edged its way in, paused close to the ramp so that Moloch could step aboard. Brushing aside a helping hand, Moloch sat down on a seat near the stern. He looked up from under the peaked cap. There were only two other men aboard.
'Morton, are you in charge of this fiasco?'
'Yes, sir. I wouldn't call it a fiasco. Had a bit of trouble getting the engine to fire.'
So, later, it would be Morton who was put ashore at Naples without a penny in his pocket. He'd find he was marooned in a tough city.
'Why only two to crew this launch?' Moloch demanded.
'Orders were we had to make sure we were not conspicuous, sir.'
'Can the other crewman handle this launch?'
They were already moving towards the exit from the harbour and the open sea. The launch was not moving with any speed, but this at least Moloch approved of. A craft rushing back to the Venetia might have attracted attention.
'No, he can't,' Morton replied as he handled the wheel, guiding it past the huge repair dock. "This is Gunner. He's called that because he handles one of those special weapons we have aboard under canvas.'
'I see.'
Moloch did see. It meant that if anything had happened to Morton his mate, Gunner, would have been useless handling the launch. Brilliant organization! Once again he found himself missing Joel Brand. Now, huddled in his seat, he was gazing round to see if anyone was observing their departure. The harbour had a sinister stillness. Even a large freighter at anchor was showing no sign of movement. The scene reminded Moloch of a frozen tableau. Only port and starboard lights indicated this was a real harbour.
'Is the skipper ready to sail?' he asked.
'Has been for several hours. Once you're aboard we can sail the seven seas. I don't even know our destination.'