Wyatt had met Rawsthorne once when he visited the Base. He was a short, stout man who could have been type-cast as Pickwick, and was one of the two English merchants on San Fernandez. His official duties as British Consul gave him the minimum of trouble since there was only a scattering of British on the island, and his principal consular efforts were directed to bailing the occasional drunken seaman out of gaol and half-hearted attempts to distribute the literature on Cotswold villages and Morris dancing which was sent to him by the British Council in an effort to promote the British Way of Life.
He now put his head on one side and peered at Wyatt in the gloom of the narrow entrance. ‘Don’t I know you?’
‘We met at Cap Sarrat,’ said Wyatt. ‘I work there.’
‘Of course; you’re the weatherman on loan from the Meteorological Office—I remember.’
‘I’ve got a letter from Commodore Brooks.’ Wyatt produced the envelope.
‘Come into my office,’ said Rawsthorne, and led him into a musty, Dickensian room dark with nineteenth-century furniture. A portrait of the Queen gazed across at the Duke of Edinburgh hung on the opposite wall. Rawsthorne slit open the envelope and said, ‘I wonder why Commodore Brooks didn’t telephone as he usually does.’
Wyatt smiled crookedly. ‘He trusts the security of the Base but not that of the outside telephone lines.’
‘Very wise,’ said Rawsthorne, and peered at the letter. After a while he said, ‘That’s most handsome of the Commodore to offer us the hospitality of the Base—not that there are many of us.’ He tapped the letter. ‘He tells me that you have qualms about a hurricane. My dear sir, we haven’t had a hurricane here since 1910.’
‘So everyone insists on telling me,’ said Wyatt bitterly. ‘Mr Rawsthorne, have you ever broken your arm?’
Rawsthorne was taken aback. He spluttered a little, then said, ‘As a matter of fact, I have—when I was a boy.’
‘That was a long time ago.’
‘Nearly fifty years—but I don’t see…’
Wyatt said, ‘Does the fact that it is nearly fifty years since you broke your arm mean that you couldn’t break it again tomorrow?’
Rawsthorne was silent for a moment. ‘You have made your point, young man. I take it you are serious about this hurricane?’
‘I am,’ said Wyatt with all the conviction he could muster.
‘Commodore Brooks is a very honest man,’ said Rawsthorne. ‘He tells me here that, if you are right, the Base will not be the safest place on San Fernandez. He advises me to take that into account in any decision I might make.’ He looked at Wyatt keenly. ‘I think you had better tell me all about your hurricane.’
So Wyatt went through it again, with Rawsthorne showing a niggling appreciation of detail and asking some unexpectedly penetrating questions. When Wyatt ran dry he said, ‘So what we have is this—there is a thirty per cent chance at worst of this hurricane—so grotesquely named Mabel—coming here. That is on your figures. Then there is your over-powering conviction that it will come, and I do not think we should neglect that. No, indeed! I have a very great regard for intuition. So what do we do now, Mr Wyatt?’
‘Commodore Brooks suggested that we might see Serrurier. He thought he might accept it from a British source when he wouldn’t take it from an American.’
Rawsthorne nodded. ‘That might very well be the case.’ But he shook his head. ‘It will be difficult seeing him, you know. He is not the easiest man to see at the best of times, and in the present circumstances…’
‘We can try,’ said Wyatt stubbornly.
‘Indeed we can,’ Rawsthorne said briskly. ‘And we must.’ He looked at Wyatt with brightly intelligent eyes. ‘You are a very convincing young man, Mr Wyatt. Let us go immediately. What decisions I make regarding the safety of British nationals must inevitably depend on what Serrurier will do.’
The Presidential Palace was ringed with troops. Fully two battalions were camped in the grounds and the darkness was a-twinkle with their camp-fires. Twice the car was stopped and each time Rawsthorne talked their way through. At last they came to the final hurdle—the guard-room at the main entrance.
‘I wish to see M. Hippolyte, the Chief of Protocol,’ Rawsthorne announced to the young officer who barred their way.
‘But does M. Hippolyte want to see you?’ asked the officer insolently, teeth flashing in his black face.
‘I am the British Consul,’ said Rawsthorne firmly. ‘And if I do not see M. Hippolyte immediately he will be very displeased.’ He paused, then added as though in afterthought, ‘So will President Serrurier.’
The grin disappeared from the officer’s face at the mention of Serrurier and he hesitated uncertainly. ‘Wait here,’ he said harshly and went inside the palace.
Wyatt eyed the heavily armed troops who surrounded them, and said to Rawsthorne, ‘Why Hippolyte?’
‘He’s our best bet of getting to see Serrurier. He’s big enough to have Serrurier’s ear and small enough for me to frighten—just as I frightened that insolent young pup.’
The ‘insolent young pup’ came back. ‘All right; you can see M. Hippolyte.’ He made a curt gesture to the soldiers. ‘Search them.’
Wyatt found himself pawed by ungentle black hands. He submitted to the indignity and was then roughly pushed forward through the doorway with Rawsthorne clattering at his heels. ‘I’ll make Hippolyte suffer for this,’ said Rawsthorne through his teeth. ‘I’ll give him protocol.’ He glanced up at Wyatt. ‘He speaks English so I can really get my insults home.’
‘Forget it,’ said Wyatt tightly. ‘Our object is to see Serrurier.’
Hippolyte’s office was large with a lofty ceiling and elaborate mouldings. Hippolyte himself rose to greet them from behind a beautiful eighteenth-century desk and came forward with outstretched hands. ‘Ah, Mr Rawsthorne; what brings you here at a time like this—and at such a late hour?’ His voice was pure Oxford.
Rawsthorne swallowed the insults he was itching to deliver and said stiffly, ‘I wish to see President Serrurier.’
Hippolyte’s face fell. ‘I am afraid that is impossible. You must know, Mr Rawsthorne, that you come at a most in-opportune time.’
Rawsthorne drew himself up to the most of his insignificant height and Wyatt could almost see him clothing himself in the full awe of British majesty. ‘I am here to deliver an official message from Her Britannic Majesty’s Government,’ he said pompously. ‘The message is to be delivered to President Serrurier in person. I rather think he will be somewhat annoyed if he does not get it.’
Hippolyte’s expression became less pleasant. ‘President Serrurier is…in conference. He cannot be disturbed.’
‘Am I to report back to my Government that President Serrurier does not wish to receive their message?’
Hippolyte sweated slightly. ‘I would not go so far as to say that, Mr Rawsthorne.’
‘Neither would I,’ said Rawsthorne with a pleasant smile. ‘But I would say that the President should be allowed to make up his own mind on this issue. I shouldn’t think he would like other people acting in his name—not at all. Why don’t you ask him if he’s willing to see me?’
‘Perhaps that would be best,’ agreed Hippolyte unwillingly. ‘Could you tell me at least the…er…subject-matter of your communication?’
‘I could not,’ said Rawsthorne severely. ‘It’s a Matter of State.’
‘All right,’ said Hippolyte. ‘I will ask the President. If you would wait here…’ His voice tailed off and he backed out of the room.
Wyatt glanced at Rawsthorne. ‘Laying it on a bit thick, aren’t you?’
Rawsthorne mopped his brow. ‘If this gets back to Whitehall I’ll be out of a job—but it’s the only way to handle Hippolyte. The man’s in a muck sweat—you saw that. He’s afraid to break in on Serrurier and he’s even more afraid of what might happen if he doesn’t. That’s the trouble with the tyranny of one-man rule; the dictator surrounds himself with bags of jelly like Hip
polyte.’
‘Do you think he’ll see us?’
‘I should think so,’ said Rawsthorne. ‘I think I’ve roused his curiosity.’
Hippolyte came back fifteen minutes later. ‘The President will see you. Please come this way.’
They followed him along an ornate corridor for what seemed a full half mile before he stopped outside a door. ‘The President is naturally…disturbed about the present critical situation,’ he said. ‘Please do not take it amiss if he is a little…er…short-tempered, let us say.’
Rawsthorne guessed that Hippolyte had recently felt the edge of Serrurier’s temper and decided to twist the knife. ‘He’ll be even more short-tempered when I tell him how we were treated on our arrival here,’ he said shortly. ‘Never have I heard of the official representative of a foreign power being searched like a common criminal.’
Hippolyte’s sweat-shiny face paled to a dirty grey and he began to say something, but Rawsthorne ignored him, pushed open the door and walked into the room with Wyatt close behind. It was a huge room, sparsely furnished, but in the same over-ornate style as the rest of the palace. A trestle-table had been set up at the far end round which a number of uniformed men were grouped. An argument seemed to be in progress, for a small man with his back to them pounded on the table and shouted, ‘You will find them, General; find them and smash them.’
Rawsthorne said out of the corner of his mouth, ‘That’s Serrurier—with the Army Staff—Deruelles, Lescuyer, Rocambeau.’
One of the soldiers muttered something to Serrurier and he swung round. ‘Ah, Rawsthorne, you wanted to tell me something?’
‘Come on,’ said Rawsthorne, and strode up the length of the room.
Serrurier leaned on the edge of the table which was covered with maps. He was a small, almost insignificant man with hunched shoulders and hollow chest. He had brown chimpanzee eyes which seemed to plead for understanding, as though he could not comprehend why anyone should hate or even dislike him. But his voice was harsh with the timbre of a man who understood power and how to command it.
He rubbed his chin and said, ‘You come at a strange time. Who is the ti blanc?’
‘A British scientist, Your Excellency.’
Serrurier shrugged and visibly wiped Wyatt from the list of people he would care to know. ‘And what does the British Government want with me—or from me?’
‘I have been instructed to bring you something,’ said Rawsthorne.
Serrurier grunted. ‘What?’
‘Valuable information, Your Excellency. Mr Wyatt is a weather expert—he brings news of an approaching hurricane—a dangerous one.’
Serrurier’s jaw dropped. ‘You come here at this time to talk about the weather?’ he asked incredulously. ‘At a time when war is imminent you wish to waste my time with weather forecasting?’ He picked up a map from the table and crumpled it in a black fist, shaking it under Raws-thorne’s nose. ‘I thought you were bringing news of Favel. Favel! Favel—do you understand? He is all that I am interested in.’
‘Your Excellency—‘ began Rawsthorne.
Serrurier said in a grating voice, ‘We do not have hurricanes in San Fernandez—everyone knows that.’
‘You had one in 1910,’ said Wyatt.
‘We do not have hurricanes in San Fernandez,’ repeated Serrurier, staring at Wyatt. He suddenly lost his temper. ‘Hippolyte! Hippolyte, where the devil are you? Show these fools out.’
‘But Your Excellency—‘ began Rawsthorne again.
‘We do not have hurricanes in San Fernandez,’ screamed Serrurier. ‘Are you deaf, Rawsthorne? Hippolyte, get them out of my sight.’ He leaned against the table, breathing heavily. ‘And, Hippolyte, I’ll deal with you later,’ he added menacingly.
Wyatt found Hippolyte plucking pleadingly at his coat, and glanced at Rawsthorne. ‘Come on,’ said Rawsthorne bleakly. ‘We’ve delivered our message as well as we’re able.’
He walked with steady dignity down the long room, and after a moment’s hesitation Wyatt followed, hearing Serrurier’s hysterical scream as he left. ‘Do you understand, Mr British Scientist? We do not have hurricanes in San Fernandez!’
Outside, Hippolyte became vindictive. He considered Rawsthorne had made a fool of him and he feared the retribution of Serrurier. He called a squad of soldiers and Wyatt and Rawsthorne found themselves brutally hustled from the palace to be literally thrown out of the front door.
Rawsthorne examined a tear in his coat. ‘I thought it might be like that,’ he said. ‘But we had to try.’
‘He’s mad,’ said Wyatt blankly. ‘He’s stark staring, raving mad.’
‘Of course,’ said Rawsthorne calmly. ‘Didn’t you know? Lord Acton once said that absolute power corrupts absolutely. Serrurier is thoroughly corrupted in the worst possible way—that’s why everyone is so afraid of him. I was beginning to wonder if we’d get out of there.’
Wyatt shook his head as though to clear cobwebs out of his brain. ‘He said, “We do not have hurricanes in San Fernandez,” as though he has forbidden them by presidential decree.’ There was a baffled look on his face.
‘Let’s get away from here,’ said Rawsthorne with an eye on the surrounding soldiers. ‘Where’s the car?’
‘Over there,’ said Wyatt. ‘I’ll take you back to your place—then I must call at the Imperiale.’
There was a low rumble in the distance coming from the mountains. Rawsthorne cocked his head on one side. ‘Thunder,’ he said. ‘Is your hurricane upon us already?’
Wyatt looked up at the moon floating in the cloudless sky. ‘That’s not thunder,’ he said. ‘I wonder if Serrurier has found Favel—or vice versa.’ He looked at Rawsthorne. ‘That’s gunfire.’
THREE
It was quite late in the evening when Wyatt pulled up his car outside the Imperiale. He had had a rough time; the street lighting had failed or been deliberately extinguished (he thought that perhaps the power-station staff had decamped) and three times he had been halted by the suspicious police, his being one of the few cars on the move in the quiet city. There was a sporadic crackle of rifle fire, sometimes isolated shots and sometimes minor fusillades, echoing through the streets. The police and the soldiers were nervous and likely to shoot at anything that moved. And behind everything was the steady rumble of artillery fire from the mountains, now sounding very distinctly on the heavy night air.
His thoughts were confused as he got out of the car. He did not know whether he would be glad or sorry to find Julie at the Imperiale. If she had gone to Cap Sarrat Base then all decision was taken out of his hands, but if she was still in the hotel then he would have to make the awkward choice. Cap Sarrat, in his opinion, was not safe, but neither was getting mixed up in a civil war between shooting armies. Could he, on an unsupported hunch, honestly advise anyone—and especially Julie—not to go to Cap Sarrat?
He looked up at the darkened hotel and shrugged mentally—he would soon find out what he had to do. He was about to lock the car when he paused in thought, then he opened up the engine and removed the rotor-arm of the distributor. At least the car would be there when he needed it.
The foyer of the Imperiale was in darkness, but he saw a faint glow from the American Bar. He walked across and halted as a chair clattered behind him. He whirled, and said, ‘Who’s that?’ There was a faint scrape of sound and a shadow flitted across a window; then a door banged and there was silence.
He waited a few seconds, then went on. A voice called from the American Bar, ‘Who’s that out there?’
‘Wyatt.’
Julie rushed into his arms as he stepped into the bar. ‘Oh, Dave, I’m glad you’re here. Have you brought transport from the Base?’
‘I’ve got transport,’ he said. ‘But I’ve not come directly from the Base. Someone was supposed to pick you up, I know that.’
‘They came,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t here—none of us were.’
He became aware he was in the centre of a small group. Dawso
n was there, and Papegaikos of the Maraca Club and a middle-aged woman whom he did not know. Behind, at the bar, the bar-tender clanged the cash register open.
‘I was here,’ said the woman. ‘I was asleep in my room and nobody came to wake me.’ She spoke aggressively in an affronted tone.
‘I don’t think you know Mrs Warmington,’Julie said.
Wyatt nodded an acknowledgement, and said, ‘So you’re left stranded.’
‘Not exactly,’ said Julie. ‘When Mr Dawson and I came back and found everyone gone we sat around a bit wondering what to do, then the phone rang in the manager’s office. It was someone at the Base checking up; he said he’d send a truck for us—then the phone cut off in the middle of a sentence.’
‘Serrurier’s men probably cut the lines to the Base,’ said Wyatt. ‘It’s a bit dicey out there—they’re as nervous as cats. When was this?’
‘Nearly two hours ago.’
Wyatt did not like the sound of that but he made no comment—there was no point in scaring anybody. He smiled at Papegaikos. ‘Hello, Eumenides, I didn’t know you favoured the Imperiale.’
The sallow Greek smiled glumly. ‘I was tol’ to come ‘ere if I wan’ to go to the Base.’
Dawson said bluffly, ‘That truck should be here any time now and we’ll be out of here.’ He waved a glass at Wyatt. ‘I guess you could do with a drink.’
‘It would come in handy,’ said Wyatt. ‘I’ve had a hard day.’
Dawson turned. ‘Hey, you! Where d’you think you’re going?’ He bounded forward and seized the small man who was sidling out of the bar. The bartender wriggled frantically, but Dawson held him with one huge paw and pulled him back behind the bar. He looked over at Wyatt and grinned. ‘Whaddya know, he’s cleaned out the cash drawer, too.’
‘Let him go,’ said Wyatt tiredly. ‘It’s no business of ours. All the staff will leave—there was one sneaking out when I came in.’
Dawson shrugged and opened his fist and the bartender scuttled out. ‘What the hell! I like self-service bars better.’
Wyatt's Hurricane / Bahama Crisis Page 7