The Man from the 'Turkish Slave'

by Victor Canning

  There it was, the whole room; the unshaded light over the centre tank, Manöel and Vasco, and behind them a great fringe of shadows, and somewhere in these shadows was the sound of movement, of another person. Peter leaned back and took a deep breath. Something had gone wrong. It was his sole thought. His head ached and there was a curious throbbing in his body. It took him some time to realise that it was his heart pounding away.

  In the shadows a voice said in Portuguese: ‘Assis is all right. He’s a little drunk, but not enough to matter. He’s going to check the boat and see the petrol’s all right. There are people about still.’

  Vasco nodded and, as Peter swayed forward, put out a foot and pushed him back.

  Samuel Lesset came forward now into the cone of light; his great head cocked sideways. He nodded at Peter, smiling, and then lifting the bottle from the table, poured a drink. Sitting on the couch he held the glass to Peter’s mouth, one hand supporting his neck.

  He held him gently, carefully scooping up the brandy that ran over Peter’s chin with the edge of the glass.

  ‘You’re giving me a lot of trouble, young man. A lot of trouble.’

  Peter stared at him, his mind slowly clearing. Now, he was understanding. Not one man—Jaeger—behind the fishermen, but two. And Lesset had been there when Anita danced. He should have been surprised but he wasn’t. It was almost as though he had lost the ability to be surprised. All that was in him now was disgust for his own stupidity.

  ‘You’ll feel fine in a while, son,’ Lesset stood up.

  Peter looked from one to the other of the Pastori brothers. Momentarily he considered his chances against them. No. Between them they would have no trouble with him. He reached up a hand touching the bump behind his ear and a spurt of anger swept through him at the sight of Lesset smiling. The American stood there like some large, ruffled-up bird, amiable, the dark eyes warm under their bushy brows. There was a suggestion of ancient, almost honourable rascality about him.

  ‘Surprised, son? Or did you know?’

  Peter had a quick picture of Tereza waiting for him, maybe looking for him. The less this man knew, the better.

  ‘This won’t do you any good.’ His voice was surly.

  ‘I can make something out of it.’ Lesset began to pack his pipe, flexing his large lips in anticipation of the pleasure to come. ‘Important thing at this moment is whether you are going to be sensible or heroic. I don’t recommend the heroic. People get hurt that way.’

  ‘What do you think you’re going to do with me?’

  Lesset laughed. ‘You sound indignant.’ He lit his pipe carefully, staring at Peter over the spurting flame. He went on good-naturedly, ‘Don’t worry. I’m not going to do anything. I don’t like this situation any more than you do. You’d be surprised in fact how little interested I am in you. You’re the least of my worries—but don’t get angry about that.’ He took the pearl collar from Manöel and dropped it on the table. ‘I want the rest of this stuff. Where is it?’ His voice hardened with the question.

  ‘I’d be a damned fool to tell you that!’

  Lesset shook his head. ‘No heroics. I thought that was understood. I could chase Anita—if I had time, but we’re leaving with the first light and she’s a difficult girl to catch.’

  ‘No matter what you do, you should see you can’t get away with this.’

  ‘I’ve been getting away with a great deal more for a very long time. Be sensible. Remember that. I’m being patient—but I can give up words if necessary. Don’t get the impression that I have any tender regard for your well-being. Nobody cared a damn for you when you were knocked off the Turkish Slave—’

  Surprise came back to Peter and could not be hidden. Lesset chuckled as he saw him half-rise and then subside on the couch.

  ‘I was a fool not to have got that one earlier. But I’m not concerned with that now. Tell me where to get the rest of the stuff and I’ll see that you are left here comfortably when we leave. Someone will find you in a few hours.’

  ‘You haven’t a hope. The moment I’m free the whole place will know about you and the other boats will be after you. You might as well pack it in now.’

  ‘No other boat can touch us. Vasco has the fastest boat in the fleet. We only need a few hours start … Give, son. Where’s the rest of the stuff?’

  Peter stood up. Vasco made a move towards him but Lesset waved him back.

  ‘Listen, Lesset,’ he tried to make his voice firm and confident. ‘You’re in trouble right now. You were right about my coming from the Slave. But do you think I’ve kept all this to myself? Quisto knows about it, Guarani knows and several others. By this time I shall have been missed and they will be looking for me. You haven’t a chance of getting away.’

  Lesset considered this in silence for a moment, then he shook his head. ‘Good try, son. But my reading is that only you and Tereza know about it.’

  ‘Tereza!’

  Lesset nodded gently. ‘Don’t get excited. We’ve got her as well. She won’t be hurt. Maybe Quisto knows—you’ve all been very thick—but he’s at sea.’

  ‘You’ll never get away.’ He was obstinate, dour, hating the confidence this man showed, and frantically worried now about Tereza.

  ‘We will. This is a bad moment; but not unplanned for. In my business it’s liable to happen … time and chance can upset the best of us. However, once we reach the mainland we shall evaporate. Yes, son, I can read you like a book. You meant to get back to the mainland and quietly turn me in for a reward. It was bad luck for you that Anita found where you’d put the stuff.’

  ‘She pinched the whole lot.’

  ‘Sure? Let’s check on that first.’

  He stood there, a stubborn look on his face. He was damned if he would tell. The sour vigour which is so often part of a Cornishman’s anger was like a hard core in him.

  Lesset said something sharply to Vasco in Portuguese.

  The fisherman’s hand swept forward and the great, horny palm smacked into the side of Peter’s face, driving him back into a heap on the couch. He lay there with his head ringing. Lesset’s voice, full of regret, came through to him:

  ‘You’d do better to tell where it is. You’re way out of your depths. Manöel’s just itching to get at you and he works differently from Vasco.’

  At the sound of his name Manöel grinned, his dirty, tusk-like teeth showing in a broken edge across the top of his lower lip.

  Peter sat forward, shaking his head to clear it. Vasco’s blow had been like a vicious piston stroke. The side of his face felt raw. He wanted to jump up and throw himself at them, wanted to hand back some of the pain and brutality he had taken … more than anything he wanted that, but he knew it would be stupid. They would beat him down and go on beating him until he would be glad to talk. They had plenty of time, and he knew that Lesset would not spare him.

  He looked around, seeing them and the room all a little fogged by the haze the blow had brought over his eyes; Lesset, puffing away at his pipe, one hand rubbing at the blunt promontory of his chin, Manöel grinning, his strong, squat hands resting on his knees, the fingers broken-nailed and each wrinkle lined with dirt, and Vasco, tall, stern, like a great pine, his long brown face wooden and severe. The low-ceilinged, narrow room rich in shadows from the hanging light seemed to edge its walls towards him, moving in to crush him.

  Lesset moved away, unconcerned. He bent, staring into one of the wall tanks, watching the ghosts of a shoal of tiny cowfish playing about an air-spout. A porcelain crab stalked pompously over the bottom, disturbing the mantis shrimps at their night scavenging. The single electric bulb whitened the side of his face, the face of a man who inspired confidence, of a man who could be trusted, fatherly, understanding. The directors of the Markway Food Corporation of Cincinnati had every confidence in Lesset. One day they would be dismayed, as a great many other people, much too late, had been dismayed, when they learnt the truth about him.

  For Peter, watching him, there w
as only anger. He had come to Portos Marias and corrupted it, using his bland power of evil to draw others to him. There was that in the waiting, subservient stillness of the Pastori brothers which said they belonged to this man; respected him, admired him and recognised in him a ruthlessness and competence which they could never match.

  His confident assumption of power set Peter against him. If it was the last thing he did, he was going to tear it away, destroy it. He looked around, schooling his mind and body, determined to attack and smash Lesset’s assurance.

  ‘Be sensible.’ Lesset looked towards him.

  Peter stood up suddenly and nodded.

  ‘O.K. You win.’

  The two fishermen stepped back, Manöel sliding clumsily off the table. Lesset came forward. Another three steps and he would have been between Peter and the only other door in the room except the one which led to the outer world. It was to his right, a half-open door through which he caught a glimpse of shadowed steps rising.

  Peter reached out both arms. His left hand found the pearl collar on the table and his right hand seized the bottle which stood by it. Lesset shouted and jumped for him. Peter stepped back and swung the bottle at the hanging electric lamp. With the crash of glass, he raised his foot and pushed at the table. He heard Manöel shout, and then the table and tank went over. Glass crashed again and water swirled in the darkness. Someone fell, cursed, and a hand found his ankle as he turned. He kicked out, his foot thudding into flesh. He slipped, recovered himself, heard the wet flap of curvetting fish on the floor, and then was stumbling across the room, glass grinding under his feet.

  He ran for the stair door and heard the men move, heard chairs and furniture go over and guessed they were making instinctively for the outer door of the block-house. He went through the inner door, slamming it behind him, and dashed up the narrow steps. At the head of the flight it turned and there before him was a narrow window through which the moonlight came pale and clear. Outside was a narrow alleyway running down to the town. Behind him he heard the stair door burst open and the thunder of feet on the wooden steps. He raised a foot and kicked at the centre strut of the window. The catch splintered, glass fell with a sharp clatter into the street below and the two halves of the window flew back. He wriggled through, caught the sill for a second and then dropped.

  He dropped twelve feet and his legs twisted clumsily under him as he struck the ground. He rolled over and pitched forward.

  As he picked himself up, he heard Lesset shout above him. Before him the street sloped down towards the quay. It was quieter down there now, but he could hear music and, a thick bank of cloud sliding over the moon at this moment, he saw the soft flow of lights suddenly strengthen. He had a couple of hundred yards to go and he would be safe. Once down there Lesset could never touch him. He would shout the news to the whole place. A wild burst of excitement possessed him as he began to run. But even as he did so, his mind noting with an odd detachment that this was the street down which he had been passing when he had been attacked, a figure moved out into his path from the shadow of the house and he saw Assis’ face clearly. He struck out, felt his fist drive against the man’s shoulder and saw Assis sway backwards.

  The wall saved Assis from falling. Before Peter could pass him, he came back. This time his arm was raised and there was the sharp glint of steel from his hand.

  Peter ducked, threw himself sideways instinctively and the two crashed together. An arm wound round his neck, he felt the warm, liquorish breath of Assis against his face, and they went down in a heap, the knife sliding away across the road. Peter had no idea how long they struggled, smashing and kicking at one another. He only knew that he was suddenly free, leaping to his feet.

  But now there was no escape down the street. Around the corner of the block-house garden a few yards below came Manöel and Vasco and from the window of the house above him, he saw the clumsy figure of Lesset hanging from the sill. Peter turned and ran uphill. He saw Lesset drop, heard his boots hit the hard ground, and then he was past him, racing upwards. Behind him came the four men.

  His first instinct was to get as far ahead of them as he could and swing round and make his way back to the square. It was a good plan but the nature of the ground was against him. It was only a few yards to the top of the street and then he was pelting across the drying ground, ducking under the wires strung from black pole to black pole. He had to keep going ahead for the plot was flanked on either side by out-thrusting steep spurs from the mouth of the gully in which he had trapped Anita. At the mouth of the gully he glanced back. The four were coming fast after him across the drying ground, Assis and Vasco ahead.

  Peter went up the black funnel of the gulley, past the little gardens, running hard, his breath whistling vigorously. He was no great runner—but then, thank God, neither were the others for, except Lesset, they were all fishermen, steady goers but with no great turn of speed. He was in good condition and he guessed he could keep going as long as any of them. At the head of the gully across a short stretch of close sward he saw the long line of trees into which Anita had gone. He sprinted for them, hoping to gain their cover and work left or right and then back towards Portos Marias before the others reached the top of the gully. He was almost on their fringe when he heard a shout behind him. Assis had reached the top of the gully in time to see him disappear.

  Peter crashed into the low bushes around the trees and, the ground suddenly dipping, he was sliding and tumbling down a steep slope before he could stop himself. He was brought up against a soft bank of thick myrtle shrub. He picked himself up and swung away to the right, following a narrow track.

  He kept going steadily and after a time came out of the trees. To his dismay he saw that the three men had followed Assis along the fringe of the trees and were now a hundred yards below him, strung out along the open ground, barring his way back to Portos Marias. Looking back now and again as he ran diagonally, hoping to find a way back, he saw that they had steadied their pace and were moving up after him, well-strung out and less hurried, as though they knew that eventually they would run him down.

  It was then that he realised the mistake he had made. Swinging right in the trees the track had begun to rise. He had not noticed it at first, but out here on the open hillside he found himself climbing without hope of being able to turn the flanks of his pursuers. He had to keep going and the only way was upward.

  The track now became steeper. It was rutted and strewn with loose stones and eventually slid into the bed of a narrow watercourse, dry at this season, that came down from the higher slopes of Pae above him.

  He cursed himself for turning right instead of left in the woods. By going left he would have hit the slope down to the street which dipped past the church and to the square. Now he was plugging his way upwards and his only hope was to get up near the crest of Pae and try to lose his pursuers amongst the slabs and pinnacles. He recalled his first sight of the crater of Pae with its steep, dark sides, the long loose moraines and screes, broken with scrub and tall tree ferns. How many days ago had it been when he had stood up there and looked down at the black tarn which marked the bottom of the crater! Not many, but it seemed a long time ago.

  He kept going, his mind clear now and a tough, stubborn spirit in him. He had got out of the house and he meant to get back to the square. Lesset didn’t have a dog’s chance if he once reached it. And Lesset must know that.

  The night sky was banking over now with more clouds and once, while the moon was long hidden, he made an effort to leave the path and skirt along the face of the mountain. He bore away to the left, leaping and scrambling over the broken ground, tearing his clothes and scraping hands and legs against the asperities of rock-face and boulders. But when the moon slid into sight he had only made about a hundred yards flanking ground. Looking back he saw that Assis had anticipated him and was already well over, climbing quickly by a smaller track that wound up the mountain.

  Damn Assis, he thought. He saw Vasco in the str
ing next to Assis suddenly throw something to his shoulder. There was a quick flirt of flame and the next instant the sharp sting of shotgun pellets bit into his legs and there was the whistle of shot through the air around him and the sharp patter as they struck at the rocky ground. He turned upwards, found a track and kept to it.

  He bent forward and ran harder, determined to get farther out of range and knowing he was playing into their hands. They wanted him up on Pae, well away from Portos Marias. The shot had been intended to show him what would happen if he tried to flank them. Lesset must have given the order. And who in Portos Marias would worry about a shot? There was still an occasional firework going up down there.

  As he ran, his lungs heaving as the strain told, he saw the whole situation. Lesset had to keep after him. The man could not turn and go back to his boat and get away because he would follow him and rouse the islanders. Lesset had to get him before dawn came. When Quisto returned, he and Tereza would be missed. Even so, he didn’t relish the idea of being chivvied around Pae all night. The sooner he could get back to Portos Marias the better.

  Meanwhile, behind Peter, Lesset was more distressed by his physical than mental state. He could walk most men of his age off their feet. As a runner he had no pride, and as a civilised human being he disapproved of any activity which increased his normal rate of respiration. Nevertheless, he managed to keep up with his party.

  A few words with Assis as, from the outside, they had marked Peter’s noisy progress through the wood, had settled their plans. A man who is being hunted is, so far as his direction is concerned, very much controlled by the people who follow him. He must go forward and, by edging ahead one flank or the other of the line, his path can be pushed to right or left. Peter did not realise it but this was being done to him. The shot fired at him had brought him back to the path Lesset intended him to follow. Hundreds of feet above them the dark, broken line of the crest was marked against the sky. Peter would hit it at a place where long ago part of the rim had broken away a sheer drop. Once on that gap which was bounded on either side by the steep, broken faces of the rim, he would be trapped. They would come behind him and drive him forward towards the black abyss. He could turn and fight, or jump. Lesset did not mind which. He was annoyed with Peter now and quite indifferent which way he would choose to die. If he jumped then Assis would have to go down by another route and get the pearl collar. After that, they would return to the town and be off. There was no reason why dawn should not find them many miles out at sea. It was enough lee-way … It was all arranged.