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 inopportune 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 Hippolyte."
"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 toe 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 bland"
"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 Rawsthorne'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 hade 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 delivere d 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 Imp
eriale."
There was a low nimble 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 gun-fire."
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. Dawson 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 acknowledgment, 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 bar-tender 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 bar-tender scuttled out. "What the hell I I like self-service bars better."
Mrs. Warmington said briskly, "Well, now that you're here with a car we can leave for the Base."
Wyatt sighed. "I don't know if that's wise. We may not get through. Serrurier's crowd is trigger-happy; they.'re likely to shoot first and ask questions afterwards -- and even if they do ask questions we're liable to get shot."
Dawson thrust a drink into his hand. "Hell, we're Americans ; we've got no quarrel with Serrurier."
"We know that, and Commodore Brooks knows it -- but Serrurier doesn't. He's convinced that the Americans have supplied the rebels with guns -- the guns you can hear now -- and he probably thinks that Brooks is just biding his time before he comes out of the Base to stab him in the back."
He took a gulp of the drink and choked; Dawson had a heavy hand with the whisky. He swallowed hard, and said, "My guess is that Serrurier has a pretty strong detachment of the army surrounding the Base right now -- that's why your transport hasn't turned up."
Everyone looked at him in silence. At last Mrs. Warming-ton said, "Why, I know Commodore Brooks wouldn't leave us here, not even if he had to order the Marines to come and get us."
"Commodore Brooks has more to think of than the plight of a few Americans in St. Pierre," said Wyatt coldly. "The safety of the Base comes first."
Dawson said intently, "What makes you think the Base isn't safe, anyway?"
"There's trouble coming," said Wyatt. "Not the war, but--"
"Anyone home?" someone shouted from the foyer, and Julie said, "That's Mr. Causton."
Causton came into the bar. He was limping slightly, there was a large tear in his jacket and his face was very dirty with a cut and a smear of blood on the right cheek. "Damn' silly of me," he said. "I ran out of recording tapes, so I came back to get some more." He surveyed the small group. "I thought you'd all be at the Base by now."
"Communications have been cut," said Wyatt, and explained what had happened.
"You've lost your chance," said Causton grimly. "The Government has quarantined the Base -- there's a cordon round it." He knew them all except Mrs. Warmington, and regarded Dawson with a sardonic gleam in his eye. "Ah, yes, Mr. Dawson; this should be just up your street. Plenty of material here for a book, eh?"
Dawson said, "Sure, it'll make a good book." He did not sound very enthusiastic.
"I could do with a hefty drink," said Causton. He looked at Wyatt. "That your car outside? A copper was looking at it when I came in."
"It's quite safe," said Wyatt. "What have you been up to?"
"Doing my job," said Causton matter-of-factly. "All hell's breaking loose out there. Ah, thank you," he said gratefully, as Papegaikos handed him a drink. He sank half of it in a gulp, then said to Wyatt, "You know this island. Supposing you were a rebel in the mountains and you had a large consignment of arms coming in a ship -- quite a big ship. You'd want a nice quiet place to land it, wouldn't you? With easy transport to the mountains, too. Where would such a spot be?"
Wyatt pondered. "Somewhere on the north coast, certainly; it's pretty wild country over there. I'd go for the Campo de las Perlas -- somewhere round there."
"Give the man a coconut," said Causton. "At least one shipload of arms was landed there within the last month -- maybe more. Serrurier's intelligence slipped up on that one -- or maybe they were too late. Oh, and Favel is alive, after all." He patted his pockets helplessly. "Anyone got a cigarette?"
Julie offered her packet. "How did y
ou get that blood on your face?"
Causton put his hand to his cheek, then looked with surprise at the blood on his fingertips. "I was trying to get in to see Serrurier," he said. "The guards were a bit rough -- one of them didn't t ake his ring off, or maybe it was a knuckleduster."
"I saw Serrurier," said Wyatt quietly.
"Did you, by God!" exclaimed Causton. "I wish I'd known; I could have come with you. There are a few questions I'd like to ask him."
Wyatt laughed mirthlessly. "Serrurier isn't the kind of man you question. He's a raving maniac. I think this little lot has finally driven him round the bend."
"What did you want with him?"
"I wanted to tell him that a hurricane is going to hit this island in two days' time. He threw us out and banished the hurricane by decree."
"Christ!" said Causton. "As though we don't have enough to put up with. Are you serious about this?"
"I am."
Mrs. Warmington gave a shrill squeak. "We should get to the Base," she said angrily. "We'll be safe on the Base."
Wyatt looked at her for a moment, then said to Causton in a low voice, "I'd like to talk to you for a minute."
Causton took one look at Wyatt's serious face, then finished his drink. "I have to go up to my room for the tapes; you'd better come with me."
He got up from the chair stiffly, and Wyatt said to Julie, "I'll be back in a minute," then followed him into the foyer. Causton produced a flashlight and they climbed the stairs to the first floor. Wyatt said, "I'm pretty worried about things."
"This hurricane?"
"That's right," said Wyatt, and told Causton about it in a few swift sentences, not detailing his qualms, but treating the hurricane as a foregone conclusion. He said, "Somehow I feel a responsibility for the people downstairs. I think Julie won't crack, but I'm not too sure about the other woman. She's older and she's nervous."
"She'll run you ragged if you let her," said Causton. "She looks the bossy kind to me."
"And then there's Eumenides -- he's an unknown quantity but I don't know that I'd like to depend on him. Dawson is different, of course."
Bagley, Desmond - Wyatts Hurricane Page 7