Bagley, Desmond - Wyatts Hurricane

by Wyatts Hurricane

  To begin with, the guns were indubitably Pavel's -- he had seen the Government artillery in a seemingly inextricable mess just outside St. Pierre. Pavel's guns had been firing at something, and that something was obviously the main infantry force which Serrurier had rushed up the Negrito at the first sign of trouble. Now the guns had stopped and that meant that Pavel was on the move again, pushing his own infantry forward in an assault on Serrurier's army. That army must have been fairly battered by the barrage, while Pavel's men must be fresh and comparatively untouched. It was possible that Pavel would push right through, but proof would come when next the artillery barrage began -- if it was nearer it would mean Pavel was winning.

  He had chosen to attack at night, something he had specialized in ever since he had retreated to the mountains. His men were trained for it, and probably one of Pavel's men was equal to any two of Serrurier's so long as he was careful to dictate the conditions of battle. But once get boxed in open country with Serrurier's artillery and air force unleashed and he'd be hammered to pieces. He was taking a considerable risk in coming down the Negrito into the plain around Santego Bay, but he was minimizing it by clever strategy and the unbelievable luck that Serrurier had a thick-headed artillery general with no concept of logistics.

  Causton was so occupied with these thoughts that he nearly ran into a police patrol head on. He stopped short and shrank into the shadows and was relieved when the squad passed him by unseen. He wanted to waste no time in futile arguments. By the time he got to Rawsthorne's house he had evaded three more police patrols, but it took time and it was very late when he knocked on Rawsthorne's door.

  in James Fowler Dawson was a successful writer. Not only was he accepted by the critics as a man to be watched as a future Nobel Prizewinner, but his books sold in enormous numbers to the public and he had made a lot of money and was looking forward to making a lot more. Because he liked making money he was very careful of the image he presented to his public, an image superbly tailored to his personality and presented to the world by his press agents.

  His first novel, Tarpon, was published in the year that Hemingway died. At the time he was a freelance writer concocting articles for the American sporting magazines on the glory of rainbow trout and what it feels like to have a grizzly in your sights. He had but average success at this and so was a hungry writer. When Tarpon hit the top of the bestseller lists no one was more surprised than Dawson. But knowing the fickleness of public taste he sought for ways to consolidate his success and decided that good writing was not enough -- he must also be a public personality.

  So he assumed the mantle that had fallen from Hemingway -- he would be a man's man. He shot elephant and lion in Africa; he game-fished in the Caribbean and off the Seychelles ; he climbed a mountain in Alaska; he flew his own plane and, like Hemingway, was involved in a spectacular smash; and it was curious that there were always photographers on hand to record these events.

  But he was no Hemingway. The lions he killed were poor terrified beasts imprisoned in a closing ring of beaters, and he had never killed one with a single shot. In his assault on me Alaskan mountain he was practically carried up by skilled and well-paid mountaineers, and he heartily disliked flying his plane because he was frightened of it and only flew when necessary to mend his image. But game-fishing he had actually come to like and he was not at all bad at it. And, despite everything else, he remained a good writer, although he was always afraid of losing steam and failing with his next book.

  While his image was shiny, while his name made headlines in the world press, while the money poured into his bank, he was reasonably happy. It was good to be well-known in the world's capitals, to be met at airports by pressmen and photographers, to be asked his opinion of world events. He had never yet been in a situation where the mere mention of his name had not got him out of trouble, and thus he was unperturbed at being put into a cell with Wyatt. He had been in gaol before -- the world had chuckled many times at the escapades of Big Jim Dawson -- but never for more than a few hours. A nominal fine, a donation to the Police Orphans' Fund, a gracious apology and the name of Jim Dawson soon set him free. He had no reason to think it was going to be different this time.

  "I could do with a drink," he said grumpily. "Those bastards took my flask."

  Wyatt examined the cell. It was in an old building and there was none of the modernity of serried steel bars; but the walls were of thick and solid stone and the window was small and set high in the wall. By pulling up a stool and standing on it he could barely see outside, and be was a fairly tall man. He looked at the dim shapes of the buildings across the square and judged that the cell was on the second floor of the building in which the Poste de Police was housed.

  He stepped down from the stool and said, "Why the hell were you carrying a gun?"

  "I always carry a gun," said Dawson. "A man in my position meets trouble, you know. There are always cranks who don't like what I write, and the boys who want to prove they're tougher than I am. I've got a licence for it, too. I got a batch of threatening letters a couple of years ago and there were some funny things happening round my place so I got the gun."

  "I don't know that that was a good idea, even in the States," said Wyatt. "But it certainly got us into trouble here. Your gun licence won't cut any ice."

  "Getting out will be easy," said Dawson angrily. "All I have to do is to wait until I can see someone bigger than one of those junior grade cops, tell him who I am, and we'll both be sprung."

  Wyatt stared at him. "Are you serious?"

  "Sure I'm serious. Hell, man; everyone knows me. The Government of this tin-pot banana republic isn't going to get in bad with Uncle Sam by keeping me in gaol. The fact that I've been picked up will make world headlines, and this Serrurier character isn't going to let bad change to worse."

  Wyatt took a deep breath. "You don't know Serrurier," he said. "He doesn't like Americans in the first place and he won't give a damn who you are -- if he's heard of you, that is, which I doubt."

  Dawson seemed troubled by the heresy Wyatt had uttered. "Not heard of me? Of course he'll have heard of me."

  "You heard those guns," said Wyatt. "Serrurier is fighting for his life -- do you understand that? If Favel wins, Serrurier is going to be very dead. Right now he doesn't give a damn about keeping in with Uncle Sam or anyone else -- 'he just doesn't have the time. And, like a doctor, he buries his mistakes, so if he's informed about us there'll probably be a shooting party in the basement with us as guests; that's why I hope to God no one tells him, And I hope his boys don't have any initiative."

  "But there'll have to be a trial," said Dawson. "I'll have my lawyer."

  "For God's sake!" exploded Wyatt. "Where have you been living -- on the moon? Serrurier has had twenty thousand people executed in the last seven years without trial. They just disappeared. Start praying that we don't join them."

  "Now that's nonsense," said Dawson firmly. "I've been coming to San Fernandez for the last five years -- it makes a swell fishing base -- and I've heard nothing of this. And I've met a lot of government officials and a nicer bunch of boys you couldn't wish to meet. Of course they're black, but I think none the less of them for that."

  "Very broad-minded of you," said Wyatt sarcastically. "Can you name any of these' nice boys'? That information might come in useful."

  "Sure; the best of the lot was the Minister for Island Affairs -- a guy called Descaix. He's a--"

  "Oh, no I" groaned Wyatt, sitting on the stool and putting his head in his hands, "What's the matter?"

  Wyatt looked up. "Now, listen, Dawson; I'll try to get this over in words of one syllable. Your nice boy, Descaix, was the boss of Serrurier's secret police. Serrurier said,' Do it,' and Descaix did it, and in the end it added up to a nice pile of murders. But Descaix slipped -- one of his murders didn't pan out and the man came back to life, the man responsible for all those guns popping off up in the hills. Favel,"

  He tapped Dawson on the knee. "S
errurier didn't like that, so what do you think happened to Descaix?"

  Dawson was looking unhappy. "I wouldn't know."

  "Neither would anyone else," said Wyatt. "Descaix's gone, vanished as though he never existed -- expunged. My own idea is that he's occupying a hole in the ground up in the Tour Rambeau."

  "But he was such a nice, friendly guy," said Dawson. He shook his head in bewilderment. "I don't see how I could have missed it. I'm a writer -- I'm supposed to know something about people. I even went fishing with Descaix -- surely you get to know a man you fish with?"

  "Why should you?" asked Wyatt. "People like Descaix have neatly compartmented minds. If you or I killed a man it would stay with us the rest of our lives -- it would leave a mark. But Descaix has a man killed and he's forgotten about it as soon as he's given the order. It doesn't worry his conscience one little bit, so it doesn't show -- there's no mark ."

  "Jesus I" said Dawson with awe. "I've been fishing with a mass murderer."

  "You won't fish with him ever again," said Wyatt brutally. "You might not fish with anyone ever again if we don't get out of here."

  Dawson gave way to petulant rage. "What the hell is the American Government doing? We have a base here -- why wasn't this island cleaned up long ago?"

  "You make me sick," said Wyatt. "You don't know what's going on right in front of your nose, and when your nose gets bitten you scream to your Government for help. The American Government policy an this island is' hands off', and rightly so. If they interfere here in the same way they did in the Dominican Republic they'd totally wreck their diplomatic relations with the rest of the hemisphere and the Russians would laugh fit to burst. Anyway, it's best this way. You can't hand freedom to people on a plate -- they've got to take it. Favel knows that -- he's busy taking his freedom right now."

  He looked at Dawson who was sitting huddled on the bed, strangely shrunken. "You were trying to take the car, weren't you? There was no policeman trying to drive it away at all. But you were."

  Dawson nodded. "I went upstairs and heard you and Causton talking about the hurricane. I got scared and figured I'd better get out." • "And you were going to leave the rest of us?"

  Dawson nodded miserably.

  Wyatt stretched out his legs. "I don't understand it," he said. "I just don't understand it. You're Dawson -- ' Big Jim' Dawson -- the man who's supposed to be able to outshoot, out-fight, out-fly any other man on earth. What's happened to you?"

  Dawson lay on the bed and turned to the wall. "Go to belli" he said in a muffled voice.

  IV

  The police came for them at four o'clock in the morning, hustling them out of the cell and along a corridor. The office into which they were shown was bare and bleak, the archetype of all such offices anywhere in the world. The policeman at the desk was also archetypal; his cold, impersonal eyes and level stare could be duplicated in any police office in New York, London or Tokyo, and the fact that his complexion was dark coffee did not make any difference.

  He regarded them expressionlessly, then said, "Fool, I wanted them one at a time. Take that one back." He pointed his pen at Wyatt, who was immediately pushed back into the corridor and escorted to the cell again.

  He leaned against the wall as the key clicked in the lock and wondered what would eventually happen to him -- perhaps he would join Descaix, an unlikely bedfellow. He had not heard the guns for some time and he hoped that Favel had not been beaten, because Favel was his only chance of getting clear. If Favel did not take St. Pierre then he would either be shot or drowned in the cell when the waters of Santego Bay arose to engulf the town.

  He sat on the stool and pondered. The policeman who had arrested them had shown a keen interest in Manning and Fuller, the two Englishmen from the North Coast, and he wondered why so much trouble should be taken over them in the middle of a civil war. Then he recalled Causton's questioning earlier about shipments of arms and wondered if Manning and Fuller lived in the Campo de las Perlas, the area in which Causton had said the arms had been landed. If they were involved in that, no wonder Serrurier's police were taking an interest in their doings -- and in the doings of all other English people on San Fernandez.

  Then, because he was very tired and had sat on the stool all night, he stretched out on the bed and fell asleep.

  When he was aroused the first light of dawn was peering through the high window. Again he was taken down the corridor to the bleak room at the end and pushed through the doorway roughly. There was no sign of Dawson, and the policeman behind the desk was smiling. "Come in, Mr.

  Wyatt. Sit down."

  It was not an invitation but an order. Wyatt sat in the hard chair and crossed his legs. The policeman said, in English, "I am Sous-Inspecteur Roseau, Mr. Wyatt. Do you not think my English is good? I learned it in Jamaica."

  "It's very good," acknowledged Wyatt.

  "I'm glad," said Roseau. "Then there will be no misunderstandings. When did you last see Manning?"

  "I've never seen Manning."

  "When did you last see Fuller?"

  "I've never seen him, either."

  "But you knew where they lived; you admitted it."

  "I didn't' admit' a damned thing," said Wyatt evenly. "I told your underling that I'd heard they lived on the North Coast. I also told him that I'd never seen either of them in my life."

  Roseau consulted a sheet of paper before him. Without looking up he asked, "When were you recruited into American Intelligence?"

  "Well, I'll be damned!" said Wyatt. "This is all a lot of nonsense."

  Roseau's head came up with a jerk. "Then you are in British Intelligence? You are a British spy?"

  "You're out of your mind," said Wyatt disgustedly. "I'm a scientist -- a meteorologist. And I don't mind telling you something right now -- if you don't get the people out of this town within two days there's going to be the most godawful smash-up you've ever seen. There's a hurricane coming."

  Roseau smiled patiently. "Yes, Mr. Wyatt, we know that is your cover. We also know that you British and the Americans are working hand in hand with Favel in an attempt to overthrow the lawful government of this country."

  "That'll do," said Wyatt. "I've had enough." He slapped the desk with the flat of his hand. "I want to see the British consul."

  "So you want to see Rawsthorne?" inquired Roseau with a malicious smile. "He wanted to see you -- he was here trying to get you out, together with another Englishman. It is unfortunate that, because of his official position, we cannot arrest Rawsthorne -- we know he is your leader -- but my government is sending a strong protest to London about his conduct. He is non persona grata." Roseau's smile widened. "You see I have Latin, too, Mr. Wyatt. Not bad for an ignorant nigger."

  "Ignorant is exactly the right word," said Wyatt tightly.

  Roseau sighed, as a teacher sighs when faced with the obtuseness of a particularly stubborn pupil. "This is not the time to insult me, Wyatt. You see, your companion -- your accomplice -- the American agent, Dawson, has confessed. These Americans are not really so tough, you know."

  "What the devil could he confess?" asked Wyatt. "He's as innocent of anything as I am." He moved his hand and felt a slight wetness on the palm. Turning his hand over he saw a smear of blood, and there were a few more drops spattered along the edge of the desk. He lifted his eyes and looked at Roseau with loathing.

  "Yes, Wyatt; he confessed," said Roseau. He drew a blank piece of paper from a drawer and placed it neatly before him. "Now," he said with pen poised. "We will begin again. When did you last see Manning?"

  "I've never seen Manning."

  "When did you last see Fuller?"

  "I've never seen Fuller," said Wyatt monotonously.

  Roseau carefully put down his pen. He said softly, "Shall we see if you are more stubborn than Dawson? Or perhaps you will be less stubborn -- it is more convenient for you as well as for me."

  Wyatt was very conscious of the two policemen standing behind him near the door. They had no
t moved or made a sound but he knew they were there. He had known it ever since Dawson's blood had stained his hand. He decided to take a leaf out of Rawsthorne's book. "Roseau, Serrurier is going to have your hide for this."

  Roseau blinked but said nothing.

  "'Does he know I'm here? He's a bad man when he's crossed -- but who should know that better than you? When I saw him yesterday he was giving Hippolyte a going over - -- had Hippolyte shaking in his shoes."

  "You saw our President yesterday?" Roseau's voice was perhaps not as firm as it had been.

  Wyatt tried to act as though he was always in the habit of meeting Serrurier for afternoon drinks. "Of course." He leaned over the desk. "Don't you know who Dawson is -- the man you've just beaten up? He's the famous writer. You must have heard of Big Jim Dawson -- everyone has."

  Roseau twitched. "He tried to make me believe he was "He stopped suddenly.

  Wyatt laughed. "You've put Serrurier right in the middle," he said. "He has his hands full with Favel but that's all right -- he can handle it. He told me so himself. But he was worried about the Americans at Cap Sarrat; he doesn't know whether they're going to come out against him or not. Of course you know what will happen if they do. The Americans and Favel will crack Serrurier between them like a nut."

  "What has this got to do with me?" asked Roseau uncertainly.

  Wyatt leaned back in his chair and looked at Roseau with well-simulated horror. "Why, you fool, you've given the Americans the chance they've been waiting for. Dawson is an international figure, and he's American. Commodore Brooks will be asking Serrurier where Dawson is in not too many hours from now, and if Serrurier can't produce him, alive and unhurt, then Brooks is going to take violent action because he knows he'll have world opinion behind him. Dawson is just the lever the Americans have been waiting for; they can't take up arms just because a few Americans got mixed up in your civil war -- that's not done any more -- but a potential Nobel Prizewinner, a man of Dawson's stature, is something else again."