Angel Death

by Patricia Moyes

  The radio crackled, and Henry’s voice said, “Mark One to Blandish. Mark One to Blandish. Over.”

  Bob looked at Emmy inquiringly and raised his eyebrows. She said, “Blandish is me,” and switched to TRANSMIT. “Blandish to Mark One. Receiving you. Bob has joined the party. Over.”

  “Mark One to Blandish. Good. Hope he enjoys himself. By the way, Bernie and Abby aren’t together any longer. I’m sticking with Bernie. Out.”

  Emmy and Bob looked at each other for a moment. Then Emmy said, “I see. Bernie is Montgomery—Monty’s first name was Bernard. And Abby must be Dear Abby, Abigail Vanburen—which is near enough to Vanduren to mean Janet. The boats have parted company, and Henry is sticking with Ocean Rover because that’s where the prisoners are being held.”

  The next radio message, which came through just after eight o’clock, was something of a surprise. A female voice. “Katie-Lou to Starfish. Are you receiving me? Over.”

  Mrs. Montgomery’s voice was perfectly identifiable. “Starfish to Katie-Lou. Receiving you. Over.”

  “Katie-Lou to Starfish. I suggest we either abort mission or bring timing forward. Over.”

  Emmy exclaimed, “That can’t be Janet Vanduren! That’s not an American voice!”

  After a moment of crackling silence, the radio spoke again. “Starfish to Katie-Lou. Impossible to abort at this stage. You have your cargo? Over.”

  A different voice, also feminine but this time American, answered, “Katie-Lou to Starfish. Yes, we have our cargo. Please give time and place of rendezvous. Over.”

  “Starfish to Katie-Lou. Time of rendezvous now brought forward to noon. Repeat rendezvous twelve noon. Place of rendezvous, Mango Bay, St. Matthew’s. Repeat Mango Bay, St. Matthew’s. We need sheltered waters for the transfer. Over.”

  “Katie-Lou to Starfish. Confirm rendezvous twelve noon, Mango Bay, St. Matthew’s. Out.”

  Emmy flew to the telephone and dialed the home number of Inspector Ingham.

  “Mrs. Ingham? I’m sorry, but it’s Mrs. Tibbett again. May I speak to your husband?”

  “I’m really sorry, Mrs. Tibbett. He’s not taking any calls except from the police station.”

  “Oh, very well,” said Emmy irritably, and she hung up. She called the police station.

  “Duty Officer. Bob Harrison’s yard here. Did you get that Starfish message?”

  “Well—”

  “Have you told Inspector Ingham?”

  “I don’t—” There was a metallic sound and voices in the background. Emmy judged that the telephone had been snatched from the young man’s hand. Then a female voice said, “I am sorry, madam. We cannot divulge confidential information to members of the public.” There was a click, and the line went dead.

  Emmy looked at Bob Harrison. “They must have passed it on,” she said. “I mean, that was the whole idea. What do we do now?”

  The question was answered by the radio. Henry’s voice was tense. “Mark One to Blandish. Position four miles southwest of Mango Bay, small cove, don’t know its name, behind Mizzen Point. Sea conditions reasonable to poor. Bernie awaiting first rendezvous. Get help if you can. I’m going in. Out.”

  Bob Harrison said, “I’ve only got an outboard dinghy, but I’m prepared to try. You coming?”

  “Of course. But I have to contact Ingham first.” Emmy was already dialing. “Mrs. Ingham? Look, this really is life and death. I have to…oh, he has? To the police station?…Thank you.” She hung up and turned to Bob. “Can you take me to the police station at once in your jeep?”

  “Can’t you telephone?”

  “Not safe,” said Emmy briefly.

  In the street outside the police station, cleanup work was already in progress. Gangs of men in trucks were carting away refuse, while others swept debris off the road. Emmy felt highly conspicuous as the only woman in sight, hanging around on a street corner. However, within a few minutes Inspector Ingham’s familiar little black car drove up. As he got out of it, Emmy rushed to intercept him before he could go into the station.

  “Mrs. Tibbett—I told you—”

  Breathlessly, Emmy said, “About four miles southwest of Mango Bay, a small cove protected by Mizzen Point. We don’t know its name. You must get there as fast as you can, Inspector. Henry’s there in Mark One, on his own. Bob Harrison and I are going over in an outboard dinghy—”

  “Are you crazy, Mrs. Tibbett?”

  “No, no, no, for God’s sake. There’s been a lot of craziness, but this isn’t it. This is real. Please, Inspector. So far there’s only one boat, the Ocean Rover, but the Katie-Lou will arrive any moment. Just get out your launch and get there. You’ll probably overtake us.”

  “I’ll probably have to rescue you.” Ingham was very angry. “The wind’s dropped, but the swells are still high. Those are no seas for an outboard dinghy to be out in. I don’t want any damned fool tourists drowning on me—”

  “Then come after us,” said Emmy, who then fled around the corner to Bob’s waiting jeep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  IN THE SMALL bay under Mizzen Point, which was locally known as Dutchman’s Cove, Ocean Rover was at anchor, bucking and swaying in the waters, which, although sheltered, were still feeling the swell caused by the hurricanes.

  Henry knew that he had no hope of making a surprise attack—the crew of Ocean Rover would certainly have heard his VHF message and be expecting him. However, this state of affairs had another side to it. The Montgomerys must also realize that the police, too, had picked up the signal, and—while Ingham might well disregard it as coming from a lunatic—if Henry should disappear or be found murdered, then there would be no doubt as to whom to blame. Also, they believed that Dr. Vanduren was their ally. Grasping at these two small straws, Henry maneuvered Mark One up alongside Ocean Rover.

  At the sound of the motor, Colonel Montgomery came up on deck.

  “Ah, Mr. Tibbett. We were expecting you, old man. Throw me a line and we’ll tie your boat astern.” His voice sounded perfectly friendly and normal. A minute later, Henry was on board Ocean Rover while Mark One streamed astern on a long painter.

  “Come below.” Montgomery’s voice was harder and less friendly. “I think there are a few things we have to discuss.”

  In the cabin, everything appeared normal. Mrs. Montgomery was at the stove, preparing coffee. Dr. Vanduren sat at the table, studying a chart. As Henry went down the companion ladder, Montgomery’s voice behind him said, “Just as a precaution, I have you covered and I won’t hesitate to shoot if you try anything funny. Sit down, please.”

  Henry sat down next to Vanduren. Montgomery stood with his back to the companion ladder. He held a revolver in his hand. He said, “You are a nuisance, Mr. Tibbett, but not a serious one. I understand from my young friends on Katie-Lou that you became rather too curious about certain matters on St. Mark’s, and so we were forced to give you a little tranquilizer on your last visit to Ocean Rover. It was in the rum punch, of course. My friends followed you ashore and kept you fed with small regular doses, and I understand that the effect was most gratifying. As a matter of fact, you did us a service by getting Ingham and Pendleton worked up about the drug scene—precisely the tactics we were using ourselves. I admit we rather hoped you wouldn’t survive the hurricane—but as Ed remarked, if you did it was highly unlikely that you would remember anything about your recent experiences—and even if your memory returned, nobody would believe you. I don’t know what you think you have achieved by chasing us out here, but I’m afraid you’ve signed your own death warrant. Oh, I’m not going to shoot you if I can help it.” He turned to his wife. “How’s the coffee coming along, Martha?”

  “A couple of minutes.”

  “Good. Dr. Vanduren, please be a good fellow and get the PCP from the fo’c’sle. You will be taking another drink with us, Mr. Tibbett. If you refuse your coffee, we will be compelled to knock you out and inject the drug—but one way or the other, you will get it. We will then put you in
to your launch, set the motor full ahead, and point her out to sea. I don’t think that you will be heard of again.”

  Dr. Vanduren had disappeared through the door leading to the fore part of the ship. He seemed to be taking rather a long time, and Montgomery was showing signs of impatience when he finally reappeared carrying an envelope, which he handed to Mrs. Montgomery.

  “Half a gram,” he said. “That should do it.”

  “Thank you, Lionel,” said Martha Montgomery. There was an eerie normality about the whole scene. She poured out a mug of coffee and stirred the white powder from the envelope into it, as if it had been sugar. Then she held the mug out to Henry. “Drink it.”

  Henry said, “You must really think I’m crazy. You dare not shoot me, and you surely don’t think—”

  Martha Montgomery said, “Come on, Lionel. The two of us can manage him while Bill gets it down him. In case he is found, the autopsy shouldn’t show syringe marks.”

  Henry leaped to his feet, but the small cabin gave him no room to maneuver. Mrs. Montgomery, like an Amazon, got hold of one of his arms, and Dr. Vanduren the other. Bill Montgomery, still holding the gun, looked on almost benignly. As he struggled, Henry became aware of a whisper in his ear. “Drink it! It’s harmless.”

  It flashed across Henry’s mind that he had been dubious about trusting Vanduren from the start. A self-confessed dope-pusher, a doctor with a murky secret in his past. Now he had to decide whether or not to trust this man with his life. Decide? There was really no decision. He allowed himself to be overpowered and put up only token resistance as the contents of the mug were poured down his throat. It occurred to him that Mrs. Montgomery made very bad coffee.

  When the mug was empty, the atmosphere in the cabin relaxed. Montgomery put down his gun and said, “I’ll have a cup myself now, dear. How about you, Doctor?”

  “Thanks.”

  Henry sat quite still, feeling nothing unusual, but not knowing when to expect the onset of symptoms, had the drug been genuine, nor at what point to start simulating them if Vanduren had really substituted a harmless powder. In the latter case, he had no idea of what form the symptoms should take. He let his head droop forward, feeling that this could hardly be wrong.

  Vanduren said, “Interesting to see the reaction to such a massive dose. We don’t seem to be getting the usual nystagmus and repetitive movements. I should say he’ll go straight into a coma within a few minutes, maybe with spasmodic convulsions.”

  Henry’s spirits rose. For a start, he still felt perfectly well. To go on with, Vanduren was quite clearly telling him how to behave. Coma within a few minutes? Spasmodic convulsions? So be it. He drooped his head still further. Then he executed what he felt was a rather artistic spasmodic convulsion, rolled his eyes, and collapsed with his head on the cabin table.

  Vanduren said, “As I thought. I’ll just take a look at him to make sure… ” He bent over Henry, and as he did so whispered, “You take him, I’ll deal with her. Now!”

  The advantage of surprise in attack is well known. As a straight matter of physical strength, it is doubtful whether Henry and the doctor could have overcome the Montgomerys; but the impact of an apparently comatose individual and a trusted ally suddenly turning on their coffee-drinking hosts was shattering. This effect was aided by the fact that Vanduren threw his boiling coffee in Mrs. Montgomery’s face, and that Henry was able to grab the gun, which Montgomery had laid down on the table while drinking his coffee. Henry was slightly built, but he had taken a course in unarmed combat, and Montgomery went down like a felled ox. As for the doctor, even the Junoesque Martha was no match for his huge physique.

  Panting slightly, he said to Henry, “Cover her with the gun while I get rope. How long will he be out?”

  “Only a minute or so.”

  “That’s all we need.” Vanduren leaped up into the cockpit and returned seconds later with a couple of stout ropes. Martha Montgomery spat in his face as he tied her arms, but the doctor was unmoved.

  “Now for you, my friend.” The unconscious Montgomery was neatly trussed.

  Henry said, “You’re a marvel. What was it?”

  “Bicarbonate of soda. All I could find. Now, come and help me free those wretched youngsters in the fo’c’sle.”

  Henry laid down the gun and was following the doctor through to the forward compartment when there was a shattering explosion and a bullet thudded into the ship’s woodwork a few inches from Henry’s head. A voice, which he recognized as that of the man who had called himself Carstairs, said, “Stay where you are and put your hands up, both of you. That was just to show you we mean business.”

  Turning slowly, with raised hands, Henry saw the man he knew as Carstairs coming down into the cabin, followed by his wife. Ed Marsham and Janet Vanduren. Ed nodded briefly toward the gun on the table.

  “Take that, Jan. Don’t hesitate to use it. I’ll keep them covered while you untie Martha and Bill. Looks like we got here just in time. Then we’ll deal with Kate and Lou. We’ll make that noon rendezvous with time to spare.”

  Bob Harrison’s outboard dinghy was never intended to make the trip from St. Mark’s to St. Matthew’s through the choppy seas left in the wake of the hurricanes. Fortunately, the wind was astern, but the tiny craft rolled dangerously and the waves threatened to swamp her. Bob’s main concern was that the outboard might get drenched, thus putting it out of action and leaving no means of propulsion except for a pair of oars; so Emmy spent the hair-raising trip hanging on to the boat with one hand and with the other trying to protect the motor from spray with an old oilskin.

  Fortunately, as Bob pointed out, the rendezvous spot had been chosen at the point where the two islands were closest together, and so, although it felt like a century, it was only about half an hour before Emmy shouted, against the noise of the motor, “Look! There they are!”

  “Aye,” said Bob. “Both boats, with a couple of dinghies and the old Mark One all tied up astern the Ocean Rover. Well, my dear, here we go.”

  The dinghy was about a hundred yards from the anchored Ocean Rover when it happened. A big breaking stern wave accompanied with a sudden gust of wind whipped the oilskin out of Emmy’s hand and water cascaded over the outboard. The motor spluttered and fell silent, leaving the little boat rocking like a cockleshell, turning beam-on to the seas and threatening every moment to overturn.

  “Oh, Bob, I’m sorry,” Emmy wailed.

  To her surprise, he grinned. “Not your fault,” he said generously. “Best get those paddles out, and quick, get her nose up. Lucky we’re nearly there.”

  As a matter of fact, the failure of the outboard was a blessing in disguise, since it ensured that Emmy and Bob would approach the Ocean Rover under the silent power of a pair of oars, with no telltale puttering of a noisy outboard. In consequence, the people on board, who had other things on their minds, were not aware that two additional passengers had added yet another dinghy to the duckling flock which now streamed astern and had climbed silently into the cockpit.

  Ed Marsham was still talking. “Sure, we’ll make the rendezvous, but there’s plenty to do. Hurry up with those ropes, Jan. O.K. You all right, Bill?”

  With much grumbling and picturesque language, Montgomery heaved himself into a standing position. Marsham said, “How come you let this happen?”

  It was Martha who answered. “Your friend Dr. Vanduren,” she said, “is apparently an undercover police agent. He was supposed to give Tibbett a half-gram of PCP, instead of which he gave him bicarbonate of soda and instructions how to act like he was going into a coma.” Her voice was low and venomous. “Tibbett we can now drug properly and dispose of that way. It would be unfortunate if he were found with gunshot wounds. I don’t think we have to worry in the same way about Dr. Vanduren.”

  There was a moment of silence. Then Marsham turned to Janet Vanduren. He said just two words. “Kill him.”

  Slowly, her voice slurred, Janet Vanduren said, “He’s my father.”
/>
  “You’ve killed before. You can kill again. What the hell does it matter who he is? He’s in our way and he has to go. Kill him, or I shall kill you.”

  Like a small child, Janet Vanduren whimpered, “I can’t. He’s my father. Why don’t you kill him?”

  “Because it would amuse me to see you do it.”

  Softly, Dr. Vanduren said, “Come along, Jan. Be brave. Get it over with. You can do it.”

  “Dad, I—”

  “He means it, Jan. I have to die anyway. Come on. Be a brave girl. “

  A dinghy oar is a useful weapon in that it can be used at quite a distance from its target, being over six feet long. It is not as a rule lethal, but as a breaker-up of tense situations it has few rivals.

  Marsham had taken up the position formerly occupied by Montgomery, at the foot of the companion ladder, with his back to the cockpit. This was obviously the best point from which to dominate the cabin with his gun. It also meant that the dinghy oar wielded by Bob Harrison descended on his head with shattering violence.

  Marsham staggered, then fell. Before the other occupants of the cabin had time to react, Janet Vanduren took aim and shot him as he struggled to get to his feet. For an endless moment, the dying man on the floor and the girl with the gun looked at each other, then, with the last of his strength, Marsham raised his gun and shot at her. She collapsed into her father’s arms as Harrison and Emmy came tumbling down the ladder into the cabin.

  Montgomery snatched the gun from Marsham’s dead hand and said calmly, “Martha dear, I think it’s time we left.”

  The gun was leveled at Bob Harrison, who faced it with a dinghy oar, like a caricature of a Home Guardsman facing the might of Nazi Germany. Henry did a quick mental calculation and said, “Let them go, Bob.”

  “But—”

  “Let them go. Enough people have been hurt already.”

  Reluctantly, Bob lowered his primitive weapon, and a moment later both Montgomerys were in the cockpit. Twenty seconds later Bob let out a roar of sheer fury. “They’ve taken Mark One!”