The Golden Keel / The Vivero Letter

by Desmond Bagley

Coertze dropped heavily into the cockpit, his face streaming with salt water, and Francesca gave him a life jacket. We fastened our safety lines and, on a sudden impulse, I battened down the main hatch—if Walker wanted to come out he could still use the fore hatch. I wanted to seal Sanford— if she capsized and filled with water she would sink within seconds.

  Those last moments of the squall were pretty grim. If we could last them out we might stand a chance. Sanford would never sail again, but it might be possible to move her slowly by a judicious use of her engine. For the first time I hoped I had not misled Metcalfe and that he would be standing by.

  But the squall had not done with us. A violent gust of wind coincided with a freak sea and Sanford tilted alarmingly. Desperately I worked the tiller, but it was too late and she heeled more and more until the deck was at an angle of forty-five degrees.

  I yelled, ‘Hang on, she’s going,’ and in that moment Sanford lurched right over and I was thrown into the sea.

  I spluttered and swallowed salt water before the buoyancy of the jacket brought me to the surface, lying on my back. Frantically I looked round for Francesca and was relieved when her head bobbed up close by. I grabbed her safety line and pulled until we floated side by side. ‘Back to the boat,’ I spluttered.

  We hauled on the safety lines and drew ourselves back to Sanford. She was lying on her starboard side, heaving sluggishly over the waves, and we painfully crawled up the vertical deck until we could grasp the stanchions of the port safety rail. I looked back over the rail and on to the new and oddly shaped upper deck—the port side of Sanford.

  I helped Francesca over the rail and then I saw Coertze clinging to what was left of the keel—he had evidently jumped the other way. He was clutching a tangle of broken wires—the wires that were supposed to hold the keel together and which had failed in their purpose. I slid down the side and gave him a hand, and soon the three of us were uneasily huddled on the unprotected hull, wondering what the hell to do next.

  That last flailing gust of wind had been the squall’s final crack of the whip and the wind dropped within minutes to leave the hulk of Sanford tossing on an uneasy sea. I looked around hopefully for Metcalfe but the Fairmile wasn’t in sight, although she could still come out of the dirty weather left in the wake of the squall.

  I was looking contemplatively at the dinghy which was still lashed to the coach roof when Coertze said, ‘There’s still a lot of gold down there, you know.’ He was staring back at the keel.

  ‘To hell with the gold,’ I said. ‘Let’s get this dinghy free.’

  We cut the lashings and let the dinghy fall into the sea—after I had taken the precaution of tying a line to it. It floated upside down, but that didn’t worry me—the buoyancy chambers would keep it afloat in any position. I went down the deck and into the sea and managed to right it. Then I took the baler which was still clipped in place and began to bale out.

  I had just finished when Francesca shouted, ‘Metcalfe! Metcalfe’s coming.’

  By the time I got back on top of the hull the Fairmile was quite close, still plugging away at the eight knots which Metcalfe favoured for heavy seas. We weren’t trying to get away this time, so it was not long before she was within hailing distance.

  Metcalfe was outside the wheelhouse. He bellowed, ‘Can you take a line?’

  Coertze waved and the Fairmile edged in closer and Metcalfe lifted a coil of rope and began to swing it. His first throw was short, but Coertze caught the second and slid down the deck to make the line fast to the stump of the mast. I cut two lengths of line and tied them in loops round the rope Metcalfe had thrown. I said, ‘We’ll go over in the dinghy, pulling ourselves along the line. For God’s sake, don’t let go of these loops or we might be swept away.’

  We got into the dinghy and pulled ourselves across to the Fairmile. It wasn’t a particularly difficult job but we were cold and wet and tired and it would have been easy to make a mistake. Metcalfe helped Francesca on board and Coertze went next. As I started to climb he threw me a line and said curtly, ‘Make the dinghy fast; I might need it.’

  So I made fast and climbed on deck. Metcalfe stepped up to me, his face contorted with rage. He grabbed me by the shoulders with both hands and yelled, ‘You damn’ fool—I told you to make certain of that keel. I told you back in Rapallo.’

  He began to shake me and I was too tired to resist. My head lolled back and forward like the head of a sawdust doll and when he let me go I just sat down on the deck.

  He swung round to Coertze. ‘How much is left?’ he demanded.

  ‘About a quarter.’

  He looked at the hulk of Sanford, a strained expression in his eyes. ‘I’m not going to lose that,’ he said. ‘I’m not going to lose a ton of gold.’

  He called to the wheelhouse and the Moroccan, Moulay Idriss, came on deck. Metcalfe gave quick instructions in Arabic and then dropped into the dinghy and pulled himself across to Sanford. The Arab attached a heavy cable to the line and when Metcalfe got to the hulk he began to pull it across.

  Francesca and I were not taking much interest in this. We were exhausted and more preoccupied in being alive and together than with what happened to the gold. Coertze, however, was alive to the situation and was helping the Arab make the cable fast.

  Metcalfe came back and said to Coertze, ‘You were right, there’s about a ton left. I don’t know how that wreck will behave when it’s towed, but we’ll try.’

  As the Fairmile turned and the cable tautened, a watery sun shone out over the heaving sea and I looked back at Sanford as she moved sluggishly to the pull. The cockpit was half under water but the fore hatch was still free, and I said, ‘My God! Walker’s still in there!’

  Coertze said, ‘Magtig, I’d forgotten him.’

  He must have been knocked unconscious when Sanford capsized—otherwise we would have heard him. Francesca was staring back at Sanford. ‘Look!’ she exclaimed. ‘There—in the cockpit.’

  The main hatch was being forced open from the inside and I could see Walker’s head as he tried to struggle out against the rush of water pouring into the boat. His hands grasped for the cockpit coaming—but it wasn’t there—Krupke had shot it away. Then Walker disappeared as the force of the water pushed him back into the cabin.

  If he had come out by the fore hatch he would have been safe, but even in death he had to make one of his inevitable mistakes. The main hatch was open, water was pouring into the hull and Sanford was sinking.

  Metcalfe was in a rage. ‘The damn’ fool,’ he cried. ‘I thought you’d got rid of him. He’s taking the bloody gold with him.’

  Sanford was getting low in the water and as she did so, the water poured into her faster. Metcalfe stared at her in despair, his voice filled with fury. ‘The stupid, bloody idiot,’ he yelled. ‘He’s bitched things from the start.’

  It wouldn’t be long now—Sanford was going fast. The towing cable tightened as she sank lower in the water and the Fairmile went down by the stern as the pull on the cable became greater. Sanford gave a lurch as compressed air in the fo’c’sle blew out the forehatch and she began to settle faster as more water poured in through this new opening in her hull.

  The downward drag on the stern of the Fairmile was becoming dangerous and Metcalfe took a hatchet from a clip and stood by the cable. He looked back at Sanford, his face twitching with indecision, then he brought the hatchet down on the cable with a great swing. It parted with a twang, the loose end snaked away across the sea and the Fairmile bobbed up her stern.

  Sanford lurched again and turned over. As she went down and out of sight amid swirling waters a vagrant sunbeam touched her keel and we saw the glint of imperishable gold. Then there was nothing but the sea.

  III

  Metcalfe’s anger was great but, like the squall, soon subsided and he became his usual saturnine self, taking the loss with a philosophical air. ‘A pity,’ he said. ‘But there it is. It’s gone and there isn’t anything we can do about it no
w.’

  We were sitting in the saloon of the Fairmile, on our way to Malaga where Metcalfe was going to drop us. He had given us dry clothing and food and we were all feeling better.

  I said, ‘What will you do now?’

  He shrugged. ‘Tangier is just about played out now the Moroccans are taking over. I think I’ll pop down to the Congo—things seem to be blowing up down there.’

  Metcalfe and a few others like him would be ‘popping down to the Congo’, I thought. Carrion crows flocking together—but he wasn’t as bad as some. I said, ‘I think you’ve got a few things to explain.’

  He grinned. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Well, the thing that’s been niggling me is how you got on to us in the first place. What led you to suspect that we were after the gold?’

  ‘Suspect, old boy? I didn’t suspect, I knew.’

  ‘How the devil did you know?’

  ‘It was when I got Walker drunk. He spilled the whole story about the gold, the keel—everything.’

  ‘Well, I’m damned.’ I thought of all the precautions I’d taken to put Metcalfe off the scent; I thought of all the times I’d beaten my brains out to think up new twists of evasion. All wasted—he wasn’t fooled at all!

  ‘I thought you’d get rid of him,’ Metcalfe said. ‘He was a dead loss all the way through. I thought you’d put him over the side or something like that.’

  I looked at Coertze, who grinned at me. I said, ‘He was probably a murderer, too.’

  ‘Wouldn’t be surprised,’ agreed Metcalfe airily. ‘He was a slimy little rat.’

  That reminded me—I had probably killed a man too. ‘Where’s Krupke?’ I asked. ‘I haven’t seen him around.’

  Metcalfe snickered. ‘He’s groaning in his bunk—he got a faceful of splinters.’

  I held out the back of my hand. ‘Well, he did the same to me.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Metcalfe soberly. ‘But Krupke is probably going to lose an eye.’

  ‘Serve him damn’ well right,’ I said viciously. ‘He won’t be too keen to look down rifle sights again.’

  I hadn’t lost sight of the fact that Metcalfe and his crew of ruffians had been doing their damnedest to kill us not many hours before. But there wasn’t any advantage in quarrelling with Metcalfe about it—we were on his boat and he was going to put us ashore safely. Irritating him wasn’t exactly the best policy just then.

  He said, ‘That machine-gun of yours was some surprise. You nearly plugged me.’ He pointed to a battered loudhailer on the sideboard. ‘You shot that goddamn thing right out of my hand.’

  Francesca said, ‘Why were you so solicitous about my husband? Why did you take the trouble?’

  ‘Oh, I felt real bad when I saw Hal slug him,’ said Metcalfe seriously. ‘I knew who he was, you see, and I knew he could make a stink. I didn’t want anything like that. I wanted Hal to get on with casting the keel and get out of Italy. I couldn’t afford to have the police rooting round.’

  ‘That’s why you tried to hold Torloni, too,’ I said.

  He rubbed his chin. ‘That was my mistake,’ he admitted. ‘I thought I could use Torloni without him knowing it. But he’s a bad bastard and when he got hold of that cigarette case the whole thing blew up in my face. I just wanted Torloni to keep an eye on you, but that damn’ fool, Walker, had to go and give the game away. There was no holding Torloni then.’

  ‘So you warned us.’

  He spread his hands. ‘What else could I do for a pal?’

  ‘Pal nothing. You wanted the gold out.’

  He grinned. ‘Well, what the hell; you got away, didn’t you?’

  I had bitter thoughts of Metcalfe as the puppet master; he had manipulated all of us and we had danced to his tune. Not quite—one of his puppets had a broken string; if Walker had defeated us, he had also defeated Metcalfe.

  I said, ‘If you hadn’t been so obvious about Torloni the keel wouldn’t have broken. We had to cast it in a bloody hurry when he started putting the pressure on.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Metcalfe. ‘And all those damned partisans didn’t help, either.’ He stood up. ‘Well, I’ve still got to run this boat.’ He hesitated, then put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a cigarette case. ‘You might like this as a souvenir—Torloni mislaid it. There’s something interesting inside.’ He tossed it on the table and left the saloon.

  I looked at Francesca and Coertze, then slowly put out my hand and picked it up. It had the heavy familiar feel of gold, but I felt no sudden twist to my guts as I had when Walker had put the gold Hercules into my hand. I was sick of the sight of gold.

  I opened the case and found a letter inside, folded in two. It was addressed to me, care of the yacht Sanford, Tangier Harbour, and had been opened. I started to read it and began to laugh uncontrollably.

  Francesca and Coertze looked at me in astonishment. I tried to control my laughter but it kept bursting out hysterically. ‘We’ve…we’ve won…won a sweep…a lottery,’ I gasped, and passed the letter to Francesca, who also started to laugh.

  Coertze said blankly, ‘What lottery?’

  I said, ‘Don’t you remember? You insisted on buying a lottery ticket in Tangier—you said it was for insurance. It won!’

  He started to smile. ‘How much?’

  ‘Six hundred thousand pesetas.’

  ‘What’s that in money?’

  I wiped my eyes. ‘A little over six thousand pounds. It won’t cover expenses—what I’ve spent on this jaunt—but it’ll help.’

  Coertze looked sheepish. ‘How much did you spend?’

  I began to figure it out. I had lost Sanford— she had been worth about £12,000. I had covered all our expenses for nearly a year, and they had been high becaue we were supposed to be wealthy tourists; there had been the exorbitant rental of the Casa Saeta in Tangier; there was the outfitting and provisioning of the boat.

  I said, ‘It must run to about seventeen or eighteen thousand.’

  His eyes twinkled and he put his hand to his fob pocket. ‘Will these help?’ he asked; and rolled four large diamonds on to the table.

  ‘Well, I’m damned,’ I said. ‘Where did you get those?’

  ‘They seemed to stick to my fingers in the tunnel.’ He chuckled. ‘Just like that machine pistol stuck to yours.’

  Francesca started to giggle and put her hands to her breast. She produced a little wash-leather bag which was slung on a cord round her neck and emptied it. Two more diamonds joined those on the table and there were also four emeralds.

  I looked at both of them and said, ‘You damned thieves; you ought to be ashamed of yourselves. The jewels were supposed to stay in Italy.’

  I grinned and produced my five diamonds and we all sat there laughing like maniacs.

  IV

  Later, when we had put the gems away safe from the prying eyes of Metcalfe, we went on deck and watched the hills of Spain emerge mistily from over the horizon. I put my arm round Francesca and said wryly, ‘Well, I’ve still got a half-share in a boatyard in Cape Town. Will you mind being a boat-builder’s wife?’

  She squeezed my hand. ‘I think I’ll like South Africa.’

  I took the cigarette case from my pocket and opened it with one hand. The inscription was there and I read it for the first time—‘Caro Benito da parte di Adolf—Brennero—1940.’

  I said, ‘This is a pretty dangerous thing to have around. Some other Torloni might see it.’

  She shivered and said, ‘Get rid of it, Hal; please throw it away.’

  So I tossed it over the side and there was just one glint of gold in the green water and then it was gone for ever.

  THE VIVERO LETTER

  To that stalwart institution the British pub, particularly the Kingsbridge Inn, Totnes, and the Cott Inn, Dartington

  ONE

  I made good time on the way to the West Country; the road was clear and there was only an occasional car coming in the other direction to blind me with headlights. Outside H
oniton I pulled off the road, killed the engine and lit a cigarette. I didn’t want to arrive at the farm at an indecently early hour, and besides, I had things to think about.

  They say that eavesdroppers never hear good of themselves. It’s a dubious proposition from the logical standpoint, but I certainly hadn’t disproved it empirically. Not that I had intended to eavesdrop—it was one of those accidental things you get yourself into with no graceful exit—so I just stood and listened and heard things said about myself that I would rather not have heard.

  It had happened the day before at a party, one of the usual semi-impromptu lash-ups which happen in swinging London. Sheila knew a man who knew the man who was organizing it and wanted to go, so we went. The house was in that part of Golders Green which prefers to be called Hampstead and our host was a with-it whiz kid who worked for a record company and did a bit of motor racing on the side. His conversation was divided about fifty-fifty between Marshal MacLuhan waffle and Brand’s Hatchery, all very wearing on the eardrums. I didn’t know him personally and neither did Sheila—it was that kind of party.

  One left one’s coat in the usual bedroom and then drifted into the chatter, desperately trying to make human contact while clutching a glass of warm whisky. Most of the people were complete strangers, although they seemed to know each other, which made it difficult for the lone intruder. I tried to make sense of the elliptical verbal shorthand which passes for conversation on these occasions, and pretty soon got bored. Sheila seemed to be doing all right, though, and I could see this was going to be a long session, so I sighed and got myself another drink.

  Halfway through the evening I ran out of cigarettes and remembered that I had a packet in my coat so I went up to the bedroom to get it. Someone had moved the coats from the bed and I found them dumped on the floor behind a large avant-garde screen. I was rooting about trying to find mine when someone else came into the room. A female voice said, ‘That man you’re with is pretty dim, isn’t he?’