"But isn't above doing business with them when he has some expensive merchandise to sell?"
"Just like Alice--curiouser and curiouser." Vaughan's eyes flared with a strange green light. "I've a nasty feeling we've all been had where you're concerned, old man."
"Isn't that a shame?"
Chavasse killed the conversation stone dead at that point by hauling Vaughan to his feet, running him back along the passageway and locking him in his cabin. When he returned to the saloon, Molly was still sitting at the table. It was obvious that the conversation had been completely meaningless to her and he paused and tilted her chin.
Her eyes had dropped back into their sockets and were red and angry from lack of sleep. Her skin was blotched and unsightly and she seemed completely exhausted.
"I don't like him, Paul," she said. "He frightens me."
"He can't harm you--not now." Chavasse patted her shoulder. "Why not lie down for a while? You look all in."
She nodded wearily and followed him obediently like a small child when he took her into one of the cabins. She lay on a bunk and he covered her with a blanket and left.
When he went up to deck, it was still raining hard, but the sea was a lot calmer. Youngblood's face was lined with fatigue in the grey light of morning, but his smile was as indefatigable as ever.
"We've just raised Alderney," he said and pointed to a grey-green smudge on the horizon.
"How long?"
"Half an hour. I'm giving her full power now things are calmer. The only thing we have to worry about is the fog."
"Is it likely to be bad?"
"Can't say, but it's coming in fast. On the other hand it does give us some kind of cover for the approach."
"I've just been having words with our friend below."
"Get anything out of him?"
"Apparently the Baron comes in and out by helicopter."
"Is he there now?"
"Says he doesn't know."
Youngblood shook his head. "I can't believe that. Maybe we'd better try a little persuasion."
"You'd be wasting your time. I get a distinct impression that he's the type which doesn't crack easily and I think he was telling the truth. Most of the time there's just a caretaker in residence up at the house."
"Then what do we do?" Youngblood said. "I've had a good look at the chart and Bragg was right. The jetty is the only possible anchorage. If we go in there, we could run slap into trouble."
"I've been thinking about that and I've had an idea of sorts. Let's have another look at the chart."
Youngblood switched to automatic pilot and joined him. "You're wasting your time if you're hoping to find somewhere else we can land. I've been over that chart a dozen times."
Chavasse nodded. "I had something different in mind. The house is in a hollow on the western slope. If we approached from the east where the highest cliffs are, we wouldn't be seen, especially in the fog."
Youngblood shook his head. "There isn't any possible anchorage on that side."
"Maybe not, but it looks to me as if there are plenty of places where a small boat could land."
Youngblood looked dubious. "It sounds all right in theory, but I know these waters. It's more than probable that a small boat couldn't survive in the kind of surf you'll find at the bottom of those cliffs."
"It could well be that we just don't have any choice." Chavasse shrugged. "We'll just have to wait and see."
They crept in towards the island through a grey shroud that seemed to go on forever and somewhere the surf boomed angrily like distant thunder.
The Pride of Man was making no more than two or three knots, her engine muted and Youngblood stood at the wheel, straining anxiously into the fog, feeling for the cross currents that would tell him he was getting close.
Chavasse was in the prow and suddenly, he pointed dead ahead and called excitedly. In the same moment the wind which had been strengthening noticeably for at least half an hour, tore a great hole in the curtain, giving a breathtaking view of the cliffs dead ahead.
They were perhaps two hundred yards away, the tops completely shrouded in grey, thousands of sea birds nesting on their rocky ledges and beneath them, the surf pounded in across jagged rocks.
Chavasse moved back to the wheelhouse as they went closer. "What do you think?"
Youngblood shook his head. "It doesn't look too good to me."
He approached to within fifty yards of the base of the cliffs and turned as the waves started to pull them in. Chavasse pointed to a horseshoe amongst the rocks and the strip of shingle beyond it.
"That looks something like."
Youngblood shook his head. "I still say the dinghy wouldn't last five minutes in that surf."
"What if I wore the aqualung?"
Youngblood turned quickly. "Now you're talking. I'd give you a better than even chance, always remembering that arm of yours."
"Well, you can't go, that's obvious," Chavasse said. "It looks as if I'm elected."
He went below, opened the locker in the saloon and took out the skin-diving equipment. Whatever else happened it was going to be cold out there--damned cold and he stripped quickly and pulled on the close fitting diving suit in black rubber. He slipped Pentecost's revolver into one of the pockets, zipped it up and went back on deck carrying the aqualung.
Youngblood stopped engines and joined him hurriedly. "Let's make it quick. The current could have us on those rocks before you know it."
"Give me an hour," Chavasse said as they unshipped the dinghy from its davits. "Then come back for a look. If I stay back on the shingle, that means I want you to sail round to the jetty. If I stand in the surf, then the whole think stinks. You'd better let me have your watch."
Youngblood unstrapped it and handed it across. "What will you do then?"
"I'll try to swim back to the boat."
Youngblood laughed harshly. "Rather you than me. Let's have her over then."
The dinghy was constructed of fibreglass and was therefore extremely light. They put her over the stern between them and Youngblood held on to the line while Chavasse struggled into the straps of his aqualung. He pulled the visor down over his face, adjusted the air flow and went over the side. Youngblood waved, the line went slack and as he reached for the oars, the current jerked him away.
The wind was freshening, lifting the waves into whitecaps and as he reached for the oars, the dinghy heeled and water poured in over the gunn'l. He adjusted his weight and started to row.
The engines coughed into life and the Pride of Man started to move away, but he had no time to watch its progress. He glanced over his shoulder and through the curtain of spray, the cliffs loomed larger, the surf boiling in over ragged, dangerous looking rocks. There was a hollow drumming on the hull of the dinghy and it spun round several times, grazing a black razor edge that would undoubteldy have split it neatly in half.
It was no good--his left arm simply didn't have the strength to haul on that oar under such extreme conditions. He tried desperately to control the dinghy with just the right hand, but it was no good. The oar was snatched away by a sudden fierce eddy and he grasped the sides and waited.
The cliffs were very close now, the sea breaking over great ledges of rock in a dirty white foam and behind him, a great heaving swell rolled in, sweeping the dinghy before it.
He went over the stern, water closing over his head for only a moment or so. He surfaced in time to see the dinghy smashed down against the first line of rocks. Another wave lifted it high into the air, then it bounced across the reef twice and disintegrated.
There was a great smooth funnel in the rocks to the right and as another great swell lifted behind him, he dived and started to swim towards it, his webbed feet driving him through the water.
There was turbulence all around him, thousands of white bubbles and a great curtain of sand and grit and then he was lifted up as if by a giant hand. He surfaced, aware of the smooth black sides of the funnel on either side of him and
suddenly found himself lying, arms outstretched, sprawled across a great moving bank of sand and shingle.
A giant hand seemed to be trying to pull him back and he crawled forward on hands and knees. Again the sea washed over him in a green curtain and as it receded, he staggered to his feet and stumbled forward. A moment later he was safe on the strip of beach at the foot of the cliffs.
The Pride of Man, on automatic pilot, cruised at a steady three knots, four hundred yards out from the cliffs and Youngblood stood at the rail watching Chavasse through a pair of binoculars he had found in the wheelhouse.
The tiny black figure on the beach waved once and then the curtain of mist dropped into place, hiding him from view.
Youngblood lowered the binoculars. "So far, so good," he said softly. "And now we wait."
He turned from the rail and went down the companionway to the saloon. There was no sign of Molly, but when he called her name, she answered from the galley and he found her at the stove making more coffee.
"I thought you were trying to get some sleep," he said.
She shook her head. "I just couldn't--I've got a splitting headache."
"Paul's gone ashore to see how the land lies," he told her. "So we'll be just cruising around for the next hour till we hear from him. Bring me up some coffee when it's ready."
He moved back along the passageway and paused as a thunderous kicking commenced on one of the cabin doors and Vaughan called to him.
"I say, old man, have you got a moment?"
Youngblood unlocked the door. "What do you want?" he said ungraciously.
"Where's Drummond?"
"Gone ashore."
"Has he, indeed? Now that was enterprising of him. On the other hand he seems a very resourceful sort of chap altogether, our Mr. Drummond. I must say I'd love to know how he found out who the Baron is."
Youngblood frowned. "What in the hell are you talking about?"
"Count Anton Stavru--the Baron," Vaughan said. "Drummond seemed to know all about him when we were having words half an hour or so ago."
Youngblood grabbed him by the front of his jacket, pulled him into the passageway and pushed him along to the saloon. He flung him down into a chair and stood over him threateningly.
"Now let's get this clear. You say Drummond told you he knows the Baron was this bloke Stavru?"
"That's right, old man. He even knew about our London front--World Wide Exports. To be perfectly honest, he seemed remarkably well informed to me."
"So it would seem," Youngblood said, his face dark.
Vaughan registered innocent surprise. "Don't tell me he didn't take you into his confidence?"
Youngblood didn't seem to hear him. His face had gone white and a vein bulged in his forehead just above one eye. He turned suddenly, plunged towards the companionway and went up on deck.
Vaughan started to laugh, his bound hands stretched out before him across the table and Molly, who had just come in from the galley, stood staring at him, a mug of coffee in one hand.
"Now I call that very, very funny indeed." He looked at her enquiringly. "Don't you think so?"
She eased past him on the other side of the table, a look of fear on her face and went up the companionway quickly.
Vaughan's smile disappeared and he was on his feet in an instant and moving towards the galley. He went straight to the cutlery drawer next to the sink, opened it and searched for the bread knife. He closed the drawer on the handle so that the blade stood up and set to work on the rope that linked his wrists. He was free within a couple of minutes and hurried back into the saloon.
He dropped to one knee, opened the locker beneath the bench seat and felt for the secret catch. He had made his choice in advance and stood up, the Sterling submachine gun in his hands. He checked the action quickly, then went up the companionway to the deck.
Youngblood was at the rail, binoculars raised as he searched for Chavasse through the mist and Molly stood at his left side holding his mug of coffee.
"Can you see him?" she said.
Youngblood nodded. "He's still on the beach. Must be looking for a way up."
There was an audible click behind them as Vaughan cocked the Sterling and Youngblood swung around.
"Nice and easy," Vaughan said. "And don't try anything silly and heroic, there's a good chap."
The girl gave a tiny cry of alarm and dropped the mug of coffee on the deck, clutching at Youngblood's sleeve. He pushed her away violently.
"Get off me, you stupid bitch!"
"Now then, old man, don't lose your temper. Just walk along to the wheelhouse and get this tub moving."
"And where are we supposed to be going?" Youngblood said.
"Straight into harbour as fast as we can. I want to be on hand when your friend Drummond turns up at the house, just to see the look on his face when he finds us all waiting for him."
Chavasse shrugged off the aqualung, stripped the great rubber fins from his feet and left them in a crevasse in the rocks which seemed to be well out of reach of the sea.
The cliffs towered above him into the mist, black and green, glistening with rain and spray, certainly completely unclimbable at this point and he started to work his way along the narrow strip of beach, clambering over boulders, in one place wading waist-deep, hanging on to the rocks for dear life as the sea threatened to pull him out again.
He spent at least twenty minutes in this way and at last found a section where several great fissures and gullies presented an easy if strenuous route to the top.
He climbed steadily, pausing for a breather halfway up, turning to look out to sea. The mist seemed to have thickened again and he could see no sign of the Pride of Man and he turned and started to climb.
The sound of the sea faded behind him, but in spite of the coldness of the rain and wind, he sweated heavily in the close fitting rubber suit and the pain in his left arm was constant and nagging, refusing to go away, even when he didn't use it. Blood trickled from beneath the rubber cuff of the sleeve in a thin stream, indicating the probability that some of the stitches had burst, but there was nothing he could do about that now.
He scrambled over the edge a moment or two later and lay face down in the wet grass for a while. Finally, he sat up and looked at Youngblood's watch. It was almost half past eight--later than he had imagined and he got to his feet and started up the gentle turf slope.
He reached the top and crouched suddenly. Below him was a large natural crater about fifty feet deep and two hundred across and a helicopter was parked squarely in the centre.
The other side of the crater was fringed by a line of pine trees, but there was no sign of the house which, from what he recalled of the map, was lower down the slope towards the other side of the island.
He went down into the crater and ran toward the helicopter quickly. It stood there waiting for him, strangely alien in that grey world of mist and rain and he clambered up the side ladder and unscrewed the engine canopy quickly.
There were several things he could have done to put the machine out of action without damaging the engine, but he had no time for such niceties. He selected a large and jagged stone, clambered back up the ladder and proceeded to smash as much as he would within the space of thirty seconds, paying particular attentin to the fuel supply. As the fumes of the high octane petroleum drifted into the damp air, he dropped to the ground and moved across to the shelter of the trees.
The house stood in another hollow a couple of hundred yards down the slope on the other side of the trees, but he was unable to see the inlet from that position. There was a path over to the left and he cut across to join it and started to run down towards the house.
He crouched beside a bush on the edge of the wood, the revolver in his hand and looked across a neglected lawn at the rear of the house towards a stone terrace and french windows. One of them stood slightly ajar, the end of a red velvet curtain billowing out into the rain.
He crossed to the house keeping to the line of a h
edge for shelter and moved to the french windows. The curtains were completely drawn so that it was impossible to see inside. He hesitated for only a moment, then pulled the curtain back and stepped in.
The room seemed to be in complete darkness, which was only an illusion of course, but before his eyes had a chance to become accustomed to the change of light, something hard was rammed against the side of his head.
A familiar voice said, "I'll take that, old man," and the revolver was plucked from his grasp.
A light was snapped on in the same moment. There were five other people in the room besides himself. Vaughan, who stood on the right, a Sterling sub-machine gun in his hands and Youngblood and Molly over by the door, guarded by a grey-haired ageing man whose brown face was a patchwork of wrinkles.
The man who got up from the easy chair by the empty fireplace to come forward was one of medium height and wore a thigh-length hunting jacket with a fur collar, a green Tyrolean hat slanted across a surprisingly amiable face. He was obviously somewhere in his sixties and carried himself with the assurance of the natural aristocrat.
"Come in Mr. Drummond or should I say Mr. Chavasse? We've been waiting for you." He laughed lightly. "Welcome to Babylon."
12
Alas Babylon
Youngblood pushed forward, bewilderment on his face. "What is all this?"
"You might well look puzzled, Mr. Youngblood," Stavru said. "Allow me to enlighten you. Your friend Drummond is in reality an agent of the Special Branch at Scotland Yard. His name is Chavasse--Paul Chavasse--and he was apparently put into Fridaythorpe Gaol to keep an eye on you. It would seem your bid for freedom was anticipated."
"A copper?" Youngblood said. "Him?" He laughed incredulously. "Not in a thousand years. I can smell one upwind a mile away. If he's a copper, I'm a monkey's uncle."
"So?" Stavru turned to Chavasse, eyes narrowed. "I value your expert opinion. It would seem Mr. Chavasse may well be an agent of another sort." He nodded to the grey haired man. "Take Mr. Youngblood and the young lady down to the cellar, Gledik, then I want you to go and make the helicopter ready for flight. We leave in thirty minutes."
Dark Side of the Street (1967) Page 14