The Boy Who Liked Monsters (Commander Shaw Book 19)

by Philip McCutchan

  I said, my story told, “I have to ask where you’re bound, Captain.”

  “I am bound for Bordeaux.”

  “Then I have two more things to ask,” I said, watching Perro’s face. “I must ask you to take your ship to a British port, the nearest to your present position. And I must ask for the availability of your radio room the soonest possible.” I had already established the date: there were just two days to go before the signing, or non-signing, of the arms treaty.

  With an eye on Perro, Kubat asked, “And your authority, Commander Shaw?”

  That was when Perro came to life. He said flatly, “He has no authority, Captain Kubat. I am the authority.”

  Kubat gave a deferential inclination of his head. I said sharply, “You must listen to me, Captain. I have the authority of my organisation, which is an international one, with international governmental support, your own country included – ”

  “Why do you need my radio room, Commander Shaw?”

  I said, “Isn’t it obvious? You’ll not want to stand in the way of world peace. I have to inform London that the boy is safe, that there is no fear now, and the talks can be brought to a conclusion.”

  Kubat looked at Perro. Perro gave a resounding laugh and then drank some more of the ouzo. He wiped his lips with a napkin. He said, “But the boy is not safe! Is that not so, Captain Kubat?”

  *

  The frying-pan was past, the fire loomed. Not so much loomed as enclosed us. After a meal, the first for many days, and after more talk between Kubat and Perro I was taken, with James, to a cabin where we were locked in, a cabin with a single porthole covered by a screwed down dead-light. It was a double-berth cabin with a wash-hand basin and a chest-of-drawers and little else. James was pale, tearful, very agitated now; he had heard Perro’s remark to Kubat. He asked me what Perro had meant.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “Trust me, James. It’ll all come out all right. Forget it.” I looked down at him, the small face crumpled in distress. The distress was real, but there was a comic aspect. When the dry clothing had been produced for Perro and myself, the Captain’s wife had come back and given her personal attention to the boy. She had provided him with a vest, one of Kubat’s, about the size of a tent. He was almost totally submerged and the vest’s short sleeves came down below his wrists, but at least it was warm and dry. His tears worried me; he was, I believed, giving up hope. The turn of events was cruel, the high hopes dashed. I had to get him out of it, away from his misery, and I went back to the monsters again.

  It was no use. “I hate monsters!” he said through the tears, and he tried banging his fists on the bunk board in a fury of despair, but all he achieved was a funny whirl of Captain Kubat’s vest sleeves.

  I said, “All right, James. Let’s think of something else, shall we?” I knew he was interested, like most small boys, in trains and cars, so I started on trains. I told him I’d once seen the steam engine that had pulled the Flying Scotsman, but surprisingly he didn’t appear to have heard of the Flying Scotsman. I talked on, of some of the romantic railway lines of the north, of the Settle to Carlisle railway over the great viaduct at Ribblehead, of the mountains on either side as farther on the engine chugged up the gradients in clouds of steam, of the snow in winter and the lambs on the fellsides in the spring. I told him about the line that ran from Glasgow to Fort William in Argyll, through more mountains and across the remote wastes of Rannoch Moor to skirt Lochaber before Fort William; and then on to Mallaig opposite the islands of Rhum and Eigg through wild, mountainous country, over the viaduct at Glenfinnan where in 1745 Prince Charles Edward had landed to be greeted by his Highland clans to begin the march on Carlisle and Derby. James wasn’t particularly interested in the West Highland line because I couldn’t assure him that the engines broke any speed records; but his grandfather had told him about the 1745 rising and he knew there was a tall monument to Prince Charles Edward at Glenfinnan, down by the water where the prince had been rowed ashore.

  He said his grandfather had been there; not in a train, but in a Lamborghini, a very fast car indeed. Everything seemed to come back to the grandfather, and it didn’t help. But in the end he cried himself to sleep, burrowed like a chrysalis in the immensity of Captain Kubat’s vest; and I was left to think my own thoughts, and try to dream up a way out. The future was bleak.

  *

  In Captain Kubat’s cabin, in my presence, Perro had put the pressure on the master. I hadn’t gathered quite what Kubat’s involvement with Perro was; but it had become obvious that he was going to do what Perro wanted, and what Perro wanted was simple: Kubat was to continue for Bordeaux, at which port he expected to arrive after dark the following day, around twenty-four hours from the time we had been embarked. Kubat was not to use his radio to send out any messages from me. When we reached Bordeaux, Kubat was to arrange for a hired vehicle to be made available from a local garage; and the three of us – Perro, the boy and I – would disembark from the Zonguldak. Captain Kubat was to keep his mouth shut thereafter, and ensure that his crew did likewise: there was the strong hint that non-compliance would result in sudden death somewhere along the line; Perro’s arm, he said, was long and so was his memory. Kubat had agreed, nodding vigorously, that this was so.

  There would be no help from Captain Kubat.

  And after Bordeaux, it would obviously be back to the house outside Montignac. His seaborne base now gone, Perro had no alternative but to go back on his tracks. He was probably as anxious as I was; that house could have been located in the interval since we had left, and it could be nothing but a desolation of rubble and burned-out timber.

  I had wondered, as I’d listened to Perro, why he couldn’t have stayed aboard the Zonguldak, ordering Kubat to remain at sea until after the deadline; after all, the Zonguldak was equipped with up-to-date radio … but I got my answer when Kubat made that very offer, and Perro elicited the information that a coaster carried no means of long-range audio. He wished Ross Mackenzie to be brought as it were ear-to-ear with his grandson, and with Perro himself, if he was still being obstinate as the hours ran down. I suppose I should have known. The little boy was, after all, the key factor.

  *

  It was quite a good thing that James had gone into a very deep sleep; I was kept awake, not only by my own over-active mind, but by noises coming through the bulkhead alongside my bunk; our cabin seemed to be adjacent to the Kubat’s sleeping quarters. Some half an hour after Perro had finished with him, and we had been removed, Captain Kubat had retired to his sleeping cabin and for a start I heard the sounds of nuptial strife. I couldn’t follow the language but I believed I got the drift; Captain Kubat was being upbraided for something or other and was defending himself. The voices were loud; but after nuptial strife there came the drift of pleading and this was followed by nuptial togetherness. These sounds also were loud; much panting and grunting and the rhythmic drum-like thump of what I took to be Mrs Kubat’s thighs against the connecting bulkhead.

  When this was over there was a pause, a more or less silent one, then the talking began again. I heard the clear and distinct mention of names, all of them persons I had known over recent years.

  Neskuke was one. And Louis Leclerc. The mention of these names was not too surprising, considering the circumstances of what had happened back in Shoreham. But there were more names: five of them, heard as clearly as those of Neskuke and Leclerc. They were Parsons, Villiers-Smith, Ponsonby, Maitland, Lansbury. Respectively, from the British embassies in Bonn, Brussels, Paris, Washington, Santiago, all of them disappeared, totally vanished; I’d discussed them with Max, back in Focal House, seeing a possible link with Neskuke, who’d disappeared from the Moscow embassy.

  Unless he’d been in some way involved, more personally involved than had appeared to be in the case in Shoreham, I could see no way that Captain Kubat could have known the names of those other five diplomats. And if he was, or had been, involved, then it was no wonder he was beholden to Perr
o, not to say dead scared of him. I felt a pang of sympathy for Kubat, involved again by the sheerest chance of having picked up castaways at sea. He wouldn’t exactly be in a dilemma, since he’d clearly known which side his bread was buttered currently, but he would be an extremely worried man hereafter. If his part in the wrecking of the world’s hopes should ever come out, he would be crucified. And even though James and I were no doubt on the death list, come out it would: Perro, once safely out of France and into the Soviet Union, wouldn’t be any protection at all.

  And that was something worth remembering.

  I thought around the point and then I woke James. He came to with a start, face as white as before. I hissed into his ear: everything was all right and he wasn’t to be frightened. He was to keep quiet, and listen.

  I said, “You’ve got a pain in your tummy, James.”

  “No, I haven’t, Mr Shaw.”

  “Well, let’s pretend you have. It’s a game – sort of. Do you see?”

  He didn’t, of course; but he said, “Yes,” rather doubtfully.

  “A bad pain,” I said. “Soon you can start to yell. You’ve got appendicitis – you don’t need to know what that is, you’ve just got a very nasty pain in the middle of your tummy, a little to the right. Got that, have you?”

  He nodded, warily. “What will happen?”

  I said, “Captain and Mrs Kubat are next door, right alongside. There.” I pointed to the bulkhead by my bunk. “Aboard a ship, the Captain acts as doctor. In any case, Mrs Kubat’s a kindly soul. She brought you the vest, didn’t she, James?”

  He nodded again. He looked comfortable now in Kubat’s vest, with one of the lengthy arms curled into something approaching the reassurance of a teddy bear. “When she hears you, she’ll come in. So will Captain Kubat.”

  He asked, “What do I have to do, Mr Shaw?”

  “Just yell,” I said. “Very loud.”

  “Yes, all right,” he said, blinking away sleep. “When shall I start, Mr Shaw?”

  “Now,” I said, and he did.

  *

  James did very well indeed. Very quickly I heard sounds of agitation from next door: they both knew, the Kubats, how important the boy was to Perro. In no time at all Mrs Kubat entered, the door unlocked for her by her husband. Both were wearing dressing-gowns and nothing else. Mrs Kubat’s breasts hovered over the bunk where James lay. He had stopped yelling on my orders: I didn’t want to wake Perro if that could be avoided, and I prayed he wouldn’t turn up before I’d had time for a word with Captain Kubat.

  Mrs Kubat was uttering words of concern and had pulled the vest away: she had seen that James was clutching his stomach. While she rubbed at the affected part gently I spoke to Kubat. “Appendix, possibly,” I said, and he interpreted for his wife, who nodded and went on rubbing. It was unlikely either of the Kubats had any medical knowledge and if he’d had a genuine case of appendicitis Captain Kubat would no doubt have run for the nearest port. If that port had been too far off, the patient would simply have died.

  He said, “He will be landed at Bordeaux. That is, with M’sieur Perro’s permission.”

  “Which wouldn’t be given. But it’s Bordeaux I want to talk to you about, Captain.”

  “Yes?”

  I said, “You spoke some names to your wife. The bulkhead’s thin. You spoke of Neskuke, Louis Leclerc. And others.” I told him what I’d overheard, mentioning the other names: Villiers-Smith, Parsons and the others. “You’re in deep waters, friend. If you take my advice, you’ll alter for a British port and when you get there, you’ll spill the beans. That way, you’ll be safe.”

  I had rattled him; there was sweat starting on his forehead. He said, “I know nothing. Nothing!”

  I laughed at that. “Don’t be naive,” I said. “You know a damn sight more than is good for your own safety. You can’t get yourself involved in the disappearance of British diplomats plus what Perro’s attempting now and expect to get away with it, Captain Kubat. Do you imagine, for one thing, that Perro’s going to stand by you afterwards? If you do, you have to be crazy. The moment he’s in the clear himself, inside Russia, he’ll let you fall right in it – ”

  “No, no – ”

  “Or more likely,” I went on, disregarding his interruption, “he’ll see you as too dangerous to him to live. If you go on with this, Captain Kubat, you’ll sign your own death warrant. And your wife’s too. Is that what you want?”

  “It will not happen,” he said, almost beseechingly. “M’sieur Perro, he would not – ”

  “Wouldn’t he just,” I said. “He’s willing for others to die, isn’t he?” I indicated the boy. “He wouldn’t stop at you, Captain Kubat, and you know it, and I know why you’re going along with him: you’re in deep already. I can promise you discretion as to that in high circles in Britain if you’re instrumental in stopping Perro in his tracks right now. Well, Captain?”

  He dithered, swallowed, wriggled his shoulders, sweated more than ever. He saw a number of cleft sticks, I fancied. I prodded more. “You’re aware that Perro’s unarmed. You’ll have a revolver in your safe. You shouldn’t have any difficulty. I’m here to assist, remember. All you have to do is put Perro under restraint and alter course for that British port. If I were you I’d think about it.”

  “Yes,” he said. “Yes.” That was all; he said something to his wife, and she shrugged her breasts and jabbered back at him, looking puzzled about James’ condition, as well she might. I saved her further brainwork. I said the boy was all right now, the pain had gone, and when I asked James for confirmation he nodded and said he was just fine. Kubat, of course, had sussed out the situation for himself by now and turned away with Mrs Kubat behind him and left us alone, his face a study in indecision. The door was locked on us again. Perro didn’t turn up at all; he was probably as exhausted as young James. After the Kubats had gone, James asked what it had all meant, since he had no pain anyway.

  I said, “You’ll find out soon. Don’t worry about it now.”

  He gave an almighty yawn. “That fat lady,” he said, “She’s funny, Mr Shaw. Big boobs … ”

  I was a little jolted; but boys did pick things up at school. Anyway, James was asleep again before I could remonstrate. If he hadn’t been I would have issued a correction, since I was sort of in loco parentis. And I was determined that James was going to live to become a responsible and respectable citizen of the USA.

  *

  I slept that night, slept deeply, and felt a lot fresher in the morning. I cast off the butterfly bolts on the dead-light and looked out through the port at a calm sea and a climbing sun. No land within my field of vision. I wondered where we were heading but assumed it was still for Bordeaux since presumably Kubat, if he had changed his allegiance, would have come for my assistance. Half an hour after I’d woken, the door was unlocked and a steward brought breakfast, guarded by two seamen who stood in the doorway with marline-spikes in their hands. They were big men, tough, with tattoos on the backs of their hands and up their arms. A rough-house at this stage wouldn’t help anyone at all; I had to wait and see if my words had had any effect, or would soon have any effect, on Captain Kubat. For now, it was up to him.

  James woke up for breakfast. When he’d eaten some bread and marmalade and had a drink of water I hoisted him up to the port so he could look out.

  “Nice day,” I said.

  “Yes. Where are we?”

  “I can’t tell you, James. I don’t know. I haven’t seen the charts.”

  He looked round. “What are charts?”

  “Maps. Maps of the sea, to tell you where you are and where you’re going. Without them, you’re blind. Like I am now.”

  He nodded, solemn as an owl. Then suddenly he looked at me again and said, “You’re my friend, aren’t you, Mr Shaw?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Of course I am, James. Through thick and thin.”

  Tears came into his eyes. “Make me safe, Mr Shaw. Please make me safe.”

&nbs
p; “If it’s the last thing I ever do,” I said, “I’ll do that, James.” It was a promise in his ears and one I had no right to make, and no basis for making it the way things were. As I’d reflected earlier, it was currently up to Captain Kubat. And we were certainly in the thick rather than the thin. And that boy was depending on me absolutely one hundred per cent.

  Fourteen

  I heard the cabin door being unlocked; there was a sound, I thought, of stealth, of someone trying not to make too much noise.

  The Kubats came in, both of them.

  “To make sure the boy is all right,” Captain Kubat said. His breath smelt strongly of ouzo. Maybe he’d taken early in the day to the bottle to ease his mind towards a decision. “Pain in the stomach is serious, yes?”

  “Yes,” I said. Mrs Kubat, all smiles and bosom, approached the boy and once again disturbed her husband’s vest. There was something in the air, I knew. This was no genuine medical visit, any more than my call via James’ yells had been genuine. “Well, Captain?” I asked.

  He spoke in a low voice, looking towards the doorway where he had shut the door behind him. “I agree. It will be better.”

  The relief was immense. “Right, it will – much better. So what – ”

  “Here is my revolver.” Kubat slid the handgun from beneath the duffel coat he was wearing and passed it over. At once I shoved it out of sight between the mattress and bunk board where I’d been sleeping. I thanked him and asked what was his current heading.

  “Still for Bordeaux. It is safer for now, so that M’sieur Perro does not suspect too soon.”

  I nodded, but said, “There’ll come a time when he has to. How far off Bordeaux are we?”

  “Twelve hours’ steaming.”

  “Right,” I said. “We have time in hand. The nearest British port is probably Plymouth – ”