by Antony Trew
“Cools things down rather, don’t you think?”
In between wondering how the new arrivals were going to complicate what was about to happen, the Newt speculated on the precise geometry of the Freiherr’s scars.
“Where do you normally live, Herr Newton?”
The Newt lit a cigarette and put the spent match in the ash-tray with exaggerated care. Blowing a cloud of smoke at the deckhead, he looked at the Freiherr. “Oporto, actually.”
“Unusual,” said the Freiherr, frowning. “An Englishman from Oporto? In Lourenço Marques? While his country is at war?”
The expression in the brown eyes didn’t match the half-apologetic smile which accompanied the next statement. “What brings you here at this time, Herr Newton?”
The atmosphere in the cabin was electric and the women began to feel the tension between the Germans and their guests.
The Newt’s grey eyes stared unconcernedly at the Freiherr, while he strained for a sound from outside—for the sound of riveting. Johan and David Rohrbach were taut, wary of the conversation, Johan knowing that this was “Swiss Fritz” of the Montelémar, trying to reconcile the face he now saw with the one he had known then; wondering exactly what the significance of this unexpected arrival was; sizing up Heinrich Schäffer at close range and deciding that he and the German were about the same height and weight but noting with an athlete’s eye that the German wets not fit, that he carried too much weight, that his neck and face muscles were flabby, his stomach too prominent.
Rohrbach, wondering much the same things, was tenser and more highly strung than Johan, but his keen brain was evaluating the new situation, recording the relative positions of those in the cabin, trying to anticipate their reactions when events outside aroused their suspicions.
The Newt’s calm voice interrupted his thoughts: “I’m here on business, actually.”
“What sort of business, Herr Newton? “The brown eyes, unblinking, had a curious intentness.
“My family has a wine export business in Oporto. We trade with Mozambique.”
The Freiherr stroked his chin, nodding as he weighed this information. “I see. And you, Herr le Roux?” He switched suddenly to Johan. “What brings you here?”
“Holidaying. I like the place. The change from the Union.”
“Ah! You like the place.” He nodded again, slowly, then his eyes shifted to David Rohrbach. “And you, Herr Rohrbach—what is it that brings you here?”
An element of theatre had entered into the proceedings: the Freiherr’s slow, deliberate questioning which had silenced all other conversation in the cabin; the puzzled faces of the women who sensed that something was wrong; the quietness of the other Germans, each observing their male guests covertly—each of them, that is to say, except Kuhn, who appeared to be as drowsy as Mariotta whose eyelids kept drooping, only to be lifted with an embarrassed start each time she found herself dropping off to sleep.
Rohrbach said: “I came down with le Roux—on holiday,” but his heart thumped so hard he wondered if it could be heard. “I’ve always liked the place.”
“Yes. Delightful, isn’t it?” Von Falkenhausen turned away from the men and spoke to Di Brett. “Do you know Lourenço Marques well, Mrs. Brett?” The cornflower blue eyes dropped and she smiled nervously. “Pretty well. I’ve been staying at the Polana for some months. There’s something awfully attractive about L.M., don’t you think?”
“Indeed, Mrs. Brett, I do.” He looked at the Captain. “Forgive me, Kapitän. I seem to monopolise the conversation but—meeting so many charming strangers at once—one is naturally curious.” Turning to them again, he laughed. “I can never go into a room and see strangers without wondering who they are and what they do. Appearances are so often deceptive.”
“Aren’t they?” Johan grinned amiably. “Now suppose you tell us what you do. And how you got those scars. Must be a good story, that.” This produced a ripple of laughter in which the Germans didn’t join.
The Freiherr shook his head. “The truth is very dull. I’m a shipping man. And the scars—well—I’m a German. We
have duelling—the British have foxhunting—the French——”
he shrugged his shoulders. “I suppose they have something——”
Günther Moewe sniggered.
“The Tour de France, if you’re thinking of sport,” said Rohrbach quietly. “Apart from that a great deal of culture—a quality in short supply in Europe these days, wouldn’t you say?”
Hester Smit made a moue. “What about talking to us for a change? This party’s getting very dull.”
“Hear! Hear!” Cleo smiled sadly. “You’d think we weren’t here.”
“I quite agree.” Di Brett, who was doing her lips, a small mirror in her hands, nodded briskly. “Talk to us. You’ll find us quite intelligent.”
The Freiherr’s slow smile of embarrassment was irresistible. “A thousand apologies, ladies. You are quite right.”
Lindemann got up. “Who’s ready for a drink?”
At that moment a high-pitched lacerating sound, a satanic forge worked by frenzied hammerers, shattered the silence outside. Rohrbach’s heart jumped. The riveting! It was 2211—at long last. He thought a prayer of gratitude.
The conversation started again, but Herr Kuhn and Mariotta Pereira were not much interested. “They’re tight,” giggled Hester. Mariotta heard her, yawned, and smiled weakly. “I’m so tired.”
With an effort Kuhn pulled himself upright in his chair and passed his hand across his eyes. Then, smiling apologetically at his Captain, he picked up the stein, drained it compulsively and looked round the room with sleepy eyes. The tension in the cabin dissipated slowly and the party got into some sort of stride again until, perhaps ten minutes later, von Falkenhausen looked at his watch and spoke to Lindemann. “Kapitän, please excuse me, I must be going. I came only to bring you the news of the repairs. There is much to do to-morrow. An early start is essential.”
Lindemann stood up. “I am sorry you cannot stay, Herr Baron. The night is still young. But I understand, of course. Let me see you to the launch.”
The Freiherr shook his head. “No. Please! Herr Schäffer will see me off. I insist that you remain with your guests.”
Heinrich Schäffer got up and joined von Falkenhausen. They stood together, clicking their heels and bowing this way and that.
“Auf wiedersehen, ladies and gentlemen!” said the Freiherr gallantly.
The men stood up, the women remained seated. Von Falkenhausen and Schäffer moved to the door—as they reached it they spun round, in their hands Luger pistols pointing directly at Rohrbach, the Newt and Johan. Schäffer was scowling, but the Freiherr’s smile was as elegant as ever.
“Hands up, gentlemen!” The voice was hard, implacable, in spite of the smile. “Quickly, please! No nonsense.”
Rohrbach remembered thinking: “For Christ’s sake, what’s gone wrong?” The Newt said: “Quel drame!” But their hands went up all the same.
Other than for Cleo and Di Brett’s little shrieks of surprise, there was not a sound in the cabin. Moewe had picked up a revolver from somewhere while the Freiherr was talking, and now he moved over behind Rohrbach, Johan and the Newt, who were acutely aware of his presence. Lindemann, too, had produced a gun—he sat upright in the arm-chair in the corner, his weather-beaten face unusually drawn. He disliked violence and though he knew the Freiherr was bluffing, trying to frighten these Britishers into talking, he feared the situation might get out of control.
With his free hand the Freiherr pointed to the settee behind them. “Keep your hands above your heads and sit down, please. I have something to say to you.”
They sat down and von Falkenhausen spoke again—the smile had gone now and there was an edge to his voice. “You gentlemen are playing a dangerous game. This ship is German territory. There are penalties for spies in wartime and they are not pleasant——” While he allowed the significance of what he’d said to sink in, the brown eyes took on a new
hardness and the strong mouth set implacably.
There was a long, frightening pause—no one moved, and but for the continuous metallic rattle of riveting which came from outside the only sound in the cabin was the subdued whirr of the electric fan.
But suddenly, dramatically, this tableau changed to violent movement with the explosive crackle of five shots fired in quick succession through a porthole on the starboard side.
The women screamed as the bullets ripped into the bulkhead behind Günther Moewe’s head.
Chapter Fifteen
The firing was followed by the utmost confusion in the Captain’s cabin.
The women screamed high shrieks of terror as von Falkenhausen and Schäffer, who’d been facing Rohrbach, Johan and the Newt, swung round firing at the porthole from which the shots had come.
When the second shot whistled past his head, Moewe threw himself down behind the settee on which the Britishers were sitting. After the initial shock, confused thoughts raced through his mind: there was an attack of some kind on the ship—of what sort and why he had no idea, but it had something to do with the presence on board of the three British naval officers. Somehow he must get out of the cabin—to the radio telephone—alert the shore authorities—this was a neutral port—whatever the British were up to was illegal—they couldn’t get away with it!
Another good reason for getting out of the cabin was his desire to survive; there were armed men at the portholes, the chances of getting shot seemed pretty high, and Moewe had no desire to be shot. Within the brief moment of these thoughts he translated them into action, rolling sideways towards the pantry door, the revolver still in his hand. The noise was unbelievable, the screams of the women, more firing—it seemed in the cabin now—the hoarse shouts of Lindemann and the Freiherr and, above it all, the unceasing clamour of riveting coming over the water. Reaching the pantry door he slid through it feet first, propelling himself forward on his elbows, buttocks and heels. Behind him an English voice shouted. He shut the pantry door and ran through into the alleyway. A lot had happened in the cabin in the five seconds it had taken Moewe to reach the pantry. As von Falkenhausen and Schäffer swung round and fired at the portholes on the starboard side, the screen-door behind them opened and McFadden, Hans and Mike Kent, faces blackened, hair tousled, burst in with their automatics in their hands. McFadden’s shout sounded above the general clamour. “Hands up!”
Suddenly there was a superfluity of guns, for as von Falkenhausen and Schäffer turned away, Rohrbach, Johan and the Newt jumped to their feet, automatics drawn. Rohrbach covered Lindemann, for whom the pace of events was too much—he stood open-mouthed, gaping into the barrel of Rohrbach’s gun, his own at his feet, his hands above his head. Kuhn remained in the arm-chair, alarmed, blinking in bewilderment, half-way across the threshold of sleep.
But the Newt wasn’t taking any chances and he stood over the little man with the barrel of his automatic a foot from the close-cropped head.
On hearing McFadden’s shout the two Germans had spun round to find themselves looking into the barrels of six guns—their guests’ and the new arrivals’. The Freiherr smiled wanly, dropped his Luger and put up his hands. For a moment Schäffer looked as if he might make a fight of it, but he saw Johan’s gun pointing at him and didn’t like the look in the big man’s eyes, or the broken nose and cauliflower ears, so he dropped his gun and put up his hands. He knew a tough man when he saw one. Schäffer was tough, too, but it was no good now. Maybe later.
Mike Kent picked up the guns the Germans had dropped, and McFadden said: “Chuck ’em over the side, Mike boy.”
It was all over in the cabin.
They pushed the four Germans into a corner, made them sit with their hands clasped on their heads, and asked the women to go into the Captain’s sleeping cabin and stay there until further notice. Mariotta was too tired to be really interested in what was happening—she kept yawning and mumbling “Holy Mother!” Hester and Cleo helped her through the door and with Di Brett they went into Lindemann’s cabin. Di Brett sat on the bunk, Mariotta lay on it, and the others sat on small chairs.
The effect of these events on the women was variously catastrophic: Cleo Melanides was shattered by it all—the guns produced by the Freiherr and Schäffer, the firing through the portholes, the return fire from the Germans, the three thug-like men bursting into the cabin, arms and faces blackened, the whites of their eyes and their pink lips theatrically bright under the crude make-up, their faces grim, their guns menacing.
And then the final shock when Johan, Rohrbach and the mild-looking Mr. Newton had produced their automatics—these so-called strangers whom it now seemed all knew each other—the whole thing was obviously pre-arranged. Whatever it was, it was like a bad dream. Terrifying! Unbelievable! What on earth was it all about? One thing seemed certain—the British, whoever they were, were getting the best of it and because she was Greek and had only done what she had for the sake of Mariotta whom she adored and who couldn’t keep away from Lindemann, she was glad.
It served the Germans right. They deserved this after what they’d done to Greece! Yes, I’m glad, she thought. I’m very glad, but I’m frightened, too. Mixed with these emotions, was resentment that Rohrbach and Johan should have got her and Mariotta involved. She could see now how the women had been made use of.
Hester Smit, after an initial bout of terror notwithstanding Günther Moewe’s warning that morning, was beginning to adjust herself to the pace of events. She liked excitement and had plenty of courage, but she was glad that the firing had stopped and she was glad, too, that Johan and his men had come out on top. She’d fallen heavily for Johan—he was her countryman—he was big and strong—kind, too, anyone could see that—and he had a sense of humour although he had seemed very fierce standing there with his gun aimed at Schäffer, looking as though he’d like to use it. But it had happened that, at that moment, her eyes had met Johan’s and he had winked. She had wanted to laugh but somehow couldn’t.
Mariotta was too heavily drugged to have much idea of what was going on. She heard and saw it all dimly, as through a mist. It was disturbing and yet funny, too, in a way—cowboys and crooks—that was what it was—they were acting —charades—not dumb ones though—the noise was fabulous!
Holy Mother! she thought, I’m drunk. Mariotta Manuella do Nascimento Pereira—daughter of a great plantation owner who wore the Comendador da Ordem do Cristo—and I’m drunk. Holy Mother! What would the family say. Such degradation, such goings on. And me a Portuguese girl. Portuguese girls of good family didn’t visit ships for parties with officers; Portuguese girls of good family didn’t go about without chaperons—and they certainly didn’t have affairs with married sea captains.
Di Brett was frightened and confused. Her relief when von Falkenhausen and Schäffer had arrived and taken charge—her pride in the knowledge of the part she had played—had been dashed by what, incredibly, had followed. Where had all these men come from? Where were the rest of the Hagenfels’s crew? Why had no alarm been given? How could the British do this in a neutral port? What would happen next? Whatever she did, she must keep up the pretence of being Di Brett—that was vital! The Germans would never give her away but—her heart beat faster—if she were found out?
She shivered.
Although Widmark’s five shots through the starboard porthole were fired to create a diversion, he had intended them for the man standing, gun in hand, behind Rohrbach and his companions. It was the German he’d identified as second officer by the two gold stripes on his sleeves. But Widmark had had to shoot fast and aim high so that he didn’t hit his own men. When he saw Moewe fall, he experienced the same morbid satisfaction he’d had when looking at the unconscious German whom Hans had coshed: a curious surge of exultation, a racing of the blood, a desire to shout his approval. He had been waiting for this moment a long time, and it had assumed vast importance. But in spite of these emotions he remained cool and analytical and as he fired the last of
the five shots he ran back along the side of the deck-house, opened the door, made sure the alleyway outside the Captain’s cabin was clear, and stepped into it. Just then he heard McFadden’s shout—“Hands up!”—and he smiled grimly at the success of the diversion. He was about to enter the cabin, when a door at the far end of the alleyway opened and a man came out, back towards him, and ran through the port door on to the deck outside. In the brief span of time this took, Widmark did three things: noted with a shock the two gold stripes, realised that he hadn’t killed the second officer, and took a snap shot at him—that is to say, he pressed the trigger of his automatic but nothing happened. Cursing, he snapped back the breech, saw the cartridge jammed at the top of the magazine, whipped it out, slipped in a full clip, and ran down the alleyway out on to the boat deck. The attempt to capture the Hagenfels, going so well until then, was suddenly threatened. There was the ship’s siren on which the alarm could be sounded—there was the radio telephone which could be used to call the Port Captain’s office—there were other dangerous possibilities.
Standing on the boat deck, temporarily blinded by the blackness of the night, Widmark estimated that the German had a five-second start. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, he looked forward first. It was fortunate that he did so for, silhouetted against the rain-blurred anchor light, he saw a man disappear up the port bridge ladder.
Silently, Widmark followed him. He reached the bridge and saw a glow of light as the chart-house door was opened and the man stepped in. The door shut and the light disappeared. Widmark made for the door.
As he reached it, he heard the rising note of a transmitting generator just switched on. Swinging the door open, he saw the German at the chart-table holding the telephone hand-set of the radio-telephone. It would have been easy to shoot him in the back, to smash his head in with the cosh; but Widmark did neither of these things. Throwing his automatic on to the chart-room settee, he leapt at Moewe, swung him round by the shoulder with one hand and with the other brushed the German’s Luger from where it lay on the chart-table on to the deck—then, Moewe facing him, eyes wide with sudden fear, Widmark hit him across the side of his face with an open hand. The blow sounded like the bursting of a paper bag.