The Eye of the Tiger

by Wilbur Smith

  She was a graceful three-masted ship with a long low profile. She had no crossjack or mizzen course. Instead she carried a large spanker and a full set of studding sails. The long poop gave space for several passenger cabins, and she carried her boats on top of her deckhouse aft.

  She was heavily armed, with thirteen black-painted gunports a side, from which she could run out her long eighteen-pounder cannon to defend herself, in those hostile seas east of the Cape of Good Hope across which she plied to China and India.

  “I need a drink,” I said, and picked up the drawings of the Dawn Light. “I’ll get them to make copies of these for us. “What for?” Sherry wanted to know.

  -The assistant emerged from her lair amongst the piled trays of old prints and sucked in her cheeks at my request for copies.

  “I’ll have to charge you seventy-five pence,” she tried to discourage me.

  That’s reasonable I said.

  “And we won’t have them ready until next week,” she added inexorably.

  “Oh dear,” said I, and gave her the smile. “I did need them tomorrow afternoon.”

  The smile crushed her, she lost the air of purpose and tried to tuck her straying wisps of hair into the side frames of her glasses.

  “Well, I’ll see what I can do then,” she relented.

  That’s very sweet of you, really it is and we left her looking confused, but pleased.

  My sense of direction was returning and I found my way to El Vino’s without trouble. The evemning flood of journalists from Fleet Street had not yet swamped it and we found a table at the back. I ordered two Vermouths and we saluted each other over the glasses.

  “You know, Harry, Jimmy had a hundred schemes. His whole life was one great treasure hunt. Every week he had found, almost found, the location of a treasure ship from the Armada or a sunken Aztec city, a buccaneer wreck—? she shrugged. “I have a built-in resistance to believing any of it. But this one-” She sipped the wine.

  “Let’s go over what we have,” I suggested. We know that Goodchild was very concerned that his agent receive five cases of luggage and put it into safe keeping. We know that he was going to ship it aboard Dawn Light and he sent advance notice, probably through a personal friend, the captain of the naval frigate Pandker.”

  “Good,“she agreed.

  “We know that those cases were listed on the ship’s manifest.

  That the ship was lost, presumably with them still on board. We know the exact location of the wreck. We have had it confirmed by the ship’s bell.”

  “Still good.”

  “We only do not know what those cases contained.”

  “Dirty socks,“she said.

  “Four tons of dirty socks?” I asked, and her expression changed.

  The weight of the cargo had not meant anything to her.

  “Ah,” I grinned at her, “it went over your head. I thought so.

  You read so fast you only take in half of it She pulled a face at me.

  “Four tons, my darling girl, is a great deal of something whatever it is.”

  “All right,“she agreed. “Figures don’t mean much to me, I admit.

  But it sounds a lot.”

  “Say the same weight as a new Rolls-Royce - to put it in terms you might understand,” and her eyes widened and turned a darker blue.

  “That is a lot.”

  “Jimmy obviously knew what it was, and had proof sufficient to convince some very hard-headed backers. They took it seriously.”

  “Seriously enough to, and she stopped herself. For an instant I saw the old grief for Jimmy’s death in her eyes. I was embarrassed by it, and I looked away, making a show of taking the letter out of my inner pocket.

  Carefully I spread it on the table top between us. When I looked at her, she had recovered her composure once more.

  The pencilled note in the margin engaged my attention again.

  “B. Muse.6914(8).” I read it aloud. “Any ideas?”

  “Bachelor of Music.”

  “Oh, that’s great,” I applauded.

  “You do better,” she challenged, and I folded the letter away with dignity and ordered two more drinks.

  “Well, that was a good run on that scent,” I said when I had paid the waiter. “We have an idea what it was all about. Now, we can go on my other lead.”

  She sat forward and encouraged me silently.

  “I told you about your impostor, the blonde Sherry North?” and she nodded. “On the night before she left the island she sent a cable to London.” I produced the flimsy from my wallet and handed it to Sherry. While she read it, I went on: “This was clearly an okay to her principal, Manson. He must be the big man behind this. I am going to start moving in on him now.” I finished my Vermouth. “I’ll drop you back with your martial uncle, and contact you again tomorrow.”

  Her lips set in a line of stubbornness which I had not seen before and there was a glint in her eyes like the blue of gun-metal.

  “Harry Fletcher, if You think you are going to ditch me just when things start livening up, you must be off your tiny head. The cab dropped us in Berkeley Square and I led her into Curzon Street.

  “Take my arm quickly,” I muttered, glancing over my shoulder in a secretive manner. Instantly she obeyed, and we had gone fifty yards before she whispered, why? “Because I like the feel of it,” I grinned at her and spoke in a natural voice.

  “Oh, you!” She made as if to pull away, but I held her and she capitulated. We sauntered up the street towards Shepherd Market, stopping now and then to window-shop like a pair of tourists.

  No. 97 Curzon Street was one of those astronomically expensive apartment blocks, six storeys of brick facing, and an ornate street door of bronze and glass beyond which was a marbled foyer guarded by a uniformed doorman. We went on past it, up as far as the White Elephant Club and there we crossed the street and wandered back on the opposite pavement.

  “I could go and ask the doorman if Mr. Manson occupied Flat No.

  5,” Sherry volunteered.

  “Great,” I said. “Then he says “yes”, what do you do then? Tell him Harry Fletcher says hello?”

  “You are really very droll,” she said, and once more she tried to take her hand away.

  “There is a restaurant diagonally opposite No. 97.” I prevented her withdrawal. “Let’s get a table in the front window, drink some coffee and watch for a while.”

  It was a little past three o’clock when we settled at the window seat with a good view across the street, and the next hour passed pleasantly. I found it not a difficult task to keep Sherry amused, we shared a similar sense of humour and I liked to hear her laugh.

  I was in the middle of a long, complicated story when I was interrupted by the arrival outside No. 97 of a Silver Wraith Rolls-Royce. It pulled to the kerb and a chauffeur in a smart dove-grey uniform left the car and entered the foyer. He and the doorman fell into conversation, and I resumed my story.

  Ten minutes later, there was sudden activity opposite. The elevator began a series of rapid ascents and descents, each time discharging a load of matching crocodileskin luggage. This was carried out by the doorman and chauffeur and packed into the Rolls. It seemed endless, and Sherry remarked, “Somebody is off on a long holiday.” She sighed wistfully.

  “How do you fancy a tropical island with blue water and white sands, a thatched shack amongst the Palms—” “Stop it,” she said. “On an autumn day in old London, I just can’t bear the thought.”

  I was about to move into a stronger position when the footman and chauffeur stood to attention and once more the glass doors of the lift opened and a man and woman stepped out of it.

  The woman wore a full-length honey mink and her blonde hair was piled high on her head in an elaborate lacquered Grecian style. Anger struck me like a fist in the guts as I recognized her.

  It was Sherry North, the First. The nice lady who had blown Judith and wave Dancer to the bottom of Grand Harbour.

  Wit
h her was a man of medium height with soft brown hair fashionably long and curly over his ears. He had a light tan, Probably from a sun lamp, and he was dressed too well. Very expensively, but as flamboyantly as an entertainment personality.

  He had a heavy jaw and a long fleshy nose with soft gazelle eyes, but his mouth was pinched and hungry. A greedy mouth that I remembered so well.

  “Manson!” I said. “Jesus! Manson Resnick - Manny Resnick.” He would be-just the one Jimmy North would find his way to with his outrageous proposition. In exactly the same way that so long ago I had gone to him with my plans for the gold heist at Rome Airport. Manny was an underworld entrepreneur, and he had clearly climbed a long way up the ladder since our last meeting.

  He was keeping great style now, I thought, as he crossed the pavement and entered the back seat of the Rolls, settling down next to the mink-clad blonde.

  “Wait here,” I told Sherry urgently, as the Rolls pulled away towards Park Lane.

  I ran out on to the pavement and searched wildly for a cab to follow them. There were none and I ran after the Rolls praying desperately for the sight of a big black cab with its top light burning, but ahead of me the Rolls swung right into South Audley Street and accelerated smoothly away.

  I stopped at the corner and it was already far ahead, infiltrating the traffic towards Grosvenor Square.

  I turned and ambled disappointedly back to where Sherry waited. I knew that Sherry had been correct. Manny and the blonde were off on a long journey. There was no point in hanging around No. 97 Curzon Street any longer.

  Sherry was waiting for me outside the restaurant.

  “What was that all about?” she demanded and I took her arm. As we walked back towards Berkeley Square, I told her.

  “That man is probably the one who ordered Jimmy murdered, who was responsible for having half my chest shot away, who had them to roast your lovely pinkies, - in short, the big man.”

  “You know him?”

  “I did business with him a long time ago.” Nice friends you have.”

  “I’m trying for a better class lately,” I said, and squeezed her arm. She ignored my gallantry.

  “And the woman. Is she the one from St. Mary’s, the one who blew up your boat and the young girl?”

  I experienced a violent return of the anger which had gripped me a few minutes earlier when I had seen that sleek, meticulously polished predator dressed in mink.

  Beside me Sherry gasped, “Harry, you are hurting me!”

  “Sorry.” I relaxed my grip on her arm.

  “I guess that answers my question,” she muttered ruefully, and massaged her upper arm.

  The private bar of the Windsor Arms was all dark oak panels and antique mirrors. It was crowded by the time Sherry and I returned. Outside darkness had fallen and there was an icy wind stirring the fallen leaves in the gutters.

  The warmth of the pub was welcome. We found seats in a corner, but the crowd pushed us together, forcing me to place an arm around Sherry’s shoulders, and our heads were close so we could hold a very private conversation in this public place.

  “I can guess where Manny Resnick and his friend are headed,” I said.

  “Big Gull Island?” Sherry asked, and when I nodded she went on, “He’ll need a boat and divers.”

  “Don’t worry, Manny will get them “And what will we do?” “We?” I asked.

  “A form of speech,” she corrected herself primly. “What will you do?”

  “I have a choice. I can forget about it all - or I can go back to Gunfire Reef and try to find out what the hell was in Colonel Goodchild’s five cases.”

  “You’ll need equipment.”

  “It might not be as elaborate as Manny Resnick’s will be, but I could get enough together.”

  “How are you for money, or is that a rude question?”

  “The answer is the same. I could get enough together.” “Blue water and white sand,“she murmured dreamily. ” - and the palm fronds clattering in the trade winds.”

  “Stop it, Harry.”

  “Fat crayfish grilling on the coals, and me beside you singing in the wilderness,” I went on remorselessly.

  “Pig,” she said.

  “If you stay here, you’ll never know if it was dirty socks I pressed her.

  “You’d write and tell me,” she pleaded. “No, I wouldn’t.”

  “I’ll have to come with you,“she said at last. “Good girl.” I squeezed her shoulder.

  “But I insist on paying my own way, I refuse to become a kept woman.” She had guessed how hard pressed I was financially.

  “I should hate to erode your principles,” I told her happily, and my wallet sighed with relief. It was going to be a near-run thing to mount an expedition to Gunfire Reef on what I had left.

  There was much we had to discuss now that the decision had been made. It seemed only minutes later that the landlord was calling, “Time, gentlemen.”

  “The streets are dangerous at night,” I warned Sherry. “I don’t think we should chance it. Upstairs I have a very comfortable room with a fine view—_2 “Come on, Fletcher.” Sherry stood up. “You had better walk me home, or I shall set my uncle on to you.”

  As we walked the half block to her uncle’s apartment, we agreed to meet for lunch next day. I had a list of errands to perform in the morning including making the airline reservations, while Sherry had to have her passport renewed and pick up the photostat drawings of the Dawn Light.

  At the door of the apartment we faced each other, suddenly both of us were shy. It was so terribly corny that I almost laughed. We were like a pair of old-fashioned teenagers at the end of our first date - but sometimes corny feels good.

  “Good night, Harry,” she said, and with the age-old artistry of womankind she showed me in some indefinable manner that she was ready for kissing.

  Her lips were soft and warm, and the kiss went on for a long time.

  “My goodness,” she whispered throatily, and drew away at last.

  “Are you sure you won’t change your mind - it is a beautiful room, hot and cold water, carpets on the floor, TV__2 She laughed shakily and pushed me gently backwards. “Goodnight, dear Harry,” she repeated, and left me.

  I went out into the street and strolled back towards my pub. The wind had dropped but I could smell the damp emanating from the river close by. The street was deserted but the kerb was lined with parked vehicles, bumper to bumper they reached to the corner.

  I sauntered along the pavement, in no hurry for bed, even toying with the idea of a stroll down the Embankment first. My hands were thrust deep into the pockets of my car coat, and I was feeling relaxed and happy as I thought about this woman.

  There was a lot to think about Sherry North, much that was unclear or not yet explained, but mainly I cherished the thought that perhaps here at last was something that might last longer than a night, a week, or a month something that was already strong and that would not be like the others, diminishing with the passage of time, but instead would grow ever stronger.

  Suddenly a voice beside me said, “Harry!” It was a man’s voice, a strange voice, and I turned instinctively towards it. As I did so I knew that it was a mistake.

  The speaker was sitting in the back seat of one of the parked cars. It was a black Rover. The window was open and his face was merely a pale blob in the darkness of the interior.

  Desperately I tried to pull my hands out of my pockets and turn to face the direction from which I knew the attack would come. As I turned I ducked and twisted, and something whiffed past my ear and struck my shoulder a numbing blow.

  I struck backwards with both elbows, connecting solidly and hearing the gasp of pain. Then my hands were clear and I was around, moving fast, weaving, for I knew they would use the cosh again.

  They were just midnight shapes, menacing and huge, dressed in dark clothing. It seemed there were a legion of them, but there were only four - and one in the car. They were all big men, and the on
e had the cosh up to strike again. I hit him under the chin with the palm of my hand, snapping his head backwards and I thought I might have broken his neck, for he went down hard on the pavement.

  A knee drove for my groin, but I turned and caught it on the thigh, using the impetus of the turn to counterpunch. It was a good one, jolting me to the shoulder, and the man took it in the chest, and was thrown backwards, but immediately one of them was hugging the arm, smothering it and a fist caught me in the cheek under the eye. I felt the skin tear open.

  Another one was on my back, an arm around my throat throttling me, but I heaved and pushed. In a tight knot, locked together, we surged around the pavement.

  “Hold him still,” another voice called, low and urgent. “Let me get a shot at him.”

  “What the bloody hell do you think we are trying to do?” panted another, and we fell against the side of the Rover. I was pinned there, and I saw the one with the cosh was on his feet. He swung again, and I tried to roll my head, but it caught me in the temple. It did not put me out completely, but it knocked all the fight out of me. I was instantly weak as a child, hardly able to support my own weight.

  “That’s it, get him into the back.” They hustled me into the centre seat of the back of the Rover and one of them crowded in on each side of me. The doors slammed, the engine whirred and caught and we pulled away swiftly.

  My brain cleared, but the side of my head was numb and felt like a balloon. There were three of them in the front seat, one on each side of me in the back. All of them were breathing heavily, and the one next to the driver was massaging his neck and jaw tenderly. The one on my right had been eating garlic, and he panted heavily as he searched me for weapons.

  “I think you should know that something died in your mouth a long time ago, and it’s still there,” I told him, with a thickened tongue and an ache in my head, but the effort was not worth it. He showed no sign of having heard, but continued doggedly with this task. At last he was satisfied and I readjusted my clothing.

  We drove in silence for five minutes, following the river towards Hammersmith, before they had all recovered their breath and tended their wounds, then the driver spoke.