When he had finished with the golf balls, he stripped off his shirt and trousers and gave himself fifteen minutes’ callisthenics, handsprings and front and back somersaults and three times round the grass plot walking on his hands. He was as brown as a mild Havana from suntan and there wasn’t a hint of sweat on him.
He finished his exercises, said something to the deckhand, and then the wonder boy was off, trotting down the hillside. I watched him, catching a glimpse of his black briefs now and again as he light-heartedly leapt the odd six-foot bush that got in his way. He reached the water’s edge directly below, dived in and was swimming towards the yacht in a fast crawl, a spout of foam going up behind him as though he had a ten horse-power marine engine fixed to his backside.
The deckhand was in no hurry at all. He sat down on the grass, pulled out the makings and slowly rolled himself a cigarette. It is a thing that always fascinates me to watch – done expertly, that is. And he was an expert. The fact that he had no thumb on his left hand didn’t handicap him a bit.
I let him get comfortable on a couple of draws and then I flicked a little stone over the bush top. He turned his head very slowly.
I said quietly, “Ringmaster here – disguised as a bush. Or maybe Mother Jambo, if they haven’t been through to you for the last few days.”
He turned away and looked at the yacht. Siegfried was just going up the companion steps.
Without turning, he said, “Put a name to it.”
“Carver.”
“Not bad. Do a little better. Say the name of a dog. A Gordon setter, for instance.”
“Joss.”
“Good. The bastard ever bitten you?”
“Once. But it was a mistake.” Joss was the name of Manston’s Gordon setter.
“He’s had me twice. With intent. I’m going to turn. Just drop your veil, but stay where you are.”
His head came round slowly and I parted the branches a little. He gave me a slow look and then his head went back and he said, “Okay. You fit the frame, but we’ll give it one more go. Why am I in no hurry to go back to the Komira?”
“Passengers to go aboard? Say a Mrs Vadarci, and a speedy blonde number.”
He nodded, his eyes on the yacht, and then, the tone of his voice changing, an unexpected edge coming into it, he said, “Nice to know you. Lancing. And tell Sutcliffe I’ve been on this effing tub too long. They’re bloody well going to rumble me sooner or later.”
“You could leave now.”
“They’d have a search-party after me in fifteen minutes. Besides, no orders. Stay with it Lancing they call me. Another blonde, eh? She’ll have to be good to top Lottie.”
“He collects them?”
“Sort of Listen.... If I’d known you were going to be here, I’d have brought something ashore for you. Colour slide. I think it’s the place they want. Keep your tuning dial steady because I’m not repeating anything. That redheaded pantomime dame could show any minute and I’ve got to be down there. Muscle boy – I spar with him – roughed me up for five rounds a couple of days back and I got riled and let him have one. So he knocked me out. He’s good. I was out for quite a while. He took me into his cabin afterwards, all apologies, and a large brandy. Left me there for a few minutes. Slide projector, slide boxes locked but one slide in the slot. Pinched it. Old boy in the picture has been aboard once or twice at Venice. Sooner or later they’re going to miss it and Muscles will remember me. Come under the stern first dark tonight and I’ll drop it to you. Okay?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll jot a few notes to go with it. Not safe for me to stay up here. Somebody will have the glasses on me. You just make it tonight.”
He stood up and began to collect the golf gear.
I said, “Where does the Komira go from here?”
“Venice if they stick to pattern. Christ, here they come. Kick Oglu’s arse for me. He should have come aboard at Kotor. I could have given him everything. Just to write out a few notes for you and have ’em on me for half an hour is putting my head in a loop.”
He was away down the hillside. As he reached the little jetty, I saw Katerina and Madame Vadarci come down the rough road and pick their way along the sea edge. Katerina carried a gaily coloured holiday bag that looked as though it held more than her nightdress and toothbrush. Madame Vadarci wore a woollen skirt, looping down ridiculously at one side, a man’s shirt, a green straw hat, and was humping a rucksack that looked as though it were full of rock specimens. Through the glasses I saw that she was sweating so hard that it had put a fine varnish on her beetroot complexion.
They went out in the launch to the Komira and disappeared below deck. I sat there, knowing what Katerina’s reaction would be to all that brown-tinted muscle.
To take my mind off it, I did a sweep of the near shore looking for a row-boat. A hundred yards this side of the jetty there was a battered looking number tied up alongside a bamboo-thatched storehouse. Outside the store were lobster-pots, some piles of net and a couple of oars leaning against the wall. Until it was dark there was nothing I could do.
I sat there until the sun went down, the shadows lengthening and a purple-brown smudge staining the lower edges of the sky. The mosquitoes began to use me as a free lunch counter and whined noisily about the quality of the fare. Darkness limped along but finally made it and I went down to the store shed.
There was no trouble, except that the boat had three inches of water in the bottom and I had to grope in it to find the rowlock pegs.
I went out, rowing only a few strokes to give me way and needing only an occasional dip to take me down towards the Komira. The whole thing was pretty neat considering my limited Serpentine training. As I got near the Komira I could hear music, thumping beat stuff, and there was a blaze of light forward from one of the deck saloons.
Lancing was there as I came under the stern. He took one large draw on his cigarette to show me his face and as I came under the counter he dropped a small parcel to me, and then I was away on the current and suddenly aware that whereas it had helped me out I had to row like a maniac against it to get back. I came ashore, a quarter of a mile down from the village, in a small cove and drew the boat up almost clear of the water and stuck a thousand dinar note under a stone in the bows. I faced the climb up the hill, blown and thinking of beer. I resisted my whisky flask because I knew it would be no help. Over the hill was the lake, a bit brackish, maybe, but I wasn’t in any mood to be fussy.
By the time I got to the top of the bluff, a small slip of pale moon had appeared. I paused for a rest and looking back saw the lights of the Komira moving away.... Venice bound, and no need for me, I knew, to wish Katerina bon voyage.
I went on, down through the trees and scrub to the lake. At the water’s edge, I squatted and drank, lots of water and then a swig at the whisky flask. Then I sat down and lit a cigarette. I’d had a hard day. Between my legs was the string bag. I reached in and pulled out the little parcel which Lancing had dropped to me. It was a neat job, wrapped in oilskin and, tied to it by twine, a cork float in case he should have muffed his throw.
I had the parcel in one hand, and the whisky flask in the other, when I heard a noise behind me. I jerked my head round just as Herr Spiegel stepped out into the starlight from the cover of some tamarisk bushes and said, “Just keep your hands where I can see them.”
CHAPTER TEN
A CONTRACT DISHONOURED
Apart from the fact that he was breathing rather heavily and there was a gleam of sweat on his forehead, he looked as neat and trim as though he were on his way to a band concert on the sea front, panama precisely levelled on his head, not a fold in his cravat out of place. In his right hand he held his sword cane, but now it was unsheathed and the bright Toledo blade trembled a little as he held it towards me.
“Just throw me the parcel,” he said. “But keep your hands well up in the open.”
If the Le Chasseur hadn’t been tucked alongside my pullover in the bag I might have d
isputed the order. I tossed the parcel at his feet. He half crouched and picked it up, keeping his eyes and his blade on me.
“Is this necessary?” I asked. “We’ve got a contract.”
He put the parcel in his jacket pocket and smiled. “You climb hills much too fast for me. I just missed you as you came back from the Komira. You knew she was coming there. Pomina, not Babino Polje.”
“It was a hunch. I followed Madame Vadarci and the girl. Look, do I have to go on sitting here like an Indian fakir asking for alms?”
“You went off before them.” He came a step nearer as I let my hands waver and then brought them back.
“That’s the way I follow people. I like to be ahead. Anyway, if it comes to following, what were you doing trotting after me? That’s no way for a partner to act. Or did you know that the Komira was coming into Pomina?”
“As a matter of fact, I did.”
“Well, then,” I gave him a big comforting well-it-has-allbeen-a-mistake smile, “that makes us quits. What I suggest is that we write a completely new contract. Complete honesty on both sides.”
I glanced up at him, along the length of the blade. He shook his head.
“The contract is finished.”
The blade was steady now. For an elderly man he had a hand like a rock, no nerves. I didn’t wait for all the legal formalities of breaking a contract to be completed. I rolled quickly aside a second before the blade came in. The roll took me down to the water’s edge, and I had my right hand groping in the net bag for my gun. As I came to my feet, Herr Spiegel swung round and I saw the starlight flash down the blade as it came at me. I jerked at the gun but it caught in the nylon mesh of the net. I threw myself sideways but he got me through the fat of my inner left arm. In and back again, and me sprawling towards the ground, and the blade whipping over my face with a fancy flourish, hissing through the air, and then the point levelled, sighted, and suddenly coming at me. His arm and blade were in perfect line. His shadowed face showed a thin line of bared teeth as he anticipated the shock of the steel driving home into me. I got my hand round the Le Chasseur and I fired with the gun still in the net bag.
The night exploded. Echoes rocked across the lake surface. I heard the sudden panic flap of ducks going up somewhere along in the reeds. Spiegel exploded, too, his arms flying wide, the rapier dropping away, his face briefly split with a wide gaping mouth, and the panama tilting and spinning from his head. He gave a long, rasping sigh, and then thudded to the ground, one of his loose hands smacking me across the face, hard and violent, as though it signalled finally, irrevocably, the end of a contract neither he nor I had ever meant to honour.
I got to my feet. Herr Spiegel lay on the ground, face upwards, a large dark stain spreading across the breast of his jacket.
I bent down and took Lancing’s parcel from Spiegel’s pocket. As I stood up I saw Vérité standing by the tamarisk bushes. She just stood there without movement or sound, a tall, slim figure in a skirt and blouse, a silk scarf loose about her throat, a thin band of ribbon across her hair. I gave another look at Herr Spiegel and then went across to her. I took her free hand and held it.
She went on staring past me at Herr Spiegel and, in a voice which seemed a hundred miles away, she said, “I followed him from the hotel....” Her hands went up to her eyes, shading them, and I saw her shoulders shake.
I put out an arm to pull her to me, to put a hand round her shoulders and hold her against whatever it was of memory and horror that my gun blast and the sight of Spiegel’s body had brought back, but she turned then and looked at me, and I saw her come back like someone from the dead to the present, a whole life slipping from her, her face drawn and suddenly stubborn with the effort she was forcing on herself.
She said, “You’re hurt.”
Her hands went to my shirt front and she began to unbutton the shirt. I was aware of the wet warmth down my left side. I slipped out of the shirt. As I raised my arm, the blood ran fresh. She picked up my shirt and now, completely herself, began to tear strips from it.
“It’s only through the loose flesh. There’s no real harm done.”
She held my arm, twisting it slightly to get at the wound, and I stood in the darkness, letting her bandage me. When she had finished, I got the whisky flask and insisted that she should drink. She did, shuddered as the spirit hit her, and then handed it back to me. I took a greedy pull.
I made her go back along the shore a little way. When she was gone, I took Spiegel and dragged him some way up the hill and well off the track. I left him in the cover of a thick growth of bushes, but before I left I went through his pockets. There wasn’t a thing on him that was worth taking. In the dell I found the rapier and the cane, slid the blade into it and tossed it far out into the lake. With any luck he would lie there for a few days before anyone found him. By then I meant to be out of Yugoslavia.
I put what was left of my damaged and stained shirt on, and then slipped my pullover over it, and we walked back to the hotel lakeside. Vérité said very little on the way back. She had made arrangements for us to have dinner, then cross the lake in the motor-boat and take the local bus the few miles down to Polace. The steamer did not go until half-past four in the morning, and for the few hours we had to wait in Polace the hotel authorities had hired rooms for us in one of the houses on the quayside. This, she said, was the usual arrangement for tourists.
We shouted across to the hotel from the lakeside and the rowing-boat came over and picked us up. Up in my room I took a shower and was finishing the last of my whisky when there was a knock on my door and Vérité came in. I was in my dressing-gown and pants, sitting on the edge of my bed.
She came over to me and said, “Slip that gown off.” She had a roll of clean bandage in her hand.
I pushed the gown back off my shoulders, and said, “Where did you get that?”
“I always have some first-aid stuff in my case.”
“Perhaps I should start carrying some, too.” I raised my arm and she began to take the old bandage off, then swabbed the wound with some stuff from a bottle that stung like hell. When she had finished I slipped the gown up over my shoulders and stood up.
I put my right hand on her shoulder and I felt her tense under my fingers. I leant forward and kissed her gently on the cheek. Then I stepped back and nodded at my whisky flask. “There’s still a little left. Like some?”
She shook her head.
I said, “Do you want to hear why Spiegel went for me?”
I knew at once that I’d said the wrong thing. The sight of his dead body, the sound of the shot were all too fresh in her mind.
“Later.” She turned away and left the room. I cursed myself but it was too late.
I went over and locked the door and then sat down on the bed and opened Lancing’s little parcel.
Inside were a couple of sheets of notepaper, folded around a cellophane envelope which held a colour transparency slide, and a small studio photograph of a girl.
I took the photograph first. She was about Katerina’s age and build, but a little taller, blonde and a dish. On the back of the photograph was a printed trade heading – Spartalis Photos. Akti Possidonus, Piraeus, T.411–45. Underneath this, written in pencil, were some notes made by Lancing, I guessed, probably just before I got out to the Komira. He wouldn’t have put a damned thing in writing until the last moment. The notes read:
Lottie Bemans. 23. Blonde. 5’ 9”. München. Checked P.A.D. Chalkokondyli.A. Ident. card expired one month. Two convictions. Trivial.
The colour slide was mounted ready for use in a projector. It was an Agfa film mount. I held it up to the light, remembering Lancing saying that he thought it was the place they wanted. It showed a pair of large iron gates that formed the entrance to a driveway that ran into the background of the picture, disappearing into a thicket of pines, through which just showed the blue of a lake. In front of the gates was a man in blue working overalls, a peaked cap, and smoking a pipe. Running from
the sides of the gates were small sections of very tall brick walls, cut by the limit of the film frame on either side. Close to the gate pillar on the left-hand side, there was a narrow niche in the wall which held a figure. I couldn’t make out the details.
On the couple of sheets of paper Lancing had written his notes, which read:
WWK/2.
KKD boshed Kotor monthly report. Follows. Sea most of time. Kalamai – Venice, L.B. run 3 wks gone. This trip cargo lifted: 2 miles off Gulf Traste. Two hrs work, sunken buoy, radar or magnetic. Lead casket 10’ × 3’. Shore leave 2 hrs but unable contact SKD.
Checked per ins. Baldy, cook. Dead right. S.W. transmitter, fitted back of store room fridge. All grins, declares C.I.A. Don’t believe. Fridge fitted 4 months Brindisi.
Spotted A. Party pamphlet gash can.
Mme. V. and new blonde Pomina.
Baldy, me, both playing it too long. F. him. Give me out. Big boy misses nothing.
That was all on the first sheet. On the second, and he’d obviously had a little time in hand while he waited for me, he had written:
C. tell that bastard that like bishop said a man can only go on for so long. Big boy will miss slide and I’ll be gutted.
It was meant only for me, and I knew how he felt. You can only keep a man walking the edge so long – and just at this moment Sutcliffe was probably dining rich somewhere in London and making loud ponging noises about the claret.
I wrapped everything up and put it away in my case. Then I went down on to the hotel lake terrace and sat with a drink, waiting for Vérité to come down. It was a balmy, peaceful evening. Thin scarfs of mist hung low over the lake, and the lines of mountain ridges were cut dark against the star-studded sky which cradled the idle, reclining moon. I thought of Herr Spiegel lying under his bush, cold and stiff, and Frau Spiegel away in Babino Polje. It was going to be some time before any trouble started and by then Vérité and I had to be out of Yugoslavia. I didn’t see it as any great problem. Somewhere Katerina was away on the Komira, and we had a contract, and a contract, I hoped, that was going to be more lasting than the one recently broken with Spiegel.
The Whip Hand Page 11