To encourage the rest of you, Jacaud said calmly. Now get Bouvier up here.
As Janvier turned, a quiet voice said: No need, monsieur. He is here.
The man who stepped out of the saloon companionway was well past middle age. Tall and thin with stooping shoulders, he had the angular bony face of the ascetic and thinning grey hair. He wore a raincoat over pyjamas and a small grey-haired woman clutched his arm fearfully. Behind them, two other passengers, clothes hastily pulled on, hesitated in the doorway.
You are Pierre Bouvier? Fenelon demanded.
That is correct.
Jacaud nodded to one of the sailors. Bring him over here.
The womans voice lifted at once, but Bouvier quietened her and allowed himself to be led forward. The sailor placed him with his back to the rail and went and stood beside Jacaud.
What do you want with me? Bouvier said.
A month ago at Fort-Neuf you were public prosecutor at a trial, Fenelon said. A trial at which six good friends of ours received the death sentence.
So, the O.A.S. is in this? Bouvier shrugged. I did my duty as I saw it. No man can do more.
"You will, I am sure, allow us the same privilege, monsieur. Fenelon produced a document from his pocket, unfolded it and read rapidly. "Pierre Bouvier, I must inform you that you have been tried in your absence and found guilty of the crime of treason against the Republic by a military tribunal of the Council of National Resistance."
He paused and Bouvier cut in gently, And the sentence of the court is death?
Naturally, Fenelon said. Have you anything to say?
Bouvier shrugged and an expression of contempt crossed his face. Say? Say what? There is no charge to answer. I know it and you know it. Frenchmen everywhere will -
Jacaud plucked the sub-machine-gun from the hands of the sailor standing next to him, aimed quickly and fired a long burst that drove Bouvier back against the rail. He spun round, the material of his raincoat bursting into flame as bullets hammered across his back, and fell to the deck.
His wife cried his name once, took a single step forward and fainted, one of the passengers catching her as she fell backwards.
From the well-deck there was a strange, muted sigh from the crew and then there was only silence. Jacaud tossed the machine-gun to the sailor he had taken it from and went down the ladder without a backward glance. Fenelon looked as if he might be sick at any moment. He nodded to his men and hurriedly followed the big man, missing a step half-way down and almost falling to the deck.
They went over the side one by one and from the conning tower of the submarine the heavy machine-gun covered them menacingly. When they were all in the dinghy the sailors standing by the forward hatch hauled on the line quickly.
They left the dinghy to drift and everyone scrambled down through the hatch except Fenelon, who walked along the hull and climbed the ladder to the conning tower. He stood looking up at the freighter for a moment as the two vessels drifted apart, and on the Kontoro there was a strange, uncanny silence.
The two sailors dismounted the machine-gun and disappeared. Fenelon remained only a moment or two longer before following. The conning-tower hatch clanged shut, the sound echoing flatly across the water.
On the Kontoro it was as if a spell had been broken and everyone surged forward to the rail. Janvier had never felt quite so helpless in his life before and for some unaccountable reason was strangely close to tears.
In the distance the wind was already beginning to lift the waves into whitecaps and he remembered the gale warning. LAlouette sank beneath the waves like a grey ghost, the tricolour waved bravely, then that too disappeared and there was only the sea.
CHAPTER TWO
A thin sea fog rolled in from Southampton Water as the taxi turned the corner and pulled into the kerb. Anne Grant peered out through the window at the dim bulk of the building rearing into the night.
The original structure had been Georgian, so much was obvious, but the years had left their mark. A line of uneven steps lifted to the door, the paint cracked and peeling in the diffused yellow light of a street-lamp. Above it a small glass sign said Regent Hotel.
She tapped on the partition and the driver opened it. Are you sure this is the place?
Regent Hotel, Farthing Lane. Thats what you said and thats where Ive brought you, the man replied. Its only a doss-house, lady. The sort of place sailors come to for a kip on their first night ashore. What did you expect the Rite?
She tapped on the partition and the driver opened it. Are you sure this is the place?
Regent Hotel, Farthing Lane. Thats what you said and thats where Ive brought you, the man replied. Its only a doss-house, lady. The sort of place sailors come to for a kip on their first night ashore. What did you expect the Rite?
She opened the door and got out, hesitating for a moment as she gazed up at the damp, crumbling facade of the hotel. Except for the lapping of water against the wharf pilings on the other side of the street, it was completely quiet. When a cafe door was opened somewhere in the middle distance the music and laughter might have been coming from another planet. She gave the driver ten shillings, told him to wait and went up the steps.
The corridor was dimly lit, a flight of stairs rising into the shadows at the far end. She wrinkled her nose in distaste at the stale smell compounded of cooking odours and urine and moved forward.
There was a door to the left, the legend Bar etched in acid on its frosted-glass panel. When she opened it she found herself in a long, narrow room, the far end shrouded in darkness. An old marble-topped bar fronted one wall, a cracked mirror behind it, and a man leaned beside the beer pumps reading a newspaper.
In one corner a drunk sprawled across a table face-down, his breath whistling uneasily through the stillness. Two men sat beside a small coal fire talking softly as they played cards. They turned to look at her and she closed the door and walked past them.
The barman was old and balding, with the sagging, disillusioned face of a man who had got past being surprised at anything. He folded his paper neatly and pushed it under the bar.
What can I do for you?
Tm looking for a Mr. Van Sondergard, she said. I understand hes staying here.
Beyond the barman the two men by the fire were watching her in the mirror. One of them was small and squat with an untidy black beard. His companion was at least six feet tall with a hard, raw-boned face and hands that never stopped moving, shuffling the cards ceaselessly. He grinned and she returned his gaze calmly for a moment and looked away.
Sondergard? the barman said.
Shell be meaning the Norwegian, the tall man said in a soft Irish voice.
Oh, that fella? The barman nodded. Left yesterday.
He ran a cloth over the surface of the bar and Anne Grant said blankly: But that isnt possible. I only hired him last week through the seamens pool. Ive a new motor-cruiser waiting at Lulworth now. Hes supposed to run her over to the Channel Islands tomorrow.
"Youll have a job catching him, the Irishman cut in. He shipped out as quartermaster on the Ben Alpin this morning.
Suez and all points east. He got to his feet and crossed the room slowly. Anything I can do?
Before she could reply a voice cut in harshly: How about some service this end for a change?
She turned in surprise, realising for the first time that a man stood in the shadows at the far end of the bar. The collar of his reefer jacket was turned up and a peaked cap shaded a face that was strangely white, the eyes like dark holes.
The barman moved towards him and the Irishman leaned against the bar and grinned at Anne. How about a drink?
She shook her head gently, turned and walked to the door. She went out into the corridor and paused at the top of the steps. The taxi had gone and the fog was much thicker now, rolling in across the harbour, swirling round the street-lamps like some living thing.
She went down the steps and started along the pavement. When she reached the first lamp she paused and looked back. The Irishman and his friend were standing in the doorway. As she turned to move on, they came down the steps and moved after her.
Neil Mallory lit another cigarette, raised his whisky up to the light, then set it down. "This glass is dirty.
The barman walked forward, a truculent frown on his face. And what do you expect me to do about it?
Get me another one, Mallory said calmly.
It was some indefinable quality in the voice, a look in the dark eyes, that made the barman swallow his angry retort and force a smile. He filled a fresh glass and pushed it across.
We aim to please.
Thats what I thought, Mallory said, his eyes following the Irishman and his friend as they went through the door after the woman. He took the whisky down in one easy swallow and went after them.
He stood at the top of the steps listening, but the fog smothered everything, even sound. A ship moved across the water, its fog-horn muted, alien and strange, touching something deep inside him. He shivered involuntarily. It was at that moment that Anne Grant cried out.
He went down the steps and stood listening, head slightly forward. The cry sounded again from the left, curiously flat and muffled by the fog, and he started to run.
He turned the corner on to a wharf at the far end of the street, running silently on rubber-soled feet, and took them by surprise. The two men were holding the struggling woman on the ground in the yellow light of a street-lamp.
As the Irishman turned in alarm, Mallory lifted a foot into his face. The man staggered back with a cry, rolled over the edge of the wharf and fell ten feet into the soft sludge of the mudbank.
The bearded man pulled a knife from his pocket and Mallory backed away. The man grinned and rushed him. As the knife came up, Mallory grabbed for the wrist, twisting the arm up and out to one side, taut as a steel bar. The man screamed like a woman and dropped the knife. Mallory struck him a savage blow across the side of the neck with his forearm and he crumpled to the ground.
Anne Grant leaned against the wall, her face pale in the sickly yellow light, blood streaking one cheek from a deep scratch. She laughed shakily and brushed a tendril of dark hair from her forehead.