Nothing To Lose, page 8
She opened it slowly but the moment she had eased it a little streak of light escaped through the cracks. She hesitated while she again strained her ears, but still there was nothing. Infinitely slowly she drew the door open and stepped inside. She was in a brightly lit room, empty but for a table and some chairs. It was the room in which four men had recently sat to decide upon the manner of Larren’s death.
Claudine stood there without moving, slowly looking around her. There were two more doors leading from the room, side by side and both open. From one she heard a chink of metal on stone and then sounds of muffled movement, the light was on beyond the door.
Silently she crossed the room and glanced through that open door. A flight of steps, close against the wall, led down into the cellar. At the bottom of the steps Carnegie and Vargo were working in their shirt sleeves, tearing up the brick floor and shovelling out the earth beneath. She knew instinctively that they were digging Larren’s grave.
There was no sign of Larren himself however and she turned to the next door. It led down into a similar cellar but this time it was in darkness. She could just make out the shape of a body in the gloom, sprawling at the foot of the steps. She moved down towards it swiftly, suddenly afraid that she was too late.
She knelt by Larren and turned him over, seeing his ripped shirt and the tiny trickles of blood from his ribs. His breathing was ragged and his face was pale. She slapped him desperately in an effort to bring him round but his eyes remained closed.
She swore very softly under her breath and began to pick at the knots securing his wrists with her fingers. It took her several minutes and three broken nails to get them undone. Swiftly she started on the ropes around his ankles. He was still unconscious when she had finished.
With an effort she propped his back against the wall and slapped again and again at his face.
“Larren,” she hissed. “For God’s sake wake up, man.” She shook his head frantically from side to side. Larren stirred and moaned and she had to clamp one hand firmly over his mouth. The gloomy, tomb-like walls of the cellar seemed to be closing in on her and she knew her nerves were weakening with the strain. She began pinching at his face, hurting him viciously as she tried to bring him round.
Larren could feel her fingers twisting at the flesh of his cheeks and the sharp pains finally succeeded in their object. He opened his eyes and stared dumbly into her face, pain was racking his entire body.
She said softly, “Larren, listen to me. You’ve got to try and get up, you’ve got to! They’re already digging your grave in the next cellar.”
Larren couldn’t say anything, for the moment he was still too dazed. Claudine swore again and then tried to haul him to his feet. Somehow he seemed to understand and struggled up with her. She got him upright with one arm over her shoulders and started up the steep stone steps. He was almost a dead weight on her shoulders and several times they almost fell.
By the time they reached the room above Larren was feeling sick and dizzy and almost wishing that he was dead. His memory was returning and he was able to understand the urgency in Claudine’s tone. What he didn’t understand was why she should be helping him?
At the top of the steps she hesitated for a moment to listen to the sounds of digging from the next cellar, they went on without a pause. Gritting her teeth she half dragged Larren’s semi-conscious body across the room and out into the darkness of the warehouse. She had to relax her grip as she turned to close the door and he slipped down into a limp heap on the floor.
Fumbling blindly in the pitch blackness she managed to get his arm back over her shoulders and struggle on. She was panting for breath now and sweating hard from her exertions. Somehow she found her way to the outer door and pushed him outside. He collapsed on the pavement and sprawled face down. She let him lie there after she had shut the door and thankfully gulped in the cool night air.
She heard him retching at her feet and when she looked down he was vomiting weakly. She helped him to his knees and allowed him to finish before attempting to lift him again. This time he was able to help himself a little for the night air was sharpening his senses.
She still had to support most of his weight, however, as she manhandled him back to her car, but by the time she got him into the front seat his mind was clearing even though his strength was still sapped.
He said weakly, “Take me back, I want — I want to get my hands on that swine.” He made an effort to say something else and then fainted.
When Larren next recovered consciousness Claudine was again slapping his face. He realised dimly that they were outside his own flat in Rushlake Terrace, and with her help he managed to stumble up the steep stairs to the second floor.
The next thing he remembered was waking up in bed. He was stripped to the waist and his ribs had been strapped up with cold, wet bandages. He was still weak but his pains had died to a dull throb and he was feeling a lot better. He twisted his head round and found Claudine watching him from the doorway.
She smiled. “Hullo, darling, how’s my handsome mystery man now?”
He winced. “Lousy, but not quite so lousy as before.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Do you realise that you’ve been out for another six hours? It’s almost nine in the morning and the sun is already shining.”
The information didn’t interest him. He asked slowly:
“Why, Claudine? Why did you do it?”
She sat down on the edge of the bed and smiled again.
“Several reasons, one is that a wise person always knows when to change sides, and I’ve known for a long time that Anton is nearing the end of the line. Two, is that I don’t like being a party to murder, not even a silent party. And three —” she lowered her face and kissed him lightly on the mouth — “can’t you guess at reason number three.”
Larren was silent. She drew back a little and regarded him with a slight trace of amusement in her dark eyes.
She murmured softly, “Did anyone ever tell you how gorgeous you are?”
It took Larren an effort to resist that seductive purr. At last he demanded, “How did you know where to bring me?”
She looked disappointed. “Your address was in your wallet. I couldn’t take you to my place because Anton will probably go straight back there.”
“Won’t he wonder where you are?”
She laughed. “Yes, but I can handle that.”
Larren tried to move but the throbbing in his ribs made him fall back on the bed. Claudine pulled the wet bandages away slowly and then looked into his eyes.
“That was Reutall I suppose?”
Larren’s mouth tightened. “If Reutall is the sadistic one in the black leather gloves, yes.” He gave her a long hard look and then asked. “How much do you know about this set-up anyway?”
She shrugged. “Hardly anything. I know who Anton’s friends are. I know that Reutall is a sadist. In fact there’s a pretty chilling story about Franz Reutall. Anton told it to me.” She told him quietly about the reason Reutall wore those black leather gloves.
When she had finished Larren said, “What else do you know?”
“Nothing, I was just Anton’s — lady friend.”
“Was?” His face was expressionless.
She kissed him again. “Like I said, I’ve changed sides.”
The moist, vibrant touch of her lips sent a tremor of desire running through his frame, a tremor that seemed to wash away the aches and pains of his body, drawing back his energy with a strange rejuvenating effect.
When she leaned back he said huskily, “Well, what happens now?”
She smiled. “Bed. I always sleep in the daytime. It leaves me my nights free for rescuing handsome heroes in distress.” She stood up gracefully and after flashing him another bewitching smile she vanished into the bathroom.
Larren’s mind was still in low gear, and not until the bathroom door opened again, a few minutes later, did he realise the full implications of her remark. She stood in the doorway wearing the jacket from an old suit of his pyjamas, and nothing else. It was fastened by one single button at the bottom and reached no farther than the level of her hips. That bewitching smile still played around her soft red mouth.
For long seconds Larren had to fight a raging battle within himself. And finally he lost. The last woman he had slept with had been Andrea, and he knew he could never love another. But he also knew the difference between lust and love, and he knew that it was foolish to think of letting his wife’s death turn him into a monk. He had not been moulded to live a holy life.
Claudine walked towards him slowly, stopping beside the bed, her feet apart. She played with the single button on the pyjama jacket and let the front fall open. Then she deliberately placed her hands on those smooth white hips and pushed the jacket behind her.
“Well,” she demanded. “Can you?”
Larren’s ribs were paining him again but he ignored them. He said emphatically, “I’ve never failed yet.”
CHAPTER 9: ABOARD THE OSTRAVIA
When Larren eventually awoke late in the afternoon he was alone and there was nothing left of Claudine but the memory, a memory that instantly began to stir the first awakenings of desire once more. For a moment he wondered if it might all have been a dream, and then he saw the indentation her head had made in the pillow by his side, and inhaled the faint fragrance of perfume that still clung to the rumpled sheets.
He sat up slowly and called her name. There was no answer. She had slipped out of the bed and left the flat without disturbing him over an hour ago. On the bedside table he found a sheet of notepaper containing the simple message: Call at 16A Fournier Building one evening. I will return the favour. It was signed with a red imprint of her lips.
With a shrug Larren climbed out of bed, an action that instantly reminded him of the less pleasant happenings of the night before. He cursed Reutall foully and stood up with less speed. There was a sharp, nagging pain in his ribs and another one from his collarbone where Reutall had applied his needle. However they were now almost bearable discomforts, instead of the raging agony they had been the previous night. He wondered again what madness had caused him to take up Claudine’s challenge, and decided that all he had really enjoyed was the salvation of his pride. He smiled suddenly at the simple message on the bedside table and promised himself that next time it would be different.
He took his time over dressing, washing and shaving, taking care not to antagonise his various hurts. Finally he was lucky enough to find some week-old eggs and bacon in the refrigerator and he began to fry himself a delayed breakfast. The eggs were still fresh but with an appetite like the one he had acquired during the last twenty-four hours he couldn’t have cared less if they’d been a month old. When he had eaten he decided it was high time he did some thinking.
When he reviewed his movements since taking Smith’s offer there didn’t seem to be much to think about. Viewed impassively he had completely muffed the whole issue. He had not only revealed himself to Vargo, thus making it impossible to fulfil Smith’s basic assignment, but he had also revealed himself to everybody else of importance as well. As an observer he was now useless, and apart from attempting that job there didn’t seem to be much else he could do.
He could easily find Vargo again, but it was not Vargo he wanted. He could also find Claudine, but even if she could tell him anything he was pretty certain that she wouldn’t. He was not sure yet what sort of game Claudine was playing, but one thing that was clear was that she was not throwing free information around.
What he really wanted was to find Dressler — or Reutall. He was pretty certain now that those two were the biggest sharks in this particular sea of troubles, and therefore it followed automatically that they were the ones who had ordered the murder of Tim Carter, and consequently Andrea.
He hardly gave a thought to the second traitor in Smith’s department now. There was nothing he could do in that direction anyway. He thought only of getting to grips again with Dressler and Reutall.
He paced about his room broodingly as he worried the problem in his mind, but still there didn’t seem to be anything he could do. Finally he reverted to the whisky bottle to help him think. He had never before drank after breakfast but as it was also early evening he decided that he could hardly consider this drink as breaking the rule.
He swallowed the drink and felt it burn its way down to his stomach. He felt better and in the same moment he saw one answer at least to his problem. It was so obvious that he wondered whether the knocks he had taken had shaken his brain out of joint. He slammed his glass down and exclaimed aloud, “The Ostravia. That’s it, the Ostravia.”
Perhaps it was as well that there was no one else there to witness his outburst, even though he calmed almost instantly. Carefully he smoothed his hands down his thighs, then he poured himself another drink while he thought over the implications surrounding the Polish freighter.
It was clear that Dressler had only boarded the vessel in order to collect the three seamen who had attacked Larren in the docks, but the very fact that he could go there and demand help showed that the ship was somehow involved in the whole affair. Larren barely hesitated in making up his mind. Somehow he would get aboard that ship and have a good look round. It was the only way he could see of again finding a lead that would take him to Dressler.
By eleven o’clock that night he was again walking through the gate into the West India Dock; the same constable watched him pass with as little interest. He moved on warily, avoiding the brightly lit sections of the quayside where the night shift still worked, keeping always to the shadows. He found the Ostravia again in semi-darkness, again with no dockers working around her holds. He slipped into the shadows beneath the same high derrick that had hidden him before and made a careful reconnoitre with his eyes.
Most of the vessel was completely blacked out. One or two portholes still showed lights and there was a lantern above the gangway and another on the bridge — that was all. Larren drew a deep breath and then took a tin of black boot polish from the pocket of his dark suit. Carefully he blacked his face, throat and hands and then he was ready to go.
He made a last careful survey all along the quayside to make sure he was unobserved and then moved swiftly over to one of the great mooring lines that held the Ostravia to the quay. He seized it with both hands and hauled himself up rapidly, hanging underneath and swinging out and upwards over the filthy water below the dock’s edge.
The strain sent streaks of agony through his shoulder and beneath his ribs. He swung his legs up desperately and wrapped them around the thick rope. For long seconds he fought down the flames of pain that licked around his unseen wounds, then, gritting his teeth, he began to climb again. The climb took an eternity and every second he was sure that he was going to have to relax his grip and drop down into the stinking sea. Then at last he was bumping against the ship’s rust-smeared hull, and he was able to transfer his hold from the mooring line to the lower rail. Another final effort and he was sprawling face down on the freighter’s deck.
He waited for the burning in his shoulder and ribs to fade to a nagging ache and then slowly he rose to his knees. Crouching low he moved over to the dense shadows beneath the companionway to the next deck above and then listened carefully for any signs of life. There was none and he began to move slowly forward, keeping close against the superstructure of the ship.
He was not sure even then what he really intended to do, but he soon found out. A doorway up ahead suddenly opened and a man came out and moved towards the rail. Larren flattened against the bulkhead, holding his breath in the pitch darkness. The man spat once into the water and then turned towards the stern of the ship. Larren tensed as he recognised the bulky outline for it was the seaman who had pulled a knife on him the night before.
The man was alone and Larren let him get almost past before hooking one arm savagely around his neck and dragging him back into the shadows. The man uttered a rasping, choking sound as Larren’s forearm cut off his air supply. His hand dived instantly towards the sheath at his hip as he was carried backwards. However, Larren had anticipated that very move. The seaman’s clawing hand closed on empty air and in the same second Larren was thrusting his own knife hard against his left kidney.
Larren said nothing, but the silent prick of the knife blade was enough. The man instantly stopped struggling, although Larren could still feel the tension knotting his muscles. Slowly Larren relaxed his grip on the man’s throat to enable him to breathe. The sound of his breathing was a suppressed gasping close to Larren’s face.
A quick survey of the silent decks showed that the scuffle had gone unnoticed and nobody else had followed the seaman out to the rail. The usual dock sounds reached him across the black waters but from the Ostravia there was nothing to indicate that there was any other living thing aboard her.
Larren made a slight jabbing motion with the knife. “Can you speak English?” he demanded.
The answer came in a thick Baltic accent, tinged with fear. “I — I speak little.”
“One question,” Larren’s voice was low but hard. “Who gave you your orders last night?”
“I — I no understand.”
Larren jabbed hard with the knife, tightening his throat hold at the same time to prevent a cry. A twisted whimper escaped through the man’s lips as he strained to arch his body away. Larren slowly relaxed again. “You understand.”
The seaman said chokingly, “Comrade Dressler. Comrade Dressler gave orders.”
“Someone else told you to obey him,” Larren insisted. “One of your officers must have told you to follow his orders, which one?”
The man hesitated. “The Capitan,” he croaked at last. “It was the Capitan.”
Larren had guessed that, but it had been as well to make sure. He withdrew the knife from the man’s back and could actually feel the relief that flooded through the seaman’s body. The man was obviously not capable of thinking of any two things at once. Larren clamped his teeth on the broad blade and then pushed the seaman away from him. As the man staggered forwards he struck one swift chopping blow at the thick neck with the edge of his palm. The seaman sagged without a sound and Larren caught him neatly by the armpits as he fell.
