Bragg looked down at the note hesitatingly, then sighed and stuffed it into his pocket. “I only hope I’m doing the right thing.” He opened a drawer and produced a copy of the Channel Pilot. “You’d better have this. Three lights on your way out. Keep ”em in line and you can’t go wrong.“

  Youngblood picked up the book and turned to Chavasse, his face alive with a new kind of light. “What are we waiting for?”

  The door banged behind them, rattling the frame and Bragg sat there staring into space, a frown on his face. After a while he sighed, put a hand in his pocket and pulled out a handful of money. He looked at it blankly for a moment, then got to his feet and reached for his crutch. A drink, that’s what he needed—perhaps two. Something to make him forget the people he had just met, something to shut out the thought of what was going to happen to them out there in the rain and darkness. Most of all, something to make him forget Smith.

  He hobbled to the door, took down an oilskin and left.

  The Pride of Man waited at the end of the jetty and Youngblood took in her flared, raking bow and long sloping deckhouse with a conscious pleasure. He was as excited as a schoolboy with a new toy.

  “My God, I can’t wait to get my hands on her.”

  Chavasse shook his head. “It’s too damned easy.”

  “What is?” Youngblood demanded impatiently.

  “The way Bragg took everything we said. It doesn’t make sense. I think I’ll go back and see what he’s up to.”

  “Suit yourself,” Youngblood said. “But I’m making ready for sea. Anything over ten minutes and you’ve had it.”

  He meant every word, so much was obvious, but Chavasse didn’t waste time in arguing. He turned back and ran back along the jetty into the darkness of the boatyard.

  There had certainly been something indefinable in Bragg’s manner which had made him feel uneasy, that was true enough. For one thing the old man’s story had been too pat and he carried about him an aura of unctuous villainy, impossible to eradicate.

  But more important than that was the fact that he had to get in touch with the Bureau if he was to stand any hope of survival at all once he reached the island and this was his last chance.

  He passed the house silently, moved out of the entrance to the yard and paused in the shadows. Bragg was swinging along the pavement in front of him looking considerably more agile than he had earlier, in spite of his crutch. He crossed to the little pub and went in and Chavasse moved along the street to the telephone box on the corner.

  He dialled his number quickly and was answered almost at once. There was a brief moment when Jean spoke to him and then Graham Mallory was on the line.

  “Paul? Where are you?”

  “Upton Magna—a little fishing port near Lulworth. Now get this—we’re about to leave by boat for an island called Longue Pierre which is twelve miles south-west of Alderney in the Channel Islands. I want to know anything you can tell me about the place and I can only spare you three minutes.”

  “We’re already hooked into Information,” Mallory said. “Keep on talking while they’re checking.”

  “You’ll want to pull in a lump of dirt called Sam Crowther who runs a place called Wykehead Farm near Settle in Yorkshire. God knows how many he’s seen off.

  Then there’s a woman called Rosa Hartman. She lives at Bampton outside Shrewsbury. I’m sorry for her, but she shouldn’t have joined.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “A man called Pentecost who has a place called Long Barrow House of Rest outside Gloucester and the old villain I’ve just been dealing with. Name of Bragg. Runs a boatyard here.”

  Mallory cut in on him. “Your information on Longue Pierre is coming through now.

  The island and the only house on it are owned by the States of Guernsey. They’ve been leased for the past two years to Count Anton Stavru.”

  “Haven’t I heard of him?”

  “Very probably. Shady financier always floating big deals that come to grief.

  Investigated by Fraud Squad a few times, but he’s always managed to get out from under. He’s managing director of a firm called World Wide Export. Is any of this helpful?“

  “I’ll not know till I get there. I’ll want some help standing by. Preferably something that can get in fast like a couple of Naval MTBs.”

  “I’ll get on to Naval Intelligence straight away,” Mallory said. “If you want to reach them by radio use our usual frequency. Your call sign will be Strongarm.

  Best of luck.”

  “I’ll need it.”

  Chavasse dropped the receiver into place, left the box and hurried back along the street to the boatyard. He paused suddenly, dropping into the shelter of an old upturned boat as the door opened and Vaughan stepped out into the porch. He closed the door behind him, cutting off the light and came down the steps.

  Chavasse recognised him at once and took Pentecost’s revolver from his pocket and waited. Vaughan moved past him and paused, a match flaring in his cupped hands as he lit a cigarette.

  Chavasse stood up behind him. “Surprise! Surprise!” he said and drove the butt of the revolver into the back of Vaughan’s skull.

  He caught him before he could fall, twisting around, bending so that Vaughan fell across his right shoulder. As the engine of the Pride of Man shattered the night, he half ran through the darkness toward the jetty.

  As he went down the steps, Youngblood was casting off at the stern and he came forward to help Chavasse across the rail with his burden.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said, looking down into Vaughan’s unconscious face as he sprawled on the deck. “Our old friend Dr. Mackenzie.”

  “Or Smith or whatever his name is,” Chavasse said. “He was just coming out of Bragg’s place. I thought it might be nice to ask him along for the ride.”

  “Stick him in one of the cabins for now,” Youngblood advised. “We can have words later. I won’t be happy till we’re out of here. Molly can give you a hand.”

  Chavasse went down the companionway holding Vaughan under the armpits and Molly took his feet. They put him on a bunk in one of the three cabins and Chavasse found a length of cord and tied his wrists and ankles securely.

  When he turned from locking the door, the girl looked pale and wan as if suddenly, everything was too much for her and he put a hand on her shoulder.

  “There should be a galley along here somewhere. Why don’t you make us some coffee?”

  She brightened a little as if this was something she could at least understand and moved along the passageway. Chavasse watched her go, a frown on his face. A lot had happened and so fast that he’d had little time to speculate about the outcome of things. But what about the girl for whom the events of the past couple of days must have seemed like some dark nightmare? What on earth was going to happen to her? However things turned out she was in for a whole lot of heartbreak.

  The poor ugly little bitch. He turned with a sigh and went up the companionway as the Pride of Man drifted away from the side of the jetty.

  The wind had increased, scattering the rain in silver clouds through the navigation lights and when he went into the wheelhouse, Harry Youngblood turned and grinned at him, his head disembodied in the light of the binnacle.

  “Here we go,” he said with a grin and boosted power suddenly, taking the Pride of Man round in a long sweeping curve and out through the harbour mouth.

  The masthead started to buck as they met the swell and spray scattered across the windows. A couple of points to starboard, the red and green navigation lights of a steamer were visible and Youngblood reduced speed to ten knots and they pushed on into the dark.

  “Everything all right?” Chavasse said.

  “Bloody marvelous!” There was sheer delight in Youngblood’s voice. “This is the life, eh? With any kind of luck we should have a clear run.”

  It was just coming up to midnight when Chavasse went below to check on Vaughan.

  When he opened the door and switched on the light, he was at once conscious of the dark eyes staring at him fixedly.

  “How do you feel?” he asked.

  “How do you expect me to feel?” Vaughan said in a surprisingly strong voice.

  “The back of my skull crushed in or something very close to it and blood all over my best shirt.”

  “You’re breaking my heart.” Chavasse pulled Vaughan into a sitting position and took the mug of coffee that Molly handed to him. “Drink this.”

  Vaughan swallowed, then gasped. “It’ll never replace tea. From the motion, I presume we’re on our way across the Channel?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Round about midnight—why?”

  Vaughan started to laugh weakly. “Which means we’ve passed the point of no return.”

  Chavasse frowned. “What in the hell are you talking about?”

  “It’s really rather ironic,” Vaughan said. “You see I knew you were on your way to Upton Magna because I had words with friend Pentecost after you’d left.”

  “And you beat us to it? Bragg was putting on an act, wasn’t he?”

  “I’m afraid so. I stuck a limpet mine to the hull just before ten o’clock, timed to blow you all to hell in exactly four hours.”

  “You included.”

  “To be perfectly honest, that wasn’t in the plan at all.”

  Chavasse untied his ankles and pulled him off the bunk. “Up on the deck and be quick about it.”

  The Pride of Man was lifting well over the heavy swell that scattered spray in a. great cascading sheet as they moved along the deck to the wheelhouse.

  Youngblood turned in surprise as Chavasse pushed Vaughan in ahead of him.

  “What’s all this?”

  Chavasse told him and when he had finished, Youngblood laughed uncertainly.

  “He’s trying to pull a fast one—he must be.”

  “Suit yourself,” Vaughan said.

  Chavasse shook his head. “He means it, Harry.”

  Youngblood stared at him for a long moment and then throttled down the engine until the boat was making no more than three or four knots and switched to automatic pilot.

  “All right, so what are we going to do about it?”

  Chavasse turned to Vaughan. “If it’s fixed to the hull then you must have used an aqualung and skin-diving gear to put it there. Where is it?”

  Vaughan shrugged. “Why not? You’ll find it without any trouble anyway. In a locker under one of the bench seats in the saloon.”

  “There’s your answer, Drum,” Youngblood said. “As long as we can reach it, it can be defused.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you and all that, but not this baby,” Vaughan said. “It can only be defused after complete dismantling and you have neither the equipment nor the facilities.”

  “Electromagnetic, I suppose?” Chavasse said.

  Vaughan nodded. “And this tub has a steel hull so you’ll never prise it loose, not under the conditions you’re faced with. Try too hard and the damned thing might blow up anyway.”

  “What type is it?”

  “Getting technical are we? But of course, I was forgetting—you were a captain in the Royal Engineers, weren’t you?”

  “Never mind the funny stuff,” Youngblood said savagely. “Just answer him.”

  “Martinet Mark 4, and much good may it do you.

  Chavasse burst into sudden laughter, unable to contain the wave of elation that swept through him and the smile died on Vaughan’s face.

  “What’s so damned funny?”

  “You are,” Chavasse said. “You’re a hundred thousand laughs.” He turned to Youngblood. “If you’ll stop the engines for about ten minutes, Harry, I’ll find the aqualung he mentioned and go over the side.”

  “You mean you can fix it?” Youngblood said incredulously.

  “To all intents and purposes, but I’ll explain later. Just look after baby for me, will you?” And Chavasse moved back along the deck and went below.

  It was bitterly cold down there in the dark water as he felt his way along the hull until he located the mine. He found the time switch and hung there for a moment, testing it with his fingers. If Vaughan had timed the explosion to take place within four hours then he must have moved the switch through four complete revolutions and the maximum was twelve. Chavasse turned the switch, counting slowly. Only when it refused to turn any more did he release his hold and drift up to the surface.

  Youngblood and Molly helped him over the rail and he swore softly as the girl hauled on his left arm and pain coursed through him like fire.

  “You all right, Drum?” Youngblood said anxiously.

  “I am now.” Chavasse turned to Vaughan who stood by the companionway, wrists tied in front of him. “Simple when you know how. The Martinet is a short term time bomb extensively used by both the Army and Navy. The timing device operates up to a maximum of twelve hours. All I had to do was move it on from the time of your choice. Right round the clock till we reached neutral again.”

  “You mean you’ve defused it?” Youngblood demanded.

  “To ail intents and purposes.”

  Vaughan sighed and shook his head. “We learn something new every day. What time do we reach Longue Pierre?”

  “Seven-thirty or thereabouts,” Youngblood said. “Why?”

  “It’s just that I can’t wait to get there, old man,” Vaughan said. “I’m sure it’s going to be a barrel of laughs for everyone.” He turned and disappeared down the companionway whistling cheerfully.

  Chapter 11 - Fog in the Morning

  Chavasse came awake to find Molly leaning over him, her hand on his shoulder. He had gone to sleep on one of the bench seats in the saloon and he swung his legs to the floor and took the mug of coffee she offered.

  He swallowed some gratefully. “That’s better. What time is it?”

  “Six am.”

  “My God, have I slept that long?”

  He went up the companionway, his coffee in one hand. Water slopped over the starboard rail and cold rain lashed his face as he walked along the heaving deck and went into the wheelhouse.

  Youngblood turned to look at him briefly. “How do you feel?”

  “My arm hurts like hell, but I can use it, which is something. What about you?”

  “I’m enjoying myself. There’s been quite a sea running for an hour or more now.

  Likely to get worse before it gets better.”

  “Will it affect our time of arrival?”

  “If you’d like to take the wheel I’ll have another look at the chart.”

  Chavasse squeezed past, slipping into the pilot’s seat and Youngblood went to the chart table. He made one or two calculations and threw down his pencil, stretching his arms.

  “We could be a little earlier than I thought. It all depends on the way the weather goes. Think you can handle her for a while?”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  “I’ll take a break—maybe Molly can find me something to eat. Afterwards, we’d better talk things over. We still don’t know what we’re getting into. Maybe it’s about time we put the squeeze on our friend.”

  Chavasse nodded. “We’ll see.”

  The door banged and he leaned back in the seat, one hand on the wheel and lit a cigarette. Already the darkness was fading, a faint pearly luminosity touching the water and he strained his eyes into the grey waste of morning, wondering what lay ahead.

  One thing was certain. Whatever other difficulties might present themselves, in the final analysis, his greatest problem was still going to be Harry Youngblood himself and what to do with him.

  He remembered their first meeting in the cell at Fridaythorpe and how it had confirmed the impression he had already gained from a close study of the man’s file at Bureau headquarters. That in spite of the newspaper stories and romanticised magazine features, Youngblood beneath it all, was a brutal and resourceful criminal who would smash down anything or anybody that got in his way and who would stop at nothing to get what he wanted.

  Having said that, the fact remained that for many weeks they had been comrades of a sort in that strange sub-world that is life in any large prison. On the other hand, if Chavasse had not gained possession of Smith’s gun the night of the break from the hospital and forced the issue, Youngblood would never have taken him along, in spite of the fact that Chavasse had saved him from death, or at least serious injury, on two occasions in the machine shop.

  And then there was Molly. If she’d turned her back at the farm, things would have taken their usual course and their journey might have ended at the bottom of Crowther’s well and yet Youngblood had been prepared to ditch her without a qualm until It had become obvious that she might still be useful.

  Even at the end and in spite of the fact that Chavasse had pulled him out of trouble again at Long Barrow, Youngblood had been prepared to leave in the boat without him. He was without a single redeeming feature, a selfish egomaniac who had never in his life thought of anyone besides himself. Plenty of men had spent their early years in an orphanage, others had known a hard war—how many had taken Harry Youngblood’s road?

  Chavasse sighed heavily and dropped his cigarette to the floor. All true, every word of it, which didn’t make it any easier to send him back to gaol for another fifteen years—possibly even more now.

  He looked back on his own four months inside, remembering the filth, the squalor, the grey faces, the long empty days and was suddenly almost physically sick so that he opened a window quickly and drew in great lungfuls of damp salt air.

  The door swung open behind him and Youngblood came in grinning hugely, rain on his face. “I haven’t felt like this for years. My God, Drum, I realise what I’d been missing.”

  He took over the wheel and Chavasse leaned against the door watching him. He knew his stuff, there was no question of that and he increased speed, racing the dirty weather that threatened in the east.

  The Pride of Man soared over the waves like a living thing, water cascading across the prow in a green curtain and Youngblood laughed aloud in a kind of ecstasy.

  Chavasse found it impossible not to respond. “A hell of a change from that cell in Fridaythorpe.”

  “Fridaythorpe?” For a brief moment Youngblood’s smile was wiped clean. “I’ll tell you something, Drum,” he said, his face all iron. “I’d send this tub to the bottom and go with her before they’d get me back there.”

 

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