He had taken the point and deflected it. But he had not been shaken badly by it; she could press forward warily.

  ‘I didn’t mean belong to you as a subject. I meant…’ She let the sentence hang on air, then continued, ‘Have you the power to be just a man, Lucifer?’

  ‘I must always be Lucifer.’ The words were measured, yet she heard in them a touch of uncertainty. He had more than half grasped her meaning, and the opposing pressures of excitement and fear were beginning to stir in him. There was not yet any strong or dangerous clash between his wanting and not wanting, but she knew it could only be avoided in the end by making the initiative his.

  ‘Yes. You must always be Lucifer.’ There was a tinge of sorrow in her voice now. ‘The others, your servants, they can do all things that men do, because you’ve ordered it so.’ She looked at him with resignation. ‘It’s so strange. I’m sometimes frightened that they may want me as a man wants a woman. Yet I wouldn’t be frightened if it were you … because I know you would be kind and gentle, and you’d help me.’

  His eyes flared, and she drew her hand away before he could tighten his grip. Standing up, she moved quickly away from the bed, then turned to look at him. He was propped on an elbow, staring at her anxiously, his face a conflict of emotions.

  ‘I’m sorry I’ve been so foolish,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I knew there could be no wrong in Hell. No sin. No guilt.’ She saw his eyes widen a little at her last words. ‘No guilt,’ she repeated heavily. ‘And because I’ve been honoured above all your subjects, because Lucifer has been my friend for a little while as well as my master, I thought that he might want me as a woman.’

  He was still in the same half lying position, rigid, staring at her with turmoil in his eyes. She shook her head and twisted her lips into a forced smile.

  ‘I’ll go now,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t have hoped. I should have known that Lucifer must always be Lucifer.’

  She turned slowly. Now the initiative was his, and she had tried to strip away from him any sense of guilt. She took two paces towards the door, and still he did not speak. She had given him the initiative but he needed time—more time.

  Without turning she said, ‘I’d like to take something with me, Lucifer. Just a memory. I’m only a woman, and human. Will you help my pride a little?’

  Still he said nothing. She let her instinct take over, and went through with the gamble. Her hands moved to the shoulder buttons of the yellow cheong sam.

  ‘It doesn’t matter if you lie,’ she said. ‘But will you look at me? And tell me—if you had the power to be just a man for tonight, would I please you?’

  The silk whispered to the floor about her feet. She stepped away from it and turned to face him, standing erect, without embarrassment or coquetry. The rose-filled light glowed on her long tanned legs, on the narrow waist rising to full firm breasts and wide shoulders.

  ‘Please,’ she said. ‘Tell me, Lucifer. Just one word … before I go.’

  He looked at her with wonder, and slowly all conflict was erased from his face, leaving only youthful eagerness. The blue eyes danced and his smile was brilliant. He swung his feet to the ground and moved towards her, reaching out his hands.

  ‘Don’t go,’ he said in a whisper. ‘Lucifer must always be Lucifer. But in his own dominion he has the power to be all things, at his pleasure. Tonight it is Lucifer’s pleasure to be no more than human—a man.’

  Though his whispering voice was confident, she felt his body shaking as he took her in his arms. His kiss was the artless kiss of a boy, and she let it be so for the moment.

  ‘You’ll have to help me,’ she said softly, her hands gentling him. ‘I’m not afraid now, but I want to be good for you.’

  ‘You will be good for me.’ He drew her towards the bed.

  In the time that followed she guided his awkward love-play, murmuring praise and wonderment, and always making it seem that he was the preceptor and she the novice.

  When joy shook his powerful body the first time she knew a strange contentment, growing not from a sense of victory but from the simple gladness of giving.

  After that first time Lucifer was gone, and only the man remained; a man who spoke gentle, clumsy endearments and held her close; who had forgotten his eternal burden for a while; who had laid aside fear and guilt, and was supremely unaware of his own gaucheness because she hid it from him; a man whose young strong appetite grew quickly keen again so that he turned to her anew.

  It was very late when at last he slept. Modesty lay on her back, holding him in her arms, his head cradled on the softness of her breast and shoulder, and she knew that whatever the end might be she was glad to have given him this night.

  Twice each week Garcia would go out in one of the small sailing dinghies and catch a shark.

  Now, in the heat of the afternoon sun, he stood outside the little shack where he lived beside the long rocky inlet which probed into the shore a hundred yards north of the bay. He was examining the dead shark, some seven feet long, which he had caught a mile or two out to sea the day before.

  ‘You tow it round the bay?’ said Collier.

  ‘Yes, seńor. But first wait till he go older a little.’

  ‘Starts to decay?’ Collier pinched his nose and flapped a hand in mime.

  Garcia nodded. ‘Then is best thing of all to make sharks not come. I make tow four times each day. Then is safe to swim. Old shark is there.’ He pointed to the mouth of the inlet where the top of a net showed just above the water. ‘He is nearly finish. Come apart. Tomorrow this one just right.’

  Collier grimaced, sniffing. ‘He seems pretty high already. But I still prefer him to some of my table companions. If we could get our black-suited laughing boy in that condition, you’d only need to tow him round once a week.’

  ‘Seńor?’ Garcia stared, uncomprehending.

  ‘Never mind.’ Collier gave a friendly nod and strolled slowly back along the edge of the inlet. He had been making conversation while waiting for Modesty Blaise, and now he saw her, in red, moving down the slope from the ridge which hid the house from view. They had arranged the meeting with a few quick words soon after breakfast.

  There were three Moro guards in sight, one on the ridge and two more on the flat ground beyond the inlet, but Modesty was alone. That was a change, Collier reflected. Lucifer rarely left her side now.

  It was three weeks since Modesty had become Lucifer’s mistress. At first Collier had felt only relief that she had overcome the immediate danger. Then had followed jealousy and resentment, both acknowledged by him to be juvenile. Now he had reached the stage of wry acceptance.

  Lucifer’s happiness was manifest. He seemed even taller, and his manner had taken on an added touch of regality. Yet he cooperated in the many sessions of experiments, and this was Modesty’s influence at work. Lucifer carried out the experiments for Bowker and Collier with the relaxed, tolerant manner of an adult amusing children.

  The improvement in results had been considerable, but Collier had contrived to draw out statistics which were beyond Bowker’s understanding and which showed the results to be even better than they were. ‘Buy time,’ Modesty had said, and Collier was doing that.

  His main worry was Seff’s evident dislike of Modesty’s growing influence over Lucifer. She made no overt use of this, but that it existed was apparent in Lucifer himself. He was less amenable to manipulation by Seff and Bowker now, and from time to time he gave a firm order, as Lucifer, which had to be obeyed. Collier wondered for how long Seff would let this situation develop before deciding that letting Modesty live was a greater disadvantage than it was a benefit.

  But for the moment the pressure was off, for Seff was otherwise preoccupied. Another of his victims had agreed to pay, and tonight a pick-up would be made at sea, forty miles to the west. Seff and his colleagues were in conference at this moment. There was not only the pick-up to discuss. Jack Wish had returned after twelve days’ absence on the grim business that was his contribution to Seff’s scheme, and he had his report to make.

  Modesty halted, waiting for Collier as he covered the last few paces between them, then she turned and began to walk slowly with him up the slope towards the cliff top.

  ‘Where’s the boyfriend?’ Collier asked, and was surprised to find that he spoke without underlying bitterness.

  ‘Asleep.’

  ‘At mid afternoon?’ Collier lifted an eyebrow. ‘He’s usually swimming with you now.’

  ‘He’s discovered that there are other things you can do in the afternoon, apart from swimming. And he sleeps like a log afterwards.’

  Collier sighed. ‘A trip to the moon?’

  ‘Now don’t make a big production of it, Steve.’

  ‘I’m not. Much to my amazement, I’m not. Maybe it’s because we’ve been spared any more of those nauseating puppet shows since you took him on.’

  ‘Yes. It’s worth it for that. I’m afraid the Seffs don’t like it, though.’ She looked at him with quick appraisal and gave him a half smile. ‘You’re doing fine, Steve. That attack of the jitters seems to have passed.’

  ‘Your lecture helped. But don’t misjudge me. I still have all the attributes of a fervent coward.’

  ‘You hide them well. In fact I’m getting worried about your new technique with the Seffs. For a moment last night I thought you’d gone just too far.’

  ‘Impossible. They’re entirely humourless.’

  ‘That doesn’t make them any less dangerous.’

  ‘I know. And I don’t forget it. But I have to sit at the same table as the Seffs, and that’s an ordeal that unseats the gimbals of the soul. I have to do something to keep my food down.’

  It was true that the Seffs were humourless. And, as a counter to his fear and loathing of them, Collier had started to twist their tails for his own satisfaction. His manner to them was donnish and elaborately polite, but the content of his conversation was derisive insult. The Seffs were blind to this.

  Despite herself Modesty laughed suddenly, remembering.

  After dinner last night, when Lucifer had gone to play his records—

  ‘Have you ever had experience of a true haunting by any chance, Mr. Collier?’ Regina quavered as she poured coffee with an unsteady hand.

  ‘A haunting?’ Collier rolled the word round his tongue, considered, then continued reluctantly, ‘Not a visual experience. No, Mrs. Seff, I would not claim that I had ever seen what one might loosely call a ghost or phantom.’

  Seff looked up. ‘Your emphasis seems to indicate some other kind of experience, Mr. Collier.’

  ‘Perhaps. But I would not care to be dogmatic’ A pause. ‘There was an aunt of mine who worked as a conductress on a bus during the war…’ Collier shrugged, then sipped his coffee as if unwilling to amplify the story.

  ‘On a bus? What happened?’ Regina asked curiously.

  ‘It was a number thirty-six bus.’ Collier shook his head and sighed faintly as if troubled by sad memories. ‘Plying between Hither Green and Kilburn, if I remember rightly. One night, passing Victoria Station, it was unfortunately destroyed by the blast of a bomb falling close by.’ He looked at Regina. ‘We have always felt proud of the fact that when my aunt’s body was found, she was still holding fast to her ticket punch.’

  Modesty saw Bowker catch his breath. He was half delighted, half terrified by Collier’s excursions of this nature.

  After a few seconds—

  ‘That would probably be a natural reaction rather than a conscious act of—ah—loyal duty,’ Seff said, and both Bowker and Modesty relaxed.

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ Collier said coldly, ‘but my aunt was a very great patriot. Her name was Florence.’

  Seff stirred his coffee, frowning. ‘What has her name to do with the matter?’

  ‘Nothing. I only mention it as a matter of information since your good lady displayed interest. But let us say no more.’

  Regina looked apologetically at Seff, then turned to Collier again. ‘But the haunting…’ Her frail voice was baffled. ‘What was the haunting, Mr. Collier?’

  ‘Well…’ Collier allowed himself to be mollified by her interest. ‘I make no firm assertion, Mrs. Seff. But ten years later I was on top of a number thirty-six bus near Victoria, at the very place and on the day and hour that my aunt laid down her life. Ten-thirty, p.m. I was quite alone, yet a dozen times I distinctly heard the ting of a ticket punch, up and down those empty seats.’

  Modesty heard Bowker mutter, ‘Oh, Christ…’

  But the gravity and the reluctance with which Collier had related the absurd story carried remarkable conviction.

  ‘An aural illusion, I would imagine,’ said Seff.

  ‘Well, I don’t know, Seffy.’ Regina took out her menthol stick. ‘I remember when I was at school, there was a girl who distinctly saw her aunt…’

  Now, as she walked with Collier, Modesty said, ‘I know it does you a power of good, but just don’t go too far, Steve. The Seffs may have a blind spot, but if Bowker loses control and sniggers you’ll be sunk.’

  ‘I’ll be careful.’

  ‘Good. Have you had any ideas about escaping?’

  ‘A dozen. All no good. But just now I’m concentrating on the idea of trying to find Seff’s main transmitter.’

  ‘Ah.’ She was pleased. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, I thought if that could be put out of action, and if we could somehow steal one of the dinghies and just get a few miles clear we’d be out of range of the portables. Then we could go ashore, cut these bastard poison capsules out of each other, and…’ He ran a hand through his hair and shrugged apologetically. ‘Sorry, but it’s all pretty vague after that. I just thought that if the first part worked we’d have a chance. I’d sooner be slogging through the jungle than just waiting for Seff to put us down.’

  They walked on a few paces, and he said, ‘All right. I know it’s a lousy idea.’

  ‘Is it? I’ve been looking for the main transmitter myself, and for the same reason.’

  He laughed and felt ridiculously pleased. ‘I must be learning fast. I think the damn thing’s in that big workroom of Seff’s. Two days ago I actually got in there—just followed Bowker in when he was going to talk to Seff. They didn’t chuck me out. But if it’s there, it’s hidden.’

  Modesty nodded. ‘I got in myself, with Lucifer. Just for a few minutes.’

  ‘No luck?’

  ‘Not with the transmitter.’

  Collier shot a glance at her. They had reached the cliff top now. She sat down, her legs curled beneath her, and motioned him to do the same.

  ‘I’ve cut through one bar of my window,’ she said absently, looking out over the bay. ‘Your turn now, Steve. If you work a couple of hours each night you can do it in ten days.’

  He stared at her blankly. ‘What do I use—my teeth?’

  ‘On the ground.’

  He looked down. Close to his hand was a four-inch half round file.

  ‘I picked it up in Seff’s workroom,’ she said, ‘and he hasn’t missed it. Put it under your shirt now and hide it in your room as soon as you get the chance.’

  Casually, very conscious of the watching Moros in the background, Collier covered the file with his hand. He reached inside his shirt and scratched his ribs before bringing his empty hand out again.

  ‘Cut through the top of the bar, starting from the outside,’ Modesty said, still looking out to sea. ‘Plug the cut with spit and dirt when you finish each night.’

  ‘Just the top?

  ‘Yes. They’re long bars. Enough leverage to bend one aside if the top’s cut through. Let me know when you’re set, and I’ll get to you.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Out of Lucifer’s window—the bathroom, where I’ve cut the bar, then up to the roof, across, and down to your window. I’ve studied it.’

  ‘Will I need ten days?’

  ‘Pretty well. With a Moro sleeping outside your door it has to be taken quietly. The noise won’t be a problem if you get a little grease from the tin Garcia keeps in his shack, and don’t use too much pressure when you file. Those bars are only mild steel. All right?’

  ‘All right.’ Collier found that his mouth was dry. ‘I don’t think my salivary glands are working too well, so I might be a bit short of spit. But it’s nice to know the bars aren’t made of beryllium, isn’t it?’

  CHAPTER 16

  THE twin screws of the cargo boat were still. The first mate came down the bridge ladder to the main deck. In the darkness, John Dall and Willie Garvin stood by the rail. Dall wore a navy blue shirt and wrinkled slacks, with a peaked cap pushed back on his head. Willie Garvin was in black. There was no lightness in the face of either man; but of the two, Dall’s face was the harder and grimmer.

  The first mate said. ‘Just coming up to 2130 hours local time, and we’re on the right spot, Mr. Dall.’

  ‘Okay. Go ahead.’

  Figures moved in the darkness, and a donkey engine chattered. A derrick swung smoothly round, halted, and the big pear-shaped container suspended from it moved down towards the flat dark surface of the sea.

  Samarkand was a ten thousand tonner, a ship of the Cresset Line, which was a part of Dall’s empire. She should now have been on her way to San Francisco, but had been held at Yokohama on special instructions. There she had taken on a number of passengers arriving by air. One was the fair-haired Englishman called Garvin, another was the pilot of the Beaver seaplane which now stood in a makeshift hangar on the main deck amidships; there was Dall himself, the big boss, and the rest were a dozen tough, competent-looking men Dall had brought with him.

  The Samarkand’s captain had fought in the Pacific and later taken part in the Inchon landings of the Korean war. He had seen men of this stamp before, and would have laid long odds that they were ex-marines.

  There were weapons in the ship’s armoury now, and rumours were rife among the crew. The captain himself was much intrigued and not a little worried, but he hid his anxiety and asked no questions of John Dall. A shrewd man, he had an uneasy suspicion that a situation might arise in which he would receive an order which involved hazarding his ship. If and when that happened he would fight Dall, regardless of the outcome. But until then he was content to hold his peace.

 

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