Suppose he just took one step forward? If Karen had gone, life was no more use to him anyway, so why prolong an agony which was certain to destroy him?
He imagined the boat driving on, smashing him down with her keel, guiding him into the racing screws. With
her
course held by the Automatic Pilot, she would drive on alone, a ghost ship, until she dashed herself on the shore, or was found abandoned by some wondering persons elsewhere.
He swayed slightly and tightened his grip on the rail. Fool! he cursed, there is one thing you have to do yet.
Another blast of a horn sounded out of the fog, nearer this time it seemed, but he knew that it must really be well over to port.
He returned to the wheel, and, as he noticed the clock, he cursed and spun the wheel on to her new course. The minutes ticked by, minutes charged with mounting tension and a fierce, growing determination.
The engines slowed, and the yacht ran on more quietly, while Vivian, with every window open, peered ahead, waiting calmly for the sight of any small vessel which might be anchored here to ride out the fog. He knew that somewhere over the salt-caked bows lay Margate, and here, in the Road, he would find Lang. He wasn’t quite sure how he could be so definite, he just knew.
The area for yacht anchorage only measured about two miles in length, so it would be a job for the dinghy again. He lifted his head higher, hearing the plaintive squawk of the fog-horn guarding the end of Margate’s tiny harbour. Getting pretty close, he decided, and slammed both engines into neutral, allowing the boat to glide forward silently, the water slapping against the sides in protest. The tide was running out fast, and he knew that in a while the area beyond the small, stone breakwater would be just a mass of treacherous mud.
Taking his time, he went once more on to the forward deck, and when the bow wave had died to a sullen ripple, he started to lower the anchor, swearing softly at the grating clink of the cable, as it ran jerkily through the
fairlead.
He felt the chain slacken, as the swinging flukes dragged along the sandy bottom, and as the boat moved away crabwise with the current, he carefully paid out more and more cable, until the boat swung gently to her moorings.
Thoughtfully, he strapped a small compass on his wrist. Rowing a dinghy in the fog, in a definite direction, would be difficult enough as it was, without adding to his troubles.
With a sigh, he lowered himself into the little boat, which bobbed obediently astern. He checked his two weapons, and shoved off from the yacht’s side, experiencing a strange curdling feeling in the pit of his stomach.
He chased all other thoughts out of his head, and pulled off strongly, the dinghy feeling light and free without the yacht dragging behind it, and within seconds he had lost sight of
Seafox
, although he could still hear the chafing clink of her taut cable.
Occasionally he rested on his oars, checking his compass, and listening so carefully that it hurt. He reckoned that he was pulling about half a mile from the beach, or probably less, and even allowing for the current, he should still be parallel to it.
Twice he swerved to avoid what he thought was a moored and unmarked vessel, but each time it was a thicker bank of fog, which seemed to jeer and mock at his desperate efforts, which, as the time wore on, appeared fated and hopeless.
He rested again, the silence closing in on him like a blanket. Nothing. He lowered his head, watching the water swilling about under the boat’s bottom boards.
‘No boat here,’ he said, as if addressing the silence. ‘Not one bloody thing!’ His shoulders slumped, and he felt himself drifting sideways across the busy current.
What a damned fool I am, he pondered. I don’t even deserve to live!
Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! The tinny note of a bell, being struck with inexperienced vigour, brought all his senses alert, and he found himself craning round, trying to trap the sound, to hold it and plan its direction.
He waited, the glistening oar blades poised inches over the water. How well he understood that sound, a ship’s bell being rung to denote she was lying at anchor in a fog. He knew that he had another minute to wait before the next few strokes, provided the person doing it was abiding strictly by the rules.
There it was again. His heart pounded with excitement, as he pulled slowly and silently towards it, the blades biting deep into the water.
Like a stalking hunter he moved, waiting for each new group of sounds before he pulled onwards. His head was strained round over one shoulder, his eyes staring into the fog, regardless of the salt smarting under his lids and the ache in his neck.
Ding! Ding! Ding! The ringer must be getting tired. Much nearer now, he decided, it would be any second and he would find this invisible vessel.
As he lay on his oars, waiting for the bell, two things happened at once. The bell clanged, apparently overhead, and at that very instant, before the notes had time to fade away, he saw the swaying shape of a yacht’s stern, only feet away. He watched her in silence, hardly daring to breathe, and licking his dry lips in cold anticipation of what he had to do next.
She was quite a large yacht, from what he could see, about five to ten feet longer than
Seafox
, and with tapering, twin masts to carry her auxiliary sails. Her dark blue hull gleamed dully even in the fog, showing her metal
sides,
and the name
Grouville
in bold letters across her stern.
As he waited, a figure detached itself from the dark hump of the yacht’s wheelhouse and stamped noisily to the rail. Then, with an impatient glance at his wrist-watch, he moved back again, his shape merging with that of the boat. Another loud ringing clanged and rolled around the fog, and Vivian realized that the man, whoever he was, would be remaining on deck to maintain the constant signal. He bit his lip angrily. There was nothing for it but to swim for the yacht’s side. At the first scrape of the dinghy alongside, the alarm would be given in a second. He’d just have to let the boat drift away on its own, there was nothing else that he could do, he concluded.
He hardly made a splash as he slid into the water, and floating on his back, he watched anxiously, as the dinghy curtsied and bobbed out of sight.
In a few strokes he was feeling his way under the bulging curve of the stern, his knees scratching along the rough, encrusted waterline and one foot touching a protruding propeller. Being a steel boat, there was little to hold on to, and a pang of anxiety caused him to move more quickly along the high side, which rose above his face like a sheer wall. Three square, window-like ports, blazing with light, glared out from the middle of the boat, and he reached up cautiously, the tips of his wet fingers exploring the edge of the first one. There was a small flange at the bottom, so with both hands he pulled himself bodily out of the water, until his eyes rose above the level of the brass overhang.
At first he could see nothing, the glass was caked and smeared with salt and fog stains, then as he hung with his ribs rubbing against the cold, steel plates, he saw a figure move rapidly across his vision. He swallowed hard. It was Mason, his face twisted into a frown of anger or fear, as
he
paced to and fro, tossing remarks to someone sitting against Vivian’s side of the boat, and who was out of his range of view. Faintly, through the thick, toughened glass, he heard only snatches of Mason’s high, agitated voice.
‘How did he escape? That’s what I’d like to know.’ And, ‘If it’s all so damned foolproof, why are we squatting out here like this?’
Vivian grimaced with the pain in his arms and fingers. He could feel his grip slowly slipping from the tiny, brass ledge, but he hung on, determined to hear as much as possible. They must have heard about my escape on the radio, he thought. Once Mason glared straight at him and Vivian froze, but he continued his pacing and storming without interruption, so he stayed where he was, feeling the swell of the water pulling at his dangling thighs.
While he watched, Mason took a decanter from a well-stocked sideboard, and filled two glasses with a shaking hand.
Of course, the yacht’s name came back to Vivian’s racing brain, it was one of the travel agency’s hire yachts. Lang had mentioned it to him when they had been discussing the subject in the first place.
The very thought of Lang made a great surge of anger tear right through him, nearly making him lose his last precarious hold. He was about to slide back into the water, to look for a fresh method of boarding, when an arm reached forward to take the other glass from the table.
For the short time it took, he saw again the plump, fresh-complexioned face, and smooth, well-groomed hair. Even after Lang had leaned back again, out of sight, Vivian still stared, his eyes cold with hatred.
It was almost a relief to feel the embrace of the sea, as he slid back down the smooth side, and paddled further along the yacht’s length.
‘Soon, soon,’ he breathed, ‘I’ll make it even with you, Felix!’
There was nothing within reach, so he swam to the anchor cable, and, hand over hand, pulled himself up to the high stem, straining and sliding his streaming body over the wide flare of the bow, to roll, panting, on the deck. Breathless though he was, he was up, and crouching behind the capstan before he had time to realize he was aboard, and before the man by the bell had finished his last stroke.
He crouched, counting the seconds until the bell started to jangle again, and at the first stroke he scrambled noiselessly along the wide deck, and as the bell stopped ringing he flung himself down flat on the wet planking, taking his weight on his hands. He listened, his heart thudding in his breast, so that he thought it must be heard. He caught the scraping sound of a match, and lifting his head only slightly, he saw Cooper’s face bent over a cigarette, his eyes squinting against the flame. He was standing on the other side of the wheelhouse, as Vivian had anticipated, and the sight of him made him clench his fists, as the memories came flooding back.
He turned his face away, concentrating on the lighted glass of a deck skylight, which should, he thought, be right over the saloon. He eased his body forward, until his nose was practically touching the coaming, and when the bell jangled its message once more, he peered over the edge. Lang was talking now, his voice sharp, but completely at ease.
‘… and so that’s it,’ he was saying. ‘We’ve taken years to build this thing up, and to break away from the other people in the game; why,’ he shrugged expressively, a gesture that sent a shaft of pain through Vivian as he watched, ‘it’s madness to let anything or anyone spoil it now!’
A girl’s voice made Vivian start, and twist his head further round. At the other end of the saloon, slumped on the wide settee, was Janice Mason. Her eyes were red, as if she had been crying for a long time, and she looked completely miserable. From the slur in her speech, he observed that she was also very drunk.
‘Whyja do it?’ she said, looking desperately at Lang. ‘You didn’t tell me you were going to kill him.’ She sniffed loudly, and lowered her eyes to her empty glass. ‘He was such a nice old man,’ she added, almost to herself.
‘Well, we’re all in it!’ Lang sounded quite cheerful. ‘You too, Janice!’
‘But I———’
‘Don’t forget, you drove the girl’s car up to the house, with the horn blaring, a very convincing double I thought! Oh yes my girl, we’re all in it!’
‘You swine.’ She said it without emotion. ‘I’ve been a fool!’
‘Nonsense! We’re all right, I keep telling you. What does it matter if he has escaped, eh? Only makes it look more convincing if he runs away for a bit. He doesn’t know where we are, so what the hell!’
Mason refilled all the glasses. He seemed a bit calmer now.
‘So you say, Felix. I must confess that when you explain it, it does seem a bit easier.’
‘Mind you, old boy, I must say that even I had a few nasty moments! When that girl came running up to me in Ramsgate, well! I had just been giving this boat the once over, and she damn near fell on me! Phew, I’d never have believed that old Morrie would fall down on the job. I’m glad we’ve got rid of him!’ he added callously.
‘Anything else? What other thing did the great man miss?’ The girl’s voice was getting thicker every moment.
Lang ignored the interruption. ‘Then there was this, old boy.’ He fumbled in the pocket of his blazer. ‘This little scrap of paper.’ He smoothed it down on the table, directly beneath Vivian, and he saw Jensen’s last desperate message, the drawing of the engine-room. ‘Found it on Vivian’s boat when I was nosing around. That’s how I found the rest of the plates.’ He chuckled. ‘Bit of luck I found them, old boy, I might have thought you were trying to double-cross me, what?’ He laughed as if it was all a huge joke.
Mason stared at the paper. ‘What’s the idea of this little drawing of a cat?’
‘Don’t you get it, old boy? Old Jensen was no fool you know. You’ve got to hand it to him, really you have!’ He gulped down his drink. ‘Remember the cartoons we used to go and see before the war, when we were kids? You know, when cartoon films were a real novelty.’
Understanding dawned on Mason’s thin features. ‘By God! I’ve got it, Felix the cat!’ he shouted. ‘Felix! He was trying to tip off the name of his murderer!’
Vivian’s heart was ice cold, when he realized how he had overlooked the most important part of poor Jensen’s warning. Without taking his eyes from the little group below, he reached down to his belt, and pulled the automatic pistol up to his face. Resting the muzzle on the coaming, he lined up the fore-sight with Lang’s stomach, which even now was shaking with silent laughter. There was no mercy in Vivian’s eyes, and none in his heart, as he curled his finger round the trigger.
Had anyone else been in a position to make a plea for Lang’s life, the words would have fallen on deaf ears, but it was Lang himself who caused Vivian to falter, to allow the pistol to waver dangerously on the edge of the skylight.
‘I suppose I’d better go and have a look at our little Karen, just to make sure she’s all right. By the look of things,
I’ll
have to take care of her myself. My partners don’t seem to be very reliable on that score.’