And then the breathing was very close and he saw the upraised knife gleam in the moonlight. He twisted and lifted his knee sideways. It connected with his assailant's stomach and there was a subdued grunt. His right hand fastened about the man's wrist and he twisted sharply. There was a cry and the knife fell to the floor.
Kane scrambled from the bunk, hands reaching for his assassin's body, but the man's torso was slippery with oil and Kane's hands failed to secure a grip. The man twisted like an eel and dashed for the entrance. As he came out on deck, Piroo jumped to bar his way. There was a grunt of pain from the little Hindu as their bodies collided, and the killer ducked under his arm and dived over the rail.
Kane stood listening intently, but could hear no sound. He turned slowly. 'Are you all right?'
The little Hindu was almost weeping. 'Sahib, I am shamed. This man boarded the launch and almost killed you while I slept.'
Kane patted him on the shoulder. 'Don't be damned silly. He was probably a professional. They're the only ones who oil their bodies before going on a job. Don't worry about it. Get the dinghy ready and we'll pay a call on our friend Selim.'
He went below and dressed quickly, and when he came back on deck, he was carrying the Colt automatic in his jacket pocket. It was time someone cut Selim down to size, he decided, as they crossed the harbour and rowed between the fishing boats towards the Farah.
The dinghy bumped against the side of the great dhow and he told Piroo to wait, mounted a rope ladder quickly, and climbed over the rail. The deck was deserted. Underneath the stern-deck, a door opened into the captain's cabin and he approached cautiously. For a moment he hesitated outside, listening, and then he kicked open the door and went in, the Colt ready in his right hand.
Two Arabs were sitting cross-legged on cushions beside a low table which contained a coffee-pot and several tiny cups. They glanced up in alarm and he held the gun steady on them.
'Where is Selim?' he demanded in Arabic.
One of them shrugged. 'He left this afternoon. I think he went up-country to visit friends.'
For a moment Kane gazed at them suspiciously. As he lowered the Colt and started to move away, he became aware of a familiar odour. It was the stale, rancid smell of olive oil.
He turned slowly and faced the men. 'Take off your robes!' They looked at each other in alarm and the one who had spoken, started to protest. Kane moved forward quickly, a savage look on his face. 'Do as I say.'
The one who had done the talking shrugged and started to remove his outer garments, but the other suddenly made a break for the door. Kane stretched out a foot and tripped him, and as the man scrambled to his feet, hit him across the face with the barrel of the Colt. The heavy foresight slashed open the man's cheek and he slid to the deck, moaning.
Kane slipped the Colt into his pocket and walked to the door. He turned and said calmly to the other man, 'Tell Selim he'll get out of Dahrein if he knows what's good for him,'
He closed the door behind him, crossed the deck and dropped down into the dinghy. 'Is everything settled, Sahib?' Piroo said.
Kane nodded. 'I think you might say that. You can take me to the jetty now. I'm going into town.'
He stood on the jetty and listened to the sound of the dinghy disappearing into the darkness as the Hindu rowed away and then he turned and walked along the waterfront to the hotel and his appointment with Ruth Cunningham.
SEVEN
THE HOTEL WAS ABLAZE with lights, and the foyer was crowded with people. Kane pushed his way through to the entrance of the casino. Skiros was sitting at a table by the window. His eyes, moving rapidly from table to table, gleamed with satisfaction as the dealers raked the chips across the green baize covers. When he saw Kane, a smile appeared on his face and he waved. Kane nodded briefly and turned away.
The bar was doing a brisk trade and Romero, Noval and Conde, the Catalina crew, were sitting there in flying jackets. Romero waved and Kane joined them.
'Run any good cargos lately?' Romero asked.
'The pot calling the kettle black,' Kane said. 'Guptas told me he saw you and some Portuguese freighter offloading thirty miles out.'
Romero smiled. 'We all need to make a living, amigo.'
'Take care,' Kane said. 'If he saw you, so could someone else.'
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He walked away. Noval said. 'He's right.' Romero shrugged. 'No problem. A few more days and it will all be over. Let's have another drink.'
The corridor was quiet, and the noise from below sounded curiously muted and unreal as if it came from another world. A light showed through the transom window above her door and he knocked softly and waited. It was opened almost immediately and she looked out.
She was wearing a brocaded house-coat in heavy silk, tied with a crimson sash at the waist. Her hair hung loosely to her shoulders, and her face was pale and drawn as if she had slept badly. She smiled and stood to one side and he went in.
She closed the door and leaned against it, her eyes gazing into his searchingly. After a few moments she sighed. 'You haven't got any news for me, have you?'
For a fraction of a second he hesitated and then he shrugged, 'I'm afraid not.'
She moved across to a wicker chair by the window and there was an edge of desperation in her face. 'Surely you've managed to find out something? This is a small town. Somebody must have known him.'
Kane shrugged. 'That's the peculiar thing about the whole business. Nobody seems to have heard of your husband. I finally had a talk with the Customs Chief here. He swears your husband hasn't disembarked in Dahrein during the past two months.'
'But that's impossible,' she said. 'We know he has.'
Kane shook his head. 'We know he intended to come here. We know he got on the boat at Aden. He may have gone on to another port - Mukalla, for instance.'
'Do you think that's possible?'
He shrugged. 'Anything's possible. On the other hand I'm still not convinced your husband didn't land in Dahrein. Captain Gonzalez is inclined to skimp his duties. If he meets half the boats that come in here he's doing well, but he won't admit it.'
She looked up at him eagerly, 'Then you think my husband may have landed here after all?'
Kane nodded. 'If he landed and went straight up-country the same day, it would explain why no one has heard of him.'
An expression of relief appeared in her eyes and she relaxed against the cushions. 'I'm sure that's what must have happened.' She smiled wanly. 'What's the next move?'
He went across to the window and looked down into the crowded street. 'There's one more person left to see,' he said. 'Marie Ferret.'
Ruth Cunningham looked up at him in surprise. 'A woman? But how can she help?'
Kane smiled. 'No ordinary woman, I can assure you.
Marie Ferret is half-French, half-Arab. She's the head of a trading organization which stretches from Zanzibar to Singapore. A very remarkable woman. She has regular trucks going up to the Shabwa area. If your husband wanted to get there in a hurry, that's the way he would go-'
There was a strange smile on her face when she looked up at him. 'Is she a friend of yours?'
Kane shrugged. 'I know her,' he said. 'She'll give me any information she has.' He walked to the door. 'If it's not too late when I get back, I'll drop in again.'
She stood up quickly and moved across to the table. 'I've written a letter to the Consul in Aden telling him I've found you all right.' She laughed rather self-consciously. 'He asked me to do so. He didn't seem too happy about my coming here on my own.'
He slipped the letter into his pocket and grinned. 'Maybe he had a point. I'll see you later.'
He went downstairs, crossed the foyer and entered the casino. Skiros was still sitting by the window, cheroot between his teeth and glass at his elbow.
Kane slipped into the opposite chair. 'Looks like you're having a good night.'
Skiros smiled. 'I do not complain. Luckily the world is full of fools who do not understand that the house always wins. What of Mrs Cunningham's husband? Have you managed to trace him yet?'
Kane shook his head. 'Gonzalez says he hasn't landed here, but you know how much one can rely on his word. I'm going to see Marie Ferret now. She might know something.'
As he got to his feet, he took Ruth Cunningham's letter from his pocket and pushed it across the table. 'Put that in the mail bag for me. It's important.'
Skiros nodded and snapped his fingers at a waiter. 'You're just in time. I'm sending a boy down to the jetty now. The mail boat sails on the ten-o'clock tide.' He gave the letter to the waiter with a brief command. 'Have you time for a drink?'
Kane shook his head. 'Another time, Skiros. I'll probably be back later on to see Mrs Cunningham again.'
Skiros smiled and the flesh creased around his eyes. 'I trust you will remember that this is business. She's a very attractive woman.'
Kane didn't to bother reply. He turned and forced his way through the crowd, crossed the foyer and went out into the cool night.
As he walked along the centre of the narrow street, he thought about the Greek's last remark. It would be foolish to deny that Ruth Cunningham was an attractive woman and yet, since that brief feeling of excitement and unease when they had first met on the jetty, he had been conscious of no physical feelings about her.
She was the first woman of his own kind he had met for years and yet she left him completely unmoved. But then, women were something he was extremely careful about. After all, Lillian had seemed a very pleasant girl during those first few months before they got married. Remembering what had come after, the thought that she was no longer a part of his life filled him with a conscious pleasure and he paused on a street corner to light a cigarette.
It was the best part of the day. The Hour of the Dove, they called it. The lights of the ships in the harbour were mirrored in the water, and from a nearby cafe came the sounds of music and laughter as someone celebrated a wedding.
Arabs in colourful robes crowded sidewalk tables, sipping coffee from delicate cups, talking endlessly amongst themselves. With the advent of night, the street had become a bazaar with stalls that sold everything from hand-made brassware to cooked food.
There was an air of excitement, of vitality in the air, and the night, like smooth velvet, brushed his face as he pressed through the crowd.
Gradually, the streets emptied as he moved away from the centre and climbed steadily through narrow, cobbled alleys towards the promontory which curved out towards the sea.
Marie Ferret's house was perched on the extreme end of the finger of rock, looking out over the harbour. It was a two-storeyed building with a flat roof, standing in an acre of garden surrounded by a high wall.
Kane paused outside a solid, iron-bound door and pulled the bell chain. After a while there was a movement on the other side and the door swung open noiselessly.
The man who stood revealed presented an extraordinary figure. A full-blooded Somali, his ebony face was topped by a flowing mane of black hair. He stood six foot six and was broad in proportion: a giant of a man in white robes.
His mouth twisted in a grin and he moved to one side, motioning Kane to enter. Kane smiled and said in Arabic, 'Is your mistress at home, Jamal?'
The Somali turned from the door and nodded. He had been branded in the centre of the forehead as was customary with slaves in certain parts of the Yemen. He had tried to escape from his master, and on being caught, had had his tongue cut out in the market place as a warning to others.
His second attempt at escape had been more successful. Dying from thirst in the desert, he had been found by Marie Perret, who had nursed him back to health. He had been her shadow ever since.
He led the way along a flagged path between the fig trees to a covered terrace, motioned Kane to a chair and disappeared inside the house.
Kane inhaled the freshness of the garden. It was a riot of colour and the night air was heavy with the scent of flowers. Several palms lifted their heads above the wall and gently nodded in the cool breeze, leaves etched against the night sky, and a fountain splashed into a fish pool amongst the trees. There was a light step behind him and he turned quickly and rose to his feet as Marie Perret walked out onto the terrace.
She was a small, graceful girl of twenty-five and the soft contours of her body were accentuated by the jodhpurs and khaki bush-shirt she was wearing. Her hair was black, an inheritance from her Arab mother, as were the wide, almond-shaped eyes and rather full mouth.
The rest of her was pure French, and she smiled gaily and flung herself down into a chair. 'How are you, Gavin? What a wonderful night. I've just been for a ride.'