If he had come out by the fore hatch he would have been safe, but even in death he had to make one of his inevitable mistakes. The main hatch was open, water was pouring into the hull and
Sanford
was sinking.
Metcalfe was in a rage. ‘The damn’ fool,’ he cried. ‘I thought you’d got rid of him. He’s taking the bloody gold with him.’
Sanford
was getting low in the water and as she did so, the water poured into her faster. Metcalfe stared at her in despair, his voice filled with fury. ‘The stupid, bloody idiot,’ he yelled. ‘He’s bitched things from the start.’
It wouldn’t be long now—
Sanford
was going fast. The towing cable tightened as she sank lower in the water and the Fairmile went down by the stern as the pull on the cable became greater.
Sanford
gave a lurch as compressed air in the fo’c’sle blew out the forehatch and she began to settle faster as more water poured in through this new opening in her hull.
The downward drag on the stern of the Fairmile was becoming dangerous and Metcalfe took a hatchet from a clip and stood by the cable. He looked back at
Sanford
, his
face twitching with indecision, then he brought the hatchet down on the cable with a great swing. It parted with a twang, the loose end snaked away across the sea and the Fairmile bobbed up her stern.
Sanford
lurched again and turned over. As she went down and out of sight amid swirling waters a vagrant sunbeam touched her keel and we saw the glint of imperishable gold. Then there was nothing but the sea.
Metcalfe’s anger was great but, like the squall, soon subsided and he became his usual saturnine self, taking the loss with a philosophical air. ‘A pity,’ he said. ‘But there it is. It’s gone and there isn’t anything we can do about it now.’
We were sitting in the saloon of the Fairmile, on our way to Malaga where Metcalfe was going to drop us. He had given us dry clothing and food and we were all feeling better.
I said, ‘What will you do now?’
He shrugged. ‘Tangier is just about played out now the Moroccans are taking over. I think I’ll pop down to the Congo—things seem to be blowing up down there.’
Metcalfe and a few others like him would be ‘popping down to the Congo’, I thought. Carrion crows flocking together—but he wasn’t as bad as some. I said, ‘I think you’ve got a few things to explain.’
He grinned. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘Well, the thing that’s been niggling me is how you got on to us in the first place. What led you to suspect that we were after the gold?’
‘Suspect, old boy? I didn’t suspect, I
knew.
’
‘How the devil did you know?’
‘It was when I got Walker drunk. He spilled the whole story about the gold, the keel—everything.’
‘Well, I’m damned.’ I thought of all the precautions I’d taken to put Metcalfe off the scent; I thought of all the times I’d beaten my brains out to think up new twists of evasion. All wasted—he wasn’t fooled at all!
‘I thought you’d get rid of him,’ Metcalfe said. ‘He was a dead loss all the way through. I thought you’d put him over the side or something like that.’
I looked at Coertze, who grinned at me. I said, ‘He was probably a murderer, too.’
‘Wouldn’t be surprised,’ agreed Metcalfe airily. ‘He was a slimy little rat.’
That reminded me—I had probably killed a man too. ‘Where’s Krupke?’ I asked. ‘I haven’t seen him around.’
Metcalfe snickered. ‘He’s groaning in his bunk—he got a faceful of splinters.’
I held out the back of my hand. ‘Well, he did the same to me.’
‘Yes,’ said Metcalfe soberly. ‘But Krupke is probably going to lose an eye.’
‘Serve him damn’ well right,’ I said viciously. ‘He won’t be too keen to look down rifle sights again.’
I hadn’t lost sight of the fact that Metcalfe and his crew of ruffians had been doing their damnedest to kill us not many hours before. But there wasn’t any advantage in quarrelling with Metcalfe about it—we were on his boat and he was going to put us ashore safely. Irritating him wasn’t exactly the best policy just then.
He said, ‘That machine-gun of yours was some surprise. You nearly plugged me.’ He pointed to a battered loudhailer on the sideboard. ‘You shot that goddamn thing right out of my hand.’
Francesca said, ‘Why were you so solicitous about my husband? Why did you take the trouble?’
‘Oh, I felt real bad when I saw Hal slug him,’ said Metcalfe seriously. ‘I knew who he was, you see, and I
knew he could make a stink. I didn’t want anything like that. I wanted Hal to get on with casting the keel and get out of Italy. I couldn’t afford to have the police rooting round.’
‘That’s why you tried to hold Torloni, too,’ I said.
He rubbed his chin. ‘That was
my
mistake,’ he admitted. ‘I thought I could use Torloni without him knowing it. But he’s a bad bastard and when he got hold of that cigarette case the whole thing blew up in my face. I just wanted Torloni to keep an eye on you, but that damn’ fool, Walker, had to go and give the game away. There was no holding Torloni then.’
‘So you warned us.’
He spread his hands. ‘What else could I do for a pal?’
‘Pal nothing. You wanted the gold out.’
He grinned. ‘Well, what the hell; you got away, didn’t you?’
I had bitter thoughts of Metcalfe as the puppet master; he had manipulated all of us and we had danced to his tune. Not quite—one of his puppets had a broken string; if Walker had defeated us, he had also defeated Metcalfe.
I said, ‘If you hadn’t been so obvious about Torloni the keel wouldn’t have broken. We had to cast it in a bloody hurry when he started putting the pressure on.’
‘Yes,’ said Metcalfe. ‘And all those damned partisans didn’t help, either.’ He stood up. ‘Well, I’ve still got to run this boat.’ He hesitated, then put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a cigarette case. ‘You might like this as a souvenir—Torloni mislaid it. There’s something interesting inside.’ He tossed it on the table and left the saloon.
I looked at Francesca and Coertze, then slowly put out my hand and picked it up. It had the heavy familiar feel of gold, but I felt no sudden twist to my guts as I had when Walker had put the gold Hercules into my hand. I was sick of the sight of gold.
I opened the case and found a letter inside, folded in two. It was addressed to me, care of the yacht
Sanford,
Tangier Harbour, and had been opened. I started to read it and began to laugh uncontrollably.
Francesca and Coertze looked at me in astonishment. I tried to control my laughter but it kept bursting out hysterically. ‘We’ve…we’ve won…won a sweep…a lottery,’ I gasped, and passed the letter to Francesca, who also started to laugh.
Coertze said blankly, ‘What lottery?’
I said, ‘Don’t you remember? You insisted on buying a lottery ticket in Tangier—you said it was for insurance. It won!’
He started to smile. ‘How much?’
‘Six hundred thousand pesetas.’
‘What’s that in money?’
I wiped my eyes. ‘A little over six thousand pounds. It won’t cover expenses—what I’ve spent on this jaunt—but it’ll help.’
Coertze looked sheepish. ‘How much did you spend?’
I began to figure it out. I had lost
Sanford—
she had been worth about £12,000. I had covered all our expenses for nearly a year, and they had been high becaue we were supposed to be wealthy tourists; there had been the exorbitant rental of the Casa Saeta in Tangier; there was the outfitting and provisioning of the boat.
I said, ‘It must run to about seventeen or eighteen thousand.’
His eyes twinkled and he put his hand to his fob pocket. ‘Will these help?’ he asked; and rolled four large diamonds on to the table.
‘Well, I’m damned,’ I said. ‘Where did you get those?’
‘They seemed to stick to my fingers in the tunnel.’ He chuckled. ‘Just like that machine pistol stuck to yours.’
Francesca started to giggle and put her hands to her breast. She produced a little wash-leather bag which was
slung on a cord round her neck and emptied it. Two more diamonds joined those on the table and there were also four emeralds.
I looked at both of them and said, ‘You damned thieves; you ought to be ashamed of yourselves. The jewels were supposed to stay in Italy.’
I grinned and produced my five diamonds and we all sat there laughing like maniacs.
Later, when we had put the gems away safe from the prying eyes of Metcalfe, we went on deck and watched the hills of Spain emerge mistily from over the horizon. I put my arm round Francesca and said wryly, ‘Well, I’ve still got a half-share in a boatyard in Cape Town. Will you mind being a boat-builder’s wife?’
She squeezed my hand. ‘I think I’ll like South Africa.’
I took the cigarette case from my pocket and opened it with one hand. The inscription was there and I read it for the first time—‘
Caro Benito da parte di Adolf—Brennero—1940.’
I said, ‘This is a pretty dangerous thing to have around. Some other Torloni might see it.’
She shivered and said, ‘Get rid of it, Hal; please throw it away.’
So I tossed it over the side and there was just one glint of gold in the green water and then it was gone for ever.
To that stalwart institution the British pub, particularly the Kingsbridge Inn, Totnes, and the Cott Inn, Dartington
I made good time on the way to the West Country; the road was clear and there was only an occasional car coming in the other direction to blind me with headlights. Outside Honiton I pulled off the road, killed the engine and lit a cigarette. I didn’t want to arrive at the farm at an indecently early hour, and besides, I had things to think about.
They say that eavesdroppers never hear good of themselves. It’s a dubious proposition from the logical standpoint, but I certainly hadn’t disproved it empirically. Not that I had intended to eavesdrop—it was one of those accidental things you get yourself into with no graceful exit—so I just stood and listened and heard things said about myself that I would rather not have heard.
It had happened the day before at a party, one of the usual semi-impromptu lash-ups which happen in swinging London. Sheila knew a man who knew the man who was organizing it and wanted to go, so we went. The house was in that part of Golders Green which prefers to be called Hampstead and our host was a with-it whiz kid who worked for a record company and did a bit of motor racing on the side. His conversation was divided about fifty-fifty between Marshal MacLuhan waffle and Brand’s Hatchery, all very wearing on the eardrums. I didn’t know him personally and neither did Sheila—it was that kind of party.
One left one’s coat in the usual bedroom and then drifted into the chatter, desperately trying to make human contact while clutching a glass of warm whisky. Most of the people were complete strangers, although they seemed to know each other, which made it difficult for the lone intruder. I tried to make sense of the elliptical verbal shorthand which passes for conversation on these occasions, and pretty soon got bored. Sheila seemed to be doing all right, though, and I could see this was going to be a long session, so I sighed and got myself another drink.
Halfway through the evening I ran out of cigarettes and remembered that I had a packet in my coat so I went up to the bedroom to get it. Someone had moved the coats from the bed and I found them dumped on the floor behind a large avant-garde screen. I was rooting about trying to find mine when someone else came into the room. A female voice said, ‘That man you’re with is pretty dim, isn’t he?’
I recognized the voice as belonging to Helen Someone-or-other, a blonde who was being squired by a life-and-soul-of-the-party type. I dug into my coat pocket and found the cigarettes, then paused as I heard Sheila say, ‘Yes, he is.’
Helen said, ‘I don’t know why you bother with him.’
‘I don’t know, either,’ said Sheila. She laughed. ‘But he’s a male body, handy to have about. A girl needs someone to take her around.’
‘You could have chosen someone more lively,’ said Helen. ‘This one’s a zombie. What does he
do
?’
‘Oh, he’s some kind of an accountant. He doesn’t talk about it much. A grey little man in a grey little job—I’ll drop him when I find someone more interesting.’
I stayed very still in a ridiculous half crouch behind that screen. I certainly couldn’t walk out into full view after hearing that. There was a subdued clatter from the dressing-table as the girls primped themselves. They chattered about
hair styles for a couple of minutes, then Helen said, ‘What happened to Jimmy What’s-his-name?’
Sheila giggled. ‘Oh, he was
too
wolfish—not at all safe to be with. Exciting, really, but his firm sent him abroad last month.’
‘I shouldn’t think you find this one too exciting.’
‘Oh, Jemmy’s all right,’ said Sheila casually. ‘I don’t have to worry about my virtue with him. It’s very restful for a change.’
‘He’s not a queer, is he?’ asked Helen.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Sheila. Her voice was doubtful. ‘He’s never appeared to be that way.’
‘You never can tell; a lot of them are good at disguise. That’s a nice shade of lipstick—what is it?’
They tailed off into feminine inconsequentialities while I sweated behind the screen. It seemed to be an hour before they left, although it probably wasn’t more than five minutes, and when I heard the door bang I stood up cautiously and came out from under cover and went downstairs to rejoin the party.
I stuck it out until Sheila decided to call it a night and then took her home. I was in half a mind to demonstrate to her in the only possible way that I wasn’t a queer, but I tossed the idea away. Rape isn’t my way of having a good time. I dropped her at the flat she shared with two other girls and bade her a cordial good night. I would have to be very hard up for company before I saw her again.
A grey little man in a grey little job.
Was that how I really appeared to others? I had never thought about it much. As long as there are figures used in business there’ll be accountants to shuffle them around, and it had never struck me as being a particularly grey job, especially after computers came in. I didn’t talk about my work because it really isn’t the subject for light conversation with a
girl. Chit-chat about the relative merits of computer languages such as COBOL and ALGOL doesn’t have the glamour of what John Lennon said at the last recording session.
So much for the job, but what about me? Was I dowdy and subfusc? Grey and uninteresting?
It could very well be that I was—to other people. I had never been one for wearing my heart on my sleeve, and maybe, judging by the peculiar mores of our times, I was a square. I didn’t particularly like the ‘swinging’ aspect of mid-sixties England; it was cheap, frenetic and sometimes downright nasty, and I could do without it. Perhaps I was Johnny-out-of-step.
I had met Sheila a month before, a casual introduction. Looking back at that conversation in the bedroom it must have been when Jimmy What’s-his-name had departed from her life that she had latched on to me as a temporary substitute. For various reasons, the principal one having to do with the proverb of the burnt child fearing the fire, I had not got into the habit of jumping into bed indiscriminately with female companions of short acquaintance, and if that was what Sheila had expected, or even wanted, she had picked the wrong boy. It’s a hell of a society in which a halfway continent man is immediately suspected of homosexuality.
Perhaps I was stupid to take the catty chatter of empty-headed women so much to heart, but to see ourselves as others see us is a salutary experience and tends to make one take a good look from the outside. Which is what I did while sitting in the car outside Honiton.
A thumbnail sketch: Jeremy Wheale, of good yeoman stock and strong family roots. Went to university—but redbrick—emerging with a first-class pass in mathematics and economics. Now, aged 31, an accountant specializing in computer work and with good prospects for the future. Character: introverted and somewhat withdrawn but not overly so. When aged 25 had flammatory affaire which
wrung out emotions; now cautious in dealings with women. Hobbies: indoors—recreational mathematics and fencing, outdoors—scuba diving. Cash assets to present minute: £102/18/4 in current bank account; stocks and shares to the market value of £940. Other assets: one overage Ford Cortina in which sitting brooding; one hi-fi outfit of superlative quality; one set of scuba gear in boot of car. Liabilities: only himself.
And what was wrong with that? Come to think of it—what was right with that? Maybe Sheila had been correct when she had described me as a grey man but only in a circumscribed way. She expected Sean Connery disguised as James Bond and what she got was me—just a good, old-fashioned, grey, average type.
But she had done one thing; she had made me take a good look at myself and what I saw wasn’t reassuring. Looking into the future as far as I could, all I could see was myself putting increasingly complicated figures into increasingly complicated computers at the behest of the men who made the boodle. A drab prospect—not to mention that overworked word ‘grey’. Perhaps I
was
getting into a rut and adopting middle-aged attitudes before my time.
I tossed the stub of the third cigarette from the window and started the car. There didn’t seem to be much I could do about it, and I was quite happy and contented with my lot.
Although not perhaps as happy and contented as I was before Sheila had distilled her poison.
From Honiton to the farm, just short of Totnes, is a run of about an hour and a half if you do it early in the morning to avoid the holiday traffic on the Exeter by-pass, and dead on the minute I stopped, as I always did, on the little patch of ground by Cutter’s Corner where the land fell away into the valley and where there was a break in the high hedge. I got out of the car and leaned comfortably on the fence.
I had been born in the valley thirty-one years earlier, in the farmhouse which lay snugly on the valley floor looking more like a natural growth than a man-made object. It had been built by a Wheale and Wheales had lived in it for over four hundred years. It was a tradition among us that the eldest son inherited the farm and the younger sons went to sea. I had put a crimp in the tradition by going into business, but my brother, Bob, held on to Hay Tree Farm and kept the land in good shape. I didn’t envy Bob the farm because he was a better farmer than I ever would have been. I have no affinity with cattle and sheep and the job would have driven me round the twist. The most I had to do with it now was to put Bob right on his bookkeeping and proffer advice on his investments.
I was a sport among the Wheales. A long line of fox-hunting, pheasant-murdering, yeoman farmers had produced Bob and me. Bob followed the line; he farmed the land well, rode like a madman to hounds, was pretty good in a point-to-point and liked nothing better than a day’s rough shooting. I was the oddity who didn’t like massacring rabbits with an airgun as a boy, still less with a shotgun as a grown man. My parents, when they were alive, looked on me with some perplexity and I must have troubled their uncomplicated minds; I was not a
natural
boy and got into no mischief—instead I developed a most un-Whealeish tendency to book reading and the ability to make figures jump through hoops. There was much doubtful shaking of heads and an inolination to say ‘Whatever will become of the lad?’
I lit a cigarette and a plume of smoke drifted away on the crisp morning air, then grinned as I saw no smoke coming from any of the farm chimneys. Bob would be sleeping late, something he did when he’d made a night of it at the Kingsbridge Inn or the Cott Inn, his favourite pubs. That was a cheerful practice that might end when he married. I was glad he was getting married at last; I’d been a bit worried because Hay Tree Farm without a Wheale would be unthinkable and
if Bob died unmarried there was only me left, and I certainly didn’t want to take up farming.
I got into the car, drove on a little way, then turned on to the farm road. Bob had had it graded and resurfaced, something he’d been talking about for years. I coasted along, past the big oak tree which, family legend said, had been planted by my great-grandfather, and around the corner which led straight into the farmyard.
Then I stamped on the brake pedal hard because someone was lying in the middle of the road.
I got out of the car and looked down at him. He was lying prone with one arm outflung and when I knelt and touched his hand it was stone cold. I went cold, too, as I looked at the back of his head. Carefully I tried to pull his head up but the body was stiff with rigor mortis and I had to roll him right over to see his face. The breath came from me with a sigh as I saw it was a perfect stranger.
He had died hard but quickly. The expression on his face showed that he had died hard; the lips writhed back from the teeth in a tortured grimace and the eyes were open and stared over my shoulder at the morning sky. Underneath him was a great pool of half-dried blood and his chest was covered with it. No one could have lost that much blood slowly—it must have gushed out in a sudden burst, bringing a quick death.
I stood up and looked around. Everything was very quiet and all I heard was the fluting of an unseasonable blackbird and the grating of gravel as I shifted my feet sounded unnaturally loud. From the house came the mournful howl of a dog and then a shriller barking from close by, and a young sheepdog flung round the corner of the house and yapped at me excitedly. He was not very old, not more than nine months, and I reckoned he was one of old Jess’s pups.
I held out my hand and snapped my fingers. The aggressive barking changed to a delighted yelp and the young dog
wagged his tail vehemently and came forward in an ingratiating sideways trot. From the house another dog howled and the sound made the hairs on my neck prickle.
I walked into the farmyard and saw immediately that the kitchen door was ajar. Gently, I pushed it open, and called, ‘Bob!’
The curtains were drawn at the windows and the light was off, so the room was gloomy. There was a stir of movement and the sound of an ugly growl. I pushed the door open wide to let in the light and saw old Jess stalking towards me with her teeth bared in a snarl. ‘All right, Jess,’ I said softly. ‘It’s all right, old girl.’
She stopped dead and looked at me consideringly, then let her lips cover her teeth. I slapped the side of my leg. ‘Come here, Jess.’
But she wouldn’t come. Instead, she whined disconsolately and turned away to vanish behind the big kitchen table. I followed her and found her standing drooping over the body of Bob.
His hand was cold, but not dead cold, and there was a faint flutter of a pulse beat at his wrist. Fresh blood oozed from the ugly wound in his chest and soaked the front of his shirt. I knew enough about serious injuries not to attempt to move him; instead, I ran upstairs, stripped the blankets from his bed and brought them down to cover him and keep him warm.
Then I went to the telephone and dialled 999. ‘This is Jemmy Wheale of Hay Tree Farm. There’s been a shooting on the farm; one man dead and another seriously wounded. I want a doctor, an ambulance and the police—in that order.’
An hour later I was talking to Dave Goosan. The doctor and the ambulance had come and gone, and Bob was in hospital.
He was in a bad way and Dr Grierson had dissuaded me from going with him. ‘It’s no use, Jemmy. You’d only get in the way and make a nuisance of yourself. You know we’ll do the best we can.’