High Water (1959) (4 page)

The navigation lights gleamed like red and green eyes on either side of the wheelhouse, and having ensured that the horizon was clear of shipping Vivian slipped down into the saloon, where Cooper had agreed to lay a meal for them both.

One of the big suitcases lay open on the deck, and Vivian looked at it in amazement. It contained a dirty, five-gallon oil drum.

Cooper nodded knowingly. ‘Pretty, isn’t it?’

‘What’s the idea of that, then?’

‘You take the dear, little drum ashore, well, two of them to be exact, and if any gentleman asks you where you’re going, just say you want to get some lubricating oil for the engines. You then go to the garage which I shall point out to you, and bring back two full drums of oil; the man at the garage will keep these beauties. Neat, yes?’

‘Phew, it’s neat all right,’ Vivian pushed his cap to the back of his head, and watched while Cooper unpacked another drum.

He tested the weight in his hand.

‘Hm, they’re a bit heavy for drums which are supposed to be empty, he commented.

‘Well then,’ said the little man, with a bright show of teeth, ‘you mustn’t let anyone hold them for you, must you?’

Again, there was that strange undercurrent of menace in his voice.

Vivian shook his head, he was imagining things again.

‘Okay, Mr. Cooper, those drums are as good as delivered.’

Cooper stroked his silk shirt lovingly, and gazed dreamily into space.

‘I’m so glad you’re easy to get along with,’ he paused, and glanced casually round the saloon. ‘After all, I hate boats to catch fire, don’t you?’

As Vivian reset the Automatic Pilot at midnight, those words were still with him, but he knew that it was too late to turn back now.

EVERYWHERE IN THE
Calais yacht basin groups of bunting-bedecked yachts, of every conceivable class and size, rolled gently together, their ensigns, and the excited voices of their boisterous owners, making it quite clear to Vivian that they were indeed the visiting British yacht club.

The two oil drums felt conspicuous enough as they banged clumsily against his legs, but, knowing their contents, he felt that every eye was watching him.

As Cooper had suggested, in his pseudo-American-gangster manner, before he had left the boat just previously, it had all been just too easy, the Port and Customs officials had been both too busy, and too full of good-fellowship, to worry about one more visiting yacht. He chuckled to himself, as he wondered what would happen if he absconded with the money he was carrying.

Away from the boat, and Cooper, his previous thoughts and fears now seemed a trifle fantastic. Cooper really was an odorous little man, and he would not be at all sorry to be rid of him for good.

He turned sharp right, as directed, into a dingy, little, cobbled mews, and stood for an instant looking at the small, dilapidated garage, with its battered, tin advertisement placards, their surfaces long since made unreadable by urchins throwing stones and the filth of manœuvring vehicles. The double doors leading into a large work-room
leaned
drunkenly, the faded paint peeled and decayed, and adding to the general air of forlornness.

He strode into the middle of the shed, blinking in the gloomy interior. From beneath the half-dismembered body of an aged trailer, a round-faced man, in the inevitable garb of all mechanics, except that his overalls had obviously never been washed, heaved himself up on to his short legs, wiping his blackened hands with an old towel. For a moment he looked Vivian guardedly up and down.

‘
Oui?
’ he nodded his head questioningly, then his face suddenly transformed, as his eyes became fixed upon the two drums.

‘Plis, you ’ave come for the refills, m’sieur?’ and as Vivian nodded, he beckoned him hurriedly into a small back office, where two identical drums stood in readiness.

While Vivian filled his pipe, and rested himself by the door, the little man chattered cheerily about the harbour, the weather, and the cost of living. Occasionally he lapsed into voluble French, and he had the greatest difficulty in following the trend of his conversation.

As he watched, the Frenchman produced a greasy instrument, like a giant can-opener, and proceeded to screw it to the bottom flange of the first drum. Feeling Vivian’s interested gaze upon him, he glanced up, his small eyes thoughtful.

‘I think you ’ad better go to your boat now, my friend. You will ’ave to make the two journeys this time, yes?’

Vivian lifted the new drum, smiling. ‘Okay, I’ll go quietly.’ And with the other man’s eyes following him through the gates, he sauntered back to the harbour wall.

Of Cooper there was no sign, so he returned to the garage for the second drum. The mechanic was waiting for him in the office, puffing impatiently at an evil-smelling cigar.

He nodded briefly as Vivian left, and was obviously eager to continue with his investigation, and no doubt in a hurry to parcel up the pound notes for collection.

Vivian was halfway down the mews, when he realized, with irritation, that he had left his pipe behind in the office. A good opportunity to put the wind up the garrulous mechanic, he decided, with an inward smile.

With a quick glance to ascertain that the whole area was deserted, but for a mangy dog which sniffed hungrily at an overturned garbage bucket, he slid quietly into the shed, his rubber deck shoes making no sound, and reaching the office door undetected, he paused, searching for a gap in the torn sacking across its windowless entrance. It would be interesting to see what amount of money was worth a seven-hundred-pound travel ticket.

Holding his breath, he gently eased himself against the lower part of the door, so that the excited beat of his heart seemed deafening, and then with one finger, he slowly began to raise the bottom edge of the sacking.

At first he could see nothing but the stooping back of the other man’s overalls, but then, as he turned towards the table, he saw the contents of the two drums strewn on the narrow bench opposite the door. His breath choked in his throat. It had been money all right, but not the sort of cash required by a legitimate business. From one end of the bench to the other American dollar bills of every possible denomination were sorted neatly into little, fat packets. It was obvious that both the drums must have been completely filled, for the pile, even to Vivian’s inexperienced eye, represented a fortune, running into many thousands of dollars, and on the Continent, where any mortal thing could be purchased for American money, it represented power untold.

Vivian drew back, confused and startled. Knowingly or
innocently,
whichever way he chose to interpret his actions, he was mixed up in something a little more disquieting than dodging petty restrictions. For a moment he felt a wild fury sweep over him, and in that instant it seemed the only course of action open to him was to burst into the office, and beat the truth out of the occupant, and then do the same for Cooper. The eventual realization that he alone was the smuggler, as far as the law was concerned, acted like a douche of cold water to his reeling brain. By God, Lang must have known about this. Or did he? Vivian backed cautiously to the gates, his mind working furiously. Suppose he too was being taken in by his Danish employer, and was just being used as a tool? Whatever the outcome, it was obvious that right at that moment he had to get back to England, and get the truth out of him. Grimly he clambered down on to the
Seafox
’s deck, noting as he did so, the wet imprint of a shoe by the wheelhouse door.

Cooper had returned, sitting back on one of the cushioned benches, his legs stuck out, a general air of well-being surrounding him. His dark eyes were faintly mocking, and Vivian noticed with disgust that he was wearing silk ankle socks.

‘Everything went perfectly, I see,’ he commented at length. ‘Not a hitch in our little drama.’ He waved apologetically with his pale hands. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot, you’ve been used to drama.’

‘And what the hell is all that supposed to mean?’ asked Vivian shortly.

Perhaps it would be a good idea to beat him up after all, and involuntarily he took a step forward.

A brief look of alarm flitted across the dark eyes, as Cooper hastened to assure him:

‘Oh, nothing really. It’s just that I’ve always had the highest respect and envy for you naval chaps. I——’

But Vivian, relieved of the strain of the trip, and aware that he had no choice but to go through with whatever scheme was required to get the truth about the organization, had had enough.

‘You’re a bloody, little liar,’ he announced calmly. ‘So for God’s sake, let’s just leave it at that.’

Cooper sat taut and watchful, like a trapped animal, his hands screwing up the corner of his immaculate blazer.

‘Furthermore, we’re going straight back to London, and not to Torquay,’ he added, after a pause. ‘I’ve been paid for the trip, and now I’ve got some other business to attend to, so what d’you think of that?’

‘Gee, you must do as you think, Captain, it’ll suit me better too, and goddamit, I’m sorry I riled you, honest.’ His mouth hung open pleadingly.

‘Forget it,’ snapped Vivian. ‘But just keep out of my way in future!’

As he turned angrily to the chart rack, Cooper’s eyes seemed to expand, until they filled his whole face, and his loose lips quivered with the combined passion of hatred and humiliation.

Vivian would not have felt quite so confident of the future, had he turned to see the livid, sadistic face of his passenger.

With a short bow-wave creaming away from her sharp stem, the
Seafox
ploughed steadily into the busy approaches of the Thames Estuary, which, in the fine haze, shone like a dappled, pewter tray. With a practised eye Vivian noted, almost casually, the approaching coasters, and colliers, and the passing bulk of a Swedish timber-ship.
Seafox
rolled slightly in the criss-crossing wakes, but held her course, undeterred by the heavy shapes which surged past her.

All the wheelhouse windows were wide open to catch the last breath of the sea breeze, but even so, the air was heavy and thick, like the forerunner of a thunderstorm, and Vivian repeatedly wiped his damp face with the back of his wrist, as he stood poised and watchful at the wheel.

In his mind he had already decided to have it out with Lang, and find out what exactly was going on, and how exactly he was implicated.

He eased the spokes of the wheel deftly, as a waterlogged mass of timber bobbed menacingly past. He cursed softly as he resumed his course, wondering why a country such as Britain should allow her one real waterway to become such an attraction for filth and neglect.

A small, dark shape detached itself from behind a distant collier, and with a mounting wash, bore down towards him. As the fast launch drew near, he could clearly discern the uniformed figures, and the blue flag. Her Majesty’s Customs.

He turned his head, but kept his keen eyes fixed on the other craft. ‘Cooper!’ he shouted, above the drone of the engines, ‘Customs coming!’

Cooper scrambled up beside him, blinking in the hard gleam from the water. He bared his teeth, and nervously picked at his tie.

‘Hope it doesn’t mess things up,’ he complained. ‘I mean, I told everyone we were going back to Torquay.’

‘Mess things up? What the hell difference does it make?’

The other man didn’t answer, so Vivian turned his attention to the Customs boat, which had suddenly turned gracefully to run parallel with him, making the water between them boil and plunge in trapped torment.

Vivian eased the twin throttles, as the gap slowly narrowed. Closer and closer, while her crew lowered the rope fenders with a well-practised efficiency, and a stocky
figure
swung out of the wheelhouse in readiness for boarding. The name
Pursuit
glinted dully on her royal blue bows.

With hardly a bump the two hulls touched, and as the boarding officer leapt easily aboard, the Customs boat swung away, and followed purposefully astern.

Vivian waved cheerfully, his inside peculiarly uneasy. ‘Come in, sorry I can’t leave the wheel, I’ve no crew,’ he explained.

The other man stepped down, nodding approvingly.

‘A very nice little boat you’ve got here, sir,’ he smiled. ‘When we saw your “Q” flag, I thought to myself, here’s a good chance to see what she’s like inside.’ His eye fell on Cooper, who stood framed in the saloon door.

‘This is Mr. Cooper, the boat’s under charter to him.’

‘Yes, very well, sir, then I’ll go and see what he’s brought back from Calais, eh?’

The two men went below, their conversation drowned by the engines. The Customs officer was soon back at his side, his broad face as cheerful as before. Vivian was unable to control himself any longer.

‘Here, how did you know we had come from Calais?’ he demanded.

‘Did I say Calais, then?’ the other man’s face was blank. ‘I must have guessed that, mustn’t I? After all, most of the yachts seem to call in there on the way home.’

He handed back the boat’s papers, and waved his cap from the wheelhouse door.