Dark Side of the Street

10

Upton Magna was a fishing village which in other times had enjoyed a considerable importance, but now its population had dwindled to little more than two hundred and there were few boats in the small harbour.

Bragg's boatyard was out on the point beside an old stone jetty, a collection of dilapidated clapboard buildings, untidy stacks of ageing timber and a line of boats hauled clear of the water that looked as if they never expected to sail again.

It was just after half past nine when Vaughan entered the village and drove along the main street. There was a small, whitewashed public house about half way along with a car park behind. He left the Spitfire there, well out of sight in the shadows, and went the rest of the way on foot.

There was a light at the window on the right of the front door of the house directly underneath the faded board sign that carried the legend George Bragg-Boat-builder-Yachts for hire. He went up the steps to the rickety porch and peered in through the window.

The room was half office, half living quarters and hopelessly cluttered and untidy. Beyond the wooden reception desk beside the entrance, George Bragg was reading a newspaper at a table which seemed to be covered with a week's accumulation of dirty dishes.

He was well into his sixties, a great bear of a man with a grizzled untidy beard. He got to his feet and, to Vaughan's surprise, reached for a crutch. He picked up an enamel mug and hobbled to the coffee pot on the stove, his right foot dragging awkwardly in a plaster cast.

Vaughan pushed open the door and went inside. Bragg turned quickly in surprise, still holding the mug in one hand and the coffee pot in the other.

"I wasn't expecting you, Mr. Smith."

"What happened to the foot?" Vaughan said.

Bragg shrugged. "Bloody silly, really. Tripped and fell over a pile of scrap on my way through the yard the other night."

"Tanked up to the eyeballs as usual no doubt," Vaughan said. "How bad is it?"

"I've broken a couple of bones."

"Good! As it happens that suits me very nicely. Is the Pride of Man ready for sea?"

"As always, just like you ordered. Are you taking her out?"

He was a man stamped with failure. It showed clearly in the broken veins on his face, the bleary drink-sodden eyes, but he was desperately eager to please this strange, dark young man with the white face who was the one thing which had stood between him and ruin for almost two years.

"Not this time," Vaughan said. "But some people will be arriving within the next hour at the outside. Two men and a girl. They'll give you the usual password and they'll expect to be passed on."

Bragg looked dubious. "I'd like to oblige, but I'm not too sure I could make the trip with this foot of mine."

"As I said before, that suits me fine. The foot gives you an excuse not to go. Make it seem even worse than it is. One of the men is a small boat expert anyway-an ex-petty officer in MTBs. He could probably sail the Pride of Man round the world if he had to."

"You mean you actually want these people to go out on their own?"

"That's right. They'll ask you for a route and destination and you'll give it to them." He smiled. "They won't get there, of course, but there's no reason why they shouldn't travel hopefully for a while."

"What about you?"

"As far as you're concerned I don't exist. I'm going down to the boat now to arrange things. I'll come back along the shore, just in case they turn up early." He produced his wallet, took out five ten pound notes and dropped them on the table. "Fifty now and fifty after they've gone-okay?"

Bragg scooped up the money and stuffed it into his hip pocket. "Fine by me, Mr. Smith. I'll handle it just the way you said."

"See that you do," Vaughan said and the door closed behind him.

Bragg hobbled across to a cupboard by the sink, opened it and took out a bottle of whiskey. There was little more than an inch left in the bottle when he held it up to the light and he cursed softly. He swallowed what there was, tossed the bottle into a corner and sat down at the table to wait for what was to come.

Vaughan went down the stone steps and jumped for the desk of the Pride of Man, wet with rain in the sickly yellow light of the single lamp at the end of the jetty. There was no time to waste and he went straight below, peeling off his raincoat as he descended the companionway.

He opened a locker beneath one of the padded bench seats and took out an aqualung and several other pieces of skin-diving equipment which he laid on the centre table.

He knelt down and reached inside the now empty locker. There was a sudden click and the base of the cupboard lifted right out to disclose a secret compartment. There were several interesting items inside. A Sterling sub-machine gun, two automatic rifles, several grenades and half a dozen limpet mines in a straw filled box, each about the size of a dinner plate.

They were harmless until activated, but it was only the work of a minute or so to prime the fuse on one of them. He checked his watch, saw that it was just coming up to ten o'clock and turned the time switch through four complete revolutions. He stripped to his underpants quickly, pulled on the aqualung and went on deck.

He lowered himself over the side, clutching the mine to his chest with one hand, paused to adjust the flow of air from his aqualung and sank beneath the surface.

The water was bitterly cold, but there was no time to worry about that and he worked his way along to the stern of the boat. At that depth there was enough diffused light from the lamp on the jetty to enable him to see what he was doing and he chose a spot close to the propeller, the limpet mine's powerful electromagnets fastening instantly to the steel hull. He smiled through the visor of his mask and surfaced, well satisfied.

As he crossed the deck to the companionway, a van turned into the yard and halted by the house. As he watched, the lights and engine were switched off and he went down to the saloon quickly.

He replaced the skin-diving equipment in the locker, dressed hurriedly and went back on deck, pulling on his raincoat. As he paused in the shadows, he heard low voices at the end of the jetty as someone approached and went along the lower boardwalk quickly, jumped down to the beach and hurried into the darkness.

It was quiet and still when Chavasse cut the Ford's engine and they sat there in the darkness of the boatyard, rain drumming on the roof of the van.

"Well, this is it. The end of the line with any kind of luck."

"It looks like the last place God made," Youngblood said and then the front door opened suddenly beside the lighted window and Bragg appeared, leaning on his crutch.

"Who's out there?"

Chavasse and Youngblood moved forward, Molly a pace or two behind and they halted in a little group at the bottom of the step.

"We're trying to get to Babylon," Chavasse said. "We heard you might be able to help."

Bragg stared at them for a long moment, a frown on his face and then he nodded slowly. "You'd better come in."

He made hard weather of his passage across to the table and sank into his chair with an audible sigh of relief. He wiped sweat from his face with a soiled handkerchief and looked them over curiously.

"I wasn't expecting anyone. They usually give a week's notice."

"We're something special," Chavasse said. "There wasn't time to let you know."

"Well, I'm not sure." Bragg sounded dubious. "The boat's ready to go-always is, but I broke two bones in my foot the other day. Takes me all my time to get to the door and back, never mind make the run to Longue Pierre."

"Longue Pierre?" Chavasse said. "And where would that be?"

"About twelve miles southwest of Alderney in the Channel Islands," Youngblood broke in and grinned as Chavasse turned to him in surprise. "You're forgetting, boy. The Channel was my stamping ground during the war and after it. I know it like the back of my hand."

"He's right," Bragg said. "It ain't much of a place. About a mile across with cliffs three or four hundred feet high on one side. There's only one possible anchorage. That's on the south side of the island. There's an old jetty and not much else."

"Who lives there?"

"Don't ask me, mister. I do what I'm paid to do which is run people across, leave 'em on the jetty and come right back again. There's a house. I know that 'cos I've seen it from the sea, but not much else."

"Who pays you?"

"A fella called Smith. Drops in maybe once in every two or three months, but usually, he just gives me a ring on the phone." He shook his head and looked worried. "Funny I haven't heard from him about you people."

"You will," Youngblood said. "And you'll get paid, I promise you. What kind of boat is it?"

"A motor cruiser-the Pride of Man. Thirty footer built by Akerboon. Twin screw, steel hull."

Youngblood whistled. "That's some boat. How is she powered?"

"Penta petrol engine. She'll do about twenty-two knots at full stretch, but not tonight. The weather's not too good."

"What's the report?"

"Wind force three to four with rain squalls and fog in the morning."

"A cake-walk."

"Think you can handle her?" Chavasse asked.

"Handle her? I could sail her across the Atlantic if I had to."

"You'd have a job, mister," Bragg put in. "Her range is only six hundred including the reserve tank."

Youngblood grinned. "Enough and to spare forpassage to the islands. Your troubles are over. You can stay home and watch your foot."

"I don't know," Bragg shook his head. "It's Mr. Smith's boat, not mine."

Youngblood sized him up quickly, taking in the stale whiskey breath, the watery eyes. He pulled out Crowther's wallet, selected a five pound note and dropped it on the table.

"I noticed a nice little pub up the street as we came in. I bet you could drag that leg of yours up there if you really tried."

Bragg looked down at the note hesitatingly, then sighed and stuffed it into his pocket. "I only hope I'm doing the right thing." He opened a drawer and produced a copy of the Channel Pilot. "You'd better have this. Three lights on your way out. Keep 'em in line and you can't go wrong."

Youngblood picked up the book and turned to Chavasse, his face alive with a new kind of light. "What are we waiting for?"

The door banged behind them, rattling the frame and Bragg sat there staring into space, a frown on his face. After a while he sighed, put a hand in his pocket and pulled out a handful of money. He looked at it blankly for a moment, then got to his feet and reached for his crutch. A drink, that's what he needed-perhaps two. Something to make him forget the people he had just met, something to shut out the thought of what was going to happen to them out there in the rain and darkness. Most of all, something to make him forget Smith.

He hobbled to the door, took down an oilskin and left.

The Pride of Man waited at the end of the jetty and Youngblood took in her flared, raking bow and long sloping deckhouse with a conscious pleasure. He was as excited as a schoolboy with a new toy.

"My God, I can't wait to get my hands on her."

Chavasse shook his head. "It's too damned easy."

"What is?" Youngblood demanded impatiently.

"The way Bragg took everything we said. It doesn't make sense. I think I'll go back and see what he's up to."

"Suit yourself," Youngblood said. "But I'm making ready for sea. Anything over ten minutes and you've had it."

He meant every word, so much was obvious, but Chavasse didn't waste time in arguing. He turned back and ran back along the jetty into the darkness of the boatyard.

There had certainly been something indefinable in Bragg's manner which had made him feel uneasy, that was true enough. For one thing the old man's story had been too pat and he carried about him an aura of unctuous villainy, impossible to eradicate.

But more important than that was the fact that he had to get in touch with the Bureau if he was to stand any hope of survival at all once he reached the island and this was his last chance.

He passed the house silently, moved out of the entrance to the yard and paused in the shadows. Bragg was swinging along the pavement in front of him looking considerably more agile than he had earlier, in spite of his crutch. He crossed to the little pub and went in and Chavasse moved along the street to the telephone box on the corner.

He dialled his number quickly and was answered almost at once. There was a brief moment when Jean spoke to him and then Graham Mallory was on the line.

"Paul? Where are you?"

"Upton Magna-a little fishing port near Lulworth. Now get this-we're about to leave by boat for an island called Longue Pierre which is twelve miles southwest of Alderney in the Channel Islands. I want to know anything you can tell me about the place and I can only spare you three minutes."

"We're already hooked into Information," Mallory said. "Keep on talking while they're checking."

"You'll want to pull in a lump of dirt called Sam Crowther who runs a place called Wykehead Farm near Settle in Yorkshire. God knows how many he's seen off. Then there's a woman called Rosa Hartman. She lives at Bampton outside Shrewsbury. I'm sorry for her, but she shouldn't have joined."

"Anyone else?"

"A man called Pentecost who has a place called Long Barrow House of Rest outside Gloucester and the old villain I've just been dealing with. Name of Bragg. Runs a boatyard here."

Mallory cut in on him. "Your information on Longue Pierre is coming through now. The island and the only house on it are owned by the States of Guernsey. They've been leased for the past two years to Count Anton Stavru."

"Haven't I heard of him?"

"Very probably. Shady financier always floating big deals that come to grief. Investigated by Fraud Squad a few times, but he's always managed to get out from under. He's managing director of a firm called World Wide Export. Is any of this helpful?"

"I'll not know till I get there. I'll want some help standing by. Preferably something that can get in fast like a couple of Naval MTBs."

"I'll get on to Naval Intelligence straight away," Mallory said. "If you want to reach them by radio use our usual frequency. Your call sign will be Strongarm. Best of luck."

"I'll need it."

Chavasse dropped the receiver into place, left the box and hurried back along the street to the boatyard. He paused suddenly, dropping into the shelter of an old upturned boat as the door opened and Vaughan stepped out into the porch. He closed the door behind him, cutting off the light and came down the steps.

Chavasse recognised him at once and took Pentecost's revolver from his pocket and waited. Vaughan moved past him and paused, a match flaring in his cupped hands as he lit a cigarette.

Chavasse stood up behind him. "Surprise! Surprise!" he said and drove the butt of the revolver into the back of Vaughan's skull.

He caught him before he could fall, twisting around, bending so that Vaughan fell across his right shoulder. As the engine of the Pride of Man shattered the night, he half ran through the darkness toward the jetty.

As he went down the steps, Youngblood was casting off at the stern and he came forward to help Chavasse across the rail wth his burden.

"Well, I'll be damned," he said, looking down into Vaughan's unconscious face as he sprawled on the deck. "Our old friend Dr. Mackenzie."

"Or Smith or whatever his name is," Chavasse said. "He was just coming out of Bragg's place. I thought it might be nice to ask him along for the ride."

"Stick him in one of the cabins for now," Youngblood advised. "We can have words later. I won't be happy till we're out of here. Molly can give you a hand."

Chavasse went down the companionway holding Vaughan under the armpits and Molly took his feet. They put him on a bunk in one of the three cabins and Chavasse found a length of cord and tied his wrists and ankles securely.

When he turned from locking the door, the girl looked pale and wan as if suddenly, everything was too much for her and he put a hand on her shoulder.

"There should be a galley along here somewhere. Why don't you make us some coffee?"

She brightened a little as if this was something she could at least understand and moved along the passageway. Chavasse watched her go, a frown on his face. A lot had happened and so fast that he'd had little time to speculate about the outcome of things. But what about the girl for whom the events of the past couple of days must have seemed like some dark nightmare? What on earth was going to happen to her? However things turned out she was in for a whole lot of heartbreak.

The poor ugly little bitch. He turned with a sigh and went up the companionway as the Pride of Man drifted away from the side of the jetty.

The wind had increased, scattering the rain in silver clouds through the navigation lights and when he went into the wheelhouse, Harry Youngblood turned and grinned at him, his head disembodied in the light of the binnacle.

"Here we go," he said with a grin and boosted power suddenly, taking the Pride of Man round in a long sweeping curve and out through the harbour mouth.

The masthead started to buck as they met the swell and spray scattered across the windows. A couple of points to starboard, the red and green navigation lights of a steamer were visible and Youngblood reduced speed to ten knots and they pushed on into the dark.

"Everything all right?" Chavasse said.

"Bloody marvellous!" There was sheer delight in Youngblood's voice. "This is the life, eh? With any kind of luck we should have a clear run."

It was just coming up to midnight when Chavasse went below to check on Vaughan. When he opened the door and switched on the light, he was at once conscious of the dark eyes staring at him fixedly.

"How do you feel?" he asked.

"How do you expect me to feel?" Vaughan said in a surprisingly strong voice. "The back of my skull crushed in or something very close to it and blood all over my best shirt."

"You're breaking my heart." Chavasse pulled Vaughan into a sitting position and took the mug of coffee that Molly handed to him. "Drink this."

Vaughan swallowed, then gasped. "It'll never replace tea. From the motion, I presume we're on our way across the Channel?"

"That's right."

"What time is it?"

"Round about midnight-why?"

Vaughan started to laugh weakly. "Which means we've passed the point of no return."

Chavasse frowned. "What in the hell are you talking about?"

"It's really rather ironic," Vaughan said. "You see I knew you were on your way to Upton Magna because I had words with friend Pentecost after you'd left."

"And you beat us to it? Bragg was putting on an act, wasn't he?"

"I'm afraid so. I stuck a limpet mine to the hull just before ten o'clock, timed to blow you all to hell in exactly four hours."

"You included."

"To be perfectly honest, that wasn't in the plan at all."

Chavasse untied his ankles and pulled him off the bunk. "Up on the deck and be quick about it."

The Pride of Man was lifting well over the heavy swell that scattered spray in a great cascading sheet as they moved along the deck to the wheel-house. Youngblood turned in surprise as Chavasse pushed Vaughan in ahead of him.

"What's all this?"

Chavasse told him and when he had finished, Youngblood laughed uncertainly. "He's trying to pull a fast one-he must be."

"Suit yourself," Vaughan said.

Chavasse shook his head. "He means it, Harry."

Youngblood stared at him for a long moment and then throttled down the engine until the boat was making no more than three or four knots and switched to automatic pilot.

"All right, so what are we going to do about it?"

Chavasse turned to Vaughan. "If it's fixed to the hull then you must have used an aqualung and skin-diving gear to put it there. Where is it?"

Vaughan shrugged. "Why not? You'll find it without any trouble anyway. In a locker under one of the bench seats in the saloon."

"There's your answer, Drum," Youngblood said. "As long as we can reach it, it can be defused."

"Sorry to disappoint you and all that, but not this baby," Vaughan said. "It can only be defused after complete dismantling and you have neither the equipment nor the facilities."

"Electromagnetic, I suppose?" Chavasse said.

Vaughan nodded. "And this tub has a steel hull so you'll never prise it loose, not under the conditions you're faced with. Try too hard and the damned thing might blow up anyway."

"What type is it?"

"Getting technical are we? But of course, I was forgetting-you were a captain in the Royal Engineers, weren't you?"

"Never mind the funny stuff," Youngblood said savagely. "Just answer him."

"Martinet Mark 4, and much good may it do you."

Chavasse burst into sudden laughter, unable to contain the wave of elation that swept through him and the smile died on Vaughan's face.

"What's so damned funny?"

"You are," Chavasse said. "You're a hundred thousand laughs." He turned to Youngblood. "If you'll stop the engines for about ten minutes, Harry, I'll find the aqualung he mentioned and go over the side."

"You mean you can fix it?" Youngblood said incredulously.

"To all intents and purposes, but I'll explain later. Just look after baby for me, will you?" And Chavasse moved back along the deck and went below.

It was bitterly cold down there in the dark water as he felt his way along the hull until he located the mine. He found the time switch and hung there for a moment, testing it with his fingers. If Vaughan had timed the explosion to take place within four hours then he must have moved the switch through four complete revolutions and the maximum was twelve. Chavasse turned the switch, counting slowly. Only when it refused to turn any more did he release his hold and drift up to the surface.

Youngblood and Molly helped him over the rail and he swore softly as the girl hauled on his left arm and pain coursed through him like fire.

"You all right, Drum?" Youngblood said anxiously.

"I am now." Chavasse turned to Vaughan who stood by the companionway, wrists tied in front of him. "Simple when you know how. The Martinet is a short term time bomb extensively used by both the Army and Navy. The timing device operates up to a maximum of twelve hours. All I had to do was move it on from the time of your choice. Right round the clock till we reached neutral again."

"You mean you've defused it?" Youngblood demanded.

"To all intents and purposes."

Vaughan sighed and shook his head. "We learn something new every day. What time do we reach Longue Pierre?"

"Seven-thirty or thereabouts," Youngblood said. "Why?"

"It's just that I can't wait to get there, old man," Vaughan said. "I'm sure it's going to be a barrel of laughs for everyone." He turned and disappeared down the companionway whistling cheerfully.