Wyatt's Hurricane

I

It was quite late in the evening when Wyatt pulled up his car outside the Imperiale. He had had a rough time; the street lighting had failed or been deliberately extinguished (he thought that perhaps the power-station staff had decamped) and three times he had been halted by the suspicious police, his being one of the few cars on the move in the quiet city. There was a sporadic crackle of rifle fire, sometimes isolated shots and sometimes minor fusillades, echoing through the streets. The police and the soldiers were nervous and likely to shoot at anything that moved. And behind everything was the steady rumble of artillery fire from the mountains, now sounding very distinctly on the heavy night air.

His thoughts were confused as he got out of the car. He did not know whether he would be glad or sorry to find Julie at the Imperiale. If she had gone to Cap Sarrat Base then all decision was taken out of his hands, but if she was still in the hotel then he would have to make the awkward choice. Cap Sarrat, in his opinion, was not safe, but neither was getting mixed up in a civil war between shooting armies. Could he, on an unsupported hunch, honestly advise anyone — and especially Julie — not to go to Cap Sarrat?

He looked up at the darkened hotel and shrugged mentally — he would soon find out what he had to do. He was about to lock the car when he paused in thought, then he opened up the engine and removed the rotor-arm of the distributor. At least the car would be there when he needed it.

The foyer of the Imperiale was in darkness, but he saw a faint glow from the American Bar. He walked across and halted as a chair clattered behind him. He whirled, and said, ‘Who’s that?’ There was a faint scrape of sound and a shadow flitted across a window; then a door banged and there was silence.

He waited a few seconds, then went on. A voice called from the American Bar, ‘Who’s that out there?’

‘Wyatt.’

Julie rushed into his arms as he stepped into the bar. ‘Oh, Dave, I’m glad you’re here. Have you brought transport from the Base?’

‘I’ve got transport,’ he said. ‘But I’ve not come directly from the Base. Someone was supposed to pick you up, I know that.’

‘They came,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t here — none of us were.’

He became aware he was in the centre of a small group. Dawson was there, and Papegaikos of the Maraca Club and a middle-aged woman whom he did not know. Behind, at the bar, the bar-tender clanged the cash register open.

‘I was here,’ said the woman. ‘I was asleep in my room and nobody came to wake me.’ She spoke aggressively in an affronted tone.

‘I don’t think you know Mrs Warmington,’ Julie said.

Wyatt nodded an acknowledgement, and said, ‘So you’re left stranded.’

‘Not exactly,’ said Julie. ‘When Mr Dawson and I came back and found everyone gone we sat around a bit wondering what to do, then the phone rang in the manager’s office. It was someone at the Base checking up; he said he’d send a truck for us — then the phone cut off in the middle of a sentence.’

‘Serrurier’s men probably cut the lines to the Base,’ said Wyatt. ‘It’s a bit dicey out there — they’re as nervous as cats. When was this?’

‘Nearly two hours ago.’

Wyatt did not like the sound of that but he made no comment — there was no point in scaring anybody. He smiled at Papegaikos. ‘Hello, Eumenides, I didn’t know you favoured the Imperiale.’

The sallow Greek smiled glumly. ‘I was tol’ to come ‘ere if I wan’ to go to the Base.’

Dawson said bluffly, ‘That truck should be here any time now and we’ll be out of here.’ He waved a glass at Wyatt. ‘I guess you could do with a drink.’

‘It would come in handy,’ said Wyatt. ‘I’ve had a hard day.’

Dawson turned. ‘Hey, you! Where d’you think you’re going?’ He bounded forward and seized the small man who was sidling out of the bar. The bartender wriggled frantically, but Dawson held him with one huge paw and pulled him back behind the bar. He looked over at Wyatt and grinned. ‘Whaddya know, he’s cleaned out the cash drawer, too.’

‘Let him go,’ said Wyatt tiredly. ‘It’s no business of ours. All the staff will leave — there was one sneaking out when I came in.’

Dawson shrugged and opened his fist and the bartender scuttled out. ‘What the hell! I like self-service bars better.’

Mrs Warmington said briskly, ‘Well, now that you’re here with a car we can leave for the Base.’

Wyatt sighed. ‘I don’t know if that’s wise. We may not get through. Serrurier’s crowd is trigger-happy; they’re likely to shoot first and ask questions afterwards — and even if they do ask questions we’re liable to get shot.’

Dawson thrust a drink into his hand. ‘Hell, we’re Americans; we’ve got no quarrel with Serrurier.’

‘We know that, and Commodore Brooks knows it — but Serrurier doesn’t. He’s convinced that the Americans have supplied the rebels with guns — the guns you can hear now — and he probably thinks that Brooks is just biding his time before he comes out of the Base to stab him in the back.’

He took a gulp of the drink and choked; Dawson had a heavy hand with the whisky. He swallowed hard, and said, ‘My guess is that Serrurier has a pretty strong detachment of the army surrounding the Base right now — that’s why your transport hasn’t turned up.’

Everyone looked at him in silence. At last Mrs Warmington said, ‘Why, I know Commodore Brooks wouldn’t leave us here, not even if he had to order the Marines to come and get us.’

‘Commodore Brooks has more to think of than the plight of a few Americans in St Pierre,’ said Wyatt coldly. ‘The safety of the Base comes first.’

Dawson said intently, ‘What makes you think the Base isn’t safe, anyway?’

‘There’s trouble coming,’ said Wyatt. ‘Not the war, but—’

‘Anyone home?’ someone shouted from the foyer, and Julie said, ‘That’s Mr Causton.’

Causton came into the bar. He was limping slightly, there was a large tear in his jacket and his face was very dirty with a cut and a smear of blood on the right cheek. ‘Damn’ silly of me,’ he said. ‘I ran out of recording tapes, so I came back to get some more.’ He surveyed the small group. ‘I thought you’d all be at the Base by now.’

‘Communications have been cut,’ said Wyatt, and explained what had happened.

‘You’ve lost your chance,’ said Causton grimly. ‘The Government has quarantined the Base — there’s a cordon round it.’ He knew them all except Mrs Warmington, and regarded Dawson with a sardonic gleam in his eye. ‘Ah, yes, Mr Dawson; this should be just up your street. Plenty of material here for a book, eh?’

Dawson said, ‘Sure, it’ll make a good book.’ He did not sound very enthusiastic.

‘I could do with a hefty drink,’ said Causton. He looked at Wyatt. ‘That your car outside? A copper was looking at it when I came in.’

‘It’s quite safe,’ said Wyatt. ‘What have you been up to?’

‘Doing my job,’ said Causton matter-of-factly. ‘All hell’s breaking loose out there. Ah, thank you,’ he said gratefully, as Papegaikos handed him a drink. He sank half of it in a gulp, then said to Wyatt, ‘You know this island. Supposing you were a rebel in the mountains and you had a large consignment of arms coming in a ship — quite a big ship. You’d want a nice quiet place to land it, wouldn’t you? With easy transport to the mountains, too. Where would such a spot be?’

Wyatt pondered. ‘Somewhere on the north coast, certainly; it’s pretty wild country over there. I’d go for the Campo de las Perlas — somewhere round there.’

‘Give the man a coconut,’ said Causton. ‘At least one shipload of arms was landed there within the last month — maybe more. Serrurier’s intelligence slipped up on that one — or maybe they were too late. Oh, and Favel is alive, after all.’ He patted his pockets helplessly. ‘Anyone got a cigarette?’

Julie offered her packet. ‘How did you get that blood on your face?’

Causton put his hand to his cheek, then looked with surprise at the blood on his fingertips. ‘I was trying to get in to see Serrurier,’ he said. ‘The guards were a bit rough — one of them didn’t take his ring off, or maybe it was a knuckleduster.’

‘I saw Serrurier,’ said Wyatt quietly.

‘Did you, by God!’ exclaimed Causton. ‘I wish I’d known; I could have come with you. There are a few questions I’d like to ask him.’

Wyatt laughed mirthlessly. ‘Serrurier isn’t the kind of man you question. He’s a raving maniac. I think this little lot has finally driven him round the bend.’

‘What did you want with him?’

‘I wanted to tell him that a hurricane is going to hit this island in two days’ time. He threw us out and banished the hurricane by decree.’

‘Christ!’ said Causton. ‘As though we don’t have enough to put up with. Are you serious about this?’

‘I am.’

Mrs Warmington gave a shrill squeak. ‘We should get to the Base,’ she said angrily. ‘We’ll be safe on the Base.’

Wyatt looked at her for a moment, then said to Causton in a low voice, ‘I’d like to talk to you for a minute.’

Causton took one look at Wyatt’s serious face, then finished his drink. ‘I have to go up to my room for the tapes; you’d better come with me.’

He got up from the chair stiffly, and Wyatt said to Julie, ‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ then followed him into the foyer. Causton produced a flashlight and they climbed the stairs to the first floor. Wyatt said, ‘I’m pretty worried about things.’

‘This hurricane?’

‘That’s right,’ said Wyatt, and told Causton about it in a few swift sentences, not detailing his qualms, but treating the hurricane as a foregone conclusion. He said, ‘Somehow I feel a responsibility for the people downstairs. I think Julie won’t crack, but I’m not too sure about the other woman. She’s older and she’s nervous.’

‘She’ll run you ragged if you let her,’ said Causton. ‘She looks the bossy kind to me.’

‘And then there’s Eumenides — he’s an unknown quantity but I don’t know that I’d like to depend on him. Dawson is different, of course.’

Causton’s flashlight flickered about his room. ‘Is he? Put not your faith in brother Dawson — that’s a word to the wise.’

‘Oh,’ said Wyatt. ‘Anyway, I’m in a hell of a jam. I’ll have to shepherd this lot to safety somehow, and that means leaving town.’

A cane chair creaked as Causton sat down. ‘Now let me get this straight. You say we’re going to be hit by a hurricane. When?’

‘Two days,’ said Wyatt. ‘Say half a day either way.’

‘And when it comes, the Base is going to be destroyed.’

‘For all practical purposes — yes.’

‘And so is St Pierre.’

‘That’s right.’

‘So you want to take off for the hills, herding along these people downstairs. That’s heading smack into trouble, you know.’

‘It needn’t be,’ said Wyatt. ‘We need to get about a hundred feet above sea-level and on the northern side of a ridge — a place like that shouldn’t be too difficult to find just outside St Pierre. Perhaps up the Negrito on the way to St Michel.’

‘I wouldn’t do that,’ said Causton definitely. ‘Favel will be coming down the Negrito. From the sound of those guns he’s already in the upper reaches of the valley.’

‘How do we know those are Favel’s guns?’ said Wyatt suddenly. ‘Serrurier has plenty of artillery of his own.’

Causton sounded pained. ‘I’ve done my homework. Serrurier was caught flat-footed. The main part of his artillery was causing a devil of a traffic jam just north of the town not two hours ago. If Favel hurries up he’ll capture the lot. Listen to it — he’s certainly pouring it on.’

‘That shipment of arms you were talking about must have been a big one.’

‘Maybe — but my guess is that he’s staking everything on one stroke. If he doesn’t come right through and capture St Pierre he’s lost his chips.’

‘If he does, he’ll lose his army,’ said Wyatt forcibly.

‘God, I hadn’t thought of that.’ Causton looked thoughtful. ‘This is going to be damned interesting. Do you suppose he knows about this hurricane?’

‘I shouldn’t think so,’ said Wyatt. ‘Look, Causton, we’re wasting time. I’ve got to get these people to safety. Will you help? You seem to know more of what’s going on out there than anybody.’

‘Of course I will, old boy. But, remember, I’ve got my own job to do. I’ll back you up in anything you say, and I’ll come with you and see them settled out of harm’s way. But after that I’ll have to push off and go about my master’s business — my editor would never forgive me if I wasn’t in the right place at the right time.’ He chuckled. ‘I dare say I’ll get a good story out of Big Jim Dawson, so it will be worth it.’

They went back to the bar and Causton called out, ‘Wyatt’s got something very important to tell you all, so gather round. Where’s Dawson?’

‘He was here not long ago,’ said Julie. ‘He must have gone out.’

‘Never mind,’ said Causton. ‘I’ll tell him myself — I’ll look forward to doing that. All right, Mr Wyatt; get cracking.’ He sat down and began to thread a spool of tape into the miniature recorder he took from his pocket.

Wyatt was getting very tired of repeating his story. He no longer attempted to justify his reasons but gave it to them straight, and when he had finished there was a dead silence. The Greek showed no alteration of expression — perhaps he had not understood; Julie was pale, but her chin came up; Mrs Warmington was white with two red spots burning in her cheeks. She was suddenly voluble. ‘This is ridiculous,’ she exploded. ‘No American Navy Base can be destroyed. I demand that you take me to Cap Sarrat immediately.’

‘You can demand until you’re blue in the face,’ said Wyatt baldly. ‘I’m going nowhere near Cap Sarrat.’ He turned to Julie. ‘We’ve got to get out of St Pierre and on to high ground, and that may be difficult. But I’ve got the car and we can all cram into it. And we’ve got to take supplies — food, water, medical kit and so on. We should find plenty of food in the kitchens here, and we can take soda — and mineral-water from the bar.’

Mrs Warmington choked in fury. ‘How far is it to the Base?’ she demanded, breathing hard.

‘Fifteen miles,’ said Causton. ‘Right round the bay. And there’s an army between here and the Base.’ He shook his head regretfully. ‘I wouldn’t try it, Mrs Warmington; I really wouldn’t.’

‘I don’t know what’s the matter with you all,’ she snapped. ‘These natives wouldn’t touch us — the Government knows better than to interfere with Americans. I say we should get to the Base before those rebels come down from the hills.’

Papegaikos, standing behind her, gripped her shoulder. ‘I t’ink it better you keep your mout’ shut,’ he said. His voice was soft but his grip was hard, and Mrs Warmington winced. ‘I t’ink you are fool woman.’ He looked across at Wyatt. ‘Go on.’

‘I was saying we should load up the car with food and water and get out of here,’ said Wyatt wearily.

‘How long must we reckon on?’ asked Julie practically.

‘At least four days — better make it a week. This place will be a shambles after Mabel has passed.’

‘We’ll eat before we go,’ she said. ‘I think we’re all hungry. I’ll see what there is in the kitchen — will sandwiches do?’

‘If there are enough of them,’ said Wyatt with a smile.

Mrs Warmington sat up straight. ‘Well, I think you’re all crazy, but I’m not going to stay here by myself so I guess I’ll have to come along. Come, child, let’s make those sandwiches.’ She took a candle and swept Julie into the inner recesses of the hotel.

Wyatt looked across at Causton who was putting away his tape-recorder. ‘What about guns?’ he said. ‘We might need them.’

‘My dear boy,’ said Causton, ‘there are more than enough guns out there already. If we’re stopped and searched by Serrurier’s men and they find a gun we’ll be shot on the spot. I’ve been in some tough places in my time and I’ve never carried a gun — I owe my life to that fact.’

‘That makes sense,’ said Wyatt slowly. He looked at the Greek standing by the bar. ‘Are you carrying a gun, Eumenides?’

Papegaikos touched his breast and nodded. He said, ‘I keep it.’

‘Then you’re not coming with us,’ said Wyatt deliberately. ‘You can make your own way — on foot.’

The Greek put his hand inside his jacket and produced the gun, a stubby revolver. ‘You t’ink you are boss?’ he asked with a smile, balancing the gun in his hand.

‘Yes, I am,’ said Wyatt firmly. ‘You don’t know a damn’ thing about what a hurricane can do. You don’t know the best place to shelter nor how to go about finding it. I do — I’m the expert — and that makes me boss.’

Papegaikos came to a fast decision. He put the gun down gently on the bar counter and walked away from it, and Wyatt blew out his cheeks with a sigh of relief. Causton chuckled. ‘You’ll do, Wyatt,’ he said. ‘You’re really the boss now — if you don’t let that Warmington woman get on top of you. I hope you don’t regret taking on the job.’

Presently Julie came from the kitchen with a plate of sandwiches. ‘This will do for a start. There’s more coming.’ She jerked her head. ‘We’re going to have trouble with that one,’ she said darkly.

Wyatt suppressed a groan. ‘What’s the matter now?’

‘She’s an organizer — you know, the type who gives the orders. She’s been running me ragged in there, and she hasn’t done a damned thing herself.’

‘Just ignore her,’ advised Causton. ‘She’ll give up if no one takes notice of her.’

‘I’ll do that,’ said Julie. She vanished from the bar again.

‘Let’s organize the water,’ said Wyatt.

He walked towards the bar but stopped when Causton said, ‘Wait! Listen!’ He strained his ears and heard a whirring sound. ‘Someone’s trying to start your car,’ said Causton.

‘I’ll check on that,’ said Wyatt and strode into the foyer. He went through the revolving door and saw a dim figure in the driving seat of his car and heard the whine of the starter. When he peered through the window he saw it was Dawson. He jerked the door open and said, ‘What the devil are you doing?’

Dawson started and turned his head with a jerk. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said in relief. ‘I thought it was that other guy.’

‘Who was that?’

‘One of those cops. He was trying to start the car, but gave up and went away. I thought I’d check it, so I came out. It still won’t start.’

‘You’d better get out and come back into the hotel,’ said Wyatt. ‘I thought that might happen so I put the rotor-arm in my pocket.’

He stood aside and let Dawson step out. Dawson said, ‘Pretty smart, aren’t you, Wyatt?’

‘No sense in losing the car,’ said Wyatt. He looked past Dawson and stiffened. ‘Take it easy,’ he said in a low voice. ‘That copper is coming back — with reinforcements.’

‘We’d better get into the hotel pretty damn’ fast,’ said Dawson.

‘Stay where you are and keep your mouth shut,’ said Wyatt quickly. ‘They might think we’re on the run and follow us in — we don’t want to involve the others in anything.’

Dawson tensed and then relaxed, and Wyatt watched the four policemen coming towards them. They did not seem in too much of a hurry and momentarily he wondered about that. They drew abreast and one of them turned. ‘Blanc, what are you doing?’

‘I thought a thief was stealing my car.’

The policeman gestured. ‘This man?’

Wyatt shook his head. ‘No, another man. This is my friend.’

‘Where do you live?’

Wyatt nodded towards the hotel. ‘The Imperiale.’

‘A rich man,’ the policeman commented. ‘And your friend?’

‘Also in the hotel.’

Dawson tugged at Wyatt’s sleeve. ‘What the hell’s going on?’

‘What does your friend say?’ asked the policeman.

‘He does not understand this language,’ said Wyatt. ‘He was asking me what you were saying.’

The policeman laughed. ‘We ask the same things, then.’ He stared at them. ‘It is not a good time to be on the streets, blanc. You would do well to stay in your rich hotel.’

He turned away and Wyatt breathed softly in relief, but one of the other men muttered something and he turned back. ‘What is your country?’ he asked.

‘You would call me English,’ said Wyatt. ‘But I come from Grenada. My friend is American.’

‘An American!’ The policeman spat on the ground. ‘But you are English — do you know an Englishman called Manning?’

Wyatt shook his head. ‘No.’ The name rang a faint bell but he could not connect it.

‘Or Fuller?’

Something clicked. Wyatt said, ‘I think I’ve heard of them. Don’t they live on the North Coast?’

‘Have you ever met them?’

‘I’ve never seen them in my life,’ said Wyatt truthfully.

One of the other policemen stepped forward and pointed at Wyatt. ‘This man works for the Americans at Cap Sarrat.’

‘Ah, Englishman; you told me you lived in the hotel. Why did you lie?’

‘I didn’t lie,’ said Wyatt. ‘I moved in there tonight; it’s impossible to get to Cap Sarrat — you know that.’

The man seemed unconvinced. ‘And you still say you do not know the men, Fuller and Manning?’

‘I don’t know them,’ said Wyatt patiently.

The policeman said abruptly, ‘I’m sorry, blanc, but I must search you.’ He gestured to his colleagues who stepped forward quickly.

‘Hey!’ said Dawson in alarm. ‘What are these idiots doing?’

‘Just keep still,’ said Wyatt through his teeth. ‘They want to search us. Let them do it — the sooner it’s over the better.’

For the second time that day he suffered the indignity of a rough search, but this time it was more thorough. The palace guards had been looking for weapons but these men were interested in more than that. All Wyatt’s pockets were stripped and the contents handed to the senior policeman.

He looked with interest through Wyatt’s wallet, checking very thoroughly. ‘It is true you work at Cap Sarrat,’ he said. ‘You have an American pass. What military work do you do there?’

‘None,’ said Wyatt. ‘I’m a civilian scientist sent by the British Government. My work is with the weather.’

The policeman smiled. ‘Or perhaps you are an American spy?’

‘Nonsense!’

‘Your friend is American. We must search him, too.’

Hands were laid on Dawson and he struggled. ‘Take your filthy hands off me, you goddam black bastard,’ he shouted. The words meant nothing to the man searching him, but the tone of voice certainly did. A revolver jumped into his hand as though by magic and Dawson found himself staring into the muzzle.

‘You damn fool,’ said Wyatt. ‘Keep still and let them search you. They’ll turn us loose when they don’t find anything.’

He almost regretted saying that when the policeman searching Dawson gave a cry of triumph and pulled an automatic from a holster concealed beneath Dawson’s jacket. His senior said, ‘Ah, we have armed Americans wandering the streets of St Pierre at a time like this. You will come with me — both of you.’

‘Now, look here—’ began Wyatt, and stopped as he felt the muzzle of a gun poke into the small of his back. He bit his lip as the senior policeman waved them forward. ‘You bloody fool!’ he raged at Dawson. ‘Why the hell were you carrying a gun? Now we’re going to land in one of Serrurier’s gaols.’

II

Causton came out of the deep shadows very slowly and stared up the street to where the little group was hurrying away, then he turned and hurried back into the hotel and across the foyer. Mrs Warmington and Julie had just come in from the kitchen bearing more sandwiches and a pot of coffee, and Papegaikos was busy stacking bottles of soda-water on top of the bar counter.

‘Wyatt and Dawson have been nabbed by the police,’ he announced. ‘Dawson was carrying a gun and the coppers didn’t like it.’ He looked across at the Greek, who dropped his eyes.

Julie put down the coffee-pot with a clatter. ‘Where have they been taken?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Causton. ‘Probably to the local lock-up — wherever that is. Do you know, Eumenides?’

‘La Place de la Libération Noire,’ said the Greek. He shook his head. ‘You won’t get them out of there.’

‘We’ll see about that,’ said Causton. ‘We’ll bloody well have to get them out — Wyatt had the rotor-arm of the car engine in his pocket, and now the cops have got it. The car’s useless without it.’

Mrs Warmington said in a hard voice, ‘There are other cars.’

‘That’s an idea,’ said Causton. ‘Do you have a car, Eumenides?’

‘I ‘ad,’ said Eumenides. ‘But the Army took all cars.’

‘It isn’t a matter of a car,’ said Julie abruptly. ‘It’s a matter of getting Dave and Dawson out of the hands of the police.’

‘We’ll do that, too; but a car’s a useful thing to have right now.’ Causton rubbed his cheek. ‘It’s a long way to the docks from here — a bloody long walk.’

Eumenides shrugged. ‘We wan’ a car, not a sheep.’

‘Not a what?’ demanded Causton. ‘Oh — a ship! No, I want the British Consul — he lives down there. Maybe the power of the state allied to the power of the press will be enough to get Wyatt out of the jug — I doubt if I could do it on my own.’ He looked regretfully at the sandwiches. ‘I suppose the sooner I go, the sooner we can spring Wyatt and Dawson.’

‘You’ve got time for a quick coffee,’ said Julie. ‘And you can take a pocketful of sandwiches.’

‘Thanks,’ said Causton, accepting the cup. ‘Does this place have cellars?’

‘No — no cellars,’ said Eumenides.

‘A pity,’ said Causton. He looked about the bar. ‘I think you’d better get out of here. This kind of party always leads to a lot of social disorganization and the first thing looters go for is the booze. This is one of the first places they’ll hit. I suggest you move up to the top floor for the time being; and a barricade on the stairs might be useful.’

He measured the Greek with a cold eye. ‘I trust you’ll look after the ladies while I’m gone.’

Eumenides smiled. ‘I see to ever’t’ing.’

That was no satisfactory answer but Causton had to put up with it. He finished off the hot coffee, stuffed some sandwiches into his pocket and said, ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can — with Wyatt, I hope.’

‘Don’t forget Mr Dawson,’ said Mrs Warmington.

‘I’ll try not to,’ said Causton drily. ‘Don’t leave the hotel; the party’s split up enough as it is.’

Eumenides said suddenly, ‘Rawst’orne ’as a car — I seen it. It got them — them special signs.’ He clicked his fingers in annoyance at his lack of English.

‘Diplomatic plates?’ suggested Causton helpfully.

‘Tha’s ri’.’

‘That should come in handy. Okay, I hope to be back in two hours. Cheerio!’

He left the bar and paused before he emerged into the street, carefully looking through the glass panels. Satisfied that there was no danger, he pushed through the revolving doors and set off towards the dock area, keeping well in to the side of the pavement. He checked on his watch and was surprised to find that it was not yet ten o’clock — he had thought it much later. With a bit of luck he would be back at the Imperiale by midnight.

At first he made good time, flitting through the deserted streets like a ghost. There was not a soul in sight. As he got nearer the docks he soon became aware that he was entering what could only be a military staging area. There were many army trucks moving through the dark streets, headlights blazing, and from the distance came the tramp of marching men.

He stopped and ducked into a convenient doorway and took a folded map from his pocket, inspecting it by the carefully shaded light of his torch. It would be the devil of a job getting to Rawsthorne. Close by was the old fortress of San Juan which Serrurier had chosen to use as his arsenal — no wonder there were so many troops in the area. It was from here that his units in the Negrito were being supplied with ammunition and that accounted for the stream of trucks.

Causton looked closer at the map and tried to figure out a new route. It would add nearly an hour to his journey, but there was no help for it. As he stood there the faraway thunder of the guns tailed off and there was dead silence. He looked up and down the street and then crossed it, the leather soles of his shoes making more noise than he cared for.

He got to the other side and turned a corner, striking away from San Juan fortress and, as he hurried, he wondered what the silence of the guns presaged. He had covered many bushfire campaigns in his career — the Congo, Vietnam, Malaysia — and he had a considerable fund of experience to draw upon in making deductions.

To begin with, the guns were indubitably Favel’s — he had seen the Government artillery in a seemingly inextricable mess just outside St Pierre. Favel’s guns had been firing at something, and that something was obviously the main infantry force which Serrurier had rushed up the Negrito at the first sign of trouble. Now the guns had stopped and that meant that Favel was on the move again, pushing his own infantry forward in an assault on Serrurier’s army. That army must have been fairly battered by the barrage, while Favel’s men must be fresh and comparatively untouched. It was possible that Favel would push right through, but proof would come when next the artillery barrage began — if it was nearer it would mean Favel was winning.

He had chosen to attack at night, something he had specialized in ever since he had retreated to the mountains. His men were trained for it, and probably one of Favel’s men was equal to any two of Serrurier’s so long as he was careful to dictate the conditions of battle. But once get boxed in open country with Serrurier’s artillery and air force unleashed and he’d be hammered to pieces. He was taking a considerable risk in coming down the Negrito into the plain around Santego Bay, but he was minimizing it by clever strategy and the unbelievable luck that Serrurier had a thick-headed artillery general with no concept of logistics.

Causton was so occupied with these thoughts that he nearly ran into a police patrol head on. He stopped short and shrank into the shadows and was relieved when the squad passed him by unseen. He wanted to waste no time in futile arguments. By the time he got to Rawsthorne’s house he had evaded three more police patrols, but it took time and it was very late when he knocked on Rawsthorne’s door.

III

James Fowler Dawson was a successful writer. Not only was he accepted by the critics as a man to be watched as a future Nobel Prizewinner, but his books sold in enormous numbers to the public and he had made a lot of money and was looking forward to making a lot more. Because he liked making money he was very careful of the image he presented to his public, an image superbly tailored to his personality and presented to the world by his press agents.

His first novel, Tarpon, was published in the year that Hemingway died. At the time he was a freelance writer concocting articles for the American sporting magazines on the glory of rainbow trout and what it feels like to have a grizzly in your sights. He had but average success at this and so was a hungry writer. When Tarpon hit the top of the best-seller lists no one was more surprised than Dawson. But knowing the fickleness of public taste he sought for ways to consolidate his success and decided that good writing was not enough — he must also be a public personality.

So he assumed the mantle that had fallen from Hemingway — he would be a man’s man. He shot elephant and lion in Africa; he game-fished in the Caribbean and off the Seychelles; he climbed a mountain in Alaska; he flew his own plane and, like Hemingway, was involved in a spectacular smash; and it was curious that there were always photographers on hand to record these events.

But he was no Hemingway. The lions he killed were poor terrified beasts imprisoned in a closing ring of beaters, and he had never killed one with a single shot. In his assault on the Alaskan mountain he was practically carried up by skilled and well-paid mountaineers, and he heartily disliked flying his plane because he was frightened of it and only flew when necessary to mend his image. But game-fishing he had actually come to like and he was not at all bad at it. And, despite everything else, he remained a good writer, although he was always afraid of losing steam and failing with his next book.

While his image was shiny, while his name made head-lines in the world press, while the money poured into his bank, he was reasonably happy. It was good to be well-known in the world’s capitals, to be met at airports by pressmen and photographers, to be asked his opinion of world events. He had never yet been in a situation where the mere mention of his name had not got him out of trouble, and thus he was unperturbed at being put into a cell with Wyatt. He had been in gaol before — the world had chuckled many times at the escapades of Big Jim Dawson — but never for more than a few hours. A nominal fine, a donation to the Police Orphans’ Fund, a gracious apology and the name of Jim Dawson soon set him free. He had no reason to think it was going to be different this time.

‘I could do with a drink,’ he said grumpily. ‘Those bastards took my flask.’

Wyatt examined the cell. It was in an old building and there was none of the modernity of serried steel bars; but the walls were of thick and solid stone and the window was small and set high in the wall. By pulling up a stool and standing on it he could barely see outside, and he was a fairly tall man. He looked at the dim shapes of the buildings across the square and judged that the cell was on the second floor of the building in which the Poste de Police was housed.

He stepped down from the stool and said, ‘Why the hell were you carrying a gun?’

‘I always carry a gun,’ said Dawson. ‘A man in my position meets trouble, you know. There are always cranks who don’t like what I write, and the boys who want to prove they’re tougher than I am. I’ve got a licence for it, too. I got a batch of threatening letters a couple of years ago and there were some funny things happening round my place so I got the gun.’

‘I don’t know that that was a good idea, even in the States,’ said Wyatt. ‘But it certainly got us into trouble here. Your gun licence won’t cut any ice.’

‘Getting out will be easy,’ said Dawson angrily. ‘All I have to do is to wait until I can see someone bigger than one of those junior grade cops, tell him who I am, and we’ll both be sprung.’

Wyatt stared at him. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Sure I’m serious. Hell, man; everyone knows me. The Government of this tin-pot banana republic isn’t going to get in bad with Uncle Sam by keeping me in gaol. The fact that I’ve been picked up will make world headlines, and this Serrurier character isn’t going to let bad change to worse.’

Wyatt took a deep breath. ‘You don’t know Serrurier,’ he said. ‘He doesn’t like Americans in the first place and he won’t give a damn who you are — if he’s heard of you, that is, which I doubt.’

Dawson seemed troubled by the heresy Wyatt had uttered. ‘Not heard of me? Of course he’ll have heard of me.’

‘You heard those guns,’ said Wyatt. ‘Serrurier is fighting for his life — do you understand that? If Favel wins, Serrurier is going to be very dead. Right now he doesn’t give a damn about keeping in with Uncle Sam or anyone else — he just doesn’t have the time. And, like a doctor, he buries his mistakes, so if he’s informed about us there’ll probably be a shooting party in the basement with us as guests; that’s why I hope to God no one tells him. And I hope his boys don’t have any initiative.’

‘But there’ll have to be a trial,’ said Dawson. ‘I’ll have my lawyer.’

‘For God’s sake!’ exploded Wyatt. ‘Where have you been living — on the moon? Serrurier has had twenty thousand people executed in the last seven years without trial. They just disappeared. Start praying that we don’t join them.’

‘Now that’s nonsense,’ said Dawson firmly. ‘I’ve been coming to San Fernandez for the last five years — it makes a swell fishing base — and I’ve heard nothing of this. And I’ve met a lot of government officials and a nicer bunch of boys you couldn’t wish to meet. Of course they’re black, but I think none the less of them for that.’

‘Very broad-minded of you,’ said Wyatt sarcastically. ‘Can you name any of these “nice boys”? That information might come in useful.’

‘Sure; the best of the lot was the Minister for Island Affairs — a guy called Descaix. He’s a—’

‘Oh, no!’ groaned Wyatt, sitting on the stool and putting his head in his hands.

‘What’s the matter?’

Wyatt looked up. ‘Now, listen, Dawson; I’ll try to get this over in words of one syllable. Your nice boy, Descaix, was the boss of Serrurier’s secret police. Serrurier said, “Do it,” and Descaix did it, and in the end it added up to a nice pile of murders. But Descaix slipped — one of his murders didn’t pan out and the man came back to life, the man responsible for all those guns popping off up in the hills. Favel.’

He tapped Dawson on the knee. ‘Serrurier didn’t like that, so what do you think happened to Descaix?’

Dawson was looking unhappy. ‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘Neither would anyone else,’ said Wyatt. ‘Descaix’s gone, vanished as though he never existed — expunged. My own idea is that he’s occupying a hole in the ground up in the Tour Rambeau.’

‘But he was such a nice, friendly guy,’ said Dawson. He shook his head in bewilderment. ‘I don’t see how I could have missed it. I’m a writer — I’m supposed to know something about people. I even went fishing with Descaix — surely you get to know a man you fish with?’

‘Why should you?’ asked Wyatt. ‘People like Descaix have neatly compartmented minds. If you or I killed a man it would stay with us the rest of our lives — it would leave a mark. But Descaix has a man killed and he’s forgotten about it as soon as he’s given the order. It doesn’t worry his conscience one little bit, so it doesn’t show — there’s no mark.’

‘Jesus!’ said Dawson with awe. ‘I’ve been fishing with a mass murderer.’

‘You won’t fish with him ever again,’ said Wyatt brutally. ‘You might not fish with anyone ever again if we don’t get out of here.’

Dawson gave way to petulant rage. ‘What the hell is the American Government doing? We have a base here — why wasn’t this island cleaned up long ago?’

‘You make me sick,’ said Wyatt. ‘You don’t know what’s going on right in front of your nose, and when your nose gets bitten you scream to your Government for help. The American Government policy on this island is “hands off”, and rightly so. If they interfere here in the same way they did in the Dominican Republic they’d totally wreck their diplomatic relations with the rest of the hemisphere and the Russians would laugh fit to burst. Anyway, it’s best this way. You can’t hand freedom to people on a plate — they’ve got to take it. Favel knows that — he’s busy taking his freedom right now.’

He looked at Dawson who was sitting huddled on the bed, strangely shrunken. ‘You were trying to take the car, weren’t you? There was no policeman trying to drive it away at all. But you were.’

Dawson nodded. ‘I went upstairs and heard you and Causton talking about the hurricane. I got scared and figured I’d better get out.’

‘And you were going to leave the rest of us?’

Dawson nodded miserably.

Wyatt stretched out his legs. ‘I don’t understand it,’ he said. ‘I just don’t understand it. You’re Dawson — “Big Jim” Dawson — the man who’s supposed to be able to outshoot, out-fight, out-fly any other man on earth. What’s happened to you?’

Dawson lay on the bed and turned to the wall. ‘Go to hell!’ he said in a muffled voice.

IV

The police came for them at four o’clock in the morning, hustling them out of the cell and along a corridor. The office into which they were shown was bare and bleak, the archetype of all such offices anywhere in the world. The policeman at the desk was also archetypal; his cold, impersonal eyes and level stare could be duplicated in any police office in New York, London or Tokyo, and the fact that his complexion was dark coffee did not make any difference.

He regarded them expressionlessly, then said, ‘Fool, I wanted them one at a time. Take that one back.’ He pointed his pen at Wyatt, who was immediately pushed back into the corridor and escorted to the cell again.

He leaned against the wall as the key clicked in the lock and wondered what would eventually happen to him — perhaps he would join Descaix, an unlikely bedfellow. He had not heard the guns for some time and he hoped that Favel had not been beaten, because Favel was his only chance of getting clear. If Favel did not take St Pierre then he would either be shot or drowned in the cell when the waters of Santego Bay arose to engulf the town.

He sat on the stool and pondered. The policeman who had arrested them had shown a keen interest in Manning and Fuller, the two Englishmen from the North Coast, and he wondered why so much trouble should be taken over them in the middle of a civil war. Then he recalled Causton’s questioning earlier about shipments of arms and wondered if Manning and Fuller lived in the Campo de las Perlas, the area in which Causton had said the arms had been landed. If they were involved in that, no wonder Serrurier’s police were taking an interest in their doings — and in the doings of all other English people on San Fernandez.

Then, because he was very tired and had sat on the stool all night, he stretched out on the bed and fell asleep.

When he was aroused the first light of dawn was peering through the high window. Again he was taken down the corridor to the bleak room at the end and pushed through the doorway roughly. There was no sign of Dawson, and the policeman behind the desk was smiling. ‘Come in, Mr Wyatt. Sit down.’

It was not an invitation but an order. Wyatt sat in the hard chair and crossed his legs. The policeman said, in English, ‘I am Sous-Inspecteur Roseau, Mr Wyatt. Do you not think my English is good? I learned it in Jamaica.’

‘It’s very good,’ acknowledged Wyatt.

‘I’m glad,’ said Roseau. ‘Then there will be no misunderstandings. When did you last see Manning?’

‘I’ve never seen Manning.’

‘When did you last see Fuller?’

‘I’ve never seen him, either.’

‘But you knew where they lived; you admitted it.’

‘I didn’t “admit” a damned thing,’ said Wyatt evenly. ‘I told your underling that I’d heard they lived on the North Coast. I also told him that I’d never seen either of them in my life.’

Roseau consulted a sheet of paper before him. Without looking up he asked, ‘When were you recruited into American Intelligence?’

‘Well, I’ll be damned!’ said Wyatt. ‘This is all a lot of nonsense.’

Roseau’s head came up with a jerk. ‘Then you are in British Intelligence? You are a British spy?’

‘You’re out of your mind,’ said Wyatt disgustedly. ‘I’m a scientist — a meteorologist. And I don’t mind telling you something right now — if you don’t get the people out of this town within two days there’s going to be the most godawful smash-up you’ve ever seen. There’s a hurricane coming.’

Roseau smiled patiently. ‘Yes, Mr Wyatt, we know that is your cover. We also know that you British and the Americans are working hand in hand with Favel in an attempt to overthrow the lawful government of this country.’

‘That’ll do,’ said Wyatt. ‘I’ve had enough.’ He slapped the desk with the flat of his hand. ‘I want to see the British consul.’

‘So you want to see Rawsthorne?’ enquired Roseau with a malicious smile. ‘He wanted to see you — he was here trying to get you out, together with another Englishman. It is unfortunate that, because of his official position, we cannot arrest Rawsthorne — we know he is your leader — but my government is sending a strong protest to London about his conduct. He is non persona grata.’ Roseau’s smile widened. ‘You see I have Latin, too, Mr Wyatt. Not bad for an ignorant nigger.’

‘Ignorant is exactly the right word,’ said Wyatt tightly.

Roseau sighed, as a teacher sighs when faced with the obtuseness of a particularly stubborn pupil. ‘This is not the time to insult me, Wyatt. You see, your companion — your accomplice — the American agent, Dawson, has confessed. These Americans are not really so tough, you know.’

‘What the devil could he confess?’ asked Wyatt. ‘He’s as innocent of anything as I am.’ He moved his hand and felt a slight wetness on the palm. Turning his hand over he saw a smear of blood, and there were a few more drops spattered along the edge of the desk. He lifted his eyes and looked at Roseau with loathing.

‘Yes, Wyatt; he confessed,’ said Roseau. He drew a blank piece of paper from a drawer and placed in neatly before him. ‘Now,’ he said with pen poised. ‘We will begin again. When did you last see Manning?’

‘I’ve never seen Manning.’

‘When did you last see Fuller?’

‘I’ve never seen Fuller,’ said Wyatt monotonously.

Roseau carefully put down his pen. He said softly, ‘Shall we see if you are more stubborn than Dawson? Or perhaps you will be less stubborn — it is more convenient for you as well as for me.’

Wyatt was very conscious of the two policemen standing behind him near the door. They had not moved or made a sound but he knew they were there. He had known it ever since Dawson’s blood had stained his hand. He decided to take a leaf out of Rawsthorne’s book. ‘Roseau, Serrurier is going to have your hide for this.’

Roseau blinked but said nothing.

‘Does he know I’m here? He’s a bad man when he’s crossed — but who should know that better than you? When I saw him yesterday he was giving Hippolyte a going over — had Hippolyte shaking in his shoes.’

‘You saw our President yesterday?’ Roseau’s voice was perhaps not as firm as it had been.

Wyatt tried to act as though he was always in the habit of meeting Serrurier for afternoon drinks. ‘Of course.’ He leaned over the desk. ‘Don’t you know who Dawson is — the man you’ve just beaten up? He’s the famous writer. You must have heard of Big Jim Dawson — everyone has.’

Roseau twitched. ‘He tried to make me believe he was—’ He stopped suddenly.

Wyatt laughed. ‘You’ve put Serrurier right in the middle,’ he said. ‘He has his hands full with Favel but that’s all right — he can handle it. He told me so himself. But he was worried about the Americans at Cap Sarrat; he doesn’t know whether they’re going to come out against him or not. Of course you know what will happen if they do. The Americans and Favel will crack Serrurier between them like a nut.’

‘What has this got to do with me?’ asked Roseau uncertainly.

Wyatt leaned back in his chair and looked at Roseau with well-simulated horror. ‘Why, you fool, you’ve given the Americans the chance they’ve been waiting for. Dawson is an international figure, and he’s American. Commodore Brooks will be asking Serrurier where Dawson is in not too many hours from now, and if Serrurier can’t produce him, alive and unhurt, then Brooks is going to take violent action because he knows he’ll have world opinion behind him. Dawson is just the lever the Americans have been waiting for; they can’t take up arms just because a few Americans got mixed up in your civil war — that’s not done any more — but a potential Nobel Prizewinner, a man of Dawson’s stature, is something else again.’

Roseau was silent and twitchy. Wyatt let him stew for a few long seconds, then said, ‘You know as well as I do that Dawson told you nothing about Manning and Fuller. I know that because he knows nothing, but you used him to try to throw a scare into me. Now let me tell you something, Sous-Inspecteur Roseau. When Commodore Brooks asks Serrurier for Dawson, Serrurier is going to turn St Pierre upside down looking for him because he knows that if he doesn’t find him, then the Americans will break in the back door and stab him in the back just when he’s at grips with Favel. And if Serrurier finds that Sous-Inspecteur Roseau has stupidly exceeded his duty by beating Dawson half to death I wouldn’t give two pins for your chances of remaining alive for five more minutes. My advice to you is to get a doctor to Dawson as fast as you can, and then to implore him to keep his mouth shut. How you do that is your business.’

He almost laughed at the expression on Roseau’s face as he contemplated the enormity of his guilt. Roseau finally shut his mouth with a snap and took a deep breath. ‘Take this man to his cell,’ he ordered, and Wyatt felt a firm grip on his shoulder, a grip more welcome now than it would have been five minutes earlier. After being thrust into the cell it was a long time before he stopped shaking. Then he sat down to contemplate the sheer, copper-bottomed brilliance of the idea he had sold Roseau.

He thought that he and Dawson were safe from Roseau. But there was still the problem of getting out before the hurricane struck and that would not be easy — not unless he could manage to work on Roseau’s fears some more. He had an idea that he would be seeing Roseau before long; the sous-inspecteur would remember that Wyatt had claimed acquaintance with Serrurier and he would want to know more about that.

He looked at his watch. It was seven o’clock and the sunlight was streaming through the small window. He hoped that Causton would have sense enough to get the others out of St Pierre — even by walking they could get a long way.

The noise outside suddenly came to his attention. It had been going on ever since he had been pushed into the cell but he had been so immersed in his thoughts that it had not penetrated. Now he was aware of the racket in the square outside — the revving of heavy engines, the clatter of feet and the murmur of many men interspersed by raucous shouts — sergeants have the same brazen-voiced scream in any army; it sounded as though an army was massing in the square.

He kicked the stool across to the window and climbed up, but the angle was wrong and he could not see the ground at all, merely the façade of the buildings on the opposite side of the square. He stood there for a long time trying to make sense of the confused sounds from below but finally gave up. He was just about to step off the stool when he heard the sudden bellow of guns from so close that the hot air seemed to quiver.

He stood on tiptoe, desperately trying to see what was happening, and caught a glimpse of a deep red flash on the roof of the building immediately opposite. There was a slam and the front of the building caved in before his startled eyes, seeming to collapse in slow motion in a billowing cloud of dust.

Then the blast of the explosion caught him and he was hurled in a shower of broken glass right across the cell to thud against the door. The last thing he heard before he collapsed into unconsciousness was the thump of his head against the solid wood.