Wrath of the Lion. Jack Higgins
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and went and stood beside Jacaud.
‘What do you want with me?’ Bouvier said.
‘A month ago at Fort-Neuf you were public prosecutor at a trial,’ Fenelon said. ‘A trial at which six good friends of ours received the death sentence.’
‘So, the O.A.S. is in this?’ Bouvier shrugged. ‘I did my duty as I saw it. No man can do more.’
‘You will, I am sure, allow us the same privilege, monsieur.’ Fenelon produced a document from his pocket, unfolded it and read rapidly. ‘“Pierre Bouvier, I must inform you that you have been tried in your absence and found guilty of the crime of treason against the Republic by a military tribunal of the Council of National Resistance.”’
He paused and Bouvier cut in gently, ‘And the sentence of the court is death?’
‘Naturally,’ Fenelon said. ‘Have you anything to say?’
Bouvier shrugged and an expression of contempt crossed his face. ‘Say? Say what? There is no charge to answer. I know it and you know it. Frenchmen everywhere will –’
Jacaud plucked the sub-machine-gun from the hands of the sailor standing next to him, aimed quickly and fired a long burst that drove Bouvier back against the rail. He spun round, the material of his raincoat bursting into flame as bullets hammered across his back, and fell to the deck.
His wife cried his name once, took a single step forward and fainted, one of the passengers catching her as she fell backwards.
From the well-deck there was a strange, muted sigh from the crew and then there was only silence. Jacaud tossed the machine-gun to the sailor he had taken it from and went down the ladder without a backward glance. Fenelon looked as if he might be sick at any moment. He nodded to his men and hurriedly followed the big man, missing a step halfway down and almost falling to the deck.
They went over the side one by one and from the conning tower of the submarine the heavy machine-gun covered them menacingly. When they were all in the dinghy the sailors standing by the forward hatch hauled on the line quickly.
They left the dinghy to drift and everyone scrambled down through the hatch except Fenelon, who walked along the hull and climbed the ladder to the conning tower. He stood looking up at the freighter for a moment as the two vessels drifted apart, and on the Kontoro there was a strange, uncanny silence.
The two sailors dismounted the machine-gun and disappeared. Fenelon remained only a moment or two longer before following. The conning-tower hatch clanged shut, the sound echoing flatly across the water.
On the Kontoro it was as if a spell had been broken and everyone surged forward to the rail. Janvier had never felt quite so helpless in his life before and for some unaccountable reason was strangely close to tears.
In the distance the wind was already beginning to lift the waves into whitecaps and he remembered the gale warning. L’Alouette sank beneath the waves like a grey ghost, the tricolour waved bravely, then that too disappeared and there was only the sea.
A thin sea fog rolled in from Southampton Water as the taxi turned the corner and pulled into the kerb. Anne Grant peered out through the window at the dim bulk of the building rearing into the night.
The original structure had been Georgian, so much was obvious, but the years had left their mark. A line of uneven steps lifted to the door, the paint cracked and peeling in the diffused yellow light of a street-lamp. Above it a small glass sign said Regent Hotel.
She tapped on the partition and the driver opened it. ‘Are you sure this is the place?’
‘Regent Hotel, Farthing Lane. That’s what you said and that’s where I’ve brought you,’ the man replied. ‘It’s only a doss-house, lady. The sort of place sailors come to for a kip on their first night ashore. What did you expect – the Ritz?’
She opened the door and got out, hesitating for a moment as she gazed up at the damp, crumbling façade of the hotel. Except for the lapping of water against the wharf pilings on the other side of the street, it was completely quiet. When a café door was opened somewhere in the middle distance the music and laughter might have been coming from another planet. She gave the driver ten shillings, told him to wait and went up the steps.
The corridor was dimly lit, a flight of stairs rising into the shadows at the far end. She wrinkled her nose in distaste at the stale smell compounded of cooking odours and urine and moved forward.
There was a door to the left, the legend Bar etched in acid on its frosted-glass panel. When she opened it she found herself in a long, narrow room, the far end shrouded in darkness. An old marble-topped bar fronted one wall, a cracked mirror behind it, and a man leaned beside the beer pumps reading a newspaper.
In one corner a drunk sprawled across a table face-down, his breath whistling uneasily through the stillness. Two men sat beside a small coal fire talking softly as they played cards. They turned to look at her and she closed the door and walked past them.
The barman was old and balding, with the sagging, disillusioned face of a man who had got past being surprised at anything. He folded his paper neatly and pushed it under the bar.
‘What can I do for you?’
‘I’m looking for a Mr Van Sondergard,’ she said. ‘I understand he’s staying here.’
Beyond the barman the two men by the fire were watching her in the mirror. One of them was small and squat with an untidy black beard. His companion was at least six feet tall with a hard, raw-boned face and hands that never stopped moving, shuffling the cards ceaselessly. He grinned and she returned his gaze calmly for a moment and looked away.
‘Sondergard?’ the barman said.
‘She’ll be meaning the Norwegian,’ the tall man said in a soft Irish voice.
‘Oh, that fella?’ The barman nodded. ‘Left yesterday.’
He ran a cloth over the surface of the bar and Anne Grant said blankly: ‘But that isn’t possible. I only hired him last week through the seamen’s pool. I’ve a new motor-cruiser waiting at Lulworth now. He’s supposed to run her over to the Channel Islands tomorrow.’
‘You’ll have a job catching him,’ the Irishman cut in. ‘He shipped out as quartermaster on the Ben Alpin this morning. Suez and all points east.’ He got to his feet and crossed the room slowly. ‘Anything I can do?’
Before she could reply a voice cut in harshly: ‘How about some service this end for a change?’
She turned in surprise, realising for the first time that a man stood in the shadows at the far end of the bar. The collar of his reefer jacket was turned up and a peaked cap shaded a face that was strangely white, the eyes like dark holes.
The barman moved towards him and the Irishman leaned against the bar and grinned at Anne. ‘How about a drink?’
She shook her head gently, turned and walked to the door. She went out into the corridor and paused at the top of the steps. The taxi had gone and the fog was much thicker now, rolling in across the harbour, swirling round the street-lamps like some living thing.
She went down the steps and started along the pavement. When she reached the first lamp she paused and looked back. The Irishman and his friend were standing in the doorway. As she turned to move on, they came down the steps and moved after her.
Neil Mallory lit another cigarette, raised his whisky up to the light, then set it down. ‘This glass is dirty.’
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