Rather to my surprise we were finished before dark.
Of course, once we got into the rhythm of it the work went smoothly. On the beach were John, Mary and Bible Bill, making up slings and then — they had the hauling part of the tackle — heaving them up to the cliff top. Sally and I received them there. Curley Green acted as hatch-man — that way he could keep an eye on everything that was going on.
Sally nudged me when we saw that there were only two cases left in the pile — two cases that would be coming up with the next lift. “It,” she whispered, “is one of them …”
“It?” I queried.
“The whisky, you clod!”
“Oh.”
As a ship’s officer, I had been obliged to handle a few drunken men in my time, and it was never a job that I relished. Even so, I had no doubt of my ability to handle a drunken Curley Green. But Curley Green with a loaded pistol …? The more I thought about it, the more I realised the wisdom of Sally’s objections to my scheme.
Well, I thought, we’ve got all this lot to the cliff top without dropping anything. Surely we’re allowed one breakage … A fall of thirty odd feet should do for those bottles …
“Heave away,” Curley Green was shouting. “Heave away, there!”
The three on the beach heaved. Slowly, jerkily, the two cases moved upwards. I looked at Sally, she looked at me. I nodded slightly. She flickered a smile in my direction. We knew what had to be done.
“Hold it!” bellowed the engineer.
The sling was swinging just clear of the cliff edge. I reached out to grasp the parts of the tackle, to swing the weight in. The cases were not very well slung. A little carelessness on my part would send them crashing down. John and Mary, I saw, were practically underneath them. Could they get clear in time if I shouted?
While I hesitated I heard Sally gasp, turned to see that she had been pushed roughly to one side by Curley Green. He swung on me, the pistol dull-gleaming in his right hand. “Back, Petey boy,” he ordered genially. “Back. I know what you was thinkin’, an’ I’m muckin’ surprised at a man o’ your standin’ thinkin’ o’ pilferin’ cargo. Back!”
I stepped back, stood beside Sally. Keeping us covered, he grasped the tackle with his left hand, swung it inshore, at the same time shouting, “Let go!”
It was a drop of only a few inches to the ground and, in any case, the whisky was on top of the other box. Only a wild optimist would have expected any breakages — and I was losing my optimism.
Stooping, still keeping us covered, Green managed to get his arm round the previous case. He walked backwards slowly and carefully, towards his shed. “This,” he told us, “is one thing that I am keepin’ safe. So you needn’t go sniffin’ around for it …”
I shrugged. Sally shrugged. Then we sent the tackle down again for the first of the steel plates.
• • •
There was one more task before the evening meal, and that was to see whether or not my charcoal burning had been successful. Frankly, I wasn’t happy about it — with all the things that we had been doing during the day it had slipped my memory. Luckily, before retiring the previous night, I had reduced the size of the upper vents, almost blocking them off. Under the outer casing of turf — now baked brick-hard — I found that affairs had gone better than I had a right to expect. I picked up a handful of black lumps, still hot, and looked at them curiously. Sally peered over my shoulder.
“So I am a bona fide charcoal burner after all,” I said.
“And you’re hoping that the fairy stories are true?”
“Frankly, yes. Of course, there are a few irksome preliminaries, legal formalities …”
“Yes. Frank told me something about your … your marital status.”
“As long as you know,” I said.
“We’re assuming, of course, that we get away from here …”
“And if we don’t …”
“With Curley disposed of,” she said cold-bloodedly, “life could be quite tolerable. You could take over the engineering side, if you had to. And you know it.”
“After a fashion,” I said.
“Hey, Lady Clara Vere-de-Vere,” came Green’s bellow. “Rustle up some grub, willya? An’ you, Petey — how’s my charcoal?”
I walked to the door of the shed, still with my handful of black lumps. He allowed me to approach him, although he’d pulled the gun and had it aimed at my midriff. He said, “If yer try throwin’ that muck in my face, yer know what to expect.”
“For the love of God grow up,” I told him. “We aren’t little boys playing at gangsters.”
“I just ain’t takin’ chances, Petey boy,” he said. He held out his left hand for the charcoal. I gave it to him. He rolled it around on his palm, sniffed it, crumbled a piece between his thick fingers. He grunted. “Looks as though yer’ve got yerself a permanent job, Petey …” He sniffed the black lumps again. And I sniffed — a little too audibly.
Green chuckled to himself. He said, “There’s no use sniffin’, Petey boy. I haven’t touched it yet. An’ I shan’t, either, until the job’s well under way. Once there’s somethin’ callin’ for a celebration — then I celebrate …” He made a down-sweeping gesture. “Sit down.”
I sat down.
“Now,” he said, “termorrer we start work properly. There’s just about all the tools we shall need among the junk, an’ we start usin’ ‘em. There’ll be canvas sewin’ for the women — you’ll have ter show ‘em how to get ‘em started — the straps an’ such. For the rest of yer there’ll be cuttin’ lengths of platin’ off the size I want ‘em. There’s hammers an’ cold chisels, an’ a hacksaw. Some o’ the things was packed in grease, so they ain’t in bad nick.”
“So you think you’ll be able to give them what they want,” I said.
“I don’t think it,” he said. “I’m muckin’ sure of it …” He started chewing on a splinter. “I wish those fish-faced bastards’d bring us some cigarettes,” he complained.
“So do I,” I agreed. “But I’m afraid that you get the sealed, waterproof tins only in big ships’ stores …”
“There must be some in that Jap sub,” he said. Then, after a longer pause, “When you’ve a few smokes, you find it easier to keep awake …”
“What do you want to keep awake for, Curley? With your gun, behind your locked door …”
“I just might want to unlock the door and come out,” he said. “With the gun …”
“Why?” I asked.
He looked at the figures grouped around the fire upon which Sally was cooking the evening meal. He glared at the tall, skinny form of Bible Bill. “It’s that psalm singin’ old bastard, Petey. You bunk with him. Does he leave the hut at night?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I sleep very soundly.”
I returned his gaze unflinchingly. I don’t think that he suspected me of lying.
He said abruptly, “I’ll find out. That’s all.”
I rejoined the others.
• • •
That night there was the usual feigning of sleep by both Bible Bill and myself. Then, as on the other occasions, his simulated snoring ceased and he crept silently out of the hut. The moon was barely risen, but there was enough light for me to see his white form flitting over the stones.
This time I did not follow as soon as he was over the cliff edge. It was just as well that I did not. After an interval I heard the clicking and scraping of key in padlock, the creaking of hinges. I saw the door of the shed open, saw Curley Green slip out. Him I eventually followed.
As before, I could eavesdrop from the top of the cliff. The old man was standing thigh-deep in the sea, the big porpoise was floating just before him. I shifted my regard — there, at the cliff base, was a gleaming pale circle — Curley Green’s bald head. I thought, I could drop a rock … Then, inconsiderately, the engineer moved so that he was shielded by a slight overhang.
I listened to the whistled, coded conversation. (I was getting better at it now.)
“Noah, you must help me …”
“We cannot. We are grateful to you, the opener of the way …” And why can’t the bastards talk? I asked myself. I can read it, but it’s slow, slow … “But this other man, this engineer, can give us what we want …”
“He is an evil man …”
“If he serves us well, no matter.”
“Bible Bill!” bellowed Green.
Startled, the old man turned.
“Blabbin’ to this fish-faced bastard behind me bleedin’ back …”
“I shall talk with whom I am sent to talk,” cried the old man defiantly.
“Will yer? Come outa the muckin’ water!”
“When I have finished what I have been sent to do,” replied the ancient fanatic.
“Come outa the water, or …”
“I refuse.”
Startling in the stillness, shocking, came the report of the heavy pistol. Bible Bill staggered, fell, crumpled. It seemed then that the great porpoise helped him to his feet, although I may have been mistaken. Anyhow, he was erect, wading unsteadily through the shallow water. I could see in the moonlight that the front of his robe was darkly sodden.
“Back!” Green was shouting wildly. “Back!”
He fired again, and again, six shots in all, and still that scarecrow figure kept coming, arms and clawlike hands outstretched.
The old man made it to the dry sand, then fell for the second and last time, sprawled there in an attitude of crucifixion. I was dimly aware that the others were with me, watching — and then they were gone from me. I heard the clatter of falling stones as they ran down the cliff path. When I commenced my own descent, Sally and Mary were already kneeling by the body.
And they’ve spoiled everything, I thought. It’s obvious that the old man is dead — with a forty five slug through the chest he must be. As long as Curley was down there, by himself, we had a chance of going for him too. But now he’s got his hostages — as usual.
I tried to remember how many shots had been fired, made a mental tally, making the answer seven. So the odds were that the gun was empty now. Unless Green was carrying a spare clip of cartridges and had reloaded from it.
That empty clip drew itself to my attention as I trod on it on my way to the others.
Curley Green, keeping his distance, his gun ready, was trying to clear himself. “But it was his own fault,” he was saying. “It was his own muckin’ fault. He was plottin’ against me …”
A deep, unhuman voice spoke from the sea. “Man, you man called Gurley. You are a killer. You have killed the Servant, the Messenger …”
“Shuddup, you dirty great lump o’ stinkin’ cats’ fodder!” shouted Green. “Shuddup, or I’ll give yer the same as I gave him!” He turned on us. “An’ you stay here, all of yer, until I says yer can come up. Have a bleedin’ Irish wake if yer wants ter …” He backed to the path, then ran up it.
“His first killing came as a shock to him,” I said slowly, “but he’ll get over it. The next one will be easier …”
Sally was clinging to me. “Peter,” she said. “That poor old man …”
“Poor old man be buggered,” I said. “He was a bad old bastard, as bad in his way as Curley Green is in his. It’s fairly obvious that he committed a few murders himself …”
“But there must be a funeral …” John was saying slowly.
“I suppose so,” I said. I didn’t relish the prospect of lugging the corpse up the cliff face, and I am not one of those who unthinkingly assume that death automatically ennobles the victim.
Noah was speaking again. “Man, give us the body. The bones of our teacher shall be preserved and reverenced …”
“We shall do as he says,” I stated.
And I whistled softly in broken rhythm — “Noah, can you help us?”
“How?”
“Curley. You have seen that he is an evil man …”
“We shall talk again,” whistled the porpoise.
And then, as we carried the remains of the old man into the water, his legions were around us, but strangely subdued, not boisterous. Gently they took the body from us, vanished with it beneath the surface.
And I regretted not having dropped that rock while I had the chance, especially now that I knew that Curley Green was capable of using the gun.