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The run down the channel was a pleasant change after the days spent moored above the wreck, even though we weren’t under sail. The big arc-welder sitting high up on the cabin prevented that. The slap of wavelets against the bow and the smell of the sea air as we slid along at seven knots brought back memories of our run up from Townsville; except this time the yacht was moving on an even keel - no tripping over clumsy feet!
We took on water, extra diesel and petrol for the compressor.
The motel was a kilometre and a half past the main wharf and a stone’s throw from the water’s edge, with only the main road separating it from the beach. There was a tiny island, no bigger than the yacht itself, just off the beach and connected by a low suspension bridge, allowing us to get ashore without having to drag the inflatable through the shallows and across the rocks.
Le Relais Bougainville: a group of five-sided concrete cabins, surmounted with grey bee-hive roofs, like some African village. The restaurant itself was a large square building, white-plastered like the bee-hives and with the same roof covering, taking up prime position by the road, giving us an uninterrupted view of the yacht. Palm trees sprang up from the mown grass between the cabins; pathways meandering away through the frangipani and other tropical foliage.
The pool, with its softly humming filter, lying cool in the evening twilight, beckoned us in. Days of salt encrustation would be softened by long soaking in its crystal blueness. We changed quickly and dived in, the loss of buoyancy strange after weeks of wearing a wetsuit. I stayed by the side, drink in hand, the rich aroma of French cooking drifting from the open kitchen window. Idyllic. I put the thought of why we had come to Santo behind me, forgot about the terror of that dark wreck, daydreaming of Sonia and Champagne Beach. I let my gaze linger over her.
“Oh, Mike,” she murmured. “I don’t know when I’ve felt so happy!”
I gave her a whimsical look, conjuring up pictures of that white sandy beach not so many hours ago. She caught my eye as Steve picked up our train of thought.
“If either of you,” she warned, blushing. “Says one word, just one word, you’ll both be wearing a black eye for the rest of the week!”
I clamped my mouth shut, but Steve couldn’t contain himself, bursting into gales of laughter. Soon the three of us were roaring our heads off. Not a care in the world. And then a faint shadow fell across my shoulder.
“How’s the filmin’ goin’?”
I turned my head, the laughter dying as the words reached my ears, stilling the mood. It was a second or two before I recognised him – the guy from the seafront in Vila, the guy who had been looking for a job.
“Huh? What was that?” I asked, caught off guard.
“The Coolidge,” he replied. “That wartime wreck just along the channel. I hear you’ve been anchored there for a couple of weeks now. Must be bloody interestin’, eh?” He sat down on the edge of the pool, glass in hand, feet dangling in the water under my nose. “I remember you sayin’ you were goin’ to do some filmin’ around the islands. I didn’t think you meant wrecks?”
He left it there. A question; expecting me to take up the thread of his words; to explain our presence on the Coolidge.
“We’re part of a film crew,” Steve interrupted. “Getting some footage for a movie. Those underwater shots take a great deal of time.” He emptied his glass and pushed it across the concrete patio. “It’s bloody difficult getting the light right, and the correct angle. You can wait down there all day trying to get everything lined up.”
“What’s the film about?” he persisted. “I wished you’d told me before. I’ve always wanted to be in a movie.”
You and five million others, I thought to myself.
“It’s a love story,” I told him. “Nothing that you or I would be interested in. Bloody boring!”
“Who’s the star?” he shot back.
I was getting all set to tell him to bugger off when Steve jumped in again.
“Mike is,” he said, pointing to me. “Not that it means much. He’s only the stand-in for the big name. The same build and hair colouring. You can’t see anything of him other than the hair. There’s not much to be seen when you’re wearing a full wetsuit, mask and regulator.”
Our inquisitor straightened up and walked around the pool, waving his glass in my direction, and asking: “How long do you think you’ll take to finish the shootin’?”
“About another two to three weeks,” I told him offhandedly. “It depends on the weather.”
I reckoned we could be into the Specie Room in less than a week, if everything went according to plan. Now that the way into the Sea Post Office was clear, the rest would be straightforward.
“But we still don’t need any help, thanks,” I added, turning away and making it clear that it was useless to keep badgering us for a job.
He shrugged his shoulders and strolled over to his mates sitting at one of the pool-side tables; the one facing us having long well-brushed hair, an effeminate face and prominent cheek bones, sipping from a tall glass.
It was the profile of the second one who caught my attention: well-built, with the typical Australian beer-pot to spoil the lines; dark hair, matted, and a beard to match; not a full beard, perhaps a month or more since he had last shaved. He turned, dropping the reflective sunglasses for an instant to get a better look at us.
The glass slipped out of my hand and splashed into the water. I shivered, a tightening in my chest. It wasn’t the look of hate which crossed his face in that instant, an instant when he thought I had been looking away from him, talking to Sonia. And it wasn’t the swift turn he made back to his companion.
It was the scar! An ugly red weal across the left side of his chest!
The fight in the saloon of the Belle came flashing back: the champagne bottle cracking and shattering as I brought it crashing down on the intruder’s head; the glitter of shards of glass as I swept it up to the chest of the other, through his sweater and shirt; the blood on the deck in the morning; Vicki’s screams in the semi-dark.
They were back! I fought for control and slowly turned away. It wouldn’t do for them to know they had been recognised. I lifted my hand to my mouth. My glass! Where was my glass? Then I remembered and dived to the bottom of the pool and retrieved it. They were staring again as I surfaced. I raised the glass, now full of good pure chlorinated pool-water, my hand shaking.
“I wonder what the poor people are doing today?” I called out to them. “Here’s to paradise!”
All I got for my troubles were a couple of half smiles and a grunt from the inquisitive one. Was he the one called Charlie, the one who had been watching the yacht in Townsville, the one who had told them I had left with Vicki in the sports car? I cursed that I hadn’t asked his name, but it was too late now.
It was clear now why he had been sent over to quiz us. The big one and the queer had done a lot of talking that night in Townsville. I might recognise their voices. Silence hadn’t done them any good though. They could hide their faces behind sunglasses and beards, but not that scar.
Steve’s voice broke into my thoughts. “Hey, Mike! You want another beer, or shall we go in and eat?”
I poured the chlorinated water from my glass and climbed from the pool. There was no way I was staying within earshot of those three if I could help it.
“Let’s get stuck into some of that French cooking,” I replied, trying to keep the tremor from my voice as I turned to help Sonia up. “I’m bloody starving. What about you, Sonia?”
“I’m with you, Mike!”
Fifteen minutes later we were seated in the dining room: a big room, decorated with posters of the Eiffel Tower, the Champs Elysees and a dozen other famous Paris landmarks; long wooden tables; low hanging lights reminiscent of cartwheels and candles – the whole atmosphere an attempt to portray some ancient French hostelry, not succeeding, but clean and airy nevertheless.
The wait for Sonia to change into an outfit she had brought ashore in the small airline bag was not regretted, not one tiny bit: blonde hair swept up, pinned with a large wooden side-comb she had bought from a street vendor in Vila; a frangipani behind one ear; sleeveless black dress, slit at one side to the thigh; the one piece of jewellery: a gold bracelet – exquisite.
We took a table by a window at the front; the Belle in plain sight, lights blazing, lit up like a Christmas tree; the flood-lamp high on the mast lighting the deck and the water around the hull.
There were only a few tables occupied. We had picked a quiet night; the Townsville trio nowhere to be seen; the nearest person two tables away. No need for whispered conversations. Nobody seemed to be paying any attention to us, apart from a few appreciative glances in Sonia’s direction.
“You were a bit short with that bloke out there, weren’t you, Mike?” Steve ventured. “You could at least have given him a bit more bullshit.”
I finished buttering the piece of French bread I had broken off the roll and popped it in my mouth, chewing steadily. He looked at me.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“We’ve got trouble.”
I leaned forward across the table, pushing the wine bottle aside. They both sat up, forks poised in mid-flight and then returned to their plates as they hunched forward to my beckoning finger.
“Those two guys at the table by the pool,” I said, keeping my voice as low as possible without actually whispering. “The two the busybody went and sat with.” Steve nodded. “They’re the ones who attacked me on the yacht in Townsville.” His mouth dropped, stunned.
“Are you sure?” Sonia asked, confusion spreading across her face. “But surely they’d know that you might recognise them, out in the open like that?”
“They couldn’t be sure,” I replied. “It was pretty dark and I didn’t see their faces. Maybe they thought they were safe behind the sunglasses and the beard. They must have thought it worth the risk to get a closer look at us. Maybe they hoped to find out something. I don’t know. Maybe they didn’t expect us to walk in on them like that.”
I forked a piece of asparagus smothered in garlic butter into my mouth, but somehow it had become tasteless. A mouthful of Bordeaux didn’t improve it.
“Maybe you’re imagining it,” she suggested.
“No, it’s them. If it hadn’t been for the gash across the big guy’s chest I wouldn’t have bothered to look twice.” I could still see that half-moon of twisted pink skin. “I’m not certain about the queer, but he’s about the same size of the chap I broke the bottle on.”
“Bloody hell!” Steve groaned as he took a quick searching look around the room. Sonia sat quietly, fingers twisting her serviette.
The waitress interrupted us, placing our three main courses on the table, removing the entrée dishes, bringing back a touch of reality.
“So they weren’t after drugs then,” Steve whispered as soon as she had gone. “They must’ve got wind of the gold. But it still might be drugs. The Coolidge would’ve been carrying medical supplies. There might still be a large quantity of morphine lying in one of the holds.” He thought about it for a moment. “They must’ve been looking for a cargo manifest, or a list, or something like that.”
“No, it’s the coins,” I said bluntly. “It has to be!”
“Christ!” he exclaimed. “Now we’re right in the shit.”
He drummed his fingers on the table, glancing around the room again, eyeing the other diners, every one now a suspect. I went to the window and looked out. The yacht seemed peaceful, the Zodiac still lying where we had left it.
“Mike,” Sonia asked. “What can we do?”
“Nothing,” I answered. “At least not for the moment. Let them think we’ll be here for a few more weeks. With a bit of luck, and plenty of cheek, we’ll have the coins on board and be out of here before they even know we’ve gone.”
I tried to sound confident, but I sure as hell didn’t feel it. All we could do was continue as we had been doing. They wouldn’t make a move until they were certain we had the coins on board, or whatever else they were after, if it really was something else they wanted. They would make their move when we got ready to leave, and that’s when we would have to be more than careful.
Our dinner was ruined. The food had been well presented and full of flavour; but our appetites had gone, our palates jaded; even the single bottle of Bordeaux was cleared from the table still holding half its contents. The coffee was good. We sent back for another pot – black and thick.
I kept one eye on the mirror on the far wall, giving me a fairly good view through the potted palms to the back entrance of the restaurant. I was half expecting the persistent one to interrupt us with more questions. Sonia said she thought she saw someone looking in through one of the back windows. I nearly turned to check, but thought better of it.
“Strange, you know,” Steve said as we got up and walked to the door on our way back to the yacht. “We’ve never seen a soul down at that beach, not even a footprint. None of the boats have come in for a closer look, except for that pilot, Develac; and yet they must’ve been keeping us under observation.” He peered into the bushes on either side of the path leading down to the beach.
Those noises and the car I had heard shooting off the day I had gone ashore to collect the steel from Burns Philp must have been them, spying on us. I didn’t have the guts to tell Steve now.
Sonia linked her arm through mine, drawing closer, frightened of what might be out there in the darkness. She wasn’t the only one.
“Don’t worry, chicken,” I whispered in her ear. “I won’t let them near you.” I was to remember those words.
We crunched down the coral path and crossed over the road, keeping well clear of the shadows cast by tall coconut palms. A cloud passed across the face of the moon, still a week or more from its fullness.
There was a rush, a black missile slicing at Steve’s head. He leapt to one side, throwing his arms up around his head, the fruit bat narrowly missing his shoulder as it swept from one clump of bananas to another. Sonia’s nails dug into my arm, their sharpness not blunted by weeks on the yacht.
We crossed over the swinging bridge to the island, now a mere speck with the rising tide. The Zodiac swung on its rope; motor and fuel tank where we had left them. We motored quietly out to the yacht; nobody talking; frightened of what we might find. If they hadn’t been in to dinner, could they be ransacking the yacht again, trying to find what they hadn’t found in Vila?
There was no way we could sneak up on the Belle. If they were on board they would be peering through a porthole, watching as we walked across the bridge and then started the outboard. We hadn’t heard the alarm, but then I didn’t really know if it was going to work.
We drew alongside and I climbed quietly on to the deck, picking up a hammer Steve had left lying in the cockpit, and crept stealthily over to the hatch – locked. But they may have forced their way in through the skylight opening, past the generator. Not the big guy, the scar, but the queer might have had a chance.
Signalling to the others to stay in the inflatable, I slid the key into the padlock and lifted the lock gently from the hasp. Then, with a mighty crash, I flung the doors open and sprang down into the saloon, the alarm bursting into my eardrums, drowning all sounds of my thundering footsteps as I sped along the alleyway, throwing open first the door to the bathroom and then turning to crash into Steve’s cabin.
Sensing a presence behind me, I spun round, pivoting on my left foot, the hammer swung high.
“Hold it, Mike!” the figure screamed, arms held high to ward off the blow.
Steve! He had followed me into the saloon. I lowered the hammer. He shook his head, running his hand along the nape of his neck; certain he had been close to having his brains bashed out.
“How the hell do you shut off that goddamn noise?” he shouted. “You’ve alerted half of bloody Santo!”
I bent under my bunk and threw the switch, the silence nearly as deafening as the fog-horn had been.
“Come on,” I said, with obvious relief. “Let’s haul the anchor up and get the hell out of here.”
I went back out onto the deck to help Sonia over the rail. She wasn’t her normal nimble self in that long black cocktail dress. It could have been a beautiful evening; and an even more beautiful night!
"Like I told you, Steve,” I said a few minutes later, trying to show the confidence I didn’t feel. “Those blokes won’t do anything until they’re certain we’ve got our hands on whatever it is they think we’re after.”
“How do you know they aren’t all divers, and not just the guy with the questions?” Steve asked.
“Even if they were,” I replied. “They’d need the equipment we’ve got, the experience we’ve gained over the last couple of weeks, and the right to be on the wreck. The authorities would pack them off in no time flat.” I opened a couple of beers and passed one to each of them. “No, they won’t make a move until they think we’ve got what they are after. Take it from me. Those guys are thieves, not workers.”
I drew Sonia up close in one corner of the cockpit while Steve conned the yacht along the channel, back to the Coolidge. She nestled into the crook of my arm, cosy and warm, as if she had been doing it for years. It was only a day and already we were comfortable with each other. Steve smiled down at us.
“It’s easy to see why you two guys aren’t worried,” he said, the moonlight shining on his face. “Well, you can forget it; at least for the time being.”
I sat up with a start. “What are you talking about? I thought you didn’t mind?”
“I don’t mind. But from now on we’ll be keeping watches throughout the night.”
“Aw, come on!” I said. “You don’t think they’re going to swim out in the middle of the night with knives between their teeth and do us all in, do you?”
What did he expect? Dive all day and keep watch all night?
Steve agreed to take the first watch – two hours. He reckoned that if Sonia and I were forced to spend a whole four hours apart, one of us would probably jump overboard in frustration. He was right, and I knew who it would be. Sonia had been looking at me with those come-to-bed eyes the whole way up the channel. We had a lot of lost time to make up.
We left him to it, wasting not a moment, discretely closing the hatch doors as we stumbled down into the saloon.