Angel's Ransom (4 page)

The
Angel
’s
guests were already asleep. They slept soundly through the crash of a case of lubricating oil dropped down
the engine-room by Michaud, Blake
’s
engineer. Michaud
was consistently an impediment to the
Angel
’s
sailings. He
was a sullen, ill-tempered old
Marseillais
who bragged of
voting the Communist ticket and hated people of wealth,
particularly American millionaires. For all that, he was an
excellent mechanic, and kept the shiny twin diesels running
like clockwork. His contempt for the
Angel
’s
owner showed
itself mainly in a refusal to hurry or be hurried about his
duties in the engine-room. Blake, who was more concerned
with the welfare of the
Angel
’s machinery than with its engi
neer
’s
politics, deferred to Michaud
’s
pride of caste and was
grateful that the cruiser
’s
Hyla
nd installation gave the steers
man direct contr
ol of the motors from the pilot
house without the need of bell communication through the engineer.
M
ichaud compensated for being by
passed by taking an
interminable time before each sailing to report the engine
-
room ready for sea.

This time there was a delay not caused by Michaud,
when Cesar got into an argument with an idler on the jetty over a matter of port protocol. Blake intervened to quiet the
steward, who could not argue without shouting.

Cesar
’s
opponent was a round man with a face like a rabbit
’s
. He wore better clothes than most quayside
loiterers, and he spoke with an air of lofty authority that
stung Cesar like a barb.

‘You will leave the port or you will not leave the port as you see fit,’ the rabbit-faced man announced from the jetty.
‘There is nothing to prevent
your
going. The ship will merely
be fined the next time it returns, for each crew member
who has failed to obtain a proper
permis
before leaving.’

‘Fine your grandmother!’ Cesar roared back from the rail. ‘I am a citizen of the Principality! Don’t tell me what
is necessary to leave my own country!’

The rabbit-faced man shrugged.

‘It is all one with me. As
k Jules there. He lost a job be
cause of the fine, last week.’

Jules was a huge man with the weathered skin and muscular hands of a seafarer. He joined the argument at the rabbit-faced man
’s
invitation, nodding confirmation of the
lost job.

‘These Monegasque
salauds
and their regulations!’ He spoke in a bass voice with a Provencal twang. ‘In France,
we would clip their ears for fouling a man
’s
livelihood.’

Cesar bristled.

‘You may depart for France at any moment, monster. I will personally pay all the fines that you incur for doing so.’

‘Be quiet, Cesar.’ Blake spoke to the big Provencal. ‘What is the
permis
for?’

‘I don’t know, Captain. I have never yet obtained one. It is why I lost my job.’

‘How long has it been necessary?’

Jules did not know that either. Nor did the rabbit-faced man, although he thought that the regulation was a relatively new one. Both men were equally positive that crew
members of vessels of foreign registry leaving the port of
Monaco were requir
ed to clear individually with
Sû
ret
é
Publique
beforehand, under penalty of a fine assessed against the ship operator.

Cesar said obstinately, ‘You may withhold from my wage ten francs for every one you pay on my account, Captain. If
this hulk lost his job, it was a well-deserved loss, rest assured.
Pay no attention to these foreigners.’

Blake hesitated.

He was scrupulous about observing port regulations, more so because Freddy
’s
attitude towards regulations of any kind
was one of casual indifference when he did not flout them
deliberately. Freddy used his wealth like a club, buying the
right to violate conventions that bound other people, and
the
Angel
and the
Angel
’s
flag had a good name in the yacht
harbor
s of the Mediterranean only because of its master
’s
rigid observance of the rules, however troublesome. Blake
chose to keep that reputation. The only question in his mind
was whether to send a man to
Sûreté
Publique
, a ten-minute walk by way of the Quai du Commerce to inquire
further about the nature of the
permis
, or to send the entire
crew at once and make certain of minimum delay if, as Jules
and the rabbit-faced man agreed, individual clearance for
each man was necessary.

Deciding, he called Michaud from the engine-room and sent Cesar to round up the cook and the two deck-hands.
When the steward would have argued further, Blake dismissed him with a firm, ‘Get along!’ Cesar was a good
steward, but argumentative.

It was not until the crew had left the yacht and were beyond shouting distance on the quay that he remembered
the handbag on the chart t
able. He swore at his forgetful
ness, which meant still another delay, and hurried to the
pilot-house to call the men back with a blast on the
airhorn
.
Michaud, as always, had put off starting the compressor
until the last possible moment. The horn was lifeless.

Never put to sea on a Friday, Blake thought wearily.

Michaud
’s
absence at least gave him an opportunity to speed up the preparations for casting off when the crew
returned. He went below to start the compressor and
generator and open the valves of the heat exchanger, operations that would take the old engineer a good quarter of an
hour. In ,his
preoccupation with those matters, the fact that
Jules and the rabbit-faced man had taken up positions
conveniently near the lines that tied the cruiser
’s
stem to
the jetty made no impression on him.

Marian did not note the significance of the departure of the
Angel
’s
crew until the little group of men had passed
below the point where she and Holtz watched from
the
parapet of the
Chemin
des
Pê
cheurs
. Holtz made a sound of
satisfaction as he saw them go by.

‘Did you arrange for that?’ Marian asked.

‘Of course.’ He was tensely impatient of her question.

‘Why?’

‘Because they would not have let me aboard, even in your company, without Blake
’s
permission, and I do not intend
to ask his permission.’

‘Then why did you need my performance last night? If you are going aboard without his permission, and without
the crew
’s
knowledge -’

‘I never
needed
your performance, dear Miss Ellis. I found it a convenience.’ Holtz was watching the
Angel
closely.
Blake had just left the pilot-house to go below. ‘The good
captain is as susceptible as are most mariners to a pretty girl.
I manipulate you in front of his eyes to keep him from
observing certain other actions.’

‘And suppose I were to refuse to let you manipulate me in front of his eyes any further?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. I am paying you well to perform a certain function. You need the money, and in a matter of
minutes you will have earned it. You will not back out now.’

It was a calm statement of fact with which she could not argue. She said, ‘You’re right. I can’t back out. But the
sooner it
’s
over and done with, the sooner I’ll be able to
deprive myself of the pleasure of your company. Can we
go now?’

‘You were not so eager to deprive yourself of the pleasure of my company before you met the handsome captain.’
Holtz threw the taunt over his shoulder as he led the way
down the steps to the jetty. ‘What has happened t
o change
you, dear Miss Ellis? C
an it be that you have a conscience?
Does the deception of a compatriot weigh so heavily on you?
Or has the good captain won your heart?’

‘Please don’t talk to me.’

His barking laugh was another jeer.

She found it difficult to keep up with him on the jetty. Her heels made walking precarious on the irregular cobbles, and
it was no time for a genuinely sprained ankle. Impatient at
her slower progress, he took her arm and tried to hustle her
along. He was tense with nerves, and muttered, ‘Quick!
Quick!’ while he tugged at her arm, unable because of his
small size and weight to make her move faster but keeping
her awkwardly off balance on the cobbles. Her resentment
toward him intensified with her knowledge that they were a
spectacle, and she was briefly grateful that so few people
were there to see it. Only two men loitering on the jetty near
the
Angel
’s
mooring seemed to be paying any attention to
their approach.

No one was in sight aboard the yacht. At its gangplank Holtz pushed her ahead of him and followed at her heels,
crowding her impatiently until they stood together on the
Angel
’s
deck. Only then did he relax his nervous insistence
on hurry, seeming to adopt a confidence of accomplishment
the moment they stepped off the head of the gangplank.

Blake found them there when he came up the engine-room ladder. He was cleaning his hands on a piece of waste, and he indicated the grease still on his fingers as a reason for
not offering his hand when Marian, playing her humiliating
part, said, ‘This is my - friend,
Mr
Holtz. We came for
my bag.’

‘You got here just in time,’ Blake said. ‘I’m casting off as soon as my crew comes aboard. How
’s
the ankle?’

‘Much better, thank you.’ She did not meet his eyes.

‘Where is the bag?’ Holtz asked.

The little man
’s
question was unexpectedly peremptory. Blake said, ‘In the pilot-house. I’ll get it.’

‘We’d like to go with you. Wouldn’t we, my dear?’

Marian
’s
‘Yes’ was wooden, emotionless.

Puzzled, aware of a
n undercurrent he did not under
stand, Blake looked at her for an explanation. She still avoided his eyes. He wondered if she could have brought
Holtz along as a witness to the bag
’s
existence, as an insurance for its recovery. He could not believe that she could be
so distrustful with so little reason, but both Holtz
’s
manner
and her own bore out the conclusion that her companion
was something more than a friend who was there only to
keep her casual company.

Still puzzled, he said, ‘Come along, by all means,’ and led the way. The bag was where he had left it. He stepped aside
on the bridge wing to let Marian enter the pilot-house ahead
of him, and was waiting for Holtz to precede him as well
when the little man took a heavy Walther automatic from
his coat and
leveled
it at Blake
’s
belt buckle.

‘You first, Captain,’ he said tautly.
‘s
tand over by the girl and keep quiet.’

Blake
’s
mind refused, for a moment, to recognize the reality of what was happening. His first thought was that he
was being made the victim of a tasteless practical joke. The
gun was overlarge in Holtz
’s
small hand, like a clumsy toy in
the hand of a child. But Holtz did not hold it clumsily, and
his expression was not childlike. He had about him the air of
a man who was going through a well-planned, well-rehearsed routine, and would make no mistakes.