High Water (1959) (2 page)

He glanced down at Coley, now slumbering heavily, and smiled, in spite of himself. A luxury yacht, an overfed cat, and himself. At least his problems were a little different from those of the noisy people outside.

Like Arthur, he felt almost relieved that he had decided on some form of action, no matter how futile it might be, and as the old man chattered and made endless cups of tea, he started to pack a small bag in readiness for an early start, first thing in the morning.

The R.N.V.R. Club, at the back of Piccadilly, was practically deserted as Vivian came down from his room. The afternoon sunlight pierced the lounge and the bar in great spears of harsh light, and he wrinkled his nose at the unfamiliar smell of exhaust gases which drifted in through the pillared entrance, and listened to the distant roar of London’s busy streets. He consulted his watch, wondering what to do to fill in the time. He had telephoned the broker’s office, and had been informed, rather icily, that he could not see the general manager until the following morning. The secretary had been very short with him, and gave no doubt as to what the verdict would be.

One of the club stewards, who was polishing some brasswork by the wide, curving staircase, looked up, surprise written on his face.

‘Good heavens, Lieutenant Vivian, isn’t it, sir? We’ve not seen you for a very long time. I do hope you’re keeping well?’

Vivian murmured his thanks, and wandered into the lounge to read the magazines. The hall porter peered after him.

‘’Oo’s that then, Bert?’ he queried.

The steward picked up his polish once more.

‘You’ve just had the good fortune to look at one of the best motor gunboat skippers we had in the last do, chum,’ he said slowly. ‘Two D.S.C.s, wounded, you know, the lot. An’ look at him now. Not two pence to rub together, I shouldn’t think.’

‘You an’ your bleedin’ officers!’ grumbled the porter darkly, and resumed his study of the cricket scores.

Vivian, unaware that he had caused any interest, sat lazily in a large armchair, idly scanning the bright periodicals. He felt at ease in the club, and secretly enjoyed its quiet atmosphere of memories which were very precious to him. Even the pictures around him brought back the pang of wild excitement which he had once felt when his small gunboat had hurtled across the Channel, night after night, to do battle in a holocaust of noise and fire. Even then, he had dreamed of having a boat of his own, and, even then, he had sworn that he would never be tied to some wretched, soul-destroying office. But he had made that dream a hard reality, although now it looked like turning into a nightmare.

The long train journey from Devon, the warm afternoon, and the comfortable chair, began to have their effect, and he dozed quietly, the magazine falling to the floor.

He awoke with a jerk, to find that the club’s evening life had begun, and although the sunlight was still bright, a rising murmur of masculine voices filtered from the bar. He sauntered into its friendly atmosphere, and, having ascertained that he knew none of its occupants, he asked for a beer, and then, leaning on the well-worn counter, he stared thoughtfully at the gleaming bottles, which seemed to mock him.

How long he stayed like that, he didn’t remember, but suddenly he received a violent thump between the shoulder-blades with a hard fist, which made him reel awkwardly to one side, his glass rolling over in a pool of beer. He spun round to face the other man, his nerves on edge.

‘What the bloody hell d’you think you’re doing!’

He stopped dead, staring at the other’s beaming, red face.

‘God in heaven!’ he gasped. ‘Felix! Felix Lang! Why, you old devil! It really is good to see you!’

They pumped each other’s hands, ignoring the amused stares of the others in the bar, and studied one another with apparent delight.

Felix Lang was a round-faced, heavily built man, who was inclined to run to fat. His pink, confident face, with the rather full, sensuous mouth, had the appearance of the prosperous and good-living business man, and although only four years older than Vivian, he certainly looked as if he enjoyed the more comfortable attractions of life. Of the once-feared officer who had originally commanded Vivian’s flotilla of gunboats, there was little evidence but, perhaps, for a certain hardness of his dark brown eyes.

Lang waved a pudgy finger in the direction of the barman. ‘Two large Pink Plymouths!’ he barked, and then he turned to beam once more at Vivian.

‘What a bit of luck, old boy,’ he chuckled, his eyes taking in the old reefer jacket, and the neat but well-worn
flannels.
‘This has made up for a thoroughly dreary day. I was only wondering about you this morning. Felix, I said, whatever became of that other handsome chap?’ He chuckled again. ‘And here you are.’

He knocked back the gin as if it had been water.

‘Now, tell me what you’ve been up to, old boy.’

Vivian signalled the barman, painfully aware of the two solitary pound notes in his wallet, which, with his return ticket, were about his only available assets.

Fatter, perhaps, he thought, but still the same Lang. Still laughs at his own jokes, and still one of the bravest men he had ever met. In a lightweight, grey suit, which was obviously born in Savile Row, and hand-made shoes, he looked the picture of prosperity.

As he opened his battered wallet, he felt Lang’s glance over his arm, and he flushed.

‘Hallo then, boy, what’s that photograph you’ve got in there, a girl or something?’

‘No, it’s my boat, as a matter of fact,’ he said, and handed it to Lang defiantly.

Blast him, he thought affectionately, he’s landed on his feet all right, but I bet he hasn’t got a boat like her. He grinned awkwardly at his own childishness, and was pleasantly surprised at Lang’s sudden, obvious interest. For a moment, the casual, bantering air had fallen like a much-used mask, and in that brief instant, he saw him as a man of other, unknown talents, hitherto unsuspected.

Lang took him by the arm. ‘Look here, old boy, let’s go somewhere quiet, and have a good yarn. We’ll have a bite to eat round at a little place I know, if that’s okay by you?’

Lang piloted him out into the cool evening air, to a long, low, silver-grey Bentley saloon.

Vivian whistled softly.

‘My, Felix, you are in the chips!’

Lang waved his arm embracingly. ‘Well, let’s face it, boy, if you don’t look after yourself, nobody else will!’

As he drove skilfully through the traffic of Piccadilly, he casually questioned his passenger about the boat, the business difficulties, and even though Vivian knew he was being thoroughly interrogated, he answered readily, only too glad to be able to talk to someone about his fears.

‘Hm, you have got yourself into a mess, haven’t you?’ murmured Lang thoughtfully at the end. ‘You say you haven’t actually seen the broker chappie yet?’

Vivian nodded.

‘Well, that’s that, then.’

Vivian turned, suddenly wild. ‘What d’you mean, “that’s that then”? You mean you couldn’t care less, is that it?’, he exploded.

He was suddenly aware that Lang was shaking, vibrating would be a truer word. His cheeks puffed out, his eyes crinkled and watered, until he suddenly burst out laughing, in his familiar braying guffaws, so that he had to swerve violently to avoid a taxi.

Vivian sat watching dumbly, wishing that the car would stop, so that he could jump out, or drive his fist into Lang’s gleaming teeth.

With a great effort, Lang stopped his laughter, and pulled in to the kerb by a small French restaurant. He turned in his seat, and looked Vivian squarely in the eyes.

‘I really am sincerely sorry to have behaved like that, old boy, really sorry. But you see,’ and here he began to chuckle again, ‘can help you!’

As Vivian still didn’t speak, he repeated, ‘I can help you to get that money, and you can help me too at the same time.’

He saw the incredulous look stealing across Vivian’s face.

‘It’s all on the level. This really is our lucky day. Still, come into the joint here, and I’ll tell you about it over our grub.’

They left the car and entered the small, dimly lit restaurant, where a languid young man sat softly playing a piano, and two couples slowly circled the tiny dance floor.

As they settled themselves in one of the curtained alcoves, Lang began to talk.

‘It’s like this, old friend,’ he began. ‘After the war, with a little bit of influence, and a little bit of you-know-what, I took over the managership of the London branch of the Europa Travel Agency. I expect you’ve heard of it, even down in Torquay?’

Vivian nodded. It was difficult not to have heard of the most go-ahead agency in the business.

‘Yes, I see your posters everywhere. They really are something out of the ordinary. They seem to leap out at you, if you know what I mean.’

‘Ah, there you have it, old boy. The head of the company is an old Danish chap, bit of an invalid, you know, but a brilliant artist. I brought him out of Denmark with a mob of refugees during the war, his niece too, as a matter of fact. You remember, when the Jerries were killing a lot of them off. Anyway, to continue. I ran into him here after the war, and that was that. He started the company with his money, and, believe me, he’s got plenty of that, and I manage the actual travel side of the business. We started with the London office, now, as you know, we’ve got agents on the continent, every blessed where, in fact. The funny thing is, that the Guv’nor still likes to design the posters. It’s about his only pleasure. That, and his niece, and she’s really something. Wow! You wait till you see her. I could do a tumble for her in a big way, I don’t mind telling you, if I wasn’t already fixed up.’

‘Married?’ queried Vivian dazedly.

‘Married? Me? Do us a favour, old boy! Marriage is all right for some, but let’s face it, matrimony and I are like whisky and vinegar, we don’t mix!’

‘Well, I must say you seem to have done a damn sight better than I have, Felix, but I still don’t see where I come in.’

Lang leaned seriously over the table, his eyes searching. ‘Among other things, we arrange a lot of cruises on hired yachts, and I could keep you busy all next season, if you’re interested. Wait!’ He waved an admonitory finger as Vivian opened his mouth to speak. ‘Right now I need you for a special trip for one customer only, over to the other side. The chap who was going to do it is no longer available.’ He paused. ‘And I must have a chap I can rely on absolutely. In other words, old boy, you.’

‘Are you trying to make me believe that for doing that trip, and heaven knows there must be dozens of owner-skippers who’d do it for you, you’ll pay me the seven hundred pounds I need for my boat?’ He looked the other man hard in the eyes. ‘It’s crooked, isn’t it?’ he said quietly.

Lang sighed heavily. ‘Come, come, now, don’t ask me a question like that. Let us say it’s a matter of essential business. Essential to me. And, of course, essential to your boat.’

He watched Vivian struggling with his emotions, and went into the attack.

‘Look, Philip, I wouldn’t give you a line, I know you too well of old, but believe me, you’d have nothing to worry about, you’d be an employee of the agency while you’re on the job, quite legitimate in fact. There is absolutely no need for you to know anything about anybody. Just take my chap over to France, quietly, and without anyone knowing when
or
where. The chappie in question, Cooper, is a sort of undercover agent, who keeps an eye on all our agencies, and keeps them supplied with a little extra cash to by-pass the bloody currency restrictions. It’s the only way to survive, you know. On paper it’s illegal, I know, but the people who made those laws are the very people you and I fought like hell to protect. While we sweated blood, they made a tidy pile, but I don’t have to tell you that, do I?’ He smiled confidently. ‘What have you done with your medals, eh? I don’t suppose your friend the broker would accept those for credit!’

‘But, seven hundred quid, I——’

‘Well, it’s worth it to us, you can say it’s six months’ pay in advance, if you like, anything, but will you do it? Because, if you don’t, I’ll have to get someone else. Probably someone I don’t like, and don’t want to help.

‘You’ve nothing to lose, and everything to gain. No one will give you a second glance, they’re used to your boat popping in and out everywhere, obviously, and on this occasion, when you come back, it’ll be in your own boat! Not one that’ll belong to some bloody little money-grabber!’

He drew a slim, gold case from his suit, and lit a cigarette; as he exhaled slowly, he said softly, ‘Well, old boy, are you on?’

Vivian trembled violently, and forced a smile. ‘I’m on. Just this once.’

Lang breathed deeply, and held out his hand.

‘Shake, blast you! Now, let’s have dinner.’

As he made a sign to the waiter who was hovering nearby, he grinned boyishly. ‘Come round to the office tomorrow on your way to the blood-suckers, and we’ll give you the wherewithal.’

He winked heavily. ‘As I’ve always said, if you’re in a
racket,
and can do not a damn thing about it, then you must make the most of it!’