The Sea Break (16 page)

At the forward end of the deck-house, Widmark signalled the others to stop; he edged up to the corner and looked across the well-deck.

There were a few blank spots: the winch island at the foot of the foremast, between numbers one and two holds, shut out a part of the starboard side, and there were ventilators which did the same thing. He said to the others. “It’s all clear along the port side as far as I can see. When we get to the winch island, Hans and Mike must deal with the starboard side. We’ll move on up the port side. Meet you at the fo’c’sle doors.”

Hans and Mike Kent went over to the winch island, and Widmark and McFadden worked their way forward on the port side. The riveting from the
Clan
McPhilly
shut out any sounds from the Captain’s cabin the lights of which were now visible from the foredeck. But the breeze carried the smell of
food and tobacco smoke and the tangy odour of beer.
Widmark
sniffed it and decided that the party was doing itself proud.

Hans moved silently along the after side of the winch island, with Mike Kent close behind him. At the end of the island he stopped and looked round the corner. Twenty feet from him two men leant over the side, elbows on the bulwark rail. They were talking in low voices, looking out over the river towards the lights of the town. Hans held up a hand.

“There’s a couple of guys there!” he said. “Watch me but don’t come unless I’m in trouble.” With remarkable agility for such a big man, he slipped round the corner of the island, cosh in one hand, automatic in the other. It took him less than five seconds to come up behind the Germans who never knew what hit them.

Hans looked at the bodies sprawled grotesquely at his feet. “Hell! That’s two more,” he mumbled to himself. “It’s becoming a habit.” He felt the men’s hearts. One was all right, but the other’s was beating irregularly and a trickle of blood came from his mouth. Enemy or no enemy, Hans was unhappy about that. He’d seen it before, in rugby when a forward had been kicked on the head. The man had died. Hans was at heart a gentle man and all this ferocity appalled him. He sighed.

A moment later Mike Kent came up and they dragged the bodies behind the winch island. “Out for a long count,” muttered Hans as he and Kent went over to where Widmark and McFadden were waiting. Hans told them what had happened. Widmark said: “Well done!” in a quiet,
quarter-deck
voice and looked at his watch.

It was 2214.

He touched Mike Kent on the shoulder. “Wait outside the port door of the fo’c’sle and bash anyone who uses it. Watch those two at the winch house. They may come round. Put them to sleep again if they do. We’ll go into the fo’c’sle and
see what’s cooking. Can’t be more than two or three of them there.”

Followed by Hans and McFadden, he went into the fo’c’sle, quietly shut the starboard door, locked it and pocketed the key. Systematically they searched the seamen’s and stokers’ messes, the wash places and toilets, but they drew blanks. Then they started on the six cabins. Standing outside the second one, they heard voices. The door was ajar. Widmark kicked it open and there was a big man sitting in a chair, gnarled and sunburnt, with close-cropped hair, he was sweating profusely in a white singlet and khaki slacks. With him was a small man with the face of a ferret. Widmark pointed his automatic at the big German whose mouth opened in
astonishment
. He tried to get up but Hans pushed him down, frisked him and found a sheath-knife on his belt.

“Put your hands up!” Widmark’s hard voice conveyed more meaning to the Germans than the words.

Their hands went up. Johan frisked the small man, but he had no weapons.

The large German began to lower his arms. Hans tapped him with his cosh. “Keep ’em up, chum, if you want to live.”

Widmark kept the automatic on him. “How many crew on board? Quick or I shoot!”

Watching all this from behind, McFadden felt an almost overwhelming compulsion to laugh. There was something incredibly music-hall about it all—the Germans’ huge surprise at the sudden confrontation; the armed men, their blackened faces streaked with rain and sweat, behaving in the best traditions of villainy.

Widmark raised his cosh. “Come on! How many men on board? Make it snappy!”

The German shook his head. “
Ich
spreche
klein
Englisch
.”

McFadden picked up an English magazine from the table next to the bunk.” What’s this doing here, then?”

Solemnly the German protested: “
Ich
spreche
klein
Englisch
.”

Widmark said: “I’m going to shoot this bastard. He’s
wasting our time.” The effect on the German was immediate. Not only did he understand English, but he didn’t like the way Widmark spoke it.

“Okay, Okay,” he muttered. “What you want to know?”

“How many crew on board
now
?” The delay was making Widmark angry.

“Twenty.” The German watched stolidly for the effect of this information.

“Don’t lie to me.” Widmark’s eyes narrowed. “Your total crew’s only that and there are men ashore. Come on. Quick!” He poked the barrel of the automatic into the man’s neck. “Hear that riveting outside? Nobody’ll hear me shoot. Out with it.”

Widmark meant what he said, and his determination was felt by the German with whom fear now got the upper hand. His hands went higher and his voice became hoarser.

“Okay. Okay. I tell truth. Three officers on board. One steward. Two greasers. Two seamen. Carpenter,” he nodded at the small German next to him, “and myself. I am bosun.”

Widmark looked at him with cold, calculating eyes. “If you’ve lied I’ll kill you. A few dead Germans one way or another make no difference to me.” McFadden and Hans wondered if the German knew how accurate that remark was.

The bosun nodded emphatically. “What I say is true.”

“Now,” said Widmark. “Take us to the chain-locker. Both of you. Quick, and no tricks or you’re dead ducks. We’re short of time. Hans, fetch those Jerries you laid out by the winch island and get Mike to help you. Put them in the chain-locker with these customers. I’m not taking any chances.”

Hans doubled off and Widmark and McFadden followed the Germans down a companion ladder to a lower deck, then forward along a narrow alleyway which ended against a steel door. The bosun unbolted it and switched on a light.
Widmark
looked in. It was the chain-locker all right. Full of cable and mud and smelling like a sewer.

“In you go!” He pushed the two Germans through the steel door. “We’ll send you some chums in a moment. There’ll be an armed guard outside.” Tapping his automatic, he pointed at the door.

The bosun’s protest was half fear and half indignation. “This is not a place for men. There is no air.”

Widmark snapped at him. “Too bad. That’s where you’re going, my friend. Plenty of fresh air comes down the
spurling-pipes
.”

There was a noise behind them. It was Hans staggering down the alleyway with a body over his shoulder. “This bastard weighs a ton,” he complained. They helped him lay the man down inside the chain-locker. Hans was soon back with the second unconscious German. They shut the door on the prisoners, bolted it on the outside and made their way back up the ladder. After a quick look through the remaining cabins they returned to the foredeck. Mike Kent was there waiting for them.

“Okay?” he asked anxiously.

“Sure. Everything’s fine.”

“Haven’t seen a thing here, sir. Much quieter in the Captain’s cabin now.”

“Right,” said Widmark. “Leave the bag with the cable gear here. McFadden, take Hans and Mike down the port side into the midship deck-house. You’ll have to go up two decks. You’ll find the foremost alleyway running athwartships. The door to the Captain’s cabin will be for’ard on the starboard side. Remember the plan? Stand by outside the door, or near it if it’s open, and if you see any Jerries fix them. As long as this riveting lasts you can use your automatics, but try and make do with coshes. If you hear trouble in the cabin, go in at once and give a hand. Otherwise don’t start anything until I arrive. Okay? I’m going to do a quick recce.”

Widmark went up two companion ladders to the boat-deck below the bridge and along the port side of the deck-house until
he’d reached its forward end, rounded the corner and crossed slowly to starboard, keeping below the level of the portholes. From them came a voice he recognised—a man’s voice. Taking a deep breath, he moved up until his eyes were level with the rim of the porthole. For a second he looked through the gauze fly-screen into the Captain’s cabin, then ducked again. What he saw had shaken him badly.

The Newt, Johan and Rohrbach were sitting on a settee in an unmistakable attitude of surrender, their hands well above their heads. Opposite them, just inside the door, von
Falkenhausen’s
and Schäffer’s revolvers explained why. In the fraction of time he’d had to take this in, Widmark realised that these must be two of the men the launch had brought off.

But how had they learnt what was on the go?

Where had the plan miscarried?

The answers were beyond him. Then he thought of the Commodore in Cape Town: “
… in war there are too many imponderables‚ Widmark. It’s a blinding certainty that something will go wrong. It always does
.”

Well, it certainly had and with a vengeance. He slithered round to the foreside of the deck-house and gingerly went up for another look. This time he could see Di Brett and Hester Smit, white-faced and huddled on the settee on the starboard side of the cabin. Mariotta was in an arm-chair in the middle of the cabin, and her eyes were closed. Why? Widmark had no idea. Günther Moewe, revolver in hand, stood behind the settee on which the Newt and his friends were sitting. To their right a small middle-aged man with close-cropped hair and
steel-rimmed
glasses sat in an arm-chair, but Widmark couldn’t see his face clearly.

On the far left, a man’s legs jutted forward; he was evidently sitting with his knees crossed. Widmark presumed it was Lindemann. Beyond him the neat shoes and ankles of female feet just showed and Widmark realised with a pleasant shock that they must be Cleo’s. In the excitement of the last
half-hour
he’d forgotten her. Lowering his head after this briefest of
looks, he heard von Falkenhausen say: “You gentlemen are playing a dangerous game. This ship is German territory. There are penalties for spies in wartime and they are not pleasant …”

Widmark thought fast, his mind cool and clear, but his body tense, every sense alert to what was happening. He had to create a diversion. Moving back to the starboard side of the deck-house he lifted himself cautiously for the third time and took a snap view through the porthole. The Newt, Rohrbach and Johan were again opposite him, Moewe behind them, revolver in hand. Lindemann in the corner on his right was now visible and next to him a pale Cleo, head back and eyes half closed, her hands on the arms of the chair. Lindemann was still in the arm-chair but there was a revolver in his right hand, the barrel pointing at the deck. The little man with close-cropped hair appeared to be asleep. Drunk, thought Widmark caustically.

From upwind the high-speed rat-a-tatter-rat-a-tatter of the
Clan
McPhilly
’s riveting filled the night sky with overwhelming noise.

Widmark held his breath.

The screen door slammed behind von Falkenhausen and Heinrich Schäffer. “Ah!” said the Freiherr. “A party. Charming. May we join you?”

Lindemann went across to meet them. He clicked his heels and bowed. “An unexpected pleasure, Herr Baron?” There was a note of interrogation.

The Freiherr bowed. “I am sorry to disturb you, Kapitän, but Schäffer and I have been discussing the repair problem with the engineering people ashore. The position is highly unsatisfactory. I thought I should come at once and discuss it with you. I had no idea you were entertaining.” He looked round the room. “We also brought off Francke, your chief mechanician. He was at the discussions with us.”

“We can discuss the matter in a moment, Freiherr,” said Lindemann. “In the meantime let me introduce you.”

The Captain performed the introductions and the Freiherr bowed and smiled, his charm communicating itself to them all. When Lindemann introduced him to Di Brett and the Newt, the Freiherr nodded. “I have already met Mrs. Brett
and
Mr. Newton. At the Polana the other evening.”

“The others,” Lindemann looked round the cabin, “you already know. My officers: Herr Kuhn and Herr Moewe.” The Germans bowed stiffly, clicking their heels.

“Now,” said the Captain, “Please sit down. Schäffer will get you a drink.”

Schäffer poured the drinks for the Freiherr and himself,
prosits
were exchanged and the new arrivals sat down.

An awkward silence was broken by the Freiherr, whose smile embraced all in the room. “Forgive me, ladies and gentlemen, but I must talk shop for a moment.”
Turning to Lindemann, he lowered his voice as they
discussed
the defective crankshaft and the problem of its repair locally. Rohrbach listened to the conversation with amused cynicism; these two were undoubtedly working hard at their act. The Germans’ conversation came to an end and another silence ensued.

“Lovely weather we’re having.” The Newt beamed
good-naturedly
at the Freiherr.

“You like the rain, Herr Newton?”

“Cools things down rather, don’t you think?”

In between wondering how the new arrivals were going to complicate what was about to happen, the Newt speculated on the precise geometry of the Freiherr’s scars.

“Where do you normally live, Herr Newton?”

The Newt lit a cigarette and put the spent match in the
ash-tray
with exaggerated care. Blowing a cloud of smoke at the deckhead, he looked at the Freiherr. “Oporto, actually.”

“Unusual,” said the Freiherr, frowning. “An Englishman from Oporto? In Lourenço Marques? While his country is at war?”

The expression in the brown eyes didn’t match the
half-apologetic
smile which accompanied the next statement. “What brings you here at
this
time, Herr Newton?”

The atmosphere in the cabin was electric and the women began to feel the tension between the Germans and their guests.

The Newt’s grey eyes stared unconcernedly at the Freiherr, while he strained for a sound from outside—for the sound of riveting. Johan and David Rohrbach were taut, wary of the conversation, Johan knowing that this was “Swiss Fritz” of the Montelémar, trying to reconcile the face he now saw with the one he had known then; wondering exactly what the significance of this unexpected arrival was; sizing up Heinrich Schäffer at close range and deciding that he and the German were about the same height and weight but noting with an athlete’s eye that the German wets not fit, that he carried too
much weight, that his neck and face muscles were flabby, his stomach too prominent.

Rohrbach, wondering much the same things, was tenser and more highly strung than Johan, but his keen brain was evaluating the new situation, recording the relative positions of those in the cabin, trying to anticipate their reactions when events outside aroused their suspicions.

The Newt’s calm voice interrupted his thoughts: “I’m here on business, actually.”

“What sort of business, Herr Newton? “The brown eyes, unblinking, had a curious intentness.

“My family has a wine export business in Oporto. We trade with Mozambique.”

The Freiherr stroked his chin, nodding as he weighed this information. “I see. And you, Herr le Roux?” He switched suddenly to Johan. “What brings you here?”

“Holidaying. I like the place. The change from the Union.”

“Ah! You like the place.” He nodded again, slowly, then his eyes shifted to David Rohrbach. “And you, Herr
Rohrbach
—what is it that brings you here?”

An element of theatre had entered into the proceedings: the Freiherr’s slow, deliberate questioning which had silenced all other conversation in the cabin; the puzzled faces of the women who sensed that something was wrong; the quietness of the other Germans, each observing their male guests covertly—each of them, that is to say, except Kuhn, who appeared to be as drowsy as Mariotta whose eyelids kept drooping, only to be lifted with an embarrassed start each time she found herself dropping off to sleep.

Rohrbach said: “I came down with le Roux—on holiday,” but his heart thumped so hard he wondered if it could be heard. “I’ve always liked the place.”

“Yes. Delightful, isn’t it?” Von Falkenhausen turned away from the men and spoke to Di Brett. “Do you know Lourenço Marques well, Mrs. Brett?”
The cornflower blue eyes dropped and she smiled nervously. “Pretty well. I’ve been staying at the Polana for some months. There’s something awfully attractive about L.M., don’t you think?”

“Indeed, Mrs. Brett, I do.” He looked at the Captain. “Forgive me, Kapitän. I seem to monopolise the conversation but—meeting so many charming strangers at once—one is naturally curious.” Turning to them again, he laughed. “I can never go into a room and see strangers without wondering who they are and what they do. Appearances are so often deceptive.”

“Aren’t they?” Johan grinned amiably. “Now suppose you tell us what you do. And how you got those scars. Must be a good story, that.” This produced a ripple of laughter in which the Germans didn’t join.

The Freiherr shook his head. “The truth is very dull. I’m a shipping man. And the scars—well—I’m a German. We

have duelling—the British have foxhunting—the French——”

he shrugged his shoulders. “I suppose they have something——”

Günther Moewe sniggered.

“The
Tour
de
France
, if you’re thinking of sport,” said Rohrbach quietly. “Apart from that a great deal of culture—a quality in short supply in Europe these days, wouldn’t you say?”

Hester Smit made a moue. “What about talking to us for a change? This party’s getting very dull.”

“Hear! Hear!” Cleo smiled sadly. “You’d think we weren’t here.”

“I quite agree.” Di Brett, who was doing her lips, a small mirror in her hands, nodded briskly. “Talk to
us
. You’ll find us quite intelligent.”

The Freiherr’s slow smile of embarrassment was irresistible. “A thousand apologies, ladies. You are quite right.”

Lindemann got up. “Who’s ready for a drink?”

At that moment a high-pitched lacerating sound, a satanic
forge worked by frenzied hammerers, shattered the silence outside. Rohrbach’s heart jumped. The riveting! It was 2211—at long last. He thought a prayer of gratitude.

The conversation started again, but Herr Kuhn and Mariotta Pereira were not much interested. “They’re tight,” giggled Hester. Mariotta heard her, yawned, and smiled weakly. “I’m so
tired
.”

With an effort Kuhn pulled himself upright in his chair and passed his hand across his eyes. Then, smiling apologetically at his Captain, he picked up the stein, drained it compulsively and looked round the room with sleepy eyes. The tension in the cabin dissipated slowly and the party got into some sort of stride again until, perhaps ten minutes later, von Falkenhausen looked at his watch and spoke to Lindemann. “Kapitän, please excuse me, I must be going. I came only to bring you the news of the repairs. There is much to do to-morrow. An early start is essential.”

Lindemann stood up. “I am sorry you cannot stay, Herr Baron. The night is still young. But I understand, of course. Let me see you to the launch.”

The Freiherr shook his head. “No.
Please
!
Herr Schäffer will see me off. I insist that you remain with your guests.”

Heinrich Schäffer got up and joined von Falkenhausen. They stood together, clicking their heels and bowing this way and that.

“
Auf
wiedersehen
, ladies and gentlemen!” said the Freiherr gallantly.

The men stood up, the women remained seated. Von
Falkenhausen
and Schäffer moved to the door—as they reached it they spun round, in their hands Luger pistols pointing directly at Rohrbach, the Newt and Johan. Schäffer was scowling, but the Freiherr’s smile was as elegant as ever.

“Hands up, gentlemen!” The voice was hard, implacable, in spite of the smile. “Quickly, please! No nonsense.”

Rohrbach remembered thinking: “For Christ’s sake, what’s gone wrong?”
The Newt said: “
Quel
drame
!
” But their hands went up all the same.

Other than for Cleo and Di Brett’s little shrieks of surprise, there was not a sound in the cabin. Moewe had picked up a revolver from somewhere while the Freiherr was talking, and now he moved over behind Rohrbach, Johan and the Newt, who were acutely aware of his presence. Lindemann, too, had produced a gun—he sat upright in the arm-chair in the corner, his weather-beaten face unusually drawn. He disliked violence and though he knew the Freiherr was bluffing, trying to frighten these Britishers into talking, he feared the situation might get out of control.

With his free hand the Freiherr pointed to the settee behind them. “Keep your hands above your heads and sit down, please. I have something to say to you.”

They sat down and von Falkenhausen spoke again—the smile had gone now and there was an edge to his voice. “You gentlemen are playing a dangerous game. This ship is German territory. There are penalties for spies in wartime and they are not pleasant——” While he allowed the
significance
of what he’d said to sink in, the brown eyes took on a new hardness and the strong mouth set implacably.

There was a long, frightening pause—no one moved, and but for the continuous metallic rattle of riveting which came from outside the only sound in the cabin was the subdued whirr of the electric fan.

But suddenly, dramatically, this tableau changed to violent movement with the explosive crackle of five shots fired in quick succession through a porthole on the starboard side.

The women screamed as the bullets ripped into the bulkhead behind Günther Moewe’s head.