Unnatural Habits: A Phryne Fisher Mystery (Phryne Fisher Mysteries) (43 page)

Jane leaned into the darkness, feeling her short hair ruffle in the wind of their speed. They were moving very fast. Bert yelled at them to hang on to the rail, because he was about to put on pace.

Then they moved faster. It was wonderful. Tinker had never been on a new yacht. He was delighted by its cleanliness and shiny paint, and by the revving of the heavy engine. He had not realised until that moment that he had missed the sea more than he missed his mother.

Ruth felt sick. She found a place downstairs where she wouldn’t be in the way and regretted her very good dinner.

***

‘You haven’t introduced yourself,’ Phryne reminded the mastermind.

‘Oh, I do beg your pardon,’ he said automatically, then bit his lip. He hadn’t had a polite conversation since—he couldn’t remember when. ‘O’Rourke. Declan O’Rourke. And you are?’

‘Fisher,’ said Phryne. ‘Phryne Fisher.’

‘English?’ he asked.

‘As much as you are Irish,’ she replied. ‘I was born in Australia. I thought I detected a trace of the brogue in your voice. Dublin?’

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘And your mother must have been so proud when you were admitted to the priesthood,’ she said. ‘Father Declan!’

‘Don’t you speak about my mother!’

‘You keep her picture on the wall,’ observed Phryne. ‘You must still have feelings for her. How did she feel when you were thrown out? Or were you actually caught
in flagrante
with one of those little golden-haired tots?’

‘Shut up!’ he yelled.

‘She must have almost died of shame. Her sweet clever boy, educated and intelligent, had a fatal flaw. Lust, sinful lust.’ Phryne was watching him like a hawk. ‘Or did she actually die?’

‘Be quiet!’ he screamed.

He fell onto her, grabbing her breasts bruisingly tight, and forced his mouth down onto hers. What he wanted was the flinch, the fastidious wincing, Phryne knew. So she leaned forward as her cut ropes fell away and kissed him as passionately as she could, forcing her body into his embrace and her tongue into his mouth. He tried to get away from her but she clung and kissed, then her hands dropped and she found the right place, grabbed and wrung, and he collapsed to the floor, crying and clutching his crotch.

It was not then difficult to use the ropes he had thoughtfully provided to truss him as tightly as a parcel.

‘Beware the kiss of the vampire woman,’ she breathed into his ear, a line she had always wanted to say.

She stood up and staggered. The boat was moving faster. She surveyed herself in the full-length mirror. Shocking. Her dress was in rags, her stockings ditto. Her golden wig, however, was still immoveable.

She was thirsty and shaking. But she had conquered the mastermind. Now it remained to hold up the ship.

First, though, a drink of something to take the taste of sadist out of her mouth. She rummaged. She found a perfectly acceptable Irish whiskey. Not as good as Glen Sporran, but Phryne was not of a mind to be picky. She gulped. The spirit burned all taste of maniac out of her mouth. She would now be able to kiss other people, which was good. Her Beretta was on the desk. She reclaimed it.

It was no use attempting to wash her face. Her greasepaint was a strange, lopsided mask. She smeared as much as she could onto a linen washcloth. Mr. O’Rourke had dainty tastes. She dragged him into a sitting position, but he wept so much that she let him lie on his side again.

‘How many men on this ship?’ she demanded.

‘Oh, you’ve killed me,’ he whimpered.

‘No, if I’d wanted to kill you, you’d be dead. Don’t think I didn’t want to kill you, you child-raping monster. But I want you alive to stand trial. They’ll hang you. I shall watch.’

He snivelled. Phryne was disgusted. ‘Here, drink this,’ she said, hauling up his head and pouring whiskey down his throat. ‘Now, talk. How many crew?’

‘Ten,’ he said.

‘You’re lying,’ she said dispassionately. ‘You’re not very good at it.’

‘Thirty,’ he said. ‘Don’t hurt me again!’

‘And where will they all be at this time?’ she asked.

‘Twenty below, ten to man the ship,’ he replied, all resistance broken.

‘And the cargo?’

‘Next cabin,’ he whispered. ‘I like to look at them every day.’

‘Thank you,’ said Phryne. ‘Who looks after them?’

‘Mrs. Donnelly.’

‘And she knows their destination?’ asked Phryne, deeply disgusted.

‘Of course.’

Clearly, Mrs. Donnelly had to be added to the bag. And what seemed to be an increasing crowd on the gallows. It was going to be like Tyburn Fair Day. Phryne would have to buy a new hat.

‘You don’t use a pilot?’

‘No, my man Phil knows these waters like the back of his own hand. We didn’t want to attract attention with so much trouble on the waterfront.’

‘Of course.’

Phryne sat down to think. She could hold up Mrs. Donnelly, collect the little girls and bring them into this cabin, then barricade the door and wait for rescue. Sticking up a whole ship might prove beyond even her powers. But didn’t she remember something from her rescue of Lin Chung? Bert said that those lid things could be closed and barred, locking the crew in. That might prove possible. If she could reduce the odds, she might be able to stop this boat, at any rate.

She stowed Father Declan under his own bed, gagging him with a gay Tunisian scarf. Then she took the gun and crept out of the cabin. The crew would be under orders not to interrupt the ex-priest at his little pastimes. She should be able to find at least some of the hatches and batten them down. Ah, yes, that was the word.

She found the first and examined it. She didn’t want to make a noise and bring trouble boiling up out of the depths. The hatch lowered on a hinge. She pulled and pushed until she found the catch, released it, and lowered it gently into place. One. How many were there?

As many as there were companionways, she thought, creeping onwards. She had secured two of the possible four before she encountered anyone at all. But they had a rifle.

***

Bert yelled at Cec ‘You’re flogging that engine, mate!’’

Cec grinned. ‘She’s a beaut!’ he yelled back. ‘Can you see Thisbe?’

‘Yair, mate, comin’ up on the starboard bow. You’re right about this toothpick of a boat. It’s real fast. Mind you, that tub is mostly held together with baling twine and spit.’

‘Tink on deck?’ asked Cec.

‘With the watchkeeper. They look good.’

‘Too right,’ said Cec. ‘You want ’em to speak to Thisbe?’

‘Yair,’ said Bert. ‘Is Janey up there too?’

‘Yair,’ said Cec. ‘She’s a natural sailor, our Janey.’

‘I gotta plan,’ grinned Bert, and hurtled up onto the pilot deck.

‘Aub, you sing out to ’em that they left one of their cargo behind,’ he ordered the watchkeeper. ‘Janey, you look scared.’

‘Like I’m about to be sold to a brothel?’ she asked calmly.

‘Yair, like that,’ said Bert, disconcerted. Jane put her hands over her face and began to sob. She was quite convincing, in the dark on a fast-moving ship.

‘Thisbe, ahoy!’ yelled Aub. ‘You left one of your girls behind!’

Thisbe slowed. Orders were yelled. Bells rang. Slowly, the Thisbe came about.

Tinker threw a line and it was secured. A boarding ladder was shipped.

‘Send ’er over,’ yelled a sailor. ‘Another hundred quid in the bank!’

‘I’ll have to carry ’er,’ said Bert. ‘Stand aside.’

He grabbed Jane and slung her over his shoulder. ‘When we hit the deck,’ he whispered, ‘run. They’ll chase yer. You scared?’

‘No,’ said Jane, after thinking about it.

‘Over the top, then,’ said Bert. The last time he had said that, he had run into a Turkish machine-gun. He hoped this time might be slightly less bloody.

He gained the deck of the Thisbe and stumbled slightly, letting Jane go. At once she was off like a rabbit. Three men chased after her. Bert hit the remaining one very hard with what was admitted to be his best punch, a right hook to the jaw. The man fell to earth he knew not where.

The yacht lay wallowing beside the Thisbe. Cec climbed over the boarding ladder.

‘Two of us now,’ said Bert. ‘Who’s got the helm?’

‘Tink and Aub,’ replied Cec. ‘They’ll be apples. Clear the decks first?’

‘Might as well,’ said Bert.

Methodically, trained in many a mud hole and pitiless cliff, the two wharfies hunted down and negated the three crewmen on deck. They hadn’t even managed to catch Jane, who was perched on a lifeboat just out of reach.

‘Good girl,’ said Bert. ‘Down you come, Janey.’ She leapt into his arms. ‘Now, what about the rest of this old scow?’

At that point, they heard a shot from below.

***

The man with the rifle, who was supposed to be on shark watch in case any of the cargo threw itself overboard, missed. The shot pinged off a metal wall and ricocheted before it fell. Phryne drew herself back behind a wall. Damn, she thought. Now Mrs. Donnelly will issue forth demanding to know why someone is shooting, and the rest of the crew will rush up from below, and I’ve only managed to lock two of the hatches. What to do?

She jumped out from behind her wall and tried a shot. It hit something. She heard a yelp. The door behind her opened and a woman stuck her face around it.

‘What’s all this noise? You’ll wake the devil!’

‘Oh no,’ said Phryne, presenting her little gun. ‘The devil was already here. Look on me as an angel.’ She pushed Mrs. Donnelly back into the room. ‘Though I admit that is difficult in my present guise. So this is your cargo?’ she asked, as four little girls sat up in bed, round-eyed, horrified.

‘Sit in that chair,’ she ordered.

‘I will not,’ said Mrs. Donnelly.

‘You will,’ Phryne assured her. ‘Or I will shoot you.’