Angel's Ransom (24 page)

The sailor did not wear heavy-weather clothing, but had put on a jersey belonging to one of the crew, with
ANGEL
in
white lettering across the front. Although the sweater was
too tight over his wide chest and heavy shoulders, it came
down far enough to cover the pistol that bulged his belt.

With the moment for action at hand, Blake found himself calmly assessing the value of that small handicap to the
sailor
’s
freedom of movement. It would take him a split
second longer to bring the pistol into play, and split seconds
were what counted. Freddy was already gesticulating at
Valentina, pantomiming anger.

Jules said, ‘We’re changing course. Steer five degrees.’

He went to the chart table to pick up the instruments lying there.

Blake thought, still calmly, That
’s
the oversight. It
’s
too soon for a relief. He
’s
not going to take the wheel.

Otherwise his timing had been perfect. Freddy was working himself up to strike at Valentina
’s
face. The imminence of the blow was implicit in the way he stood, the threat of
his gestures. When the blow fell, Blake had planned that
Jules, at the wheel, would be distracted by it long enough
for him to strike his own blow. Everything about the attempt
was a success except that when the slap did come,
ineffectually
delivered, Blake alone was there to see it. Jules still
bent over the chart table, vulnerable, but at Blake
’s
back
instead of in front of him.

Blake swore. It was involuntary, a curse at failure. He did not know that the sharp oath and his concentrated
attention on what was happening below would bring Jules
away from the chart in time to see Freddy
’s
second, more
forceful, slap. This time it sent Valentina reeling away down
the slanted deck, to catch her heel and crumple
convincingly
, helplessly, in the bow. Freddy was still gesticulating
angrily at her.

Jules gave an unintelligible growl. His initial charge took him out of the pilot-house to the bridge wing. From the
wing rail he shook his fist at Freddy, roaring, ‘
Bougre
de
salaud
, stay there only a minute and I’ll break your other
hand off at the wrist! Dirty little
–
’

The performance stopped too abruptly. There was a warning in the way the actors turned immediate attention
from each other to him, and his interruption of his own
shout let him hear the slip of Blake
’s
rubber soles on the
storm-sill of the doorway at his back. He turned while Blake
was still coming on.

Even then the end might have been won with sufficient savagery of attack. But the act of striking without mercy, of
bringing a heavy weapon ruthlessly down on another man
’s
head without care for what it might do to skull and brain
and life, was beyond Blake
’s
capacity. He could not strike to
kill, only to stun. Even when Jules had taken the first blow
on an uplifted forearm and was pawing the pistol out of his
belt, he could not bring himself to smash the wrench into the
sailor
’s
unprotected face. He struck, instead, at the pistol as it came out from under the jersey, felt the jar of metallic contact, saw the gun soar through the air, drop, hit the rail of
the lower deck and fall into the sea, then found himself at
close grips with the stronger, heavier man.

They were fairly well-matched for a moment. The first blow had numbed Jules
’s
forearm and hand. Until feeling
came back, he fought to smother Blake with superior weight,
dragging at his arms, clutching, pressing in close, locking his
chin against Blake
’s
shoulder to protect his head from a
clear swing of the wrench. The silent, grunting struggle
without outcome seemed to
go on for a long time, a night
mare of straining inaction during which Blake caught brief,
photographic glimpses of the three upturned faces watching
the fight from the deck below. He thought he saw horror in
Marian
’s
face, but the glimpse was a brief one. Burdened by
the wrench that was only a handicap until he broke free, he
made the mistake of opposing Jules
’s
one good arm with his
own single effective arm until the chance of pulling free was
gone, and Jules had wrestled him into a reversal of their
positions. He fought then with his back to the watchers,
while the sailor pounded punches into his body with returning strength.

Without room to use the weapon, Blake dropped it and hammered with both fists to break out of the trap into which
he had been forced. He was backed into the small bay
formed by the circling rail of the bridge wing, where he
could neither retreat nor sidestep. In such a position, agility
and speed were of no value. Jules was an alley fighter, a man
who had learned rough-and-tumble in waterfront brawls,
and he took every advantage of the fact that his thumping blows to the body were made doubly effective by the
unyielding railing at his opponent
’s
back. He wasted only a
few punches on Blake
’s
face, smashing relentlessly instead at
ribs and chest and stomach. Blake felt his own blows losing
their strength as Jules grew stronger. In a last desperate
effort to win freedom of movement before he was finished,
he put his heel against a stanchion and thrust himself forcefully away from the encumbering rail at the same moment
that Jules landed a hard punch below his breastbone. The
doubly augmented blow
paralyzed
his diaphragm and
drained the strength from his muscles. He slid helplessly to
the deck, straining to pull air into his lungs, the bitter taste
of blood and defeat in his mouth.

Jules stood over him, panting, his big fists still clenched. He glanced only briefly at the three people on the lower
deck. If they had not already betrayed their parts in the
plot, the way they had grouped protectively together was revealing. Freddy had taken a step to the fore, standing like a
slightly ridiculous champion in front of the two women.

‘I’ll take care of you in a minute,’ Jules snarled at him. ‘Don’t run away!’

He brushed his mouth with the back of his hand, then stooped to pick up the fallen wrench and hook his fingers inside
the collar of Blake
’s
jacket. By that grip he dragged him, still
helpless, bumping over the storm-sill into the pilot-house to
dump him on the deck in front of the slackly swinging wheel.

‘S
teer five degrees,’ he grated. ‘I’ll kick your liver loose if you’re not on it when I finish taking care of your playmates.’
Blake
’s
diaphragm had begun to function. He said weakly,
‘It was my idea. Don’t take it out on them.’

‘You were all in on it.’ Jules made an angry, despairing gesture with the wrench. ‘Name of God, what is the matter
with you? A single night to go before you’re all turned loose,
and you try to knock the pins out from under everything.
Is the fat boy
’s
pocket-money more important than your
lives? Do you want to die the way the macaroni died?
Holtz will shoot you all in a minute if he finds out about
this!’

‘He needn’t know.’ Blake felt an unexpected hopefulness at the sailor
’s
choice of words. ‘If you don’t tell him, there
’s
no reason for him to find out.’

‘How can I keep it quiet? I lost my gun! What do I do to explain that, eh?’ Jules thrust the wrench savagely into his
belt and pulled the jersey down to cover its bulge. ‘He’ll
shoot me first if I cross him, the rest of you afterwards.
Damn you for a blundering boob, you deserve whatever you
get! You all deserve what you get!’

He yanked Blake to his feet to slam him against the wheel, hard.
‘
S
teer five degrees - while you can!’

Blake said urgently, ‘Wait! That offer still stands. Come in with us now, and I’ll give you my own word that Freddy
will pay off once we’re free.’

Almost at the door, Jules hesitated. Blake said, ‘You can have your own hundred thousand dollars. Thirty-five
million francs. No one to split with, and no trouble with
the law.’

The sailor came back. For long seconds of suspense he studied Blake
’s
face before he shook his head, slowly, reluctantly and with finality.

‘Maybe you believe it,’ he said. ‘I think you do. Maybe even your boss does, now. But a man with a choice to make
doesn’t pay thirty-five million francs just to escape paying
thirty-five million francs, and they’d give me to the guillotine because of the gigolo as fast as they would Holtz. No,
I’ve got to play it out the way it started. So have you all
–’

He did not finish what he had begun to say. Holtz had come out on the foredeck, pistol in hand, and was motioning
peremptorily at the three spray-soaked, slicker-clad people
still clustered together
under the bridge wing. Suspicion and
threat were in the little man
’s
movements as he ordered
them to separate. The group broke and disappeared from
sight. Holtz, standing alone on the wet, rolling deck, scowled
up at the pilot-house for a moment before he, too, went
under cover.

Jules said heavily,
‘
S
teer five degrees, Captain. You’re on the last lap.’

It was Valentina, rather than Marian, who brought Blake
’s
lunch to the pilot-house, some hours after the fight.

‘We did not think you were as hungry for food as you might be for encouragement,’ she explained. ‘Jules has told Holtz
nothing of the attack. Holtz stays in the salon with the radio,
and Jules does not go near him. It is difficult to understand,
but we thought you would want to know.’

‘I think I understand it,’ Blake said. ‘Jules doesn’t want any more killing. He
’s
afraid that Holtz will shoot us all if
he finds out we’re giving trouble. There
’s
also the fact of the missing gun. The longer he conceals the truth about it, the
more trouble with Holtz he can expect if he talks. I think
we can count on him to keep quiet as long as we don’t make
another attempt.’

‘And are we not going to make another attempt?’

‘I don’t know yet. It depends on whether I’m able to listen to Radio Grasse this afternoon, and what news there is
on the air. Marian should have brought my lunch, instead
of you. I need her for a lookout.’

‘Marian is - upset.’

‘Upset?’ Blake was surprised that he could find her use of the word wryly humorous. It hurt his mouth, where one of
Jules
’s
punches had split his lip. ‘At this late date? What was
she before?’

‘You do not understand your countrywoman very well,’ Valentina answered seriously.
‘
S
he is not European,
remember
. At her age, a Polish girl has seen war, death, invasion,
the destruction of a world. Violence is commonplace with us,
something to live with or die from. To Marian, violence is
a thing of the cinema. She does not find it easy to accept the
fact of it in her own life.’

‘Bruno
’s
death was real enough.’

‘Even then, she did not
see him die, nor his body after
wards. She knows he is dead because she is told he is dead. He is another figure in the cinema. I think the moment she saw
you beaten to your knees and dragged off by the collar was
the first time she saw the realities of our position.
Momentarily
at least, they stunned and frightened her.’ Valentina
smiled. ‘But she has overcome her fright. She will be all
right when I tell her that you have not suffered. If that is
the truth.’