Night Over Water (63 page)

It would take only a few seconds for the gangsters to notice that their launch had come adrift. They would be puzzled and alarmed. One of them would come to investigate and tie the launch up again. And then—

Harry was too scared to think about what he was going to do then.

He dashed up the ladder and across the flight deck and concealed himself in the cargo area once again.

He knew it was deadly dangerous to fool around like this with gangsters, and he felt cold at the thought of what they would do to him if they caught him.

For a long minute nothing happened. Come on, he thought; hurry up and look out of the window! Your launch is adrift—you have to notice it before I lose my nerve.

At last he heard footsteps again, heavy ones, hurrying, coming up the stairs and through the flight cabin. To his dismay it sounded like two men. He had not anticipated having to deal with two.

When he judged that they must have descended into the bow compartment, he looked out. It was all clear. He crossed the cabin and looked through the hatch. Two men with guns in their hands were staring out of the bow door. Even without the guns Harry would have guessed they were crooks by their flashy clothes. One was an ugly little guy with a mean look; the other was very young, about eighteen.

Maybe I should go back and hide, Harry thought.

The skipper was maneuvering the launch, still with the seaplane tied to its side. The two gangsters would have to tie the launch up to the Clipper again, and they could not do that with guns in their hands. Harry waited for them to put their firearms away.

The skipper shouted something Harry could not make out, and a few moments later the two hoods stuffed the guns into their pockets and stepped out onto the platform.

With his heart in his mouth, Harry went down the ladder into the bow compartment.

The men were trying to catch a rope that the skipper was throwing to them, and all their attention was directed outward, so they did not see him at first.

He sidled across the compartment.

When he was halfway across, the young one caught the rope. The other man, the little one, half turned—and saw Harry. He put his hand in his pocket and got his gun out just as Harry reached him.

Harry felt sure he was about to die.

Desperately, without thinking, he stooped, grabbed the little man’s ankle and heaved.

A shot rang out, but Harry felt nothing.

The man staggered, almost fell, dropped his gun and seized hold of his buddy for support.

The younger man lost his balance and let go of the rope. For an instant they swayed, clutching at one another. Harry still had hold of the little man’s ankle, and he jerked it again.

Both men fell off the platform and plunged into the heaving sea.

Harry let out a whoop of triumph.

They sank below the waves, came up again and began to struggle. Harry could tell that neither of them could swim.

“That’s for Clive Membury, you bastards!” Harry shouted.

He did not wait to see what became of them. He had to know what had happened on the passenger deck. He dashed back across the bow compartment, scrambled up the ladder, emerged into the flight cabin, then tiptoed down the staircase.

On the bottom step he stopped and listened.

 

Margaret could hear her own heartbeat.

It sounded in her ears like a kettledrum, rhythmic and insistent, and so loud that she fancied other people must be able to hear it too.

She was more frightened than she had ever been in her life. And she was ashamed of her fear.

She had been frightened by the emergency splashdown, the sudden appearance of guns, the bewildering way people such as Frankie Gordino, Mr. Luther and the engineer kept changing their roles, and the casual brutality of these stupid thugs in their awful suits; and most of all she was frightened because quiet Mr. Membury was lying on the floor dead.

She was too frightened to move, and that made her ashamed.

For years she had been talking about how she wanted to fight Fascism, and now the opportunity had arrived. Right here in front of her, a Fascist was kidnapping Carl Hartmann to take him back to Germany. But she could do nothing about it because she was paralyzed by fear.

Perhaps there was nothing she
could
do, anyway; perhaps she would only get herself killed. But she ought to try, and she had always said she was willing to risk her life for the cause and for the memory of Ian.

Her father had been right to pour scorn on her pretensions of bravery, she realized. Her heroism was all in her imagination. Her dream of being a motorcycle courier on the battlefield was mere fantasy: at the first sound of gunfire she would hide under a hedge. When there was real danger, she was completely useless. She sat frozen still as her heart pounded in her ears.

She had not spoken a word while the Clipper splashed down, the gunmen came aboard, and Nancy and Mr. Lovesey arrived in the seaplane. She had remained silent when the one called Kid saw the launch drifting away, and the one called Vincini sent Kid and Joe to help tie it up again.

But when she saw Kid and Joe drowning, she screamed.

She had been staring fixedly out the window, looking at but not seeing the waves, when the two men drifted into view. Kid was trying to keep afloat, but Joe was on Kid’s back, pushing his friend under as he tried to save himself. It was a horrible sight.

When she screamed, Mr. Luther rushed to the window and looked out. “They’re in the water!” he yelled hysterically.

Vincini said: “Who—Kid and Joe?”

“Yes!”

The skipper of the launch threw a rope, but the drowning men did not see it: Joe was thrashing around in a blind panic and Kid was being held underwater by Joe.

“Do something!” Luther said. He was on the verge of panic himself.

“What?” said Vincini. “There ain’t nothing we can do. Crazy bastards don’t have the smarts to save themselves!”

The two men drifted nearer to the sea-wing. If they had kept calm, they could have climbed onto it and been saved. But they did not see it.

Kid’s head went under and did not come up again.

Joe lost contact with Kid and breathed a lungful of water. Margaret heard one hoarse scream, muffled by the Clipper’s soundproofing. Joe’s head went under, came up, and went under again for the last time.

Margaret shuddered. They were both dead.

“How did this happen?” Luther said. “How come they fell in?”

“Maybe they were pushed,” said Vincini.

“Who by?”

“There must be someone else on this fuckin’ airplane.”

Margaret thought: Harry!

Was it possible? Could Harry still be on board? Had he hidden somewhere while the police were searching for him, and come out after the emergency splashdown? Was it Harry who had pushed the two gangsters into the sea?

Then she thought of her brother. Percy had disappeared after the launch tied up to the Clipper, and Margaret had assumed he had gone to the men’s room and then decided to stay out of the way. But that was not characteristic of him. He was more likely to seek out trouble. She knew he had found an unofficial way up to the flight deck. What was he up to now?

Luther said: “This whole thing is falling apart! What are we going to do?”

“We’re leaving on the seaplane, just like we planned: you, me, the Kraut and the money,” said Vincini. “If anyone gets in the way, put a bullet in his belly. Calm down and let’s go.”

Margaret had a dreadful premonition that they would meet Percy on the stairs, and he would be the one to get a bullet in his belly.

Then, just as the three men were leaving the dining room, she heard Percy’s voice coming from the back of the plane.

At the top of his voice he shouted: “Stop right there!”

To Margaret’s astonishment he was holding a gun—and pointing it right at Vincini.

It was a short-barreled revolver, and Margaret guessed immediately that it must be the Colt that had been confiscated from the F.B.I. agent earlier. Now Percy held it in front of him, straight-armed as if he were aiming at a target.

Vincini turned around slowly.

Margaret was proud of Percy even while she was afraid for his life.

The dining room was crowded. Behind Vincini, right next to where Margaret was sitting, Luther was holding his gun to Hartmann’s head. On the other side of the compartment stood Nancy, Mervyn Lovesey, Diana Lovesey, and the engineer and the captain. And most of the seats were occupied.

Vincini looked at Percy for a long moment, then said: “Get out of here, kid.”

“Drop your gun,” Percy said in his cracked adolescent voice.

Vincini moved with surprising speed. He ducked to one side and raised his gun. There was a shot. The bang deafened Margaret: she heard a distant scream and realized it was her own voice. She could not tell who had shot whom. Percy seemed all right. Then Vincini staggered and fell, blood spurting from his chest. He dropped his briefcase and it burst open. Blood splashed the bundles of money.

Percy dropped the gun and stared, horrified, at the man he had shot. He looked about to burst into tears.

Everyone looked at Luther, the last of the gang, and the only person who still held a gun.

Carl Hartmann made a sudden move, breaking free of Luther’s grasp while the man was distracted, and flung himself on the floor. Margaret was terrified Hartmann would be killed; then she thought Luther would shoot Percy; but what actually happened took her completely by surprise.

Luther grabbed
her.

He pulled her out of her seat and held her in front of himself, his gun at her head, just as he had held Hartmann before.

Everyone froze.

She was too terrified to move, to speak, even to scream. The barrel of the gun dug painfully into her temple. Luther was shaking: he was as frightened as she. In the silence he said: “Hartmann, go to the bow door. Go on board the launch. Do as you’re told or the girl gets it.”

Suddenly she felt a dreadful calm descend over her. She could see, with hideous clarity, that Luther had been brilliantly cunning. If he had merely pointed his gun at Hartmann, Hartmann might have said: “Shoot me—I’d rather die than go back to Germany.” But now it was her life at stake. Hartmann might have been prepared to give his own life, but he would not sacrifice a young girl.

Slowly, Hartmann got up from the floor.

Everything was up to her, Margaret realized with icy, fearful logic. She could save Hartmann by sacrificing herself. It’s not fair, she thought. I wasn’t expecting this. I’m not ready for it. I can’t do it!

She caught her father’s eye. He looked horrified.

In that awful moment she recalled how he had taunted her, saying she was too soft to fight, she would not last a day in the A.T.S.

Was he right?

All she had to do was move. Luther might kill her, but the other men would jump on him before he could do anything else, and Hartmann would be saved.

Time passed as slowly as in a nightmare.

I can do it, she thought with the same frozen composure.

She took a deep breath and thought: Goodbye, everyone.

Suddenly she heard Harry’s voice behind her. “Mr. Luther, I think your submarine has arrived.”

Everyone looked through the windows.

Margaret felt the pressure of the gun barrel at her temple ease a fraction, and she saw that Luther was momentarily distracted.

She ducked her head and wriggled out of his grasp.

There was a shot, but she felt nothing.

Everyone moved at once.

The engineer, Eddie, flew past her and fell on Luther like a tree.

Margaret saw Harry grab Luther’s gun hand and tear the weapon from his grasp.

Luther crashed to the floor with Eddie and Harry on top of him.

Margaret realized she was still alive.

She suddenly felt as weak as a baby, and she sank helplessly into a seat.

Percy dashed to her. She hugged him. Time stood still. She heard herself say: “Are you all right?”

“I think so,” he said shakily.

“You’re so brave!”

“So are you!”

Yes, I was, she thought; I was brave.

All the passengers began to shout at once; then Captain Baker yelled: “Quiet, everybody, please!”

Margaret looked around.

Luther was still on the floor, facedown, pinned and harmless with Eddie and Harry on top of him. The danger from within the aircraft was over. She looked outside. The submarine floated on the water like a great gray shark, its wet steel flanks gleaming in the sunshine.

The captain said: “There’s a naval cutter nearby and we’re going to radio to it right away and tell them about the U-boat.” The crew had come through from number 1 compartment, and now the captain addressed the radio operator. “Get on the horn, Ben.”

“Yes, sir. You realize the submarine commander may hear our radio message and run for it.”

“All the better,” the captain growled. “Our passengers have seen enough danger.”

The radio operator went up the stairs to the flight deck.

Everyone kept looking out at the U-boat. Its hatch stayed shut. Its commander must have been waiting to see what would happen.

Captain Baker went on. “There’s one gangster we haven’t caught, and I’d like to bring him in: the skipper of the launch. Eddie, go to the bow door and lure him aboard—tell him Vincini wants him.”

Eddie got off Luther and went away.

The captain spoke to the navigator. “Jack, collect all these damn guns and take the ammunition out.” The captain realized he had cursed, and added: “Pardon my language, ladies.”

They had heard so much foul language from the gangsters that Margaret laughed at him apologizing for saying “damn”; and the other passengers nearby laughed too. He was taken aback at first and then saw the joke, and he smiled.