he surfaced, the net impeding every movement he tried to make, he was aware of Orsini running the end of the line around the rail, of Carlo leaning out of the wheelhouse window waiting. A hand went up, and the Buona Esperanza surged forward.
Noci went under with a cry, then surfaced on a wave, choking for breath. He was aware only of Chavasse at the rail, watching, face calm in the fog-shrouded light, and then, as the boat increased speed, he went under for the last time.
As he struggled violently, water forcing the air from his lungs, and then suddenly he was aware of no pain, no pain at all. He seemed to be floating on soft white sand beneath a blue sky and a beautiful sun-tanned girl waded from the sea to join him, and she was smiling.
Chavasse was tired and his throat was raw from too many cigarettes. Smoke hung in layers from the low ceiling, spiralling in the heat from the single bulb above the green baize table, drifting into the shadows.
There were half a dozen men sitting in on the game. Chavasse, Orsini, Carlo Arezzi, his deckhand, a couple of fishing-boat captains and the sergeant of police. Orsini lit another of his foul-smelling Dutch cheroots and pushed a further two chips into the centre.
Chavasse shook his head and tossed in his hand. ‘Too rich for my blood, Guilio.’
There was a general murmur and Guilio Orsini grinned and raked in his winnings. ‘The bluff, Paul, the big bluff. That’s all that counts in this game.’
Chavasse wondered if that explained why he was so bad at cards. For him, action had to be part of a logical progression based on a carefully reasoned calculation of the risk involved. In the great game of life and death he had played for so long, a man could seldom bluff more than once and get away with it.
He pushed back his chair and stood up. ‘That’s me for tonight, Guilio. I’ll see you on the jetty in the morning.’
Orsini nodded. ‘Seven sharp, Paul. Maybe we’ll get you that big one.’
The cards were already on their way round again as Chavasse crossed to the door, opened it and stepped into a whitewashed passage. In spite of the lateness of the hour, he could hear music from the front of the club, and careless laughter. He took down an old reefer jacket from a peg, pulled it on and opened the side door.
The cold night air cut into his lungs as he breathed deeply to clear his head, and moved along the alley. A thin sea fog rolled in from the water and, except for the faint strains of music from the Tabu, silence reigned.
He found a crumpled packet of cigarettes in his pocket, extracted one and struck a match on the wall, momentarily illuminating his face. As he did so, a woman emerged from a narrow alley opposite, hesitated, then walked down the jetty, the clicking of her high heels echoing through the night. A moment later, two sailors moved out of the entrance of the Tabu, crossed in front of Chavasse and followed her.
Chavasse leaned against the wall, feeling curiously depressed. There were times when he really wondered what it was all about, not just this dangerous game he played, but life itself. He smiled in the darkness. Three o’clock in the morning on the waterfront was one hell of a time to start thinking like that.
The woman screamed and he flicked his cigarette into the fog and stood listening. Again the screaming sounded, curiously muffled, and he started to run towards the jetty. He turned a corner and found the two sailors holding her on the ground under a street lamp.
As the nearest one turned in alarm, Chavasse lifted a boot into his face and sent him back over the jetty. The other leapt towards him with a curse, steel glinting in his right hand.
Chavasse was aware of the black beard, blazing eyes and strange hooked scar on the right cheek, and then he flicked his cap into the man’s face and raised a knee into the exposed groin. The man writhed on the ground, gasping for breath, and Chavasse measured the distance and kicked him in the head.
In the water below the jetty came the sound of a violent splashing, and he moved to the edge and saw the first man swimming vigorously into the darkness. Chavasse watched him disappear, then turned to look for the woman.
She was standing in the shadow of a doorway and he went towards her. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I think so,’ she replied, in a strangely familiar voice, and stepped out of the shadows.
His eyes widened in amazement. ‘Francesca! What in the world are you doing here?’
Her dress had been ripped from neck to waist and she held it in place, a slight smile on her face. ‘We were supposed to have a date on the terrace at the Embassy a week ago. What happened?’
‘Something came up,’ he said. ‘The story of my life. But what are you doing on the Matano waterfront at this time of the morning?’
She swayed forward and he caught her just in time, holding her close to his chest for a brief moment. She smiled up at him wanly.
‘Sorry about that, but all of a sudden I felt a little light-headed.’
‘Have you far to go?’
She brushed a tendril of hair back from her forehead. ‘I left my car somewhere near here, but all the streets look the same in the fog.’
‘Better come back with me to my hotel,’ he said. ‘It’s just around the corner.’ He slipped off his jacket and draped it round her shoulders. ‘I could fix you up with a bed.’
Laughter bubbled out of her, and for a moment she was once again the exciting girl he had met so briefly at the Embassy ball.
‘I’m sure you could.’
He put an arm round her. ‘Don’t worry, I think you’ve had quite enough excitement for one night.’
There was the scrape of a shoe on the cobbles behind them, and he swung round and saw the other man lurching into the fog, hands to his smashed face.
Chavasse took a quick step after him and Francesca caught his sleeve. ‘Let him go. I don’t want the police in on this.’
He looked down into her strained and anxious face. ‘If that’s the way you want it.’
There was something strange here, something he didn’t understand. They walked along the jetty and turned on to the waterfront. As port towns went, Matano was reasonably tame, but not so tame that pretty young girls could walk around the dock area at three a.m. and expect to get away with it. One thing was certain. Francesca Minetti must have had a pretty powerful reason for being there.
The hotel was a small stuccoed building on a corner, an ancient electric sign over the entrance, but it was clean and cheap and the food was good. The owner was a friend of Orsini.
He slept at the desk, head in hands, and Chavasse reached over to the board without waking him and unhooked the key. They crossed the hall, mounted narrow wooden stairs and passed along a whitewashed corridor.
The room was plainly furnished with a brass bed, a washstand and an old wardrobe. As elsewhere in the house, the walls were whitewashed and the floor highly polished.
Francesca
