then the whole boat left a great deal to be desired. The food was barely edible, the blankets were dirty and the general appearance of the crew, from Skiros down, was pretty grim.
Using the information obtained by the Italian police, Chavasse had approached Skiros in a certain café on the Naples waterfront, flashing a roll of fivers that had set the good captain’s eyes gleaming. Chavasse had not used the criminal background part of his story — he had preferred to allow Skiros to discover that for himself. He had simply posed as an Australian anxious to get into the Old Country but denied a visa, and Skiros had swallowed the story. For the money, Chavasse would be taken to Marseille, landed illegally and sent on his way to people who would see him safely across the Channel.
Once on board, he had deliberately left his wallet around, minus his bank roll, but containing, amongst other things, the bogus clipping from the Sydney Morning Herald which spoke of the police search for Paul Chavasse, wanted for questioning in connection with a series of armed robberies. There was even a photo, to make certain, and the bait must have been taken, for the cabin had been searched – Chavasse had ways of knowing things like that.
He was surprised he had got this far without some attempt to relieve him of his cash and drop him overboard, for Skiros looked like the kind of man who would have cheerfully sold his sister in the marketplace on very reasonable terms.
Chavasse had slept with the door double-bolted each night and his Smith & Wesson handy under the pillow. He took it out now, checking each round carefully. As he replaced it in the special holster that fitted snugly against the small of his back, there was a knock at the door, and Melos, the wall-eyed Cypriot first mate, looked in.
‘Captain Skiros is ready for you now.’
‘Good on you, sport.’ Chavasse picked up a black trenchcoat and reached for his suitcase. ‘It’s me for the open road.’
Outside it was raining and he followed Melos along the slippery deck to the captain’s cabin. When they went in Skiros was seated at his table, eating his evening meal.
‘So, Mr Chavasse, we arrive safely.’
‘Looks like it, sport,’ Chavasse said cheerfully. ‘Let’s see now, I gave you five hundred in Naples. That’s another five I owe you.’
He produced the roll of fivers and counted a hundred out on the table. Skiros gathered them up. ‘Nice to do business with you.’
‘Where do I go from here?’ Chavasse demanded.
‘There is no watchman on this dock. No one will stop you when you pass through the gate. Catch the 9:30 express for Paris. Wait at the bookstall on the platform at the other end and you will be approached by a man who will ask you if you are his cousin Charles from Marseille. Everything is arranged from then on.’
‘That’s it, then.’ Chavasse still kept the bonhomie going as he pulled on his trenchcoat and picked up the suitcase. ‘Didn’t I see an Indian girl about the place?’
‘What about her?’ Skiros demanded, his smile fading.
‘Nothing special. Just thought she might be on the same kick as me.’
‘You are mistaken.’ Skiros rose to his feet, wiped his moustache and held out his hand. ‘I would not delay, if I were you. You’ve just got time to catch that train.’
Chavasse smiled at both of them. ‘Can’t afford to miss that, can I? That would really throw a spanner into the works.’
He went out into the rain, moved along the deck and descended the gangway. At the bottom he paused under the lamp for a moment, then moved into darkness.
Melos turned enquiringly to Skiros. ‘A great deal of money in that roll.’
Skiros nodded. ‘Get after him. Take Andrew with you. The two of you should be enough.’
‘What if he kicks up a fuss?’
‘How can he? He’s in the country illegally and the Sydney police want him for armed robbery. Use your intelligence, Melos.’
Melos went out. Skiros continued to eat, working his way through the meal methodically. When he had finished, he poured himself a very large whisky, which he drank slowly.
When he went out, the rain was falling more heavily, drifting down through the yellow quarterlights in a silver spray. He moved along the deck to the girl’s cabin, knocked and went in.
She turned from the bunk to face him, looking strangely alien in a blue sweater and pleated grey skirt. There was something close to alarm on her face, but she made a visible effort and smiled.
‘Captain Skiros. It is time, then?’
‘Most certainly it is,’ Skiros said and, moving with astonishing speed, he pushed her back across the bunk and flung himself on top of her, a hand across her mouth to stifle any sound.
Melos and the deckhand, Andrew, hurried along the dock and paused by the iron gates to listen. There was no sound, and Melos frowned.
‘What’s happened to him?’
He took a single anxious step forward and Chavasse moved out of the shadows, turned him round and raised a knee into his groin. Melos sagged to the wet cobbles and Chavasse grinned across the writhing body at Andrew.
‘What kept you?’
Andrew moved in fast, the knife in his right hand glinting in the rain. His feet were kicked expertly from beneath him and he hit the cobbles. He started to get up and Chavasse seized his right wrist, then twisted the arm around and up in a direction it was never intended to go. Andrew screamed as a muscle ripped in his shoulder, and Chavasse ran him headfirst into the railings of the gate.
Melos had managed to regain his feet and was being very sick. Chavasse stepped over Andrew and grabbed him by the shirt. ‘Was I really being met at that station bookstall in Paris?’
Melos shook his head.
‘And the Indian girl? What’s Skiros playing at there?’
Melos didn’t answer. Chavasse pushed him away in disgust, turned and ran back towards the ship.
The girl’s teeth fastened on the edge of the captain’s hand, biting clean to the bone. He gave a grunt of pain and slapped her across the face.
‘By God, I’ll teach you,’ he said. ‘You’ll crawl before I’m through with you.’
As he advanced, face contorted, the door swung open and Chavasse stepped in. He held the Smith & Wesson negligently in one hand, but the eyes were very dark in the white devil’s face. Skiros swung round and Chavasse shook his head.
‘You really are a bastard, aren’t you, Skiros?’
Skiros took a step forward and Chavasse slashed him across the face with the barrel of the gun, drawing blood. Skiros fell back across the bunk and the girl ran to Chavasse, who put an arm around her.
‘Don’t tell me, let me guess. You’re trying to get to England, but they won’t give you a visa.’
‘That’s
