battered by the barrage, while Favel’s men must be fresh and comparatively untouched. It was possible that Favel would push right through, but proof would come when next the artillery barrage began – if it was nearer it would mean Favel was winning.
He had chosen to attack at night, something he had specialized in ever since he had retreated to the mountains. His men were trained for it, and probably one of Favel’s men was equal to any two of Serrurier’s so long as he was careful to dictate the conditions of battle. But once get boxed in open country with Serrurier’s artillery and air force unleashed and he’d be hammered to pieces. He was taking a considerable risk in coming down the Negrito into the plain around Santego Bay, but he was minimizing it by clever strategy and the unbelievable luck that Serrurier had a thick-headed artillery general with no concept of logistics.
Causton was so occupied with these thoughts that he nearly ran into a police patrol head on. He stopped short and shrank into the shadows and was relieved when the squad passed him by unseen. He wanted to waste no time in futile arguments. By the time he got to Rawsthorne’s house he had evaded three more police patrols, but it took time and it was very late when he knocked on Rawsthorne’s door.
III
James Fowler Dawson was a successful writer. Not only was he accepted by the critics as a man to be watched as a future Nobel Prizewinner, but his books sold in enormous numbers to the public and he had made a lot of money and was looking forward to making a lot more. Because he liked making money he was very careful of the image he presented to his public, an image superbly tailored to his personality and presented to the world by his press agents.
His first novel, Tarpon, was published in the year that Hemingway died. At the time he was a freelance writer concocting articles for the American sporting magazines on the glory of rainbow trout and what it feels like to have a grizzly in your sights. He had but average success at this and so was a hungry writer. When Tarpon hit the top of the best-seller lists no one was more surprised than Dawson. But knowing the fickleness of public taste he sought for ways to consolidate his success and decided that good writing was not enough – he must also be a public personality.
So he assumed the mantle that had fallen from Hemingway – he would be a man’s man. He shot elephant and lion in Africa; he game-fished in the Caribbean and off the Seychelles; he climbed a mountain in Alaska; he flew his own plane and, like Hemingway, was involved in a spectacular smash; and it was curious that there were always photographers on hand to record these events.
But he was no Hemingway. The lions he killed were poor terrified beasts imprisoned in a closing ring of beaters, and he had never killed one with a single shot. In his assault on the Alaskan mountain he was practically carried up by skilled and well-paid mountaineers, and he heartily disliked flying his plane because he was frightened of it and only flew when necessary to mend his image. But game-fishing he had actually come to like and he was not at all bad at it. And, despite everything else, he remained a good writer, although he was always afraid of losing steam and failing with his next book.
While his image was shiny, while his name made headlines in the world press, while the money poured into his bank, he was reasonably happy. It was good to be well-known in the world’s capitals, to be met at airports by pressmen and photographers, to be asked his opinion of world events. He had never yet been in a situation where the mere mention of his name had not got him out of trouble, and thus he was unperturbed at being put into a cell with Wyatt. He had been in gaol before – the world had chuckled many times at the escapades of Big Jim Dawson – but never for more than a few hours. A nominal fine, a donation to the Police Orphans’ Fund, a gracious apology and the name of Jim Dawson soon set him free. He had no reason to think it was going to be different this time.
‘I could do with a drink,’ he said grumpily. ‘Those bastards took my flask.’
Wyatt examined the cell. It was in an old building and there was none of the modernity of serried steel bars; but the walls were of thick and solid stone and the window was small and set high in the wall. By pulling up a stool and standing on it he could barely see outside, and he was a fairly tall man. He looked at the dim shapes of the buildings across the square and judged that the cell was on the second floor of the building in which the Poste de Police was housed.
He stepped down from the stool and said, ‘Why the hell were you carrying a gun?’
‘I always carry a gun,’ said Dawson. ‘A man in my position meets trouble, you know. There are always cranks who don’t like what I write, and the boys who want to prove they’re tougher than I am. I’ve got a licence for it, too. I got a batch of threatening letters a couple of years ago and there were some funny things happening round my place so I got the gun.’
‘I don’t know that that was a good idea, even in the States,’ said Wyatt. ‘But it certainly got us into trouble here. Your gun licence won’t cut any ice.’
‘Getting out will be easy,’ said Dawson angrily. ‘All I have to do is to wait until I can see someone bigger than one of those junior grade cops, tell him who I am, and we’ll both be sprung.’
Wyatt stared at him. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Sure I’m serious. Hell, man; everyone knows me. The Government of this tin-pot banana republic isn’t going to get in bad with Uncle Sam by keeping me in gaol. The fact that I’ve been picked up will make world headlines, and this Serrurier character isn’t going to let bad change to worse.’
Wyatt took a deep breath. ‘You don’t know Serrurier,’ he said. ‘He doesn’t like Americans in the first place and he won’t give a damn who you are – if he’s heard of you, that is, which I doubt.’
Dawson seemed troubled by the heresy Wyatt had uttered. ‘Not heard of me? Of course he’ll have heard of me.’
‘You heard those guns,’ said Wyatt. ‘Serrurier is fighting for his life – do you understand that? If Favel wins, Serrurier is going to be very dead. Right now he doesn’t give a damn about keeping in with Uncle Sam or anyone else – he just doesn’t have the time. And, like a doctor, he buries his mistakes, so if he’s informed about us there’ll probably be a shooting party in the basement with us as guests; that’s why I hope to God no one tells him. And I hope his boys don’t have any initiative.’
‘But there’ll have to be a trial,’ said Dawson. ‘I’ll have my lawyer.’
‘For God’s sake!’ exploded Wyatt. ‘Where have you been living – on the moon? Serrurier has had twenty thousand people executed in the last seven years without trial. They just disappeared. Start praying that we don’t join them.’
‘Now that’s nonsense,’ said Dawson firmly. ‘I’ve been coming to San Fernandez for the last five years – it makes a swell fishing base – and I’ve heard nothing of this. And I’ve met a lot of government officials and a nicer bunch of boys you couldn’t wish to meet. Of course they’re black, but I think none the less of them for that.’
‘Very broad-minded of you,’ said Wyatt sarcastically. ‘Can you name any of these “nice boys”? That information might come in useful.’
‘Sure; the best of the lot was the Minister for Island Affairs – a guy called Descaix. He’s a –’
‘Oh, no!’ groaned Wyatt, sitting on the stool and putting his head in his hands.
‘What’s the matter?’
Wyatt
