re-emerge two months later in the bottom of a fishing net off the English coast. Intriguing. What do you think he was playing at?’
‘I should have thought that was obvious.’ Mallory shrugged. ‘He was trying to get into the country illegally. As long as the police didn’t know he was here, he could recover his money at leisure and leave by the same way he came, whatever that was.’
Chavasse was beginning to see a little light. ‘Someone put him over the side in the Channel, that’s what you’re suggesting?’
‘Something like that. There’s a lot of money in this passage-by-night business since the Commonwealth Immigration Act. Pakistanis, Indians, West Indians, Australians – anyone who can’t get a visa in the usual way. There’s good money in it.’
‘There was a case in the paper the other day,’ Chavasse said. ‘The navy stopped an old launch off Felixstowe and found thirty-two Pakistanis on board. That’s a fair night’s work for someone.’
‘Amateurs,’ Mallory said. ‘Most of them don’t stand a chance. It’s the professionals who’re getting away with it, the people with the organization. There’s a pipeline running all the way through from Naples. The Italian police have been doing some checking and they’ve come up with an interesting report on a boat called the Anya that makes the Naples – Marseille run regularly under a Panamanian registration.’
Chavasse reached for the file, turned it round and went through the photos it contained. There were several of Harvey Preston taken through the years, one on the steps of the Old Bailey after his trial, an arm around the shoulders of his young brother. Chavasse leafed through the reports, then glanced up.
‘This is police work. Where do we come in?’
‘The Special Branch at Scotland Yard have asked us to help. They feel this job requires the kind of talents more appropriate to one of our operatives.’
‘The last time they asked for help, it involved me spending six months in three of the worst jails in Britain,’ Chavasse said, ‘plus the fact that I nearly got my leg blown off. Why can’t they do their own dirty work?’
‘We’ve worked out a suitable background for you,’ Mallory said impassively. ‘Use your own name, no reason not to. Australian citizen of French extraction. Wanted in Sydney for armed robbery.’ He pushed a folder across. ‘Everything you need is in there, including a newspaper clipping confirming your criminal background. Naturally, you’re willing to pay any price to get into Britain, and no questions asked.’
Chavasse felt, as usual, as if some great sea was washing over him. ‘When do I go?’
‘There’s a three-thirty flight to Rome. You should make it with quarter of an hour to spare if you leave now. You’ll find a suitcase waiting for you outside. I had one brought over. A good job you didn’t have time to unpack.’ He stood up and held out his hand. ‘The best of luck, Paul. Keep in touch in the usual way.’
Mallory sat down, replaced his glasses and reached for a file. Chavasse picked up his folder, turned and went out. He was chuckling when he closed the door.
‘What’s so funny?’ Jean Frazer demanded.
He leaned across her desk and chucked her under the chin. ‘Prettiest-looking Sheila I’ve clapped eyes on since I left Sydney,’ he said, in a very fair Australian twang.
She stared at him in amazement. ‘Are you mad?’
He picked up his suitcase and laughed. ‘I must be, Jean. I really must be,’ he said, and went out.
The woman was an Indian and very young - no more than sixteen, if Chavasse was any judge. She had a pale, flawless complexion and sad brown eyes that were set off to perfection by her scarlet sari. Chavasse had seen her only once during the two-day voyage from Naples and presumed they were bound for the same eventual destination.
He was leaning against the rail when she came along the deck. She nodded a trifle uncertainly and knocked on the door of the captain’s cabin. It opened after a moment or so, and Skiros appeared. He was stripped to the waist and badly needed a shave, but he smiled ingratiatingly, managing to look even more repulsive than usual, and stepped to one side.
The girl hesitated fractionally, then moved in. Skiros glanced across at Chavasse, winked and closed the door, which didn’t look too good for Miss India. Chavasse shrugged; it was no skin off his nose, he had other things to think about. He lit a cigarette and moved towards the stern of the old steamer.
Pavlo Skiros had been born of indeterminate parentage in Constantinople forty-seven years earlier. There was some Greek in him, a little Turk, and quite a lot of Russian, and he was a disgrace to all three countries. He had followed the sea all his life and yet his right to a master’s ticket was uncertain, to say the least. But he possessed other, darker qualities in abundance that suited the owners of the Anya perfectly.
He sat on the edge of the table in his small cluttered cabin and scratched his left armpit, lust in his soul when he looked at the girl.
‘What can I do for you?’ he asked in English.
‘My money,’ she told him. ‘You said you would return it when we reached port.’
‘All in good time, my dear. We dock in half an hour and you’ll have to keep out of the way until the customs men have finished.’
‘There will be trouble?’ she asked in alarm.
He shook his head. ‘No trouble, I promise you. It is all arranged. You’ll be on your way within a couple of hours.’
He got up and moved close enough for her to smell him. ‘You’ve nothing to worry about. I’ll handle everything personally.’
He put a hand on her arm and she drew back slightly. ‘Thank you – thank you very much. I will go and change now. I don’t suppose a sari would be very practical on the Marseille waterfront at night.’
She opened the door and paused, looking towards Chavasse. ‘Who is that man?’
‘Just a passenger - an Australian.’
‘I see.’ She appeared to hesitate. ‘Is he another like myself?’
‘No, nothing like that.’ He wiped sweat from his face with the back of a hand. ‘You’d better go to your cabin now and stay there. I’ll come for you later when everything is quiet.’
She smiled again, looking younger than ever. ‘Thank you. You’ve no idea what this means to me.’
The door closed behind her. Skiros stood staring at it blankly for a moment, then reached for the bottle of whisky on the table and a dirty tin mug. As he drank, he thought about the girl and what he would do with her when things were nice and quiet and they were alone. The expression on his face was not pleasant.
They reached Marseille on the evening tide and it was already dark when they docked. Chavasse had gone down to
