JACK HIGGINS

PASSAGE BY NIGHT

Contents

Title Page Publisher’s Note Dedication Chapter One: The Grace Abounding Chapter Two: Spanish Cay Chapter Three: Dark Waters Chapter Four: A Man Called Garcia Chapter Five: Whistle Up the Duppies Chapter Six: The Man from CIA Chapter Seven: Beware of Greeks Chapter Eight: The Cretan Lover Chapter Nine: South from Andros Chapter Ten: Isle of Tears Chapter Eleven: The Man in the Vaults Chapter Twelve: Enter Comrade Orlov Chapter Thirteen: From the Jaws of the Tyrant Chapter Fourteen: Exuma Sound Chapter Fifteen: At the Caravel Chapter Sixteen: Greek Fire Chapter Seventeen: The Green Light Chapter Eighteen: The Purpose of Terrorism is to Terrorize Chapter Nineteen: The Stern Sea Chase Chapter Twenty: Into An Indigo Dusk Chapter Twenty-one: All Passion Spent About the Author Also by Jack Higgins Copyright About the Publisher

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

PASSAGE BY NIGHT was first published in the UK by Abelard Schuman Limited in 1964 and in 1989 by Pan Books, but has been out of print for some years. While it was originally written under the authorship of Hugh Marlow, the author was, in fact, the writer familiar to modern readers as Jack Higgins.

In 2008, it seemed to the author and his publishers that it was a pity to leave such a good story languishing on his shelves. So we are delighted to be able to bring back PASSAGe BY NIGHT for the pleasure of the vast majority of us who never had a chance to read the earlier editions.

And this one for Uncle Bob

1

The Grace Abounding

Manning came awake quickly from a deep and dreamless sleep. It was as if he had come into existence at the moment his eyes opened and he lay there staring at the cabin roof, conscious of the sweat on his body.

He was stripped to the waist and wore a pair of blue denims much faded by the sun and salt water. He glanced at his watch and then swung his legs to the floor and sat there looking down at his bare feet, conscious of a nagging pain behind his right eye. After a moment, a step sounded on the companionway.

The man who entered was a black man of indeterminate age, eyes bright and intelligent in a face seamed and wrinkled by years of the sea. He wore a battered peaked cap, a scarlet shirt and a pair of bright blue denims. Manning looked up and said solemnly, ‘Seth, who the hell am I?’

The seaman grinned. ‘One of those days, is it? Maybe you should lay off the rum for a while. I just made some fresh tea.’

‘Sounds fine. Where’s our client?’

‘Mr Morrison went spear fishing on the reef. Said I wasn’t to disturb you. I hope he has better luck than he did with that tuna. He sure ain’t no fisherman.’

‘For a hundred and fifty dollars a day he can be anything he likes as far as we’re concerned, and don’t you forget it,’ Manning said.

He followed Seth up the companionway and stood with one foot on the rail looking out into the gulf. He was a tall, powerful man with good shoulders. His brown hair was bleached by the sun and there was a two-day growth of beard on his chin. The sun-dried skin of his face was drawn tightly over the bones that framed calm and expressionless eyes.

A two-masted yacht passed a mile out in the gulf on the run down from Nassau, sails bellying in the North-West Trades and a small seaplane crossed to the north, sunlight gleaming on her silver and blue fuselage.

‘Jimmy Walker running tourists across to Eleuthera,’ Seth said as he arrived with the tea. ‘He’s been doing well this season.’

‘And spending it,’ Manning said. ‘Propping up the bar at the Caravel every night.’

‘I don’t think it’s the rum that’s the attraction,’ Seth said.

‘Sometimes I think you like to stir up trouble, Seth.’ Manning emptied over the side what was left in his cup. ‘Time I went looking for Morrison. We can’t afford to lose him. My reputation won’t stand it.’

‘You can say that again,’ Seth said sourly and helped Manning into his aqualung, buckling the straps securely in place.

‘What about a spear gun?’ Manning asked.

He shrugged. ‘You broke one last week, never got it fixed. Mr Morrison took the other.’

‘Probably put a shaft through his right foot by now.’

Manning pulled his diving mask over his face and vaulted over the side into the clear water. For a moment he paused to adjust his air supply and then swam down in a long sweeping curve.

The sensation of floating in space, alone in a silent world, had never lost its attraction. The sunlight, reflected by the waves, shimmered through gaudy seagrass which carpeted the bottom and shells and red starfish stood out clearly against the white sand in the clearings.

The reef was a forest of coral twisted into fantastic shapes, ugly, dangerous, nigger-heads rising towards the surface like ruined pillars. A few big striped silver perch chased each other through the coral shrubs. He paused, watching them for a moment, and then swam onwards with a powerful kick of his webbed feet, fish scattering to avoid him.

Beyond the coral, the bottom vanished from sight as he went over the edge. Down in the depths, shoals of rainbow fish filled the deep blue space, rising and falling in a shimmering cloud, changing colour with each movement.

They disintegrated in a silver cloud as several blue mackerel burst through them followed by a shark. Manning was brushed to one side by an invisible hand as the shark swerved by. He rested for a moment, holding onto the jagged edge of a crevasse in the face of the cliff and Morrison swam out of the green mist and started upwards.

In one hand he held his harpoon gun, in the other, the spear on which was impaled a silver perch. Manning swam towards him, and the American poised there in space and brandished the fish. Blood hung in a brown cloud above his right shoulder, drifting in long strings through the green water. As Manning approached, he saw that the upper arm had been badly lacerated by coral.

The American grinned and shrugged as if to say that it was nothing and, in the same moment, his eyes widened in alarm. As Manning started to turn, something grazed his back with stunning force, sending him bouncing against the cliff. He was aware of a blue and silver flash and turned to see an eight-foot barracuda vanish into the gloom.

Morrison dropped his harpoon gun in alarm and it drifted down into the green depths trailing the spear on its recovery line. Manning jackknifed and went after it, grabbing for the line, pulling the gun towards him. As he quickly reloaded, he could see Morrison vainly trying to squeeze into a narrow crevasse in the rocks.

At that moment the barracuda flashed from the mist and poised perhaps twenty feet away from the American. A second later it was joined by another.

The drifting brown cloud of blood grew even larger and Manning knew that within seconds it would attract more of the deadly fish. He drove upwards, firing at point-blank range into the white underbelly of the nearest one. It twisted in agony, jerking the gun from his hands and rolled over onto its back, tail threshing the water into a white cauldron, blood staining the sea.

Manning swam towards Morrison and pulled him from the crevasse. As they turned, the other barracuda swung in at its mate; lower jaw hanging to expose its murderous, overlapping teeth. The sea vibrated and it turned away, shreds of skin and bone hanging from its mouth. As other slim, silvery shapes darted from the gloom, Manning grabbed Morrison by the arm and pushed for the surface.

They swam through the shallows above the brilliant red and green coral and then the hull of the Grace Abounding appeared above them and they surfaced astern. Morrison went up the ladder first and Seth helped him over the rail. When Manning followed, he found the American collapsed on deck, shoulders heaving.

Seth looked up enquiringly as Manning pulled off his diving mask and unstrapped his aqualung. ‘Run into trouble?’

‘Mr Morrison grazed his shoulder and a couple of barracuda showed interest.’

Morrison sat up and Seth examined him, shaking his head. ‘I told you to watch out for those nigger-heads, Mr Morrison. A man can’t afford to draw blood spear fishing. Most of the big boys, they leave you alone, but not when they taste blood.’

‘I’ll try to remember that,’ Morrison said.

Manning helped him to his feet. ‘Let’s go below. I’ll fix that shoulder for you. Seth will see to the gear.’

Morrison sat on one of the bunks, a towel round his shoulders, shivering slightly. Manning took a bottle of rum from one of the cupboards, filled a glass and gave it to him. The American swallowed and smiled gratefully.

‘I thought this stuff about sharks and barracuda attacking skin divers was supposed to be all hogwash?’

‘Not when they taste blood,’ Manning said as he gently swabbed the deep cuts with merthiolate. ‘And another thing. Always reload your spear gun after using it. You never know when you might need it in a hurry.’

‘I don’t think I’m ever likely to forget that again,’ Morrison said wryly and Seth appeared in the doorway.

‘The Bonaventure, she coming in now, Cap’n.’

‘You take over here,’ Manning said and turned to Morrison. ‘An old friend I want a word with.’

He opened a drawer, took out a flat package and went up on deck.

‘The Bonaventure was an old deep-sea fishing boat, a fifty-footer in green and white, the paintwork peeling from her sides in great strips. The wheelhouse was a good ten feet above the deck and as the boat came round, she dipped alarmingly from side-to-side as though slightly top-heavy.

There were two deck hands, a young boy in canvas jeans, deeply bronzed by the sun, and a thin, balding man with a walleye. They both wielded boat hooks and as the fenders clashed, Manning jumped across.

In the well, three tuna and a couple of wahoo lay jumbled together, flies buzzing around their dead mouths in great clouds. Sanchez leaned out of the wheelhouse and grinned. ‘Come on up, amigo.’

He was at least sixty, but strong and wiry, his body dried to Spanish leather by the sea and sun. When Manning went up the ladder, he found him pouring gin into a couple of dirty glasses. He turned and offered one.

‘Your health,’ he said gravely in Spanish.

‘And yours,’ Manning replied fluently. ‘How are things in Havana?’

‘Much as usual.’ The old man turned and spat through the window. ‘Once we had hope, but now that America has promised not to invade …’

Manning swallowed his gin and said, ‘I’ll have a small bet with you. A hundred dollars American. A year from today, Castro will no longer rule Cuba?’

The old man laughed, spat on his hand and grasped Manning’s firmly. ‘How could I refuse such an offer?’ He raised his glass. ‘To Castro, may he rot in Hell.’

He took a box of thin cigars from a drawer and offered one. ‘Maria – she is well? Still on Spanish Cay singing at this club. What is it called – the Caravel?’

Manning nodded. He took the package from his waistband and dropped it onto the chart table. ‘There’s her usual letter. How’s her mother?’

Sanchez sighed. ‘Not too good, amigo. Don’t tell Maria. She has enough to worry about.’ He took a soiled envelope from his shirt pocket and passed it across. ‘A letter from the old woman. In it, she of course says that she is fine. This is what she wishes Maria to think.’

‘Still no chance of getting her out?’

Sanchez shook his head. ‘Impossible. In any case, her health would not permit it.’ He clapped Manning on the shoulder. ‘Perhaps next year things will be better, eh? Then you will all be able to come back. You to the business they stole from you, Maria to her home. Things will be as they were.’

Manning shook his head. ‘Nothing stays still, Sanchez. Everything changes.’

‘Perhaps you are right.’ Sanchez sighed and took Manning’s hand. ‘Go with God, amigo, and tell Maria to take care. Two of our people were killed in Honduras last week, shot down in the street. Fidel has a long arm.’

‘In Cuba he may be God incarnate – in Nassau, they’d probably certify him.’ Manning grinned and started down the ladder. ‘See you next month.’

As he stepped across to his own boat, Morrison appeared on deck, followed by Seth. The American paused to light a cigarette. As he came forward, The Bonaventure turned out to the sea exposing her name and port of registration on her stern.

‘Havana?’ he said in surprise. ‘I didn’t know Cuban boats came this far north?’

‘They have to if they want tuna or wahoo,’ Manning said. ‘Since the revolution they’ve had to rely completely on their own boats. No one from the islands would go within a mile of the place. They have a nasty habit of impounding anything they particularly fancy in the name of the re volution.’

‘Do I detect a slight edge of bitterness?’

‘You should. I have a salvage business in Havana. When the fidelistas arrived they took it over along with just about every other foreign-owned firm in town. I only managed to clear the harbour in the Grace Abounding by the skin of my teeth.’

‘You don’t care for friend Castro, then?’

Manning shrugged. ‘He’s smart enough. He had to be to promote an eighty-two-man invasion into a popular revolution, but the cracks are beginning to show. He can’t last much longer.’

‘You mean the Russian affair?’

‘Something a lot more important from his point of view. The guagiros – the dirt farmers. The land was supposed to be parcelled out amongst them. Unfortunately a lot of it’s turned out to be virgin jungle or mountain and scrub. You might say the natives are getting restless.’

‘So maybe you’ll get that salvage business of yours back sooner than you think?’

‘No harm in hoping.’ Manning glanced at his watch. ‘If we move now, we might make Johnstown before dark. You could buy me that drink you promised. Even if we didn’t get you a tuna, the afternoon had its moments.’

‘My pleasure,’ Morrison said.

As he went below, Seth was already winding in the anchor. Manning went into the wheelhouse and started the engines. A moment later, he opened the throttle and turned out into the gulf.

2

Spanish Cay

It was late evening when they came into Spanish Cay and the beach was a white line of surf fringed by palm trees etched against a vivid orange sky.

As the Grace Abounding rounded the point into Johnstown harbour, a deep-sea cruiser moved out into the channel and careless laughter drifted across the water, gay and transitory, blending into the darkness with the muted throb of the engine.

Manning reduced speed and took the boat in towards the crumbling stone jetty that formed the east side of the harbour. A tall, handsome black in the uniform of the colonial police sat on the wall and smoked a cigarette. He got to his feet and grabbed the line Seth threw to him.

Manning cut the engines, reached for his old reefer jacket and went out on deck where Morrison waited for him. When they climbed the rusty iron ladder to the jetty, the young policeman was sitting on the wall again.

He smiled, showing firm white teeth. ‘Any luck, Mr Manning?’

Manning shook his head. ‘Not a damned thing, Joe.’ He turned to Morrison. ‘Have you met Sergeant Howard yet? He stands for the Empire in these parts, or what’s left of it. Keeps us all strictly in line.’

Morrison nodded. ‘We ran across each other when I flew in yesterday. How about joining us for a drink, sergeant?’

‘A little too early. Maybe I’ll take you up on it later.’

‘You do that,’ Morrison said and they moved away along the jetty, leaving him talking to Seth.

They could hear the strange, pulsating rhythm of the goombay, the Nassavian version of the calypso, as they turned along the waterfront and approached the Caravel. It faced directly onto the harbour and the terrace at the front was shaded by sea-almond trees.

Originally a cheap waterfront hotel patronized by deep-sea fishermen, sponge divers and others whose source of income was considerably more dubious, the Caravel was haunted during the season by tourists in search of atmosphere. The tariff, along with the amenities, had altered accordingly, but most of the original clientele still frequented the place.

Except for the addition of a small casino, little of the original had been changed. Old-fashioned fans still revolved in the ceiling in preference to air conditioning and the walls contained long, illuminated tanks of tropical fish.

The small dance floor was ringed by tightly packed tables, most of which were already occupied, for in the out-islands it was customary to dine early. A calypso band played on a small dais in one corner beside an archway which was covered by a bead curtain; several couples were dancing.

Manning and Morrison pushed their way through the crowd and the American ordered gin slings. Jimmy Walker was sitting at the end of the bar, a half-empty glass in front of him. He wore an R.A.F. flying jacket with the insignia removed and his old uniform cap was tilted over the young, reckless face.

He grinned at Manning. ‘Saw you anchored off Cat Cay this afternoon. Any luck?’

Manning shook his head. ‘How’s business?’

‘Can’t complain. Brought in a full load from Nassau this afternoon.’

‘How you keep that old Walrus flying I’ll never know,’ Manning said. ‘What about another drink?’

Walker emptied his glass and shook his head. ‘Got to refuel at the wharf, I’m taking some people over to Nassau later on to connect with the midnight flight to Miami. Tell Maria I’m sorry to miss her number.’

‘I’ll do that,’ Manning said gravely.

‘I just bet you will.’ Walker grinned impudently and turned away through the crowd.

Manning offered Morrison a cigarette and the American said, ‘I’m not sure I care for that young man. Too cocky by half.’

‘A little young, that’s all,’ Manning said. ‘He thinks he’s in love.’

‘And isn’t he?’

‘Who knows? He’s at an age when you fall in love with every personable woman you meet.’

‘A phase I’ve never managed to grow out of, I’m happy to say.’ Morrison emptied his glass. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll have a bath. What about joining me for dinner later?’

Manning shook his head. ‘Thanks all the same.’

‘Another time perhaps.’ Morrison opened his wallet and laid several banknotes on the bar. ‘A little something on account.’

Manning counted the money and frowned. ‘We agreed on one-fifty a day. There’s a hundred too much here.’

‘I figure I owe you a new harpoon gun at least.’ Morrison grinned. ‘What time in the morning? I’m still set on getting that tuna.’

‘No need to be too early. I’ll meet you on the jetty at eight.’

‘I’ll be looking forward to it.’

The American moved away through the crowd and Manning put the money in his hip pocket and ordered a large rum. As he lit another cigarette, the drum rolled and the dance floor cleared at once. The lights dimmed and a spot picked out the archway beside the band.

When Maria Salas stepped through the bead curtain, there was a sudden general sigh as if the crowd had caught its breath. She was wearing black leather riding pants, a white silk shirt knotted at her waist and a black Cordoban hat tilted at an angle, shading her face.

For a moment she stood there as if waiting for something and her fingers gently stroked the guitar and she started to sing.

She didn’t really have a voice and yet there was something there, a touch of the night perhaps, a dying fall that caught at the back of the throat. Probably no more than half a dozen people in the room understood what she was singing about, but it didn’t matter.

Manning remembered their first meeting that hot July afternoon. The fishing boat from Cuba packed with refugees, drifting helplessly in the gulf. It had been her tremendous quality of repose, of tranquillity almost, in spite of the situation, that had first attracted him.

It was not that she was beautiful. Her skin was olive-hued, the blue-black hair tied with a scarlet ribbon and yet, in that dramatic costume, every other woman in the room faded into insignificance.

As her song died away, there was a moment of breathless stillness followed by a roar of applause. She took it like a torero in the plaza at Mexico City, hat extended in her right hand, feet together. As Manning ordered another rum, she launched into a flamenco, dancing as she sang, stamping her high-heeled Spanish boots. She finished on a harsh, strident note that was infinitely exciting.

This time the applause was prolonged. She vanished through the bead curtain and returned to stand stiffly, heels together, turning slowly, her gaze travelling over the whole crowd. As her eyes met Manning’s, he raised his glass and she nodded slightly. She gave them one more song and at the end danced out through the bead curtain still singing, her voice dying away into the distance.

The calypso band struck up another goombay and Manning pushed his way through the crowd and went into the casino. As yet it was early and business was slack. One or two people stood at the roulette table, but the blackjack dealer was playing patience to kill the time until the rush started.

Kurt Viner, the owner of the Caravel, was sitting at a desk in the far corner checking the previous night’s takings, his manager hovering at his shoulder. A thin, greying German of fifty or so, he wore his white dinner jacket with a touch of aristocratic elegance.

As Manning entered the room, he looked up and waved. ‘Harry, how goes it?’

Manning took the two hundred and fifty dollars Morrison had given him and dropped them on the desk. ‘A little something on account. I’ve been letting the tab run away with me lately.’

Viner got to his feet and nodded to the manager. ‘Credit Mr Manning’s account. If you want me I’ll be in the office.’ He turned to Manning. ‘Let’s have a drink, Harry. Away from the noise.’

He crossed the green baize door in the corner and Manning followed him through. The room was beautifully furnished in contemporary Swedish style, the walls of natural wood panels alternating with handmade silk paper. A small bar curved out from the corner beside the window and Manning sat on one of the stools while Viner went behind.

‘Morrison must be a good client. What’s he do for a living?’

‘Real estate or something like that,’ Manning said. ‘Does it matter? They’re all the same. Paunchy, middle-aged businessmen with too much money looking for excitement. The first thing they do when they get here is unpack, dress like something out of Hemingway, come down to the wharf and expect to have a tuna handed to them on a platter.’

‘For which they pay handsomely, remember,’ Viner said. ‘And in dollars. Such a useful currency these days.’

‘A fact of which I’m duly grateful.’

‘You don’t like Morrison, then?’

‘Thanks to him I lost a harpoon gun, but he insisted on paying for it and he knows I’m insured. I suppose he’s better than most.’

‘He must be. Two hundred and fifty dollars is a fair day’s pay by any standards.’ Viner hesitated and then said slowly, ‘You know, your credit’s always good here, Harry, but it’s quite obvious you aren’t even making a living at the moment.’

‘Have you got a better suggestion?’

The German refilled his glass and said slowly, ‘You go to Miami occasionally, don’t you?’

Manning nodded. ‘So what?’

‘The Grace Abounding is a good-sized boat. You could carry passengers.’

Manning frowned. ‘You mean Cuban refugees? Illegal immigrants? Have you any idea what the penalties are?’

‘The rewards could be high.’

‘You’re telling me. Five years in jail. That coast is alive with small naval craft, especially since the Cuban crisis. What’s your interest, anyway? You don’t need that kind of money.’

‘You could say I have an affinity for refugees. I was one myself for several years after the war.’ Viner smiled. ‘Think it over, Harry. The offer is still open.’

Manning emptied his glass and stood up. ‘Thanks all the same, but things aren’t quite that tough. See you later.’

He left the room and went through the casino into the bar. For a moment he hesitated and then went out into the foyer past the reception desk and mounted the stairs to the first floor.

He was immediately conscious of the quiet. He passed along the broad carpeted corridor and somewhere a woman laughed, the sound of it curiously remote. The music from below might have come from another world.

He opened the door at the end of the corridor and went in. The room was a place of shadows, one shaded lamp standing on a small table in the centre. The French windows stood open to the terrace, the curtain lifting slightly in the wind as he crossed the room.

She was sitting in the darkness in an old wicker chair, a robe wrapped closely about her against the chill of the night air.

‘Hello, Harry!’ she said softly.

He gave her a cigarette. As the match flared in his cupped hand, she leaned forward, the lines of her face thrown sharply into relief, the eyes dark pools.

‘What kind of day have you had?’

‘No worse than usual. It’s a great life if you don’t weaken.’

He was unable to keep the bitterness from his voice and she shook her head. ‘You can’t go on like this, Harry, brooding about the past. You had a thriving business once in Havana, but you lost it. Why can’t you accept that instead of living from day to day hoping for some miracle to give it back to you.’

‘Nobody’s having to support me,’ he said. ‘I’m making a living.’

‘Only just.’ There was an edge of anger in her voice. ‘What kind of a life is this for a man like you? You started in Havana with nothing. Why can’t you start again?’

‘Maybe I’m tired,’ he said. ‘I’m fifteen years older, remember. I’ve just been talking to Viner. He wants me to start running refugees into Florida. A quick passage by night and no questions asked.’

She leaned forward in alarm. ‘You didn’t accept?’

‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’ve still got that much sense left.’ He took the envelope from his shirt pocket and dropped it onto her lap. ‘A letter from your mother.’

She got to her feet with a slight exclamation and hurried into the bedroom. He watched her feverishly tear open the envelope in the light of the lamp and turned away, leaning on the rail.

After a while she came back outside and stood beside him. ‘How was Sanchez?’

‘Seemed pretty fit to me.’

‘Did he say anything?’

He looked down, trying to gauge the expression in her eyes, but her face was in shadow. ‘Only that two of your people were murdered in Honduras last week. He told me to tell you to watch out. That Castro has a long arm.’

‘Then he should take care,’ she said simply. ‘He might lose his hand.’

Manning frowned. ‘Are you mixed up in anything, Maria? Anything I should know about?’

She smiled. ‘Nothing for you to worry about, Harry. Nothing at all.’

Manning turned and leaned against the rail again and she stood beside him so that his shoulder touched hers lightly each time she stirred. The wind was freshening off the water and a light mist rolled across the harbour. He felt at peace and restless, happy and discontented, all at the same time. It had been a bad day and the past came to easily to mind. He sighed and straightened.

She looked up, her face a white blur in the darkness. ‘What are you thinking about?’

‘Life!’ he said. ‘How you can never be sure about anything. Not really.’

She moved close, her hands gripping his lapels tightly, and he held her in his arms. Out beyond the point, the sea was beginning to lift into whitecaps.

‘Storm before morning,’ he said.

She looked out to sea and shivered. ‘Let’s go inside, Harry. My next show’s at eleven. That’s three hours away.’

She gently pulled herself free and went in. For a moment, he stayed there, looking out to sea and then a small wind moaned eerily as it slid over the rooftop, filling him with a vague, irrational unease. He turned quickly and followed her.

He lay there, caught between the shadowy lines of sleep and waking for quite some time, aware that the wind had strengthened and somewhere far out to sea a single clap of thunder echoed hollowly.

After a while, he stretched out a hand and realized that he was alone. He threw back the bedclothes and reached for his watch. It was just after eleven. For a moment, he sat there frowning and then remembered that it was Friday and she had a late show. She’d obviously decided not to waken him.

He got to his feet, padded across the bathroom and turned on the shower. The cold stinging lances of water invigorated him and by the time he was dressed his body was glowing and alive.

It was eleven-thirty when he went downstairs and the wind was rattling the shutters of the windows along the terrace. There were still a few people in the casino, but the bar was strangely deserted.

Morrison was sitting on a high stool, drinking a gin sling and leafing through an old yachting magazine. He looked up and smiled. ‘Hello there. How about a drink?’

Manning looked down at the deserted dance floor with a frown. ‘What’s happening around here? When did the show finish?’

‘There wasn’t a late show tonight,’ Morrison said and a sudden gust of wind rattled the front of the building. ‘Looks like we’re in for a blow.’

As Manning started to turn, that vague, irrational unease moving inside him again, Viner came in from the casino carrying a cash box. As he started to go behind the bar, Manning caught him by the arm.

‘What the hell’s going on here? Maria told me she had another show at eleven. Where is she?’

Viner put the cash box down on the bar and sighed heavily. ‘Maybe you’d better have a drink, Harry.’

Before Manning could reply, a cry sounded outside and the front door burst open, a gust of wind sending it crashing back against the wall.

The man who staggered in had been running hard and his oilskin coat streamed water. He grabbed for the edge of the bar and leaned against it, moaning softly.

He was an old deep-sea fisherman called Saunders who ran a charter boat during the season. Viner went behind the bar, poured rum into a glass and pushed it across.

‘Drink that and pull yourself together. What’s happened?’

‘Jimmy Walker’s gone down in the sea in that old plane of his.’ Saunders swallowed some of the rum and coughed. ‘I was about two miles out close by Blackstone Reef. There’s a sea like a millrace running out there.’

‘Never mind that,’ Manning said. ‘What happened?’

‘Search me. There was one hell of a bang. When I looked up, she fell into the water like a stone.’

‘Didn’t you go back to help?’ Morrison demanded.

‘In my old tub? Mister, the way that sea’s running I’d all I could do to get in here in one piece. I figured the best thing to do was to get some help – real help.’

There was a sudden crash as Viner dropped the rum bottle he was holding. He swayed slightly, his face very white, and steadied himself against the bar.

‘For God’s sake, pull yourself together,’ Manning told him. ‘Grab a coat and let’s get out of here.’

‘But you don’t understand, Harry,’ Viner said. ‘Maria was on that plane.’

Manning stood there gazing at him, the coldness flooding through him. At that moment, the heavens opened with a clap of thunder and rain started to rattle against the roof.

3

Dark Waters

It was raining hard as the Grace Abounding left the shelter of the harbour and turned out to sea. Manning opened the throttle wide and she lifted to meet the waves with a surge of power that left Joe Howard in his old police launch far behind.

Manning felt strangely calm, pushing all other possibilities from his mind except the one that they would get there in time to do some good. He fumbled for a cigarette and Morrison handed him one quickly and offered a light.

‘What kind of a chance have they got?’

‘Pretty good,’ Manning said. ‘It’ll take a lot to sink that old Walrus and Jimmy carries a full complement of dinghies and so on in case of ditching. He was strict about things like that. Came from his R.A.F. training, I suppose.’

‘What about the reef where they came down?’

‘The one thing I’m worried about.’

Old Saunders removed his pipe and nodded. ‘The sea can play strange tricks out there when the weather gets rough.’

As the Grace Abounding rose to the crest of a wave, a sudden squall hit her broadside and the whole boat shuddered and slid sideways into the valley below.

Morrison and Saunders were thrown violently to one side and Manning grabbed for the wheel as it spun and brought her round in time to meet the next wave as it lifted to meet them.

In the light from the binnacle, Morrison looked sick and frightened. ‘Does that happen often?’

‘Usually not more than once.’ Manning said dryly.

The door of the saloon opened, light flooded out, and Seth came up the companionway carrying a jug of tea and a mug. ‘Man, but there’s a sea running tonight.’

‘You can say that again,’ Morrison told him. ‘How’s Viner?’

‘Sick to his stomach as usual. We might as well have left him on dry land.’

Manning swallowed some of the scalding tea and passed the mug to Saunders. The red and green navigation lights cast a strange glow over the deck and beyond, nothing existed except the sea and the night.

A few moments later, it stopped raining and the moon appeared in a patch of clear sky between clouds that moved smoothly across the sky. The wind died and the squall was over as suddenly as it had begun.

In the moonlight, the sea stretched to the horizon and the Grace Abounding slid across great heaving swells smoothly, her prow biting into the water. Above the roar of the engine, a hollow booming sounded and a white fountain of water lifted fifty feet into the night.

‘What in hell was that?’ Morrison demanded in alarm.

‘A blow-hole,’ Saunders said. ‘Always happens in bad weather. The reef’s hollow underneath.’

Conversation died as they approached. Waves rolled in to dash upon the great, jagged black rampart that towered thirty feet above the sea. An undertow sucked at them as Manning started to turn to port and there was a hollow slapping sound against the keel of the boat. At one side, the water broke into spray, foaming high into the air, while all around, white patches appeared as jagged rocks showed through.

As he throttled down, the steering became increasingly sluggish and they drifted in towards a great green slab of rock. Manning and Seth heaved on the wheel together and they were round the southern tip of the reef and into the comparative shelter of the lee side.

The sea stretched away into the night, surrounding rocks and cays clearly visible in the bright moonlight. There was no sign of the Walrus. Seth opened the front window and Manning switched on the spot and turned it slowly, the beam splaying across the water towards the reef.

Saunders called out excitedly and pointed. Caught in the light of the beam was a section of silver fuselage. Seth ran to the stern to throw out the anchor and Manning switched off the engine. Morrison and Saunders had gone up on deck. As Manning followed, the American gave a cry of horror.

Manning climbed on top of the wheelhouse and turned the spot and his stomach heaved. In the harsh white light, the sea boiled as dozens of sharks plunged and fought like mad dogs over a piece of meat. One great ugly head lifted out of the water, a human arm clamped between its teeth, before plunging down to escape the attentions of three others.

Manning jumped to the deck and ran into the cabin. When he came back he was carrying a Garand automatic carbine. He stood at the rail, bitter, impotent anger rising inside him, and pumped round after round into the gleaming bodies.

It was all to no purpose. The sea boiled over in a white cauldron as those who struggled in their death agony, thrashing the water in fury, became in turn the victims.

Blood fountained up, lumps of raw flesh drifted on top of the water, the sharks twisted and turned until the whole thing was like something out of a terrible nightmare and the sea itself seemed to cry out in agony.

As the last shot echoed flatly across the water, Manning threw the useless carbine to the deck and stumbled below. For a little while, the others stood there looking helplessly at each other and then Seth went into the wheelhouse and turned off the spot.

Manning sat at the table in the saloon smoking a cigarette, an empty glass in front of him. He reached for the bottle and the door opened and Viner came in. He closed it quickly and slumped down in the opposite chair. His hair was soaked by the rain and he looked very pale.

‘What’s it like out there?’ Manning said calmly. ‘Have they finished yet?’

Viner shook his head and buried his face in his hands. Manning half-filled his glass with rum and pushed it across.

‘Drink some of that. You’ll feel better.’

Viner shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. I’d rather have a cigarette.’

Manning gave him one and the German lit it carefully, coughing as the smoke caught at the back of his throat. It was very quiet there in the saloon with the spray spattering lightly against the windows.

After a while, Manning said, ‘Where was she going – Miami?’

Viner nodded. ‘She had a letter from the Cuban refugee people there. They wanted her to go on tour in the States to raise money for their organization.’

‘But why go without telling me?’

‘She thought it would be best that way. A clean break.’

Manning shook his head. ‘I don’t get it. I don’t get it at all. There must have been some other reason. Something that makes sense.’

‘All right, Harry,’ Viner said. ‘I’ll give it to you straight. Ever since you arrived on Spanish Cay you’ve been drowning in a sea of self-pity. You seemed to think you were the only one to take a knock over the Cuban affair. And then Maria came along. At least she managed to stop you from drinking yourself into the grave, but ever since, you’ve used her like a crutch. She decided it was time you learned to walk on your own two feet again.’

Manning sat there staring at him, a slight frown on his face and then he emptied his glass, got up and went outside. Saunders, Morrison, and Seth were talking quietly in the wheelhouse and he brushed past them and went and stood at the rail, thinking about her down there in the dark water, knowing that everything Viner had said was true.

Gradually a faint pearly luminosity appeared and he was able to distinguish the greyness of the mist curling up from the water and the dark, silver lances of the rain.

The nightmare was over. The sea lifted in a slight swell, creaming against the base of the reef. The blowhole was silent. The sharks were gone.

The police launch was anchored twenty or thirty yards to port and Joe Howard emerged from the wheelhouse and raised an arm. He dropped over the stern into his dinghy, cast off and sculled across.

When he climbed over the rail, his normally good-humoured face was grave. ‘I’ve radioed Nassau. They’re sending a salvage boat and a couple of divers. Should be here about noon.’

Manning shook his head. ‘There was no need. I’m going down myself.’

‘Don’t be a fool, Harry!’ Viner said sharply as he emerged from the wheelhouse followed by the others.

‘It’s my neck.’

Seth shook his head and said softly, ‘Nothing for you down there, Harry. Maybe a tiger shark or two hoping for something the others missed, but it ain’t likely.’

‘I’ll see for myself.’ Manning turned to Howard. ‘Sorry, Joe, but that’s the way it is.’

The young policeman sighed and said to Seth, ‘Get your spare aqualung ready while you’re about it. I’ll go down with him.’ He grinned tiredly at Manning. ‘I am supposed to be in charge here in case you’d forgotten.’

‘Are you two crazy or something?’ Morrison said.

Manning ignored him and started to take off his shoes and outer clothing. As Joe Howard followed his example, he smiled reassuringly at the American.

‘Don’t worry, Mr Morrison. We’ve done this sort of thing before.’

They kept on shirts and pants as some protection against the coldness of the water. When Seth brought the equipment up from the saloon, he and Saunders helped them into it quickly.

No one bothered to talk. For Manning, there was a desperate unreality about everything. It was a bad dream. A dream from which he might awaken at any moment, stretch out his hand in the darkness and find her there beside him.

When he went over the rail, the sharp coldness of the water was like a physical blow, bringing him back to reality. He hovered just below the surface to adjust his air supply and went down through the opaque grey water without waiting for his companion.

The plane loomed out of the shadows almost at once. It had settled on a bank of sea grass which stretched to the base of the reef and as he swam towards it he was aware of the undertow tugging at his body, pulling him towards the great rock face and the caverns beneath.

The main fabric of the Walrus was still intact, but the tail and the baggage compartment had completely disappeared leaving a great ragged hole at one end of the fuselage, the metal twisted and blackened as if by some tremendous explosion. As Manning hovered beside it, Joe Howard arrived.

There was a slight frown on his face and he looked worried. Manning patted him on the shoulder reassuringly and they swam inside. The seats were still there and the door to the pilot’s cabin swung gently in the current, but there were no bodies. The passengers and crew had vanished without a trace.

Howard went into the cabin and Manning swam outside and waited for him, clinging to the fuselage. The sun was rising and the first pale rays slanted down through the grey water, but there was still that strange absence of life.

Seth had been right. There was nothing for him here. Maria Salas had vanished along with her companions as completely as if she had never existed. He was about to kick out towards the surface when Joe appeared beside him and tapped him on the shoulder.

He pointed to the pale fronds stretched towards the base of the reef, pulled by the undertow. Manning realized at once what he meant. Over the years, the action of the sea had scoured away the base of the cliff, creating a great cavern underneath. There was always the possibility that one or more of the bodies, caught in the undertow, had been sucked inside before the sharks could get them.

He let go of the plane, moving towards the base of the cliff, and the current pulled him along. The entrance was a dark slash in the rock no more than three feet high and he ducked inside and waited for Joe Howard to join him.

The cave was full of small, rainbow-coloured fish and arched above his head like a cathedral. The early morning sun streamed out of the blow-hole in the roof and filtered down through the water in great translucent rays.

It was strangely peaceful and somehow cut off from the world outside and then Joe Howard appeared beside him and the cloud of fish disintegrated in alarm, exposing a body pinned to the roof of the cavern.

It was Jimmy Walker. He was wearing an inflated life jacket and floated there against the roof, face down. His eyes were closed, his limbs perfectly relaxed. There was no mark on him anywhere. Manning and Howard rose together, the fish scattered to avoid them. They each took an arm and swam back towards the entrance.

They paused at twenty feet for several minutes to decompress and surfaced slightly astern of the Grace Abounding. Saunders was the first to see them. He cried out excitedly and the sound died in his throat as he saw their burden.

Seth had put the ladder over the side in readiness and he came down it quickly and took a firm grip on Walker’s life jacket. Morrison leaned over to help him. When Manning climbed over the rail, the body was laid on its back beside the wheelhouse.

‘Not a mark on him,’ Saunders said in awe. ‘How come they missed him?’

Manning pushed up his mask and spat out his rubber mouthpiece. ‘We found him under the reef. He must have still been at the controls when the plane touched bottom. That undertow must have been tremendous last night. The moment he emerged from the cabin, it would have taken him straight under.’

‘How come his life jacket’s inflated?’

‘Probably a reflex action as he went under. Maybe he realized what was happening and hoped to come up through the blow-hole.’

He shivered, thinking of Jimmy Walker down there in the darkness with no one to help him, and Morrison said, ‘What about the others?’

‘Nothing left to find,’ Joe Howard told him. ‘Looked to me as if there’d been some sort of explosion.’

The American frowned. ‘What was it? One of the engines?’

Joe Howard shook his head. ‘Whatever it was, it was in the baggage compartment. Blew the tail clean off. She must have gone down like a stone.’

There was silence and Saunders drew in his breath. After a moment, Seth said slowly, ‘You mean it wasn’t no accident, Joe?’

Manning dropped his aqualung to the deck, picked up a towel and draped it over Jimmy Walker’s face. When he straightened, he looked incredibly calm.

‘That’s exactly what he means,’ he said.

4

A Man Called Garcia

When Manning opened the door the bed was still rumpled and unmade as he had left it and he moved across and gently touched the dent in the pillow where her head had lain. He shivered involuntarily and opened the French windows, allowing the early morning sun to come flooding in.

He searched the room thoroughly, starting with the wardrobe and going through every drawer and cupboard. He found plenty of his own things, but there was nothing of hers. Not even a handkerchief. It was as if she had never existed.

He stood there listening to the stillness for a moment and then stripped to the waist, went into the bathroom and washed the salt from his face and body. He was pulling a clean shirt over his head when the door opened and Joe Howard came in.

He sat on the end of the bed and took a slip of paper from the breast pocket of his tunic. ‘I’ve got the passenger list here. There were only four of them: Maria, an American businessman called Fallon, Mrs Norah Hamilton, an English tourist, and a man called Perez.’

Manning turned slowly, a slight frown on his face. ‘Cuban?’

‘He was staying at the Old Ship Tavern. Been here for maybe two weeks. Small, middle-aged man with a walkingstick.

Manning nodded. ‘I remember him. Limped badly on his right foot.’

‘It wasn’t surprising,’ Howard said. ‘He was lucky to have one. A Castro agent tossed a bomb at him in Vera Cruz a couple of months back. Real name was Dr Miguel de Rodriguez, a prominent Cuban refugee. He’d been having too much success in the Central American states whipping up opposition to the Castro regime.’

‘What was he doing here?’

‘Recuperating quietly, which explains the assumed name. Nassau informed me as a matter of course when he came in. I didn’t know he was leaving last night. Obviously someone else did.’

‘And planted a bomb in the baggage compartment?’

‘Easily enough done. The Walrus was moored out there beyond the point on her own for several hours after dark. Hard luck on the other passengers, but then I suppose these people never give that side of it a thought.’

Manning found that his hands were trembling. He lit a cigarette and stood at the window. ‘What happens now?’

‘The Commissioner wants me in Nassau right away. With luck I should be back by this evening. I’ll let you know if anything turns up.’ He moved to the door and hesitated. ‘She was a nice girl, Harry. I’m sorry! Damned sorry!’

The door closed softly behind him and Manning stayed there looking out across the harbour for a while, thinking about it all, and then he reached for his cap and went downstairs.

The bar was deserted and he went out on the terrace and found Viner having a late breakfast on his own. The German snapped his fingers for the waiter as Manning joined him.

‘What about some breakfast, Harry?’

Manning shook his head. ‘Just coffee.’

The waiter brought another cup, filled it and retired. Viner continued with his meal, obviously embarrassed, and Manning lit a cigarette and looked over the water at the dim bulk of Andros shimmering in the heat haze.

Viner finished eating and carefully fitted a cigarette into an elegant silver holder. ‘Your coffee’s getting cold.’

Manning emptied his cup and helped himself to some more. ‘Where’s Morrison? I was supposed to be taking him out at the crack of dawn.’

‘Under the circumstances, he didn’t think you’d be interested. Decided to take a run across to Nassau. Joe gave him a lift in the police launch.’

‘Did he tell you about Rodriguez?’

The German nodded. ‘It doesn’t make sense, Harry. To kill a man they think their enemy is one thing, but this sort of affair can only do their cause harm.’

‘Maybe they want to put a little fear into all of us,’ Manning said. ‘Show us they mean business. I think Joe was wrong about the way they planted the bomb, though.’

Viner looked surprised. ‘I thought his theory seemed pretty sound.’

‘So did I at first, but I’ve been thinking about it. Jimmy Walker always supervised loading himself. He had a thing about it ever since one of his shipping clerks tried to run a little heroin into Vera Cruz and Jimmy nearly took the drop for it. And he always locked that luggage compartment. He’d have noticed if anyone had tampered with that door.’

‘Then the bomb must have been taken on board in someone’s luggage. Probably by Rodriguez himself.’

Manning nodded. ‘Whoever it was wouldn’t know a thing about it. Probably planted at their hotel. Lots of people would have the opportunity. Chambermaids, waiters and so on. I shouldn’t have thought Rodriguez would have fallen for a thing like that, though. A man in his position only survives by being careful.’

‘Obviously he wasn’t careful enough,’ Viner said dryly. ‘But even if the bomb was planted in another passenger’s luggage, it shouldn’t be too difficult to find a culprit. We could start by checking on all staff taken on by the hotels in question during the past fortnight.’

‘A good point,’ Manning said. ‘Was anyone on that list staying here?’

Viner shook his head. ‘We know Rodriguez was at the Old Ship Tavern. We could make some enquiries there for a start. You know, the owner, Bill Lumley, as well as I do. He’ll help in any way he can.’

Manning swallowed the rest of his coffee and stood up. ‘I’ve got a better idea. You go see Bill. I’ll call at the shipping office and ask them for another copy of that passenger list. That’ll tell us where the other two were staying.’

Viner nodded. ‘I’ll meet you at the Old Ship then. What about the police?’

Manning shrugged. ‘Joe won’t get back till late this afternoon. Our bird could have flown the coop by then. I wouldn’t like that to happen.’

‘I don’t think I should, either,’ Viner said.

Manning left him there, went down the steps and turned along the waterfront. Seth was sitting on the sea wall talking to two sailors. He jumped down and crossed the dusty road.

‘We going out today, Harry?’

Manning shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’

He felt as if he were under deep water and everything seemed to move in slow motion. All sounds were muffled and far off. Even his own voice seemed to belong to a stranger and again he had that peculiar feeling that it was only a dream. That somehow he would wake up and that everything would be different.

The shipping office was dark and cool when he went inside. The black clerk was drinking a glass of ice water and he put it down hastily, his face sober.

‘What can I do for you, Mr Manning?’

‘I’d like a look at that passenger list,’ Manning said. ‘The one you showed Sergeant Howard.’

As the clerk started to search through a mass of papers, the door at the rear opened and a young black man entered. As he took off his jacket, the first man found what he was looking for.

‘This is it, Mr Manning. This is the one Sergeant Howard took a copy of.’ Course I didn’t make the original out. That was Bill here. He’s the night man.’

Bill moved forward, glanced at the passenger list and nodded. ‘That’s it, Mr Manning. That’s the final copy I made after Mr Walker left.’

‘Final copy?’ Manning said. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Well, sometimes people don’t show up for the flight,’ he explained. ‘When that happens we miss them off the final copy.’

Manning felt a coldness inside him. In that single instant, everything jumped back into focus. He leaned across the counter and said carefully, ‘Did someone fail to make the flight last night?’

The clerk nodded. ‘A Mr Garcia. He booked his seat around noon, but didn’t show up at flight time.’

‘And what about his luggage?’

‘Oh, that was on the plane. I told him it had to be here by seven. Mr Walker liked it stowed aboard early.’

‘Did you tell Sergeant Howard about this?’

The young clerk shook his head. ‘I ain’t seen him yet. Been sleeping. Only just heard about the accident half an hour ago. That’s why I came in.’

Manning turned slowly, found Seth standing at his shoulder. ‘You know what this means?’

Seth nodded soberly. ‘He’ll have left the island by now, Harry. Probably all arranged beforehand.’

Manning shook his head. ‘Never mind that. Get down to the harbour quick. See if you can find a boat that left last night, probably for Nassau. It shouldn’t be too difficult. I’m going to see Viner. I’ll meet you at the boat.’

Seth trotted away and Manning turned back along the waterfront. The Old Ship was a couple of hundred yards farther on, not far from the jetty. As he approached, he saw Viner standing by the main gate.

The German spread his hands in a vague Continental gesture. ‘No luck, Harry. Bill Lumley hasn’t taken on any new help since last season. All his present staff are islanders. Been with him for years.’

‘I’ve had a little more luck than that,’ Manning told him. ‘They missed someone off the passenger list. Man called Garcia. Apparently he never showed at flight time, but his luggage went aboard.’

‘Do you think he’ll still be here?’

‘Not a chance. I’ve sent Seth along the waterfront to see what he can find out.’

At that moment there was a shout and they turned to see Seth running towards them. Sweat poured down the big man’s face and his chest was heaving.

‘You were right, Harry. Manny Johnson took someone over to Nassau and it sounds like our man. He was sitting in Flo’s Bar around seven last night when this guy came in. Flo says they had a row. The trip had been fixed up two days before, but Manny wanted to call it off because of the weather. Flo says he only went because Garcia promised him another twenty quid.’

Manning slapped him on the shoulder. ‘Good man. Go and cast off. We’re getting out of here fast.’

Seth ran along the jetty and Manning said to Viner, ‘You could check on the other two hotels in case we’re on a wild goose chase, but I don’t think so.’

He moved away and the German said sharply, ‘Be careful, Harry. These people play rough.’

Manning turned, a slow, dangerous smile on his face like a fuse burning. ‘I only hope they do.’

He ran along the jetty, jumped down to the deck and went into the wheelhouse as Seth cast off. He opened the throttle and as the Grace Abounding strained forward with a sudden surge, swung her out of harbour into the gulf.

5

Whistle Up the Duppies

They came into Nassau in the early afternoon. As the Grace Abounding skirted the green shoals of Athol Island, a great white liner moved out of the wide harbour, her rails lined with tourists taking a last look at New Providence.

The waterfront was crowded with work boats from the out-islands carrying everything from vegetables and fish to passengers and poultry. It was more like a marketplace than anything else and thronged with colorfully dressed natives talking endlessly amongst themselves, arguing good-humouredly as they bargained.

They tied up at an old jetty on the other side of the harbour and worked their way along Bay Street, looking for Manny Johnson’s boat. They found it within half an hour and Manning dropped down to the deck and looked into the cabin. It was empty. As he climbed back onto the wharf, Seth turned from a couple of fishermen who sat on the wall baiting their lines,

‘Seems Manny went on the town in a big way last night. Tossed his money around like it was going out of style.’

Probably flat on his back in some flea-pit sleeping it off,’ Manning said.

‘Never knew him to save his money when he could be drinking. Maybe had his sleep and started over again?’

‘Could be. Start at the other end of Bay Street. I’ll take this side. Try every joint you see. Somebody must know where he is.’ Manny glanced at his watch. ‘I’ll meet you back here in a couple of hours.’

Seth moved into the crowd at once and Manning started to work his way along the waterfront, calling in all the bars. He was wasting his time. Manny Johnson seemed to have covered most of them on the previous night, but no one had any idea where he was now.

It was just after four o’clock when he returned to the boat. He was hot and tired and there was a dull persistent ache somewhere at the back of his head. He lit a cigarette and leaned on the parapet, looking out over the harbour, wondering if Seth was having any better luck. After a while he turned to look along the waterfront and saw Morrison crossing the street towards him.

There was a wide grin on the American’s face. ‘Say, I’d no idea you were coming over today.’

‘Didn’t know myself,’ Manning said. ‘Something came up.’

‘Sorry about breaking our date this morning, but under the circumstances I didn’t think you’d be interested. When Joe Howard said he was coming to Nassau I thought I’d go along for the ride. Never really had the chance to look the place over on my way in.’

‘It’s quite a town,’ Manning said. ‘Plenty of night life and a first-rate casino.’

‘Sounds interesting,’ Morrison wiped sweat from his face with a handkerchief. ‘Too hot for comfort. What about a drink?’

Out of the corner of his eye Manning saw Seth emerge from the crowd and hesitate. ‘No thanks. Got some business to attend to. Maybe some other time.’

He left the American standing there and joined Seth. ‘Any luck?’

The big man nodded. ‘Took some doing, but I finally made it. He’s got a room in an hotel not far from here. What was Morrison after?’

‘Wanted me to have a drink with him. I had to chop him off pretty short, but it can’t be helped.’

It took them about five minutes to reach their destination, a seedy tenement used as an hotel by seamen. It wasn’t the sort of establishment that kept a receptionist. They entered a dark and gloomy hall and mounted a flight of wooden stairs. Seth opened a door at the far end of the corridor and led the way in.

The stench was appalling and Manning stumbled across to the window and opened the shutters. For several moments he stood there enjoying the cool breeze from the harbour and then he turned and looked down at Manny Johnson.

He lay on his back, mouth opened and twisted to one side, the soiled and filthy sheets half covering him and draping down to the floor. Manning sat on the edge of the bed, pulled him upright and slapped him gently across the face.

When the old man opened his eyes, he gazed at him with a peculiar fixed stare, and then something seemed to click and a slow smile appeared on his face.

‘Harry Manning. What the hell are you doing here?’

‘No time to explain that now, Manny. I want information and I want it fast.’ Manning gave him a cigarette and a light. ‘You ran someone over from Spanish Cay last night. A man called Garcia.’

The old man rubbed a knuckle into his bloodshot eyes and nodded. ‘That’s right. What do you want him for? He owe you money?’

Manning ignored the question. ‘Any idea where he went?’

‘Search me. He paid up like a gent and hopped it.’

‘Did he take a cab?’

Manny shook his head. ‘He hired one of the kids who bum around the wharf to carry his bag.’

‘Who was the kid?’

‘You can’t miss him. Hangs around the wharf all the time. Wears one of those American football jerseys some tourist gave him. Yellow thing with twenty-two in big letters on the back. Reaches to his knees.’

Manning turned enquiringly to Seth and he nodded. ‘I know the boy.’

Manning got to his feet. ‘Thanks Manny. At least you’ve given us something to go on.’

‘My pleasure,’ the old man said. ‘Now if you’ll kindly get to hell out of here, maybe I can get some sleep.’

They found the boy sitting on the wharf, a few yards away from Manny’s boat, with a fishing line, a small black dog curled up beside him. He was perhaps twelve years old and the yellow football jersey he wore contrasted vividly with his ebony skin.

Seth grinned down at him. ‘Doing any good?’

The boy shook his head. ‘They looking the other way. This ain’t my lucky day.’

‘Maybe it could be.’ Manning produced a pound note and folded it between his fingers.

The boy’s eyes went very round. ‘What you want, mister?’

‘You know Mr Johnson from Spanish Cay?’

The boy nodded. ‘That’s his boat down there.’

‘He brought in a passenger last night,’ Manning said. ‘He hired you to carry his bag. I want to know where he went.’

‘For a pound?’ Manning nodded and the boy grinned. ‘Mister, that’s easy.’

He handed his line and rod to another boy who sat on the edge of the wharf a few feet away. Then he got to his feet, nudged the dog with his toe and moved across Bay Street.

Manning and Seth had difficulty in keeping up with him as he trotted along the crowded pavement. He turned into a narrow alley and they followed him through a maze of back streets. Finally, he halted on the corner of a small square that was entirely surrounded by dilapitated clapboard houses.

He pointed to one in the far corner. ‘That’s it mister. That’s where he went. He paid me off in the back yard. I think he must have been a Cuban. When the lady opened the door, she called him Juan.’

Manning gave him the pound and the boy spat on it and grinned. ‘Anytime you want anything, just holler. I’m always down on the wharf there.’

He whistled to his dog and ran back the way they had come.

Manning turned to Seth. ‘I want you to stay here. Give me ten minutes and then come looking.’

Seth frowned. ‘Maybe it’s time we called in the police, Harry. Let them handle it.’

Manning ignored him and moved across the square. The front door was boarded up and he followed a side passage that brought him into a back yard littered with empty tins and refuse of every description. He mounted four stone steps to the door and knocked.

Footsteps approached and it opened a few inches. A woman’s voice said, ‘Who is it?’

‘I’m looking for Juan,’ Manning said. ‘Juan Garcia. I’m an old friend of his.’

There was the rattle of a chain and the door opened. ‘You’d better come in,’ she said and walked back along the corridor.

He closed the door and followed, wrinkling his nose at the stale smell compounded of cooking odours and urine. She opened the door, clicked on a light and led the way into a room. It was reasonably clean with a carpet on the floor and a double bed against the far wall.

She was a large, heavily built woman running dangerously to seed, the coffee-coloured skin and the thick lips an in dication of her mixed blood. She was still handsome in a bold, coarse sort of way and a sudden smile of interest appeared on her face.

‘I’m Juan’s girl – Hannah. Anything I can do?’

There was an unmistakable invitation in her voice and Manning grinned. ‘Not really.’

‘Is it business?’

‘You could call it that.’

‘Well that’s nice.’ She sat on the edge of the bed and smiled. ‘Give me a cigarette and tell me all about it.’

She patted the bed beside her and Manning obliged. The gaudy housecoat she was wearing fell open when she crossed her knees revealing black stockings, the flesh bulging over the tops.

‘I thought I knew most of Juan’s friends. How come you’ve never been here before?’

‘I move around a lot,’ Manning said. ‘Never in one place for long. Where did you say Juan has gone?’

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.