Dark Side of the Street - Jack Higgins [50]
Vaughan watched with interest for a couple of minutes, then closed the outer steel door, turned the dial up to maximum and went up the stairs quickly.
A mile the other side of Gloucester, he pulled up at a phone box and dialled World Wide Exports in London.
"Hello, sweetie, I'm afraid things didn't go according to plan at all here. Our friends are now on their way to Dorset."
"That's a great pity. What are you going to do about it?"
"I think I'd better handle things personally from now on. I'll see they get the usual transportation, but somehow, I don't think they're going to manage to raise a landfall."
"That sounds promising. I'll pass the message along."
"You do that. I'll follow in another boat to report personally. Should be there for breakfast."
"I'll let him know."
The line went dead and Vaughan moved out, whistling softly, got into the Spitfire and drove rapidly away.
10
Three to Four-- Rain Squalls
Upton Magna was a fishing village which in other times had enjoyed a considerable importance, but now its population had dwindled to little more than two hundred and there were few boats in the small harbour.
Bragg's boatyard was out on the point beside an old stone jetty, a collection of dilapidated clapboard buildings, untidy stacks of ageing timber and a line of boats hauled clear of the water that looked as if they never expected to sail again.
It was just after half past nine when Vaughan entered the village and drove along the main street. There was a small, whitewashed public house about half way along with a car park behind. He left the Spitfire there, well out of sight in the shadows, and went the rest of the way on foot.
There was a light at the window on the right of the front door of the house directly underneath the faded board sign that carried the legend George Bragg--Boat-builder--Yachts for hire. He went up the steps to the rickety porch and peered in through the window.
The room was half office, half living quarters and hopelessly cluttered and untidy. Beyond the wooden reception desk beside the entrance, George Bragg was reading a newspaper at a table which seemed to be covered with a week's accumulation of dirty dishes.
He was well into his sixties, a great bear of a man with a grizzled untidy beard. He got to his feet and, to Vaughan's surprise, reached for a crutch. He picked up an enamel mug and hobbled to the coffee pot on the stove, his right foot dragging awkwardly in a plaster cast.
Vaughan pushed open the door and went inside. Bragg turned quickly in surprise, still holding the mug in one hand and the coffee pot in the other.
"I wasn't expecting you, Mr. Smith."
"What happened to the foot?" Vaughan said.
Bragg shrugged. "Bloody silly, really. Tripped and fell over a pile of scrap on my way through the yard the other night."
"Tanked up to the eyeballs as usual no doubt," Vaughan said. "How bad is it?"
"I've broken a couple of bones."
"Good! As it happens that suits me very nicely. Is the Pride of Man ready for sea?"
"As always, just like you ordered. Are you taking her out?"
He was a man stamped with failure. It showed clearly in the broken veins on his face, the bleary drink-sodden eyes, but he was desperately eager to please this strange, dark young man with the white face who was the one thing which had stood between him and ruin for almost two years.
"Not this time," Vaughan said. "But some people will be arriving within the next hour at the outside. Two men and a girl. They'll give you the usual password and they'll expect to be passed on."
Bragg looked dubious. "I'd like to oblige, but I'm not too sure I could make the trip with this foot of mine."
"As I said before, that suits me fine. The foot gives you an excuse not to go. Make it seem even worse than it is. One of the men is a