Dark Side of the Street - Jack Higgins [52]
He made hard weather of his passage across to the table and sank into his chair with an audible sigh of relief. He wiped sweat from his face with a soiled handkerchief and looked them over curiously.
"I wasn't expecting anyone. They usually give a week's notice."
"We're something special," Chavasse said. "There wasn't time to let you know."
"Well, I'm not sure." Bragg sounded dubious. "The boat's ready to go--always is, but I broke two bones in my foot the other day. Takes me all my time to get to the door and back, never mind make the run to Longue Pierre."
"Longue Pierre?" Chavasse said. "And where would that be?"
"About twelve miles southwest of Alderney in the Channel Islands," Youngblood broke in and grinned as Chavasse turned to him in surprise. "You're forgetting, boy. The Channel was my stamping ground during the war and after it. I know it like the back of my hand."
"He's right," Bragg said. "It ain't much of a place. About a mile across with cliffs three or four hundred feet high on one side. There's only one possible anchorage. That's on the south side of the island. There's an old jetty and not much else."
"Who lives there?"
"Don't ask me, mister. I do what I'm paid to do which is run people across, leave 'em on the jetty and come right back again. There's a house. I know that 'cos I've seen it from the sea, but not much else."
"Who pays you?"
"A fella called Smith. Drops in maybe once in every two or three months, but usually, he just gives me a ring on the phone." He shook his head and looked worried. "Funny I haven't heard from him about you people."
"You will," Youngblood said. "And you'll get paid, I promise you. What kind of boat is it?"
"A motor cruiser--the Pride of Man. Thirty footer built by Akerboon. Twin screw, steel hull."
Youngblood whistled. "That's some boat. How is she powered?"
"Penta petrol engine. She'll do about twenty-two knots at full stretch, but not tonight. The weather's not too good."
"What's the report?"
"Wind force three to four with rain squalls and fog in the morning."
"A cake-walk."
"Think you can handle her?" Chavasse asked.
"Handle her? I could sail her across the Atlantic if I had to."
"You'd have a job, mister," Bragg put in. "Her range is only six hundred including the reserve tank."
Youngblood grinned. "Enough and to spare forpassage to the islands. Your troubles are over. You can stay home and watch your foot."
"I don't know," Bragg shook his head. "It's Mr. Smith's boat, not mine."
Youngblood sized him up quickly, taking in the stale whiskey breath, the watery eyes. He pulled out Crowther's wallet, selected a five pound note and dropped it on the table.
"I noticed a nice little pub up the street as we came in. I bet you could drag that leg of yours up there if you really tried."
Bragg looked down at the note hesitatingly, then sighed and stuffed it into his pocket. "I only hope I'm doing the right thing." He opened a drawer and produced a copy of the Channel Pilot. "You'd better have this. Three lights on your way out. Keep 'em in line and you can't go wrong."
Youngblood picked up the book and turned to Chavasse, his face alive with a new kind of light. "What are we waiting for?"
The door banged behind them, rattling the frame and Bragg sat there staring into space, a frown on his face. After a while he sighed, put a hand in his pocket and pulled out a handful of money. He looked at it blankly for a moment, then got to his feet and reached for his crutch. A drink, that's what he needed--perhaps two. Something to make him forget the people he had just met, something to shut out the thought of what was going to happen to them out there in the rain and darkness. Most of all, something to make him forget Smith.
He hobbled to the door, took down an oilskin and left.
The Pride of Man waited at the end of the jetty and Youngblood took in her flared, raking bow and long sloping deckhouse with a conscious pleasure. He was as excited as a schoolboy with a new toy.