"Wrath of the Lion" - читать интересную книгу автора (Higgins Jack)

CHAPTER TEN

A match flared outlining Hamish Grant’s craggy features as he lit a cheroot. “And the enquiry?”

It was quite dark now, and, below, waves creamed over the rocks in the entrance of the tiny inlet. It was a warm, soft night, stars strung away to the horizon, and when a cloud moved from the face of the moon the terrace was bathed in a hard, white light.

Mallory turned from looking out to sea and shrugged. “A foregone conclusion. They used terms like: "Previous gallant service." Hinted that I hadn’t really recovered from the ordeal of two years in a Chinese prison camp.”

“And spared you the ultimate disgrace.”

“They didn’t actually cashier me, if that’s what you mean. You could say I was eased into retirement as quietly as possible. For the good of the service, of course.”

“Naturally,” the old man said. “A bad business. That sort of thing rubs off on everyone concerned.”

“What I did to Li he would have done to me,” Mallory said. “The purpose of terrorism is to terrorise. Lenin said that. It’s on page one of every Communist handbook on revolutionary warfare. You can only fight that kind of fire with fire. Otherwise you might as well lie down and let the waves wash over you. That’s what I brought out of that Chinese prison camp, General.”

“An interesting point of view.”

“The only one in the circumstances. I did what had to be done. When I’d finished there was no more terror by night in Perak. No more Kota Banus. No more butchering of little girls. God knows, that should count for something.”

There was silence. In the moonlight Anne Grant’s face seemed very pale, the eyes dark and secret, telling him nothing. When a cloud crossed the moon she became a motionless silhouette, her face turned towards him, but still she didn’t speak.

Mallory sighed and tossed his cigarette over the wall in a glowing curve. “Under the circumstances, perhaps you’ll excuse me, General? This has turned out to be one of those evenings when I could do with a drink.”

He turned and went up the steps, the sound of his going fading quickly into the darkness. After a while Hamish Grant said quietly: “It’s not often one meets a man like that. Someone who’s willing to carry the guilt for the rest of us. It takes a rather special brand of courage.”

She turned towards him, her face a pale blur, and then, as if coming to a decision, stood up. “Do you mind?”

He reached for her hand and held it tightly. “Leave me the car, will you? I might join you later.”

And that was that, Mallory told himself. That was very much that. No question of what she had thought of him. Her silence, that stillness, had been answer enough. And the strange thing was that it mattered, that for the first time in years the protective shell he had grown had cracked and now he was defenceless.

His chin was on his breast, hands in pockets, as he turned on to the springy turf beside the road, white in the moonlight that ran down to the harbour.

A small wind seemed to crawl across his face and he drew in his breath sharply. He heard no sound and yet he knew that she walked beside him. He spoke calmly, but with a faint Irish intonation, inherited from his father, always apparent in moments of great stress.

“And what would you be wanting, Anne Grant?”

“A drink, Neil Mallory,” she said, matching his mood, “and perhaps another. Would that be asking too much?”

He paused and turned to face her, hands still thrust into his pockets. In the moonlight she looked very beautiful, more beautiful than he had ever thought a woman could be, and there were tears in her eyes. He slipped an arm about her shoulders and together they went down the hill towards the lights of the hotel.

In the long grass on the hill above the cliffs Raoul Guyon lay on his back and stared into an infinity of stars, his hands clasped behind his head. Beside him Fiona Grant sat cross-legged, combing her hair.

She turned and smiled, her face clear in the moonlight. “Well, are you going to make an honest woman of me?”

“As always, you have a gift for the difficult question,” he said.

“A plain yes or no would do. I’m reasonably civilised.”

“A word no woman is entitled to use,” he said solemnly, and lit a cigarette. “Life is seldom as simple as yes or no, Fiona.”

“I don’t agree,” she said. “It’s people who make it complicated. My father likes you, if that’s got anything to do with it, and I can’t see what they’d have to complain about at your end. After all, I could pass for French.”

Tm quite sure my mother would adore you. On the other hand, we Bretons are very old-fashioned in certain matters. She would never allow me to marry a girl who couldn’t bring a sizable dowry with her.”

“Would eleven thousand pounds do?” Fiona said. “My favourite uncle died last March.”

Tm sure Maman would be most impressed,” Guyon told her.

She squirmed against him, laying her head on his chest. “In any case, why should we worry about money? I know most artists have to struggle, but how many of them paint like you?”

“A good point.”

And she was right. Already he had sold many paintings, working between assignments on the family farm near Loudeac that his mother still managed so competently. Mornings on the banks of the Oust with leaves drifting from the beech trees into the river and the smell of wet earth. Country that he had grown up in and loved. He was aware, with a strange wonderment, that he wanted to take this girl there, to see again with her the old grey farmhouse rooted into its hollow amongst the trees, walk with her over the familiar country that he loved so much.

“Of course, there could always be someone else,” she said.

Her voice was light and yet there was a poignancy there. It was as if she was aware of how near to hurt she might be, and he pulled her close instinctively.

“There was a girl once, Fiona, in Algiers a long time ago. She gave me peace when I needed it more than anything else on earth. She paid for that gift with her life. A high price. I’ve been trying to escape from her ever since.”

There was a short silence, and then she said gently: “Have you ever considered that it might be Algeria that you’re running from? That somehow this girl has come to symbolise everything that ever happened there?”

In that single instant he knew that what she had said was true. That by some strange perception she had struck right to the very heart of things.

“I know I’m young, Raoul,” she continued, “and on the whole I’ve only seen the lighter side, but I know this: the war in Algeria wasn’t the first to send men home with blood on their hands and it won’t be the last. But that’s life. There wouldn’t be any sweet without sour. People get by.”

“At a guess I’d say you must be about a thousand years old.”

He kissed her passionately and she linked her arms behind his neck and pressed her body against him. After a while she rolled away and lay on her back, breathless, eyes sparkling.

“And now do you think I might get to see that farm in Brittany?”

He pulled her to her feet and held her at arm’s length. “Did I ever have a choice?”

She reached up to kiss him and then turned and ran away down the hill. Guyon gave her a start of perhaps twenty yards and then went after her, laughter bubbling up spontaneously inside him for the first time in years.

The bar at the hotel was a long, pleasant room with whitewashed walls, its windows facing out to sea. Two large oil lamps were suspended from one of the oak beams that supported the low roof.

Jacaud and two other men sat at a table in a corner and played cards. Owen Morgan leaned on the bar beside them, watching the play, a small, greying man with hot Welsh eyes and a face hardened by a lifetime of the sea.

Beside an open window Mallory and Anne faced each other across a small table, smoking cigarettes. Far out to sea the lights of a ship moved slowly across the horizon like something from another world and Anne sighed.

“A big one. I wonder where she’s going?”

“Tangiers, the Azores. Take your choice.”

“An invitation?”

“Of the most improper kind,” he said, and smiled.

“You should do that more often,” she said. “It suits you.”

Before he could reply a shadow fell across the table. Juliette Vincente was standing there, a half-bottle of champagne and two glasses on her tray. She was perhaps thirty-five, a plain, rather simple-looking woman in a blue woolen dress, thickening slightly at the waist, but her skin was fresh and clean, the cheeks touched with crimson.

“From Monsieur le Comte, madame,” she said simply, and placed the bottle and glasses on the table.

At the far end of the bar two or three broad steps lifted to another room where de Beaumont sat beside a pleasant fire. Anne nodded and he raised his glass.

“Small return for a delightful meal.”

“Shall I ask him over?” Mallory said.

She shook her head. “Not unless you want to.”

A moment or two later the station wagon braked to a halt outside and Raoul Guyon and Fiona got out, turning to help the General. The old man led the way up the steps confidently and entered the bar.

“Over here, Hamish!” Anne called, and he turned and came towards them.

Mallory got to his feet and brought a chair forward and Fiona slipped into the window-seat beside Anne. Guyon picked up the bottle and nodded approvingly.

“Heidsieck, 1952. How typical for the English to reserve the best for themselves. I must really do something to upset the balance.”

He moved across to the bar and Hamish Grant produced a brown leather cheroot case and proffered it to Mallory. “Try one of these. Filthy things, but nothing quite like “em. Picked up the habit in India.”

Mallory took one and offered the old man a light as Guyon returned. “Our good friend Owen is raiding his cellar. He can’t guarantee that everything will have necessarily come in through the proper channels, but no matter. He tells me that the revenue man only comes once a year and always warns him in advance.”

“Understandable,” the General said. “They were in the navy together.”

Owen Morgan appeared a few moments later and came across with a wide grin. “No need for ice,” he said to Guyon as he offered a bottle for inspection. “It’s cold enough where that’s been.”

“Excellent,” Guyon said. “I’ll open it while you fetch some glasses.”

His gaiety was quite infectious and within a few moments he had them all laughing with a description of an outrageous and quite untruthful incident from his past. The conversation which followed moved along spontaneously.

Once or twice Mallory noticed the three men in the corner looking towards them, obviously irritated after some particularly loud burst of laughter from Fiona or Guyon. One of them hammered on the table and called loudly to Owen Morgan for more cognac.

Mallory leaned across to Anne. “The one on the left with the haircut. He was at the wheel of de Beaumont’s boat this afternoon. Who is he?”

“They call him Jacaud,” she said. “That’s all I can tell you. He seems to go everywhere with de Beaumont. I think the others are afraid of him.”

“Hardly surprising,” Guyon put in. “There’s about fifteen stone of bone and muscle there, mostly muscle from the look of him.”

Jacaud got to his feet, crossed the bar and mounted the steps to the other room. He leaned on de Beaumont’s table and they held a short conversation. Mallory watched them over the rim of his glass. Once, de Beaumont turned and looked towards them. He gazed coolly at Mallory for a moment, then turned back to Jacaud.

The big Frenchman rejoined his friends and Owen Morgan turned on the radio, the sound of music filling the room. Guyon pulled Fiona to her feet and grinned.

“Come on, let’s liven the place up a little.”

They made an attractive couple as they circled the room. The beautiful young girl on the threshold of womanhood, and Guyon, his lean, sun-blackened face animated and full of life.

Anne Grant watched them wistfully and coloured when she saw that Mallory was looking at her. “Fiona always makes me feel old,” she said.

“But not too old.” Mallory turned to the General. “You’ll excuse us, sir?”

The General touched the champagne bottle lightly and raised his glass. “Enjoy yourselves while you can. I’ll make do with this.”

They moved into the centre of the floor. She slipped one arm about his neck and danced with her head on his shoulder, her body pressed so closely against him that he could feel the line from breast to thigh.

For a moment, he forgot about everything except the fact that he was dancing with a warm, exciting girl whose perfume filled his nostrils and caused a pleasant ache of longing in the pit of his stomach.

It had been a long time since he had slept with a woman, but that wasn’t the whole explanation. That Anne Grant attracted him was undeniable, but there was something more there, something deeper that for the moment was beyond his comprehension.

The music stopped, a pause between records, and they went back to their table. The others followed a few moments later, and as Fiona seated herself there was a burst of loud laughter from Jacaud and his two friends in the corner, followed by a remark in French, coarse and to the point and quite unprintable.

Guyon swung round, his face hardening. The three men returned his gaze boldly. He took one quick step towards them and Mallory caught him by the sleeve and pulled him down into his chair.

“Let it go.”

Guyon was shaking with suppressed anger. “You heard what he said?”

Fiona leaned forward and put a hand on his arm. “Don’t let it upset you, Raoul. They’ve had a little too much to drink, that’s all.”

A shadow fell across the table and Mallory looked up into the face of the man he had heard Owen Morgan refer to as Marcel a little earlier. He was of medium height and wore denim pants and a blue seaman’s jersey. He was very drunk and clutched at the edge of the table to steady himself.

“I think you’d be better off sitting down,” Mallory told him in French.

Marcel ignored him, leaned across the table, knocking over a glass, and grabbed Anne by one arm. “You dance with me now?" he mouthed in broken English.

Mallory grabbed for the man’s right arm just above the elbow, his thumb hooking into the pressure point. As he swung round, mouth opening in a cry of agony, Guyon kicked him under the right knee-cap. Marcel staggered backwards, lost his balance and sprawled across the other table. Jacaud pushed him to one side, got to his feet and moved forward.

He stood there, swaying slightly as if drunk, and yet the slate-grey eyes were as cold as ice, eternally watchful.

“Two to one, messieurs,” he said in excellent English. “You made the odds.”

Owen Morgan came round the bar on the run, face very white, eyes blazing. The big Frenchman sent him staggering in backwards with a single, contemptuous shove of his hand and laughed harshly.

“He asked for it, Jacaud,” de Beaumont called sharply. “Let it end there.”

Jacaud ignored him and de Beaumont made no move to come down into the bar, gave no indication of being able or willing to control the situation. He stayed by the fire, a watchful expression on his face.

In that moment Mallory realised that the whole thing had been arranged. That for some reason of his own de Beaumont had deliberately engineered the situation.

Guyon started to rise and Mallory pulled him down again. “My affair.”

Jacaud stood there swaying a little, still keeping up the pretence of being drunk, his great hands hooked slightly, every muscle tensed and ready. He lurched forward and stood over them.

“Of course, my friend might be willing to settle for a drink.” He nodded at the table. “A bottle of champagne would do.”

“Anything to oblige,” Mallory said calmly.

He reached for the bottle and, as he turned, reversed his grip and smashed it across the side of the Frenchman’s skull. As Anne cried out, Jacaud staggered and fell to one knee. Mallory picked up a chair, moved in fast and smashed it down across the great shoulders. Jacaud grunted, started to keel over and Mallory smashed the broken chair down again and again, until it splintered. He tossed it to one side and waited.

Slowly, painfully, Jacaud reached for the edge of the bar and pulled himself up. He hung there for a moment, then turned to Mallory, wiping blood from his face casually.

And then, incredibly, he charged, head down like a wounded bull, the great hands reaching out to destroy. Mallory judged his moment exactly, swerved to one side, allowing the Frenchman to plunge past, and slashed him across the kidneys with a karate blow delivered with the edge of his hand.

Jacaud screamed and fell to the floor. For a little while he stayed there on his hands and knees, and when he got to his feet he was slobbering like an animal. He lurched forward and Mallory kicked his feet from under him. Jacaud crashed to the floor, rolled over and lay still.

In the silence which followed, de Beaumont came down the steps slowly. He dropped to one knee beside Jacaud, examined him and looked up. “You are a hard man, Colonel Mallory.”

“When I have to be,” Mallory said. “You could have done something to stop this. Why didn’t you?”

He turned without waiting for a reply and went back to the table. “I think that might do for one night. Shall we go?”

Hamish Grant’s face was pale, the nostrils flaring slightly as he got to his feet. “You know, I really think it’s about time I bought you a drink, Neil. I’ve got some rather special whiskey back at the house. So Irish that you can taste the peat. I’d like to have your opinion on it.”

Anne’s face was very white and she was trembling. Mallory squeezed her hand reassuringly and they all walked towards the door. De Beaumont moved to block the way.

“One moment, General. Perhaps I might be allowed to tender my apologies for this distressing affair. At the best of times Jacaud has a short temper. When he’s been drinking…”

I so need for that, de Beaumont,” Hamish Grant said coldly. “I think the matter has been handled quite adequately.”

De Beaumont stood there, his smile frozen into place, and then he turned away sharply and they moved outside.

Fiona got behind the wheel, Guyon beside her, and the General and Anne climbed into the back. Mallory slammed the door and leaned in at the open window.

“If you don’t mind, General, I’d like to take you up on that drink another time. I’ve had enough excitement for one night.”

As Anne’s head turned sharply towards him he turned quickly, giving them no time to argue, and went down the slope towards the jetty. A few moments later the engine coughed into life behind him and the station wagon moved away.

He turned right at the jetty, following a steeply shelving path which brought him down to a strip of sand, white in the moonlight, waves curling in across the shingle with a gentle sucking sound.

He sat on a boulder and lit a cigarette with fingers that trembled slightly. He inhaled deeply, drawing the smoke into his lungs and released it with a long sigh.

Behind him Anne Grant said, “You don’t do things by halves, do you?”

“What’s the point?” he said simply.

“We seem to have held this conversation before.”

When she whispered his name they came together naturally and easily. Her hands pulled his head down as her mouth sought his and her sweetness drove every other thought from his mind. He picked her up in his arms and laid her down gently in the soft sand.