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

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

hamish grant opened the door and stood listening to the sound of quiet breathing. Fiona was stretched on the sofa and Anne slept in the wing-backed chair, a rug over her legs.

As he started to close the door she opened her eyes and said softly, “What time is it?”

“Just after eight. Jabber’s made some fresh tea.”

She got to her feet, draped the rug over Fiona and followed him out. “Any sign of them?”

The old man shook his head. “Not yet.”

The kitchen looked out over the courtyard, a large and pleasant room, beams supporting a low ceiling. Jagbir was frying eggs at the stove. When he saw Anne he poured a cup of tea and gave it to her and she stood in front of the fire, drinking it slowly.

Beyond, through the wide window, clouds hung threateningly over the fields, rain dripped from the gutters and brown leaves crawled across the cobbles. She went to the window and gazed out into the rain, thinking of Mallory.

Hamish Grant moved beside her and squeezed her hand. “He did say it would take till breakfast-time. I shouldn’t worry too much if I were you.”

Tm not,” she said. “One thing I am sure of is his ability to look after himself, but I’d have thought we’d have heard from them by now.”

“We very probably will before much longer.”

She finished her tea and moved to the door. “I think I’ll run down to the harbour and see what’s happening.”

“I’ll send Jagbir with you.”

She shook her head. “Let him get on with breakfast. I shan’t be long. No need to wake Fiona till I get back. She could do with the sleep.”

She went along the hall, pulled on her sheepskin coat and let herself out of the front door. Rain fell steadily and she fastened a scarf about her hair as she went down the drive and turned through the gates.

Visibility was poor, a grey, clinging mist drifting in patches across the water, and the central hill of the island looked very green against the leaden sky. She hurried along the road and paused on the brow of the hill to look down into the harbour. Only one boat was moored there, Raoul Guymon’s launch, and the shooting brake was parked at the end of the jetty.

She went down the hill quickly, taking a short cut across the wet grass. The shooting brake was beaded with moisture, the engine cold. She stood there for a moment, a frown on her face, then walked along the jetty and stepped on to the deck of Guymon’s launch. She went into the small saloon, stood looking about her for a moment, then turned to go.

She paused, wrinkling her nose, aware of the heavy, acrid taint of oil on the fresh morning air. It seeped into a pool from under the door of the engine compartment. She opened it and looked into a twisted mass of smashed pipes and broken valves.

She crouched on one knee, gazing at the engine, her mind frozen. As she started to rise, steps boomed hollowly on the wooden planking of the jetty and Owen Morgan called, “Hello below!”

Anne went up the companionway and came out on deck as he stepped down from the jetty. He wore an old blue pilot coat and rubber boots. Rain frosted his grey hair. He started to grin, but his smile faded at the sight of her troubled face.

“What’s wrong?”

“Take a look at the engine.”

He went down the companionway quickly. When he reappeared his face was grave. “Why would anyone want to do a thing like that?”

“To make sure we couldn’t get off the island,” she said.

He frowned quickly. “Look, how about letting me in on all this? Where’s Foxhunter? I heard her go out early this morning.”

“That must have been Colonel Mallory and Monsieur Guyon,” she said. “They should have been back by now. I’m very much afraid something may have happened to them.”

“Are they in some kind of trouble?”

“They could be, but there isn’t time to explain now, Owen. We must get to Guernsey as soon as possible. What about your launch?”

“I hauled her up the slipway and into the boathouse ready for winter only two days ago,” he said. “No trouble to bring her down again if it’s all that urgent. I can have her ready for sea in half an hour.”

“Do that,” Anne said. Til go back to the house for the others. I’ll explain things more fully when I get back.”

She hurried along the jetty, climbed behind the wheel and switched on the engine. It required a lot of choke before it would turn over and Owen was already half-way up the slope towards the boathouse at the side of the hotel when she finally moved away.

The Welshman’s skin crawled with excitement. Whatever was wrong, it was certainly serious. So much had been evident from Anne Grant’s manner and actions, and to a man whose entire life had been a series of adventures the prospect of action carried all the kick of a good stiff drink. When he was only a few yards away from the boathouse he remembered that the heavy door was padlocked. He turned and moved up the slope quickly to the side door of the hotel.

When he went into the kitchen Juliette was standing at the sink washing the breakfast dishes. “Where’s the key to the boathouse?” he. demanded.

She turned, her eyebrows arching in surprise. “On the nail behind the door where it always is. What’s wrong?”

“I’ve got to get the boat out,” he said. “The Grants want me to run them over to Guernsey. Can’t explain why. I don’t even know myself. But it must be something serious.”

He took down the key and went out again. After he had gone Juliette Vincente stood at the sink, gazing blankly at the door. After a moment she dried her hands carefully, hung up the towel and went up the back stairs to her bedroom.

Owen Morgan opened the heavy doors of the boathouse and moved inside. The launch was seated firmly into a deep concrete slot, a steel cable coiled around a winch at her stern, holding her in place.

He jumped down on to the deck, pulled off the top of the engine housing and paused suddenly, his throat going dry. The engine was in exactly the same state as the one in Guymon’s boat. Delicate pipes and valves smashed beyond repair, a heavy hammer from his own tool-kit lying in the ruins.

As he got to his feet there was the scrape of a shoe on stone behind him. He turned and looked up at Juliette. She wore his old corduroy jacket against the cold, her hands thrust deep into the pockets.

“What’s wrong, Owen?” she asked.

And then in one single, inexplicable flash of intuition he knew that she was responsible and his eyes widened. “Why, Juliette?” he said. “Why did you do it?”

“My brother was killed in Algeria, Owen.” Her voice was flat, lifeless. “He died for France. They repaid him by giving what he’d died for away. I couldn’t stand by and allow that to happen.”

Anger flared inside him like flames through dry leaves. “What sort of bloody nonsense are you telling me, girl? What about my boat?”

He started to clamber up beside her and she backed away, 150 taking a revolver from her pocket. He stood facing her, very still, the skin on his face so white that it was almost transparent, a bewildered expression on his face.

“It’s me, Juliette. Owen.” He took a step forward.

“Move past me very slowly, Owen,” she said. “Your hands behind your back. Don’t make me kill you.”

He stood poised, feet apart, and wild laughter erupted from his mouth. “Kill me, girl? You?”

In a moment he drove forward, one hand reaching for the gun, the other grabbing for her coat. In that same instant something seemed to move in her eyes and he knew with the most appalling certainty that he had made the last mistake of his life.

The sound of the shot re-echoed deafeningly between the walls of the boathouse and the force of the bullet, smashing through his body, sent him staggering backwards. He swayed on the edge of the ramp, hands clutching at his stomach, the blood erupted from his mouth in a bright stream and he fell back on the deck.

Juliette Vincente moved to the edge of the ramp and looked down at him. He lay very still, his dark eyes fixed on a point a million miles beyond her. She put the revolver back into her pocket, went outside and started to close the heavy doors. When she turned, Foxhunter was just coming round the point into the harbour.

In the kitchen Hamish Grant sat at one end of the table, the remains of his breakfast before him, and listened gravely to what Anne had to tell him.

When she had finished he shook his head briefly. “No use trying to pretend things look good. They don’t. But one thing is certain. There isn’t much we can do on our own.”

“Then Guernsey is our only hope?”

He nodded and got to his feet. “I think it would be better if we all went. It never pays to take chances and things could get rather unhealthy.”

Fiona came in from the hall carrying his old British warm. “You’ll need this on, Father. It’s rather cold.”

It was the first time she had called him anything but General since she was quite small, and his heart went out to her. He reached for her face, dimly seen, and patted her cheek.

“Not to worry, Fiona. We’ll get things sorted out.”

She held his hand tightly for a moment, then turned and led the way into the hall. Anne was already sitting behind the wheel of the brake, the engine ticking over. The General and Jagbir got into the rear, Fiona in the front, and Anne drove away quickly.

It was still raining heavily and she turned on the wipers, leaning forward, watching for pot-holes in the dirt road. As the brake climbed to the crest of the hill she changed to a lower gear, ready for the descent to the harbour. They went over the top of the rise, Fiona gave a cry of alarm and Anne braked quickly.

De Beaumont, Marcel and three sailors stood in the road, looking out towards the sea. About a quarter of a mile offshore, and running strongly south-west towards the French coast, was Fleur de Lys. Marcel had one arm outstretched as he pointed. He turned to speak to de Beaumont and saw the shooting brake.

As they fanned across the road, Anne slammed her foot hard against the accelerator in a reflex action that took the old brake forward in a surge of power. She saw the mouths open in alarm, voiceless above the roaring of the engine, and then they were scattering to either side. The brake shot through and bounced down on the road, swerving on the bend at the bottom, cutting across the grass towards the jetty.

She braked hard and the vehicle slewed in a long, breathtaking skid that for one awful moment seemed to be taking them over the edge to the beach and the rocks below. They came to a stop, the front bumper lodged against a boulder, and she opened the door and got out.

There was no sign of Owen Morgan or his launch and when she looked up at the boathouse the great doors were still closed. She turned and found the General scrambling out at the rear, helped by Jagbir. As the little Gurka straightened, his coat fell open to show the ivory-and-silver hilt of his kukri, the curved blade in its leather sheath thrust into his waistband.

As Fiona came round from the other side there was a faint cry up on the hill. Anne looked up and saw de Beaumont and his men running towards them. One of them paused, raised lugs rifle and fired a warning shot that whined across the jetty into the water.

Hamish Grant turned quickly. “What about Owen?”

“No sign of him or the launch,” Anne said. “But Foxhunter’smoored at the end of the jetty.”

Any brief hope that they might be able to take over the launch before de Beaumont and his men arrived disappeared as a sailor came out of the wheelhouse, looked towards them, then hurried back inside.

“We’d better get up to the hotel,” Anne said.

They started up the hill, Fiona leading the way, Hamish Grant using his walking stick to help him. There was another cry from de Beaumont and the sailor who had been guarding Foxhunter rushed out on deck with a rifle and loosed off a quick shot which splintered the woodwork of one of the boathouse doors.

Anne could taste blood in her mouth and there was a pain in her chest. She took Hamish Grant’s hand and scrambled on, her feet slipping on the wet turf, and then they were on to the terrace and moving into the porch.

Fiona flung open the door and led the way inside. The bar was quite empty, a small fire burning in the grate. The stillness was so complete that Anne could hear her heart pounding.

Hamish Grant leaned against a table, struggling for breath, and she called out: “Owen! Owen Morgan! Where are you?”

There was no footfall and yet a quiet voice said with startling suddenness from behind her, “He isn’t here.”

Anne turned quickly and looked into the calm face of Juliette Vincente. “For God’s sake, Juliette. Where is he? What’s going on?”

“I think that perhaps you have come to the wrong place, madame.” Juliette's hand came out of her pocket, holding the pistol. “And now we will all wait quietly for the Comte de Beaumont.”

In the same moment Jagbir drove forward, the terrible Gurkha battle-cry bursting from his throat. His hand swung from under his coat, the razor-sharp blade of the kukri hissing softly through space.

Juliette Vincente pulled the trigger twice, bullets smashing into the little Gurkha's body, and then he was on top of her. As she fired again at close quarters the heavy blade swung down, half severing her neck. They fell together, Jagbir on top, the kukri as firmly clenched in his right hand in death as it had been in life.

As Fiona screamed, the door swung open. Hamish Grant turned, pulling the Webley from his pocket, thrusting it towards the dark formless shadow against the light that was de Beaumont.

Behind him the window shattered and the barrel of a rifle was rammed painfully into his back. “If the General is wise he will drop it,” Marcel said.

Hamish Grant stood there, trapped in the moment of decision, and already it was too late. De Beaumont moved forward and pulled the Webley gently from his grasp.

“And now, old friend, perhaps you will be sensible?”