The Golden Keel / The Vivero Letter. Desmond Bagley

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ laughed with him. It was a good story and he had told it well.

      I was in two minds about Metcalfe; he had his advantages and his disadvantages. On the one hand, he could give us a lot of help in Tangier; he knew the ropes and had the contacts. On the other hand, we had to be careful he didn’t get wind of what we were doing. He was a hell of a good chap and all that, but if he knew we were going to show up with four tons of gold he would hijack us without a second thought. We were his kind of meat.

      Yes, we had to be very careful in our dealings with Mr Metcalfe. I made a mental note to tell the others not to let anything drop in his presence.

      I said, ‘What kind of boat have you got?’

      ‘A Fairmile,’ he said. ‘I’ve re-engined it, of course.’

      I knew of the Fairmiles, but I had never seen one close up. They had been built in the hundreds during the war for harbour defence. The story was that they were built by the mile and cut off as needed. They were 112 feet overall with powerful engines and could work up over twenty knots easily, but they had the reputation of being bad rollers in a cross sea. They were not armoured or anything like that, being built of wood, and when a few of them went into St Nazaire with the Campbelltown they got shot up very badly.

      After the war you could buy a surplus Fairmile for about five thousand quid and they had become a favourite with the smugglers of Tangier. If Metcalfe had re-engined his Fairmile, he had probably gone for power to outrun the revenue cutters and his boat would be capable of at least twenty-six knots in an emergency. Sanford would have no chance of outrunning a boat like that if it came to the push.

      ‘I’d like to see her sometime,’ I said. There was no harm in looking over a potential enemy.

      ‘Sure,’ said Metcalfe expansively. ‘But not just yet. I’m going out tomorrow night.’

      That was good news – with Metcalfe out of the way we might be able to go about our business undisturbed. ‘When are you coming back?’ I asked.

      ‘Some time next week,’ he said. ‘Depending on the wind and the rain and suchlike things.’

      ‘Such as those French Security bastards?’

      ‘That’s right,’ he said carelessly. ‘Let’s eat.’

      II

      Metcalfe made us free of his flat and said we could live there in his absence – the servants would look after us. That afternoon he took me round town and introduced me to several people. Some were obviously good contacts to have, such as a ship’s chandler and a boat builder. Others were not so obviously good; there was a villainous-looking café proprietor, a Greek with no discernible occupation and a Hungarian who explained volubly that he was a ‘Freedom Fighter’ who had escaped from Hungary after the abortive revolution of 1956. I was particularly cynical about him.

      I think that Metcalfe was unobtrusively passing the word that we were friends of his, and so immune to any of the usual tricks played on passing yachtsmen. Metcalfe was not a bad man to have around if he was your friend and you were a yachtsman. But I was not a yachtsman and that made Metcalfe a potential bomb.

      Before we left the flat I had the chance to talk to Coertze and Walker privately. I said, ‘Here’s where we keep our mouths shut and stick to our cover story. We don’t do a damn’ thing until Metcalfe has pushed off – and we try to finish before he gets back.’

      Walker said, ‘Why, is he dangerous?’

      ‘Don’t you know about Metcalfe?’ I explained who he was. They had both heard of him; he had made quite a splash in the South African Press – the reporters loved to write about such a colourful character.

      ‘Oh, that Metcalfe,’ said Walker, impressed.

      Coertze said, ‘He doesn’t look much to me. He won’t be any trouble.’

      ‘It’s not Metcalfe alone,’ I said. ‘He’s got an organization and he’s on his own territory. Let’s face it; he’s a professional and we’re amateurs. Steer clear of Metcalfe.’

      I felt like adding ‘and that’s an order,’ but I didn’t. Coertze might have taken me up on it and I didn’t want to force a showdown with him yet. It would come of its own accord soon enough.

      So for a day and a half we were tourists in Tangier, rubbernecking our way about the town. If we hadn’t had so much on our minds it might have been interesting, but as it was, it was a waste of time.

      Luckily, Metcalfe was preoccupied by his own mysterious business and we saw little of him. However, I did instruct Walker to ask one crucial question before Metcalfe left.

      Over breakfast, he said, ‘You know – I like Tangier. It might be nice to stay here for a few months. Is the climate always like this?’

      ‘Most of the time,’ answered Metcalfe. ‘It’s a good, equable climate. There’s lots of people retire here, you know.’

      Walker smiled. ‘Oh, I’m not thinking of retiring. I’ve nothing to retire from.’ He was proving to be a better actor than I had expected – that touch was perfect. He said, ‘No, what I thought was that I might like to buy a house here. Somewhere I could live a part of the year.’

      ‘I should have thought the Med. would be your best bet,’ said Metcalfe. ‘The Riviera, or somewhere like that.’

      ‘I don’t know,’ said Walker. ‘This seems to be as good a place as any, and the Riviera is so crowded these days.’ He paused as though struck by a sudden thought. ‘I’d want a boat, of course. Could you design one for me? I’d have it built in England.’

      ‘Sure I could,’ I said. ‘All you have to do is pay me enough.’

      ‘Yes,’ said Walker. ‘You can’t do without the old boat, can you?’

      He was laying it on a bit too thick and I could see that Metcalfe was regarding him with amused contempt, so I said quickly, ‘He’s a damned good sailor. He nearly ran off with the Cape Dinghy Championship last year.’

      That drew Metcalfe as I knew it would. ‘Oh,’ he said with more respect, and for a few minutes he and Walker talked boats. At last Walker came out with it. ‘You know, what would be really perfect would be a house on the coast somewhere with its own anchorage and boat-shed. Everything self-contained, as it were.’

      ‘Thinking of joining us?’ asked Metcalfe with a grin.

      ‘Oh, no,’ said Walker, horrified. ‘I wouldn’t have the nerve. I’ve got enough money, and besides, I don’t like your smelly Fairmiles with their stinking diesel oil. No, I was thinking about a real boat, a sailing boat.’

      He turned to me. ‘You know, the more I think about it the better I like it. You could design a 10-tonner for me, something I could handle myself, and this place is a perfect jumping-off place for the Caribbean. A transatlantic crossing might be fun.’

      He confided in Metcalfe. ‘You know, these ocean-crossing johnnies are all very well, but most of them are broke and they have to live on СКАЧАТЬ