A Fine Night for Dying

Pavlo Skiros had been born of indeterminate parentage in Constantinople forty-seven years earlier. There was some Greek in him, a little Turk, and quite a lot of Russian, and he was a disgrace to all three countries. He had followed the sea all his life and yet his right to a master’s ticket was uncertain, to say the least. But he possessed other, darker qualities in abundance that suited the owners of the Anya perfectly.

He sat on the edge of the table in his small cluttered cabin and scratched his left armpit, lust in his soul when he looked at the girl.

‘What can I do for you?’ he asked in English.

‘My money,’ she told him. ‘You said you would return it when we reached port.’

‘All in good time, my dear. We dock in half an hour and you’ll have to keep out of the way until the customs men have finished.’

‘There will be trouble?’ she asked in alarm.

He shook his head. ‘No trouble, I promise you. It is all arranged. You’ll be on your way within a couple of hours.’

He got up and moved close enough for her to smell him. ‘You’ve nothing to worry about. I’ll handle everything personally.’

He put a hand on her arm and she drew back slightly. ‘Thank you – thank you very much. I will go and change now. I don’t suppose a sari would be very practical on the Marseille waterfront at night.’

She opened the door and paused, looking towards Chavasse. ‘Who is that man?’

‘Just a passenger - an Australian.’

‘I see.’ She appeared to hesitate. ‘Is he another like myself?’

‘No, nothing like that.’ He wiped sweat from his face with the back of a hand. ‘You’d better go to your cabin now and stay there. I’ll come for you later when everything is quiet.’

She smiled again, looking younger than ever. ‘Thank you. You’ve no idea what this means to me.’

The door closed behind her. Skiros stood staring at it blankly for a moment, then reached for the bottle of whisky on the table and a dirty tin mug. As he drank, he thought about the girl and what he would do with her when things were nice and quiet and they were alone. The expression on his face was not pleasant.

They reached Marseille on the evening tide and it was already dark when they docked. Chavasse had gone down to his cabin earlier and lay on the bunk, smoking and staring up at the ceiling, on which the peeling paint made a series of interesting patterns.

But then the whole boat left a great deal to be desired. The food was barely edible, the blankets were dirty and the general appearance of the crew, from Skiros down, was pretty grim.

Using the information obtained by the Italian police, Chavasse had approached Skiros in a certain café on the Naples waterfront, flashing a roll of fivers that had set the good captain’s eyes gleaming. Chavasse had not used the criminal background part of his story — he had preferred to allow Skiros to discover that for himself. He had simply posed as an Australian anxious to get into the Old Country but denied a visa, and Skiros had swallowed the story. For the money, Chavasse would be taken to Marseille, landed illegally and sent on his way to people who would see him safely across the Channel.

Once on board, he had deliberately left his wallet around, minus his bank roll, but containing, amongst other things, the bogus clipping from the Sydney Morning Herald which spoke of the police search for Paul Chavasse, wanted for questioning in connection with a series of armed robberies. There was even a photo, to make certain, and the bait must have been taken, for the cabin had been searched – Chavasse had ways of knowing things like that.

He was surprised he had got this far without some attempt to relieve him of his cash and drop him overboard, for Skiros looked like the kind of man who would have cheerfully sold his sister in the marketplace on very reasonable terms.

Chavasse had slept with the door double-bolted each night and his Smith & Wesson handy under the pillow. He took it out now, checking each round carefully. As he replaced it in the special holster that fitted snugly against the small of his back, there was a knock at the door, and Melos, the wall-eyed Cypriot first mate, looked in.

‘Captain Skiros is ready for you now.’

‘Good on you, sport.’ Chavasse picked up a black trenchcoat and reached for his suitcase. ‘It’s me for the open road.’

Outside it was raining and he followed Melos along the slippery deck to the captain’s cabin. When they went in Skiros was seated at his table, eating his evening meal.

‘So, Mr Chavasse, we arrive safely.’

‘Looks like it, sport,’ Chavasse said cheerfully. ‘Let’s see now, I gave you five hundred in Naples. That’s another five I owe you.’

He produced the roll of fivers and counted a hundred out on the table. Skiros gathered them up. ‘Nice to do business with you.’

‘Where do I go from here?’ Chavasse demanded.

‘There is no watchman on this dock. No one will stop you when you pass through the gate. Catch the 9:30 express for Paris. Wait at the bookstall on the platform at the other end and you will be approached by a man who will ask you if you are his cousin Charles from Marseille. Everything is arranged from then on.’

‘That’s it, then.’ Chavasse still kept the bonhomie going as he pulled on his trenchcoat and picked up the suitcase. ‘Didn’t I see an Indian girl about the place?’

‘What about her?’ Skiros demanded, his smile fading.

‘Nothing special. Just thought she might be on the same kick as me.’

‘You are mistaken.’ Skiros rose to his feet, wiped his moustache and held out his hand. ‘I would not delay, if I were you. You’ve just got time to catch that train.’

Chavasse smiled at both of them. ‘Can’t afford to miss that, can I? That would really throw a spanner into the works.’

He went out into the rain, moved along the deck and descended the gangway. At the bottom he paused under the lamp for a moment, then moved into darkness.

Melos turned enquiringly to Skiros. ‘A great deal of money in that roll.’

Skiros nodded. ‘Get after him. Take Andrew with you. The two of you should be enough.’

‘What if he kicks up a fuss?’

‘How can he? He’s in the country illegally and the Sydney police want him for armed robbery. Use your intelligence, Melos.’

Melos went out. Skiros continued to eat, working his way through the meal methodically. When he had finished, he poured himself a very large whisky, which he drank slowly.

When he went out, the rain was falling more heavily, drifting down through the yellow quarterlights in a silver spray. He moved along the deck to the girl’s cabin, knocked and went in.

She turned from the bunk to face him, looking strangely alien in a blue sweater and pleated grey skirt. There was something close to alarm on her face, but she made a visible effort and smiled.

‘Captain Skiros. It is time, then?’

‘Most certainly it is,’ Skiros said and, moving with astonishing speed, he pushed her back across the bunk and flung himself on top of her, a hand across her mouth to stifle any sound.

Melos and the deckhand, Andrew, hurried along the dock and paused by the iron gates to listen. There was no sound, and Melos frowned.

‘What’s happened to him?’

He took a single anxious step forward and Chavasse moved out of the shadows, turned him round and raised a knee into his groin. Melos sagged to the wet cobbles and Chavasse grinned across the writhing body at Andrew.

‘What kept you?’

Andrew moved in fast, the knife in his right hand glinting in the rain. His feet were kicked expertly from beneath him and he hit the cobbles. He started to get up and Chavasse seized his right wrist, then twisted the arm around and up in a direction it was never intended to go. Andrew screamed as a muscle ripped in his shoulder, and Chavasse ran him headfirst into the railings of the gate.

Melos had managed to regain his feet and was being very sick. Chavasse stepped over Andrew and grabbed him by the shirt. ‘Was I really being met at that station bookstall in Paris?’