I slipped over to the opposite porthole, and crouched down with my ear against the sycamore panelling. There it was!
The slow slide of 'a body pulling itself up to the deck, with great caution. Had this suspicious approach something to do with the secret Peace never told me? I glanced round the cabin hurriedly and then ducked behind the bar-counter in the corner.
Whoever it was made no sound on deck. I waited.
Then the after door of the cabin began to open slowly.
Out of sight, I would have to rely on sounds from now onwards in order not to be seen. 13
Silence.
I risked a quick sideways glance round the bottom of the bar.
Back towards me, a man, wet, naked except for swimming trunks, was kneeling at the side of Peace's coffin. His head was cocked to one side and a rubber tube led from his head to the steel cylinder. A stethoscope! Like a veterinary surgeon sounding the heart of some strange creature, the man placed the stethoscope against the metal. I could almost hear his breathing. As if the instrument were not functioning properly, he slipped the earplugs off and put his ear-face sideways to me-against the coffin. Still not satisfied, he went to the head and listened again. I heard the faint hiss of his breath. I craned round the bar. It could not have been his breath, for the man was standing, every nerve alert, looking down at the coffin. He was muscular, sun-tanned, and I saw thrust into his belt, the walnut butt striking against the Whiteness of his belly, a Colt. 38 Detective Special., He moved slightly and the gun clunked faintly against the steel. He must have been as taut as I was, for he wheeled round on the empty room. I jerked my head back._ Colt Special! That was the gun used by American police, the FBI and detectives, a beautiful little weapon with a stubby barrel and a lethal s t r i k e . I h a d s e e n, t o o, s o m e t h i n g t h a t a l a r m e d m e – t h e hammer of the Colt had been hocked, to enable a quick draw f r o m a s h o u l d e r – h o l s t e r. W h o e v e r i t w a s k n e w h i s w a y around with guns.
I peered out from behind the bar. The man had dropped the stethoscope and now leant with his chest across the glass w i n d o w . I h e a r d h i s r a p i d b r e a t h a s h e t h r u s t d o w n o n a s c r e w d r i v e r. H e w a s u n s c r e w i n g t h e p a n e l t o g e t a t t h e corpse!
Loyalty to Peace, devotion, admiration, grief at our unhappy parting, made me blind. That anyone should desecrate Peace's body, in front of my eyes…
I was on his back, my hands reaching for his throat, before he heard me, even. As he swung and grappled, dropping the screwdriver, I knew I had been a fool. This man was skilled at in-fighting. There was no blind panic in his actions, simply a swift muscular reflex to offset the ground he knew he had lost in that split-second of my surprise attack. I dodged the s w i f t k i c k t o t h e g r o i n a n d h u n g o n t o h i s t h r o a t. T h e r e w a s n o f e a r, o n l y a h i n t o f a c k n o w l e d g m e n t o f a w o r t h y enemy in his grey-green eyes. He feinted with a knee to try and prise loose my grip on his throat, and then, with a spasm of strength, jerked me over his head. My spine crashed sick14 eningly against the top of the coffin. My grip eased and he struck me savagely across the heart with a flat blow from his forearm. My scream of pain died from lack of air in my lungs. He eased back, drew in a deep controlled breath like a swimmer, and his hand went to the Colt. I lay spreadeagled across the coffin, my face to the. ceiling. The swift, cool actions of my unknown enemy were those of a professional. I lurched forward as his hand clutched the butt and struck a karate blow to the carotid artery with my left hand. It wasn't a heavy blow, for I was completely off balance and it was my left hand-a blow like that can kill when administered with the right. I saw the face go blank with pain and semi-consciousness. The Colt came up, though. He was a foot from me. Then, as if from nowhere, a bottle smashed down on his head and he fell half across me, showering me with whisky and glass splinters. His face hit the steel side of the coffin and he slid slowly to the floor.
Mac stood looking at the label of the broken bottle in his hand. Glenflddichl' was all he said. ' Waste of t' best whusky in t' world.'
The unconscious man lay grotesquely on the thick carpet, blood and whisky about his head. Mac walked over and looked through the glass trap. He drew back a little and the dry sob which shook him was the most terrible thing I have ever heard.
' Geoffrey.. I began.
I heard about it,' he rasped. Whusky!'
I went over to the bar and pulled out another bottle while Mac simply stood there. I handed him the unopened bottle. He tried to pluck off the foil and unscrew the cap, but his hands shook so uncontrollably that he could not. With an oath, he smashed the neck across the coffin and the amber liquid flowed across the glass, blurring the face below. He threw back his head and gulped some of the spirit, drinking from the broken edge. A trickle of blood ran from his lips, but I do not think he noticed.
' Mac!' I said sharply. ' Mac!' He stared unseeingly at the dead face. I shook him roughly by the shoulder. He took another strong drag from the ragged edge of the bottle. ' Aye,' he said quietly, under control now. ' Aye, nothing.'
I broke the silence. I nodded at the unconscious man. `
Thanks for that •.. he was going for his gun'
Mac said uncertainly, ' He was?'
I told him briefly about the stethoscope and the screwdriver. Mac picked them up and we rolled the intruder over. 15
` He won't die,' said Mac with the ghost of a grin. 'I hit him hard enough just to break the glass.'
I knelt down and tried to find something to identify him. '
Except for the Colt, there was nothing visible. The numbers had been filed off the weapon. I emptied the shells. The trigger was hair-light.
Nothin',' said Mac in disgust. Not even any clothes..
I bent down again and threw back the man's limp left arm. I pointed to the back of the armpit. The skin was chafed and rougher than the rest.
Shoulder-holster,' I remarked to Mac. But that wasn't what I was looking for. I stretched the arm out so that the skin of the inner arm was visible.
On it, grouped in a triangle, were three small brown dots, like small moles. It was enough.
I rose, balanced the Colt. ' Central Intelligence Agency.
American.'
Mac peered and shook his head. All I see are three brown moles.'
' Take a close look and you'll see they're not pigmented,'
I said shortly. It's the secret mark of the CIA'S agents. It's how they identify each other.'
Mac examined the ' moles ' closely and gave a soft whistle. '
Tattoo.'
He looked admiringly at me. Where didyer pick up that one?'
I shrugged. I worked a long time with Geoffrey Peace. And Peace worked with Naval Intelligence.'
Mac looked thoughtfully at the muscular figure. ' What did he want with-?' He nodded, leaving the name unsaid, as if he couldn't bring himself to speak it. Mac was closer to Peace than even I had been; it was a blind, headlong devotion backed by a cunning and ruthlessness learned in the gutters of Glasgow. I knew Mac's past; I also knew there was nothing he would not have done for Peace. Perhaps it was only because he was still suffering from his bender that he hadn't killed the CIA man with the jagged whisky bottle. He looked dangerous enough now he knew who the intruder was.