Mrs Rumple had cooked freshly caught local mackerel, served with a tomato salad and freshly baked crusty bread. I didn’t want to get too heavy, but I suggested that Harry Caplin was far too inquisitive about what we were doing and that the assignment was at a delicate stage, because of the confiscated opium.
“Do you suspect Caplin of being in league with this character Robert Flackyard, sir?” asked Rumple.
“At this point in time, Mr Rumple, I even suspect you,” I said, matter of factly.
There were no smiles and the air became tense. They all knew I was being deadly serious.
We continued to eat in silence. Then, as Mrs Rumple collected up the dishes, Fiona said, “I didn’t know Harry Caplin had a luxury cruiser.”
“Has he now,” I said. Fiona had got up and gone into the kitchen. She called to us. “It’s coming into the bay now.”
We all went out on to the balcony to watch. Down below, beating a wake on the gleaming water, the big white boat cast a long shadow in the remnants of the evening sunlight. From the high wheelhouse a cap, blue, soft and nautical, peeked over the wrap-around windscreen. Harry Caplin’s bronze face broke into a grin and his lips moved. Fiona put her flattened hand behind her ear and Harry shouted again, but the wind from the sea grabbed the words out of his mouth and tossed them over his shoulder. He disappeared into the inner confines of the boat, leaving the diesel motors idling with just enough power to hold her position without turning it beam-to to the swell. He reappeared holding a mobile phone to his ear, and the same time the house phone started to ring. I put it on loud speaker.
“C’mon, landlubbers,” he said into the tiny flipphone. “Get off your butts and get out here and have some fun.”
“He really is the most vulgar man,” said Mrs Rumple.
“Insufferable,” added Rumple.
“I only said he was vulgar, I didn’t say I didn’t like it,” replied Mrs Rumple.
Fiona lit a cigarette as the three of us went down to the dinghy. The small outboard motor spat and whined like a wasp in flight as we shot out towards the cruiser.
“Are you sure that we’re safe with you Mr Caplin?” Asked Fiona flirtatiously as she stepped aboard.
“Hell, lady, how many times do I have to tell you…”
“Harry?”
“Well, I’ll tell you, Fiona. These two guys are perfectly safe. You — aren’t safe at all.” He pushed his cap back and boomed his big laugh.
Inside the main cabin it was all fitted furniture and soft music. Nautical procedures had gone clean overboard. Along the wall were a stainless steel sink and an array of built-in appliances including a fridge. Set on the wall was a large plasma screen. We sank into luxuriously soft leather seats while Harry blended vodka martinis with ritualistic devotion.
“What’s that all about, Harry?” Fiona was looking at the mural of signal flags which decorated the cabin wall.
“It’s flag talk, see, you haul them…”
“Yes, Harry, I do understand the function of signal flags. What I want to ask, is what is the meaning of these?”
“Sure, Fiona, that’s what I thought you meant. They’re international foreign flags, see these over here, they mean in nautical terms…” Harry leaned over close to Fiona Price… “permission granted to lay alongside.” Miss Price Blushed and Harry slapped his leg and boomed his larger than life laugh.
“Oh, very nautical, Harry, I really must commit that one to memory,” she said sarcastically, blushing the colour of a strawberry.
I noticed Rumple’s lip curl, but whether at Caplin’s suggestiveness or seamanship I couldn’t tell.
“Come on up to the bridge,” said Harry. The CD had finished and the next was already taking its place. Against the hull the water giggled and gurgled like a fool. I heard Miss Price says, “so this is the driver’s seat?” Harry replied, “yep.” I wondered how many of the jibes really bounced off of Harry and how many went deep under the skin like a chigoe, a nasty little tropical flea that likes to burrow into flesh. Frank Sinatra began to pump the cabin full of sound.
Rumple was admiring the treasure trove of electronic equipment on the bridge.
“Yes, sir,” Harry said, “a powered anchor; right here.” He pushed one of a series of brightly coloured buttons. There was a faint purr and I felt the big cruiser float free on the outgoing tide. “The latest inboard diesels,” the big engines suddenly broke the calm of the quite bay. Harry moved the gear lever, and the twin screws engaged the water. We slid forward. Harry held the wheel in a firm proprietorial grip, bit on his large Havana cigar and beamed at us all from his high stool. “You Limeys have had the monopoly on messing about in boats long enough; here, let somebody else steer,” he said, and poured us all another round of vodkas form the big iced jug with a design of dancing pirates on it.
What a strange scene we made like something out of a television advertisement all standing on the fly bridge of a boat called Star Dust.
Chapter 14
After an evening with Harry Caplin I was pleased to get back to the house.
Although it was well past midnight none of us were ready for sleep, so we sat around drinking brandy and coffee into the small hours. I heard Fiona say,
“Any more coffee for you,” but I was beginning to notice that Rumple wasn’t worrying too much about coffee, he was hitting the brandy. The talk went on over more coffee and even more brandy Rumple told us about his father. “He wasn’t happy in the water. He never took a bath always had a shower, he used to say that he might slip and drown in the water, until one day when the shower wouldn’t work for some reason, my mother did manage to persuade him to have a bath. We were living in the south of France at the time. I remember it was sweltering; he got this enormous terracotta pot that was used at harvest time, he plugged up the hole in the bottom and filled it with water. He then got in, but all the time he held onto a hammer. He said that if he felt himself slipping he could smash the pot with the hammer before he drowned.”
Then he told us about his diving exploits in the Falklands and drank even more brandy, generally glossing over his time in the Navy, Fiona was interested in this and they talked about techniques of diving, when the gate entry buzzer broke into the conversation.
Fiona said, “Who the hell is that at this time of night?”
“Probably just kids messing about. I’ll go and see,” I said, already getting up and heading for the door.
I guessed it might be the young lad, Sam, who I’d asked to keep an eye on Flackyard and Caplin. It was.
To my surprise he had written up a report on Flackyard’s movements for that afternoon and evening. I thanked and paid him the agreed sum, plus a bonus for being vigilant and thorough. He walked off down the road happy and said that he would contact me again in a day or so. Fiona called from the doorway, “Who is it?”
“A couple of drunken kids, messing about, they’ve gone now.” I replied.
We went back indoors, where Rumple was still drinking heavily.
“I saw you chatting away like lost brothers to one of them,” said Fiona. “Wasn’t that the kid who washed your car earlier today?”
“No, You must have drunk to much brandy Fiona, I most certainly was not talking like a lost brother to either of those two. I was actually telling that young drunk that if he didn’t move I’d call the police, at which he came up to the gate and threatened me. What you actually saw was my hand around his throat and his face in the railings; I was simply advising him what a bad idea that was.”
By the time we eventually got to bed the wind was blowing a gale outside, and below on the small private beach that belonged to the house, air, water and sand thrashed together.