Beauchene was quiet for awhile. Quiet also was Michael Gallatin.
“The house,” Beauchene said, “took my family’s business. And then… I learned about all the other men. Just by accident, the first one. Then… I began watching, and following her. There were so many others. It must have been a thrilling thing for her.
“And I thought…of course a beautiful woman such as she would never be satisfied just with one man. Certainly not just with me. Well, look at me! And I was better then, but I was on the downward slide. Without money…how could you keep a woman like that?
“And then…and then… I followed her to a hotel. I followed her upstairs. To a room. I let her go in. She walked as a woman does to meet a favored lover. As she used to walk toward me. And then I waited for awhile, and I kicked the door in.”
Again the bottle went to his lips. Again it was lowered. Strong drink was not strong enough.
“There she was,” said Beauchene, as he peered out the porthole at the rainy gray world. “In the bed. Held in those black arms. And both of them looked at me, as if I was nothing. She had no shame. I think she must have known I was following her, because she’d been expecting me. Maybe that was part of the thrill, too. She smiled, just a little bit. Have you ever realized, Monsieur Gallatin, how deadly a smile can be?”
The question cut like a terrible blade.
“Oh,” Beauchene said softly, “I loved her more than life.”
Michael couldn’t see the man’s face. He didn’t want to see it.
“And furthermore,” Beauchene said in a voice strained with old agony still raw, “what would the fates decree, but to someday make me the master of a ship that bears her name?”
He turned toward Michael. Something of the rainy gray world was in his eyes. “You’re thinking now how much hate is in me. Yes, you’re right. I hate Caucasians, Orientals, Africans, Brits, Poles, Swedes, Norwegians, Dutchmen, Spaniards, Germans, Russians and all the rest of them. I hate Frenchmen and I hate French women. I hate the tall, the short, the plain and the beautiful. I hate those who frown and those who smile. I hate the lucky in love and the unlucky in life. And most of all, Monsieur Gallatin, most of all… I hate—”
There was a knock at the door. “Captain?” It was the young African.
“Most of all, I hate men with green eyes,” Beauchene said, finishing his litany. He aimed his mouth at the door. “What do you want?”
“Sir…a motor launch is approaching on the port beam. Its signal lamp is asking us to hold our fire.”
Beauchene tilted the bottle to his lips and killed it. “Lower the ladder. One man should come aboard, and one man only. When he gets on deck, frisk him for weapons and blindfold him. Take him to the mess hall. And tell everyone my order is: no firing upon the launch or the man. Understand that?”
“Yes sir.” Kpanga went away.
“All right, then.” Beauchene came around the desk and picked up his Thompson.
He reloaded it with a fresh clip. “Don’t worry,” he told Michael, who had begun to worry. “I’ll be as sweet as cream cheese. You ready?”
Michael was.
They left the cabin to go meet their visitor.
Nine
The Javelin’s Master
The man standing in the mess hall had been blindfolded with a piece of black cloth. Enam Kpanga, Olaf Thorgrimsen and Billy Bowers were with him when Michael and Beauchene arrived. Olaf, brandishing his pistol, was walking around and around the Javelin’s captain, as if to examine him from all angles. Billy stood at the door, his eyes dark from lack of sleep.
“May I remove my blindfold?” Manson Konnig asked in English with a crisp German accent. His voice betrayed no emotion, and not a half-quaver of fear.
“Oui,” said Beauchene.
Konnig reached up long-fingered hands, removed his perfectly-white captain’s cap with its high top and spread-winged eagle insignia above the Nazi symbol, and then took off the blindfold. He had reddish-blonde hair, trimmed short on the sides but thick on top, and a neat mustache and goatee more on the red side. He was wearing a long black raincoat over his uniform. His boots looked to have been recently painted with glossy ebony. He put the blindfold in a pocket of his coat and returned the cap to his head. Then he adjusted it at a slight, jaunty angle.
The man’s cautious dark brown eyes regarded first Beauchene and then Michael.
“Captain?” he asked, and offered his hand to the lycanthrope.
“I’m the master of this ship,” said Beauchene, his eyelids at half-mast.
“Ah! Yes!” Konnig moved his hand toward Beauchene, but it was not accepted.
“Well,” said the Javelin’s master, as he closed his hand and dropped it to his side, “pardon me. I was expecting a captain, not a garbageman.”
Beauchene smiled thinly. He kept his eyes on the Nazi. “You two men can leave. Wait outside. Kpanga, you stay.”
“Oh, dear,” said Konnig. “Must we have that in the room?”
“He stays.”
Billy and Olaf left. Michael pulled a chair over and sat down, interested to watch this encounter play out and also to examine Konnig. The man was tall and slender, very fit-looking, and about thirty-five years old. He had a long aristocratic nose with the required pinched nostrils. His chin was square, his teeth well-polished, his demeanor that of German royalty slumming with the fieldhands. His smile was a little oily.
“Would you please not wave that weapon around?” Konnig was referring to the Thompson. “I believe you’ve already committed an act of war with it, by destroying my searchlight.”
“Your searchlight hurt my eyes.”
Konnig grunted softly. He put his hands behind his back and locked the fingers. “I’m detecting here a certain level of animosity.”
“That may be because you killed two of my crew.”
“Really? And how many of your crew are left?”
“Enough to count.”
“Count for what? More coffins?”
“You worry about coffins for your own crew.”
“Oh, I surely will!” Konnig began to stroll around the room, looking here and there. “You did kill one of ours, by the way. A young sailor from Hamburg with a wife and two daughters. Shot right through the lungs. Died just before I left the ship. Does that make you proud?”
“It makes me wish more of my men had aimed better.”
“You’re harsh!” Konnig said with a small wicked grin. “A Frenchman from…where?”
“France.”
“And what about you?” Konnig turned his attention to Michael. “Who and what are you?”
“I’m a man in a chair,” said Michael.
“No, you’re a man in a chair who will be dead before this day is done,” Konnig answered. He was no longer grinning. “As all of you will be dead, if you refuse to turn your passengers over.” He showed his palms. “Now listen! What is to be gained by a show of resistance? Nothing, in the long run. We all know that.” He motioned toward Kpanga. “Even that one knows it. Captain, why do you wish your crew to be killed? And for a few people you really have no interest in? What should it matter to you and to your crew what becomes of those people?”
“Captain Beauchene,” said Michael, “knows you’ll kill everyone on board and sink this ship as soon as you get them. That’s why it matters.”
“Wrong!” Konnig stabbed a finger at him. “I am offering this: we receive the Wesshausers, and then we remove your crew. Yes, we do sink this freighter, but… My God, isn’t she already half-sunk? Continuing on…we transport you, Captain Beauchene, your officers and your crew to Germany, where we will offer you lodging, food and all possible care. We’re not monsters, sir! We just want what is ours.”