Lawrence needed no goading; he was already trying to start the engine and was having trouble. It was a fine time for the engine to turn temperamental. The launch was whittling away the distance between the two boats with every moment that passed.
“For God’s sake,” King said, “what’s wrong with it?” He was edgy, reminding Fletcher of the way he had been that first evening of their acquaintance in the Treasure Ship. Perhaps he had had reason to be edgy then; he certainly had reason now. “For God’s sake, Lawrence!”
Lawrence snarled something back at him that was about as obscene as you could get in half a dozen words, and he sounded edgy too. The engine gave a brief splutter and died again.
Fletcher picked up the binoculars and trained them on the launch. He saw that a man had climbed on to the roof of the cabin and was lying down with what appeared to be a submachine-gun in his hands. Things were beginning to look very unpleasant indeed. He put the binoculars down and glanced at King; there was an automatic pistol in King’s hand, but if it came to a shooting match the odds were on the submachine-gun.
Suddenly the engine gave a cough and really came to life, and it was one of the most welcome sounds Fletcher had heard in quite some time. There was a swirl of water at the stern and the boat began to move.
“Well, thanks be for that,” King muttered. “Thanks be for that.”
But the launch was still overhauling them and the gap was shrinking with each second that passed. Suddenly the man who was lying on the cabin-top, apparently judging the range to be short enough, let go with the submachine-gun. Bullets flicked the surface of the water just astern of the boat, flinging up little fountains of spray.
“Get down,” King shouted.
He could have saved his breath; the man with the submachine-gun had done all the persuading that was needed. Fletcher dropped quickly to the bottom of the cockpit and was joined there by King. Only Lawrence, who was steering, remained on his feet; he had to keep the boat under control. King got up on to his knees and did some work with the pistol, but he might as well have thrown the gun itself for all the effect it was likely to have; there was not one chance in a million of hitting anyone in the launch.
By now the boat was gathering speed and the launch was no longer gaining on it. Gradually they began to draw away from the pursuer.
“Good boy, Lawrence,” King said. “That’s the way. Keep her going.”
The man with the submachine-gun was still firing in short bursts, but he was in little better situation than King for accurate shooting; at the speed it was moving the launch provided a very unstable platform, and with the range beginning to open again the chances of scoring a telling hit were rapidly fading.
There came a lull. Fletcher raised his head and peered over the stern. He could see the man doing something with the gun, probably changing the magazine. The distance between the boats was looking much healthier and it was apparent that theirs was the faster of the two. Barring accidents, like a breakdown of the engine, it looked as though they were going to make it.
Another sudden burst of fire made him duck his head again; the man on the cabin-top had obviously got the new magazine fixed and there was no sense in taking unnecessary risks even if the range had increased. King had evidently come to the conclusion that pistol work was useless and had stowed the automatic away. Fletcher looked at him and grinned.
“They won’t catch us now. This is a fast boat.”
Perhaps he ought to have been touching wood again. At that moment there was another, longer burst of fire from the submachine-gun, as though the operator had decided to give it one last try, and some splinters of wood were chipped off the stern of the boat. Lawrence gave a cry of pain and staggered sideways, dragging at the wheel as he fell, so that the boat heeled sharply over and came round in a wide sweep to starboard. A little more and it might have made a complete turn if King had not realised the danger and grabbed the wheel to bring it back on course.
The submachine-gun was still firing spasmodically, but it stopped abruptly and Fletcher guessed that the second magazine had been emptied. He peered over the stern and saw that the involuntary manoeuvre of the boat had lost them some of their lead. But already the gap was widening again.
He went to help Lawrence, who was sitting on the bottom of the cockpit with his back propped up against the side. Apparently he had been hit in the left arm; he was wearing a short-sleeved shirt and there was blood dripping from the area of the bicep muscle. The entire lower arm was in a mess, but it probably looked worse than it was.
The submachine-gun really seemed to have gone out of business this time. He glanced again across the gap of water and saw that the launch had slipped even further astern; it was no longer in the hunt and they could forget about any more danger from the gun. He felt considerable relief at that; it was the first time in his life that he had been shot at, and he had not enjoyed the experience. He hoped it would be the last time also, but in the circumstances he would not have been prepared to lay a very heavy bet on that particular horse.
He turned again to Lawrence. “How bad is it?”
Lawrence looked pretty sick, but he managed a grin. Or it might have been a grimace; it was hard to tell.
“I’ll live,” he said.
“I hope we all shall,” Fletcher said. But he was afraid it might be tough going.
TWELVE:
SOME GIRL
They took the boat into a small creek on the northern side of the island. King knew the place and he said it would be safe enough there. It was pretty secluded and not easy to get at; there was no road leading to it.
“We shall have to make it back to the house the best way we can.”
It had been obvious that it would not be safe to return to their starting point; they would almost certainly have found the police waiting for them. So they had headed north and then west, keeping well out to sea until the time had come to turn south and make a dash for the coast. There had always been the possibility that, warned by radio, another boat might have been sent out to intercept them, or even a helicopter; but in the event there had been nothing to give them any cause for alarm. They had seen other boats — yachts and motor-launches — but none that had appeared to be attempting any interception, and the trip had been without further incident.
Fletcher had put a dressing on Lawrence’s arm, using bandages from the boat’s first-aid kit, and had succeeded in stemming the flow of blood. It seemed that the bullet had passed completely through the flesh without touching a bone. He had made a sling for the arm and Lawrence seemed to be reasonably comfortable, though he was obviously in some pain.
None of them was happy with the way things had gone. They had all smelled the odour of treachery and it was not the kind of odour that anyone liked. The question that arose and was discussed at some length on the way back was: who had betrayed them?
It was Fletcher who touched on the nub of the matter. “Who knew about this operation? The three of us and Conrad Denning and Leonora. That’s five. Who else?”
“No one else,” King said, not looking round, just gripping the wheel hard and staring straight ahead past the bows of the boat.
“We don’t know that,” Lawrence objected. “Not for certain. There could have been someone else.”
“How could there have been?” Fletcher asked.
“Someone else could have been told.”
“Well, that’s precisely what we’re talking about, isn’t it? Who told someone else? Did you? Did Matthew? Did I?”
None of them had spoken about it to anyone; they were adamant on that.
“So who does that leave?”
It left two people — Denning and the girl.