Cripples' Ease
The sun was westering as I climbed Cam Kenidjack. The great granite blocks of the earn were black against the flaming sky and the heather of the hillside was dark in shadow. But when I reached the top and stood on the huge, flat-topped slabs, I felt the faint warmth of the sun, and the heather on the farther slope glowed a warm purple. The moors spilled away from under my feet to a coastline that was torn and broken by old mine workings. It was as though one of the giants of Cornish legend had rootled along this rugged coast in search of boulders to hurl at some neighbouring Titan. The sea beyond was like a tray of burnished copper. A line of storm clouds lay black along the horizon, their ragged edges crimsoned by the red disc of the autumn sun. The wind blew strong and salt in my face.
So this was the Cornish tin coast. There was a lump in my throat. Since I was old enough to understand, my father had talked to me of little else but this strip of Cornwall where he had lived and worked until he married. And I was actually standing on Carn Kenidjack — the Hooting Carn. This was where the two tinners were supposed to have watched the Devil's wrestling match.
Below me three tracks sprouted from the heather and thrust dirty-brown fingers down to the stone-tilted roofs of the miners' cottages on the coast road. I got my bearings from my map. That was St. Just, away to the left there, and Botallack, and Boscaswell where my father had been born, and Trewellard. Yes, and there was Pendeen — I could just see the white pimple of the lighthouse peeping above the rim of the coast. A little to the left the two shafts of Wheal Geevor showed black scaffolds against the copper sea. And that waste of broken rock down by the cliff edge, that was Levant.
I knew the line of the coast by heart as though I had spent my boyhood exploring it. I needed no map to tell me which was Cape Cornwall and Kenidjack Castle. I had felt a sudden excitement as I found Botallack Head and recognised, in the scored cliff-top behind it, the surface workings of the Botallack mine. I could even pick out the various shafts, getting my bearings from the broken ruins of the old engine houses that were the only ordered things in that chaos of tumbled stone. The mine was derelict now, but in my father's day it had been a great copper producer. He had taken me through it gallery by gallery, describing each level in the minutest detail, so that looking down on it from Cam Kenidjack I could almost see the outline of the underground workings just as my father had so often traced it for me on the dusty floor of our hut.
I thought of Kalgoorlie and the seething mine valleys of the Rockies and the big new concrete buildings that housed their plants. And they seemed so recent and characterless beside this little strip of torn-up coast where tin had been streamed by men who had left traces of their rude hut circles and megalithic burial chambers up here on these desolate moors. These were the mines that had given the Ancient Britons the ore to barter with for ornaments and silks with Greek merchants from Marseilles way back in the Bronze Age… And only fifty years ago the whole area had seethed with activity, as thousands of men worked beneath the rugged cliffs and even out under the sea. And now it was all derelict. Just that one mine — Wheal Geevor — still working.
The ruddy glow of the sun began to fade out of the heather. The great red ball was sinking behind the gathering storm clouds.
I watched until the last red slice of it disappeared. And when I looked down the slope of the hillside to the coast again, the sea had become a dark abyss and the worked cliff-tops and broken hillside were gloomy and unfriendly. The heather was like burnt stubble now and the rocks took on weird shapes in the gathering dusk. The country seemed to shiver in the cold wind and withdraw into its dark past.
I went on again then, making for the nearest of the tracks that led down into Botallack. But I went slowly, almost reluctantly. Now that I was face to face with the future I felt ill at ease again. I tried to pretend that if I didn't like the job I could go elsewhere. But back of my mind there lurked a fear that I should not be allowed to do that. All sense of excitement at returning to my father's own country was drained out of me. Perhaps it was because all warmth had left the country with the setting of the sun. It was bleak and bare — and depressing. Or perhaps I had a sense of premonition.
By the time I had reached the coast road that runs from St. Ives to the Land's End it was almost dark. The clouds mat had fringed the horizon when the sun set were now a black mass piled up half across the sky. Distant lightning forked in jagged streaks, providing the only indication where cloud ended and sea began. After each flash, the far-off roll of thunder sounded above the dull roar of the sea and the moan of the wind in the telegraph wires. To the north, the revolving light of Pendeen Watch swung in a white glare through the dark of the gathering storm.
Many of the cottages must have disappeared since my father's day, for Botallack was now little more than an inn and a few farm buildings. There was not a soul on the road. But from the lighted doorway of the inn came the sound of an accordion and men's voices. They were singing The Old Grey Duck.' I hadn't heard that old song since my father had died. It had been a great favourite with him when he was drunk. I hesitated. I did not want to face the curious gaze of the inhabitants of this tiny village. Yet I had to find out where Captain Manack lived and I needed a drink to steady myself. I needed time to think too.
There were about half a dozen men seated in the bar when I went in. Two were playing Cornish skittles; the rest were grouped around the accordion player. He was a big, burly man with short, grizzled hair and he sang with an old clay pipe clamped between toothless gums. The singing was punctuated by the clatter of the wooden pins as the ball on its string swung through their ranks. A big fire blazed in the grate and the place looked warm and cheerful. I crossed over to the bar and ordered a pint of beer, very conscious of the fact that the singing had almost ceased as they watched me. Samples of ore stood among the bottles and glasses that twinkled at their reflections in the mirror that backed the shelves. There was a leaden chunk of mother tin and a big lump of iron pyrites that glittered brighter man gold in the strong light. The landlord was friendly enough, and I began talking to him about the mining industry. He was short and wide in the shoulders. Every now and then he gave a little rasping cough and his skin had the grey pallor of silicosis.
I suddenly realised that the accordion had stopped playing. The singing had ceased, so had the click of the skittles. I turned quickly. No one was talking. They were all looking at me. I was seized with a panic desire to run. But my feet seemed to be rooted to the floor. I took a grip on myself. They couldn't tell just by the look of me. 'Why do you all stare at me?' I heard myself ask.
It was the accordion player who answered.''We bin trying to make 'ee out from yer talk. Thee's a furriner sure, an' yet 'ee's a fitly way of speaking.'
'I'm Canadian,' I said.
'Iss, iss, but thee's got Cornish blood in 'ee,' the old man insisted.
I felt relieved. But I wondered how he could tell. I suppose it was the fact that I'd been brought up to Cornish dialect. I could drop into it quite easily and did now. 'Iss,' I said. 'Me father was a tinner over to Redruth afore we went to Canada. Born at Boscaswell, he was, an' worked cores down in Botallack till they knacked the bal.'
The old man nodded approvingly. 'A' thort so,' he said. The whole room was smiling at me. 'The way 'ee were talking,' the old man went on, 'puts me in mind of the old days in Camborne and Redruth. I mind the time when the bals were working full blast and the kiddiwinks was full o' Cornishmen tarkin' all sorts of strange, outlandish tongues. They'd packed their traps when things were bad — that were in the Nineties. Iss, an' there weren't a corner o' the world they hadn't been to, 'ee knaw; Chile, Peru, the silver mines at Lima where old Dick Trevithick went, Kimberley, Jo'burg, the States — they'd been most everywheres there'd been a mine working. They came home soon's the bals began to open up again. Strange clo's they wore an' strange 'abits they had, but they hadn't forgot their native Cornish way o' speakin', no more'm 'ee have, boay.' He shook his head sadly. 'There was money about in them days, 'ee knaw. Not laike it is now. Why me father would tell me o' the days when there was nigh on fifty bals working in this part o' the country alone. Now there's only the one.' He took his pipe out of his mouth and spat. 'Navvies' work, that's what it is now. Mind 'ee, they was rough lads that came back in the old days. Whilst 'ee got 'eesel' eddicated.' He peered across at me. 'Thee's not looking for work, is 'ee boay?' I didn't say anything and he didn't seem to expect a reply.
'Thee wouldn't find much mining work in these parts now. Edn't I right, Garge?' he asked the landlord.
'Thas right, Bill.' The landlord turned to me. 'Thee'll hear people say that the bals in Cornwall is worked out,' he said. "Taint so. But 'ee's got to go deep, deeper'n they'll go these days for all their modern equipment. Started some o' the mines up, the Government did during this last war. Thee can see one of'n in the cove down beyond Cape Cornwall. That was when Malay was took by the Japs. Spent a mint o' money they did in the valley there. But it were the same as it were with the adventurers. No sooner'n they were gettin' near the tin than they knacked 'er — found they could get tin from Bolivia or some sicn place. When I was a boay, copper were 'bout all anybody thort on around here. An' when the copper was worked out, the mine closed down. But under the copper there's tin — and plenty of it. Thee can ask any of the boays who've worked deep. They'll tell 'ee the same. There's tin under the copper. I seen it meself. But it would cost a heap of money to get at it, for the mines is all full o' water now, full right up to the adits.'
'What about the eyebits?' I asked. 'There must be some rich patches left above water. Isn't anybody working them?'
'Ar, there's one or two little groups gettin' an uneasy living out of'n,' replied the landlord. 'But there edn't no future in it.'
'An' there's others wastin' their money fiddlin' about just below the adit level,' put in the old man. 'There's one of'n right here in Botallack. Got control of the old Wheal Garth, 'e 'as. Installed a pump and cleared to about the hundred an' twenty fathom level. Just wastin' 'is money, that's what 'e's doin'. Yet she's a rich mine, the old Wheal Garth. They knacked 'er after the adventurers had had a row — that was back in the depression, in '31 or mebbe 'twas '32. Some o' the adventurers got cold feet. Thort they were spendin' too much on development. They didn't knaw the difference atween prills and dradge most of 'em when the mine was workin' copper. All they knawed was the price copper fetched in the market and the amount of copper that was being brought to the surface. When it came to developing down through bad country for the tin what lay deeper — well, they knacked 'er an' near on two 'undred men were out o' work.'
But I wasn't listening any more. My eyes had been attracted by a headline in the paper that lay on the bar. It read: 'MYSTERY OF ABANDONED REVENUE CUTTER — Crew of four disappear.'
I glanced quickly round the bar. They were all intent upon their argument on the future of Cornish mining. Half fearful that my interest in the story would be noticed, I furtively pulled the paper towards me. The first line produced a sudden leaden sensation in my stomach and I read on, absorbed to the exclusion of all other sounds:
A revenue cutter, which had been sent out to intercept a vessel suspected of smuggling, was found abandoned this morning on a lonely stretch of beach near Marazion. No trace has so far been discovered of the four officials who formed the crew of the cutter and the Customs office at Penzance state that they have received no information regarding the missing men.
Percy Redcliff, a fisherman, of 4 Hillside, Marazion, discovered the vessel beached on the sand at 6 a.m. He immediately reported to the police. Police and Customs officials have examined the boat. They state that the wheel-house and starboard side of the hull are damaged as though by a very heavy sea.
The cutter was seen by several ships during the previous afternoon. The last to sight her was a Naval corvette. The Captain of this vessel reported the cutter about five miles off Newlyn heading south at about six knots through calm seas. Inquiries are now being made concerning the Isle of Mull, a fifty-five ton ketch owned by Mr David Jones. It is believed that this vessel may have sighted the cutter later than the corvette. Until this vessel is located officials are unwilling to make any statement.
It is possible that the cutter came into collision with another vessel last night and was abandoned by her crew. Mr Redcliff, however, pointed out in an interview that when he found the cutter she was quite seaworthy. His opinion was that the crew would have had no justification in abandoning her. Further, he stated that the damage was not, in his opinion, the result of any collision.
The names of the missing men are Frank Riley…
I stopped reading then and looked up. Something said by one of the men in the bar had thrust itself into my mind. The landlord was speaking. 'Ar,' he said. 'Reckon 'e knaws summat.' And then I understood why my interest had been aroused. 'Who — Manack?' asked the old accordion player. 'He's just daft, that's all.'
'Ar, 'e's daft right enough,' put in one of the skittle players, 'Bin queer in the 'ead ever since his wife was killed, poor soul.'
'An' then there was that 'ooman who went mad down there,' put in another.
'Iss,' the landlord said to me, 'walked over the cliff, she did.'
'Tedn't a place I'd go near at night, anyway,' said the skittle player.
'Nor me,' agreed the old man with the accordion. 'I'd be scared o' seeing the death fetch o' one o' they women.' And he chuckled softly to himself.
'I don't care what 'ee say,' put in the landlord, 'I reckon 'ee knaws summat. One way and another 'ee's got control of the whole mine. Bought the other adventurers out for next to nothing, 'I'm thinking.'
'Then why was he one of the ones that wanted to knack her?' asked the skittle player.
The landlord shook his head. 'Dunno,' he said. 'Mebbe it was so as he could get control of the mine.'
In the short silence that followed I leaned across to the landlord and asked, 'Is it Captain Manack you're talking about?'
He gave me a quick glance. 'No. The old man. Captain Manack is his son. Why? Do you know'n?'
'Mebbe,' I said. 'Where's he live?'
And then I got the second surprise that evening, for the landlord turned to me and said, 'Just down the road, at Cripples' Ease.'
'Cripples' Ease,' I echoed.
He laughed. 'Yes,' he said. 'Queer sort o' name, eh? Used to be a pub. That was before my time when everybody round here worked at the Botallack. Then it came into Manack's possession and the licence was allowed to lapse.'
'When was that?' I asked.
'Oh, let me see. Just after the first war it would be. There was some tale that he got it from the woman who kept house for him, the same that went mad an' walked over the cliff. But then, 'cos 'e's reck'ned a bit daft, there's all sorts of stories about him. Can't believe 'alf o' what you're toald in a village laike this.' He grinned. 'Leastways, 'e's the one man that believes there's tin down in Wheal Garth and tryin' to get it. He and 'is son — though what 'is son knows about mining I don't know. They employs a couple o' men down there — furriners, they are, an' we don't see much o' them. Seems they're more like quarry men than miners. About all they do is cut granite slabs for kerb stones and things. Lorries come down from Bristol, sometimes Lunnon even, about once a week.' He shook his head. 'Old Manack'll never do no good with that mine, I'm thinking.'
'Whereabouts is Cripples' Ease?' I asked.
He looked at me sharply. 'Just down the road,' he said vaguely. 'Why?'
I hesitated. Then I said, 'I've come here to see Captain Manack.' I had the feeling he was eyeing me closely.
'Thee don't want to be going down to Cripples' Ease,' put in the old man with the accordion. 'Leastways not this time o' night. T'edn't a very friendly place.' He smiled, showing his gums. He did it without removing the clay pipe. 'It's the old man. Daft, that's what I say 'e is. 'E were all right until his wife had that assident.'
'What happened?' I asked.
'Fell down a mine shaft, she did, poor 'ooman,' he told me. "Tain't difficult. The cliffs is littered with old shafts. They found her at the bottom. Her head was stove in and she had her dog layin' aside of 'er. They say as 'ow she went down after the dog. But there's others thinks different,' he added darkly.
'What was her name?' I asked.
'Er name? What was 'er name, Garge?' he asked the landlord.
'Harriet, if I remember rightly.'
'Ar, that were it — Harriet Manack. She was a widow woman from Penzance. They say it was she brought 'im 'is interest in Wheal Garth.'
'When did this happen?' I asked.
'It'd be nine or ten years ago,' he replied.
'Was he married before?'
The old man shook his head. 'Not to my recollection.' I felt relieved. I didn't want to go digging up the past.
I finished my beer. 'Which road do I take for Manack's place?' I asked the landlord.
'Turn right outside here,' he said. 'About fifty yards on, the road bends sharp right. That's where 'ee turns off to the left. Thee'll find a track. That'll take ee' down to Botallack. Cripples' Ease is by the mine workings. Thee'll not mistake it — 'edn't nothing else down there, 'cept ruins.'
Outside thick darkness shut in the village and thrust back the light that stole out through the open doorway of the inn. The wind had risen and the roar of it swallowed the sound of my footsteps on the roadway. A fork of lightning ripped open the under-belly of the clouds that hung above the coast. In the flash of it the drab stone of the cottages that edged the roadway stood cut sharp and black, as in a woodcut. The thunder cracked, heavy and close, like a giant whip slashed across the heavens, and then died away in a grumbling murmur over the sea.
I found the track without difficulty. It ran west towards the sea and the great streaks of forked lightning were reflected in the tumbled waters. The roar of the waves beating against the cliffs grew louder as I walked on and soon the flickering light showed me the surf boiling at the foot of Kenidjack Castle. The thunder rolled round the heavens in an almost unbroken orchestra of sound. Tumbled, broken heaps that had once been mine buildings loomed up out of the night, the stone almost white in the dazzle of the lightning. A fine mist of sea spray drove against my face, salting my lips. Old engine houses stood like dilapidated keeps along the clifftop and, between them, were piled broken heaps of crushed stone, tier on tier, like terraces. It was a devil's mockery of the hanging gardens of Babylon where not even thistle and chickweed would grow.
Then, black against a flash of lightning, I saw a building that was whole and intact. It was a gaunt, ugly building standing foursquare to the winds that roared across the top of the cliffs. It was there for an instant, outlined against luminous clouds and still more luminous sea. Then it was gone, swallowed up in the inky blackness that followed each flash. I saw the house next against a crackle of lightning far off along the horizon. It was nearer and seemed to crouch like some animal bunched to withstand the impact of the storm. Then suddenly a great flare of lightning split the sky right over my head. The jagged rent of crackling light sizzling in a single streak to stab the hills inland. The thunder was instantaneous. The clouds seemed to split with light and sound at one and the same time. And in that vivid flash I saw the windows of the building shine, cold and dead, like a blind man's eyes. The face of the house was black with a weather coating of pitch. Beside it was the remains of a garden, a poor broken thing of hydrangeas and foxgloves all choked with thistles. There were several little fruit trees, too — gaunt, wasted things whose branches flared away from the wind as though in mad flight for shelter.
With that splitting crash of thunder, the heavens seemed ripped open. The rain swept down in a solid, sodden curtain, driven in flurries by the wind, which now blew in heavy gusts. I ran, stumbling, to the door of the building and beat upon it. A flash of lightning showed me two lines of writing above the lintel. Several coats of more recent paint had flaked away to reveal the old lettering. In the next flash I was able to read it, 'James Nearne, licensed to sell wines, spirits and tobacco.'
Nearne. James Nearne. It was a strange coincidence. Nearne wasn't such a common name. Nor, for that matter, was Cripples' Ease. A gust of wind blew a chilling sheet of rain against me. I lifted the latch and threw myself against the door. It was locked. There was no knocker so I beat upon it with my fists. But the sound of my knocking must have been lost in the roar of the storm for nobody came. The water was pouring off the slates on to my neck in a steady stream. I flattened myself against the door, rattling at the latch. The rain was seeping through to my underclothes. I felt damp arid chilled. In the incessant flicker of the lightning the rain showed like a dull tin-plate curtain. Violent gusts drove it across the broken mine workings and beat it into the sodden ground.
I turned the collar of my jacket up and splashed my way round the walls of the house. At the back a chink of light glimmered from a curtained window. I sloshed through more puddles and grasped the sill. The rain beat against the window, washing in solid water down the panes. Through the chink I looked in upon a small, low-ceilinged room lit by lamplight. The walls were of a brown, glossy paint and that had peeled away in places to show a gay powder-blue underneath, or had disintegrated so completely with age and neglect to reveal the mouldering white of old plaster. A cheerful fire blazed in a cheap Victorian grate.
It was not the room that attracted my attention but the man seated behind a big desk near the fire. He was broad in the shoulders and powerfully built. His head was small and rather square, the skin dark and lined with little wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, and he had a moustache. Above a rather high, lined forehead his short hair stood up almost straight. This and his high cheek bones gave him the appearance of a character from Grimm. He was talking to somebody I could not see and at the same time counting notes from a thick wad oft the desk. At his elbow was a bottle and a glass full of some yellowish liquor. Beside the desk, against the wall, stood a big safe. The door of the safe was open.
Had I known who the other occupant of the room was I should not have tapped on that window. I should have stepped back into the deluging blackness and tried to find my way back to the inn. One glimpse of the other occupant of that room would have told me the sort of set-up I was getting mixed up with. That would have been enough for me. I'd have cleared out.
But I could only see the one man. I could see he was talking to someone. But I couldn't see who. And because I was wet through and cold and this was the place Dave had told me to come to, I tapped on the window. The man at the desk looked up. His eyes had narrowed and his head was cocked a little on one side. He had stopped talking and was staring straight at the window. I tapped again with the tips of my nails.
The effect was instantaneous. The man jumped to his feet, swept the bundle of notes into the safe, whisked the bottle in as well and closed the door. He said something to the person I could not see, at the same time throwing the contents of his glass into the fire which blazed violently. Then he stepped across to the window and pulled back the curtain. Our faces were about a foot apart with the streaming glass of the window panes between us. His eyes were excited, almost wild-looking. 'Who are you? What do you want?' His voice was faint.
'I want to speak to Captain Manack,' I shouted back.
'I'm Captain Manack. What do you want?' he sounded suspicious.
'Dave Tanner sent me,' I said.
I saw him start. The man seemed strung up. Or was it that he had been drinking?
'Can you let me in?' I shouted. 'It's wet out here.'
He hesitated. I fished in the pocket of my jacket and produced Dave's lighter, holding it up for him to see. 'Dave told me to give you this,' I called.
He peered at it with a quick, bird-like glance. Then he nodded. 'Go round the back and I'll let you in,' he said and dropped the curtain.
After staring into that lamplit room, the sudden darkness was indescribably black. As I turned from the window a gust of rain lashed my face. It seemed to beat upon my bare body, so sodden had my clothes become. I shivered and stood still, for it was too dark for me to move. Then a blinding sheet of lightning showed me a line of outbuildings jutting from the house. As I made for them a door opened and Manack stood there with a lamp in his hand.
He shut the door behind me. I was in a stone-flagged scullery, and though it was cold, I felt the instant relief from the fury of the wind and rain outside. He held the lamp higher and peered at me. He was quite a short man. His size accentuated the breadth of his powerful shoulders. His eyes glittered in the uncertain light. 'You're not one of the crew of the Isle of Mull are you?' he said.
I shook my head.
'I thought not.' And then: 'Why did Dave send you? And how is it you know his real name?' His voice was sharp, almost a bark. It expressed nervousness and excitement, and the habit of command.
'He said you had a job for me,' I explained. 'I'm a miner. He said it was a mining job.'
'Oh,' He nodded as though that explained everything. 'You're from Italy. A deserter. Yes, he told me about you.' He said it quite matter-of-factly as though being a deserter were a profession. 'Just arrived, have you?'
'Yes,' I said. 'Got in yesterday.'
'Who brought you over — Mulligan?'
I nodded, too surprised to speak.
'Give me the lighter, will you,' he said. I handed it to him and then he said, 'Better come into my office. There's somebody there who can check your identity.' He smiled to himself and led the way through into a big stone-flagged kitchen where iron pots simmered on a glowing range. Copper glinted warmly from the walls and a collie sheep dog lay stretched before the fire. A girl looked up from her ironing as we entered. She was big and strong looking and her face was flushed with the heat of the fire. 'Kitty — there'll be one extra for dinner,' he told the girl. 'And he'll be staying the night, so get a room for him.'
She gave me a quick glance. It was intended to be casual, I'm certain of that. But when she saw me, her eyes widened and a puzzled expression crossed her face. She stared at me as she said in a low voice, 'There's only the attic room.'
'Well, get that fixed up for him,' Manack said.
Her gaze was still fixed on me. I felt embarrassed. I don't know why. Girls often stare at me. I suppose it's because I'm more than usually big. That seems to attract them. It had caused me a lot of trouble in Italy. But somehow this was different. It was as though she couldn't believe her eyes.
Almost reluctantly it seemed she turned to my companion.
'You know what your father said — I mean about the attic room not being used.'
'I don't care what he said,' Manack snapped. 'If it's the only room, use it.'
I was conscious of the girl's gaze as I followed Captain Manack out into a damp-chilled corridor. Our footsteps sounded loud on the stone floor. Manack set the lamp down on a table and opened a door. I followed him into the room I had looked into from the window.
And then I stopped. Standing by the fire, a drink in his hand, was Mulligan. Our eyes met at the same moment and he stiffened suddenly with his drink halfway to his lips and his mouth slightly open. Then his hand slid to his hip pocket. He held it there, his body tensed.
Manack went straight over to the desk. This the man you brought over from Italy?' he asked Mulligan.
'Yes.' Mulligan's eyes never left my face.
Without looking round Captain Manack sat down in his chair and began unscrewing the lighter. I remained standing by the door. Two thoughts were chasing themselves through my mind. The first was that I didn't want to be mixed up with anything that Mulligan was mixed up in. The second was that I wanted to get back the money he had stolen from me. Between the desire to beat it and the desire to get my money back, I stood like a dummy. 'This fellow's joining us,' Manack said. 'He's a miner.' He had the base of the lighter unscrewed now and was fishing inside it with a pin. Beside him lay a copy of the evening paper. It was folded so that the story of the abandoned revenue cutter was uppermost. I could read the headlines from where I stood. He extracted a screw of paper from the lighter and smoothed it out on the desk.
I suddenly decided that I didn't want anything to do with this set-up. Manack was mixed up with Dave and the death of the revenue men. And Mulligan was in his employ. Hadn't I seen him paying out money to the man? And Mulligan was a crook — a liquor-running French bastard. But, by God, before I left I'd have my money back. He wouldn't get away with that. With a hundred and fifty quid I'd be all right. I'd get myself a passage to Canada.
I glanced at Mulligan. He still had his hand on his hip pocket. But he was looking at Manack. His mind was on the note that Manack was reading. In two quick strides I had him. I caught him by the arms, twisting them back and at the same time lifting him clear off the ground. The hare-lip bared his blackened teeth in pain. 'Now Mulligan,' I said. 'Hand over that money you stole from me.'
I heard the scrape of Manack's chair as he rose. I backed away, still holding Mulligan off the ground and twisting his arms back so that he uttered a wild cry of pain. Then he kicked me — kicked me right in the crutch. The blinding pain of it bent me double. I heard Mulligan's body hit the floor. When I had eased myself sufficiently to look up, he had scrambled to- his feet and was backing to the window, a little black Beretta in his hand.
'Put that gun up, Mulligan. What the hell's the matter with you two?' Manack's voice was sharp, authoritative. Then I doubled up with pain again, cursing Mulligan through gritted teeth. Hands gripped me by the shoulder and pushed me gently into the armchair by the fire. A hand at the back of my neck kept me bent right down. The pain gradually eased and I stopped cursing. I wanted to straighten up, but that hand held me down. It was very strong. 'Why did you go for Mulligan like that?' Manack's voice was soft, almost gentle. But the ring of command was still there.
I told him as I stared down through tear-dimmed eyes at the worn leather of the chair. The hand released my neck and I looked up. Mulligan was still standing by the window. He had put his gun away, but his eyes were watchful and angry. 'Is that correct?' Manack asked him.
Mulligan shifted uneasily at the peremptory query. 'How the divil was I to know he was going to work for ye, Captain?' he said. His manner was half injured, half apologetic. 'I charge 'em fifty for the trip. But that doesna include putting 'em ashore. That's dangerous work, and I take what I can get for it. This man's a trouble maker.'
'We'll see about that,' replied Manack.
'I don't wish to make any trouble,' I said. The pain had eased and I stood up. 'Just give me the money and I'll go.'
'You don't have to go,' Manack said. Then to Mulligan: 'Give me that money.' Mulligan counted the amount out from a wad of treasury notes which he took from his pocket.
'I want to go,' I told Manack.
At that he swung round. 'Oh, so you want to go?' His eyes were grey and hard and his teeth showed in a smile beneath his moustache. He went over to the desk and counted out the notes. 'How much did you say?' he asked as he finished counting.
'One hundred and forty-five,' I told him.
He nodded. 'That's the lot then.' He put the notes into an envelope, stuck it down and then placed the envelope in the safe. 'There's your money,' he said to me as he closed the safe door. 'You can have it just as soon as you've finished the job you were sent here to do.'
'But — "
He stopped me. 'Listen, you,' he said, and his voice was harsh now. 'You're a deserter. What's more, you're implicated in the disappearance of four Customs officials.' He laid a significant stress on the word 'disappearance.' His accusation took my breath away. For a moment I was too surprised to speak. I just stood there and stared into his hard, smiling face. Then I found my voice. 'That's a damned lie,' I said. 'The first I knew about it was when I met Dave with a bullet wound in his arm.'
He laughed. It was a quick, barking sound. 'So you know all about it, eh? Well, you go to the police and see if they believe your story. The English police are rather conservative. There's no amnesty for deserters in this country and the police don't Eke them. I use 'em because it's convenient, not because I enjoy their company. You walk out of here and see what happens. How did you get into the country? You'll say Mulligan here, skipper of the Arisaig, brought you over. But did he?' he turned to Mulligan.
Mulligan grinned. 'Never set eyes on the man before in my life. Ah'm no in the habit of carrying desairters in the Arisaig.' Manack turned back to me. He was smiling with his eyes, but not with his lips. 'Dave Tanner will go to Italy in the Arisaig. But before he goes he'll leave with me a written confession. The names of the crew will include yours, together with a description. You're too big a man to slip through a police net.' He suddenly smiled, and his smile was friendly. 'Sorry to have to show you that I'm quite ruthless, but it's best for you to know where you send right away. The job is not a long one. When you've finished it you can go or stay as you please. The pay is good and will be added to the rest of your money. You'll collect the total when the job's done. Now, if you go back into the kitchen, the girl will show you where you feed and introduce you to the others.'
I hesitated. What the hell was I to do? There were two of them. They stood watching me. My limbs were stiff with the pain. I suddenly felt weak and humiliated. It was as though I had walked into a net carefully spread for me and it had tightened about me, so that I was helpless.
'Well?' Manack snapped.
'Okay,' I mumbled. I looked across at Mulligan. 'If I ever meet you again,' I said, 'watch out for yourself.'
'Okay,' he replied. 'Mais pour ca, je ne passerai pas des nuits blanches.' And he laughed.
I turned then and left the room.