He looked at Dawson who was sitting huddled on the bed, strangely shrunken. ‘You were trying to take the car, weren’t you? There was no policeman trying to drive it away at all. But you were.’
Dawson nodded. ‘I went upstairs and heard you and Causton talking about the hurricane. I got scared and figured I’d better get out.’
‘And you were going to leave the rest of us?’
Dawson nodded miserably.
Wyatt stretched out his legs. ‘I don’t understand it,’ he said. ‘I just don’t understand it. You’re Dawson – “Big Jim” Dawson – the man who’s supposed to be able to outshoot, out-fight, out-fly any other man on earth. What’s happened to you?’
Dawson lay on the bed and turned to the wall. ‘Go to hell!’ he said in a muffled voice.
IV
The police came for them at four o’clock in the morning, hustling them out of the cell and along a corridor. The office into which they were shown was bare and bleak, the archetype of all such offices anywhere in the world. The policeman at the desk was also archetypal; his cold, impersonal eyes and level stare could be duplicated in any police office in New York, London or Tokyo, and the fact that his complexion was dark coffee did not make any difference.
He regarded them expressionlessly, then said, ‘Fool, I wanted them one at a time. Take that one back.’ He pointed his pen at Wyatt, who was immediately pushed back into the corridor and escorted to the cell again.
He leaned against the wall as the key clicked in the lock and wondered what would eventually happen to him – perhaps he would join Descaix, an unlikely bedfellow. He had not heard the guns for some time and he hoped that Favel had not been beaten, because Favel was his only chance of getting clear. If Favel did not take St Pierre then he would either be shot or drowned in the cell when the waters of Santego Bay arose to engulf the town.
He sat on the stool and pondered. The policeman who had arrested them had shown a keen interest in Manning and Fuller, the two Englishmen from the North Coast, and he wondered why so much trouble should be taken over them in the middle of a civil war. Then he recalled Causton’s questioning earlier about shipments of arms and wondered if Manning and Fuller lived in the Campo de las Perlas, the area in which Causton had said the arms had been landed. If they were involved in that, no wonder Serrurier’s police were taking an interest in their doings – and in the doings of all other English people on San Fernandez.
Then, because he was very tired and had sat on the stool all night, he stretched out on the bed and fell asleep.
When he was aroused the first light of dawn was peering through the high window. Again he was taken down the corridor to the bleak room at the end and pushed through the doorway roughly. There was no sign of Dawson, and the policeman behind the desk was smiling. ‘Come in, Mr Wyatt. Sit down.’
It was not an invitation but an order. Wyatt sat in the hard chair and crossed his legs. The policeman said, in English, ‘I am Sous-Inspecteur Roseau, Mr Wyatt. Do you not think my English is good? I learned it in Jamaica.’
‘It’s very good,’ acknowledged Wyatt.
‘I’m glad,’ said Roseau. ‘Then there will be no misunderstandings. When did you last see Manning?’
‘I’ve never seen Manning.’
‘When did you last see Fuller?’
‘I’ve never seen him, either.’
‘But you knew where they lived; you admitted it.’
‘I didn’t “admit” a damned thing,’ said Wyatt evenly. ‘I told your underling that I’d heard they lived on the North Coast. I also told him that I’d never seen either of them in my life.’
Roseau consulted a sheet of paper before him. Without looking up he asked, ‘When were you recruited into American Intelligence?’
‘Well, I’ll be damned!’ said Wyatt. ‘This is all a lot of nonsense.’
Roseau’s head came up with a jerk. ‘Then you are in British Intelligence? You are a British spy?’
‘You’re out of your mind,’ said Wyatt disgustedly. ‘I’m a scientist – a meteorologist. And I don’t mind telling you something right now – if you don’t get the people out of this town within two days there’s going to be the most godawful smash-up you’ve ever seen. There’s a hurricane coming.’
Roseau smiled patiently. ‘Yes, Mr Wyatt, we know that is your cover. We also know that you British and the Americans are working hand in hand with Favel in an attempt to overthrow the lawful government of this country.’
‘That’ll do,’ said Wyatt. ‘I’ve had enough.’ He slapped the desk with the flat of his hand. ‘I want to see the British consul.’
‘So you want to see Rawsthorne?’ enquired Roseau with a malicious smile. ‘He wanted to see you – he was here trying to get you out, together with another Englishman. It is unfortunate that, because of his official position, we cannot arrest Rawsthorne – we know he is your leader – but my government is sending a strong protest to London about his conduct. He is non persona grata.’ Roseau’s smile widened. ‘You see I have Latin, too, Mr Wyatt. Not bad for an ignorant nigger.’
‘Ignorant is exactly the right word,’ said Wyatt tightly.
Roseau sighed, as a teacher sighs when faced with the obtuseness of a particularly stubborn pupil. ‘This is not the time to insult me, Wyatt. You see, your companion – your accomplice – the American agent, Dawson, has confessed. These Americans are not really so tough, you know.’
‘What the devil could he confess?’ asked Wyatt. ‘He’s as innocent of anything as I am.’ He moved his hand and felt a slight wetness on the palm. Turning his hand over he saw a smear of blood, and there were a few more drops spattered along the edge of the desk. He lifted his eyes and looked at Roseau with loathing.
‘Yes, Wyatt; he confessed,’ said Roseau. He drew a blank piece of paper from a drawer and placed in neatly before him. ‘Now,’ he said with pen poised. ‘We will begin again. When did you last see Manning?’
‘I’ve never seen Manning.’
‘When did you last see Fuller?’
‘I’ve never seen Fuller,’ said Wyatt monotonously.
Roseau carefully put down his pen. He said softly, ‘Shall we see if you are more stubborn than Dawson? Or perhaps you will be less stubborn – it is more convenient for you as well as for me.’
Wyatt was very conscious of the two policemen standing behind him near the door. They had not moved or made a sound but he knew they were there. He had known it ever since Dawson’s blood had stained his hand. He decided to take a leaf out of Rawsthorne’s book. ‘Roseau, Serrurier is going to have your hide for this.’
Roseau blinked but said nothing.
‘Does he know I’m here? He’s a bad man when he’s crossed – but who should know that better than you? When I saw him yesterday he was giving Hippolyte a going over – had Hippolyte shaking in his shoes.’
‘You saw our President yesterday?’ Roseau’s voice was perhaps not as firm as it had been.
Wyatt tried to act as though he was always in the habit of meeting Serrurier for afternoon drinks. ‘Of course.’ He leaned over the desk. ‘Don’t you know who Dawson is – the man you’ve just beaten up? He’s the famous writer. You must have