The Spy Who Fell Off the Back of a Bus by Marc Lovel

Author:Marc Lovel
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-12-12T00:00:00+00:00

The scene would have been more appealing if it had lacked sinister connotations. Even so, Apple, arriving in his crouch behind a stack of lobster pots, couldn’t help but admire the launch as it sped bouncily toward a large white motor yacht preening itself some five hundred metres out.

He wasn’t absolutely certain that the launch held those who had been in the Jaguar, parked untidily near him on the concrete slipway, but he reckoned his assumption was too right to be wrong.

The launch, seeming to shrink in size, slowed as it drew close to the yacht and then went out of sight around her far side, where, Apple guessed, there would be a gangway. Somehow or another he would get to use it himself.

Rising, Apple looked around at this nontouristic area of shoreline. Apart from a man with a fishing rod in the distance, there was nobody about. Nearby, lying on the slipway, was a rowboat. It looked reliable.

To decide between borrowing the boat or asking the angler if he knew anything about its owner, Apple tossed a mental coin, one he had used before. It had two heads. Due to being confused by excitement he chose tails as the winner. Giving up on the whole foolishness he went to the boat and began to drag it down the concrete.

Another minute and Apple was out on the water, rowing steadily but prepared to pick up the beat if someone should appear and shout a stop-thief.

Frequent glances behind showed him no observers on the yacht, whose swordfish bow he passed under silently. The launch bobbed beside a stairway.

Shipping his oars for quietness and letting impetus take him on, Apple paddled with his hands to make a final berthing by the gangway’s underside. Rowboat tied, he swung around onto the steps. He went up at a creep.

This he maintained on deck to go along beside gleaming white superstructure. He heard nothing. A goodly section of his mind was occupied with standing off and seeing him adventurously employed thus.

A drone of voice brought Apple to a halt. Once he had gauged source he moved on, stopping again by the open porthole that was set at knee-level. After squatting, he peered cautiously in. He was looking down into a large saloon.

The voice belonged to Falcon. The ugly man, still in his fur-collared coat, was sitting on the right. From what could be seen of it from the downward and side-on angle, his face bore a pleased expression.

He said, “I promise you, my dear girl, you can believe these young ladies.”

Sitting centrally, facingly, on a long white couch, were Susan, Tilda and Mimi. They, too, looked complacent. American Tilda was chewing a toothpick. Canadian Susan fiddled with a hank of her long blond hair. French Mimi was smoking.

Not complacent in the least was Linda. She sat on the left, opposite Falcon; sat on the edge of her chair, hands gripping its carved arms. One of her ankles was shackled to a carved leg.

Glaring at the

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