The Fer-de-Lance Contract by Philip Atlee

Author:Philip Atlee
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Media
Published: 2020-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11

I was awakened by a persistent knocking on the stateroom door. As I lunged out of bed and went to unlock the door, I noticed bright sunlight at the portholes. The yacht was not moving. Martha Stock was in the companionway, and said she hated to disturb me but that we were hove to, twelve miles off Castries, capital of St. Lucia. She needed some orders. Was Romany to enter the harbor?

“No ma’am. But I would like us close enough to send two of your crewmen ashore in the dinghy. Then I’d like them to go into Castries. Can we manage that without being seen?”

The tall blond girl shrugged. “Matter of luck. There’s a little bay several miles south of town. They can beach the dinghy there and catch a bus.”

“Right. Let’s do it.”

She nodded. “I thought you secret types were up with the sun. You’ve slept nearly fourteen hours.”

“Only because I knew you were in charge,” I said gravely. She smiled at that, and a dimple appeared in her tanned cheeks. “Very attractive, those dimples,” I added, and got to see them again.

“Breakfast will be ready whenever you are …” She walked away, wearing only a tee shirt and tight shorts, and when I whistled sharply she put a little something extra in it. While I was showering, I heard her swearing at the crewmen like a bosun’s mate working lascars. In a few minutes Romany heeled into motion again.

After we had put the dinghy over the side with the black seamen in it, the big Merc outboard spun to life and sent it pitching toward the deserted bay. Under auxiliary power Romany moved back out beyond the international limit. There, in the blue water of the white-capping Caribbean, Martha and I sat in swivel chairs aft and fished from outrigger lines.

I had just hauled in a thirty-pound dolphin and we were watching its lovely blue-green luster fade to a dismal brown when the remaining black seaman came out of the cabin to report that Romany was being called on the voice channel. He had been monitoring the bank of receivers while we fished.

It was Neal Pearsall, calling me from the agency headquarters outside Washington. He said he was on the scrambler phone, and asked if I would have to talk in the clear. I said yes, but wait a minute. I turned and asked Martha if she would take the seaman and go forward, on deck.

“Security?” she asked, and when I nodded she said “not that tough.” She flipped the voice receiver off, stabbed a headset jack into the panel, and cleared a mike for me. And then, a smart girl who got the gist of things in one, she took the seaman forward anyway.

“Okay,” I said. “Go ahead.”

“Where’s Ratoon?”

“He left me in Dominica. Worked me over, thought he had arranged my death. Didn’t work. We have just put two men ashore, clandestinely, and they will check the news in Castries. But they won’t be back until dark.

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