The Sword and the Net полностью

There they were again—Otto Falken’s thoughts! It was no use—he couldn’t keep them out. He ceased pacing and sat down again upon the edge of the bunk and once more dropped his head into his hands: he was alone; he had failed; he was utterly miserable.

Then, in the darkest moment, came the Idea!

Otto raised his head and let fall the hands which had supported it: the corners of his mouth began slowly to curl upwards, and little radiating creases showed at the corners of the steel-blue eyes.

He sat motionless for a few moments; then, very slowly and with the smile now broad upon his face, fetched the oilskin packet from inside his shirt.

He took out the photographs and sorted them carefully and at last found what he wanted. It was one of the newest-looking snapshots: it had mountains in the immediate background, and showed an untidy heap of black, smoking ruins which could be recognized as the remains of a sprawling, one-storeyed house.

This, with another which showed the original of the ruins against the same background and with a man and woman standing in the doorway, he put carefully into his wallet.

He swung his legs up on to the bunk and lay down, his hands clasped behind his head and the smile still lurking in his eyes.

Captain Reynolds of the Vulcania, having seen the door close behind his Second Officer and a carpenter’s mate named Nils Jorgensen, rang for his steward and sent him for Mr. Brody.

Mr. Brody, the best First Officer Reynolds had ever had, was with him quickly. Mr. Brody accepted a drink and a chair and wondered what was coming.

“That Swede,” said Reynolds. “Carpenter’s mate. Namee of Jorgensen. Big, tall, blond boy.”

“Oh, yes,” said Brody. “Some fight or something, wasn’t there? Briggs mentioned it.”

The Captain chuckled, crossing his hands over a capacious belly. “Threw a feller down a companion. Cockney feller—Bates. Not hurt much; badly scared.”

Brody knew when to interpolate. “Yes?” he said.

“Want you to keep an eye on Jorgensen. See the men don’t rag him too much. Pass the word to Briggs.”

“Yes?” said Brody.

The Captain took two sips at his drink and set his glass down. “Feller Bates was baiting the boy. Accused him of being in the fifth column.” He chuckled again richly. “Jorgensen couldn’t take it—threw him down companion.”

“Yes?” said Brody.

“Point,” said Captain Reynolds. “Boy hates Nazis! So much he can’t be chaffed. Careful or he’ll kill someone. Wonderful specimen.”

“Very sad!” The Captain took another sip from his drink and shook his head gravely. “Boy’s got good reason to hate the Boche. Parents lived in Norway. Narvik region. Boche blew ’em to Hell. Only few months ago. Bad time to bait the lad. Fix it, will you?”

“Oh, I see, sir!” Brody stood up. “Yes, sir. Can do.”

The weather had been fair since they left Lisbon—but as evening fell, the wind changed and there were ugly squalls. The sky grew rapidly overcast and a heavy swell began.

Reynolds himself came out upon the bridge and conferred with the Navigation Officer and altered his course half a point. There was some distress among the passengers, but nothing untoward.

By night the sky was a solid sheet of lowering black velvet without a star visible. The wind came steadily now from the south-west and was mounting towards gale proportions. The Vulcania rolled and wallowed and pitched—but ploughed on through the sea at three-quarter speed. . . .

A mile away, on her port bow, something shimmered beneath the curiously still surface of a valley between two rollers. It was grey and glistening as its back heaved above the water and bore without flinching the smashing brunt of a breaking wave. . . .

More of its back showed—a sleek, steel length. Its nose veered—until it was in line with the distant, unheeding Vulcania, It gathered speed and cut through the swelling waves at an angle which very soon, at this pace, would bring it close enough to its prey. . . .

Hearts aboard the Vulcania grew lighter: to the delight of Captain Reynolds and the immeasurable relief of the human cargo, there came a quick lull in the heavy weather. The sea, though running a heavy swell, was no longer mountainous. The wind lessened many degrees, and the sky, though still overcast, was less ominous. And then the first shell struck.

It was said afterwards that the Vulcania had no detector apparatus, or alternatively that she had but it was out of order. For some reason, the real truth about this has never emerged—but, whichever way it was, it is certain that the submarine’s presence was utterly unknown until that first shell, which struck amidships and high, landing with a downward trajectory at the very base of the foremost funnel, immediately aft of the bridge. . . .