Beyond the Poseidon Adventure Read online

  Without a second thought, he snatched up a heavy volume and moved in for the kill.

  There is always one terrier that goes too near the bear. Anton was not even wounded. He was dazed. He was confused. He was frustrated. He had fallen over and had now pushed himself up into a sitting position with one hand, the other still trying to ward off the raining books. But he was not injured apart from small bruises and cuts. And when he saw the keen-faced little man come hurtling at him with a book raised above his head, he swept round an arm and caught Martin’s raised foot. Martin’s hot-eyed excitement faded to doubt and then to terror as he landed helplessly on his back, his foot caught in a remorseless, inhuman grip.

  He wriggled and squirmed and kicked but there was no release. He screamed. He could feel the bones being crushed together as though there were no flesh and sinews between them, until they seemed to be rasping on each other under the relentless pressure. He spun to his stomach, clawing at the ground to try to escape, but he heard Anton’s mindless laughter and felt another huge hand clasp round his calf and drag him down. His own small white hands ran frightened through the piles of books like mice, and found no grip.

  The books still bounced off Anton and blood ran from his nose into the wide gape of his grin. The laughter overflowed from him. All doubts and confusion had gone. He had hold of one of them now. He would break those little bones, then all the others, one by one. He ignored the whistling missiles around his head. They did not matter now. He ignored too the slim figure that scuttled around his side and behind him, and concentrated on pulling the twisting body into his eager arms.

  Coby hurried past Anton, who was slowly drawing in his haul. She scrabbled around the mounds until she found what she knew she must have. Turning, she looked down on Anton’s back, and from high above her head smashed down a beautifully bound, embossed, and massively heavy tome of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. It would have floored a bison.

  The mad barrage stopped. Martin looked back over his shoulder. Coby looked down on the book resting between her hands.

  The cry was that of a puzzled, pained child. Anton’s head retreated into his turtle-neck exactly like a turtle’s. He lifted his hands to contain the booming bells inside his skull, and covered his face and ears, oblivious to the rest of the world.

  “Let’s go,” Klaas hustled the nurse towards the door. Martin, his face white as paper, crawled fearfully around Anton on all fours and Coby helped him to stand.

  “Run for it, James. We must run for it now.” She was panting and pulling at his arm as Anton began to rise, still clasping his head. “Quick, or he’ll get us again.”

  But Martin stopped in the doorway. Klaas was urging the nurse up the corridor. “Just a minute,” he said. Anton was swaying towards him. The pain flickered on Martin’s face as he put down his injured foot. With both hands he took hold of the back of the one set of bookshelves that was still intact. It was propped against the wall, still holding most of its contents and kept in place by a few screws. He tugged at it fiercely and felt the screws grinding in their sockets. The weight of the laden shelves began to swing out a little, then rocked back to rest against the wall. His spine felt like ice.

  “He’s coming, James! He’ll get you again. Run, please! Please run!” He could hear Coby’s anguished pleas from the doorway, and he could see Anton, tearing at the air in front of him for speed as he slipped and stumbled through heaps of books.

  All the old fears welled up again inside the little shopkeeper, and again he conquered them. He did not run. He tugged once more at the side of the shelving until he felt the sharp edge bite deep into his fingers. His shoulders heaved. The whole structure of the bookshelves creaked arthritically in its joints as the last screws relinquished their hold, and the twelve-foot-high book-packed frame arced at last through the air. It shattered over Anton. Martin made for the door. His appetite for adventure was sated.

  For fifteen or even twenty minutes, Rogo had waited inside the door of the theater, listening. His right hand held the gun, his left the unlit flash and his forgotten suspenders. The tiger had killed one of the thugs, he thought. He had killed another. But he was sure he had heard one go thundering down the passage earlier. Rogo was not sure how many of the Komarevo crew were alive, or where they were. It was not a time for risks.

  He slipped gingerly out into Broadway. It was empty and silent, as far as his eyes could penetrate the half-light. He decided to check the boiler room first to see if any more of the killers were coming through, and then to see what had happened to his own party. He began to edge his way along, inch by tentative inch.

  “Hands high, imperialist swine!” The hissing voice and sibilant accent were reinforced by the hard gun nuzzle in his spine. He raised his arms. At the same time he felt his trousers slipping down, and found himself in the blinding glare of a light, his gun, flash, and suspenders above his head and his legs bowed in a pair of vast, baggy underpants that touched his knees.

  Jason’s ringing laugh was unrestrained. “Well, you sure do believe in wrapping up against the cold, you sexy old Batman,” he said. Rogo turned slowly to see the young American and the French girl, their faces wide with smiles. Jason added, “Now I would have said you were a black lace man myself. But you never can tell.”

  “For Chrissakes!” Rogo exploded. “You off your head or something? What the hell kind of a stunt is that to pull?” He was fastening his suspenders back on to his pants and attempting, without much success, to regain his dignity. “You get the wind coming off a the river on the night shift and those goddamn little jockey shorts ain’t no good, see!”

  He allowed himself a half smile. “Cut out the funny stuff. You got your fella, okay?”

  “No trouble,” Jason replied. “It was One-eye.”

  Rogo snapped on the last clip. “Well that’s no big deal. Hell, there were two of you to take him.”

  Jason folded his arms. “Which one did you get lucky with? Not that little kid with the stick-on moustache who was crying in the corner when the tiger came out? Rogo, you ought to be ashamed. All he needed was his diaper changed.”

  “Yeah? Well, I didn’t have to take a goddamn nanny with me!” He grinned with pride at having scored a point in the locker-room exchange.

  Jason gave him the point with a wry twist of the head, and Hely’s face on his shoulder smiled up at him.

  “Another thing,” Rogo was going on, and his glance switched between the two of them. “What the hell were you doing in there all that time?”

  “We were discussing the futility of human existence and whether Muhammad Ali is open to a right cross, but I wouldn’t expect a dumb cop to know anything about that,” Jason countered.

  “No? I guess you’re right. But a dumb cop does know a coupla tricks. Like noticing a lady goes into a room with her belt on top of her rubber jacket and comes out with it underneath.”

  Hely looked down, frightened for a moment to be reminded of the contents of her purse. Jason glanced as well, and held his hands up. “The dumb cop isn’t so dumb after all,” he said.

  Rogo was grinning hugely now. “You bet, cowboy. Futility of human existence!”

  More seriously, Rogo held out his gun and said, “Anyway, Jason, it worked. We got this. It’s not my old Police Special, but I guess it’s better than that girl’s gun they gave me.”

  “Your Police Special!” Jason sounded incredulous. “They were out-of-date at Little Big Horn, Rogo. What you’ve got there is a Stechkin, just about the best fully automatic pistol you can get. It’s the best Russian gun anyway. Bela’s boys only get the best.”

  Rogo was unimpressed. “A lousy Commie gun. Jesus, those Reds couldn’t make catapults. Hey, where d’ya suppose that lippy guy got to, Belly or Bellhop or whatever you call the sonofabitch?”

  Jason answered, “You won’t see him down here, Rogo. He sends his gorillas to do the dirty work. But we’re okay so far. We’ve got two guns and two flashlights.”

  “Yeah.” Rogo s
miled. “Now we gotta whip his ass and get that gold fast.”

  Hely listened quietly, wondering how the two men, so unlike and so initially hostile, now seemed to complement each other.

  They were like footballers joking in the shower after the game. But it was Hely who brought them down to earth. She said, “I think we ought to try to find the others, wherever they’re hiding.”

  Rogo’s eyes narrowed. “If I got it right, that big chimp they unleashed on me is still around. Jesus, I gotta coupla points I’d like to put to him about human existence . . .”

  He was interrupted by the sound of scuffling feet and sobbing. All three looked up to see the nurse picking her way along the side of the passage towards them.

  “What the hell . . . ?” said Rogo. “That’s impossible. It’s the ship’s nurse.”

  “Quick!” she was sobbing as she ran. “The great big man. He’s got that nice little Mr. Martin!”

  She fell into Rogo’s arms. He comforted her, and his voice was tender and understanding. “It’s okay, there, don’t worry. You’ll be all right now, miss. Now who’s got Martin and where are . . .”

  Before he had time to ask, Jason was taking off down the corridor. His light deck shoes skipped nimbly over the confusion of the pipes beneath his feet. “Wait here,” he called over his shoulder. “Keep an eye on him for me, Hely. You know he’s scared of the dark.”

  With the nurse clasped around him, Rogo was helpless. He raised his eyes and shook his head. “One of these days,” he sighed. “One of these goddamn days . . . Oh, for Chrissakes, he is one helluva guy, that.”

  “Isn’t he?” said Hely. “Isn’t he just one hell of a guy?”

  The scene outside the library was chaotic. Everyone was talking at once and the unity that the three had had in action was shattered. Klaas was pulling at Coby and begging her to flee. She was refusing until Martin came. Little Martin, his face pinched with a mixture of terror and pain, was refusing, but not with too much conviction.

  “I can get him again when he comes out,” he kept saying, and wondering himself exactly what he meant by that. He shivered a little at the cursing and grunting and crashing from inside the room.

  “Oh, Jason!” Coby cried, as he loped up, and Martin again experienced a twinge of resentment. He could scarcely believe it as he heard Coby jabbering excitedly, “James was so brave. He fought that great big man and beat him. You should have seen him, Captain Jason.” She did not mention that she had saved him when Anton had his foot.

  Jason took the situation in quickly. He looked down into the nursery-blue eyes of the smaller man and gripped his arm. “That was terrific, Martin,” he said. “I knew they’d be okay with you.”

  Martin’s modesty was itself a boast. “Well, we all got to try to do . . .”

  “You fit for something else?” Jason intervened.

  “You bet!” Martin snapped back.

  “Can you take these two back there to Rogo?”

  Martin hesitated. “I’m relying on you,” Jason added.

  “Okay,” he said. He saw the figure appear in the doorway behind Jason and his screeched warning was almost too late.

  Jason jumped to one side. The shattered shelf that Anton swung down two-handed missed his head. It would have split him wide open. Instead, it glanced off his shoulder, striking his hand. The gun went flying from his fingers and they heard it skid along the floor and then splash into invisible water. One of the guns they had fought so hard to get was lost already.

  “Beat it,” Jason almost whispered. Martin, with one glance at the figure outlined in the doorway, scrambled rapidly away with the other two.

  Jason and Anton faced each other across the passage. The giant was leaning against the doorway, panting from his exertions. The plank in his hands was over three feet long. His woolen hat had gone and revealed hair matted with blood. One eye was swelling rapidly into an ugly lump. There was raw murder on his face. Opposite him, Jason looked an absurdly slight figure, still and quiet as he watched.

  His fingertips traced the wall. A few yards down and behind him he thought he had seen a passageway that ran off at right angles. He must distract Anton and take him down there. If that maddened giant caught the others, he would tear them apart.

  He must not try to fight him hand to hand. He had seen the crude strength of the man, and anyway Anton was armed with the broken shelf. He saw Anton’s big eyes flickering from him to the retreating figures. Jason backed slowly. His fingers felt the wall end. The open mouth of the unknown passage was behind him. He must lure Anton to follow and somehow hope to trick him, or even just lose him.

  He began to talk. Jason used the voice that people employ for dogs and children, when the tone matters more than the words. “Anton,” he called softly, and the big man lifted his head at the sound of his name. “Anton, come on, boy. There’s a good little boy. Come on then. Come with me.”

  Jason was almost purring. Anton’s battered face looked baffled. He could not understand why this man was talking like that.

  “Poor little Anton!” Jason kept repeating his name. “Has he bumped his head? Shall his mommy kiss it better?” He backed slowly down the corridor and Anton followed, curious and uncomprehending.

  Then his tone changed. Jason straightened his back and with a contemptuous bark shouted, “You great stupid oaf, Anton! You dumbhead, Anton! You lousy lump of brainless muscle, Anton! You know what I’m saying, don’t you? You’ve heard it all before, haven’t you, Anton? Not in English maybe, but it’s all the same. They call you a thickie, don’t they, Anton? Don’t they? Don’t they?”

  His voice rang around Anton’s head. At first he flinched back at the ferocity of it. Then he did indeed seem to recognize the change of tone. He was fired with fury, and took three lumbering strides then swung the long plank like an ax at his tormentor.

  Jason sidestepped. The wood smashed against the wall into kindling. Anton looked at the two-foot length left in his hand and began advancing towards him, the muscles of his jaw working with rage.

  His feet feeling the way behind him, Jason backed down the corridor, keeping his torch on Anton to increase his confusion. He talked again, and again he taunted and jeered.

  “Birdbrain, that’s what they call you, isn’t it, Anton? Nuts! Cracked! They all laugh at you, don’t they, Anton? They think you’re a big ox. And you are, a great, thick, stupid, ignorant ox.”

  The words seemed to strike through. Every mention of his name enraged Anton more. He stumbled forward after the light and the cruel voice. Then, throwing aside the remains of the plank, he burst into an awkward run, and his great bone-crushing hands clutched out in front of him.

  Jason spun on the balls of his feet and sprinted a few yards ahead. Then he turned and sang out his sneering song.

  “C’mon, crazy man. C’mon, loony! You can’t catch me, can you? You’re too big and dumb and clumsy!” Thrusting his own face into the light, Jason twisted his index finger against the side of his temple. It was an international mime. And it was too much for Anton. Goaded beyond bearing, he tried to rush the illuminated, mocking mask, but he was wildly off balance, and just as his hands clawed forward the light went out.

  Jason had waited until the giant was almost upon him. Then he clicked the switch off, dropped on one knee and drove the heavy rubber-cased flashlight up into Anton’s stomach like a truncheon. Anton doubled over and crashed to the ground.

  Rolling out of the way, Jason was quickly on his feet again. For a second he thought of trying to finish the fight. But he remembered the power of the man. There was still too much strength left in that brute frame. Jason began trotting away. He would have to arm himself somehow. Failing that, he must gradually weaken him. But he must keep clear of those slaughterhouse hands.

  He almost stopped with surprise when he realized the change that had come over him. It was like looking in the mirror and seeing the wrong face. He grinned. Here, hunted by a murderous madman in the bowels of a sinking ship, he
was experiencing an emotion he had not felt in years. He felt happy. He felt a real joy, singing in his veins. Why, he wondered, for God’s sake? Why now? It could be the girl, and the promise of all those hollow tomorrows now filled with her lovely face. It could even be the New York cop: there was something about his iron, basic integrity that reminded Jason of a simpler world he had once known. It could perhaps be that he was a fighting man, and here was a battle worth his skills, and an enemy worthy of the graveyard. Or perhaps, most of all, it was that the veils of confusion had lifted, and the disturbing grays of right and wrong at last cleared into black and white again.

  Where the corridor ended, he could see a patch of light. He knew the layout of ships. There would probably be a square where staircases and passages converged, even upside down. He must go up, he thought, to keep clear of the water. Behind him, he heard Anton gasping as he regained his footing. In his own exhilaration, he almost overran and had to grab a wall pipe to stop himself.

  He swung around into the square. It was as he had thought, with one exception. To the left was a staircase. Directly ahead was the round entrance to a duct, and the mesh grill that must have been torn off by people trying to escape. He was immediately aware of both, but they hardly registered on him. For between the two possible exits, motionless and silent, stood the tiger.

  It was an awesome sight. It must have been nearly ten foot from tip to tail, and well over three feet high at the shoulder. Its gaudy colors were so strongly marked that it looked like a child’s painting.

  It studied Jason, still without moving. Then the white tip of its tail twitched, the curving teeth flashed briefly, and it gave a growl. It was a low, moaning sound, a warning, an indication of more to come. Jason’s mouth dried and his hands moistened.

  He faced the tiger and began to move sideways towards the duct. Inches became miles. First he moved his right foot gently across. Then he brought his left foot up to join it. He moved smoothly, without hurry. He did it again, and again. Another growl from the animal. He was now about four feet away from the duct’s yard-wide mouth in the middle of the ship’s metal paneling. Jason dived straight into it and felt the relieving cool steel cylinder around him. Hands, knees, and feet all pumped and pulled as he scuttled down the pipe. He didn’t feel the times his head cracked on the top or the skin tore on his hands and knees: only the fear that had propelled him down that long barrel just like a bullet.