The sailors came over the side quickly. Three of them unslung their sub-machine-guns and stayed in the well-deck and the young officer mounted the ladder to the upper deck, briskly followed by the other three.
He held out his hand and smiled. “Captain Duclos? My name is Fenelon. Sorry about all this, but I’m only obeying orders, you understand.”
The man who came up the ladder next had a scarred and brutal face and cropped hair. Like Fenelon, he wore a naval reefer jacket and rubber boots, but no cap. He leaned casu-ally against the rail and lit a cigarette. The other two sailors spaced themselves behind Fenelon, machine-guns ready.
Duclos began to feel distinctly uneasy. “Look, what’s going on? What’s this all about?”
“All in good time,” Fenelon said. “You complied with my request to maintain radio silence?”
“Of course.”
“Good.” Fenelon turned and nodded briefly to one of the sailors, who crossed the deck to the wireless room which stood at the rear of the wheelhouse, opened the door and went inside.
A cry of alarm was followed by a burst of fire. A moment later the radio operator staggered through the door, blood on his face. He dropped to his knees and Janvier moved quickly to pick him up.
“The radio/ the man moaned. “He put a burst through it.”
There was a sudden, ugly murmur from the crew in the well-deck that was answered by a volley of firing, bullets hissing through the steel rigging lines. Duclos glanced over the rail and saw that a heavy machine-gun had been mounted on a swivel on the rim of the conning tower. Even allowing for the difference in height between the two vessels, it was still capable of reducing most of the deck area of theKontoro to a bloody shambles.
He turned slowly, his face pale. “Who are you?”
Fenelon smiled. “Exactly what we seem, Captain. The commanding officer and crew of the submarineL’Alouette. Under special orders, but serving France, I assure you.”
“What do you want?” Duclos said.
“One of your passengers, Pierre Bouvier. I understand he is traveling with you as far as Madeira?”
Duclos’s rage, hardly contained, flooded out in a roar of anger. “By God, I’ll see you in hell first! I’m still captain of this ship.”
Still leaning comfortably against the rail, Jacaud pulled the Liiger from his pocket and shot him neatly through the left leg. Duclos screamed as the heavy slug splintered his knee-cap and rolled over on the deck, face twisted in agony.
“To encourage the rest of you,” Jacaud said calmly. “Now get Bouvier up here.”
As Janvier turned, a quiet voice said: “No need, monsieur. He is here.”
The man who stepped out of the saloon companionway was well past middle age. Tall and thin with stooping shoulders, he had the angular bony face of the ascetic and thinning grey hair. He wore a raincoat over pyjamas and a small grey-haired woman clutched his arm fearfully. Behind them, two other passengers, clothes hastily pulled on, hesi-tated in the doorway.
“You are Pierre Bouvier?” Fenelon demanded.
“That is correct.”
Jacaud nodded to one of the sailors. “Bring him over here.”
The woman’s voice lifted at once, but Bouvier quietened her and allowed himself to be led forward. The sailor placed him with his back to the rail and went and stood beside Jacaud.
“What do you want with me?” Bouvier said.
“A month ago at Fort-Neuf you were public prosecutor at a trial,” Fenelon said. “A trial at which six good friends of ours received the death sentence.”
“So, the O.A.S. is in this?” Bouvier shrugged. “I did my duty as I saw it. No man can do more.”
You will, I am sure, allow us the same privilege, mon-sieur.” Fenelon produced a document from his pocket, un-folded it and read rapidly. ” Pierre Bouvier, I must inform you that you have been tried in your absence and found guilty of the crime of treason against the Republic by a mili-tary tribunal of the Council of National Resistance.
He paused and Bouvier cut in gently, “And the sentence of the court is death?”
“Naturally,” Fenelon said. “Have you anything to say?”