Hurricane by L. Ron Hubbard Page A

to me. And here, my old, is where the Venture comes in so neatly. When the deed is made, if anything should happen to Frederick Perry—some unfortunate accident, you see—and if anything should happen to Tom Perry, then the Perry Sugar Central and the bank account of a half million is all mine.”
    “And what happens to us?” demanded Enrico.
    “You? Why, you will help me, of course.”
    “On French territory? Liable to momentary arrest?”
    The Saint smiled indulgently. “Of course. Why, I would see to it that you went wherever you wanted to go. That you would all have plenty of money. Or, if you wanted to stay here, I would see to it that the castle would be stocked well with pleasant things.”
    “Good,” said Enrico. “Good!”
    “We sail with the Venture in a short while, land at Fort-de-France at night, make our way to the Perry house, surround it, make certain the deed is made out and waiting, and then we go away, leaving Perry mysteriously dead—at the hands of Captain Spar. We will all be far away by then. We will get another captain in Martinique—any black schooner captain could do it for us. We return here, wait for some little while, and then I go back to claim my part of the bargain. Then I return here with whatever we need.”
    “Excellent,” said Enrico. “Is there anything you wish me to do?”
    “Why, yes, you might make very certain that Captain Spar sleeps well. We need him worse than we need Perry.”
    Spar instantly remembered the dead guard in front of his open door. He felt his palms moisten. Reaching for the rifle at his side, he snicked the bolt and held the weapon across his chest.
    He could easily shoot the Saint, but he suddenly remembered that he was no longer responsible only for himself. He had other lives in his care. To turn this mad horde of penal colony convicts loose with the rest of the party still imprisoned would be a terrible thing.
    His own fate was secondary to him. He considered himself as good as dead already. What would it avail him to get free from this place? All he knew was the sea, and when he returned to New York, he would be very apt to discover his record had preceded him. France would probably extradite him for his escape.
    But no, he told himself, gripping that wet rifle stock there in the dark. These were not the real reasons. He was trying to persuade himself that he no longer dreamed. There, on the other side of that door, was Peg Mannering. He was watching the Saint and he told himself that five years of plotting should certainly find him true to a blood vow. But he did not hate the Saint for the things the Saint had done to Captain Spar. He hated the man for what he might do to Peg Mannering.
    Perplexed, shaken by the blinding truth of it, Spar listened to the footsteps of Enrico, going up the corridor toward a dead guard who, in his stiff silence, would shout betrayal and the news of escape.
    Spar’s heart was banging against his ribs until he thought Count Folston himself must hear it.
    The footsteps of Enrico were receding. Spar listened for the shout which must follow. He watched the Saint, watched the confident expression of the thin face, watched the nervousness of the long, well-kept hands. Odd that so much deviltry could hide behind so bored a mask.
    Spar was thinking about Peg Mannering. That night in Martinique when she had worn a blue dinner gown and a string of pearls. He remembered how her platinum hair had shimmered in the light, how her frank, deep eyes had regarded him with a queer intensity.
    In a moment now, Enrico would shout and Spar’s fine plans for escape would crumple into a choking dust heap.
    Spar thought about Tom Perry. About the whining, blustering drunkard who would someday possess Peg Mannering as his wife. Even if they got out of this, that would happen.
    Spar felt all alone, defeated, fighting against a whole world and himself.
    Enrico’s piercing cry ripped through the solemn gray tomb like a diamond drill rips