LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

were four of them there, Charles’s friends, two of them still in their dinner jackets and waistcoats. An oil lantern sat on the warped old planks of the deck, next to the nervously bobbing launch, spreading just enough light to illuminate the fifth man in the boathouse.

      He sat slumped against the wall, and his bare chest was covered in blood. He lifted his head as I came in—the chin had been tucked into the hollow of his clavicle—and he said, in deep German-accented English, much like the voice of Herr von Kleist, only more slurred and amused: “This is your great plan, Créouville?”

      3.

      But his chest wasn’t injured. As I cried out and fell to my knees at his side, I saw that he was holding a thick white wad to his thigh, around which a makeshift tourniquet had already been applied, and that the white wad—a shirt, I determined—was rapidly filling with blood, like the discarded red shirts next to his knee.

      “Actually, it seems to be getting better,” he said.

      I adjusted the tourniquet—it was too loose—and lifted away the shirt. A round wound welled instantly with blood. I said, incredulous: “But it’s a—”

      “Gunshot,” he said.

      I pressed the shirt back into the wound and called for whisky.

      “I like the way you think,” said the wounded man.

      “It’s not to drink. It’s to clean the wound. How long ago did this happen?”

      “About twenty minutes. Right, boys?”

      There was a general murmur of agreement, and a bottle appeared next to my hand. Gin, not whisky. I lifted away the shirt. The flow of blood had already slowed. “This will sting,” I said, and I tilted the bottle to allow a stream of gin on the torn flesh.

      I was expecting a howl, but the man only grunted and gripped the side of the leg. “He needs a doctor, as quickly as possible,” I said to the men. “Has someone telephoned Dr. Duchamps?”

      There was no reply. I put my fingers under the injured man’s chin and peered into his eyes. His pupils were dilated, but not severely; he met my gaze and followed me as I turned my face from one side to the other. I glanced back at Charles. “Well? Doctor? Is he on his way?”

      Charles crouched next to me. “No.”

      “Why not?”

      “Too much fuss. There’s someone meeting you on the ship.”

      “Ship? What ship?”

      The injured man said, “My ship.”

      “You’re going with him,” said Charles. “You can still drive the launch, can’t you?”

      “What?”

      “You’re the only one who can do it. The rest of us have to stay here.”

      “What? Why?”

      “Cover,” said the injured man, through his gritted teeth.

      I looked back down at the wound, which was now only seeping. Probably the bullet had only nicked the femoral artery, otherwise he would have been dead by now. He was a large man—not as large as Herr von Kleist, but larger than my brother—and he had plenty of blood to spare. Still, it was a close thing. My brain was sharp, but my fingers were trembling as I pressed the shirt back down. Another fraction of an inch. My God. “I don’t have the slightest idea what you mean,” I said, “and why not one of you perfectly able-bodied men can help me get this man to safety, but we don’t have a minute to waste arguing. Give him a fresh shirt. If he can hold it to his leg himself, I can take him to his damned yacht. It is a yacht, isn’t it?”

      “Yes, Mademoiselle,” the man said humbly.

      “Of course it is. And if the police catch up with us, what am I to say?”

      “That you know nothing about it, of course.”

      I took the fresh shirt from Charles’s hand and replaced the old; I took the man’s large limp hand and pressed it to the makeshift bandage. “I’ll take the gin. Charles, you put him in the launch.”

      “You see?” said Charles. “I told you she was a sport.”

      4.

      On the launch, I took pity on the man and gave him the bottle of gin, while I steered us around the tip of the Cap d’Antibes and west toward Cannes, where his yacht was apparently moored. He took a grateful swig and tilted his head to the stars. The lantern sat at the bottom of the boat, so as not to be visible from shore.

      “You are very beautiful,” he said.

      “Stop. You’re not flirting with me, please. You came three millimeters away from death just now.” The draft was cool and salty; it stung my cheeks, or maybe I was only blushing.

      “No, I am not flirting. But you are beautiful. A statement of fact.”

      I peered into the dark sea, seeking out the distant harbor lights, smaller than stars on the horizon. The water was calm tonight, only a hint of chop. As if God himself were watching over this man.

      “Am I allowed to ask your name?” I said.

      He hesitated. “Stefan.”

      “Stefan. Is that your real name?”

      “If you call me Stefan, Mademoiselle, I will answer you.”

      “I see. And what sort of trouble gets a nice man shot in the middle of a night like this, so he can’t see a doctor onshore? Argument at the casino? Is the other man perhaps dead?”

      “No, it was not an argument in the casino.”

      He tilted the bottle back to his lips. I thought, I must keep him talking. He has to keep talking, to stay conscious. “And the other man?”

      “Hmm. Do you really wish to know this, Mademoiselle?”

      “Oh, priceless. I’m harboring a criminal fugitive.”

      “Do not worry about that. You will be handsomely rewarded.”

      “I don’t want to be rewarded. I want you to live.”

      He didn’t reply, and I glanced back to make sure he hadn’t fainted. I wouldn’t have blamed him, lighter as he was of a pint or two of good red blood. But his eyes were open, each one containing a slim gold reflection of the lantern, and they were trained on me with an expression of profound … something.

      I was about to ask him another question, but he spoke first.

      “Where did you learn to treat a wound from a gun, Mademoiselle de Créouville?”

      “I’ve never even seen a wound from a gun. But the sisters ran a charity hospital, and the men from the village got in regular brawls. Sometimes with knives.”

      “The sisters? You are a nun?”

      “No. I was at a convent school. I’ve only just escaped. Anyway, they made us all work in the charity hospital, because of Christ tending the feet of the poor. Hold on!” We hit a series of brisk chops, the wake of some unseen vessel plowing through the night sea nearby. Stefan grunted, and when the water calmed and I could relax my attention to the wheel, I glanced back again to see that his face was quite pale.

      He spoke, however, without inflection. “You have a knack for it, I think. You did not scream at the blood, as most girls would. As I think most men might.”

      “I have a brother. I’ve seen blood before.”

      “Ah, the dashing mademoiselle. You tend wounds. You drive a boat fearlessly through the dark. What sort of sister is this for my friend Créouville? He said nothing about you

Скачать книгу