Eagle Day - Robert Muchamore Page 0,27
understand German, but his face gave the impression that he’d spit in their glasses given half a chance. Henderson poured three rounds of extra-old brandy down the officers’ necks and refused to let them return his favour.
‘I can afford it,’ he insisted. ‘And it’s the least I can do for men who fought for Germany while I dragged a shipload of Brazilian timber across the Atlantic.’
Marc was briefly introduced to the German officers as a cabin boy aboard Captain von Hoven’s ship. While Henderson socialised, Marc sat at a wobbly table, choking on cigarette smoke and taking his time over a baguette and a coffee. He could follow most of Henderson’s conversation, thanks to a gift for languages and a kindly teacher who’d given after-school German tuition to his cleverest pupils.
After half an hour, during which one officer left but two others got drawn to the free brandy, Henderson made a discreet thumb signal.
Marc came over and spoke meekly in broken German. ‘Captain von Hoven, sir, I don’t mean to be impertinent, but we need to find the spare parts if—’
‘What?’ Henderson roared, grabbing Marc by the scruff of his shirt. ‘You know I hate it when you mumble. Speak like a man.’
Marc started over, speaking firmly. ‘We need to replace the broken valves, Captain. Perhaps if you’re going to stay here drinking afternoon you could give me some money and I’ll go and look for them.’all
The four Germans laughed at Marc’s sarcastic tone as Henderson crouched down and yelled right in the boy’s face. ‘Do you fancy a week in the ship’s brig, my boy?’
‘No, sir,’ Marc said meekly.
Henderson grinned at the German officers. ‘My ship has a brig,’ he explained. ‘It’s right down in the hull, directly beside the main boiler. It’s all bare metal and it gets so hot that they emerge covered in blisters.’marvellous
‘Would you like that, boy?’ a drunken colonel jeered, as Marc acted suitably scared.
‘I’m sorry, Captain.’
The Germans were amused by Marc’s squirming, but Henderson looked at his watch and gave him a friendly shoulder squeeze.
‘He’s a good lad, really,’ Henderson said. ‘Nags worse than my wife, but he puts in a good day’s work. Quite remarkable, when you consider that he’s French. And we really do need replacement valves for our shipboard radio. We’ve walked all over this godforsaken town and drawn a complete blank.’
The youngest of the four officers gave a friendly smile. ‘What are you looking for exactly?’
Henderson pulled the crumpled piece of paper from his jacket. The German snatched it, read it and then tilted it towards the colonel.
‘You think we can help a fellow German?’
The colonel passed the note to Marc. ‘We’ll keep an eye on your captain for you,’ he smiled. ‘Take this across the street. When you get to the gate, tell them Colonel Graff said you can have whatever you require.’
Marc nodded politely, but he was awed by Henderson’s powers of manipulation. As he headed out of the café the barman poured out more brandy and Henderson raised another toast.
‘Long live the Fatherland,’ he shouted.
*
Paul exited the front of the pink house and sat near the entrance steps, grinding palms against his cheeks as he tried to think straight. Apart from two unwilling excursions into a boxing ring and occasionally getting thumped by Rosie, his main experience of fighting came from movies.
In a flash of genius he remembered seeing a film about American gangsters where a prison guard had been floored using a sock stuffed with billiard balls. There were no billiard balls around, but Paul reckoned his long grey socks and the loose pebbles fringing overgrown flowerbeds would do the trick.
It wasn’t easy with one hand. His shoe and sock came off without difficulty but he had a rougher time holding the sock open with his splinted arm and dropping in rough stones that snagged on the grey wool. When the sock felt sufficiently heavy Paul gave it a couple of test swings.
He decided that the best technique was to wrap most of the sock around his wrist and flick it like a cosh, but doubts surfaced as he crouched beside a tree trunk a few paces from the house, awaiting PT’s exit. Ensuring that PT didn’t leave seemed good in theory, but the reality of his slight frame and a broken arm made Paul wonder if surprise would be enough of an advantage.
PT looked solemn as he left the pink house, a small brown suitcase in one hand and Marc’s pigskin slung over his