The events of the wedding were quickly forgotten as other adventures befell the residents of the Monkey Bar. Cutter spent his time delivering mail, transporting cargo, getting Sarah out of trouble and himself into it, while avoiding the Princess Kogi’s amused grasp and desperately trying to recover Jack’s missing eye. He quickly got used to being involved with Sarah’s schemes and missions, despite developing a tendency to get shot at, and life on Boragora was never dull - except on the occasional Friday night, when guessing monkeys palled as quickly as it had once relieved the terminal boredom. It was a good two months before he saw Madelaine again: Madelaine Crawcour, as he had to remind himself. She arrived much as she had before, the native boatmen helping her onto the dock, although this time her husband hovered protectively behind her. She parted from him with a kiss, which he took almost hungrily, leaving him to go with the others in search of supplies while she made her way into the coolness of the bar. Cutter, who had been working on the dock, much as he had the first time, waved at her as she passed. She waved back, then glanced hurriedly around as if afraid she might have been seen doing it.
Inside the bar, Gushie greeted her with an enthusiasm that she didn’t return with as much energy as usual. She stopped him as he wheeled away for her drink, explaining that she was no longer allowed wine. Her face softened at his confusion, her hand drifting possessively to the curve of her stomach; the explanation brought a broad grin to the chairbound man’s face. He waved at the office door when she asked after her partner, and she made her way up the inner steps, her face distracted and her smile a little thin.
Bon Chance looked up as the door opened, the unexpected visitor receiving a delighted smile of welcome. The smile faded somewhat when it was returned with weary delight; she was pleased to see him, that much was certain, but she was not her usual cheery self and he waved her to a chair with concern in his eyes.
"You should have let me know you were coming," he chided as she placed the bag with the ledgers on the desk. She shook her head, oddly defensive in her response.
"I wasn’t sure - of exactly when," she explained. "Gerald - we needed certain things that it was not worth sending to Tagataya for, and I suggested coming here, so it seemed sensible to bring the ledgers ..." She tailed off, her words unconvincing and his steady gaze seeing straight through her.
"He doesn’t know," Bon Chance stated softly, reading her wary attitude with resigned realisation. "About the business. Why not, Madelaine? Are you ashamed of me?"
"Non!" she exclaimed, the word almost wounded. "I just - there hasn’t been time, exactly, and ... and when I told him about the baby ..." She broke off, looking away with an almost guilty start. "I’m sorry," she recovered quickly. "I didn’t mean you to find out like that. It’s my best news, Louie - he was so happy, and ... we never seem to discuss business, somehow."
He grinned, shaking his head with amused affection. "Oh, Madelaine," he laughed. "I’m pleased for you. But that is even more reason to make sure Gerald understands our arrangement. You must not work so hard - in your condition."
She coloured, finding him a quiet smile. "I asked him to meet me here," she said. "He won’t be long. Louie," she asked, suddenly serious, "will you tell him? I - he’s so possessive about things, and you can explain so much better than I can. I don’t want him to think I lied to him in any way ..."
"Have you?" he asked quietly.
She looked down at her hands and her shoulders slumped. "He thinks the estate is all mine. And sometimes ... I wonder, if it is me he cares for, or the estate. He checks all of my decisions, and ... well, it doesn’t matter. I just want to be sure he understands my situation."
"Madelaine," Bon Chance questioned warily, "are you happy - with Gerald?"
"Oh yes," she answered, too quickly, too sure. "That is - most of the time he has nothing but concern for me." She smiled with genuine pleasure. "He was so happy about the baby. He insisted I sat down and he did everything for me ..." Her face fell slowly, settling into lines of quiet anxiety. "But some nights he drinks."
There were too many implications behind that simple statement. He looked at her with wary concern, wondering how many of them he was expected to identify. "And?" he prompted, keeping his expression neutral, inviting the confidence she would need to fell ready to share. Madelaine laughed, a forced sound.
"And nothing," she shrugged. "I am getting too sensitive, Bon Chance. It is probably the baby, you know? When I was carrying Jeanette I decided I hated the colour yellow and threw out everything in my wardrobe that was touched by it. Paul found me cutting the yellow flowers off my best hat ..." She realised she was gabbling and recollected herself with an effort. "That was too long ago. Gerald says I dwell too much in the past. Perhaps he is right."
Bon Chance shook his head gently, wishing he could reach past the sudden walls she had raised around herself, but unable to do so until she chose otherwise. "You cannot abandon your own history," he said, reaching for the top ledger since it was clear whatever troubled her was not something she had found the courage to share with him. "Believe me - I know."
"I’m sure you do," she answered. His lips quirked into a conspiratorial grin, and after a moment she relaxed and let a wary smile creep into her eyes. "Do you have no shame?" she asked, the laugh in her voice a genuine one. "I am a married woman, you know."
"I noticed," he told her, flipping open the ledger with business-like efficiency. "Which is precisely why we will start with the monthly wage accounts ..."
They worked on for over an hour, immersed in the intricacies of depreciation and cost per acreage; he had no doubt that the ledgers tallied, since he had never found a single mistake in her accounting throughout their partnership. The matters they discussed were more concerned with reasons and long-term returns than they were with individual figures. The price of imported tin had risen further than expected, but the yield was also up; they argued the balance for several minutes before he gave way on her assessment, deferring to her judgement with a reluctant sigh. He followed the acquiescence with a sharp suggestion that had passed her by entirely; she frowned over the proposal until she realised it would save her considerable expenditure in the long run. It had not taken long for her initial disconcertion to be lost in the familiar exchange of work, and she laughed without self-consciousness at having missed the obvious.
"Now that is why you are good for me," she observed with affection. "I get too close to things to see the wider pattern. Too involved with the details. You have a good eye for the trends."
"I am just practised at jigsaw puzzles," he smiled. "At picturing the missing pieces. And I know people," he added, reaching out to touch her hand with a friendly apt. "You are too trusting, cherie ..."
The door flew open, driven by force. Gerald Crawcour bulked in the doorway, the square features of his face twisted in an angry frown. Madelaine jumped, jerking her hand back from her companion’s touch and straightening almost with guilt. Bon Chance turned his head without alarm, his expression mildly questioning. "Ah, Monsieur," he greeted the man lightly. "I was wondering when you would join us."
"Were you," Crawcour growled, striding across to tower over his wife. "It didn’t look as if you were expecting me at all."
"Gerald," Madelaine said anxiously, "Louie and I have almost finished here. Why don’t you wait ..."
" ... outside?" the man completed for her, his tone vaguely sarcastic. "Madelaine, I have been waiting outside for the past ten minutes. I didn’t like what I heard." He glared at the man on the other side of the desk, his look challenging. "I know all about your reputation, Mons Magistrate." He made the title sound like an insult. "So don’t think I can be mollified with lies. My wife tells me she has business with you - what kind of business might that be, exactly?"
Bon Chance took in a slow breath and carefully indicated the man should sit in the remaining chair. Crawcour continued to glare at him for a moment before he pulled across the indicated seat and dropped into it. His host waited until he was completely seated, then leant his elbows on his desk and laced his fingers together in front of him. "Madelaine and I have been going over the ledgers for the estate," he explained quietly. "Things are looking very positive this year."
Crawcour’s hostile expression twisted into a puzzled frown. "The estate? Why the hell should she show you those? It’s none of your business." Beside him Madelaine winced, reaching to clasp at his hand, either to offer reassurance or else to seek it.
"Au contraire," Bon Chance laughed. "It is exactly that, Mons. More mine than Madelaine’s, in fact."
"What?" Crawcour glared at him with astonishment. "Madelaine - what does he mean?"
She glanced a little helplessly at both of them before turning her eyes towards the floor. "What he says, Gerald. He owns the majority of the estate. I am only its manager."
Crawcour stared at her, his expression deepening into puzzled anger as he swung back to face the patient man behind the desk. "I believe I am owed an explanation," he suggested coldly. He wrapped one massive hand around the one that Madelaine had offered him and held it possessively on his lap. "One I should have received a while ago?"
"Unquestionably, Mons," Bon Chance said mildly. He did not like the look in Crawcour’s eye, but the man had a right to be angry. He had expected Madelaine to explain to her new husband - that she had not was vaguely disturbing, but perhaps understandable. "The situation is perfectly simple, and entirely to everyone’s advantage, I can assure you. When Paul Belvoir died, he left his estate in equal parts to his two daughters and his wife. Ellen and Jeanette being under-age, their portion was placed under legal guardianship until they reached their majority - a role that, as Magistrate de Justice, I was more than happy to assume at the time."
Relief skittered across Crawcour’s face. "The girls," he said. "Of course. I had thought that Madelaine ..."
Bon Chance raised a hand to interrupt him. "There is more, Mons. Allow me to explain it fully, n’est ce pas? Along with a third of the estate, Madelaine also inherited a large number of debts - none of which the bank was prepared to underwrite. Not only had she lost," he hesitated, considering the two of them thoughtfully as he assessed the best way to phrase matters, "her husband, but she also faced losing her livelihood. Since the foreclosing on the finance would also affect the proportion of the estate which was to be held in trust ..." He spread his hands wide to indicate the inevitability of events, "I decided that I had no other choice than to act - in the best interests of all involved."
Madelaine took a careful breath and looked up at her new husband. "I signed over the ownership of my share in exchange for the settlement of the debts," she announced, earning herself an encouraging smile from behind the desk.
Crawcour looked dumbfounded. "You did what? Signed everything away?"
"Not everything," Bon Chance chuckled softly. "The house is still hers - along with certain other items we agreed at the time. But while I have an official interest in two thirds of the estate, the remaining third is purely personal. And entirely mine. Madelaine has managed things very well for the past three years. I have no doubt that she will continue to do so with her unquestionable ability. Our business partnership has proved very profitable."
The surveyor’s astonishment gave way to calculating consideration. He stared at the Frenchman through narrowed eyes. "So you say," he murmured tightly. "A neat piece of legality, I have no doubt. My wife does all the work, and you walk away with the profit. Very shrewd, Mons. Very enlightening." He turned to look at Madelaine, and he smiled, although his eyes were cold. "We will talk about this later," he said softly. "Go out to the boat and wait for me. The Magistrate and I have other matters to discuss."
The glance Madelaine threw at her friend was both apologetic and a little helpless. She rose carefully to her feet, muttered a brief farewell, and turned to leave. Crawcour laid a possessive hand to her abdomen as she passed and she smiled a tentative smile at him before heading for the door. Bon Chance watched her go with a pensive frown. He had never known Madelaine to be so submissive to anyone, not even to her first husband. Her determination had been one of the things that gave him cause to admire her; this hesitant defensiveness was not like her at all.
"What can I do for you, Mons Crawcour?" he asked, turning back towards the man with a non-committal smile. The surveyor rose slowly to his feet and placed both of his massive hands on the edge of the desk.
"You can keep away from my wife," he growled.
Bon Chance looked up at the man as he towered over him and his face settled into unreadable stone. "Is this intended to be some kind of a threat, Mons? Madelaine and I are old friends. We are in business together, nothing more."
"From now on," the man insisted coldly, "your business will be with me, you understand? I’ve heard a lot about you, Bon Chance. Madelaine is my wife, and I don’t want you sweet-talking her out of any more of what’s hers by right. Because it’s mine now - and I intend to keep it. You may have legal right to the estate - and I’ll check that, because she’s trusting enough to believe anything - but you have no right to her, and I don’t trust you at all."
"Mons," the Magistrate said icily, "you will find our arrangement is perfectly legitimate. I have a great deal of respect for Madelaine. I can assure you that I would never act against her interests. Although if you insist on making unfounded accusations against me in my own office, I may find myself forced to action she may not approve of."
Their eyes locked, the larger man used to intimidation by sheer physical presence. The tension in the room was palpable, but it was Crawcour who looked away first, shaken by the steel that lay in his opponent’s eloquent eyes. Bon Chance regarded him with a silent self surety that needed no gestures or empty demonstrations; Crawcour’s bravado quailed under that settled gaze and he straightened self-consciously as if he were a little ashamed at his outburst. "That will not be necessary, Mons," he announced, reaching to sweep the leather-bound ledgers into their bag. "I’m sure we understand each other on this matter."
"I doubt it," Bon Chance breathed softly. There was a quiet note of hostility in his voice. "But for Madelaine’s sake we will forget this conversation ever happened. Good day, Mons Crawcour."
The fair haired man’s face creased back into frustrated anger, but he clearly thought better of any words. He turned on his heel and stalked out, leaving the owner of the office staring after him with cold eyes.
"Isn’t Madelaine staying for the afternoon?" Cutter asked, looking back at the quay where the woman concerned was stepping back into her boat with her husband.
Gushie shrugged. "Guess not. You hear her news?"
"No. Should I have?"
The man in the chair grinned. "Do you think Sarah would be any good at knitting bootees?"
"How should I ... Madelaine’s having a baby? Good for her. Hey," Cutter called, seeing Bon Chance emerge from the office. "That guy Crawcour’s a fast worker, wouldn’t you say? Two months in harness and he’s already a daddy-to-be."
"Mons Crawcour," the Frenchman observed frostily as he descended the stairs, "is a determined man."
Pilot and amputee exchanged a glance of surprise. "Something wrong?" Cutter asked. Bon Chance considered the question before turning to lift the parrot from its perch.
"Non," he decided, closing the subject firmly and finally. "Gushie, have you finalised the order for spirits yet?" The parrot sidled up his arm to settle on his shoulder as he made his way across to the bar.
"No," his assistant answered, after one last puzzled look at the pilot. Cutter shrugged. Clearly something had happened between the two men, but just as clearly they were not about to find out what. "Did you want to add to it?"
"I was considering our stock of rum." Bon Chance frowned, finding nothing but empty bowls on the counter. "What do I pay people around here for?" he asked generally, and Gushie winced.
"Sorry," he grimaced. "We had more people in this morning than we expected. I’ll see to it."
"I will see to it," the Frenchman decided, shaking his head with resignation. "Did you want me, Jake, or are you just being decorative this afternoon?"
"Ah." Cutter wasn’t entirely sure how to respond to this comment. He had the distinct feeling that his friend was not in a good mood at all. "I just came in for some coffee," he said, snatching at sensible excuses. "Corky and I are trying to fix that port engine before tomorrow. If I don’t get Sarah to Tagataya on time she’s gonna kill me."
That, at least, brought the ghost of a smile to the older man’s face. "Undoubtedly," he agreed, reaching behind the bar to extract the bag of nuts with which to refill the empty bowls. "Help yourself, mon ami. Unless that is empty as well."
It wasn’t, but the pilot refrained from saying so. He poured a generous slug of black coffee into two mugs and added the necessary spoonfuls of sugar to Corky’s serving. Gushie wheeled past with a vaguely martyred expression and Cutter threw him a sympathetic look. Bon Chance was not an easy man to upset, but something, or someone, had managed to do exactly that between the time of Madelaine Crawcour’s arrival and her departure. The pilot knew better than to ask questions, but it bothered him; he’d decided he liked Madelaine, right from the beginning, and if something was wrong he would have liked to know about it.
Time passed, and the incident became insignificant besides the major events that crowded in on each other. The unexpected eruption of Boragora’s resident volcano was swiftly followed by more intimate menaces. Bon Chance’s concern for Madelaine’s happiness was somewhat pushed aside by the arrival of the shadow from his own past; the whole sequence of events from the moment of recognition in the square to Cutter’s last minute rescue and the news he carried with it were more than enough to banish any lingering worries he might have otherwise investigated. He hadn’t exactly forgotten about Crawcour and the possible situation on Mahoi; he’d found time, during those interminable days of watching a very patient man sharpen the intended tool of his demise, to finalise the legal arrangements concerning the future ownership of the estate. None of which had mattered very much once Cutter had been able to prove the righteousness of an old friend’s death. He spoke briefly to his lawyer before returning home, and the documents were once again buried in among the paperwork where they belonged. No-one would know that his portion of the Belvoir estate had been assigned in trust to Madelaine; it was a decision he had made soon after assuming its responsibility, and her marriage had not changed his mind, although her chosen husband might have been surprised by some of the protective clauses he had insisted on adding to the bequest.
Life had managed to get back to normal by the time Gerald Crawcour made a reappearance in the Monkey Bar. He arrived alone, the native crewmen on his boat ordered to remain with the vessel. Bon Chance was in the bar discussing the mail schedules with Cutter when the surveyor strode in through the swing doors; both men looked up as the broad-shouldered figure loomed large in the doorway.
Crawcour’s face was set into vaguely hostile lines. He paced across to the table where the two men sat and stood there, not saying anything but waiting with brooding presence. Bon Chance, with a brief consideration of the new arrival, turned back to conclude his discussion as if the man had not interrupted in any way. Jack growled softly and crept under his master’s feet, which earned him a wary look from the pilot at least.
Cutter tried not to be put off by the growing anger of the man who stood watching them, agreeing the flight plan his friend suggested with one or two minor alterations concerned mostly with refuelling. It was hard to ignore Crawcour’s pointed stare - not at the pilot, but at the man opposite him - and Cutter was glad when the natural flow of the conversation came to an end and he was able to escape without making it obvious that he wanted to. His business concluded, Bon Chance turned to his visitor with a non-committal acknowledgement, which earned him a glowering frown before Crawcour gained control of himself. The pilot hesitated to leave them, but after a moment the Magistrate lifted himself to his feet and gestured the Belgian in the direction of the office. Crawcour nodded and led the way, the bag that contained the Belvoir ledgers dangling easily from one hand. Cutter watched them go with an odd sense of misgiving, a reaction echoed by Gushie as he wheeled across to join him.
"I don’t know what he said last time he was here," the chair-bound man remarked worriedly, "but I haven’t seen Louie treat anyone that coldly since we left Georgetown." He laughed, a short bark of sound without humour in it. "And the guy on that occasion had come to kill him. He didn’t," he added, a little unnecessarily.
Cutter snorted. "You surprise me," he said dryly. "Did you talk him out of it?"
"Nah," Gushie denied, still watching the office door. "Just paid for the funeral expenses." His eyes took on a distant look as the memory came back to him. "It took two strong men to dispose of the body ... we were considering Crawcour, weren’t we?"
"Uhuh," the pilot agreed, intrigued by the glimpse of his friends’ past but knowing better than to pursue it. "No Madelaine, you noticed?"
Gushie shrugged, wheeling back to work. "Maybe she’s in no condition to travel. It’s been four months since we saw her last - only another three to go."
"Right," Cutter realised. "Has it been that long? Time sure flies around here."
"Nope," his friend shook his head. "Just you, Corky and the Clipper, once a week. Remember?"
Inside the office the atmosphere was coldly polite and distinctly strained. Crawcour conducted his business with barely-concealed hostility, restricting his remarks to pointed comments and the least amount of words. Bon Chance, in turn, studied the proffered ledgers with a growing frown. The work was sloppy, the expected neatness of Madelaine’s hand still there but the accompanying attention to detail oddly lacking. He checked off the balances with meticulous consideration, asking for clarification only where it was impossible to proceed without it. The surveyor grew more edgy as the matter progressed, suppressing an inner anger that snapped to the surface at each pointed question; he gave the impression that he expected his companion to be suspicious, and he resented the implications of it. Bon Chance restrained himself with practised accomplishment; he completed the necessary work and authorisations as quickly as he could, not liking the circumstances at all. At the end he had to ask the one question Crawcour was poised for - he had no choice, since he desperately wanted to know the answer.
"And Madelaine?" he enquired as he slid the last ledger into the bag. "She is well, I trust?"
"My wife," Crawcour replied, biting back his words with an effort, "is my concern, not yours, Mons. She is as I expect her to be. We will not expect your quarterly visit, since you will not be welcome. You can, of course, send someone else to inspect the estate if you wish."
"Are you banning me from my own property, Mons?" the Magistrate asked with what Gushie would have recognised as a dangerous note in among his mild tones.
"I am forbidding you to go anywhere near my wife," Crawcour shot back. "I know your kind. I thought we’d be rid of you after that incident a while back, but you wriggled out of it like the snake you are. You’ve been pouring your poison into Madelaine for long enough. No longer, Mons. She belongs to me, and me alone. I will save her from herself, and from you, too. Stay away from Mahoi, Bon Chance - and I will know if you do not." He brushed a line of sweat from his lower lip with the back of his hand and rose to his feet, snatching at the ledgers as he did so. "I know, you see. I know all about you and her, and how you have conspired against me. I will not be crossed, and I will not lose what is mine. Do you understand?"
Bon Chance lifted himself up, cold fury settling into his eyes. "I believe I do, Mons Crawcour. But you should understand this - that if you cause harm to Madelaine with your jealousies and your suspicions, this entire ocean will not be large enough to conceal you from me. And I do not make idle threats - only promises."
Their eyes locked, the larger man trembling with anger; but it was Crawcour who looked away first, disconcerted by the cold certainty in his opponent’s gaze. He swore savagely and strode out, leaving Bon Chance to sink back into his chair and take several deep breaths to banish some of the adrenaline the confrontation had raised. It was several minutes before he followed Crawcour into the bar; by then the man had gone, angrily berating his crew as he pushed off in the Mahoi boat. Gushie looked up as the Frenchman descended from his office, winced at his expression, and hurriedly bent to his work. Bon Chance said nothing as he passed Cutter and Corky on his way out of the bar; he vanished up to his room for half an hour, then reappeared briefly in his riding gear. He saddled up Le Capitaine and was gone for most of the afternoon. Cutter, wisely he thought, refrained from making any enquiry into the matter, even though the normally meticulous Magistrate missed several appointments as a result of his vanishing act.
By the morning, Bon Chance appeared to have regained his normal equilibrium, and nobody gave the matter much further thought.
Until, that is, three weeks had passed. Cutter returned that afternoon from a short hop delivering a desperately needed part for a generator, and left Corky topping up the gas tank of the Goose while he wandered up to the hotel. He smiled vaguely at the villagers who were coming out of the building as he went in, and the youngest woman among them smothered a giggle with difficulty. Everyone knew that his abstracted manner was because Sarah was away on Tagataya for at least another week; common belief was that she had been swept away by a distant but wealthy relative who had insisted she keep him company while he pursued his business in the islands. Cutter knew that the ‘relative’ was none other than Uncle Sam, and that the business was likely to be dangerous, but the agent who had made contact had been unaware that Cutter knew anything about Sarah’s ‘other’ occupation and she had insisted he keep it that way. He had delivered her and her so-called cousin to a secluded cove on an island quite a long way distant from Tagataya, and left them there with vague misgivings about the whole affair. His concerns had been a little relieved by a cheery radio message she had sent only two days before - although he hadn’t spoken to her himself, Gushie insisted she sounded fine - but he wouldn’t stop worrying until she returned in person.
He sauntered into the main bar, his hat pushed back and his face set into morose lines. Jack ran ahead and huffed at Gushie’s chair, turning its occupier’s head in his direction. The look that crossed the man’s face was one of welcome relief. "Jake - thank god you’re back."
Cutter crossed the remaining distance in short strides, aware that something was afoot. "What’s up?" he asked, glancing around in case he could identify anything out of the ordinary in his immediate vicinity. Nothing seemed out of place or even disturbed, which made Gushie’s worried expression even more alarming. Vague concerns flitted through the pilot’s mind, from the immediate thought that something terrible might have happened to Sarah through to the dismissive chance that the generator might have blown again and Corky be in demand because of it. Gushie’s next words drove all of those straight out of his mind.
"It’s Madelaine," his friend announced worriedly. "Something’s happened on Mahoi. We got a call about half an hour back - she sounded hysterical."
"Does Louie know?"
Gushie nodded. "He took the call. I think it shook him pretty badly, Jake - she seemed absolutely terrified. He tried to calm her, but ... hell, a radio’s no way to help a lady in distress. She was sobbing, and then the signal went dead. We couldn’t raise the island at all."
"Where is he?"
"Up in the office, checking the contents of his medical bag. He said to let him know as soon as you got back."
Cutter nodded. "No sooner said than done." He bounded up the short flight of stairs and threw open the office door without bothering to knock. "Taxi to Mahoi," he announced briskly.
Bon Chance was sat at his desk, his head resting in his hands. He looked up as the door opened, his face written with a deep anxiety that not even the smile he found for the pilot could quite dispel. "What kept you?" he demanded, rising to his feet and lifting the black bag off the corner of the desk. It was half joke, half serious question, and Cutter realised that having to wait had not been an easy thing to do, even for a man who had more patience than most.
"Madam Fenarin’s chocolate cake," he admitted, considering honest was probably best in the circumstances.
Bon Chance threw him a startled look, then frowned with exasperation. "You weren’t to know," he sighed, striding past the pilot and starting down the stairs. Cutter followed him with equal haste. "How long to Mahoi in the Goose, mon ami?"
"Just under an hour if the wind is right. You really think it’s that urgent?"
The Frenchman paused in his stride to turn back and consider his companion with haunted eyes. "You did not hear her." His face settled into taut anxiety. "Something - malignant has been growing on Mahoi for months, and I think perhaps I should have take action over it sooner. An hour may be too late, but it will have to do." He shook his head and strode out of the bar, leaving Cutter to exchange a glance with Gushie before he lengthened his stride to follow. The man in the wheelchair grimaced worriedly and went back to work, polishing at a table with unnecessary vehemence.
Jack reached the jetty first, startling Corky, who had just settled down for a doze by the pumps. He looked even more startled as the white-clad Frenchman bore down on him, followed by the pilot, who was busy indicating he should start the engines. The mechanic hurried to obey, grabbing at his cap as he scurried for the nose hatch, and scooping Jack up to dump him into the plane ahead of himself.
"Are we fuelled?" Cutter demanded as he unhitched the rear tether and tossed it aboard. Corky leaned out of the side window and nodded with confusion.
"Ah, yeah - but we only just got here. Where are we going?"
"Mahoi," Bon Chance told him coldly from the interior of the cabin. The mechanic turned round to protest, his words dying as he saw the look on the Frenchman’s face.
"R-right," Corky registered, along with Jack’s two sharp barks. He went back to powering up the engines, shifting across to the co-pilot’s seat as Cutter appeared in the cockpit. "Mahoi?" he mouthed at his fellow American, who dug into his pocket for the unlit end of a cheroot and clamped it between his lips.
"Tell ya when we’re in the air," Cutter growled, adjusting the throttles to balance the sound of the engines and turning the plane’s nose out to sea. Jack pattered back to crouch on the parachute and the Frenchman dropped into the nearest cabin seat, tipping his head back and clenching his fists on his lap. The pilot gunned the throttles, and then they were aloft, headed for Mahoi and whatever might await them there.
Return to the Monkey Bar