Jack Higgins by East of Desolation Page B

had a most interesting chat with Sergeant Simonsen, Mr. Martin. It would seem there is a chance for us after all.”
    â€œThat still depends on what we find when we get there,” I said as they seated themselves. “Even if a landing is possible on the lake itself, the weather has to be right. Earlier today for example, when Arnie Fassberg was there, there was such a heavy mist that he didn’t get a close look at the lake at all.”
    â€œIs that sort of thing usual?” Stratton asked.
    I nodded. “It happens all the time, even in summer. Hail, rain, mist or perhaps a blizzard that seems to sweep in out of nowhere. An hour later the sky is so blue that you can’t believe it’s real. How’s your skiing, by the way?”
    â€œI was born and raised in the Austrian Tyrol,” Vogel said, “which means I was going to school on skis from the age of five. Mr. Stratton tells me his own experience has been confined to a couple of winter holidays in France, but I’m sure that should prove more than adequate.”
    â€œI’m the odd man out I’m afraid,” Sarah Kelso said, “but Sergeant Simonsen seems to think that’s no problem.”
    â€œFrom what I’ve heard you’re going to get the deluxe treatment,” Desforge assured her. “You’ll arrive in style without a hair out of place. Now what about a drink?”
    By now things had begun to get pretty noisy. People crowded on to the tiny dance floor, there were occasionalshrieks from the darker corners and now and then the sound of breaking glass echoed through the haze of tobacco smoke.
    â€œThis is hardly the London Hilton.” Desforge leaned across to Sarah Kelso. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather go some place else?”
    â€œOh, I should imagine I’ve got pretty good protection,” she told him. “To tell you the truth, I’m rather enjoying myself.”
    A moment later the doors seemed to burst inwards and Da Gama arrived. He paused inside the door, half a dozen of his crew at his back, a giant of a man in a reefer coat, an old cloth cap pulled down over his dark and greasy hair. He had tiny pig’s eyes above flat cheekbones and his skin was so dark that I always suspected he had coloured blood in him.
    The juke box kept on playing, but for a moment there was a lull in the general conversation. Da Gama said something over his shoulder to one of his men and laughed harshly. For some reason that seemed to break the tension and people started talking again. He moved to the bar, taking the shortest route, cutting straight through the middle of the crowded dance floor and anyone in his way got out of it quick.
    Desforge emptied his glass and filled it again. “So that’s Da Gama? From the look of him I’d say he’s probably got a brain the size of a pea.”
    â€œIt’s his hands you’ve got to watch,” I said. “He could break an arm as easily as a rotten stick.”
    Strangely enough it was Stratton who reacted most. His face had gone very white and there was a strangeglitter in his eyes and then I noticed that his hands were resting lightly on the edge of the table and that he still had his gloves on. They were an expensive-looking pair in soft black leather and somehow deadly. I suddenly knew beyond any doubt that my first estimate of the man had not been far wrong. Effeminate perhaps, but not soft, a mistake people often made about homosexuals. Perhaps it was Da Gama’s exaggerated maleness that revolted him.
    â€œHe’s quite a man, isn’t he?” Sarah Kelso said.
    â€œThat depends on how you look at it, sweetie.” Stratton lit a Turkish cigarette carefully, still keeping his gloves on. “Personally, I’m surprised to find he can walk on his hind legs. I thought the human race was supposed to have developed a little over the past half a million years.”
    He was certainly right about