The Unfair Fare Affair - Leslie Peter - Страница 2
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The boatman had walked forward, rocking the flat-bottomed craft on the surface of the water. "One hundred guilders," he said curtly, balancing the pole across the width of the punt and holding out his hand.
Perhaps, Waverly thought, counting notes into the callused palm, he would be able to find one of those splendid Indonesian restaurants open early; a selection from the famous rijstafel would just about fit the bill... twenty and ten makes thirty, and five is thirty-five... and talking about hills... "A hundred guilders!" he screeched suddenly, his hand in midair. "But that's almost thirty dollars!"
The boatman stared at him impassively. He said nothing.
"Thirty dollars? For crossing less than a quarter of a mile of dead calm water? You must be out of your mind!"
"A hundred guilders. That's the price."
"But that's monstrous! I wouldn't dream of paying such a price! I absolutely refuse. I—"
"Look—the fare is paid," the man said strangely. "This is extra for me. For waiting. For the weather. For whatever you like. But you either give me the money or I tip you into the water... " He rocked the frail craft from side to side threateningly. "You takes your choice and you pays the money," he added with a crooked grin as he inverted the old saw.
Waverly was speechless with rage. "This is blackmail!" he stammered at last. "It is an outrage. I... I never had such a—"
"Shut up. If the cash was so important to you, you should have made sure Willem got you here earlier. You have had all day, after all. Come now—decide!"
Waverly was so angry he could hardly think straight. God knew what all that garbage meant! What the devil had this extortion to do with Willem—whoever he was? All the same, the boatman was a very big man—and he had already parted with nearly half the money. Also, even if he demanded to be taken back, he would be no better off; in fact, he would be back where he had started, with no means of crossing and thirty-five florins less in his pocket! He glanced at the oily surface of the water—it looked extremely cold!—and shuddered. Scowling, he counted out the rest of the money.
"There! That's better!" The boatman was suddenly almost affable. He stuffed the notes into his hip pocket, took up the pole, and began punting the boat rapidly toward the bank.
"Will I be able to get a car?" Waverly growled a few minutes later. "I'm in a hurry—otherwise I should never have paid your outrageous price—and I want to go—"
"Don't worry!" the giant interrupted. "Of course you'll get a car. It's all taken care of. You fuss too much."
Waverly shrugged in his wet coat and fell silent. A final thrust of the pole had sent them gliding toward a narrow creek penetrating a thicket of alders at the water's edge. Soundlessly, they slid in beneath the branches.
"You'll have to give me a hand," Waverly snapped. "There's a bank here, it's too steep and too wet and slippery to climb unaided."
"I told you not to worry," the boatman said—and indeed, as he spoke, arms reached down through the screen of leaves and hauled Waverly up and out of the boat. A few scrambling steps later, he was panting on top of the bank, staring at two men in heavy belted coats and soft hats.
"Come on if you want the car," the taller of the two murmured. "It has already attracted enough attention as it is." Taking Waverly's arm, he drew him through the bushes toward a footpath running along one side of a drowned field.
"But I didn't... " Waverly glanced over his shoulder. The punt was already back in the open water, the tall figure of the boatman blurred by the clouds of drizzle gusting in from the island.
"Best not to talk," the shorter man said.
Ten minutes and three fields later, they emerged from a belt of trees to find themselves at the edge of a country road. On the far side, a huge Minerva taxi stood in a side road half-hidden by a pile of stones.
The short man looked each way and then beckoned them across. He leaned in and spoke to a chauffeur in a peaked cap while his companion opened a door and ushered Waverly into the vast back seat. He sank down with a sigh of relief on the stained Bedford cord upholstery.
Before he could say anything, the door was slammed, the engine sprang to life, and the huge car surged forward on to the road.
Waverly twisted around and looked out the oval rear window. The two men, dwindling now in the approaching dusk, were standing in the middle of the road, each with a hand raised to the brim of his hat. He shrugged his damp shoulders and settled himself well back on the seat of the old Belgian car. He had stopped trying to figure it out… perhaps the exorbitant ferry fee included conducting him to a taxi. Yet nobody could have known he was coming; it was obviously not a regular ferry. In which case—how had there happened to be a taxi and men to take him to it?
He realized suddenly that he had given the driver no instructions. Would he go automatically to Amsterdam, because there was no civilized place in the other direction? Unable to recall the map, Waverly stared through the rain drops pockmarking the windows.
They were rattling along a narrow cobbled road that ran beside a canal. On either side, yellowing leaves drooped dispiritedly from the bare wet branches of trees.
Soon they passed a wooden bridge spanning the canal. At the corner of the timber superstructure, there was a three- finger signpost. The white-painted boards read: HARDERWIJK, ERMELE, AMSTERDAM... ELBURG, OLDEBROEK... and, on the one pointing across the canal: NUNSPEET.
Waverly exclaimed in annoyance. For the Amsterdam indicator was pointing back the way they had come!
He leaned forward to slide aside the glass partition separating him from the chauffeur. It refused to move. He tried again, harder. Still the panel would not budge.
He rapped peremptorily upon the glass. But the stolid set of the driver's head remained unchanged. The peaked cap did not turn by as much as a hair's breadth.
Waverly began to feel alarmed. Perhaps the man was deaf. Suppose he was mad, even! Maybe the whole thing was some kind of kidnap setup.... Vaguely he recalled stories of doors that would not open from the inside, of gas pumped into the rear compartment from the chauffeur's compartment, through a speaking tube.
He stared around the huge, shabby car. There was a speaking tube, hooked to the armrest on the left-hand side!
Panicking, he grabbed the tarnished chrome door handle and jerked. There was an icy blast of wind as the heavy door flew open, letting in the rumble of the Minerva's suspension and the oily hiss of tires on the wet road. Feeling rather foolish, Waverly leaned out into the spray thrown up by the wheels and hauled the door shut.
A few minutes later, the taxi slowed down by a long red brick wall and turned into a lane at the far end of which there seemed to be some kind of junkyard. The driver braked to a halt, jumped out and opened Waverly's door. "Very well, Mynheer," he said. "The other party's waiting."
He jerked a thumb at three men in long green leather coats who were leaning against a decrepit truck in the shelter of the wall. One of them plucked a cigarette from his mouth, pitched it into a puddle filling a rut in the muddy lane, and lounged forward.
"You took your time!" he said in German. "We'd almost given you up."
"Jaap was late with the boat," the chauffeur said apologetically. "According to Hendrik, he never said why—just pushed off again to the island."
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