Hurricane Read Free Page A

camps. After all, he owed this youth nothing. And any present statement was worthless.
    “Yes,” said Spar.
    Chacktar nodded. “Then we must go. Leave these two bodies here for the police. We must get young Perry back up to his house.”
    Urged along by the gun, Spar followed the black man and the boy, much perplexed.

CHAPTER TWO
     
    Flight
     
    T HE house which belonged to the Perrys sat on a high hill, far back and far above Fort-de-France. When the party gained the summit by a back road, Spar looked down at the sparsely lit city and the church cross which stood out, gleaming in the rain. Somewhere in that town he would find the Saint. That was enough. He stumbled on through the mud, following Chacktar’s black slicker.
    They passed through hedges of red flowers, faint patches in the blackness, and finally ascended the steps of a mansion which had the air of quiet dignity.
    A black servant let them in. Chacktar, with a serious urgency about him, strode on through the halls and pushed through a large door to a huge living room which was furnished in wicker and hanging draperies.
    Six people were there, seated languidly in the comfortable chairs. They had the appearance of solid assurance, of wealth, of power.
    Spar halted in the doorway, a sour grin twisting his mouth. This was a long way from the slime and slaving of the prison camp. A long way from French Guiana. But if he didn’t watch his step, the way would not be so far.
    A quiet gentleman with a gray beard and a sharp, handsome face sat forward, glass in hand, staring at the group in sudden alarm. “What is this? Tom, what’s this?”
    The boy Perry he addressed, shuffled weakly forward, eyes down, dead white, fumbling with his hands. “Tell . . . tell him, Chacktar.”
    Chacktar made a great show of reluctance, and then squaring his shoulders and looking like a tower of ebony in his dripping slicker, he said, “Tom was very drunk, Monsieur Perry. In a fit of rage, he killed two men.”
    The entire group stood up, aghast. The elder Perry turned pale. “Tom, how could you? Killed . . . killed them? Where?”
    “In a rum house, that’s where!” snapped Tom, coming alive with a show of defiance, suddenly fighting as a rat fights when trapped. “You won’t let a man get drunk decently. No, he’s got to sneak off and do it on the sly. And what if I did kill a couple of—”
    “Tom,” said the elder Perry. “Come to, man, this is serious. They’ll arrest you. And even the power of Frederick Perry won’t keep you from the gallows.”
    “Frederick Perry.” said Tom, derisively.
    Chacktar led the boy into the next room at a sign from the elder man. Spar was left standing by the door, water running from his hair down over his shoulders and thence to his shoes. The big brass buckle sparkled unashamed.
    “We must do something,” moaned the elder Perry, standing up and walking down the room. “We must do something. We’ve got to get him away . . . tonight.”
    Spar looked at the others. He saw them at first as a general group and then one person stood out from them and the others were lost in a vague haze.
    Spar stood up straighter, stared, without knowing that he stared. And the girl was staring at him, blue eyes alert and frank.
    It had been a long while since Spar had seen a beautiful woman. Five years. And this girl was beautiful beyond any he had ever seen. Her hair was a silvery mass, matching the becoming pallor of her skin. Her figure was graceful. Her bearing was that of a princess. She was dressed in a blue dinner gown which matched her eyes, and her only jewels were a string of pearls which matched the soft whiteness of her throat.
    Startled and suddenly ashamed of his stare, Spar dropped his eyes, as shaken as a man who had unwittingly set foot in Paradise. He felt dirty in that moment. Ragged and worthless. He was sorry he had come. Before he had not realized, but now . . .
    “Yes,” the girl said, looking away from Spar, “we must get