Wreckers Must Breathe Read Online Free PDF

enthusiastic.
    For a time we walked in silence. Then to take our minds off morbid thoughts I began to talk of the coast, the submerged rocks and the wrecks. ‘The fisherman I was out with today told me of a Dutch barge that was completely broken up on the Gav Rocks at Kennack in three days,’ I said.
    â€˜Yes, I have been here before,’ he said. ‘It is a bad coast.’
    I nodded. ‘It is,’ I agreed. ‘And they say that quite a lot of the submerged rocks aren’t even charted and are only known by the local fisherman.’
    â€˜I know,’ was his reply. ‘There is a great reef out off Cadgwith that is not properly charted. It is the worst bit of coast I think I have ever seen.’
    â€˜Of course, these fishermen know it all,’ I said. ‘They know just where to find a sand bottom among the rocks. I suppose the knowledge of the rock formations on the bed of the sea is handed down from father to son and grows with the knowledge gained by each new generation.’ We had reached the top of a headland and a path branched off to the right, skirting a field. ‘You go up there,’ I said. ‘The cottage is on the right.’
    He thanked me and we parted, his slim erect figure merging into the gloom. I went on down into Church Cove.

2
Suspicion
    â€˜ WILL LISTENERS PLEASE stand by for an important announcement which will be made at nine-fifteen.’ It was early Sunday morning and even the announcer’s voice sounded strained and unfamiliar. I sat in the Kerris’s kitchen, smoking cigarettes and waiting. So we heard of the final two-hour ultimatum delivered by Sir Neville Henderson. Later came the news that the Prime Minister would broadcast at eleven-fifteen. Rather than hang about waiting for what I knew to be inevitable, I got the car out and drove over to Cadgwith with the clothes the landlord had lent me.
    When I returned to the car, with my own clothes dried and neatly done up in brown paper, I met Big Logan coming up from the beach. ‘You don’t mean to say you’ve been out with the boats this morning?’ I said. There was quite a sea running, though the wind had dropped and it was a fine morning.
    He laughed. ‘War or no war we’ve still got to earn our living,’ he said. ‘I hope you’re none the worse for your bathe last night?’
    â€˜Not a bit,’ I replied, as I threw the bundle of clothes into the back of the car. ‘Funny thing was,’ I added, shutting the door, ‘I met a fellow on my way back to Church Cove who had also got pretty wet landing from a boat.’
    â€˜Landing from a boat?’ He looked puzzled. ‘Where did he land?’ he asked.
    I shrugged my shoulders. ‘I don’t know. Somewhere round here, I suppose. I met him on the path just past that little café on the cliff.’
    â€˜No boat came in here. We were the last in.’
    â€˜Well, he probably landed somewhere along the coast,’ I suggested.
    â€˜Why should he do that? Nobody would think of landing anywhere between here and Church Cove with the sea as jumpy as it was last night—unless of course he had to. How wet was he?’
    â€˜I should say he had been up to his waist in water. Anyway, what does it matter?’ I demanded. I was a trifle annoyed at his persistence.
    He hesitated. His feet were placed slightly apart and his hands rested on the leather belt around his waist. At length he said, ‘Well, I’ve been thinking. That business last night—how do we know it was a fish?’
    â€˜What else could it have been?’ I asked impatiently.
    He looked at me, and once again I was impressed by the shrewdness of his small eyes. ‘It might have been a submarine,’ he said.
    I stared at him. ‘A submarine?’ Then I suddenly laughed. ‘But why should a submarine jump half out of the water and pounce upon a poor inoffensive mackerel?