Deck Boy, page 42
According to what Scudder had said, the mate and bosun were in the wheelhouse. Cautiously I mounted the steps. The wing of the bridge was deserted. The wheelhouse door, a wide sliding door, was shut tight. I peered through a corner of the big windows. All was dark, as it needed to be for night vision. Instruments glowed with subdued light: the engine-room repeaters, gyro repeater, ship’s head indicator, angle of rudder. A man stood at the wheel, the binnacle directly in front of him. The dimly-lit compass card illuminated his chest and face. I squeezed the water from my eyes. Though the windows ran with rain and spray, I could see it was the bosun. The angle of light cast deep shadows and gave him the appearance of a demon. A spark of red, small as a firefly, brightened by the for’ard window. The mate was smoking.
It was impossible to eavesdrop from that stormy location. Also, I guessed, from the opposite wing of the bridge. There was, however, an internal route to the wheelhouse, the route I had taken to speak to the captain, the route I had taken when I fled from the pirates. I descended to the boat deck. The ship shuddered under the impact of a gigantic wave and solid spray landed whop on my shoulders. It made little difference, I could be no wetter.
I wrung out my shorts and T-shirt in the crew showers and hurried back for’ard. The stairs by the officers’ dining room led directly to their quarters. I mounted cautiously and flitted across the alleyway. The much narrower stairs that led up to the chartroom and wheelhouse were wet from the boots and oilskins of the watch-keepers. I clutched the handrail to keep my balance. The chartroom door opened off a little landing. All was silent. A switch extinguished the staircase light. Infinitely slowly I eased the door open. The chartroom was dark and unoccupied. A voice reached me from the wheelhouse beyond. I slipped through and closed the door behind me.
The chartroom was the same width as the wheelhouse and separated from it by the long chart table, above which were big windows, curtained at night to preserve the night vision of the watch-keepers. At each end of the chart table, port and starboard, a door led from one navigating room to the other. These stood permanently open.
What I was doing was foolhardy in the extreme, I realised that, but I was certain that if I were spotted I would be able to beat a retreat before the mate or the bosun could grab me. Safety lay just a short staircase away. All the same, I was very frightened and took time to get my bearings: there lay the current chart, the course recorder, echo sounder, barometer and empty sextant shelves. The port connecting door was nearer. Wet as a water rat, I crept to the threshold – and listened.
Get Rid of that Bloody Deck Boy
I CLUNG to the door post in the darkness and strained my ears to hear above the noise of the storm:
“… have taken more bloody care. Kept your eyes open.” The mate stood by the spray-beaten window, high above the foredeck. “I mean, Jesus, what were you doing, sending up flares? He must have spotted you and followed you. But did you see him? Don’t make me laugh. He’s no fool, that boy. He might be the biggest bloody pain in the arse since deck boys began, but he’s got his head screwed on the right way.”
I couldn’t make out the bosun’s reply, something about like to unscrew it. His back was towards me, silhouetted against the dim light of the instruments. He spun the wheel as the ship sheered to starboard.
“He saw everything,” the mate went on. “You, Jawa Ka’tang, the chocolates, the transmitter … sure you didn’t send him a list?”
“… saw you as well. You didn’t spot him.”
“Matter of fact I don’t think he did see me, he deduced it somehow, right there in my cabin … recognised my watch or something. But he was right, wasn’t he? And he knows it. Says he’s going to tell the old man, and when we get to Singapore he’ll tell the police.”
“When’s that then?”
“What?”
The storm reached a crescendo, shrieking in the rigging, roaring round the wheelhouse. Already they had to speak loudly; the bosun raised his voice further. “I said, when we due to reach Singapore?”
“Singapore? Not make tomorrow night now. Maybe next day, depends on the weather.”
“So what are you proposing?”
“What am I proposing? About that bloody Bennett? What the hell do you think I’m proposing? He’s got to go. Get rid of him. Over the side. Shouldn’t be too difficult this weather. An accident – preferably one that works this time.”
I knew already, but to hear it said out loud like that chilled me to the bone. All this while – the mate! I glanced behind me to make sure my escape route was clear.
“Not as easy as you think,” Ryland was saying. “He’s sticking with his pals now. I reckon there’s someone even goes to the bog with him.”
“We agreed at the start, any rough stuff’s your business. My end went like clockwork, you’re the one cocked it up. Up to you to put it right again.”
“Well, I can’t exactly – ”
“Wasn’t for that new messman – what’s he call himself ?”
“Barbara.”
“That’s it, Barbara! Wasn’t for him I’d have settled Bennett myself. Hot bath. Morphine overdose. Cocky little runt used to be a medical orderly; hardly turn round but he’s in my face. It’s up to you now.”
A shriek of wind and whack of spray against the wheelhouse windows drowned out their words.
“… work something out.”
“I would if I were you. You’re the one he saw; you’re the one he’s got evidence against; you’re the one going to end up in jail, accessory to murder. Not to mention if they reopen the case about that steward on the Star of Bengal. Me, it’s just circumstantial. No jury could convict me on what he’s got.”
The bosun said, “What about the waiters in that hotel, the Ascot, like he says? If the cops send photos an’ they recognise the three of us?”
“If you’d done your job like you were supposed to it wouldn’t be an issue. Anyway, I’ve been thinking about that. If the worst comes to – ”
The ship crested a massive swell and rolled far over to port. Parallel rulers skidded across the chart table and landed crash on the deck. I fled to the door that led down to the officers’ quarters and grasped the handle, but the two in the wheelhouse had more important matters on their minds. After a minute I returned to my listening post.
“… not all that difficult to disappear,” the mate was saying, “start a new life somewhere else. I’ve always fancied living in Australia anyway: sun, beaches. Still, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
After a silence Ryland said, “What you mean, if I was you … you’re the one he’s got evidence against? You trying to dump me?” His voice was harsh. “We’re in this together, Duncan Rose, an’ you’d better remember that.”
“I suppose so. That’s how we started out anyway.” A lighter flared. The mate continued, “I’ve done deals with a few people over the years but never anyone like you. You’re just so bloody stupid. I’ve never been in this kind of a mess.”
“How d’you mean, stupid? You’d better watch what you’re saying.”
“You want to know? Well I’ll tell you. Picking on Bennett from day one, for a start. Getting in tow with that bloody fool of a cadet. Couldn’t keep your dabs off the cargo. Running a personal vendetta against those stewards and their pals. Allowing yourself to be followed. So-called ‘accidents’ that never worked. How’s that for starters? Couldn’t keep your head down, oh no, not you.” He glanced at the gyro. “For God’s sake, you’re thirty degrees off course!”
Sullenly, thick hands on the spokes of the wheel, the bosun brought the ship back.
“One bit of luck, that psycho messman, whatever his name was, he got rid of Lenny Rathbone for us. I know you palled up with him but he was a liability. And I managed to persuade Jawa to take your other pal, Fanshott-Williams, off our hands. Not be hearing from him for a while. So that’s two problems out the way.”
“What about your wife?”
“My wife? You’re not serious. You don’t think I’d marry someone like Trish Grahame. Couple of cheap wedding rings, who’s to tell? No, she was just along for – well, a bit of fun. Silly cow. Swanning round in her bikini. Deserved all she got.”
The bosun thought a bit. “So now it’s just the two of us.”
“That’s right, just the two of us.”
“And are you planning to get rid of me as well?”
“Pull yourself together, what do you think I am?”
“You asking? Well, I’ll tell you; ruthless, that’s what you are. An’ slippery. An’ greedy.”
“You reckon?” The mate gave a wry laugh. “Pots and kettles, eh?”
“You’ve got too high an opinion of yourself.”
“If you say so.”
“But I’ll tell you what. You’d better not try an’ double-cross me, ’cause I’ll take you with me.”
The bows plunged deep into a wave and came up shuddering. A wall of water crashed the length of the foredeck. For a minute the bosun concentrated on his steering.
“Where’s the money, anyroad?”
“Somewhere safe. Sort it out when we reach Singapore. Don’t worry, you’ll get your twenty-five percent.”
“Fifty.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said fifty percent. Straight down the middle.”
“We have an agreement, John, right back at the start when I got you this bosun’s job. Crooks’ contract. Whatever we get, your share’s a quarter.”
“Well, now I want half. Hundred thou – that about right? Set me up very nicely.”
“Don’t push it, John, for your own good. I’m telling you.”
“Is that a threat?”
“No, a bit of advice. A warning if you like.”
“You’re warning me? Don’t make me laugh.”
“Suit yourself, but remember this, I’m not the one into double-crossing. And I’m not the one with that deck boy’s evidence stacked up against me either.”
“You think he’s the only one got evidence?”
“Who else then?”
The bosun didn’t reply.
“Who else?” The mate’s eye caught the light from the binnacle. “Codswallop! There’s nobody. I’m clean anyway.” He glanced for’ard, keeping cursory lookout.
“What about me?”
“You?” The mate was dismissive. “Would you really give up – what, fifty grand? I don’t think so, John. When are you going to see that sort of money again? Anyway, what have you got on me, nothing. Just your word, the word of an ex-con against his chief officer. They’d laugh you out of court.”
“You think you’re so clever.”
“Compared to some people.”
“That’s all you know.” The bosun tapped his left shoulder.
“What does that mean?”
There was no reply.
“What’s all this?” The mate mimicked his action.
The bosun wore a loose cotton jacket. He opened one side.
“What have you got there? I can’t see. A gun?”
Ryland laughed. “You been watching too many films. No, not a gun. A tape recorder.”
“Tape recorder?”
“Player, really. Little job, belongs to Lampie. But it records too.”
The mate drew on his cigarette. Briefly the glow illuminated his features.
“Hung it on a bit of cord, see,” the bosun said. “Way things were panning out, I reckoned I might need a bit of security.”
“All the time we’ve … ?”
“Everything you just said, all in here.” He gave the instrument a little pat.
“I don’t believe you. Won’t have picked it up.”
“Did down below.” Ryland set the wheel amidships and held it with his leg. He turned to catch the binnacle light and fiddled with the controls beneath his arm. There was a pause while he ran the tape back then the recorder crackled into life. I strained to catch the distorted voices:
“ … end went like clockwork, you’re the one cocked it up … sorted Bennett myself. Hot bath. Morphine overdose. Cocky little runt … could convict me on what he’s got …” Crackling interference. He fast-forwarded. “ … take your other pal, Fanshott-Williams, off our hands … think I’d marry someone like Trish Grahame … when we reach Singapore … your share’s a quarter …”
The bosun switched off. “Believe me now?” He re-set the controls and let his jacket fall. “Not all that clear but the police will be able to sort it out. So if you’ve got any more ideas about ripping me off – big shot!”
The ship had wandered far off course. A huge wave, coming on top of the swell, caught us smack on the starboard bow. Water exploded mast-high. Pacific Trader slid into the following trough and rolled far over. Distant crashes reached my ears. Ryland was a good helmsman. Expertly he spun the spokes of the wheel; the gyro ticked round; reluctantly the bows swung back to meet the sea head-on.
“Looks like you’ve got me beat, John.”
“You reckon?” Ryland was pleased with himself. “Fifty-fifty?”
“I guess so. Doesn’t seem like I’ve got much choice.” The mate crushed out his cigarette. “Never thought you’d pull a stunt like that on me.”
“Got to look after number one, Chief.”
“Dog eat dog, eh? I suppose you’re right.” The mate pushed himself from the window. As he moved into the dim light of the binnacle I saw he wore a cardigan and light canvas trousers. “There is one other possibility though.”
“What’s that then?”
“I keep it all myself.”
“Come again?”
“You heard, I said I keep it all myself, every brass penny.”
“You reckon? An’ what about me? I just stand there and let you, I s’pose.”
“No, I dump you over the side.”
I don’t know where the mate had the knife hidden, but as he passed Ryland I saw the dull glint of steel.
“What?” Ryland half turned. “You take me on, I’d break every bone in – ”
The mate was behind him. He drew back his arm and with a savage, calculated thrust, plunged the blade handle-deep into the middle of the bosun’s powerful back.
I’m not sure Ryland realised he had been stabbed. At least, not at once. I’ve heard it said that a stab feels like a punch. All the same, he was shocked. The spokes of the wheel spun from his grasp and he whirled to face his attacker. “What are you – ”
The knife was stuck and the mate had to dodge round to pull it free. Twice, so hard that I heard the thud, he drove it into the bosun’s broad chest.
And Ryland saw him. His twisted eye squirmed. He tried to speak but no words would come, just a terrible sound in his throat and blood running from his lips. He took a threatening half step – then his legs gave way and he fell to the deck. For a time he thrashed, those brutal hands fluttered like butterflies. Then he lay still.
The Stormy Foredeck
I FLED to the door that led down to the accommodation. The mate, I was sure, must come into the chartroom but he did not. Terrified, I returned to my spot by the wheelhouse.
The knife – Ka’tang’s knife, my knife – still protruded from the bosun’s chest.
The mate grasped the handle but it was stuck. He put his foot on the body and gave a little tug then wiped the blade on the dead man’s jersey. The tape recorder lay beneath his outflung arm. One swift slice severed the cord and the mate pulled it aside.
A pool of what must have been blood was spreading beneath the bosun’s head. From where I stood it looked black, glinting in the light from the instruments. The mate looked down, then went to the flag locker at the side of the wheelhouse and pulled out a rolled-up flag – I couldn’t see which. He shook it free, two metres long, and swaddled it round the bosun’s head. Taking two corners, he tied them in a rough knot to hold it in place.
It was his intention, he had said, to throw the body over the side and then, I suppose, sluice away the blood. He crossed to the wheelhouse door, the port door that led out on deck. Had he looked into the chartroom he might well have seen me. I retreated into the deeper darkness. The storm roared about the bridge. As he slid the door open, it burst in upon us. The spokes of the big ship’s wheel, untended, turned this way and that. The gyro tick - tick - ticked round as the ship’s head swung off the wind, exposing her flank to the fury of the sea. The mate brought her back on course.
Then he stooped and gripped Ryland by the jacket. The body was heavy. Laboriously he backed towards the open door, dragging the bosun behind him. Ryland’s muffled head lolled from side to side. His work boots trailed on the deck. As they emerged onto the wing of the bridge, the wind and whirling spray tore at the mate’s cardigan, blew the hair over his eyes, unpicked the flag from the bosun’s head.
They passed from my field of vision. I stepped into the wheelhouse and looked after them. The straining figure backed towards the ship’s rail. Just three metres away from me, the tape recorder lay on the wheelhouse deck. If I could gain possession of that …
Pacific Trader buried her head and rolled far over. The recorder slid towards me: two metres. I gathered myself like a cat, and in a momentary lull I crept across the deck. And all would have been well had not the ship, balancing on a wave crest, dropped like a stone into the trough beyond. Something in the chartroom fell with a crash. The recorder slid away. I made a grab, lost my balance, set my hand in the pool of blood and slithered full length.
The mate looked up and saw me in the shadows. Instantly he let go of the bosun and sprang back towards the wheelhouse. I regained my feet and snatched up the tape recorder. It was too late. The mate was upon me. In desperation I flung the recorder full in his face and dashed back into the chartroom. In three or four steps I was at the door by which I had entered, the door which led down to the officers’ quarters. It was set in a corner. Whatever had fallen, some boxed instrument, it felt like, had burst from a cupboard and prevented the door from opening more than a few centimetres. Two, three times I smashed it towards me, yelling aloud, and raked at the obstruction with my foot. There was no time. The mate appeared, clutching his eye. I fled the length of the chart table and out through the door to the wheelhouse at the far end. He followed, one arm raised to strike at me. Did I imagine it or did I see the knife in his hand? I swung round the door post and doubled back through the abandoned wheelhouse, past the swinging wheel and slippery pool of blood on the deck.
