Midnight Sailing, page 10
Millicent Greeve wasn’t there, either. Neither was Jeremy Hood. Nothing significant in either case, at least on the surface. Mr. Hood was unsocial, and Mrs. Greeve was probably unconscious.
General Rodriguez was there, however. That was a surprise. The general came within an inch of being sewed in that canvas himself and yet he seemed none the worse for his experience. What was his connection with the killing of Arthur Bonner? At present he appeared to be undergoing no reaction—except that he gloried in his bandages, as he stood near William Cuttle and Mr. Izumo, he of the yellow diamonds and yellower teeth. George Willowby was standing in the rear, filling his pipe. None of them looked like a murderer, but then murderers seldom did, Larkin had discovered in his long journalistic experience.
Then there was Dr. Bioki, as solemn as a fat, bronze Buddha. And Purser Yamata, the cheerless sunshine glinting on his gold teeth.
A queer humming sound arose from the steerage passengers, scarcely audible at first, then swelling to a great crescendo like the song of swarming bees. The droning chant dropped again to near silence, except for one shrill falsetto voice that persisted above the others.
George Willowby bustled over to Larkin, puffing furiously on his pipe. “I say, Larkin,” he asked, “what’s this disgraceful singing for? You’d think this was some gala festival.”
Before Larkin could reply, an annoyingly cultured voice behind him said, “They’re chanting the lndō.”
Larkin looked over his shoulder at the elegant Mr. Shima.
“Something Japanese, I take it,” Willowby grunted.
“Buddhist,” said Mr. Shima. “A prayer for the safe departure of the soul for the next world. Rather touching. After all, they don’t know the dead man.…”
“Rather indecent, I should say,” declared Willowby. “Very likely they’ll be burning incense next.”
“Very likely they will, if they have any,” said Mr. Shima. “It usually follows the lndō.”
“But the dead man’s a European. Why these rites in a foreign, language? Can’t they give him a Christian burial—even if he is a rogue and a stowaway?”
“In Japan,” said Mr. Shima with a superior smile, “we are told that the Lord understands all languages and can discern the truth in all creeds. Nevertheless I do believe the captain has asked the European passengers if one of them would like to read Christian services. Didn’t he ask you, Mr. Willowby?”
“Unfortunately,” said Willowby, “I don’t possess a Bible.”
Mr. Shima nodded knowingly. He said, “Mr. Larkin, too, has the face of a man who does not travel with a Bible.”
“I’m not a great believer in the efficacy of prayer,” Larkin admitted, “although in these days I guess a good prayer is just as much protection as a passport.”
“Here is the captain,” said Mr. Shima. “Perhaps he has found a good Christian after all.”
The diminutive Jap commander stalked past Larkin with bantam strides, went directly to the improvised bier at the taffrail. The ship’s engines stopped, and a strange, thick silence fell heavily upon ears attuned to days and nights of constant, throbbing rhythm. The hulk slid through the water with diminished momentum. The wake flattened out and lost the white fringes that edged the turquoise streak trailing far behind. The blood-red disk of the Japanese flag disappeared as the white folds drooped at half-mast.
Larkin was watching the captain and did not see Dorothy Bonner until she passed him. She moved like an automaton. Her body was stiffly erect, as though resigned to the determined direction of her daintily-shod feet toward the canvas bundle on the wooden trestles. She was dressed in white—classic, silken lines draped from her shimmering shoulders like the robes of a priestess approaching some Druid altar. She looked straight in front of her with eyes that glowed with the fire of inner struggle. Her right hand gripped tightly a small book, scarcely larger than a cigarette case. It was not the Bible; the binding was of ornately tooled leather.
Almost before she had stopped walking, she was reading from the tiny book. Her head was high, and she seemed to be looking beyond the page, beyond the improvised bier. Her voice was resonant with rich, contralto undertones, as though she were striving hard to keep it under control. The words came smoothly and unhurriedly almost in a monotone, and yet with a deep feeling that was even more evident for being submerged. The phrases were from the Psalms: “I am forgotten as a dead man out of mind. I am become a useless vessel.”
Larkin watched the reactions of the crowd. The Japanese were listening in solemn, respectful incomprehension. The bandaged General Rodriguez crossed himself.
“I have heard the whispers of many, fear on every side. When they took counsel together against me, they devised to take away my life…”
The girl’s voice rose a vibrant half-tone, as though in emphasis. William Cuttle was looking at her queerly, his eyes small with secretive, laborious cerebration as they peered over the rim of the derby hat pressed against’ the lower half of his face.
“Deliver me from the hands of mine enemies and from my persecutors …”
The girl read on. She was an arresting figure, motionless except for her lips. Even if she were silent, they would be all watching her, though perhaps without reverence. The murderer must be looking at her without reverence, even now: Others, too. William Cuttle, for instance. And Charles Frayle, who was moving through the crowd with short, almost imperceptible steps, to be closer to her…
“Let the lying lips be stricken dumb, which speak insolently against the righteous, with haughtiness and contempt…”
Haughtiness and contempt. That almost described the way Frayle was looking at Dorothy, but not quite. He seemed to be listening to her with every nerve in his body. His strange blue eyes were intense, his gaze greedy, possessive, jealous, as though he were resentful of the girl’s attention to the dead. It was almost an obscene gaze…
“Be strong and let your heart take courage, all ye who wait for the Lord.” Dorothy Bonner closed the leather covers of the small book, took a step forward, hesitated, laid it gently upon the canvas-wrapped form on the planks, turned away quickly.
“Amen,” murmured George Willowby.
Captain Fujiwara said something in Japanese. Two seamen raised one of the trestles. The body of Arthur Bonner shivered, seemed to hesitate, then slid rapidly downward, disappeared. After an eternal moment, there was a faint splash.
The ship was still drifting forward slowly, her momentum almost gone. Then the decks trembled, as the engines leaped into action again. Once more the wake boiled out behind the shuddering stern. Beyond the newly churned furrow, a convex patch of wet canvas floated, bobbing once before it vanished. White sea-birds swooped down, screaming shrilly, to wreathe the spot.
The deck resounded to the scrape and clatter of a hundred wooden sandals as the steerage passengers trooped back to their quarters between decks. The dark quartet of garishly pretty girls from second-cabin passed, giggling. An engineer, who had been waiting impatiently in the background, handed Captain Fujiwara his report on coal consumption. George Willowby said to Mr. Shima, “Leaves a rather disagreeable taste in one’s mouth, doesn’t it? How would you like a spot of Chilean brandy to remove it?” William Cuttle was using his elbows to clear a path for himself through the slowly-moving stream of Orientals who had paid homage to death, but seemed reluctant to return to the business of living. Life was resuming—but sluggishly. The reek of murder, still clung to the ship, like the haunting sulphurous smell that persisted between decks.
Larkin hung back, waiting for Dorothy Bonner. He saw her coming directly toward him, walking rapidly as though to avoid Frayle, who was crossing the deck not far behind.
Larkin took the girl’s hand in both of his. “Bravely done,” he said. “Where did you stumble on the text?”
“The Book of Psalms?” The girl’s voice was no longer steady. “He gave it to me for my thirteenth birthday. I don’t know how I happened to have it with me. I hadn’t opened it in years …”
“You managed to open it to an appropriate page,” said Larkin. “Or was that just a coincidence? ‘They devised to take away my life…’”
Before the girl could answer Larkin, Charles Frayle strode unceremoniously between them, put a proprietary arm around Dorothy’s shoulders.
“Sorry,” Frayle said to Larkin in tones that were not at all apologetic. “I’ve got to talk to Miss Bonner.”
“I was talking to Mr. Larkin,” said the girl, trying to draw away from Frayle.
“What’s the matter, puss? You’ve been avoiding me all day.”
“You know very well what’s the matter.”
“Yes, of course,” said Frayle. “But that’s all over now. You were properly respectful and charmingly grief-stricken. Now let’s go along and see the purser about that cabin.”
“We won’t have to see about the cabin,” said Dorothy.
“We’re going back to our original plan. You’ll have to wait until Yokohama—at least.”
“What’s come over you, Light of my Life?”
“Arthur was murdered,” said Dorothy, looking very hard at Larkin.
“Really?”. Frayle smiled with his dimples. Larkin noticed that there was a small cut on his right cheek, and that he had applied talcum powder in an unsuccessful effort to conceal a livid, crescent-shaped discoloration under his right eye. “I’ve always thought it would be an excellent idea, and doubtless there were others who thought so too. Your friend Larkin, for instance, was on a still hunt yesterday morning. However, I’m afraid the end of the prodigal wasn’t quite so romantic. He just bumped his head. Where did you get the idea he was murdered?”
“Mrs. Greeve,” said Dorothy.
Frayle’s dimples vanished. He said. “I suppose she saw the murder committed.”
“She saw something,” Dorothy declared.
“She probably saw it double,” Frayle suggested. “When I saw our gaudy Mother Mackerel last night, she was higher than a kite.”
“She’s fairly sober now,” said Dorothy. “And she’s been doing and saying some very strange things.”
“Why don’t the three of us call on Mrs. Greeve?” Larkin asked. “She might be amused by Mr. Frayle’s black eye.”
“You have got a shiner, Charlie,” Dorothy said. “How did you get it?”
“By all means, let’s call on Mrs. Greeve,” said Frayle, giving Larkin a sidelong glance.
“You two run along ahead,” said Larkin. “I’ll join you in the twinkling of a black eye.”
He watched the two walk down the deck. Then he ambled by the radio cabin. He paused at the half-door, drew a folded sheaf of copy paper from his pocket, glanced for a last time at his story of Arthur Bonners death and burial at sea. With a pencil he inserted the word “More” before his signature. Later he would send a few paragraphs of color on the actual funeral. The detail of Dorothy Bonner reading from the Book of Psalms for her own brother’s burial would make a grand new lead for the morning papers. The angle of the photostats he would hold up until he knew more about it. This was his own private story and he could write it as it unfolded, without competition.…
Chapter Sixteen: WHO SAW WHOM?
“Oh, my god, company!” exclaimed Millicent Greeve, as Dorothy opened the door for Larkin. “And me looking like something the cyclone dragged in. I mean, you better shut your eyes, Mr. Parker, if you scare easy, because I certainly do look a fright. I’ve been so upset today that I couldn’t even powder my nose. I mean, I’m really just a bundle of nerves, and when anything like this happens, why, I just come all unbundled.”
“Nonsense,” said Larkin. “You look as cool as a cucumber and as fresh as a blossom.”
Larkin couldn’t think of any blossoms that Millicent Greeve reminded him of, unless it was a large bunch of wilted sunflowers. She was wearing a pair of satin lounging pajamas of brilliant orange, even two shades brighter than her hair. The pajamas were a wrinkle of bed creases except for the lustrous expanse of trousers whose tightness did full justice to her astonishing gluteal development. In spite of what she said, she had apparently made some slight effort at embellishment—except for her coiffure, which might have been the work of a playful kitten. Her puffy face showed signs of hurried retouching which were not overly successful. Middle age showed through the coating of cosmetic youthfulness, and her mouth was not on straight.
“Sit down, Glen,” said Dorothy, removing an empty glass, a pair of black lace step-ins, and a hair brush from the stateroom’s only chair. She hung the step-ins on a wall-hook which already held a pair of silk hose, a patent-leather belt, and the deflated, hemispheres of Mrs. Greeve’s maiden form.
“Where’s Frayle?” Larkin asked.
“He didn’t come in,” Dorothy said. “He went off with Mr. Shima. Just after we left you, Mr. Shima stopped him to say Captain Fujiwara wanted to see him.”
“I’m so glad you came, Mr. Parker,” said Mrs. Greeve.
“His name’s Larkin, Millie.”
“Call me Glen,” said Larkin.
“You don’t know what a comfort it is to have a man around at a time like this, Glen. A death always upsets me terribly, even someone I don’t know. I can’t even look at a hearse without getting goose pimples all over me. I couldn’t possibly have gone out there just now when they—I mean for the funeral. I’d have died. I suppose it serves me right for not listening to poor Mr. Greeve. He warned me about this boat. When he meets me in Hong Kong—”
“Mrs. Greeve has been upset like this since very early this morning,” said Dorothy Bonner. She looked at Glen pointedly. Evidently Mrs. Greeve’s conversation was rambling out of the proper channels. Dorothy’s eyes sought help from Larkin to steer it back.
“Really?” said Larkin. “I didn’t know you were an early riser, Millie?”
“I’m not,” said Mrs. Greeve. “I—Be a regular guy, Glen, and pass me that bottle. It’s under that chair you’re sitting on. I mean, I need a pick-me-up, Glen. Bad.”
“Lifting yourself by the blackstrap, I see,” said Larkin, looking at the few brown inches in the bottom of the bottle. “You’ve already attained considerable altitude.” That wasn’t true exactly. Millicent Greeve’s breath was heavily scented with Barbados rum, but she wasn’t drunk. She didn’t even have the hopeless languid look of a hangover. Her nerves were in a taut state of over-stimulation that defied the further goad of alcohol.
“I’m just a silly little girl,” said Millie. She essayed a mirthless laugh, but the effort was too much. She lay back ponderously upon her berth and passed a pudgy hand across her eyes. “I mean, I always think of things like that when somebody dies. Then I have a drink and I feel better and I tear it up again. I’m just silly.”
“It must have been quite a shock,” said Larkin, sympathetically. “Were you alone when you saw the body?”
“I didn’t see it!” declared Mrs. Greeve promptly. “Oh, I couldn’t look at a corpse. It would kill me.”
“You did see him, Millie,” insisted Dorothy. “You told me you did.”
“Well, maybe I did,” admitted Mrs. Greeve weakly. “I mean I don’t like to talk about it.”
“What time was it, when you saw him, Millie?” Larkin asked.
“I don’t know. I mean I never look at the time, when I’m on a party. I was over seeing some friends in second cabin and we had a few drinks together. It was still dark when I came back.”
“Was it about four o’clock?”
“Yes, I guess it was. It was still dark.”
“The man was lying on the deck when you saw him?”
“Yes.”
“Did you recognize him?”
“Well, I saw it was the same man that was looking in my porthole the night before.”
“How could you see that, Millie,” Larkin pursued, “if it was still dark?”
“Why, the flashlight was shining on—I mean, I guess I didn’t see him.”
“What flashlight, Millie?”
“You’ve got me all mixed up, Mr. Parker. I don’t know what I’m talking about. Maybe I shouldn’t have taken that last drink.”
“So there, was a man standing over him with a flashlight?”
Mrs. Greeve didn’t answer. Her heavy eyelids fluttered closed. Her ample bosom rose and fell rapidly several times before Larkin demanded:
“What was the man with the flashlight doing? Going through his pockets?”
Mrs. Greeve’s eyes popped open in terror. “My God, Mr. Parker!” she gasped. “I don’t know a thing about it. And even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you. I couldn’t. I mean, even if I’d seen him doing murder, I couldn’t say anything. He’d kill me, too.”
“Did he recognize you, Millie?”
“He might have. He might have seen me. I wasn’t walking very quiet. I didn’t expect to see—”
“But the man with the flashlight was going through the dead man’s pockets?”
“Yes.”
“Who was it?”
“I can’t tell you that, Mr. Parker. I don’t want to be next. I don’t want to die and be buried at sea. I’m deathly afraid of water, Mr. Parker. I mean, even dead, I couldn’t stop being afraid. I couldn’t rest out here in the ocean. You won’t let them drop me overboard, Mr. Parker?”
“There won’t be a chance,” said Larkin, “if you’ll tell me who this man is, so we can have him locked up until we reach port.”
“But I don’t know who he is,” Millie Greeve insisted. “I mean, I didn’t see his face. He had his back to me.”
“But you’re afraid he saw you and recognized you?”
“I’m scared to death.”
“How could he see you if he had his back to you?” Mrs. Greeve did not reply.
“Then he didn’t have his back to you. And you saw his face. Who was he?”
“He’ll kill me, Mr. Parker.”
“He certainly will,” said Larkin, “unless you tell me who I’m to protect you against. Of course if you don’t want me to—”
