Midnight Sailing, page 16
“Geneva,”said the steward.
Larkin pondered. Geneva. He hadn’t been in Geneva since March, 1934, when he covered the League of Nations session that adopted the Lytton report on the Jap invasion of Manchuria. “Hotel des Bergues?”
“Yes.”
“Then I suppose,” said Larkin, “that you were one of the walking delegates who made the dramatic Jap exit from the League in 1934—and that your white coat is just a disguise for some dark diplomatic mission.”
“No,” said the steward. “At Hoteru des Bergues, was Numbah Tsoo bah boy. Washing grasses fo’ Numbah One bah boy. Often I see you at bah.”
“That’s fine,” said Larkin. “Now that we’ve settled that, how about my Tom Collins?”
“Right away. Japanese say: Hayaku. And if needing anysing—”
“That’s all, Sato!”
When the steward left, Larkin stared after him. The bars of Geneva, he knew, were a prime source of information. A bar boy at the Hotel des Bergues was apt to know more about international affairs and diplomatic horse trading than a man who never left the press gallery of the League Assembly. Was it mere coincidence that Sato the steward had once washed glasses behind a bar in Geneva, and was now making beds and serving meals on a ship that was carrying a murderer and a dealer in military secrets across the Pacific? Or was there some significance in Sato’s self-revelation, in his subsequent offer, “if needing anysing—”
Larkin lit another cigarette, mopped his sweat-bathed face, resumed banging at his typewriter.
“Dorothy Bonner” he wrote, “admits burning the blueprints of the anti-aircraft gun, but insists she was not aware that they had previously been copied in photostatic reproduction. Whether she was duped by her blind fascination for the swaggering young adventurer from the four corners of the earth, or whether—”
Chapter Twenty-five: CAREEN TOWERS
The Commander’s Noon Report read: Lat. 27 ° 0’ 51” N., Long. 129° 17’ 6” W. The commander’s potted azaleas were bursting into colorful bloom as the weather grew steadily warmer. And the commander’s friend, the elegant Mr. Shima, was perspiring inelegantly as he knocked on the door of Charles Frayle’s stateroom. He was patting his spangled forehead daintily with a silk handkerchief when Frayle opened the door.
“I have come to tell you,” said Mr. Shima without further ado, “that I think it is high time, Mr. Frayle, that you decide in which direction you intend to leap. While I admire your skill in playing both ends against the middle, I don’t need to tell you that this sort of game can’t go on indefinitely.”
“Drop the Oriental allegory and get to the point,” said Frayle. “What do you want?”
“Don’t misunderstand,” said Mr. Shima. “I’ve not come to reproach you for anything you may have found expedient during the past few days, to—shall we say, to preserve the direction of your purpose? I have no false ideas on the sanctity of human life. I am fully aware, as you are, that when larger questions are at stake, it makes little difference whether a man lives a few years more or a few years less. I merely want you to know that I am governed by similar considerations and as few scruples.”
“I’ve never doubted it,” said Frayle.
Mr. Shima cleared his throat, sat down, pinched the creases in his trousers as he crossed his legs. “Six months ago,” he began, “we had a brief conversation in Callao. We spoke of vanadium. I made you an offer.”
“And I quoted you a figure. There was a big discrepancy.”
“I think I can meet your figure now.”
“It’s not the same figure now,” said Frayle. “Conditions have changed. The figure has doubled.”
“I see.” Mr. Shima smiled blandly, as he pressed his silk handkerchief gently between the palms of his hands. “Then it’s true that you are holding out for what they call in the retail trade, a combination offer?”
“Call it what you want,” said Frayle.
“Yes,” said Mr. Shima, meditatively. “I believe you are now offering us a novelty in ordnance, something new and original in high-angle guns, something that doubtless required vanadium steel in its construction—so you expect us to pay through the nose for both items.”
“The price is not too high,” said Frayle. “After all, I’ve taken all the risks, and am making delivery in Japan—something that your Embassy in Washington, could not guarantee, even with its diplomatic pouches.”
“Yes,” said. Mr. Shima, “I am prepared to relieve you of all further risk by concluding the matter now.”
Frayle shook his head. “The matter will be concluded in Japan,” he said, “when I am paid a hundred thousand yen in currency, and a similar amount has been placed to my credit in each of four banks in Yokohama, Tientsin, Hong Kong and Singapore.”
“Half a million yen,” mused Mr. Shima. “And what does that buy, Mr. Frayle?”
“My personal services. And the delivery of Item Two. The guarantee of Item One is also included, although not delivery—which will be made at current market quotations for vanadium.”
“Isn’t that rather high—considering that Miss Bonner is really the one who has a voice in this matter?”
“Miss Bonner has no voice whatever in regard to Item Two,” said Frayle. “And in the vanadium matter, she’ll do as I say. She knows that I’m the technical man and am therefore qualified to advise her on anything pertaining to mines and mining.”
“And General Rodriguez?”
“Rodriguez has only a half interest. He’ll do what I say, too.”
Mr. Shima laughed softly. “General Rodriguez is known more for his devious ways than for his valor in war or his honor in peace,” he said. “The general finds it difficult even to tell a straightforward lie; he would rather go to great and elaborate lengths to circumvent the truth in his own complicated manner. For instance, his feigning attempted assassination by scratching his throat and bringing on an attack of epistaxis, to which Dr. Bioki told me he was subject. I suppose you know that this followed soon after the general received a wireless message from the mainland?”
“What message?” Frayle asked.
Again Mr. Shima laughed softly. “You should keep better informed regarding the movements of your associates,” he said. “I am afraid the general is making plans to abandon his journey to Japan.”
“At Honolulu?”
“What matter?” said Mr. Shima. “As a representative of the Imperial Japanese Government, I am in a position to prevent any such action. You may warn your associates, if you like. I hardly think it necessary to warn you—except, perhaps against Mr. Larkin?”
“What about Larkin?”
Mr. Shima smiled faintly. “Mr. Larkin seems to covet many of your possessions,” he said. “He has already made off with your lady friend. I was wondering if he might not, also want to make off with—Item Two.”
“Let me worry about that,” said Frayle.
“Gladly.” Mr. Shima arose. “Then I’ll say good afternoon.” He reached for a doorknob.
“That’s not the way out,” said Frayle, getting up quickly.
“So sorry,” said Mr. Shima. “It’s your clothes closet, isn’t it? How stupid.” He closed the closet, opened the door to the corridor, bowed, went out.
Frayle waited until the sound of his footsteps died away, then turned the key in the lock. He took a large jackknife from his pocket, pressed a spring release. A long blade sprang upright from one end, a screwdriver from the other. He opened the closet Shima had recently shut, lifted the hem of an overcoat, ran the point of the knife under the seam. He reached one hand through the slit, withdrew a sheaf of papers from the lining.
On the white wall of the stateroom was a large notice in English, Spanish, Japanese, and Chinese, instructing passengers how to adjust life-preservers and where Lifeboat No. 9 was located. The notice was neatly glassed and framed and the frame fixed to the bulkhead by four round-headed screws. Frayle went to work with his screwdriver, loosened the frame sufficiently to slip his sheaf of papers behind the notice. Then he screwed the frame tightly in place again.
He was giving a final twist to the last screw when he thought he heard someone brush against the door. He stopped, listening intently. He tiptoed to the door, listened again with his ear against the panel. He reached for the knob, was turning it quietly, when there was a knock. He jerked the door open. The steward was outside, fresh towels over his arm.
“How long have you been standing there?” Frayle demanded.
“Justo now come,” said the steward. “Bringing careen towers.” He stepped briskly into the cabin, hung the towels on the rack with one efficient motion, departed without another look at Frayle.
Chapter Twenty-six: THE BIG DIPPER
North latitude 25° 6’ 42”.… North latitude 23° 19’ 51” … Then the Commander’s Noon Report failed to appear on the bulletin board. The fact did not keep Larkin awake, no more than did the hot, sticky oppressiveness of the night. He was sleeping soundly when he was jolted to consciousness by the impact of something cold on his face. He sat up in his berth, his heart pounding wildly with the half-dreaming terror of sudden awakening. The cold object slipped from his cheek, crawled slowly down his chest into the open front of his pajama jacket. Full consciousness returned with a spasm of panic, and he grabbed for the thing. It was soft and clammy, in his fingers. He flung it from him. It struck the deck with a faint, damp slap.
Larkin lunged through the darkness, reaching for the electric switch. He found it on the second stab. The familiar details of the stateroom seemed ridiculously calm and commonplace in the flood of brightness. The Thing—whatever it was—had either bounced or crawled out of sight. General Rodriguez turned in his sleep, muttering uneasily. His bandages had slipped up over his whiskers and he uttered a single, curiously strangled snore. The stateroom door was locked, but the porthole was open—a futile attempt to catch a few lungfuls of the warm, following breeze. Larkin stuck his head cautiously through the port. There was no one in sight.
Larkin got out of bed. Almost at his feet he; saw a four-inch square of tofu—the whitish, opaque, gelatinous bean-curd which the misguided Japs seemed to regard not only as legitimate food but as a delicacy. He picked up the rubbery slab, vaguely wondering if it had come through the porthole or whether he would be justified in kneading it well into General Rodriguez’s whiskers. Then he noticed a corner of paper protruding from a slit in the square of tofu. He plucked out the paper, unfolded it, read the moisture-blurred command: Mr. Larkin—Come at once to the chain lockers.
Larkin frowned at the immature, malformed script. Who, he wondered, had used this highly original and strictly personal means of delivering a message? It occurred to him that he had never seen Dorothy Bonner’s handwriting. And in the next half second it also occurred to him that he was a damned fool to be thinking of Dorothy at this moment. What would Dorothy be doing in the chain locker? He glanced at his watch. It was quarter past one.
Quickly he pulled on a pair of trousers, stepped into his shoes, slipped on a coat over his pajama jacket. Into his coat pocket he dropped the .38 revolver which Cuttle, surprisingly enough, had not confiscated. He had no idea of whom he was going to meet, or why—but he was determined to find out. General Rodriguez was snoring short, descending fragments of the chromatic scale when he unlocked the door.
It was warm and still on deck. The whisper of the side wash and the throb of the ship’s engines seemed magnified by the stillness of the night. Far aft the smoke from the lone funnel rose in a straight dark pillar in the following wind, blurring the hot, golden stars. The sea was alive and phosphorescent. From far forward in the eyes of the ship came the plaintive twang of a samisen and a snatch of Japanese song in minor falsetto.
Larkin knew that the chain locker must be far forward and between-decks. He climbed down into steerage, walked softly through the dim tiers of sleeping specters, moved constantly forward. The door in the forward bulkhead was open tonight. Larkin passed through, continued his general direction, climbed a short ladder, followed a crooked corridor, found him-self facing another open door. He knew he was locking into the chain locker, because a faint shaft of starlight was shining through the hawse pipes and he could see it gleaming on great links of anchor chain, still flecked with mud and seaweed. He reached his hand into his right coat pocket until his fingers felt the reassuring touch of steel. Then he stepped boldly in.
Almost instantly the door clicked shut behind him. He whirled. His scalp tingled. His revolver in his fist, he froze into immobility, staring into the darkness.
“Larkin?” The whisper was high-pitched, fearful.
Larkin made no sound. His thumb slipped off the safety. He stood motionless, facing the whisper.
“It’s Jeremy Hood, Mr. Larkin. Are you alone?”
“Yes,” said Larkin at last. “I’m alone.”
Light flooded the chain locker. At the sight of the thin, bent little man in his black, shawl-like sweater, Larkin felt slightly sheepish. He pushed his revolver into his pocket, but he did not withdraw his hand.
He laughed nervously. “I certainly didn’t think it was you who sent me that spectacular note,” he said.
“Note?” echoed Jeremy Hood his tiny black eyes searching Larkin’s features. “What note?”
“The note imbedded in a piece of bean-cheese that dropped on my face ten minutes ago. Didn’t you ask me to come here?”
“The steward arranged everything,” Hood said.
“The steward? Sato?”
“I don’t know his name. Our regular steward. I told him I had to see you and offered him a bribe to let me out of that cabin Mr. Cuttle has had me locked up in. He wouldn’t take any money, but he said he would arrange everything. He sneaked me out through the galley and brought me here. Then he went to get you.”
A puzzled frown puckered Larkin’s forehead. “Well, I’m here,” he said. “What do you want?”
“I heard you telling Mr. Cuttle you wanted to talk to me,” Hood said, “but Cuttle won’t let me talk to anyone. I thought I’d better find out what you wanted.”
“I think you know what I want,” Larkin said. “I want to look through your chromoxylographs—to see if I can’t identify a few prints from the P. G. Bonner collection.”
Jeremy Hood gave a little sigh as he sank down on a pile of chain. He buried his gray, wizened face in his thin hands. “I was afraid of that,” he moaned. ‘Why did I do it? Oh, why did I do it?”
“Are you admitting,” Larkin demanded, “that you killed Arthur Bonner and Dr. Bioki?”
“No! No!” Hood raised his head. There was a mad light in his eyes. “No! No! I didn’t kill anyone! I didn’t!” He moved his bald head violently as though to shake off the accusation in Larkin’s stare. He asked, “Has Mrs. Greeve been talking?”
“About what?”
“About—Did she say she saw me the night Bonner was killed? On deck? Near the corpse?”
“Not to me,” Larkin said. “She said she saw someone but she wouldn’t commit herself beyond that.”
“Has she told anyone else she saw me? Has she told Cuttle—or—or anyone?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure.”
Jeremy Hood closed his eyes. He began to sway back and forth. “I’m being punished,” he wailed. “Justly punished! I should have known! I should have expected it! I was always an honest, righteous man. I don’t know why I did this—now, at my time of life—”
Larkin sat down on the chains beside Hood. He lit a cigarette and waited. Finally he said, “Get it off your chest, Mr. Hood.”
Hood’s eyes popped open—very wide. “Did you hear me that night?” he shrilled. “Did you hear what I said to Arthur Bonner?”
“you told me you didn’t know him,” Larkin said.
“I lied.” Hood’s eyes closed again. “I was talking to him through my porthole the night before he was killed—just before you came over to look inside the lifeboat—and he hit you on the head.”
“What did you say to him?”
Hood’s stooped body began to sway again from his narrow hips. “You’re in love with Miss Bonner.”
“Decidedly not,” Larkin declared.
“You shouldn’t deny it,” said Hood. “It’s too visible. The way you look at her. I can tell.”
“We’ll skip that,” said Larkin.
“No,” insisted Hood, opening his eyes again. “That’s why I sent for you, really. I want you to make amends for me. I’ll do it myself, God willing. But if not—here’s a letter. It’s a sort of a last will and testament. She’s to have all the color prints in my cabin. Most of them are hers anyhow. But she’s to have all of them—the rest to shrive my soul. You’ll see that she gets them?”
“Let’s have the whole story from the start,” said Larkin. “You stole P. G. Bonner’s chromoxylographs?”
“I didn’t steal them,” protested Hood, “but it’s just as bad. I let Arthur Bonner steal them. Last time I was in New York he brought me the Hokusai’s—the Chinese Poets. It was a great temptation. I knew where they came from, and I knew that I could have them for a small fraction of what they were worth. Young Bonner seemed badly in need of money and he was satisfied with the bargain. He brought me more and more. He had easy access to his father’s collection.…”
“And you didn’t know, of course, that he was going to be aboard this ship?”
“I was shocked and terrified,” wailed Hood, “when I saw him. It was the night we sailed—very late. When he recognized me, I knew he would try to blackmail me. I locked myself in my cabin. But Bonner went around, peering in portholes. He found me. He told me I would have to get him some morphine from the ship’s doctor. I was to pretend I was sick and ask for morphine. If I didn’t, Bonner would expose me as a dealer in stolen prints. He’d made an affidavit, he said, giving all the details of our deal in the prints he’d stolen from his father. He had the affidavit in his pocket and if I tried to do anything to him, or report him to the captain, he would turn up the affidavit.” Hood drew a deep breath.
