Midnight Sailing, page 19
Larkin opened the door of the locker behind him, backed in. He tried to close the door, but he was too big for the locker. The door remained ajar a full inch. Through the crack Larkin could see the dead man’s outstretched hand almost at his feet. And beyond he could see the entrance to the steering-engine room.
“I can’t say positively that he came this way, Mr. Cuttle,” said a voice which Larkin recognized as George Willowby’s. “But he did seem to be heading in this general direction.”
“We’ll find out soon enough,” said Cuttle, as he appeared on the threshold.
The steering engine snorted and chugged a few times. When it stopped,. Larkin was certain that the beating of his heart could be heard in the silence that ensued.
“Good God!” exclaimed George Willowby. Larkin, from his hiding place, saw the color vanish from the chemist’s face like the first snowflake on a windowpane.
“Hood!” said Cuttle, switching his cigar to the right side of his mouth with one quick motion of his tongue.
“He’s—he’s hurt!” stammered Willowby, hesitating one pace beyond the door.
“He’s dead!” Cuttle grunted, “Get the skipper, Willowby.”
Willowby’s mustache twitched. He had difficulty catching his breath. “But—” He started to protest.
“The captain!” Cuttle ordered. “Take it on the run.”
“Yes, indeed!” Willowby needed no second urging. With one last look at the corpse, half-hidden by the binnacle, he turned and fled.
Cuttle sauntered to the threshold, watched Willowby’s retreat as though he wanted to make sure it was genuine and not merely strategic.
Larkin pushed the door of the locker another inch, reached out, replaced the lavender azalea in the dead man’s left hand. He barely had time to withdraw his own hand before Cuttle had turned back again.
The insurance detective circled the corpse casually, then leaned one elbow on the binnacle and flicked the ash from his cigar as he stared down. He slipped the toe of one shoe under the dead man’s knee, lifted tentatively to try the rigidity of the joint. Larkin saw him rub the end of his nose, and noted that he did not wear his usual flower in his buttonhole.
At the same moment Cuttle spotted the flower in the dead man’s hand. He stooped, removed the azalea, hovered a moment to make sure that no stray petals remained in the hand or on the floor. Then he straightened up, twirled the blossom slowly between his thumb and forefinger, smoothed the petals a trifle more, and deliberately inserted the stem in his empty lapel.
Sounds of footsteps and men’s voices echoed in the corridor, and William Cuttle immediately went through the motions of a thoroughly professional examination of the late Jeremy Hood.
Two Jap engineering officers were the first arrivals, followed by a group of second-cabin passengers. General Rodriguez came in next, breathing heavily, and nodding his bearded chin to each excited question by Mrs. Greeve’s four dark-eyed protégées. The calm and elegant Mr. Shima came in with Charles Frayle. The crowd clustered around the binnacle, their awed glances drawn downward by morbid fascination.
Larkin saw his opportunity, uncoiled his long legs, stepped out of the locker and elbowed into the gaping crowd. When Willowby arrived with the captain, he was gawking with the rest. At least he appeared to be. Actually, he was assaying, out of the corner of his eye, the curious look that Charles Frayle was giving him.
“Skipper, can’t, we clear these muggs out of here?” demanded William Cuttle.
“Iké!” snapped Captain Fujiwara.
The Jap passengers retreated—all but Mr. Shima.
“Get out o’ here!” ordered Cuttle. “Everybody!”
“Everybody, Mr. Cuttle?” asked Larkin sweetly.
“Everybody. Particularly you!” Cuttle said.
“Your boutonnière looks a little faded today, Gumshoe,” said Larkin. “What’s the matter? The skipper keeping too close watch on his potted plants?”
Cuttle turned furiously, his teeth clenched so tightly that he bit halfway through his cigar. “You heard me say get out!” he bellowed. “Now get!’
“With pleasure, Gumshoe.”
Larkin winked at the scowling detective, then turned into the narrow corridor, already choked with passengers and crew. He found himself shoulder to shoulder with Charles Frayle.
Frayle did not look at him, but out of the corner of his mouth said, “This one is going to be harder to get out of than a locked stateroom, Larkin.”
Chapter Thirty: A PRISONER
Larkin had been up most of the night, answering questions, waiting to be questioned again, belaboring his typewriter for more macabre details to gladden the heart of Beasley and the Seven Seas clients. It was dawn when he dropped the last take of his running story on the radio operator’s table. The sun was coming up astern, a blinding, brassy sun on the starboard quarter. Larkin walked toward the taffrail to watch the spectacle of sunrise for a few moments before trying to catch some sleep.
He was mildly surprised to find Dorothy Bonner already standing there. He planted his elbows on the rail beside her. If she was aware of his presence, she managed to conceal the fact.
“Good morning,” he said at last.
She did not reply. Flying fish broke out from under the rippling shadow of the ship and soared away like a volley of shining arrows.
“Were you waiting for me?” Larkin tried again.
“No.” The girl spoke without looking at him. “I was waiting for the sun,” she said. “Sunlight makes things look so different. Sunrise always makes me feel so new and hopeful and alive with fine aspirations. But it’s behind me, Glen. We’re running away from it, and it’s like running away from my own dreams. We’ve been running away from the sunrise since—since—”
“Since the third night out. Isn’t that it?”
The girl turned her face toward him. It seemed very small and tragic in the brittle light of dawn—like the time he had first seen it, at midnight, when they were groping their way through the fog of Sap Francisco Bay.
“Yes,” she said softly. “That is it, darling.”
“Do we have to run away from it—always?”
“I don’t know. It seems as though we do. You’ve made it so difficult.”
“I have? I was getting ready to clear up the whole stinking mess when you destroyed the evidence. Why did you tear up those photostats?”
“I did it for you, darling. For a minute I believed Charlie. For a moment I thought you had—had got them—from Arthur—the way Charlie meant.”
“And it wouldn’t have made any difference?”
“Nothing makes any difference, darling—except that I want you—that I—”
She was in his arms, her breath smothered by the fervor of his kiss, her slim body close against him.
Then there was a mournful, quavering bugle note in her ears and the world became once more a dingy taffrail, a shuddering deck, and a white-coated steward with a trumpet in his hand.
“’Scuse, prease,” said Sato. “Aw passengahs in dining saroon. Captain waiting, prease.”
“Again?” Larkin exclaimed impatiently.
The passengers were indeed in the dining saloon—in various stages of dress and undress—and Captain Fujiwara was indeed waiting. As soon as Larkin and Dorothy came in, he began his terse, businesslike declaration. He had been remiss. He had delegated his authority to persons who seemed unable to exercise it. But the end had come. He had personally taken testimony and considered evidence. He had pondered upon the matter for several hours. He was now on the point of acting to secure the safety of his passengers and crew by locking up the homicidal maniac once and for all.
“I’m afraid you’re a little late, captain,” Larkin interrupted. “The murderer won’t be killing anyone else. He’s covered up his trail pretty well by now.”
The captain ignored the interruption. He would review the facts which led to his decision. In the first place, who had pleaded for the release of the unfortunate Jeremy Hood? Glen Larkin. It was logical, therefore, that Larkin had sought access to the person of the late Mr. Hood. Mr. Willowby had seen Larkin pass through the second-class saloon on his way to the steering-engine room. And Mr. Frayle had reported that Larkin was hiding in a locker in the steering-engine room, immediately after Mr. Cuttle had discovered the body of Jeremy Hood. Mr. Frayle had, in fact, seen Larkin emerging from his hiding place in an effort to join the crowd of passengers unobserved. It was therefore the captain’s duty to deprive Glen Larkin of his liberty for the remainder of the voyage.
There was a stunned silence. Then George Willowby cleared his throat nervously.
“In the interests of justice, captain,” he said, “I’m afraid I must protest. It is true that I did see Mr. Larkin casually passing through second-cabin, and I said as much to Mr. Cuttle when he asked me, shortly before we discovered Mr. Hood’s body. But there is one fact that I withheld from you last night, captain—through cowardice, I must admit. I was afraid that the same fate might befall me, if I dared speak out. But I must tell you now, Captain, you are locking up the wrong man.
“When Mr. Cuttle accosted me in the second-cabin, he wore no flower in his buttonhole. When we came upon the body of Mr. Hood together, there was a crumpled azalea in the dead man’s hand. Mr. Cuttle sent me off to get you, captain. When I returned, the crumpled azalea was in Mr. Cuttle’s buttonhole. It stands to reason, captain, that Mr. Hood, in his last agony, had seized on anything within reach—and he grasped the boutonnière of the man who was strangling him. Mr. Cuttle sent me away so that he could remove the incriminating evidence.”
There was another silence. The captain looked at Cuttle.
“There was a flower in Hood’s hand, all right,” Cuttle admitted, “but it was put there by the guy that choked him. I must of dropped it somewheres earlier in the day, and Larkin picked it up and tried to frame me with it.”
“Where’d you drop it, Gumshoe?” Larkin asked.
“You ought to know,” Cuttle growled. “You found it.”
“I must take Mr. Cuttle’s word against yours, Mr. Larkin. And against your suspicion, Mr. Willowby. Mr. Cuttle is detective accredited to our steamship company—”
“I’d like to ask two questions, captain,” Larkin said. “First I’d like to ask why Charles Frayle found it necessary to lock me in my stateroom ten minutes before Hood was found dead?”
“That’s a personal matter, Larkin,” Frayle replied. “I didn’t want your interference in a little ceremony I was going to get the captain to perform.”
Larkin looked at Dorothy Bonner, another question in his glance. “Charles said he couldn’t locate the captain,” the girl said.
“Mr. Willowby seemed to have no trouble finding him,” Larkin commented. “And the second question is this: Who persuaded you, captain, to omit the call at Honolulu?”
“Tokyo office authorized omission,” said Captain Fujiwara. “We carry no mail, cargo, or passengers for Islands.”
“Sacre pajaro!” exclaimed General Rodriguez, rising out of his chair. “I know! Eet ees that Shima! Shima, he don’ want me going in Honolulu! Shima, he feex ever’zing so he can—”
“That’s quite correct, general,” said the elegant Mr. Shima. “As an agent of the. Imperial Japanese Government, I did suggest to Captain Fujiwara that the Hawaiian stop was unessential—and with ample reason.”
“Mr. Larkin,” the captain interrupted, “you will have fair trial in Japan. Now you will accompany Purser Yamata. You are prisoner.”
Chapter Thirty-one: THEN A BELL CLANGED
The key turned on Larkin in a small, hot cubicle just one deck above the water line. It smelled of the engine room and the remnants of the sulphur dioxide fumigation, for the ventilation system of the Kumo-maru had been built around it.
Larkin was too hot and tired and confused to think. He had a vague idea of what he intended to do, but for the moment he could not make the effort to organize his thoughts. He had intended sleeping, anyhow, to make up for a lost night. When he felt rested, he would draw up his plan of campaign. He flopped on the hard, springless berth and fell almost immediately into a deep, dreamless sleep.
When he awoke, the light in the tiny porthole was already golden with late afternoon. He had not intended sleeping quite that long, but he had apparently slept right through tiffin time. There was a tray of food on the floor.
As he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, he was suddenly aware of the noise that had aroused him. A key grated in the door. The door swung slowly inward, and Sato, the steward, came in with a life-jacket over his arm. He closed the door and laid the life-jacket beside Larkin.
“You go in Numbah One rifeboat,” he said. “Num bah One having gasorine engine, gasorine fo’ two hundred miresu, foods for ten days.”
Larkin laughed. “What’s the scheme, Sato?” he asked. “Are you helping me escape to a desert island?”
“No,” said Sato. “Maybe Irand of Kauai. Maybe Empress ship, from Vancouvah.”
“I think I’ll stick with the Kumo-maru
“No,” said Sato, gravely. “Kumo-maru is bahning.”
Larkin sprang up. “This ship? Afire?”
“Not yet,” said Sato. “Soon.”
Larkin sat down. “You’re joking,” he said.
The steward too, sat down. He said, “Je peux vous parler français, n’estce pas? Je m’exprime mieux en français, et je crois me rappeller qu’à Genève vous parliez bien français.”
“Certainly, talk French. Talk anything. But talk. You’ve got me smelling smoke already.”
“You will smell it soon,” said Sato in French. “The ship is indeed afire. It has not been discovered yet, but when they do discover it, it will be too late. I have set it well and in widely separated points. In the hold. In the nitrates. I am not joking. You will see. No, I am not Chinese, either. I am Korean. My father was a great Korean patriot. Do you remember the Korean Republican Government—which never governed, but was forced to flee the Japs and take refuge in the French Concession in Shanghai in 1921? My father was one of the signers of the Korean Declaration of Independence. He never got to Shanghai. The japs caught him. No, they didn’t shoot him. They put phosphorus in his food. Very small amounts. It rotted his bones. He died in jail.
“I was only a boy then. I had been sent to Japan to school. I was brought up as a Japanese. I still am—externally. But at heart I soon learned I was a Korean. I went to Europe to study—and work for our cause. As I told you, I was at Geneva … But it was a lost cause;—then. Perhaps not now, that China is awake at last. Korea is small and weak. China is vast. Perhaps we will triumph with China. At least I am determined to give my life for that hope—as my father did. But not on the battlefield. What good would that do? I might kill one, two, a dozen Japs. But I determined to sell my life more dearly. Not only men, but material. A ship. Munitions.
“When I recognized you, I knew that my chance had come. I did favors for you, so that I might ask one in return. You are a journalist. You will tell the world what I have done. No, not for my sake. Not because I want to be a hero. You do not even know my true name. But you will write my true story. You will, tell people how one Korean patriot struck his blow at Jap Imperialism. You will write it for thousands of people. Millions, perhaps. It will inspire my countrymen. It will give courage to others like me, teach them how they can strike at Japan from behind the battle lines…
“But you’re endangering hundreds of innocent lives!” Larkin protested at last.
“No,” said Sato. “The passengers will be safe. I chose my time carefully. I consulted the charts on the bridge, while taking tea to the mate on watch. I consulted the radio operator. We are only a hundred miles from land. We are north of Oahu and Kauai. But you will not have to go that far. The Empress, bound for Honolulu from Vancouver, is just north of us. She can reach us in three hours, perhaps four, after the SOS goes out. She will pick up the boats…”
“Sato,” said Larkin, “I admire your guts and your wild-eyed patriotism and your spirit of sacrifice, and all that. But you can’t go through with this crazy scheme. It’s out of the question. Why, you can’t—”
“I can!” declared Sato proudly. “I have. Look!”
He opened the door. A dirty swirl of thin, acrid haze billowed in. Larkin sprang forward, peered around the bulkhead. The corridor was dim with smoke and the light globes burned blood-red in the murk.
On the deck above he heard the frantic patter of running feet. A long, hoarse blast of the siren screamed a warning. Somewhere a bell was clanging.
Larkin turned back to Sato. The steward was gone.
Chapter Thirty-two: A BLINDING FLARE
Smoke was pouring from No. 4 hold, oozing from all the after hatches, drifting up through the companion ways in thin, ominous wisps. The stern of the ship was clouded in a shifting, shimmering haze.
Men were running along the deck with fat snakes of dripping, squirming hose lines. More men were carrying red buckets that splashed and twisted at the ends of shoulder poles.
Captain Fujiwara was shouting orders from the bridge. The diminutive Jap seemed to have gained physical stature in the emergency. The tiny hands that gripped his megaphone were no longer lady-like they were strong, capable hands. His voice was shrill, but it was the voice of a commander.
Seamen were working at the lifeboat davits, swinging them outboard. More barefooted seamen, were slashing at the lines that lashed the life-rafts to the deck.
Messengers panted back and forth between the bridge and the smoke-shrouded radio cabin.
The steerage passengers were huddled on the foredeck. An officer silhouetted against the setting sun was giving them instructions in Japanese while pyramids of lifebelts were being dumped on the deck among them.
In the general excitement, no one gave heed to the fact that Larkin was no longer a prisoner. He passed the purser on his way to his cabin, but the purser paid no attention to him. He continued his way to decide what, if anything, he could salvage besides his typewriter and briefcase.
