Midnight Sailing, page 20
General Rodriguez was kneeling on the floor of the stateroom, praying in very rapid Spanish, as though afraid he would not have time to implore sufficient salvation and ask absolution for all his sins. He stopped when he saw Larkin, but remained on his knees.
“An’ you too, señor,” he asked. “You weel forgeeve me?”
“What for?” Larkin asked.
“I open your valises, sailing night,” said the general. “I think you are accompleece of the Señorita Bonner. I weesh to esplay treecks on the Señorita Bonner and thees Shima. I pretend the attack. I make esmall cut in the neck. Weeth nose-bleed I look very seeck. I pretend I have lose the documento. Een my country we don’ trust the woman. For nothing. We have duenna and make bars on the weendows because we do not trust the woman. But Señorita Bonner ees deeferent. She ees honest like a man.”
“Is she?” Larkin asked.
“Yes. Now we are friends. But thees Shima, he ees a dog. He weel not let me be rescue’. He’s not weesh that I am friends weeth Señorita Bonner. But you weel for geeve me and help me be rescue’, señor?”
“Sure,” said Larkin, yanking a life-jacket from under his berth. “See if this fits you. Put it on. You’ll feel better.”
Millicent Greeve’s four protégées were grouped about her like unperturbed chicks about a frantic hen. Judging from their clothes, they viewed disaster at sea as something of a social event. The last rays of the setting sun flashed on patent-leather slippers, rhinestone and marcasite jewelry, earrings like crystal chandeliers. Their baggage was on the deck beside them: pasteboard suitcases, a gaudy parrot in a cage, Rosita’s gramophone. They paid scant attention to Mrs. Greeve’s incessant, catastrophic monologue, but watched the growing clouds of smoke with eyes eager for adventure beyond all previous experience.
Mrs. Greeve grabbed William Cuttle’s arm as he stalked past. “Bill!” she moaned. “What’s going to happen to us? I mean are we going to drown? Oh, it serves me right for not listening to poor Mr. Greeve. He warned me. But I’m just a silly little headstrong girl. And I’m frightened to death of the water. I mean I’ll die if we have to go in those little rowboats. Bill, what am I going to do?”
“What are you going to do?” growled Cuttle. “What am 1 going to do? That’s my job going up in smoke back there. I was supposed to stop that and I didn’t. Inland and Oceanic Underwriters are going to be just tickled to death.”
“You mean they’ll give you the sack?”
“Well, what do you think?”
Millie Greeve stopped sniveling and smiled coyly. “Of course if they did,” she said, “you could always come to work for me. I mean you could be manager for the girls—if we ever get to dry land, I mean. They’re really very clever entertainers and I know they’ll be very successful if they have a good manager.”
“What’s the matter with Greeve?” Cuttle asked.
“Poor Mr. Greeve,” sighed Millie. “This is his anniversary too. It’s just ten years ago that Mr. Greeve passed away. And I’m just lost unless there’s a man around—I mean to be manager for the girls. I’m just a bundle of nerves myself, Bill, and—”
“Quit bawling, Millie,” said Cuttle. “You’ll get mascara on your chin.”
Dusk was thickening into night. The captain had put his ship about, nosing into the wind in an effort to keep the fire from spreading forward. The whole stern was burning now, and the flames were licking hungrily.
The radio operator, driven from his post, came staggering up the stairs to the bridge, blackened and sweat soaked, to bring his last message to the captain.
“Aren’t they going to lower the boats?” asked George Willowby. He was nervously tying and untying the canvas straps at the front of his life-jacket:
“The pumps are still working,” said Mr. Shima. “We may be able to hold out until the jishin-maru comes alongside.”
“When—how long will that be?” Willowby faltered.
“Three, perhaps four hours,” said Mr. Shima quietly.
“Good Lord,” said Willowby, staring at the blazing stern of the ship. “We’ll be drowned or burned, to a crisp by that time. Isn’t there any ship closer?”
“There’s the Empress,” said Mr. Shima. “She’s only an hour or two away. But the Empress is a British ship. The Jishin-maru is Japanese—and of the same line as we are. The captain thinks we may be able to salvage part of the cargo. The pumps are still working.”
Sooty fumes drifted sluggishly down the corridor like clouds of dust that would not settle. At the far end a thin sparkle of flame crackled along the baseboard. The sound brought new gasps from Dorothy Bonner as her small feet pattered frantically toward the stairs. She did not realize that Frayle was following her until he grasped her shoulders from behind.
“Charlie!”
“Did you just come from my stateroom, puss?”
“No, Charlie, I—”
“You weren’t in my stateroom looking for something? You didn’t take something?”
“No, Charlie.”
“What are you doing down here?”
“I was looking for Glen Larkin. Where have they locked him in, Charlie? He’ll burn to death! Someone has to let him out…”
“He’s out. I saw him on deck ten minutes ago.”
“Let’s go on deck, Charlie. The lifeboats must—”
“You’re not going in the first boats,” Frayle said. “You’re waiting with me—for the jishin-maru.”
“The jishin-maru may not get here in time, Charlie.”
“That’s a chance you’ll have to take. It’s a good gamble, and you stand to win. If you go in the first boats and are picked up by the Empress, you’re sure to lose. You’ll land in Honolulu—and in jail.”
“They won’t keep me, Charlie. They can’t. I’m not guilty of anything.”
“They’ll keep you,” said Frayle. “Did you pick up your bank statement before you left Washington? Did you destroy your canceled checks?”
“No.”
“Then they’ll keep you. They’ll find evidence that you bribed a Navy Department janitor to steal those blueprints.”
“But I didn’t.”
“Didn’t you write a check for two thousand dollars to pay for a brain operation on a worthy but indigent lady named Lawrence?”
“Yes, of course …”
Mrs. Lawrence’s husband is janitor at the Navy Department. Your two thousand bought the blueprints.”
“That’s ridiculous on the face of it. No man would do a thing like that for only two thousand dollars!”
“It wasn’t just two thousand dollars,” Frayle said. “It was his wife’s eyesight, her sanity, probably her life.”
“Why, you despicable—!”
“Now, puss. Stop thinking in terms of morals.”
“Then you did have the blueprints photostated!”
“Yes, of course.”
“And it was you who brought the blueprints to father’s apartment!”.
“That was your charming brother’s fault,” Frayle said. “He followed me to Baltimore. I saw him waiting outside the photo-printer’s. And knowing the sort of thing he was probably up to, I had to protect myself…”
“So you put the blueprints in father’s desk !”
“I didn’t intend leaving them there, puss. But the old man came home before I expected him. And on top of that Lawrence phoned and insisted I tell you to be sure to destroy, your canceled checks, because he was afraid he might be questioned. Unfortunately your father was listening, on the extension phone.”
The girl gave a low, despairing cry.
“Then Glen was right !” she murmured as though to herself. “Father did think I was involved.” Suddenly she raised her face close to Frayle’s. Her eyes were blazing with hate. “You killed him !” she shouted. “You killed father just as surely as though you’d held the gun. You’re the lowest, the most contemptible—! And a coward on top of it all! When you knew Arthur was aboard, you were afraid you’d be caught. You decided to slip out from under and leave the Bonner family holding the bag. That’s why you handed me the photostats when I asked for the vanadium papers!”
“No, puss,” Frayle protested suavely. “That was a mistake. I got the envelopes mixed.”
“Oh no, you didn’t. You gave me a Vanadium Corporation envelope. You switched the contents. You knew I wouldn’t bother to look inside right away if the outside seemed familiar. You knew I trusted you. And after Arthur was killed and you felt safe again, you stole back the photostats, just as Glen said. You did kill Arthur!”
“Now, puss—”
“Let me go!” The girl turned, twisted from his grasp. There was a rip of fabric as a torn fragment of her sleeve remained in Frayle’s hand.
She was running rapidly toward the stairs. Frayle ran after her.…
Larkin stumbled out of the torrid, fuming chimney that had been the second-class ccmpanionway, tore the handkerchief from the lower part of his face, gulped fresh air into his smarting lungs. She was not there. For the past hour he had been searching the ship for Dorothy Bonner. The Hindu from second-cabin said he had seen her going toward Frayle’s stateroom. Larkin had gone to look. She wasn’t there. There was broken glass on the floor, glass from the frame of the lifeboat notice which had been yanked from the wall. But there was no sign of the girl. There was no one and nothing in second-class now, except billowing, choking clouds of smoke and the scattered personal effects abandoned by the panicky, long-departed passengers.
The passengers were on deck no, huddled into cense, silent groups—waiting. The whole universe was waiting. The lifeboats were still swung out in their davits, waiting. The sea was waiting—oily and darkly uneasy beneath a lowering, overcast sky. Only the fire was not waiting. It was an articulate fire, now murmuring sullenly, now bellowing expectantly as it inched forward from the stern.
Larkin went to his cabin. It was dark. The ship’s power plant had gone out ten minutes ago. He stepped in, groping for his briefcase and typewriter. At least he could salvage those. But they were not there. Someone had taken them.
When he came out again, the blazing stern illuminated the whole ship with a sudden new burst of awful pyrotechnics. Brilliant yellow flames, leaping higher than the lone funnel, roared with sadistic glee as they ate through the last of the wooden deck structure, licked greedily at the standing gear. Long violet streamers spiraled up from the hatches, flames of burning nitrates that sighed and whistled. The pumps were still working, someone said. The fire had not reached amidships.
A white coat flashed past Larkin, stopped. It was Sato, with two buckets dangling from a pole across his shoulders. He put down his buckets.
“I have put youah briefcase ando typewritah in rifeboat Numbah One; Mistah Rah-kin,” he said. “Remem bah—Numbah One. Have put everything inside.”
“Thanks, Sato. Are the pumps still working?”
“Not foh long time,” said Sato. He held out his hand. “Goodu-bye, Mistah Rah-kin,” he said. A grim smile crossed his face as he added, “Japanese say ‘Sayonara!’”?
As he picked up his buckets, something splashed to the deck. Larkin caught the unmistakable whiff of gasoline.
Sato dove into a companionway. An instant later a torrent of red, smoky flame poured up the opening.
The last of the fire-fighting crew swarmed up from below decks, grimy, half-naked, exhausted. The pumps had quit. Captain Fujiwara was shouting something through his megaphone. Lifeboat stations.…
The lifeboats astern had all been burned away, but five boats had been lowered successfully amidships. At Lifeboat No. 1 the purser was fighting back the yelling crowd with a revolver. The third officer was already sitting in the stern-sheets, shouting, “Hayaku! Hayaku!” Mrs. Greeve and her protégées were in the forward thwarts. Behind them were General Rodriguez, the Hindu and the Slavic gentleman from second-cabin, and two Jap women.
“Two more,” shouted the captain through his megaphone.
The crowd surged forward again. The purser was shouting. A fat Jap gentleman was howling in Larkin’s tar, bumping against him with the insistence of an All American guard. Larkin braced himself, turned his back on the lifeboat, faced the frantic fat man. Then, with a sudden movement he pushed th Oriental aside, bowled over three others in his movement to the rear. He had heard a small voice calling, “Glen!”
Dorothy Bonner was struggling with Frayle. She was fighting Frayle with he hands, her feet, her whole body. Her small fists were alternately beating and clawing at Frayle’s face. For an instant she squirmed free. Frayle caught her by one arm, jerked her back, flung her to the deck.
Larkin reached her at the same time Frayle did. Larkin’s right arm lashed out and up in a long, looping swing that terminated in a sudden crunching impact just below Frayle’s condyloid notch. Frayle’s lower jaw slewed sideways. He sat down abruptly.
Larkin scooped up the girl in his arms, charged toward the ship’s side, toward the lifeboat. He swung her over the gunwales of the lifeboat, just as the after fall gave way three feet, spilling the occupants toward the stern. Someone grabbed Larkin from the rear.
The lifeboat leveled off. The third officer cried, “Yor ashii. Iko-yal”
Blocks squealed as the falls ran out rapidly…The lifeboat dropped with the speed of an express elevator, struck the water with a jarring, hollow smack. Mrs. Greeve’s scream came up shrilly from below.
Larkin turned as Frayle’s strong hands clamped themselves about his throat. He drummed against Frayle’s midriff with quick, short jabs. Frayle gasped, “Shima! Help me.”
Larkin saw a boat hook swinging down on him. He ducked, caught the stinging blow across his back.
He bent double, tackled Frayle about the hips, raised him off his feet, wheeled half about just as the boat hook descended again. He could hear it crack against Frayle’s skull, felt Frayle go limp.
Frayle slumped from his grasp, rolled across the deck toward the empty davits, vanished over the side.
Larkin reached the side in time to see the splash.
He jumped. The black surface of the water rushed up to meet him dizzily, interminably. He hit with a loud, painful flop. The sea closed over him. He continued to go down, down… … Automatically his arms and legs began to move.…
He came up gasping, spitting water. His ears rang. The mad, dancing reflections of the glare from the burning ship blinded him. He saw a shadow in front of him, struck out with long overhand strokes.
Half a dozen hands pulled him into the lifeboat. He sat for a long moment, breathless and dripping, before he realized that Dorothy Bonner was holding both his hands. “Frayle—?” he began.
“He couldn’t swim,” the girl said. “He didn’t even come up once.”
Then Larkin noticed there was a long streak of blood on her cheek. “You’re hurt,” he said.
“No, darling. I’m all right. I—” Then she fainted.
Larkin put his arm around her, patted her temples with his wet hands.
The motor of the lifeboat coughed twice, broke into an even purr. The third officer put over the tiller, circled, picked up the painter of another boat. He continued to circle until he was towing a string of five boats, then throttled his motor until he had bare steerage way. A sudden rain squall spattered down, drumming on the sea, drenching the boats. It stopped as suddenly as it began.
The lurid column of flame and smoke that marked the Kumo-maru was getting farther and farther away in the darkness. For half an hour it grew progressively dimmer, then mushroomed into a blinding flare that seemed to fill half the sky. The night was blacker than ever when the brightness died.
Many seconds later a sound like a great gust of wind came booming over the sea. No one spoke.
Larkin heard Rosita winding up her gramophone. It sang: “Ay! ay! ay! ay! Canta y no llores…”
After a while he could see the searchlights of the Empress probing the night, flicking the black waves.
Chapter Thirty-three: THE KILLER
Glen Larkin, drenched and sootbegrimed, sat in the captain’s cabin aboard the Empress, sipping Scotch.
“That makes eight more boats we’ve picked up,” the captain was saying. “Fifteen more members of the crew, and eighty-three passengers, mostly third-class. There were two Europeans in the last boatload.”
“Was one a man named Frayle?” Larkin asked.
“No, one was a Mr. Cuttle, and the other’s name was Willowby, I believe.”
“No more boats adrift?”
“The jishin-maru is taking the rest,” the captain said “We’re proceeding to Honolulu.”
“The jishin bound for Honolulu too?”
“Yes.”
“Did she take Off the captain of the Kumo?”
“I believe not. There’s another small vessel standing by. A Jap destroyer, I believe. She doesn’t answer our radio signals.”
“Could you put my radio through, captain?”
“Not yet, Mr. Larkin. The SOS channels still have the right of way.”
A florid-faced, white-haired officer came in."
“This is Dr. Smith, Mr. Larkin,” the captain said. “You said you wanted to see the ship’s surgeon.”
“I do,” Larkin said. “Is the girl all right, Doctor?”
“Yes, she seems comfortable.”
“Tell me, Doctor. I have an impression that morphine contracts the pupil of the human eye when taken in any form. Is that right?”
“Correct, sir,” said the doctor.
“And aconitine?”
“Aconitine has the opposite effect. It dilates the pupils.”
“What would, happen if I injected a syringeful of aconitine into my arm, doctor?”
“Good Lord, man! It would kill you.”
“That’s what I suspected,” said Larkin. “Captain, I wonder if I could have Mr. William Cuttle tip here?”
“Certainly,” was the reply.
“Hello, Gumshoe,” was Larkin’s greeting as the insurance detective made a bedraggled entrance.
“You, again!” said Cuttle mournfully. “Ain’t you caused me enough grief?”
“I promised you a break, Gumshoe. I promised I’d crack the deep-sea murders for you and give you the credit. Well, here it is. You can ask Captain Wyatt in your own name to radio ahead to Honolulu to have the U. S. Marshal meet us with a warrant charging murder on the high seas.”
