Midnight Sailing, page 3
Larkin immediately embarked on a little research? concerned largely with the man who looked like Dorothy Bonner’s twin. Five doors, he noted, opened on the dining saloon. One, the last on the starboard side, was a half-door that led to the galley pantry. The next door bore the enameled sign “Purser.” Adjoining was the captain’s cabin. On the opposite side there were two doors. One, labeled E, was obviously a passenger’s stateroom. The other was the ship’s doctor’s. Larkin knocked on the purser’s door. A Jap in dark blue uniform and gold braid opened and flashed a formidable 18-carat grin.
“Good morning,” said Larkin. “I wonder if I could get a squint at the passenger list.”
“Mawning,” said the purser.
Larkin waited. The purser continued to display his gold teeth with the greatest affability.
“Mawning,” he said again.
“Could I see the passenger list?”
The purser considered a moment. Then he crossed the dining saloon and knocked on the door marked “Doctor.” A short, fat, grizzled Oriental emerged. The purser addressed him in Japanese.
“I am Doctor Bioki,” said the grizzled Jap. “You are maybe sick?”
“I was asking the purser to see the passenger list,” said Larkin, “but the barrier of language seems to divide us. You speak English, of course.”
“In Germany,” said Doctor Bioki, “when I medicine ge-studied, I also English ge-studied. But I have not very good English ge-learned.”
“Nonsense, Doctor,” said Larkin. “I’ll bet you lived in London for years. You have a clear, classic, Whitechapel accent. Now let’s you and I get to work on the purser.”
Tediously, through the medium of Dr. Bioki’s Germano-Japanesque English, Larkin asked questions. The purser, beaming over Larkin’s apparent interest in the ship, insisted upon being lavish with detail. Thus Larkin had first to learn that the Kumo-maru was twenty-five years old, 550 feet long, and displaced 17,000 tons; that her regular run—from Valparaiso, up the South American coast, Panama and Mexico to San Francisco, thence across the Pacific to Japan and down the China coast to Hong Kong and Manila—took ten weeks, because her speed was only 10 knots in fair weather. On her present voyage, the purser said, the Kumo carried 10,000 tons of Chilean nitrate, a few odd tons of scrap iron, and one dead Chinese gentleman bent on burial in his native Canton. This was below decks, aft and amidships. Much of the space below decks forward was devoted to quarters for the 200 steerage passengers. There were nine cabin passengers and a dozen second-class passengers.
The cabin passengers, Larkin finally discovered from the purser, were listed as follows:
Stateroom A: Mr. George Willowby, Valparaiso.
Stateroom B: Genefal Juan Rodriquez, Peruvian Army, retired; Lima.
Mr. Glen Larkin, Paris and New York.
Stateroom C: Mr. William Cuttle. New York City.
Stateroom D: Mrs. Millicent Greeve, Panama.
Miss Dorothy Bonner, San Francisco.
Stateroom E: T. Shima, Callao.
Y. Izumo, Guayaquil.
Stateroom F: Mr. Jeremy Hood, San Francisco.
As Larkin handed the list back to the purser, he said, “I suppose Mr. Bonner is traveling in second.”
The purser and the doctor went into executive session. No, there was no Mr. Bonner in second cabin. Only One second-class passenger had come aboard at San Francisco—a Mr. Charles Frayle. No, Mr. Frayle was not dark. Mr. Frayle had yellow hair and blue eyes. No, there was no Mr. Bonner in third class; there were no accommodations for Europeans in third.…
“What about the dead Chinese gentleman below decks?” Larkin asked. “Could his name be Bonner?”
The doctor and the purser looked at each other and immediately burst into laughter. Larkin thought that was rather strange, inasmuch as the purser didn’t understand English, but he had no opportunity to comment, because Dr. Bioki was holding forth at length. It was quite common, the doctor explained, for the Kumo-maru to take deceased Chinese home for burial. In the days before the present Chinese Government had become so stupidly antagonistic to Japan, it was also quite common for the ship to take living Chinese home for burial—elderly or ailing Chinese who sometimes miscalculated their vitality by a week or so. The Fourth Steward always kept a few empty coffins aboard for such emergencies. The Fourth Steward was something of an embalmer.…
“Well, thanks,” Larkin interrupted at last. “It’s been very instructive, I’m sure.”
He left the dining saloon, but his exit to the deck was blocked by the figure of a youngish man in a trench coat and white cap. The man was almost as tall as Larkin but not as broad. He had straw-colored hair and steely blue eyes. “Pardon me,” said Larkin.
The man did not move. His hands were rammed into the pockets of his trench coat and his extended elbows effectively filled the doorway to the deck. There was a kinetic quality about his stance, a phase of swaggering self-confidence caught by a slow-motion camera.
“You were asking about Charles Frayle,” he said. “I’m Frayle. What do you want with me?”
“Nothing,” said Larkin, “except room to pass.”
Frayle stood his ground. He said, “Then why were you asking about me?”
“I wasn’t asking about you,” Larkin said. “Your name happened to come up quite gratuitously in the midst of a conversation.”
“You were asking about lots of people,” Frayle insisted. “You were asking about a man named Bonner.”
“Was I? You must have been eavesdropping.”
“As a matter of fact, I came to see the purser about paying the difference and moving up from second cabin. But I’ve changed my mind. There’s no privacy up here. People meddle.”
“You’re quite right, Mr. Frayle.” Larkin studied Frayle’s features. It was a pleasant, disarmingly boyish face—all but the shrewd, calculating lines at the corners of the eyes. There was an elusive expression about those eyes which disturbed Larkin. They seemed too old and too wise for the frank, outdoor quality of the rest of him. They matched the suave, not-quite-sincere gentleness of his well-modulated voice.
“About this Mr. Bonner, for instance,” Frayle said. “Why should you inquire about him from the purser?”
“I wanted to know if he was aboard,” Larkin said.
“You know him, then?”
“No,” said Larkin. “Do you?”
“If I were you,” said Frayle, “I don’t think I should ask that question.”
“I did, though,” Larkin insisted.
“Idle curiosity kills more men annually than chain lightning,” said Frayle, yawning. “I’ve lost some very good friends that way.”
“Really.” Larkin met the unwavering stare of Frayle’s blue eyes. “Is that a veiled threat, Mr. Frayle?”
“Why, no,” said Frayle. “Although I’ve heard that the Pacific Ocean is more than two miles deep out here.”
“Yes, I’ve heard that,” said Larkin. “I’ve also heard that the human body sinks when the lungs fill with water and doesn’t come to the surface unless gases generate in the digestive tract. I’ve also heard that dead men tell no tales. Is that what you mean, Mr. Frayle?”
Charles Frayle laughed softly. His teeth were unevenly spaced and gave him an expression of hearty, sadistic mirth that contradicted his deep, good-natured dimples.
“You have a melodramatic mind,” he said. “I was merely passing out sound advice on the dangers of idle curiosity. You must do something about yours.”
“I’m afraid mine is pathological,” Larkin said.
“Then I suppose nature must take its course.” Frayle turned sideways to let Larkin pass. “Am I keeping you?”
“Not at all,” said Larkin. As he walked down the wind-swept length of the ship, he felt a spot of cold in the small of his back, where he knew the focus of Frayle’s blue eyes was boring into him.
Chapter Four: A FAN-SHAPED STAIN
Larkin buttoned his camel’s-hair raglan about him and climbed to the miniature promenade deck, just below the bridge. Three passengers were there before him. General Rodriguez, looking very cold and melancholy, sat in the same chair he had occupied the night before. William Cuttle of New York was at the rail again, his gardenia hidden by his tight-fitting, navy-blue overcoat, the velvet collar of which, Larkin noted by daylight, was a little worn. The derby was back, too, and the white silk muffler. Larkin admired his skill in wearing a hat in such a wind.…
The third man was a beetle-browed person of about thirty-five, wearing tweeds and smoking a curved pipe. He had a tiny, dark, twisted mustache which was not in the least frivolous. He must be either Jeremy Hood or George Willowby. On a guess, Larkin said, “Morning, Mr. Willowby.”
Mr. Willowby showed not the faintest surprise at being addressed by name, He nodded. “Dreary morning.”
Larkin didn’t think so, particularly. A gray morning, yes; but bracing, vital, elemental; not dreary. A spirited wench whose eyes were dark with suppressed anger, not dim with tears. But he wasn’t going to argue about the weather. “Terribly dreary,” he said.
He had just seen Dorothy Bonner. She was walking toward him with an easy, swinging stride. A bold wind hugged the skirt of her gray flannel suit close about her slim young hips: She was bareheaded and her dark hair, streaming back over her ears in a long bob, was starred with spray. The sea was in her eyes, too—a deep, blue-gray, smiling sea.
But her lips were solemn with mock gravity as she said, “I give up, Mr. Larkin. I tossed and turned all night, over, that third guess. It’s no use. You’ll have to tell me.”
“That’s against the rules, Miss Bonner.”
The smile went out of the girl’s eyes. “I distinctly remember not telling you my name last night,” she said.
“Your cabin-mate, Mrs. Greeve, can’t keep a secret,” said Larkin. “And speaking of cabin-mates, there’s General—”
Dorothy quickly slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, turned him around, started walking.
“You didn’t tell the general I called on him last night, did you?” she asked.
“No, but—”
“Then don’t tell him. Please.”
“Why not? He’d be flattered.”
“Well… A friend of mine suggested I look him up. But she didn’t tell me he was an antique. I thought Latin-American generals always died very suddenly while still in their thirties.”
“General Rodriguez is retired.”
“Shall we skip him, then?”
“All right,” said Larkin. “Let’s talk about your brother.”
Dorothy stopped walking. She withdrew her hand from Larkin’s arm, looked up at him with a slow, searching glance of appraisal.
“That’s impossible,” she said at last.
“Why?”
“Because I have no brother.”
“Would he be a cousin, then?”
“Who?”
“A man I saw on deck last night. He looks enough like you to be your identical twin.”
The girl’s lips parted for an instant, then closed in a smile. “Do you drink, Mr. Larkin?” she asked.
“Extravagantly,” Larkin replied. “But I never see things. Since you have no brother, my experience of last night must have been caused by that optical phenomenon known as ‘persistence of vision,’ in which the image continues on the retina after the exciting cause has been removed. Now in this case the exciting cause—”
Larkin did not finish. The deck lifted beneath him as the Kumo-maru careened up the foam-streaked slope of an advancing mountain. The ship hung poised for a breathless moment, then plunged shuddering down the opposite side, buried her nose in the next wave. The sea poured over the bows in a boiling white cascade, roared along the deck, came flying aft by the bucketful.
Larkin seized the girl, lifted her clear of the deck, turned his back on the drenching spatter. He continued to hold her after the ship, with a mighty shrug, rose to an even keel and plodded on with streaming scuppers.
“Was that a judgment?” the girl gasped.
“An omen,” said Larkin, “which augurs the start of a close friendship:”
“Too close,” said the girl, “for deep breathing.” She reached her toes to the deck, slipped from Larkin’s embrace. She added, “I must get into some dry clothes.”
“Don’t rush off, just as we’re getting acquainted.” Larkin seized her arm. “You’re not very wet. Besides, I’d like to continue our discussion of your purely hypothetical brother. If he existed—which of course he doesn’t—would he be apt to be aboard this ship?”
“Please let me go. I am wet, Mr. Larkin.”
“Please Glen?”
“Please, Glen.” Dorothy smiled.
“That’s better. I think I’ll let you go after just one more question. This purely hypothetical brother—why would he be so important that the mere hint of his existence causes a charming scoundrel named Charles Frayle to speak darkly of tossing people overboard?”
A quick shadow crossed the girl’s face. “Did Charlie say anything like that?” she demanded.
“Then you know Mr. Frayle. Who is he?”
“Glen, I can’t answer questions when my teeth are chattering. You’re soaked—you’ll catch pneumonia.”
“Would that make any difference to you?”
“Of, course it would. I couldn’t bear having you die before I had my third guess. Seriously, Glen, get some dry clothes on. Then we’ll have a hot rum with a squeeze of lime, and I—we’ll finish our hypothetical discussion.”
“Promise?”
“Cross my heart,” said the girl. “Hurry.”
Larkin hurried, but not to his cabin. He hurried far to the stern of the ship, to the wireless station. The mystery of the man who looked like Dorothy Bonner was getting hot. It was warm enough last night, when the trail led to the ship’s mortuary. It went up twenty degrees when Mr. Charles Frayle of second cabin practically confirmed the existence of a man named Bonner, and it approached the boiling point when Dorothy denied—evasively and with a strange look in her eyes—the existence of a brother. True, there was no specific mention of a brother in the clippings Beasley had given him, but one clipping did mention the fact that Pongee Bonner had raised his children in Japan.
Larkin leaned across the half-door of the radio cabin and nodded to the operator, a goggled, owl-faced young Jap whose uniform collar was three sizes too large.
“Konnichi-wa!” said the operator. “Warui tenki—”
“Right,” said Larkin. “I want to send a radiogram.”
“Wakarimasen,” said the operator.
Larkin reached in, helped himself to a pad of blanks, wrote the following message: Beasley, Sevseanews, Sanfrancisco. Shoot history whereabouts dorothys brother if any believe him aboard—Larkin.
Larkin passed the form to the operator. “O.K., pal?”
“O.K., pal. Arigato,” said the operator.
Larkin went to change his clothes.
The door of his cabin resisted his first attempts to open it. The jamb seemed to be swollen, sticking near the threshold. He applied his shoulder, pushed. The door gave a few inches, but something was still dragging against the bottom. Larkin pushed again, opened wide enough so that he could step inside the cabin. Then he saw what had been holding the door.
General Juan Rodriguez was lying on the floor. He appeared to be wearing a crimson shirt. His white beard was flecked with crimson, and there was crimson splashed on the blankets of the lower berth. In the angle of the general’s outstretched arm was a dark, fan-shaped stain, wet and glistening on the rug.
Larkin jammed his thumb against the bell until he heard the footsteps of the steward on the deck.
He bent over the inert figure of the general, slipped one hand under his shoulders, propped him against the edge of the berth. As he did so, the gleam of metal caught his eye. The general had been lying on an open straight-edge razor.
Larkin snatched up the razor, examined it closely.
Chapter Five: GARBLED OR CODED
A faint gurgling sound came from the doorway.
“Koroshimashita!” muttered the steward, staring goggle-eyed into the cabin.
‘Call Dr. Bioki!” Larkin ordered. “Quick!”
At the same moment, General Rodriguez groaned. His eyes fluttered open, fixed Larkin with a blank look of horror. “Ladrón!” he murmured. “Asesino!”
Plump, squat Dr. Bioki bustled over the threshold, made a series of clucking noises as he began his professional examination of the groaning general.
A group of passengers had begun to gather in the passageway outside. Larkin saw Willowby, Cuttle, Mrs. Greeve, two Jap passengers, the stewards, two sailors. And above their heads, at the open porthole of State-room D across the passageway, he saw the face of Dorothy Bonner.
The girl’s large gray-blue eyes, straining to see past the crowd at the cabin door, were almost round with an emotion Larkin could not quite define. Horror, perhaps. Surprise, certainly. And, more than that, dread apprehension, terror of something that had not yet happened, something which her eyes alone could see …
“Thees man,” General Rodriguez moaned, “thees man ees trying for keell me! Thees man ees robbing me!”
Larkin turned to see whom the general was accusing. He saw a shaking, bony finger pointing straight at his own midriff.
Shizaku-ni!” Dr. Bioki cautioned his patient. “Not talking now, please. For cut necks, talking is not goot.”
He gave an order in Japanese, and two sailors came in, lifted the wounded general, carried him into the passageway that led to the dining saloon. The little crowd gave way, then followed.
Dr. Bioki remained behind an instant. He stood in front of Larkin, extended his hand. “Please,” he said.
Then Larkin realized for the first time that he was still holding the blood-reddened razor. He handed it to the grizzled doctor, who bowed and bustled out after his patient.
Larkin immediately stepped across the passageway. The porthole of Stateroom D was closed. Larkin rapped on the glass.
Dorothy Bonner pushed open the port with the palm of her hand. The fingers held a lipstick.
