Midnight Sailing, page 5
“You must have,” said Frayle. “Because he’s aboard!”
“Arthur? Aboard? He can’t be. Why, he can’t get a passport. You know that.”
“I know he’s aboard.” Frayle’s smile became unpleasantly smug. She’d never seen it that way before. “He came to my cabin at two o’clock this morning.”
Dorothy felt faint all over. Glen Larkin was right, then; he must have seen Arthur. “What did he want?”
“Morphine,” said Frayle. “He must have come aboard in a hurry without a proper supply of his precious dope. He expected me to get some for him.…”
“But why you, Charlie? He knows you don’t—”
“He wanted me to buttonhole the ship’s doctor and complain of pains that kept me awake. Arthur had the medical name. It’s something chronic. The doctor was to give me morphine and I was to turn it over to Arthur. Lovely fellow. I threw him out, of course. I’m surprised he hasn’t called on you yet.”
“What—what will he want?”
“Nothing pretty, you can count on that. You can also count on his wanting something. He’s not aboard for nothing. That’s why we’ll have to get married right off, puss. He’ll get around you; he always does. Then the beans will be in the fire again.”
“What will you do, Charlie?”
“I know what I ought to do. I ought to kill him. It would be a pleasure to strangle a man like that with my bare hands. He’s no damned good to anybody—not even himself.”
“You wouldn’t do anything like that, Charlie?”
“Not unless I had to. I don’t suppose I could strangle my own brother-in-law. Will he be my brother-in-law tonight, puss?”
“Tomorrow,” said Dorothy.
Frayle took her in his arms again. His cheek was cool and rough against hers. Then he kissed her.
Chapter Seven: CONVULSIVE BREATHING
Beasley’s answer to Glen Larkin’s second radiogram came through that evening while the cabin passengers were at dinner. The wind had shifted and the Kumomaru, weary of pitching all day, was rolling languidly through an arc of 45 degrees. The fiddles were on the table, the cloth had been dampened to prevent the dishes slipping, and Millicent Greeve’s bottle of beer lay supinely on its side, awaiting her pleasure.
Larkin was the last one in. He took his seat next to Mrs. Greeve, nodded to Dr. Bioki at his end of the table, and to Captain Fujiwara at the head. He smiled at Dorothy Bonner who sat opposite him, between George Willowby and William Cuttle. As he unfolded his napkin, he noticed that General Rodriguez’s seat was vacant, as was that of Jeremy Hood, who had not yet made his appearance since sailing. Larkin also noticed that the four men at the captain’s end of the table had already finished a Japanese meal. Over empty lacquer and porcelain bowls, the purser and Mr. Izumo of Guayaquil were picking their teeth in unison with the captain. Mr. Izumo—squat, swarthy, round-faced, with awning teeth, and a huge yellow diamond in his cravat—seemed to be the handiest with a toothpick. Mr. Shima of Callao, a slim, esthetic-looking Jap with an oval face that might have belonged to a samurai by Toyokuni, was not picking his teeth; he was staring at Larkin with a curious, supercilious smile. Larkin stared back—until the steward placed an envelope in front of him.
Larkin opened the radiogram—and his worst fears were realized. A Spanish prisoner could be in no more complete state of incomunicación. He was cut off from his base. The miracle of Marconi had been undone by a solemn, bespectacled young Oriental. The message read: Largin, Stewship Kumomaro, fins nonska difol psolng froo honolulu hvh-pews.
Larkin’s dismay must have shown in his face, because Millicent Greeve asked, “Bad news, Mr. Parker?”
“Very bad,” said Larkin.
“Things not going right at home?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Larkin said. “That’s the trouble. I’ve been trying since this morning to get an answer to a simple question, but our wireless operator can’t seem to get the hang of his shiny new gadgets.”
George Willowby put down his fork in what appeared to be alarm. He swallowed with difficulty as he turned to Captain Fujiwara. “He’s joking, isn’t he, captain? Our wireless is working?”
The diminutive master of the Kumo-maru poised his quill toothpick in midair with a precise movement. “Wireless,” he declared, “is working. Wireless operator also is working—to best of ability, which is not great. He is No. 2 operator. Chief operator is very ill.”
“But, captain—”
“Have asked Toyo-maru of same line for loan of new chief operator in case our man is not better by Honolulu,” concluded the captain, resuming operations with his toothpick.
Larkin looked down at the plate that had just been set before him. He reflected that his stomach must be stronger than he imagined, since he could look at the plate without flinching, despite the heavy weather. The lamb chop might have been grilled in a charcoal kiln. The green peas were the size of marbles, the color and consistency of emeralds. The fried potatoes swam in mutton tallow.
“Mr. Larkin.” The captain was speaking again. “I am making public apology—for General Rodriguez.”
“I understand the general is practically recovered,” said Larkin. “I hope he’s got over his delirium. What’s his latest story?”
“He agrees now you did not attack. Very sorry for mistake and inconvenience.”
“Who is he accusing this evening?” Larkin asked.
“Investigation now pending,” said the captain.
“Say, I bet I know who laid the general out,” volunteered Millicent Greeve suddenly. “I mean, I’ll bet it was the stowaway.”
“What stowaway?” demanded Larkin.
“I mean he must be a stowaway,” said Millicent, “because I know all the through passengers, and I’ve seen all the people that got on at San Francisco, and he’s not any of those. So he must be a stowaway.…”
“Who?” demanded the monosyllabic Mr. Guttle. A flicker of interest crossed his mask-like countenance.
“Why, the man who looked in my porthole last night,” said Mrs. Greeve. “Or rather this morning. It must have been after two. I was just putting out the light. I thought I told you all about it, but I guess it slipped my mind. It scared me half to death. I mean just seeing that face in the porthole. Of course it was gone in a jiffy. I didn’t even have time to scream. I probably wouldn’t have screamed anyway. It’s funny, but the man looked exactly like—” Mrs. Greeve paused, leaned across the table. “Dorothy, have you a brother?”
Dorothy Bonner gave Larkin a quick, questioning glance. “What is this—a conspiracy?” she asked in what she intended to be facetious tones. “What have you two been cooking up between you?”
Mrs. Greeve turned eagerly to Larkin. “Did you see him, too?”
“I couldn’t have,” said Larkin, watching the girl across the table. “Dorothy says she hasn’t any brother.”
“But he was the spitting image of her,” Mrs. Greeve insisted. “I mean I had a good look at his face, and it’s amazing how much he looks like Dorothy. But—”
An awkward silence settled over the table, broken only by the crash and clatter of dishes in the galley-pantry as the ship listed sharply to starboard, remained heeled over for an alarmingly long moment. Dorothy Bonner seemed intent upon her food, but two spots of color glowed on her high cheekbones. They faded as the captain began talking to the purser in Japanese. Mr. Willowby gaped at the girl with unreserved curiosity.
“What about it, captain?” said Larkin at last. “Is there a stowaway aboard?”
Captain Fujiwara cleared his throat and carefully put down his quill toothpick. “Unlikely,” he said. “I inspect ship this morning.”
“In view of the fact that there seems to be a razor wielder among us,” continued Larkin, “don’t you think it might be a good idea to make a special inspection?”
“Very good,” said the captain.
“Then if I may make another suggestion,” Larkin said, “I’d say that the inspection should start by opening the coffin that was hoisted aboard just before we sailed.”
A queer expression came over the captain’s face. “Useless beginning, I fear,” said the skipper. “Chinese gentleman is dead.”
“Maybe,” said Larkin, “but I have a strong feeling that the gentleman is neither Chinese nor dead. Why not let Dr. Bioki have a look at him?”
“Disturbing corpses,” said Dr. Bioki, “is not regular procedure.”
“No,” said Larkin. “And neither is throat-cutting regular procedure on any passenger ship I’ve traveled in. You see, I have a special interest in this case, in view of the fact that it was my razor. How about it, captain?”
“Very good,” said the captain. “Tomorrow morning.”
“Why not tonight? The man may be dangerous.”
“Tomorrow,” said the captain.
“We’d best all bolt our doors tonight, then,” said Willowby.
Dorothy Bonner put down her napkin, stood up. “You’ll excuse me,” she murmured. “I’m—I’m not feeling well.” She walked quickly, to her stateroom.
“Well,” commented Millicent Greeve. “Another casualty. By the way, Doctor, what’s wrong with that Mr. Hood? He hasn’t been out of his cabin since we left port.”
Dr. Bioki raised his fork, made a spiral motion in front of his forehead. “Funayoi arimasŭ,” he said. “Seasick.”
“Nonsense,” declared Mrs. Greeve. “You should see the trays full of fodder the steward carries into his cabin. And they come out empty. He’s no more seasick than I am.”
“Maybe he has house guests,” added William Cuttle dryly.
Surprised heads turned to look at Mr. Cuttle, who promptly lapsed into silence, as though exhausted by his unwonted loquacity.
“I bet you never got seasick, Mr. Cuttle,” said Millicent Greeve. “You’re probably a good sailor like me. Poor Mr. Greeve’s a terrible sailor. He won’t even come over to Yokohama to meet me because he’s afraid of the crossing from Shanghai. He—”
“I thought your husband was in Kobe, Mrs. Greeve,” Willowby broke in.
“Oh, no,” said the lady with the orange hair. “Mr. Greeve never goes to Japan unless he has to. He doesn’t like it there. Pardon me, captain, but he doesn’t. He has very strong likes and dislikes. He—”
“If you’ll pardon me,” interrupted Larkin. “I’m going out to get some air. It’s stuffy in here.”
He arose, started for the deck. He paused, however, in front of Stateroom D. He rapped lightly on the door. There was no response. He was about to rap again when he heard a noise inside, the faint sound of convulsive breathing, as if someone were laughing—or crying.
Chapter Eight: THE CRACK OF LIGHT
Larkin reached for the knob, turned it softly. The door was locked. He heard footsteps behind him, released the knob, whirled just as the steward brushed past with some towels on his arm. The steward opened the door of Stateroom F across the passageway.
A shrill voice called out, “Who is it? What do you want?”
Through the open door, Larkin had his first glimpse of Mr. Jeremy Hood. Mr. Hood was a thin, wrinkled little man sitting up tensely in his berth. A black, loosely knit sweater thrown about his narrow, bent shoulders gave him the appearance of an old lady in a shawl—all but his hair. Or rather his lack of hair, for his almost bald pate was covered with a mouse-colored fuzz. His drawn face was pale, not with the greenish, bilious pallor peculiar to seasickness, but with a dead, lackluster shade of gray. Only his eyes were alive—black, vitreous, searching eyes that seemed to snap at the steward.
“Bringing careen towers,” explained the steward.
“I don’t want any clean towels,” shrilled Mr. Hood. “I don’t want anything! If I do, I’ll ring. That’s what the bell’s for. Now get out! And stay out!”
“Very sorry,” said the steward; backing into Larkin as he pulled the door shut. Larkin backed away, and in turn bumped into Willowby, who had just come out of the dining saloon, tamping tobacco into a brier pipe.
“I say, Larkin,” said Willowby, “are you really ill?”
“Sick as a dog,” said Larkin.
“I’ve got just the thing for you,” said Willowby.
“No brown paper on the stomach,” said Larkin, “or cotton in the ears. And no lemons.”
“No, no,” Willowby smiled. “Drink?”
“Anything,” said Larkin.
“Come along to my cabin, then.”
Willowby’s stateroom adjoined Larkin’s, but was larger, Larkin noticed as Willowby switched on the light. Having sole occupancy, Willowby had had the upper berth dismantled, and, in the weeks since the Kumo-maru had been tediously following the coast line of the two Americas, he had with heavy-handed masculine neatness created a sort of homey atmosphere. Lark-in’s glance was taking in the souvenirs of ports of call arranged about the cabin—Mexican pottery, Indian baskets, carved hardwoods, painted clay statuettes—when he heard the key turn in the lock. He looked up, puzzled. “I hope, Mr. Willowby,” he said, “that your intentions are strictly honorable.”
“I wanted to speak to you privately,” murmured Willowby in a low voice. “It’s about that wireless business.”
“What about it?”
“Do you believe what the captain said, really, about the operator being incompetent?”
“It’s quite likely,” said Larkin. “He hasn’t yet delivered me a message that’s intelligible.”
“Some people seem to get their messages through all right,” declared Willowby, with a smug, all-wise smile.
“Who, for instance?”
“General Rodriguez.”
Larkin sat down on the edge of a berth. “Are you sure of that?”
“Positive,” Willowby asserted. “I saw the radiogram delivered to him on deck, about an hour before someone tried to kill him.”
“Maybe it was garbled, like mine.”
“I think not. The general made enough sense out of it anyhow to upset him considerably.”
Larkin fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette, jammed it into his mouth, but did not light it. After a moment he said slowly, “I think, Mr. Willowby, that this might be a good time for that drink you mentioned.”
“Sorry, old man. I was almost forgetting.” Willowby took a bottle from under the berth. “This is Chilean brandy,” he said. “Very decent stuff, really. Better than you’ll get on board. Their French cognac’s made in Osaka. Never touch it. I shouldn’t be having any of this, as a matter of fact. Bad for my neuralgia.”
“Suffer from neuralgia, Mr. Willowby?”
“Awfully,” said Willowby. “And the sea air’s bad for it. Humid. Can’t sleep nights, sometimes. However—” He raised his glass. “—I can always take my medicine tomorrow. Old Dr. Bioki has a very decent remedy. A few drops of aconitine in a little water.”
“This is better medicine,” Larkin said, sniffing the brandy. “Down the hatch.”
“Cheer-o!” said Willowby.
Larkin touched the glass to his lips. “Mellow, tonic, and carminative,” he said. He nodded toward a photograph stuck into the frame of the mirror above the wash basin. It was a picture of a blond young woman and a small, curly-headed child. “That your wife and offspring, Mr. Willowby?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Willowby. “Handsome pair, aren’t they?”
“Leave them behind in Valparaiso?”
“Oh, no, I’ve left Valparaiso for good. I sent Mrs. W. and the baby home to England for a visit, because it may be the last visit they have for some time. We’re going to be in the East for the next fifteen years, and I shan’t be having leave for five. They’re joining me in Manchuria. Or Manchukuo, if you’d rather.”
“You’re bound for Mukden?”
“Hsinking. Or Changchun, if you’d rather. Advisory chemist to the Manchukuo War Ministry. Ruddy good contract, matter of fact. Bags of money. Sets me up for life.”
“You were a chemist in Valparaiso?”
“Five years. Chilean Naval Arsenal. Not bad, but nothing like the new contract.”
“Well, here’s to Mrs. Willowby,” said Larkin, draining his brandy.
“Thank you. And shall we drink to Mrs. Larkin?”
“Let’s,” said Larkin, extending his glass. “Wherever she may be.”
Willowby set down the bottle. A grieved look pulled down the outer corners of his eyes. He said gravely, “I say, old man, I’m sorry.”
“What are you sorry about?” asked Larkin. “Is the bottle empty?”
“No. Your—your wife. You speak as though she’d run off somewhere.”
“I’ve never had a wife,” said Larkin. “Not of my own. I’m toasting the future.”
“Oh.” Willowby picked up the bottle again. He said, “I notice you’re quite friendly with that pretty dark-haired woman aboard. I think you should be warned. You know who she is, of course?”
“Dorothy Bonner?”
Willowby nodded. He took a folded newspaper from beneath a stack of books at the foot of the berth, handed it to Larkin.
“I bought the newspapers at the dock in San Francisco,” he said, “but I didn’t start reading them until today. I had a bit of a shock when I recognized Miss Bonner’s photograph. The police are after her.”
Larkin glanced at the story under Dorothy Bonner’s picture. It was a re-hash of all the clippings he had read, plus a bewildered news editor’s effort to reconcile reports from three wire services to the effect that the girl had been seen at the same hour by an airport employee at Armonk, New York; a gasoline station attendant at Floresville, Texas; and a hotel clerk in Seattle.
“Looks like her, all right,” Larkin commented. “I’d never have taken her for a desperate character. What do you suppose we ought to do—form a Passengers’ Protective Committee?”
Willowby did not smile. He appeared to be thinking as he fingered his mustache. “You’re joking, of course,” he said, after a moment.
“Am I?”
“You may speak freely to me, you know,” Willowby said. “While it’s true that I’m to be in the employ, indirectly, of the Japanese, my job hasn’t begun yet. Besides, I’m a great believer in the solidarity of race, particularly the Anglo-Saxon race. I believe the peace of the world depends upon Britain and America standing together.”
