Midnight Sailing, page 7
“How?”
“If you get a correction on your garbled radiograms, you’re not a sinister person.”
“So you think that Japan being in a state of undeclared war, the officers of a Jap ship carrying potential munitions go to the trouble of checking up on passengers who might give aid and comfort to the undeclared enemy?”
“Think it? I know it!” Dorothy asserted. “I understand Japanese and I sometimes overhear conversations, even without meaning to.”
“In that case, why didn’t you wait until the ‘all-clear’ report came through on me?” Larkin asked. Then: “Never mind. I know the answer to that one. The Vanadium agreement is too hot for comfort. You had to get rid of it in a hurry and you picked on me because I’ve already been searched and am therefore out of the picture temporarily. Is that it?”
“Glen, you’re positively clairvoyant.”
“Will you be changing to the Toyo-maru in Honolulu?”
“I may not be able to. Something might happen.”
“What, for instance?”
“I don’t know what. But things do happen. They happened to General Rodriguez.”
“You might not go ashore in Honolulu. That it?”
“Partly, yes.”
“Dorothy, will you answer me one question—frankly and truthfully?”
“I will—if it’s not about my purely hypothetical brother. I’m a little tired of that one.”
“This is about Charles Frayle. Do you know him?”
“Yes, I know him.”
“Who is he?”
“He’s my fiancé.”
“Oh.” A brief silence. Then: “Is that why you’re giving the envelope to me rather than to Frayle—because you’re afraid the same thing that happened to Rodriguez might happen to your fiancé?”
“I didn’t say that.” The girl’s voice was scarcely audible. “Would you care?”
Care? Larkin didn’t know. He knew only that he was experiencing a queer swelling at the base of his throat. He said, “Why should I care? Let’s close the deal. Shake on it?”
“Very well.”
He stood up. His hand closed about the girl’s fingers. They felt very small and cold against his palm. He tightened his grasp, drew her toward him, slowly at first, then rapidly with a brusque movement that swept her into his arms. She made no resistance. She hung relaxed within his embrace, as though she belonged there.
He bent to the yielding pressure of her lips. For one clinging instant he thought he sensed a brief responsive tremor. Or did he? Because she immediately stiffened.
“Was that absolutely necessary?” she gasped.
“Absolutely. I’m a creature of impulse.”
“I can’t say I like your impulses.”
“No? You have a nice cozy way of registering dislike.”
“Glen, this is strictly business.”
“Is it, Dorothy?”
“Emphatically. You’ll remember that?”
“I’ll remember we sealed the bargain pleasantly.”
“Let’s strike that from the record. Shall we, Glen?”
“If you say so, Dorothy.”
“I’d rather. And it won’t—?”
“Make any difference? Of course not. I’ll still be the trusted and faithful courier. I’ll guard the envelope with my life. Seriously. I think I have the complete picture.”
“Good night, Glen.”
The girl opened the door an inch, peered out. A gust of rain spattered across the deserted deck. She stepped through the bulkhead, crossed hurriedly to the passage-way directly opposite, ducked in.
As Larkin closed the door, he reflected that Dorothy had made no such crass gesture as a down-payment on the five thousand dollars she had promised him. So much the better. That left him plenty of room to tack and come about, if unfavorable winds made it necessary. But it probably wouldn’t be necessary. It looked like clear sailing ahead, close to the wind.
He snapped on the light, examined the envelope the girl had given him. She had not made him promise not to look inside, and it seemed only logical that he should know something of the terms of the agreement between General Juan Rodriguez and the Pan-American Vanadium Corporation—the agreement which was apparently the subject of bloody disagreement. He slipped the barrel of his fountain pen under one end of the flap, and carefully rolled up the gummed edge. He was startled when a sheaf of photographs slid out into his lap.
He snatched them up. They were not actually photographs, although they were printed on glossy photographic paper. Black rectangles covered with a maze of fine white lines, precise, draftsmanlike lines.
Larkin’s fingertips tingled as he shuffled rapidly through the glossy pages. From the geometric labyrinth of lines and figures, his astounded gaze picked out neatly lettered, familiar words: “Gas-check … Breech-lock … extractor … firing pin …” Larkin knew very little about ordnance, but could recognize photostatic copies of a blueprinted design for an anti-aircraft gun.
The lingering sensation of Dorothy Bonner’s kiss suddenly lost its fragrance on his lips. It seemed to have a rather acrid flavor.
Chapter Ten: A PASSING SHIP
Dorothy Bonner paused outside her own stateroom. She looked down at the hand that reached for the brass knob. She was surprised to see that her hand was not trembling. She had expected it would be, because she was trembling inside. She didn’t know why, exactly. It was not because Glen Larkin had kissed her. It couldn’t be. She had been kissed by dozens of men and she always knew in advance what her reaction would be. She had been kissed on shipboard before, and in taxicabs and in the pine-scented moonlight of the Adirondacks. She had been flattered a few times, revolted once, mildly amused frequently, but mostly she had been tolerant and a little bored. Only with men who said they loved her had she been intolerant. She detested insincerity and she knew that most of her serious suitors had been in love with the Pongee Bonner fortune. She could almost see the gleam of dollar-signs in both eyes when they tried to kiss her. All except Charlie Frayle, that is. When Charlie said he loved her, she believed him. He seemed genuine, because he was otherwise contemptuous of everything she stood for. He could bolster her ego without fawning and he was protective without belittling. He was a real person and he made her feel like a real person. When he kissed her, she experienced complete, serene contentment—not the delightfully terrifying few seconds from which she had just emerged. Those few seconds had shaken her deeply, as deeply as anything she had ever felt except the death of her father. Well, she would put all that out of her mind. It was just a brief upset, the culmination of a series of emotional climaxes which had followed one another in too rapid succession—that was all. She opened the door.
The cabin was empty. Thank heavens, Millicent Greeve wasn’t there. She didn’t feel like talking to Mrs. Greeve tonight. Probably the lady with the amazing hair would try to start a conversation when she barged in at 2:00 a. m. again, but Dorothy would pretend to be asleep. She slipped her negligee back from her white shoulders, let it fall to the floor, kicked off her slippers. As she stooped to roll down her stockings, she saw a square of paper lying near the threshold, as though it had been pushed under the door. She picked it up. On it a cramped, immature hand had written: “Dot. Waiting for you near lifeboats farthest astern. It’s urgent. Don’t fail me.” There was no signature, but she knew the handwriting—how well she knew it!
Her knuckles showed white as she crumpled the paper into a ball, grasped it tightly. Something inside her breast was tight, too—tight and cold with dull fear. She wouldn’t go. Yes, she would, too. She had been expecting this, dreading this, all day. Now it had come she had better face it. After all, she had brought it on herself. Perhaps it wouldn’t be as bad as Charlie thought. Perhaps she would be able to arrange matters amicably, as she had always done. She would have to try.
She stepped back into her shoes, opened the door of the narrow closet, yanked out a blue jersey dress. The wire hangers jangled furiously.…
The stern of the ship shuddered as the Kumo-maru’s ancient propeller shaft spun and wobbled in its worn bearings. The vibration shook Dorothy from the soles of her small feet to her tightly clenched teeth. She walked quickly across the small, half-round afterdeck. There had been nobody near the lifeboats at one side. There was nobody in the stern—only the mechanical log, jigging and chattering on the taffrail. When she swung into the windward side, a cold gust tore at her skirts, a chill drizzle stung her cheeks. She lowered her chin behind a protecting shoulder, walked a few steps backward as she pulled her coat more tightly around her. A hand reached out to clamp itself on her arm.
Her heart stopped. She whirled about. Instinctively she held back as the hand drew her insistently into the lee of a lifeboat. She raised her forearm protectingly.
“Hello, Dot,” said the slow, sleepy voice she knew so well. “I was afraid you wouldn’t come.”
Dorothy laughed inwardly at her own nervousness. Gradually her breath was coming back, but she could not speak at once.
“What’s the matter, Dot? You don’t act like you were glad to see your kid brother.”
For several seconds Dorothy stared at the man standing in front of her. He slouched against the davit like an embarrassed youngster. He was always a youngster to her. Although she couldn’t see his face clearly in the darkness, she knew he must be smiling with that shy, bloodless, ineffectual smile of his—to make her feel sorry for him.
“How did you get here?” she demanded at last.
“If I don’t tell you,” replied the drowsy voice, “then you can swear truthfully you don’t know—in case anybody asks you.”
“All right, then why are you here, Arthur?”
“Business,” said Arthur. “I’m following my chosen career.”
“And I’m still your career. Is that it? You can’t bear the thought of having your meal-ticket get away?”
“No, Dot,” Arthur chuckled languidly. “No, I’m going to give you a well-deserved rest. I’m going in for bigger things. I’m going to climb on the battlewagon with the rest of the smart muggs. I’m going to be a war profiteer. War has raised its ugly head again in the Immemorial East, Dot. The turmoil of war, which unleashes the best and worst of human emotions. It ought to be rich pickings for a young and coming blackmailer.”
“Arthur, listen to me. Let’s talk sense. I understand why you want to get away from the States, and I’m willing to help you turn over a new leaf. If I help you get ashore in Yokohama, will you promise that you’ll try to lead a decent—”
“No, Dot. None of that. My life’s all twisted out of shape, and none of your moral osteopathy can twist it back. What’s more, I don’t want it twisted back. I’m satisfied the way it is, and I’m going to make the most of it—for as long as it lasts. But I didn’t bring you here to listen to my warped and evil philosophy.…”
“Did you leave that note at my cabin yourself?”
“Yes. I get around a little.”
“They’ll find you and put you ashore at Honolulu. They’re going to stage a big man-hunt tomorrow morning.
“Good old Dot.” Arthur patted the girl’s cheek. “Still looking out for her wayward brother. Always ready with a friendly warning…
Dorothy bit her lip. She wished she had not said that.
“But you won’t have to worry,” Arthur continued. “They won’t put me ashore. I’m not afraid. I’ll have plenty of co-operation. That’s the beauty of my new career. I can always find a blacker blackguard than I am—and ask favors. This tub is rich in prospects. I’ve already turned up a few rare specimens.”
“Well, what did you want to see me about?” Dorothy interrupted. She tried to be curt. Charlie Frayle was right about Arthur being able to get around her.
“I wanted to give you some sound advice,” Arthur said. “Dot, you’re not actually going to marry that turkey-buzzard Frayle?”
“Is that any business of yours?”
“Yes. You’re the only friend I have, Dot. You’ve always treated me like a human being, even when I didn’t act like one. I’m a misanthrope. That’s a word I learned at Harvard—the only thing I did learn there. I have a profound indifference for whatever happens to any member of the species, including myself—but not including you. That’s why I can’t let you get tangled up with a first-class s.o.b. like Frayle.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Dorothy was indignant. “Charlie Frayle is a perfectly grand person.”
“I do know what I’m talking about. And your friend Charlie is a perfectly grand chiseler—an oily—” His voice trailed off.
“Arthur, you’re full of dope.”
“Oh, no, not full.” Arthur seemed to rouse. “The supply aboard isn’t that plentiful. But I’m staking out claims, and I’ll have enough in a day or two. I even think your friend Charlie is going to help. Now, about Charlie Frayle: Did he ever give you all the details concerning the death of your father?”
“Our father!”
“Yours. He disowned me years ago. Well, the old man would probably be alive today if it wasn’t for Frayle.”
‘That’s ridiculous!”
“No, not ridiculous. Say fantastic. But it’s true. You see I was in Washington when it happened. I was even in the apartment the day it happened. I was there waiting for you—when the old man came in. So I saw and overheard more than I should have. Your friend Charlie knows that. He also knows that I’ve become a dealer in second-hand silence. That’s why he’ll probably insist on your marrying him before Honolulu, if he hasn’t already. He knows how I feel about you, and he thinks if he’s married to you, I won’t dare touch him.”
“But what can you do to him?” The girl’s exclamation was almost a cry.
Arthur seized his sister’s arms just above the elbows. His voice was hoarse, but not sleepy as he said, “Dot, you can’t marry Frayle. You can’t possibly!”
His face was very close to hers, and she could see that the somnolent, faraway look had gone out of his eyes. The expression there frightened her, because it made her feel that what he said was the truth, and not the distorted imaginings of a drugged mind. Her voice was almost a whisper as she said, “Suppose I love him, Arthur.”
Arthur dropped his hands limply, hopelessly. “Then God help you!” he said.
Suddenly he backed away, crouched down behind the bow of the lifeboat. Footsteps sounded on the deck, heavy, deliberate, masculine steps.
Dorothy turned away, began walking slowly toward the stern. The footsteps caught up with her.
“Nice brisk evening for a walk about deck, isn’t it, Miss Bonner?” boomed a hearty voice, as George Willowby dropped into step beside her. “I say, have you seen the ship we’re passing?”
“No,” said Dorothy, wishing he would go away and leave her with the turmoil of confused thoughts that were struggling to form orderly patterns in her brain.
“It’s right over here,” said Willowby. “See?”
He stopped at the rail and pointed. Dorothy stopped, too, and looked at the caterpillar of lights crawling along the dark horizon.
“Always fascinated me, a passing ship,” said Willowby, “particularly at night. Brings out the odd isolation of a ship at sea. An isolated universe with only one time-dimension. Just the present. No past, no future. When the ship docks, the universe comes to an end. Or blends into the universe with three time-dimensions, if you’d rather. But meanwhile it’s a proper universe, going full blast. People laughing and crying and making love and scheming. Perhaps even dying.… I say, are you cold?”
“No,” said Dorothy. “I’m not cold.”
“I thought you were. I thought you were shivering.”
“No,” said Dorothy. “I’m not cold. I was just thinking.”
Chapter Eleven: PHANTOM TO GRIM REALITY
Glen Larkin knocked at the captain’s cabin and the door opened almost at once. Captain Fujiwara was wearing a kimono of somber gray habutae silk which clothed him with startling dignity. In his uniform he sometimes resembled a small boy dressed up; in the simple, ample folds of his native garment, he was a man of latent power.
“Please come in,” said the captain.
“It’s rather late,” said Larkin, “but I heard you come down from the bridge not long ago, so I knew I wouldn’t be disturbing your sleep.”
“You will have some tea,” said the captain, “or I can have some sake warmed. Unless you prefer whisky.”
“Nothing, thanks. Except three minutes of your time.”
“Please sit down.” There was a hard glitter in the commander’s tiny eyes.
Larkin perched on the edge of an uncomfortable folding chair. His quick glance took in the cluttered interior of the small cabin: A sextant between two stunted pines in blue and white pots; a Usambara violet in a glass terrarium; the silvery tube of a barometer swinging incongruously below a kamidana—a miniature shrine on which were memorial tablets of white, unpainted wood, twisted strips of papers, and a scowling figure of Hachiman, god of war. On one wall was a portrait of the bespectacled Emperor, looking three whits less aristocratic than Captain Fujiwara. There was a faint odor of incense on the air.
“I’ve come to tell you,” said Larkin, “that I’ve decided I must have intelligible answers to my two radiograms before morning.”
“Ah, so,” purred Captain Fujiwara. “I have explained that chief operator—”
“Yes, I know. The chief operator is ill. But he apparently has healthy moments. Some passengers have no trouble at all communicating with the mainland.”
“So?”
“I thought I’d tell you that unless the chief operator recovers during the night, it will be my duty to inform the quarantine authorities in Honolulu that he is probably suffering from a communicable disease. Typhoid, let us say. That would mean delay in quarantine—unfortunate delay, because you must be anxious to get to Japan, with such a valuable cargo, and after such a long voyage. Then I understand that a lawyer friend of mine is in Honolulu, waiting to slap a libel on your ship, captain. I don’t know what-the pretext will be, and it may not hold up in court. But you know what the law and the courts are, captain. Slow. It would mean more unfortunate delay.”
