Five Passengers from Lisbon, page 7
What a long path had led her to that particular point in time and to that particular place!
How had Josh Morgan happened to reach that same place and that same point in time? Obviously he’d been in active service; probably wounded, which accounted for his presence there, and for the right arm in a sling. He did rather well, however, with his left arm!
Not that it mattered; she thought of the moment on the moving, slippery deck when he’d caught her, with, again, an absurd and childish feeling of confusion. Not that that mattered either! She moved away from the railing. She’d give Mickey three more minutes, then she’d go down to the cabin. She walked slowly along, this time aft.
She passed another, smaller doorway, and, as a matter of fact, out of the bright lane of lights. She strolled into the thick bank of shadow below a rank of lifeboats.
It was unexpectedly dark just there; her eyes were adjusted to lights. But she saw then, a deeper shadow huddled against the bulkhead near her and stopped abruptly.
The outline became clearer. It was a man sagging down upon the deck. His head was bare, his hand out-flung limply. She was on her knees beside him, and it was Mickey.
“Mickey, Mickey...”
He didn’t answer; his head sagged limply as she moved him. “Mickey,” she cried despairingly. And remembered Alfred Castiogne who was murdered in the lifeboat the night before with a knife in his back.
But Mickey could not be dead. His heart was beating—unless it was the faint, constant vibration of the ship. She thought there was a faint pulse at his wrist. “Mickey...” she whispered again, and thought, I must get help. I must hurry....She lowered his head gently to the deck again, turned into the nearest doorway into the ship, and was instantly lost.
Passageways stretched forward and aft and across; there were lights everywhere and closed doors everywhere. She turned to the right and hurried along a gray-painted passageway. Which way were the wards? There would be nurses there and corpsmen. She came on a bisecting passage and turned again and found herself among offices and laboratories. She turned back. She mustn’t scream; there were sick patients asleep but she must get help somehow. She hurried back, took another turn and then was completely lost.
A strange ship is as confusing as a strange city. If she had not been in the portion of the ship reserved for storerooms she would have immediately found people: nurses, corpsmen and doctors on night duty, alert for every sound and every movement. Just for the moment there was no one.
But nothing could really have hurt Mickey; he had slipped and fallen. He had somehow struck his head against the stairs or against the bulkhead.
That was it. He wasn’t dead; he might not even be injured. She was hysterical and terrified because Alfred Castiogne, who had nothing to do with Mickey or with her, had been murdered. No one could have struck Mickey. No one could have crept along that deck on stealthy, furtive feet. No one could have waited in the black, small rim of shadow. Murder had been in the little lifeboat—not here.
She pushed open a door and was on deck, but this time again she was on the port side. The deck stretched forward, white and lighted; aft, around the stern, it lost itself in shadow. She’d go back around the deck, back to the starboard side of the ship and Mickey. It seemed a quicker and more direct way than through the ship. She ran along the lighted strip of deck and entered the heavy, sudden shadow around the stern.
It was so sudden and dark a shadow that she groped for the bulkhead to guide her. Fog creeping closer upon the ship was cold and misty on her face. The width of the ship still divided her from Mickey, and the fog was like a curtain further obscuring the shadowy curve of the deck ahead. Behind was a rosy brightness, reflected all around against the wreaths of fog. Here it was only dark and empty, with the rush of the ship through the dark water below sounding very loud.
And very near, there was a curious regularity about the whisper and rush of the waves. Like someone breathing heavily.
She stopped.
But murder had been in the little lifeboat! Not here...
Then, with indescribable suddenness and finality, the black water seemed to roar and crash upon her ears, engulfing her, dragging her down across the slippery deck into its own blackness and chaos.
Her fighting, blind hands brushed the middle railing, caught at it, missed, caught hard into space again and then there was nothing but darkness and fog.
It was indeed at about that time that the Magnolia actually entered the thick bank of fog lying ahead and Captain Svendsen took the telephone and gave an order to slow down the engines.
6
Gradually the throb of the engines emerged from darkness and the rush of water and began to beat against Marcia’s ears. Light cut through the darkness too and beat upon her eyes. Someone was holding her; she was taking great gulps of air that stung her throat and burned her lungs, and her heart was louder than the engines. The light seemed suddenly so bright upon her eyelids that she couldn’t lift them; it was dazzling, dizzying, whirling around. Someone was rubbing her hands inadequately somehow, inexpertly, saying something she could not understand. She opened her eyes and the light was not half as bright as it had seemed.
A man held her and bent over her. He was in uniform; the coat hung like a cape over his shoulders, so it fell around her too. His cap shaded his eyes, but she knew the face and she knew the voice. Only she couldn’t just then say to whom the face and voice belonged, or how she knew.
She felt, however, an enormous sense of safety, as if she had been awakened from the chill horror of a nightmare and brought back to the reality of a normal world. It was so extraordinarily comforting, that sense of security, that she closed her eyes again, sinking into it as if it, too, had warm, safe arms. He held her against him and said: “Do you hear me? Marcia...”
A faint question touched her. It seemed odd somehow that this voice should speak to her just like that, call her Marcia. He said more urgently: “Can you walk? I’ll help you. Try to walk...”
The strength of the supporting arm was, too, extraordinarily comforting. Of course she would walk. She was on her feet, leaning against this man she knew so well and yet somehow could not name. Lights were in her face; she opened her eyes again.
The light was diffused, coming from misty halos, touched with a strange rosy haze. The deck stretched ahead of them and lost itself in the foggy halos of light. All around the ship fog lay in thick curtains and reflected the radiance of the Red Crosses on her sides and on her smokestack, so it touched everything with a soft glow like firelight. It touched the face of the man beside her, holding her close against him, urging her along that narrow, glistening strip of deck. She looked up at the strongly curved mouth and broad chin. The shadow cast by the visor of his cap fell over his eyes. She said in a husky voice that seemed to hurt: “Colonel Morgan. That’s who it is....”
“In this way,” he said, and held open a door and suddenly they had left the deck with its queerly rosy fog and were in a warm, dry, brightly lighted passage. And she remembered the nightmare.
Only it hadn’t been a nightmare.
“I caught the railing. I caught the railing and missed and caught again and someone...”
“Don’t talk. I’ll get a doctor. It’s only a little further...”
He looked different in these lights which were undimmed by fog; his face was set and hard and very white around the mouth.
They were at a door which was open; she was still half dazed by the warmth, by the lights, by the nightmare. A man in officer’s uniform got up quickly and inquiringly from a desk chair and came toward them. Colonel Morgan said rapidly: “There’s been an accident....” And another memory of the nightmare came to her. “Mickey...” she cried. “He is hurt. He’s on deck....”
She was on a small white couch; the man in uniform was leaning over her. Colonel Morgan had disappeared. Everything glistened around her. It was a dispensary with a clear, bright light over everything. “These slippery decks,” said the doctor. “Here, let me look at you. Anything broken?”
She tried to tell him. “He is out there. I tried to get help. Someone was there....”
He was busy at a table across the room; he came back toward her with a glass of water and something in his hand. “Take this.”
“You don’t understand...
“Take this.” He held her head up so she could swallow the little pill. He pulled a blanket over her. “Now then, just don’t move for a minute. I’ll send a nurse in to you. Don’t worry....”
Then he, too, had disappeared, closing the door firmly behind him.
But her mind was clearer; by snatches the whole nightmare was revealed and it was not a nightmare; it was a murderous attack upon her.
As it had been upon Mickey.
But why?
What had they brought from that sinister, harried little lifeboat onto this ship?
She sat up and was pushing away the blanket, dizzy still, confused, when the door opened again and a nurse came into the room.
More time than she had realized must have passed while Marcia groped backward into the blackness of the nightmare. The nurse knew everything; someone must have had time to tell her, to explain. She came to Marcia and said quickly: “Everything is all right. Your—your friend slipped on the deck and was hurt but not seriously. Major Strong—that’s the doctor who was here—took him to the other dispensary to dress his wound. He struck his head against the bulkhead, but it is nothing serious. Do you understand?”
“Someone was there....”
“Major Strong said you were not to talk and not to worry. I’m to stay here with you. Are you warm?”
“There by the lifeboats, in the shadow. I heard something move. I felt it....”
“You’re not to talk.” The young nurse smiled. Her face was young and pretty, her eyes were firm. She pulled up the blanket again. “I’m going to sit here by you. Don’t talk.”
“Who was it?” whispered Marcia, searching the nurse’s face for knowledge. But the nurse shook her head; her face was unreadable. And suddenly drowsiness and calm seemed to enter the shining room, with the nurse in her crisp uniform and cap, sitting on the foot of the cot within reach of Marcia’s hand. She seemed to Marcia everything that was normal and staunch and American. Her very presence denied the nightmare that had reached out of the fog, there on the black curve of the deck.
Murder had been in the lifeboat; not here, thought Marcia drowsily, not here. Her eyes closed heavily against the light.
Actually, of course, she had not yet recovered from the horror and strain of the previous night. Actually, she was still unutterably weary with nerves strained and taut. She slept suddenly, like a child, secure again in the presence of the nurse and in the things the nurse had said. Mickey really was all right.
Only it hadn’t been an accident.
The nurse must have moved quietly to turn off the ceiling light. When Marcia suddenly was aroused there was a small, green-shaded desk light on the table at the opposite side of the room. She was drowsy from the pill the doctor had given her; she had a confused sense of much time having passed. The nurse was beside her saying, quietly: “Miss Colfax—Miss Colfax...”
She sat up, blinking. There were other people in the room. Captain Svendsen was removing an oilskin that glistened with moisture, Josh Morgan was there, too, still in uniform, and another man also in army uniform—a tall thin man, forty or so, with a thin face and very intelligent, quick, brown eyes who looked at her sharply and came over to the cot to put his hand on her wrist. He wore a lieutenant colonel’s insignia, and the medical caduceus. She had not seen him before, but there was an air of authority about him which was instantly recognizable. He said: “Miss Colfax, I am Colonel Wells. I’m sorry I haven’t had a chance to see you before. I’ve been busy.” His fingers were delicate and sure on her wrist. His eyes were extraordinarily perceptive and swift. He said: “Pulse seems to be steady enough.”
The nurse said: “She’s been sleeping, sir.” She glanced down at Marcia. “Colonel Wells is our medical commanding officer, Miss Colfax.”
Captain Svendsen, his thick white eyebrows glistening with fog, sighed and sat down. Josh Morgan leaned against an examining table. Colonel Wells said quietly: “Miss Colfax, Captain Svendsen wishes you to tell us what happened to you.” He looked at the Captain. “I think she’s able to talk, Captain. She’s had a bit of a shock, I imagine, but that’s all.”
She glanced at Josh Morgan, who was looking at her, soberly, his eyes very intent, yet somehow encouraging.
Captain Svendsen ran his hand over his thick yellow hair impatiently. “I’ve got to get back to the bridge. Now then, Miss Colfax, what happened? Colonel Morgan says he found you on the deck, and then found Messac, knocked unconscious. Messac says he slipped and hit his head on the bulkhead. But Colonel Morgan said that you claimed somebody tried to put you overboard. Now then, what exactly do you mean?”
She could still feel the movement of a presence in the shadow near her. She could still hear the rushing of the black water in the wake of the ship, far below.
Colonel Wells, watching her keenly, said: ‘Take it easy, Miss Colfax.”
Obviously there was skepticism, which was quite natural. So she must keep her voice even, tell them briefly and quietly what had happened.
She tried to do so. She had found André—she remembered to say André—unconscious on deck; she had gone for help and become confused; she had come out on the port side of the deck, opposite the way she had entered, had decided to go back to André, had hurried along the deck, intending to go around it, and just as she entered the shadow around the stern, had been—her voice faltered there and she was aware of a tense and strained silence on the part of the others—had been caught and forced toward the railing.
Perhaps the break in her voice, as much as her determined self-control, shook their skepticism. There was a short silence while Captain Svendsen frowned at her. The nurse made herself a very quiet but very alert piece of background, the medical commanding officer studied the toes of his shining brown shoes and Josh Morgan got out cigarettes. Captain Svendsen shook his head at Josh Morgan’s offer of cigarettes and said heavily: “Do you mean somebody attacked you? Who was it?” “I don’t know. I couldn’t see anything. It happened so suddenly.”
“But that would be a deliberate attempt to murder you.”
Put like that, in the slow, hard voice of the Captain, it was not conceivable; it could not have happened. Yet it was not conceivable either that murder had struck in that small, plunging lifeboat, before their eyes which yet did not perceive that quick and furtive presence. She met Captain Svendsen’s cold blue eyes without speaking.
He said: “Who on the ship wants to murder you?”
That, too, came up against a wall of incomprehension. Attempted murder implies a deep and frightful intimacy.
“No one,” she said. “No one.”
The big blond master of the ship seemed to brood for a moment. Colonel Wells continued to study his boots, and Josh Morgan lighted a cigarette with considerable care and deliberation.
Captain Svendsen said: “See here, Miss Colfax, you may not understand the discipline of our ship. I needn’t explain to you the details of the routine; but I cannot believe that any of the ship’s staff or personnel, or any of our patients could have tried to murder you.”
“Someone was there....”
“If you please, hear me out. This is a hospital ship; details are important to the care of the men we are bringing home. We have been operating in war zones and we are still operating under the discipline required by that fact; we have not relaxed it in a single instance. So while obviously it is not possible to check on the whereabouts of every person, at every minute, yet in this case we can do so at least for a number of people with a fair amount of accuracy. When Major Strong reported this to Colonel Wells and Colonel Wells naturally informed me, I had the deck searched and I had a quick check made of ship’s personnel and wards. As I say, it is impossible to make a complete check of every person on board a ship. But the fact remains that it is extremely unlikely that anyone of the Magnolia should attack you. You do understand this?”
“Yes. Yes, but...”
“In view of the fact that you had a very painful and exhausting experience in the lifeboat, and also that the man, Alfred Castiogne, was murdered, don’t you think it possible that you are only nervous and frightened? Perhaps you slipped, perhaps you struck something there on deck. I don’t doubt your good faith; but I think it possible that your nerves deceived you. Don’t you?”
She shook her head, but before she could speak he went on: “You admit that you were frightened when you found Mr. Messac. Don’t you think it possible that in the darkness and fog, and in your confusion you actually imagined this attack upon you?”
“No,” said Marcia. She thought of the black water so near and so loud it seemed already to beat in her ears and choke her throat. “No. There was somebody, Captain. It was—horrible.”
Again there was a small, tense silence. Then Captain Svendsen turned to Josh Morgan. “You say you didn’t see anybody near her when you found her?”
Josh Morgan took a long breath of smoke. “No. Of course, it was very dark there. At least it seemed very dark coming out of the lighted portion of the deck. My eyes didn’t adjust themselves to the darkness right away. But I only saw Miss Colfax; or rather I only saw that somebody was there on the deck. I ran to her and picked her up. I thought she’d slipped and hurt herself. The deck is very slippery with the fog.”
“You came from which side of the deck?”
“The port side. I thought I’d have a last cigarette before going to bed.”
The medical commanding officer gave him a brief, cool glance. “Of course, you’re not supposed to be on deck at this hour, Colonel.”
