“How’s our friend?” I asked when she returned.
“Almost as green as I am.” She tried to smile but it didn’t come off. “Seemed glad to get it.”
“Where is he?”
“In the passage. Sitting on the floor, jammed in a corner, gun across his knees.”
“How long before that stuff acts, Doctor?”
“If he drinks it straightaway, maybe twenty minutes. And don’t ask me how long the effects will last. People vary so much that I’ve no idea. Maybe half an hour, maybe three hours. You can never be certain with those things.”
“You’ve done all you can. Except the last thing. Take off those outside bandages and those damned splints, will you?”
He looked nervously at the door. “If someone comes——”
“We’ve been all through that,” I said impatiently. “Even by taking a chance and losing, we’ll be no worse off than we were before. Take them off.”
Marston fetched a chair to give himself steadier support, sat down, eased the point of his scissors under the bandages holding the splints in place and sliced through them with half a dozen swift clean cuts. The bandages fell away, the splints came loose and the door opened. Half a dozen long strides and Tony Carreras was by my bedside, staring down thoughtfully. He looked even paler than the last time I’d seen him.
“The good healer on the night shift, eh? Having a little patient trouble, Doctor?”
“Trouble?” I said hoarsely. I’d my eyes screwed half shut, lips compressed, fists lying on the coverlet tightly clenched. Carter in agony. I hoped wasn’t overdoing it. “Is your father mad, Carreras?” I closed my eyes completely and stifled—nearly—a moan as the Campari lurched forward and down into an abnormally deep trough with a shuddering, jarring impact that all but threw Carreras off his feet. Even through closed doors, even above the eldritch howl of the wind and the lash of the gale-driven rain, the sound of the impact was like gunfire, and not distant gunfire at that. “Does he want to kill us all? Why in God’s name can’t he slow down?”
“Mr. Carter is in very great pain,” Doc Marston said quietly. Whatever his faults as a doctor, he was fast at catching on, and when you looked into those steady wise blue eyes beneath the magnificent mane of white hair, it was impossible not to believe him. “Agony would be a better word. He has, as you know, a compound fracture of the femur.” With delicate fingers he touched the bloodstained bandages that had been concealed by the splints so that Carreras could see just how compound it was. “Every time the ship moves violently, the broken ends of the bone grind together. You can imagine what it’s like—no, I doubt if you can. I am trying to rearrange and tighten the splints so as to immobilise the leg completely. Difficult job for one man in those conditions. Care to give me a hand?”
In one second flat I revised my estimate of Marston’s shrewdness. No doubt he’d just been trying to allay any suspicions that Carreras might have had but he couldn’t have thought up a worse way. Not, that is, if Carreras offered his help, for the chances were that if he did delay to help he’d find the sentry snoring in the passageway outside when he left.
“Sorry.” Beethoven never sounded half as sweet as the music of that single word from Carreras. “Can’t wait. Captain Carreras making his rounds and all that. That’s what Miss Beresford is here for anyway. Failing all else, just shoot him full of morphia.” Five seconds later he was gone.
Marston raised an eyebrow.
“Less affable than of yore, John, you would say. A shade lacking in sympathy he so often professes?”
“He’s worried,” I said. “He’s also a little frightened and perhaps, heaven be praised, even more than a little sea-sick. But still very tough for all that. Susan, go collect the sentry’s cup and see if friend Carreras has really gone.”
She was back in fifteen seconds.
“He’s gone. The coast is clear.”
I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood up. A moment later I had fallen heavily to the floor, my head just missing the iron foot of MacDonald’s bed. Four things were responsible for this: the sudden lurch of the deck as the Campari had fallen into a trough, the stiffness of both legs, the seeming paralysis of my left leg and the pain that had gone through my thigh like a flame as soon as my foot had touched the deck.
Hands gripping the bo’sun’s bed, I dragged myself to my feet and tried again. Marston had me by the right arm and I needed all the support I could get. I made it to my own bed and sat down heavily. MacDonald’s face was expressionless. Susan looked as if she were about to cry. For some obscure reason that made me feel better. I lurched to my feet like an opening jack-knife, caught hold of the foot of my own bed and had another go.
It was no good. I wasn’t made of iron. The lurching of the Campari I could cope with and the first stiffness was slowly beginning to disappear. Even that frightening weakness in my left leg I could in some measure ignore. I could always hop along. But that pain I couldn’t ignore. I wasn’t made of iron, I have a nervous system for transmitting pain just like anyone else’s and mine was operating in top gear at the moment. Even the pain I believe I could have coped with: but every time I set my left foot on the deck the shooting agony in my left thigh left me dizzy and light-headed, barely conscious. A few steps on that leg and I just wouldn’t be conscious at all. I supposed vaguely it must have had something to do with all the blood I had lost. I sat down again.
“Get back into bed,” Marston ordered. “This is madness. You’re going to have to lie on your back for at least the next week.”
“Good old Tony Carreras,” I said. I was feeling a bit lightheaded, and that’s a fact. “Clever lad, Tony. He’d the right idea. Your hypodermic, Doctor. Pain-killer for the thigh. Shoot me full of it. You know, the way a football player with a gammy leg gets an injection before a game.”
“No football player ever went out on a field with three bullet holes through his leg,” Marston said grimly.
“Don’t do it, Dr. Marston,” Susan said urgently. “Please don’t do it. He’ll surely kill himself.”
“Bo’sun?” Marston queried.
“Give it to him, sir,” the bo’sun said quietly. “Mr. Carter knows best.”
“Mr. Carter knows best,” Susan mimicked furiously. She crossed to the bo’sun and stared down at him. “It’s easy for you to lie there and say he knows best. You don’t have to go out there and get killed, to be shot down or die from the loss of blood.”
“Not me, miss.” The bo’sun smiled up at her. “You won’t catch me taking risks like that.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. MacDonald.” She sat down wearily on his bedside. “I’m so ashamed. I know that if your leg wasn’t smashed up—but look at him! He can’t even stand, far less walk. He’ll kill himself, I tell you, kill himself!”
“Perhaps he will. But then he will only be anticipating by about two days, Miss Beresford,” MacDonald said quietly. “I know. Mr. Carter knows. We both know that no one on the Campari has very long to live—not unless someone can do something. You don’t think, Miss Beresford,” he went on heavily, “that Mr. Carter is doing this just for the exercise?”
Marston looked at me, face slowly tightening. “You and the bosun have been talking? Talking about something I know nothing about?”
“I’ll tell you when I come back.”
“If you come back.” He went to his dispensary, came back with a hypodermic and injected some pale fluid. “Against all my instincts, this. It’ll ease the pain, no doubt about that, but it will also permit you to overstrain your leg and cause permanent damage.”
“Not half as permanent as being dead.” I hopped across into the dispensary, pulled old man Beresford’s suit out from the pile of folded blankets Susan had fetched and dressed as quickly as my bad leg and the pitching of the Campari would allow. I was just turning up the collar and tying the lapels together with a safety pin when Susan came in. She said, abnormally calm: “It suits you very well. Jacket’s a bit tight, though.”
“It’s a damn’ sight better than parading about the upper deck in the middle of the night wearing a white uniform. Where’s this black dress you spoke of?”
“Here.” She pulled it out from the bottom blanket.
“Thanks.” I looked at the label. Balenciaga. Should make a fair enough mask. I caught the hem of the dress between my hands, glanced at her, saw the nod and ripped, a dollar a stitch. I tore out a rough square, folded it in a triangle and tied it round my face, just below the level of my eyes. Another few rips, another square and I had a knotted cloth covering head and forehead until only my eyes showed. The pale glimmer of my hands I could always conceal.
“Nothing is going to stop you, then?” she said steadily.
“I wouldn’t say that.” I eased a little weight on to my left leg, used my imagination and told myself that it was going numb already. “Lots of things can stop me. Any one of forty-two men, all armed with guns and sub-machine-guns, can stop me. If they see me.”
She looked at the ruins of the Balenciaga. “Tear off a piece for me while you’re at it.”
“For you?” I looked at her. She was as pale as I felt. “What for?”
“I’m coming with you.” She gestured at her clothes, the navy-blue sweater and slacks. “It wasn’t hard to guess what you wanted Daddy’s suit for. You don’t think I changed into those for nothing?”
“I don’t suppose so.” I tore off another piece of cloth. “Here you are.”
“Well.” She stood there with the cloth in her hand. “Well. Just like that, eh?”
“It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
She gave me a slow, old-fashioned, up-from-under, shook her head and tied on the cloth. I hobbled to the sick-bay, Susan following.
“Where’s Miss Beresford going?” Marston demanded sharply. “Why is she wearing that hood?”
“She’s coming with me,” I said. “So she says.”
“Going with you? And you’d let her?” He was horrified. “She’ll get herself killed.”
“It’s likely enough,” I agreed. Something, probably the anæsthetic, was having a strange effect on my head: I felt enormously detached and very calm. “But, as the bo’sun says, what’s a couple of days early? I need another pair of eyes, somebody who can move quickly and lightly to reconnoitre, above all a lookout. Let’s have one of your torches, Doctor.”
“I object. I strongly protest against——”
“Get him the torch,” Susan interrupted.
He stared at her, hesitated, sighed and turned away. MacDonald beckoned me.
“Sorry I can’t be with you, sir, but this is the next best thing.” He pressed a seaman’s knife into my hand, wide-hinged blade on one side, shackle-locking marline-spike on the other: the marline came to a needle point. “If you have to use it hit upwards with the spike, the blade under in your hand.”
“Take your word for it any time.” I hefted the knife, saw Susan staring at it, her green eyes wide.
“You—you would use that thing?”
“Stay behind if you like. The torch, Dr. Marston.”
I pocketed the flash, kept the knife in my hand and passed through the surgery door. I didn’t let it swing behind me, I knew Susan would be there.
The sentry, sitting wedged into a corner of the passage, was asleep. His automatic carbine was across his knees. It was an awful temptation, but I let it go. A sleeping sentry would call for a few curses and kicks: but a sleeping sentry without his gun would start an all-out search of the ship.
It took me two minutes to climb up two companionways to the level of “A” deck. Nice wide flat companionways, but it took me two minutes. My left leg was very stiff, very weak and didn’t respond at all to auto-suggestion when I kept telling myself it was getting less painful by the minute: besides, the Campari was pitching so violently now that it would have been a full-time job for a fit person to climb upwards without being flung off.
Pitching. The Campari was pitching, but with a now even more exaggerated cork-screw motion, great sheets of flying water breaking over the bows and being hurled back against the superstructure. At some hundreds of miles from the centre of a hurricane—and I didn’t need any barometers or weather forecasts to tell me what was in the offing—it is the outspreading swell that indicates the direction of the centre: but closer in, and we were getting far too close for comfort, it is the wind direction that locates the centre. We were heading roughly 20 degrees east of north, and the wind blowing from dead ahead. That meant the hurricane was roughly to the east of us, with a little southing, still keeping pace with us, travelling roughly north-west, a more northerly course than was usual: and the Campari and the hurricane were on more of a collision course than ever. The strength of the wind I estimated at force eight or nine on the old Beaufort scale: that made the centre of the storm less than a hundred miles away. If Carreras kept on his present course at his present speed, everybody’s troubles, his as well as ours, would soon be over.
At the top of the second companion way I stood still for a few moments to steady myself, took Susan’s arm for support, then lurched aft in the direction of the drawing-room, twenty feet away. I’d hardly starting lurching when I stopped. Something was wrong.
Even in my fuzzy state it didn’t take long to find out what was wrong. On a normal night at sea, the Campari was like an illuminating Christmas tree: tonight, every deck light was off. Another example of Carreras taking no chances, although this was an unnecessary and exaggerated example. Sure he didn’t want anyone to see him, but in a black gale like this no one would have seen him anyway, even had any vessel been heading on the same course, which was hardly possible unless its master had taken leave of his senses. But it suited me well enough. We staggered on, making no attempt to be silent. With the shriek of the wind, the thunderous drumming of the torrential rain and the repeated pistol-shot explosions as the rearing Campari’s bows kept smashing into the heavy rolling combers ahead no-one could have heard us a couple of feet away.
The smashed windows of the drawing-room had been roughly boarded up. Careful not to cut a jugular or put an eye out on one of the jagged splinters of glass, I pressed my face close to the boards and peered through one of the cracks.
The curtains were drawn inside, but with the gale whistling through the gaps between the boards they were blowing and flapping wildly almost all the time. One minute there and I’d seen all I wanted to see and it didn’t help me at all. The passengers were all hearded together at one end of the room, most of them huddled down on close-packed mattresses, a few sitting with their backs to the bulkhead. A more miserably sea-sick collection of millionaires I had never seen in my life: their complexions ranged from a faintly greenish shade to a dead white pallor. They were suffering all right. In the corner I saw some stewards, cooks and engineer officers, including McIlroy, with Cummings beside him: seaman’s branch apart, it looked as if every off-duty man was imprisoned there with the passengers. Carreras was economising on his guards: I could see only two of them, hard-faced, unshaven characters with a tommy-gun apiece. For a moment I had the idea of bursting in the door and rushing them: but only for a moment. Armed with only a clasp-knife and with a top speed of about that of a fairly active tortoise, I wouldn’t have got a yard.
Two minutes later we were outside the wireless office. No one had challenged us, no one had seen us, the decks were entirely deserted. It was a night for deserted decks.
The wireless office was in darkness. I pressed one ear to the metal of the door, closed a hand over the other ear to shut out the clamour of the storm and listened as hard as I could. Nothing. I placed a gentle hand on the knob, turned and pushed. The door didn’t budge a fraction of an inch. I eased my hand off that door-knob with all the wary caution and thistledown delicacy of a man withdrawing the Koh-i-noor from a basket of sleeping cobras.
“What’s the matter?” Susan asked. “Is——”
That was as far as she got before my hand closed over her mouth
, not gently. We were fifteen feet away from that door before I took my hand away.
“What is it? What is it?” Her low whisper had a shake in it, she didn’t know whether to be scared or angry or both.
“The door was locked.”
“Why shouldn’t it be? Why should they keep watch——”
“That door is locked by a padlock. From the outside. We put a new one on there yesterday morning. It’s no longer there. Somebody has shut the catch on the inside.” I didn’t know how much of this she was getting: the roar of the sea, the drumfire of the rain, the wind rushing in from the darkness of the north and playing its high-pitched threnody in the rigging seemed to drown out and snatch away the words even as I spoke them. I pulled her into what pitiful shelter was offered by a ventilator and her next words showed that she had indeed heard and understood most of what I had said.
“They have left a sentry? Just in case anyone tried to break in? How could anyone break in? We’re all under guard and lock and key.”
“It’s as Carreras Junior says—his old man never takes a chance.” I hesitated, then, because I didn’t know what else to say. I went on: “I’ve no right to do this. But I must. I’m desperate. I want you to be a stalking horse—help get that character out of there.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Good girl.” I squeezed her arm. “Knock at the door. Pull that hood off and show yourself at the window. He’ll almost certainly switch on a light or flash a torch, and when he sees it’s a girl—well, he’ll be astonished, but not scared. He’ll want to investigate.”
“And then you—you——”
“That’s it.”
“With only a clasp-knife.” The tremor in the voice was unmistakable. “You’re very sure of yourself.”
The Golden Rendezvous Page 17
