by Paul Gallico
The door had been the entrance to the top hold of three. Now, with the upturning of the ship, it was the lower one, and the bottom of the door almost met the ceiling-floor on which they were standing. The imperfectly stamped letters “HOLD NO. 1” were upside down. Klaas pressed his hands and his ear against the flat authoritarian gray of the door. It was about seven feet high and four feet across.
“No fire, I think,” he said, quietly, his hands testing the thick steel. “But I hear a noise. An odd noise. It sounds like an engine running and stopping, a sort of drumming. It could be water. I suggest we open it carefully.” He indicated the ten six-inch handles around the edge of the door. “These fit into angled slots to hold it up against a waterproof pad. A little at a time with each, please.”
Tentatively he edged one down an inch. Then the same with the next. Coby stepped to the other side. She too moved one handle a fraction, then another, then another. The rim of the door eased out very slightly. The only sound was their own breathing, and a muffled rasping noise that grew louder as the door came away from its pad. It was familiar and yet also unidentifiable. Rogo and Jason exchanged baffled looks.
“Any minute now, gentlemen,” murmured Klaas. He tapped each of the handles lightly so that they lost their final, fractional grip. “Any minute . . .” In that second of bright fear, a terrible roar seemed to engulf the whole engine room and shake the ship itself. In a gap an inch wide they saw beyond belief and all doubt the ferocious beauty of a tiger’s face.
For a second that might have been an hour, time ended, and it seemed as though their senses had surrendered to havoc. All of them froze at the madness of what their eyes told them. The rich colors of that great head, the thick curving black lines sharply delineated against the orange yellow, blazed in the light of the lanterns. It was a picture of beauty and terror, framed perfectly between door and frame. Coby, frozen in a stooping position where she had been loosening the last handle, looked straight into the tiger’s eyes. She felt as though she were looking beyond the end of the world. The terror of that timeless moment was suspended, for the animal’s head was cocked slightly to one side in a puzzled, almost inquisitive way, like a dog who thinks he hears his name. From Rogo issued an involuntary “Sheeeyit!”
Then the tiger’s face divided like a chasm and all sensations exploded in a vision of cavernous mouth and teeth and again a roar waved and rolled across them, a tempest of noise and power that seemed to scorch the flesh and crack the bones. And around the edge of the gradually opening door, a huge paw appeared. At first blindly, touching and feeling, and then clamping down on Coby’s left arm.
Rogo, immediately behind her, swayed, and sank to his knees, his knuckles on the ground. He was powerless. Klaas, beside the girl, was quite immobile, his fingers locked around one of the handles, and Manny Rosen’s jaw swung in a caricature of dislocated astonishment. It was Martin who moved and spoke first. He almost jumped in the air and babbled, “Quick, do something!”
Jason swung Hely to one side. He raised himself up on his toes, took seven or eight, finely balanced steps, then his foot lashed out in a perfectly judged, curving kick that landed in the center of that paw. From the embers of the roar blazed another, this time a sharper, more sudden sound, and the paw flicked back out of sight.
“Everyone!” yelled Jason, and flung himself at the hold door. Coby threw her weight with his, and Klaas, awakened by Jason’s action, joined them. Jason snapped two of the handles back into the locked position, and gave a gasp of relief. He leaned back against the hold. Coby took his hand and looked at her sleeve. It was ripped. “Thank you” was all she could manage.
“Never, never in my goddamn life have I seen anything like that.” Rogo was shaking his head from side to side in long, slow turns. He was talking to himself. He held out his hands, palms down, and examined them. They were twitching, and his chest rose and fell too quickly. “You know, I don’t think I was ever really scared before, not in my whole life.”
Manny put a hand on his shoulders. “We were all the same, Mr. Rogo. Don’t you worry about it. Except for Captain Jason there. It’s a good thing he jumped pretty quick or the young lady could have been in real trouble.”
Rogo knelt there looking at his shaking hands and thinking. It shouldn’t have been like that. He had faced most dangers. He had been shot, he had been knifed, he had been beaten up. Four men had cornered him once behind a liquor store they were sticking up on Ninety-seventh Street. He had accepted that fear then, and advanced to meet them, knowing he could be killed. Two weeks in the hospital that time, and his nose would never be straight again. Then there was the Westchester Plains prison mutiny. He had walked in, shot three armed criminals, and put an end to a riot. Again at the risk of his life. He was not stupid; he had known that when he did it. But the apprehension he felt then was nothing like this. “Holy suffering Christ!” he murmured. “A big pussycat did this to Mike Rogo.” He was glad Linda had not been there to see it.
“We were all pretty shocked, I guess,” Martin said. “I mean, a tiger. Well who’d expect to find a tiger in there? Don’t let it worry you. I was scared myself, Mr. Rogo.”
It was the comparison that did it. The thought that Martin dare set his courage and toughness alongside his own brought Rogo growling to his feet and flexing his fingers. “That’s okay for you. I bet you stand on a chair if you see a mouse. But Mike Rogo don’t scare, period. And he don’t like it when he does, either.”
“I was only trying to help.” Martin bristled. Rogo was always picking on him. He had done as much as anyone in the first escape. And he had volunteered to come back. “At least I could still talk and didn’t just sit there.”
“Talk! Yeah, that’s about the only stinking thing you’re good at,” Rogo snapped back. “And I’ll tell you something, Martin. One of these days you’re gonna wind up picking your teeth up offa the floor if you don’t quit yapping. I wanted a tame canary, I woulda brought one.”
His arm still around Coby, Jason heard the little Dutch girl whisper, “Oh, please stop them!” Jason’s tone was back to its customary light banter when he spoke. “Any other time, gentlemen, and I’d be glad to hold your jackets, but unfortunately we’ve got work to do. What I’d like to know is what the hell a tiger’s doing in a passenger ship’s hold anyway.”
Klaas explained, “Cargo, that’s all. This is no longer the gracious queen of the seas it was once, you know. I’d say that they’d carry anything and everything to make the voyage pay. Greek shipowners are not sentimentalists.”
Coby said, “Yes, but a tiger, Papa?”
Klaas shrugged. “Someone must transport them. This hold had a little more security than most, so I suppose they thought it would be safer in there. Probably did not even feed the beast. From what I hear, the Poseidon’s new owners are not too choosy about their cargo as long as the money is right.” Jason gave him a thoughtful look. “They sure don’t ask too many questions, Klaas.”
Klaas continued, “That doesn’t matter. What does matter is that we can’t get in there anymore. This ship can go down any minute. The situation is hopeless, and I suggest we abandon ideas of salvage of any sort and get back to the Magt.”
Manny Rosen could not agree quickly enough. “There’s nothing we can do here anymore. We tried, but I think we ought to face facts and get out quickly.” He shuddered slightly as he looked around the hostile darkness.
Rogo obviously did not agree. His fists sat truculently on his hips. “You hit a coupla snags and you run away. But Mike Rogo stays, tiger or no goddamn tiger.”
Hands outflung in despair, Klaas made one last appeal to him. “But you cannot recover the gold. It’s impossible.” Rogo found it hard to argue with Klaas. His quiet authority, his knowledge of the sea, his captain’s insignia, the very reasonableness of his manner. Perhaps it was impossible. Perhaps he would be risking his life for nothing. Every instinct told him he must recover that consignment. But he knew in his heart he could never steel him
self to open the door and face that creature again. He found himself turning to Jason, “You got any ideas, cowboy?”
It was as near as the New York policeman could get to a plea, and Jason responded as best he could. He was examining the hold door, his thumbs hooked into his jeans’ pockets, and he said, “You’re right, Rogo. I’m in the same position. I still want to collect my . . . parcel, but I don’t particularly want to play Tarzan with that cat. The ship’s going to go down soon. And any minute now we could have company.”
The last sentence made everyone look at him.
“Company?” Rogo glared. “Company? We’re in the middle of the lousy, stinking sea, not Fifth Avenue, dumbo.”
Only Hely was not completely stupefied by the comment. She thought of the men who had attacked her and killed Roland and the others. Jason must know them. They knew of her mission certainly, and she suddenly realized that she might be exposed. What would Jason think of her then? She said quickly, “I think we’d better go, Jason, before it’s too late.”
They all watched as Jason turned and indicated with a casual finger the far side of the vessel, between the stern and the pale light of the recently revealed companionway. “I’m afraid it is too late,” he said.
On the blackness of the hull’s side, a thin, fiery red line had completed three sides of a square, and there was a clear hissing sound. Rogo, who only an hour earlier had rejoiced at the same operation when he was rescued from the propeller shaft housing, knew instantly what it was.
“They’re cutting through,” he said. He creased his brow over this new mystery. How the hell would Jason know someone was coming? Were these some friends of his? His doubts about the man swept aside the mild comradeship that had developed between them. Rogo’s eyes narrowed and he wished fervently he had his gun, in working order.
He growled aggressively at him, “Okay, this time no party games, huh? Who is it out there? What’s going on? This ain’t funny no more.”
“No,” replied Jason, and his amiable tone did nothing to lessen the shock of his words. “I think it’s going to get very unfunny from now on. Our new guest, if I’m right, is Captain Ilich Bela, and, whatever else he does, he does not make people laugh. He is a Communist. He is also a smuggler, a blackmailer, a thief, and a murderer. He is the leader of a band of thugs who’d make your clients, Rogo, look like Shirley Temple.”
Rogo was stunned. He asked quietly, “What does he want here?”
Jason tossed a thumb at the hold door. “Gold. Wherever there is gold, Captain Bela won’t be far away. And if you want to go back on your beat with two legs, don’t stand in his way, Batman.”
The hissing red line was halfway along the fourth line of the approximately six-foot square in the side of the hull, its base just above the waterline outside, with a ten-foot drop to the wreck-strewn floor of the engine room. Its progress held all their eyes. There was no conviction in Rogo’s voice as he grunted, “Well, I ain’t giving ground to a Commie pirate bastard.”
“Captain Jason, I feel sure that if we explain . . .” Klaas began, but he stopped when he saw Jason’s head shake.
“Ilich Bela isn’t the debating type, Klaas. He does most of his talking with bullets.”
The hissing stopped. The square was completed.
It was going to be a good day. It was, thought Anton happily, going to be a very good day. He sat in the stern of the eight-seater pinnace watching the men working with the cutting gear on the hull of the Poseidon, among showers of golden sparks. He hummed a popular song quite tunelessly. Soon he would have fun. Lots of fun. He would have money. Then he would buy girls and vodka. A smile of almost cherubic innocence rested incongruously on his ape face. Anton’s pleasures were simple. They were violence and vodka and women, and all three were soon to be delivered to him.
“Soon, eh, Captain Bela?” The captain, in front of him, nodded and smiled over his shoulder. Then he leaned back and snapped disagreeably as some of the sparks drifted dangerously near his jacket. A curious man, Captain Bela. So fond of his clothes. Like a woman almost, with his manicured hands and soft voice, thought Anton. But that was only the captain’s way, like his strange manner of talking. Anton liked him, loved him almost. Captain Bela was a good man. He was not afraid of anyone, despite the softness in his hands and voice. He knew how to get money, and he knew how to keep away the police. Anton did not like the police. But since he had become the captain’s friend he had not been to prison once. And what had the captain told him that morning? “Anton, my friend, how would you like a policeman to play with?” Anton had been puzzled at first. The captain had explained with his clever, confusing words, “To play with, Anton. A little policeman for you to play with. He is on that ship and he must not leave alive. Do you understand?” Anton had understood then. There had been other people the captain had not wanted alive, and always it had meant fun for Anton. The captain had said there was gold on the ship too, and Anton could have some for his girls and his vodka.
His hand rooted for an itch in his coarsely matted chest. He was contented. He hoped he would not have to use the pistol in his belt. It was too much like a little toy. Too quick, too sudden. Anton wanted to use his hands. He looked at them. The great pads of muscle under each finger. He had once strangled a dog with his left hand for a bet. It was a big dog and it had kicked and wriggled as he held it out at arm’s length. But it had been easy, as he felt his fingers clamp on that hot throat. Anton had enjoyed that feeling more than the small vodka he had won. Perhaps the policeman would kick and wriggle too. That would be good.
The sparks stopped. The men had finished cutting. The metal cooled quickly. One of them leaned back and banged the sole of his boot against it. Quite slowly, the great square of steel fell in, landing somewhere inside with a hollow crash.
“Let’s find some little games for you, eh, Anton, my friend?” The captain had risen. He straightened his cap and made a small adjustment to his lapel, and then, motioning with the heavy-caliber automatic pistol in his hand, directed Anton and three others to the front. Anton grabbed the rope ladder and put it under his arm, and shouted, “Me first!” He stepped up onto the rim of the opening. It was going to be a good day.
OPEN THE CAGE
7
They had faced many dangers. Rogo and the other two original survivors had conquered the grueling climb through the inverted ship, and returned. All of them had experienced the sudden terror of the ship’s lurch, the nagging ever-present dread that at any moment it would sink and take them with it, and the jarring shock of the tiger. They had been in fear, sometimes of each other even, in the dripping darkness of that dreadful floating coffin. The arrival of Captain Bela, however, was a new dimension in danger. They watched his boarding party in fearful silence.
From the moment the cutaway section of the hull crashed inwards, they were aware of the malevolent nature of the intrusion. Pearl light flooded the forward end of the room, the now water-free companionway to the rest of the vessel, the wreckage of machinery across what had originally been the ceiling, and on the far side the little group who stood in front of the hold. They blinked at the neat square of blue sky as the rope ladder snaked over the side. There was no cheerful inquiry, no offer of assistance, no identification, none of the signs that would have indicated honest men in a rescue operation. And no hope could have survived the sight of the silhouetted giant who for a second completely blocked the new source of light, and then swung silently down the ladder.
Manny, who stood with Martin and Klaas and his daughter near the hold, whispered, “He looks like King Kong.”
Rogo had advanced to meet the new arrivals. He thrust out his rock face, prepared to take on all comers, a few feet away from the foot of the rope ladder. But there was little confidence left in him, and the lumbering giant ignored his challenge: “What do you think this is—Visitor’s Day?”
Three more men followed, each in what appeared to be a uniform of turtle-necked maroon sweaters and knitted woolen
hats. The first, they saw, had only one eye. It made him look even more sinister. Another mean-faced one fingered his growing moustache with a novice’s pride. They moved without speaking, two to the right by the drained lake which led down to the funnel, and two to the left near the companionway. Each man carried a Russian Stechkin automatic pistol. The guns were trained on the group throughout the boarding operation and when they took up their positions their regimentation suggested a firing squad.
There was something close to admiration in Rogo when he said, “Jesus Christ, Jason, these guys are no amateurs.”
Jason’s reply came, surprisingly, from some distance away. He was behind Rogo. “Don’t worry, Batman,” he said. “They know their job. Let me take care of this, Rogo, huh?”
Rogo grunted assent. There was little else he could do. He recognized professional killers when he saw them. He himself was no longer armed. At least Jason appeared to know who they were. But why had Jason moved so that he was alone? It was as though he had detached himself from the group. Rogo didn’t like it.
Grim-faced, Klaas watched their arrival. The sea, like the land, has its own levels of society, and Klaas was under no illusion about these men. No ship’s crew he had ever seen behaved like this. They were gangsters beyond doubt. They were not the shabby crooks and petty thieves of dockland either; they were trained, ordered, practiced. His arm went round his daughter, and he felt her shiver against his chest. She, too, knew.
Martin, for perhaps the first time, began to wonder if the adventure was worth the risk. There was no ignoring these men or misjudging their character.
They felt as though they were watching the erection of their own gallows. When a slim, poised figure appeared in the blue square, it was without doubt the entrance of the hangman.
“Now, gentlemen,” he said, “let us see what fish we have caught.” His excellent English was made even more sinister by the softened consonants of Eastern Europe. He descended the ladder, taking care to see it did not touch his clothes, and as he stepped to the floor he half-snapped his fingers in irritation at some smear of dirt. As he faced them, the powerful beam of his flashlight lit the barrel of a gun in his right hand.
