Mr. Prior was such a fatherly sort of man that Finch had half a mind to confide in him and ask his advice. In fact he lingered on the bridge for a time, watching Prior fill and light an old, bitten-down pipe. Prior noticed with no little surprise this unusual reluctance of the third mate to cut away to his bunk.
“Something on your mind, lad?”
Finch gave a little cough, almost came out with it, then decided not to. After all, what good would it do? He had told Maggs and no good had come of that, only derision.
“No,” he said. “Nothing. Nothing at all. Good night.”
He turned and walked away. Ned Prior sucked thoughtfully at his pipe and watched him go.
FIVE
China Tea
“I SHALL have to go,” Moira Lycett said.
Carl Johansen stretched out a bare, muscular arm and restrained her. With that arm lying across her body she could not get up; it held her like an iron band. But an iron band would never have been so warm, so vitally alive; would not have sent those ripples of pleasure going through her.
“No hurry.”
“It’s getting late. Morton will have finished his game.”
“We have not finished our game.” He pressed his mouth against her throat where the pulse throbbed.
“If he goes back to the cabin and I’m not there he’ll wonder where I am.”
“That bothers you?”
“I don’t like arguments.”
“Arguments! Hell with arguments!”
“That’s all very well for you.”
“Sure is all very well for me. Is fine.”
“But it’s late.”
“Not so late. I am off duty till morning watch.”
“Morning watch?”
“Four to eight.”
“You’ll want some sleep.”
“Hell with sleep. People die in sleep.”
The mate’s cabin was slightly bigger than those allotted to the passengers, though it had only one bunk. Moira Lycett had not made up her mind until the last moment whether or not to go to him. Johansen had been waiting, confident that she would come. Too confident, she thought. It galled her a little, this obvious belief of his that he was irresistible, that he had only to beckon and she must come running. She did not like anyone to take her for granted.
Morton was playing cards with the Australian, Grade. She felt sure no one had seen her enter Johansen’s cabin, but if Morton finished his game and found that she was missing he might have suspicions. She was not in the habit of walking on deck at that hour.
“I must go.”
He took his arm away. “Okay. Is always tomorrow.”
She slid away from him and stood up. “I don’t know.”
Johansen reached out a long arm and hooked her round the waist, pulling her against the bunk. She felt his wide, hard mouth pressing into her side just above the hip.
“Sure you know. Tomorrow you come. Same time.”
Again his mouth pressed her side. She felt a strange weakness in all her limbs, as though the bones had turned to water. Johansen looked magnificent in his nakedness; a big, strong, virile animal.
“Let me go,” she whispered. It was like a prayer. “Let me go, Carl.”
He released her suddenly and she almost fell. She had to clutch at the bunk to steady herself. Johansen laughed softly.
“You got no strength in the legs? The so lovely, lovely legs. Is so?”
“You let go of me so suddenly. I wasn’t prepared.”
“So? You want I should hold you again?” There was a hint of mockery in his voice. In his eyes too.
She felt suddenly angry—with him, with herself. She guessed that he thought her cheap, easy to get. He would probably boast about his conquest later. Damn him then. But she knew that tomorrow she would come to him again.
He lay in the bunk and watched her while she dressed. “I think I sleep good now,” he said. “I think I have pleasant dreams.”
“You won’t sleep long. Not if you have to be on watch at four.”
“I don’t need much sleep. You work in ships, that’s the way it’s got to be. Sleep when you can. Bits and pieces.”
When she was ready to go she unlocked the door and opened it cautiously. She could see no one outside. She slipped out of the cabin and closed the door quickly behind her. The alleyway smelt of hot oil and fresh paint, a close, heavy atmosphere that oppressed her. She descended an internal stairway to a lower deck and walked down another alleyway to her own cabin.
She believed she had not been observed leaving Johansen’s quarters, but she was mistaken. One person had seen her leave; one person who had been on the lookout and had made certain that he himself should not be seen. When Moira Lycett had gone that person also went away.
Morton Lycett was in the cabin when Moira went in. He did not look pleased.
“Where the devil have you been? It’s nearly midnight.”
She closed the door before answering. She searched for a cigarette and lit it. She was annoyed to notice that her hand shook slightly.
“I asked a question.” Lycett sounded edgy. “Where have you been?”
She let the smoke flow from her mouth with a sigh. “I don’t see that it’s any concern of yours, but if you’re really so interested, I’ve been on deck.”
“At this hour?”
“It’s a pleasant night.”
“You’ve been up there a hell of a time. I’ve been in here since half-past ten.”
“You finished your game early.”
He gave her a quick, suspicious glance. “You expected it to last longer?”
She answered offhandedly, as though it were a matter of no importance, “It usually does.”
“So you time me?”
“Don’t be an idiot, Morton.”
“Perhaps I’m not such an idiot as you take me for. Was anyone with you on deck?”
“No. I was alone.”
“I should have thought you’d find it chilly, dressed like that.”
“It makes a pleasant change to be cool.”
He was silent for a time, but he was watching her. It was something he had started doing lately, just watching her. The knowledge that his eyes were on her even when she turned her back on him irritated her. She preferred his complaints to that silent scrutiny; it got on her nerves.
At last he said, “You couldn’t have been on deck all that time. I went up and looked for you.”
“You didn’t look closely enough.”
“This isn’t the Queen Elizabeth. There’s not all that deck area. If you’d been there I’d have found you.”
She affected boredom. “I don’t know where this interrogation is supposed to be leading. Again, if you’re interested, I wasn’t on deck all the time.”
“Where were you?”
“With the Mensteins.”
She realised at once that she had made a blunder. Morton would quite possibly check up. Perhaps she had better speak to the Mensteins first thing in the morning. But could she really ask them to provide an alibi? It would be too degrading. And suppose they refused to play? She had scarcely spoken to them beyond the ordinary courtesies, but she had gained the impression that they were the kind of people who would probably have a respect for the truth. No, better not to say anything to them. If Morton discovered that she had lied, so be it. She could always laugh it off.
But could she? It was becoming rather less easy to turn away Morton’s questions with a laugh. Ridiculous as it might seem, he appeared to be becoming more possessive as he grew older. Surely he could not still be in love with her after all these years. Or was it not so much love as a sense of property? No doubt he considered that she belonged to him and perhaps he resented the idea that any other man should lay a hand on something that was legally his. Perhaps even Morton could be as old-fashioned as that.
She glanced at him. He was half-sitting, half-lying on his bunk and frowning. He seemed to be in a really black mood; perhaps he had lost money to
the Australian at cards. So what if he found out about her and Johansen? He already suspected; that was obvious. But suppose suspicion hardened into certainty? What would he do then? She simply did not know. Morton might not be a courageous man but he could be very vindictive; that she knew. Well, she would just have to be careful; make sure no one saw her entering or leaving the mate’s cabin. Then Morton might suspect all he liked, but he would have no proof and she could meet any accusation with a denial.
Nevertheless, it was a pity she had brought in the Men-steins.
“There’s something I want you to remember,” Lycett said.
“And what would that be?”
“That you’re still my wife.”
“God,” she said, “do you think I’m ever likely to forget it?”
“What’s in the box, Nick?” Grade asked.
Holt held the box in his two hands. He had taken it out of the wardrobe to get at a book on the same shelf. The box measured about ten inches by six and was perhaps five inches deep. It was made of plywood, roughly nailed together, and there were some Chinese characters painted on it.
“Just tea. China tea.”
“You like China tea?”
“I don’t,” Holt said. “Mr. Saunders asked me to take it to his partner in Perth. Seems he’s crazy about the stuff.”
Saunders was the Australian wool merchant who had paid Holt’s passage from Hong Kong and had offered him a job. The partner’s name was Roylance. Saunders had not given Holt Roylance’s address but he had said that he would send the man a cable and tell him to meet Holt off the ship in Fremantle. Holt thought this was very kind of Mr. Saunders, and said so.
“Think nothing of it,” Saunders said. “I think I’m getting a good man. I’m sure of it.”
“But it’s not really necessary for Mr. Roylance to come to Fremantle. I can find my own way to Perth.”
“You ever been to Perth?”
Holt admitted that he had not.
“Then let Fred Roylance be your guide.”
“Perhaps he won’t want to be put to all that bother.”
“For him a trip to Fremantle is no bother at all. I’ll tell him about the tea and he’ll come like a bat out of hell. Give old Fred the scent of China tea and he’ll go anywhere. Me, I can’t stand the muck. Especially this blend; it’s Lapsang Souchong. Tastes like tar.”
Holt wondered why anyone should like drinking tar, but every man to his taste. All he had to do was take the box to Fremantle and hand it over to Roylance. That should be easy enough.
“How’d you happen to bump into this man Saunders?” Grade asked.
“Just chance. I was having a drink in a bar. He accidentally jogged my elbow and spilt my beer. Of course he apologised, bought me another, and we got talking. He’s an easy man to talk to.”
“So you told him you were down to your last cent, and he offered you a job and the passage money. Just like that?”
“More or less.”
Grade patted Holt on the shoulder. “Congratulations, chum. I don’t know what you’ve got, but it must be something. Nobody ever made up to me like that just for spilling my drink. Maybe it’s that Pommy charm.”
“Maybe it is.”
“And all you have to do in return is take that little old box to the man in Fremantle. My, my.”
There was something in Grade’s tone that Holt did not altogether care for. Grade sounded cynical. His expression was cynical too.
“Don’t you believe me?”
“Oh, I believe you, chum,” Grade said. “It’s Mr. Saunders I find just a wee bit hard to believe. All that milk of human kindness oozing out of every pore.”
“I don’t get you.”
“You ever read a book called ‘Nicholas Nickleby’? Written by a character name of Charles Dickens.”
“I know who wrote ‘Nicholas Nickleby’. I read it a long time ago.”
“Remember the Cheeryble Brothers?”
“Vaguely.”
“The Cheerybles gave our Nicholas a job just because they liked the look of him.”
“So?”
Grade smiled, and it was a very cynical smile. “Me, I never did believe people like the Cheerybles existed in real life. Not today. Though there are certainly some Nicholases drifting around.”
“What are you trying to say?” Holt asked.
“What I’m trying to say is this: if I were you, Nick, I’d open that box and take a good hard look at that China tea. Yes, sir, I’d open it right here and now.”
“You’re crazy. Why should I do that?”
“Well, let’s just say in the interests of research. The widening of knowledge. You ever seen any Lapsang Souchong tea?”
“No, but—”
“Nor me either. I’d like to though. Yes, I truly would like to see a handful of that stuff.”
“And how do I explain to Mr. Roylance why his box is bust open?”
“You don’t have to explain anything. You can nail it up again.”
Holt gave Grade a long silent stare. Grade stared back, still with the cynical smile on his face.
Then Holt said, “Have you got a lever?”
Grade produced a clasp-knife with a screwdriver attachment.
“I was in the Boy Scouts. They taught me to be prepared.”
Holt put the plywood box on the table. He took Grade’s knife and inserted the screwdriver under the lid. The lid was held down by thin half-inch nails; a little leverage with the screwdriver prised it up, drawing the nails out of the wood with a slight creaking sound. Holt put the lid carefully on one side. There was some tinfoil covering the contents. He folded the tinfoil back and revealed nothing but tea.
He looked at Grade. “Satisfied?”
Grade was still smiling. “So that’s Lapsang Souchong.”
Holt bent down and sniffed the tea. Saunders had been dead right about the flavour; it even smelt of tar.
“How about a brew-up?” Grade said.
Holt began to fold back the tinfoil. He had had just about enough of Grade’s little jokes. He had been a fool to open the box. Now what was he going to use for a hammer to knock the lid back on?
“Wait a second,” Grade said. He stepped to the table and poked a finger in the tea. Then he picked up the box and emptied the contents out on to the table.
“Here,” Holt protested. “What the devil do you think you’re up to?”
“You’ve been short-weighted, chum.”
“Short-weighted?”
“You’ve only got half a box of tea.”
Holt peered into the box. It looked strangely shallow.
“False bottom,” Grade said. “Why?”
“You tell me.”
“Maybe I will when we’ve looked deeper.”
Grade picked up the knife, opened the large blade and forced it between the false bottom and the side of the box; after a little manipulation a rectangle of thin plywood came out. Beneath it, rammed in so that it completely filled the available space, was a polythene bag containing what appeared to be a white, crystalline powder.
Grade made a soft hissing sound through his teeth. “Now that, Nick, boy, doesn’t look like any tea I ever saw. You know something? I begin to think your Mr. Saunders wasn’t being altogether honest with you. Not strictly on the up and up, if you get my meaning. Fact is, I think you got a crook deal.”
He lifted the bag out of the box. It was fastened with a piece of fine string. Grade untied the string and opened the bag. He took a little of the powder on his finger and touched it with the tip of his tongue.
“Bitter taste. What does that tell you, Nick?”
“Nothing.”
“It tells me something. It tells me this is heroin for a cert.”
“Heroin! Are you sure?”
“I’d lay a thousand to one.”
“It can’t be,” Holt said; but he was thinking it very well could be just that. And he did not like it.
“Just look at it this way,” Grade said. �
�This comes from Hong Kong. Red China is just across the border. In China the poppies grow that opium is extracted from. Morphine comes from opium. Heroin is a derivative of morphine. Are you with me?”
“I’m with you,” Holt said, and wished he wasn’t.
Grade weighed the bag in his hand. “You any idea what this little lot would be worth on the black market?”
Holt shook his head.
Grade appeared to be making a mental calculation. Then he said, “I’m guessing, mind, but if this is heroin—and somehow I can’t see Mr. Saunders bothering to hide a bag of salt away like that; if it is heroin I’d say at a low estimate it’d be worth not less than somewhere around forty thousand Australian dollars. Say twenty thousand pounds sterling.”
“You must be joking. Twenty thousand pounds for that.”
“You can get anything between one and four pounds a grain, so they tell me.”
Holt wondered just who “they” were, but he did not ask.
“So that’s why Mr. Roylance was going to be so willing to meet me in Fremantle. Nothing to do with China tea.”
“Oh, he may have a taste for that too.” Grade re-tied the bag with the thin string. “Seems to me, Nick, you were the stooge. If the customs found that junk you were the one who got caught. Not Mr. Saunders, who is probably not really Mr. Saunders anyway, and not Mr. Roylance, who is likewise probably not Mr. Roylance; just you, chum, just you.”
“Joe Soap.”
“You said it. But the chances were good that you’d get through without even having the box opened. You got that innocent look. It was a good play. How was Saunders to know that you’d have such a suspicious bastard for a cabin mate? I wonder how many innocent suckers he uses like this.”
“So much for the job in Australia,” Holt said. He could see now that there never would have been a job. He was just being used; and when he had served his purpose he would have been discarded. He no longer believed there had been any accident about that spilt beer; it had all been planned.
“Cheer up,” Grade said. “Plenty other jobs. What are you going to do about this?” He indicated the bag of heroin.
Holt picked up the bag and put it back in the box. He pushed the false bottom into place and began to scoop up the tea and refill the box.
Sea Fury (1971) Page 8
