Sea Fury (1971)

by Pattinson, James

  Ned Prior came like an answer to a prayer. There was something so sane, so earthy about him, something indeed so fatherly, that Finch felt immediately reassured by the mere presence of the older man.

  “Well now,” Prior said, “it doesn’t look too healthy, does it, Finch me lad?”

  “It looks nasty.” Finch said.

  “Did we have any warning of this over the magical wireless waves?”

  Finch told him what Maggs had said and Prior shook his head. “Pity, pity. Still, it can’t be helped. How’s the glass behaving?”

  “Dropping fast. Faster than I’ve ever seen it drop.”

  “I see. Has the Old Man been up during your watch?”

  “Not a sign of him.” Finch proceeded to air his grievance. “Other nights he’d be up, plaguing the life out of me. But tonight, when he’s really wanted, no.”

  “In that case it might not be a bad idea to tip him the wink when you go down.” Prior paused a moment, then added, “On second thoughts, maybe it’d be better to see the mate. Let him break the good news to our dear captain.”

  Finch also thought that it might be a better idea; he had no wish to inform Captain Leach that there was a storm coming up and that he ought to be taking a bit of interest in it. He might get some curses for waking Mr. Johansen, but he would rather face a disgruntled mate than an irate captain. He hurried away on his errand and left Mr. Prior to the duties of the watch.

  Finch rapped on the door of the mate’s cabin and waited. There was no answer, no invitation to enter. Finch rapped again. Still no answer. He supposed Johansen must be sound asleep, but then he noticed that there was light showing under the door and it seemed strange that the mate should have gone to sleep without switching the light off. Mr. Finch gave one more rap with his knuckles and then opened the door.

  He was quite prepared to be yelled at, to be cursed, to be told to get to hell out of it; there would have been nothing unusual in that. But he was not prepared for what he was to find when he walked into the cabin; and he wished it could have been someone else and not he whose ill fortune it had been to stumble on what was waiting inside.

  Mr. Johansen was lying on the floor of the cabin. He was lying face upwards and his eyes were open. But the eyes did not move; they had a glassy look about them and they were staring straight up at the deckhead, as though intent on something up there, something not apparent to anyone else.

  “Mr. Johansen!” Finch said in a low voice. “Mr. Johansen!”

  Johansen took no notice of the third mate, did not even glance at him. And now Finch noticed something else: there was broken glass on the floor, the chair was overturned and broken, the table was hanging askew, the bedding had been half-pulled off the bunk, and the door of the wardrobe was open and swinging. Some articles of clothing had spilled out of the wardrobe and were scattered about the cabin.

  Finch was no detective, but it needed no great powers of deduction to reach the conclusion that a desperate struggle had taken place in the cabin. And if further evidence were needed there was the wide, deep gash in Johansen’s forehead, and the blood.

  Finch felt sick, but he forced himself to kneel down and take the mate’s left wrist in his fingers, feeling for the pulse. He could detect no sign of any beating. He let the arm fall; it was still quite flexible; therefore Johansen could not have been dead long enough for rigor mortis to set in. And then, as Finch kneeled, the ship rolled so heavily that Johansen’s head fell over to the left, bringing the eyes into line with Finch’s own.

  This was too much for Mr. Finch’s nerves. With a cry of horror he jumped up and made for the door.

  Nick Holt was finding sleep elusive. The porthole had had to be closed and it was stiflingly hot in the cabin. The ship was rolling so heavily now that the bunk was like a seesaw, one moment your feet were up in the air, the next moment they were down. How could any man sleep in such conditions? And in the lower bunk Grade was as sick as a dog.

  Holt decided to give up the search for sleep and take a look at the weather on deck. He switched on the light over his bunk, swung his legs over the side, waited for the ship to come back to an even keel and dropped to the floor.

  Grade was also awake. He said, “What are you up to?”

  “Can’t sleep,” Holt said. “Going to take a turn on deck.”

  “Looks like you’re getting your storm. Been whistling?”

  “No. It came without my help.”

  “If I thought you were to blame I’d strangle you.”

  Holt was pulling on his trousers. “You feel bad?”

  “My back teeth are under water and I’ve got a head like a church bell—with the clapper going.”

  “Want me to get you anything?”

  “Like one made-to-measure coffin?”

  “You won’t die. Unless the ship goes down.”

  “Right now,” Grade said, “that might be the lesser evil.”

  Holt left him to his misery and went out of the cabin. It was past midnight and there was a different character about the interior of the ship at this time of night; the alleyways were deserted and it was as though all the human element had vanished, leaving the vessel to go on by itself with its monstrous heart thumping below and all its bones creaking in agony. Holt had intended going straight up on deck, but now he had a curious impulse first to explore the interior, to see what it looked like at this hour when everyone but the watch-keepers had retired.

  He went first to the dining saloon. It was dark in there. He found the switch and turned the lights on. The fans had stopped and two of the chairs had fallen over. There was a stale odour of food and cigar smoke, close and oppressive. He noticed that all the portholes had been closed and screwed tight. He heard glasses clinking.

  He switched the lights off, left the saloon and closed the door behind him. He had taken no more than two paces when Mr. Finch crashed into him. There was a wild, terror-stricken look in Finch’s eyes and for the moment he seemed not to recognise Holt.

  Holt said, “You’re in a hurry, Mr. Finch. Where’s the fire?”

  Finch stared at him. “Fire? What fire?”

  “It was just a joke. You seemed to be in a great hurry to get somewhere.”

  “Did I?” Finch seemed dazed. He put a hand to his forehead. “Where was I going?”

  “I don’t know.” Holt wondered whether Finch was ill. And then it occurred to him that Finch must have had some kind of a shock. “Has something happened?”

  “Happened,” Finch repeated. Then he seemed to get a grip on himself. “Yes, something has happened. Something terrible. Mr. Johansen has been murdered.”

  “Murdered!”

  “He’s lying in his cabin. Dead.” Finch gripped Holt’s arm and shook it. “Do you understand? Dead.”

  Holt understood. And something that Grade had said flashed into his mind, “For that woman I think he’d commit murder.” Grade had been talking about Morton Lycett.

  “What are you going to do, Mr. Finch?”

  “I—” Finch seemed to have no idea what to do.

  “You’d better tell the captain.”

  “Yes,” Finch said. He sounded grateful for the suggestion. “Yes, that’s what I must do. I’ll go and tell him now.”

  He released Holt’s arm and walked away. Holt also walked away—in the direction of the mate’s cabin.

  Mr. Finch had been in such a hurry to escape that he had not even closed the door. When Holt arrived he found it swinging. He hooked it back, then bent down and examined the body lying on the floor. It did not take him long to convince himself that Finch had been right: Mr. Johansen was undoubtedly dead.

  Holt glanced round the cabin and saw the disorder, and he came to the same conclusion that Finch had reached: Johansen had not died without a struggle. He wondered what Lycett had used for a weapon; he must have had something; that gash in Johansen’s forehead indicated as much; and anyway, a man of Lycett’s physique would hardly have been able to overpower the husky mate wit
h the aid of nothing more than his bare hands. Holt looked for something that might have filled the bill, but he could see nothing. Well, of course, Lycett was not likely to leave it lying there; he would get rid of it at once. And there would be no difficulty about that; the sea would swallow up any evidence of that kind and no one would ever find it.

  But was he not jumping to conclusions? He had no proof that Lycett had been the murderer, and until suspicion was changed to certainty he ought to keep an open mind. Very well then, he would keep an open mind, difficult though it might be with everything pointing to Lycett as the killer.

  Holt wondered why Finch was taking so long in fetching Captain Leach. They should have been here by now. Perhaps he ought to go and see whether Finch had in fact gone for Leach; the third mate had looked pretty shocked and it was possible that he was just wandering around in a daze.

  Then Holt’s eye was caught by something on the cabin floor; a small silvery object lying partly hidden by the body of the mate. He had not noticed it before, and in fact it was only the rolling of the ship, shifting the body slightly, that revealed it now. Holt bent down and picked it up, looked at it for some time, deep in thought, then dropped it into his pocket.

  The reason why Finch was such a long time was that he was having difficulty in rousing Captain Leach. Leach was still snoring, as he had been when Johansen had left him some four hours earlier. The only difference was in his position: he was now lying flat on his back on the cabin carpet, having apparently been tipped off the settee by the movement of the ship. When this had happened it was impossible to say, but it had obviously not been a sufficient jolt to waken him; or if it had been, he had decided to go to sleep again where he was and not bother to climb back on to the settee.

  Finch shook him, shouting, “Captain Leach! Wake up! Captain! Wake up!”

  Johansen had tried the same treatment with the same lack of success that Finch was having now. Leach snored on. In desperation Finch went to the captain’s bathroom and drew a tumbler of cold water. He carried the tumbler to where Leach was lying, hesitated a moment, appalled by his own temerity, then flung the water in his captain’s face.

  Leach’s mouth was open and a quantity of the water went into it and down his throat. The snoring ceased abruptly and was replaced by such a horrible gurgling noise that the terrified Finch wondered whether he had succeeded in doing nothing more useful than choke the life out of another man. Then Leach’s eyes opened, focused on Finch with the tumbler still in his hand as evidence of his guilt, and glowered balefully.

  Finch trembled.

  Leach sat up suddenly and uttered a long drawn out growl that sounded to Finch like “Gaaarroogh!” and made him tremble even more violently. He tried to say something but his tongue would not form the words. He just stood there, holding the empty tumbler and shaking from head to foot.

  “Mr. Finch,” Leach said in a thick, cold, deadly voice. “Did you throw water over me?”

  Finch answered in a high-pitched squeak: “Yes, sir.”

  Leach began to get up from the floor. Finch darted forward to help him, but Leach brushed the proffered hand aside with a curse. He got to his feet, staggered a little and sat down heavily on the settee. Again he glowered at Finch.

  “No doubt you’ve got an explanation. You’d better have. It’d better be good.”

  “Mr. Johansen has been murdered, sir,” Finch said.

  If he had been expecting some violent reaction to this revelation he was to be disappointed. Leach did not reel back in horror; he did not even give a jerk of the head. Not by any movement or gesture or change of expression did he give a hint that the words had touched any nerve. He merely stared back at the third mate in silence.

  Finch wondered whether the fact had sunk into Leach’s drink-sodden brain or whether the fumes of alcohol had made it impossible for him to assimilate such information. With his voice rising shrilly he repeated the statement.

  “Mr. Johansen has been murdered. Do you understand, sir?”

  “I understand,” Leach said. “Where is he?”

  “In his cabin. What are you going to do, sir? Oh God, what are you going to do?”

  “Don’t get bloody hysterical,” Leach said. “Bring me my shoes.”

  Finch found the shoes, brought them to Leach, helped him to put them on. He smelt the alcoholic reek of Leach’s breath and the sweaty reek of his shirt.

  “You’re sure he’s dead, Mr. Finch?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. No doubt about that,” Finch said, and had a sudden vision of the mate, returned to consciousness and walking about. What would Leach say then? But it could not be. He was really dead.

  They both became aware of the sound at the same time. It was like a wild shrieking. The ship staggered, as though struck by a blow.

  “Wind,” Leach said.

  “Yes, sir. It’s a storm coming up. It looks bad, sir. I was going to tell Mr. Johansen, but—”

  “You’ve told me,” Leach said.

  He got to his feet, lurched a little, walked to the bathroom, relieved himself, then doused his head with water. He washed out his mouth and stared in the mirror at the sagging, unshaven face, the lank strands of hair, the bloodshot eyes.

  “Bartholomew,” he croaked, “you’re a bloody beauty and no mistake.” He walked back into the cabin and rejoined the waiting third mate. “Come on, Mr. Finch. Let’s go and look at him.”

  Holt was still waiting in Johansen’s cabin, as though standing guard over the body. He was surprised by Leach’s personal appearance. Leach had not even bothered to comb his hair, and his shirt was soaked with water. He looked like a man suffering from the father and mother of all hangovers.

  He glanced momentarily at Holt, then looked down at Johansen. “This is how you found him, Mr. Finch?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “One of you had better fetch Dr. Menstein. Not that he can do much. Too late for that.”

  “I’ll go,” said Holt.

  Menstein was not asleep and he came at once. He con-firmed what was only too apparent: Mr. Johansen was undoubtedly dead, having died most probably from the blow that had inflicted the gash in his head. Menstein did something that no one else had seen fit to do: he closed Johansen’s eyes.

  “Do you know who did this thing?”

  “We do not,” Leach said.

  Holt became aware suddenly that Perkins had appeared on the scene. He was standing in the cabin doorway, looking in.

  “I could make a guess at that,” Perkins said.

  They all turned and stared at him, and he gave a smirk, as if he enjoyed being the centre of attention.

  “Do you know something?” Leach asked.

  “I know Mr. Johansen and Major Lycett had a fight earlier this evening. I know Mr. Johansen knocked the major down and the major threatened to get even with him.” Perkins cast a meaning glance on the body on the floor. “Looks like he did too.”

  “You actually heard Lycett threaten Johansen?”

  “You can say that again. Mr. Holt heard him too. He was there.”

  Leach glanced at Holt. “Is that so?”

  Holt admitted that it was.

  “What was the quarrel about?”

  Holt did not answer, but Perkins gave a grin. “About Mrs. Lycett. What else? She was in this cabin till near midnight yesterday evening.”

  “How do you know that?” Leach asked sharply.

  “I don’t go about with my eyes shut.”

  “You mean you spied on Mrs. Lycett?”

  “I wouldn’t call it that.” Perkins sounded sulky.

  “God knows what you would call it then. And no doubt you felt it your duty to inform Major Lycett?”

  “Yes, I did. It wasn’t right, what the mate was doing.”

  Captain Leach looked at the engineer as one might look at something loathsome discovered under a stone. “Mr. Perkins,” he said flintily, “I should be obliged if you would take yourself as far away from me as possible. It is too much to ex
pect that I shall never see you again but one can but hope, one can but hope.”

  Perkins went red in the face. “All right, I’ll go. But I’m telling you, if you want to find the man who killed the mate, you look for Major Lycett. He can’t be far away.” And with that he turned from the doorway and disappeared.

  “That man,” Leach said, “ought to have been drowned at birth.”

  Menstein was pulling nervously at his left ear. “All the same, there may be something in what he said. Indeed I very much fear so. Major Lycett was checking up this morning—that is yesterday morning—on Mrs. Lycett’s movements. He seemed to be under the impression that she spent the previous evening with my wife and me. We had to tell him it was not so. He seemed rather upset.”

  “I think Major Lycett had better be found.” Leach said.

  But that was to prove more easily said than done. A visit to his cabin by Mr. Finch revealed that he was not there. Moira Lycett, lying awake in her bunk, demanded, not without reason, why her husband was being sought at that time of night. It was an embarrassing question. Finch stammered and said that he had better start getting back to his duties. Nothing could have been better calculated to rouse her suspicions that something was afoot. Already she had been more than a little worried by Morton’s absence; usually he was in his bunk and asleep long before that.

  “Something has happened, hasn’t it, Mr. Finch?”

  “Well—” Finch said.

  She sat up, her head aching, and the cabin seemed to revolve. Some of the movement was real; Finch put out a hand to steady himself.

  “You had better tell me,” she said. “I’m bound to hear eventually.”

  Finch had to admit to himself that she had a point. The facts could not be kept secret. She would have to know.

  “Mr. Johansen has been found dead in his cabin. It looks as if he was murdered.”

  Her eyes widened with horror. “Oh, no, no.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “And you think Morton did it?”