The Golden Reef (1969)

by Pattinson, James

  Rains ignored the remark. ‘You see, Keeton, I happen to know something that nobody else knows – barring Smithie here and yourself. I know that number one lifeboat of the steamship Valparaiso wasn’t in any condition to float two yards when the ship was abandoned. Yet, what happens? Nine months later a man is picked up from that very life boat and the said lifeboat has been patched up.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So I ask myself: how did that happen? Who was it who patched the boat up and when was it done? The answer to the first question is pretty obvious. The man who patched the boat must surely have been the man who was found in it; none other than Mr Charles Keeton. The answer to the second question is pretty easy too when you come to think about it. If the boat couldn’t float until it was patched up, then it must have been patched up before it left the ship. You follow me thus far, Mr Keeton?’

  ‘I follow you.’

  ‘All right then. So we’ve established the fact that the boat was patched up while it was still on board the Valparaiso. Now, what follows from that?’

  ‘You tell me,’ Keeton said.

  ‘You don’t need Sherlock Holmes to work that one out,’ Rains said. ‘The answer is that the Valparaiso couldn’t have sunk when we thought she did. She must have stayed afloat some considerable time after we abandoned her. You couldn’t have made that boat seaworthy in just a couple of minutes. I know. I had a look at it before we launched the other two. Quite apart from the fact that it could never have been launched from the starboard side with the ship listing to port like she was.’

  Keeton took out a cigarette and lit it. He did not offer the packet to Rains or Smith.

  ‘So this is your theory?’

  ‘Unless you have a better one.’

  ‘It wouldn’t put you in a very good light if it were true, would it? You gave the order to abandon.’

  Rains shrugged. ‘I’m not worried about the light. I’m not a ship’s officer any more.’

  Smith was getting impatient. ‘Tell him the rest. Let’s have the rest of it for Chrisake.’

  ‘What is the rest of it?’ Keeton asked.

  Rains took a drink and wiped the froth off his lip with the back of his hand. ‘There’s some more to the theory. We believe there’s nothing wrong with your memory. We believe you can remember things just as well as we can. Things like a cargo of gold worth a million sweet and lovely pounds.’

  ‘A million!’

  ‘Don’t sound so surprised. Didn’t you know it was worth that much? Didn’t you count it up?’

  ‘Get on,’ Smith said.

  Rains gave a wave of the hand. ‘Plenty of time. Now, Mr Keeton, we come to the last bit of the theory. We’ve got the fact that the Valparaiso didn’t sink at once. Now, suppose she didn’t sink at all. Mr Charles Keeton must have been living somewhere during those nine lost months, and it wasn’t in an open boat. So here’s what Smithie and I worked out. Suppose the Valparaiso went aground somewhere, on one of those uninhabited islands for example; suppose Mr Keeton repaired the boat and after he’d got fed up with waiting to be rescued he decided to take a chance on his own. Then suppose he said to himself, “there’s a fortune in gold waiting to be picked up and why shouldn’t I be the boy that does the picking”? But then it occurs to Mr Keeton that he’ll have to cook up some story to explain where he’s been all those nine long months, and that story mustn’t give away any information about the Valparaiso. And after that he asks himself, “What better story than no story at all? I’ll lose my memory and that’ll fox ’em; I just won’t remember a damned thing further back than the time I’m fished out of the lifeboat”. How’s that?’

  Rains sat back and grinned at Keeton, showing a fine set of white teeth that looked genuine. ‘How’s that for a rough outline of the way it happened?’

  ‘You’re mad,’ Keeton said.

  Rains shook his head. ‘Oh, no, I’m not. And I don’t think you’re mad either.’ He leaned across the table and brought his mottled face close to Keeton’s. ‘I’ll tell you something, Keeton; I admire you, and that’s the truth. You’re no miserable little bank robber. When you think about robbery you think big. I like that.’

  Keeton’s face was expressionless, but inside him anger was burning. Until this day he had given Rains and Smith scarcely a thought. He had made his own plans and everything had been going smoothly. But now these two had broken in like thieves. He knew what they wanted, but he would see them in hell before letting them have it. The gold was his, all his.

  ‘We been making a few inquiries,’ Smith said. ‘We heard you’d bought a boat, a yacht or something. We heard you got it cheap because it was old, and you done it up fine and dandy and fixed an engine and all. We heard you do a lot of sailing on your own. No shipmates; no crew; just yourself like.’

  Keeton said in a hard, low-pitched voice: ‘If you go poking your nose into other people’s business, one day you’re going to have it spread all over your face.’

  ‘Is that a threat?’

  ‘You can take it for one if you like.’

  Smith was cool. ‘That’s beside the point. The point is, what’s all this sailing in aid of?’

  ‘I like sailing. It’s not such an uncommon pastime.’

  Keeton had taken a long time to find just the craft he wanted. It was a yawl, with plenty of freeboard and fairly broad in the beam; not a fast ship, but eminently seaworthy. He had got hold of a second-hand engine and had fitted this into the yawl as an auxiliary. He had put in extra tanks for fuel and water, making ready for a long voyage; and all this he had done in his spare time without haste. There was no need to hurry; he could not set out until he had put together enough money. He worked all hours, and his employer liked that.

  ‘You’re the kind of worker for me,’ Mr Robson said. ‘I wish there were more like you.’

  Robson had helped him to find the yawl and had given him advice and instruction. In his younger days the boat-builder had been a cruising yachtsman himself and had made some notable voyages. He gave Keeton a sextant and helped him to brush up on his navigation.

  ‘If you’re going to sail that yawl single-handed you’ll need to be tough.’

  ‘I am tough,’ Keeton said.

  ‘Have you read Slocum’s book?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you know what to expect.’

  Keeton had studied Slocum’s method of self-steering and had tried a modification of it in his own yawl. After much trial and error he had got it working satisfactorily in all weather. He was confident now that he could sail anywhere in the world.

  Smith was looking at him shrewdly. ‘Not many people go sailing alone. Most people take friends. You don’t have friends, I hear. A sort of lone wolf. I suppose you wouldn’t be planning a long voyage all on your ownsome. To the Pacific, say.’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘That’s where the Valparaiso is.’

  ‘On the bottom.’

  ‘Well, that’s what we don’t know, isn’t it? That’s what we think you could tell us about.’

  Keeton stared back coldly at Smith. ‘Even if I knew anything I wouldn’t be telling you.’

  ‘No?’ There was a vicious twist to Smith’s mouth and he seemed to be losing some of his self-control. ‘Maybe we could make you alter your mind about that. Me and the big feller here, we’re no kids, and we don’t always use the velvet glove, savvy? You want to ask some characters down in Venezuela; they’ll tell you—’

  ‘Stow it,’ Rains said sharply. ‘We don’t want any of that, Smithie. No threats.’ He turned to Keeton and his voice was persuasive. ‘We’re all friends here and I’m sure we can arrange this matter like gentlemen. Now look, Keeton, we know you want the lot for yourself; that’s only natural. I’d feel the same way in your shoes. But you’ve got to be realistic. You can’t grab that loot single handed; it’s too big a job. But if there were three of us it’d be a different kettle of fish; things would be ten times easier. Besides, there’s plenty for all, en
ough to make each one of us rich for life. And if it comes to the push, we’re prepared to be generous; we’ll take half between us and you can have the other half. So what do you say to that? Is it a deal?’

  ‘You’re wasting your time,’ Keeton said. ‘Like I told you before, I know no more about the Valparaiso than you do.’

  He saw the other man’s face darken. Rains shot out a thick hairy hand and seized Keeton’s arm in a fierce grip.

  ‘Now see here, Keeton, we’ve had enough stalling. You play it the way we want it or you may get hurt, see? You may never have any use for that gold, never.’

  ‘Who’s threatening now?’ Smith said.

  Keeton pulled his arm away and brushed the sleeve, as though brushing off the contamination of Rains’s fingers. He kept his voice low, but there was an edge to it.

  ‘If you’re thinking to scare me, Mr Rains, you’ve got the wrong man. I don’t scare that easy. And if you want my advice, it’s this – clear out now. You’ll get nothing from me, not now or ever.’

  He got up and walked out of the public house, leaving Rains choking and Smith with a look of venom on his face. He had no illusions about those two; they were poison. He would need to take care. But of one thing he was certain: nothing on earth would make him agree to share the gold with them. He would have it all or he would have nothing. There would be no half-measures.

  Chapter Two

  The Watchers

  If Keeton had had any hope that Rains and Smith might easily be shaken off, that hope would have been dispelled by their behaviour in the weeks that followed. They took up residence not far from his own lodgings and he was constantly encountering one or other of them as he went in or out. And whenever he took his yawl Roamer out for a sail they were down at the harbour to watch him. It was as though they could scent his movements, so that wherever he went there they were keeping an eye on him.

  The very fact of their presence irked Keeton. He tried to ignore them but could not rid himself of the feeling of being spied upon. Even his plan no longer seemed secure. Previously there had been no one to suspect what he intended doing; now there were two men with sharp eyes, nimble brains and a lust for gold; men without scruples; men it was impossible to shake off.

  Once they even tried to board the yawl.

  ‘How about taking two old shipmates for a sail?’ Rains suggested. He was standing on the quay dressed in old flannel trousers and a blue seaman’s jersey. Rains seemed to blot out the sky with his bulk. Beside him Smith looked shrunken.

  ‘You can keep your feet off my boat,’ Keeton said. ‘I don’t take passengers.’

  ‘Not nice,’ Rains said. ‘You should be more friendly – for old time’s sake.’

  ‘I’d as soon be friendly with a cobra.’

  Rains ignored the remark. His gaze travelled over the yawl. He seemed to be making a mental note of all its characteristics – its roomy build, the new rigging and fresh paint, the small dinghy lashed bottom upwards amidships.

  The yawl had two cabins with a bulkhead separating them. Keeton had removed the bunks from the for’ard cabin so that it could be used solely for stowage. The galley was part of the main cabin, but there was a light partition between it and the saloon. From the saloon a short companionway led up to the cockpit.

  ‘Looks to me as if you might be fitting out for a long voyage,’ Rains said. ‘Would I be right?’

  Keeton did not answer. He waited for Rains to go.

  ‘Let us know when you intend to push off for the South Seas. We’d like to come and wish you bon voyage. Isn’t that so, Smithie?’

  The steward’s grin was like a wolf’s. ‘That’s right. We’d feel hurt if he didn’t let us kiss him good-bye.’

  Keeton would not have worried about Rains and Smith if he had not been so close to sailing. A year earlier, even six months, he could have afforded to wait until the two became tired of watching him. But time had slipped away; he had the money he needed and he was ready to go. But he did not wish to sail away under the noses of these men; he wished to go unnoticed, dropping down channel as inconspicuously as an old cork or an empty bottle, slipping out of the minds of all who knew him as lightly as the memory of last week’s weather. But from the minds of Rains and Smith he knew there was no escape.

  So he waited as April turned to May, as the long days of June came with good sailing weather; waited and fretted. He continued to work in the boatyard, earning good money, but thinking always of a million pounds’ worth of gold wedged on a reef in the Pacific. It seemed to call to him to make haste, to come before someone else discovered the wreck.

  Smith would greet him in the street, cheerful, cocky.

  ‘How’s it going, Charles? Still at the old boat-building lark? But it won’t be long now, will it, boy? Not long before the balloon goes up.’

  Keeton would look past Smith or through him. He would refuse to answer. But it made no difference. A man like Smith was impervious to snubbing.

  One day he fell into step beside Keeton and began talking at once about the Valparaiso. ‘Remember when that gold came aboard? They put you and a fat sailor on guard. What was his name?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Keeton said. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Of course you do. You must remember him. Red-haired; used to sweat a lot. Biscoe, was it? No, not that. Now I’ve got it – Bristow. That was the boy – Bristow.’

  Keeton’s jaw knotted. He did not like to hear that name. It brought back memories sure enough, but not the ones that Smith was talking about. It brought back the picture of blood on a man’s head, of a body arched over a boat’s thwart, of a shark and a flurry in the water. Bitter memories.

  ‘He was the one that chased me with a rifle.’ Smith was staring up at Keeton’s face as if he would have read the secrets of Keeton’s mind.

  ‘I knew he was fooling, but I pretended to be scared. The boy for fooling, he was. Bristow. I wonder what happened to him?’

  ‘He’s dead,’ Keeton said. ‘Dead, like the rest.’

  Smith’s eyes were hard and bright as polished glass. ‘How do you know that, Charles?’

  ‘They’re all dead, aren’t they? All except you and me and Rains.’

  ‘True enough,’ Smith agreed softly. ‘All dead except us three. We’re the heirs to great riches, as you might say. Very great riches.’

  Keeton wondered what Rains and Smith lived on. They appeared to do no work. Perhaps they had brought back enough capital from their South American venture to keep them going for a time. Whatever the state of their finances, they made no move to leave the town; they hung about the streets and the harbour and the public houses; two men keeping an eye on a third who might be the key to an immense fortune.

  And then one day they were gone. Keeton would not believe it at first; but when he had seen no sign of them for three days he went to their lodgings and made inquiries. The landlady gave him the information without pressing.

  ‘Oh, yes, they’ve gone. Last Wednesday, it was. Just said they were moving on and would I let them have the bill. I was sorry to see them go. Couldn’t ask for better lodgers. Quiet, well-mannered. Never no trouble with them.’

  ‘Did they say where they were going?’

  ‘No, they didn’t. Nor they didn’t leave any forwarding address. Not that they ever had any letters. But if you was to ask me, I’d say they’ve gone back to London. That’s where they all go, isn’t it—?’

  ‘Yes,’ Keeton said. ‘That’s where they all go.’

  ‘They were friends of yours then?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not friends.’

  He made haste now. Rains and Smith had held him back long enough, too long in fact; but they had gone and he would go also. The yawl was already stocked with canned provisions; now he took on board everything else that he would probably need. He topped up the fuel tanks and filled the fresh water containers. In the drawer below the chart table in the corner of the saloon he had the necessary charts and
instruments. There was a table in the centre of the saloon and settee bunks on each side. This was to be his home for many months. He had known worse.

  He told the boat-builder: ‘I’m leaving. I shall not be coming back. Thank you for all you’ve done for me.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Robson said. ‘You’ve been a good worker. But I could see you had the itch in you. I was like that once. When it gets you, you just have to go; no two ways about it. I’ve grown too old for it now, but you’re young and that makes all the difference.’

  ‘Yes,’ Keeton said. ‘I’m young.’

  ‘If you ever come back and want a job, there’s one for you here. Remember that.’

  ‘I’ll remember it.’

  ‘Well, good luck to you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Keeton said. ‘I may need the luck.’

  *

  His landlady too, was sorry to hear that he was leaving; she had come to look upon him as a permanency.

  ‘Going away in that boat of yours? Do you think it’s safe, Mr Keeton? All by yourself too. Why don’t you stay here? You’ve been comfortable, haven’t you? I’m sure I’ve done my best.’

  ‘You’ve been very kind to me, Mrs Kirby, and I’ve been perfectly comfortable. But I’ve got to go.’

  ‘You young men,’ Mrs Kirby said, ‘you’re restless. Mr Kirby was the same, and where’s he now? In a watery grave, poor man. His ship ran on a rock in the Pacific Ocean, so they said.’ She dried a tear with the edge of her apron and looked anxiously at Keeton. ‘You won’t be doing that, will you?’

  ‘Doing what, Mrs Kirby?’

  ‘Running on a rock in the Pacific.’

  ‘Who told you I was going to the Pacific?’ Keeton asked sharply.

  Mrs Kirby was taken aback by his tone. ‘Nobody told me. I don’t know where you’re going. All I hope is you take care of yourself.’

  ‘I’ll take care. You needn’t worry about me.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure I hope so,’ Mrs Kirby said doubtfully. ‘But I never did trust boats.’