“And on a small ship,” Poly said, “with no place to hide it—and it’s a big portrait. It’s absolutely mad, isn’t it, Daddy?”
“It’s very strange. Please go to the Dragon’s Lair now and wait for me.”
Simon looked white and strained. As they started down the stairs to the lower deck he said, “I’m afraid.”
Geraldo spoke reassuringly. “We are with you, and we will not leave you. We know that you love the portrait of Bolivar, that you love it much more than Mr. Phair does.”
Poly took Simon’s ice-cold hand. “Daddy’ll get it back, Simon. After all, it’s got to be on the ship.” Her grip was firm. “I wish you didn’t have to sleep in the cabin with Cousin Forsyth, but I don’t think anybody can hurt you there, unless …”
“What?”
“You don’t think Cousin Forsyth—you don’t think he had anything to do with the fork lift?”
“It was an accident. Anyhow, wasn’t he on the Orion taking care of the portrait?”
“Or last night?” Poly continued.
Charles said, “If only we could begin to guess who the man was.”
Geraldo frowned. “It is more difficult because there are many men on the ship who might have been on the boat deck, from your father and the captain to Mynheer Boon and Olaf Koster. If he had been heavy, like Berend Ruimtje, or very short, like the radio officer, or a string bean like the cook … I keep trying to recall exactly what he looked like, and all I can see is a shadowy form in a dark winter uniform who might have been one of many people. The only thing which has come to my mind—and about this I am only guessing—is that he was slow in his movements until I caught his arm, and then he moved like lightning. The slowness makes me think that perhaps he was reluctant, that perhaps he was glad to be caught. But this is only a guess.”
Simon’s heart was pounding with panic. He tripped over the high sill.
“Careful,” Poly warned, leading him through the blazing sunlight, strong and life-giving. The breeze kept the heat from being oppressive, and the beauty of the day gave her a sense of reassurance. There had to be some kind of rational explanation for all the irrational events of the last few days.
They walked silently around kegs and boxes, around the station wagon, approached the hearse with the bullet hole in the windshield. Suddenly Poly stopped.
“What’s the matter?” Simon asked nervously.
“The hearse—” she whispered. “The doors are open—in the back—look. They’ve never been open before.”
No. The hearse had always been sealed tight as a tomb. But now the double back doors were slightly ajar.
“Geraldo—” Poly whispered. Her hand was as cold as Simon’s, and she clutched to get comfort as much as to give it.
Geraldo, followed by Charles, went up to the hearse and opened the doors wide.
Walking slowly, pulling back, but somehow managing to go forward, Poly and Simon followed them. The sunlight was so brilliant that it was difficult to see into the shadows within the hearse.
“Simon—” Poly whispered. It seemed that her voice had vanished.
There was something—someone—in the hearse.
Something—someone—lying there.
Cousin Forsyth.
8
MURDER
For Simon the next minutes were a haze of terror.
Poly pulled him roughly away. “We have to get Daddy—”
“Why is he in the hearse?” Simon asked stupidly. “What is Cousin Forsyth doing in the hearse?”
Charles said, “Cousin Forsyth is dead, Simon. There’s a dagger in his chest.”
Chronology got all upset. Simon could not remember in which order things happened. Geraldo, trained to obey orders, reminded them that Dr. O’Keefe had told them to stay in the prow of the ship.
“But he doesn’t know!” Poly cried. “He doesn’t know about Cousin Forsyth! We have to tell him!”
Simon was not sure how he and Poly and Charles got to the O’Keefes’ double cabin, who had gone for Dr. O’Keefe, where he had been found. Had he brought them to the cabin? Certainly he had told them to stay there until he came for them. They were to lock the door from the inside, and under no circumstances to open it to anybody else.
“It’s sort of locking the stable door after the horse has gone,” Poly said.
Charles sat cross-legged on his bunk. “Is it? There’s a murderer at large on this ship. Someone has already tried twice to kill Simon.”
“But I thought it was Cousin Forsyth!” Poly exclaimed. “I thought he wanted Simon out of the way.”
“Somebody obviously wanted Cousin Forsyth out of the way.” Charles looked at Simon, who was sitting, still and upright, in the small chair.
They all stiffened as they heard a key turn in the lock. They did not know who had access to the key to the cabin besides Dr. O’Keefe and the two stewards. And although they trusted Jan, either the chief steward or the first officer was lying about the key. Simon realized that everybody on the Orion was under suspicion, even those he thought of as incorruptible and his friends.
Dr. O’Keefe came in, his face markedly pale under his tan; even the red of his hair seemed more muted by grey than usual.
“Daddy!” Poly jumped up. “Please, please send for Canon Tallis!”
He replied, “I have thought about it, Poly. But I’m not sure that it’s fair to ask Tom to come running whenever anything difficult happens.”
“But, Daddy, this isn’t just something difficult. This is murder. And Simon is in danger.”
“Poly, we’ll have to wait.”
“But you’ll go on thinking about sending for him?”
“I’ll think about it, Poly, but I doubt if I’ll do more than that. Now. The captain wants us all in the salon.”
“Just us?”
“All the passengers, plus Jan and Geraldo.”
“Jan and Geraldo haven’t done anything wrong!”
“I doubt if they have, though Jan’s story about the key is not very convincing. In any case, we must all be questioned. The captain will speak to the crew and officers separately. Jan and Geraldo are the ones in closest contact with the passengers. Simon—” Dr. O’Keefe held out his hand.
Simon put his hand into Dr. O’Keefe’s.
The passengers were all sitting in the salon much as they had been when Simon, Poly, and Charles were first introduced to them. Dr. Wordsworth was presiding over the teapot; it seemed that disasters produced tea parties. But on that first day it had been cold, with steam noisily pushing through the radiators. Now it was hot. And Cousin Forsyth was not there.
It was stifling. The fans did not seem to stir the air.
Geraldo stood by the door nearest his galley; the tidy arrangements of cups and saucers, cream pitchers, tea-and coffeepots seemed to give him a sense of order and reassurance. Jan ten Zwick stood at the fore windows, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, which was turned to the passengers.
Charles sat on the sofa beside his father.
Simon and Poly stood.
The captain sat, looking somberly at his passengers. Mr. Theo, the Smiths, the two professors looked at him questioningly.
Dr. Wordsworth broke the silence. “Captain van Leyden, why have you brought us here?”
“There has been an unfortunate—a deplorable occurrence.” He shook his head at the inadequacy of his own words. “There has been a tragedy.” He paused.
Dr. Wordsworth whispered to Dr. Eisenstein, though they could all hear her. “Where’s Phair? I thought we were all summoned to the salon.”
“Mr. Phair is dead,” the captain said harshly.
Dr. Wordsworth dropped the teapot. Tea flooded over the tea tray, onto Dr. Wordsworth, onto the floor.
Mrs. Smith let out a breathy shriek.
Geraldo and Jan began mopping up the floor.
“But he can’t be dead,” Dr. Eisenstein said. “He was perfectly all right at breakfast.”
Dr. Wordsworth patt
ed her orange shorts with her napkin. “How clumsy of me! I’m so sorry. The teapot handle was unexpectedly hot.”
“It must have been a heart attack,” Mr. Smith suggested.
Mrs. Smith quavered, “But he was so young!”
The captain waited until comparative order was restored. Then he said heavily, “Mr. Forsyth Phair did not die of natural causes. He was murdered.”
Mrs. Smith clutched her husband’s hand. “No, no …”
Dr. Eisenstein said, “But who would—”
Dr. Wordsworth reached with trembling hands for her empty teacup, lifted it, set it back on the table. “It has to be someone on the ship. It may be someone in this room.”
“Stop, stop!” Mrs. Smith wailed. “How can you suggest such a thing? Who could possibly have wanted to murder Mr. Phair?”
Mr. Smith put a restraining hand on his wife’s knee. “Somebody did, Patty, and that’s a fact.”
Simon moved almost deliberately into the state of numbness which had protected him at the time of his parents’ deaths, although now there was no grief and outrage, only shock. And he had had too much of death; he would be involved in no more. He did not hear what anybody was saying. He did not want to hear. But after a while he felt that somebody was trying to penetrate his shell of protection, and he turned and saw Mr. Theo looking at him, his eyes fierce under bushy brows. Before Simon could drop his gaze Mr. Theo nodded at him reassuringly. It was almost as though Aunt Leonis were with him and expecting him to behave like a man and not like a child.
He listened to the captain telling the passengers about the vanished portrait, about talking on the radio with the police, and when the shocked exclamations had died down, Poly raised her hand for permission to speak, as though she were in school.
Van Leyden said, “Yes, Miss Poly?”
“Aunt Leonis—Simon’s Aunt Leonis. She’s the only one who might possibly know.”
“Know what, Miss Poly?”
“Why Jan’s Quiztano name, Umar, is on the back of the portrait. It might give us a clue.”
“What? What’s that?” Dr. Wordsworth demanded.
Simon closed his eyes and mind during the explanations.
“A detective in our midst,” Mr. Theo said in approval. “You could get in touch with Miss Leonis through the radio officer, could you not, Captain?”
“Yes. That is an intelligent suggestion. In any case, I would inform her of—what has happened.” The captain nodded. “You would like to speak to her, Master Simon?”
Simon opened his eyes and the captain had to repeat the question.
“Oh, yes, please, sir! But the nearest phone is quite a way down the road at the filling station by the bus stop. There’s usually someone there who’s willing to drive over to Pharaoh and fetch her.”
The captain’s grim face relaxed slightly as he looked at the boy who reminded him so strongly of his own fair son at home in Amsterdam. “All right. We will start the wheels turning as soon as possible.” He rose and spoke to the assembled group. “You are free to go where you please, though I expect you not to go below this deck.” He looked at Poly and Charles. “It is a hot day, but I do not think that you would wish to go to the prow.”
“No,” Poly said. “No.”
Simon’s mind’s eye flashed him a vision of the hearse, and the strange still body there, and he shuddered.
The captain dropped his hand lightly on the boy’s shoulder. “Come, Simon, we will go to the radio room.”
It was over an hour before Aunt Leonis reached the filling-station phone, during which time both Dr. O’Keefe and Mr. Theo made calls, Dr. O’Keefe to Benne Seed Island, Mr. Theo to Caracas, to say he would be delayed but hoped to arrive in good time for Emily’s first concert, which was still a full week off. Then he put in a call to England, and for this he asked Simon to step outside. Why would Mr. Theo be calling England? At this moment it did not seem to Simon to be very important. The captain talked again with the police in Lake of Dragons, and put in a call to Holland.
When Aunt Leonis was finally on the phone the captain spoke to her first. He told her, briefly, what had happened, then listened carefully. Then he said, “I am glad that you will come. I know that my government would wish to see this—more than unpleasantness—this dreadful event—resolved as soon as possible. We will make arrangements to have you flown here at your earliest convenience … You will come at once? That is good.” He handed the headset to Simon.
Aunt Leonis’s voice crackled strangely but was quite comprehensible. “I will be with you by tomorrow evening, Simon. I have read Quentin Phair’s letters. There was more than Umar on the back of the portrait, but we will not talk of it till I arrive.” Then static took over and he could make nothing out of the last garbled words.
No matter, Aunt Leonis was coming. There was still horror, but if Aunt Leonis was going to be with them in Venezuela, then somehow she would manage to bring order out of chaos as she always had done.
The O’Keefes were with Mr. Theo in the salon. Simon was being taken care of by Mynheer Boon. Dr. O’Keefe said, “I think it will be better if Simon sleeps with Charles in my cabin, and I’ll take his. We may well be detained for a few days in Port of Dragons. You kids will help make the transfer, won’t you?”
“Of course, Daddy,” Poly said. “Let’s find him and get him settled, and then let’s put on our bathing suits and splash around in the pool. I’m not being cold-blooded. I just think it would make us feel—feel cleaner.”
Mr. Theo nodded. “How many of us will fit in, do you think?” Then he looked at Dr. O’Keefe. “I’m an old man, Doctor, and I’ve never been very patient. At the end of my life I find that I can’t wait for the prudent moment for things. I have to snatch the time when I have it.”
Dr. O’Keefe looked at him inquiringly.
Mr. Theo said, “When I suggested to you that we call Tom Tallis in London you felt that we should wait. I must confess, I have called him.”
Dr. O’Keefe asked quietly, “And?”
“I was very cryptic. When he got on the phone I said, ‘Tom, this is Theo. I will be delayed in getting to Caracas but hope, with help, to be in time for Emily’s concert. You will want to come.’ Then I hung up.”
Poly clasped her hands. “Oh, Mr. Theo, do you think he’ll come?”
Mr. Theo said, “Tom and I have known each other since we were both rather wild young men in Paris. It is not my wont to be cryptic. Tom will come.” He turned to Dr. O’Keefe. “I hope you’re not angry with me for going over your wishes?”
“I think I’m relieved,” Dr. O’Keefe said.
The passengers of the Orion, with the notable exception of Mr. Phair, were gathered on the aft deck. Mr. Theo, in an old-fashioned one-piece black bathing suit, stood in one corner of the wooden pool and let the rolling of the ship splash salt water over him. Whenever there was a heavy swell the water sloshed over the sides of the pool onto the deck. Simon, Poly, and Charles joined him. The salt water felt cool and delicious.
Mr. and Mrs. Smith found the steep wooden sides of the pool difficult to climb over. They reclined in deck chairs. Mrs. Smith wore white terry-cloth shorts, a white sleeveless shirt, and white sneakers and socks. Despite her softly wrinkled skin she looked as fresh and clean as a kitten.
“It’s all right, Patty,” Mr. Smith whispered. “He can’t hurt us now.”
She shuddered. “What a terrible thing to say! Who could have—oh, Odell, I’m frightened, I’m so frightened …”
The two professors had pulled their chairs to the opposite side of the deck from the Smiths. Dr. Wordsworth glistened from sun-tan lotion; she wore orange shorts and a flowered halter and her back glowed with copper and was smooth and supple, though the slack muscles of her upper arms betrayed her age. She brought out a white nose guard and put it over her nose to protect it from the sun, adjusted her straw hat to shade her eyes.
Dr. Eisenstein had pulled her chair into the shade of the canvas canopy.
Dr. Wordsworth’s whisper was explosive. “Why don’t you say it?”
Startled, Dr. Eisenstein looked up from her notebook. “Say what?”
“What I can see that you’re thinking.”
Dr. Eisenstein looked sad and tired. “No, I’m not, Ines. I’m numb with horror that such a thing could have happened, but I don’t think that you had anything to do with it.”
“You know that I hated him.”
“I know that you’re not a murderer.”
Ines Wordsworth held out her hands and looked at them wonderingly. “I could have murdered him, I think, if I’d been angry enough. If he’d raked up the past publicly—but he couldn’t do that without implicating himself, and to do him justice I don’t think he would have. We did love each other once.” She let her hands fall into her lap, the nails like blood. “Odd, to admit that I could kill if I were angry enough. But I didn’t kill him.”
“I know you didn’t,” Dr. Eisenstein said gently.
Dr. Wordsworth readjusted her nose guard. “Oh, Ruth, I admit I wished him dead that first day he got on the ship—but not this way. A nice lingering death from some excruciatingly painful disease would have been fine with me—so why am I so squeamish about murder?”
“Maybe because the murderer is still on board. It’s unbelievable. It can’t be one of the passengers—”
“Why not?”
Dr. Eisenstein shook her head. “I find it impossible to believe that anybody on this ship, passenger or sailor, is a murderer. And yet somebody is.”
“Let’s hope it’s a sailor.”
“But a sailor—what could a sailor have against a passenger? someone he’s never met before?”
“Quite a few of the sailors are from South America. And I’ve told you that Fernando Propice, or Forsyth Phair, was involved in all kinds of minor underworld stuff when I knew him, and a leopard doesn’t lose his spots. It may be some kind of private smugglers’ vendetta.”
Dragons in the Waters Page 14
