Blueprint for Murder

by Roger Bax

  All afternoon the engines chugged away steadily under his feet. Truant took several small seas, but the pump soon cleared the cabin and cockpit. There was quite a lot of shipping about now, but most of it was away to the north in the Oaze Deep and the Knob Channel. Not a sound came from the cabin. It was almost as though Geoffrey had the boat to himself.

  At half past three he suddenly spotted a buoy right under his starboard bow, deep in a trough, and recognized the black and white horizontal stripes of the West Girdler. Two miles away to the east he fancied he could just make out the upperworks of the Girdler lightship, marking the other end of the triangular shoal. It was the northern apex that he was making for. Presently he could see the cone on the top of the Girdler beacon as well. There were plenty of seamarks and he knew exactly where he was.

  He had a little time to spare, and decided to turn northwards to the vicinity of the Knob buoy and work back across the Alexandra Channel to the Girdler, due south on to the highest part of the sandbank. Away to starboard he could see a black speck and a wisp of smoke – a steamer coming up into the Estuary against the ebb. Geoffrey crossed its course well ahead of it, looking for the Knob buoy and keeping a close eye on the time. But he failed to spot the buoy and swung the ship’s head round for the Girdler again. The steamer was coming up fast. It was a small cargo-boat and it was in a hurry. This was his opportunity, Geoffrey decided, to attract attention. He kept Truant steadily ahead across the steamer’s course. As he strained ahead, steering for the distant Girdler lightship, he saw something else which he had been eagerly seeking – the key to all his plan. Sticking up out of the still-covered sandbank was the black hulk of an old wreck.

  Truant and the steamer were now on converging courses. The tramp had not yet seen the small boat – and in any case it would expect Geoffrey to keep clear. Geoffrey kept going hopefully. They must see him soon. It would be too bad to get run down at this stage. Suddenly there came a tattoo of warning blasts from the steamer’s siren – they’d seen him. Geoffrey expected that the noise would bring Cross out of the cabin again, but there was no sign of movement.

  The oncoming ship was bearing down on Truant at eight or nine knots, throwing up a great bow wave against the ebb. Geoffrey had plenty of power in hand, in case at the last moment he had to take evasive action. The siren went again, angrily, and he could see someone gesticulating on the bridge. Suddenly, as the rusty bows of the steamer seemed to hover threateningly over Truant, Geoffrey heard the bell ringing on the bridge and saw the vessel alter course. It swept past Truant’s stern only twenty yards away. The captain – if it was he – was shaking a fist. The steamer’s siren blew three blasts – two shorts and a long. It was the international code signal for, “You are standing into danger.”

  “How right you are!” Geoffrey said softly to himself. He waved. He hoped they would report the incident, and his position. No doubt they would watch him as long as they could.

  Now Truant would get the steamer’s wash. It was a bad moment as the bow wave set up a cross sea and bore down on Truant’s stern in a furious agitation of creamy water. For half a minute the boat plunged and twisted, while Geoffrey clung to the wheel desperately. Once again water was swirling into the cockpit and the cabin. Slowly it subsided, and Truant seemed to rise out of the water and shake herself.

  As the crisis passed Geoffrey became aware of a new sound. There was heavy surf breaking on the Girdler right ahead – Geoffrey could already make out the line of white foam. This was something far more deadly than white horses! He could see great waves breaking round the wreck.

  The time had come for action. Geoffrey switched off the engine pump and shouted at the top of his voice, “Arthur! – I want you.”

  In a few seconds Cross appeared. He looked in bad shape. His face was a dirty yellow colour, like old parchment. But he still had the gun. He leaned over the gunwale, vomited, and pulled himself up again by the door frame. “What the hell was all that?” he said.

  “A big ship – nearly hit us. We got its wash. How’s Pamela?”

  “She’s passed out.”

  “Do you still want to go to Holland?”

  “Yes,” said Cross, through his teeth.

  “Then you’d better pump,” said Geoffrey. “The engine pump has packed up and we’re shipping too much water.”

  Cross grasped the rotary with his left hand and began to work it backwards and forwards without much strength, keeping his eye fixed on Geoffrey all the time. The thunder of the surf was very close now – the wreck was a quarter of a mile away, straight ahead. Geoffrey gave both engines full throttle. Truant plunged forward, hitting the seas so hard that it felt as though the hull would crack wide open. Geoffrey watched the white line, the terrifying breakers, and braced himself against the wheel. He put up a silent prayer, and waited. Cross had stopped pumping as the engines roared and was staring ahead. He was shouting – he was moving. Any moment now! – it was a matter of seconds.

  Then Truant struck. She was doing a crazy ten knots, and her bows hit the steep-to edge of the sandbank as though it had been a wall. The impact was horrible – Geoffrey was conscious of rending wood and of the short mast carrying away as he took the shock with his shoulder against the wheel. Then he hurled himself towards the cabin door through knee-deep foam. The crash had thrown Cross clean through the opening. Geoffrey dived in after him, careless now of the gun. It was a desperate all-or-nothing. He saw a shoulder and grabbed it, snatched at a handful of wet hair and hung on. He took a blow in the face and hardly felt it. He didn’t know whether they were fighting on the floor or the ceiling. Everything was chaos, noise, water. The gun came round and Geoffrey gripped the wrist that held it – a thin feeble wrist. A wave surged into the cabin, and for a few moments they were waist deep. As it receded they fell against the table and smashed it, lurched into the forepeak and out again. It was impossible to hold anything with all this water, all this violent fantastic motion. Cross was fighting like a madman, twisting and slipping. Suddenly, as the boat steadied for a second, Geoffrey saw a blotchy face in front of him and hit it with all his strength. Cross fell down into the water, and Geoffrey’s hands were at his throat. Another wave poured in. Geoffrey could hear nothing now, could see nothing, could think of nothing. His fingers were going to take payment for the incredible agony of the last twelve hours. He pressed the yellow face down, down into the foot of water between the berths.

  A torrent of green sea swept them both forward to the forepeak, but he held on, pressing down. Cross’s legs were thrashing, but feebly now. Suddenly the kicking stopped.

  Cross was dead.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  As he staggered to his feet Geoffrey saw that Pamela was still unconscious. Arthur had roped her to the bunk. For the moment there was nothing he could do except avoid being knocked senseless himself. Truant, he knew, was being pounded to bits. Every breaker that came roaring in lifted her six feet off the ground, and as it passed dropped her with a shattering jar on the iron-hard sand. The engines had stopped, swamped at last. She had become the plaything of the sea. One moment her bows were high in the air, and the water was draining down into the cockpit and over the side; the next her stern was lifted and the whole North Sea seemed to be pouring in again. Each wave drove her farther in towards the wreck. There was an almost continuous rending of wood. Lockers burst open and showered their contents into the frothy bilge. The lamps had smashed to bits and glass was flying. The lead ballast was battering its way through the hull. Geoffrey slumped on the soaking berth at Pamela’s feet, wedged himself with his legs against the berth opposite, and waited.

  Time had never passed more slowly. He was too exhausted to think. He had been ‘beaten up’ by the sea. For the first time, he felt ill himself. He sat with his head in his hands, trying to keep the noise out of his ears. Surely this couldn’t last much longer? The tide was going down fast – three inches every five minutes. Three feet an hour. It would be all right once the seas stopped breaking
over the boat.

  He was barely conscious himself – it was all he could do not to fall into the slopping bilge. He must hold on – it couldn’t last for ever. Soon they would be on dry land again. The boat would be still. It would be wonderful. Already the motion was less. God, he was tired!

  He must have dozed, for the next thing he was aware of was that the pounding had almost stopped. The breakers were receding, and Truant was beginning to settle on the bank. Soon he was able to stagger out into the cockpit and look round.

  The fresh air cleared his head, and what he saw cheered him. No ship could have been more expertly thrown away. Twenty yards ahead the old wreck was high and dry. It looked like the fore part of a coasting steamer – the rest had probably been washed into deep water after the ship’s back had broken. The bows stood twelve feet or so out of the sand, dark green with slime. Around the wreck a streak of grey-brown sand was already showing. Truant was almost motionless now, though foam still surged around. Her bows had come to rest high on the bank, and the water would drain out of the cabin and the cockpit as the tide fell.

  Geoffrey went back into the cabin. Even the comparative quietness was like heaven. Pamela had not moved. Geoffrey suddenly remembered that there should be some brandy in the first-aid box, which was locked in a small cupboard above the galley. Carefully he made his way through the debris to the forepeak. The box had burst open and scattered its contents, but the little brandy-flask was intact. Geoffrey took a swig, and then set to work to revive Pamela. Now that the motion had ceased she was likely to come round quickly. He forced a few drops of brandy between her lips, chafed her hands, and gently slapped her cheeks. She opened her eyes and looked at Geoffrey. A little colour was coming back into her face. She gazed round the cabin, and suddenly she began to struggle up.

  “Take it easy,” said Geoffrey. “We’ve got all the time in the world. Here, have a drop more brandy.”

  She took a gulp from the flask, spluttered, and sat up on the bunk.

  “Geoffrey,” she said. “Oh, Geoffrey!” She was holding tight to his arm. “Where are we? Where is he?”

  “He’s dead,” said Geoffrey. “Don’t worry about him any more.”

  Pamela began to tremble violently, and suddenly broke into an uncontrollable fit of sobbing. He held her tight, protecting her, soothing her as though she had been a child. Gradually she became calmer, but he still held her close to him until she was quite quiet. Presently she took a deep breath and brushed the wet hair back from her face.

  “I’m better now,” she said. “I’m sorry I did that. Oh, dear, I must look an awful sight.” She still clutched his arm. “Geoffrey, I didn’t want to live any more. Really, I didn’t. That awful man – and the sea. Where is he?”

  Geoffrey pointed to the cabin floor, still under inches of water. She stared down at the drenched shoulder, the half-submerged head.

  “What happened?”

  “I ran the boat aground and caught him off guard. He got drowned.”

  “Yes, I see,” said Pamela.

  “He had the gun right to the end. There was no other way.”

  “Of course not,” said Pamela. “Anyway, he was lucky. He deserved so much more than that. Did you get hurt, Geoffrey? You look terrible.”

  “You don’t look so hot yourself,” said Geoffrey. “Not a bit glamorous.”

  “I’m sorry I was so little use. I shall always be ashamed of myself.”

  “Nonsense – you did the best thing possible. Once you’d passed out, I had nothing more to worry about. Look, I’m going to put Arthur over on the other bunk and cover him up. You needn’t look if you don’t want to.”

  “I’m perfectly all right now,” said Pamela, a shade indignantly. She watched him heave the body out of the water. “He looks dead enough,” she said.

  Geoffrey put a wet rug over the body.

  “Now we can forget him,” said Geoffrey. “I’m going to try to make some tea. How do you feel – hungry?”

  “Ravenous. But oughtn’t we to be doing something? What’s the position?”

  “There’s plenty of time. I’ll tell you later. First, let’s see about the tea.”

  “We’re both awfully wet,” said Pamela, as Geoffrey went forward to the galley.

  “Couldn’t be wetter,” Geoffrey called cheerfully. “There’s not much we can do about it, though. We’ll have to keep moving as much as possible.”

  “It’s sea water,” said Pamela. “I don’t suppose we shall come to much harm.” She heard the primus beginning to roar.

  “We’re all right,” said Geoffrey, popping his head round the corner. “The meths bottle hasn’t broken.” He saw that Pamela had found her handbag and was making up her face. He laughed. “Now I know you’re all right,” he said. He went on cooking.

  In ten minutes they were sitting side by side on the berth, with half a saucepan of soup each and a pile of biscuits between them.

  “Just as well to make a good meal,” said Geoffrey. “We may be here all night.”

  “Here in the boat?”

  “No, not in the boat,” said Geoffrey. “As a matter of fact, I’ve got another boat outside. Don’t get excited – it doesn’t float. Look!” He pointed through the porthole.

  Pamela took a look. “It doesn’t look very comfortable,” she said. “Or very big.”

  “I’d better give you a situation report,” said Geoffrey. “The position is that Truant is firmly held on a sandbank, and she’s already begun to break up. There’s a fair stretch of dry sand outside, and the tide’s still going out. The wind has dropped, it’s a good bit warmer, and it’ll be dark in less than a couple of hours. By that time the tide will be in again. The sea’s moderating, but it’ll still be pretty fierce. If help hasn’t reached us by then, we shall be perched up on the wreck of the Hesperus, or whatever that old hulk is called.”

  “Shan’t we get washed off?”

  “Well,” said Geoffrey cautiously, “we’ll have to lash ourselves on, of course.”

  “You don’t mean I’ve got to be tied up again!”

  Geoffrey grinned. “It’ll feel quite different when I do it. As a matter of fact, I hope it won’t be necessary.”

  Pamela looked out again at the wreck, without any increase of enthusiasm. “What are the chances of help coming?”

  “Pretty good,” said Geoffrey. “They’re bound to be out after us by now, and I’m sure we’ll have been reported by a ship that nearly ran us down. Let’s get cracking. The main thing is to take everything we need. Why don’t you go and have a run round on the sand?”

  The cabin floor was dry now and they went out into the cockpit. The line of surf, still pounding hard, was fifty yards away. The sun was sinking in a clear sky and some of the chill had gone off the air.

  “It’s lovely,” said Pamela. “Who’d have thought it could suddenly be like this?”

  “I know. A desert island – all to ourselves!”

  Pamela suddenly shivered. “It’s a bit like that awful story you told me,” she said. “About the Goodwins – remember? The men who were alive, but were as good as dead. How will they take us off?”

  “They’ll find a way,” said Geoffrey. “We’ve planned things better. The sea’s going down. Look, I’ll throw you some things and you can carry them up to the Hesperus. It’ll keep you warm.”

  He dived into the cabin and returned in a moment with his arms full. “They’re sleeping-bags,” he said. “Waterproof and dry. We’re going to bed together tonight.”

  “I couldn’t care less,” said Pamela. “Shall I take them?”

  “Yes, but don’t dump them in a puddle. Then come back for some more.”

  By the time Pamela had returned Geoffrey had collected some more things in the cockpit. There was Arthur’s torch, and the brandy-flask; some biscuits, and two coils of stout rope.

  “We’ll take these along now,” he said, “and have a final look round afterwards. How does the Hesperus look at close quarters?”r />
  “It’s frightfully sea-weedy, and there are a lot of crabs. Nasty little green ones.”

  “As long as there’s something we can hang on to,” said Geoffrey, “that’s all that matters.” As they reached the hulk he walked round and inspected it. It was the fore part of a ship all right, though the name had long since been obliterated. All the plates were entirely covered in thick matted weed. The hard wood of the old deck still spanned the boat – a steep and slippery slope rising out of the sand. Geoffrey’s eye was caught by two slimy iron bollards, up in the bows. After several attempts he managed to lassoo them and with the help of the rope he scrambled up.

  “It’s not so bad up here,” he called. “Bit of an angle, but we’ll manage. These bollards will do us fine.” He made the rope fast and slid quickly down. “We’re going to be all right, my love – I hope! But we won’t go up until we have to. Let’s go back to Truant. I’ve got a few things to do inside – you go and amuse yourself.”

  Back in the cabin he got quickly to work. Normally it would have broken his heart to sacrifice the boat, but nothing could prevent her becoming a total loss. He had noticed one or two gaping holes in the hull. From one of the stern lockers, now without its lid, he dragged a five-gallon drum of paraffin and splashed the contents all over the inside of the cabin. Then he knocked the tap off the fuel-tank with a hammer and let the thick diesel oil drain into the cockpit and form a deep pool there.

  He would need something dry to start the blaze. He thought rapidly, and remembered the first-aid box. There had been a big roll of gauze – that should burn all right. He climbed out of the boat, lighted the gauze, and flung it into the cabin. Then he stood back.

  Pamela joined him. She said, “You’re not burning the boat?”