by Mark Gatiss
My heart dropped into my boots. Half a dozen uniformed policemen were revealed, crowding the lift. Thankfully I was still wearing my idiot grin otherwise I’m sure my face would have given me away. My luck held and, incredibly, the entire phalanx didn’t spare me a second glance, merely peeling out of the lift in two lines, leaving me stranded on the carpet like a gasping salmon.
And then I had an even better piece of luck. For inside the lift, revealed by the exiting coppers, was Rex the bellhop, his hand already on the display of buttons.
‘Going down, sir?’ he said, automatically.
‘Not just now, sugar.’
He turned his big green eyes on me and gawped. ‘Mr Box! Jeez! What happened to—’
I stepped across and jabbed at a button. The lift shuddered and began to descend. ‘Never mind,’ I barked. ‘I need your help, Rex.’
He chewed anxiously on his pouting lip. ‘Is this something to do with the cops that’re here? I heard there’s a guy they’re looking for. Killed someone and–oh my gosh!’
I clamped a hand over his pretty mouth and nodded. ‘Yes. It’s me they’re after. But I didn’t kill anyone, Rex. Not today, anyway. And you’re going to help me get out of here, you understand?’
He nodded mutely, his eyes bulging in fright.
I glanced at the floor display glittering prettily like Japanese carp in a pond. ‘We’ll stop at the second floor. Then you need to find me a cupboard…um…a closet, all right? And don’t do anything silly. It wouldn’t be wise.’
He nodded again and I removed my hand. The poor boy looked badly frightened. The lift doors pinged open and we stole out onto the second floor of the hotel, Rex leading the way. His bum looked dashed appealing in those tight blue trousers so I gave it a little pat to show we were still friends. Carnality seemed far from Rex’s thoughts, however, as he jangled a bunch of keys from his pocket and unlocked the door to a linen cupboard.
I slipped through, grabbing him by the lapels and pulling him in after me.
‘Jeez, Mr Box!’ he piped. ‘If they find out I been helping you—’
I ignored him and felt for the light cord that was tickling at my face like a cobweb. With a click, a dim, bare bulb struggled into life. I looked about and groaned in dismay.
‘What’s up?’ quizzed Rex.
‘Nothing but towels!’ I muttered. ‘I was hoping for, you know, a waiter’s apron. Spare commissionaire’s uniform. Anything!’
‘You asked for a closet…’
I sighed. ‘Look, there’s no time for this. I have to get out of here.’
I looked Rex up and down. He looked awfully dishy in that nice blue uniform. I gave him an encouraging smile and, not for the first time in twenty-four hours, asked him nicely to take it off.
9
All At Sea
Such promises one makes. I left dear Rex in the linen cupboard, bound and gagged (for verisimilitude, don’t you know, nothing deviant), with extravagant assurances ringing in his dainty ears. There was to be dinner at the Twenty-One when all this was over and, as I recall, a cruise to Europe on the Mauretania. All eyewash, of course, as I had serious doubts I would ever again set foot in the Land of the Free, always supposing I escaped in the first place.
I emerged into the hotel lobby wearing Rex’s uniform and feeling indescribably foolish, my shins showing bare where the lad’s not-quite-long-enough trousers exposed my disguise. Pulling the little pillbox hat as far down my forehead as I could without drawing attention, I crossed towards the front doors with the easy swagger I’d seen Rex and his kind adopt on many occasions. I could only pray that as usual the clientele wouldn’t spare the staff a second glance, otherwise the sight of a middle-aged man in blue and gold brocade might excite unwanted comment.
Policemen were dotted discreetly around the palm-fringed lobby. I hovered near the lift for a few moments, patting, for reassurance, my money-belt, where Hubbard’s silk relic now reposed. I watched the activity at the front desk with keen interest. A dwarfish fellow in a tailcoat and derby was trying to check in for a night of illicit thrills with a gum-chewing young lady in white furs. The weary-looking concierge looked ill-disposed to help.
Next to them stood a pile of orangey-leather cases, shiny as fresh conkers, awaiting collection. With complete nonchalance, I sailed past the desk, picked up a pair of the cases and glided out through the revolving doors into the street.
More coppers were walking up and down in the brilliantly lit forecourt. Heart pounding and resisting the urge to run for it, I walked as casually as I could around the side of the hotel until the darkness closed about me. Under this blessed cover I took to my heels, gripping the suitcases and emerging onto the neighbouring block, where traffic streamed by in a great blaring confusion.
Stepping boldly into the fray, I hailed a yellow cab and ordered him to take me to Pier Thirty-Nine down by the river, pulling a couple of greenbacks from my money belt to show I was in earnest.
I sank back, utterly spent, and cast an anxious glance through the rear window. All seemed well.
Allowing myself a moment to gloat, I pulled the first of the cases onto my lap and clicked it open. A wave of cheap perfume overwhelmed me. I reached inside and lifted out a negligee decorated with pink Malibu feathers. Not quite the thing for the journey I had in mind. The rest of the case proved equally barren and I moved onto the smaller one, hoping that it belonged to a chap of a similar build to me.
The locks yielded to my thumbs with two satisfying clunks. I stared down at the contents and let out an audible groan.
The driver’s inquisitive features appeared in the mirror. ‘You OK, bud?’
I sighed. ‘Just not my day. Not my day at all.’
I held up several pairs of tiny, gaily checked trousers, garishly coloured waistcoats and bow ties. Tipping back the lid of the case, an old poster that had been pasted into it was exposed.
Adolph the Little Atom, I read. Mimicry. Minstrel songs. Tumbling.
I recalled with a weary smile the dwarf at the hotel reception.
Well, that’s where gloating gets you.
The old tub Stiffkey lay at her berth at the pier just as I’d seen her only that afternoon, black water lapping at the rusted plates of her creaking hull and looking comprehensively unfit for an Atlantic crossing.
Having paid off the cab, I crept down a set of rotting wooden stairs and hid myself on the jetty behind two great coils of weed-smeared rope. As female drag or midget’s stage-wear were unlikely to prove useful to me I was still squeezed into the bellhop’s ludicrous get-up, though I threw the pillbox hat into the Hudson where it sank into the freezing water as though swallowed by tar.
Taking Sal Volatile’s envelope from my pocket, I took stock of the situation. The dead man’s exit strategy was completely open to me and, as my presence on the bitterly cold pier indicated, it was currently my only option. What I wanted very much to avoid, though, was falling into a trap. Did those intent on framing me know about Volatile’s plan to substitute me on board the Stiffkey? Had I come all this way only to find Flarge’s men waiting for me in the rusting old ship?
As far as I could tell, the tub was under no observation save that of an old tramp in a battered pilot’s hat, sitting on the edge of the planking and very much at peace with the world. I gave it a few more minutes, eyes keenly scanning the shadowed docks, then, taking a deep breath, I strode swiftly up the rope-banistered gangway and onto the deck.
The pounding of the engines set my already strained nerves on edge.
A woolly-headed sailor in a sweater spat tobacco juice at my feet and eyed me with interest.
‘Volatile,’ I muttered, handing over my documents.
‘Are you now?’ he said, smiling in cheeky fashion. ‘We shall have to watch you, then, eh?’ The accent was thick Norfolk and the sudden sound of home was as comforting as if I was being wrapped in a Union flag.
He nodded towards a stairway and we passed from the darkness into a gloomy corrid
or, feeble electric bulbs strung down its length. Hooking a thumb over his shoulder, he indicated a battered cabin door. There was a small brass frame inset in it, presumably meant to bear the name of whichever unfortunate soul was travelling on the mangy old ship. I’d taken the Stiffkey to be some kind of trawler or merchant vessel with passengers a rare commodity. No doubt Volatile had paid a princely sum for this discreet exit from America, no questions asked.
The sailor flattened himself against the buckled wooden panelling of the corridor so that I could pass. ‘When do we cast off?’ I said.
‘Half hour, ducks,’ he replied with a funny little smile.
‘Won’t the captain want to see me?’ I asked, trying not to sound too plaintive.
He let out a gurgling laugh. ‘Cor, blast me! Ha! That’d be a turn-up and no mistaking. Ha, ha! Want to see you? Mr Volatile, he don’t give a cuss for nothing ’cept getting here to ol’ New York and then gettin’ home. Now if I were you I’d keep my head down, eat your grub and not go for any long turns on the deck.’
I nodded. ‘Very well.’
A slim shape in a white sweater and woollen cap flashed past us–a cabin boy, I supposed–and the sailor caught his arm. ‘’Ere! Hold you ’ard! You take care of Mr Volatile ’ere!’
The sailor gave me another queer look, tapped his tobacco-yellow fingers to his cap and vanished into the gloom, leaving me alone with the boy, who stooped at once for my cases.
Dog-tired, I ignored the lad and shouldered open the cabin door, revealing a tiny, airless room, very close to the engines judging by the constant drumming that set the brass ring of the porthole rattling. A simple bunk with a grey army blanket slung over it comprised the only furniture.
The boy let the suitcases tumble to the floor and went out. Kneeling on the bunk, I peered through the porthole. Outside the sea stretched like a black sheet towards Manhattan island, the ship’s ancient propeller churning the icy water at her stern a startling white as the engines ticked over.
I glanced at my wristwatch. If we could only get going soon, if Volatile’s escape route really hadn’t been discovered, I might just be in with a chance.
With nothing else to do but wait, I stripped off Rex’s jacket and sat there in my under-vest–stained black with grime and perspiration–and opened the two cases again. A more thorough check was in order.
The dwarf’s case proved as useless as it had appeared save for some pornographic postcards of dubious titillation and a coral-pink cigar case containing a brace of fine-looking Havanas. I decided to save the smokes until I had something to celebrate.
Turning my attention to the girl’s case I was delighted to find not only a roll of ten-dollar bills tucked inside her underwear but (God bless fashion!) a pair of wide-legged culottes that might just about pass muster as a gentleman’s trousers. I was just slipping out of Rex’s when we suddenly started moving. I moved to the porthole again and watched the blessed sight of the New York skyline begin to slip away into the night.
With a groan of exhaustion, I sank down on the bunk and closed my eyes.
I’d made it.
Poor old Lucifer has always been a rotten sailor, and waking in a fug of engine fumes, I greeted the new day with a dry heave, swung my legs off the bunk and sat up, coughing like a consumptive. I needed some fresh air sharpish.
Tottering into the culottes, I made my way across to the door and stumbled into the corridor beyond but that stank of oil and provided scant relief. As the Stiffkey plunged through the sea, I swayed towards the stairwell, only to walk, face-first, into the massive aproned chest of what could only be the ship’s cook.
I took an involuntary step backwards and looked up at all six foot six of the brute. Built like the proverbial brick garderobe, this mulatto’s ears were bright with silver rings and one hand–in appropriately piratical fashion–was replaced by what looked like a tin-opener.
‘So sorry,’ I bleated. ‘Just…just on my way to the deck.’
Sweat rolled in great glistening beads over his bricklike brow. He made no move to stand aside.
‘Not feeling too bright,’ I managed, putting on my best silly-ass voice again in order to defuse any potentially violent urges he might have. ‘So if you’d just let me pass…’
A strange guttural croak was his only answer.
Then, rather unexpectedly, he drew out a tin from the ruddily stained pocket of his apron, proceeded to spear it with the end of his harpoon-hand and, with astonishing delicacy, to open it up. Within a very few moments, he was scooping out pinkish meat–corned beef by the look–and stuffing it into his mouth. I shuddered briefly at the sight of his tongue. It had evidently been sliced clean off long ago, and the remains clacked about over the wet meat like some ghastly earthworm.
He croaked again, glared down at me in an openly challenging fashion and held the sharp end of his harpoon close to my perspiring face.
‘Bullfrog!’
The cry was unexpected as it was welcome. The cabin boy from the previous night came running down the pitching corridor. In the queasy light I could still make out little of his face but I grew suddenly alert at the very noticeable protuberances in the rough fabric of his sweater. The very noticeable and breast-shaped protuberances.
‘I am Aggie,’ said the cabin ‘boy’, with great gravity. ‘Do not mind Bullfrog. He is harmless. Welcome to the Stiffkey.’
She was duskily skinned, petite and devilishly exotic, her coal-black hair cut into a manageable crop under the cap. Her eyes were like polished jet and there was the light of another race in their depths. She set up a rather pleasant little fluttering in my churning innards.
‘Isn’t it meant to be unlucky?’ I ventured.
‘Sir?’
‘Girls on ships?’
‘They do not think of me as a girl,’ she said, again with a kind of uncalled-for seriousness. ‘So I do not either.’
Aggie’s voice had a vaguely Indian inflection. Despite feeling as sick as a dog I attempted a ravishing smile. ‘What a silly way of thinking. I’m sure if we become acquainted, I should like very much to think of you as a girl. Often.’
Such drawling charm never fails.
Except this time.
She stared at me with what looked very much like concern. ‘You are sick. You must get air.’
At an impatient gesture from the girl, the brutish Bullfrog finally stepped aside and clumped off into the innards of the ship. With both hands on the rope banisters I hauled myself on deck, Aggie close behind.
The day was dark and oppressive, the sea like a greasy grey blanket, and I found, much to my distress, that I felt no better. The waves battering at the creaking ship’s plates were deafening.
‘How do I look?’ I cried.
‘You are green,’ shouted Aggie, with wounding directness.
I swallowed a mouthful of bile and made my way towards the rail, my feet dragging as though they were stuck in glue.
Aggie’s hand on my elbow was a great comfort. She narrowed her eyes against the spray. ‘I could, if you like, prepare something for your condition. It is not exactly unknown aboard ship.’
I nodded, salty water dribbling down my face. ‘You old sea dogs have a dozen tried and tested remedies, eh?’
‘Sea dogs?’
I heaved again and put a hand to my clammy forehead. ‘I’d be most grateful.’
‘Come, then,’ she said with impeccable manners. ‘It is senseless to linger here when it is doing you no good.’
Aggie began to steer me back towards the stairwell then pulled up so sharply that I almost fell forward. A stout fellow with a liverish countenance had swung into our line of sight. I felt the girl stiffen as he strode with perfect composure over the soaked planks.
‘It is the captain,’ she hissed in my ear.
So here was Captain Corpusty again, whom I’d glimpsed only briefly when he stood deep in conversation with Mons a mere twenty-four hours before. At close quarters, his face was like a battered sail,
strung tight across his bones as though against a force-ten gale. And just as the sailmaker might have patched and worried at the old canvas, so Corpusty’s flesh was uneven and terribly scarred. Jaundiced eyes popped out from sweaty, shadowed flesh. He glanced at me for the briefest of moments and was about to resume his patrol of the deck when he suddenly swung back round.
‘This our passenger, is it, Aggie?’ he rumbled.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Sal Volatile,’ I croaked, holding out a trembling hand that the captain declined to shake.
‘And how are you finding us aboard the Stiffkey, Mr Volatile?’
‘Well,’ I said airily, ‘I’ve only just become acquainted with your friend here, though we did run into a charming one-armed fellow who seemed awful anxious to serve up corned beef for breakfast.’
Corpusty’s disastrous face twisted into a semblance of a grin. ‘Oh, old Bullfrog’s bark is worse than his bite. But then, since I cut his tongue out, he don’t have much of a bark.’
‘You…?’
‘I prize loyalty above all things, sir. Bullfrog got himself soused one night in ’Frisco and fell to telling tales about me. He won’t never tell those tales again.’
I swallowed another gobbet of bile. ‘Expect not.’
‘But he’s loyal now,’ continued the captain. ‘And he keeps a watchful eye on things for me.’
I nodded breezily. ‘Right-oh! Well, I must be getting below. Haven’t found the old sea legs yet. Good day, Captain.’
Aggie helped me towards the steps. I was aware of Corpusty’s eyes on my back the whole time.
10
A Guest Of Captain Corpusty
By the next day, after some food and a modicum of hot water, I was feeling a little better. Aggie and I had become sufficiently pally for me to enquire as to the possibility of getting some togs more suitable for the crossing and I was sitting on the bed that night, the ship pitching horrendously in a gale, grey water slapping at the porthole, when her light knock sounded.
