The Depths

by John Creasey

  Where was Simon?

  She finished the cigarette. It had been nearly a quarter of an hour since he had said that he would be along in five minutes, and whatever the cause of the delay, this was surprising. Should she try to get him on the telephone again? If he had been delayed, surely he would have called her. She watched the hand of her wrist watch moving barely perceptibly, for a full sixty seconds. She stepped towards the door, but hesitated. Take extreme precautions, Palfrey had said – and Simon had made it clear that he meant her to obey. She picked up the receiver again; the ship’s operator was a long time answering. When at last the girl did, she said:

  “I’ll try to get him for you.”

  Julia put the receiver down again. Her heart was thumping with that fear which Palfrey had inspired and which this long delay heightened so much. It wasn’t like Simon, big, boyish, bustling Simon, the popular type of public schoolboy. He was always so prompt.

  There was a tap at the door.

  She swung round towards it, expecting to hear Simon call out, but he did not. She hesitated, then moved across the cabin. The knock came again; heavy, peremptory; but if it were Simon, why didn’t he call out? She touched the handle of the door.

  The knock came for the third time.

  “Who is it?” she called.

  A man called back: “It is I—Simon!”

  She knew, on that instant, that it wasn’t; Simon would have said: “It’s me, open up!” She turned slowly towards the telephone again, lifted it gingerly so that it did not make much noise, and prayed that this time the operator would not be so long. It was useless to ask for Morris, the Z5 steward, but she had to call someone on whom she could rely. The operator answered as the man outside thumped on the door again.

  “Give me the Radio Officer, quickly,” Julia whispered.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t hear you.”

  “Radio Officer, quickly.”

  “Very good, miss.”

  He might be engaged.

  “One moment, please.” There was only a moment’s pause, before a man answered – and as he did so the man outside called in that un-Simon-like voice:

  “Julia, please. Open the door – at once.”

  “Want me?” asked the Radio Officer.

  “Please,” Julia said, with soft urgency, “send someone to see who is outside my door. He claims to be Simon Alting, the Third Engineer, but I don’t think he is.”

  “I’ll come myself – I’m just going off duty,” the Radio Officer said briskly.

  Julia heard his telephone go down. She listened intently for another bang at the door, but it didn’t come. She thought she heard a squeaking sound, but that stopped. Suddenly, a voice was raised:

  “Just a moment!” That was the Radio Officer. There were thudding footsteps, followed suddenly by a rumble of sound, a couple of hearty expletives, and noises which were more subdued. After a moment, there was another bang on the door, and the Radio Officer called: “I missed him. What’s the trouble, Miss Shawn?”

  She opened the door.

  “Simon Alting was coming up to see me,” she said. There was no need to go into details, the Radio Officer and all of the ship’s officers knew that she had to have special treatment. “I can’t understand what kept him. And this man—”

  She broke off.

  “Funny business,” remarked the Radio Officer. Although he had been swamped by the work that evening, he looked as bright and fresh as if it were early morning, and he was facing the new day. “Anything I can do?”

  “I’d like to go down to my cabin.”

  “Can I walk you down?”

  “Please.”

  “It will be a pleasure,” he said. “I’ve just got to pop my nose in next door.” He slid his arm through hers, comfortingly, and they went outside, the Radio Officer talking all the time. “The chap must have realised that you’d rumbled him. He was disappearing round the corner when I reached the door. I just saw his heels. I fell over a dumb-bell from the gymnasium – nothing in this ship is where it should be, tonight.” Still holding her arm, he looked into his office. “I’ll be back in an hour, Jim.” The man named Jim called back, and the Radio Officer marched Julia along the passage to the nearest lift; it opened as they reached it, and the Captain and two passengers stepped out. Julia recognised the passenger who had been trying to reassure his anxious wife.

  “You can be sure that every—everything is being done, sir.”

  “But we should have turned back. I tell you it was criminal not to!”

  “Two British destroyers and one French know our exact position, and fishing boats from Algiers are also searching,” the Captain said in a flat voice. He nodded to Julia as they passed. Julia stepped into the elevator, where a one-armed liftman waited, a patch of plaster over his right eye.

  “Never known anything like it since I was blown up in the second world war,” he remarked. “On the oldest ship in the navy, that was. I was riddled with shrapnel and shell splinters. But you did know what you was in for—”

  “You haven’t seen Mr Alting about, have you?”

  “Third Engineer? Haven’t you heard?”

  Julia’s heart began to beat fast again.

  “What should I have heard?” asked the Radio Officer.

  “Fell down one of the ladders in the engine room, and split his head right open. Had twenty stitches put in, they tell me. Never rains but it pours.”

  “Fell,” echoed the Radio Officer.

  “Think he’s been at sea long enough to know how to climb up and down a steel ladder, wouldn’t you?”

  The lift stopped at A deck, two below Promenade. Julia stepped out. The Radio Officer’s fingers were tight on her arm – almost painful. As the elevator doors slid to behind them, and they were alone for a moment, he said:

  “What’s going on, Miss Shawn?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  “Someone after you?”

  “It looks like it.”

  “We’ll go along to your cabin, and I’ll put one of the sergeants-at-arms on duty, until you’re quite safe,” the Radio Officer promised. “Don’t worry.” But he himself looked worried. They went briskly along to her cabin, A49, which had a porthole. He took the key from her, unlocked the door, and said: “Wait there a moment.” He went inside. Someone came hurrying along the passage, a youngish man whom she had noticed several times, and fear clutched her again, but he passed with a brisk:

  “What a night!”

  “Yes, isn’t it?”

  The Radio Officer reappeared.

  “I’ve looked in the bathroom, behind the shower, under the bed and in the wardrobe – the cabin’s quite empty. Lock yourself in. I’ll bring the man to look after you myself – don’t worry any more.”

  “You’re very good.”

  “Got to look after our VIP’s,” he said, and grinned; in spite of the quickness with which he acted and his seriousness he was lively and light-hearted. “You look as if you’re nearly all in,” he said. “You ought to lie down.”

  “I think I will.”

  “Wise girl.” He stepped outside, pulling the door to as he went, and she saw his pale plump hand on the handle, the braid of his sleeve. Then she heard him cry out in sharp alarm: “Lock the door!” This was the kind of situation for which she had been trained absolutely. All human impulse would be to try to help the man outside, but she had to save herself because of what she could tell Palfrey, and Z5.

  There was a clatter of running footsteps followed by a sharp snap of sound which she didn’t recognise but which filled her with terror. She flung herself at the door. It slammed. She caught sight of a man outside, a tall man backing away from the Radio Officer, who had flung himself forward. She saw blood crimson on the Radio Officer’s right cheek, before the door
slammed and cut them off from sight. She thrust her finger on the safety lock, and heard it click home. There was a shriek outside, another sharp snap, a shout, and more thudding footsteps. Muted voices sounded. She stood close by the door, body tense, hardly breathing.

  A man said: “My God, he’s dead.”

  Chapter Five

  MEETING

  Palfrey leaned forward in his seat, close to one of the little round windows of the aircraft, and looked down onto the city of Nice and the darkness of the sea beyond. The moon had set. Few street lights were on. Only here and there lights glowed from houses, but there was sufficient light in the sky for him to see the outline of the great hotels on the Promenade des Anglais, showing up ghostly white; some of the villas on the corniches showed up in the same eerie way. A few cars moved along the main roads, headlights showing. The only welcoming oasis of light in this early morning darkness was at the harbour, and there he could see the S.S. Seafarer, a blaze of white and coloured lights. Arc lamps were ablaze on the dockside, too. As the plane lost height, Palfrey could see the covered gangways between the ship and the quayside, and actually saw two stretchers being carried, and could make out the whiteness of the ambulances waiting to take the injured to hospital.

  He had received the latest list of casualties while in the air. Three more passengers and one additional member of the crew were seriously injured. No one else was reported missing. He knew that he would be met with an up-to-the-minute report as soon as he reached the airfield – young Simon would bring it in person. As the aircraft lost height the blaze of light faded from his line of vision, and was no more than a glow. Now the runway lights almost blinded him. He sat back with his eyes closed. Patience was forced upon him, but was not easy. He was so desperately anxious to hear everything Julia could tell him.

  He had sent out a coded message to all the world’s key agents and to all agents at sea ports, coastal cities, and on seagoing ships, asking for any reports of phenomena such as Julia had described. He might have to amend the description when he had talked to her, but it would be substantially the same. He had made a special point of asking agents near the spots where there had been tidal waves without any apparent natural explanation – reports might begin to come in while he was at Nice. Z5’s agent in Nice ran a small fleet of pleasure and fishing craft, which he hired to Riviera visitors; he was a small, portly man named Duval, Henri Duval, who would almost certainly be waiting for word from Palfrey but would not be at the airport; probably no one outside the secretariat in London knew that he served Z5. He had also sent a message to Simon Alting, whose main job on board the Seafarer had been to look after Julia. Simon should be at the airport.

  They touched earth, bumped, ran more smoothly, and gradually slowed down. Spotlights shone on ambulances and fire tenders, standing over by the main airport buildings, where other lights glowed. A few people were standing about. The plane, a Dakota which ferried luxury foodstuffs to and from England and the Riviera, was a regular flight; there was nothing abnormal in a passenger being on board – it happened that he was the only one, tonight.

  The co-pilot came up to him.

  “Not a bad flip, sir.”

  “Very good,” agreed Palfrey. “Not my idea of a regular night’s entertainment, but I couldn’t have asked for it smoother.”

  “Got to earn the old living somehow,” the co-pilot said. “Good-bye, sir.”

  They shook hands.

  Palfrey stepped down the ladder from the cabin, looking at the little group of people standing there. They were waiting to unload the cargo of course, and the belly doors were already gaping open. He did not see Simon, and no one approached him. That was puzzling. He followed a man who said: “Douane, m’sieu, par ici.” It was pleasantly warm, and there was a delicate scent on the air, as if bougainvillea and geraniums were growing close by. A gentle breeze came off the sea. He went into the Customs shed, where a man in a blue boiler suit stood in solitary state behind a huge, empty bench.

  “You have something to declare?”

  “Nothing at all,” Palfrey said. He showed his card, and the man said:

  “Votre pardon, m’sieu.” He chalked white crosses on Palfrey’s one suitcase. Palfrey went out. Why wasn’t Simon here? Why was no one here from the ship? He had not made special arrangements except to tell Simon to look after the girl, and to come and meet him. The disquiet which Palfrey had felt from the beginning of the affair increased.

  No taxis were waiting, but a car came sweeping up, its headlamps swaying. It stopped alongside Palfrey, and he thought: the fool’s left it late. Then the door opened and a tall, very thin man jumped out – not Simon Alting, but Morris, the steward who had been looking after Professor Corvell.

  “Very sorry I’m late, skipper.” Morris had a Cockney accent and somehow the face of a Cockney, with bony features, rather deep set eyes. “Had a bitta trouble at the last minute. Going to sit in the back or by my side?”

  “I’ll sit next to you,” said Palfrey, and got in. Morris slammed the door as if it were made of steel, and the whole body of the car, a Citroen, shuddered. He snatched the wheel. “Good trip, sir?”

  “Yes. What’s happened?”

  “Simon fell off a ladder in—”

  “Fell?”

  “Or was he pushed?” Morris switched on the engine, and thrust his foot on the accelerator. “No one knows. He was near the top. Could’ve slipped, or some swab could’ve trod on his fingers. Never can tell who’s among the crew, can you? His fingers are a bit bruised, but cuts and bruises are ten a penny on the good ship Seafarer tonight. Cut his head open something awful. Concussed, too, but the docs say he’ll be all right. I just come from the hospital, that’s why I’m a bit late.”

  Palfrey felt almost icy cold.

  “Miss Shawn?”

  “She’s okay, but someone had a coupla attempts to kill her. Got the Radio Officer instead. I tell you, this has bin some night—”

  Julia Shawn seemed composed enough when Palfrey entered her cabin, half an hour later. She was freshly made-up, her hair had been combed back, and her fine, clear cut features were shown to advantage. She had clear, rather dark blue eyes, finely marked brows, a chin that was a little too pointed. The most noticeable thing about her was her flawless complexion, slightly olive, beautifully coloured. Knowing what she had been through in the past few hours, Palfrey told himself that she had recovered extremely well. Emergencies and crises always brought out the worst or the best in an agent; he did not think he would ever have to worry what kind of job Julia was assigned to.

  Fruit juice, hot buttered toast and hot coffee were brought in almost in Palfrey’s wake.

  “Tell me everything as we have breakfast,” Palfrey said. He leaned back in one of the small easy chairs, watching Julia, and his right hand strayed to his forehead. He twisted a few strands of hair round his forefinger, and kept twirling it slowly, as she talked. It was five minutes before she stopped.

  Palfrey did not move, even his hand went still.

  “This silver streak – exactly what was it like?”

  “Well – I first thought it was a motor boat. One of these modern, very streamlined ones, made of aluminium. It shimmered in the moonlight. Afterwards, I thought it might be a rocket. A passenger who was with me thought it looked like a midget submarine.”

  “Did anyone else see it?”

  She hesitated, but Palfrey did not try to hurry her.

  “Yes,” she said at last. “Corvell did. And the passenger, Paul Henson, did.” She had told him in reports about Henson, and did not need to explain who he was. “I’m sure about that. The Professor almost certainly did, too, but I can’t swear to it. I don’t know about the couple who were on the deck above, but I think they were on the other side of the ship.”

  Palfrey said: “And the noise? Did it come from the silvery streak?”
>
  Again, she hesitated, while Palfrey told himself that she was making quite certain that she told him the precise truth – she was not going to allow herself a single unconsidered statement. Very slowly and deliberately, she answered:

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “The silver thing was moving very fast,” she explained. “It was heading for the ship’s side – just for a moment I thought it might be a kind of torpedo. Then the noise came. After that came the wave.”

  “After the noise?”

  “Oh, yes. Seconds afterwards.”

  “Did you see the silvery streak after the wave?’

  “No.”

  “Are you quite sure?”

  “I am positive.”

  “When was the last time you saw it?”

  “It was heading for the ship – I suppose it was fifty or sixty feet away. It gathered speed suddenly. There was a great mushroom of water, and the next thing I saw was the wave, towering over—” she broke off. “I think I remember thinking that if the silvery thing was a boat, then it would be smashed to pieces against the side of the ship, but I don’t remember seeing it, or hearing any other sound except the hissing of the water. When the wave hit us, I was trying to move towards the Professor, but Paul Henson flung himself at me and held me down. If he hadn’t, I would have been carried away. Like he was.”

  “Did you see anyone in this boat-like object?”

  “No. Paul said he thought there was a window in the kind of conning tower, but he didn’t say he noticed anyone. I certainly didn’t.”

  “How big was it?”

  “As big as a small motor boat.”

  “Are you sure that Professor Corvell saw it?”

  “I assume that he did. I know that he saw the wave – he was standing gaping at it, his hands up in the air”—she demonstrated, with the palms of her hands thrust close to Palfrey’s face— “as if he were trying to fend it off. He looked thunderstruck.”