‘Does your business touch Chicago?’ asked the captain, after a pause.
‘And a few other places in the globe,’ answered Mr Holbrooke.
But it was easy to see from his expression that the question stayed in his mind.
The captain waited a few seconds to see whether anything useful materialised from the expression. Nothing did. He rose, and took six slow paces to a window.
Gazing out, he caught a glimpse of a white-clad figure on the boat-deck. There were plenty of other figures about, but none more attractive. Mr Holbrooke’s millions had done all that millions could do to produce a highly polished and highly finished article in daughters.
A young man was by the white-clad figure’s side, and both were leaning over the rail, watching the waves.
Then the captain returned to his chair, and touched a button. Almost instantly, the steward Jenks appeared.
‘Now I’ll see Mr Greene,’ said the captain. And added, as Mr Holbrooke rose, ‘Don’t go. Mr Greene is my third officer, and he’s bringing some news that may be of interest to you.’
9
Cross-Examination
The third officer entered the captain’s sanctum and saluted. He was a model of nautical smartness, and exuded duty and efficiency.
‘So you’ve found a stowaway, Mr Greene,’ began the captain.
‘Yes, sir,’ replied the third officer.
‘Well, that’s not an exceptional circumstance,’ observed the captain, with a glance at Mr Holbrooke. The word ‘stowaway’ had acted on the American millionaire like an electric shock. ‘Plenty of people like to get sea-trips for nothing. But we generally disappoint them.’
‘How so, when the ship’s under way?’ inquired Mr Holbrooke.
‘Make them work for their living,’ answered the captain, and turned back to the third officer. ‘Though I understand you may recommend stronger measures in this case?’
‘The fellow’s dangerous,’ responded Greene.
‘In what way?’
‘Tell by the look of him, sir?’
‘He put up a fight, eh?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the third officer.
‘Anything else?’
Greene hesitated. Then he answered quickly, as though to wipe out the hesitation.
‘Yes, sir. He had a bottle of chloroform on him.’
‘Hey, what’s that?’ exclaimed Mr Holbrooke, his eyes growing big.
The captain was equally interested in the information, but showed more composure.
‘Chloroform, eh? Then I think I’d better see the man. Where is he now?’
‘He’s being looked after, sir. I didn’t think it was necessary to trouble you to see him. I was going to suggest—’
‘Yes, yes, never mind what you were going to suggest, Mr Greene,’ interrupted the captain. ‘Let us attend to what I suggest. Where was he found?’
‘On one of the coal bunkers. Aft.’
‘Well, bring him in. No, wait a minute. Have you got the bottle of chloroform?’
‘Not on me, sir,’ replied the third officer. ‘I’ll bring it when I come back.’
He turned, but the captain detained him with one more question.
‘By the way, Mr Greene,’ he said, ‘I understand there’s a rumour of a stoker who is supposed to have fallen into the water. Do you know anything about it?’
‘No, sir,’ answered the third officer promptly.
When they were alone again, the captain raised his eyebrows, and Mr Holbrooke burst out.
‘Why, I got that rumour from two people,’ he exclaimed, indignantly. ‘I should have thought your officers would have known of it!’
‘I didn’t know of it,’ answered the captain; ‘and my officers have too much to do to attend to rumours. May I know who the two people were?’
Mr Holbrooke reddened slightly. He didn’t know who the two people were. As a matter of fact, now he came to think of it, he hadn’t actually got it from them at all. He had overheard them talking about it. The captain shook his head rather sadly.
‘And so wars begin, Mr Holbrooke,’ he observed. ‘However, I’ll make inquiries.’
Then he fell into a silence, while his visitor stared gloomily at his bright finger-nails. He always got a peculiar satisfaction from his finger-nails.
And into this sombre atmosphere Ben entered a minute later, to continue the strange adventure on which Fate had launched him.
He did not cut a dignified figure. You can’t, when your face has the memory of half a ton of coal upon it. His mind, too, was jerky. The transition from darkness to lightness, from the ship’s stomach to the ship’s brain had confused him, and he was also feeling the effects of many factors which worked against his efficiency. Item, lack of natural sleep. Item, superfluity of unnatural sleep. Item, a blow from a murderer. Item, a fall from a ladder. Item, having been off his nut. Item, an intense, abruptly born interest in a fellow-sufferer whose fate appeared to be in his hands. Item, a vast, empty space inside him that badly needed filling.
It was the fellow-sufferer, however, who confused him most. But for her, he could have gone straight ahead and seen what happened. But for her, he could have turned the tables on his captor, or made a definite attempt to. But what hit his captor would hit Faggis, and what hit Faggis might hit the girl, wherever she was. Yes, and where was she? And what was he to do? And why was he interesting himself in a wrong ’un, anyway, tell him that?
What he really needed, before tackling the difficult interview before him, was a week’s holiday. With a hole inside and a bump outside, and things coming so fast one on top of another, what chance had a bloke? Well, there you were!
Chap in blue would be the old man. Who was the other chap? Gawd, there’s a pair o’ socks …
‘Here he is,’ said the third officer.
‘Tha’s right!’ snorted Ben, as he was pushed forward. ‘Shove me abart as if I was a pahnd o’ cheese! We ain’t ’uman beings, we ain’t!’
‘Better be careful,’ the third officer warned him.
‘Wot for?’ he retorted. ‘When yer dahn on the ground, yer can’t fall.’
The captain interposed.
‘All right, Mr Greene,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ll talk to him. Perhaps he will be a little more polite to me.’
Ben turned his eyes towards the speaker. The amount of gold braid did increase the necessity for politeness. He decided to try it.
‘I speaks proper, sir,’ he said, ‘when I’m spoke ter proper.’
‘I see,’ nodded the captain. ‘A fifty-fifty arrangement. It isn’t quite usual between a captain and a stowaway, but, as you’re particular, we’ll begin on those lines. What is your name?’
‘Ben, sir.’
‘And the rest of it?’
‘There ain’t no rest.’
‘I dare say you’ll find it, if you think.’
‘I can’t think.’
‘Why not?’
‘I got a bump.’
‘So I see. How did you get it?’
‘’Oo?’
‘How did you get your bump?’
‘It’s wot ’appens. When yer ’it.’
‘Then what hit you?’
‘’Arf a dozin’ ladders, a ton o’ coal, the grahnd, and the third hofficer. Oh, and two hother blokes wot ’e chucks me ter when we comes hup.’
The third officer explained.
‘He came quietly at first, sir,’ he said; ‘but he gave us a bit of trouble towards the end.’
‘Well, they was tryin’ ter force me ’ead between me legs or somethink,’ Ben defended himself. ‘It ain’t nacheral.’
‘I will see that you receive a proper apology from the Merchant Service,’ commented the captain dryly. ‘Meanwhile, let us return to essentials.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘You say your name’s Ben? Write it.’
A piece of paper and a pencil were handed to him. He wrote his autograph wonderingly. What did they want that for? The capt
ain studied it, glanced at another piece of paper, looked at Mr Holbrooke and shook his head.
‘What are you doing here?’ the captain then asked.
‘Eh?’
The captain’s eyes grew a little colder. ‘Answer me, my man,’ he frowned. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Oh, I see,’ blinked Ben. ‘’E brought me ’ere.’
He jerked his thumb towards the third officer. The third officer glared angrily, but the captain remained patient.
‘How did you get on the ship before he brought you here?’ he asked.
‘I come aboard.’
‘The man’s a lunatic, sir!’ burst out the third officer.
‘I’m not so darned sure!’ added Mr Holbrooke, whose eyes were glued in a puzzled stare on Ben’s.
‘I’ll judge,’ said the captain. ‘Give him a chair.’
What? Someone being nice to him?
‘Go on!’ murmured Ben, in surprise.
The chair was provided. Ben sank down in it. If the captain had judged that Ben needed the chair, he had judged right. All sorts of funny things were happening inside Ben.
‘Now, then,’ said the captain, beginning again, ‘we’re not going to have any more nonsense. I want you to tell me, without any prevarication—you know what prevarication means—?’
‘Wobblin’, ain’t it?’ guessed Ben.
‘Well, that will do for our purpose,’ agreed the captain, with a faint smile. ‘Tell me, without any wobbling, what you are doing on board this ship, and why you came on board?’
Now for it! Ben hesitated. If he told the truth, he would entangle the girl. That was what she’d said, wasn’t it? Well, he wasn’t going to tell the truth. Not yet, anyway …
‘’Cos of me mother,’ said Ben, as three pairs of eyes bored into him.
‘Oh! And what about your mother?’ asked the captain.
‘Yus,’ said Ben.
‘Is she on board too?’
‘Yus. No.’
‘Which do you want?’
‘No.’
‘Where is she?’
‘Where I wanter git ter. She sent me a letter, see? “Come an’ see me,” she ses, “’cos p’r’aps I won’t be ’ere much longer.” That’s wot she ses.’ Ben looked out of the corner of his eye to see how the story was going. What he saw wasn’t very satisfactory. ‘So ’ere I am,’ he ended lamely.
‘Have you got the letter on you?’ inquired the captain.
‘I never keeps letters,’ he answered. ‘I bin blackmailed afore.’
‘Where was the letter sent?’
‘Eh?’
‘Didn’t you hear?’
‘Yus, sir.’
‘Then answer me!’
‘Well, I am hanswering yer, but yer goes so quick. I ain’t feelin’ well. The letter was sent ter—well, ter where I lives.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘My ’ome.’
‘Give me the address of your home?’
That was a nasty one. Ben hadn’t had a home for years. He began to wish he’d made up another story.
‘Popler Street,’ he said.
‘Popler Street where?’
‘Popler.’
‘Any particular number—or is the street all yours?’
‘Eh? Number 22. Tha’s it. Nummer 22 Popler Street, Popler, Lunnon.’
There was a pause. The three men looked at each other. Two were impatient, but the third, the captain, remained unperturbed. He knew what the other two men did not know—that anger would develop hysteria or its antithesis, numbness. He had read Ben’s condition when he had offered him a chair.
‘Twenty-two, Poplar Street, Poplar,’ he repeated slowly. ‘Well—admitting that for the moment—was there anything else on the envelope?’
‘I tole yer,’ replied Ben. ‘Lunnon.’
‘No name?’
‘’Corse there was a nime.’
‘What name?’
Ben looked at the captain suspiciously.
‘What name was on the envelope?’ the captain pressed. ‘Just “Ben, 22 Poplar Street, Poplar?”’
This was getting too complicated. Ben gave it up, and waited for the next. The next was even more complicated.
‘Where did your mother write from?’ inquired the captain.
‘From where she is,’ countered Ben.
‘And where is she?’
‘Well, where this boat’s goin’.’
This was too much for the third officer.
‘Yes, but where’s the boat going?’ he interposed angrily.
‘If you don’t know, you better sweep a crossin’,’ replied Ben.
The captain turned to the third officer.
‘Mr Greene,’ he said, ‘we had better not have any interruptions.’
For a brief moment, the world became sweet again. Ben grinned.
‘Tha’s right, sir!’ he chuckled. ‘Tick ’im orf!’
The sweetness vanished. The captain was now frowning heavily at Ben.
‘You’ll be ticked off yourself, if you don’t watch that tongue of yours!’ he exclaimed.
Now it was the third officer who grinned. The reaction and the grin sent Ben suddenly off his balance. He heard himself shouting. Perhaps the bump also had something to do with it. It was a painful bump.
‘I was born ticked orf!’ came his hoarse complaint. ‘Wot I was thinkin’ of, comin’ inter this world without fust askin’ everybody’s permishun, I’m sure I dunno! I’m a bit o’ mud not fit ter wipe yer boots hon—’
‘Say, do you allow this kind of language?’ interposed Mr Holbrooke.
‘Langwidge is like ’ens’ heggs,’ almost wept Ben. The room was growing misty. ‘If it’s comin, it’ll come.’
Another silence followed this philosophy. When the heat had died down a little, the captain delivered his ultimatum.
‘I think I have been patient,’ he observed, ‘and I am willing to remain patient for a minute or two longer, but I warn you, my man, that if there are any more outbursts this interview will come to an end, and you will not receive the benefit of very considerable doubts. Please remember that I am making every excuse for you, in view of your condition. Now, answer the rest of my questions quickly and plainly, and do not let us have any more foolery. Do you know where this ship is going?’
Ben gulped, and answered:
‘No, sir.’
‘Then did you just hope it would sail to the place where your mother is supposed to be—and where you have not yet told us she is?’
This needed consideration.
‘Where is she?’ rapped out the captain.
‘In ’eaven, sir,’ replied Ben. ‘You’ve won.’
‘I see,’ said the captain slowly. ‘You’ve been lying?’
‘Yus, sir.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, yer ’ave ter say somethink, doncher?’
‘Why not the truth?’ suggested the captain, and then turned to the third officer. ‘Mr Greene, will you kindly give me the article you found on this stowaway?’ The third officer obeyed. ‘Is this the reason why you find the truth a trifle awkward?’ asked the captain, holding up a little green bottle.
Ben stared at the bottle. It seemed to contain the essence of the third officer’s grin.
‘That clorridgeform wasn’t on me,’ muttered Ben; ‘and ’e knows it.’
‘Where was it, then?’
‘It was in his pocket, sir,’ said the third officer.
‘Lummy, there’s a lie!’ exclaimed Ben. ‘It was on the grahnd! Pocket! That’s good, that is! Orl I got in me pockets is ’oles! Heverythink helse goes right through!’
The third officer shrugged his shoulders.
‘You deny that this is yours, then?’ said the captain.
‘’Corse it ain’t mine,’ answered Ben. ‘Wot’d I be doin’ with clorridgeform?’
‘You might have intended to use it on somebody?’
‘Well, ’oo?’
‘That would be for
you to tell us.’
‘Orl right. I bought it fer yer third officer. Now ’ang me.’
‘It’s a pity you can’t realise that, if you’ve nothing to hide, the truth is the only thing that will help you,’ observed the captain. ‘If this chloroform is not yours, have you any idea whose it is?’
‘No, sir.’
‘You didn’t get it for somebody else, for instance?’
‘No, sir.’
‘And nobody else gave it to you?’
‘It ain’t my birthday.’
‘Where did you come on board?’
‘Eh?’
‘Tilbury?’
‘No. Yus. No.’
‘The no’s seem to win. You didn’t come on board at Tilbury?’
‘Tha’s right.’
‘When, then?’
‘Afore that.’
‘How long before that? Be specific!’
‘’Oo?’
The captain repeated his question, and brought his hand down on his desk with the sound of a pistol shot. It was effective.
‘Lunnon!’ said Ben, flustered. ‘Lunnon Docks. I’m telling yer, ain’t I?’
‘What were you doing at the docks?’
‘Slipped in ter git a bit o’ sleep, see?’
‘Yes? And then?’
‘Well, it weren’t comfor’ble. So I wakes hup, see?’
‘Go on.’
The captain’s voice was still sharp. He had got Ben on the run.
‘I’m goin’ hon! I gits hup. I looks arahnd fer another spot. It was ’ard, see? And rats. And when I’m lookin’ arahnd—well, I goes hon lookin’ rahnd, and so I looks rahnd, like I’m tellin’ yer—’
‘Will you get on!’
‘Give us a chance ter breathe! I looks rahnd, and I sees this ’ere ship. “’Allo!” I ses. “It’s got its mouth open!” So in I slips, and presen’ly I falls dahn a ladder, an’ tikes the count.’ Ben closed his eyes, to add a touch of realism to his story. Then he opened them, and concluded, ‘And when I comes ter meself, along comes yer third officer, picks hup the clorridgeform, ses it’s in me pocket, and lugs me hup ’ere.’
The captain considered for a moment. Then he shot out a series of questions, and Ben felt as though he were dodging a maxim gun. The captain was learning that this was the only way to get him on the run.
‘Were you unconscious from the moment you fell off the ladder till the moment you were found by my third officer?’ he rapped out.
Murderer's Trail Page 6
