Dead Man’s Shoes (2 page)

Suddenly Mrs Roper, who could make her voice almost as strident as Larkin's, deliberately addressed Gerard Prosper across the table.

“Sun-bathing today?” she asked.

“For a little while,” said Prosper. “It's rather windy, though.”

“Getting too near home.”

This failed to suppress Larkin. He fixed his eye on the unfocusing eye of Jerry Butt and continued:

“As a matter of fact, I liked old Gregory Willick. He was a good sort. Nothing stuck-up about him. Nothing mean. I can't see what possible motive I'm supposed to have had. The evidence is scarcely even circumstantial. I was staying near his place at the time. That's about all they've got. It seems I left to return to Tangier, where I live, on the very evening that the old boy was shot. What's funny about that?”

Gerard Prosper could suppress himself no longer.

“Nothing,” he said. “Nothing is even remotely humorous about you or your entire conversation. If only there were. You're a bore, Larkin. That's worse than being a murderer. Now for God's sake eat your dinner and allow us to eat ours.”

This really did shatter Larkin for a moment, and Mrs Roper seized her opportunity again.

“Making good time?” she asked the Captain. She clipped her sentences to the minimum and spoke in a fine hearty voice.

“Quite,” said Captain Bidlake. “We ought to be in the Thames on Thursday night.”

Appleyard found himself examining Larkin with some interest. The man was clearly purple with rage but could think of no adequate or quick retaliation. He was a big, bear-like fellow with a stoop. He had thick greying hair which was parted in the middle in an old-fashioned manner. His forehead was not broad but his face seemed to widen out as it descended, and when he grinned he showed massive teeth. But the oddest thing about him was his dress: dark-coloured suits and high starched collars, a watch-chain and several rings. He was champing now like an infuriated bull.

“If you talk to me like that, Prosper,” he said at last, “I shall …”

“Gentlemen,” cut in Captain Bidlake, “I'll have no threats on my ship. Mr Larkin, I would ask you kindly not to discuss the matter you have raised this evening.”

That produced silence. Even Mrs Roper held her peace. It was not for nearly a minute that anyone spoke and then Captain Bidlake gave an order to Gunner. But the situation remained electric.

Larkin now addressed the Captain. He appeared to have been thinking over what had been said to him.

“Why not?” he asked. “Why shouldn't I discuss it? It's in everybody's mind. Why not let it be ventilated?”

Bidlake was obviously miserable. He was a peace-loving man, a good seaman and a popular skipper, but he was not equipped to deal with a situation like this.

“It leads to dissension,” he said rather feebly.

“It leads to damned impudence from Prosper, but so do other topics. As a matter of fact, all I was going to say is that I had not even the usual motive. If Willick left me any money it was certainly no more than a small sum. I …”

Gerard Prosper rose and without a word left the saloon. The steward had now cleared the table and Mrs Roper loudly suggested Bridge.

“Make a four?” she asked.

But Kutz had duties and the Captain excused himself. Seeing that she was in danger of being left alone with Larkin and Jerry Butt and Ronald Ferry, who had just ordered whisky-and-soda, she turned to Appleyard.

“Play anything?” she asked rather ambiguously.

Appleyard liked her and understood her manner of speech.

“Chess?”

“Splendid.”

Even as they were setting out the pieces, Larkin boomed on:

“As a matter of fact I'd like to know where old Gregory's money does go. Not much of it to Lance Willick, I'll bet.
That's his nephew who lives in Tangier. Great friend of mine.”

“You have a friend, then?” said Mrs Roper, looking up from the chessboard.

“What d'you mean?”

“Surprising,” said Mrs Roper and moved one of her pawns.

N
EXT DAY
was no more peaceful among the officers and passengers of the
Saragossa.

At breakfast Larkin managed to pick a quarrel with Jerry Butt, the most placid of souls, who had shown no disposition to argue or interfere with anyone, who, in fact, seemed perfectly happy as long as he could sit with his boon companion Ron Ferry and steadily, quietly, resolutely consume whisky.

Jerry was a stocky, short, baldish man who looked as though he had once been an athlete. Ron Ferry was a little older, though both were in their forties. Ferry was a flashier type who affected gay ties and bright tropical suits. Neither was at his best at the breakfast table, though both always appeared and drank their tea and ate their toast like men.

That morning Larkin began to hold forth on politics. He had been, it appeared, a member of Sir Oswald Mosley's party before the war and regretted the days of street processions and rowdy meetings.

“I don't suppose you've ever belonged to any movement?” he said to Jerry Butt.

Jerry was not feeling like an argument. He had no recollection of reaching his bunk last night.

“Don't look at me, old man,” he said equably.

“I'm asking you!” shouted Larkin.

“Well, don't,” said Jerry.

“Of course, if you're such a dipsomaniac …”

“What was that word?” asked Jerry.

“I said dipsomaniac.”

“I don't like that word,” said Jerry mildly. “What does it mean?”

“It means a hopeless drunkard.”

“Oh, that's all right,” said Jerry. “I thought it meant something else.”

There was a sympathetic laugh from Mrs Roper and Prosper which seemed to rouse Larkin to further provocation. It was as though he were determined to antagonize everyone to the maximum.

Gunner, the steward, asked Jerry if he would have another cup of tea, to which he assented.

“What time do you start drinking?” asked Larkin unpleasantly.

“As soon as I've finished this. What about you?”

“I'm a strict teetotaller,” announced Larkin.

“Poor chap,” said Jerry with genuine and heartfelt sympathy.

“What do you mean, ‘poor chap'? Do you think it's enviable to be in a state like yours? Half drunk from morning to night? Soaking spirits at every minute of the day? Do you
like
being like that?”

“Yes,” said Jerry.

He got another friendly laugh which further incensed Larkin.

“It's a
filthy
state to be in!” he said. “Your liver must be in decay. Your whole bodily condition sodden and inflamed. You'll probably not live another five years.”

“I feel fine,” said Jerry.

“You don't look it. You look what you are, a hopeless drunkard. I suppose you get bouts of delirium tremens?”

“No, not really. A few lizards at times. Well, rather a lot. You know, all over the bed. But I haven't seen them for a long time. Must have jumped in the sea.”

An extraordinary sound came from Larkin which was presumably intended to express amusement.

“They'll be back,” he said. “Plenty of them. You can't soak like that without paying for it.”

“Who said I don't pay for it? Never owed a penny in my life.”

Suddenly Ronald Ferry with unsteady but genuine anger spoke to Larkin.

“You've said enough,” he said. “Mind your own business.”

Ferry looked and sounded threatening. Even Larkin seemed to realize that he had gone too far.

“I thought we were talking politics,” he said. “I remarked that I had belonged to the British Fascists before the war, and I'm still proud of it.”

“Better not say that when Mr Kutz is here,” warned Appleyard.

“Why not?”

“He's not quite sane on the subject of Fascism. Or Communism either. Perhaps none of us would be if we had passed through what he has.”

“These stories are usually grossly exaggerated,” said Larkin. But he seemed to grow thoughtful and gave his fellow-passengers a respite from his bellowing voice.

The morning passed without incident and when Apple-yard went up for a drink with the Captain before lunch he was able to report that there had been no dissension since breakfast.

“You know, sir,” he said, “I'm beginning to think that this man Larkin has some reason of his own for deliberately provoking us all. It simply can't be a natural thing. Nobody could be so offensive unless he planned to be.”

“I don't know,” said Bidlake. “There are some pretty unpleasant people in the world.”

“But not that unpleasant. I'm convinced it's an act. Why should he go for a quiet and harmless man like Jerry Butt?”

“Embittered, perhaps. Can't help it. Don't forget what he's going home to.”

“Whatever it is, it makes the saloon hell. I hate the thought of going in to dinner. Thank heaven I'm on duty tonight.”

“Only two days more, though,” pointed out Captain Bidlake.

“I'm afraid of what may happen in those two days.”

“Now, Appleyard, you're imagining things again. What could happen?”

“Well, when I look at the faces round the table I'm inclined to think that anything could. Murder, even.”

Bidlake looked grave.

“You mean that?”

“I'm afraid I do, sir. If Larkin himself isn't a killer—and I for one believe he is—he's going the right way to turn someone else into one.”

“No one kills a man just because he's rude, Appleyard.”

“It depends. However, as you say, two days more will see us home.”

But that evening at dinner a climax was reached. Apple-yard was not present, or he would have been more than ever convinced that Larkin's provocations were the result of a deliberate plan.

The meal started quietly. Larkin had a large appetite and seemed to be chiefly interested in his food. Captain Bidlake talked with Mrs Roper on his right and she answered amiably, though in her usual clipped sentences. The two knew each other fairly well by now, for Mrs Roper was making the round trip and had been on the
Saragossa
for the best part of a month.

“Is your husband meeting you on Thursday?” Bidlake asked.

“No, poor boy. Too busy. Vicar's away and he's got the whole blasted parish on his hands.”

Mr Roper, it will have been gathered, was a curate. He worked in Leeds.

“Wish he could have come. Done him good. Needs picking up. Try to get him out for a hike sometimes, but he won't leave his work. Takes it too seriously. Conscientious. Hell of a life.”

“You don't care for it?”

“Keep away. Told Phil I should before we married. Never make a she-parson out of me. Look after the old boy—that's my job. Only been married a year.”

Still nothing came from Larkin. But Jerry Butt evidently felt that he owed something to the conversation. He enunciated carefully, concentrating on the important matter of his sentence:

“Did I hear you say the other day that your husband worked in Leeds, Mrs Roper?”

“S'right. St Hengist's. Big parish.”

Jerry tried hard.

“I know Leeds,” he managed, but there, though everyone waited, his effort petered out.

It was at this point that the volcano which was Larkin suddenly erupted.

“I was saying this morning, Mr Kutz, that I belonged to the British Fascists before the war, and I was told that you wouldn't approve of that. Why not?”

There was a silence so complete that it seemed as though everyone had ceased to eat, certainly to move. Glances but no more went to Kutz.

One would have said he was the most composed person in the room. He looked steadily at Larkin with his cold, pale eyes. He made no answer and after ten seconds deliberately picked up his glass and drank, then continued calmly to eat his meal.

“Are you deaf?” shouted Larkin. “Or don't you want to hear? Sometimes I think it was a pity we fought Hitler at all. He was the only man who knew how to deal with small nations. Perhaps you don't agree?”

Still there was not the slightest sign that Kutz had heard him. He finished what was on his plate and sat tranquilly indifferent to everything about him.

This time it was Larkin who got up and walked out of the saloon.

The situation was saved by Mrs Roper—and not for the first time. She turned to Jerry Butt.

“Know it well?” she asked as though their conversation had never been interrupted.

Jerry looked startled at being addressed, but came up gamely.

“Intimately,” he said.

The meal went on, and when coffee was brought and Larkin did not return the little gathering in the saloon became almost cheerful. Then Gunner came in and spoke to Captain Bidlake.

“I think Mr Larkin's gone to bed,” he said. “I took him a cup of coffee and his door was locked. He shouted to me to go away and I'm pretty sure his voice came from his bunk.”

It seemed that Gunner was right, for Larkin did not appear again in the saloon that evening.

Next day was the last at sea, for on the following morning they would enter the Thames and before evening, Captain Bidlake devoutly hoped, the last of the passengers would have left the ship.

The sea was rough, but there was sunshine as they came up the Channel. Moreover, as if to make up for the rolling of the ship, there was a miraculous peace in the saloon. Larkin appeared, but seemed quite subdued. Breakfast and lunch passed without incident and dinner was only marked by a brief but unpleasant brush between Larkin and Gunner.

Gunner was a thin but muscular man of thirty with a small moustache, a ready grin and a wallet full of photos of his wife and children which he was a little too ready to display. He had a pleasant though breezy manner with the passengers, whom he was inclined to shepherd about in a kindly but familiar way which most of them liked. He was never cheeky, but there was certainly nothing servile about him.