Sea Fury (1971) (13 page)

Grade swallowed some bile and managed to grin in spite of it. “Jealous as they come. I’ve had some talks with our
Major and I know. If I were Johansen I’d watch my step.”

“You’re not telling me you think Lycett would do anything really desperate?”

“For that woman,” Grade said, “I think he’d commit murder.”

On the bridge Mr. Finch was feeling more and more uneasy as the hours of his watch passed. The wind was
strengthening
; no doubt about that; and the sea was beginning to toss the ship about quite a lot. And still Captain Leach had not put in an appearance.

Finch could not keep still. He walked into the chartroom, had a look at the charts, came out again, glanced over the helmsman’s shoulder at the compass, peered out through the wheelhouse windows and could see very little, went out on to the port wing, came back, went through it all again. Now and then he thought about the girl who might be making love to other men in Hong Kong.

He was thinking about her when the radio officer appeared on the bridge.

“There’s going to be a storm,” Maggs said.

“So you got a report at last?”

“No, I didn’t. I can see for myself, can’t I? I can read the signs as well as the next man. It’s going to be bad. Oh, yes, real bad.” There was an exulting note in Maggs’s voice that puzzled Finch. There seemed to be no reason for it.

“I can’t understand why there’s been no warning on the radio.”

“Well, there may have been, mayn’t there? We wouldn’t hear it.”

“Why not?”

“Didn’t the mate tell you? Radio’s fallen by the wayside. Gone on strike.”

“You mean it’s out of action?”

“That’s it.”

“Mr. Johansen didn’t tell me.” Finch sounded aggrieved. Did the mate think it was of no interest to him?

“Well, you know now.”

“Can’t you repair it?”

“D’you think I haven’t tried? You can’t make bricks without straw.”

“Can’t you transmit either?”

“No.”

“So you couldn’t send out a distress signal?”

“Now why should we want to do that?” Maggs asked.

“It could happen.”

“Oh, yes, it could happen. We could be in a lot of distress. But from now on, Finchy, we’re like the bird with B.O.—we’re on our own.”

Finch could not for the life of him understand why Maggs sounded so happy about it. It was as though he were taking a personal delight in the situation and contemplating with intense satisfaction the possibility that the ship might be in need of assistance and unable to send out a Mayday call.

Sometimes Finch wondered whether Maggs was not a bit of a nut case, he really did.

Lycett’s mind was in a ferment as he stepped out on deck. He hoped that the fresh air would clear his head, help him to decide what to do. One thing he could not do in his present state was climb into his bunk and sleep. Sleep! He wondered whether he would ever sleep soundly again.

The air that met him was like a warm, damp blanket; it was so saturated with moisture that everything he touched was wet. He walked to the after end of the promenade deck and leaned on the rail, staring down at the shadowy deck
below. He had a sudden urge to go to the poop where he could see a light shining. It was as though he felt the need to put as much distance as possible between himself and his problem.

Johansen! What malicious fate had ordained that that man should be thrown in his path? Well, was it not the way things had always gone for him? Nothing had ever turned out well. Even when he had thought himself on to a good thing, it was all a deception; he was just being led on to the inevitable crash. He had been an unlucky devil—always.

He walked to the head of the ladder leading down to the afterdeck. He went down backwards with one hand on each rail, carefully, the ship doing its best to throw him off. When he reached the foot of the ladder he turned and saw that a thick rope stretched away aft at about shoulder height,
disappearing
into the gloom. He had never noticed this rope before and he could only conclude that it had been rigged up because bad weather was expected. Even now it would be a help in crossing the afterdeck.

He gripped the rope with his right hand and began to walk aft along the shifting deck. He was wearing rubber-soled shoes and the wet iron was slippery underfoot; he would certainly have fallen had it not been for the life-line.

When he came to the gap between the hatches he found that the rope had a thinner line attached to it; this line ran off at right angles and was made fast to the mainmast, taking up the slack. The ship rolled so heavily at that moment that water slopped over the bulwarks and rushed across the deck before gurgling away down the scuppers. Lycett hung on with both hands and felt the water flowing over his ankles. Then he went on.

There were some dim lights in the after-castle but no sounds of life came from the crew’s quarters. Lycett went up the ladder to the poop and walked to the stern. He could hear
the thumping of the propellor and the sound of churning water like the flow through a millrace, and looking down he could see the white foam of the wake fanning cut astern.

He leaned on the taffrail and the foam below seemed to hypnotise him. He could not drag his eyes away. He leaned out further and yet further; the thunder of the churning water roared in his ears and seemed to fill his head, beating, beating, like a million drums.

Suddenly he knew that he was falling. He turned half over as he fell and hit the water with his back. The shock of it cleared his brain, but it was too late. He began to struggle, but the stream carried him away, away into the impenetrable darkness of the night.

No one had seen him fall; no one had heard his despairing cries for help. The ship went on and left him.

F
INCH WAS
glad when Mr. Prior relieved him at midnight. By then Finch knew that there was something really bad coming. In the north the stars had been completely blotted out by a black mass of cloudy illuminated now and then by flickers of lightning. Finch could hear the distant rumbling of thunder and another sound that he found both puzzling and disturbing, like a kind of wailing and moaning. He experienced a tingling in his spine and his scalp prickled, as though he had heard the weird voices of banshees.

Ned Prior came like an answer to a prayer. There was something so sane, so earthy about him, something indeed so fatherly, that Finch felt immediately reassured by the mere presence of the older man.

“Well now,” Prior said, “it doesn’t look too healthy, does it, Finch me lad?”

“It looks nasty.” Finch said.

“Did we have any warning of this over the magical
wireless
waves?”

Finch told him what Maggs had said and Prior shook his head. “Pity, pity. Still, it can’t be helped. How’s the glass behaving?”

“Dropping fast. Faster than I’ve ever seen it drop.”

“I see. Has the Old Man been up during your watch?”

“Not a sign of him.” Finch proceeded to air his grievance. “Other nights he’d be up, plaguing the life out of me. But tonight, when he’s really wanted, no.”

“In that case it might not be a bad idea to tip him the wink when you go down.” Prior paused a moment, then added, “On second thoughts, maybe it’d be better to see the mate. Let him break the good news to our dear captain.”

Finch also thought that it might be a better idea; he had no wish to inform Captain Leach that there was a storm coming up and that he ought to be taking a bit of interest in it. He might get some curses for waking Mr. Johansen, but he would rather face a disgruntled mate than an irate captain. He hurried away on his errand and left Mr. Prior to the duties of the watch.

Finch rapped on the door of the mate’s cabin and waited. There was no answer, no invitation to enter. Finch rapped again. Still no answer. He supposed Johansen must be sound asleep, but then he noticed that there was light showing under the door and it seemed strange that the mate should have gone to sleep without switching the light off. Mr. Finch gave one more rap with his knuckles and then opened the door.

He was quite prepared to be yelled at, to be cursed, to be told to get to hell out of it; there would have been nothing unusual in that. But he was not prepared for what he was to find when he walked into the cabin; and he wished it could have been someone else and not he whose ill fortune it had been to stumble on what was waiting inside.

Mr. Johansen was lying on the floor of the cabin. He was lying face upwards and his eyes were open. But the eyes
did not move; they had a glassy look about them and they were staring straight up at the deckhead, as though intent on something up there, something not apparent to anyone else.

“Mr. Johansen!” Finch said in a low voice. “Mr.
Johansen
!”

Johansen took no notice of the third mate, did not even glance at him. And now Finch noticed something else: there was broken glass on the floor, the chair was overturned and broken, the table was hanging askew, the bedding had been half-pulled off the bunk, and the door of the wardrobe was open and swinging. Some articles of clothing had spilled out of the wardrobe and were scattered about the cabin.

Finch was no detective, but it needed no great powers of deduction to reach the conclusion that a desperate struggle had taken place in the cabin. And if further evidence were needed there was the wide, deep gash in Johansen’s forehead, and the blood.

Finch felt sick, but he forced himself to kneel down and take the mate’s left wrist in his fingers, feeling for the pulse. He could detect no sign of any beating. He let the arm fall; it was still quite flexible; therefore Johansen could not have been dead long enough for rigor mortis to set in. And then, as Finch kneeled, the ship rolled so heavily that Johansen’s head fell over to the left, bringing the eyes into line with Finch’s own.

This was too much for Mr. Finch’s nerves. With a cry of horror he jumped up and made for the door.

Nick Holt was finding sleep elusive. The porthole had had to be closed and it was stiflingly hot in the cabin. The ship was rolling so heavily now that the bunk was like a seesaw, one moment your feet were up in the air, the next
moment they were down. How could any man sleep in such conditions? And in the lower bunk Grade was as sick as a dog.

Holt decided to give up the search for sleep and take a look at the weather on deck. He switched on the light over his bunk, swung his legs over the side, waited for the ship to come back to an even keel and dropped to the floor.

Grade was also awake. He said, “What are you up to?”

“Can’t sleep,” Holt said. “Going to take a turn on deck.”

“Looks like you’re getting your storm. Been whistling?”

“No. It came without my help.”

“If I thought you were to blame I’d strangle you.”

Holt was pulling on his trousers. “You feel bad?”

“My back teeth are under water and I’ve got a head like a church bell—with the clapper going.”

“Want me to get you anything?”

“Like one made-to-measure coffin?”

“You won’t die. Unless the ship goes down.”

“Right now,” Grade said, “that might be the lesser evil.”

Holt left him to his misery and went out of the cabin. It was past midnight and there was a different character about the interior of the ship at this time of night; the alleyways were deserted and it was as though all the human element had vanished, leaving the vessel to go on by itself with its monstrous heart thumping below and all its bones creaking in agony. Holt had intended going straight up on deck, but now he had a curious impulse first to explore the interior, to see what it looked like at this hour when everyone but the watch-keepers had retired.

He went first to the dining saloon. It was dark in there. He found the switch and turned the lights on. The fans had stopped and two of the chairs had fallen over. There was a stale odour of food and cigar smoke, close and oppressive. He
noticed that all the portholes had been closed and screwed tight. He heard glasses clinking.

He switched the lights off, left the saloon and closed the door behind him. He had taken no more than two paces when Mr. Finch crashed into him. There was a wild, terror-stricken look in Finch’s eyes and for the moment he seemed not to recognise Holt.

Holt said, “You’re in a hurry, Mr. Finch. Where’s the fire?”

Finch stared at him. “Fire? What fire?”

“It was just a joke. You seemed to be in a great hurry to get somewhere.”

“Did I?” Finch seemed dazed. He put a hand to his
forehead
. “Where was I going?”

“I don’t know.” Holt wondered whether Finch was ill. And then it occurred to him that Finch must have had some kind of a shock. “Has something happened?”

“Happened,” Finch repeated. Then he seemed to get a grip on himself. “Yes, something has happened. Something terrible. Mr. Johansen has been murdered.”

“Murdered!”

“He’s lying in his cabin. Dead.” Finch gripped Holt’s arm and shook it. “Do you understand? Dead.”

Holt understood. And something that Grade had said flashed into his mind, “For that woman I think he’d commit murder.” Grade had been talking about Morton Lycett.

“What are you going to do, Mr. Finch?”

“I—” Finch seemed to have no idea what to do.

“You’d better tell the captain.”

“Yes,” Finch said. He sounded grateful for the suggestion. “Yes, that’s what I must do. I’ll go and tell him now.”

He released Holt’s arm and walked away. Holt also walked away—in the direction of the mate’s cabin.

Mr. Finch had been in such a hurry to escape that he had not even closed the door. When Holt arrived he found it swinging. He hooked it back, then bent down and examined the body lying on the floor. It did not take him long to convince himself that Finch had been right: Mr. Johansen was undoubtedly dead.

Holt glanced round the cabin and saw the disorder, and he came to the same conclusion that Finch had reached: Johansen had not died without a struggle. He wondered what Lycett had used for a weapon; he must have had something; that gash in Johansen’s forehead indicated as much; and
anyway
, a man of Lycett’s physique would hardly have been able to overpower the husky mate with the aid of nothing more than his bare hands. Holt looked for something that might have filled the bill, but he could see nothing. Well, of course, Lycett was not likely to leave it lying there; he would get rid of it at once. And there would be no difficulty about that; the sea would swallow up any evidence of that kind and no one would ever find it.

But was he not jumping to conclusions? He had no proof that Lycett had been the murderer, and until suspicion was changed to certainty he ought to keep an open mind. Very well then, he would keep an open mind, difficult though it might be with everything pointing to Lycett as the killer.

Holt wondered why Finch was taking so long in fetching Captain Leach. They should have been here by now. Perhaps he ought to go and see whether Finch had in fact gone for Leach; the third mate had looked pretty shocked and it was possible that he was just wandering around in a daze.

Then Holt’s eye was caught by something on the cabin floor; a small silvery object lying partly hidden by the body of the mate. He had not noticed it before, and in fact it was only
the rolling of the ship, shifting the body slightly, that revealed it now. Holt bent down and picked it up, looked at it for some time, deep in thought, then dropped it into his pocket.

The reason why Finch was such a long time was that he was having difficulty in rousing Captain Leach. Leach was still snoring, as he had been when Johansen had left him some four hours earlier. The only difference was in his position: he was now lying flat on his back on the cabin carpet, having apparently been tipped off the settee by the movement of the ship. When this had happened it was impossible to say, but it had obviously not been a sufficient jolt to waken him; or if it had been, he had decided to go to sleep again where he was and not bother to climb back on to the settee.

Finch shook him, shouting, “Captain Leach! Wake up! Captain! Wake up!”

Johansen had tried the same treatment with the same lack of success that Finch was having now. Leach snored on. In desperation Finch went to the captain’s bathroom and drew a tumbler of cold water. He carried the tumbler to where Leach was lying, hesitated a moment, appalled by his own temerity, then flung the water in his captain’s face.

Leach’s mouth was open and a quantity of the water went into it and down his throat. The snoring ceased abruptly and was replaced by such a horrible gurgling noise that the terrified Finch wondered whether he had succeeded in doing nothing more useful than choke the life out of another man. Then Leach’s eyes opened, focused on Finch with the tumbler still in his hand as evidence of his guilt, and glowered balefully.

Finch trembled.

Leach sat up suddenly and uttered a long drawn out growl that sounded to Finch like “Gaaarroogh!” and made him tremble even more violently. He tried to say something but his
tongue would not form the words. He just stood there, holding the empty tumbler and shaking from head to foot.

“Mr. Finch,” Leach said in a thick, cold, deadly voice. “Did you throw water over me?”

Finch answered in a high-pitched squeak: “Yes, sir.”

Leach began to get up from the floor. Finch darted forward to help him, but Leach brushed the proffered hand aside with a curse. He got to his feet, staggered a little and sat down heavily on the settee. Again he glowered at Finch.

“No doubt you’ve got an explanation. You’d better have. It’d better be good.”

“Mr. Johansen has been murdered, sir,” Finch said.

If he had been expecting some violent reaction to this
revelation
he was to be disappointed. Leach did not reel back in horror; he did not even give a jerk of the head. Not by any movement or gesture or change of expression did he give a hint that the words had touched any nerve. He merely stared back at the third mate in silence.

Finch wondered whether the fact had sunk into Leach’s drink-sodden brain or whether the fumes of alcohol had made it impossible for him to assimilate such information. With his voice rising shrilly he repeated the statement.

“Mr. Johansen has been murdered. Do you understand, sir?”

“I understand,” Leach said. “Where is he?”

“In his cabin. What are you going to do, sir? Oh God, what are you going to do?”

“Don’t get bloody hysterical,” Leach said. “Bring me my shoes.”

Finch found the shoes, brought them to Leach, helped him to put them on. He smelt the alcoholic reek of Leach’s breath and the sweaty reek of his shirt.

“You’re sure he’s dead, Mr. Finch?”

“Oh, yes, sir. No doubt about that,” Finch said, and had a sudden vision of the mate, returned to consciousness and walking about. What would Leach say then? But it could not be. He was really dead.

They both became aware of the sound at the same time. It was like a wild shrieking. The ship staggered, as though struck by a blow.

“Wind,” Leach said.

“Yes, sir. It’s a storm coming up. It looks bad, sir. I was going to tell Mr. Johansen, but—”

“You’ve told me,” Leach said.

He got to his feet, lurched a little, walked to the bathroom, relieved himself, then doused his head with water. He washed out his mouth and stared in the mirror at the sagging, unshaven face, the lank strands of hair, the bloodshot eyes.

“Bartholomew,” he croaked, “you’re a bloody beauty and no mistake.” He walked back into the cabin and rejoined the waiting third mate. “Come on, Mr. Finch. Let’s go and look at him.”

Holt was still waiting in Johansen’s cabin, as though
standing
guard over the body. He was surprised by Leach’s personal appearance. Leach had not even bothered to comb his hair, and his shirt was soaked with water. He looked like a man suffering from the father and mother of all hangovers.