The Poseidon Adventure (15 page)

Scott and the Turk had not yet returned from their exploration. The Rogos began to quarrel again.

It struck neither of them as extraordinary that they should continue their running domestic battle under circumstances where it might be violently terminated by the death of them both. To abuse and quarrel was Linda Rogo's nature; to love and placate her was his.

Actually neither had any real understanding of the precariousness of their position. The sea and the inner topography of the Poseidon was as unfamiliar to them as the moon. To Linda it was nothing more than another hotel. She had hated it from the moment she had come on board.

She and Mike lived in a hotel, too, but it was one of those tatty ones, called The Westside Palace, on 8th Avenue betwen 48th and 49th Streets, where the lift was one of those rickety cages that rattled from side to side, the Negro elevator boy's collar was never buttoned, his uniform soiled and where the switchboard was rarely answered. There they had two rooms and a bath, the latter a centre for roving bands of cockroaches.

Over a gas ring Linda would make breakfast, but that was all. There was maid service of sorts and she had to do no work whatsoever. The location in the heart of the Tenderloin was good for Rogo. A neglected switchboard was not a problem, since he had a direct police line into his apartment from headquarters. He was not a hankerer for home cooking and they invariably ate out in one or another of the hundreds of Broadway restaurants which were a part of Rogo's beat. The life suited them both. There were free tickets for shows and the best seats at prize fights. Mike Rogo was a personality who was frequently mentioned in columns and from time to time had his picture in the paper.

There were many Lindas on Broadway; failed, refugee actresses from the coast who were not even good enough to be call girls. When Linda had achieved a Broadway musical, one of the major flops of the season, the critics, fed up with the doxies of rich angels being presented as performers, had teed off on her. She had married Mike Rogo to cash in on the burst of fame he had achieved through his break-up of the Westchester Plains prison mutiny that had cost the lives of two warders held as hostages. Mike had walked into the prison singlehanded, killed three armed criminals and subdued the mutineers.

'WESTCHESTER MUTINY HERO WINS HOLLYWOOD BEAUTY', sang the newspaper headlines, ignoring for the sake of romantic content her recent disastrous Broadway appearance. It looked like a satisfactory publicity ploy until to her dismay, Linda found that she was only basking in the fame of the little hundred-and-fifty pound detective who feared nothing on two legs. The casting directors continued to remember that she could neither sing nor dance, speak lines, or walk across a stage without wriggling her behind like a Midway cooch grinder.

She took her bitterness out upon her husband. He was as proud of her as though she had been Doris Day or Julie Andrews. To hear him tell it, he had never got over the miracle that Linda had condescended to marry him. For three years she had been engaged in beating him down. His resilience was unassailable. When the battles were over, with one or the other or both, victims of his low threshold of truculence and violence, he nursed her and loved her with all his heart.

Somehow the cruise aboard the Poseidon had been for Linda the last straw. The itinerary of the ship covered first the black and then the coffee-coloured belt. To her one port had been like another and the inhabitants niggers. The elevator boy with the unbuttoned collar at the Westside Palace was one and so was the bum who was always asleep at the switchboard, or down the street for a drink or a pack of cigarettes. The janitor and the maids were niggers. Why did they have to go on a boat ride to see more of them?

She had been unable to fit into any category even with the highly diverse passenger list, and had made very few friends, like Rogo who, as a police detective, was himself secretive and a loner. Besides which, people tended to fight shy of Rogo. To some cop-haters he was a policeman and they retired behind the aphorism, once a copper, always a copper. To others he was a famous detective and gunfighter. And while it never progressed beyond a shipboard joke, nobody really believed that he was not in pursuit or on the tail of one or more of the passengers.

Linda had even put it to him straight. 'Listen, you bastard, have you dragged me along on a job? What the hell is the idea of this lousy boat ride, anyway?' Only to see that morose, injured expression come over his flat features and the shake of his head as he said, 'Aw, now, honeybun, can't a guy take a trip? We ain't never been nowhere. Why don't you go and find somebody nice to talk to and enjoy yourself?' leaving her no wiser. Rogo never spoke about his work. When he made a pinch, roughed up a couple of hoodlums, or left a stick-up man dead on the pavement, she would read about it the next day in the papers.

She was nursing a further grievance. Stepping aboard the Poseidon after their charter flight from New York to Lisbon, even the slightly shabby and gone-to-seed appointments of the one-time luxury liner was a reminder of the awful gap between the two rooms and grubby bath in the Westside Palace and the surroundings to which she felt herself entitled.

She was at Rogo now on the same subject that was occupying the other members of the party -- Scott. She said, 'You're a fool, Rogo. You're supposed to be a smart cop who knows his way around, and you let this big hunk of beef who says he's a minister take the play away from you.

Rogo replied morosely, 'What do you want me to do?'

She sat up, bridled and tried to arrange her hair, 'Ack like a man,' she said. 'Can't you see he's been waiting to make a pass at me?'

'Aw, now, Linda, where do you get ideas like that? He may be a nut, but he couldn't be more respectful.'

Linda laughed, 'Huh! Didn't you see him looking down the tits of that little tart?'

Rogo protested, 'Why do you keep calling the kid a tart? She's in show business like anybody else. Anyway, what if he did take a look at her bubs, he's a guy, ain't he? What's that got to do with making a pass at you?'

Linda sniffed, 'I guess a lady knows a tart when she sees one, and I guess I know when a guy's going to make a pass at me. Of course, if you don't care . . .'

Rogo said, 'If he tried anything I could break him in two with one hand.'

Linda tossed her head and the stringy curls swayed about her china face. 'I wouldn't want to make a book on it. I've seen Mr Joe College act up mighty rough on a football field.'

'Kid stuff!' Rogo sneered. 'Kick 'em in the nuts and they're all down to the same size.'

He realized suddenly that he was working up that truculence which could so easily explode into attack for nothing and his voice became plaintive again as he said, 'Aw, Linda, why don't you lay off him and me, too? At least he's doing something, ain't he?'

Linda said, 'Okay, so where is he now?'

'Didn't you hear, they're having a look?'

'You know what I think? He's taken a powder. He'll never get that fat Jewess up any more places like the last, or the rest of us either. He'll save his own skin.'

Another memory suddenly rose up and she spat out, 'The way that Shelby woman looks at me, like I was dirt under her feet, and calling me names. You don't even stick up for your own wife, after all I done for you.'

Rogo said, 'Anyway, he didn't take any powder. Here he comes.'

He was so tall that they could see him above the heads of those still milling about in the corridor and they could see that he was walking slowly towards them, still accompanied by the Turk, who was gesticulating with his arms and hands as though to pantomime something.

At that moment the lights flickered once and then went out, leaving them in total, unrelieved darkness.

CHAPTER XII

Broadway after Dark

The ship, still balanced on that brink of buoyancy that was keeping her afloat, never stirred, but to the crew the extinguishing of the emergency lighting was the signal that the Poseidon was about to go down. The blackness enshrouding them robbed them of all control. Not to be able to feel or see how they were going to die, not to be able to preserve that last shred of human dignity, but to be tumbled blindly into oblivion, turned them into a nightmare of fear-crazed creatures rushing they knew not where in the dark, from or towards death.

In fleeing from death, they dealt death. In their panic they struck out at whatever or whoever they touched; each was the enemy of the other. They knocked one another down, or, stumbling upon the unfamiliar footing, fell and were trampled upon. Some died then and there.

The confines of the passage became a bedlam of shouts, screams, curses, insane bellowings, moans and weeping, the thud of blows mingling with the heavy sounds of their flight: stamping feet, rush of air, the ringing of their shoes upon the piping underfoot and grunts of pain. They stank, too, the sweat of fear oiling their bodies. Those that were not trodden upon were swept away in the torrent like packs of lemmings, rushing to their destruction. They fell into the pits of inverted staircases, to continue their flight down the corridor beneath, or met their ends as they poured over the edge of the open shaft that penetrated the centre of the vessel and were drowned.

Yet the small group of passengers wedged at the sides, in danger of being infected by the panic all about them, kept a semblance of discipline as the result of the warning they had had from Scott.

When the lights died, Scott had anticipated the stampede by a fraction of a second. He gave the Turk a violent shove over to the side and down, shouting, 'Don't move, Kemal!' and stood over him. This was his game -- bodies hurtling at him and he deflected them or bumped them off their feet, or when threatened with being engulfed, struck out with huge fists and bony elbows, lashing and thrashing until the knot dissolved. He could have been the Archangel Michael battling the demons of the pit.

Rogo, too, had been caught momentarily on his feet, but with his policeman's instincts he knotted the fingers of his left hand in his wife's hair to hold contact with her and struck out with his lethal right hand until he had fought himself free and managed to throw himself down and cover her with his body, while she whimpered in self-pity, 'Ow, you've hurt me! You're hurting me!'

Jane Shelby and Miss Kinsale who had been returning to Broadway from the end of the companionway where they had relieved themselves, remained unscathed, for the lights had gone before they reached the entrance to the working alley. The horrid phantasmagoria swept by them and the two women clinging to one another, felt the wind of their passage, smelled them, heard them, yet standing upon the brink of a black abyss, saw nothing.

Shelby had caught sight of the returning Scott, and the fact that the man was there stifled the panic that had risen within him, too, and bid him run and run and run through that darkness until he should find himself falling into eternity.

He gasped, 'Stay down!' to Susan and Martin and shielded her at the side of the alley. Beyond having one hand trampled upon by a heavy boot, he suffered no injury. He once heard little Martin cry out in pain and then let forth a string of oaths in a high-pitched voice not at all like his own. Somehow this torment of souls and bodies struggling unseen in this confined space was far worse than that initial moment of catastrophe when they had been spilled upon their heads, and in what seemed a fraction of time, their whole world turned upside down. Purgatory was a figure of speech, an outmoded concept, a swear word, a laugh and here physically it seemed they had passed through its gates and it had become a living thing.

In the storeroom, Nonnie Parry reached for Muller with a little whimpering, shuddering cry. 'We're going to die, aren't we?' she asked.

Hubie Muller was convinced of it. In one way or another it was going to be all over.

He felt her lips searching his face for his mouth and when they found it, they were soft, smelling and tasting of sugar biscuits and sticky with apricot jam. But with the hungry pleading touch with which they fastened upon his, she simultaneously gave him her life and her death. In the next moment they were joined.

And to Hubert Muller, discreet and cynical champion of a hundred bedroom encounters, countless emissions, numberless groans and cries extracted from his partners and himself, there ensued a unique experience. For the first time he made love in which mingled with passion was both tenderness and pity. Never before had he endured the richness that flowed through his being from this frightened little creature who had coupled her small self to him, and with all that she was or ever could be, was sharing with him what she felt were her last moments of life, and making him a parting gift of what she was.

The enthralling sweetness of the spending that had happened to them simultaneously subsided and passed. But what remained to Muller was the overwhelming feeling of compassion and protectiveness towards this body with which he was still united, not knowing who she was, or even what she was really like.

Through Muller's mind passed the social euphemism of his class for what had happened. He had 'made love' and he knew that there, in the dark, with this unknown girl who only a little while before had slipped into his ken, for the first time it was true. Love, something he had never known before, had been made. It enveloped him, filled him, choked him and brought tears to his eyes.

They clung to one another, shivering and murmuring, touching each other's faces with their fingers and slowly came to the realization that in whatever form death was raging and howling in the corridor without, they were still alive.

The Rosens were protecting themselves as best they could, he crying over and over, 'Lie down, Mamma! Stay down like he said. Don't worry, I'm here,' and remembering what Scott had warned about covering heads, he covered hers with his hands. He was not concerned with any visions of Hades, the bottomless pit or devils rampaging through the infernal regions, since there was no place in the Jewish religion for such nonsense. He was aware only that they were in a bad jam with a lot of crazy sailors yelling and pushing and running round in the dark, and he was trying to protect Belle as best he could. When a body pressed or fell against his, he would push it away saying, 'Go on, get off! Get away!' while Belle kept reiterating, 'Manny! Manny! Don't be so foolish. Lie down so you shouldn't get hurt. Here, come behind me. Who knows what crazy kind of things are going on?'

The running and tumbling and shouting was diminishing and beginning to fade away in the distance. The commanding voice of Scott was heard over the remainder of the scuffling, 'Stay where you are! Don't move any of you. It's almost over. Are any of you hurt?'

Manny's voice came in reply. 'I wouldn't know. How could we tell in this darkness? They've been stamping all over us.'

Then the sounds were no more. There were one or two more isolated yells and then silence again and the enveloping heavy darkness.

Scott's voice was heard again, 'Has anyone got a cigarette lighter?'

'I have,' came from Shelby.

'Light it.'

There was a click and the first tiny sparklet shone out. The flame which illuminated a portion of Shelby's face like a magician's illusion, quieted the nerves of the others and gave them back their sense of cohesion, of being members of a group, no longer isolated from one another. Lights from Martin, Rogo and Rosen snapped on and marked their various positions. There was also the sound of the scratching of book matches.

Scott's voice came through again, 'Save it! Save it! We don't know how much we'll be needing them. Just Shelby's. Dick, will you hold yours up? All of you make your way to Dick's light, until we're together again and count noses.'

Hubie Muller and Nonnie had heard and picked their way slowly and carefully, their arms about each other's waists. She pressed her head against his chest, moving ever so slightly as if trying to bore through his clothes, his skin and into his heart. It had become almost unbearable to her not to be a part of him any longer.

The Rosens were inching their way along the side of the corridor towards the beacon. Belle groaned, 'Oooh, my feet!'

Manny said, 'Take your shoes off again.'

'It feels better with them on, only them heels.'

'Wait,' said her husband, 'lemme have them.' He felt for her in the dark, took them from her and there were two sharp cracks as he broke off the points to give her a flat surface on which to walk. He said, 'I should have my head examined, I wasn't thinking of this before.'

Belle slipped them on again, 'Good enough you should have thought of it now. That feels better!'

Jane Shelby and Miss Kinsale had to cross the alleyway diagonally. They had their hands clasped firmly and braced each other further with their forearms. Jane took a particular comfort in that the tiny spark of beacon was her husband's. Her family would be intact.

Jane suddenly felt pressure upon her arm as Miss Kinsale wobbled and gave a little shriek, 'Oh!'

Jane asked, 'What is it?'

Miss Kinsale replied, 'I stepped on someone.'

'Oh dear,' said Jane.

Miss Kinsale suddenly clung more firmly to her hand and said, 'She didn't move.'

'She?' Jane asked, 'How do you know it was a woman?

'One just knows,' Miss Kinsale reillied. 'Ought we to do something?'

'In this dark?' said Jane. 'We'd better do what Dr Scott suggested first. Afterwards . . .'

Miss Kinsale was immediately amenable, 'Oh yes, of course. He did say he wanted us all together.' And then she added, 'The poor thing is probably dead.' They walked gingerly, touching several other bodies on the way, from one of which issued a groan of pain. Miss Kinsale merely said, 'That was a man.'

Jane marvelled at her nerve and control and felt that something extraordinary must be holding her together. She herself felt on the verge of collapse.

When he thought that they were collected, Scott said, 'Save the light, Dick.' The Minister began to call the roll. 'Mrs Rosen?'

'Speaking,' replied Belle.

'Are you okay?'

'Oh, yes,' and then, 'Manny fixed my shoes. He broke off the heels.'

'Mr Rosen?'

'Okay. Somebody stepped on my hand, but it's all right now.' In the dark they could hear him working and wringing it.

Scott said, 'That was bright of you with the shoes. Any others with heels should do the same,' and then, 'Hubie? Nonnie?'

'We're here,' Muller replied. From then on he felt he would never think of themselves as anything but 'we' if they survived, and yet they had not exchanged so much as a single word of love.

'Mr Bates? Miss Reid?'

There was no reply. Out of the darkness came Rogo's flat voice, 'They must have found out where that booze was coming from. They're probably stoned.'

The Minister raised his voice and sent it booming down the corridor, 'Mr Bates! Miss Reid! Can you hear me?'

Into the empty silence that followed his call Jane Shelby's voice intruded sharply, 'Dick, is Robin with you? Robin, are you there?'

Shelby replied, 'Robin? Why no, he was with you.'

Jane's gasp was drowned out by Scott's shouting once again, 'Mr Bates! Miss Reid! Can you hear me? Where are you?'

From somewhere down and across the alley came the voice of Pamela, recognizable even though it was slightly slurred. 'We're here!'

Rogo laughed and said, 'I knew it. Stiff!'

'Jane!' said Shelby in alarm, 'Robin must be with you. You took him.'

'No, only Miss Kinsale. I left him to come back to you.'

Linda said, 'What about asking about us?'

Scott complied, 'Mr and Mrs Rogo, are you all right?'

Rogo replied for them, 'Yeah.'

Linda said, 'A lot you care! I could have been trampled to death.'

Martin reported, 'I'm here -- just.'

Susan cried, 'Mummy, are you sure? Robin was with you. He isn't here.'

Jane Shelby battled against the panic rising in her breast as Shelby called out, 'Robin! Robin! Where are you?' and then to Scott, 'Frank, Robin's missing!' He snapped on his lighter and all the other lighters and some matches too, came on and were held up, but they could do nothing to drive back the heavy dark, only vaguely showing up a heap on the ground a little distance away, ominously still -- the figure of a grown man.

Shelby, his voice cracking, shouted, 'Robin! Robin! Where are you? Answer me!'

As Jane joined in calling his name, they were both close to panic when the professional investigator in Rogo came to the fore once more. He said, 'Excuse me Ma'am, where and when was he last seen?'

She was able to collect herself via the sensible question in spite of the terrible thoughts crowding in upon her and the memory of the soft, immovable thing that Miss Kinsale had stepped on and which had not cried out. 'By the W.C.,' she replied, 'he had to go. But he wouldn't with me there. He was shamed. It was upside-down and so horribly filthy. He wasn't used to it. Then Miss Kinsale and I . . . I thought he'd be back here long ago, even before the lights went out. Oh, my God! I've got to go and find him! Something has happened to him.'