He lit a cigarette and looked out at the burning blue day. It's never like that at home. Home was never like this. When we stopped at Trinidad... Hibiscus and bougainvillea, and there was a barracuda in the harbour.... She was nice that day. Nice when we first went ashore. She was gentle; sat in the car, holding my hand, and she was quiet. Until we stopped at that place and she started drinking rum... Drunkard... Little tramp... She didn't die.
He got up and took a bath and dressed, all very slowly. I'll have to see her, he thought. Four days more. If we dock in the morning, I'll go straight to the office.... Sunburnt. He looked at himself in the mirror, his narrow skull, his deep-set eyes, his long upper Up. Monkey face, he thought. Ears pricked up ready to take orders.... What'll I say to her? I hear you fell overboard. Quite an experience.
He went into the dining saloon at eight, as usual, and he was surprised not to see the schoolteachers there. They were cheerful; he had a great wish to see their faces, their eyes smiling behind their glasses.
“The ladies are late,” he observed to Angelo.
“They sit there, sir,” said Angelo, with a discreet gesture; and Killian saw them sitting at a table across the saloon.
“What's the idea?” he asked.
“They asked the Purser to put them away, sir.”
“But what's the idea?” he asked.
“I don't know, sir,” said Angelo.
A queer thing to do. Rude. They had made rather a pet of him; they had laughed at his jokes; they had consulted him as an authority upon the whole continent of South America. He wanted them back. But if they didn't want to be here, let them go. He ate his breakfast alone and went up on deck. The passengers were not given to early rising; he found no one there except the man with the grey beard whom he had confronted last night. “Good morning!” Killian said. And the man didn't answer him; deliberately glared at him, and didn't answer.
Killian walked off into a sort of nightmare. It was peculiarly lonely on deck; it had never been like this before. The schoolteachers had moved away from his table, and the old fellow with the beard wouldn't answer him. “What's the idea?” he asked himself, and told himself that probably there wasn't any idea. It didn't mean anything.
But when other people came on deck, he avoided them. If anyone wants to talk to me, they can come after me, he thought. He regretted this course as soon as he had started it; pacing up and down the enclosed deck with his hands behind his back, he felt like a pariah, a melodramatic one. Nobody did come after him. Its something to do with Jocelyn, he thought. It has to be. She's said something....
The ship's doctor was coming along the deck, stopping before a chair here and there, bending his lank body like a courtier; a blanched man with a lantern-jawed, white face, and white hair, dressed in a white suit. “He looks like a candle that's just been blown out,” Jocelyn had said. I suppose she's clever thought Killian. Only you never think of her that way. She can always find the right phrase for anyone. She speaks French, and Spanish, and German. Maybe she's clever. And maybe she's the most ghastly fool.
The doctor was approaching him, and Killian moved forward. And with a poor effort at absent-mindedness, the doctor turned back. Killian went after him.
“Look here!” he said. “How is Miss Frey?”
“She's in a bad condition,” said the doctor, with his eyes lowered. He had a face that expressed nothing at all but a faint peevishness; a flat voice.
“What's the trouble with her?” asked Killian.
“Bad condition,” the doctor repeated, and moved aside to pass Killian.
But Killian was not satisfied. “Shock?” he asked.
The peevish expression on the white face deepened into a fretful frown. “The trouble is that she doesn't want to recover.”
“You mean that she's depressed?”
“I mean she doesn't want to live,” the doctor answered irritably.
“Well,” said Killian. “As she gets stronger, I suppose that'll pass.”
“You ought to know better,” said the doctor. He tried again to pass Killian, but he found himself against the rail. “I...?” said Killian.
“You ought to know better,” the doctor said. “It's deplorable.”
Killian let him go, and almost at once regretted this. “I should have had it out with him,” he told himself. “I ought to have made him put it into words. I'm responsible, am I? My fault if that neurotic little drunkard is in a bad condition'? What's she told him, I wonder?”
Had she gone around spreading that tale?
He thought of the two schoolteachers and the man with the beard. Doctors never tell. Maybe. And maybe the tale was running all over the ship. She doesn't to live because she loves Killian. Dying of love. It's deplorable.
What's the way to handle it? he thought. I'd better behave just as usual—pay no attention to anything hostile.
But he wouldn't naturally go out of his way to invite rebuffs. He wouldn't approach anyone. Simply when anyone approached him, he would be normal. Nobody did approach him. He went to his cabin and put on his bathing trunks; went up to the pool on the boat deck. The usual people were there lying in the sun, some in dark glasses, some with their eyes closed; all of them silent, intent upon the even toasting of their bodies. The pool was empty at the moment; the sun shone in making the water a limpid green. Killian dived in and swam up and down fast. But he did not escape his preoccupation.
I'm bound to see her before long, he thought. That's going to be awkward. I'll have to speak to her. What's the tactful thing to say to someone who's tried to commit suicide? I hope this will be a lesson to you.
“Hello!” said a voice; and looking over his shoulder, he saw Mrs. L'O standing halfway down the ladder, dark and slim, ineffably stylish in a pale blue bathing suit with a flared skirt and a high collar in front, and at the back nothing above the waist but a little bow at the nape of her neck. A blue bandanna was tied in front in a coquettish bow; unsmiling, a little haggard, she presented a picture of detailed perfection. “W.O.W.,” Jocelyn had called her. “And that doesn't mean Wow, Jocko. It stands for Woman of the World. Poise and Taste, and Savoir Faire—all laid on so thick.”
“How are you?” he asked, civilly, but with no disposition to go on talking to her.
She slid into the water and swam toward him. She swam very well; she did everything very well. “I want a chance to speak to you alone,” she said, stopping beside him. “I don't suppose you know—”
“Know what?”
“It's a beastly story,” she said. “And it's spreading like wildfire.” She grasped the rail with both hands, standing upright in the deep water, bending her head. With her neck arched, with her straight little nose, she looked, he thought, like a little sea-horse. Spirited, and pleasing. “I hate to tell you,” she said.
“Kind of you to bother, Mrs. L'O.”
“Elly,” she said.
“Elly,” he repeated, suddenly liking her.
“You know that Piggott girl?” she asked. “She was on the boat deck last night when—the thing happened, and she's running around telling everyone she heard Jocelyn call out your name when she went overboard.”
Killian felt as if he had got a violent blow in the midriff. He was silent for a moment, trying to get over it. “Not so good,” he remarked, presently.
“There's more,” she said. “The Piggott girl says she saw you and Jocelyn sitting on the rail together, a little while before it happened.”
“She didn't,” said Killian.
“There's still more,” she said. “And worse. Mr. Bracey says—”
“Who's Mr. Bracey?”
“The man with the grey beard. He says that, just after the sailor called out, 'Man overboard,' you came rushing down to your cabin, all white and shaking.”
“The damned old liar!” said Killian, astounded. “He saw me open my cabin door and look out, after the sailor had shouted a couple of times. He was standing there in the alleyway.”
“Well, th
at's his story,” she said.
Killian still had the feeling of having got a violent blow; it made him confused.
“But what's the idea of his telling such a lie?” he asked, staring at Elly L'O.
“He doesn't think it any more,” she said. “Both he and the Piggott girl believe the stories now. It makes them very, very happy.”
Killian began filling his cupped hand with water and splashing it on his head. He had to do something.
“Hard to believe that people can be like that,” he said. “To lie that way out of sheer malice—”
“I don't think it's exactly malice,” said Elly L'O. They're delighted with anything sensational. Everybody's running after them now, and naturally they like that.”
“Well,” said Killian after a moment, “let them go ahead. I'm not going to bother.”
“You'll have to bother, John,” she said. “It's too ugly, and too serious to ignore.”
“I'm not going to bother with it.”
“You were sitting on the rail with Jocelyn,” said Elly L'O. “You had a quarrel with her. You were so cruel to her that she jumped overboard. And you ran to your cabin—without giving an alarm. That's the story.”
He was stricken; and that was the only word for it. This attack on him was so senseless, so insane, he could not feel any anger, any impulse to protect himself. The tribe had turned upon him; he could only face them in stoic silence. “All right!” he said. “If anyone can believe that tale—” He swam away. Elly L'O stayed where she was, holding to the rail, and he came back to her. She was the only friendly creature left in the world.
“I didn't tell you the story just to make you miserable,” she said. “I've thought of a way to stop it. When the Piggott girl told it to me, I said I knew for a fact that there wasn't a word of truth in it, and I just walked off. I needed time to think up something, and now I have. It's beautifully simple. You spent all the evening in die Purser's cabin with him and me.”
“Chauverney wouldn't agree to that.”
“I know he will.”
“He can't do it. He's an officer. If there's any sort of enquiry—”
“Really, he will,” she answered him. “He'll say that you and I were in his cabin having a quiet little chat, and we didn't hear anything, or notice anything, until the engines began to go astern. Of course, that sent us all flying out to see what was the matter.”
“No,” said Killian, “you couldn't get Chauverney to agree to that.”
“I can,” she said.
He looked at her sidelong, but she was looking down into the clear green water.
“Yes,” she went on. “Well all three stick to that story, and it will stop the other ones.”
“You're taking a lot of trouble,” Killian said. “You're very kind.”
“Aren't I?” she said, and smiled. “I'm like that, you know. A heart of gold.”
Killian caught sight of three other people coming down the ladder into the water; he turned his head away from them. “I think I'll be going,” he said.
“I'll speak to Chauverney,” she said, “and I'll let you know. But I promise you in advance that he'll agree. You can start telling our version to anyone you like.”
“You're very kind,” he said again.
He did not see who had come into the pool; he climbed out, put on his dressing gown, and went dripping down to his cabin without looking at anyone. He dressed, and then he sat down in the wicker armchair and took up a book. He lit a cigarette; he turned pages; he wanted to improve his Spanish. He was perfectly cool, composed, sensible. The steward knocked and came in to fill his thermos jug with ice water; he slipped in and out with a downcast, almost a demure air.
“All right!” Killian said to himself. “I'll admit it. I'm afraid to go out of here. Miller knows that. He never saw me sitting in my cabin in the morning before. He knows I'm afraid. I can't face the music. Sweet music. This is something I didn't know. I didn't know how you'd feel when you were slandered. What the hell is the matter with me? Why don't I defend myself?”
There was no impulse in him to defend himself. He was stricken and he wanted only to abide. He was stunned, appalled. Two of his fellow creatures were willing to he about him, for no reason at all, and others accepted the lie without question. They were not surprised to hear that he had done a monstrous thing, that he was guilty of the most brutal cowardice. Perhaps everyone believed it; Miller, too.
The Captain would have to investigate such a rumor. Mr. Killian, I've been informed that when Miss Frey jumped overboard you went to your cabin without giving an alarm. Mr. Killian, I've been informed that you ran away and left Miss Frey to drown. Swimming in the sea in a white dress with a silver girdle. With the sharks. With all the monsters of the deep. Well, no, I didn't, Captain Portman. Oh, you didn't, didn't you? Miss Piggott says you did. Mr. Bracey says you did. You look like that. You look like a mean, cowardly, little clerk who'd do exactly that. There's something in your face that makes everyone believe that about you.
Maybe you are like that.
I've never been tested, he thought. How do I know what I'd do in an emergency?
He made up his mind that he would not try to defend himself. He wouldn't say anything. If the Captain asked him questions he would simply say, “No, I wasn't with her. I didn't know anything about it.” And his statement would be completely unconvincing. He did not expect anyone to believe him. He would sit alone in the dining saloon; he would walk alone on deck.
Elly means well, he thought. But her idea won't work.
Exactly as if he had had a violent blow in the midriff. He just wanted to be left alone. But someone came knocking at the door.
“What d' you want?” he called.
“It's Doctor Coyle,” said the toneless voice.
“Come in!” said Killian, not stirring.
The doctor entered, closing the door behind him; he stood with his hand on the knob and Killian pretended to go on reading.
“Miss Frey has made a statement,” said the doctor.
A dying statement, thought Killian. In a statement made shortly before her death, Miss Frey accused Mr. John Killian of—everything.
“A statement to the Captain—in my presence,” the doctor went on, the peevish frown on his white face again. “The Captain—naturally—has to enter the matter in his log.”
“All right! Let him!” said Killian.
“Miss Frey wants to see you.”
“Is she dying?” asked Killian.
“No, she's not!” said the doctor, irritably. “She wants to see you.”
“What about?”
“That girl's in a very bad condition,” said the doctor. “As a matter of common decency, if she wants to see you—”
“What does she say in her statement?” Killian asked.
“That's confidential,” said the doctor. “Are you coming, or not?”
“No,” said Killian. But that was his mind speaking. His blood, his muscles, his nerves, his soul, perhaps, brought him to his feet. “Where is she?” he asked.
“In her cabin, of course.”
This amazed Killian. Her cabin was on the promenade deck; he knew that well enough. She had got him in there once to drink a cocktail with her, and she had tried to get him there other times. But when he had been walking up and down the deck, it had never occurred to him that she might be lying in there, a few feet from him. He had thought vaguely of a sick bay, the ship's hospital; he had thought of her as shut away somewhere.
The doctor went before him, walking in a nervous, fussy way; he knocked at the door.
Her low, mournful voice drifted out to them. “All right.” The doctor opened the door, and they went in. She was alone. That was queer, thought Killian. Someone ought to be with her—a stewardess, someone. But there she lay, alone, in her unearthly beauty.
I didn't know her hair was—so long, Killian thought. It was spread out over the pillow in a soft mist about her pale, worn face. Her eyes were heavy wit
h sorrow; her bare arms lay at her sides above the top of the neatly folded sheet.
He saw a band of delicate ecru lace against her white breast.
“Monty, go away, will you?” she said.
The doctor raised her limp wrist, lifting his eyebrows; and she looked up into his face, with her lips parted in a smile.
“Monty, you're such a phony,” she said.
He smiled back at her as if complimented. “Five minutes!” he said. “No more. See that she doesn't excite herself, Mr. Killian.”
They were alone together.
“Give me a cigarette, Jocko,” she said.
“Better not.”
“Give me a cigarette,” she repeated. “I've been smoking on and off, from four o'clock this morning.”
“It can't be good for you.”
“No,” she said. “You're right. It can't. And I've got to look after my health, haven't I, Jocko? So that this can happen again.”
“I don't know what you're talking about,” he said flatly.
“I died,” she said. “It was just the same as dying. Try it, sometime, and see. Try swimming alone in the ocean in the middle of the night. Then you'll know exactly what it's like to die. But they fished me out, so that I'll have to die all over again sometime. That's what I call hard luck. Jocko, give me a cigarette, my precious one! I need one.”
He gave her one, and bent over to light it. And he thought that a bitter smell of salt water came from her hair.
“The Captain came in,” she went on. “He explained how he had to write a report about this 'occurrence.' He called it an 'occurrence' a hundred thousand times. He was so shocked, Jocko. He asked me if I was strong enough to give him an account of the 'occurrence'; and I did.”
She moved her head on the pillow and gave a tiny sigh.
“You won't ask any questions, will you, Jocko? Why don't you fold your arms? It would look more suitable. Don't you want to hear what I told the Captain?”
The Girl Who Had To Die Page 2