The Golden Rendezvous

by Alistair MacLean

  As an alibi or explanation for Benson’s disappearance it was as good as any: as a general statement it was also, unfortunately true.

  “And so, ladies and gentlemen, I would counsel you all, most strongly, never to approach the ship’s rail at night unless you are accompanied by someone else. I would be most grateful if you would all bear that strongly in mind.”

  I looked round the passengers as far as my stiff neck would allow. They would bear it in mind, all right. From now on, wild horses wouldn’t drag them near the Campari’s rails at night.

  “But,” Bullen went on emphatically, “it will help neither of those unfortunate men and only do ourselves a great disservice if we allow ourselves to brood over those things. I cannot ask you to dismiss those deaths from your minds at once, but I can ask you not to dwell on them. On a ship, as elsewhere, life must go on—especially, I might say, on a ship. You are aboard the Campari to enjoy the cruise: we are aboard to help you enjoy it. I would be most grateful if you would give us your every assistance to get shipboard life back to normal as soon as absolutely possible.”

  There was a subdued murmur of agreement, then Julius Beresford, rising from his seat beside the captain, was on his feet.

  “Do you mind if I say a few words, sir?” He could have bought the Blue Mail Line without even denting his bank balance, but still he asked permission to speak and called old Bullen “sir.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Beresford.”

  “It’s just this.” Julius Beresford had addressed too many board meetings to be anything other than completely at ease when speaking to people, no matter how many million dollars they represented. “I agree, and agree completely with everything our captain has said. Captain Bullen has said that he and his crew have a job to do and that that job is to look after the every comfort and convenience of his passengers: under the rather sad circumstances in which we have to meet this morning, I think that we, the passengers, have also a job to do—to make things as easy as possible for the captain, officers and crew and help them bring things back to normal as soon as possible.

  “I’d like to start the ball rolling by asking you all to be my guests for a brief period this evening. Today, ladies and gentlemen, my wife celebrates her birthday.” He smiled down at Mrs. Beresford. “She forgets exactly which one. I cannot invite you to a birthday dinner, for what could I offer you as a special meal that Antoine and Henriques do not give us every night of the week? But Mrs. Beresford and I should be grateful if you would be our guests at a cocktail party this evening. Seven forty-five. In the drawing-room. Thank you.”

  I looked round the table. Miguel Carreras was nodding slightly, as if in grave acceptance and appreciation of Beresford’s underlying motives. Miss Harrbride was beaming with pleasure: she doted on the Beresfords, not for their money but for the fact that they were one of the very oldest American families, with goodness only knew how many generations behind them. Mr. Greenstreet, her husband, studied the tablecloth in his usual intent fashion. And Tony Carreras, more impossibly handsome than ever, leaned back in his chair and regarded Julius Beresford with a slightly amused, speculative interest. Or maybe it was Susan Beresford he was looking at; I was more certain than ever that there was something wrong with Tony Carreras’s eyes; it was almost impossible to tell in what direction they were looking. He caught my glance and smiled.

  “You’ll be there, Mr. Carter?” He had that relaxed easygoing manner that comes from having a bank account bursting at the seams, but none of the usual hint of condescension: Tony Carreras I could get to like.

  “Briefly, only, I’m afraid. I have to go on watch at eight o’clock this evening.” I smiled. “If you’re still at it at midnight, I’ll join you.” Like hell I’d join them: at midnight I’d be showing the Nassau police over the ship. “And I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me now: I have to relieve the officer of the watch.”

  I made my excuses and left. On the deck I almost bumped into a sandy-haired young seaman, Whitehead, who usually shared my watches on the bridge in his capacity as engine-room telegraphist, lookout, bridge messenger and coffee-maker.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked sharply. With young Dexter on watch I wanted as many sharp eyes and quick minds as possible around him: Whitehead had both. “You know you’re not to leave the bridge in my absence.”

  “Sorry, sir. But Ferguson sent me.” Ferguson was the quarter-master on the forenoon watch. “We’ve missed the last two course alterations and he’s getting pretty worried about it.” We were bringing round three degrees to the north every fifteen minutes to get on a north by west course, but slowly, so as not to excite anyone.

  “Why come and bother me about it?” I said irritably. “Fourth Officer Dexter is perfectly capable of handling these matters.” He wasn’t, but one of the drawbacks of being a fellow-officer of Dexter was that you were forced to lie like fury to maintain an outward appearance of solidarity.

  “Yes, sir. But he’s not there, Mr. Carter. He left the bridge about twenty minutes ago and he hasn’t come back yet.”

  I pushed violently past Whitehead, knocking him to one side, and made for the bridge at a dead run, three steps at a time up the companionways. Rounding one corner I caught a glimpse of Whitehead staring up after me with a most peculiar expression on his face. He probably thought I had gone mad.

  V.

  Wednesday 8.45 a.m.—3.30 p.m.

  Ferguson, a tall swarthy saturnine Cockney with no hair left to speak of, glanced round as I burst through the doorway from the starboard wing of the bridge into the wheelhouse. His face showed his relief.

  “Strewth, am I glad to see——”

  “Where’s the fourth mate?” I demanded.

  “Search me, sir. Them course alterations——”

  “To hell with the course alterations! Where did he go?”

  Ferguson blinked in surprise. He had the same look on his face as Whitehead had had a few seconds ago, the wary bafflement of a man who sees another going off his rocker.

  “I don’t know, sir. He didn’t say.”

  I reached for the nearest phone, got through to the dining-room, asked for Bullen. He came on and I said: “Carter here, sir. Could you come up to the bridge straightaway?”

  There was a brief pause, then: “Why?”

  “Dexter’s missing, sir. He had the watch but he left the bridge twenty minutes ago.”

  “Left the bridge.” Bullen’s voice held no inflexion, but only because he made it that way. Lord Dexter’s son or not, young Dexter was finished on the Campari unless he could explain this one away. “Looked for him yet? He could be anywhere.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of, sir.”

  The phone clicked and I hung up. Young Whitehead, still looking apprehensive, had just arrived in the cabin. I said: “You’ll find the third mate in his cabin. My compliments to him, ask him if he’ll take over the bridge for a few minutes. Ferguson?”

  “Sir?” The voice was still wary.

  “Mr. Dexter said nothing at all when he left?”

  “Yes, sir. I heard him say something like ‘Wait a minute, what the hell’s going on here?’ Or something like that, I can’t be sure. Then he said: ‘Keep her as she is. Back in a jiffy,’ and then he was off.”

  “That was all?”

  “That was all, sir.”

  “Where was he standing at the time?”

  “On the starboard wing, sir. Just outside the door.”

  “And he went down that side?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Where was Whitehead at the time?”

  “Out on the port wing, sir.” Ferguson’s expression and tone showed beyond all doubt that he was vis-à-vis with a loony, but he was playing it cool all the same.

  “Didn’t cross to see where Mr. Dexter had gone?”

  “No, sir.” He hesitated. “Well, not right away. But I thought it a bit funny so I asked him to have a look. He couldn’t see anything.”

  “Damn!
How long after Mr. Dexter left before he took this look?”

  “A minute. Maybe closer on two. Couldn’t be sure, sir.”

  “But whatever Mr. Dexter saw, it was aft?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I moved out on to the wing bridge and looked aft. There was no one to be seen on any of the two decks below. The crew had long finished washing down decks and the passengers were still at breakfast. Nobody there. Nothing of any interest at all to be seen. Even the wireless office was deserted, its door closed and locked. I could see the brass padlock clearly, gleaming and glittering in the morning sun as the Campari pitched slowly, gently, through the ever-lengthening swell.

  The wireless office! I stood there perfectly rigid for all of three seconds, a candidate, in Ferguson’s eyes, for a strait-jacket if ever there had been one, then took off down the companionway the same way as I had come up, three steps at a time. Only a smart piece of braking on my part and a surprisingly nimble bit of dodging on the captain’s prevented a head-on collision at the foot of the companionway. Bullen put into words the thought that was obviously gaining currency around the bridge.

  “Have you gone off your bloody rocker, Mister?”

  “The wireless office, sir,” I said quickly. “Come on.”

  I was there in a few seconds, Bullen close behind. I tried the padlock, a heavy-duty double-action Yale, but it was securely locked.

  It was then I noticed a key sticking out from the bottom of the padlock. I twisted it, first one way, then the other, but it was jammed fast. I tried to pull it out and had the same lack of success. I became aware that Bullen was breathing heavily over my shoulder.

  “What the devil’s the matter, Mister? What’s got into you all of a sudden?”

  “One moment, sir.” I’d caught sight of Whitehead making his way up to the bridge and beckoned him across. “Get the bo’sun, tell him to bring a pair of pliers.”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll get the pliers——”

  “I said ‘Tell the bo’sun to bring them,’” I said savagely. “Then ask Mr. Peters for the key to this door. Hurry!”

  He hurried. You could see he was glad to escape. Bullen said: “Look here, Mister——”

  “Dexter left the bridge because he saw something funny going on. So Ferguson said. Where else but here, sir?”

  “Why here? Why not——”

  “Look at that.” I took the padlock in my hand. “That bent key. And everything that’s happened has happened because of here.”

  “The window?”

  “No good. I’ve looked.” I led him round the corner to the single square of plate glass. “Night curtains are still drawn.”

  “Couldn’t we smash the damn’ thing in?”

  “What’s the point? It’s too late now.”

  Bullen looked at me queerly, but said nothing. Half a minute passed in silence. Bullen was getting more worried every second. I wasn’t —I was as worried as could be already. Jamieson appeared, on his way to the bridge, caught sight of us, made to come towards us, then carried on as Bullen waved him away. And then the bo’sun was there, carrying a pair of heavy insulated pliers in his hand.

  “Open this damned door,” Bullen said curtly.

  MacDonald tried to remove the key with his fingers, failed and brought the pliers into use. With the first tug of the pliers the key in the lock snapped cleanly in half.

  “Well,” Bullen said heavily. “That helps.”

  MacDonald looked at him, at me, then back at the broken key still held in the jaws of the pliers.

  “I didn’t even twist it, sir,” he said quietly. “And if that’s a Yale key,” he added with an air of faint distaste, “then I’m an Englishman.” He handed the key over for inspection. The break showed the grey, rough, porous composition of some base metal. “Home-made, and not very well made at that, either.”

  Bullen pocketed the broken key.

  “Can you get the other bit out?”

  “No, sir. Completely jammed.” He fished in his overalls, produced a hacksaw. “Maybe this, sir?”

  “Good man.”

  It took MacDonald three minutes’ hard work—the hasp, unlike the padlock, was made of tempered steel—and then the hacksaw was through. He slid out the padlock, then glanced inquiringly at the captain.

  “Come in with us,” Bullen said. There was sweat on his brow. “See that nobody comes near.” He pushed open the door and passed inside: I was on his heels.

  We’d found Dexter all right, and we’d found him too late. He had that bundle of old clothes look, that completely relaxed huddled shapelessness that only the dead can achieve: face-down, out-flung on the Corticene flooring, he hardly left standing room for Bullen and myself.

  “Shall I get the doctor, sir?” It was MacDonald speaking: he was standing astride the storm-sill and the knuckles of the hand holding the door shone bonily through the tautened skin.

  “It’s too late for a doctor now, Bo’sun,” Bullen said stonily. Then his composure broke and he burst out violently: “My God, Mister, where’s it all going to end? He’s dead, you can see he’s dead. What’s behind—what murderous fiend—why did they kill him, Mister? Why did they have to kill him? Damn it to hell, why did the fiends have to kill him? He was only a kid, what real harm did young Dexter ever do anybody?” It said much for Bullen at the moment that the thought never even occurred to him that the dead man was the son of the chairman and managing director of the Blue Mail Line. That thought would come later.

  “He died for the same reason that Benson died,” I said. “He saw too much.” I kneeled beside him, examined the back and sides of his neck. No marks there at all. I looked up and said: “Can I turn him over, sir?”

  “It can’t do any harm now.” Bullen’s normally ruddy face had lost some colour and the lips were clamped in a thin hard line.

  I heaved and pulled for a few seconds and managed to get Dexter more or less turned over, half on his shoulders and half on his back. I didn’t waste any time checking his breathing or his pulse; when you’ve been shot three times through the middle of the body the breathing and the pulse are things of the past. And Dexter’s white uniform shirt, with the three small powder-blackened blood-tinged holes just beneath the breastbone, showed indeed that he had been shot three times: the area covering those holes could have been blotted out by a playing card. Somebody had made very sure indeed. I rose to my feet, looked from the captain to the bo’sun, then said to Bullen: “We can’t pass this off as a heart attack, sir.”

  “They shot him three times,” Bullen said matter-of-factly.

  “We’re up against someone in the maniac class, sir.” I stared down at Dexter, unable to look away from the face racked and twisted by his last conscious moment of life, that fleeting moment of tearing agony that had opened the door to death. “Any one of those bullets would have killed him. But whoever killed him killed him three times, someone who likes pressing a trigger, someone who likes seeing bullets thud into a human being, even although that human being is dead already.”

  “You seem very cool about this, Mister.” Bullen was looking at me with a strange look in his eyes.

  “Sure I’m cool.” I showed Bullen my gun. “Show me the man who did this and I’ll give him what he gave Dexter. Exactly the same and to hell with Captain Bullen and the laws of the land. That’s how cool I am.”

  “I’m sorry, Johnny.” Then his voice hardened again. “Nobody heard anything. How did nobody hear anything?”

  “He had his gun close up to Dexter, maybe jammed right against him. You can see the marks of burnt powder. That would help to deaden the sound. Besides, everything points to this person—or those persons—as being professionals. They would have silencers on their guns.”

  “I see.” Bullen turned to MacDonald. “Could you get Peters here, Bo’sun. At once.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” MacDonald turned to leave, and I said quickly: “Sir, a word before MacDonald goes.”

  “What is it?” His voice w
as hard, impatient.

  “You’re going to send a message?”

  “Too right I’m going to send a message. I’m going to ask for a couple of fast patrol boats to be sent out to meet us. At the speed those gas turbine jobs can go they’ll be alongside before noon. And when I tell them I’ve had three men murdered in twelve hours, they’ll come running. I’ve had enough of playing it smart, First. This fake burial to lull their suspicions this morning, to make them think we’d got rid of the only evidence of murder against them. See where it’s got us? Another murdered man.”

  “It’s no use, sir. It’s too late now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He didn’t even bother to replace the lid after he left, sir.” I nodded towards the big transmitter-receiver, with its metal lid slightly askew, the securing screws loose. “Maybe he was in a hurry to get away, maybe he just knew there was no point in securing it anyway, we were bound to find it out sooner or later—and sooner rather than later.” I lifted the lid and stood to one side to let Bullen look also.

  Nothing was ever surer than that no one would ever use that transmitter again. It was littered inside with torn wire, bent metal, smashed condensers and valves. Someone had used a hammer. There was no guesswork about that: the hammer was still lying among the tangled splintered wreckage that was all that was left of the once complicated innards of the transmitter. I replaced the lid.

  “There’s an emergency set,” Bullen said hoarsely. “In the cupboard under the table there. The one with the petrol generator. He’ll have missed that.”

  But the murderer hadn’t missed it, he wasn’t the type to miss anything. And he certainly hadn’t missed with that hammer. If anything, he’d done an even more thorough job on the emergency set than on the main set: and, just for good measure, he’d smashed up the armature of the patrol generator.

  “Our friend must have been listening in on his receiver again,” MacDonald put in quietly. “So he came out either to stop the message or smash up the sets, so that no more messages could go through. He was lucky, had he been a bit later and the radio officer back on watch my men would have been holystoning the decks outside and there would have been nothing he would be able to do.”