“You’re wasting your breath,” I told him. “It’s not me you’ve got to convince. It’s Canning.”
“But I’m not talking to Canning. I’m talking to you. I’m asking you to help me.” His voice was quieter now. He seemed to have got a grip on himself. “All right. It seems I have to convince you first that I’m not some bloody crackpot.” He jumped from his seat and went to a wooden seaman’s chest that stood against the wall. A moment later he was back. “Know anything about minerals?” He dropped what looked like several knobbly black potatoes on to the table in front of me. “Take a look at those.” I picked one up and carried it over to the lamp. It was heavy—heavy and hard, with a metallic gleam. “Lava?” I asked, thinking of a visit I had once paid to the island of Stromboli.
“No. They’re manganese. Manganese nodules to use the geological term.” He sat down again facing me. “Listen,” he said. “I’m not telling you where they came from. All I’ll tell you is this: When I came out of the Hadhramaut I found Don Mansoor at Mukalla just about to sail. He was bound for Addu Atoll on the monsoon. That was how I came to visit the Maldives and write that paper for the Royal Geographical Society. That’s how Don Mansoor and I became friends. He’s not only a damn’ fine navigator—he’s a very brave man. Last year he had a crack at running the blockade. Down here on the equator the monsoon winds are light, mere trade winds. Storms aren’t very common—not storms of any duration. But he hit one and it carried him into an area that he’d never been in before. Probably no one has. It’s right off the track of any shipping, away from any route that aircraft take, even R.A.F. planes.” He paused there. I think he was afraid that he was being betrayed into telling me too much.
“An undiscovered island?” I asked.
“Perhaps.” He picked up one of the lumps of ore and held it in his hand, staring at it as though it contained some magical property. “Strange, isn’t it? Here’s a people desperate for independence and this little fragment could be the answer—for them and for me. For you, too, perhaps.” He set it down on the table carefully. “But I was telling you about Don Mansoor. In the end he did reach Ceylon. He sold his cargo of dried fish privately instead of doing it through the Malé Government representative. As a result his ship was impounded and his crew sent back to the Maldives. Don Mansoor and another intrepid character, Ali Raza—he’s over there.” He pointed to a small, wrinkled old man standing in the shadows. “They worked their passage to Singapore knowing that at Singapore they could catch the Strode Venturer back to Addu. I was down at Strode House the day they applied to ship as crew. That’s how I learned what had happened to them—that’s how I got hold of these. They’d kept them as souvenirs to prove that they really had seen something strange. Do you know anything about seismology? Did you know a tidal wave had struck this atoll, that there has been evidence for several years of submarine volcanic activity in the Indian Ocean?”
I nodded, my mind going back to Hans Straker and what he had told me on the plane between Singapore and London. “Isn’t there a plan for a proper hydrographical survey of the Indian Ocean this year? If you wait a few months you’d probably get …”
“Wait? I’m not waiting a day longer than I have to. The International Indian Ocean Survey—the IIOS they call it—includes the Russians as well as ourselves. It’s a fully international survey and if I wait for them to confirm whatever it was that Don Mansoor saw, then I’ll have missed the chance of a lifetime.” His fingers reached out, toying with the metallic nodules on the table between us. “I’ve had this analysed. It’s high-grade manganese, about forty-five per cent. There’s a ready market for it—in Britain, in Germany, in any of half a dozen industrialized countries. Now do you understand?” And he added pounding the table, “But I must have confirmation. I must know it’s there in quantity and not part of a blazing ash heap that can’t be worked. And I’ve got to find that out ahead of the International Survey. Now then—are you going to help me or not?”
Somebody had moved the pressure lamp to the table and I could see the excitement blazing in his eyes. He was like a prospector who had come upon a pile of nuggets. The ore-black lumps gleamed balefully. But my service-trained mind saw it from Canning’s point of view, not his. Canning would never let him sail. I tried to explain this, but he wouldn’t listen. He was one of those men who refuse to accept defeat once they have got an idea into their heads. “I’m going,” he said. “With your help or without it, I’m going. Tell Canning that, and if he tries to sink the ship …”
“Don’t be a fool,” I said. “He’s not going to sink a vedi.”
“Then what is he going to do?”
“Arrest you and ship you out to Aden. Why else do you think he’s holding the Strode Venturer?”
“The Strode Venturer … Yes, I’d forgotten she was still in the lagoon. So that’s what he’s going to do.” He sat there, thinking about it, suddenly much quieter. “Have you got that letter on you? The one Henry wrote?” I took my wallet out and handed him the letter. He held it to the lamp, reading it through carefully. Finally he folded it and placed it on the table, using a manganese nodule as a paperweight. “When will you be in London?”
“I’m leaving for Singapore in the morning.” I started to explain the reasons, but he wasn’t interested in my personal affairs. “When you get to Singapore you can cable them that I accept their offer.”
His change of front was so abrupt it was almost disconcerting. His mood had changed, too. He seemed suddenly relaxed. At the time I accepted it as confirming a certain instability in his make-up. Some men have an unpredictable quality that is not very easy for more disciplined minds to understand. It didn’t occur to me then that what I was witnessing was the behaviour of a man who could change his plans in the face of necessity with lightning rapidity.
After that he talked about other things, relaxed and at ease as though everything were now settled to his satisfaction. He insisted I had another drink and even talked about his sister. “Ida and I were always very close. It will be good to see her again. Give her a ring, will you, and tell her I’ll be back soon.” When I left he accompanied me to the beach. The coral surface of Midu’s main street glimmered white between the black walls of tropical growth and the stars above showed through the dark fingers of the palms. The sense of peace was absolute for no breeze penetrated the denseness of the trees. The dhoni was waiting, the crew squatting on the coral strand beside it, and as he saw me into it, he said, “What I told you tonight is in confidence. I want your word that you won’t repeat it—to anybody, do you understand?”
“Of course,” I said.
His eyes were fixed on me, luminous in the starlight. He seemed to accept my assurance for he nodded slightly. “And when you get to Singapore I’d be glad if you’d phone Alexander. Tell him I’m now a director. He’d like to know that.” I said I would and climbed into the dhoni, and in a moment the beach was gone and we were out in the lagoon with the sail up and the water creaming past as the night breeze took us south towards Gan.
I saw him once again, briefly, before I left. I had gone in to say good-bye to Canning and he was there in the C.O.’s office, still in sarong and khaki shirt, smoking a cigarette. “Strode understands the situation now,” Canning said. “He’s leaving for Aden in the Strode Venturer and then flying to London. He tells me he’s been invited to join the board.” That settled it as far as Canning was concerned. A directorship was something he could understand. But looking at Strode, remembering all the things he’d told me the previous evening, I knew damn’ well he wasn’t going to Aden.
III
STRODE HOUSE
IT WAS a week later that the first of George Strode’s angry cables caught up with me in Singapore. Strode Venturer overdue Aden. Cable immediately exact whereabouts also explanation Peter Strode’s extraordinary behaviour. But I was in no state then to worry about the Strode Venturer, for that was the day of the funeral. Barbara’s parents were there, tight-lipped and appalled, for th
ere had been an inquest, of course, following the post-mortem. And after the funeral her father saw me. Perhaps he understood. I don’t know. If he blamed me, at least he didn’t say so. We were both of us in a state of shock.
Other cables followed, and later, when I had begun the business of clearing up Barbara’s affairs, sorting out our things and arranging for them to be shipped home, it was easier to cope with this flood of queries from the London office. What Peter Strode had done, of course, was to use his position as director to persuade Deacon to take the ship off in search of his island. I had it all from Alexander, who for all his impassivity was obviously thoroughly alarmed; it was he who had arranged with the Tai Wan Shipping Company the terms under which they would agree to the owners breaking the charter agreement.
In the end I cabled George Strode that this was a matter that couldn’t be dealt with by an exchange of cables. By then I had booked air passage back and was able to give him my date of departure and flight number. I was not surprised, therefore, to find a message waiting for me on arrival at London Airport. He had sent his car and the chauffeur had instructions to drive me straight to Strode House.
He was waiting for me in his office and in no mood to thank me for finding Peter Strode and getting him on to the board. “I expected you back sooner. What the devil have you been doing all this time?” But his mind was on the Strode Venturer and he didn’t wait for me to explain. “She was due at Aden on 3rd April. It’s now 10th April. She’s still not arrived. Where is she—do you know?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“You saw Peter. You talked to him. You must have some idea.”
I didn’t say anything. I had been awake half the night. I was tired after the long flight and anyway I didn’t like his manner.
He had a sheaf of cables on his desk. He picked up the top one and handed it to me. “That was the first we heard that something was wrong.” It was from their Aden agent, dated 5th April, announcing that the Strode Venturer was overdue. “And this from the R.A.F.——” He read it out to me: “Re your inquiry etc., we have contacted the Commanding Officer R.A.F. Gan and he informs us that your vessel, Strode Venturer, sailed at 11.30 approx. on March 28th bound direct for Aden. Peter Strode was on board. No further information is available.”
He slammed it down on his desk. “Immediately on receipt of our agent’s message we asked Cable & Wireless to try and contact the ship. Here’s our message and the Strode Venturer’s reply.” He thrust a typewritten sheet across the desk to me: Please inform us expected date of arrival Aden and reasons for delay. The reply, also dated 5th April, read: Date of arrival Aden not yet certain. Will inform you later. Charterers have agreed interruption of time charter by sub-chartering vessel to us for maximum period one month. Am engaged vital exploration little known area Indian Ocean. Will explain on arrival London. It was signed—Peter Strode.
“We’ve now got the rate for the sub-charter from the Singapore manager. It’s half as much again as the rate we were getting for the charter and Alexander says he only agreed to their terms because you’d informed him that Peter was now a director. Did you tell him that?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“There was nothing confidential about it. You had already announced his appointment at the meeting.
He grunted. “Well, that’s the lot.” He clipped the cables together again. “That’s all we know. Just that one message from him.”
“Have you wirelessed the ship since?” I asked.
“Of course I have. I’ve sent damn’ near a dozen messages—to Deacon as well as Peter. But no answer. For all I know the ship may be at the bottom of the sea.” He stared at me angrily. “Now then, what is all this exploration nonsense? What’s he doing out there?”
“I think you’ll have to ask him that.”
“I’m asking you.”
I didn’t say anything and he sat there, his small moist eyes watching me across the desk. The silence between us seemed to last a long time. Finally he said, “I’ve ordered Deacon to turn his ship round and make for Aden at once. If he doesn’t obey he’s fired. And I’ve cabled Peter that he’s a director of Strode & Company, not of Strode Orient and that he’s personally liable for the amount of the sub-charter.” He got to his feet. “In all the years I’ve been in shipping I’ve never heard of such monstrous behaviour. And if I thought you’d encouraged him …” He stared at me for a moment and then he gave a little shrug. “Well, you found him, that’s something. You’ve done what we asked.” He came round the desk then, his manner suddenly more friendly. “Now, when he gets here——” He was frowning as though he didn’t look forward to the prospect. “You’re on friendly terms with him, I presume? The point is, I want to know what’s in his mind. Are you married?”
“Not now.”
“Well, that makes it easier. See as much of him as you can. And keep me informed. Understand? Meantime,” he added, “get yourself somewhere to stay and tomorrow report to Dick Whimbrill. He’s secretary to both companies and a director of Strode’s. I’ll tell him to give you an office and find you something to do.”
In his younger days Whimbrill had been a fine athlete—a rugger blue at Oxford and one of the fastest milers of his day. He had been badly shot up in the war and when I met him he was a rather tragic figure, old before his time, his face slightly disfigured and the air of a man with nothing much to live for but his job. His wife was supposed to be bedridden, dying slowly of some incurable bone disease, but nobody had ever seen her and he never talked about it. Later, when he risked everything by giving us his unqualified support, I came to respect him for his courage and integrity. But I cannot say I ever got to know him. He was a Roman Catholic and he had built such a wall around himself against the world that I don’t think any man who was not a priest could have penetrated it.
His association with Strode House went back to the early days and though he did not comment on it at that first meeting, I knew instinctively that he had linked my name with the events of 1931 and had confirmed the link by inquiries. He had been told to find me a job and he gave me the run of a technical file that was his own particular baby. “Five years ago I commissioned the design of a bulk carrier of fifty thousand tons.” His voice was toneless, dry and quite untouched by any shade of feeling. “I was a little ahead of my time and anyway the board turned it down. Too costly.” He pushed the fat folder across to me. “I’d be glad to have your comments and any suggestions in the light of modern developments and experience. We’ll never build it, but I like to keep the file up-to-date—just in case.” There was something almost conspiratorial in the way he smiled at me, a slight movement of the left side of his mouth that gave a lop-sided look to his damaged face. I left his office with the feeling that there was at least one man in Strode House with whom I could get on.
There were others, too, of course, and I soon got to know them. I was the only member of the staff who had had any direct contact with Peter Strode and this broke down the barriers that normally separate the newcomer. They were curious about their new director; curious, too, about the Strode Venturer. One by one, on one pretext or another, they sought me out.
Their reactions varied. Some were instinctively hostile to him, particularly the older men like Phillipson—he was Marine Superintendent, a one-time master with flabby stomach muscles and the look of a heavy beer drinker. They were the real hard core of the shipping side of the business, complacent, conservative. They regarded him as a threat to the even tenor of their lives. The younger ones, their imaginations not yet stultified by routine and the pressures of life, responded more freely to the aura of excitement he had already created, and the little that I was able to tell them increased their fascination. The mystery surrounding the movements of the Strode Venturer had given them a glimpse of the world beyond bills of lading, invoices, accounts—the world where ships actually moved across the oceans. But it was the women mostly who saw beyond the event to the man himself. A young typ
ist in the freight department stopped me on the stairs the second day I was there. “Did you really meet him?” she asked breathlessly. “What’s he like? To go off with one of our ships like that—it’s so terribly thrilling.” And there was the grey-haired woman who worked with the P. & I. man; she came to my office to ask whether I thought there was anything in the affair that would have to be covered by the Club—the association to which Strode Orient contributed on a tonnage basis for protection and indemnity. “I’ve been with Mr. Fripp in P. & I. since my husband was killed in 1943. Nothing like this has happened since the war years. Is he really coming to work here?”
They seemed to have a desperate need of excitement and some of them, like Mrs. Frayne, sensed that Peter would provide them with it.
The directors, of course, didn’t see it in quite the same light. Only those possessed of imagination and abundant vitality dedicated to the service of the companies they direct thrive on excitement. Strode House did not possess such men. They held a post-mortem the following day and halfway through it they sent for me.
I had been allocated an office at the top of the building, a bare, dusty-looking place with a desk, two chairs, a cabinet full of old files and an obsolete Underwood typewriter. There was a hat-stand in the corner and the windows were filthy. There was nobody else on this top floor for the staff was very much smaller than it had been in the Old Man’s day. It was Elliot who brought me the summons, slightly out of breath after climbing three flights. He regarded my room with distaste as he said in his old-womanish voice, “They’re discussing this business of the Strode Venturer. I’m afraid you’ll find the atmosphere a little strained this morning.”
The relationship between George and Henry Strode is not easy to define. In the physical sense it was close; they had been to the same school, the same college at Cambridge, their estates in Sussex were only a few miles apart, they hunted and shot together. But their temperaments were widely different. Henry was quiet, withdrawn, very conservative in his outlook, a man who waited upon events and never ventured a decision until he was assured of the support of others. As the elder of the two he had probably borne the brunt of his father’s overbearing temperament and reacted accordingly. George was much more volatile, priding himself on his bluntness. He was a difficult man, too, for he had some of his father’s qualities, and vanity was one of them. This made him obstinate. Once he had stated his position it was very difficult to get him to retract or agree to a compromise.
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