“I think, Mr. Chairman,”—Whimbrill had risen to his feet—“there is really only one solution to the present difficulty.” And he then proposed that Ida and I should be elected to fill the vacancies on the board. “Mrs. Roche is, of course, a member of the family. Commander Bailey, who is now one of the largest shareholders, has also been closely connected …” I don’t think anybody heard him refer to my connection with Bailey Oriental for the sudden outbreak of conversation almost drowned his voice. He put the motion and to my astonishment it was seconded by Elliot from the body of the hall. There was no need to count the votes and Henry Strode, his voice trembling, all his casual ease of manner gone, said, “I shall, of course, take legal opinion myself. In the meantime, I must make it plain that I propose calling a further meeting as soon as Peter Strode’s unhappy death is confirmed.” He then concluded the formalities by proposing the re-election of the auditors and after that the meeting broke up.
An air of shock hung over the big, ornate room, and as the members of the family and their friends filed out they stared at us curiously. At the directors’ table Whimbrill was as isolated as we were. “You won’t get away with this.” It was John Strode. He had occupied the big office next to his father ever since he had come down from Cambridge and his face was white with rage. Then a reporter was at my side asking me to fill in for him on what Whimbrill had said about my connection with the company. He looked barely twenty and he had never heard of Bailey Oriental. And then he was asking Ida how she felt as the only woman on the board. “I’ve no idea,” she said sharply. “I’m more concerned about my brother at the moment.”
By the time we’d got rid of him the place was empty, only Whimbrill and ourselves left. “What happens now?” Ida inquired.
“You may well ask, Mrs. Roche.” Whimbrill gave her a lop-sided smile. “To comply with the Companies Act you both have to write me letters expressing your willingness to serve as directors. Ante-dated, of course. But that can wait. Right now I think a drink, perhaps.” He was in that mood of elation that follows upon the success of a desperate decision and as we went out through the main doors I was wondering whether Turner had envisaged this. Had he planned it all, thinking it through like a game of chess—right through to the point where Whimbrill would be forced to propose Ida and myself for election to the board? But I didn’t think so, for nothing had been solved. All we had done was gain time.
We lunched together, but though we discussed it from every possible angle we always came back to the same thing in the end—everything depended on Peter being alive, the island still there. Back at the office I rang George Strode. I thought he might refuse to see me after what had happened, but instead he told me to come straight down so that I had the feeling he had been expecting me. “I want you to understand, Bailey, that the full resources of Strode Orient are at your disposal so long as you think there’s a chance those men may still be alive.” He seemed almost relieved when I told him what I wanted—Deacon reinstated and authority to question the crew of the Strode Venturer.
“You’re planning to go out there yourself, are you?”
“Yes. If I catch tomorrow’s flight to Cairo I can be in Aden at ten-thirty on Thursday.”
“Very well. I’ll tell Simpkin to be at Khormaksar to meet you.” And he drafted a cable to his agent and had it sent off straight away. “If there’s anything else …” His manner was strangely affable, quite at variance with the attitude he and his brother had taken at the meeting. But I didn’t have time to consider the implications of this. In less than twenty-four hours I was in a Comet being lifted over the huge sprawl of London on a journey that would take me back again to the Indian Ocean.
VI
1. DEACON
THE Strode Venturer was already at Aden when I arrived. I had seen her, anchored off Steamer Point, through the plane windows as we came in to land at Khormaksar. Deacon was not there to meet me, only Simpkin, a neat, dapper man in a tropical suit. He had pale eyes and a little brushed-up moustache and he kept me standing in the blazing sun whilst he told me how he’d found Deacon in the Arab town of Crater, dead broke and living in absolute squalor. He had got him into a hotel for the night, but in the morning he had vanished.
“Did you give him any money?” I asked.
“I had to. He had nothing and Mr. Strode’s cable——”
“Then what the hell did you expect?” I was hot and tired and very angry. I had expected Deacon to be waiting so that we could go straight on board the Strode Venturer and try to work out the courses Peter had steered with the charts in front of us. Now I’d have to waste time searching for him, and when I found him he’d undoubtedly be drunk.
It was a long time since I had been in Aden, but it hadn’t changed much and down by the harbour at Steamer Point we picked up one of those Arab pimps that lie in wait for seamen coming ashore. He was a fat, fawning man with a pock-marked face and greedy eyes, but he knew the grog shops, all the dives. What’s more he knew Deacon. No doubt half the riff-raff of the waterfront knew him by now, which was why I hadn’t gone to the police.
Three hours we wasted, along the waterfront of Ma’alla wharf where the dhows lay and all up through the back streets of Crater. Finally, exhausted with the heat and the aimless futility of the search, I threatened to kick our Adeni guide out of the car and go to the police. A panic flash of gold teeth in the pock-marked face and he was pleading for us to drive back to Steamer Point and the port. “I talk to boatmen, sah. Captain Deacon, he have Ingleesh friends, eh? Drinks all free on Ingleesh sheep.”
It was obvious then that he’d known where Deacon was all the time. The hours of searching had been a charade to demonstrate that he’d earned the five pounds I’d offered him. I cursed him wearily and we drove back to Steamer Point. “When were you last on board the Strode Venturer?” I asked Simpkin.
“This morning.”
“Did you inquire whether Deacon was there?”
“Of course.” But he had only inquired of Captain Jones. He hadn’t inquired of the first officer and he certainly hadn’t searched the cabins. I was remembering that long, lugubrious face, the shifty, foxy eyes. Fields. That was the name. Arthur Fields. And he’d been with Deacon a long time; at least that was my impression. “I think we’ll find he spent the night on board.”
They had, in fact, gone on board in the early hours of the morning. The boatman who had rowed them out to the ship, produced now with great alacrity by our guide, said that the big man had been very drunk and had had to be helped up the gangway.
It was blowing a hot wind off the volcanic heights as we took a launch out to the Strode Venturer. There were lighters alongside and she was loading cargo into No. 2 hold, some of it R.A.F. stores for Gan. The first officer could hardly be said to be in charge of the loading, but he was there, his face grey under the peaked cap, his eyes slitted against the glare of the sun now falling towards the west. “Mr. Fields!” I called and his eyes flicked open lizard-like in the sun. The winch clattered close behind him and as though that provided him with a working excuse he turned deliberately away to watch the Chinaman at the controls.
I swung myself up the ladder to the deck where he was standing. He must have heard me coming, but he didn’t turn until I tapped him on the shoulder. “I called to you,” I said. The tired, bloodshot eyes faced me for a moment, long enough for me to realize that dislike was mutual. Then they shifted uneasily away and he reached into his pocket for his cigarettes. “Where’s Deacon?” I asked him.
“How would I know?’
“You brought him on board—some time in the early hours.”
He lit his cigarette and puffed a cloud of smoke. “You caused enough trouble,” he said. “You and that fellow Strode. Soon as you came on board at Gan——”
“Would you mind taking me to his cabin?” I said.
“Why should I?” The sour cockney face looked suddenly full of hate. “You get him sacked and thrown on the beach and then the agent comes on bo
ard this morning and tells Jones he can pack his bags and go ashore ’cause Harry Deacon’s reinstated.” There was something almost vicious in the way he’d turned and snapped at me—like a vixen defending its mate. “What’re you trying to do—crucify him? A man needs warning after that sort of treatment. He needs an hour or two to get used to the idea he’s taking command again.” The thin, sensitive mouth, the lank hair under the dirty white cap … I was beginning to understand as he spat out, “You educated bastards think other men haven’t got any feelings. What do you want with him, anyway?” The foxy eyes peered up at me. “Either he’s reappointed or he isn’t.”
“Don’t you listen to the B.B.C. news bulletins?”
“Why should I?” And he added sourly, “If you’d been on this ship as long as I have, the same ports, the same dead, hell-hot sea …”
“If you hate it so,” I snapped, “why don’t you get another job?” But I knew why, of course. He couldn’t face the world outside. He was a failure, relying on Deacon’s friendship and afraid to stand on his own feet. This was his escape, this battered ship, and he was a prisoner serving a life sentence. I told him what had happened, but it didn’t register. Nothing would ever register with him but what directly concerned himself. “So that’s why he’s reinstated—just so that he can find the island for you.” And he added, “Serves Strode right if he has killed himself on that filthy heap of volcanic slag. He went to enough trouble to see that we wouldn’t be able to tell anyone where the hell it was.” He looked up at me out of the corners of his eyes, greed glimmering through the shiftiness. “What’s there, anyway? Gold? Diamonds?”
“Manganese,” I said. “And now I want to talk to Deacon.” No good asking him where the island was. He might be capable of navigating according to the book, but he’d no feeling for the sea. I gripped his arm and turned him towards the bridge accommodation. “Don’t let’s waste any more time,” I said.
“He’s tired, you know.” The voice was almost a whine, for he’d caught my mood and was suddenly scared.
“Drunk, you mean.”
He shook my hand off. “He was in a Jap prison camp for three and a half years. We both of us were. But it wasn’t the Japs that beat him.” He had a sort of dignity then as he faced me, defending his friend. “It was afterwards. They never gave him a chance. The Strodes, I mean.” The foxy face peered up at me, the thin lips drawn back from his long discoloured teeth. “He worked for your father. Did you know that? The Bailey Oriental Line.” I nodded. “They never forgave him for that. And did you know this——” He gave me a long-toothed vicious smile. “Your father committed suicide on this ship.”
I grabbed him without thinking, grabbed him with both hands and shook him till his long teeth rattled in his head. And through the rattle of them I heard the little rat say gleefully, “Didn’t you know? Walked off the stern in the middle of the night.”
“You’re lying,” I said. “He died at sea—a natural death.”
“He drowned himself. In the Bay of Biscay it was and Harry Deacon swore the crew to secrecy.”
I let him go. It could be true. It would explain the shortness of The Times obituary, old Henry Strode’s sense of remorse, the strange nature of that letter. The sudden wave of anger that had gripped me drained away. If it were true, then what difference did it make now, after all these years? I glanced over my shoulder, but fortunately the agent hadn’t followed us. “Why did you tell me that?” But I knew why. He wanted to make certain I wouldn’t have Deacon thrown off the ship again.
He had tucked him away in a little cubby-hole of a cabin two decks down and as he unlocked the door the smell of vomit and diarrhoea hit me in a nauseating wave. Deacon wasn’t just drunk. He was dead drunk, and I knew at a glance I wouldn’t get any sense out of him for twenty-four hours at least. He was lying half-naked on a pipe-cot that was too small for him and his huge body, glistening with sweat in the light of the unshaded bulb, seemed to fill the place, a bloated, hairy carcass. His mouth was a gaping hole in the stubble of his face and his skin the colour of lead. He looked ghastly. “Have you had a doctor?”
“He’ll be all right,” Fields said quickly. He hadn’t dared risk a doctor. “Some bad liquor he was given, that’s all.”
“Too much of it more likely,” I said angrily. “And no food. He doesn’t look after himself.” I wondered if I dared call a doctor. If Deacon was whipped into hospital and the Strode Venturer sailed he’d be no good to me. “Get him up to his old cabin,” I said. “And see that the portholes are open. He needs air.”
I went in search of Simpkin then. The agent ought to be able to produce a doctor who would do what was necessary and keep his mouth shut. Out on the deck again I found the winches silent, the crew sweating at the hatch covers. Loading seemed to have finished, one of the lighters already pulling away from the ship’s side. There was no sign of Simpkin. I went up to the bridge. It was empty—the chart-room, too. And then I heard the sound of a voice coming from behind a door marked “W. R. Weston, Wireless Operator.” I pushed through it and the voice was the voice of a B.B.C. announcer. The wireless operator was sitting in his shirt sleeves, a glass of beer at his elbow, a small, pale man with tired eyes and a sallow skin. Simpkin was leaning against the white-painted wall behind him, smoking a cigarette. He tapped the wireless operator on the shoulder. “Commander Bailey,” he said.
Weston looked up at me, at the same time reaching out long, tobacco-stained fingers to the control panel in front of him. The announcer’s voice faded and the wireless operator said, “I have a cable for you.” And he passed me a typed sheet. It was from Ida. This morning Dick was instructed to post notices to Strode Orient shareholders giving statutory three weeks’ notice of extraordinary general meeting. You have until July 24. So that was the reason George Strode had been so co-operative. I folded it and put it away in my pocket. “When is the Strode Venturer due to sail?” I asked Simpkin.
“To-morrow morning.”
“You’ve finished loading. Why not to-night?”
Simpkin hesitated. “I suppose it could be arranged. She’s due to take on fuel at 2130 hours. If you like I’ll try and arrange for you to sail direct from the bunkering wharf.”
He got us away just before midnight and by then I knew what was wrong with Deacon. It wasn’t just alcohol. He had picked up some sort of a virus and his liver, weakened by bad liquor, had temporarily packed up. “If it wasn’t that he has the constitution of a bloody ox,” the doctor said, “I’d have him into hospital right away.” He was an oil company doctor, a florid, big-boned Scot who looked after the tanker crews as well as the refinery personnel. He understood men like Deacon. “See that you have some Scotch on board,” he advised as I saw him to the gangway. “Simple food, of course, but ye canna change a man’s basic diet just because he’s been pumped full of antibiotics.” He thought Deacon would be conscious within twenty-four hours and might have enough energy to start working on my problem in two to three days’ time. “But go easy,” he said. “By rights I should have moved him ashore. I’m taking a chance and I’ve only done it because of what you’ve told me.” He wished me luck and left me with a list of instructions and a whole bagful of pills.
I had the Chinese steward sit up with him all night, but Deacon never stirred, and when I saw him in the morning the only change was that his face seemed to have more colour beneath the black stubble of his growing beard and his breathing was stronger and more regular. He was no longer in a coma, but in a deep, drugged sleep. I sat with him for a time, listening to the steady juddering sound of the ship’s engines, the swish of the bow wave through the open porthole. I felt relaxed now, the worries of the last few days set aside by the deep satisfaction I always felt at being at sea.
I must have dozed off for I suddenly woke to find the first officer in the cabin. He was hovering over me and there was something in the expression of his eyes that I didn’t like. “Everything all right, Mr. Fields?” It was noon and he’d just come o
ff watch.
“What you doing here?” he asked. “You waiting to interrogate him?” And he added, “Can’t you realize he’s sick? He oughter be in hospital.”
“In that case,” I said, “Captain Jones would have sailed as master of the Strode Venturer.” I got to my feet. “Come up to the chartroom,” I told him. “If you don’t want me to worry Deacon with my questions then the remedy is in your hands.”
“How do you mean?” He was suddenly suspicious, his eyes uneasy, shifting round the cabin as though for a way of escaping me.
“You tell me where that island really is and I won’t have to sit here waiting for Deacon to surface.”
“I don’t know where it is.” His voice had changed to that familiar, affronted whine. “I told you before. Strode hid the ship’s sextants. It was he who directed the courses and plotted them, and he wouldn’t let anyone near him while he was doing it.”
“And you never managed to get even a glimpse of it over his shoulder?”
“Yes, but it didn’t help. There was nothing marked on the chart. He was using a Baker plotting sheet, you see.”
“But you must know what course you were on when you sailed from Addu Atoll.”
“The usual one. You’ll find that in the log. And then after dark we turned south. After that I lost track, for he kept on changing the course. He changed the helmsmen, too. Sometimes he’d clear the bridge and steer the ship himself.”
“What about Deacon—where was he?” The pale eyes slid away from me. “In his cabin?”
“No, he came up to the bridge every now and then, same as he always did.” And he added belligerently, “No reason why he should change his habits just because one of the Strodes was on board.”
“You mean he was drunk?”
“No, he wasn’t drunk. You couldn’t ever accuse him of being drunk, not when we were at sea. But the captain doesn’t have to be on the bridge all the time.”
The Strode Venturer Page 24