Locked-Room Mystery Box Set

by Kim Ekemar

  My study of the cabin was interrupted by the seventh man in the room coming forward to meet us. He was an impressive man in his way, taller than the rest and with a posture as if his spine had been placed inside an iron tube. Everything about him seemed elongated; the gangly body, the high brow, the upper lip, the yellow front teeth. He was a lean man approaching middle age whose thin blond hair was combed back over the top of his head. Profound bald patches above the bluish rippling veins of his temples accentuated his lack of hair. He held his head tilted backwards, which due to his height gave him an air of superiority. Slightly raised eyebrows and an ironic smirk underscored his lofty bearing. The most dominating trait in his face, however, was the long curved nose that ended in a drop over his long upper lip. His face was clean-shaven apart from a pair of neatly cut sideburns. As opposed to the others, he wore elegant clothes of high quality that did not conceal that he was both sinewy and muscular.

  “Aaah", he said in a drawling voice as if he wished to insinuate that he had not noticed us up till then. “Now, what do we have here? Some uninvited visitors who wish to draw on our supplies?”

  “Not at all,” Irving loudly assured him as he stepped across the threshold into the cabin. “Our van broke down in the snowstorm and when we saw the light from …”

  “The light?” The tall man had stopped in front of Irving and made no attempt to welcome his callers.

  “The light?” he repeated, pondering, and absently scratched his cheek. “Oh, yes, you must have noticed our little fire that Stuart so carelessly arranged.” Suddenly there was a glimmer of interest in his bloodshot eyes and he smiled. “Frankly speaking, we’re pleased now that you've managed to get here. This will be a diversion in our monotony since we have been forced to involuntarily hibernate on our way to my landholdings in Spain.”

  “Spain?” Irving said, uncomprehending. He had obvious trouble digesting the man’s words, and not only because of his peculiar accent.

  “Yes, Spain!” replied the man impatiently and filled his lungs with air. “Allow me to introduce myself. Count Porfirio Ledesma Castillos de la Guerra y Burgos!” He pronounced the name as if it were the secret formula for converting iron into gold.

  The door had been left open during the exchange and several men in the cabin started to complain about the cold wind. The stooping man had briefly left the room. Now he returned dressed in a jacket and a cap. Porfirio looked at him, pressed his tongue against his front teeth and produced a disdainful clicking sound. Then he slowly turned around and strode back into the cabin.

  “Do come in”, he said indifferently and a few seconds went by before I understood that his words were meant for us. His gaze again searched for the man dressed in jacket and cap. “Gary, shut the door behind them.”

  It was with the greatest resentment that I entered the crammed, inhospitable cabin as the last of the three of us. As was his custom Irving wallowed in the wake of the imperious Porfirio even before the latter had finished speaking. Oona seemed oblivious of the odd personalities and the pandemonium in the cabin, and she swept inside behind Irving without looking sideways. What could I do? Return alone to the van and leave Oona and Irving on the ship? No, with a head shake I accepted my fate and trailed after my companions.

  As soon as I had crossed the threshold the door was closed behind me. I glanced over my shoulder and realized to my surprise that Gary had shut it from the outside. At the time I didn’t pay much attention to why he would step outside into the snowstorm. Not until much later did I fully understand the reason.

  Once inside the cabin we could appreciate Porfirio’s comment about Stuart's carelessness. In the corner that until now had been hidden from us the walls were black with soot. The half burnt boards still evaporated and dripped with the water used to extinguish the flames. The scent of fire was heavy on the air and efficiently camouflaged any other extraordinary odor. A window in the corner set on fire had had been left ajar for ventilation. It must have been through that window we had seen the light on board.

  Porfirio sat down in an easy chair, the only padded piece of furniture present, and nonchalantly crossed one leg over the other. With studied movements he pulled out a dark brown cigarillo and a holder made of ivory.

  “Stuart, where did you hide the matches?” he drawled with a contemptuous frown at the slovenly, longhaired man who had opened the door for us.

  Stuart sat motionless on his chair and ignored the question. Porfirio waited. With a hardly noticeable shrug of his shoulders Stuart finally extricated a matchbox from the pocket of his pants. Without looking in Porfirio's direction he threw the box on his lap with amazing accuracy. Porfirio lit his cigarillo.

  Irving had by now absorbed his first impression and felt it in order to say something to the men who had offered us a sanctuary from the storm.

  “I really must say that we are most grateful that you have let us come aboard your ship. We will of course leave as soon as this foul and unexpected weather is over – I sincerely hope it won't last longer than a night or two. Meanwhile – “

  Poor Irving was never allowed to finish speaking.

  “The more I think about it, the more I realize what a desirable interlude you will become to me,” Porfirio interrupted him. With an amused expression he studied the smoke that circled his cigarillo. “Perhaps you possess the imagination to understand my appalling and tedious fate having to endure the whole winter with these cretins.”

  He did not glance at anybody in particular while he spat out the words. Surprised, Irving had stopped in the middle of his sentence and now looked open-mouthed at Porfirio. Oona watched Porfirio uncomprehending. I only felt drear.

  It took a while before Porfirio's words had sunk into the intellectual grasp of all those present. With a sound that suggested something between a roar and a snort the squat, stocky man took three rapid steps towards Porfirio.

  “Don't get excited, Wayne”, Porfirio said calmly and raised a warning finger. “We have a long journey ahead of us, and by now you should be perfectly aware that you can't make it alone.”

  Wayne stood with clenched fists and stared furiously at Porfirio who blew smoke at him. The face was crimson beneath his short, unkempt raven black hair. The small, angry eyes burnt like charcoal under a pair of bristly eyebrows. Below the stubby meaty nose was a stubbly moustache, and evidently he had not shaved for a week. Yet the most characteristic attribute was his compact body, a veritable power pack of heaving muscles and nervous twitching.

  With a final snort Wayne checked himself but stayed put with hateful, staring eyes. Porfirio ignored him, and while carefully studying the cigarillo in its holder he began to lecture. His unbearable manners were a pose to distance him from everybody, but I suppose his account was meant for Irving, Oona and me.

  “At the end of summer we had finally hauled aboard all our supplies for the voyage to my property in the south of Spain. One obstacle after another got in our way and to have a highly … shall we say heterogeneous crew, certainly didn't expedite things.” Wayne stirred, as if he couldn’t decide whether Porfirio's words were intended as another insult.

  “I had the passage calculated to between six and eight weeks, with our estimated arrival in Spain in good time before the autumn storms on the Atlantic. Due to a number of reasons much too dull to recount, we couldn't leave on the day I had planned and had to delay our departure for a month. Not even one week at sea, the first storm hit us. This one was hardly over before the next arrived, and thus it has continued. On top of everything the ice has moved extremely far southwards this year, and during a season when these waters shouldn't freeze at all.”

  I couldn’t get into my head what he was talking about. He complained about early autumn storms and ice that shouldn’t be. We were in the northernmost parts of Canada on a level with Greenland, an area that at best was clear of snow two months each year. Wasn't he aware that Spain lay southeast and that they had been sailing north?

  “Well, our provisions ar
e ample”, Porfirio carried on, “primarily owing to Gordon here. Of course the risk exists that he will gobble down our supplies on his own.”

  Gordon gurgled appreciatively at Porfirio’s words while his jaws rhythmically closed around a piece of meat that partly dangled outside his half open mouth. I’m not exaggerating when I claim that something less attractive than Gordon is impossible to encounter.

  Gordon’s gaze wandered between Porfirio and us. Everything about his person was a matter of fat. His crafty eyes were embedded in fatty bags. The flaccid flesh of his cheeks wobbled when he incessantly masticated the pieces of bacon rind he helped himself to from a platter. Gravy trickled from the corners of his mouth. Yellowish-brown grease stains formed irregular patterns on the vest he wore over the rolls of fat that made up the contours of a three-hundred-pound body. Occasionally he raised a pitcher of wine and tossed his head backwards, much like a wanton girl would shake her curls. Without placing his full lips on the pitcher he poured some of its contents down his throat. His head bobbed when he swallowed, making the wine splash over his face and flow into the short, fair stubble that capped his chin.

  “So it's only natural”, Porfirio's voice rang loudly over the cabin, “that I've been BOTHERED since the moment I realized we would have to spend the next six months or so wedged here in the ice. I can assure you that a man with special qualities like myself easily gets bored when he involuntarily needs to spend the winter with other men of inferior character. The lack of distractions has been a preoccupation for me until now when, as a gift from above, you descend among us.” All of sudden he started to laugh noisily.

  A few of the others joined in with gurgling and grunts.

  As discreetly as possible I tugged at Irving's coat to urge upon him a joint retreat towards the exit. With his mouth open, Irving continued to survey the men surrounding him, incapable of comprehending what they embodied. In no way did he let on that he had acknowledged my entreaty. Oona was watching in round-eyed wonder as always when she encountered a novelty, like a child fascinated by a new discovery.

  Gordon gurgled something incoherent to Oona and waved a scrap of fat towards the only unoccupied chair by his table. The man sitting next to him got wings under his feet and rose from his seat.

  “Sit, sit!” he cried, He was a corpulent middle-aged man with gray, curly hair, and with the exception of Porfirio, the only one who gave a tidy appearance; well manicured, hair brushed, a thin moustache above a wide smiling mouth. His appearance would have been appealing if it weren’t for his eyes. From underneath his heavy eyelids he examined Oona as a hyena would appreciate a dying hind.

  “First we must let them take their outdoor clothes off, Lewis”, said the younger man who not once had left his side. His voice bore traces of a French accent and was oddly whining. “You always forget that things have different priority.”

  The man who had reproached Lewis scurried over to Oona and started to pull at the fur coat to get it off her. He was squat and even shorter than Oona, with straggling black hair and a face pitted with pockmarks. Clumsily he yanked off the fur coat and threw it in the corner that during the day had been on fire. One of his eyes twitched nervously as he shoved her towards a chair he picked up from the floor. With no show of resistance, Oona did as she was told to. Her black wavy hair, her eyes and her exceptional beauty made the strangers watch her in anticipation.

  “Whenever Everett lays his eyes on something that I’ve found, he wants me to share it with him.” Lewis smirked at Irving, whom he reached only to the shoulder. At the same time, he deftly unbuttoned Irving's overcoat and pulled it down over his arms. Irving took a step backwards and tore himself free from Lewis.

  “Don't do that!” he bellowed, infuriated.

  “Calm down, calm down”, Lewis said soothingly and stroked Irving's cheek with his palm. “We only want you to be comfortable. You must be hungry of course. I'm sure you haven't eaten all day.”

  While he talked, he somehow managed to slip the overcoat off Irving and guide his reluctant guest to a chair next to Gordon. Lewis then made me the object of his attention, and although I protested vehemently there was nothing I could do to deter him. He nimbly peeled off my parka and made me sit down with the others. His gaze incessantly slithered over my face, and occasionally the tip of his moist tongue protruded to probe the pencil-line moustache on his upper lip. His mouth was constantly ajar, and despite his corpulence he carried himself lightly with graceful movements. All this time Everett's dark eyes watched us across the table.

  Porfirio sat in the easy chair with a newly lit cigarillo and watched the show. Wayne rested his broad body against the wall with his hands behind his back. His small pig eyes scrutinized everything that was taking place at our table, dominated by the ceaselessly chewing Gordon. Stuart sat alone at the other table and played solitaire without looking at the cards.

  Irving and I had been given chairs facing each other with Gordon between us at the short end of the table. Oona had been placed opposite Gordon with Lewis and Everett on each side. Gordon cleared his throat. With a grin that revealed remnants of food between the teeth he pushed the large platter in Oona’s direction. Since our arrival he had devoured more than half by himself, and the scraps that remained lay drenched in congealed lard. Oona made a gesture of abhorrence when she saw the unappetizing pieces of pork.

  “Don't you realize that a real lady won't eat your leftovers from Sunday last week”, Everett said accusingly to Gordon. He turned to face Lewis. “Lewis, go and cook us something edible.”

  Lewis ignored Everett's attempt to order him about. He was completely absorbed in dissecting the vision of Oona with a stare that his eyelids obscured by half.

  Everett sent Lewis a glance full of hatred. On an impulse he got up from the table and stooped close to Oona.

  “Come with me!” he barked, his voice hard. “You're going to help me prepare the food!”

  Before Lewis or anybody else found the time to react, Everett had jerked Oona from the chair and marched her away. They disappeared through a revolving door that led to the inner quarters of the ship.

  Gordon sat between us, ceaselessly munching on his rinds of fat while he let his glance flick to whoever was speaking. Now and then he turned the pitcher upside down and allowed the red wine to flow down his throat. When the pitcher was empty he got up and sauntered to the corner where the wine barrels had been stowed. He wavered slightly as he drew more wine to fill the pitcher.

  With a meaning wink at Irving and me, Lewis walked over to the barrels. When Gordon was finished Lewis brought down two tankards off some rusty nails on the wall and filled them. Gordon sprawled himself heavily on the chair between us. Lewis gracefully balanced the two tankards brimming with wine and placed them in front of Irving and me.

  “You're welcome!” he sniggered cheerfully. ‘“f you intend to eat Everett's miserable mishmash you'll need to drink a lot of wine. You'll see, it never fails.”

  The wine was dark red and heavy, its fumes aromatic as they floated to my face. Irving lifted his tankard and gulped a good measure, while I cautiously sipped mine. Its taste was acidulous and strong, but not totally bad. I took a careful swig and felt its warmth spread inside.

  For a while nobody spoke. The storm made the ship creak and the window left ajar rattle. Wayne shoveled more coal into the iron stove and blew on it with a pair of bellows. Gordon raised the platter before him and slurped the drippings not yet congealed. Porfirio looked into thin air and molded the cigarillo smoke in his mouth into rings which lingering took off for the ceiling. Lewis studied Irving and me with his unpleasant eyes and continually insisted that we drank his health. Unperturbed by the surroundings, Stuart continued to absent-mindedly rustle his playing cards.

  The revolving door slammed open with a bang and Oona stumbled into the cabin with Everett at her heels. Her face now wore an anxious expression that told me she didn’t understand what was happening but knew she didn’t like it. They each carried
a huge silver platter that were placed before us. Everett crossed the room to a cupboard where he found a pile of paper plates. He carelessly threw them down between us and seated himself next to Oona.

  The silver platters had hardly hit the table before Gordon dipped his fingers into the food on the one closest to him. What Oona and Everett had brought was perhaps more appetizing than the courses already on the table, but whatever the difference it was scarcely noticeable. The food they had prepared consisted of an indefinable concoction out of tin cans that Everett had opened without the impediment of a recipe. Oona waited with downcast eyes, her hands clenched into fists. Irving looked at her, and I think this was the moment when he first realized what was taking place.

  Lewis leaned across the tabletop and inhaled deeply. The eyes were shut and his head swayed sideways. He looked up, took a spoon with dried remnants of food from Gordon’s platter and with elegant movements dished out three substantial rations on the paper plates. He smiled as he pushed the plates in front of us and with a feigned gesture bid us to begin our meal.

  None of us had any appetite. Lewis looked at Everett with a mocking smile. Everett immediately took offense and rushed to his feet.

  ‘Everett believes his cooking is better than mine,’ Lewis said teasingly, ‘but he doesn't have the foggiest notion about culinary delicacies. He has watched me handle the casseroles and always insists he knows better, but here you see the insipid result.’ His statement seemed to amuse him, because his grin became broader as he talked.

  Everett's face darkened.

  “You always assume you're the cleverest”, he yelled in a shrill voice. “There's nothing wrong with this meal!” As if to prove his point he snatched the spoon from a platter and started to shovel down the food.

  “Everett is aware of my artistry in accomplishing a palatable feast”, Lewis continued. He talked dreamily with his eyes closed as if he hadn’t heard Everett. “It might take me hours to prepare a meal. I study all flavors in detail before I include them in my courses. The ingredients I use are balanced to each other; every grain of salt has been counted. I marinate, brown, poach and make use of a number of other techniques that Everett, or for that matter anybody else present, can’t even spell the names of.”