Blueprint for Murder

by Roger Bax

  “It’s all islands there. What about further south? On the left bank of the Scheldt, opposite Flushing. Or further up still, near Terneuzen. Here, look at the map yourself. I don’t know what the country’s like.” He threw a small pocket-atlas across to the cabin door.

  “That was a dangerous thing to do,” said Cross. “And don’t think I’m not watching you. Yes, I can see where you mean. It looks quiet enough on the map.”

  “For all I know,” said Geoffrey, “it may be built up and industrialized. Don’t blame me if it is. It’s your choice – it’s you who’ll be on the run – if we ever get there.”

  “We’ll go and have a look at it, anyway,” said Cross.

  Geoffrey returned to his dividers and his charts. “I hope the compass is all right,” he said. “It’s a long while since it was swung.” He worked on silently, calculating probable leeway and tidal set. It was routine, almost second nature, but it took time. Finally, he flung his pencil down. “There we are. Care to see the course?”

  “You know it means nothing to me. It’s your pigeon. I’m relying on your seamanship.”

  “And I’m relying on your promise. But I warn you again, it’s a suicide trip. We’ve no steadying sail, and if we had we couldn’t use it in this wind. She’ll roll like a barrel – probably be swamped. You’ll want to turn back before we reach the Nore.”

  Cross’s reply was lost in a gust of wind. He went back into the cabin and sat down near to Pamela. It was a lot warmer inside.

  Geoffrey went forrard and cast off the mooring. Then he moved quickly to the wheel. It was only a few days ago that he had been doing this for pleasure! He let in the clutch and Truant began to nose forward against the tide. In a short time she was doing a steady six knots downriver. It was just 10.30.

  CHAPTER XV

  The first few miles were covered without incident. Geoffrey had to keep a careful look-out all the time, for there were some sharp bends in the river and the banks were barely visible from midstream. Occasionally the scudding clouds gaped for a brief moment to show a patch of stars, but there was no sign of any real improvement in the weather. The glass had been falling fast. There was a hint of snow in the air. Altogether, Geoffrey thought, the weather prospects for this trip were just about as bad as they could be. He knew that nothing was more dreaded in the Thames approaches than a really black nor’easter. That, it seemed, was to be their portion. He wished he had been able to dress more warmly – his lounge suit and city overcoat were quite inadequate. Presently he remembered that there was a suit of oilskins in the locker beside him and after he had struggled into these and tied the strings securely under his chin he felt much more comfortable. At present the wheelhouse gave a good deal of protection from the wind, but its silly little electric wiper would almost certainly stop working when they started shipping big seas, and then he would have to have the glass window down and take the full force of the wind in his face.

  However bad the weather became, it would be more friendly than Arthur. This whole adventure was fantastic. The more Geoffrey tried to review the situation calmly, the more hopelessly unreal it seemed. It was inconceivable that the three of them should be in the position they were in – butting down the river into a frightful winter storm with thirty hours of sheer hell ahead. And yet there they were – event had followed event in an unbreakable chain, and brought them to this. One desperate man had accomplished it all.

  Still, Geoffrey felt better out here at the wheel. That awful tension in the cabin had gone from the boat. The fact was that Arthur, with his horrors and his gun, had completely dominated them while they were stationary. Now the centre of authority should gradually shift. You couldn’t navigate a boat with a gun. Geoffrey would come into his own, with bad weather as his ally. Arthur was a killer, not a sailor.

  There was hardly any traffic on the river. Between Richmond and Kew Geoffrey saw two or three tugs with their strings of barges, working up to Teddington on the last of the flood. The men aboard took little notice of Truant – all they were thinking of, no doubt, was a snug berth and a warm bed. The only other vessel on the river was a small launch towing the empty hull of a naval landing craft, probably to be converted into a houseboat upstream. Occasionally a light would gleam from the window of some house near the bank. In those houses, thought Geoffrey, people with peaceful minds were cosily chatting about the events of the day. Little did they dream ...

  He was quite sure of one thing. The promise that Arthur had given was worthless. It was most unlikely that they would be allowed to go free once they had deposited him in Holland. It was true enough, as Arthur had said, that the English police had quite enough evidence of their own to hang him. But they hadn’t necessarily enough evidence to catch him. Arthur would want a fair start, a long start. Was it likely – he being what he was – that he would let two people get away alive who knew just where and when he had landed? Wasn’t it much more likely that he would silence them and open Truant’s sea-cock before he abandoned her?

  In that case Geoffrey had somehow to get hold of the gun. It was the only chance. It wouldn’t be easy – Arthur was cunning and alert, and he wore the gun as other men wore clothes. But he might make a slip. It would mean watching every change in the situation – and there would be many changes. At sea something always happened that you didn’t expect. There would be moments of near-contact – food would have to be passed from the cabin, and help given in sudden emergency. Arthur might get ill in a bad storm. Geoffrey decided that if there were the least chance he would take it. Arthur, in spite of his threats, would obviously be most reluctant to shoot till the very last moment. The trouble was that Geoffrey couldn’t take that cool view of the situation when Pamela was being actually threatened. It might be bluff, yes, but suppose it wasn’t?

  Geoffrey considered the chances of help from outside. By now the police would be on Arthur’s track; they would soon be searching for himself and Pamela as well. Some time in the morning, probably, they would discover that Truant had gone from her moorings, and the river police would be on the watch. They would be hampered by the weather – it wouldn’t be possible for them to scour the Estuary in a north-easterly gale – but radio messages would be sent out. There was a good chance that Truant would be recognized and reported long before it got anywhere near the Dutch coast. In fact, it was a virtual certainty. The mere fact that such a small boat was out in such weather would attract attention. They might well be offered assistance. Yet the one thing above all others that Geoffrey had to fear was the approach of a police-boat or a rescue party, for that would mean the end of hope for Arthur, and he would take his spiteful revenge. It seemed clearer than ever, now, that the gun was the key to everything.

  They slid under Hammersmith Bridge, making seven knots with plenty of power in hand. Geoffrey was keeping well out in the river. He was unfamiliar with these reaches and there were no landmarks to help in the darkness. Truant’s navigation-lamps threw a cheerful glow of red and green on the restless water; even here, far up the river, the surface was disturbed and Truant’s bow was gently rising and falling as she pressed forward. She was beginning to come alive. Soon those bows would be high above his head, lifting to great waves, and he would be holding grimly to the wheel, waiting for the slide down into the trough. Then they would see what Arthur was made of.

  Geoffrey wished he could see into the cabin from the wheel-house. So far it was Pamela who was having the really bad time. He suddenly became worried at the long silence inside the cabin, and gave a shout.

  Cross put his head cautiously out of the door. “What’s the trouble?”

  “How’s Pamela?”

  “Good heavens, I thought we were sinking! She’s all right. Not very friendly, I’m afraid. She says the ropes cut her.”

  “I expect they do. What’s the good of keeping her trussed up like that, anyway? There’d be no risk in making her a bit more comfortable. If you drive us too hard, you know, we’ll ...” He hesitated.


  “You’ll what?” Cross sneered. “Risk a bullet in the girl’s guts because she’s a bit cramped?”

  Geoffrey tried a different tack. “Look, Arthur, I’ve got a tough job ahead. How the devil can you expect me to navigate the boat with an undivided mind if I know Pamela’s in a bad state? I’m worrying about her all the time.”

  “I dare say – still, I’m taking no chances. But I’ll ease the ropes a bit if it’ll make you happier.”

  “It certainly will. And I say – what about eating? This cold air is giving me an appetite. Can’t you pass me something out?”

  “I’ll fix something,” said Cross. “I’ll see what stores we’ve got.”

  “You’d better do something about it pretty soon,” said Geoffrey. “The boat won’t be as quiet as this much longer. Why not make a cup of tea?”

  “That’s a good idea.”

  “And listen – get that paraffin-stove out directly she begins to pitch. We don’t want a fire aboard. And see that everything’s properly stowed in the cabin – you won’t feel like doing it later. When are you going to take a trick at the wheel?”

  “I’m not,” said Cross. “That’s your show.”

  He went back into the cabin. Pamela was sitting with her back to a bulkhead, facing the cabin door. She looked completely dispirited. Her tied hands were dropped on her lap, and her head was bent over her chest. She might have been asleep, but when Cross prodded her she looked up.

  “The captain says I’m to loosen your ropes,” he said. He leaned across her and eased them very slightly. She shivered. The touch of his fingers was like lice on her body, but she wanted the ropes loosened.

  “Is that better?”

  “A little. I’m all right.”

  “Cigarette?”

  She shook her head. Cross lit one for himself. “We’re making good progress,” he said cheerfully. “I’m going to make a cup of tea now. Brighten you up.”

  She said nothing. She was watching him, watching everything he did. Especially she was watching the gun. He went over to the cabin door, locked it from the inside, and came back smiling. “Now we can give the trigger-finger a rest,” he said. He slipped the gun into his coat pocket. She watched him go into the galley, opposite the toilet in the forepeak. Presently she smelt methylated spirits and heard the roar of a primus and the sound of lockers being opened and shut.

  “This ought to be your job, really,” said Cross, poking his head round the corner. “Come on, my dear, snap out of that gloom. I’m trying to be affable.”

  “I know,” said Pamela. “It makes you more revolting than ever.”

  “You do hate me, don’t you?”

  “Hate you?” Pamela’s face was expressionless. “Not hate. You just make me feel horribly sick. If you had two heads you’d seem human.”

  Cross shrugged. “Why should I care what you think?” He opened a tin of ship’s biscuits and a tin of spam. She could hear the kettle beginning to boil. He went and made the tea. She watched him come back into the cabin with a steaming mug and two large biscuits with a layer of spam in between. “This’ll keep the captain’s strength up,” he said. He set them down near the cabin door, took out his gun, and unlocked the door.

  “Here’s the tea, Geoffrey,” he called. He put it down on the deck close to the wheelhouse. “Better come and get it, but keep away from the cabin. Sing out if you want some more.” Cross backed into the cabin. This time he didn’t lock the door behind him.

  “Now then, beautiful, what about you? Tea? – not that you deserve it!”

  “I can’t drink with my hands tied,” she said.

  “Hold your face up, and I’ll feed you.”

  She turned away. “I’ll do without.”

  “Better have some. There’ll be nothing more for hours.”

  Pamela closed her eyes. “I’m so tired,” she said. “I feel so weak I can hardly move.”

  “You’ve not got much stamina for a budding doctor,” said Cross. “Too much beauty, not enough brawn. Here, hold your hands out. I’ll untie them just while you drink the tea. But mind you behave yourself.”

  She held her hands up, watching him. Cross, still holding the gun, fiddled at the rope with fingers that seemed all thumbs. He was inexpert with knots. He had intended only to loosen the rope a bit more, but suddenly Pamela’s hands were free and she gently wriggled her arms free too. Cross stepped back quickly. “You ought to be all right now,” he said.

  She rubbed her hands together, chafing the white marks that the rope had left on her wrists, exercising her fingers. “That’s better,” she said. He passed her the mug of hot sweet tea, using his left hand; then he leaned back against the table, a couple of feet from her, sipping his own.

  “Good, isn’t it?”

  She nodded.

  “Want anything to eat?”

  She shook her head.

  “Well, for heaven’s sake stop staring at me. You give me a pain.”

  She drained the mug and held it out to him. “I think I’ll try and sleep now,” she said. He stood up to take the mug. At the same moment she rolled herself bodily off the bunk against his legs. He lost his balance in a wild effort to keep it, and sprawled on top of her. The gun slipped from his hand as he tried to save himself and went sliding along the smooth linoleum of the cabin floor.

  “Geoffrey, quick!” she yelled at the top of her voice. “Quick!” She tried to hold Cross by the leg, but he shook her off and made a wild plunge for the gun. He retrieved it in a flash, turned, and gave Pamela a brutal crack across the mouth with his fist. Geoffrey was at the door. Cross pushed the revolver barrel against Pamela’s body. “I’ll shoot!” he screamed. “Stop, you fool, I’ll shoot!”

  Geoffrey stopped in his tracks, six feet away. Something jarred the boat from end to end, and the note of the engines changed. Pamela gave a little sob.

  “All right,” said Cross, “the fight’s over. Get back to the wheel. So that’s how you play fair? You’ll pay for this, both of you!”

  Geoffrey didn’t move.

  Pamela said: “I’m sorry, Geoffrey. It nearly worked.”

  “I know. Better not try it again, though. It’s too risky. Are you all right?”

  “Yes – I will be.”

  “Shall I go back to the wheel?”

  “I think you’d better.”

  “I’ll say he’d better,” said Cross. He bent over Pamela as Geoffrey left. “As for you, you plotting little bitch, I’ll lash you up so tight you won’t be able to stir. So you’re tired, are you – you’re so weak you can hardly move?”

  She lay on the floor, watching him, afraid. A drop of blood trickled from the corner of her braised mouth.

  “You’re a pretty sight now,” said Cross. “I’ve a good mind to knock your teeth in.” With one hand he grasped the neck of her dress, with the other the rope round her feet, and with an effort almost beyond his strength he lifted her back on to the bunk. He still held the gun. Suddenly he took the V of her dress in both hands and tore it apart. “There,” he said, “at least you’ve something to show for your pains.” He tied her up, clumsily but effectively.

  He went to the cabin door again. “What’s happened to the boat?” he shouted. “Why have we stopped?”

  “She’s stuck in the mud,” Geoffrey called back. “I’ve tried reversing her out, but she’s too firmly in. She must have gone straight for the bank.”

  “Surprising, isn’t it? Well, you know what happens if you can’t get her off.”

  “She’ll float in a minute or two,” said Geoffrey. “The tide’s still rising.” He revved the engines gently, waited, revved them again. Slowly Truant began to pull out. She was free. The whole episode had taken less than ten minutes.

  “I hope this’ll be a lesson to your girl friend and to you,” said Cross. “It was a damned near thing – I was just going to shoot. I don’t know how you imagined you could get away with it.”

  “Suppose the gun had gone under one of the bunks?” sai
d Geoffrey.

  “Well, just try it again, that’s all,” said Cross lamely. For the moment he was shaken. “Where are we?”

  “That’s Wandsworth Bridge just ahead.”

  “We’re making pretty slow progress.” Cross went below, scowling.

  They were getting into the heart of London now. The familiar lines of great buildings were silhouetted against the glare of the city’s lights. The hands of Big Ben stood at half an hour after midnight; along the bleak Embankment one or two late trams were running. The tide was near the turn; already it was slack near the banks, and very soon it would be ebbing. Geoffrey closed the throttle a bit, now that they had no longer to punch against the flood. The river, full almost to street level, was wide and choppy. The vicious wind kept scooping up the tops of the wavelets and hurling them against the glass of the windshield. Truant was beginning to roll and plunge, and her decks were wet and glistening.

  They were still almost alone on the river. A big coastal collier overhauled them and passed in a green glare. Geoffrey couldn’t believe she was going far on a night like this. There was plenty of water now – no fear of going aground again. Truant shot under Blackfriars Bridge, rocking and shaking in the confused water left by the collier. These bridges were always a headache at night – the sooner they were away from them the better. London Bridge now, and then Tower Bridge – the last of them.

  Just as they were passing the entrance to the London Docks, Geoffrey spotted a green light ahead, then a red and green, and then green again. There was something approaching right ahead. He put the wheel well over to port to avoid the wash, and slowed a little.

  Cross stuck his head out. “Now what’s happening?”

  “I think it’s a police-launch,” said Geoffrey, straining into the darkness.

  Cross stared too, suddenly on edge. He said: “Better be careful, Geoffrey. It’s up to you.”

  “It’s a chance to call your bluff,” said Geoffrey.

  “Why don’t you?”

  “I daren’t.”