Blueprint for Murder

by Roger Bax

  Cross was at the cabin door again. He looked scared. It was the first time Geoffrey had seen him look scared. “There’s a foot of water in the cabin,” he said.

  “What the hell do you expect?” Geoffrey shouted. “The pump’ll clear it. Where’s my breakfast?”

  “Do you really want it?”

  “Of course I want it, you fool!”

  Cross dived below and in a moment staggered out again with a couple of spam sandwiches.

  “Hand them to me,” said Geoffrey hopefully. “I can’t leave the wheel.” He had one eye on the sea, one on Arthur.

  “Not likely,” said Cross. “Here, catch!” He threw the food across. “You must think I’m pretty green.”

  “You certainly look it,” said Geoffrey. “Has Pamela eaten?”

  “She doesn’t want anything. My God, look at that sea!”

  It was bigger than the last. Cross almost fell into the cabin. Geoffrey throttled up the engines and Truant climbed diagonally up the side of the great green mass. Then he turned her head into it, and crouched behind the cabin bulkhead as the boat lifted. He was certain that he had been swept overboard, but when the sea had passed he found he was still holding the wheel. He got the ship back on her course and looked around. He saw that the dinghy had been swept away. The chocks that had held it on the cabin roof were still there, but the ropes had snapped like string. It had disappeared, and there was no possibility of recovering it.

  Geoffrey called out, “Arthur!”

  Cross peered out. “Well?”

  “The dinghy’s carried away. That last sea. It looks as though you’ll have to swim ashore if you ever sight land again.”

  Cross looked blankly at the bare cabin top. Then he looked at Geoffrey.

  “I didn’t do it, you know,” said Geoffrey. “Intervention of Providence. It shows they’re going to get you!”

  Cross swore and went below.

  Truant ploughed on through the tumbling waters. Often her screws were out of the sea altogether, racing noisily. Geoffrey was wondering how many more such seas he could take. They must get some shelter. With the wind forward of the beam, and a foul tide, Truant was making only about four knots, with a bit to spare. But they were coming up steadily to the Red Sand Tower, and it seemed to Geoffrey that it was almost time to put the first part of his plan into operation. He began to sheer away to the south of the East Spile buoy. The water shoaled here, but there was plenty for Truant and the tide was still flowing. If he could work round to the south of the Red Sand it would give him a bit of a lee. In the shallower water the sea was more confused than ever but the waves were not so high. It would be very wet, but less dangerous. Choosing his moment, he opened the engine cover and strained with both hands to break the joint of the fuel-pipe which fed the port engine. He wriggled it backwards and forwards violently, and suddenly something gave. There was a rush of oil; he switched off both engines and gave a shout. He staggered across the cockpit to the fuel-tanks and closed the feed-tap.

  Cross appeared. “Now what the hell’s happened?”

  “The fuel-pipe’s fractured. I’ll have to try to anchor while I fix it.” Truant was wallowing helplessly and drifting fast. Geoffrey climbed on to the cabin top and worked his way forward along the port rail to the windlass. The ship was beam on to the seas – there wasn’t a moment to lose. He let go the anchor and paid out forty fathoms of chain. It was a heavy chain for the size of the boat, and should hold. He clung to the windlass, watching the boat’s head swing round. That was better – wind and tide were both coming in from the same quarter and Truant should ride safely.

  He scrambled back into the cockpit and took a quick cast with the lead. He made it nearly four fathoms – and judging by the lead line she wasn’t dragging. She oughtn’t to drag with that scope of chain out. It would be hellishly uncomfortable and difficult to work, and they’d ship a lot of water. But things might be worse – the sun was shining, and the gusts seemed less severe. He banged on the cabin door. “I’m coming in,” he shouted.

  “What for?”

  “You don’t think I can mend the pipe out here?” He opened the door.

  “All right,” said Cross. “But be careful!” Geoffrey went in – his first spell below for eleven hours. The air was warm and close. Suddenly he felt completely exhausted. His shoulders ached as though he had been on the rack.

  “I suppose you haven’t staged this, have you?” said Cross from the other end of the cabin. “It won’t get you anywhere if you have. I’m keeping the gun dry, and whether I go to hell your way or mine, I shall use it before I go.” His eye was a little wild, he looked a sodden scarecrow, but still his hand was steady and his nerve unbroken.

  “You won’t need the gun if I don’t get this pipe soldered,” said Geoffrey. “How’s it going, Pamela?”

  She gave him a wan smile. “I suppose it’ll end some time. It’s all right while I’m lying down. You must be worn out.”

  “Don’t you believe it – it’s meat and drink to me,” said Geoffrey, but his enthusiasm sounded forced. “Got a bad head?”

  “Pretty bad. I’m not sure I like boats after all.”

  “Cheer up!” said Geoffrey. “The glass is rising. Five minutes on terra firma and you’ll have forgotten you were ever ill. Arthur, can I make some tea? I’m all in. So is she.”

  “Who the hell cares what she feels like? And we’ve no time to spare. They may be out looking for us in an hour or two. I want to get off the end of that anchor chain. Come on, get cracking on the pipe.”

  Geoffrey sat down on the bunk opposite Pamela. He had four hours to kill. He said: “I can’t go on without something. It’s up to you, Arthur. If the wind drops we’ll be lying in the Scheldt before morning. I think your luck’s going to be in. But I’m not a perpetual-motion machine. If you want the job done and the ship navigated, you’ve got to give me a break.”

  “Okay,” said Cross. He sat down beside Pamela. “Go round behind the table and stay in the forepeak. I’ll give you fifteen minutes for a snack. But keep your distance, and if you lurch, lurch your way! This trigger’s getting pretty hot.”

  Geoffrey edged his way over to the galley and got to work on the stove. It was swung in gimbals, so that it remained horizontal however much the boat rolled and pitched.

  “The teapot’s broken,” Geoffrey said accusingly.

  “It’s a wonder the whole cabin isn’t wrecked,” said Cross. “It was that last sea that did it.”

  “I’ll use a jug,” said Geoffrey.

  Cross was fidgeting. “The sooner you’re out of there, the better I’ll be pleased,” he said. “For heaven’s sake, what are you cooking?”

  “Only a couple of tins of soup,” said Geoffrey brightly. “It’ll be quite good with spam broken into it. Like some?”

  “No! Hurry up.”

  Geoffrey made the tea and sweetened it with condensed milk. With Truant plunging and rolling and snubbing at her anchor chain, every movement was difficult, but he could afford to be patient. There was a lot of water on the floor of the galley and in the cabin, slopping to and fro with every change in the angle of the boat. Now that the engines were stopped the pump wasn’t working.

  Geoffrey poked his head into the cabin. “Don’t mind if I spend a penny, do you?”

  “Go ahead,” said Cross irritably, “but hurry.” Presently he heard Geoffrey at the galley again.

  Geoffrey said: “It’s going to be difficult carrying these things out. Tea, Pamela?”

  “No, thanks, Geoffrey. I don’t want a thing. Really.”

  “Arthur?”

  “No! You can stay and have your snack there. And make a good meal while you’re at it – it’ll have to last a long time.”

  “I don’t think much of the working conditions on this ship,” Geoffrey grumbled, his mouth full of stew. “This is good, Arthur – you ought to try it. Meat soup – nice and fatty.”

  “I said no, blast you!”

  “I thought you
said you were a good sailor?”

  “I’m still on my feet, you’ll be sorry to notice. I tell you I’m not hungry. Anyway, your time’s up.”

  “It’s funny,” said Geoffrey, “how no one is really in charge of this boat. Most unseamanlike. Half the time you do as I say; half the time I do as you say.”

  “That’s right,” said Cross.

  “No wonder we’re in a mess.” Geoffrey finished the stew. “Well, that’s a lot better. Now I want some tools. They’re in the locker under your feet, Arthur. The ones I want are in a canvas roll.”

  “Get back behind the table,” said Cross, “and I’ll throw them over to you.”

  “I’ll just take a look outside,” said Geoffrey. Pamela’s eyes were closed; the barrel of the gun was right against her. Even a lunge at close quarters would be dangerous. He went round the table and into the cockpit.

  He took another sounding, and made sure the anchor was holding. Then he looked round the horizon. There were many more tell-tale wisps of black smoke on the skyline, but the only ship in view was a large tramp, thrashing up the Oaze Deep on the other side of the sandbank. She might have spotted Truant, but if she had she gave no sign. Anyway, the day was still young. Interference at this stage might be fatal.

  Geoffrey went back into the cabin and settled down to a spell of tinkering. He had certainly made a mess of the pipe. He held it out for Cross to inspect. Cross merely grunted.

  “If you heat the soldering-iron,” said Geoffrey, “it’ll save me the trouble of crawling round that table again. I’ve left the stove on.”

  “Heat it yourself,” said Cross.

  Geoffrey shrugged and worked his way back to the stove. It looked as though Pamela had dozed off again. The strain and the motion had been too much for her. Anyway, that was the best thing she could do. Cross, too, seemed sunk in lethargy, but Geoffrey had no hope that he would sleep. Geoffrey had only to make the slightest sudden movement and the hand stiffened on the gun. He went into the forepeak and thoughtfully turned the soldering-iron in the blue flame.

  “Isn’t that trigger-finger of yours getting a bit cramped?” he called out.

  “No,” said Cross. “As a matter of fact, I’m being particularly careful just now. If you’re thinking of doing anything with that soldering-iron, I shouldn’t.”

  “You’ll break before I do,” said Geoffrey. “How long do you think you can keep awake and alert in this sea without food and rest? You might just as well give in.”

  “And be hanged? Not likely. While there’s life there’s hope. You said yourself just now that we’d be in Holland tomorrow. I’ve been in tighter spots than this, Geoffrey. The war was splendid training for Civvy Street, wasn’t it?”

  “It’s made you rotten through and through.”

  “It hasn’t made me forget how to enjoy life.”

  “Enjoying yourself now?”

  “I’m buying the future. The price is a bit high, but it’ll be worth it. I never give in.”

  “You sound like Hitler,” said Geoffrey. “Come to think of it, you’re rather like him. Bad types!” He worked on slowly, methodically. He cleaned the broken joint with petrol and scraped it with a file. He covered it with fluxite and applied the solder. He waited while it hardened. Then he went outside to fix it. He was away a full ten minutes, till Cross gave him an angry shout.

  “Just finishing,” he called. Another five minutes passed, and then he came back into the cabin. “The damn thing’s come unstuck,” he said. “I knocked it when the ship lurched. Now I’ll have to do it again. Ever tried soldering?”

  “Yes. And I never had to do it twice.”

  “I don’t suppose you ever had to do it with a sea like this running.”

  “You talk too much. Why do you talk? We’ve nothing to talk about. Finish the job and let’s get away. We could be making good progress now.”

  “Don’t you believe it. You haven’t seen the worst of it yet by any means.”

  “The wind’s dropping.”

  “Yes, but the seas won’t go down much before tonight.” Geoffrey applied the soldering-iron for the second time. “There, I think that should do.”

  “Did we lose much fuel?” asked Cross suddenly. “Not much. There’s plenty left for the trip. And for the trip back!”

  Cross was poker-faced.

  As though to remind them that the weather couldn’t be ignored, a sea suddenly slapped over the cockpit and foamed into the cabin.

  “I’d better pump her out,” said Geoffrey. “Or would you like to? That’s an idea. You pump her out and I’ll sit by Pamela. No? All right, have it your own way.”

  Geoffrey went and seated himself on the bottom rung of the companion just outside the cabin door, and went to work on the rotary. He pumped spasmodically for fifteen minutes. “Any better?” he called out.

  “Yes, it’s gone down a few inches.”

  “I’ll give it a bit more. The engines will soon dry her out when I get them going.” He pumped slowly, gazing round the horizon. The wind was only a zephyr now compared with what it had been, and the sun was beginning to feel warm. It was really quite pleasant sitting there. Geoffrey looked at his watch. “Good job I’m not working on piece-rates,” he thought.

  “It’s almost dry now,” Cross called. “Let’s get going.”

  Geoffrey went in and collected the mended pipe. “Why don’t you take a turn on deck, Arthur?” he said. “It would do you good – blow the cobwebs away.”

  “You always did have a childish sense of humour,” said Cross. “God, this is a hell of a trip! It would give me real pleasure to put a bullet in you.”

  “I don’t feel exactly friendly towards you,” said Geoffrey. “Don’t let my idle chatter mislead you.”

  He went and put the pipe back where it belonged. It was a good repair; the joint was as strong as ever. He turned the fuel on and soon the engines were running again.

  He put his head into the cabin. “I’m just going to heave up the anchor,” he said.

  “About time, too. Do you know we’ve been here well over two hours?”

  “So we have,” said Geoffrey. “Anyway, it’s been quite a cosy spot, don’t you think?” He went forward to the windlass again and began to turn the handle. It was hard work – the seas were still piling in from the east, the tide was running fast, and Truant was heavy. As he strained on the handle, he wondered if it would be possible for him to smash the skylight and get at Arthur through the opening. Then he saw it was a crazy thought and dismissed it. There wouldn’t be time – it was the old story.

  The anchor was aweigh. Geoffrey heaved it aboard and stowed it securely. Clinging to the rail, he made his way back to the cockpit. There was still an hour to kill. He set the engines at half speed. Away to the south he could see a tall beacon rising from the water. He studied the chart. Yes, it was the Middle Beacon – a good seamark. With the tide almost full there would be plenty of water everywhere. He would stooge around the beacon for an hour or so.

  He felt much better for his meal and the rest. Pamela, fast asleep, was off his mind. He filled his pipe – the first since Richmond – and puffed gratefully. Truant was running before the wind now, and the motion was much easier. Geoffrey watched the waves coming up astern, and admired the way the little ship lifted and let them go hissing and foaming under her transom.

  Outside in the main channels it would still be hell. But conditions were improving every hour, and Geoffrey was hopeful. He wouldn’t have changed places with Arthur, gun or no gun.

  “The little rat!” he thought.

  All the same, the man had guts.

  CHAPTER XVII

  For nearly an hour Geoffrey kept Truant on a circular course around the Middle Beacon. During that time Cross came up once and took a quick look round.

  “We don’t seem to be making much progress,” he said suspiciously. “That land over there looks almost the same as it did when we stopped.”

  Geoffrey glanced over his right
shoulder towards Sheppey. “It’s further,” he said confidently. “Much further. Distances at sea are very deceptive. We’ve covered three or four miles in the last hour.”

  Cross still seemed sceptical, but he was not really in a position to argue. He would have liked to stay on deck and watch the coastline for a while, but his head was getting very bad and it made him dizzy to watch the steep seas rolling up and the boat at all angles to the horizon. He went below again.

  Geoffrey looked at his watch. It was after one o’clock, and the tide was ebbing fast. In about three hours, he calculated, there would be only three feet of water over the Girdler, and by five o’clock the sands would be uncovered. If he arrived about four, conditions would be just right. The Girdler was only ten sea miles away, so there was plenty of time, even allowing for the slow progress that Truant would make with such a sea running. But he decided that it was time to make a move.

  Soon they were running over their earlier anchorage, south of the Red Sand. There was still plenty of water everywhere for Truant’s five-foot draught, but Geoffrey was anxious to keep closely to his course and he watched the compass needle carefully. Everything, absolutely everything, would depend on his reaching the right spot at the right moment.

  As they ploughed north-eastwards into deeper water, they were hit once more by heavy seas. Geoffrey had been right not to expect an easy passage, wind or no wind. The motion of the boat was so violent and the horizon so unsteady that it was still impossible to be sure of spotting the buoys, or of identifying them once they were spotted. He missed the East Red Sand buoy altogether, but the Shivering Sand Tower was a good seamark, and as he approached it he was able to check his course.