Blueprint for Murder

by Roger Bax

  “It’s no good to us,” said Geoffrey. “This is going to be quite a spectacle.”

  He had left the portholes open, and a gentle breeze fanned the flame. In a few minutes the fire had got hold and a great pillar of flame shot high into the air, topped with black smoke. The roar and crackle was audible above the thunder of the breakers.

  “If we live to be a hundred,” said Geoffrey, holding Pamela’s arm, “we shall never see anything quite like this again.”

  It was true. The sun was just dipping below the horizon, leaving a streak of pink and green across the sky. Against the pale sunset the pillar of fire looked rich and red. It was turning all the sand red, and their faces glowed red in its light. Around was utter desolation. The gulls were screaming on a higher note, scared by the fire. Beyond the burning boat the breakers were coming in again, full of menace, eating up the narrowing island of sand.

  Geoffrey, watching the crackling torch, said, “Well, they ought to see that, anyway.”

  Pamela suddenly laughed, a little hysterically. “I thought you were just being dramatic,” she said. “Giving him a funeral pyre!”

  “What – him?” Geoffrey shook his head. “I was thinking only of us. Every ship for ten miles round will see Truant burning.”

  They stood fascinated. The burning oil was sizzling, the burning cabin top was falling in in a shower of sparks. Water was beginning to hiss around the red-hot hull and steam was mixing with the smoke. It was getting darker.

  “We’d better keep moving,” said Geoffrey reluctantly. “I wish there’d been some dry clothes for you.” He looked down at her. “That dress will never be the same again. It’s all torn.”

  Pamela had pinned it. She said, “It got torn when I tried to get the gun.”

  Geoffrey put his arm round her and they walked up to the wreck.

  The tide was coming in fast now. The waves were breaking over all that was left of Truant and shooting up the sandbank, almost to the foot of the wreck.

  Geoffrey said: “It looks as though we’d better get aloft. Up you go! Take it very gently – hang on to the rope all the time. We don’t want any broken legs.” He threw up the sleeping-bags and climbed up after her, dragging the rest of the rope.

  “Okay,” he said, “now see if you can get into your bag. It’ll keep your tummy warm, anyway. I’d better make you fast – it’s so easy to slip.” He put a rope round her, under her arms like a lifebuoy, took a few turns round the slippery bollards, passed it through a rusty ring in the deck and then made it fast to the broken end of a thick wooden rib.

  “You’d have made a good spider,” said Pamela. “Aren’t you going to tie yourself too?”

  “I can hang on to you for a while,” Geoffrey said. “I’m still hoping someone will come before we get wet again. Cosy?”

  “Not really.”

  “Wet, cold and miserable?”

  “Not miserable.”

  “Lean back against me. I’ll tell you when my leg goes to sleep.” He put an arm round her. “I’m not miserable, either. Can I kiss you?”

  “I don’t feel in the least romantic.”

  “Neither do I, but I think it’s called for.” He put his face against her damp hair. “Will you marry me when we get ashore?”

  “After I’ve had a good sleep,” said Pamela. “I’m so tired I could almost sleep here.”

  “You can if you like. I’ll wake you.”

  It was dark now. The sandbank was almost covered, and foam was reaching the edge of the wreck. Truant had disappeared in the water and the darkness. Away to the south-east, on the other side of the shoal, Geoffrey could just catch the flash of the Girdler lightship. Three white flashes every fifteen seconds. He watched, and suddenly he saw another light wink. It was white, too, but a little lower down. It flicked on and off once or twice, and suddenly Geoffrey stirred.

  “They’re signalling,” he cried excitedly, almost sliding down the deck. He groped for his torch and waved it. The Aldis lamp was talking now. Geoffrey could read it like a book. He watched tensely, slowly spelling out the words aloud.

  “HOLD ... ON ... RESCUE ... TUG ... COMING,” he read. He waved the torch again to show that he had got the message and held Pamela a little tighter.

  “It’s wonderful,” she said softly. “You’re really quite clever, Geoffrey.”

  “It’s too cold to purr,” he said. “You’re not so dumb yourself.”

  Pamela looked down at the water. “I hope they hurry. It’s like one of those old-fashioned films, where the villain tied the heroine to a stake at low water and you watched her till it was up to her neck, and then you had to come back next week to see how she’d managed.”

  “The hero always fixed things,” said Geoffrey. “Look!”

  Away to the west – and not far away – a rocket suddenly went up from the sea and a shower of white stars scattered in the sky.

  Geoffrey flicked on the torch and waved it in the direction of the ship. “There’s something coming down the channel,” he said. “I can see its starboard light.” He kept on waving the torch.

  It seemed aeons of time before the green light came abreast of them. The tug was standing as close in as it dared, beyond the breakers, and above the noise of the surf Geoffrey heard the anchor chain rattling through the hawse pipe. He knew they were taking risks, but a small boat would never have lived in this sea. Suddenly a searchlight broke the blackness, and the wreck was held in a brilliant beam. They both waved.

  “You’re in the limelight for once in your life, anyway, my love,” Geoffrey said.

  A loudspeaker blared above the noise of the sea. “We’re going to try and get a line to you,” someone shouted. “Can you hear?”

  Geoffrey waved in acknowledgment. It was going to be tricky. He saw a rocket leave the ship and watched the parabola until the end of the line fell into the sea, well short of the wreck. The second attempt was better. The rocket fell level with the wreck, but the line was still hopelessly out of reach.

  Geoffrey was tense with anxiety. The target was terribly small. “We’ll try again,” said the voice. “Ready?”

  The rocket came sizzling over and dropped behind them. Geoffrey could see the line in the white glare of the searchlight – it had got caught up round the wreck, and a bit of it was washing about in the foam at the foot of the sloping deck. He slid down to the tumbling water with the help of the rope. It couldn’t be very deep yet – three feet at most, except for the waves. He waited, watching the greedy sea. Suddenly he dropped down, still clinging to the rope. The water was waist deep, clutching at him, trying to drag him away from the wreck. He grabbed the line and pulled himself up, hand over hand, by the rope. It had not been too bad after all.

  Pamela said, “Oh, darling!”

  Geoffrey hauled in the line and made fast the heavy rope that followed, once more thanking heaven for the bollards. He pulled the breeches buoy in. “Ready, Pamela? It’s much safer than it looks – the last word in comfort at sea! Put your legs through the canvas. That’s right – now your arms over the buoy.” He made her secure. “Don’t worry if you get a ducking – it’s quite usual. Happy journey!”

  “Be careful, Geoffrey,” she called. “Be very careful.”

  “I’ll be with you in five minutes,” Geoffrey shouted. “You can pour me a drink.”

  He watched her progress over the surf, watched her drawn to safety. In a few minutes he had pulled the buoy back again to the wreck. He made himself secure and gave the signal. The tug, he decided, had arrived none too soon. Seas were beginning to surge up the sloping deck.

  Once, as they pulled him across, the rope dipped and a breaker snatched at his legs. But there was no danger, and soon eager hands were stretching out to help him aboard the tug.

  Almost the first thing he saw as he stepped on deck was the anxious face of Inspector James!

  It was an hour later. They were all sitting in the cosy saloon of the tug – Pamela and Geoffrey, the Inspector, and the red-
faced tug-master. The two survivors had been provided with dry clothes and hot blankets, and they were comfortably full of warm food and ship’s rum. Pamela’s head was nestling unashamedly in the crook of Geoffrey’s right arm. The Inspector, looking very benign, was puffing contentedly at his pipe.

  “... And so,” Geoffrey was saying, “that is really the whole of the story.”

  “It’ll look fine in the Sunday papers,” said the tugmaster.

  James said: “We’ll have to have a proper statement tomorrow, but there’s no hurry. It’s been a wicked case, but everything is very tidy now.”

  “I’m not quite clear,” said Geoffrey drowsily, “how you happened to be on the spot yourself, Inspector. I didn’t know you liked the sea.”

  “It was my case, wasn’t it?” said James. “I was worried about you, Mr. Hollison – you and your young lady. We took the best advice we could once we discovered you were heading for the Estuary, and when it was decided a tug would be best I had a car run me down to Gravesend. I was pretty sure Cross had a gun – he was a real killer, and no mistake. I thought he’d use it. When I saw you two up there on the boat, alone and safe, it was one of the happiest moments of my life.”

  “It’s nice of you to say so, Inspector. You must come to our wedding.”

  “I’d very much like to,” said the Inspector. His eyes twinkled. “I take it you’ll be spending your honeymoon afloat!”

  The tugmaster was smiling too. “If you ask me,” he said, “they’ll be like the old sea captain when he retires – you know the story, Inspector? He sets off walking inland with an oar over his shoulder, and when somebody says, ‘What’s that you’re carrying, mister?’ he knows he can settle down and build a house there. Eh, Mr. Hollison?”

  There was no reply. The survivors were both fast asleep.

  THE END