Southtrap

by Geoffrey Jenkins

  'Petersen!'

  He wasn't there. I straightened up and swung the flashlight round to find the light switches. Then I thought better of it. The murderer might be lurking somewhere. Even if he were not, to put the lights on would be to attract anyone who might be around. My first instinct was to bar anyone from seeing what lay there on the burial board.

  I groped for the door. As I got there, the chilling implications of murder hit me: locks, fingerprints, door handles, keys, clues.

  There was a sound on deck outside. I fell back, waited. I snapped the beam suddenly on to the face of the man in the doorway.

  It was Petersen. He was swaying. I thought he was about to pass out again.

  'Come in!' I ordered.

  'Is… is…?' He coughed.

  I kept the torch off Holdgate and snapped, 'He's dead. There's nothing we can do about that. But there's lots we can do about finding out who did it.' I found the switches. 'Listen, Petersen, before I put on these lights, get a grip of yourself. You're a ship's officer. Keep your eyes skinned. The killer could be around. No one is to know about this business — understood?'

  'I understand.' His answer came from very far away.

  I used my handkerchief to grip the key in case of fingerprints. We were still in darkness. Then I remembered something.

  'Was this door open or shut when you found him?'

  'That's why I came and looked in,' whispered Peter-sen. The door was slatting in the wind. So I came to see and…' In the dimness I could see that he was clamping his teeth into his knuckles to steady his jaw.

  'I know what you saw — I've seen it close,' I replied, deliberately roughly. 'It's Holdgate, the volcanologist. He's dead. He's been murdered. That's a knife in his throat. Now I'm going to switch on the lights.'

  I did. The place was empty.

  Shock had already drawn older lines in Petersen's schoolboy face. He'd be older by years before the night was out.

  I wrapped up the key and put it in my pocket. I went over to the body.

  How, I asked myself, had Holdgate allowed himself first to be strapped to the board and then murdered? Smit, T-shirt Jannie and the bull-necked man named Pete weren't murderers. They'd all been having fun together when they had strapped Holdgate down that morning. Yet only they and Holdgate had keys to the place. They'd be the first I'd have to question.

  Who could possibly have wanted to kill harmless Holdgate, and why?

  My mind raced to the sharp exchange between Hold-gate and Wegger in the morning. It had been very heated, but nevertheless you don't murder a man because you disagree about whether or not a cave is a lava tunnel. I pulled myself up. What I was thinking implicated Wegger. But then was there anyone on board who wasn't implicated? I asked myself grimly. Even Petersen. You're going crazy, I told myself roughly, without bothering to turn and see what Peter-sen was doing. Anyway, Wegger had been on watch on the bridge. The unknown who had threatened Reilly in the tunnel shaft?

  I tried to defuse my exploding thoughts. I'd be suspecting Linn next if I went on like this.

  I rounded on Petersen. He was shaking, partly from shock, and partly, I realized, because the night had turned very cold. He was concentrating his gaze on Bokkie and the balloon.

  I checked my watch. 10.45. Time, too, had become a clue.

  'I want you to do two things, Petersen — quick,' I said. 'Three, if keeping your mouth shut is included.'

  He wouldn't face my way. I positioned myself where he wouldn't have to look in the direction of the body.

  'Aye, aye, sir.'

  'First, get up to the bridge and tell Mr Wegger I want him here — at the double. Say to bring his gun with him — loaded.'

  My words didn't seem to penetrate. 'He's — got — a — gun?'

  'You heard me.' Shock demands shock treatment. 'Pull yourself together, man! A gun. Loaded. Is that clear?'

  'Yes — I mean, aye, aye, sir.'

  'Second, I want you to rout out the TV cameraman who came aboard with the tourists — I don't remember his name. He's doubling up in one of the new cabins next to us here, not the old ones amidships.'

  'Which cabin?' asked Petersen.

  'How in hell should I know? Look on the purser's list. It'll be on his noticeboard. Whoever his cabin mate is, keep him out of it. Tell him I want him with a camera and flash equipment.' I jerked my head in the direction of the body.

  Petersen hung back.

  'Well, what is it?' I demanded.

  He said in a rush, 'Someone murdered him — I mean, he could still be lurking about. If you're left alone he might… might…'

  'I hadn't given it a thought,' I replied. 'Thanks all the same for your concern. I don't think whoever did it will risk a second attack.'

  I became still more aware of how cold it was. 'Drop into my cabin and bring me a sweater also, will you? And have yourself a shot more brandy at the same time. Captain's orders.'

  He managed the beginnings of a wan smile. I locked the door behind him, still safeguarding the key with my handkerchief.

  I felt quite impersonal about the grotesque object strapped to the board. It seemed to have nothing at all to do with the young-old-maidish fuddy-duddy I had known as Holdgate. He was the most unlikely knife-death victim possible. What did I know of his background?

  I shivered in the icy air. My mind baulked at the jump ahead of it: murder, with a thousand complications. When Nelson's gunners at Trafalgar were stunned by the thunder of a thousand broadsides their minds shied away from thoughts of victory and took refuge in the trivialities of battle. In the same way my mind leapt to the tiny events of the day which had intervened between the time I had last spoken to Holdgate and now, when he would never speak again. A day of trivialities, of splendid trivialities. Linn and I had stood on deck and watched the dolphins, 'the swallows of the sea'. They had dived and swooped and performed their graceful arabesques both in the air and in the blue water alongside the Quest. The ship was still in blue water — the blue water of the Subtropical Convergence, Toby Trimen had told us. Linn and I had followed — as had most of the tourists — the 'swallows' with delight. Toby had also identified two types for us: the customary Southern white-sided dolphin and the dusky dolphin, He had taught us how to distinguish the two — the common type by its dark area behind the flipper, by its blunter head and broader dorsal fin.

  Sea-birds, too, had convoyed the Quest. Dr Kebble had talked — one couldn't call such informality a lecture — about Prince Edward's very own bird, the Pilot Bird. White as an angel, it is unique to the island.

  Then, in the afternoon, I had seen ahead a long grey-black line blocking the southern horizon. It had risen, the closer the ship approached, like a tangible physical barrier in the ship's path. It marked the end of the Subtropical Convergence, where the warm seas ended — the end of the dolphins, the Portuguese men-o'-war, the blue water, the yachting weather.

  I had pointed the bank out to Linn and warned her of the storms which lay beyond it. It seemed to me now that that funereal range of fog was symbolic of the storm I had run into with Holdgate's death.

  With that thought, my mind snapped back to the scientists' sanctuary and the grim reality confronting me. Holdgate's was the second death involving the Quest. Captain Prestrud had been pistol-whipped to death. Holdgate — struck by a sudden suspicion I went over to the body and looked at his throat. I was right. He hadn't been strapped to the board conscious. He had been half-strangled first. There was a hideous bruise round his windpipe. Someone — and it must have been a powerful man — had choked him senseless from behind, strapped him to the plank, and then thrust the knife home. It had been as calculated as a farmer butchering a sheep.

  Why?

  Who?

  Like the Quest late that afternoon, I had crossed into stormy waters. The sea had turned a cold green at evening — in these high latitudes the twilight never seems to end — and ahead of us was the bank of fog, nearer now, and as dark in the approaching night as the thoughts a
t present in my mind.

  I had cut the Quest's speed to half, a night-ice precaution. Deaf, for the radio black-out was total, and blind except for the uncertain radar, the ship had begun to pitch heavily as she felt her way South. I had doubled the look-outs and put the searchlight squad on the alert.

  Before we plunged into the fog-bank I had spotted a single patch of white far out on the starboard bow. For a moment I had thought it was a growler or a bergy bit. When I put my glasses on it, however, it turned out to be the white snout of a Southern right whale dolphin. Then it was lost in the green-black water.

  I was brought back sharply to Holdgate's murder by a rap at the door of metal against metal. I remembered to hold the key in my handkerchief when I opened it. It was Wegger. He had used the Luger as a knocker.

  I indicated the body. 'What do you make of that, Number One?'

  He came in. I watched him closely. From now on, everyone was under suspicion.

  He stopped, raised the Luger muzzle to his lips, and blew into it. The low whistle it gave was a macabre sound, a death-watch sound.

  His face had its iron-hard look in it. All expression was expunged from his eyes.

  'Is he dead?' he asked.

  'Yes.'

  The Quest gave a deep roll as the south-westerly run of the sea lifted her keel. Holdgate's head rolled with it. First it went leftwards. On the return roll it only got halfway. The weight of the knife kept it pinned left.

  Wegger went over to the corpse. Before I could stop him he had reached down and tested the knife with his hand.

  'It's firm — into his neck vertebrae, I'd say.'

  'Take your bloody hands off that knife!' I rapped out. 'What in hell d'you think you're doing?'

  He swung round on me and appeared to go into a half-crouch, as if ready to jump me. Then I realized that he'd stooped to the body. His eyes were burning in the shadow of his cap-peak.

  When he spoke his voice was completely at odds with the rest of him. It was like that first time on the dockside when I suspected him of sucking up to me.

  'I'm sorry, sir. I never gave it a thought. I only wanted to see…'

  Handling the knife was the sort of thoughtless action one could take in the stress of the moment. Outwardly, he'd shown no nerve-reaction to the sight of the body.

  But I'd learned already that Wegger was more complex than he appeared on the surface.

  'Forget it,' I retorted brusquely. 'Where's Petersen?'

  Petersen asked me to give you this.' Wegger handed me my thick off-white sweater with a fisherman's collar. 'He's cleaning up the mess he made in your cabin.'

  'What did he tell you?'

  'Nothing — except that you wanted me urgently, and there was a dead man.'

  'No one else hear?'

  'No,' Wegger answered. 'But you can't keep anything like this dark for long. It'll be all over the ship by morning.'

  He was right, of course.

  'What are you going to do about him?'

  That was the hurdle my mind had jibbed at a little while back. What I decided about Holdgate would also determine the fate of the Quest's cruise. Linn had come to me to make her decision after her father's death; now, deep down, I wanted to be with her when I made mine over Holdgate. It was a captain's decision — and there are times when a captain can be more alone than an albatross riding the West Wind Drift.

  'I sent Petersen to wake the TV cameraman and bring his flash gear,' I replied obliquely. 'I want the body photographed as I found it.'

  'I thought Petersen found it,' he remarked in an odd voice.

  'A manner of speaking. He called me immediately.'

  Wegger went on. 'How do you know that, sir? I mean, with murder one has to look at every aspect.'

  'Petersen was in no state to do anything but what he did,' I answered. 'It was purely a reflex action. He called me. I sent him for you.'

  'You didn't question him?' he persisted. 'I mean, did he see anyone around? In here, perhaps?'

  It didn't need Wegger's remarks to tell me that I had to be suspicious of Petersen, and of his apparent concern for my safety.

  'He was in no shape to be cross-questioned,' I said. 'That will come.'

  'Have you searched the place, sir? The murderer could still be close by.'

  The place is as bare as a nude show,' I replied. Try the body, if you care to. He's been dead some time, I'd guess.'

  'Good.'

  'What the devil do you mean, good?'

  He patted the Luger and said levelly, 'I mean, then we don't have to start fine-combing the ship.'

  I've done that once today — with you and MacFie.'

  Wegger gave a slight shrug. 'How long would you estimate he's been dead?'

  'An hour — two hours, maybe. I can't say. I'm not a doctor. He's scarcely warm.'

  That would make it after I'd taken over the bridge at eight,' he said.

  Was he talking his way into an alibi? There wasn't any need. The bridge men could prove or disprove of anything he said! If I could not trust even my own first officer… I jerked my thoughts together. I wasn't a detective. My function was the safety of the ship.

  And all those who travel in her.

  The way Holdgate's head rolled from side to side reminded me that there was at least one person whom I had failed.

  The thought goaded me. 'What's keeping Petersen, for Chrissake?'

  Wegger remained collected. 'He was very ashamed of what he did to your cabin.'

  'Blast my cabin. I want the photographer.'

  'He said he wouldn't be long.'

  A silence fell between us. But the ship wasn't silent.

  The creaks a vessel gives when the seas start to work up and tax her fabric were all around. The Quest was flexing her sea muscles after their flaccid stay in port, although the swells weren't really anything yet. A squall with a spatter of rain brought new noises from seams and beams. If the wind veered south-west from its present quarter, which was west with a touch of north in it, those squalls would throw themselves at the Quest with relentless savagery, armed with hail, ice and snow and the knock-down punch of a Force 10 gale.

  There was a ragged clatter against the door. Petersen knocking. Wegger jerked round, more nervously than his outward appearance would have led me to expect.

  I held the door before admitting Petersen and the photographer. The latter's hair was tousled and he wore a leather jacket with a fur collar, shortie pyjama pants and furry ankle-length slippers.

  I addressed him. 'Before you come in, I must warn you that there's something very unpleasant in here. That's why I sent for you. It's an emergency and I require pictures for the record. What's your name?'

  'Brunton. John Brunton.'

  His brown eyes were bright and alive with no trace of sleep in them.

  'I was a press photographer before I went ecological,' he replied. 'I once saw a stiff they'd found in a river. He'd been there two weeks. He'd been strangled with a length of barbed wire. That cured my stomach for keeps.'

  This isn't all that bad.'

  I let them in. Petersen still kept his eyes averted.

  Brunton's eyes — like those of Miss Auchinleck's penguins — seemed to work independently on either side of his head. One took in the body, and the other the rest of the scientific gear. They appeared to be assessing camera angles and the situation all at once.

  'I want pictures for the record and the police,' I told him. 'I'll also require a sworn statement from you later.'

  'Any particular angle?'

  'If you've done police work you'll know better than I do.' Brunton licked the connection of his electric flash, plugged it in, and got to work. The place sparkled with quick flashes.

  He half-knelt, half-crouched by the corpse and called back to me, 'Close-ups of the knife too?'

  Wegger said unnecessarily, 'It's very hard in — right through his neck, I'd say.'

  Brunton rolled the eye not focusing the viewfinder at me. The glance was a mixture of query a
nd surprise.

  My mind was already leaping on ahead — postmortem, court processes, being put through the hoop by some smart-alec lawyer. Brunton's questions smacked home a pressing problem which I'd thrust to the back of my mind. What did I intend to do with the body? Take it back to land? Bury it at sea?

  The thought rattled me and I retorted. 'He didn't put it there himself. The whole lot of us on this ship are going to be put through the mill of a murder hearing. There'll be thousands of questions asked.'

  Brunton pushed his lens within inches of the dead face.

  'Odd sort of design on the knife,' he said.

  'Killer whale,' I replied.

  Brunton went on working the trigger. 'Could narrow the field of suspects considerably. Not everyone packs a Weapon like that.'

  I hadn't thought of that one — yet.

  'What about his hands?' asked Brunton.

  'What about them?'

  'Want me to take 'em close-up also?'

  'Why?'

  'Right one's clenched. You may want to open the fingers.'

  Petersen made a gurgling noise and walked over to the opposite side. Wegger stood watching, completely expressionless.

  'I'll log that fact later,' I said. 'Will you help me, Number One?'

  Wegger started, as if his thoughts had been elsewhere. 'Of course.'

  He used his left hand — his sound working hand, his gun-hand — to assist me. We prised open the fingers. The palm was empty.

  Brunton's flash blinded me. Then, for the first time, I felt a surge of nausea. The muscles that had contracted those fingers had done so from the agony of the knife taking his life.

  'Now a couple of general shots of the environment.' Brunton rose and began shooting again. When he had finished, he remarked, 'That should tell the story.'

  'It's a story I don't want told to anyone,' I said. That's not a request but an order. In a situation like this the captain is the law. He has unlimited authority. I could even put you in irons if I wanted to.'

  Brunton replied with a peculiar half-grin, 'I believe you would, too.'