Redcap

by Philip McCutchan

  “Yes,” she said, “that’s all right, of course. Just establish you. Is that all?”

  She sounded disappointed, sensing that the job was a mere token. He reached out and took her hand. He said gravely, “I’ve told you, it’ll be a big help. I mean that.”

  The cable from Latymer came while Shaw was changing for dinner. Breaking the departmental cypher, he read:

  INFORMED KARSTAD KILLED BY LORRY EAST BERLIN AFTER

  CONTACTING DONOVAN STOP REGARD THIS AS POLITICAL

  MURDER STOP LUBIN BELIEVED IN AUSTRALIA EXACT

  WHEREABOUTS UNKNOWN STOP YOU ARE TO FLY SYDNEY

  DISEMBARKING PORT SAID

  And that, Shaw decided as he burnt the pieces of paper in an ash-tray, must be considered as blowing all his theories about Sigurd Andersson sky-high. He went along and told Gresham and Sir Donald about his new orders, also telling Gresham what Latymer had said about Karstad’s murder. Sir Donald in particular was vastly relieved that his ship appeared to be in the clear.

  After the bugle had sounded for second sitting dinner that evening, Shaw, who was in the tavern bar, lingered on over a strong, iced whisky and soda, thinking, trying to puzzle things out and getting nowhere. For one thing, he still wasn’t convinced altogether that he had been wrong about those eyes of Andersson’s. A death report could be phoney—Latymer could check only so far and no farther. . . .

  When he went down to dinner he was fifteen minutes late and Judith had nearly finished the fish course. Shaw, nodding distantly at the other people at the table, said: “Good evening, Miss—Dangan. Nice weather we’re having.”

  Possibly it was his tone, but she gave a little gulp and choked. Shaw felt her foot touch his under the table, then she said demurely: “Lovely, isn’t it? How do you find the motion, Mr Shaw?”

  “Commander,” he corrected her gravely, though he had a job to keep his face straight. “Actually I’m in the Navy, don’t you know. I—er—don’t exactly feel the motion.”

  She said, “Oh, I beg your pardon, of course, you did tell me you were a sailor, didn’t you?” Impishly she added, “Do you have a special kind of stomach in the Navy?”

  There was a hoot, quickly subdued, from the other end of the table where two Australians, man and wife, were sitting; Shaw guessed that Judith had been feeding them on the line that the man who’d embarked the same day as her at Naples was just another stuffed-shirt naval officer of the sticky, conventional kind, and he decided to play up. The rather frigid silence which he had maintained at meals so far—which came from a genuine shyness and pre-occupation and not from stand-offishness at all—helped him. But he very nearly laughed when he saw the lifted eyebrows, the slight shrug of the shoulders, which the Australian couple exchanged; as plainly as if they’d spoken, that said: Here’s another pommie who wants everyone to know he’s entitled to be called by his rank, but he’ll be taken down a peg when he gets to Australia, so why worry?

  This suited Shaw well enough. Still playing up, he disregarded Judith’s inquiry about his stomach as being beneath his notice, put on an irritated face and said officiously and loudly: “Damn slow service—what? Always the same, you know, these merchant ships. Never have an efficient staff. Ought to run ’em Navy fashion!”

  He brayed—a difficult task, but he achieved it.

  Judith said in a muffled voice, “You mean run them aground, Commander?”

  Before Shaw could come back on that the male Australian gave a loud snort. Then he sniffed. He said equably, “Look, bloke. They do their best. If people come down fifteen minutes late, well, then I reckon it’s their own flaming fault. Don’t you?”

  Shaw wanted to agree with him. Instead, he ploughed on and managed a kind of painful smirk, said: “Oh—rot! These chaps rather like to be chivvied. They don’t respect you if you’re too pally.”

  The Australian inquired, “Commander, you going out to the R.A.N. on exchange, by any chance?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Then I wish yer luck, mate.” After that he ignored Shaw, who was left to talk to a highly delighted Judith who kept him well and truly on his toes throughout the meal. Afterwards she waited for him and as they climbed up, intending to go to the veranda lounge for coffee, he whispered in her ear:

  “You little devil!”

  She laughed. “Pommie yourself!”

  He grinned down at her. For some reason he didn’t want to tell her yet that he’d been ordered off the ship at Port Said; he was delighted to see her happy. But he said, “Seriously, don’t overdo it or I shall give the game away. I think you’ve done a lot of good so far—my fame’ll spread like lightning now. Did you notice the Australian couple?”

  “Did I?” She was about to suggest they should hurry up and get their coffee before the lounge filled right up, when she saw that he suddenly wasn’t with her any more. Following his glance, she saw a thick, dinner-jacketed back making aft along A deck towards the tavern bar. Cigar smoke wafted back. She asked in a low voice: “Interested in something?”

  He said, “Just a thought. Sorry, but maybe I could do with a real drink instead of coffee after all. Do you mind?”

  “Of course not. You go ahead.”

  He held her shoulder for a moment, then turned away. Slowly he wandered aft along the cabin alleyway, across the A deck square and into the tavern bar. Andersson was just hitching a leg over a high stool at the bar itself. Shaw took another stool and called for a brandy. Andersson glanced round, caught Shaw’s eye. They were almost the only ones in the bar. He asked in a thick voice: “You would care to join me, sir?”

  “Well—thanks. That’s very kind of you.”

  Andersson nodded briefly, said to the barkeeper: “And I—I shall have a whisky and soda. I pay for both.” Shaw heard him hiccough slightly, noticed that he looked as though he’d had a pretty heavy session before dinner. When the drinks came, Shaw raised his glass.

  “Your health.”

  “And yours, my dear sir.”

  As he drank Shaw studied Andersson over the rim of his glass. In his thick, heavy voice Andersson asked, “You are going all the way, to Australia?”

  Shaw nodded, gave the cover-story. As he did so he had a strange feeling that this man knew the truth. It was a disquieting feeling, the more so in view of that cable from Latymer—if Andersson wasn’t Karstad, then who was he? When he’s finished Shaw added: “I’ve never been to Australia before. I don’t know what to expect. Have you been out there?”

  “Never.”

  There was a short silence; and then Shaw looked Andersson full in the face and said, “It’s funny . . . I’m probably wrong, but I’m sure I’ve met you before somewhere.”

  Andersson gave him a piercing look, then turned away slightly, but there had been time for Shaw to see Karstad again in those eyes and he felt certain he wasn’t wrong. Andersson said, “Then you have the advantage of me, my dear sir. You, I do not recollect.” He leaned towards Shaw; whisky-laden breath wafted across. He looked into the agent’s face, then said with finality: “No, no. I do not know you.”

  “Must be my mistake, then,” Shaw murmured. “Only I had an idea we’d met towards the end of the war. Ever been at sea?”

  “Never at sea, no. I am a salesman for many, many years. Now I join a firm in Australia, where I intend to remain.” He took a noisy gulp at his whisky. “At the end of the war I was in a German concentration camp, my friend. I doubt if we met there. You do not look to me as though you have been in a German concentration camp.”

  “I haven’t, I’m glad to say.” Shaw gave a realistic shudder, slightly exaggerated in his role of plain, lightweight naval officer. “I say, how frightful. You must have had some rotten experiences.”

  Andersson nodded. Shaw’s glance, as he finished his brandy and called for another round, strayed to the fat white fingers round the man’s glass, flickered over his well-fed pasty face and sleek body. Andersson didn’t himself look much like some one who had suffered as the inmates of th
ose camps had suffered ... of course, it was a long while ago now, but Shaw had met other people who had been in the concentration camps and they still carried the marks of those years.

  Andersson gulped at his fresh drink, then asked: “And you, you have been in England all the time since those days, since the end of the war?”

  “Oh, no, not all the time, you know. Served in the Med for a year, and on the West Indies station before they closed it down.” He added casually, looking down at his glass as he said it: “Matter of fact I’ve been in France just lately. In Paris. On leave, you know.”

  He looked up sharply then. If this man wanted to tell him anything, he’d been given his cue now, and Shaw was so convinced that Andersson knew who he was that he had no qualms about a possible indiscretion. But Andersson met his eyes without a flicker. Then he lowered an eyelid, grimaced, and said in a conspiratorial tone:

  “Ah . . . women, and wine, and song!”

  “Women and wine and song,” Shaw agreed with a laugh. ‘That’s the stuff!”

  “You have a saying, no? Time was when love and I, we were well acquainted. Ah, for the years of youth!” Andersson sighed heavily and shook his head. “Let us hope that we shall both find plenty of the girls in Australia, no?”

  “No,” Shaw said absently. “I mean, yes.”

  Andersson finished his second whisky, asked: “You will join me again?”

  Shaw indicated his glass. “I’m still going, thanks.”

  Sigurd Andersson gave another hiccough and pushed his own glass over to the barkeeper. Half turning his back on Shaw, he began a conversation with the barman about cards. He was a good actor, if he was playing a part, and for the time being there was clearly no more to be got out of him; in any case he appeared to have lost interest in Shaw now the agent wasn’t drinking any more. Shaw finished up his brandy and slid off the stool.

  “Well,” he said briskly. “Bed for me.”

  Andersson turned courteously. “As you say, my dear sir. Good night to you.”

  “Good night.” Shaw left the bar, feeling jaded and angry with himself, nervy. Apart from the memory of those eyes, there was no real reason why he should doubt Latymer’s cable about Karstad’s death. But doubt it he did. Maybe he should have had that third drink, kept the conversation going a little longer. So far the whole thing seemed to be a complete impasse.

  After Shaw had left the bar Andersson took up his glass, drank off the contents slowly, weaving a little from side to side on the stool. When he had finished, he said: “Be so kind as to give me two bottles of Scotch whisky. For consumption in my cabin, you understand.” He belched. “I have a small party to-night.”

  “Cards, Mr Andersson?”

  “Cards, yes.”

  The barkeeper looked at him sardonically then turned away and went into a store behind the bar. He came out with the two bottles in their tissue wrapping.

  “There you are, sir. Cash or sign?”

  “The chit, my friend, the chit.”

  The barkeeper pushed a small book across. Andersson reached out unsteadily and scrawled an almost illegible signature, then pushed the book back across the bar. He got up from the stool. The barkeeper watched his unsteady progress with distaste as he lurched for the door, recovered himself and went out with a stiff-legged gait, making for his cabin.

  From the for’ard A deck square, an elderly night-steward watched Andersson coming along the alleyway clutching his bottles to his chest, saw him stop at his cabin door and fumble. The night-steward recognized him, sighed and walked along towards him.

  “Let me sir.”

  Andersson mumbled something and the steward pushed the door open and stood aside. Andersson lurched in, cannoning into the door-post as he did so. After he’d vanished, the night-steward scratched his head, shrugged and walked slowly away, pondering on the customs of first-class passengers—or rather, as he told himself, in this case passengers travelling first-class, which was a subtle distinction he liked to make. As he went down the alleyway he saw a man coming towards him, a man with a pockmarked face and a bulbous nose. The night-steward thought: So it’s cards again to-night, eh, maybe another all-night session. He wondered how any man who took so much drink as Andersson could possibly play a good game of poker, but by all accounts he did, and did pretty well for himself too.

  After the pitted man had gone past him, the steward looked back over his shoulder. Yes, the man had gone into Andersson’s room . . . just fancy, playing cards all bleeding night! What a life. And ringing for him, most likely, to keep on filling up the iced-water container. Pity he wasn’t like that nice, quiet Colonel Gresham. Now there was a real gentleman for you.

  “Come in. . . .”

  Andersson’s voice was nicely slurred, at least until he saw who his visitor was; and then it became apparent that Andersson was by no means as drunk as he had appeared. He was perfectly steady now, perfectly alert and composed. There was still an aroma of whisky on the air, but that was all.

  He said: “Sit down.” He waved towards the bottles. “Pour yourself a drink, my dear Markham.”

  “Thanks.” The pock-marked man poured the whisky, took a sip and wiped a hand across his mouth. He sat down, asked: “What about you? Aren’t you indulging to-night—or had enough already?”

  Andersson leaned back against the chest-of-drawers and laughed softly. “No more. Not—to-night.” He caught the other’s eye.

  Markham lifted an eyebrow, tightened his mouth a little. He asked, “Then it’s to-night, is it, Andersson?”

  Andersson nodded, his white, fleshy face falling into a series of double chins as he did so. “It is.”

  “It’s not too soon?”

  “No, it is not too soon . . . not now the man Shaw has come aboard. That, you see, makes a difference. And for now, my friend—the cards.”

  Andersson reached out and pulled down a card-table fitted into a recess in the cabin bulkhead. Markham slowly shuffled a pack. Sitting down, Andersson lit a cigar. They began to play.

  They played until five minutes past one—which was just ten minutes after the night-steward had brought more iced water for their drinks. Andersson looked at his watch and said:

  “Now.”

  Getting up from the table, he went over to a drawer and took out a pair of white cotton gloves, which he pulled on. He said, “I shall not be long.”

  “Better watch out for that steward.”

  Andersson laughed. “He will not be moving from his cubby-hole again for a while! I am the only person who rings at this time of night. And now—you know what is expected of you, Markham.”

  The pock-marked man flipped ash off his cigarette and nodded. He said, “Sure, I know. I’ll be all right. You don’t have to worry . . . just so long as you get those signals!”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Shaw heard his steward come in, murmured a good-morning, rolled over. The steward let down the jalousie over the square port and the sun streamed in. Shaw sat up, blinked, rubbed sleep from his eyes, reached out for his early-morning tea.

  Then he lit a cigarette, drew in smoke luxuriously and lay back on his pillow, hands behind his head. A few minutes later there was a knock at the door and another steward came in.

  “Commander Shaw, sir?”

  Shaw looked at him in some surprise—the man seemed on edge. Shaw said, “Yes, that’s me. What is it?”

  “Captain would like to see you, sir. In Colonel Gresham’s cabin.”

  Shaw stared, sat up straight. “Why, what’s happened?”

  The man said, “The colonel, sir. He’s dead.”

  Shaw gave an exclamation, felt the blood draining from his face. He threw off the sheet. Pulling on his dressing-gown, he ran out of the cabin.

  The body looked lonely, forlorn.

  The moustache moved wispily in a strong breeze coming throught the port. Gresham wasn’t sandy any more now; he looked grey and withered and pathetic, a man who had lived for an ideal and, perhaps because he wasn’t
very clever, had had to die for it. Then Shaw caught himself up; there was nothing particularly to suggest murder. There was no blood, no sign of violence at all, and the face didn’t look like that of a man who had been suddenly or viciously killed. And yet to Shaw murder seemed the most likely explanation. He drew the sheet across, shutting Gresham back in his privacy.

  The Captain and the ship’s doctor were both there. Sir Donald’s face was full of worry now. He said, “It’s a blow to me, Shaw, quite apart from the questions it raises now—in the circumstances. Gresham and I had got very friendly.”

  “Yes, sir. I’m very sorry. He wouldn’t have hurt a fly, that man.” Shaw turned to the doctor, asked: “How did it happen?”

  Dr. O’Hara said in a puzzled voice, “I can’t say definitely.

  It just seems his heart stopped.”

  “Had he a weak heart?”

  O’Hara shrugged. “If he had he’d never consulted me about it. So far as I can say, he was perfectly healthy. When did you last see him, Commander?”

  “Last evening, just before dinner.”

  “He was quite normal then?”

  Shaw said, “Yes, absolutely. And yet his heart—just stopped, you say. Tell me, doctor, could it be murder?” His eyes were hard, steely.

  O’Hara said hesitantly, “Well, of course, that I can’t really say with any certainty without a post-mortem, d’ye see?” He screwed up his eyes in thought, pulled at his ear. “At first sight, the body shows no sign of disease whatever. It’s a little suspicious, I’ll say that—but are you really suggesting it’s murder?”