by Jack Treby
My eyes had already made the most of the gloom and I could see Kendall’s jacket hanging up in front of the closet. He had managed to get partially undressed before going to bed. The man himself, as far as I could make out, was lying on top of the bed, in his shirt sleeves and trousers. Kendall had the room to himself, the lucky beggar, so there was only the one bed.
I wondered what the man would think, if he knew I was in here. Would he put two and two together when he woke up and found the documents missing? He might round on me over the breakfast table. He was a hefty fellow, for all his diminutive stature, and he had spent a small fortune acquiring those papers. But I would cross that bridge when I came to it. First I had to find the damn things.
I still didn’t know if I was looking for a roll of film, a booklet of negatives or a pouch of printed photographs. Charles Lazenby had been worryingly vague on the details.
I ran my hands through the jacket pockets. There was nothing on the inside or outside. I fumbled along the lining to make sure nothing had been secreted inside, but there were no irregularities in the cloth. I pulled back the curtain and had a rumble through the closet for good measure. There was nothing in any of his clothes, but it was as well to be thorough. Perhaps the photos had been left lying around the room somewhere. Once the door was locked there would be no need to keep them close to hand and I didn’t want to start groping the man himself if there was a chance they were resting on a bedside table.
I crouched down and shuffled across the floor. The wash basin was lowered and there was a stool at the far end of the cabin. A small desk had also been lowered and the portable typewriter placed on top of it. There was a sheet of paper in there and a wad of notes to the left hand side; but that was just Kendall’s notebook. Perhaps he had managed to scribble a few short words as he had intended, before realising how sleepy he was and giving up.
I moved over to the bed and ran a quick hand underneath the mattress, trying not to disturb the serene but rather heavy figure lying on top of the bed. Carefully, I extended a hand towards his head and my fingers traced the edges of his pillow. Walter Kendall was a surprisingly quiet sleeper, though in truth the noise of Mrs Koenig next door would probably have masked all but the most persistent of snorers. Her nocturnal endeavours seemed to be reaching some kind of climax. I slid a hand tentatively underneath the near edge of the pillow, but there was nothing lodged there for me to find. I leaned across carefully to check the far side of the mattress, but there was nothing there either. I wrinkled my nose. Kendall had an unpleasant odour close up; but I suppose few of us are at our most fragrant in the early hours of the morning. I pulled back and regarded the sleeping man irritably. I was left with no choice now. I would have to search the American himself. And that meant slipping a hand inside his trouser pockets. I grimaced. It was not a prospect I relished but there was nowhere else left to look. The things I did for England. Why couldn’t the damned fellow have undressed himself properly?
Cautiously, I felt for the edge of his trousers and slid my hand gently into the nearside pocket. Luckily, Kendall did not seem to feel the touch. It was fortunate for me that he was sleeping on his back, meaning both the pockets were easy to access. I rummaged around inside as best I could. There was a wallet and a set of keys; some loose change as well. I would have to pull it all out, as gently as I could. While I was working, I kept my eyes on Kendall’s sleeping face, what I could make out of it in the gloom, anxious not to disturb the dormant figure.
He hadn’t even removed his glasses, I noticed now. And he really was a very quiet sleeper.
It was as I was manoeuvring the leather wallet out of his pocket that my arm gently brushed against Kendall’s right hand. I jolted in surprise. The hand seemed oddly cold. I abandoned the wallet halfway out of the pocket and laid my own hand gently on his. It wasn’t just cold, the skin was freezing, as chill as ice.
I grabbed hold of his wrist, pulling back the cuff of his shirt sleeve. His arm was rigid. With rising panic, I raised up to place a hand on his forehead, banging my knee on the side of the bed as I did so but dismissing the pain. Good God. His forehead was also cold. I searched for a pulse but there was nothing to find.
Walter Kendall was dead.
Chapter Eight
I crouched for some moments beside the bed, my mind numb, staring across at the prone figure lying on top of the bed sheets. It was not possible, I thought. How could Walter Kendall be dead? He had been the picture of health in the reading room a few hours earlier. And it wasn’t as if he was an old man; in his mid-fifties perhaps. He couldn’t just have popped his clogs randomly. Could he have had a heart attack? I wondered. Perhaps he had a dicky ticker and it just happened to peg out tonight. Or maybe he had banged his head somehow when he was getting into bed and had died from internal bleeding. He would have been drowsy from the sleeping draught and might easily have...
The sleeping draught.
My God. I brought a hand up to my mouth in horror. Could that have been the cause of his death? I sat back on the floor and my hands started to shake. Surely not. How could it have been? It was a completely harmless concoction; about as dangerous as a couple of aspirins. And for all his faults, Maurice would not have misjudged the dosage. It was written clearly on the side of the bottle. No, it must have been a heart condition, I thought. It couldn’t be anything to do with the sleeping draught. Not unless it was some kind of allergic reaction. That was a possibility, I supposed. People could be allergic to all kinds of things. I remembered reading of one poor fellow who had died from eating a peanut. But gazing across at the darkened silhouette resting on the bunk, the why didn’t really matter. Walter Kendall was dead and it looked like I had killed him. A healthy, intelligent individual who might have lived for another twenty or thirty years. Maurice may have administered the powder, but I had been the one who had told him to do it. This was a disaster. Panic was beginning to bubble up in my gut. I was responsible for his death and I would be held to account for it. What the devil was I going to do?
I gritted my teeth and brought my trembling hands under control. I couldn’t afford to lose my wits just now. Difficult as it was, I had to consider the matter rationally.
Walter Kendall’s body would not be disturbed until the stewards made their rounds first thing in the morning. When he didn’t turn up to breakfast, they would knock and open up the cabin. His body would be discovered and everyone would know I had been the last person to see him alive. We had been seen together, going off for a night cap.
But would anyone know how he had died? That was the crux of the matter. The natural thing would be to assume he had died in his sleep, of a heart attack or a stroke. Such things happened. That had been my first thought, after all. So no one would have any reason to blame me.
Was there a doctor on board ship? I hadn’t heard anybody mention one. I try to avoid doctors as a rule, but they seem to get everywhere. Even if there was a medical man on board, however, it was unlikely he would have the facilities to perform a full blown autopsy. A proper diagnosis would have to wait until our next port of call. That would give me a little breathing space, perhaps allowing me time to muddy the waters and divert suspicion. It may sound callous, considering all this when the man was lying dead on the bed next to me, but there was nothing I could do for him now and I had my own neck to think of. Some kind of enquiry was inevitable, when we arrived in Rio de Janeiro. The drug in his bloodstream would be discovered and my fingerprints found all over the inside of the cabin. So one way or another, the blame would eventually settle on me. I closed my eyes. The Good Lord really did have it in for me on this trip. Retribution for sins past, perhaps; I had not exactly led a blameless life. But there was no point worrying about that now. The important thing was to get away from Kendall’s cabin without being seen.
Things had quietened down somewhat next door, though I could still make out a bit of post-coital activity. Fortunately, it sounded like Mrs Koenig’s guest was preparing to leave, presumably
to slip back to his own cabin. I would have to wait until the damned fellow was well away.
A sudden thought struck me. I hadn’t looked inside Kendall’s wallet yet. Those damned negatives. I wondered if they were here at all. Not that it would be much consolation to me now if I did find them; but I supposed I might as well finish the job.
I slid forward and grabbed the wallet, which was still sticking halfway out of Kendall’s trouser pocket. There was nothing of any consequence inside; some bank notes and a few coins. A small photograph. Probably a portrait of his wife. He had a wedding ring, so there must be a Mrs Kendall. Poor bloody woman, I thought. She would be sound asleep now, somewhere in America, doubtless dreaming of her dear husband, unaware that he had already gasped his last. There had been family photographs on the inside of his suitcase, I recalled. I wondered if this picture was the same, but it was too dark to make out the image.
The door to the next cabin slid open quietly on its tracks and I heard footsteps creeping off down the passage. I couldn’t tell where they were headed, but there were no clangs on the stairs down to B deck, so it couldn’t be one of the crew. Sir George, then, or perhaps one of the Germans.
I returned the photograph to the wallet and placed it back where I had found it. Briefly, I searched Kendall’s other pockets. A calmness had descended upon me now. Fate had thrown everything it could at me and there was nothing more that could go wrong.
There was no sign of the negatives, on Kendall or anywhere else. The whole exercise had been a fools errand from the start.
I moved to the door and listened carefully. Everything seemed quiet now, but I didn’t want to take any chances. I slid the door open a crack and gazed through it at the poorly lit corridor. The passageway was deserted. I pulled the door open a little further and adjusted the latch. If I was careful, I could manoeuvre it so that the door would lock itself as soon as I slid it shut behind me. That would save me any further bother with the lock pick.
I slipped out sideways through the gap and pulled the door closed behind me, but as I tried to move away I felt a hard tug from behind. I stifled a curse. Part of my nightshirt had caught in the frame of the door. So much for nothing else going wrong.
I slipped a hand down behind me and tried to free the cloth, but the catch was right in the centre of my back and the fabric was jammed firmly into the lock. I grasped for the handle, which was digging into my rear, but I couldn’t budge it; and I wouldn’t be able to pull away without tearing my nightshirt.
Dammit, what the hell was I going to do? I couldn’t leave a piece of my shirt hanging from the door of a dead man.
There was only one option. Somehow, I had to pull myself out of it; then I would be able to turn around and set to work on reopening the cabin. At least my hands were both free. I unbuttoned the front of the nightshirt at the top and awkwardly raised my arms. Pulling my left sleeve forward, I retracted my elbow inside and followed on with the rest of the arm. I did the same with my other arm and then pulled my head inside the shirt and slid down to the floor and out of the garment. It dropped and hung limp behind me in the doorway. I stood up for a moment, my body shaking, but not from the cold. I glanced nervously along the length of the port corridor. I hoped to god nobody saw me like this. Without the nightshirt I was virtually naked, except for the bandages around my chest and a pair of silk drawers. I crouched down in front of the lock to see if I could retrieve the nightshirt. It was jammed fast. With shaking fingers, I retrieved the hair pins from the breast pocket, then crouched down and set to work on the lock. This time, the lever did the trick on its own. With a little pressure applied to the cloth, the nightshirt sprang free, without even unlocking the door. I grabbed the garment and rose to my feet, hurriedly setting off towards my cabin.
I arced right into the connecting corridor and collided with Miss Annabel Hurst, who was heading in the opposite direction.
I don’t know who was more surprised. Miss Hurst looked momentarily terrified, as we recoiled from the impact and my nightshirt dropped to the floor between us. ‘Miss Hurst!’ I exclaimed, as shocked to see her as she was to see me. I hadn’t heard any footsteps.
‘Mr Bland!’ she replied, in equal horror. ‘I...I do apologise.’ She must have been as quiet as a mouse, creeping out of her bedroom. Her eyes flicked nervously to the bandages around my chest, then to my drawers, then back up to my chest before finally settling on my face.
‘It...it was my fault entirely,’ I breathed, trying not to let my eyes wander in a similar fashion. Miss Hurst was barefoot in an ankle length cotton nightdress, her hair loose around her shoulders, her face even paler than usual in the dim electric light. ‘I shouldn’t have been in such a hurry,’ I said. ‘I...haven’t hurt you?’
‘No, not all,’ she insisted, her voice a girlish whisper. Having had a moment to reflect, she was now averting her eyes, shock gradually giving way to a profound sense of embarrassment.
I bobbed down quickly to pick up my nightshirt, which I gathered together as best I could in front of myself. ‘I...I got my shirt caught...in the door,’ I muttered lamely. ‘Of the water closet,’ I added, for clarification. ‘Couldn’t get it out.’
She nodded absently, her eyes now focused determinedly on the nearest wall. I wasn’t sure if she had heard what I had said, less still if she had understood it. But then, I was babbling rather.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she ventured, as if I had just confided a family tragedy. ‘I was just going...’ Her voice trailed away. She was off to the little girls’ room. Why wouldn’t she be? I only wished she had thumped around and made a bit of noise, like everyone else. Then I might have been able to keep out of her way.
‘Well,’ I said, anxious to move on, ‘I’d better....’
She nodded vaguely and the conversation stuttered to a halt.
We moved silently past each other and continued on our separate paths. I reached the end of the central passageway, my heart thudding so hard beneath the bandages that I thought it would explode, and rushed finally towards the sanctuary of my own cabin. I slipped inside, closed the door behind me, dropped my nightshirt to the floor and let out a silent wail.
I might just as well have woken the whole bloody ship. Nobody would be in any doubt come morning that I had been skulking about, even if they hadn’t overheard my conversation with Miss Hurst. And I had stood there in my underclothes, all but naked, in front of the little English woman. She had to have seen the truth. She had to have realised that it wasn’t a man she was looking at. She would expose me as a fraud and then the stewards would label me a murderer. I clamped my hands to my face in despair and slid down the inside of the door. I was supposed to be heading to a new life in the Americas but it looked as if my life was already over.
It was all Lazenby’s fault. Why did he have to go putting ideas into my head? That damned sleeping draught. I rose to my feet and fumbled over to the bed. Maurice was still resting on the upper bunk. I jabbed him in the shoulder and clamped a hand over his mouth, to prevent him crying out as he woke up suddenly. I pulled back, once I was sure he was awake, and gestured as broadly as I could towards the door. I wasn’t sure if he could see me, but I moved back and a moment later he was swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and descending the metal steps. I opened the door a crack to let in some light and, as I slipped back into my nightshirt, he pulled on a dressing gown. I gestured for him to wait a moment. I wanted to make sure Miss Hurst had returned to her room after her nocturnal voyage. When I was sure she was safely back inside her cabin, I slid the door fully open and indicated for Maurice to follow me out into the corridor.
The lights were off in the passenger lounge. I closed the main door behind me, once the valet had stepped through it, and navigated cautiously through the tables and chairs towards the promenade and its multiplicity of windows. It was a clear, dark night – no moon reflected off the water that I could see – but the stars were out in force. I found a padded sofa just off to the left, out of view of the
door, and gestured for Maurice to take the seat next to me. Here at least we could talk in peace.
My valet had not spoken a word since I had woken him. I hoped he was being tactful – it must have been obvious how distressed I was – but it was difficult to tell with Maurice. I leaned in close to him. ‘Something’s gone horribly wrong,’ I said.
He did not blink. ‘Monsieur?’
‘Walter Kendall is dead. I found him lying in his shirt sleeves on the bed, stone cold.’
There was a long pause. ‘That is...most regrettable.’
‘Regrettable! It’s disastrous! It must have been the sleeping draught we gave him.’
‘That is a possibility,’ the valet conceded, after a moment’s consideration.
‘It’s hardly a possibility. It’s a cast iron certainty. We killed him, Morris, you and I. And when the police investigate we’ll both be hanged for murder.’
Maurice frowned. ‘That does not seem likely, Monsieur.’
‘What do you mean, not likely?’ I exclaimed. I was having trouble keeping control of my voice.
‘In America,’ he said, ‘they prefer the electric chair.’
I stifled a cry of horror. ‘You’re not helping, Morris!’
‘No, Monsieur.’
‘I was seen outside the room. That mouse of a woman, Miss Hurst. I bumped straight into her. Half naked, I might add.’
Maurice raised an eyebrow.
‘Me, not her. But that’s not important. The point is, I was seen leaving the scene of the crime. And my fingerprints are all over that cabin. Listen, that sleeping draught. Are you sure you had the right dosage?’
‘Yes, Monsieur. I followed the instructions precisely.’
I exhaled angrily. ‘Then how in heavens name did Kendall end up dead?’
The valet did not have an answer.
‘We’re going to be blamed for this, Morris. I’m going to be blamed. When they find that drug in his system, they’ll trace it back to me. As soon as....’ I stopped, retracing my thoughts. ‘Is there a doctor on board?’