by John Creasey
“Precisely.”
They had both laughed.
Palfrey had met the little man several times since, and found him easy enough to get along with. All reports of him were satisfactory; his personal life – he was a bachelor – was quite beyond reproach. No one appeared to show any particular interest in him. He was one of the easier charges – until the time of that nervous breakdown. It showed in irascibility, in outbursts of temper, in failure to concentrate, and finally he collapsed when in his laboratory on the outskirts of London.
“Nothing organically wrong,” the doctors declared. “He’s been over-working, that’s all. That kind of mind never knows when to stop. He must have a rest.”
“Such as?” someone in authority had asked.
“Probably the best thing for him would be a long cruise,” the doctors had answered.
This worried Palfrey, but he did not, at that stage, believe that he had sufficient grounds for advising the authorities not to agree. He had reported, of necessity, that none of his agents had been able to establish any cause other than accident for the loss of the Olympic, the Medici, and the Venus of Milo. Only Palfrey, his friend Andromovitch and a few men high in the counsels of Z5 knew that Palfrey was worried in case there was a connection, beyond that of coincidence, between the sinkings. He would have liked to go on Corvell’s cruise himself, but was too deeply involved in inquiries about other problems. However, he knew the Navy well enough to assume that exercises would be carried out near the ship – the S.S. Seafarer – for after all the Navy had to stage exercises somewhere. He sent one agent to be Corvell’s steward on the S.S. Seafarer, placed another agent among the officers, and also sent Julia Shawn.
Julia Shawn, at twenty-six, was quite outstandingly attractive – that was why she had been selected – and absolutely reliable. She was briefed by Palfrey in his small, plainly furnished office deep beneath the throbbing heart of London.
“You have two jobs,” Palfrey told her. “First, help Corvell to have as good a time as possible, remembering that this is a combination of convalescence and rest-cure. Second, watch anyone who appears to take too much interest in him.”
“Do you think anyone will?” Julia asked.
“I think someone might,” Palfrey answered, drily.
Chapter Two
MEDITERRANEAN NIGHT
“What I can’t understand, Julia,” Paul Henson complained, “is what you see in that buffoon. He ought to be on the stage or in a circus.”
“Perhaps he is, when he’s not on a cruise,” Julia said. “Why on earth do you spend so much time with him?”
“He is a man,” Julia answered.
The moment later, she wished she hadn’t said that. Paul was a little on the earnest side, but apart from that, she could hardly fault him. If she hadn’t her job to do she would have spent much more time with him and much, much less with the professor, although she did not dislike Corvell. In fact, she had come to like him, almost from the moment he had leaned forward at the table which they shared with six others, touched her arm and beamed into her face.
“Do call me Timmy, won’t you?”
Timmy …
He was an accomplished dancer, too; better than Paul, who hadn’t a real sense of rhythm, only of discipline; he had been trained on the ballroom floor, Timmy was a natural.
“He’s a clown,” Paul retorted. “When you dance together it looks damned silly.”
“It feels lovely,” Julia said. “There aren’t many men as light on their feet.”
She was beginning to feel uneasy, because it looked as if Paul was going to try to force the issue, and she did not want him to become too serious – not yet, anyhow. She must allow nothing to distract her from her main job. At the moment she was off duty, as far as one could be on board this sleek, beautifully appointed ship sailing this smooth, beautifully moonlit sea. They were out of sight of the south of Europe and the north of Africa, in a world which was virtually their own. It was just after dinner. Timmy had gone down to his cabin; “Just a little post-prandial relaxation, my dear, exactly what the doctor ordered!’’ The Z5 steward was on duty, and would send word when Timmy left the main deck, where his cabin was amidships. The night air was soft, and translucent light put a sheen on Julia’s dark hair, and seemed to give it a halo, put a sheen onto her dark blue eyes, and made her lips glisten.
“Julia,” Paul said. She thought she detected stiffness of tone, as if this time he was really offended. “It’s no use trying to needle me. I won’t be needled.”
That was better!
“It’s the last thing I want to do. But Timmy’s a much nicer little man than you think.”
“Who is he?” inquired Henson.
“Timothy! A manufacturer of cheap-priced lingerie!”
“That’s what he says he is,” said Paul. “I’ve seen his face somewhere, and I can’t place it. I’ve a feeling that he’s very wealthy.”
Julia laughed.
“Do you think I’m after his fortune?”
“As a matter of fact, I don’t,” Paul said. “But I think a lot of people do. I don’t suppose it greatly matters to you what people think, but I hate to hear them talking about you. The latest rumour is—”
He broke off.
It did not matter, of course, and Julia didn’t care; yet in a way she must, because she was annoyed. She felt the colour rise to her cheeks, and was glad that the light was so poor that Paul couldn’t see that. She did not look away from him, and tried to keep her voice steady; the danger was that she might try too hard, and sound flippant. As she let these flashes of thought pass through her mind she realised that this man mattered to her more than she had thought. That was the only possible explanation of the fact that she felt so keenly about what he said.
“I’d love to hear the latest rumour,” she said lightly.
“Forget it.”
“Now, Paul. You can’t whet my appetite and then snatch the tempting morsel away.”
He did not speak for a moment, but at last put his hands forward, gripped hers, pulled her a little closer, and said in a hard voice:
“This is not funny. They say that you spend half the night in his cabin. If you do—”
“Paul, dear,” Julia said very softly. “I think I ought to tell you what I think about you for even listening to such talk. And I know you ought to tell the gossips what you think of them, instead of coming and checking up on me.” She pulled her hands free, but he tried to stop her. She was suddenly, furiously angry. “Let me go!”
He dropped her hands as if they were hot coals.
She turned her head, cheeks flaming, breath coming very quickly. She heard Paul cough, could imagine what he was feeling. Then two things happened to distract her – at that very moment when all her thoughts were on Paul, on rumour, on the reputation she had acquired on board the ship. She was just beginning to wonder why anyone should spread the scandal, whether it was simply a malicious-tongued bitch of a woman or a man she had disappointed, or whether it might possibly be an attempt to distract her from her main job. There was always the danger that a Z5 agent might be known, and that deliberate attempts might be made to take her mind off her work; always the chance that someone knew who “Timmy Chitty” really was. There was even the possibility that Paul knew, and was deliberately upsetting her, so that she could not concentrate on her job. These thoughts were vague and confused, anger predominating – and at first she hardly realised that there was a vessel on the calm sea, not far away.
Then she noticed a silver shape, like a miniature submarine. It was several miles away, and moving fast, causing a sharp v of wake.
She could not see anyone on it. The silver craft puzzled her so much that momentarily she forgot Paul. Next moment, quite unexpectedly, the Professor appeared on deck, strolling along puffing at a cigar. He
stood at the ship’s rail, staring towards the little silvery boat.
“Julia,” Paul was saying, “I’m terribly sorry.”
She didn’t answer.
“Julia—” he began again.
She glanced round. “Paul, what’s that?”
“What’s what?”
“Look, there. That boat?”
She pointed. The Professor was still leaning against the rail, and the end of his cigar glowed. The sea was so calm it was almost uncanny, and the moon shimmered on it as if on a mirror. There was the faint droning sound of the ship’s engines; someone was walking about above their heads, on the games’ deck; young couples, probably. No one else was up here on the boat deck, near the stern.
“It looks like a midget submarine,” Paul said. “It’s almost like a rocket missile, isn’t it?”
Julia felt a stab of fear.
“It’s gathering speed,” said Paul. Excitement sounded in his voice – naturally he was glad of this interruption. He gripped her arm. “Look, there’s a kind of window in that conning tower. It’s damned odd. Surely one of the crew’s seen it.”
He looked about him. Julia saw the little craft gather speed, heading as if with uncontrollable speed towards the S.S. Seafarer.
Quite suddenly, there was a sharp cracking sound. Almost on the instant a great spout of water shot high into the air, like the blowing of a huge whale. It shot up in an enormous mushroom. The moonlight shimmered on it, but the iridescent light seemed to go dim. Water splashed against the side of the liner, then a tremendous wave followed.
“Look out!” cried Paul.
“Professor!” screamed Julia. “Pro—”
She began to run towards “Timmy”, but Paul clutched her from behind, with an arm round her waist; it was like a steel band. She saw the Professor gaping at the wave as it came bearing down upon the ship, so huge that already its foaming crest towered above the level of this deck, and looked as if it would smash over the games deck, even over the bridge. There was a great hissing and roaring.
“Professor!” Julia screamed again. She scratched at Paul’s hands, but he did not let go. She had a last glimpse of Corvell, hands raised, cigar dropping from his lips, gaping at the wave. Next moment, Paul got both arms round her, lifted her bodily, and flung her downwards towards one of the hatches. Somehow, he managed to break her fall. Before she realised what had happened, before she knew that she was face downwards on the deck, with him on top of her, the hissing reached screaming pitch and a great weight smashed down upon them both. She felt Paul’s hands drawn away from her body. She was drenched, as if she had plunged fully dressed into the sea. The frightening hissing sounds grew louder and louder. She was flung heavily against the side of the gangway, banged her head, and was sickened and dazed. The ocean tugged at her, greedily. She felt herself floating in several feet of water and knew that she was being drawn by the back-wash against the rail and the sea. She felt panic, but had absolutely no control over her movements. She could not see Paul or the Professor, could see nothing except the pale green water of the sea, and the strange lights upon it, caused by a silvery flash. Then she banged up against the rails. Her legs slid underneath, but her body jammed against the lower rung. The sea seemed to be fighting for her, as if it wanted at all costs to drag her in, but the rail held.
Sssssss-sssss, the water howled and screeched, as if it were trying to terrify her. Sssssss-sssss. Then she realised that the ship had heeled over on one side, it looked as if the sea was coming up to meet her, to swamp her again; it looked as if it was coming to engulf the great liner.
Then slowly, terrifyingly slowly, the ship righted itself. The hissing sound kept on, but was less strident and less deafening. Water spilled all about the deck, but it no longer pushed or pulled Julia so tightly against the rails. She clutched the bottom rail with her right hand. She was aware that she was gasping for breath, that she had swallowed a lot of sea water, that she was feeling sick – she was sick.
The ship rolled time and time again, but the degree of each roll was less. Soon she was lying still on her side, on the soaked deck. She could see the sea, which was almost calm again, and lit by moonbeams.
Paul wasn’t here.
Professor Corvell had vanished, too.
After a while, Julia heard voices. Slowly, painfully, she hauled herself to her feet. She felt bruised and tender all over, particularly on her right knee and at her forehead. She stood by the rail, clutching tightly; there was little movement of the ship now, she would be in no danger if she let go, and yet she dared not.
Men appeared; a ship’s officer and a seaman. They came hurrying towards her. She recognised one of the junior engineers. He began to run, slipped on the wet deck, recovered, and reached her. He slid his arm round her waist, reminding her of Paul.
Paul.
The Professor.
“Are you all right?” The youngster gasped the words. “Are you—all right?”
“Yes, I—”
“Can you get below on your own?”
As he spoke, more men appeared, several of them in dinner-jackets, passengers who seemed to know what they were doing. A thickset, middle-aged man, came up and said:
“I’ll look after her.”
“How many—how many were swept overboard?” another man asked.
“Very few, sir. There wouldn’t be many on deck at this hour. There’s a man overboard alert, don’t worry.” The young engineer sounded positive. “And don’t spread rumours, please.”
The questioner’s voice had a shrill edge.
“But there must have been—”
“If you can’t keep quiet, get below,” ordered the man who was helping Julia. “There can’t have been many. He’s quite right.”
There had been Paul, tall, earnest, good-looking Paul. Oh, dear God! And there had been the Professor. Julia felt sick and dazed and frightened. She allowed the middle-aged man to take her as far as the first staircase landing; white-clad stewards were coming up, now, and two nurses appeared. A woman with a badly cut arm was saying:
“But I know she was up on deck, I’m absolutely sure.” She was about fifty, grey-haired, dressed in a glittering dress, wearing scintillating diamond rings, brooches, pins and earrings. She gripped Julia’s hand, and blood from the cut spilled onto Julia’s wet forearm and spread, a pale pink. “Were you up there?” A frightened face was thrust close to hers. “Did you see my daughter? She went up with a man.”
There had been the footsteps, overhead.
“I haven’t seen—” Julia began.
The woman pushed past her, a bald-headed man just behind her calling: “Maggie, she’ll be all right. Don’t get so worked up. She’ll be all right.” They disappeared.
A steward took Julia’s arm.
“Like me to help you down, Miss?”
“No. I—I must see the Captain.”
“You’ll have to wait a little while, miss, he’s pretty busy. Cor strewth, never seen anything like it in twenty years at sea. Never known a ship stand on her nose before.”
Julia pulled herself free, and went along a narrow passage towards the captain’s quarters. Stewards and junior officers barred her way, pale-faced, worried men. She was stopped near the radio office. The Radio Officer was a youngish man named Green; Julia had sent three radio reports to Palfrey already. Green was sitting at the huge control panel, with two assistants. A steward was saying:
“You can’t go along to the captain’s room yet, miss. If you’ll go and rest—”
Julia pulled herself free, and thrust her way into the radio office.
“I must see Captain Smedley!”
The plump Radio Officer turned round, recognised her, stood up and said: “All right, Miss Shawn, I’ll arrange it. But he won’t have much time to spare. If I could give him a me
ssage,” he went on, with hopeful cunning.
“I must find out if Mr Chitty is safe,” Julia said. She knew in her heart that it was no use, Chitty must have been swept off his feet and into the sea; he must be drowned. But she could not tell Palfrey until she was absolutely sure.
The Radio Officer said: “I know that the Captain’s ordered a search for him, Miss – everything possible will be done. I will get a call through to your London people as soon as I can. It shouldn’t be long. Will you wait in your cabin?”
After a pause, she said: “I’ll see if I can help down below.”
She went down the stairs, holding onto the rail. Water dripped from her dress, which clung to her like a sheath; she did not give it a thought, and no one else paid much attention. On the stairs, on the landings, along the passages, injured people were lying. She helped two to sit up, two to their cabins. She went back to the promenade deck, where the Crystal Bar had been wrecked. Bottles had been flung all over the floor, chairs uprooted, glasses smashed, cocktail bits spread like snow all over the rich red carpet. A barman was sitting on one of the stools, and a nurse was dabbing at his forehead. Several women were helping the injured. A tall, lean officer came by as a passenger hurried along to him.
“Mr Chamberlain, please! My son was up on deck. Is he all right?”
“We’re checking, sir,” said the officer; the zig-zag gold braid told Julia that he was an engineer. “I think you’ll find he’s all right.”
A woman was distraught because of her daughter, this man horrified because of fear for his son. People were hurrying to and fro. Music was being played – dance music. Julia passed the main lounge and saw people sitting back, some bleeding, some with their eyes closed. More stewards were rendering first aid, and she saw Bingo cards and Bingo pencils and Bingo call-balls all over the floor.
A snowy-haired old lady passed by, saying calmly to a frail old man:
“It could have been a real disaster, Joseph. Thank God it was no worse.”
The Professor had been swept overboard.