THURSDAY'S ORCHID

by Mitchell, Robert

  Perhaps I should have stayed in my cabin and drunk real whisky.

  I sat on the deck and took long slow breaths, trying to calm myself. My nerves had never let me down before; but I had never been trapped on a ship with a killer before, a killer who could choose his own time, his own place.

  The whole ship seemed like a dark island, with the devil and me the only inhabitants, and with no way off for one of us, and all the aces in the devil’s hand.

  After a minute or two of deep breathing I was ready to go on again. It had to be done. I searched the deck but there wasn’t a soul to be seen; and no sound that should not have been there, just the creaking of the hull.

  The door to the paint locker was still ajar, as it had been during the afternoon. I stepped inside, keeping my back against the door as I pulled it to me, closing out the moonlight. The steel vault became pitch black. All I could hear was the sound of my own breathing and the steady thump of my heart. I was certain I was alone, that he was not there waiting for me, but I was still afraid to draw my back away from the protection of the cold hard door.

  The light from my torch made a mockery of my fear. The locker was empty – of people that is; but otherwise a shambles: a clutter of tins of paint, coils of rope, drums of chain, wire hawsers, shackles and tools. There was some order in the chaos, but not much. The chain was on one side, the paint up forward, and the rest just lying where it had been dropped.

  There were a dozen things that could have been used to bash Pete across the neck: a heavy shackle, some steel bars and even a couple of hammers. I picked up several and they all had traces of grease, but then so did everything in the locker. I was wasting my time, and my nerves.

  The crew were probably in and out of this locker all day. It was no use looking for something the killer might have left behind. Anything lying on the floor could just as well have been dropped by any one of a dozen people, and each item would show at least twenty sets of fingerprints.

  Searching for the murder weapon was useless anyway. There wouldn’t be any blood on it. The skin on his neck hadn’t been broken. There might be the imprint of the weave of the material fixed into the grease, but I was no forensic scientist, and to establish which object had been used would take a laboratory full of equipment.

  I should have thought it through with more care. Better still, I should have taken a casual look into the locker during the day. It would have been enough to satisfy my curiosity.

  As I turned back to the door, my wrist hit one of the pillars supporting the deck above my head and the torch flew out of my hand, the light spinning and whirling until it crashed to the steel floor. Pitch-black darkness enveloped everything. I heard the torch roll, but to where I couldn’t tell.

  I was panic-stricken. The door was behind me. Or was it? I crouched on the floor and began to creep around in a circle, trying to reorientate myself. I touched the pillar again. The door had to be behind me! I moved backwards until I felt it pressing into my heels, and then stood up slowly, running my hands around the edge, finding the handle.

  For all I cared the bastard could have been outside behind the door, waiting for me to emerge. He would have had to have been quick. I was through that door like a greyhound out of a trap and didn’t stop until I was back at the side of the winch-house, shaking like a leaf, drops of moisture clouding my vision.

  The trembling slowly subsided; my breath returned and my head stopped spinning, and once again I was capable of rational thought. The torch! Where the hell was the blasted torch? I steeled myself to return to the locker and walked back, step by reluctant step. But the moonlight hardly penetrated past the open doorway. The torch would have to stay where it was until I had a chance to search for it in the daylight. I didn’t want to lose it. I’d had it for years. It was a present from George, inscribed with some sentimental words of wisdom.

  I must have been gone from my cabin for an hour or more. It was getting late; and if I was caught on deck by anyone at this time of night I might have some explaining to do, particularly dressed the way I was.

  I turned away from the paint locker and made my way back along the deck, keeping in shadow wherever I could. The lifting gear still crashed against the winch-house, but this time it was a comforting sound, something to focus on. The nearer I got to the accommodation section, the louder became the rumbling of the engines: a familiar sound that spoke of men and machinery. I was coming out from the unknown, back into the realm of the living.

  Stealth had gone by the time I reached the upper-deck hatchway leading into the ship, to the safety of my cabin. I burst into the passage, fumbled for my key and threw open the cabin door, ready to meet anyone hiding there. The cabin was as I had left it: the curtain drawn across the porthole, the roll of blankets still beneath the top sheet.

  The glass of real whisky hardly touched the sides of my throat as I tossed it down, two-handed. And, by some miracle, it stayed there; although it was touch and go for one horrible second.

  Hanging my sweater across the porthole to completely block out the night, I turned on the light and inspected myself. The knees of my jeans were a mess, but nothing that a good wash wouldn’t fix. Apart from the dust and the dirt I had picked up, there was nothing to show that I had been creeping about the deck in the dark – except for my trembling hands and pounding heart.

  The poor security of the cabin worried me. I was tired, worn out, and scared. If I fell off to sleep it would be a deep one and there would be no way I would wake fast enough to deal with an intruder. He could be through the door and on to me before I could even raise the sheets. There was a lock, but I couldn’t trust it, and the bastard probably had a key. The one chair I had propped against the door the previous night was not enough. I sat on the edge of the bunk, sipping at the whisky.

  I placed the easy chair alongside the desk fixed to the wall, and the other chair next to that, and then wedged one of my suitcases between the chair and the door. It made a tight fit. I tried the door, unlocking and jerking it, but it didn’t budge; and, just in case he was more dexterous than I gave him credit for, I propped the water jug on top of the suitcase. It would be impossible to get the door open without sending the empty jug crashing to the floor, making enough noise to either wake me, or to scare him away.

  My security arrangements taken care of, I crawled into bed with another stiff whisky under my belt and was soon in that deep sleep.

  I looked across at the sun shining on the other side of the porthole and realised that I had slept the rest of the night without interruption. The clatter of cups reached my ears as the Indian steward knocked gently on the door and slipped his key into the lock. As a paying passenger, I was one of the privileged few who received a morning cup of coffee; although not every morning. It depended on his mood of the day; and usually I just called for him to come in, but this time there was a loud yell as I told him to wait. It was a mad sprint to remove the suitcase and throw it under the bunk. The two chairs were flung across the room. He entered to find me, stark naked, holding the water jug. I had been too tired to bother with pyjamas.

  He didn’t bat an eyelid, and sneaked a quick look around the cabin, as though he were a hotel waiter suspecting a guest of smuggling a female in for the night.

  On his way out he took one last look at my nakedness, pausing for an instant. A questioning glance, as though he had never seen one of such a pale colour before.

  Breakfast was more than welcome. I was ravenous. The fear on the darkened deck had used up reserves of energy that had to be restored. I was glad to be back amongst the officers. There was safety in numbers. It was a more cheerful meal than dinner the night before. They were starving now, and thoughts of Pete laid out in the freezer were beginning to fade.

  Flint was his miserable self again, but his temper had cooled. I had no doubt that his private stock had taken a considerable punishment before he had finally dropped off to an untroubled sleep the previous evening. The steward was happy; and I hoped it hadn’t
been thoughts of my beautiful white body that broadened his smile as I sat down to eat.

  The ship had stopped her slight roll, the sea now calm, the sun shining, and a gentle breeze blowing. Peaceful, and yet my thoughts still drifted to Pete lying stiff amongst the sides of lamb and beef; and I knew that but for the parka it might have been me stretched out rigid and cold.

  Syrius was moving through the water at a good rate of knots, gliding through the calm sea and sending a bow wave spreading out behind us. The second officer reckoned we were doing seventeen knots – just over thirty kilometres an hour.

  Now that Pete was gone I was at a loose end. I kept to myself for most of the morning, and spent the greater part of the afternoon up on the bridge. Flint didn’t seem to mind. It probably gave him someone to talk to other than his Chinese officers. All I had been able to get out of them were monosyllabic answers and I don’t think the captain would have fared any better.

  “Where are you bound for, Mr. Rider?” he asked. He still couldn’t get around to calling me by my Christian name. “I mean, once we get to Singapore?”

  “I’m not really certain,” I replied, keeping to the semi-friendly tone he had used. “There’s a few people I want to look up.” I had to keep it as general as I could. “I was in Singapore on business a few months ago doing some research for my book, and made a number of friends.” Which was fairly accurate. “There’s also a couple of ladies it might be fun to meet again.” Here was the opening I needed to sidetrack him. “Tell me, what do you think of the ladies of Singapore?”

  “Don’t have much to do with tarts,” he grumbled. “Get into too much trouble. Besides, I’m a married man.”

  I hadn’t thought of him as being married. He went on staring out towards the sea, perhaps thinking of his wife and family, wherever they might be. At least I had got his mind off Singapore, or so I thought.

  “And after Singapore, what then?” he asked, looking up from the compass. “Going to write your book?”

  “I don’t really know,” I replied. “I might go on somewhere else.” I waited until he had his face into the radar hood and then asked: “Where’s the ship headed after Singapore. I might come with you.”

  His head shot up out of the rubber hood. He looked at me, not certain whether I was serious or only making fun of him. Then, knowing I didn’t really expect an answer to my question, he moved off to the chart room. I followed after him and then rubbed it in. “But I’ll only come along if you can give an undertaking that there’ll be nobody else falling down ladders and things.”

  He spun round. “Damn you, you young smart-arse! I didn’t want you two on board in the first place!”

  I felt small. It wasn’t his fault. He hadn’t killed Pete. He was the effect, not the cause.

  “Captain,” I said. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” He grunted, but didn’t say a word. “Tell me,” I went on. “When do you think we’ll get to Singapore?”

  He looked up from his charts, silent for a moment, still offended, but the redness now gone from his face.

  “Difficult to give a time and day at this stage,” he said quietly. “It depends on the weather and currents. The currents could give us an extra two knots, but the wind will probably blow against us. If it stays like it is at the moment we could arrive at Singapore in sixteen or seventeen days. But if it blows up, then who knows? Ask me again in ten days’ time.”

  “What effect could the weather have on our speed?” I asked.

  He pulled one of the charts from the pile and spread it out on the chart table. “Once we get into the Solomon and Bismarck Seas we’ll need plenty of sea-room.” He pointed to an area on the chart. “If the weather closes down then we go to half speed.” I looked up from the chart to see him smiling. “We wouldn’t want to bump into an island or another ship now, would we?”

  I wasn’t sure whether he was trying to frighten me, but I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction if he was. As he rolled the chart up, I asked: “And when will we be in the first of those two seas?”

  He smiled to himself, knowing he had the better of me. “At our present rate of knots we should be around the Louisiade Archipelago towards first light in the morning. That’s just off the south-eastern tip of New Guinea. From then on we’ll be in the Solomon Sea.” At least he knew his navigation. What did it matter what his manners were like? “And about twenty-four hours after that, once we pass through the strait which separates New Britain from New Guinea, we should be into the Bismarck Sea. Here.” He reached for another chart. “This is the strait we go through.”

  I looked down at the chart. There were islands and reefs all over the place. He rolled the chart up and walked back to the radar, busying himself with the affairs of the ship for the next five minutes and not giving me a second thought.

  He was becoming bored with my questions, and I had something else I wanted to go and do, something for Pete. There were so many things Pete had planned to do after Singapore. I couldn’t do those for him, but at least I could make certain that the contents of his freezers got to his clients, and the money was paid. I could send it to his parents. They would appreciate that, and if Pete was up there watching down on us, he would be pleased, knowing he had been proven right after all.

  But that would have to wait until we docked in Singapore, and yet there was another thing he had promised to do that couldn’t wait. We had been going to compose a telegram to his one-night stand in Cairns – Annie, or Ann, or whatever. His death had put a stop to that, but there was no reason why it couldn’t still be sent. Her address was in the leather-bound diary he carried. The last place I had seen it was on the dresser in his cabin.

  I went up and tried the door, but it was locked – captain’s orders, nothing to be touched until the authorities gave clearance. I could force the lock, but someone might notice the scratches. Then I remembered the Indian steward and his use of a key to my cabin door that morning. He had a set of master keys to all of the cabins; and I knew where he kept them. There was a hook on the wall by the galley door where I had seen them hanging on more than one occasion.

  The third key fitted and I slipped into the cabin and closed the door. The dresser was bare. Everything had been taken: no comb, no small change, no dirty clothes and no diary. Suddenly the door rattled. I watched as it turned, watched as the door slowly opened towards me. I stepped backwards, adrenalin surging, fists clenched and ready to fend off the attack. The Indian steward stood in the doorway, repeating his stare of the morning.

  “What you want here?” he demanded.

  “Mr. Cameron borrowed my sunglasses while we were in Cairns,” I shot back. “I wanted to get them back.” It was the best I could come up with at short notice. “They don’t seem to be here. Nothing seems to be here. Where is everything?”

  “Captain lock everything in captain’s cabin. Lock money and papers in captain’s safe. You go now.”

  He was in trouble. I shouldn’t have been able to get his keys. He had been careless and he knew it.

  “Where you get keys?” he asked angrily.

  I was certain he wouldn’t talk to the captain, and even if he did, it wouldn’t matter. It would be embarrassing, that’s all. Flint’s face would crease in a grin as I told him about Pete’s steady girlfriend doing the dirty on him before he was even out of the country. He would have a laugh at Pete’s expense. But, on the other hand, maybe it was better that he didn’t find out.

  I had a couple of dollars in my pocket and handed them to the steward. “Let’s keep this to ourselves, shall we?” I gave him a wink as he took the cash from my fingers. He locked the door after I had stepped out into the passage, and waited whilst I walked away, not moving until I turned into the stairwell.

  Maybe handing him the money had not been such a good idea, but it was done now.

  That night I rigged my door again. I had told the steward during dinner to forget about early morning coffee in future. I think he already had.

&n
bsp; I crawled between the sheets, sure in the knowledge that at last I would have my eight hours of deep uninterrupted sleep.

  Nothing was ever so far from the truth!

  Eleven

  I was dead to the world, dreaming about a young lady I had seduced in the back of a friend’s car after some school dance – way back in the halcyon days of adolescent youth. She was a sweet, petite, blue-eyed innocent: all blushes. The ball gown was up around her waist: a mass of pink ribbon and ruffles. Her hands were pushing mine away, but not struggling as much as she should have been.

  Her lips moved to my ear and she kept whispering: “Please don’t do that. No, you mustn’t. Someone might come! Please be careful.”

  We were going at it in a passionate fury. It was a large car – an old Pontiac. Pant, pant, stroke, groan and then the feeling started to build with a rush. At that age it didn’t take very long.

  There was a sudden thrust from beneath, rocketing me through the air, tossing me off her soft body and dropping me on my back on the floor with my legs up in the air. The bitch had shoved me away with energy you wouldn’t have believed possible, right at the vital moment, and, like a fool, all I could do was lie on the floor and stare up at my legs; and yet they weren’t my legs.

  I blinked and looked again. They were my legs, but they had pyjama pants on; and there was no cute young maiden looking down at me with innocent eyes. I struggled up out of the depths of sleep and slowly realised where I was – on the floor of my cabin with my legs propped up against the wall. I stood up and, as I put my feet to the deck, realised that the whole ship was shuddering violently.

  I looked over at the door, thinking at first that the killer was inside the room, but it was still closed and my barricade intact; except for the water jug. It was in pieces on the floor.