Christopher was his usual cheery self, keeping up a continuous stream of amusing banter; his green eyes sparkled, as he related anecdotes of former visits to Taronga Park, the animals he had seen, some of his past companions.
“Last time we were here, one of our passengers, a youngish woman – really quite pretty – leant too far over the rail of the ferry boat ... One minute she was there, and the next minute there was a scream, and she was gone ... One of us ... well, it was me actually ... had to jump in and fish her out. The crew of the boat were gormless, hopeless ... Luckily for me, Davey Goodenow was there ... He persuaded them to stop the ferry ... He threw us life-jackets and a rope ... I was wet for the whole of our trip around the zoo, but at least the young lady was happy ...”
Danny remained strangely subdued. Once or twice I caught him looking strangely at Joanne and me, a crafty expression on his usually guileless face.
We lingered in the Australian section of the zoo. As well as photographing my friends, I studied the kangaroos (red and grey), wallabies, a spiny ant-eater and a tree-borne koala bear.
“Isn't he cuddly? Isn't he cute?” Joanne was uncharacteristically 'girly' in her enthusiasm for the koala.
Unfortunately, the animals I had wanted most to see were impossible to capture on film: I caught mere glimpses of the platypus, a small furry creature with four webbed feet, beaver's tail and duck bill, looking like an elaborate fake; the Tasmanian Devil, resembling a giant striped rat, likewise disappeared before I could ready my camera.
“Look at this!” enthused Danny, pointing to a modest notice almost hidden from sight. “The duck-billed platypus and the giant spiny ant-eater are the only mammals in the world to lay eggs ...”
We watched a circus, with its performing dogs and horses, and its monkeys on roller skates. Later we joined a miniature train, full of squealing Australian children, for a ride round the park, taking in the elephant house (in the shape of an Indian fort), the aquarium and aviary, the clumps of palm trees, the rockeries and shaded picnic areas. Joanne sat very close, yet looking carefully away.
“Can I come to your cabin this evening?” she whispered. I nodded.
After tea, we returned to the ship to shower and change; later we were joined by Jamie Cameron, third engineer, and Davey Goodenough (“Pronounced Goodenow”), second ship's officer, for a night on the town. It was to be an all-male party, since Joanne had opted out. As the last purple streaks faded from the horizon, and the sky turned from deep aquamarine to Prussian blue, we strolled together down William Street towards the heart of King's Cross, the Soho of Sydney. There was now a chill in the air, and we were glad we had changed into suits and ties.
“We're like fine city gents,” Jamie summed us up.
The place was brightly lit and teeming with life, everyone eager for enjoyment. Most of the restaurants were just opening; guided by Davey, we made our way to a Japanese eating house: behind a narrow façade, the place expanded into a sizeable chamber lit by paper lanterns; it was already quite full, and the customers, almost exclusively Japanese (some in Western and some in traditional Oriental garb), sat cross-legged at low tables, conversing rapidly in their own language, while deftly feeding themselves with chopsticks.
“How will I manage to sit like that, throughout the entire meal?” I wondered.
We were ushered to a corner table; I discovered that under the table was a trench which accommodated my legs, so that I could sit normally, though still giving the impression of sitting cross-legged. The service was brisk, and I received a succession of dainty octagonal porcelain dishes. Davey, who had ordered, gave a running commentary on their contents:
“Sushi – raw fish stuffed with rice; sushimi – raw fish without rice; ramen – soup and noodles; kare noodle – noodles in coconut soup; teppan – fried noodle dish; kambokayo – fish roll; gyoza – dumplings ...”
I had eaten regularly in Chinese restaurants, while I worked in the East End of London, but this was the first time I had tried Japanese food: the taste was strange, but not unpleasant. Unlike the ivory chopsticks to which I was accustomed, these were wooden, and had to be split apart before use (presumably to show they were virgin). Davey ordered warm saki for us, drunk from small thimbles; it was surprisingly strong.
My neighbour was Jamie Cameron; after a few false starts, I was able to draw him into conversation. Soon we were discussing Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes stories. We concurred that we enjoyed the broad narrative sweep of the full-length novels (such as The Hound of the Baskervilles and A Study in Scarlet); yet we both preferred the short stories: their spare succinct style, Doyle's knack of setting the scene and creating an atmosphere in a couple of deft sentences, his ability to weave a plot and show off the deductive powers of his hero in half a dozen pages. I felt a warm glow of friendship for this dour Glaswegian, whose dialect I could barely follow.
“Ye've a bit of a Sherlock Holmes reputation yersel, mon ...”
It was one of those singular, though by no means unknown, coincidences: there was a sudden lull in the conversation of the entire restaurant; in the silence Jamie's voice echoed like a thunderclap. I flushed, as I felt all eyes upon me. Must the whole world know of my (admittedly undeserved) reputation as a sleuth on board the SS Koh-i-Noor? But hang on; only a handful of these Japanese diners was likely to understand English, and I doubted that even they could penetrate Jamie's dense Glaswegian accent ...
I was staggering slightly, as we debouched into the cold night air.
We dropped into a succession of happy crowded bars, where we sipped cold Australian lager; the other customers were gulping it down, as though the town were running dry; I soon discovered why: at ten o'clock all the bars closed!
“How about a couple of hands of poker when we get back to the ship?” enquired Christopher tentatively. Davey's eyes lit up immediately.
“No thanks. Not for me,” I pitched in, before anyone else could respond, my mind on Joanne Flinders. “I intend to have an early night.”
After our ejection from the final establishment, we milled around King's Cross for a further twenty minutes, in the company of other merry drinkers, before calling it a day, and returning in a taxi to the Koh-i-Noor.
Back in my cabin, I waited for Joanne ...
I awoke, fully dressed, slumped in an easy chair, the cabin bathed in the warm light of the reading lamp, my book on the floor beside my chair. She had changed her mind!
Tuesday, 2nd August: On my last full day in Sydney, I went walk-about on my own, straight after breakfast, while the pale sun was still trying to make headway against the chill of the night.
“The harbour was discovered by Captain Arthur Philip on 6th January 1788,” I had read in my guide book. “He commanded two ships, which had sailed from England with a thousand souls, of whom seven hundred were transported convicts. His aim was to start a new settlement in Australia (following the loss of the penal colonies in America after the War of Independence). The town which sprang up around the harbour was named after the First Baron Sydney, the Home and Colonial Secretary.”
I strolled slowly along Darling Harbour towards Pyrmont Bridge, gazing at the cranes and the general nautical bustle. There was a variety of vessels: cargo ships, another passenger liner, tramp steamers, pleasure launches, tugs, fishing boats, but all were dwarfed by the SS Koh-i-Noor; a broad old-fashioned ferry wended its way across the water towards the clown-face entrance to Luna Amusement Park. A couple of sailors were painting the sides of a rusting tub; a fisherman was repairing a net on the quay by his boat. A lithe blonde in a bikini and sun-glasses lay tanning herself on a sun-lounger on the top deck of a large expensive-looking ocean going yacht. The raucous cries of sea-gulls, circling, squabbling amongst themselves, scavenging for food, brought me out of my reverie.
I ambled slowly on, turning my attention from the beautiful passenger to a cargo vessel being loaded by a tall rusty crane; back and forth it went, depositing crates from a stack on the quay-side onto
the deck of the boat. Mesmerised, I watched, drowsing on my feet in the increasing warmth of the early morning sun.
“Hoy, look out ...”
I was shaken from my trance by the shout: as though still in a dream, I saw an object toppling slowly from the netting sling of the crane; two onlookers jumped for cover, but I remained rooted to the ground. The wayward crate crashed onto the quay only feet away from me, before bouncing into the deep water of the harbour. Suddenly I had lost all interest in the scene. I walked slowly away, feeling weak and sick, my heart pounding painfully.
As the morning progressed, I gradually recovered my composure and my good humour. I found myself in Market Street, a busy main road in the central business district, leading away from the harbour. I browsed in a book-store crammed with new and second-hand volumes, inhaling the rich smell of leather and good quality paper that I could never resist. I glanced in a window of David Jones, one of the numerous department stores, displaying hideous floral sun-dresses and unfashionable twin-sets, years behind the Carnaby Street scene back home. I passed the Art Deco State Theatre, and numerous tall modern office blocks, heading for Hyde Park. Suddenly I felt a knotting of the stomach, and an exposed feeling between the shoulder-blades: in the teeming pedestrian traffic, someone was following me; at any minute I expected a bullet in the back!
By the statue of Captain Cook, near the centre of the park, were two benches; I sat down on one, pretending to sunbathe, while carefully scrutinising the open spaces from under half-closed lids for a familiar face. All around me, people moved purposefully. Statuesque women in rudimentary shorts, exposed shapely tanned legs; some had tied up their floral blouses under their breasts to show off a neat bare midriff (a long way from the department store fashions I had just observed). Big beefy men with red faces and peeling noses displayed their beer-bellies ... Hold on – wasn't that John Smith again from the Koh-i-Noor? But no, as he came closer, I found that he was a total stranger ... An elderly man walked by, erect and trim, in cream suit and Panama hat. As I watched, nobody paused in their stride; nobody gazed in my direction; no-one looked in the least suspicious. I was being paranoid! I let out my breath gently; my pulse gradually slowed. I relaxed – I could once more enjoy my excursion.
At the edge of the park, I spied an empty bar. I entered, found a table with a window view, and ordered a T-bone steak and a pint of lager. By the time my food arrived, I was ravenously hungry – a reaction to my earlier fright. The rare steak was huge, filling the plate, the accompanying chips and salad overflowing onto side dishes; soon I had consumed it all. During my meal no-one entered the establishment, and no-one had hovered outside. Reassured and replete, I again took to the streets; I sauntered contentedly back towards the harbour.
At the quay-side, on a sudden impulse, I entered the AMP Tower, one of the city's landmarks; I bought a ticket, and rode the lift to the top. Alone on the observation deck, the only movement a ball of newspaper blown around by the wind, I cast my eye over the panorama of Sydney, spread below me like a map. The view was breathtaking: the sweep of the city to the south; to the east, the myriad greens of the Botanic Gardens, the dark brown brick of the historic Government House and Fort MacQuarie; John Ytzon's revolutionary Opera House stood on a promontory (the Danish architect's design had been accepted, but he had been sacked before the roof could be completed, and the cranes now stood idle); Taronga Park, Luna Park and the Harbour Bridge lay to the north. Immediately below me was the SS Koh-i-Noor, sitting in the harbour like a child's toy in the bath. As I stepped forward for a better look, I found that the brickwork of the parapet was loose and crumbling. I recoiled with sudden vertigo; after a few moments I turned and headed for the lift.
On reaching ground level, unwilling just yet to return aboard, I sat on a bench in a small patch of green, and drowsed again in the warm sunshine. My day-dream was interrupted by a loud thump. All eyes of the passers-by were turned towards me. Beside my bench, a chunk of masonry had embedded itself in the lawn, shards of broken brick scattered to within a foot of me. I looked up at the observation platform – nothing moved. For long minutes, I sat there, stunned. Dimly, in the background, I was aware of the lift descending.
I was reminded of GK Chesterton's short story The Hammer of God, in which a hammer was dropped from on high, crushing the victim's skull, thereby wrongly suggesting that his murderer was immensely strong (the blacksmith).
Was this an accident, or had someone just tried to kill me? No-one emerged from the front of the building. Belatedly I remembered that there was an exit in the rear; however, by the time I had thought of looking there, it was too late – any would-be assassin was long gone. I checked with the ticket office, but no-one had bought a ticket, except me!
My mind went back to the early morning, to the crate falling from the crane in the harbour. I had narrowly escaped death twice today – but by whose agency? Perhaps this really was divine intervention. Perhaps this really was the Hammer of God.
Wednesday, 3rd August: The SS Koh-i-Noor sailed from Sydney at noon. I was once more fully kitted out in blue uniform and peaked cap, as I stood on deck, a gentle breeze caressing my cheek, watching the large crowd who had come to see us off. Coloured streamers, thrown by the crowd, spanned the gap between the decks and the water's edge. These slowly stretched, and then, one by one, broke, as the open water between ship and quay extended. The crowd waved and cheered; and their friends and relatives on board reciprocated. A momentary ray of sunshine, peeping from behind the cloud-bank, picked out the quay-side below us. I sighed. We were homeward bound.
Part Two
Homeward Bound
Chapter Six
Tasman Sea and Pacific Ocean, 4th to 20th August 1966
Thursday, 4th August: The water was smooth, as we crossed the Tasman Sea, but the weather was dull, cold and overcast.
I was thinking about “Scarface” Smith, about seeing him in Melbourne. Had he been following me? If so, perhaps he was also trailing me in Sydney. Could he have been responsible for the falling masonry from the AMP Tower? I decided to set up my very own (albeit elementary) investigation; I worked from the twin premises that “John Smith” was not his real name, and that the wound on his face was caused by a slash with a broken bottle – not a fall downstairs.
Immediately after breakfast, I approached Christopher McFee.
“I shouldn't really be doing this for you, Edwin ...”
However, he agreed to check the ship's log for Friday 15th July: there had indeed been a fight – in one of the Tourist Class lounges, over a hand of poker. The Duty Officer, Second Officer Michaels, and his team had been called by the barman when the brawl had threatened to run out of control; they separated the protagonists, and warned them not to fight in public in future. No-one of the name of John Smith had been involved; however one man had suffered a severe cut to his face from a broken bottle. His companions had given his name as John Whittlesea. Having received his rebuke, he had withdrawn sulkily, holding a blood-stained handkerchief to his face, muttering that he had had worse, and would sort it himself.
Next, I approached the Assistant Purser, my friend Tony Newton, in his office:
“Yes, doc, there are indeed two 'John Smiths' aboard,” he confirmed after consulting some files. “Both in Tourist Class ... We have copies of their passport photographs in our records. Would you care to see them?”
He pointed them out to me: neither photo resembled the patient with the scar.
“Could you show me a picture of John Whittlesea?”
He rummaged around once more.
“There you are, Edwin: 'Whittlesea, John; Cabin G31, bound for Auckland, New Zealand' ...”
It was undoubtedly my patient, my “John Smith” before he had received his wound. Though gratified, I was nonetheless unsettled by my discovery.
Back in my cabin, I mulled it over in my head. I located my special file and pulled out my fountain-pen. What were the implications of my latest findings? Was Whittlesea a memb
er of the gang? Was he a hired assassin? Had he indeed been following me in Melbourne and Sydney?
My afternoon nap was interrupted by a knock on the door; Joanne Flinders entered diffidently; fully dressed, I rolled off the bunk and put on my shoes.
“I'm sorry I didn't come the other night ... Lost my nerve ...”
There was a long pause, while she sat herself down decorously on an easy chair, adjusting her uniform skirt around her shapely legs. She was again wearing lipstick and eye liner, and I caught a faint whiff of apple-blossom across the room.
“You don't remember me, do you, Edwin?”
“Of course I do ...” I was getting alarmed at this turn in the conversation. “I saw you only a couple of days ago.”
“Actually, I've known you the greater part of my life,” she continued in a low voice, as if talking to herself. “I had a crush on you when I was twelve ... I used to watch you playing football on Clapham Common ...” Now I noted the hint of a South London accent. (Did I still have mine?)
We were in a Sunday League club – the Clapham Archers – playing in green and white, with me as centre forward. I was easily the worst player: both my fitness and technique were poor. However, the team captain (and best player) was my cousin Eric. He had threatened to leave if I was kicked out ... So I stayed. During every match, Eric would supply me with a string of crosses in front of goal; though I missed most of them, I still connected with enough to score two or three goals each game. And I became the top scorer! I even scored a couple of goals when we won the South London Sunday League, ending up semi-concussed on the ground after a successful header.
Death on the Koh-i-Noor (Edwin Scott Crime Trilogy Book 3) Page 9