After a sea-food buffet lunch at a rather up-market hotel, the Claremont, Jack took us back across the Bay Bridge, now bathed in brilliant sunshine. I dozed in the warmth of the car, replete from the excellent meal, lulled by the drone of his voice, as he pointed out the landmarks of San Francisco ...
“That pick-up truck is still following us,” drawled Chuck laconically, trying to keep the excitement out of his voice. “I saw it in the car park of the Claremont Hotel ...”
His eyes sparkled and his face flushed, increasing the prominence of his freckles. Sure enough, as we drove slowly past the tourist attractions, I spied the battered white truck sticking to our tail; in the cab sat a couple of Mexican-looking guys in Stetson hats. My uncle ignored his son. I had blocked out the memories of our ambush in Hawaii, but now they returned in force.
“Frisco”, with its steep hills and deep valleys, was altogether more engaging than either Oakland or Berkeley. Something in the pellucid quality of the light made the most ordinary scenes appear magical. We took in Chinatown, Broadway, the Golden Gate Bridge glittering in the afternoon rays of the sun; we stopped on Russian Hill, with its panoramic views.
“See over there, Edwin? That's the Rock; it housed Al Capone when it was still a prison,” continued Jack's monotonous monologue.
Dutifully, I photographed the forbidding island fortress of Alcatraz. Before turning away, I caught a distant, almost nostalgic, glimpse of the Koh-i-Noor in harbour. Then we were zig-zagging down Lombard Street, a riot of colour, the manicured gardens of its opulent houses aflame with blooms.
We abandoned the Cadillac to board a cable car; it climbed the one-in-five gradient to a plateau, where it was rotated on a turn-table; it waited a few minutes, before descending again, almost empty. Through the rear windows I could see no sign of our pursuers: we appeared to have given them the slip.
Finally, we strolled around the pricey lobster restaurants of Fisherman's Wharf, mingling with the rich and famous. Still no sign of the two Mexicans – I relaxed.
When we returned to the Koh-i-Noor, I invited my hosts on board, and showed them around; they were clearly impressed with the luxury and size of the great vessel. From the observation deck, we surveyed the harbour and the city of San Francisco beyond. Suddenly, Chuck tensed.
“Look down there!”
I followed his pointing finger. Leaning lazily on the battered pick-up truck were two lean figures in jeans and Stetsons – unmistakeably our pursuers of earlier on.
“Hm,” grunted Jack, finally taking heed, and exhibiting the first signs of anxiety. “Could be my bookies ... Said they'd send their collectors, if I didn't pay by today ... Guess I'd better cough up before the day's out ...”
My uncle, aunt and cousins left at six-thirty; I waved goodbye from the top of the gangway, and watched them drive off. The two Mexicans lingered ; they had a quality of stillness associated in films with professional killers; after a few seconds, seemingly in one fluid choreographed movement, they both hopped into their truck, which immediately sped away.
“What could all this mean?” I wondered, shivering slightly as we cast off. It was possible that they were indeed following Uncle Jack, but I couldn't discount that I was their primary target.
Later, I learned that Danny Stone had – for a joke – answered “Yes” to being a member of the Communist Party, during his routine interrogation by the customs and immigration authorities. He had been taken “down-town”, and grilled for two hours about contacts in the US of A, before being escorted back aboard the SS Koh-i-Noor. That was all he saw of San Francisco.
Monday, 22nd August: We were due to reach Los Angeles after lunch. The sun burned out of a washed blue sky, but a cooling breeze off-shore kept the temperature bearable. I strolled along the promenade deck in full whites, deep in thought, barely noticing the passengers I encountered.
“Good morning, Dr Scott ...”
I almost failed to recognise the slim, elegant lady in the knee-length cream dress; her face was beautifully made up, and her grey-blue hair was perfectly cut. She was dripping with expensive-looking jewellery – rings, bracelets, ear-rings, necklace, even a diamond and emerald brooch on her breast. She shone with health and vitality.
“Oh, hello Mrs Hubbard ... I'm afraid I was far away ...”
I had discharged her from hospital after thirty-six hours, to resume her previous dose of subcutaneous Insulin Zinc Suspension (Lente) twice daily. Charlie Hardcastle had popped in for about five minutes on the second day to say “Hello”, but had been content to leave her more detailed management to me.
Now, she was on the arm of a broad, handsome man some twenty years her junior.
“This is my friend James Stewart – not the film star, of course ... Won't you come and join us for a pre-lunch drink, Doctor? The doctor saved my life, you know, Jimmy ...”
Hardly waiting for a reply from either of us, she ushered me into a nearby bar.
“Now, what'll you have, young man?”
“A tomato juice, please, Mrs Hubbard.”
It was Monday, my day on the wagon ...
“In recording from time to time some of the curious experiences and interesting reflections which I associate with my long and intimate friendship with Mr. Sherlock Holmes ...”
I read the words for the fourth time, but I couldn't concentrate, and restlessly put down The Adventure of the Devil's Foot. My mind returned to the two Mexicans who had followed me throughout my stay in San Francisco. Had they wanted to ensure that I didn't make contact with the authorities? That's absurd – I had already passed through customs and immigration ... And before that, what about the big Tongans ... and the attempts on my life in Sydney and Hawaii? I was forced to assume that these events were all linked to the murder of Graham Parkin, the radio officer. If so, this merely strengthened my theory of an international dimension to the killing: an organisation with tentacles spreading over the whole of the Pacific Basin. Presumably big sums of money were involved. Once more I went over the options: drugs ... gold ... diamonds ... counterfeit money ... gun-running? Then again – why me? Surely not because of my amateur sleuthing, my tentative investigation at the murder scene? Most of the ship appeared to know of my admiration for the methods of Sherlock Holmes, and my use of deductive reasoning. Surely the criminal (or criminals) hadn't heard of my modest success in The Case of the Whitechapel Slasher? The Slasher had made the news headlines month after month, yet I had received scant recognition from the papers, when I finally brought him to justice; they had printed a bare paragraph or two on an inside page ...
It was like an oven on the officers' deck. We were now tied up in Los Angeles, with a close-up view of densely packed skyscrapers under a blanched sky; I had had to stay on board, while all my friends went ashore to visit Disneyland. Even a dip in the pool didn't refresh me, so I dressed, and brought my book down to the cool of my cabin ...
The phone was ringing as I entered my private alleyway, but by the time I had opened the inner door it had stopped. Who was ringing me? Was the switchboard manned while we were still in port? I picked up the receiver:
“Operator ... What number do you want, Dr Scott?”
“I've just had a call to my cabin ... Could you tell me where it came from?”
“Just a minute ...” There was a brief pause. “The call came from the card-room, Sir ...”
“Thank you.” I replaced the receiver. I wondered who that could have been. I locked the cabin door, slipped off my shoes, threw myself into an arm-chair, and distractedly picked up my book again. Scarcely had I opened it when I heard the outer door open; stealthy footsteps approached; the door handle turned ...
“Who is it?” I demanded crossly – but experiencing just a hint of anxiety.
I heard rapid footfalls, and then the outer door slammed. By the time I had unlocked the door and looked out, the alleyway was empty. I returned to my chair, suddenly deep in thought, once again considerably apprehensive. What was that all about? Surely it
can't have been another assassination attempt? If I hadn't locked the door, I might have come face to face with the killer – for good or for ill ...
“Those staring eyes and gnashing teeth flashed past us like a dreadful vision. 'My brothers!' cried Mortimer Tregennis, white to his lips. 'They are taking them to Helston.' We looked with horror after the black carriage, lumbering upon its way ...”
A soft knock sounded on my door, and the door handle turned. I put down my book on the bedside table and checked the clock – eleven-forty-five pm.
“It's only me,” said a low voice.
I hopped out of bed, and, padding across my cabin quickly on bare feet, unlocked the door. Wendy entered and glanced around the room, which was bathed in the warm but subdued light from my bedside lamp. While I climbed back into my bunk, she opened the curtains, gazed through the porthole into the night for a few seconds; then approached the bed-side and switched off the light – all in total silence. I heard the rustle of clothes; as my eyes accommodated to the dark, I saw her dim form standing before me; the bedclothes parted, there was a whiff of heady perfume. Then she was beside me, enfolding me in a fierce embrace, crushing my lips under hers. We paused briefly for air; then her fingers were feverishly undoing the buttons on my pyjama jacket and the tie of my trousers. Her soft breasts pressed against my chest, and her hand moved down my stomach.
“Oh Edwin,” she moaned ...
Wendy's even breathing was just audible; her hair tickled my cheek. I lay still beside her, as the grey light of dawn filtered through the port-hole. One breast, dimly discerned, peeped provocatively from under the sheet.
In a sudden release, I had told her of the events of Sydney, Tonga, Hawaii and San Francisco, of my interpretations and conclusions. Now, I wondered whether I had been wise, whether I should have kept my thoughts to myself. Perhaps Wendy was one of them – perhaps that was why she had sought me out, seduced me?
“Don't be ridiculous,” I reassured myself, as I drifted back into sleep. “You're just being paranoid ...”
Thursday, 25th August: We arrived in Acapulco at two o'clock in the afternoon. I accompanied the Port Health medical officer ashore in the launch, satisfied him on the health and immunisation status of the passengers and crew, and then departed, to wander around on my own. The beaches were superb, and the scenery quite breathtaking; however, this was Mexico, and the outskirts of town itself were dirty and squalid, refuse disfiguring the alleyways. I passed shacks and tenements, and rows of back-street shops, most of them closed, but the occasional one promising a bargain in local silverware. Apart from a few urchins and mangy dogs, and a man seated in a doorway, poncho over his shoulders and a sombrero over his eyes, the streets were deserted. It was after all still siesta time. I made my way toward the centre of town, past the Historical Museum, to the main square with its magnificent Spanish-style Cathedral. The square was shaded by trees, and lined with shops and cafés, but at this time of the day it, too, was empty.
Throughout my promenade, the weather remained hot and sticky, though the heavens became progressively overcast. At the edge of town, a cooling breeze rustled the palm leaves, and blew a few balls of paper and dry pampas grass across the rutted streets. Purple mountains, misty in the enveloping clouds, rose into the distance, with shanty towns clinging to their lower slopes; dense scrub vegetation was silhouetted on the hill-tops against the darkening sky, like an Afro hair-do. Nearer at hand were the Quebrada Cliffs, from which – watched by a small knot of tourists – young boys dived into the sea for coins, from a hundred feet ...
On the trip back to the Koh-i-Noor in the launch, it started finally to rain: huge droplets of water drummed on the deck, belatedly cooling and refreshing the passengers.
The sights of Acapulco were repeating themselves in my mind, as I opened the outer door to my private corridor, walked the few yards to my cabin door, and inserted the key into the lock.
“That's curious,” I thought. “It's unlocked ...”
I swung the door open, but reeled back at the sight: the cabin was a scene of mayhem; drawers were open, some leaning drunkenly from their sockets; their contents were scattered randomly around the room. The wardrobe door was almost off its hinges; clothes hangers, uniform trousers and jackets mingled with pants, shirts, socks and jumpers; shoes, slippers, dressing-gown, towels, the bedside lamp, and even the bed-linen littered the floor. A shattered bottle of gin had left a moist patch on the carpet. The cupboards in my consulting section had been opened, but nothing inside was obviously missing. The door to the shower-room stood ajar; through it I could see that the bathroom cabinet had been opened; however, on further investigation, I was midly relieved to find that the screw-topped container with the strychnine sample had been left untouched.
I searched for my diary, and discovered it where it was always kept, in the breast pocket of my uniform jacket. I opened my Gladstone bag – my special file had gone! Nothing else appeared to have been taken. Still in a state of agitation, I phoned the duty officer to report the burglary. Then, with the help of Constanzio, I set about straightening the cabin ...
I poured myself a generous shot of whisky, gulped it down, and sat in the arm-chair, waiting, as the warmth of the drink spread from my throat to my stomach, and then all over my body. When I felt calm again, I got up, selected some notepaper and a new buff folder, seated myself at the desk, and began the laborious task of writing down all I could remember of the contents of the stolen file. It took me almost two hours, but thankfully I was not interrupted. Finally, I labelled the folder “Watson, John”, and filed it alphabetically under “W” in the cabinet with my patients' notes.
After dinner, Charlie Hardcastle went ashore to sample the Acapulco night life in some of the more expensive new American-style hotels; I stayed on board.
Despite the earlier shock to my system, I was fast asleep by the time the ship sailed, at two in the morning.
Suddenly I am wide awake. The cabin is dark. I feel the rhythmic movement of the ship as it cuts through the still waters. I hold my breath. What has woken me? The sound repeats itself: the door handle is turning, slowly and stealthily; someone is trying to enter my room. Have I remembered to lock the door? As my eyes accommodate to the dim light, I see the door opening very slowly. The small hairs at the back of my neck stand on end. Panic-stricken I freeze, unable to cry out, unable to summon help, unable to move from my bed. The door is now fully ajar. Two shadows creep in. They murmur to each other in Spanish; I don't speak their language, but have no difficulty understanding what they say: “We must kill him quickly, then push him through the port-hole into the sea!” The one in advance appears to be holding a carving knife. In two strides he is upon me. Belatedly I call out, but the sound hardly carries beyond my lips. Strong hands seize me; a smell of garlic and sweat permeates my cabin; now that it's too late, I start struggling furiously, but to no avail; my arms are pinned to my sides, and my body pressed into the mattress. Still the knife is withheld. Instead the second intruder removes one of the pillows from under my head, and brings it towards my face: they aim to suffocate me! Struggle and fight as I may, I am unable to free my arms or hold my face away from the advancing pillow. It's no good; I am going to die; I can no longer draw a breath; I am surrounded by impenetrable blackness; I feel myself slipping into unconsciousness; all I am aware of now is the constriction in my chest and the painful beating of my heart ...
I awoke bathed in sweat, the bed-clothes half on the floor. The dawn light filtered into my cabin around the curtains. My heart was still pounding. I lay there for several minutes waiting for my pulse to settle, and the fear to slowly fade. I allowed my eyes to wander over my surroundings: the door was closed, both pillows were under my head, the cabin was tidy – and empty ...
Friday, 26th August: The sea is flat, and the heavens overcast.
I had an interesting selection of cases in my crew surgery this morning. There was a seaman of eighteen with sea urchin stings and coral embedded in t
he soles of his feet, from swimming off the rocks – these took some forty-five minutes with tweezers and a magnifying glass to remove; a new diabetic (a Goan cabin steward) – dehydrated, with hissing breath, but as yet no clouding of consciousness – I admitted to our hospital and started on a four-hourly insulin regime; a petty officer with an attack of malaria, because he had run out of quinine (his fever settled in forty-eight hours in hospital once I had fully dosed him with antimalarials). Finally they brought in a middle-aged boiler-room technician, a known schizophrenic who had run amok with a large knife, but fortunately had injured no-one before he had been overpowered; two beefy half-stripers restrained him while I gave him an intravenous injection of Largactil; he was transferred to the cells, where he awaited the captain's decision whether to keep him on board until Southampton or transfer him to a psychiatric hospital en route.
During the night I lay on my berth with curtains drawn, watching through my port-hole a great electric storm: though there was no thunder, sheet lightning illuminated the sky almost continuously, rendering it as bright as day . My thoughts drifted back to my school-days:
Mozart's Ave Verum Corpus finished on a somewhat dissonant note. It was five-thirty on a September evening, and school orchestra practice was over. In the sudden hush, I heard a distant growl of thunder, a gust of wind rattled the window panes; outside, a livid purple cloud hung – like a bruise – in the pewter sky. I replaced my violin in its case. In the rehearsal room, there was a bustle of activity as boys cleared away their musical instruments and music stands; we chatted animatedly, reviewing the pieces, and discussing the forthcoming school concert.
Death on the Koh-i-Noor (Edwin Scott Crime Trilogy Book 3) Page 15