The Action

by Peter Tonkin

  There were one or two rather reluctant smiles in answer to his sudden brogue, and morale began to move up again. He saw this and shrewdly continued to bolster it. “We’ve a ten-gallon can of diesel for the motor, but I think we’ll save that in case we’re too tired to row when we sight land. And we’re in a strong current, it’ll take the engine every drop of power we can spare just to move us across it anyway.”

  He paused, trying to think of something else he needed to say. “We’ll need someone officially on watch all the time, and that person had better have the Very pistol. Now, there are eleven of us so we’ll take two hours each, except for Mr Slobowski and I who will take three. It’s, let’s see, twelve-twenty now. I’ll take until three-thirty. Mr Slobowski until six-thirty, then Miss Buhl, Mrs Gash, Mr Wells, Mr Stone, then Laughton, O’Keefe and Bates, and lastly Mr Gant and Miss Dark. OK?”

  They all nodded except O’Keefe.

  “Right. I think that’s everything. Mr O’Keefe, break out the fish-hooks. Mr Bates, some of that terrible corned beef for bait. And Mr O’Keefe, when you’ve done that, dry off the Primus stove if you would.”

  “Do this. Do that. If I would,” muttered O’Keefe. “You’ll be lucky if you don’t go the way of Mr Spooner, mate.” He had forgotten that everyone could hear him.

  “What do you mean by that?” rapped out Gant.

  “I didn’t mean nothing,” whined O’Keefe sulkily. Then, because everybody was looking at him, he began to defend himself. “Well, it ain’t as if it was an accident, was it? I mean somebody shoved that oar, didn’t they? Like, oars don’t just twist on their own, you know?”

  “Yes, but we must do something,” said Mrs Gash, directing her dark-pouched eyes at each one in the boat in turn.

  “What can we do?” asked Gant gently, leaning forward until the shadow of his hat-brim closed like a curtain down his long face.

  “What do you mean, what can we do?” whined Mrs Gash petulantly.

  “Well, Mrs Gash, I really see no course of action which we can follow. We are adrift in an open boat, miles from anywhere, with a murderer aboard. I myself would be hard-pressed to know what to advise even if we knew who this person was. As I do not, I find myself totally at a loss.

  How, for instance, are you going to go about discovering your criminal?”

  “Well, the reason for the crime is always important.”

  “Agreed. Has anyone any idea why Mr Spooner should have been killed?”

  “Someone didn’t like his face,” volunteered O’Keefe.

  “It’s silly,” said Rebecca Dark in a husky voice. “Why should anyone want to kill the man with the best chance of saving us all?”

  “Simple,” answered Wells. He gestured to the spiked five- gallon water can. “The person who wants us all dead.”

  “Oh God,” said Miss Buhl, faintly.

  “But that’s assuming that Spooner was killed because he was the man with the best chance to save us,” said Wells. “He might have been killed for some other reason in spite of that fact.”

  “This speculation is useless, you know,” said Slattery. “It won’t get us anywhere and it’s frightening the ladies.”

  “Not only the ladies,” said Stone, and shivered.

  They had been indulging in a somewhat circular argument for over an hour now, as they chewed desultorily on the corned beef and biscuits which made up the bulk of their boat’s stores. They were in the early part of Mrs Gash’s watch, and as darkness began to press down on the face of the water their one concern was their safety in the night. Mrs Gash had first voiced the worry that had been nagging at the mind of everyone aboard except, presumably, that of the murderer. And now she continued. “Well, I think we should assume the worst and take precautions accordingly.”

  “I’m inclined to agree with that,” said Slattery from among the shadows. “I think the best thing we can do just at the moment is double up on the night watches.” He thought for a moment as the last paleness began to fade from the sky. “It would be simplest if you just teamed up and did four hours together. So Mr Wells and Mr Stone are on together from ten-thirty to two-thirty and then Laughton and O’Keefe until six-thirty. OK?” They all nodded, except O’Keefe who was muttering darkly about always having the graveyard watch. “Right,” said Slattery. “A cup of water each now, I think, then off to sleep. I’ll keep watch with Mrs Gash until ten-thirty.” The water was shared out. They went to sleep.

  The night was warm and in spite of the fact that there was no moon, it was very bright. The stars seemed to be bigger and more numerous than usual, hanging low and liquid in the black velvet sky. Distance ceased to have any meaning so the stars appeared to be very close indeed. The boat left a wide trail of phosphorescence in the still water which curved away to starboard, carried by the monsoon current. This line of light, now clear, now only a memory on the backs of their eyes like the Milky Way in the sky, was a particularly beautiful sight marred only by the huge dark shapes of sharks which cruised through it now and then.

  At ten-thirty Slattery told Mrs Gash that her watch was finished. She prodded Silas Wells who checked his watch and prodded Stone. They worked their way aft until Wells could take the improvised tiller while Stone guarded the Very pistol. Then they sat in silence for a while. They might have sat thus all night but after a while O’Keefe stirred and worked his way forward. He relieved himself noisily and came back.

  “Not asleep?” asked Stone casually.

  “I’m not sleeping at night until they’ve caught that bloody murderer, mate, and I’d advise you to do the same. I’m just lying there wide awake. No one’s going to do me in, no way.”

  “Well, it’s your beauty sleep, O’Keefe,” shrugged Wells.

  “Aye and it’s my life. Nobody’s going to end it any earlier than I want.” Then O’Keefe lay down and to all intents and purposes went to sleep. Suddenly Wells became quite talkative: “What do you think of that? Funny sort of a fellow.”

  “Seems eminently sensible to me,” observed Stone.

  “Oh surely not. I mean the man’s an absolute idiot, and quite spectacularly cross-grained into the bargain. In fact,” he lowered his voice and leaned over to whisper in Stone’s ear. “I’d have picked him as prime suspect.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, I mean he wouldn’t take orders from poor old Spooner. It was obvious he hated him like blazes. I bet it was a personal thing and he did it just on the spur of the moment.”

  “I don’t think so. His sort just hate everybody. I don’t think there was anything personal in it for Spooner.”

  “Sod off,” said O’Keefe.

  “The thing is,” said Wells, totally disregarding the little Irishman. “If it isn’t him, then who could it be?”

  “Anybody.”

  “Yes, quite. And that puts us in rather a sticky position, doesn’t it?”

  “That’s why there are two of us.”

  “Yes, but I mean there might be some way for him - or her - to creep up in the dark. I admit we both noticed O’Keefe but he was blundering about a bit. It’s not so light that someone couldn’t take us by surprise you know.”

  Stone had to admit that there was a great deal of truth in this. Indeed, half listening to Wells, he had been thinking of an acquaintance of his own who had been killed in a small boat by someone who had slid silently over the side and then popped up behind the stern armed with an extremely sharp knife. A simple scenario sprung into his mind: the killer rising silently behind them, grasping the tiller-oar for a second.

  Two well-timed knife thrusts, turning the boat beam-on to wind and water, toppling it over so that everyone else was wet as well, then, after the confusion, where are Mr Wells and Mr Stone? Has anybody seen them? No, of course not. Vanished into the night. All so easy. He shivered.

  “I was just thinking,” continued Wells, “that if we lit one of the lamps I saw in the emergency stores, we could stand it between us on the seat here.”

  “And make ou
rselves a damn good target.”

  “Only if someone’s going to shoot at us, and our murderous friend will have to be a bit more subtle than that.” Suddenly they were talking the same language and each became aware that the other was not altogether what he seemed.

  “Quite,” said Stone dryly.

  Wells got up and quietly worked his way along the length of the boat, moving with the sureness of a cat and more than amply supporting his own argument for the necessity of the lamp as protection. Stone held the rudder and kept the slight night breeze firmly on his back in case the boom should swing over and knock the journalist out of the boat.

  In mid-afternoon, after the last of the heavy rainclouds had been swept out of the sky, a gentle but steady wind had sprung up. At first they had been content just to let it blow over them, cooling their baking bodies in the heat of the declining sun. But after half an hour or so, when it showed absolutely no sign of gusting out, Slattery had said, “Right. Let’s get the mast stepped and put the sails up.”

  It had been surprisingly easy, in spite of the confusion of ropes and canvas, and by half-past four they had the two sails up and turned the little cutter into a makeshift yacht. They heeled a little to starboard as the steady little wind filled the sails and tried to push the broad deep hull through the water. A little bow wave sprang up and gurgled like a thoughtful baby beneath Gant and Rebecca.

  Spirits had briefly lightened, before supper and the discussion about the murderer, with the new sense of purpose the wind had lent the little boat. There was only one danger, Slattery warned. With the wind coining in varying strengths from almost dead astern, and with the makeshift rudder only barely in control of the boat’s progress, the boom was particularly easy to disturb. With the boom straining out to starboard, the slightest careless movement, the slightest re-distribution of weight which might rock the boat towards port, would bring the sail over onto the opposite tack and the heavy wooden boom would slam across the boat and could knock anyone in the way insensible or out of the boat.

  Thus, now as Wells crept carefully by them in the humming dark, Mrs Gash and Miss Buhl slept on the after bench, each with her head upon some part of the other, keeping low, as Slattery had advised them to, well clear of the boom. Behind them, on the bench just aft of the mast, also keeping low to avoid the boom, also sound asleep now, lay Bates, Slattery and O’Keefe. Forward of them, before the mast, Slobowski and Laughton were more at their ease with no boom above them.

  Wells wondered briefly why Slattery had gone to sleep between O’Keefe and Bates rather than coming up here. Right forward were Gant and Miss Dark, who at least looked upon Wells with a little more favour since he had saved her life.

  She was still possessed only of the panties which she had put on in her stateroom just before the explosion, but had replaced Bates’ heavy white jacket round her shoulders with a shirt found unaccountably floating in the water by the boat. It fitted her like a smock. Wells wondered why no one on the boat had offered her his shirt in the face of her obvious discomfort with Bates’ coat. Perhaps, like Wells himself, they all had something hidden up their sleeves.

  He moved her legs carefully and began to grope in the forward locker. The oil lamps were at the back. He moved Gant’s legs a little also and reached right in. Suddenly Gant’s hand rested on the back of his neck gently but in a grip which would incapacitate him at a moment’s notice and perhaps kill him into the bargain. “What are you up to?” asked Gant quietly.

  “I’m getting a lamp. Stone and I are afraid of the dark.” The hand remained where it was for a moment and then was gone. “I see,” said Gant, and it was clear from his tone that he did see. He spoke the same language as Stone and Wells. Was there anybody on this boat, Wells wondered, who was actually what they seemed to be? He crept back to Stone, carrying the lamp and lost in thought.

  It was a tall lamp, made of bronze and glass. The reservoir was a bronze cup and a long glass nozzle protected the flame. This glass nozzle had an extremely small hole at the top, and was painted all down one side with a reflective silver paint. It was a lamp specifically designed for work such as this, the glass ensuring that the flame once lit would not easily go out, the paint capable of funding not only as a reflector multiplying the light to one side but also as an excluder cutting it off from the other side so that if necessary the lamp could be used for signalling. All in all, it was cheaper to run and more reliable even than their big flashlamp - especially considering what salt dampness could do to long-life batteries. On one side of the bowl, stencilled in black paint was the legend, “Haley’s Seaman’s Oil Lamp. Property of JJ Hyde and Co London. WANDERER.”

  Wells put it on the after locker beside Stone and lit it, using Stone’s silver lighter. “Better cover your eyes from the glare,” he said, narrowing his own to the merest slits. Stone closed his eyes obediently, automatically checking that the Very pistol was beside him on the bench. “OK,” said Wells after a moment, “you can open up now.” The brightness brought tears to Stone’s eyes. He looked away.

  “Gant woke up while I was getting it”, continued Wells. “Are you still awake, Mr Gant?” No reply. “Must have gone over again. I must say it’s rather a thrill having someone that famous aboard. I wonder, would he give me his autograph if we get out of this alive? Not such a thrill for you, I suppose. You must have worked with most of them yourself - or at least met them. I say, you wouldn’t give me your autograph, would you? I don’t really collect them any more, but I once had quite a good collection. Went in for it quite seriously when I was a lad.

  “Theatrical, mainly, too - used to go to the theatre quite often in London you know. Good while ago now, of course, I mean I’ve been East for more years than I care to remember. But back to England now. If we make it, of course… Do you think he’d mind?”

  “Mind what?”

  “Giving me his autograph?”

  “Don’t see why he should.”

  “Oh, I don’t know! I suppose so many people want it, he must get pretty fed up with it at times.”

  “Not really. You get used to it.”

  “Do you? I don’t think I should: all those people, all wanting a piece of you. Must be pretty grim.”

  “Price of fame.”

  “I suppose so.” Pause. “Well, you should know, anyhow.” “Yes.”

  They were silent for a while. Stone became sleepy. He was very tired and his head still hurt a little. There was a ridge of bruising from temple to crown. Wells began gently to hum a little lullaby. Stone was finding it impossible to keep his eyes open. The warm wind whispered in the ropes, the sail flapped gently once or twice, the water gurgled distantly at the bow but whispered away from her stern. Stone’s head began to droop, then it slammed up again as he forced himself awake. He lit a cigarette.

  “Mind if I have one?” asked Wells..

  “Sorry, didn’t know you smoked.”

  “I don’t usually, but it might help to keep me awake.” Stone passed him the gunmetal case. Wells took it, removed a cigarette, and held up the case as a windbreak while he leaned forward to light the cigarette at the lamp. His movement, thoughtlessly sudden, caused the boat to give a little lurch. The tiller struck his arm. The cigarette case flew with a clatter into the middle of the boat. “Sorry,” said Wells, starting up a little unsteadily, causing the boat to waver again, “I’ll get it.”

  “It’s OK,” said Stone, “just hold on to the tiller here. I can get it.” Wells sat down more carefully. Stone got up and went quietly down the boat. The case was beside Miss Buhl’s feet and Stone crouched down to get it. As he did so, Wells gave a stifled exclamation and the boat tilted slightly. Stone looked back at him and suddenly everything went black, with a hollow thump.

  Then Wells was holding him, whispering urgently. “Stone. Stone, are you all right?”

  “Think so,” he managed, “What happened?”

  “The boom hit you.”

  “God! My head!”

  “You’ll be
all right. You were only out for a second.” “Aaah!” said Stone as he moved his head.

  “Sssh! You’ll wake the others.”

  “Sorry.”

  “OK. Can you sit up?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good . . . That’s it. OK.” They got to the locker.

  “Hey! What goes on? Where’s the lamp?”

  “Knocked it overboard, I’m afraid. The tiller swung when I got up to help you. Knocked it overboard.”

  “I see.”

  “I don’t know what did it - must have been a fluke in the wind.”

  “Yes. Must have.”

  “Still. No harm done, eh?”

  “No harm done,” said Stone and sat back. It had been a nasty thump. His head hurt abominably. He felt sick.

  “You sure you’re all right?” Wells sounded concerned.

  “Yes. I suppose so.”

  “I tell you what. I’ll wake Slattery up. There might be something in the medicine chest. If this boat has one. I mean it didn’t have a radio or anything, so who knows, eh?” As he said this, he crept down the boat and shook the fatigue-drugged Slattery. “Careful you don’t wake O’Keefe,” he whispered to the big Irishman, “he’s in a foul mood.” Slattery came carefully up the boat, “What happened?”

  “I bashed him on the bonce with the boom, I’m afraid: damn careless.”

  “No harm done, seemingly,” said Slattery gently probing Stone’s battered skull. “I’ll break out some medicinal whisky.”

  He did so, and they were all three sipping it appreciatively when Slattery suddenly straightened. “What’s that?” he snapped.

  “Where?” said Wells.

  “Out there to starboard ... I thought... it looked like a light.”

  “I can’t see anything.” Stone.

  “Seems to have gone,” Slattery, puzzled.