It seemed to Holt that the ship stayed like this for a
long time. The lights flickered, went out, came on again. And still there was that sound of rushing water; and still the ship lay over on her side and groaned, giving spasmodic jerking movements like the convulsions of a mortally wounded man.
Holt felt an almost detached interest in what was going on. He tried to estimate the angle of list. Forty-five degrees? Fifty? He wondered how securely the bar was fixed to the deck, whether it might tear itself adrift and come down on top of them. He wondered whether the steward was having pleasant dreams.
The ship trembled. The trembling ran through her like a ripple of fear. Then, slowly, painfully, she began to right herself.
Grade still had the bottle in his hand. He drank from the bottle.
Captain Leach felt like a man who had been beaten all over with a heavy bludgeon. When he struggled out on to the wing of the bridge the wind caught him and slammed him back against the wheelhouse. Leach slid down to his knees as though praying, then on to all fours. It was the only way; he could not stand against the wind.
Leach was surprised that the
Chetwynd
was still afloat. The great wave that had laid her almost on her beam-ends had washed completely over the wheelhouse, and some of the water had gushed in through one doorway and out through the other. Leach, Prior and the helmsman with the cut face had been thrown down and battered against the wooden side like swimmers caught by a breaker on the beach. It had seemed a very long time indeed before the ship had righted herself and Leach had been able to free his limbs from those of Prior and the helmsman, with which they had become intricately entangled.
“I must go and investigate the damage, Mr. Prior.”
Not that there was much that he could do about it. The odds seemed heavily weighted against the ship’s survival now. But Leach knew that many ships had been known to survive against all the odds. You had only to remember the
San
Demetrio
and the
Ohio
and countless others. Nevertheless, there could be no blinking the fact that things looked bad.
Still crawling on hands and knees, he came to the opening where the ladder led down from the bridge to the boat-deck. He peered through the opening and a flicker of lightning revealed in a brief, blinding revelation the havoc below him. The boats had all gone, leaving only the twisted davits, the broken rails, the tangled ropes, as a reminder that they had once been there. It was as though a great broom had swept the deck clear of every movable object, leaving it now strangely bare and deserted.
Leach could not be certain, but he feared that the engine-room skylights must have been smashed. Water would probably have gone down into the engine-room. He thought momentarily of Henderson, Henderson’s problems. Nothing he could do about them. He had his own problems; too many of them.
He was about to crawl back into the wheelhouse when it occurred to him that it was not quite as dark as it had been. He tried to remember what time it was and came to the conclusion that it must be morning. A new day was dawning, and had it not been for that thick black canopy of cloud, the sun might be shining. The sun! He wondered whether he would ever see it again.
And then, turning his head, he noticed that away on the starboard beam, towards the distant horizon, the sky was most certainly lightening. Could it be that the willy-willy, moving
southward along its path of destruction, was leaving the
Chetwynd
behind? He scarcely dared to hope as much, but it was possible, it was just possible.
As though to taunt him for even allowing such faint hopes to creep into his mind, the wind seemed suddenly to increase in ferocity. Leach heard a screeching, cracking sound that could have been metal breaking at last under intolerable strain. Something tall and black, blacker even than the
surrounding
gloom, was swaying from side to side like a tempest-stricken tree, and he saw with horror that it was the funnel.
He could not move; he could only crouch there and watch it in fascination. It might have been only a few seconds, but it seemed an age. Then the funnel began to topple.
It was a tall, thin funnel, and it fell towards the bridge. Still Leach did not, could not, move. The funnel came down like a falling tower, crashing on the bridge structure. Leach felt the boards under him shudder under the impact, but he was untouched. He began to creep back towards the wheelhouse.
Maggs was in the wireless cabin. He had made contact with other ships and shore stations. He hoped that the
Chetwynd
would still be afloat when help arrived, but he was doubtful. He gave the
Chetwynd
’s estimated position and he also reported the murder of Johansen. He had done all that he could. He tried not to let his mind dwell on the fact that it was his fault that the present hazardous situation had arisen.
He did not hear the funnel falling. He heard it strike the roof of the wireless cabin. He heard the woodwork splintering. But he heard these sounds only for a moment before he was crushed beneath the weight of metal and timber.
T
HE
Chetwynd
rolled towards Fremantle at the heels of a sea-going tug. Between them the long tow-rope slackened and tautened, dipped under water at the middle and came up dripping.
She was like a ship coming back from a graveyard of ships. There was not a part of her that did not show its record of the storm, did not exhibit its wounds, the evidence of conflict with sea and wind.
There were no boats. The davits were bent and twisted, a block hanging loose here, a fall entangled there. Parts of the rails had gone completely, wrenched off at deck level; others were flattened as though a steam-roller had crashed through them. Derrick booms had been torn from their cradles and thrown athwartships, wreaking more havoc; winches had been uprooted, and there were jagged gaps in the bulwarks. But, strangest sight of all, that which most caught the eye, was the funnel, broken at the root and lying with its top deeply embedded in the shattered wireless cabin.
Mr. Prior and the helmsman had had a lucky escape. The main weight of the funnel had been taken by the wireless cabin, and though the roof of the chartroom and wheelhouse
had broken, and though the ironwork of the funnel had come partly through, it had not reached the two men.
The
Chetwind
was heavy and sluggish at the end of the tow-rope, like an overladen barge. She wallowed, floundered; she had a list to port and was low in the water; she looked a wreck but she floated. She had taken all that the elements could throw at her and she had survived.
Mr. Finch, making his way to Captain Leach’s cabin, thought how strangely quiet the ship was. No engine pulse, no groaning under the impact of wind and sea. There was no wind; the sea was calm. Finch was feeling happy, because he had expected to die and was still alive. Johansen was dead; Maggs was dead; Major Lycett was presumed dead, since he could not be found; but he, Finch, had escaped. That was something to feel elated about.
He tapped on Captain Leach’s door. There was no answer. He turned the knob and went in.
Leach was lying on the settee, asleep and snoring. There was a whisky bottle on the floor and a broken glass that had apparently dropped from Leach’s hand when he had fallen asleep. Some whisky had soaked into the carpet and the reek of it was in the air.
Finch looked at Leach but did not attempt to waken him. What was the use? He thought that perhaps the ordeal they had all passed through and had miraculously survived might have changed things; that Leach might have stayed sober at least until they reached Fremantle. He saw that this was not to be. Nothing had changed, nothing.
But no; he was wrong. Something had changed. For him, Finch, a whole way of life. For he had come to a decision: he would leave the sea. At the very first opportunity he would fly back to Hong Kong and take Ah Mai from that house.
He would marry her, get a shore job. It would work out; he would make it work out.
Mr. Finch left the captain’s cabin, closed the door gently behind him and walked away, humming a little tune. Happy.
Saul and Sara Menstein were also feeling happy, though in a rather more subdued way than Mr. Finch. Menstein felt that he had passed some kind of test by crossing the after-deck in the storm and facing that wild-eyed man with the knife. The man was progressing satisfactorily, thanks to the doctor’s attention, and Finch and Holt had both praised the courage which Menstein had shown. Everyone in the ship knew about it, and Menstein, rather to his embarrassment, found himself quite a hero.
“I am not really so brave, you know, Sara,” he confided to his wife. “I was very much afraid.”
Sara patted his arm affectionately. “But that is true courage. I am proud of you, Saul.”
He smiled at her. “If you are proud of me, who bothers about other people?”
Two detectives had come out with the tug to investigate the murder of Carl Johansen. They were of the opinion, after interviewing everyone who could throw any light on the matter, that it was an open and shut case. The fact that Lycett could not be found pointed to his guilt. Having killed Johansen in a mad fit of rage and jealousy, he had probably thrown himself overboard; it was not at all unusual for a murderer to commit suicide. Their failure to discover any murder weapon did not bother them greatly; no doubt Lycett had carried it away and taken it into the sea with him. There would be an inquest, of course, but it looked as though any sort of trial was entirely ruled out.
It took the
Chetwynd
and tug four days to reach Fremantle. On the day they made port Holt invited Sydney East to come to his cabin. He knew that Grade was on deck and that they would not be disturbed.
“I’d like to have a little talk,” Holt said.
East looked at him in surprise. “What do you want to talk about?”
“Oh, just a certain matter that needs clearing up. And I’ve got something to give you.”
“Something to give me?” East looked startled. Holt thought he looked rather ill too; there were dark pouches under his eyes, as though he had been sleeping badly.
“Just a small memento of an eventful voyage.”
Holt led the way into the cabin with East following, a shade reluctantly. They went inside. Holt closed the door.
“You don’t look too well,” he said.
East answered rather petulantly, “I’m all right. Now what do you want to talk to me about?”
Holt walked to the open porthole and looked out. He could see the steelwork of a crane on the quay, a large open shed beyond it.
He said without turning, “Why did you kill Johansen?”
East did not answer. There was a small scuffling sound, as though perhaps he had made a movement forward—or back. That was all.
Holt turned. East was standing with his back pressed against the door. He looked older. Was it a trick of the light, or was his face more lined, his hair greyer?
“You did kill him, of course.” It was a statement, not a question.
“How—?” East said, then stopped.
“How did I know?” Holt put a hand in his pocket and
pulled out the small, silvery object that he had found beside Johansen’s body. He let it rest in the palm of his hand, holding it out to the other man. “This is yours, isn’t it?”
It was a shirt button of rather unusual appearance, square, not round. Holt had seen East wearing a shirt with buttons like that. He had never seen any others quite like them.
East made no move to take the button. He said in a hoarse voice, as though his throat was dry, “Where did you get it?”
“I think you know,” Holt said. “I think you’ve guessed.”
“What are you going to do?”
Holt repeated his earlier question. “Why did you kill him?”
East put out a hand like a blind man groping his way, found the chair and sat down. “It was an accident.”
Holt sat on the lower bunk, facing him. “I don’t think that’s quite good enough. There was a fight. It was obvious from the state of the cabin. You don’t fight a man by accident.”
“Not that,” East said. “That wasn’t the accident. Of course I had a fight with him. I was going to teach him a lesson. But I never intended to kill him.”
“Why did you want to teach him a lesson?”
“He assaulted my wife.” East’s eyes blazed for a moment. “The damned filthy swine. I’m not sorry he’s dead; he deserved to die. But I didn’t mean to kill him.”
Holt was not surprised. He had guessed that it was something of the kind. He had seen the mate’s eyes when he looked at Pearl East. Johansen had never taken any pains to hide his admiration for a pretty woman, or his desire.
“He got her into his cabin by offering to lend her some books. Then he tried to make love to her. When she resisted he knocked her out.”
Holt could understand East’s feeling. He must have been in a fury when he heard what had happened. No doubt he had rushed straight to the mate’s cabin.
“What did you do with the weapon?”
“I didn’t have any weapon. Just my bare hands.”
“But the gash in Johansen’s forehead—”
“I told you. It was an accident. We were struggling, and you know how the ship was rolling. He fell, hit his head on the ironwork of the bunk. I thought at first he was just stunned. Then I knew he was dead.”
“And you were going to let Major Lycett take the rap?”
East shook his head violently. “No, no, no. Not if he’d still been alive. I’d have come forward. But when I heard he couldn’t be found it seemed like an act of providence. And there was Pearl to consider; I had to think of her. Lycett is dead. What harm can it do him?”
“Mrs. Lycett is still alive.”
“I know. I’ve thought of that. But will it really hurt her? The inquest may just come up with a verdict of murder by person or persons unknown. That sort of thing. The police can’t charge a man who’s dead, can they?”
There was something in that. Whatever happened, Lycett would not be troubled. And Mrs. Lycett? She would get over it.
Holt noticed that East was looking at him, worried. “Are you going to tell the police.”
“I’ve left it a bit late for that, haven’t I? They might want to know why I didn’t say anything about the button at once. Suppression of evidence is a crime, you know.” He reached across, grasped East’s right hand and pressed the button into it. “I never saw that thing in Johansen’s cabin. For all I know, it’s still sewn on your shirt.”
East seemed to be trying to say something without making any success of it.
“Forget it,” Holt said. “I like the act.”
She was waiting for him in the cabin when he went in.
“Nick Holt knows,” he said.
She looked dismayed. “Oh, no, Syd, no.”
He reassured her quickly. “It’s all right. He’s not going to say anything.” He showed her the button. “He found this. He said for all he knows it’s still sewn on my shirt.”
“But why? Why should he do this—for us?”
East gave a wry smile. “He says he likes the act.”
She began to cry, covering her face with her hands.
He put his arm round her shoulders. “Ah, now, honey, now. It’ll be all right. Everything will be fine.”
He held her for a little while, waiting for the sobbing to pass. Then he said, “It’s funny in a way. Because there isn’t going to be an act any more.”
She stared at him. “No act?”
“I’m not going to fool myself any longer,” he said. “I’m going to do what you want me to do. I’m going to get a job.”
He was a tall, slightly stooping man with black hair and a nose like an ancient Roman. He looked about forty and he was expensively dressed.
“My name’s Roylance,” he said. “You’re Nick Holt, aren’t you?” He spoke with an unmistakable Australian accent and when he shook hands his grip was strong and bony. “That all your luggage? Give me one of the bags. I’ve got a car.”
The car was a Jaguar. Roylance drove with nonchalant skill. Holt noticed a black car behind. He wondered whether it was following. Roylance appeared not to notice it.
“I’ve booked rooms at an hotel,” he said. “Got some business in Fremantle tomorrow. That suit you?”
“Anything suits me,” Holt said. It was only twelve miles to Perth; the Jaguar could have made it in fifteen minutes maybe. But he did not remark on this. If Mr. Roylance wanted to put up at a Fremantle hotel, that was his business.
It was in a quiet street away from the waterfront. Everything about the hotel seemed quiet. Perhaps that was how Roylance liked it. There was a quiet lobby, quiet stairs, a quiet room with a view of trees. The trees were quiet too; there was no wind.
“I think you’ll be comfortable here for the night,” Roylance said. “I’ve got the next room.”
He crossed to the window and looked out at the quiet trees. Then, casually, “Did you bring something for me?”
“Oh, yes,” Holt said, as though for the moment it had slipped his memory. “A box of China tea.”
He put one of the suitcases on the bed and opened it. He took out the plywood box. When he looked up he saw that Roylance had moved to the bed.
“China tea is one of my vices.”
“A small vice, Mr. Roylance.”
Roylance chuckled. “As you say, a small vice.”
He took the box from Holt. He had it in his hands when the plain-clothes men came in. The way they handled Roylance made Holt feel thankful that he had decided to put himself on the right side of the law. If Mr. Saunders ever set foot in Australia again no doubt they would handle him in much the same way.
Grade was in a bar drinking beer. Grade considered that he had had a raw deal. First there had been Lycett; he had spent half the voyage getting the major nicely hooked, feeding him that stuff about an uncle with interests in nickel mines; and then, before he could even complete the con, Lycett had
had to go and kill Johansen and throw himself overboard. Downright unsporting of him, in Grade’s opinion. And if that were not enough, there was Nick Holt coming over all moral and law-abiding when they could have split forty thousand dollars between them. Hell, it made you want to spit, too true, it did.
He drained his glass, put it down on the bar. “Gimme another.”
He looked in his wallet. Ten dollars. Ten lousy Australian dollars. How far could you go on that, for Pete’s sake? He paid for the beer and took a long, cool drink. There was only one thing for it: he would have to look for another sucker. There was one born every minute.
Leach was also drinking—alone, in his cabin. He knew that the
Chetwynd
was finished. The owners would never consider her worth the money it would take to make her sea-worthy again. They would sell her to some ship-breaker for what they could get. She had had a long life but now she was near the end of it; she had fought her last fight with the old enemy, the sea.
Leach raised his glass, looked at the whisky. And what about him? Where did he go from here? To another Barling-Orient ship? Always supposing there was one for him. What did it matter? What in hell did it matter?
He drank the whisky, put the glass down, rammed his cap on his head and walked out of the cabin. He climbed up to the bridge and looked at his battered ship. So still she was now, so quiet. Difficult to cast one’s mind back to that night when he had had to crawl on hands and knees because of the fury of the wind. He had thought it was the end then, but he was still alive. And for what purpose? What point was there to it all when you came down to it? What point?