The Strode Venturer (30 page)

“I see.” Henry Strode removed his glasses and stooped towards Whimbrill. “And you voted against us.” His tone was magisterial, the threat of dismissal there for all to see. “You realize, of course, Mr. Whimbrill, that with Peter Strode’s death——”

“He’s reported missing, that’s all.”

“My information leads me to fear that it’s more definite than that.” And in support of his brother, George Strode said, “They’ve been searching for him for a week—and for that damned island of his. And now the search has been called off.”

“That’s not conclusive,” Whimbrill said obstinately. “And in any case, I have taken legal opinion on this. Until a coroner or some other court has confirmed his death the proxy he signed is perfectly valid.”

“Dammit, man, what more do you want? The whole resources of the R.A.F.——”

George Strode was on his feet again, and so was I. “That would mean nothing,” I said, “if it is proved that Reece has deliberately given them the wrong position.” It was a shot in the dark, the use of the word deliberately quite unjustified, but by then I was past choosing my words. I was so angry I didn’t care what I said and as I stood there, staring at George Strode, I saw him wilt and his eyes dart quickly round the room as though afraid others would make the same accusation. The man was suddenly scared. He sat down abruptly and an awkward silence hung over the room, broken only by the scrape of Slattery’s chair as he left. Henry Strode stood there a moment, undecided. To press the matter was to appear to be wanting his own half-brother dead. Finally he said, “I think in the circumstances it would be best to adjourn this meeting
sine die
.”

I would have been prepared to accept that, but to my surprise Whimbrill demanded that the question of adjournment
should be put to the meeting in the form of a motion. As sometimes happens when a man has his back to the wall and is forced to fight, he was a different person entirely. He seemed suddenly in command of the situation. Henry Strode sensed this and after a hurried consultation he proposed instead the re-election of his brother and Hinchcliffe. We followed Whimbrill’s lead and voted against it. With Lingrose’s support withdrawn the motion was lost by a huge margin.

“I think, Mr. Chairman,”—Whimbrill had risen to his feet—“there is really only one solution to the present difficulty.” And he then proposed that Ida and I should be elected to fill the vacancies on the board. “Mrs. Roche is, of course, a member of the family. Commander Bailey, who is now one of the largest shareholders, has also been closely connected …” I don’t think anybody heard him refer to my connection with Bailey Oriental for the sudden outbreak of conversation almost drowned his voice. He put the motion and to my astonishment it was seconded by Elliot from the body of the hall. There was no need to count the votes and Henry Strode, his voice trembling, all his casual ease of manner gone, said, “I shall, of course, take legal opinion myself. In the meantime, I must make it plain that I propose calling a further meeting as soon as Peter Strode’s unhappy death is confirmed.” He then concluded the formalities by proposing the re-election of the auditors and after that the meeting broke up.

An air of shock hung over the big, ornate room, and as the members of the family and their friends filed out they stared at us curiously. At the directors’ table Whimbrill was as isolated as we were. “You won’t get away with this.” It was John Strode. He had occupied the big office next to his father ever since he had come down from Cambridge and his face was white with rage. Then a reporter was at my side asking me to fill in for him on what Whimbrill had said about my connection with the company. He looked barely twenty and he had never heard of Bailey Oriental. And then he was asking Ida how she felt as the only woman
on the board. “I’ve no idea,” she said sharply. “I’m more concerned about my brother at the moment.”

By the time we’d got rid of him the place was empty, only Whimbrill and ourselves left. “What happens now?” Ida inquired.

“You may well ask, Mrs. Roche.” Whimbrill gave her a lop-sided smile. “To comply with the Companies Act you both have to write me letters expressing your willingness to serve as directors. Ante-dated, of course. But that can wait. Right now I think a drink, perhaps.” He was in that mood of elation that follows upon the success of a desperate decision and as we went out through the main doors I was wondering whether Turner had envisaged this. Had he planned it all, thinking it through like a game of chess—right through to the point where Whimbrill would be forced to propose Ida and myself for election to the board? But I didn’t think so, for nothing had been solved. All we had done was gain time.

We lunched together, but though we discussed it from every possible angle we always came back to the same thing in the end—everything depended on Peter being alive, the island still there. Back at the office I rang George Strode. I thought he might refuse to see me after what had happened, but instead he told me to come straight down so that I had the feeling he had been expecting me. “I want you to understand, Bailey, that the full resources of Strode Orient are at your disposal so long as you think there’s a chance those men may still be alive.” He seemed almost relieved when I told him what I wanted—Deacon reinstated and authority to question the crew of the
Strode Venturer.

“You’re planning to go out there yourself, are you?”

“Yes. If I catch tomorrow’s flight to Cairo I can be in Aden at ten-thirty on Thursday.”

“Very well. I’ll tell Simpkin to be at Khormaksar to meet you.” And he drafted a cable to his agent and had it sent off straight away. “If there’s anything else …” His manner was strangely affable, quite at variance with the attitude he and his brother had taken at the meeting. But I didn’t
have time to consider the implications of this. In less than twenty-four hours I was in a Comet being lifted over the huge sprawl of London on a journey that would take me back again to the Indian Ocean.

T
HE
Strode Venturer
was already at Aden when I arrived. I had seen her, anchored off Steamer Point, through the plane windows as we came in to land at Khormaksar. Deacon was not there to meet me, only Simpkin, a neat, dapper man in a tropical suit. He had pale eyes and a little brushed-up moustache and he kept me standing in the blazing sun whilst he told me how he’d found Deacon in the Arab town of Crater, dead broke and living in absolute squalor. He had got him into a hotel for the night, but in the morning he had vanished.

“Did you give him any money?” I asked.

“I had to. He had nothing and Mr. Strode’s cable——”

“Then what the hell did you expect?” I was hot and tired and very angry. I had expected Deacon to be waiting so that we could go straight on board the
Strode Venturer
and try to work out the courses Peter had steered with the charts in front of us. Now I’d have to waste time searching for him, and when I found him he’d undoubtedly be drunk.

It was a long time since I had been in Aden, but it hadn’t changed much and down by the harbour at Steamer Point we picked up one of those Arab pimps that lie in wait for seamen coming ashore. He was a fat, fawning man with a pock-marked face and greedy eyes, but he knew the grog shops, all the dives. What’s more he knew Deacon. No doubt half the riff-raff of the waterfront knew him by now, which was why I hadn’t gone to the police.

Three hours we wasted, along the waterfront of Ma’alla wharf where the dhows lay and all up through the back streets of Crater. Finally, exhausted with the heat and the
aimless futility of the search, I threatened to kick our Adeni guide out of the car and go to the police. A panic flash of gold teeth in the pock-marked face and he was pleading for us to drive back to Steamer Point and the port. “I talk to boatmen, sah. Captain Deacon, he have Ingleesh friends, eh? Drinks all free on Ingleesh sheep.”

It was obvious then that he’d known where Deacon was all the time. The hours of searching had been a charade to demonstrate that he’d earned the five pounds I’d offered him. I cursed him wearily and we drove back to Steamer Point. “When were you last on board the
Strode Venturer
?” I asked Simpkin.

“This morning.”

“Did you inquire whether Deacon was there?”

“Of course.” But he had only inquired of Captain Jones. He hadn’t inquired of the first officer and he certainly hadn’t searched the cabins. I was remembering that long, lugubrious face, the shifty, foxy eyes. Fields. That was the name. Arthur Fields. And he’d been with Deacon a long time; at least that was my impression. “I think we’ll find he spent the night on board.”

They had, in fact, gone on board in the early hours of the morning. The boatman who had rowed them out to the ship, produced now with great alacrity by our guide, said that the big man had been very drunk and had had to be helped up the gangway.

It was blowing a hot wind off the volcanic heights as we took a launch out to the
Strode Venturer.
There were lighters alongside and she was loading cargo into No.
2
hold, some of it R.A.F. stores for Gan. The first officer could hardly be said to be in charge of the loading, but he was there, his face grey under the peaked cap, his eyes slitted against the glare of the sun now falling towards the west. “Mr. Fields!” I called and his eyes flicked open lizard-like in the sun. The winch clattered close behind him and as though that provided him with a working excuse he turned deliberately away to watch the Chinaman at the controls.

I swung myself up the ladder to the deck where he was
standing. He must have heard me coming, but he didn’t turn until I tapped him on the shoulder. “I called to you,” I said. The tired, bloodshot eyes faced me for a moment, long enough for me to realize that dislike was mutual. Then they shifted uneasily away and he reached into his pocket for his cigarettes. “Where’s Deacon?” I asked him.

“How would I know?’

“You brought him on board—some time in the early hours.”

He lit his cigarette and puffed a cloud of smoke. “You caused enough trouble,” he said. “You and that fellow Strode. Soon as you came on board at Gan——”

“Would you mind taking me to his cabin?” I said.

“Why should I?” The sour cockney face looked suddenly full of hate. “You get him sacked and thrown on the beach and then the agent comes on board this morning and tells Jones he can pack his bags and go ashore ’cause Harry Deacon’s reinstated.” There was something almost vicious in the way he’d turned and snapped at me—like a vixen defending its mate. “What’re you trying to do—crucify him? A man needs warning after that sort of treatment. He needs an hour or two to get used to the idea he’s taking command again.” The thin, sensitive mouth, the lank hair under the dirty white cap … I was beginning to understand as he spat out, “You educated bastards think other men haven’t got any feelings. What do you want with him, anyway?” The foxy eyes peered up at me. “Either he’s reappointed or he isn’t.”

“Don’t you listen to the B.B.C. news bulletins?”

“Why should I?” And he added sourly, “If you’d been on this ship as long as I have, the same ports, the same dead, hell-hot sea …”

“If you hate it so,” I snapped, “why don’t you get another job?” But I knew why, of course. He couldn’t face the world outside. He was a failure, relying on Deacon’s friendship and afraid to stand on his own feet. This was his escape, this battered ship, and he was a prisoner serving a life sentence. I told him what had happened, but it didn’t
register. Nothing would ever register with him but what directly concerned himself. “So that’s why he’s reinstated—just so that he can find the island for you.” And he added, “Serves Strode right if he has killed himself on that filthy heap of volcanic slag. He went to enough trouble to see that we wouldn’t be able to tell anyone where the hell it was.” He looked up at me out of the corners of his eyes, greed glimmering through the shiftiness. “What’s there, anyway? Gold? Diamonds?”

“Manganese,” I said. “And now I want to talk to Deacon.” No good asking him where the island was. He might be capable of navigating according to the book, but he’d no feeling for the sea. I gripped his arm and turned him towards the bridge accommodation. “Don’t let’s waste any more time,” I said.

“He’s tired, you know.” The voice was almost a whine, for he’d caught my mood and was suddenly scared.

“Drunk, you mean.”

He shook my hand off. “He was in a Jap prison camp for three and a half years. We both of us were. But it wasn’t the Japs that beat him.” He had a sort of dignity then as he faced me, defending his friend. “It was afterwards. They never gave him a chance. The Strodes, I mean.” The foxy face peered up at me, the thin lips drawn back from his long discoloured teeth. “He worked for your father. Did you know that? The Bailey Oriental Line.” I nodded. “They never forgave him for that. And did you know this——” He gave me a long-toothed vicious smile. “Your father committed suicide on this ship.”

I grabbed him without thinking, grabbed him with both hands and shook him till his long teeth rattled in his head. And through the rattle of them I heard the little rat say gleefully, “Didn’t you know? Walked off the stern in the middle of the night.”

“You’re lying,” I said. “He died at sea—a natural death.”

“He drowned himself. In the Bay of Biscay it was and Harry Deacon swore the crew to secrecy.”

I let him go. It could be true. It would explain the shortness
of
The Times
obituary, old Henry Strode’s sense of remorse, the strange nature of that letter. The sudden wave of anger that had gripped me drained away. If it were true, then what difference did it make now, after all these years? I glanced over my shoulder, but fortunately the agent hadn’t followed us. “Why did you tell me that?” But I knew why. He wanted to make certain I wouldn’t have Deacon thrown off the ship again.

He had tucked him away in a little cubby-hole of a cabin two decks down and as he unlocked the door the smell of vomit and diarrhoea hit me in a nauseating wave. Deacon wasn’t just drunk. He was dead drunk, and I knew at a glance I wouldn’t get any sense out of him for twenty-four hours at least. He was lying half-naked on a pipe-cot that was too small for him and his huge body, glistening with sweat in the light of the unshaded bulb, seemed to fill the place, a bloated, hairy carcass. His mouth was a gaping hole in the stubble of his face and his skin the colour of lead. He looked ghastly. “Have you had a doctor?”