Алистер Маклин - Bear Island

‘They might have spared the passengers on a night like this,’ I said.

‘You underestimate our immortal trio, my dear boy. The fact that you may be one of the most excruciating musicians in existence does not prevent you from having a heart of gold. They have invited the passengers along to hear them perform in the hope that this might alleviate their sufferings.’ He closed his eyes as a raucous bellow overlaid with a high-pitched scream as of some animal in pain echoed down the passageway outside. ‘The concert seems to have begun.’

‘You can’t fault their psychology,’ I said. ‘After that, an Arctic gale is going to seem like a summer afternoon on the Thames.’

‘You do them an injustice.’ Lonnie lowered the level in the bottle by another inch then slid down into his bunk to show that the audience was over. ‘Go and see for yourself.’

So I went and saw for myself and I had been doing them an injustice. The Three Apostles, surrounded by that plethora of microphones, amplifiers, speakers and arcane electronic equipment without which the latter-day troubadours will not – and, more importantly, cannot – operate, were performing on a low platform in one corner of the recreation room and maintaining their balance with remarkable ease largely, it seemed, because their bodily gyrations and contortions, as inseparable a part of their art as the electronic aids, seemed to synchronize rather well with the pitching and rolling of the Morning Rose . Rather conservatively, if oddly, clad in blue jeans and psychedelic caftans, and bent over their microphones in an attitude of almost acolytic fervour, the three young sound assistants were giving of their uninhibited best and from what little could be seen of the ecstatic expressions on faces eighty per cent concealed at any given moment by wildly swinging manes of hair, it was plain that they thought that their best approximated very closely to the sublime. I wondered, briefly, how angels would look with ear-plugs, then turned my attention to the audience.

There were fifteen in all, ten members of the production crew and five of the cast. A round dozen of them were very clearly the worse for wear, but their sufferings were being temporarily held in abeyance by the fascination, which stopped a long way short of rapture, induced by the Three Apostles who had now reached a musical crescendo accompanied by what seemed to be some advanced form of St Vitus’ Dance. A hand touched me on the shoulder and I looked sideways at Charles Conrad.

Conrad was thirty years old and was to be the male lead in the film, not yet a big-name star but building up an impressive international reputation. He was cheerful, ruggedly handsome, with a thatch of thick brown hair that kept falling over his eyes: he had eyes of the bluest blue and most gleamingly white perfect teeth – like his name, his own – that would have transported a dentist into ecstasies or the depths of despair, depending upon whether he was primarily interested in the aesthetic or economic aspects of his profession. He was invariably friendly, courteous and considerate, whether by instinct or calculated design it was impossible to say. He cupped his hand to my ear, nodded towards the performers.

‘Your contract specifies hairshirts?’

‘No. Why? Does yours?’

‘Solidarity of the working classes.’ He smiled, looking at me with an oddly speculative glint in his eyes. ‘Letting the opera buffs down, aren’t you?’

‘They’ll recover. Anyway, I always tell my patients that a change is as good as a rest.’ The music ceased abruptly and I lowered my voice about fifty decibels. ‘Mind you, this is carrying it too far. Fact is, I’m on duty. Mr Gerran is a bit concerned about you all.’

‘He wants his herd delivered to the cattle market in prime condition?’

‘Well, I suppose you all represent a pretty considerable investment to him.’

‘Investment? Ha! Do you know that that twisted old skinflint of a beer-barrel has not only got us at fire-sale prices but also won’t pay us a penny until shooting’s over?’

‘No, I didn’t.’ I paused. ‘We live in a democracy, Mr Conrad, the land of the free. You don’t have to sell yourselves in the slave market.’

‘Don’t we just! What do you know about the film industry?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Obviously. It’s in the most depressed state in its history. Eighty per cent of the technicians and actors unemployed. I’d rather work for pennies than starve.’ He scowled, then his natural good humour reasserted itself. ‘Tell him that his prop and stay, that indomitable leading man Charles Conrad, is fit and well. Not happy, mind you, just fit and well. To be happy I’d have to see him fall over the side.’

‘I’ll tell him all of that.’ I looked around the room. The Three Apostles, mercifully, were refreshing themselves, though clearly in need of something stronger than ginger ale. I said to Conrad: ‘This little lot will get to market.’

‘Instant mass diagnosis?’

‘It takes practice. It also saves time. Who’s missing?’

‘Well.’ He glanced around. ‘There’s Heissman–’

‘I’ve seen him. And Neal Divine. And Lonnie. And Mary Stuart – not that I’d expect her to be here anyway.’

‘Our beautiful but snooty young Slav, eh?’

‘I’ll go half-way with that. You don’t have to be snooty to avoid people.’

‘I like her too.’ I looked at him. I’d only spoken to him twice, briefly. I could see he meant what he said. He sighed. ‘I wish she were my leading lady instead of our resident Mata Hari.’

‘You can’t be referring to the delectable Miss Haynes?’

‘I can and I am,’ he said moodily. ‘Femmes fatales wear me out. You’ll observe she’s not among those present. I’ll bet she’s in bed with those two damned floppy-eared hounds of hers, all of them having the vapours and high on smelling salts.’

‘Who else is missing?’

‘Antonio.’ He was smiling again. ‘According to the Count – he’s his cabin-mate – Antonio is in extremis and unlikely to see the night out.’

‘He did leave the dining-room in rather a hurry.’ I left Conrad and joined the Count at his table. The Count, with a lean aquiline face, black pencil moustache, bar-straight black eyebrows and greying hair brushed straight back from his forehead, appeared to be in more than tolerable health. He held a very large measure of brandy in his hand and I did not have to ask to know that it would be the very best cognac obtainable, for the Count was a renowned connoisseur of everything from blondes to caviare, as precisely demanding a perfectionist in the pursuit of the luxuries of life as he was in the performance of his duties, which may have helped to make him what he was, the best lighting cameraman in the country and probably in Europe. Nor did I have to wonder where he had obtained the cognac from: rumour had it that he had known Otto Gerran a very long time indeed, or at least long enough to bring his own private supplies along with him whenever Otto went on safari. Count Tadeusz Leszczyński – which nobody ever called him because they couldn’t pronounce it – had learned a great deal about life since he had parted with his huge Polish estates, precipitately and for ever, in mid-September, 1939.

‘Evening, Count,’ I said. ‘At least, you look fit enough.’

‘Tadeusz to my peers. In robust health, I’m glad to say. I take the properly prophylactic precautions.’ He touched the barely perceptible bulge in his jacket. ‘You will join me in some prophylaxis? Your penicillins and aureomycins are but witches’ brews for the credulous.’

I shook my head. ‘Duty rounds, I’m afraid. Mr Gerran wants to know just how ill this weather is making people.’