Алистер Маклин - Ice Station Zebra

‘Did what?’ Swanson asked.

‘Walloped me on the old bean. Who? Eh?’

‘You mean to say you don’t remember?’

‘Remember?’ Jolly said irritably. ‘How the devil should I . . .’ He broke off as his eye caught sight of Benson in the adjacent cot, a huddled figure under the blankets with only the back of his head and a big gauze pack covering his wound showing. ‘Of course, of course. Yes, that’s it. He fell on top of me, didn’t he?’

‘He certainly did,’ I said. ‘Did you try to catch him?’

‘Catch him? No, I didn’t try to catch him. I didn’t try to get out of the way either. It was all over in half a second. I just don’t remember a thing about it.’ He groaned a bit more then looked across at Benson. ‘Came a pretty nasty cropper, eh? Must have done.’

‘Looks like it. He’s very severely concussed. There’s X-ray equipment here and I’ll have a look at his head shortly. Damned hard luck on you too, Jolly.’

‘I’ll get over it,’ he grunted. He pushed off my hand and sat up. ‘Can I help you?’

‘You may not,’ Swanson said quietly. ‘Early supper then twelve hours solid for you and the eight others, Doctor, and those are my doctor’s orders. You’ll find supper waiting in the wardroom now.’

‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Jolly gave a ghost of a smile and pushed himself groggily to his feet. ‘That bit about the twelve hours sounds good to me.’

After a minute or two, when he was steady enough on his feet, he left. Swanson said: ‘What now?’

‘You might inquire around to see who was nearest or near to Benson when he slipped climbing over the edge of the bridge. But discreetly. It might do no harm if at the same time you hinted around that maybe Benson had just taken a turn.’

‘What are you hinting at?’ Swanson asked slowly.

‘Did he fall or was he pushed? That’s what I’m hinting at.’

‘Did he fall or . . .’ He broke off then went on warily: ‘Why should anyone want to push Dr Benson?’

‘Why should anyone want to kill seven – eight, now – men in Drift Ice Station Zebra?’

‘You have a point,’ Swanson acknowledged quietly. He left.

Making X-ray pictures wasn’t very much in my line but apparently it hadn’t been very much in Dr Benson’s line either for he’d written down, for his own benefit and guidance, a detailed list of instructions for the taking and development of X-ray pictures. I wondered how he would have felt if he had known that the first beneficiary of his meticulous thoroughness was to be himself. The two finished negatives I came up with wouldn’t have caused any furore in the Royal Photographic Society, but they were enough for my wants.

By and by Commander Swanson returned, closing the door behind him. I said: ‘Ten gets one that you got nothing.’

‘You won’t die a poor man,’ he nodded. ‘Nothing is what it is. So Chief Torpedoman Patterson tells me, and you know what he’s like.’

I knew what he was like. Patterson was the man responsible for all discipline and organisation among the enlisted men and Swanson had said to me that he regarded Patterson, and not himself, as the most indispensable man on the ship.

‘Patterson was the man who reached the bridge immediately before Benson,’ Swanson said. ‘He said he heard Benson cry out, swung round and saw him already beginning to topple backwards. He didn’t recognise who it was at the time, it was too dark and snowy for that. He said he had the impression that Benson had already had one hand and one knee on the bridge coaming when he fell backwards.’

‘A funny position in which to start falling backwards,’ I said. ‘Most of his body weight must already have been inboard. And even if he did topple outwards he would surely still have had plenty of time to grab the coaming with both hands.’

‘Maybe he did take a turn,’ Swanson suggested. ‘And don’t forget that the coaming is glass-slippery with its smooth coating of ice.’

‘As soon as Benson disappeared Patterson ran to the side to see what had happened to him?’

‘He did,’ Swanson said wearily. ‘And he said there wasn’t a person within ten feet of the top of the bridge when Benson fell.’

‘And who was ten feet below?’

‘He couldn’t tell. Don’t forget how black it was out there on the ice-cap and that the moment Patterson had dropped into the brightly lit bridge he’d lost whatever night-sight he’d built up. Besides, he didn’t wait for more than a glance. He was off for a stretcher even before you or Hansen got to Benson. Patterson is not the sort of man who has to be told what to do.’

‘So it’s a dead end there?’

‘A dead end.’

I nodded, crossed to a cupboard and brought back the two X-rays, still wet, held in their metal clips. I held them up to the light for Swanson’s inspection.

‘Benson?’ he asked, and when I nodded peered at them more closely and finally said: ‘That line there – a fracture?’

‘A fracture. And not a hair-line one either, as you can see. He really caught a wallop.’

‘How bad is it? How long before he comes out of this coma – he is in a coma?’

‘He’s all that. How long? If I were a lad fresh out of medical school I’d let you have a pretty confident estimate. If I were a top-flight brain surgeon I’d say anything from half an hour to a year or two, because people who really know what they are talking about are only too aware that we know next to nothing about the brain. Being neither, I’d guess at two or three days – and my guess could be hopelessly wrong. There may be cerebral bleeding. I don’t know. I don’t think so. Blood-pressure, respiration and temperature show no evidence of organic damage. And now you know as much about it as I do.’

‘Your colleagues wouldn’t like that.’ Swanson smiled faintly. ‘This cheerful confession of ignorance does nothing to enhance the mystique of your profession. How about your other patients – the two men still out in Zebra?’

‘I’ll see them after supper. Maybe they’ll be fit enough to be brought here to-morrow. Meanwhile, I’d like to ask a favour of you. Could you lend me the services of your Torpedoman Rawlings? And would you have any objections to his being taken into our confidence?’

‘Rawlings? I don’t know why you want him, but why Rawlings? The officers and petty officers aboard this ship are the pick of the United States Navy. Why not one of them? Besides, I’m not sure that I like the idea of passing on to an enlisted man secrets denied to my officers.’

‘They’re strictly non-naval secrets. The question of hierarchy doesn’t enter into it. Rawlings is the man I want. He’s got a quick mind, quick reflexes, and a dead-pan give-away-nothing expression that is invaluable in a game like this. Besides, in the event – the unlikely event, I hope – of the killer suspecting that we’re on to him, he wouldn’t look for any danger from one of your enlisted men because he’d be certain that we wouldn’t let them in on it.’

‘What do you want him for?’

‘To keep a night guard on Benson here.’

‘On Benson?’ A fractional narrowing of the eyes, that could have been as imagined as real, was the only change in Swanson’s impassive face. ‘So you don’t think it was an accident, do you?’

‘I don’t honestly know. But I’m like yourself when you carry out a hundred and one different checks, most of which you know to be unnecessary, before you take your ship to sea – I’m taking no chances. If it wasn’t an accident – then someone might have an interest in doing a really permanent job next time.’

‘But how can Benson represent a danger to anyone?’ Swanson argued. ‘I’ll wager anything you like, Carpenter, that Benson doesn’t – or didn’t – know a thing about them that could point a finger at anyone. If he did, he’d have told me straight away. He was like that.’