Дональд Уэстлейк - Forever and a Death

It was a house, a ranch, what the Australians call a station, a sprawling adobe structure, two stories high, ablaze with light. Spotlights mounted high on the exterior walls flared on the road, showed a helicopter squatted with drooping rotors near the entrance, made tiny sharp black shadows among the tough grasses that covered these hills.

“Look at that,” Pallifer said, nudging Manville, who didn’t respond, and pointing at the helicopter, as they drove on by it.

“Your friend Mr. Curtis, he’s so excited to see you again, he flew out here already.”

The Daimler drove past the front of the house, with its deep wooden-posted porch dotted with rough wooden benches and small tables, and followed the faint track of the road around to the side, where a tan overhead garage door in the flank of the building, near the rear, one of three such doors in a row, all the same color as the adobe of the building, was already lifting up out of the way, welcoming them.

The Daimler drove inside, into a space already flanked by two other vehicles, under strong overhead lights. The garage door, one solid piece of metal in an electrically operated track, angled back down again and snicked shut. A minute later, all the exterior lights went out.

“Let me do the talking,” Jerry said.

“I always do,” Luther told him.

They’d flown up from Sydney this morning, as Jerry had promised Kim’s parents he would, but then had wasted precious time on the wrong assumption that Captain Zhang would be living on his ship. The crew members they’d approached had been no help at all, either not speaking English or pretending not to, but then a smooth young Japanese gentleman in a suit had come by, at the gangplank where Jerry and Luther were frustratingly being held, not permitted even to board the Mallory , and the gentleman had turned out to be with the company that was replacing the ship’s missing lifeboat. He it was who told them that Captain Zhang was staying at a hotel in town, the Tasman Crest — “As am I myself” — during the time the ship was forced to remain in harbor.

The Tasman Crest was a mid-range smallish hotel near City Hall that seemed to cater to Asian businessmen almost exclusively, which was probably why their cabdriver had seemed surprised when they gave it as their destination. The young woman at the desk rang the captain’s room for them without result.

“You could wait for him,” she offered, with a gesture toward a seating area nearby.

“Thank you,” Jerry said, and they went over to sit on broad low chairs with thick pale green cushions and bamboo arms. A fountain was nearby, a gentle plash of water onto polished stones, an unobtrusive white noise which would make any conversation in this place something close to confidential.

Jerry was feeling more and more frustrated. “We don’t know what he looks like, only the sound of his voice. What if he isn’t in his uniform? He could go in and out a dozen times, and we wouldn’t know.”

“She said she called room 423,” Luther said. “And the key is in that slot, along with a message. Possibly two messages. Jerry, don’t turn around, I can see it fine from here. We just have to wait.” And when Jerry didn’t respond to that: “What are we going to do tonight?”

They’d decided to spend tonight in Brisbane, staying at a Sheraton because Planetwatch got a group discount, so now Jerry permitted Luther to distract him with a discussion of how they’d spend their evening. There were good seafood restaurants here, and good jazz clubs, and other clubs that might be of interest. They wouldn’t be bored.

“Ah,” Luther said, and got to his feet.

As did Jerry. Turning, he saw the girl at the counter just handing the key and the message or messages to a man who was indeed not in uniform but in a rather shabby brown suit. The man had a gloomy and defeated air about him.

It was as they crossed the lobby toward the man, who must be Captain Zhang, that Jerry said, “Let me do the talking,” and Luther gave his agreement. Meanwhile, the man had turned away from the desk, moving toward the elevators on the farther side of the lobby, and Jerry had to trot to try to catch up.

Though the girl at the desk solved that problem, calling, “Captain Zhang. You have visitors.”

The captain turned around, still holding his key and messages, looking more frightened than curious, and very wary when he saw two men he didn’t know approaching him.

Jerry stopped in front of him. “Captain Zhang?”

“Yes?”

“I’m Jerry Diedrich from Planetwatch. We talked the other day, by radio.”

Now the captain looked like a frightened rabbit, backing away, eyes slipping to the sides, looking for a hole to hide in. “No no,” he said. “You must talk to the company, Mr. Curtis—”

Jerry pursued him, saying, “When Kim Baldur’s parents came to see you, you didn’t speak English.”

“I could not talk to them,” the captain said. He was almost running backward, unwilling to turn away from them but wanting desperately to escape. “I cannot talk to you. Mr. Curtis has lawyers, you must see them. Please, not me.” He was at the elevators now, and one was just opening, releasing three businessmen with briefcases, deep in discussion. The captain ducked around them into the elevator, and Jerry and Luther went in after him.

The captain stared at them in horror. “You can’t follow me!”

Luther said, “Of course we can,” and leaned forward to press button number 4. “You’re in 423,” he said.

The door closed; they started to rise. The captain tried to be stern, not very effectively. “I have nothing to say to you,” he insisted. “I wrote a report for the authorities, that’s all—”

“You signed a report,” Luther corrected. “Some of Curtis’s lawyers wrote it.”

The elevator door opened, and the captain could be seen to be torn between horrible choices. He didn’t want to stay in here with these two people, but he didn’t want to let them approach any nearer to his room either.

Luther held the door, and spoke in an almost kindly way. “Your floor, sir.”

The captain stepped out, jittering, and they went out with him. But then he refused to go any farther. He stood where he was in the hall, in front of the elevators, sullen but unmovable. “I have nothing to tell you,” he said. He wouldn’t look at them either, but kept frowning at some invisible spot at waist height between them. “I did my report. I was very upset by what happened. I thought I would lose my job. I need my job, I have a family, I have daughters, I thought we were all destroyed. I felt... I felt very bad for that girl, so young and pretty and... it was not my fault. I would never hurt another person, you must believe me. I would never hurt anyone. It’s not my fault.”

Jerry said, “What about her parents? You pretended you couldn’t speak English. What about them?”

“I felt so— I couldn’t talk with those people, such sad people, I have daughters, I have daughters, what could I say to those people? How everybody looked for her and nobody found her, and if they found her she’d only be dead. They know that, I can’t say that. How could I talk to those people? I pretended, because I felt such badness for them.” He shook his head. “And I cannot talk to you. If you follow me to my room, I will call the desk and have them send people to take you away, arrest you. You must leave me alone.”

He turned away, scurrying off down the wide pale corridor. Jerry would have followed, but Luther grabbed his arm, holding him back. Jerry looked at him, surprised, and Luther shook his head, then turned to push the down button for the elevator.