Charles Ardai - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 102, No. 4 & 5. Whole No. 618 & 619, October 1993

Back on deck he decided the two searches had been a waste of time. If Efes Kemal’s daughter was in trouble involving drugs or anything else, it was far from apparent. He’d searched the passenger cabins and found nothing suspicious.

Two of the passenger cabins, anyway. He hadn’t bothered with the empty one.

He walked down to the aft cabin and tried his key in the lock. It worked, just like the others. He’d expected a bare bunk, without sheets or blankets, but instead there was a standard gray blanket wrapped around someone. He caught his breath, freezing in the doorway, conjuring up visions of a secret passenger whom no one had seen.

When no movement came from the bunk he went a step closer. Finally he was near enough to lift the blanket. It was the crewman, Multan, and he was dead. His throat had been slashed in the same manner as that man Grantor back at the Karachi café.

He could not admit to Captain Rodriguez that he’d been searching the cabins when he found the dead man, but neither did he feel he could simply walk away quickly as he’d done in Karachi. There, at least, he’d known one of the other cafe patrons would soon discover the victim. Here it could be days. The murderer had obviously put him in the empty cabin to delay discovery.

After a few moments’ thought Rand decided on a compromise. He went out of the cabin but left the door ajar. Surely one of the crew members would notice it and glance inside. Then he went up to the bridge and conversed with Captain Rodriguez about the progress of the voyage.

“We’re making good time,” he suggested, peering at a chart showing the ship’s present position.

“Very good,” Rodriguez agreed. “Here in the Red Sea it’s usually quite calm at this time of year.”

A few minutes later their conversation was interrupted by Sallis, the first mate. “Bad trouble, Captain. Multan’s been killed.”

“Killed?”

“Murdered. His throat was cut. Fandul just came on board from a swim and noticed the door to the empty passenger cabin was open. He looked in and found Multan on the bunk, dead.”

“Take the wheel,” he ordered Sallis. “I’ll go have a look.”

Rand drifted down after him, trying to stay out of the way. The others all seemed to be clustered around the cabin door. “What happened?” he asked Sishane innocently.

“It’s one of the crewmen, young Multan. He’s been killed.”

“That’s terrible!”

He moved away but she followed. In a low voice she told him, “The time for games is over, Mr. Rand. My father sent you, didn’t he?”

He glanced at Pierre Claquer, only a few feet away. “We can’t talk here. Meet me on the fantail after dinner.”

There was much debate over dinner about whether the ship should put in to the nearest port for a police investigation of the killing, but the captain argued it had occurred in international waters and was hardly within the jurisdiction of Ethiopia or Yemen, the countries on either side of them at the moment. No one had a desire to become involved with either country, and it seemed best to leave the decision and the responsibility in Captain Rodriguez’s hands. Orders were given that the body be kept on ice and delivered to the Turkish police when the ship reached its destination.

After dinner Rand strolled to the stem of the ship, to the rounded area that jutted out from the rest. Presently Sishane Kemal joined him. “Someone aboard this vessel is a killer,” she told him bluntly.

“I think that truth is in everyone’s mind,” he agreed. “There are only eight crew members left, plus the three of us. Not many suspects.”

“Why would someone kill him?”

“I thought you could tell me.”

“My father sent you, didn’t he?”

“What gave you that idea?”

She stepped close to him, her eyes almost level with his. “Oh, I remember the name Rand. My father used to tell stories about you, the darling of Britain’s Department of Concealed Communications, the man from Double-C.”

“That was a different person.”

“It was you. He even showed me a picture of you once. You’ve always been something of a hero to him.”

“I’ve been retired from Double-C for sixteen years.”

“But not retired from the world of foreign intrigue. I recognized you the moment we met, Mr. Rand. What are you doing here?”

There was no point in lying further. “Your father is very concerned about you. He believes you’re in some sort of trouble involving drugs.” She frowned at that but said nothing. He continued, “I was told you were in Karachi. I located a man named Grantor down by the waterfront who was familiar with the sailings. He told me you were on board this vessel. He was killed shortly after that—”

“What?”

“—possibly by the same person who killed Multan. The throat wounds were similar.”

“Why would anyone kill him?”

“Because he talked to me?” Rand speculated. “Because he mentioned your name? What are you involved in, Sishane?”

“Nothing. Not drugs, certainly.”

“These ships often carry heroin headed for Europe. With the end of trade restrictions—”

“I told you, I know nothing about heroin or anything like that. I never heard of this man Grantor who you claim was killed because of me.”

“What were you doing in Pakistan that so concerned your father?”

“If you must know, I’m writing a study of population problems in the twenty-first century. Pakistan, India, and Bangladesh seemed good places to begin.”

“You were in Bangladesh too?”

She nodded. “Just last week. It is a tiny country which, if projections are correct, will have more people than the United States by the year two thousand twenty-five.”

“How did you happen to choose this ship for your return home?”

“I’d heard my father mention it once. When I learned it was in port to pick up oil-drilling machinery from Afghanistan, I decided this would be a good route home.”

Rand couldn’t help feeling she was lying, but he had no evidence with which to confront her. Before he could say anything else, Gunther Sallis spotted them on the fantail and strolled over to join them.

“Nice night,” the first mate said. “This is the only time of day the heat is bearable.”

“What will happen when we dock in Istanbul?” Sishane wanted to know. “Will we all be held for questioning?”

“I suppose so. I’ve never had anything like this happen on one of my ships. However, Captain Rodriguez hopes to avoid the Istanbul bureaucracy by reporting the killing at Bodrum, our first stop.” For Rand’s benefit he added, “It’s a port on the Aegean Sea, just past the island of Rhodes. We’ll be off-loading some of our cargo there.”

“Well,” Sishane decided, “I’m going to my cabin. I’ll see you both in the morning.”

Rand followed soon after. No one seemed to linger on deck with a killer on board. He locked himself in his cabin and then, remembering the business with the keys, placed a chair against the door as an added precaution.

At breakfast on the fifth morning the captain announced that they were picking up speed, hoping to reach the Suez Canal that evening, several hours ahead of schedule. He was obviously nervous about the situation, anxious to reach the relative safety of port. They were sailing up the middle of the Red Sea, and Claquer was already grumbling that they were too far from either shore to observe any birds.

“All I can see are a few terns, and even they don’t come out this far,” the Frenchman complained.

Sishane Kemal came to breakfast late and seemed unusually distressed. Rand assumed she’d slept poorly because of the killing, but when he started to leave she tugged on his sleeve. “I have to speak with you,” she said quietly.