Стюарт Стерлинг - Down Among the Dead Men

The executive Director of the Ovett Shipping Corporation was hunched over a flat-top in his corner office on the nineteenth floor. He scowled at a notice of increased maritime insurance rates in Barron’s Weekly, threw the paper down, gazed out his Whitehall Street windows at the panorama of the Upper Bay, — Staten Island and the Narrows in the mid-distance, the smoky outline of the Highlands blue-gray against the horizon. His office door burst open.

“Blast you to eternity, Rolf.” Lawford Ovett’s voice was the harsh monotone of the aging deaf. “Why’n’t you tell me that crazy son of mine was back in town!”

Berger made a soothing gesture. “I didn’t know it, myself, until last night, after you were asleep. I meant to call you, later. Didn’t expect you to come in today. How you feel this morning?”

“Like the wrath of God.” Ovett slammed the door; the glass rattled in the panel. “Groggy as if I’d been on an opium jag. I took that dope to give me a good night’s rest. So at half past eight the maid waked me up. I’ve been walking around in a trance for the last hour.”

Berger snorted. “Didn’t the doctor tell the maid to let you sleep it off?”

“Of course he did. But she didn’t know what else to do. Merrill was calling.”

“Merrill?” The Director’s eyes narrowed; he fumbled distractedly in his vest for a cigar. “Where is he? In town?”

“In Brooklyn somewhere. A saloon, by the noise. I could hardly make out what he was saying, I was so woozy. Still am. Lord.” Ovett pressed fingertips to his temples, slumped in a chair beneath the heavy gilt frame of a portrait. Against a background of blue and white sails, the painter had fixed in oils a weathered sea-captain; glacial eyes stared boldly from a face wind-polished to the russet of old spars; a bifurcated beard hung down from either side of his chin like dripping icicles.

“What’d he have to say for himself?”

“Nothing.” Ovett sucked at his upper plate, gloomily. “Pup couldn’t spare time for anything more than ‘Hello... don’t worry about me... good-by.’ ”

“ ‘Good-by’?” Berger snapped his lighter absently, let it burn without bringing it near his panetela. “ ‘Good-by’! He’s signed on for another voyage?” He fanned the flame before the cigar, blew out a cone of smoke, sighing.

“He has.” Ovett made a clicking sound with his dental equipment. “If I knew what ship, I’d damned well make sure he didn’t sail.” He leaned forward, pointed a bony forefinger. “There’s something almighty queer about his turning up like this. He said he was going in a convoy. To Russia, he expected. I didn’t look for him to be back for another month.”

“I thought there was a possibility of it.” Berger let smoke curl out of the corner of his mouth, squinted one eye. “I hesitated to tell you...”

“By the Lord Harry!” Ovett’s eyes burned yellowly in gaunt sockets. “Am I always the last one to know his doings?”

“I thought it would make you uneasy, Lawford.”

“Don’t you think I’m uneasy enough wondering every minute of the day where he is, whether his ship’s been sunk under him!”

“That’s why I didn’t let you know. I wasn’t sure he was alive. You see, his ship was sunk.”

Ovett cupped a hand to his right ear. “What? What ship?”

“The Mercede.” Berger made a ceremony of tapping the ash off his cigar. “The Navy Department didn’t release the list of survivors until day before yesterday. Merrill’s name wasn’t on it. But I knew he’d sailed on her, so—”

Ovett came to his feet; he raised thin arms over his head, shook his fists at the ceiling. “By all that’s holy! All of you act around here as if I were dead and buried. I give strict instructions the boy isn’t to be permitted on any ship that flies our house-flag. Now I find out you’ve countermanded my orders.”

“Your instructions were passed on to all our masters. But not all of them know Merrill by sight; I can’t personally go over every crew with a fine-toothed comb. He signed on under an assumed name. I didn’t learn about it until after the Mercede was four days out of the assembly port. Then it was too late.” Berger drummed on the desk with a letter opener. “Soon as we had word she’d been torpedoed, I did my best to learn if he’d been among the rescued. But you can’t get any damned cooperation from the Navy in a case like that. It wasn’t until day before yesterday I had a wire from our first mate in Charleston, saying Merrill was safe.”

“Why didn’t you tell me then?”

Berger let the letter opener clatter to the desk. “His name wasn’t on the Navy’s list of survivors, I tell you. I was afraid there might have been a mistake in the wire. Besides, I expected Merrill to let you know, himself.” A buzzer purred at his side; he picked up a hand-set, listened, murmured “Not in. Later.” hung up. “That is, Lawford, if he wanted you to know he’d gone contrary to your wishes about sailing in one of our ships.”

Ovett pinched with thumb and forefinger at the corners of his eyes. “But the Mercede wasn’t bound for Russia in the first place. Why did he have to lie...”

“She was scheduled for Murmansk. At the last minute the masterminds in Washington decided she’d have to carry her cargo of machinery to Rio instead, in order to be able to pick up bauxite in Paramaribo on the return.”

The old man put his hands flat on the glass top of the desk, leaned over until his face was close to Berger’s. “He got away with it that time. He was lucky. One fine day he’s not going to be so lucky.”

“Merrill’s not the only man taking chances in this war.”

“He’s the only son I have. I don’t propose to lose him if I can prevent it. You’ve got to help me stop him from shipping out again.”

“I don’t know what ship he’s signed on,” Berger spat out a loose bit of tobacco. “I don’t know how to find out.”

The office door opened quietly; Koski said “Morning.”

Ovett swiveled around. “Who the devil—”

Berger broke in, swiftly. “This is a private conference, sir.”

Koski shut the door softly behind him. “Don’t mind me. You’re probably talking about the same thing I came to see you about. Keep punching.”

“You’re mistaken, sir.” Berger was incensed. “Mister Ovett and I were discussing a business matter. I told the girl I’d see you later.” He put an arm around Ovett’s shoulder, steered the older man toward the door. “If you’ll excuse us — I’ll be with you in a minute.”

Koski didn’t budge. “Don’t bother with the runaround. Mister Ovett ought to know we’re scouring the harbor for his son.”

“What?” Ovett put one hand back of his ear again. “You’re doing what?”

“Doing just what you want, Lawford.” Berger shrugged, wagged his head in annoyance. “Trying to keep Merrill from sailing. Lieutenant Koski’s from the police.”

The detective leaned back against the door. “The Coast Guard is checking every ship that clears the port. But Mister Berger mentioned last night something about your son’s sailing under an assumed name. That’s why I’m here. To find out what name.”

Berger said: “I don’t know.”

Ovett fingered tremulous lips, his voice was shrill: “Why are you hunting for my son?”

Koski waited, inspected the sea-captain’s portrait.

“Don’t excite yourself, Lawford.” The Director searched for words. “The authorities have no proof Merrill’s done anything. That engineer on your yacht, what’s his name...?”

“Gjersten,” Koski put in. He discovered that by holding his hand up over the sea-captain’s beard, the portrait was a very fair replica of the life study Ellen Wyatt had made of the lookout.