Alistair MacLean - The Golden Rendezvous

The warm trade wind seemed cooler, much cooler, than it had a few minutes ago. Dr. Marston appeared. No running, no haste, even, with Dr. Marston: a slow measured man with a slow measured stride. A magnificent mane of white hair, clipped white moustache, a singularly smooth and unlined complexion for a man getting so far on in years, steady, clear, keen blue eyes with a peculiarly penetrating property, here, you knew instinctively, was a doctor you could trust implicitly, which only went to show that your instinct should be taken away from you and locked up in some safe place where it couldn’t do you any harm.

Admittedly, even to look at him made you feel better, and that was all right as far as it went, but to go further, to put your life in his hands, say, was a very different and dicey proposition altogether, for there was an even chance that you wouldn’t get it back again. Those piercing blue eyes had not lighted on the “lancet” or made any attempt to follow the latest medical developments since quite a few years prior to the Second World War. But they didn’t have to: he and Lord Dexter had gone through prep school, public school, and university together and his job was secure as long as he could lift a stethescope. And, to be fair to him, when it came to treating wealthy and hypochondriacal old ladies he had no equal on the seven seas. “Well, John,” he boomed.

With the exception of Captain Bullen, he addressed every officer on the ship by his first name exactly as a public school headmaster would have addressed one of his more promising pupils, but a pupil that needed watching all the same. “What’s the trouble? Beau Brownell taken a turn?”

“Worse than that, I’m afraid, doctor. Dead.”

“Good Lord! Brownell? Dead? Let me see, let me see. A little more light, if you please, John.” He dumped his bag on the table, fished out his stethescope, sounded Brownell here and there, took his pulse, and then straightened with a sigh. “In the midst of life, John… And not recently either. Temperature’s high in here, but I should say he’s been gone well over an hour.” I could see the dark bulk of Captain Bullen in the doorway now, waiting, listening, saying nothing.

“Heart attack, doctor?” I ventured. After all, he wasn’t all that incompetent, just a quarter of a century out of date.

“Let me see, let me see,” he repeated. He turned Brownell’s head and looked closely at it. He had to look closely. He was unaware that everyone in the ship knew that, piercing blue eyes or not, he was as short-sighted as a dodo and refused to wear glasses. “And, look at this. The tongue, the lips, the eyes, above all the complexion. No doubt about it, no doubt at all. Cerebral haemorrhage. Massive. And at his age. How old, John?”

“Forty-seven, eight. Thereabouts.”

“Forty-seven. Just forty-seven,” he shook his head. “Gets them younger every day. The stress of modern living.”

“And that outstretched hand, doctor?” I asked. “Reaching for the phone. You think…“

“Just confirms my diagnosis, alas. Felt it coming on, tried to call for help, but it was too sudden, too massive. Poor old Beau Brownell.” He turned, caught sight of Bullen leaning in the doorway. “Ah, there you are, captain. A bad business, a bad business.”

“A bad business,” Bullen agreed heavily. “Miss Beresford, you have no right to be here. You’re cold and shivering. Go to your cabin at once.” When Captain Bullen spoke in that tone, the Beresford millions didn’t seem to matter any more. “Dr. Marston will bring you a sedative later.”

“And perhaps Mr. Carreras will be so kind…” I began.

“Certainly,” Carreras agreed at once. “I will be honoured to see the young lady to her cabin.” He bowed slightly, offered her his arm; she seemed more than glad to take it, and they disappeared. Five minutes later all was back to normal in the radio cabin. Peters had taken the dead man’s place; Dr. Marston had returned to his favourite occupation of mingling socially and drinking steadily with our millionaires; the captain had given me his instructions; I’d passed them on to the bo’sun, and Brownell, canvas-wrapped, had been taken forward to the carpenter’s store. I stayed in the wireless office for a few minutes, talking to a very shaken Peters, and looked casually at the latest radio message that had come through. All radio messages were written down in duplicate as received, the original for the bridge and the carbon for the daily spiked file. I lifted the topmost message from the file, but it was nothing very important, just a warning of deteriorating weather far to the southeast of Cuba which might or might not build up to a hurricane.

Routine and too far away to bother us. I lifted the blank message pad that lay at Peters’ elbow. “May I have this?”

“Help yourself.” He was still too upset even to be curious as to why I wanted it. “Plenty more where that came from.”

I left him, walked up and down the deck outside for some time, then made my way to the captain’s cabin where I’d been told to report when I was through. He was in his usual seat by the desk with Cummings and the chief engineer sitting on the settee. The presence of Mcllroy, a short, stout Tynesider with the facial expression and hair style of friar tuck, meant a very worried captain and a council of war. Mcllroy’s brilliance wasn’t confined to reciprocating engines; that plump, laughter-creased face concealed a brain that was probably the shrewdest on the Campari, and that included Mr. Julius Beresford, who must have been very shrewd indeed to make his three hundred million dollars or whatever it was.

“Sit down, mister, sit down,” Bullen growled. The “mister” didn’t mean I was in his black books, just another sign that he was worried. “No signs of Benson yet?”

“No sign at all.”

“What a bloody trip!” Bullen pushed across a tray with whisky and glasses on it, unaccustomedly open-handed liberality that was just another sign of his worry. “Help yourself, mister.”

“Thank you, sir.” I helped myself lavishly — the chance didn’t come often — and went on: “What are we going to do about Brownell?”

“What the devil do you mean, ‘What are we going to do about Brownell?’ he’s got no folks to notify, no consent to get about anything. Head office has been informed. Burial at sea at dawn, before our passengers are up and about. Mustn’t spoil their blasted trip, I suppose.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to take him to Nassau, sir?”

“Nassau?” He stared at me over the rim of his glass, then lowered it carefully to the table. “Just because a man has died, you don’t have to go off your blasted rocker, do you?”

“Nassau or some other British territory. Or Miami. Some place where we can get competent authorities, police authorities, to investigate things.”

“What things, Johnny?” Mcllroy asked. He had his head cocked to one side like a fat and well-stuffed owl.

“Yes, what things?” Bullen’s tone was quite different from Mcllroy’s. “Just because the search party hasn’t turned up Benson yet, you…”

“I’ve called off the search party, sir.” Bullen pushed back his chair till his hands rested on the table at the full stretch of his arms. “You’ve called off the search party,” he said softly. “Who the hell gave you authority to do anything of the kind?”

“No one, sir. But I…”

“Why did you do it, Johnny?” Mcllroy again, very quietly.

“Because we’ll never see Benson again. Not alive, that is. Benson’s dead. Benson’s been killed.” No one said anything, not for all of ten seconds. The sound of the cool air rushing through the louvres in the overhead trunking seemed abnormally loud.