Alistair MacLean - The Golden Rendezvous

Then captain Bullen said harshly, “Killed? Benson killed? Are you all right, mister? What do you mean, killed?”

“Murdered is what I mean.”

“Murdered? Murdered?” Mcllroy shifted uneasily in his chair.

“Have you seen him? Have you any proof? How can you say he was murdered?”

“I haven’t seen him. And I haven’t any proof. Not a scrap of evidence.” I caught a glimpse of the purser sitting there, his hands twisting together and his eyes staring at me, and I remembered that Benson had been his best friend for close on twenty years. “But I have proof that Brownell was murdered tonight. And I can tie the two together.” There was an even longer silence.

“You’re mad,” Bullen said at length with harsh conviction. “So now Brownell’s been murdered too. You’re mad, mister, off your bloody trolley. You heard what Dr. Marston said? Massive cerebral haemorrhage. But of course he’s only a doctor of forty years’ standing. He wouldn’t know…”

“How about giving me a chance, sir?” I interrupted. My voice sounded as harsh as his own. “I know he’s a doctor. I also know he hasn’t very good eyes. But I have. I saw what he missed. I saw a dark smudge on the back of Brownell’s uniform collar — and when has anybody on this ship ever seen a mark on any shirt that Brownell ever wore? They didn’t call him Beau Brownell for nothing. Somebody had hit him, with something heavy and with tremendous force, on the back of the neck. There was also a faint discolouration under the left ear — I could see it as he lay there. When the bo’sun and I got him down to the carpenter’s store we examined him together. There was a corresponding slight bruise under his right ear — and traces of sand under his collar. Someone sandbagged him and then, when he was unconscious, compressed the carotid arteries until he died. Go and see for yourselves.”

“Not me,” Mcllroy murmured. You could see that even his normally monolithic composure had been shaken. “Not me. I believe it — absolutely. It would be too easy to disprove it. I believe it all right but I still can’t accept it.”

“But damn it all, chief!” Bullen’s fists were clenched. “The doctor said that…” “I’m no medical man,” Mcllroy interrupted. “But I should imagine the symptoms are pretty much the same in both cases. Can hardly blame old Marston.”

Bullen ignored this, gave me the full benefit of his commodore’s stare.

“Look, mister,” he said slowly, “You’ve changed your tune, haven’t you? When I was there, you agreed with Dr. Marston. You even put forward the heart-failure idea. You showed no signs…”

“Miss Beresford and Mr. Carreras were there,” I interrupted. “I didn’t want them to start getting wrong ideas. If word got round the ship and it would have been bound to — that we suspected murder, then whoever was responsible might have felt themselves forced to act again, and act quickly, to forestall any action we might take. I don’t know what they might do, but on the form to date it would have been something damned unpleasant.”

“Miss Beresford? Mr. Carreras?” Bullen had, stopped clenching his hands, but you could see that it wouldn’t take much to make him start up again. “Miss Beresford is above suspicion. But Carreras? And his son? Just aboard to-day and in most unusual circumstances. It might just tie up.”

“It doesn’t. I checked. Carreras senior and junior had both been in either the telegraph lounge or the dining room for almost two hours before we found Brownell. They’re completely in the clear.”

“Besides being too obvious,” Mcllroy agreed. “I think, captain, it’s time we took our hats off to Mr. Carter here. He’s been getting round and using his head while all we have been doing is twiddling our thumbs.”

“Benson,” Captain Bullen said. He didn’t show any signs of taking off his hat. “How about Benson? How does he tie up?”

“This way.” I slid the empty telegraph book across the table. “I checked the last message that was received and went to the bridge. Routine weather report. Time, 20.07. But later there was another message written on this pad: original, carbon, duplicate. The message is indecipherable but to people with modern police equipment it would be child’s play to find out what was written there. What is decipherable is the impression of the last two time figures. Look for yourself. It’s quite clear thirty-three. That means 20.33. A message came through at that moment, a message so urgent in nature that, instead of waiting for the routine bridge messenger collection, Brownell made to phone it through at once. That was why his hand was reaching for the phone when we found him, not because he was feeling ill all of a sudden. And then he was killed. Whoever killed him had to kill. Knocking Brownell out and stealing the message would have accomplished nothing, for as soon as he would have come to he would have remembered the contents of the message and immediately sent it to the bridge. It must,” I added thoughtfully, “have been a damned important message.”

“Benson,” Bullen repeated impatiently. “How about Benson?”

“Benson was the victim of a lifetime of habit. Howie here tells us how Benson invariably went out on deck between half-past eight and twenty-five to nine for a smoke while the passengers were at dinner. The radio room is immediately above where he would have been taking his promenade — and the message came through, and Brownell was killed, inside those five minutes. Benson must have seen or heard something unusual and gone to investigate. He might even have caught the murderer in the act. And so Benson had to die too.”

“But why?” Captain Bullen demanded. He still couldn’t believe it all. “Why, why, why? Why was he killed? Why was that message so desperately important? The whole damned thing’s crazy. And what in god’s name was in that message, anyway?”

“That’s why we have to go to Nassau to find out, sir.”

Bullen looked at me without expression, looked at his drink, evidently decided that he preferred his drink to me or the ill news I brought with me — and knocked back the contents in a couple of gulps.

Mcllroy didn’t touch his. He sat there for a whole minute looking at it consideringly, then said, “You haven’t missed much, Johnny. But you’ve missed one thing. The wireless officer on watch Peters, isn’t it? How do you know the same message won’t come through again? May be it was a message requiring acknowledgement? If it was, and it’s not acknowledged, it’s pretty certain to come through again. Then what’s the guarantee that Peters won’t get the same treatment?”

“The bo’sun’s the guarantee, chief. He’s sitting in black shadow not ten yards from the wireless office with a marlinespike in his hand and highland murder in his heart. You know Macdonald. Heaven help anyone who goes within a Sunday walk of the wireless office.”

Bullen poured himself another small whisky, smiled tiredly, and glanced at his single broad commodore’s stripe. “Mr. Carter, I think you and I should change jackets.” it was as far in apology as he could ever go and about twelve hours ahead of par.

“Think you’d like this side of my desk?”

“Suit me fine, sir,” I agreed. “Especially if you took over entertaining the passengers.”

“In that case we’ll stay as we are.” Another brief smile, no sooner there than vanished. “Who’s on the bridge? Jamieson, isn’t it? Better take over, first.” “Later, sir, with your permission. There’s still the most important thing of all to investigate. But I don’t even know how to start.”

“Don’t tell me there’s something else,” Bullen said heavily. “I’ve had some time to think about this, that’s all,” I said. “A message came through to our wireless office, a message so important that it had to be intercepted at all costs. But how could anyone possibly know that message was coming through? The only way that message could have come into the Campari was through a pair of earphones clamped to Brownell’s head, yet someone else was taking down that message at the same instant as Brownell was. Must have been. Brownell had no sooner finished transcribing that message onto his pad than he reached for the phone to get the bridge and he no sooner reached for the phone than he died. There’s some other radio receiver aboard the Campari tuned into the same wavelength, and wherever it is, it’s not a hop, skip, and jump from the wireless office, for wherever the eavesdropper was, he got from there to the wireless office in seconds. Problem, find the receiver.”