Alistair MacLean - The Golden Rendezvous

“I suppose that same murderous devil got Brownell?”

“And Benson. Benson caught him coming out of the radio room after disposing of Brownell and was shot. Werner was going to dump him straight over the side, but there were people directly underneath. He dragged him across to the port side. Again crew beneath. So he emptied a life jacket locker and put Benson inside.” Carreras grinned. “And just your bad luck that you happened to be standing right beside that locker when we sent Werner up to dispose of the body, just before midnight last night.”

“Who dreamed up this scheme of having the false Marconi man in Kingston drill through from the wireless office to the cold-air trunking in Cerdan’s room below and buttoning the earphones permanently into the wireless officer’s receiving circuit? Cerdan, your old man, or you?”

“My father.”

“And the Trojan horse idea. Your father also?”

“He is a brilliant man. Now I know why you were not curious. You knew.”

“It wasn’t hard to guess,” I said wearily. “Not, that is, when it was too late. All our troubles really started in Carracio. And we loaded those huge crates in Carracio. Now I know why the stevedores were so terrified when one of the crates almost slipped from its slings. Now I know why your old man was so damned anxious to inspect the hold not to pay his respects to the dead men in their coffins, but to see how his men were placed for smashing their way out of the crates. And then they broke out last night and forced the battens of the hatch. How many men in a crate, Carreras?” “Twenty. Rather uncomfortably jammed, poor fellows. I think they had a rough twenty-four hours.”

“Twenty. Two crates. We loaded four of those. What’s in the other crates?”

“Machinery, Mr. Carter, just machinery.”

“One thing I am really curious about.”

“Yes?”

“What’s behind all this murderous business? Kidnap? Ransom?”

“I am not at liberty to discuss those things with you.” He grinned. “At least, not yet. You remaining here, Miss Beresford, or do you wish me to escort you up to your parents in the drawing room?”

“Please leave the young lady,” Marston said. “I want her to help me keep a twenty-four-hour watch on Captain Bullen. He might have a relapse at any moment.”

“As you wish.” He bowed to Susan Beresford. “Good night, all.”

The door closed. Susan Beresford said, “So that’s how they came aboard. How in the world did you know?”

“How in the world did I know? You didn’t think they had forty men hidden up inside the funnel, did you? Once we knew it was Carreras and Cerdan, it was obvious. They came aboard at Carracio. So did those huge crates. Two and two, Miss Beresford, have never failed to add up to four.” She flushed and gave me a very old-fashioned look, but I ignored it and went on: “You both see what this means, don’t you?”

“Let him tell us, doctor,” Miss Beresford said acidly. “He’s just dying to tell us.”

“It means that there’s something very, very big behind it all,” I said slowly. “All cargoes, except those in free ports and under certain transhipment conditions, which don’t apply here, have to be inspected by customs. Those crates passed the Carracio customs — which means that the customs know what’s inside. Probably explains, too, why our Carracio agent was so nervous. But the customs let it pass. Why? Because they had orders to let those crates pass. And who gave them the orders? Their government. And who gave the government its orders? Who but the Generalissimo? After all, he is the government. The Generalissimo,” I went on thoughtfully, “is directly behind all this. And we know he’s desperate for money. I wonder, I wonder?”

“You wonder what?” Marston asked.

“I don’t really know. Tell me, doctor, have you the facilities for making tea or coffee here?”

“Never yet seen a dispensary that hadn’t, my boy.” “What an excellent idea!” Susan Beresford jumped to her feet.

I’d love a cup of tea.”

“Coffee.”

“Tea.”

“Coffee. Humour a sick man. This should be quite an experience for Miss Beresford. Making her own coffee, I mean. You fill the percolator with water…”

“Please stop there.” She crossed to my bedside and looked down at me, her face without expression, her eyes very steady. “You have a short memory, Mr. Carter. I told you the night before last that I was sorry very sorry. Remember?”

“I remember,” I acknowledged. “Sorry, Miss Beresford.”

“Susan.” She smiled. “If you want your coffee, that is.”

“Blackmail.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, call her ‘Susan’ if she wants,” Dr. Marston interrupted irritably. “What’s the harm?”

“Doctor’s orders,” I said resignedly. “O.k. Susan, bring the patient his coffee.” The circumstances were hardly normal: I could get back to calling her Miss Beresford later on.

Five minutes passed, then she brought the coffee. I looked the tray and said, “What? Only three cups? There should be four.”

“Four?”

“Four. Three for us and one for our friend outside.”

“Our friend you mean the guard?”

“Who else?”

“Have you gone mad, Mr. Carter?”

“Fair’s fair,” Marston murmured. “‘John’ to you.” She looked coldly at him, glared at me, and said icily, “have you gone mad? Why should I bring that thug coffee. I’ll do nothing.”

“Our chief officer always has a reason for his actions,” Marston said in sharp and surprising support. “Please do as he asks.”

she poured a cup of coffee, took it through the outside door, and was back in a few seconds.

“He took it?” I asked. “Didn’t he just. Seems he’s had nothing except a little water to drink in the past day or so.”

“I can believe it. I should imagine that they weren’t too well equipped in the catering line in those crates.” I took the cup of coffee she offered me, drained it, and set it down. It tasted just the way coffee ought to taste.”

“How was it?” Susan asked.

“Perfect. Any suggestion I made that you didn’t even know how to boil water I withdraw unreservedly.”

She and Marston looked at each other and then Marston said, “No more thinking or worrying to do to-night, John?”

“Nary a bit. All I want is a good night’s sleep.”

“And that’s why I put a pretty powerful sedative in your coffee.”

He looked at me consideringly. “Coffee has a remarkable quality of disguising other flavours, hasn’t it?”

I knew what he meant and he knew I knew what he meant.

I said, “Dr. Marston, I do believe I have been guilty of underestimating you very considerably.”

“I believe you have, John,” he said jovially. “I believe you have indeed.”

I became drowsily aware that my left leg was hurting, not badly, but badly enough to wake me up. Someone was pulling it, giving it a strong, steady tug every few seconds, letting go, then tugging it again. And he kept on talking all the time he was doing it. I wished that that someone, whoever he was, would give it up. The tugging and the talking. Didn’t he know I was a sick man?

I opened my eyes. The first thing I saw was the clock on the opposite bulkhead. Ten o’clock. Ten o’clock in the morning, for broad daylight was coming in through uncurtained windows. Dr. Marston had been right about the sedative; “powerful” was hardly the word for it.

Someone was talking, sure enough; old Bullen was babbling away incoherently in a drugged and troubled sleep, but there was no one tugging at my leg. It was the traction weight suspended from the ceiling that was doing the tugging. The Campari, in spite of her stabilisers, was rolling through a ten-to-fifteen-degree arc, which meant that there must be a pretty heavy and steep beam sea or swell running. Whenever the ship came to the end of a roll, the suspended pulley, reaching the limit of its pendulum swing, would give a pronounced jerk, a few seconds later another jerk. Now that I was fully awake, it was more painful than I had at first thought. Even if I had had a genuinely fractured femur, that sort of thing wouldn’t be doing me any good at all. I looked round to see Dr. Marston and to ask him to remove it.