Arthur Morrison - British Mystery Classics - Arthur Morrison Edition (Illustrated)

“Can’t think what the company’s about,” he said on one such occasion to the first mate, “calling a tin-pot bunker like that a bullion-room.”

“Skittles! “responded the first mate, and went on smoking.

“Oh, that’s all very well for you who aren’t responsible,” Brasyer went on, “but I’m pretty sure something will happen some day; if not on this voyage on some other. Talk about a strong room! Why, what’s it made of?”

“Three-eighths boiler plate.”

“Yes, three-eighths boilerplate — about as good as a sixpenny tin money box. Why, I’d get through that with my grandmother’s scissors! ”

“All right; borrow ’em and get through. I would if I had a grandmother.”

“There it is down below there out of sight and hearing, nice and handy for anybody who likes to put in a quiet hour at plate cutting from the coal bunker next door — always empty, because it’s only a seven-ton bunker, not worth trimming. And the other side’s against the steward’s pantry. What’s to prevent a man shipping as steward, getting quietly through while he’s supposed to be bucketing about among his slops and his crockery, and strolling away with the plunder at the next port? And then there’s the carpenter. He’s always messing about somewhere below, with a bag full of tools. Nothing easier than for him to make a job in a quiet corner, and get through the plates.”

“But then what’s he to do with the stuff when he’s got it? You can’t take gold ashore by the hundredweight in your boots.”

“Do with it. Why, dump it, of course. Dump it overboard in a quiet port and mark the spot. Come to that, he could desert clean at Port Said — what easier place? — and take all he wanted. You know what Port Said’s like. Then there are the firemen — oh, anybody can do it! “And Brasyer moved off to take another peep under the hatchway.

The door of the bullion-room was fastened by one central patent lock and two padlocks, one above and one below the other lock. A day or two after the conversation recorded above, Brasyer was carefully examining and trying the lower of the padlocks with a key, when a voice immediately behind him asked sharply, “Well, sir, and what are you up to with that padlock?”

Brasyer started violently and looked round. It was Captain Mackrie.

“There’s — that is — I’m afraid these are the same sort of padlocks as those in the carpenter’s stores,” the second mate replied, in a hurry of explanation. “I— I was just trying, that’s all; I’m afraid the keys fit.”

“Just you let the carpenter take care of his own stores, will you, Mr. Brasyer? There’s a Chubb’s lock there as well as the padlocks, and the key of that’s in my cabin, and I’ll take care doesn’t go out of it without my knowledge. So perhaps you’d best leave off experiments till you’re asked to make ’em, for your own sake. That’s enough now,” the captain added, as Brasyer appeared to be ready to reply; and he turned on his heel and made for the steward’s quarters.

Brasyer stared after him ragefully. “Wonder what you want down here,” he muttered under his breath. “Seems to me one doesn’t often see a skipper as thick with the steward as that.” And he turned off growling towards the deck above.

“Hanged if I like that steward’s pantry stuck against the side of the bullion-room,” he said later in the day to the first officer. “And what does a steward want with a lot of boiler-maker’s tools aboard? You know he’s got them.”

“In the name of the prophet, rats! “answered the first mate, who was of a less fussy disposition. “What a fatiguing creature you are, Brasyer! Don’t you know the man’s a boiler-maker by regular trade, and has only taken to stewardship for the last year or two? That sort of man doesn’t like parting with his tools, and as he’s a widower, with no home ashore, of course he has to carry all his traps aboard. Do shut up, and take your proper rest like a Christian. Here, I’ll give you a cigar; it’s all right — Burman; stick it in your mouth, and keep your jaw tight on it.”

But there was no soothing the second officer. Still he prowled about the after orlop deck, and talked at large of his anxiety for the contents of the bullion-room. Once again, a few days later, as he approached the iron door, he was startled by the appearance of the captain coming, this time, from the steward’s pantry. He fancied he had heard tapping, Brasyer explained, and had come to investigate. But the captain turned him back with even less ceremony than before, swearing he would give charge of the bullion-room to another officer if Brasyer persisted in his eccentricities. On the first deck the second officer was met by the carpenter, a quiet, sleek, soft-spoken man, who asked him for the padlock and key he had borrowed from the stores during the week. But Brasyer put him off, promising to send it back later. And the carpenter trotted away to a job he happened to have, singularly enough, in the hold, just under the after orlop deck, and below the floor of the bullion-room.

As I have said, the voyage was in no way a pleasant one. Everywhere the weather was at its worst, and scarce was Gibraltar passed before the Lascars were shivering in their cotton trousers, and the Seedee boys were buttoning tight such old tweed jackets as they might muster from their scanty kits. It was January. In the Bay the weather was tremendous, and the Nicobar banged and shook and pitched distractedly across in a howling world of thunderous green sea, washed within and without, above and below. Then, in the Chops, as night fell, something went, and there was no more steerageway, nor, indeed, anything else but an aimless wallowing. The screw had broken.

The high sea had abated in some degree, but it was still bad. Such sail as the steamer carried, inadequate enough, was set, and shift was made somehow to worry along to Plymouth — or to Falmouth if occasion better served — by that means. And so the Nicobar beat across the Channel on a rather better, though anything but smooth, sea, in a black night, made thicker by a storm of sleet, which turned gradually to snow as the hours advanced.

The ship laboured slowly ahead, through a universal blackness that seemed to stifle. Nothing but a black void above, below, and around, and the sound of wind and sea; so that one coming before a deck-light was startled by the quiet advent of the large snowflakes that came like moths as it seemed from nowhere. At four bells — two in the morning — a foggy light appeared away on the starboard bow — it was the Eddystone light — and an hour or two later, the exact whereabouts of the ship being a thing of much uncertainty, it was judged best to lay her to till daylight. No order had yet been given, however, when suddenly there were dim lights over the port quarter, with a more solid blackness beneath them. Then a shout and a thunderous crash, and the whole ship shuddered, and in ten seconds had belched up every living soul from below. The Nicobar’s voyage was over — it was a collision.

The stranger backed off into the dark, and the two vessels drifted apart, though not till some from the Nicobar had jumped aboard the other. Captain Mackrie’s presence of mind was wonderful, and never for a moment did he lose absolute command of every soul on board. The ship had already begun to settle down by the stern and list to port. Life-belts were served out promptly. Fortunately there were but two women among the passengers, and no children. The boats were lowered without a mishap, and presently two strange boats came as near as they dare from the ship (a large coasting steamer, it afterwards appeared) that had cut into the Nicobar. The last of the passengers were being got off safely, when Brayser, running anxiously to the captain, said:—