And the Deep Blue Sea (17 page)

Stacked, for an old dame. He squeezed an appreciative handful of buttock, and wished he had time to tear off a quickie, but he didn’t like the way that big bastard had looked when he’d told him just what would happen if he didn’t get out of here on schedule. He was taking enough chances carrying this gun, instead of the sap he was supposed to use.

He carried her into the bathroom and stretched her out under the shower. A trickle of blood ran out of her hair onto the tile. He came out, carefully checking the deck between bathroom and bunk. The bos’n and his fire hose were drawing farther away now, and he had to hurry. There were two or three drops of blood. Grabbing the already stained towel off the bunk, he wiped them up, and rolled the towel inside another.

In the bathroom again, he turned on the shower, letting it beat down on her, and dropped a bar of soap on the streaming tile beside her body. He stepped back, surveying the scene and nagged by a feeling there was something he hadn’t done, but it looked all right. She was wet all over, and the soap was there where she’d stepped on it and fallen. He shrugged and went out.

With the rolled towels under his arm, he opened the screen door and peered out into the passageway. No one was in sight. He stepped out quickly and strolled back to the pantry. Karl was in the dining room, setting up for breakfast. He shoved the towels into the bottom of a garbage can he was supposed to have emptied last night, and carried it aft, across the well-deck. The stink was everywhere this morning, and one of the deck apes was gawking up at the ventilators where you could see the smoke coming out. He pointed.

“It’s burnin’ worse all the time.”

“Good man,” Rafferty said approvingly. “Give me a report every hour.” What a clown, you’d think it was his cotton. He went up onto the poop to the fantail and emptied the can. Lighting a cigarette, he stared boredly aft as the two towels and the flotsam of garbage dropped back in the white water of the wake and disappeared. It was going to be another hot day.

Goddard showered at a quarter of eight, and as he turned off the water he could hear the shower running on the other side of the bulkhead in Mrs. Lennox’ bathroom. He was putting a new blade in the razor to shave when he became aware that the smell of burning cotton had now penetrated clear in here. Clad only in slacks and slippers, he went out on deck and walked aft in the lifeless heat. A squall was making up far off on the horizon to starboard, but what little breeze there was here came from almost directly astern, so there was little movement of air along the superstructure of the ship. Smoke was curling from both ventilators of number three hold, no longer in intermittent wisps but in a steady outpouring that drifted straight up in the brassy sunlight of early morning. A sheen, or haze, seemed to hang over the well-deck itself, and the odor was strong enough to irritate the throat. The
Leander
was in trouble that was growing worse by the hour.

He’d come aboard the ship in a rubber raft, and he wondered now if he were going to leave it in a lifeboat. If it did come to that, he reflected, he wasn’t going to be in great demand as an occupant of either boat. “No, you take the hard-luck bastard in that one. We don’t want him in here.” Maybe you couldn’t blame them, at that; a murder, a suicide, a heart attack, and a fire, all in three days, might start a witch-hunt almost anywhere.

He went back and shaved. He had finished and was drying the razor when he became aware that Mrs. Lennox’ shower was still running. He grinned. She’d be a great asset on a small boat; she would have used up the
Shoshone
’s six weeks’ supply of water before breakfast the first morning. Well, it was one way to keep cool.

Karen Brooke was alone in the dining room when he went in a few minutes past eight. She was wearing a sleeveless summer dress of almost the same shade of blue as her eyes, which in combination with the swirl of honey-colored hair seemed to intensify her tan.

“You look very nice,” he said.

She smiled, but her manner was cool and impersonal. “Thank you, Mr. Goddard. I consider that a real compliment, in view of the priority.”

“How’s that?” he asked.

“Lots of men would have said the ship’s afire, and then you look nice.”

“Oh, there are clods like that.” He sobered. “How long have you known it?”

“Since yesterday. About the same time you asked me what the cargo was.”

“But there’s still no official recognition?”

“No. Mr. Lind hasn’t been down yet. But I suppose they’ve known it for the past few days. It might be what brought on Captain Steen’s heart attack, don’t you think?”

He nodded. “Anyway, he’s better this morning, according to Barset.”

“Yes, I know.”

Karl came in. Goddard asked for a poached egg and some coffee. Karl poured the coffee and went back to the pantry.

“Is all of number three loaded with cotton?” Goddard asked. “Tween-decks too?”

“No-o.” She frowned, trying to remember. “They were just finishing the loading when I came aboard, and it seems to me the tween-decks in that one is general cargo—cases of canned goods, leather, a lot of big carboys in crates, things like that.”

“You don’t know what’s in the carboys?”

She nodded. “Alcohol.”

He said nothing, but it was obvious from her expression she knew as well as he did the potentialities of that combination—alcohol-saturated cotton—if those carboys started breaking in the heat down there.

Lind came in. He greeted them abstractedly, and it struck Goddard he came as near to looking troubled as he had ever seen him. Well, it might be understandable under the circumstances. When Karen asked how Captain Steen was doing, he shook his head and frowned.

“I don’t know. I wish now I’d transferred him to the
Kungsholm
.”

“Has he had another attack?” Goddard asked.

“No, not that. He rested quietly all night, and his pulse was all right. But the past hour he’s had more trouble breathing. And there may be some pulmonary edema—fluid in the lungs.”

“Pneumonia?” Goddard asked.

“No. But it could be a symptom of congestive heart failure. Sparks is still in touch with the Public Health Service doctors, and we’ve got everything they recommend—but, I don’t know.”

“Well,” Karen said, “they wouldn’t have any more on the
Kungsholm
.”

“Just one thing,” Lind said bleakly. “A licensed doctor, instead of a ham-handed sailor.” He shrugged then, and managed a wry grin, with a return of some of the old exuberance and self-confidence. “Oh, before I forget. We’re afire in number three hold. Not supposed to reveal things like that to you fluttery and hysterical passengers, but it’s getting a little like trying to hide an eight-month pregnancy.”

“Is there anything you can do?” Goddard asked.

“We’re going to start throwing water in it as soon as we can get hoses down through the stuff in the tween-decks.”

“Is there any chance of telling where the burning bales are?”

“Not much. And if they’re very far down, it’ll be hard to get any water to them. But if we can wet enough of them on top maybe we can keep it under control.” Lind drained his cup of coffee and got up without ordering breakfast. “You don’t know anybody who’s got a chicken farm for sale?”

He went out. Here we go again, Goddard thought. Will the real Eric Lind stand up? Wasn’t there any way you could arrive at some answer, some definite and final conclusion that would remain valid for at least an hour? Steen was better, so it was all a pipe dream, but now we’re being prepared for the next bulletin that he’s dead. Or are we? He thought uneasily of Madeleine Lennox. No, she was all right. She was up; he’d heard her taking a shower.

Karen excused herself and left. He finished his poached egg and lit a cigarette while he drank another cup of coffee. When he went outside and walked aft, the bos’n and two sailors were knocking out the wedges that secured the tarpaulins on number three’s hatch cover. Smoke was filtering up here and there around the edges of it. Another man was unrolling a fire hose. He wondered if they had gas masks aboard; the smoke was going to be pretty bad down there.

He reached for a cigarette, but discovered the pack was empty. He tossed it over the side and went back to his cabin for another. As he was tearing the cellophane from it he was arrested by the faint sound issuing from the open door of his bathroom. He frowned, and stepped inside to be sure. The shower was still running in the one next door. After nearly forty-five minutes? He hurried out into the passageway.

Only the screen door was closed, and through it he could just hear the slight hissing of the water. He knocked. There was no answer, no sound of movement. Could she have gone off and forgotten it? He checked the dining room and the lounge and men the deck outside. She was nowhere around. Uneasy now, he came back and knocked again, and when there was still no response he stepped next door to Karen’s cabin and rapped. She looked out.

He explained quickly, and added, “I wonder if you’d look in and see if something’s happened to her.”

“Yes, of course.” She knocked on the door herself, and called out, “Madeleine.” She went in. Almost immediately, Goddard heard her startled exclamation. “She’s lying under the shower! Wait’ll I get a sheet.”

He heard the shower stop, and then quick footsteps. Karen opened the screen door, her eyes frightened. He hurried into the bathroom. Madeleine Lennox lay almost face down on the tile in the open shower stall, a little stain of pink still spreading from the hair plastered wetly to her skull, and the sheet Karen had spread across her nude body was already soaked. Goddard rolled her over and raised her to a sitting position, wrapping the sheet about her as he gathered her up. Karen threw a towel across the pillow, and he laid her on the bunk.

He grabbed her wrist while Karen watched anxiously. “She’s alive,” he said. The pulse was slow, but steady, and now they could see the rise and fall of her chest. “I’ll tell Barset to get Mr. Lind,” Karen said. She hurried out.

Goddard stepped to the door of the bathroom and looked in. He saw the bar of soap lying on the tile, but it was two other things that caught and held his attention. One was the shower head itself; it was the same as the one in his bathroom, fixed, directly overhead, like those in any men’s locker room. The other item was the dry, unused shower cap hanging from a hook on the bulkhead. And the shower had come on during, or immediately after, all that din the bos’n was making with his fire hose at seven thirty. Well, he thought, you wanted to know. Now you do.

She’d been unconscious for nearly an hour, which meant that unless she’d been slugged hard enough for a genuine concussion she’d been given something to keep her under. He whirled and went back to the bunk. Sliding her arms from under the sheet, he examined both of them. There was no indication of puncture. He looked around then, and saw the tray with its coffeepot and cup on the desk. So it was given orally, beforehand. And the blow on the head was merely to provide a visible wound and some blood, another touch of artistry by the great master of illusion.

She would die without ever regaining consciousness, just as would Captain Steen—unless he was already dead. Lind would simply continue giving her enough morphine to keep her out for several days to simulate the coma from a severe concussion, and then inject the massive overdose that would kill her.

Well, he asked himself bleakly, was it abstract knowledge he’d been after, or did he intend to do something about it? Do what? Challenge Lind openly, tell him he knew the whole thing? What would that accomplish except to get him put on the list himself? Lind was the leader of the conspiracy, the ship’s doctor, and its acting master. Mount his soapbox and incite the rest of the crew to mutiny, not even knowing which ones he was talking to? That would be good for a laugh. Get a load of that goofy bastard; he’s not only a Jonah, but he hears voices.

Karen returned, but remained outside the door. There was the sound of hurrying footsteps along the passageway, and Lind came in. Barset appeared and passed in the first-aid kit. Goddard moved back. Lind checked her pulse, apparently with satisfaction, and raised one eyelid to look at the pupil. He had to wash his hands before he examined the wound, and as he scrubbed, Goddard told him how they’d come to find her.

Lind’s face was serious. “Hmmm. Unconscious for nearly an hour. She must have given herself a pretty good rap.”

You couldn’t fault the performance anywhere, Goddard thought as he watched. Lind shaved a small area around the scalp wound, sponged away the blood, and examined it. It wasn’t a bad cut, he announced; two stitches would close it. He probed with fingertips; the skull felt intact and certainly wasn’t depressed. Only an X-ray could tell whether or not there was a fracture, but he didn’t think there was. He cleaned the wound expertly with antiseptic, and put in the two stitches and added a small dressing. He checked her pulse again with a profound air, gently lowered the wrist, and radiated optimism. The great healer, Goddard thought.

So? So I open my stupid mouth, and I get killed too. And what good would it do her, except she’d have company on the bottom of the ocean? They might even sew us both in the same sack, if they’re running short of canvas.

And what was Madeleine Lennox to him anyway? He’d known her for three days, they’d had a couple of casual and utterly impersonal rolls in the hay, and once they’d reached Manila he’d never have seen her again anyway. He wasn’t involved any more; all he asked of the human race was to be left alone. That wasn’t an exorbitant demand, was it? All he had to do was mind his own business. And let her die.

He sighed then. It was a nice try, but maybe he’d known it wouldn’t work. However he’d have to wait till he got Lind alone to heave it into the fan; he didn’t want to involve Karen in it.

“Nothing more we can do at the moment,” Lind said. “I don’t know how bad the concussion is, but all we can do is wait till she comes around. I’ll look in on her every hour or so.”

“Fine,” Goddard said. “We’ll keep checking her too.”

Lind went out, carrying the first-aid kit. Barset sighed, shook his head in silent comment on this endless chain of disasters, and left. Karen watched them go down the passageway; then she stepped inside and closed the door. She took a cigarette from a pack on the desk, and leaned close as Goddard struck the lighter.