Fatal Venture (10 page)

It happened that, just as he was entering the names on his records, Stott looked into his office on other business.

“Did you hear who were coming, sir?” Morrison asked when this had been discussed.

“You mean Malthus and Mason? Yes, Grant told me. It doesn’t affect us. They can’t do anything.”

“I expect they’ll try and catch us out in a breach of the gaming laws.”

“They can try till they’re black in the face. We’re not breaking them.”

Stott was in an exceptionally expansive humour and discussed the matter more readily than Morrison expected. Then, as he was leaving, Morrison remembered the Stott family and a possible reason for the red underlining occurred to him.

“I see that a Major Wyndham Stott and his family are coming aboard. I wondered, sir, if they were connections of yours, and if so, whether you’d like any special arrangements made for them?”

“As a matter of fact they are – the only relatives I’ve got. Major Stott is my nephew and incidentally my heir – though we don’t get on. So if I get knocked out, you’ll have him to deal with. Margot Stott is his daughter by his first wife. Mrs Stott is his second wife and Luff is her son. Wyndham’s a born gambler and I expect when he gets my money he’ll not keep it long. No, I don’t want anything special done: just carry on as usual.”

Morrison dropped the subject, but he was by no means convinced about the special treatment, and when later that day he met the Purser, he asked his advice.

“That’s right,” Grant agreed. “They’ll have to have everything possible done for them. I’ve already given them better cabins than they’ve paid for. The Old Boy’s saying that we’re to make no difference is all my eye.”

In staff references a subtle terminological distinction was drawn between Stott and Captain Hardwick. The former was the Old Boy, the latter the Old Man.

“He said they didn’t get on,” Morrison repeated.

“Don’t you worry about that,” Grant advised. “If there are complaints, they’ll get to him all right, whether they get on or whether they don’t.”

They were off the Land’s End when this conversation took place, and from there they worked along the south and east coasts, stopping at what Morrison considered comparatively dull places till they reached Scotland. There they had a couple of days in the Edinburgh district, and, after calling at Aberdeen and Cromarty, reached next day the aphelion of their orbit, the bleak and barren Shetlands. Here a number of loch excursions in the ship’s launches were organised which gave general satisfaction.

On the way back to the Orkneys they came in for their first real gale. There had been many gales, of course, but Captain Hardwick had, up till now, always managed to have the ship in some sheltered anchorage before the sea rose. On this occasion he appeared to have been caught napping. Even the
Hellenique’s
47,000 tons was unable to keep her on an even keel, and she was rolling heavily. Several of the passengers had discreetly retired to their cabins and the rest exhibited a tendency to stay put. It was the most severe motion Morrison had yet experienced and he was not himself feeling too happy.

He emerged from the port door of the music room and, clawing his way round the structure, met the full force of the wind to starboard. Clinging to the deck-house handrail, he gazed with something approaching awe at the sea. It was a full gale, so he had heard the Third Officer say, and he hoped he would never witness anything worse. The waves were like hillocks, great greeny-grey masses of water, coming up irregularly out of the west and seething with acres of boiling foam. The wind felt solid. It pressed him against the deckhouse, and it tore great lumps of the tossing whiteness off the waves and threw them against the ship. The decks, even at 60 or 70 feet from the water, were streaming, and he felt the quivering shock as waves hit the side. Dragging himself forward, he could see the entire fo’c’sle blotted out as by a white sheet, as the
Hellénique
put her nose down into a wave and, as it seemed to Morrison, charged and burst it.

For nearly an hour he stood enjoying the spectacle. As he was clawing his way back to the music room he came on Grant.

“Pretty stormy,” Morrison shouted as he stopped.

“A gale all right,” Grant returned. “Pity we’ve got it. A lot of the passengers are ill already and they won’t forget it when they go ashore.”

“ ‘The ship which avoids the storm’,” Morrison grinned, as he quoted one of Gillow’s masterpieces.

“We’ve done it up to the present,” Grant pointed out. “Pity we’ve broken our record.”

To be caught in a gale once in eighteen months was not such a bad record, Morrison thought, as he cautiously clawed his way back to his office and began trying to work at a desk which heaved itself about in the most disconcerting and distracting way imaginable.

By nightfall the gale had blown itself out and next day the weather was again delightful. The sun shone brightly, the atmosphere was clear and the islands showed up in colourful detail. A mild westerly breeze was blowing, raising tiny wavelets which sparkled like diamonds in the sun. It was warm and fresh on deck, as if summer was coming instead of being practically over: a perfect day for the journey of the Stotts and Forresters.

The flying boats carried eighteen persons, and as twenty-nine travellers were arriving that morning, two of them were in operation. They reported their progress by wireless and when the time came. Captain Hardwick stopped the ship and completed his preparations for receiving them. The boarding ladder on the side port was dropped, while two derricks swung out and lowered into the sea the captain’s patent floating wharf. Guy ropes held this out at right angles to the ship, its inner end being clamped to the ladder.

This operation was scarcely completed when the drone of an aircraft was heard and one of the flying boats appeared. It circled over the ship and came down, taking the water skilfully. Then it taxied towards the ship, manoeuvred up to the end of the floating wharf, and made fast.

Waiting officers threw open the doors and the passengers began to emerge. As they did so, the second flying boat appeared in the distance.

Morrison stood by the rail on the promenade deck watching the operation, with Grant beside him.

“That’ll be the nephew and his daughter,” Grant said suddenly, “and those other two the Forresters.”

A stocky man with a head slightly large in proportion to his body, a clipped moustache and an alert air, had just climbed down on the wharf and was being followed by a young woman in a red felt hat, a fur coat and brown brogues. The Fourth Officer was superintending the embarkation, and the man spoke to him, the girl smiling at him pleasantly. Following them was a rather short, stoutish man in tweeds, who helped out a plain but kindly looking woman with greying hair.

The identity of the first pair was put beyond doubt a little later. As Morrison was leaving his office for lunch they passed. The man looked at the notice above the door and stopped.

“I’m Major Stott,” he explained. “Are you the officer responsible for our journey here?”

Morrison, wondering what mistake he had made, admitted that the arrangements had been his.

“Then all I want to say is that we’ve never been so well done in our lives. Have we, Margot?”

“No, indeed,” the girl returned. “It was a delightful journey and I enjoyed every minute of it.”

This was a different greeting from what Morrison had somehow expected, presumably from his knowledge of old Stott. He could not imagine the uncle commenting on anything done for him otherwise than to find fault. As he murmured his thanks, he took more careful stock of the newcomers.

The Major at close quarters was just a little disappointing. He somehow failed to substantiate the suggestion of alertness and precision given by his more distant view. He had, indeed, a slightly gone-to-seed appearance. His features were good, his expression pleasant and kindly, and he was well dressed and groomed. But Morrison thought he had a faint air both of weakness and of obstinacy. He looked straight, though a trifle dissatisfied and unhappy.

Margot Stott also looked a little worried. As he glanced at her, he thought he had seldom seen a more attractive face. Indeed, once he had looked at her, he found it difficult to turn his eyes elsewhere. She was of medium height and slight build, with an excellent carriage and small, shapely hands and feet. Her colouring was dark, and though not in any sense beautiful, her features were regular and well-formed. But it was not the details of her appearance, but the general impression he received from her, that affected Morrison. She seemed to radiate goodness in all its forms. Her clear, dancing eyes and delicate complexion – natural, he felt sure – showed health and intelligence and vitality. Her firm little chin indicated strength, and her every movement competence and capability. On her kindliness as well as complete straightness he would have banked his future. And yet over it all was this unhappy suggestion of anxiety.

The fleeting interview was over and father and daughter had disappeared down the alleyway before Morrison remembered what he was supposed to be doing, and got on with it.

He was aware that in his job it would be unwise to allow the vision of any young woman passenger, no matter how charming, to fill his mind. He knew also that even if this were not so, he could not hope for any social intercourse, let alone friendship, with a girl who moved in so different a sphere from his own. Conversation with her, if he had any, would inevitably be confined to business, and even this was unlikely, as he did not see what business there was which could possibly require discussion between them. Policy, in fact, as well as peace of mind postulated immediate forgetfulness of the meeting.

Morrison’s own common sense, indeed, accepted this view, but, as it happened, a small incident made it harder for him to carry it out than might otherwise have been the case.

As he was returning along A Deck from Captain Hardwick’s cabin, where he had been on business, he met Miss Stott walking in the opposite direction. She looked at him doubtfully for a moment, then stopped and smiled.

“You’re the transport officer, aren’t you? I don’t know your name?”

Morrison’s heart beat a trifle faster. “Morrison, Miss Stott,” he answered, trying to speak naturally. “Harry Morrison.”

She smiled again. “Well, Mr Morrison,” she went on, “I want some help and I think – though I’m not sure – that you’re the person I should apply to.”

“I hope I am,” Morrison declared. “At all events, if I can’t handle it myself, I can at least put you in touch with the proper officer.”

“Thanks,” she returned. “That’s very kind. I’ve done such a stupid thing. I’ve forgotten an attaché case. It’s not important in a way except that all my books are in it, and I was hoping to get some time to read while on board.”

Morrison thought rapidly. “Who is there at your home who knows about it?” he asked.

“I think either Redpath, the butler, or his wife could find it. They’ve been left in charge of the house, but the other servants have gone on holidays.”

“Well, if you’ll instruct your butler to find the case and hand it over, I’ll arrange for a car to call for it tomorrow morning. It would then come on tomorrow’s plane and you’d have it about midday.”

“Oh, splendid!” She was obviously pleased. “But how could I instruct him? I suppose a wireless cablegram?”

“Easier to telephone, wouldn’t it? There’s a continuous wireless telephone service in operation between ship and shore. You’d simply ring up your butler in the ordinary way. You can do it at any time from your cabin.”

“You don’t say so! Rather marvellous that, really! I’ll certainly do it, and if you’ll be kind enough to arrange for the case to be brought down, I’d be so grateful.”

Morrison gave the proper assurances, expecting that once business was over she would pass on. But she didn’t. She stood beside him at the rail looking at the bare contours of the islands between which the ship was slowly passing.

“You know, I love this sort of scenery,” she went on, “wild bare mountain and moorland; particularly with outcropping rocks.”

“I do, too,” Morrison agreed, “but most people prefer trees with their mountains.”

“We shall have better scenery further on?”

“Oh, lord, yes. The Gairlock and Skye, for example. You know the Cuillins, perhaps?”

“No, but I’m told they’re wonderful. Why do we all crowd off to the Riviera and the Italian lakes and places like that, and miss our own scenery at home?”

“One reason perhaps,” Morrison returned, “is that before this ship began to run it wasn’t so easy to see it. At some of the places a steamer calls, but to others there’s no regular service.”

“I’m looking forward to it all so much.”

“I don’t think you’ll be disappointed. There are lots of charming places down the west coast and across in Northern Ireland. You’ve come aboard at the best point in the whole trip.”

She chatted for a few minutes, then said she must go and telephone. As Morrison watched her tripping off along the deck he realised that, though policy and peace of mind might urge forgetfulness of her image, this no longer lay within the realms of practical politics.

Half an hour later she rang him up to say that she had spoken to her butler, who would have the case ready for the messenger.

To insure that his arrangements should function without a hitch, Morrison made them with extreme care. But this was no longer because it was being done for his employer’s grandniece, but solely for the sake of that young lady herself.

Next day he met the flying boat and was much eased in mind when he found that the case had come. Margot Stott was with some passengers on the promenade deck and he gave himself the pleasure of handing it to her in person.

She thanked him, not exactly with warmth, but with friendliness. She kept him for a moment chatting, but he thought it wise to pass on as soon as he could properly do so.

Certainly she was very attractive. Indeed, when at times he found his work was not progressing with its usual speed, he could not but be aware of the cause.