Fatal Venture (13 page)

“Well, he can wait. What the hell do I care?”

Several players glanced up with annoyed expressions and Morrison felt he would presently have their opposition. He smiled pleasantly and went on as firmly as he could: “I’m sorry, sir, but he’s the captain. We’ve all got to humour him while we’re aboard. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind coming for just a moment?”

Stott began a fresh outburst, but it was quickly quelled by the other players. There were cries of “Hush!” and “Silence!” and someone said: “Steady on, old man. Go and see the lord almighty and we’ll keep your place.”

For a moment Stott seemed undecided, then he got up. “All right, curse the lot of you. Here you” – to Morrison –”lead the way and be damned to you!”

As they entered one of the lifts Morrison felt that the preliminary skirmish had been won. But the main action, now in sight, was a more serious affair.

He stopped the lift at D Deck and led the way to his cabin. “One moment here, sir, if you please,” he said as he ushered Stott in. “Perhaps you’d kindly sit down just for a second?”

“What’s all this?” Stott answered suspiciously. “If you try on any monkey-tricks with me, the Lord help you.” All the same he sat down and waited. Morrison took his place opposite and tried to stiffen his resolution with thoughts of Margot.

“I have to tell you, sir,” he began slowly, “that what I said to you just now was not true. The Captain does not want to see you, but someone else does. I mentioned the Captain instead of that person in order not to disgrace you.”

Stott’s eyes goggled. “Do you happen to know what you’re saying and who you’re speaking to?” he asked with dangerous quietness.

“I’ll put it to you, sir, as I see it, and leave it at that. You can do what you like: get me sacked if you like. But what do you think of it when your daughter had to come to me, a complete stranger, and a young man at that, to try and stop her father from throwing away his money at the tables because he had taken too much drink to listen to her or to know what he was doing?”

For a moment Morrison thought his visitor was getting apoplexy. Stott’s face grew crimson, the veins swelled on his forehead and his eyes bulged from their sockets. Once or twice he gasped as if unable to speak. Then very slowly his expression changed. He leant forward and put his hands over his eyes. For a little there was silence in the cabin. Then at last he spoke – in a different voice.

“Is this true,” he asked, “that my daughter did really come to you with that request?”

“Absolutely, sir. I was simply trying to do what she asked me.”

“Where is she?”

Morrison pointed. “She’s next door in my office. Will you see her, sir, if I ask her to come in?”

Stott nodded. Morrison passed into the office and spoke as unemotionally as he could.

“Major Stott’s in there. Miss Stott. He’d like to see you.” He held the door, she passed through it, and he closed it behind her. Then, feeling slightly sick, he went on deck.

What took place in his cabin he never heard. When he went back half an hour later it was empty. But apparently the interview turned out satisfactorily: indeed, he was practically told so by both participants. Just before dinner he met Margot on the promenade deck and she stopped him.

“I just can’t say how grateful I am – we both are,” she said earnestly. “I don’t want ever to refer to it again, but I’ll not forget your kindness. Thank you. Good night.” She had vanished before he could reply.

There was a good deal in the words, and there was even more in the glance which went with them. Warmth began flooding into Morrison’s heart. His misgivings began to disappear. The world grew suddenly brighter and happier.

These feelings were strengthened later that night by an interview with Major Stott, as short and decisive as the other. Morrison was on his way to the boat-deck for a breather before bed, when he ran into the man coming down the companion-way. Stott stopped, glanced round, saw they were alone, and said in a low voice: “I should like you to understand, Morrison, that I’m not resentful for what you did this afternoon. In fact, I’m very grateful. You handled what must have been an unpleasant job tactfully.”

“That’s very generous of you, sir,” Morrison answered, and he really meant it. “Thank you very much.”

“We needn’t speak of it again, but I’ll not forget it,” the Major answered, almost in his daughter’s words, then nodded and passed on.

Morrison soon found that though the incident was buried, it was not forgotten. Next day he passed Margot seated with some friends on deck and she greeted him with unusual friendliness. “Come and tell us what’s going to happen to us tomorrow,” she called, and when he went over she introduced him as she would a complete equal. “Mr Morrison’s been so kind to me,” she went on, telling the story of the forgotten books.

“Tomorrow’s the star turn of the trip,” he assured them. “We’ll be off the Cuillins between Skye and Rum. Gorgeous views both sides.”

“I thought it was always foggy there?” asked a Miss Maudsley, who sat next Margot.

“I’ll see that it’s clear for you tomorrow,” he returned gravely. “But I recommend the shore excursion. A bit tiring, but well worth while.”

“We should have been ashore at Portree today, only that we’ve got people coming aboard.”

“They’ll be here in half an hour,” he explained, passing on.

He was on deck when the planes arrived and he witnessed the Stott reunion. Elmina Stott – he knew her name from his registers – was a tall, hard-faced woman of perhaps five-and-forty, with a domineering manner and ultra-fashionable clothes. In her somewhat perfunctory greeting to Wyndham there was a hint of contempt, while her cool nod to Margot suggested absolute dislike. Her son, Percy Luff, was a weedy looking youth of some two– or three-and-twenty, with a vague air of dissipation, a vacant expression and a loud laugh. Morrison at once ruled him outside the pale because of the offensive way he spoke to a steward who was carrying his suitcase. Morrison had no opportunity to register further impressions, as the party drifted below to inspect their cabins.

Their coming proved an unexpected blessing to Morrison. Margot seemed less occupied and was to be seen at more frequent intervals as he went about the ship, ostensibly on business, but really in the hope of meeting her. She was friendly at all these encounters and did not seem to want to hurry away. He was careful to avoid personal matters and at first they kept to generalities. But on the Sunday on which they were off Barra and Eriskay, she asked him directly about himself, and their talk became more intimate.

“You told me how you came into this ship,” she said, after a pause, “and that you had been with the Boscombe travel people before. I’ve wondered whether you’re pleased or sorry you made the change?”

“Pleased,” he returned decidedly. “Oh, yes, definitely. I like travelling of any sort, you see. And I like being on a big boat. Then, the work’s pleasant and the pay’s good. And” – he hesitated for the fraction of a second, then decided to risk it – “if I had stayed with the Boscombe people I shouldn’t have met you.”

“An important matter,” she laughed, and once again he breathed freely. “Had you always wanted to go to Boscombe’s?”

“No.” He felt that with this opening he might be excused if he told her the history of his life. “As a matter of fact, I was intended for the diplomatic service. My father was a merchant. He was the head of a big firm with branches at Calcutta and several of the towns of India. I went to Haileybury and then on to Cambridge. Then my father died suddenly and it was found that though he had been so well off, he had left very little money. He had, as a matter of fact, been speculating. My mother – there were then just the two of us – had enough to live on, but her money ceased when she died two years later. Though I had a little, it was not enough to continue at Cambridge, so I chucked it and began looking for a job. My love of travel and my rather slight knowledge of languages got me my place at Boscombe’s, the first agency I tried. And that’s” – he smiled – “the whole of my eventful life.”

“I’m glad you told me,” she said. “It was good of you. But I guessed you’d been at Cambridge.”

“You didn’t? How?”

“I don’t know. There’s something about Cambridge men. It’s unmistakable.”

As she spoke, her friend Miss Maudsley passed. She called her over. “I’m getting more information from my travel oracle,” she explained. “Come and listen.”

“I can tell you all about every place,” Morrison played up.

Miss Maudsley cocked a supercilious eye. “True stories?” she demanded.

“Oh, well, you can’t have everything,” Morrison protested. “You can have the truth or the story, whichever you like. No reasonable being would ask for both.”

“Tell us about Staffa and Fingal’s Cave,” Margot suggested. “I’m anxious to see those.”

He enlarged on the subject, finally coming to geology. “Columnar basalt,” he explained. “A great bed of it is believed to cross the sea basin to Northern Ireland. If the weather’s kind to us, we’ll see this end of it on Tuesday, and in a week more, the other end at the Giant’s Causeway near Portrush. That bed is the actual causeway, where the giants crossed in old times.”

“Can you promise us any giants?” asked Miss Maudsley.

“I should be glad to arrange it,” he returned; “only, unfortunately, it’s not my department. Giants are done by the Chief Officer.”

“I believe that’s only an excuse,” drawled the young woman.

“Well, I’ll tell him about it,” Morrison declared; “but, of course, I can’t guarantee what he’ll do.”

“At all events, I hope you’ll come in the boat with us and show us what to look at.”

Crushing down his exultation, he promised, and presently Miss Maudsley passed on.

“Another place I want to see is Portrush,” continued Margot. “I’ve always heard it’s a wonderful place.”

“It’s all of that,” he assured her, delighted that she had remained behind. “But it wants good weather to enjoy it properly.”

“Do you know all the places in the world?” she mocked. “Personal reminiscences of everywhere?”

“There were no personal reminiscences of Staffa. I’ve never been in Fingal’s Cave. Every time we’ve called it’s been too rough to see it.”

“You are” – she looked appraisingly over him – “a complete fraud.”

“Oh, no, I assure you,” he protested. “That’s just business. It sounds more impressive if you hold forth on places. And not a bit of a fraud. All the information was dead right.”

“How do you do it?”

“Pity to kill so fine an illusion, but before we started cruising I filled up my office with the best set of reference books I could find. Easy when you know the way, isn’t it?”

“I still think you’re a complete fraud.”

“Well, I call that mean, after my telling you how it was done. But I’m not a fraud about the Giant’s Causeway. That I have not only read about, but seen. And after all your offensive remarks, you owe it to me to let me prove my statements by showing you round it.”

“I’d love that. But I’m afraid it’s not going to be possible. They’re all mad to cut the Causeway and play golf instead. The Portrush Links, you know.”

“I’ll tell you about that. Miss Stott. On the first visit to Portrush the experienced traveller goes to see the Causeway, Dunluce, and perhaps Carrick-a-Rede, and on the second he plays golf. Don’t make the mistake of putting it the wrong way round.”

“I know. I do feel that way myself, but what can I do?”

“I’ll tell you what you can do. Let those who will play golf, and you come with me.”

“I’d love it,” she repeated. “We’ll settle it between this and then.”

Though neither of them knew it, their tentative arrangement was to prove the most momentous either had ever made. From the moment of speaking these few sentences, their entire history became changed and tragedy crept into their up-to-then peaceful lives.

Two days later, on the Saturday, while the ship still cruised to the south of Skye and there were excursions to Mallaig and Loch Alsh, Malthus and Mason came aboard. Morrison recognised Malthus the instant he stepped out of the flying boat, but he never supposed that Malthus would remember him. However, meeting on the deck after lunch Malthus looked at him and stopped.

“I’ve seen you before,” he observed. “Where was it?”

“In the Paris-Calais boat-train,” Morrison answered pleasantly. “About two years ago, Mr Malthus. I was travelling with Bristow.”

For a moment Malthus looked slightly taken aback; then he grinned. “I remember. I also remember thinking how unwise it was of you two to talk secrets in public.”

“So we found it, sir,” Morrison assured him dryly.

“Then you should thank me for a useful lesson. Well,” – his manner changed – “that’s past and forgotten. You seem to have done well with the idea.”

“I’ve nothing to complain about,” and Morrison repeated the remark about his salary which he kept for such emergencies.

Just then Mason strolled up and Malthus introduced Morrison. “This is one of the young men I told you about who travelled to Calais a couple of years ago. I don’t think I heard your name? Ah, Morrison. This is Mr Mason, one of our would-be directors.”

Mason was a small clean-shaven man with sharp eyes. “How do?” he said carelessly. “That belongs to ancient history which we’ve forgotten.”

“I’ve told him so,” Malthus returned; “and to prove it we’re going to call on Stott and offer to smoke the pipe of peace.”

They were specious, almost friendly, and yet Morrison didn’t take to either. There was that altogether too wide awake expression about their eyes which made it hard to bank too heavily on their good faith.

He made a civil reply and passed on.

Ten days later, in faultless weather, the
Hellénique passed
up the coast of County Antrim in Northern Ireland. She had worked gradually south round the Mull of Kintyre, past Sanda and Pladda and into the Firth of Clyde for Arran and Bute. She had just now called at Larne to set ashore a party who were to drive by the famous Coast Road to Glengariff and Bally Castle.

Keeping well – but not too well – outside the three-mile limit, the great ship left the Maidens Rocks with their lighthouse astern, while faint on the horizon showed Kintyre and Wigtown on starboard bow and quarter respectively. To port every detail of the coast could be seen in the clear air: Garron Point, the Glengariff Gap and the great cliff of Fair Head. After circling Rathlin Island, she put into Ballycastle Bay to pick up the shore party, then, turning west, she passed as it grew dusk Benbane Head and Pleaskin Head beside the Giant’s Causeway. Till 1.0 a.m., while the gaming rooms remained open, she cruised at dead slow out at sea; then anyone who was awake would have heard the engines increase their speed for a little time, then slow and stop. Some of those with outside cabins might have distinguished the subsequent roar of the chain from the hawse-holes as the anchor was dropped. Finally, silence reigned on board.