‘The skipper always sits at the head of the table,’ Goddard said. ‘And in my case it was pure chance.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ she replied. ‘Where you were sitting had been Krasicki’s place. He’d never come to the dining room since we left Callao, but the place was always laid for him in case he did show up.’
Goddard was thinking swiftly and uneasily. Barset could be involved in it, or the dining room steward, or both. Or they could have been merely following instructions from Captain Steen. But it was Madeleine Lennox who was the dangerous problem at the moment. It would seem absurd, of course, that she could have any part in the plot itself, but there was a very real possibility she could be involved with Lind. Suppose the mate was using her to find out just how much he suspected?
As a trap it was deceptively simple, and beautiful in its deadliness. He was supposed to warn her, tell her there was a good chance she could be right but to keep her mouth shut if she hoped to get to Manila alive. If she were innocently playing with dynamite, that would stop her. But if she weren’t, if she reported it to Lind, he’d very neatly positioned his own neck on the block. But there was another way.
‘You’d better cut down on spy movies,’ he said. ‘You’re beginning to believe them.’
‘Then you think I’m imagining things?’
‘Look, the man was shot twice through the chest in full view of five people. You saw the blood—’
She interrupted. ‘I know. It must have been real, so that ought to clinch it, but something about it still bothers me. I keep trying to remember what it was.’
He sighed. ‘You’d be a defense attorney’s dream as a witness in a murder trial. Yes, I saw this man’s head blown off with a .45, but I don’t believe for a minute he was hurt.’
‘I guess you’re right,’ she said.
Maybe he’d convinced her. But when she went back to her own cabin he still wasn’t sure.
* * *
It was a hot, bright morning with a gentle breeze out of the southeast, almost directly astern. The Leander rose lazily and almost imperceptibly to the quartering swell as she plowed ahead. Eight bells struck as Goddard emerged from the passageway and began his morning walk around the promenade deck. The squall had sluiced all the salt from her decks and bulkheads, and there was a freshly scrubbed look to her paint that matched the clean and untroubled beauty of the day. Gone, too, were his suspicions of last night; the whole idea was ridiculous, he decided now, and thought with amusement that Mrs. Lennox wasn’t the only one who’d seen too many spy movies.
He had completed four laps around the deckhouse when he noted the ship was passing through a vast colony of tiny Portuguese men-of-war, apparently newly hatched, their sails no larger than a fingernail. He stopped at the after end of the deck and lit a cigarette as he leaned on the rail to watch them drift past in numbers that must run into millions. It was a phenomenon he had encountered two or three times at sea and which always puzzled him. How could they hatch in such numbers in one place? He was wondering about it now when he became conscious of an odor like that of burning cloth. He looked down, thinking he must have set his shirt afire with the cigarette, but there was no sign of it. Then the odor was gone, as strangely as it had appeared. He must have imagined it.
Only Captain Steen and Madeleine Lennox were in the dining room when he entered. They were just finishing their breakfast, and he was struck by the odd preoccupation of their manner as they greeted him. Steen looked troubled. Mrs. Lennox turned as he sat down, and asked archly, ‘Did that awful thunderstorm scare you last night, Mr. Goddard?’ Lind came in at the same moment, and Goddard was conscious of a vague impression that wasn’t what she’d started to say at all.
Lind laughed as he sat down. ‘Don’t be insulting, Mrs. Lennox. A line squall scare a man who’d go around the Horn in a Dixie cup?’
The others laughed, a trifle self-consciously, and after they had gone out, Lind said to Goddard, ‘I’ve been reading up on catatonic states, and there are a couple of things I’d like to try on Krasicki. You want to come along?’
Goddard was startled for an instant, thinking of his fears of the night before; then he shrugged. ‘Sure,’ he said. They finished breakfast and went down to the deck below. Lind called out to the Filipino youth to bring Krasicki’s breakfast, and Goddard stood in back of him as he unlocked the door. Lind pushed it open, let out a curse, and leaped inside. Beyond him, Goddard saw Krasicki’s body dangling from the overhead pipe.
‘Get the first-aid kit!’ Lind shouted, drawing a knife and slashing at the braided rope.
Goddard wheeled and ran down the passageway, his mind racing even ahead of his feet. He’d been right. And now his performance had to be as convincing as Lind’s. There was another shout behind him as he sped out on deck and up the ladder, but he kept going. He was panting as he hurried back down the passageway with the kit two minutes later. Several crew members were now jammed around the open door, peering in. He started to push through them, and Lind’s voice barked, ‘Clear the door! Let him through!’
Krasicki’s body lay on the deck, the rope now gone from his throat, exposing the brutal mark it had left. Very realistic, Goddard thought; just don’t get too close. Lind straightened, and said wearily, ‘I tried to stop you. He’s been dead for hours.’
Goddard shook his head. ‘It’s a rotten shame.’ We’re a real team, he thought; with a good director, we could do anything.
‘Goddamn it!’ Lind exploded. He gestured toward the braided rope. ‘The one thing we didn’t think of.’ He whirled toward the door. ‘Break it up, you guys! What are you gawking at?’
Nice touch, Goddard thought; male frustration, anger directed at self, relieved by shouts. And at the same time distracts attention from the exhibit in case its nose twitches or respiration is too evident for close scrutiny. He looked around the room, and noted the deadlights were closed over the portholes.
‘He closed ‘em last night,’ Lind said. 'I noticed it when I was in here around eleven. And like a stupid bastard, I didn’t even wonder why. Here, give me a hand to put him in the bunk.’
Goddard looked around for Otto or the bos’n, but neither was present. Then, in an instant of utter confusion, he realized Lind was speaking to him. The big mate was looking at him with a faintly sardonic smile. ‘You’re not afraid of a dead man, are you?’
‘Oh. No,’ Goddard said, fighting for recovery. Lind caught Krasicki’s legs. Goddard stooped and grasped the bare arms near the shoulders, feeling the cold flesh and the rigidity of death, and they lifted him onto the bunk.
Lind pulled a sheet from one of the other bunks and covered the body. He turned then, and his eyes met Goddard’s as he made a helpless gesture with his hands. ‘For the rigor to be that far advanced,’ he said, ‘he must have done it right after I was here. I’m a hell of a doctor.’
Goddard was still trying to control his expression and sort out the chaos of his thoughts, but he managed an automatic reply of some kind. ‘There was no way you could tell,’ he said.
8
Goddard went out. The crew members in the doorway stepped back to let him pass, but they did it silently, and there was no longer any friendliness or recognition in their eyes. As he went down the passageway, he heard the muttering behind him.
‘This bucket’s beginning to give me the creeps.’
‘—ever since we picked that guy up—’
He was being cast as a Jonah; he’d lost his own ship, and now he’d brought his contamination of doom aboard this one. No seaman would admit to being that superstitious, but there was always some dark residue of it, even in the twentieth century. He paid no attention as he went outside and up the ladder; his mind was still trying to come to grips with questions attacking him from all sides at once.