I was just forward of the midships house. Opposite me a plank led up onto the shadowy bulk of the pier. It was intensely silent. Somewhere beyond the railroad yards a siren wailed, and it made me shiver. I started aft, feeling my way cautiously along the starboard side. Just as I came into the darker shadows of the midships house I stepped on a body. The body stirred, scattering empty beer cans that rolled along the deck, muttered a drunken curse, and went back to sleep.
I ducked down in the shadows and crouched, absolutely motionless, until the beer cans stopped their clatter. No one called out. He must be the only one aboard, unless they were all passed out. He had the watch, I thought sardonically, tossing six or eight beer cans over the side so I wouldn’t start them rolling again. I waited another minute, stepped over him, and went on aft. The crew’s quarters should be back here.
There was a companion ladder going below. I stepped softly onto it and groped my way down. I reached the bottom, and stood perfectly still, listening for the sound of breathing. There was utter silence. It was as dark as the inside of a coal mine, and the air was stale and foul with the odor of dirty clothes and old damp wood. I flicked on the cigarette lighter and looked swiftly around. The place was deserted. It was a small and dirty fo’c’sle with bunks on each side and some steel lockers against the forward bulkhead. I looked around for a light of some kind. On the forward bulkhead near the lockers was a kerosene lamp mounted in gimbals. I stepped over and lighted it. It cast a very weak yellow glow across the room.
There were eight bunks, but only five of them held mattresses. The deck was littered with cigarette butts and two or three pairs of sea-boots kicked partly out of the way under the lower bunks. Oil-skins dangled from the after bulkhead. Over most of the bunks were pin-ups clipped from girlie magazines. Two of the uppers which didn’t have mattresses were loaded with seabags and beat-up old suitcases. There was a new plastic suitcase in one of the lower bunks.
I grabbed down one of the seabags, dumped its contents on the mattress of one of the bunks, and pawed through the stuff. It was all clothing. I repacked it and searched another, with the same negative results. Next I hauled down one of the old suitcases and opened it. It held more clothing, some shaving gear, a few old magazines, some contraceptives, and a deck of cards, but no letters or photographs or identification of any kind.
The next one was no more profitable, except that it did contain a savings account passbook made out to a Raoul Sanchez. In the third I found a packet of letters in a girl’s handwriting addressed to Karl Bjornsen. I sighed wearily and replaced them all on the upper bunk. There was nothing left now except the new plastic job, and I had a hunch it would be locked. It was.
I cast about for something with which to jimmy it open. I saw nothing that would do, but then remembered I still hadn’t searched the lockers. I went over and began pulling them open. They held more foul-weather gear—shoes, stacks of magazines and paperback books, and a couple of half-empty bottles of rum. But lying in the bottom of one of them was a large screwdriver and a marlinespike.
I grabbed up the marlinespike and attached the lock on the suitcase, inserting the point and prying upward. It was tough, but after a couple of minutes it gave up and flew open. I felt a little flutter of excitement as I looked in; this one seemed more promising. Right on top, wrapped in a silk scarf, was a German Luger. Beside it was a whole deck of filthy pictures, held together by a rubber band, and three letters postmarked Havana, Cuba, and addressed in a feminine hand to Sr. Ernie Boyle. Under them was a photograph of a man and a girl at a table in a sidewalk cafe. There was something vaguely familiar about the man. I was just lifting it out for a closer look when I tensed up, listening. Somebody had come aboard. I heard his footsteps as he walked aft along the deck above me. I crossed to the lamp in two quick strides, and blew it out.
The beam of a flashlight probed downward from the deck, splashing against the steps of the companion ladder. I leaned back against the bunks on the starboard side. He came on down the ladder. I could see nothing but the big black shoes and the light, pointed downward. He stopped at the bottom, some twelve feet from where I was standing and started to raise the light. It swept along the bunks on the port side and then came abruptly to a stop when it hit the jimmied suitcase. I could hear his breath suck in. “Ladrones!” he said, and began to curse in Spanish. The light swung and splashed against my face.
I dived for him, but the light blinded me, and he was too far away. When I got there I met nothing but a fist, which crashed just under my ear, and the railing of the companion ladder. I plowed into the railing with my left shoulder and for a moment my whole arm went numb. I fell back against the bulkhead, straightened, and reached out for him. The light splashed against my face again, and at the same time the fist smashed against my jaw. I fell forward this time, grappling wildly with my arms, and caught him by the shirt. It tore. I swung and managed to hit him on the side of the face, but I was off balance and there was no power behind it. Then the light swung in a short, chopping arc, something smashed against my head, and I fell.
A whole ocean of pain was sloshing around in my head, and when I tried to move, something was holding me and somebody was tugging at my feet. I opened my eyes. There was light in the room now; the kerosene lamp was burning again. I was lying on my right side in one of the bunks with my arms twisted behind me. My hands were tied. I looked down at my feet.
He was a big Mexican or Cuban kid of twenty-two or so, dressed in a leather jacket and dungarees. He was muttering to himself in Spanish and tying my feet to the stanchion of the bunk. He had broad shoulders and a square and rather pleasant face, but when he looked at me his eyes were filled with nothing but anger and contempt.
“Ladron!” he spat at me.
“You speak English?” I asked.
He checked the knots in the line, and straightened. “Sure, I speak English, Jack. And how low can you get? Coming on a pot like this to steal from the crew.”
“I didn’t come here to steal,” I said.
”Of course not,” he said contemptuously, and turned away. He started up the companionway: “Where are you going?” I asked.
“Where else?” he said. “Out to the phone to call the cops.”
Thirteen
Listen,” I said quickly. “Wait a minute, will you? I tell you, I didn’t come here to steal anything.”
“You think I’m that stupid?” he asked. But he did pause.
“No,” I said. “I don’t. And if you’ll just think about it or a minute you’ll see I’m telling the truth. Why the hell would I waste time breaking the suitcase open? I’d just carry it off.”