He became conscious only slowly of the fact that she had ceased to struggle. He felt the weight of her body dragging at his arms. He lowered her carefully to the floor and stood up.
Only then did the full realisation of what he had done get through to him. He had killed her. Oh, God, he had killed this woman! The utter irrevocableness of the act struck him like a blow. He felt trapped; from this horror there could be no escape.
A glimmer of hope came to him. Perhaps she was not dead; perhaps she was merely unconscious and could be revived. If that were so, if only he could bring her to her senses, she could have all the money. More; he would send her more; he would pay anything, anything, just to have this terrible load lifted from his mind.
He dropped to his knees beside her, raised her left wrist and tried to find the pulse. Nothing. He put his ear against her side, listening for the beat of her heart. He could not hear it. He lifted his head and looked at her face. It had darkened and there were bruises on the neck where his hands had gripped. Her eyes were open and they seemed to be staring at him.
“No,” he muttered. “No, you’re not dead. You can’t be.”
He began to shake her. “Wake up, Bobbie! Wake up!” He was sobbing like a child that has broken its favourite toy in a fit of anger and knows no way of mending it.
The woman’s head rolled from side to side. He seized the blonde hair and pulled the head towards him. “Bobbie, speak to me. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m sorry. But just speak to me. Say something, Bobbie, say something.”
It was useless. He allowed the head to drop back to the floor and stood up. He was shivering uncontrollably and he felt cold and weak. What was he to do? He tried to think, but his brain refused to work coherently; it kept panicking; he had an impulse to run out of the apartment, naked as he was, and just keep running.
But he resisted the impulse. He began to dress and gradually became a little more composed. He looked at his watch; it was nearly two o’clock. For a few moments he stood perfectly still, listening. He could hear no sound in the building; if there were other people in other apartments they were obviously asleep. The killing had made very little noise; Bobbie had not even screamed when he smacked her face and the brief struggle had been utterly soundless. There was no reason why anyone should have had the slightest suspicion of what was taking place.
He bent down and gathered up the scattered money. He slipped the bills into the wallet and stowed the wallet in his pocket. He looked down at the nude body and was disgusted by the sight. There was something almost obscene about it. He pulled a blanket off the bed and draped it over the woman.
He made a careful inspection of the room to make sure that he had left nothing, then he switched off the light,
groped his way to the window and drew back the curtains. A little weak light filtered in. He crossed to the door, carefully avoiding the body, went into the other room and closed the door behind him. Here too he drew the curtains back before opening the outer door. There was a key on the inside. He transferred it to the outside, stepped out on to the landing, closed the door very softly, locked it and dropped the key into his pocket.
The landing was in utter darkness, but he remembered the lay-out. He began to move cautiously towards the stairs, feeling ahead with his foot. He found the top step, then got his hand on the banisters and started to descend. A board creaked loudly and he froze. He heard a lavatory flushing somewhere, but no light showed. He descended two more steps and heard the door open below him.
Wilson froze again, his right hand gripping the banister rail. Someone came in with a gust of cold night air and he could see the vague outline of a bulky figure in the doorway. There was the snap of a switch but no light came on. Wilson heard a curse and it was a man’s voice. Then the door slammed shut with a violence that seemed to shake the building. The man was obviously annoyed about the failed light and was taking it out on the door.
With the door shut Wilson could no longer see the newcomer, but he could hear him muttering to himself. If he came up the stairs he would be certain to bump into Wilson. So would it be advisable to retreat and slip back into Bobbie’s apartment? Yet if he moved the man might hear him and might be suspicious. Wilson did nothing. He waited.
Suddenly there was a spark in the darkness below and then the flicker of a small flame. The man had ignited a cigarette lighter and was holding it in his hand like a miniature torch. The wavering flame revealed a large, pale
face and wide mouth. The man was swaying slightly and Wilson guessed that he was half drunk. He had only to glance up and he must see Wilson, and then there was no telling what might happen; drunks were unpredictable. He might start shouting, kicking up enough noise to rouse everyone in the building.
For perhaps half a minute the man remained where he was, swaying gently, the lighter wavering in his left hand. Then he moved towards the staircase. He caught the bottom post of the banisters in his right hand and again came to a halt. Wilson remained perfectly still and waited for the inevitable discovery when the man began to climb the stairs.
But that did not happen. The man pushed himself off the banisters and went blundering down the passage beyond the staircase. Wilson heard him trip over something that sounded like a bucket and there was another flow of curses. Then a door banged and the place was again in darkness.
Wilson descended the last few steps and groped his way to the door. He had no idea what he would do if he found it locked; he would then be trapped in the building and would have to wait until someone opened it up in the morning. He felt sick at the thought.
His fingers, searching in the darkness, found the doorknob. He turned it and pulled. The door swung open. The drunk had forgotten to re-lock it.
Outside the square was deserted. Wilson slipped away like a thief, through the archway, into the street, meeting no one. He forced himself not to run, though the impulse was there and was almost irresistible. He still felt cold and sick and afraid, but he walked at a steady, unhurried pace in the direction of the harbour and the ship which now seemed to call to him as a refuge.
A police patrol car came up behind him. It slowed and his heart began hammering. He tried to think what he would say if they were to question him, to ask where he had been. He ought to have prepared some story but it had not occurred to him and now he could think of nothing; the fearful truth filled his mind to the exclusion of all else. Suppose he were to blurt it out, unable to control his tongue. The mere possibility made him tremble.
The patrol car crawled up beside him, keeping pace. He did not turn his head. The nearside window of the car was wound down.
“Just a minute, feller.”
Wilson stopped. The patrol car had stopped too. He walked towards it, his legs feeling weak and the sickness in his stomach.
“Where you goin’, feller?”
There were two of them in the car. The one who was doing the talking had a heavy jowl with the dark shadow of a quick-growing beard, the kind of face that needed three shaves a day.
“I’m going back to my ship.” Wilson’s mouth was dry; the words seemed to come with difficulty.
“Sailor, huh?”
“Yes.”
“You’re out late.”
“Yes.”
“What’s your name?”
“Charles Wilson.” It had come out automatically. No time to think of a false name.
“What ship?”
Wilson tried to think of some other ship and nothing came of it. “
Hopeful
Enterprise
.”
The policeman appeared to think it over, staring at
Wilson with hard, suspicious eyes. Wilson could see no reason why he should be suspected of wrong-doing, but coppers were like that; it was their job to suspect everyone—especially at half-past two in the morning.
“
Hopeful
Enterprise,
huh?” He turned to his companion sitting behind the wheel. “Say, Joe, you heard that name before?”
The other man grinned. “I’ll say.” He leaned across and spoke to Wilson. “Sailor, we got some shipmates of yours cooling off in the lock-up.”
“Oh,” Wilson said. He had clean forgotten Trubshaw and the others, the original cause of all his troubles. He remembered them now with no feeling of sympathy.
“They were misbehaving themselves,” the first policeman said. They both seemed to find it amusing. Perhaps they had not been directly involved and could afford to take a detached view. “Lucky you weren’t with them.”
“Yes,” Wilson said. “Lucky.”
The policeman gave him another long, searching look and seemed to find nothing he could really fasten on to. Then he said: “We’re going your way. You want a ride?”
“Thanks. I’d rather walk.”
“Guilty conscience?”
Wilson tried to laugh, but it was a poor effort. “No. I’ve got a headache. Need some fresh air.”
“Okay. Please yourself. Take her away, Joe.”
The patrol car moved off and Wilson stood on the sidewalk shaking, the sweat cold and clammy under his armpits and on his forehead. He took a deep, shuddering breath and walked on.
He dropped the key to Bobbie’s apartment into the gap between the ship and the side of the wharf. It made a faint plopping sound as it hit the water.
T
he wheat
lay in the holds. It had been finally levelled off by the men with the wooden shovels and the imprints that their feet had made could be seen on the golden surface of the grain.
A winch was clattering. The heavy steel beam of number three hatch was being lowered into position, men guiding it at each end. It dropped lower, settled into place; the lifting wire slackened and was unhooked. The first hatch-board was lifted from the pile by the bulwarks, carried to the hatch and dropped home, its upper side snugly level with the coaming. One after another the massive boards were fitted in until the wheat could no longer be seen. Then the heavy tarpaulin was unfolded, stretched over the boards and battened down.
Charlie Wilson, knocking wedges in along the coaming, felt ill. He had crawled into his bunk in the crew’s quarters some time after three in the morning, but he had not slept. He had lain there in the darkness listening to the snores of the other men and seeing in his mind’s eye the dead woman stretched out on the floor of her room. He wondered when the body would be discovered. It could lie there for days before the other inhabitants of the building began to wonder why they were not seeing Bobbie around any more. By then
the
Hopeful
Enterprise
would be hundreds of miles away and there would be nothing to connect the crime with him.
Nothing? What about fingerprints? His fingerprints must be all over the apartment, and he had not even given it a thought until that moment. What a fool! What a damned fool! He ought to have wiped everything he had touched. He could have done so, but it was too late now; he could not go back. And those policemen in the patrol car: they would remember him when the murder came out, and then they would put two and two together. And they knew his name and the name of his ship. He would be arrested as soon as the
Hopeful
Enterprise
reached England; there would be an extradition order and he would be sent back to Canada to stand trial.
He could scarcely touch his breakfast; it seemed to stick in his throat. And then there was the ribbing that he had to face.
“Rough night, Charlie?”
“I’ve got a headache.”
“Too bad. A young lad like you oughter lay off the booze.”
“It wasn’t the booze.”
“No? Maybe it was the women.”
Their mindless laughter grated on his nerves; the fug in the seamen’s mess sickened him; he could have cried out in his misery.
“Poor old Charlie; he can’t take it. Well, he’s only a kid when all’s said and done.”
He felt an urge to shout at them: “Leave me alone! Leave me alone, can’t you?” But he said nothing. It would do no good. He had to endure.
Rankin the bosun was another person who was not in the
best of humours that morning. With the
Hopeful
Enterprise
making ready to leave, there was a fistful of work to be done, and now it seemed that three men were missing, three able seamen whose muscles were going to be badly needed to help get everything sorted out. He stormed into the messroom, arms and legs swinging loosely.
“Anybody seen Trubshaw, Lawson and Moir?”
Someone volunteered the information that they had not slept on board.
“Damn them,” Rankin said, chewing savagely at the ends of his moustache. “Damn their perishin’ guts. They should’ve been aboard by six this morning. Where in hell they got to? In some stinkin’ whore-shop, I’ll wager.”
Wilson could have told the bosun that was not true, but he held his tongue.
“Anyone know where they went?” Rankin demanded, swivelling his gaze round the mess and letting it rest momentarily on each man in turn. “Any of you lot go ashore with the bastards?”
A man with a broken nose and not much in the way of teeth pointed a finger at Wilson. “Charlie went with ’em. I seen ’im. They was all together, them three an’ ’im.”
Rankin looked at Wilson. “That true?”
“Well, yes, bose,” Wilson admitted. “But I didn’t stay with them. We split up.”
“You know where they went after that?”
“Well, I did hear something.”
“What did you hear? Come on, lad. Out with it.”
“I heard they were in the nick. For causing a disturbance.”
“So why in flamin’ hell didn’t you say so at once?” Wilson said nothing.
“In the nick,” Rankin muttered. “It’s what we might’ve
expected.” He shot another glance at Wilson. “How’d you come to hear about it if you’d left them?”
“A couple of policemen told me. At least, they said some of my shipmates were locked up. They didn’t say who they were, but it must be Trub and Aussie and Sandy if they’re adrift.”
“I don’t get it,” Rankin said. “Why would a couple of cops go out of their way to tell you about it?”
“It’s a long story.” It was a story Wilson had no intention of relating to the bosun or anyone else. “It doesn’t matter.”
Rankin looked like a man who had much to bear and was doing his best not to lose his self-control. “Why in hell didn’t you report it straightaway? You know we’re due to sail.”
“I didn’t think of it.”
“Didn’t think of it! Well, if that don’t beat everything. Wait’ll I tell the mate about this. He’ll blow his top.”
Rankin turned and went out of the messroom like a perambulating windmill to spread the bad news in Mr. Loder’s direction.
Captain Barling heard a knock on his cabin door and called: “Come in.”
Adam Loder walked in, cap under arm, heavy shoulders and bullet head thrust forward.
Barling gave a slight lift of the eyebrows. “Well?”
“There’s three men adrift, so the bosun tells me. It seems they’re in gaol.”
Barling was less stirred by this news than Loder had expected. It rather took the wind out of Loder’s sails.
“I know. I’ve just heard from the Police Department. Seems the three men were drunk and fighting with some Swedes. They resisted arrest too.”
“Which is what might have been expected. So what do we do? Sail without them? Leave them to stew?”
Barling filled and lighted a pipe. “I’d rather like to, but I think not. We need those men; we don’t want to sail short-handed.”
“You mean we wait here until they’re let out?”
“It won’t be long. I gather that they’ll be charged this morning. They’ll be fined of course. I want you to go along, pay the fines and bring those men straight back here.”
Loder was not at all pleased with his commission. “You wouldn’t like me to hold their hands?”
Barling ignored the sarcasm. “The fines will, of course, be stopped out of their pay.”
Loder hesitated. Barling said with a touch of asperity: “Well, what are you waiting for?”
A faint tinge of colour crept into Loder’s blotchy cheeks and a glitter of resentment appeared in his slate-grey eyes. “Able seamen!” he said disgustedly. “They haven’t the ability to wipe their own bloody noses. They need bloody wet nursing.”
He turned abruptly and went out of the cabin.
A few minutes later Barling had another visitor: Jonah Madden, the chief engineer. Barling knew without having to ask what Madden had come about. There was only one subject that seemed to hold any interest for the chief and that was the subject of the decrepit engines of the
Hopeful
Enterprise.
Madden looked a bit decrepit himself. He was pushing sixty, hollow-chested, with a face like a discouraged bloodhound and a chronic wheeze of the kind that heavy cigarette-smokers often got; which was rather unfair, seeing that he never smoked. Perhaps the wheeziness was the result of many years of exposure to the tainted atmosphere of
ships’ engine-rooms; perhaps the oil had settled on his lungs.
Madden said gloomily: “I won’t guarantee it.’’
Barling looked at Madden in mild inquiry. It was a cryptic remark, typical of the man. “Won’t guarantee what, Chief?”
“That they’ll carry us across the Atlantic.”
“Meaning, I take it, your precious engines?”
They were in fact Barling’s engines; at least, fifty per cent of them, the other half being Calthorp’s; but Madden, as long as he was chief engineer, had a kind of courtesy title to them and could not have been more concerned about them had they indeed been his.
“Yes,” Madden said, wheezing more heavily than usual. “My precious engines.”
“They’ll make it,” Barling assured him. “You worry too much.” He wondered, not without a touch of embarrassment, whether Loder had relayed that unguarded remark of his about Madden’s being an old woman.
Madden picked at his nose, which had a spongy appearance about the end. “There’s reason to worry, if you ask me. Suppose we hit dirty weather—which is more than likely at this time of year, you must admit—it’ll put an extra strain on them.”
Barling looked Madden fairly and squarely in the eyes. “Are you telling me, Chief, that those engines are incapable of driving this ship back to England?”
Madden’s eyes shied away like frightened fawns. He had been driven into a corner and he knew it. He temporised. “I’m not saying that exactly. Maybe they will.” He seemed to pick up courage and his gaze came back and held Barling’s for a moment. “But I’m telling you this: if they don’t have a proper overhaul in our next port I won’t be
responsible for what happens on another voyage, and that’s the truth.”
Barling thought about that. It occurred to him that Madden would scarcely have made such a statement if he had had any idea that the ship would not be going on another voyage. So perhaps, after all, the rumour had not got around. Unless Madden was fishing. Barling searched Madden’s face and could find no hint there of anything but the usual nagging worry.
“Chief,” he said, “I give you my word that this is the last voyage I’ll take in this ship with the engines as they are. Now, does that satisfy you?”
Madden shuffled his feet. “I’d be happier if they’d already been seen to, but maybe they’ll get us through just this one more crossing.” He sounded slightly mollified by Barling’s statement.
“You’ll see that they do.”
“I’m making no promises. I’m not a magician.”
“You’re a very good engineer and that’s enough for me. I’m relying on you. And I’ll tell you this—there’s no one in the world I’d have more confidence in than Jonah Madden.”
Sometimes you had to use flattery. He saw Madden square his narrow shoulders.
“Well, I’ll do my best.”
“That’s all I’m asking.”
Madden went away and Barling was left to his own worries. Loder and Madden, they hadn’t got the burden that lay on his shoulders.
Trubshaw, Lawson and Moir arrived back on board midway through the morning looking not at all chastened by their night in captivity. They had some bruises and
Lawson’s upper lip was cut, but otherwise they seemed little the worse for their experience; in fact, they seemed to regard it as a huge joke.
“What ’appened to you, Charlie boy?” Trubshaw asked when he saw Wilson. “Ow’d you manage to give them coppers the slip?”
“I hid.”
“Well you crafty young so-and-so. I didn’t see no place in that square where a flea could ’ide.”
“I kept in the shadow. They were so busy with you lot they didn’t notice me.”
“Well, ain’t you the lucky one.” Trubshaw shook his head, marvelling at Wilson’s good fortune. “You must ’ave someone up there lookin’ arter you.”
“Yes,” Wilson said. “I expect I have.”
He remembered that Bobbie also had called him lucky. What kind of a joke was that?
The
Hopeful
Enterprise
moved out into the stream and headed down-river with a Canadian pilot guiding her, a small, pinched man in a lumber-jacket and a leather cap. The cargo of wheat weighed the ship down and water lapped the load line, the keel biting deep. Madden’s precious engines were working, turning the massive propeller shaft in its tunnel under the decks, but Madden was not happy; he had a premonition of trouble ahead; he felt it in his bones. The other engineers laughed at him behind his back, referring to him disrespectfully as Old Worryguts. The imperfections of the ship’s machinery did not bother them. But they were younger men and the responsibility was not theirs. To Jonah Madden responsibility was a cross that he had to bear.
So, with the screw pushing them and the current helping,
they went floating down the St. Lawrence, slipping past the hazards that the pilot knew like his own face, past the small towns and the little wooden churches, past river steamers and motor launches and rowing-boats and all the wide variety of scum and flotsam that is borne on the broad back of a mighty river. And Wilson could think of nothing but the nude body of a blonde woman lying under a blanket in a room in Montreal. Or perhaps no longer lying there; perhaps discovered, removed to a mortuary, the hunt for the killer already on. Perhaps the message had been flashed down to Quebec to intercept the
Hopeful
Enterprise
and arrest Able Seaman Charles Wilson on a charge of murder. Wilson felt sick at the thought; he went about his work with his mind on other things and earned the bosun’s rebukes for his clumsiness.
“What in hell are you dreaming about?” Rankin demanded. “You’re in a bloody trance. It’s about time you got that bird out of your mind.”
Wilson glanced at Rankin in sudden alarm. “What bird? What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the one that’s taking your mind off your work, that’s the one.”
Wilson gripped the bosun’s arm. “What do you know about her?”
Rankin brushed Wilson’s hand away. “So that is the trouble with you. I thought as much. Well, take my advice, son, and forget about her. There’s none of ’em worth bothering your head over, none of ’em. I’m telling you.”
Wilson saw with relief that Rankin knew nothing. How could he possibly have known? That remark about the bird had just been a random shot that had happened to strike home.
“Yes, bose,” Wilson said. “I expect you’re right.” He
was becoming altogether too sensitive and jumpy; if he went on like this he would give himself away; already he had become conscious of some questioning looks being turned on him in the mess. He had better watch it; the last thing he wanted was to arouse curiosity. Yet it was difficult to behave naturally when there was that monstrous cloud hanging over him.