South by Java Head

CHAPTER FIVE

Half an hour later the Viroma was rolling steadily to the south-west under maximum power, the long, low blur of Metsana falling away off the starboard quarter and vanishing into the gloom. Strangely, the typhoon still held off, the hurricane winds had not returned. It could only be that they were moving with the track of the storm: but they had to move out, to break through it sometime.

Nicolson, showered, violently scrubbed and almost free from oil, was standing by the screen window on the bridge, talking quietly to the second mate when Captain Findhorn joined them. He tapped Nicolson lightly on the shoulder.

"A word with you in my cabin, if you please, Mr. Nicolson. You'll be all right, Mr. Barrett?"

"Yes, sir, of course. I'll call you if anything happens?" It was half-question, half-statement, and thoroughly typical of Barrett. A good many years older than NJcolson, stolid and unimaginative, Barrett was reliable enough but had no taste at all for responsibility, which was why he was still only a second officer.

"Do that." Findhorn led the way through the chartroom to his day cabin ― it was on the same deck as the bridge-closed the door, checked that the blackout scuttles were shut, switched on the light and waved Nicolson to a settee. He stooped to open a cupboard, and when he stood up he had a couple of glasses and an unopened bottle of Standfast in his hand. He broke the seal, poured three fingers into each glass, and pushed one across to Nicolson.

"Help yourself to water, Johnny. Lord only knows you've earned it ― and a few hours' sleep. Just as soon as you leave here."

"Delighted," Nicolson murmured, "Just as soon as you wake up, I'll be off to my bunk. You didn't leave the bridge all last night. Remember?"

"All right, all right." Findhom held up a hand in mock defence. "We'll argue later." He drank some whisky, then looked thoughtfully at Nicolson over the rim of his glass. "Well, Johnny, what did you make of her?"

"The Kerry Dancer!"

Findhorn nodded, waiting,

"A slaver,'' Nicolson said quietly. "Remember that Arabian steamer the Navy stopped off Ras al Hadd last year?"

"Yes, I remember."

"Identical, as near as makes no difference. Steel doors all over the shop, main and upper decks. Most of them could only be opened from one side. Eight-inch scuttles ― where there were scuttles. Ring-bolts beside every bunk. Based on the islands, I suppose, and no lack of trade up round Amoy and Macao,"

"The twentieth century, eh?" Findhorn said softly. "Buying and selling in human lives."

"Yes," Nicolson said dryly, "But at least they keep 'em alive. Wait till they catch up with the civilised nations of the west and start on the wholesale stuff ― poison gas, concentration camps, the bombing of open cities and what have you. Give 'em time. They're only amateurs yet," "Cynicism, young man, cynicism." Findhorn shook his head reprovingly. "Anyway, what you say about the Kerry Dancer bears out Brigadier Farnholme's statements."

"So you've been talking to his Lordship." Nicolson grinned. "Court-martialling me at dawn tomorrow?"

"What's that?"

"He didn't approve of me," Nicolson explained. "He wasn't backward about saying so either."

"Must have changed his mind." Findhorn refilled their glasses. "' Able young man that, very able, but ― ah ― impetuous.' Something like that. Very pukka, the Tuan Besar to the life."

Nicolson nodded. "I can just see him stuffed to the ears, stewed to the gills and snoring his head off in an arm-chair in the Bengal Club. But he's a curious bird. Did a good job with a rope in the lifeboat. How phoney do you reckon he is?"

"Not much." Findhorn considered for a moment. "A little, but not much. A retired army officer for a certainty. Probably upped himself a little bit in rank after his retirement."

"And what the hell's a man like that doing aboard the Kerry Dancer!" Nicolson asked curiously.

"All sorts of people are finding themselves with all sorts of strange bed-fellows these days," Findhorn replied. "And you're wrong about the Bengal Club, Johnny. He didn't come from Singapore. He's some sort of business man in Borneo ― he was a bit vague about the business ― and he joined the Kerry Dancer in Banjermasin, along with a few other Europeans who found the Japanese making things a little too hot for them. She was supposed to be sailing for Bali, and they hoped to find another ship there that would take them to Darwin. But apparently Siran ― that's the name of the captain, and a thorough-going bad lot according to old Farnholme ― got radio orders from his bosses in Macassar to proceed to Kota Bharu. Farnholme bribed him to go to Singapore, and he agreed. Why, heaven only knows, with the Japs more or less knocking at the gates, but there's always opportunity for sufficiently unscrupulous men to exploit a situation such as exists there just now. Or maybe they expected to make a quick fortune by charging the earth for passages out of Singapore. What they didn't expect, obviously, was what happened ― that the Army should commandeer the Kerry Dancer."

"Yes, the army," Nicolson murmured. "I wonder what happened to the soldiers ― McKinnon says there were at least two dozen ― who went aboard to see that the Kerry Dancer did go straight to Darwin, and no funny tricks?"

"I wonder." Findhorn was tight-lipped. "Farnholme says they were quartered in the fo'c'sle."

"With one of these clever little doors that you can only open from one side, maybe?"

"Maybe. Did you see it?"

Nicolson shook his head. "The whole fo'c'sle was practically under water by the time we went aboard. I shouldn't be surprised. But it could have been jammed by bomb burst." He swallowed some more of the whisky and grimaced in distaste, not at the drink but at his thoughts. "A pleasant little alternative, drowning or cremation. I should like to meet Captain Siran some day. I suspect a great number of other people would too… How are the rest of our passengers? They got anything to add?"

Findhorn shook his head. "Nothing. Too sick, too tired, too shocked or they just don't know anything."

"All sorted out, washed up and bedded down for the night, I suppose?"

"More or less. I've got them all over the ship. All the soldiers are together, aft ― the two really sick boys in the hospital, the other eight in the smoke-room and the two spare engineers' cabins on the port side. Farnholme and the priest are together in the engineers' office."

Nicolson grinned. "That should be worth seeing ― the British Raj breathing the same air as the dusky heathen!"

"You'd be surprised," Findhorn grunted. "They have a settee each there, a table between them and a bottle of whisky, almost full, on the table. They're getting along very well indeed."

"He had a half bottle when I saw him last," Nicolson said thoughtfully. "I wonder――-"

"Probably drank it without coming up for air once. He's lugging around a great big gladstone bag and if you ask me it's full of nothing but whisky bottles."

"And the rest?"

"The what? Oh, yes. The little old lady's in Walter's room ― he's taken a mattress into his radio room. The senior nurse, the one that seems to be in charge―――"

"Miss Drachmann?"

"That's her. She and the child are in the apprentices' cabin. And Vannier and the Fifth engineer have doubled up with Barrett and the fourth engineer ― two nurses in Vannier's cabin and the last of them in the Fifth's."

"All accounted for." Nicolson sighed, lit a cigarette and watched the blue smoke drift lazily up to the ceiling, "I only hope they haven't exchanged the frying pan for the fire. We having another go at the Carimata Straits, sir?"

"Why not? Where else can we――-"

He broke off as Nicolson stretched out for the ringing telephone and put it to his ear.

"Yes, captain's cabin… Oh, it's you, Willy… Yes, he's here. Hang on a minute." Nicolson rose easily to his feet, vacating his seat for the captain. "The second engineer, sir."

Findhorn talked for perhaps half a minute, mostly in monosyllabic grunts. Nicolson wondered idly what Willoughby had wanted. He had sounded almost bored but then nobody had ever seen Willoughby excited about anything. Ernest Willoughby never found anything in life worth getting excited about. A crazy, dreaming old coot ― he was the oldest man in the ship ― with a passion for literature matched only by his utter contempt for engines and the means whereby he earned his livelihood, he was the most honest man, and the most completely unselfish, that Nicolson had ever met. Willoughby himself took no pride in this, and was probably unaware of it: he was a man who had little, but wanted nothing at all. With him Nicolson had little in common, superficially at any rate: but, almost as if by the attraction of opposites, he had formed the greatest liking and admiration for the old engineer, and Willoughby, unmarried and with only a threadbare bed-sitting-room in the company club in Singapore, had spent a good few evenings in his home. Caroline, he remembered, had thought the world of old Willy and had usually made a point of seeing that the best meals and the longest, coolest drinks were always waiting for the old engineer. Nicolson stared down at his glass, and his mouth twisted in bitter memory… Suddenly he became aware that Captain Findhorn was on his feet, looking down at him with a peculiar expression on his face.

"What's the matter, Johnny? You feel all right?"

"Just wandering, sir." Nicolson smiled and waved a hand at the whisky bottle. "A great help, this, when you're taking a walk around in your mind,"

"Help yourself: take another walk round." Findhorn picked up his hat and turned for the door. "Wait here for me, will you? I have to go below."

Two minutes after the captain had gone the phone rang again. It was Findhorn speaking, asking Nicolson to come below to the dining-saloon. He gave no reason. On his way below Nicolson met the fourth officer coming out of the wireless operator's cabin. Vannier was looking neither happy nor pleased. Nicolson looked at him, an eyebrow raised in interrogation, and Vannier glanced back at the wireless operator's door, his expression a nice mixture of indignation and apprehension.

"That old battle axe in there is in full cry, sir." He kept his voice low. "The what?"

"Miss Plenderleith," Vannier explained. "She's in Walter's cabin. I was just dropping off to sleep when she started hammering on the bulkhead between us, and when I ignored that she went out to the passage and started calling." Vannier paused, then went on feelingly: "She has a very loud voice, sir."

"What did she want?"

"The captain." Vannier shook his head incredulously. "'Young man, I want to see the captain. At once. Tell him to come here.' Then she pushed me out the door. What will I do, sir?"

"Exactly what she asks, of course." Nicolson grinned. "I want to be there when you tell him. He's below in the saloon." They dropped down one deck and went into the dining-saloon together. It was a big room, with two fore-and-aft tables with seating for twenty. But it was almost empty now: there were only three people there and they were all standing. The captain and the second engineer stood side by side, facing aft, giving easily with the rolling of the ship. Findhorn, immaculately correct in uniform as always, was smiling. So was Willoughby, but there all resemblance between the two men ended. Tall, stooped, with a brown, wrinkled face and a thick, unkempt shock of grey hair, Willoughby was a tailor's nightmare. He wore a white shirt ― what had originally been a white shirt ― unpressed, buttonless and frayed at the collar and half-sleeves, a pair of khaki duck trousers, wrinkled like an elephant's legs and far too short for him, diamond-patterned plaid socks and unlaced canvas shoes. He hadn't had a shave that day, he probably hadn't had a shave that week.

Half-standing, half-leaning against the buffet table, the girl was facing them, hands gripping the edge of the table to steady herself. Nicolson and Vannier could see only her profile as they went in, but they could see that she, too, was smiling, the righthand corner of her mouth curving up and dimpling the olive-tinted peach of her cheek. She had a straight nose, very finely chiselled, a wide smooth forehead, and long, silky hair gathered in a deep roll round her neck, hair black with that intense blackness that reflects blue under the strong sun and gleams like a raven's wing. With her hair, complexion and rather high cheekbones, she was a typical Eurasian beauty: but after a long, long look ― and all men would always give Miss Drachmann a long, long look ― she was neither typical nor Eurasian: the face was not broad enough, the features were too delicate and those incredible eyes spoke only of the far north of Europe. They were as Nicolson had first seen them in the harsh light of his torch aboard the Kerry Dancer ― an intense, startling blue, very clear, very compelling, the most remarkable features in a remarkable face. And round and beneath these eyes, just then, were the faint, blue smudges of exhaustion.

She had got rid of her hat and belted bush-jacket, Nicolson saw. She wore only her stained khaki skirt and a clean white shirt, several sizes too large for her, with the sleeves rolled far up the slender arms. Vannier's shirt, Nicolson felt sure. He had sat beside her all the way back in the lifeboat, talking in a low voice and most solicitous for her welfare. Nicolson smiled to himself, sought back in his memory for the days when he too had been an impressionable young Raleigh with a cloak always ready to hand, a knight-errant for any lady in distress. But he couldn't remember the days: there probably hadn't been any.

Nicolson ushered Vannier into the room ahead of him ― Findhorn's reactions to Miss Plenderleith's request would be worth watching ― closed the door softly behind him, turned round and checked himself just in time to stop from bumping into Vannier, who had halted suddenly and was standing motionless, rigid, not three feet from the door, his clenched fists by his side.

All three had fallen silent and turned to the door as Nicolson and Vannier had come in. Vannier had no eyes for Findhorn and Willoughby ― he was staring at the nurse, his eyes widening, his lips parting in shock. Miss Drachmann had turned so that the lamplight fell full on the left hand side of her face, and that side of her face was not pretty. A great, long, jagged scar, still raw and livid and puckering up the cheek where it had been roughly, clumsily stitched, ran the whole length of her face from the hairline of the temple to the corner of the soft, round chin. Near the top, just above the cheekbone, it was half an inch wide. On anyone's face it would have looked ghastly: on the smooth loveliness of hers it had the unreality of a caricature, the shocking impact of the most impious blasphemy.

She looked at Vannier in silence for a few seconds, then she smiled. It wasn't much of a smile, but it was enough to dimple one cheek and to whiten the scar on the other, at the corner of the mouth and behind the eye. She reached up her left hand and touched her cheek lightly.

"I'm afraid it's really not very nice, is it?" she asked. There was neither reproach nor condemnation in her voice: it was apologetic, rather, and touched with a queer kind of pity, but the pity was not for herself.

Vannier said nothing. His face had turned a shade paler, but when she spoke the colour returned and began to flood all over his neck and face. He looked away ― one could almost see the sheer physical effort it cost him to pull his eyes off that hideous scar ― and opened his mouth to speak. But he said nothing; perhaps there was nothing he could say.

Nicolson walked quickly past him, nodded to Willoughby and stopped in front of the girl. Captain Findhorn was watching him closely, but Nicolson was unaware of it.

"Good evening, Miss Drachmann." His tone was cool but friendly. "All your patients nice and comfortable?" If you want banal remarks, he thought, Nicolson's your man.

"Yes, thank you, sir."

"Don't call me' sir'," he said irritably. "I've told you that once already." He lifted his hand and gently touched the scarred cheek. She didn't flinch, there was no movement at all but for a momentary widening of the blue eyes in the expressionless face. "Our little yellow brothers, I take it?" His voice was as gentle as his hand.

"Yes," she nodded. "I was caught usar Kota Bharu."

"A bayonet?"

"Yes."

"One of these notched, ceremonial bayonets, wasn't it?" He looked closely at the scar, saw the narrow deep incision on the chin and the rough tear beneath the temple. "And you were lying on the ground at the time?"

"You are very clever," she said slowly.

"'How did you get away?" Nicolson asked curiously.

"A big man came into the room ― a bungalow we were using as a field hospital. A very big man with red hair ― he said he was an Argyll, some word like that. He took the bayonet away from the man who had stabbed me. He asked me to look away, and when I turned back the Japanese soldier was lying on the floor, dead."

"Hooray for the Argylls," Nicolson murmured. "Who stitched it up for you?"

"The same man: he said he wasn't very good." "There was room for improvement," Nicolson admitted. "There still is."

"It's horrible!" Her voice rose sharply on the last word. "I know it's horrible." She looked down at the floor for some seconds, then looked up at Nicolson again and tried to smile. It wasn't a very happy smile. "It's hardly an improvement, is it?"

"It all depends." Nicolson jerked a thumb at the second engineer. "On Willy here it would look good: he's just an old sourpuss anyway. But you're a woman." He paused for a moment, looked at her consideringly and went on in a quiet voice: "You're more than good-looking, I suppose ― Miss Drachmann, you're beautiful, and on you it looks bloody awful, if you'll excuse my saying so. You'll have to go to England," he finished abruptly.

"England?" The high cheekbones were stained with colour. "I don't understand."

"Yes, England. I am pretty sure that there are no plastic surgeons in this part of the world who are skilled enough. But there are two or three men in England ― I don't think there are any more ― who could repair that scar and leave you with a hairline so fine that even a dancing partner wouldn't notice it." Nicolson waved a deprecating hand. "A little bit of powder and the old war-paint, naturally."

She looked at him in silence, her clear blue eyes empty of expression, then said in a quiet, flat voice: "You forget that I am a nurse myself. I am afraid I don't believe you."

"'Nothing is so firmly believed as what we least know'" Willoughby intoned.

"What? What did you say?" The girl looked startled.

"Pay no attention to him, Miss Drachmann." Captain Findhorn took a step towards her, smiling. "Mr. Willoughby would have us think that he is always ready with apt quotations, but Mr. Nicolson and I know better ― he makes them up as he goes along."

"'Be thou chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shall not escape calumny'." Willoughby shook his head sadly.

"Thou shalt not," Findhorn agreed. "But he's right, Miss Drachmann, in that you shouldn't be quite so ready with your disbelief. Mr. Nicolson knows what he's talking about. Only three men in England, he said ― and one of them is his uncle." He waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. "But I didn't bring you here to discuss surgery or to give me the pleasure of refereeing a slanging match. Mr. Nicolson, we appear to have run out of ―― "

He broke off abruptly, fists clenching tightly by his sides, as the klaxon above his head blared into sudden, urgent life, drowning his words as the raucous clangour, a harsh, discordant, shocking sound in a confined space, filled the dining-cabin. Two longs and a short, two longs and a short ― the emergency action stations call. Nicolson was first out of the room, Findhorn only a pace behind him.

To the north and east thunder rumbled dully along the distant horizon, sheet-lightning flickered intermittently all round the Rhio straits, on the inner vortex of the typhoon, and, overhead, the half-seen clouds were beginning to pile up, rampart upon rampart, the first huge, tentative raindrops spattering on the wheelhouse top of the Viroma, so heavily, so slowly, that each single one could be heard and counted. But to the south and west there was no rain, no thunder, just an occasional flash of lightning over the islands, half-seen, half-imagined, far off and feeble flickers that left the darkness more impenetrable than before.

But not quite unpenetrable. For the fifth time in two minutes the watchers on the bridge of the Viroma, elbows braced against the wind-dodger and night-glasses held hard and motionless against their straining eyes, caught the same signal winking out of the darkness to the south-west ― a series of flashes, about a half-dozen in all, very weak and not lasting more than ten seconds altogether.

"Starboard 25 this time," Nicolson murmured, "and opening. I would say it's stationary in the water, sir."

"As near as makes no difference." Findhorn lowered his binoculars, rubbed aching eyes with the back of his hand, and raised the glasses again, waiting. "Let's hear you thinking aloud, Mr. Nicolson."

Nicolson grinned in the darkness. Findhorn might have been sitting in the front parlour of his bungalow at home instead of where he was, in the eye of a typhoon, not knowing which way it would break, with a million pounds and fifty lives in his hand and a new, unknown danger looming up in the darkness.

"Anything to oblige, sir." He lowered his own binoculars and stared out thoughtfully into the darkness. "It might be a lighthouse, buoy or beacon, but it's not: there are none hereabouts, and none I know of anywhere that have that sequence. It might be wreckers ― the gentlemen of Romney, Rye and Penzance had nothing on the lads out here ― but it's not: the nearest island is at least six miles to the south-west and that light's not more than two miles off."

Findhorn walked to the wheelhouse door, called for half speed, then came back beside Nicolson. "Go on," he said.

"It might be a Jap warship ― destroyer, or something, but again it's not: only suicide cases like ourselves sit out in the middle of a typhoon instead of running for shelter ― and, besides, any sensible destroyer commander would sit quiet until he could give us the benefit of his searchlights at minimum range."

Findhorn nodded. "My own way of thinking exactly. Anything you think it might be? Look, there he goes again!"

"Yes, and still nearer. He's stationary, all right… Could be a sub, hears us as something big on his hydrophones, not sure of our course and speed and wants us to answer and give him a line of sight for his tin fish."

"You don't sound very convinced."

"I'm not convinced one way or the other, sir. I'm just not worried. On a night like this any sub will be jumping so much that it couldn't hit the Queen Mary at a hundred feet."

"I agree. It's probably what would be obvious to anyone without our suspicious minds. Someone's adrift ― open boat or raft ― and needs help, badly. But no chances. Get on the intercom to all guns, tell them to line up on that light and keep their fingers on their triggers. And get Vannier to come up here. Ring down for dead slow."

"Aye, aye, sir." Nicolson went inside the wheelhouse and Findhorn again raised his night glasses to his eyes, then grunted,in irritation as someone jogged his elbow. He lowered his glasses, half-turned and knew who it was before the man spoke. Even in the open air the fumes of whisky were almost overpowering.

"What the devil's happening, Captain?" Farnholme was irate, peevish. "What's all the fuss about? That damn' great klaxon of yours just about blasted my ears off."

"I'm sorry about that, Brigadier." Findhorn's tone was even polite and disinterested. "Our emergency signal. We've sighted a suspicious light. It may be trouble." His voice changed, subtly. "And I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave. No one is allowed on the bridge without permission. I'm sorry."

"What?" Farnholme's tone was that of a man being asked to comprehend the incomprehensible. "Surely you can't expect that to apply to me?"

"I do. I'm sorry." The rain was beginning to fall now, faster and faster, the big fat drops drumming so heavily on his shoulders that he could feel the weight of them through his oilskins: yet another soaking was inevitable, and he didn't relish the prospect. "You will have to go below, Brigadier."

Farnholme, strangely, did not protest. He did not even speak, but turned abruptly on his heel and vanished into the darkness. Findhorn felt almost certain that he hadn't gone below, but was standing in the darkness at the back of the wheelhouse. Not that it mattered; there was plenty of room on the bridge, it was just that Findhorn didn't want anyone hanging over his shoulder when he had to move fast and make fast decisions.

Even as Findhorn lifted his glasses the light came on again, nearer, this time, much nearer, but fainter: the battery in that torch was dying, but it was more than strong enough to let them see the message being flashed: not the steady series of flashes of the last few times, but an unmistakable S.O.S., three shorts, three longs, three snorts, the universal distress signal at sea,

"You sent for me, sir?"

Findhorn lowered his glasses and looked round. "Ah, it's you, Vannier. Sorry to drag you out into this damned deluge, but I want a fast hand on the signal lamp. See that signal just now?"

"Yes, sir. Someone in trouble, I take it?"

"I hope so," Findhorn said grimly. "Get the Aldis out, ask him who he is." He looked round as the screen door opened. "Mr. Nicolson?"

"Yes, sir. Ready as we can be, sir. Everybody lined up with their guns, and everybody so damned edgy after the last few days that I'm only afraid that someone may fire too soon. And I've got the bo'sun rigging up a couple of floodlamps, starboard side, number three tank, and a couple of A.B.s ― all we

can spare from the guns ― getting a scrambling net out over the side."

"Thank you, Mr. Nicolson. You think of everything. How about the weather?"

"Wet," Nicolson said morosely. He pulled the towel more tightly round his neck, listened to the clack of the Aldis trigger and watched the beam lancing its way whitely through the sheeting rain. "Wet and stormy ― going to be very soon. What's happening and where it's going to hit us I haven't a clue. I think Buys Ballot's law and the book on tropical storms are about as useful to us here as a match in hell."

"You're not the only one," Findhorn confessed. "We've been an hour and fifteen minutes now in the centre of this storm. I was in one, about ten years ago, for twenty-five minutes, and I thought that was a record." He shook his head slowly, scattering raindrops. "It's crazy. We're six months too early ― or too late ― for a real hurricane. Anyway, it's not bad enough for that, not for a real force twelve job. But it's far out of season and a complete freak in these waters at any season, and that must be throwing the book of rules out of kilter. I'm certain that we're at the point of recurvature of the storm, and I'm almost certain that it will break north-east, but whether we'll find ourselves in the dangerous quadrant or――-"

He broke off abruptly and stared at the tiny pinpoint of yellowing light winking mistily through the pouring rain. "Something about sinking. What else does he say, Walters?"

"'Van Effen, sinking'. That's all, sir ― at least I think it was that. Bad morse. The Van Effen."

"Oh, lord, my lucky night." Again Findhorn shook his head. "Another Kerry Dancer. The Van Effen. Who ever heard of the Van Eftenl You, Mr. Nicolson?"

"Never." Nicolson turned and shouted through the screen door. "Are you there. Second?"

"Sir?" The voice came from the darkness, only feet away.

"The Register, quickly. The Van Effen. Two words, Dutch. Fast as you can."

"Van Effen? Did I hear someone say 'Van Effen'?" There was no mistaking the clipped Sandhurst drawl, this time with an overtone of excitement in it. Farnholme's tall shadow detached itself from the gloom at the back of the wheelhouse.

"That's right. Know any ship by that name?"

"It's not a ship, man ― it's a friend of mine, Van Effen, a Dutchman. He was on the Kerry Dancer ― joined her with me at Banjermasin. He must have got away on her boat after we'd been set on fire ― there was only one boat, as far as I can remember." Farnholme had pushed his way through the screen door now and was out on the wing of the bridge, peering excitedly over the canvas dodger, oblivious to the rain thumping down on his unprotected back. "Pick him up, man, pick him up!"

"How do we know it's not a trap?" The captain's relaxed, matter-of-fact voice came like a cold douche after Farnholme's impatient vehemence. "Maybe it is this man, Van Effen, maybe it isn't. Even if it is, how do we know that we can trust him?"

"How do you know?" Farnholme's tone was that of a man with a tight hold, a very tight hold on himself. "Listen. I've just been talking to that young man in there, Vannier or whatever his name is――-"

"Get to the point, please," Findhorn interrupted coldly. "That boat ― if it is a boat ― is only a couple of hundred yards away now."

"Will you listen?" Farnholme almost shouted the words, then went on more quietly. "Why do you think I'm standing here alive? Why do you think these nurses are alive, these wounded soldiers you took off the Kerry Dancer only an hour ago? Why do you think all of us you picked up, with the exception of Miss Plenderleith and the priest, are alive? For one reason only ― when the captain of the Kerry Dancer was scuttling out of Singapore to save his own skin a man stuck a pistol in his back and forced him to return to Singapore. That man was Van Effen, and he's out in that boat now: we all owe our lives to Van Effen, Captain Findhorn."

"Thank you, Brigadier." Findhorn was calm, unhurried as ever. "Mr. Nicolson, the searchlight. Have the bo'sun switch on the two floods when I give the word. Slow astern."

The searchlight beam stabbed out through the darkness and lit up a heavy, rolling sea churned milky white by the torrential rain. For a moment or two the searchlight stayed stationary, the almost solid curtain of rain sheeting palely through its beam, then started to probe forward and almost immediately picked it up ― a lifeboat very close to hand, riding on its sea-anchor and plunging violently up and down as it rode the short, steep seas that swept down upon it. But the waves in the heart of a tropical storm have little set pattern, and every so often a twisting cross sea would curve over and break inboard. There were seven or eight men in the boat, stooping and straightening, stooping and straightening as they baled for their lives ― a losing struggle, for she was already deep in the water, settling by the minute. One man alone seemed indifferent: he was sitting in the sternsheets, facing the tanker, a forearm across his eyes to ward off the glare of the searchlight. Just above the forearm something white gleamed in the light, a cap, perhaps, but at that distance it was difficult to be sure.

Nicolson dropped down the bridge ladder, ran quickly past the lifeboat, down another ladder to the fore and aft gangway, along to a third ladder that led down to the top of number three tank, and picked his way surely round valves and over the maze of discharge lines, gas lines and steam smothering pipes until he came to the starboard side: Farnholme followed close behind all the way. Just as Nicolson put his hands on the guardrail and leaned out and over, the two floodlights switched on together.

Twelve thousand tons and only a single screw, but Findhorn was handling the big ship, even in those heavy seas, like a destroyer. The lifeboat was less than forty yards away now, already caught in the pool of light from the floods, and coming closer every moment, and the men in the boat, safely into the lee of the Viroma, had stopped baling and were twisted round in their seats, staring up at the men on deck, and making ready to jump for the scrambling net. Nicolson looked closely at the man in the sternsheets: he could see now that it was no cap that the man was wearing on his head but a rough bandage, stained and saturated with blood: and then he saw something else, too, the stiff and unnatural position of the right arm.

Nicolson turned to Farnholme and pointed to the man in the sternsheets. "That your friend sitting at the back there?"

"That's Van Effen all right," Farnholme said with satisfaction "What did I tell you?"

"You were right." Nilcolson paused, then went on: "He seems to have a one-track mind in some things."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning that he's still got a gun in his hand. He's got it lined up on his pals in front, and he hasn't taken his eyes off them once while I've been watching."

Farnholme stared, then whistled softly. "You're dead right, he has."

"Why?"

"I don't know, I really can't guess at all. But you can take it from me, Mr. Nicolson, that if my friend Van Effen thinks it necessary to have a gun on them, then he has an excellent reason for it."

Van Effen had. Leaning against a bulkhead in the dining-saloon, a large whisky in his hand and the water pooling from his soaking clothes on to the corticene at his feet, he told it all quickly, concisely and convincingly. Their lifeboat ihad been fitted with an engine, had carried them quickly clear of the Kerry Dancer after she had gone on fire and they had managed to reach the shelter of a small island miles away to the south just as the storm broke. They had pulled the boat up on to the shingle on the lee side, huddling there for hours until the wind had suddenly dropped: it was shortly afterwards that they had seen the rockets going up to the northwest.

"Those were ours," Findhorn nodded. "So you decided to make a break for us?"

"I did." A wintry smile touched the Dutchman's steady brown eyes as he gestured towards the group of men, dark-eyed and swarthy-skinned, standing huddled in one corner. "Siran and his little friends weren't keen. They're not exactly pro-Allied and they knew there weren't any Jap ships in these waters. Besides, for all we knew these were distress rockets from a sinking ship." Van Effen downed the rest of his whisky at a gulp and laid the glass carefully on the table beside him. "But I had the gun."

"So I saw," It was Nicolson speaking. "And then?"

"We took off, towards the north-west. We ran into a long stretch of confused water, not too rough, and made good time. Then heavy seas hit us and flooded the engine. We just had to sit there and I thought we were finished till I saw your phosphorescence ― you can see it a long way off on a night as black as this. If the rain had come five minutes earlier we would never have seen you. But we did, and I had my torch."

"And your gun," Findhorn finished. He looked at Van Effen for a long time, his eyes speculative and cold. "It's a great pity you didn't use it earlier, Mr. Van Effen."

The Dutchman smiled wryly. "It is not difficult to follow your meaning, Captaio," He reached up, grimaced, tore the blood-stained strip of linen from his head: a deep gash, purple-bruised round the edges, ran from the corner of his forehead to his ear. "How do you think I got this?"

"It's not pretty," Nicolson admitted. "Siran?"

"One of his men. The Kerry Dancer was on fire, the boat ― it was the only boat ― was out on the falls and Siran here and all that were left of his crew were ready to pile into it."

"Just their sweet little selves," Nicolson interrupted grimly.

"Just their sweet little selves," Van Effen acknowledged. "I had Siran by the throat, bent back over the rail, going to force him to go through the ship. That was a mistake ― I should have used my gun. I didn't know then that all his men were ― what is the phrase? ― tarred with the same brush. It must have been a belaying pin. I woke up in the bottom of the boat."

"You what?" Findhorn was incredulous.

"I know." Van Effen smiled, a little tiredly. "It doesn't make any kind of sense at all, does it? They should have left me to fry. But there I was ― not only alive, but with my head all nicely tied up. Curious, is it not, Captain? "

"Curious is hardly the word." Findhorn's voice was flat, without inflection. "You are telling the truth, Mr. Van Effen? A silly question, I suppose ― whether you are or not, you'd still say 'yes'."

"He is, Captain Findhorn." Farnholme's voice sounded oddly confident and, for that moment, not at all like the voice of Brigadier Farnholme. "I am perfectly certain of that."

"You are?" Findhorn turned to look at him, as had everyone, caught by something peculiar in Farnholme's tone. "What makes you so sure, Brigadier?"

Farnholme waved a deprecating hand, like a man who finds himself being taken more seriously than he intended. "After all, I know Van Effen better than anybody here. And his story has to be true: if it weren't true, he wouldn't be here now. Something of an Irishism, gentlemen, but perhaps you follow?"

Findhorn nodded thoughtfully but made no comment. There was silence for some time in the dining-saloon, a silence broken only by the distant crash of bows in a trough in the seas, the indefinable creaking noises a ship makes when it works with the waves in heavy weather, and the shuffling of the feet of the crew of the Kerry Dancer, Then Findhorn looked at his watch and turned to Nicolson.

"The bridge for us, Mr. Nicolson, I suggest: from the feel of things we're running into the heavy stuff again. For Captain Siran and his crew, an armed guard for the remainder of the night, I think." Findhorn's eyes were as bleak and cold as his voice. "But there's one little point I'd like to clear up first."

He walked unhurriedly towards the crew of the Kerry Dancer, balancing himself easily against the heavy rolling of the ship, then halted as Van Effen stretched out his hand.

"I'd watch them if I were you," the Dutchman said quietly. "Half of them carry more than one knife and they're not slow with them."

"You have a gun." Findhorn put out his hand and took the automatic which Van Effen had stuck in his waistband. "May I?" He glanced down at the weapon, saw that the safety catch was still on. "A Colt.38."

"You know guns, yes?"

"A little." Soft-footed, Findhorn walked across to the nearest man in the group in the corner. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a brown, smooth, expressionless face: he looked as if he had got out of the habit of using expressions a long time ago. He wore a hairline moustache, black sideburns that reached three inches below his ears, and he had black, empty eyes. "You are Siran?" Findhorn asked, almost indifferently.

"Captain Siran. At your service." The insolence lay in the faint emphasis on the 'captain,' the millimetric inclination of the head. The face remained quite expressionless.

"Formalities bore me." Findhorn was looking at him with sudden interest. "You are English, aren't you?"

"Perhaps." This time the lips curled, less in a smile than in a token of lazy contempt, perfectly done. "Anglo-Saxon, shall we say?"

"It doesn't matter. You are the captain ― were the captain ― of the Kerry Dancer. You abandoned your ship ― and abandoned all the people that you left behind to die, locked behind steel doors. Maybe they drowned, maybe they were burnt to death: it doesn't make any difference now. You left them to die."

"Such melodramatics!" Siran lazily patted a yawn to extinction, a masterpiece of weary insolence. "You forget the traditions of the sea. We did all in our power for those unfortunates."

Firidhorn nodded slowly and turned away, looking over Siran's six companions. None of them seemed at all happy, but one ― a thin-faced man with a cast in one eye ― was especially nervous and apprehensive. He shuffled his feet constantly and his hands and fingers seemed to have an independent life of their own. Findhorn walked across and stood in front of him.

"Do you speak English?"

There was no answer, just a furrowing of brows, the raising of shoulders and outspread palms in the universal gesture of incomprehension.

"You picked well, Captain Findhorn," Van Effen drawled slowly. "He speaks English almost as well as you do."

Findhorn brought the automatic up quickly, placed it against the man's mouth and pushed, none too lightly. The man gave way and Findhorn followed. The second step backward brought the man against the bulkhead, palms of his outstretched hands pressing hard against the wall, his one good eye staring down in terror at the gun that touched his teeth.

"Who hammered shut all the clips on the poop-deck door?" Findhorn asked softly. "I'll give you five seconds." He pressed more heavily on the gun and the sudden click of the safety catch snicking off was unnaturally loud in the strained silence. "One, two―――"

"I did, I did!" His mouth was working and he was almost gibbering with fear. "I closed the door."

"On whose orders?"

"The captain. He said that――-"

"Who shut the fo'c'sle door?"

"Yussif. But Yussif died――-"

"On whose orders?" Findhorn asked relentlessly.

"Captain Siran's orders." The man was looking at Siran now, sick fear in his eye. "I'll die for this."

"Probably," Findhorn said carelessly. He pushed the gun into his pocket and walked across to Siran. "Interesting little talk, wasn't it, Captain Siran?"

"The man's a fool," Siran said contemptuously. "Any terrified man will say anything with a gun in his face."

"There were British soldiers ― probably your own countrymen ― in the fo'c'sle. A score, maybe two dozen, I don't know, but you couldn't have them cluttering up your getaway in the only boat."

"I don't know what you're talking about." Siran's brown face was still the same, still without expression. But his voice was wary now, the calculated insolence gone.

"And there were over twenty people in the aftercastle."

Siran might not have spoken for all the attention Findhorn paid to him. "Wounded men, dying men, women ― and one little child."

This time Siran said nothing. The smooth face was impassive as ever, but his eyes had narrowed, just perceptibly. When he spoke, however, his voice still held its insolent indifference.

"And just what do you hope to achieve by all this stupid rigmarole, Captain Findhorn? "

"I hope for nothing." Findhorn's lined face was grim, the faded eyes bleak and relentless. "It's not a question of hope, Siran, but of certainty ― the certainty of your conviction for murder. In the morning we shall take independent statements from all the members of your own crew and have them signed in the presence of neutral witnesses from my crew. I shall make it my personal responsibility to see to it that you arrive in Australia safely and in good health." Findhorn picked up bis hat and prepared to leave. "You will have a fair trial, Captain Siran, but it shouldn't last long, arid the penalty for murder, of course, is known to us all."

For the first time, Siran's mask of impassivity cracked and the faintest shadow of fear touched the dark eyes, but Findhorn wasn't there to see it. He was already gone, climbing up the companionway to the shrieking bridge of the Viroma.