Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 9, No. 2, February 1964

A Habit for the Voyage by Robert Edmond Alter

Life, growth, and death have often been described as voyages in the unknown. Though some critics maintain that the trip is bound by shallow seas, I submit that some destinations are surprisingly deep.

The moment Krueger stepped aboard the steamer he was aware of a vague sense of something gone wrong. He had never understood the atavism behind these instinctive warnings, but he had had them before and usually he had been right.

He paused at the head of the gangplank, standing stockstill on the little bit of railed deck overlooking the after well deck. Down in the well, the Brazilian stevedores were just finishing with the last of the cargo. The steward was standing just inside a door marked De Segunda Clase with Krueger’s shabby suitcase in his hand. He looked back at Krueger with an air of incurious impatience.

Krueger took a last look around, saw nothing out of the ordinary, and stepped across the deck to follow the steward.

It came again — a last split-second premonition of danger — so sharply that he actually flinched. Then, as a black blurred mass hurtled by his vision, he threw himself to one side, and the object, whatever it was, smacked the deck with an appalling crash, right at his feet.

He shot but one glance at it — a metal deck bucket filled to the brim with nuts and bolts and other nameless, greasy odds and ends. He moved again, stepping quickly to the right, rooting his hand under and around to the back of his raincoat to get at the snub-nosed pistol in his right hip-pocket, staring upward at the shadowy promenade deck just above him and at the railed edge of the boat deck above that.

He couldn’t see anyone. Nothing moved up there.

The steward was coming back with a look of shocked disbelief.

“Nombre de Dios, senor! Que pasa?”

Krueger realized that the stevedores were also watching him from below. He quickly withdrew his empty hand from under his coat.

“Some idiot almost killed me with that bucket! That’s what happened!”

The steward stared at the loaded bucket wonderingly. “Those deckhands are careless dogs.”

Krueger was getting back his breath. The steward was right; it had been an accident, of course.

Krueger was a linguist. He felt perfectly at home with seven languages; it was important in his business. He said, “Lleveme usted a mi camarote.” The steward nodded and led him down a sickly-lit corridor to his second class stateroom.

It was on the starboard and there wasn’t much to it. A verdigris-crusted porthole, a sink on the right, a wardrobe on the left, and one uncomfortable looking bunk. That was that.

Krueger gave the steward a moderate tip and sat down on the bunk with a sigh, as though prepared to relax and enjoy his voyage. He always maintained a calm, bland air in front of the serving class. Stewards, pursers, waiters and desk clerks had an annoying way of being able to recall certain little mannerisms about you when questioned later.

The steward said, “Gracias senor”, and closed the door after himself. Krueger stayed where he was for a moment, then he got up and went over to bolt the door. But there was no bolt. He could see the holes where the screws had once been driven into the woodwork of the door, but the bolt had been removed.

That was, the trouble with second class travel. Nothing was ever in its entirety; nothing ever functioned properly. The bunks were lumpy, the hot-water tap ran lukewarm, the portholes always stuck. Krueger had had to put up with this nonsense all his life. The Party’s rigorous belief that a penny saved was a penny earned was frequently an annoying pain in the neck to Krueger. Still — they were his best clients.

He took a paper matchbook from his pocket and wedged it under the door. It just did the trick. He opened his case and got out a roll of adhesive tape, cut four 8-inch strips, then got down on his knees and placed his pistol up underneath the sink and taped it there. Second class stewards also had a bad habit of going through your things when you were out of your compartment.

He never relied upon a firearm for his work. It was messy, and much too obvious. He was a man who arranged innocent-looking accidents. The pistol was purely a weapon of self-defense, in case there was a hitch and he had to fight his way out, which had happened more than once in his checkered career.

He was fifty-three, balding, inclined to be stout, and had a face as bland as a third-rate stockbroker’s, unless you looked close at his eyes, which he seldom allowed anyone to do. He had worked at his trade for thirty years. He was an assassin.

He sat back in his bunk and thought about the man he was going to kill aboard this ship.

Unconsciously his right hand went up to his ear and he began to tug at the lobe gently. Catching himself at it, he hurriedly snatched his hand away. That was a bad habit with him, one that he had to watch. They were dangerous in his line of work, bad habits, exceedingly dangerous. They pinpointed you, gave you away, gave an enemy agent a chance to spot you. It was like walking around in public wearing a sign reading: I Am Krueger, The Assassin!

He remembered only too vividly what had happened to his old friend Delchev. He had unconsciously developed a bad habit — the simple, involuntary gesture of tugging his tieknot and collar away from his Adam’s apple with his forefinger. Through the years the word had gotten around; the habit had been noted and renoted. It went into all the dossiers on Delchev in all of the world’s many secret service files. He was earmarked by his, habit. No matter what alias or disguise or cover he adopted, sooner or later his habit gave him away. And they had nailed him in the end.

Krueger had known of another agent who used to break cigarettes in half, and still another who picked his ear, always the same ear. Both dead now — by arranged accidents.

And there was one colorful fellow who went by so many aliases that he was simply referred to by those in the business as Mister M. Krueger had always felt that he could have tracked M down within six months, had someone offered to make it worth his while. Because there was a notation in the dossiers on M of a bad habit that simply screamed for attention. M always tabbed himself by marking paper matchbooks with his thumbnail, orderly-spaced little indentations all up and down the four edges.

Well, at least tugging your earlobe wasn’t that bad. But it was bad enough and Krueger knew it. He must be more attentive to his idiosyncrasies in the future. He had to weed all mannerisms out of his character until he became as bland as a mud wall.

The distant clang of a ship’s bell reached him. The deck began to vibrate. Then the engines went astern with a rattle that he felt up his spine. A pause and then the engines went ahead, throbbing peacefully.

All right. Time to go to work. Time to view the future victim.

The dining room adjoined the saloon and they were both very dingy affairs. Cramped, too. And you could see rust streaks down the white walls at the corners of the windows. It all added up to greasy, over-seasoned, poorly-prepared food. But Krueger remained calm and benign; never call attention to yourself by being a complainer.

He sandwiched himself between a fat lady and a Latin priest, picked up his napkin and started to tuck it in his collar, but caught himself in time and put it on his lap instead.

Watch it; watch that sort of thing, you were the napkin-in-the-collar type on the last assignment. Never repeat the same mannerisms! He smiled at the man across the table, saying, “Pass the menu if you will, please.”

The man addressed was an ineffectual looking little fellow of about forty, with thinning hair and spectacles. His name was Amos Bicker and he was slated for a fatal accident — arranged by Krueger.

Krueger studied him surreptitiously. He certainly didn’t look like the sort who needed killing. He had that civil service employee aspect. However, some way or another, innocent or not, he must have placed himself in this position of jeopardy by getting in the Party’s path. Krueger’s instructions had called for Immediate Elimination. So be it. Now for the means...

He caught his hand halfway to his ear. Dammit! He carried the gesture through, switching its course to scratch the back of his neck. Then he studied the menu. Two of his favorites were there: oyster cocktail and New York cut. He ordered them, then turned to the priest, trying him first in Spanish, which worked. Actually he was thinking about the man across the table, Bicker, and the permanent removal of same.

Krueger always favored obvious accidents. So, when aboard ships, man overboard. This could be handled in a variety of ways. One, make friends with the victim, suggest a late stroll along the promenade deck; then a quick judo blow and... Two, again make friends and (if the victim were a drinking man) drink him under the table, and then... Or three, (and this method had great appeal to Krueger, because it eliminated public observance of his contact with the victim) slip into the victim’s room in the wee hours of the morning, and jab him with a small syringe which induced quick and total unconsciousness, and after that... well, what followed was simple enough. Man overboard.

The steward brought Krueger his oyster cocktail. Krueger reached for his small fork and gave a start. Something was rubbing his left leg under the table. He leaned back in his chair and raised the cloth. A mangy looking old cat — ship’s cat probably — was busy stropping himself against Krueger’s thick leg.

“Kitty kitty,” Krueger said. He loved animals. Had he led a more sedentary life, he would have had a home, and the home would have been filled with pets. And a wife too, of course.

A minor ship’s officer appeared in the starboard doorway. “Donde esta Senor Werfel?” he asked at large.

“Here!” Krueger called. That was one thing he never slipped on; he could pick up and drop an alias like the snap of fingers.

“The captain wishes to see you for a moment, Senor.”

A multitude of why’s came clamoring alive in Krueger’s brain. Then he caught the obvious answer and stood up, smiling. That accident with the bucket. It was annoying because the incident called undue attention to him — the steward, the stevedores, this officer, all the passengers, and now the captain.

He met the captain on the starboard wing of the flying bridge. The captain, originally some conglomeration of Mediterranean blood, was profuse in his apologies regarding the accident. Krueger laughed it off. It was nothing, truly. Those things happened. He wished the captain would put it out of his mind, really. He shook the captain’s hand, he accepted the captain’s cigar. He even allowed the captain to allow him to inspect the bridge.

He returned to the dining room wearing his professional bland smile. But something had happened during his absence.

The passengers were against the walls. The cook and his assistants and the steward formed a more central ring. But the star of the scene was on the floor in the exact center of the room. It was the ship’s cat and it was stretched out to an incredible length and going through the most grotesque mouth-foaming convulsions.

“Ohh, Mr. Werfel!” the fat lady who had been seated next to Krueger cried. “I did a terrible thing! No! Come to think of it, it was fortunate that I did! Certainly fortunate for you!”

“What?” Krueger said sharply, his eyes fixed on the convulsed cat. “What did you do?”

“That poor little dear jumped up on your seat after you left. He wanted your oysters! Of course I held him off, but you were so long in returning, and there are so many flies in here, you know.”

“You gave him my oysters,” Krueger said.

“Yes! I finally did! And before any of us knew it, the poor little thing went into those awful...”

“I’d better put the poor thing out of its misery,” the priest said, coming forward. No one offered to help him.

Krueger stalled for an interval, until the passengers had thinned out, then he led the steward aside. “What was wrong with those oysters?” he demanded.

The steward seemed utterly flabbergasted. “Senor, I don’t know! Ptomaine, you think? They were canned, of course.”

“Let’s, see the can,” Krueger said,

There was a faint scent of taint to the can — if held close to a sensitive nose. Krueger put it down and looked at the steward.

“Anyone else order oysters?”

“No, Senor. Only yourself.”

Krueger forced up a smile. “Well, accidents will happen.” But he certainly wished there were some way he could have had that can, more especially the dead cat, analyzed. He returned to his stateroom more angry than shaken.

Well, that had been close. Too close. Look at it either way you wanted to, he had been a very lucky man. Of course it could have been ptomaine... those things happened... but when you coupled it with the business about the bucket...

He went over to the sink and reached under for his gun.

It wasn’t there. The tape was there, neatly, but not the gun.

Now wait, he warned himself, pulling at his earlobe. A sailor could have kicked over the bucket by accident. Bolts are frequently missing from doors in rumdum ships like this. Ptomaine does occur in carelessly canned meats. And stewards, do rifle compartments.

But the combination still spelled suspicion. Yet, supposing his suspicions were right, what could he do about it? He couldn’t disprove that the bucket and food poisoning were accidents; and if questioned about the missing pistol, the steward would appear to be the epitome of innocence.

I must tread carefully, he thought. Very, very carefully, until this business is over. It’s just possible that the Party slipped up somewhere on this assignment. Or was it possible that the Party...

No! That was absurd. He had always given them faithful service; they knew that. And they knew, too, that he was one of the best in the business. No. No. Tugging furiously at his ear. Absurd.

He replaced the matchfolder under the door and, not satisfied with that, put his suitcase before it, flat, and, using the adhesive tape again, taped it to the deck. A man could get in, yes, but he would make a lot of noise doing it. He turned out the light and undressed and got into his bunk.

At first he thought it must be the wool blanket scratching him. Then he remembered that he had a sheet between his body and the blanket. Then he was really sure that it wasn’t the blanket, because it moved when he didn’t!

He felt the soft rasp of straggly fuzz across his bare belly, crawling sluggishly under the weight of the blanket, as a thing gorged with food. He started to raise the upper edge of the blanket and the thing, whatever it was, scrabbled anxiously toward his navel. He froze, sucking his breath, scared to move a muscle.

It stopped, too, as if waiting for the man to make the first decisive move. He could feel it on his naked stomach, squatting there, poised expectantly. It was alive, whatever it was... it started moving again, he could feel the tiny feet (many of them) scuttling up toward his ribcage, the dry hairy fat little legs tickling his goose-fleshed skin which rippled with loathsome revulsion.

He’d had it. With movements perfectly coordinated out of pure terror, he threw the blanket and sheet aside with his left and took a sweeping thrust across his stomach with his right forearm — as he rolled from the bunk to the deck.

He was up instantly and frantically fumbling for the light switch.

The thing scurried across the white desert of the bottom sheet — a thick-legged tarantula species, hideous, its furry body as fat as a bird’s. Krueger snatched up a shoe and beat the thing over and over, and because of the give of the mattress the spider died the long, slow, frenziedly wiggly way.

Krueger threw the shoe aside and went to the sink to wash the clammy sweat from his face.

There was no call-button in the stateroom. He unbarricaded his door and shouted, “Camarero!”

A few minutes later the steward looked in with a sleepy smile. “Si, Senor? Que desea usted?”

Krueger pointed at the crushed spider on his bed. The steward came over and looked at it. He made a face and grunted. He didn’t seem overly surprised.

“Si, it happens. It is the cargo, Senor. The bananas. They come aboard in the fruit. Some of these diablos find their way amidships.”

It was the kind of answer Krueger had expected, a reasonable explanation that left no room for argument. But it was getting to be too much. The tarantula was the last straw? He took his hand away from his earlobe and started getting into his clothes.

“Quisiera hablar con el capitan,” he said flatly.

The steward shrugged fatalistically. If the unreasonable gringo wanted to bother the captain at this, time of night, it was none of his concern.

Krueger shoved by the steward rudely, saying, “I won’t need you to find him. You’re about as much help as a third leg.” He was starting to forget all of his rules.

The captain was no help at all. He repeated all of the old sad-apple excuses: clumsy seamen, careless canning, the bothersome little hazards of shipping on a cargo steamer hauling bananas...

“Now look here, Captain,” Krueger said, angrily pulling at his ear. “I’m a reasonable man and I’ll go along with every-day accidents, as long as they stay within the limits of probability. But all of these accidents have happened to me. Within one day.”

“What is it that you’re trying to say, Mr. Werfel? Surely you’re not implying that someone aboard this ship is trying to kill you, are you? You don’t have enemies, do you?”

Krueger balked at that. It was a subject that he wanted to stay away from. To get into it would be wading into a thick sea of endless, embarrassing explanations. He hedged.

“I said no such thing, Captain. All I’m saying is that these things keep happening to me aboard your ship, and I expect you to protect me from them.”

“Certainly, Mr. Werfel. Let me see... yes! I can give you your choice of any of my officers’ cabins. My own included. I can even assign a competent man to stay by your—”

“No, no, no!” Krueger said hastily. “That isn’t at all necessary, Captain. I don’t intend to act like a prisoner aboard this ship. Just assign me to a new cabin, one with a lock and bolt on the door.”

Leaving the navigation deck, Krueger decided that he needed a drink. He would go down and see if the saloon was still open. His nerves were getting out of hand, and no wonder! The whole game was going very badly, turning sour on him. He was breaking all this time-tested rules, calling more attention to himself than a brass band.

He paused on the companionway overlooking the dark, gusty boat deck. Someone was down there on the deck, someone familiar, leaning at the rail just to the stern of Number One starboard lifeboat.

Krueger took a quick swipe at his face, wiping away the tiny, moist needle-fingers of the sea mist, and came down another step... but quietly, ever so quietly. The man on the boat deck was Amos Bicker. He was mooning out at the black rambling sea, his forearms cocked up on the damp rail, his thin back to Krueger.

Krueger came down another quiet step, his narrowed eyes quickly checking out the points of professional interest.

Bicker had taken a position just inside the aft boat davit, to stand in the sheltering lee of the lifeboat’s stern. He was leaning about a yard from the extreme corner of the rail; beyond that was nothing. There weren’t even guard-chains, only the vacant space through which the davits swung the lifeboat. Below was the open sea.

Made to order. Krueger could finish the business here and now. Then he could concentrate all his wits on his own survival, guard himself against those recurring accidents... if that’s what they were.

He came down the last step and put both feet on the boat deck.

Krueger and the victim were quite alone in the whispering sea-running night. And the unsuspecting victim thought that he was all alone. It wouldn’t take much; just a sudden short rush and a bit of a push, catching Bicker on his side, and propelling him sideways right out into that empty waiting space.

Grinning tightly, Krueger broke into a cat-footed, avid rush.

All the lifeboats had returned and the captain had received their reports. Shaking his head, he reentered his office and went behind his desk and resumed his seat.

“Well,” he said, “this is certainly a sorry business. Unfortunate that you had to be subjected to it, Mr. Bicker.”

Amos Bicker was sitting hunched and drawn in his chair facing the desk. The first mate had given him a shot of whisky but it didn’t seem to be doing him much good. He was obviously in a bad state of nerves. His hands trembled, his voice too.

“You didn’t recover the... uh—”

“Not a sign,” the captain said. “Must have gone down like a stone. But please, Mr. Bicker, please do not let it prey upon you. You couldn’t have done more than you did. You cried man overboard the moment it happened, and you even had the presence of mind to throw over a lifering. You behaved admirably.”

Mr. Bicker shivered and wrapped both hands about the empty shot glass. It was just possible, the captain thought, that he was going into shock. “Have a smoke, Mr. Bicker,” he offered solicitously, passing over a cigarette box and matches.

Mr. Bicker had trouble lighting up, his hands shook so.

“He must have been mad — deranged,” he said finally, hoarsely. “I didn’t know the man, had never seen him except in the dining room this evening. I was just standing there at the rail minding my own business, watching the sea without a thought in my head, and... and then I heard a... a movement, a sort of quiet rushing motion, and I looked around and there he was. Coming right at me! And the look on his face!”

“Yes, yes, Mr. Bicker,” the captain said sympathetically, “We quite understand. There’s no doubt in anyone’s mind that there was something — well, odd, in Mr. Werfel’s behavior. I have reason to believe that the poor devil actually thought that someone aboard this ship was trying to kill him. Mental delusion. Lucky for you that you reacted by stepping backwards instead of sideways or he might have taken you over with him.”

Mr. Bicker nodded, staring at the carpets. One of his thumbnails absent-mindly was making orderly-spaced little indentations down one edge of the captain’s paper matchbook.