And the Deep Blue Sea (6 page)

It was a beautiful morning, sunny and hot, with just enough breeze out of the southeast to put a slight chop on the long groundswell as the
Leander
plowed ahead across an infinity of blue. Looked a lot better from up here, too, he thought, with the throbbing sound of power from the engine room ventilators and a solid deck under his feet; no matter how much you liked the sea, there was such a thing as getting too close to it.

The third mate was walking the starboard wing of the bridge. The captain was up, he said, and his office was through the wheelhouse, the door on this side. Goddard nodded to the helmsman, and knocked on the facing of the door, which was open. “Yes?” a voice asked, and Captain Steen appeared. He was in tropical whites, the shirt having short sleeves and shoulder boards bearing four gold stripes. “Come in, Mr. Goddard.” He gestured toward a big armchair. “Sit down.” He was a gaunt, balding man with a solemn countenance, baby-blue eyes, and a long neck and prominent Adam’s apple, but to Goddard the impression was not so much the stern asceticism he had expected as it was a sort of self-righteous stuffiness and lack of warmth.

There was another armchair, a threadbare rug, and a desk with a swivel chair in front of it. On the bulkhead above the desk were two framed photographs, one of a small, neat house set in the awesome beauty of a Norwegian fjord, and the other of a woman and two young girls. At the rear of the office another door opened into the stateroom. Captain Steen sat in the swivel chair and took notes as Goddard told him the story. It was obvious he disapproved of the whole thing.

“You realize you were very foolish,” he said. “It’s a wonder to me your coast guard allows it.”

Goddard pointed out that single-handed passages in small boats were commonplace by sailors of all maritime nations and sanctioned by yacht clubs, and that there had been a number of single-handed races across the Atlantic. There was a difference between a competent seaman going to sea in a sound boat and some nut going over Niagara Falls in a barrel. He stopped when he realized he was wasting his breath.

“But you did lose your boat,” Steen said. “And it’s just the Lord’s infinite mercy you’re alive. Your passport was lost too, I suppose?”

“Yes,” Goddard replied. “Somehow it didn’t seem important at the time.”

“Very unfortunate.” Steen frowned and tapped on the pad with his pencil. “There will be complications, you realize, and a great deal of red tape.”

Goddard sighed. “Captain, every maritime nation on earth has machinery for processing shipwrecked and castaway seamen.”

“Yes, I know that. But you are not a seaman, legally signed on the articles of a merchant vessel. To the Philippine authorities you will be simply an alien without identification, visa, or money. This places the company in the position of having to post bond.”

I’ll be a sad son of a bitch, Goddard thought. “I am sorry, Captain. I guess it was selfish and inconsiderate of me to swim over here and hail you that way.”

Captain Steen was pained, but forgiving. “I think you’ll agree that was uncalled for, Mr. Goddard. We are very happy to have been the instruments of Providence, but the formalities and red tape are something we have to take into account. Now, about your arrangements on here; you can continue in the hospital where your are now and eat with the deck crew’s mess, but you won’t be required to work your passage—”

“Thank you.”

“—unless you feel you’d rather, of course. The bos’n can always use an extra hand, and I am sure you wouldn’t want them to carry you for cigarettes and toilet articles you will need.”

“But I understand you carry passengers.” Goddard’s voice was still quiet, but there was a hard edge to it. “And the cabins are not all sold. I’ll take one, at the full rate from Callao to Manila.”

This earned him a pale but condescending smile. “Passage has to be paid in advance. And I’m afraid I have no authority to change the company rule.”

“Is your wireless operator on duty now?”

“He is subject to call at any time. Why?”

“Would you ask him to come up and bring a message blank? I’d like to send a radiogram.” Goddard slipped off the watch and set it on the desk. He felt like the type of overbearing, exhibitionist jerk he detested above everything, but he was too angry to care. “Lock this in your safe as security for the message charges; it’s a Rolex chronometer that sells for around six hundred dollars in this type of case. If you’ll tell me the name of your agents in Los Angeles, my attorneys will deposit with them this afternoon the money to cover my passage and other expenses from here to Manila, the bond you will have to post, and my fare back to the United States if the Philippine authorities hold you responsible for it.”

“Uh—yes. Of course.” Steen appeared to hesitate for a moment, and then calmly handed back the watch, immune to insult. “I guess it will be all right.” He stepped out into the wheelhouse and spoke into the telephone, and in a minute the wireless operator appeared, a young Latin with a slender, inscrutable face still bearing traces of some ancient bout with smallpox.

“Sparks, this is Mr. Goddard. He wants to send a message,” Steen said.

Goddard stood up and said, “How do you do.” Sparks nodded, neither volunteering his name nor offering to shake hands, and Goddard caught the little flicker of hatred in the jet depths of the eyes before they became impassive again.
Yanqui go home.
Could be Cuban, Goddard thought, or Panamanian. Or from anywhere south of San Diego, with our record.

“You can get the States all right?” he asked.

“Yes,” Sparks said, but it was Steen who volunteered the information they had shortwave. Sparks handed him the pad of blanks and went out into the wheelhouse to wait. Captain Steen looked in his files for the line’s agents in San Pedro, and said the fare from Callao to Manila was five hundred and thirty dollars.

“Then two thousand should cover everything,” Goddard said. “Any balance, you can refund in Manila.” He wrote out the message, addressed to his attorneys in Beverly Hills.

SHOSHONE DOWNWENT STOP PICKED UP BY
SS LEANDER
BOUND MANILA STOP PLEASE DEPOSIT TODAY WITH LINE’S AGENTS BARWICK AND KLINE SAN PEDRO TWO THOUSAND DOLLARS TO COVER PASSAGE, MANILA EXPENSES, AND RETURN FARE TO STATES STOP REQUEST AGENTS VERIFY RECEIPT SOONEST CAPTAIN STEEN
LEANDER—

GODDARD

Sparks made the word count and computed the charges. “That will be eleven thirteen.” There was a barely perceptible pause, and he added, “In real money.”

“You don’t have to lean on it,” Goddard said softly. “I heard you the first time.”

Steen told the operator the company guaranteed payment, and the young Latin went out. “I’ll notify the steward,” Steen said to Goddard. “He will take care of you.”

“Aren’t you going to wait for the verification?” Goddard asked. Steen indicated it wouldn’t be necessary. Maybe the watch had impressed him. Goddard went out, a little ashamed and regretting the whole thing; he didn’t care in the slightest where he was quartered, and working on deck would have been fun. He was surprised, too, that the sanctimonious fraud could have made him lose his cool; he’d thought he was impervious to the Steens of the world.

Lind was just coming in. He was bareheaded, in khakis and moccasins, and apparently never wore shoulder boards. He grinned at Goddard. “Stick around a minute. I’ve got some things in my room you may be able to use.”

“Sure,” Goddard said. “Thanks.” He went out and leaned on the rail on the starboard wing of the bridge. It would be a different ship, he thought, if Lind were master of it.

“A
PPENDECTOMY?” LIND ASKED. “SPINAL TAP?
Bothered with impacted teeth? Lover’s catarrh? I’m always looking for a live one.”

Goddard grinned and indicated the skull jammed behind some books on the desk. “Not if that’s a former patient.”

“Bought it from a Moro down in the Celebes,” Lind said. “You can still see where somebody got him with a bolo; probably the guy who sold it to me. Drink? Short one before lunch?”

“Sure, if it’s that or surgery,” Goddard said.

Lind yanked open a drawer and brought out a bottle of Canadian Club and two glasses. “Did you know that the references to wine in the New Testament really meant Welch’s grape juice? It was a faulty translation from the Greek.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that,” Goddard said. He looked around the cabin again. While at first glance it would appear it could only have been assembled by a pack rat, a madman, or the vortex of a tornado, a more subjective appraisal revealed the blazing and restless mind that complemented the vast male exuberance of its tenant. More outpatient clinic or dispensary than living quarters, it also bore some resemblance to a library after an earthquake, with traces here and there of a museum. Anchored to the desk was a sterilizer containing scalpels, tooth forceps, hemostats, and hypodermic syringes. Boxes and specially built shelves held the contents of a small pharmacy—bottles, vials, tubes, splints, packaged sutures, and rolls of gauze and tape. There were several ebony carvings and a bolo, and books were everywhere, in English, German, and French, two full shelves plus more piled on the settee and on the deck. Some were medical textbooks, in addition to the standard first-aid manuals. Cugle and Bowditch were sandwiched between Faulkner and Gide. Goddard ran his eye on down the rows—Goethe,
African Genesis,
Vance Packard,
Also Sprach Zarathustra, L’Etre et le Néant.
There was a combination, Nietzche and Sartre.

Lind handed him the drink, and they clicked glasses. “Down the hatch.”

“Skol,” Goddard said. “You were a medical student?”

“Two years. And you used to be a merchant seaman?”

“A few trips as ordinary when I was a kid. How’d you know?”

“You asked me if I was the mate, remember? Not chief mate or first mate.” Lind opened a closet. “I’ve got some slacks here that might fit you. How big are you?”

“Six feet one,” Goddard said. “One-ninety.”

“Should be just about right then.” Lind handed him two pairs of light flannel slacks. “Some Chileno dry-cleaner shrunk ’em. And here’s another sport shirt, a drip-dry.” He added socks, belt, a pair of slippers, handkerchiefs, and a spare safety razor.

“Thanks a million,” Goddard said.

“I’ve got a weak stomach. Can’t eat with people who never change their clothes.” Lind tossed off the rest of his drink, and shook his head. “I don’t see why in hell you couldn’t have had scurvy, at least. Pick up a guy drifting around in a million square miles of ocean on some woman’s diaphragm, and he’s healthy as a horse.”

Cabin B, in the starboard passageway of the promenade deck, contained two bunks on opposite sides of the room, a desk, closet, and small rug, and had its own shower. Lunch was served at twelve thirty, Barset said, and dinner at six. There was no bar, but he could buy anything he wanted from the bonded stores. Goddard looked over the list and ordered six bottles of Beefeaters gin, a bottle of vermouth, and three cartons of Camels.

“And would you ask the cabin steward to bring me a pitcher and some ice?” he added.

He showered, put on a pair of Lind’s slacks and a sport shirt and the slippers, and stowed the rest of his meager possessions. Closet space was going to be no problem. The cabin steward pushed open the door and came in without knocking. He was young and looked tough, with a meaty face, green eyes in which there was no expression whatever, and shoulders that strained at the white jacket. Brutal hands with a number of broken knuckles held a tray containing ice and a pitcher. “Where you want it?” he asked.

“On the desk,” Goddard said. “What’s your name?”

“Rafferty.”

“And where are you from, Rafferty?”

“Oakland. Or maybe it was Pittsburgh.”

It’s done to death, Goddard thought. If he were trying out for the young storm trooper or the motorcycle hoodlum I’d turn him down as a cliché. Rafferty put down the tray and asked, with just the right shade of insolence, “Why?”

“I don’t know,” Goddard said. “But in Oakland or maybe it was Pittsburgh, somebody probably told you about pushing open doors without knocking.”

“I’ll try to remember that, Mr. Goddard, sir. I’ll try real hard.”

“I would, Rafferty,” Goddard said pleasantly. “Inevitably in this vale of tears you’ll run across some mean son of a bitch who’ll dump you on your stupid ass the second time you do it.”

There was the merest flicker of surprise at this unusual reaction from the square world; then the turntable started again and the needle dropped back into the groove. “How about that?” Rafferty said. He went out.

Goddard mixed a pitcher of martinis, for the second time today a little disgusted with himself. But maybe he was simply becoming aware of people again and had a tendency to overreact, the way sensation is exaggerated in a part of the body that has been numb for a long time. He poured a drink over ice and went out into the passageway. He remembered the dining saloon was aft, next to Barset’s quarters, so the lounge should be forward. There was a thwartships passageway here with doors opening onto the deck, port and starboard, and a wide double door into the lounge. He looked in.

There was a long settee across the forward end with portholes above it looking out over the forward well-deck, several armchairs, a couple of anchored bridge tables, and some bookshelves and a sideboard. A blond woman in a sleeveless print dress was standing with her back to him, one knee on the settee as she looked out an open porthole. She was bare-legged and wore gilt sandals, and her arms and legs were tanned.

“Mrs. Brooke?” he asked.

She turned. He was conscious of a slender, composed face with high cheekbones and just faintly slanted blue eyes. The sailors were right, of course; she was pretty, but it was the impression of poise that interested him more. She smiled at him, the eyes cool and supremely self-possessed, “Yes. How do you do, Mr. Goddard.”

“Nobody ever saved my life before,” he said, “except possibly a few people with iron self-control who didn’t kill me, so I’m not sure of the protocol.”