The Clock Ticks On

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

OUT ON the deck it was dark save for the rare patches of light cast by the frigid, naked lamps in their wire cages. Dene found himself alone with the wind and the fretful, never-ceasing noises of a ship at sea. Awnings slapped against their frames: high above his head the breeze went piping through the gossamer of the wireless aerials; at his feet the water hissed and foamed as it slithered away from the vessel’s sides. Everything dripped with the sea-mist. But the fog was lifting. Past the stark silhouettes of the smokestacks reared against the black curtain of the night, there was the glint of stars between the flying cloud-wrack.

The young man went to the rail and turned to let the wind blow upon his face and flatten his thin evening clothes against him. Sombrely he gazed into the darkness. Beneath his feet the deck quivered in time with the rhythmic tremolo of the propellers, as he stood there in silence, his mind filled with the grim tragedy they had been discussing, it seemed to him that the steady pulsation was beating out a name. With an unwilling gesture he shifted his position and, leaning on the clammy bulwark, cast his glance down to where a frothing, curling edge of inky water advancing and retiring was visible in the glow from the tiered decks.

Gerry Cloan... thump-thump: Gerry Cloan... thump-thump: like piano-keys striking their wires the propellers seemed to hammer out their endless refrain upon his taut nerves. A face that had haunted him all through the voyage rose to the surface of his mind. He closed his eyes to shut it out, and, when it appeared more clearly than before, opened his eyes again only to see it far below, forming and dissolving in the eternal to and fro of the waves. It was a young man’s face, ghastly with the prison pallor, the eyes haggard with misery and despair. Out of the sea those eyes seemed to stare up at him imploringly as they had stared at him from the dock. The man at the rail shivered and, turning his back on the ocean, went below.

In the privacy of his modest stateroom on D, he stripped off his dinner-coat and, lighting a cigarette, sat down on the bed. With a distraught air he ran his fingers through his thatch of tawny hair. The coat he had removed lay beside him on the bunk. As though on a sudden impulse, the young man felt in the inside pocket and took out a flat leather wallet. From it he drew a folded letter.

At that moment the cabin door was softly tapped. Swiftly the young man replaced the letter and slipped the wallet in his pocket.

‘Who is it?’ he cried.

‘It’s me, sir,’ a cockney voice made answer.

Dene opened the door. His steward was there. ‘Beggin’ your pardon, Mr. Dene, sir’— his manner was more than usually impressive— ‘but the Captain wishes to see you immediate...’

The young man lifted his eyebrows. ‘Me, Bligh? At this time of night? Are you sure there isn’t some mistake?’

‘Oh, no, sir. ’Is stooard jes’ come down with the message. If you was in bed you was to dress yourself, was the Captain’s order. If you’ll kindly foller me, sir...’

With a perplexed air Dene put on his coat, adjusted his tie in the mirror and smoothed his hair, and followed Bligh out.

THE CAPTAIN’S sanctum, abaft the bridge, was commodious and many-windowed. With its cream walls, its water-colours and bookcases, and its big bowl of Hampshire roses on the writing-table, it suggested the morning-room of an English country-house. The curtains, close-drawn against the windows streaming with moisture, lent the cabin a cosy, intimate air. The throb of the screws, imparting a gentle vibrato to every object there, was the only sound.

In the smart blue-and-gold mess-jacket, with its double row of medal ribbons, the Captain was a gallant and dignified figure. He rose from behind the desk, a big man, grizzled and authoritative, as his steward, to whom Bligh had consigned his charge, ushered the caller in.

‘This Mr. Trevor Dene?’ The Captain bent a searching glance upon the visitor.

Beaming through his large glasses, the young man bore his scrutiny with the utmost equanimity. ‘That’s my name, sir,’ he replied with a guarded air.

The Captain made a perceptible pause while he waited for the door to close behind his steward. Then he added significantly, ‘Of Scotland Yard, I believe?’

On the instant his visitor seemed to stiffen. To all appearances he remained contemplating the Captain with an unchanged air of languid interest. But his face had grown stonily impassive. The features registered neither admission nor denial.

‘Nothing like discretion, Mr. Dene,’ said the Captain heartily. ‘But you needn’t be discreet with me. I have a wireless message for you:— from Chief Inspector Manderton. Sit down!’ He indicated a chair, at the same time resuming his own seat at the desk. ‘Drink?’

‘No, thank you, sir. I’ve just had one.’

‘Smoke?’ He slid the box of cigarettes across and Dene helped himself.

‘It came after dinner,’ the Captain explained. ‘Sent to me in the Company’s private code. I always decipher these messages myself. So I had to wait until I came off the bridge. It was pretty thick earlier on, but it’s clearing now. Unfortunately, there’s a cipher group mutilated in the message and I had to ask for a repetition. It’ll be through any moment now. I wanted to catch you before you went to bed...’

Dene cleared his throat. ‘Perhaps I ought to tell you, sir, that it’s absolutely essential that no one either on board this ship or in America should discover that I’ve any connection with Scotland Yard...’

‘I think you can rely on my discretion, Mr. Dene,’ said the other rather stiffly. ‘Just out of curiosity,’ he went on, ‘I took a look at your declaration for the Immigration authorities. You describe yourself as a student, I see...’

‘Yes, sir.’ He paused. ‘I’m actually reading for the Bar,’ he added.

The Captain was eyeing him discreetly. ‘If you’ll forgive the remark, Mr. Dene,’ he said slowly, ‘you’re scarcely my idea of a detective...’

The young man grinned— his smile was a comprehensive affair that spread itself in crinkles to the farthest corner of a frank and very good-humoured face. ‘Not such a bad thing, is it? In a movie I saw once they spoke of one of the characters as “the well-known secret agent.” That wouldn’t help much in our business.’

The Captain’s basso laugh rolled through the quiet stateroom. ‘By James, you’re right. What I mean was that you’re unlike the ordinary run of Scotland Yard men, if you understand me...’

‘I’m afraid I left my deer-stalker and my powerful lens behind in London,’ Dene retorted drily.

The Captain chuckled. ‘Now you’re pulling my leg. You mustn’t think I don’t know what a Scotland Yard man looks like. I’ve had some of you fellows travelling on ships with me before. And you’re not the type. What I mean to say, you look different and you speak different. More like a...like a...’— he was about to say ‘gentleman.’ but substituted ‘public school man’— ‘more like a public school man than a detective...’

‘That may be because I was at a public school,’ Dene suggested mildly.

‘ ’Varsity, too, I shouldn’t wonder?’

‘Cambridge, as a matter of fact...’

‘And now you’re a what-do-you-call-it? A criminologist?’

‘God forbid!’ cried Mr. Dene earnestly. ‘I’m merely a plain-clothes man employed at Headquarters. “A split” or “a busy,” in the engaging vernacular of the criminal classes...’

‘But I thought everybody at Scotland Yard had to go through the ranks...’

‘So they have. I was a cop myself for eighteen months, not counting training and probation...’

The Captain examined him curiously. ‘You don’t say! Well, I’m from the ranks myself, and neither of us is any the worse for it, I expect. Metropolitan Police, was it?’

‘Yes. X Division. One of the largest in London. Runs all the way from Paddington to Edgware and South Mimms. I started at the Harrow Road police station. That put me over the jumps all right, I can tell you. Charming neighbourhood. Know it?’

‘I’m from Sunderland myself,’ observed the Captain.

The detective wagged his head. ‘Tough lot. Wife-beating and cop-bashing the favourite sports, especially on Saturday nights; oh, I got into some lovely scraps. I liked the life on the whole. A policeman sees a lot, you know. For instance, you wouldn’t believe how few people can look a bobby straight in the eye: we’ve all got more or less guilty consciences, I suppose. I made a fairly good cop, though I say it as shouldn’t. I managed to see one confidential report about me and it bucked me up no end. It said, “Not a very intelligent officer, but keeps himself smart and works hard...” ’ Mr. Dene smiled seraphically through his gig-lamps at the Captain.

‘Well, I’ll be jiggered,’ the latter exploded. ‘I meet all sorts, ferrying across the drink, Mr. Dene, but I’ve never fetched up with a case like yours. And did you go straight into the police from Cambridge?’

‘Yes...’

‘Didn’t your people object?’

‘My Guv’nor was killed in the War. Mother was a bit hipped until one day I stopped the whole of the traffic in the Edgware Road to let her cross the street. I think she got a kick out of that...’

‘And you started at the bottom of the ladder and worked your way up?’

‘Rung by rung, as far as I’ve got, which isn’t very far. From burst water-pipes and rescuing kids with their heads stuck through railings to armed burglary, barratry on the high seas, and wilful murder. The self-made sleuth. Another powerful instalment next week...’

The Captain’s guffaw made the walls ring. ‘Fine. And now you’re at Headquarters?’

The young man nodded brightly. ‘Finger-Prints. As the lady said, “Nice work if you can get it!” The trouble is, there aren’t nearly enough murders to keep me really interested. Not on our side of the herring pond, anyway...’

‘And Inspector Manderton’s your boss, is that it?’

Dene’s face lit up. ‘You know him?’

‘Certainly. He crossed with me a few years ago— he was taking an absconding banker back to Cincinnati— and we’ve met two or three times in Town. Stout fellow, Manderton. How do you get on with him?’

‘A.1. He’s not my boss officially. I’m a sort of protégé of his. That’s to say, when he’s on the job and wants a man from Finger-Prints he usually asks for me...’

‘Thinks a lot of you, does he?’

‘I wouldn’t say that. You know what Uncle George is— that’s his nickname at the Yard, you know— a bit self-opinionated and that sort of thing...’

The Captain cast up his eyes. ‘You’ve said it. I never met a more cocksure chap in my life...’

Dene laughed. ‘Manderton’s all right when you understand him. He approves of me, I think, because I never argue with him. Hardly ever, that is,’ he added, with a faint smile.

The Captain laughed. ‘Well, I dare say you can hold your end up when it comes to an argument, eh, what? You’ve been to America before, I suppose?’

‘No, sir. This is my first trip...’

‘Making a long stay?’

‘Only a week or two, I expect...’

‘Well, well, perhaps I may have the pleasure of your company on the voyage back...’ He broke off as a knock came at the door. ‘Ah, this’ll be from the wireless room... Come!’ he called. His steward entered with a sealed envelope which he silently placed on the desk and withdrew. The Captain was unlocking a drawer. ‘Now we’ll see what we make of it,’ he said to Dene as he took from the drawer a small black book. ‘Excuse me a minute...’ He broke the seal of the envelope and spread out the message it contained on the blotter.

For a short spell the Captain’s hard breathing, as he referred from the code-book to the message, and the scratching of his pen as he filled in the text above the cipher groupings, were the only sounds in the quiet room.

Presently he uttered a sigh of relief and laid down the pen. ‘My writing’s not so good,’ he remarked. ‘Perhaps I’d better read it to you...’

‘If you wouldn’t mind,’ said Dene.

‘Here goes, then... It’s addressed to me personally, as I told you.’ He cleared his throat and read out:

Very secret. Kindly give our Mr. Trevor Dene, D. 306, following message. Begins. Home Office action in reopening case strongly attacked House of Commons this afternoon. Stop. Understand Home Secretary will inform American Embassy tomorrow satisfied no justifiable grounds exist for interference course justice and unable recommend postponement. Stop. Date execution stands as originally fixed, Tuesday next June 14, 9 A.M. Message ends. Regards.

Manderton, Criminal Investigation Department, Scotland Yard.

Dene put out his hand and took the message from the Captain. The gesture with which he adjusted his glasses to read it was purely automatic. He seemed utterly dismayed.

‘That’s the Oldholme Priory case, isn’t it?’ remarked the Captain briskly. ‘Well, I thought he was for it...’

‘Is it true that we shall be late arriving tomorrow?’ Dene asked. His air was very perturbed.

The Captain nodded. ‘We certainly shall...’

‘When are we likely to dock?’

‘Not before evening at earliest...’

‘Evening?’ The Scotland Yard man was aghast. ‘As late as that?’

The Captain heaved his broad shoulders. ‘Fog’ll make a monkey out of the fastest ship afloat, Mr. Dene...’

‘What time in the evening?’

‘Round about nine. Later if we strike any more fog. But I fancy we’re running into clearer weather...’

Dene’s fingers drummed on the desk. All the resilience appeared to have gone from him. He looked thoroughly downcast. ‘That makes us practically a day late...’

‘If it’s important for you to go ashore quickly,’ the Captain suggested, ‘I dare say I could arrange to send you on by the tug that meets us at Quarantine...’

Despondently Dene shook his head. ‘Thank you, sir. But I’m afraid I shall have to land with the other passengers in the ordinary way...’ With rather uncertain fingers he folded the message and thrust it into his pocket.

‘Well,’ said the Captain, ‘if you change your mind, let me know...’ He had stood up and they shook hands. The Captain’s glance was approving as the door closed upon his visitor. The young man had good manners; besides, there was an absence of affectation about him which, in a snobbish age, was refreshing.

No sooner was Dene out of the Captain’s presence, however, than that important personage passed altogether from the young man’s mind. He was beaten to the earth, panic-stricken, by these tidings that had come to him over the air out of the Atlantic brume. This was the night of June 9 and on June 14 Gerry Cloan was to die. Manderton had given him to understand that the execution was postponed for a week. From June 10, the day they were due in New York, to June 21 was eleven days. Now this respite had been reduced to what? They were still far out in the Atlantic at the mercy of fog and storm. In the most favourable circumstances he could not hope to set about his task until tomorrow, Friday, evening. And on Tuesday Cloan was to go to the gallows.

Saturday, Sunday, Monday— he had three clear days. Seventy-two hours. What chance had he of achieving in the time the purpose of his mission?

Seventy-two hours; and the Megantic was running at half-speed.