The Improbable Journeys of Billy Battles

Chapter 2

Chapter 2The voyage was mostly uneventful the next four days.

The ocean remained calm and glasslike, and the SS China

sliced through it with little effort. On the fifth day, Potts

informed me we would be docking the following morning in Honolulu,

Hawaii. I was relieved. As comfortable as I was aboard the ship, I

longed to walk on solid ground again and to see a tree or a bush or

just about anything green and growing. I shuddered to think I had

another nineteen days of sea travel before I would reach

Saigon.

I spent most of those first five days pacing

the deck, sitting in my deck chair, and writing in my journal. On

one occasion, I was invited to join Captain Kreitz and Deputy

Captain Partington on the bridge where I and a few others were

accorded a brief seminar on the intricacies of maneuvering a

steamship through the Pacific Ocean.

Ocean travel, I concluded, is a tedious

proposition. Unlike train travel, which is what I was used to in

Kansas and Colorado, progress by ship seemed imperceptible. At

least on a train you could watch the landscape pass by your window.

Aboard ship, all you saw was an endless expanse of water that never

changed. Thinking back on it now, I recall that being in the middle

of what seemed like an infinite sea on a relatively diminutive

vessel left me feeling extremely claustrophobic.

After my dining experience that first night,

I avoided the first-class dining room, preferring the more modest

menu and the less formal atmosphere at a smaller cafe. I also wrote

several letters that I planned to post in Honolulu. Once again, I

felt compelled to explain my actions to the McNabs and my mother. I

even wrote letters to Anna Marie, knowing that they would not make

any sense to her until she was much older. Guilt is a potent

motivator, and each word I wrote seemed to erode it a little.

I only saw Katharina Schreiber a few times

during those four days. She seemed to keep to herself, not often

leaving her cabin. Once or twice, I noticed her on the foredeck

reclining in one of the lounge chairs and reading a book. I

considered walking over to say hello but decided against it. She

seemed aloof and unapproachable, and I didn’t feel any need to be

snubbed.

So I avoided her, often turning around and

walking in the opposite direction when I saw her. Then on the

evening of the fifth day, I decided to take dinner in the main

dining room again. Katharina was dining at the captain’s table with

several other first-class passengers. I nodded to her as I passed

her table. She nodded back and flashed me a feeble smile.

I continued on to a larger communal table

for ten at the other end of the dining room. I settled at the table

with eight other guests. We introduced ourselves and made some

small talk for maybe ten minutes. Then dinner was served. The menu

was an eclectic combination of duck, fish, and pork with a generous

helping of potatoes and vegetables. I ate heartily.

Every so often, out of the corner of my eye,

I glimpsed Katharina across the dining room. I never made direct

eye contact with her, but I had the distinct impression that she

was occasionally looking fleetingly at me also.

About a half hour later, I excused myself,

telling my dining companions that I had some letters to write

before we arrived the next morning in Honolulu.

As I stood up, I looked over at the

captain’s table. Katharina Schreiber was gone. I felt relieved. My

interaction with her up to that point had been nothing if not

discomfited. After leaving the dining room, I took a quick

turnaround the promenade deck and then returned to my cabin. It was

a little after 9:00 p.m., and I had just settled down at my writing

desk when I heard a loud and insistent knock on my door.

Probably Potts, checking to see if I

needed anything before turning in, I recall

thinking.

However, when I opened the door, my eyes

widened, and I shuffled backward a couple of steps. It wasn’t

Potts. It was Katharina Schreiber.

I must have gasped audibly because Katharina

said, “I’m sorry. Did I startle you?”

“No… Uh… I just wasn’t expecting to see

you standing in my doorway.”

“Believe me, it is not my usual practice to

go knocking on the doors of men I hardly know, but this is an

exceptional situation.”

“Yes, well… won’t you come in?”

“I’d rather not… would you mind coming out

on the deck?” She didn’t wait for an answer but turned and walked

slowly to the promenade deck railing some ten feet away where she

stopped and stood looking out at the black ocean. I grabbed my

slouch hat and shut the door behind me.

As I walked across the deck to join her, I

wondered what to make of Katharina Schreiber. Yes, she was

statuesque, an elegant beauty, highly intelligent, well-educated,

sophisticated. Any man would relish her company. Yet I also

detected a callousness in her, a distinct harshness that seemed

strange and out of place in a woman of such refinement and

exquisiteness. At the time, I didn’t understand why this was the

case. However, I was soon to learn why.

After I joined her, we both stood at the

ship’s railing in awkward silence for a few moments. I was waiting

for Katharina to explain why she wanted to talk to me, but she

seemed content to stare out at the glabrous black sea. I resolved

not to disrupt whatever reverie had seized her and remained mute.

The only sounds were the dull vibrating hum of the ship’s engines

and the soft splash of water against the hull as the ship sliced

through the ocean. It was about nine thirty, and a full moon

irradiated the water with shimmering threadlike streaks of pale

light.

I found myself stealing quick but meticulous

glances at Katharina’s profile silhouetted against the dim running

lights of the ship. She stood about five feet ten inches tall,

maybe four inches shorter than I was. Her beauty was breathtaking.

She seemed perfect in almost every physical feature. Still, it was

her personality, her caustic behavior that detracted from that

stunning physical beauty. Until I met Katharina Schreiber, I was

sure my late Mallie was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.

Of course, Mallie was also beautiful inside where it actually

counted. I wasn’t so sure about the widow Schreiber.

I was still debating that issue when

Katharina at last broke the silence.

“Mr. Battles, I need your help.”

I was not expecting that. “My help?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice quavering. Then

she continued. Her words were barely above a whisper. “I don’t want

to sound overly histrionic, but it really is a matter of life and

death… and Deputy Captain Partington informed me that you are a

deputy U.S. marshal.”

“That’s a bit of a stretch… I haven’t worn

any kind of badge for years, and even then, I am not sure how

legitimate it was.”

“But Mr. Partington said you showed him and

Captain Kreitz your badge.”

I began to explain why I had shown them my

U.S. marshal’s badge, but Katharina interjected before I got very

far.

“Of course, if you aren’t willing to help

me, then I shall bid you good evening.”

I wondered if she was joking or being

facetious about her problem being life or death. After all, I had

experienced the widow Schreiber’s razor-sharp cleverness at the

dinner table. When I turned to look at her, however, I was met with

a face that was obviously distraught. Her lips and chin were

trembling, her bright green eyes were damp and glistened brightly

in the pale light, and her knuckles were clutching the railing so

tightly that they were turning white.

“I apologize… It’s simply that I didn’t

think you meant it for real play.”

“I am serious,” she rasped. “This is not a

matter of any flippancy.”

I didn’t know what to say. I cleared my

throat, but my words came out gravelly and dissonant.

“Mrs. Schreiber, I did not mean to make

light of your, uh, situation.”

“What situation?” she demanded, her voice

rising sharply. “I haven’t even explained anything yet.”

“I am sorry… I—”

Before I could finish, she held up her hand

and shook her head. “No, no, please forgive me. I am sure I sound a

bit vague and mysterious.”

With that, she placed her hand softly on my

arm. It was the first time she had touched me, and I felt an

electric tremor as adrenaline surged through my body. My posture

went suddenly rigid with legs and arms firmly tensed. I shuddered

noticeably.

“Are you all right?” she asked, quickly

removing her hand from my arm.

I covered my mouth with my hand and coughed

quietly.

“I think I may be coming down with

something,” I lied.

“Perhaps we should leave this to another

time.”

“No, it is okay… please continue.”

We stood there for another five minutes or

so, and she related one of the most extraordinary stories I had

ever heard.

It seems the widow Schreiber had been a bit

judicious with the facts at the captain’s table that first night

aboard ship. Her German husband had indeed passed on, she was a

widow, she had indeed grown up in Chicago of German parentage, and

she was on her way to the Philippines to join her brother. That

much was true. However, the rest of her story was almost

unbelievable.

“I am a widow because I killed my husband,”

Katharina suddenly declared. Her eyes were focused keenly on me as

if looking to see what my reaction to that astounding bit of news

might be. I am sure I flinched a bit as her words sunk in.

“You, uh, killed your husband…?”

Katharina quickly interrupted before I could

say more.

“Yes… but you will note that I told you I

killed my husband, not that I murdered him.”

“That seems like a rather subtle

distinction,” I responded.

Katharina was facing me squarely now, her

face barely a foot from mine. This time when she spoke, it was in a

voice just above a whisper.

“You must let me explain now that I have

released the genie from the bottle. However, I don’t relish

providing details here in the open. May we go to my cabin?”

I felt a quiver in my stomach, and I cleared

my throat nervously. The most beautiful woman I had ever seen had

just invited me to her cabin after telling me she had killed her

husband. My mind was racing, running through all of the pros and

cons of her suggestion, when I felt her hand on my arm again.

Again, her touch sent an electric jolt through my body; and once

again, I shuddered conspicuously. However, this time, she didn’t

remove her hand. Instead, she tightened her grip on my arm.

“Please,” she pleaded.

I nodded. “Of course.” Then we walked to the

port side of the promenade deck. When we arrived at her cabin door,

I looked both ways to make sure the deck was deserted, and then we

walked in and shut the door. It wouldn’t do for a deck steward or

curious fellow passengers such as the Gladwells to see the two of

us entering the widow Schreiber’s cabin.

Katharina’s cabin was a bit larger than mine

was, and like mine, its walls were covered with dark mahogany

panels. In addition to the two overstuffed chairs and writing

table, she also had a small dining table. That is where we settled,

she on one side and me on the other.

“I’m sorry, I have nothing to offer you to

drink.” Then she paused, stood up, and walked to her wardrobe where

she produced a tear-shaped bottle of Glenglassaugh single malt

Scotch whiskey and two heavy cut crystal glasses. “Except for

this.”

She returned and placed the glasses on the

table in front of us. “May I?” she asked, and then uncorking the

bottle, she poured two fingers in each glass. “This was my late

husband’s favorite.”

I shuddered imperceptibly at that remark but

pulled the glass toward me anyway. Images of Katharina pushing

Baron von Schreiber over a cliff or poisoning him with

arsenic-laced Wiener schnitzel flooded my mind.

I forced those macabre thoughts out of my

mind by focusing on the rich amber hue of the whiskey as I uneasily

swirled the glass around and around in front of me.

What was I doing? I found myself

thinking. Why was I in Katharina Schreiber’s cabin about to

drink expensive single malt Scotch whiskey with a woman who had

just admitted she had killed, but not murdered, her

husband?

I pulled out my pocket watch and checked the

time. I wondered what people might think if they saw me leaving

Katharina’s cabin late at night.

“What time is it?” Katharina asked, nodding

at my pocket watch.

“Just after ten.”

“Well, then, I best get to it… Where to

start, where to start…”

“How about at the beginning?” I suggested,

perhaps a bit too brashly.

Katharina seemed to ignore that remark at

first and then, picking up her glass of Scotch, said, “Yes, from

the beginning, but first, one of my favorite German toasts: Genieße

das Leben ständig! Du bist länger tot als lebendig!”

We touched glasses and sipped our Scotch. I

found myself thinking back to my German language classes at the

University of Kansas in order to translate Katharina’s toast. Loose

translation: Constantly enjoy life! You’re longer dead than

alive!

Apropos for the moment, I thought to

myself.