She smiled back at him as she went down the ladder to the boat they’d lowered. “Thank you for the advice, Mr. Rand. That sounds exactly like something my father would say.”
Her remark troubled him. Had he somehow given himself away? While she and the Frenchman were both off the ship he decided to risk looking through their cabins. The key worked easily in Sishane’s door and he entered to find the stateroom a duplicate of his own. Her bunk had already been made up by Multan, though his own remained undone. Most of her belongings were still in two suitcases, and he went through them quickly — a couple of books in Turkish, another in English, a leather pouch containing a makeup kit and perfume, another pouch with a dozen large brown bottles of assorted vitamin pills, a travel wallet containing her passport and visas. In the tiny closet were the dresses and sports clothes she’d been wearing on the trip. A few toilet articles were in the tiny bathroom.
There was no sign of drugs. Rand went back and unscrewed the top from one of the vitamin bottles, but the small white pills looked harmless enough. Finally he put everything back and carefully left the cabin, making certain he wasn’t seen by a crewman.
He glanced over the railing and saw that the swimmers were still down there, with Sishane and Pierre Claquer watching them from the little boat. Rand took out his key again and entered Claquer’s cabin. He found a half-dozen bird books, additional camera equipment, and nothing to cast doubt on the stated reason for the Frenchman’s presence aboard the Happy Moon.
Back on deck he decided the two searches had been a waste of time. If Efes Kemal’s daughter was in trouble involving drugs or anything else, it was far from apparent. He’d searched the passenger cabins and found nothing suspicious.
Two of the passenger cabins, anyway. He hadn’t bothered with the empty one.
He walked down to the aft cabin and tried his key in the lock. It worked, just like the others. He’d expected a bare bunk, without sheets or blankets, but instead there was a standard gray blanket wrapped around someone. He caught his breath, freezing in the doorway, conjuring up visions of a secret passenger whom no one had seen.
When no movement came from the bunk he went a step closer. Finally he was near enough to lift the blanket. It was the crewman, Multan, and he was dead. His throat had been slashed in the same manner as that man Grantor back at the Karachi café.
He could not admit to Captain Rodriguez that he’d been searching the cabins when he found the dead man, but neither did he feel he could simply walk away quickly as he’d done in Karachi. There, at least, he’d known one of the other cafe patrons would soon discover the victim. Here it could be days. The murderer had obviously put him in the empty cabin to delay discovery.
After a few moments’ thought Rand decided on a compromise. He went out of the cabin but left the door ajar. Surely one of the crew members would notice it and glance inside. Then he went up to the bridge and conversed with Captain Rodriguez about the progress of the voyage.
“We’re making good time,” he suggested, peering at a chart showing the ship’s present position.
“Very good,” Rodriguez agreed. “Here in the Red Sea it’s usually quite calm at this time of year.”
A few minutes later their conversation was interrupted by Sallis, the first mate. “Bad trouble, Captain. Multan’s been killed.”
“Killed?”
“Murdered. His throat was cut. Fandul just came on board from a swim and noticed the door to the empty passenger cabin was open. He looked in and found Multan on the bunk, dead.”
“Take the wheel,” he ordered Sallis. “I’ll go have a look.”
Rand drifted down after him, trying to stay out of the way. The others all seemed to be clustered around the cabin door. “What happened?” he asked Sishane innocently.
“It’s one of the crewmen, young Multan. He’s been killed.”
“That’s terrible!”
He moved away but she followed. In a low voice she told him, “The time for games is over, Mr. Rand. My father sent you, didn’t he?”
He glanced at Pierre Claquer, only a few feet away. “We can’t talk here. Meet me on the fantail after dinner.”
There was much debate over dinner about whether the ship should put in to the nearest port for a police investigation of the killing, but the captain argued it had occurred in international waters and was hardly within the jurisdiction of Ethiopia or Yemen, the countries on either side of them at the moment. No one had a desire to become involved with either country, and it seemed best to leave the decision and the responsibility in Captain Rodriguez’s hands. Orders were given that the body be kept on ice and delivered to the Turkish police when the ship reached its destination.
After dinner Rand strolled to the stem of the ship, to the rounded area that jutted out from the rest. Presently Sishane Kemal joined him. “Someone aboard this vessel is a killer,” she told him bluntly.
“I think that truth is in everyone’s mind,” he agreed. “There are only eight crew members left, plus the three of us. Not many suspects.”
“Why would someone kill him?”
“I thought you could tell me.”
“My father sent you, didn’t he?”
“What gave you that idea?”
She stepped close to him, her eyes almost level with his. “Oh, I remember the name Rand. My father used to tell stories about you, the darling of Britain’s Department of Concealed Communications, the man from Double-C.”
“That was a different person.”
“It was you. He even showed me a picture of you once. You’ve always been something of a hero to him.”
“I’ve been retired from Double-C for sixteen years.”
“But not retired from the world of foreign intrigue. I recognized you the moment we met, Mr. Rand. What are you doing here?”
There was no point in lying further. “Your father is very concerned about you. He believes you’re in some sort of trouble involving drugs.” She frowned at that but said nothing. He continued, “I was told you were in Karachi. I located a man named Grantor down by the waterfront who was familiar with the sailings. He told me you were on board this vessel. He was killed shortly after that—”
“What?”
“—possibly by the same person who killed Multan. The throat wounds were similar.”
“Why would anyone kill him?”
“Because he talked to me?” Rand speculated. “Because he mentioned your name? What are you involved in, Sishane?”
“Nothing. Not drugs, certainly.”
“These ships often carry heroin headed for Europe. With the end of trade restrictions—”
“I told you, I know nothing about heroin or anything like that. I never heard of this man Grantor who you claim was killed because of me.”
“What were you doing in Pakistan that so concerned your father?”
“If you must know, I’m writing a study of population problems in the twenty-first century. Pakistan, India, and Bangladesh seemed good places to begin.”
“You were in Bangladesh too?”
She nodded. “Just last week. It is a tiny country which, if projections are correct, will have more people than the United States by the year two thousand twenty-five.”
“How did you happen to choose this ship for your return home?”
“I’d heard my father mention it once. When I learned it was in port to pick up oil-drilling machinery from Afghanistan, I decided this would be a good route home.”
Rand couldn’t help feeling she was lying, but he had no evidence with which to confront her. Before he could say anything else, Gunther Sallis spotted them on the fantail and strolled over to join them.