“That’s ‘im, all right, mate.”
The American gestured to the barman. “Scotch for my friend here. Make it a triple.”
The barman showed his teeth. “Where you bin, chum? Scotch? I’ll give Bert a large gin, s’all I can manage.”
The elderly porter smiled at the American’s grim face.
“There was this article in the Hackney Gazette. Had a bit about Jevers. Local bloke an’ all that. Got a mention in despatches for stayin’ at the wheel in the middle of the battle, or surnmat”
He laid the newspaper cutting on the wet bar. It was an old picture of Jevers, but there was no mistake.
The porter named Bert said, “It’s ‘im all right. The same chap as I saw that night when ‘is wife went missin.’ Right ‘ere, on the manor.
“Thanks, Bert.” Wagner felt the surge of rage again. “I’ll not forget.”
Bert said, “Well, I said I’d phone you, didn’t I? I promised!”
“Sure you did, old-timer. And I’m grateful. ” He peered round the partition but saw the space at the bar was empty.
Bert said, “S’all right. ‘E’ll ‘ave gone to his old ‘ouse, I spect.”
The sergeant nodded and pushed his way towards the door, his mind racing. Now he would be able to get it out of Jevers. The porter would give evidence if necessary that he had been at his home on the night he’d claimed to be elsewhere. What a bit of luck the picture in the paper had been.
He hesitated, his eyes blind in the blacked-out street. Then he heard Jevers’ uneven steps in a narrow alley, saw the pale rectangle of his blue collar.
He called harshly, “Hold it, fella! Right there!”
An off-duty policeman and an air-raid warden found the American’s body half an hour later. He was still alive, but a knife-thrust had almost certainly punctured a lung, and he was barely breathing. As the warden ran to call an ambulance the policeman stayed with Wagner, shielding his face from the rain which had just begun to fall over the East End of London.
Once the American opened his eyes and managed to gasp one word. It sounded like a girl’s name. Janice.
The policeman sighed. Another fight no doubt. Local boy and Yank. Brawling over a girl.
He would telephone the American provost marshal. He was better at this sort of thing.
Down the alley in the little pub the porter called Bert heard the ambulance roaring past, its gong going for all it was worth. He sipped his large gin and thought about Wagner. Nice chap. One of the best.
Lieutenant David Sheridan sat in a deep chair with his feet on the wardroom fender watching the glow in the stove. It was almost welcome to feel the ship moving again, lurching occasionally against the piles of the jetty where she had been since leaving the dock. Tomorrow the bulk of the hands would return from their long leave. He had already been aboard for four days, sorting out new faces, fitting them into watch-bills and duty rotas.
Beyond the steel hull he heard the wind moaning across the blacked-out basin, the tap of heavy rain on deck.
Soon Warlock would be putting to sea once more. Another mission like the last? Or back to convoy? He found he did not care. Either way. He had not applied to leave her after all. He was still the first lieutenant.
He had had a strange leave. He had taken long walks in the countryside. Keeping away from uniforms, searching for sol itude in small pubs and within himself. It had been like therapy, he thought. Self-inflicted.
He had mett the captain only twice. Neither of them had mentioned a change of appointments. Drummond had seemed younger. Relaxed. That would be the girl, he thought. Despite everything, he grinned. Lucky beggar.
Sheridan looked round as the coxswain peered through the door. He was wearing an oilskin and carrying a torch.
“Ready for rounds, sir.” Mangin glanced at the empty wardroom.
“Right, ‘Swain. Anything doing?”
“Nah.” Mangin rubbed his wet hands. “Duty part of the watch ‘ave cleared up the messdecks. Most of ‘em are too shagged out to stay on their feet.”
“Have a tot while you’re here, ‘Swain.”
The coxswain took off his cap and stepped quickly to the fire.
“Tha’d be just fine.”
Sheridan handed him a large gin. “Well, I’m still here.”
The coxswain took a swig and smacked his lips. “Knew you would be, sir. First day you come aboard. Knew you was a Warlock, like the rest of us poor buggers!” He grinned.
” ‘Ere’s to the next time!‘The coxswain became formal. “Some of the lads is off shore already, sir. A.B. Jevers is one. ‘E’s slapped in a request to see the old man about gettin’ ‘is.‘ook and transfer to another destroyer.”
Sheridan nodded. He had forgotten about Jevers.
Mangin added, “The Lomond’s got a vacancy for chief Q.M., sir. ‘Ers ‘as gone to the depot to sit for cox’n.” He showed his uneven teeth. “Smart chap!”
They both turned as Sub-lieutenant Hillier stepped over the coaming, his cap and raincoat dripping wet. Hillier was holding himself very erect, and was obviously still recovering from his cracked ribs.
“All right, Sub?”
Hillier smiled. “Yes, thanks. I’m not sure how you are going to be in a few minutes, Number One.”
“Are you a bit stoned?”
Hillier tossed his cap on to a chair and held his hands by the fire.
“I just saw Captain Beaumont on the jetty. He seems to be making for this ship.”
Mangin snatched his cap.
“Wot? At this time o’ the night?”
Sheridan scrambled to his feet.
“Are you sure? I thought he was supposed to be in London. ” Hillier sat on the fender, pleased with the storm he had caused.
“Well, he’s here now. More to the point, Number One, I’d say he was rather sloshed, too!”
Sheridan dashed out and up the ladder, to be met by the duty Q.M. and gangway sentry. He saw the figure at the end of the brow. Hillier was not mistaken.
Beaumont walked very slowly and carefully across the brow, and as he moved into the tiny glow of the quartermaster’s police light Sheridan saw that he was without a raincoat. His immaculate cap and uniform shone in the feeble light like blue metal. He was sodden.
Sheridan said, “In here, sir. Out of the rain.”
Beaumont did not move. He said, “The captain, where is he?”
“Ashore, sir. He’s not due back until …”
Beaumont swayed and seized the guardrail for support. “Fetch him, telephone him. Do what the bloody hell you like. But I want him here now!”
Sheridan stood aside as Beaumont swayed towards the lobby door.
“Yes, sir. I’ll attend to it right away.”
Beaumont had vanished, and he heard him scrambling down the steep ladder, breathing hard and cursing with each step. Mangin murmured, “Somebody’s for it, sir.”
“Hmm.” Sheridan groped through the gangway log. “What was that number?”
A returning libertyman was staggering towards the brow. Looming forward and swaying back again into the persistent rain. Mangin knew from the man’s tipsy voice that it was Petty Officer Owles.
“It’s goin’ to be one o’ them nights.”
Mangin yanked the P.O. steward on to the deck.
To the sentry he rasped, “Take the P.O. to ‘is mess and pour as much coffee into ‘is guts ‘as they can ‘old.” He gripped the beaming Owles by the lapels. “You’d better sober up, matey. The skipper is goin’ to need you, ‘eaven ‘elp ‘im,”
Owles replied stiffly, “Can’t a chap enjoy a song when he feels like it?”
He started to bawl again but allowed the sentry to lead him towards his mess.
Sheridan was on the shore telephone. “I want to speak with Commander Drummond, please.” He pictured them together and felt vaguely ashamed. “Captain, sir? I think you’d better get down here as quick as you can.”