‘You could tell us where we are. Maybe you know how to work that wireless transmitter. And you can’t say a word.’
Peterson made no movement. He stared at Keeton and gave no sign that he had heard. Keeton turned and went out of the cabin, nearly tripping over the cat. It arched its back and rubbed against his leg, purring fiercely.
In the galley Keeton found Bristow cooking. He had started a fire in the stove and the galley was sweltering. Bristow, stripped to the waist, was sweating freely.
‘Fried Spam and spuds‚’ he said. He shook the frying-pan and the fat hissed and crackled. ‘You hungry?’
‘Could be.’
‘You know something? There’s enough grub on board this ship to last the two of us for years.’
‘And Peterson?’
‘Him too if he wants any. Number two hold is full of cases of canned stuff — meat, fruit, vegetables, milk.’
‘Peterson can’t take anything. I tried him with some milk but I couldn’t get his mouth open.’
‘Well, that’s his worry. We got enough worries of our own without losing sleep over him.’
‘I wish he could talk‚’ Keeton said.
‘You want him to give you orders?’ Bristow took the frying-pan off the stove and filled two plates with the hot, greasy food. ‘I’d say we was better off not having him talk. We’re free now. No bosses. We do what we like when we like. No drill, no watches, just the easy life. Could be worse.’
‘You make it sound like a rest home‚’ Keeton said. He was surprised to find Bristow so cheerful, but when he got close to him and smelled his breath he knew the source of the cheerfulness. ‘Where’d you get the liquor, Johnnie?’
Bristow grinned. ‘Plenty of it lying around. I found a bottle of Scotch in the chief steward’s cabin. He won’t be claiming it.’
‘Looks as if it’s put Dutch courage into you. You don’t seem so scared now.’
‘When was I scared?’ Bristow was indignant. ‘You ain’t seen me scared.’
‘So you’re just an impressionist.’
‘Now cut it out, Charlie‚’ Bristow said belligerently. ‘You keep the clever remarks to yourself, see. I don’t go for that stuff.’
‘So you don’t go for it‚’ Keeton said. ‘OK, Johnnie.’
He sat down on a crate and began to eat fried Spam and potatoes.
Captain Peterson lay on his bed where Keeton had left him. Keeton went into the cabin on silent feet, as if walking into a church. He spoke softly.
‘I don’t know what I can do to help you, sir. I don’t have any medical knowledge. You need a doctor.’ He made a gesture of hopelessness. ‘And I suppose the nearest doctor is hundreds of miles away.’
Peterson did not move. Keeton walked across the cabin and stood with his back to the porthole. His shadow fell across the bed.
‘It’s a queer situation, isn’t it? You and me and that fat slob Bristow; the three of us and the cat. We’ve got food and comfort, and yet we’re all dead men unless somebody finds us.’
His words dropped into the hot, sickly air of the cabin like pebbles falling into a well, to be swallowed up and lost. The man on the bed made no sign that he had heard. Keeton moved away from the porthole and looked down at Peterson.
The captain’s eyes were still open but they no longer made the slightest movement. There was no light in them. They were dead eyes in a dead face.
Keeton touched Peterson’s cheek with the tips of his fingers and it was like touching a coarse brush. There was no greater warmth there than there is in a brush, no greater life. Keeton bent down and put his ear to Peterson’s mouth. There was no sound of breathing; the lips were tightly closed and the thin, pinched nose was waxlike and artificial in appearance, as though it had been the nose of a dummy in an exhibition.
Keeton stood up and turned away from the bed. It should have made no difference to him, this death of Peterson; the man had been as good as dead for days; the thread of his life had been so tenuous that it had taken scarcely a touch to break it for ever.
Yet that fine thread had meant something to Keeton; it had meant that the captain was still with his ship even if he could no longer use his arms or his legs or his voice; even if he could do nothing but move his eyes and breathe thinly through waxen nostrils. He had been still the one in authority, and Keeton had drawn comfort from a fact that had at best been little more than a pretence.
But now Peterson was dead and a phase was over. Now it was just Keeton and Bristow and the cat.
Chapter Seven
Tension
Keeton worked away at the padlock while Bristow watched him. A fine dust of steel fell to the deck of the alleyway as the blade sank deeper into the tempered metal.
‘You’re nearly through‚’ Bristow said. ‘Pity we couldn’t find the key. It’d have been easier.’
Keeton went on sawing and suddenly the blade was through. The strong-room was theirs. They levered off the severed padlock, swung the heavy iron door open and went in.
Bristow rubbed his hands. ‘Well, here it is, Charlie. Now we’ll really know what kind of secret machinery we’ve got.’ The cases had been carefully stacked, wedged tightly into position, so that the rolling and tossing of the ship had scarcely disturbed them. They eased one of them from the stack, thrust a spike under the lid and ripped it off. Inside were bars of yellow metal — gold.
Keeton lifted one bar out and laid it on the deck. They both stared at it, fascinated. It lay on the iron floor of the strong-room and the light coming in through the doorway seemed to make it glow with warmth. It held the two men as though it had cast a spell upon them.
‘The treasure‚’ Bristow whispered. ‘The treasure of the Valparaiso.’
Keeton wiped the sweat off his forehead and his hand shook. He looked at the ingot at his feet and he looked at the cases piled in the strong-room. He began to count them, but gave it up. The thought of how much they might be worth made his mind reel. His voice was hoarse.
‘It’s gold all right. Gold.’
Bristow stooped and drew his fingers along the bar, caressing it.
‘It’s a fortune. And it’s ours, all ours. We’re rich, Charlie. We’ve got enough here to live on in luxury for the rest of our lives. No more work for us — never.’
Keeton’s mind cleared; he shook off the effect of that slab of yellow metal lying on the cold iron. He forced himself to look at the facts.
‘You’ve forgotten two things, Johnnie.’
Bristow stopped fingering the gold and looked up at Keeton. ‘What things?’
‘First, the gold doesn’t belong to us. Second, even if it did, we’ve no means of carrying it to a place where it would be of any value. Here it’s worth no more than the coral of that reef outside.’
Bristow straightened up slowly. ‘You’re right. Damn you, Charlie, you’re always right.’ He still could not take his gaze off the ingot. ‘Just the same, it ought to be ours. We was the only ones to stay with the ship. I reckon we’ve got a moral right to it, you and me. What’s the law of salvage say?’
‘I don’t know; I’m not a marine lawyer. Anyway, it makes no difference. Right or no right, how could we get it away? And if we did, where could we sell it?’
‘There’s countries where you can sell anything and no questions asked.’
‘There’s still the problem of getting to them.’
‘Oh, God‚’ Bristow said. ‘To think of all that lovely stuff lying there for the taking and us not able to take it. It’s enough to make you weep, straight it is.’
‘Maybe we’ll find a way‚’ Keeton said. ‘Maybe we’ll think of something.’ He turned his back on the gold. ‘And for a start we’ll fix that boat.’