‘Yes,’ Keeton said. ‘It would, wouldn’t it?’
They interrogated him again in Vancouver. He was getting used to the questions by this time; he could see them coming and be on his guard. He needed to be; some of these men were sharp; they saw a mystery here and it was only human to wish to get to the bottom of it. Besides which, there was the gold. The treasure of the Valparaiso was very much in people’s minds.
One Canadian doctor talked to Keeton for hours, thrusting in the questions here and there like rapier strokes.
‘Who else was with you in the boat?’
‘I don’t know, sir.’
‘Did the ship sink quickly?’
‘I can’t remember the ship.’
And then after a deal of talk about Keeton’s future came the remark, dropped in so casually, so guilelessly: ‘No doubt the food was bad on board the Valparaiso?’
Keeton was too experienced to be caught like that. ‘How can I tell you about the food if I can’t remember anything?’
They did not readily accept the fact that a man had really lost his memory.
He travelled across Canada by train and was taken on board a troopship in Halifax for the voyage to England. Three months later he had been discharged from the Navy with a gratuity, all his back pay, and the story of his loss of memory officially, even if reluctantly, accepted.
He took the money, saluted for the last time, and went away to begin his preparations for a return to the Pacific. He was as much alone in the world now as he had been in the boat after the death of Bristow, for no one could be allowed to share the secrets of his mind. All he did now was directed to the achievement of one object only — the salving for himself of the treasure of the Valparaiso.
Part Two
Chapter One
An Offer
The men were waiting for him when he came up from the boatyard. They stood in the roadway, motionless, looking at him with hard, calculating eyes. He would have passed them, but the taller one spoke suddenly.
‘Well, Keeton, well.’
He was a heavy man, thick-necked, and his voice had a gravelly quality. He was dressed in a shiny blue suit; he was bareheaded and his hair was turning grey.
‘Know me?’
Keeton knew him, even though time had coarsened him, made him flabbier as well as older. Mr Rains was still unmistakably Mr Rains.
‘I don’t know who you are and I don’t want to know,’ Keeton said. He started to walk past but Rains stretched out a hand and stopped him.
‘That’s no way to speak to a fellow survivor, is it now?’ He glanced at the other man for confirmation. ‘What do you say, Smithie?’
The steward had not changed appreciably. He was neat and dapper, his black hair sleeked down as always, his sharp nose thrust forward as though sniffing out anything that might be to his advantage.
‘That’s so, partner. That’s so indeed.’
‘So you don’t recognize us?’ Rains said.
‘No.’
‘That’ll be on account of the loss of memory. We heard about that.’ He gave a laugh and his chin quivered. Smith chuckled too, a sudden cackling sound. The idea of Keeton’s loss of memory seemed to strike some nerve in them, causing this reaction of laughter.
‘You heard about us though? We were the only other survivors from the Valparaiso. They told you about us?’
‘Yes; they told me about you. You were in another boat.’
Rains nodded, and his flabby chin bulged out and retreated again in time with the nodding. ‘That’s right. In another boat. There were more of us at the start, but the rest of them couldn’t stick it out. They weren’t as tough as me and Smithie. We didn’t fancy dying. How many others in your boat, Keeton?’
‘I was alone when I was picked up.’
‘Yes, but at the start, Keeton. How many were with you at the start?’
‘If you know I lost my memory, you know I can’t tell you that.’
‘Right there,’ Rains said. ‘Right in one. No slip of the tongue, hey, boy?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Keeton made a move to walk on, but Rains stopped him again.
‘How about the three of us having a nice cosy little talk? Three old shipmates like us; there’s a lot to discuss.’
‘I’ve got nothing to discuss with you.’
‘No?’ Rains’s thick eyebrows went up like brushes.
‘But we’ve got a lot to discuss with you. Isn’t that so, Smithie?’
‘My word, yes,’ Smith agreed. ‘We’re the boys that like a nice chat about old times.’
‘But don’t let’s stand around here,’ Rains said. ‘Let’s go somewhere comfortable. I vote we have a drink together. How’s that?’
His hand was on Keeton’s arm; his mottled, beefy face was so close that Keeton could smell the stale odour of his breath. He had an impulse to knock Rains’s hand away, to refuse to talk to him; but he realized that this might be unwise. Besides, he was more than a little curious to learn what the other two wanted to discuss. He did not believe for a moment that they had sought him out merely for the pleasure of comparing notes. He had never had much to do with either of them on board the Valparaiso, so why should they have gone to the trouble of tracking him down to this little Devonshire fishing port? Not just for the sake of a talk; of that he was certain.
‘All right then,’ he said. ‘Let’s have that drink.’
Rains slapped him on the shoulder. ‘That’s the boy.’
Smith glanced at his watch. ‘You work late, Charles. It’s nearly ten past seven.’
‘Yes,’ Keeton said. ‘I work late.’
‘Overtime. Raking in the shekels. Nice for you.’
They climbed a steep, narrow street and came to a public house, an ancient hostelry built of weathered stone and wedged between other houses of the same material.
‘This’ll do,’ Rains said. ‘Suit you, Keeton?’
‘It’s your party,’ Keeton said.
They went inside. ‘What’s it to be then?’ Rains asked.
‘Bitter for me.’
Rains laughed hollowly. ‘I hope that’s not the way you feel — bitter. We’re all pals here.’
Smith’s nose prodded agreement like a woodpecker’s beak. ‘Pals. That’s the word.’
There was a fire burning in an old-fashioned iron grate opposite the bar. They took their drinks to a table near the fire; it was chilly for April.
‘There’ll be a frost,’ the landlord said. He polished a glass and looked with interest at Keeton’s companions. He knew Keeton but the other men were strangers.
‘It won’t worry me,’ Rains said and turned his back on the bar.
Keeton was impatient. ‘Well? What did you want to talk to me about?’
‘Old times.’
‘I know nothing about old times.’
‘Sure. We know. The memory that got mislaid. Funny thing — memory. To look at you, anybody would say you were normal.’
‘I am normal.’
‘But you just can’t remember anything further back than a certain day in the year 1945. Is that it?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s a pity.’ Rains swallowed beer and stared at Keeton over the rim of the mug. He had lowered his voice so that the other people in the room should not hear what he was saying. Nobody was listening anyway. The landlord had lost interest.
‘If you were so keen to have a talk,’ Keeton said, ‘I wonder you took such a time coming for it. It’s been years.’