‘Occurred to me you might have got some of that memory back. The Valparaiso was news. Had a stack of gold on board.’
‘So I’ve been told,’ Keeton said drily.
‘You mean you still don’t recall any of it yourself?’
‘Nothing, Mr Ferguson, nothing.’
Ferguson stared up at the white deckhead; he seemed deeply interested in the way the tobacco smoke spread itself out above his head. Keeton noticed that there were shallow depressions on each side of Ferguson’s face just above the cheek-bones, as though the skull had been hollowed out, and the skin above his nose had a heart-shaped patch of discoloration like a brand that had been stamped there. The scragginess of his neck was emphasised by a shirt collar that was at least two sizes too big, and the prominent Adam’s apple bobbed up and down when he swallowed.
‘A pity,’ he said at last. ‘We could maybe have done a deal.’
‘What kind of deal?’
‘Well, look at it this way. Suppose you had remembered something about the Valparaiso or about that time between the ship going down and you being picked up. Nine months. That’s a whole lot of time unaccounted for. And again, suppose you were on your way back to the scene of the events hoping to pick up some threads, maybe even to trigger off that lost memory. That would be a story, you know.’
Keeton stared at Ferguson without expression. ‘What would the deal be?’
‘You could give me the story — exclusive. And I could help you in various ways. The paper might be willing to pay your expenses on certain conditions.’
‘There is no story,’ Keeton said.
‘Why are you here then?’
‘I’m sailing round the world.’
‘Why?’
‘For fun.’
Ferguson stared at Keeton’s hard, unsmiling face. ‘You don’t look like you were getting a hell of a lot of fun out of it.’
‘That’s my business.’
‘I agree.’
Ferguson’s left eyelid fluttered, and Keeton thought at first that it was a wink. But the eyelid continued to flutter and he came to the conclusion that it was simply a nervous tic. He did not trust Ferguson. He had a suspicion that behind the hope of a story was something more. Ferguson knew all about the Valparaiso’s gold, and gold had a fascination for all kinds of people.
The journalist’s next words convinced him that he had reason to be suspicious.
‘Funny thing,’ Ferguson said; ‘we’ve got two other survivors from the Valparaiso in town.’
‘Oh,’ Keeton said.
‘That’s so. Mr Rains and Mr Smith. Maybe you’ve run across them.’
‘Maybe I have.’
Ferguson drew more smoke out of the cigarette and appeared to drink it. It was a long time coming up again, as though it had been on a journey to distant places.
‘Bit of a coincidence, the three of you being here all at the same time. Could be you arranged it like that.’
‘No,’ Keeton said.
‘You have seen them, though?’
‘Yes, I’ve seen them. I had a drink with them.’
‘You don’t make it sound like a great pleasure. I sort of gathered you weren’t as pally with your old shipmates as you might be.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘I had a talk with the other boys.’
‘Rains and Smith?’
‘That’s so.’
‘What did you get out of them?’
‘Not much,’ Ferguson admitted. ‘Not yet anyway. But I’ve got a nose for a story and I scent one here.’
‘There is no story,’ Keeton said again. ‘Not from my side anyway.’
‘Maybe I’ll have to go back to the others.’
‘Maybe you will.’
Ferguson leaned back on the settee and half-closed his eyes. ‘What’s up with you, chum? You sound like something was eating you. You got a grudge against me?’
‘I don’t like snoopers.’
‘I’m no snooper. I’m just an ordinary newspaperman.’
‘Sounds like the same thing to me.’
‘I just ask questions,’ Ferguson said. ‘If a man doesn’t want to answer, that’s all right; he’s entitled to keep his mouth shut. But there’s no law against asking.’
‘Well, you’ve asked. That’s your job finished. Suppose we call it a day.’
Ferguson picked up his hat. He was about to go up the companionway to the cockpit when he paused and turned again to Keeton.
‘Let me give you a word of advice. Don’t go around looking for trouble. It’ll come quick enough. But don’t go hunting it.’
He rammed his hat on his head and went out into the hot afternoon. Keeton felt the yawl heel over as he jumped from the deck.
Next day the Star had a story. Keeton bought a copy and swore when he saw the headline: ‘Reunion of Treasure Ship Survivors.’ He began to read what Ferguson had compiled.
‘When Mr Charles Keeton sailed into Sydney harbour in his yacht Roamer he little expected to meet two former shipmates, Mr Stephen Rains and Mr Bernard Smith. But so it turned out. Mr Keeton had navigated Roamer all the way from England single-handed via the Cape Verde Islands, Cape Town and various other ports of call. Mr Rains and Mr Smith, starting from the same point, chose a less hazardous and more rapid form of transport: they came by ship. What adds a touch of piquancy to the story is the fact that these three men are the only survivors from the S.S. Valparaiso, sunk by a Japanese submarine somewhere in the Pacific in January 1945.’
Keeton read on, fuming. Ferguson had done his homework thoroughly; he had all the details. There followed a brief description of the Valparaiso, an account of the picking up of Rains and Smith, and then, months later, the astounding reappearance, apparently from the dead, of Keeton, with no recollection of anything that had occurred. Ferguson had omitted nothing; he had thrown it all in. In addition he had stepped up the value of the gold to five million pounds, possibly in the belief that this inflated figure would give the story more attraction in his readers’ eyes.
‘I spoke to all three men,’ the report went on. ‘Mr Keeton in the snug little cabin of his yacht was guarded. Laughingly he referred to me as a snooper and said that I would get nothing out of him. “I am sailing round the world,” was all he would say when quizzed about his plans. Had the meeting in Sydney really been accidental or had it been arranged? Mr Keeton was not telling; but he did admit that the three survivors had had drinks together. No doubt these heroes of the War at Sea had much to talk over, although Mr Keeton’s loss of memory unfortunately blacks out much of his own past.’
‘Damn him,’ Keeton muttered again. ‘Damn his filthy eyes.’
He came to the last paragraph. ‘Surely the thoughts of many of our readers will be with this modern Captain Slocum as he sets out on his lonely voyage across the wide Pacific, for who knows what dangers may lie ahead of him in the vastness of those great waters?’
Keeton crushed the paper into a ball and flung it away.
‘Damn their thoughts! Damn them all to hell!’
The last thing he had wanted was this publicity.
Chapter Four
Setback
Keeton had hoped to leave Sydney as unobtrusively as he had slipped away from England. But, thanks to Ferguson, this was no longer possible. A royal yacht could scarcely have had a more enthusiastic send-off than that which was given to the Roamer. Ships hooted, sailors cheered, and a swarm of little craft, under power and sail, accompanied him on the first stage of his voyage.
‘Confound Ferguson,’ Keeton grumbled. ‘And confound all these bloody idiots with nothing better to do than get in my way.’