Smith said, “It would seem to have a long arm in these parts. So they won’t intern them nor send them on their way.”
Cherry grumbled, “Correct. They will do nothing. That’s why we need you outside of here or Malaguay when they sail, to stop and search them. They’re certain to have some evidence aboard.” He stopped and dabbed at his face. He looked relieved and Smith knew the reason: the decisions were out of Cherry’s hands now and instead in those of Smith.
Smith shifted impatiently. “I want to see her.”
They walked forward of the bridge until they stood under the muzzle of the 9.2 and Cherry pointed at the collier. Gerda lay at anchor near the northern shore which was almost deserted, the buildings of the town being spread in a halfmoon around the eastern and southern shores of the pool so it was not surprising there was no other ship near her. She was rusty and grimy but the wireless aerials strung from her masts were easily seen.
Smith said, “Engine trouble or no, she has fires.” A thread of smoke twisted from Gerda’s funnel. He stood lost in thought but he was still aware of Cherry telling Sarah, “I sent a note ashore to Mrs. Cherry asking for that suitcase of yours.”
Smith said absently, “Fortunate that you have some clothes at the consulate.”
“I have suitcases spread over a couple of thousand miles. I travel a lot and I often have to travel light.”
Smith nodded. “I noticed.”
He chewed it over. Two ships. German crews, German money. Wireless. Nitrates. He was ready to accept Cherry’s reasoning, to act on it, only …
Sarah Benson said slowly, “I don’t know. There’s something — not right about it.”
Cherry asked, “What?”
Sarah said again, “I don’t know. It all fits but —” She shook her head.
Cherry chuckled. “Woman’s intuition?” He glanced, amused, at Smith.
But Smith was not laughing. He stared at the Gerda. And then at Sarah Benson. The wind had brought some colour to her cheeks. It all fitted but — she was right, there was a piece missing. He had come to this port with that unease, that excitement that always came to him before an action and this was not that action. There was something else. He took off his cap and ran a hand through the fair hair sweat plastered to his skull.
Cherry thought he looked very young.
Aitkyne’s eye was on Sarah, hungry, but Smith caught it, and the navigator quickly crossed the deck. “Ah, Mr. Aitkyne. I’m sure Mr. Cherry and Miss Benson would like to meet some of the officers. I wonder if the hospitality of the ward-room …”
“A pleasure, sir.” Aitkyne was tall and handsome and his uniform beautifully tailored as always. He hovered over Sarah as he escorted them below.
Smith was left to prowl the deck, eyes on the Gerda, ill at ease.
Arnold Phizackerly had awoken early, perforce. It was not long past noon when a hand shook his shoulder and he peered out through gummy lids at Perez and asked huskily, “Wassamarrer?”
Perez was a clerk in the port office but also on a retainer from Phizackerly. He whispered, “The British warship, Thunder, she is headed for the river. The signalling station has just telephoned.” He added apologetically, “You said whenever she came I was to tell you. ‘Whenever’, you said. ‘Day or night’.”
“Ah, God!” Phizackerly covered his eyes for a moment but he was not a man to shirk his duty. He crawled slowly, painfully out from under the single sheet to stand in long-sleeved singlet and long cotton drawers that hung loose around his bony rump. They were none too clean and he smelt powerfully of stale sweat.
Perez whispered, awed, “Much woman, hey?”
Phizackerly followed his stare, his own eyes lingering with satisfaction on the huge mound of Juanita under the sheet. She was more than double his weight and stood a head taller. Theirs was a stormy relationship but in bed or out of it they worked well together. He said, “Too much for you, matey.” And cackled. He poked Perez’s ribs with a bony finger and leered gummily, his teeth still in the cup on the dresser. “But you’re a good lad. Come around tonight an’ I’ll get Juanita to fix you up with somebody special.”
Perez left, whispering his gratitude. Phizackerly made his way, painfully hobbling with early morning stiffness, down to the bar, stopping only to urinate on the way. Olsen the Swede was in the bar, lethargically clearing up from the night before. He got coffee for Phizackerly and slipped a stiff tot of rum into it. Phizackerly gulped it and felt better. Olsen shaved him. They did not talk. Partly because Olsen’s English was fractured and Phizackerly’s was thick Scouse although it was more than forty years since he had left Liverpool, but the real reason was that it was too early.
Phizackerly splashed water on his face, dried it and trailed back to his room. The rest of the house was silent; none of the girls would stir until the cool of the early evening. He was feeling more limber, moving with a jerky sprightliness. He opened the wardrobe and selected a suit from the darkest corner. He paused a moment. Next to the suit hung his old uniform, his pilot’s uniform. He touched it with ritualistic pride, and proud not only because it was his own design. Down in the bar there was a big photograph of him in the uniform, a much younger Phizackerly, posed, contriving somehow to look stern, pompous and cunning all at the same time. It was a perpetual reminder of the original source of his wealth. Everyone knew that in the old days he had been a pilot, the pilot. He told them.
He gave a final stroke to the uniform then dressed in the suit: striped trousers, grey morning-coat, patent leather boots and spats. He did not bother with socks; it was a warm day. A jewelled pin went in the tie, cologne on his face and oil on his hair. He combed the scanty locks down on either side from a centre parting with twin little quiffs at the front. He picked up the topper, surveyed himself in the mirror and decided he looked what he was: a man of substance in this town. He no longer carried the cane since a merchant captain said he looked like a monkey up a bloody stick.
He left the room, closing the door gently behind him after one last fond glance at the mountainous Juanita, lying on her back now and snoring resonantly. Halfway down the stairs he turned and retraced his steps to the dresser beside the bed, fished his teeth from the cup there and bit over them, snapped them tentatively a couple of times. Now he was ready.
He strolled down to the waterfront. Thunder lay out in the basin and a small crowd on the quay stared and pointed at her. Only a small crowd because she had been here many times, they had seen her before. As had Phizackerly but he regarded her with pride as he always did. His narrow chest swelled and he strutted a little. He was British, by God. Then his gaze became pensive, calculating. They were not new calculations but a re-totting of old ones. He knew the size of Thunders complement almost to a man and the value of a man in terms of spending power. The unknown factors were whether any of them would be allowed ashore and if they were, where they would be allowed to spend their leave and their money. The latter factor was the reason for his being on the quay.
His contact in the telegraph office had told him of the Captain’s death. A new Captain could mean a new start. At any rate, Phizackerly would give it a good try.