Cavan looked at Shadde's cleft chin. It seemed bigger, more menacing than usual. "Is that all, sir?"
Shadde turned away. "That is all." Why couldn't this oaf of a first lieutenant look you straight in the eye?
During the morning Retaliate continued to the southwest at a depth of one hundred feet. At half past ten, when they were entering the waters between Sandhammaren and Bornholm, Kyle appeared before the captain as a defaulter.
Earlier Shadde had asked Mr. Buddington about the evidence linking Kyle with the sabotage attempt.
"There is no evidence, Captain," said Mr. Buddington mildly. "All that's been suggested against Kyle is either hearsay or circumstantial. And what in fact does it amount to? That he was one of three men who worked on the steering gear the day before sailing. That Shepherd says he's got a chip on his shoulder."
Shadde frowned. "But you might just consider that he is an engineering mechanic, and he was in the steering compartment. He had both access and the know-how. And he was ashore at the time the steering jammed."
"That fact may yet prove that he had nothing to do with it."
"I've a hunch you're wrong, Mr. Buddington. If it's not Kyle, who do you suspect?"
In his chair the little man clasped his hands around one knee. "I try and avoid suspecting anyone, Captain. It destroys objectivity." The watery little eyes moved away from Shadde's. "It's my job to observe, inquire and sift. That's the only way to solve a problem."
"Well, you haven't solved this one," retorted Shadde.
"Dear me! Perhaps I sounded rather boastful. I should have said 'try to solve.' You see, I sometimes fail."
Shadde regarded him coldly. "Yes ... I imagine you do." He got up. "Mind if I make a suggestion?"
"Not at all."
"Find the owner of the gray silk and you've got your man."
Mr. Buddington regarded the captain thoughtfully. "Perhaps," he said gently. "Perhaps."
When Shadde got to the control room he went immediately to the small table at which the ritual of Captain's Defaulters was to be performed.
The coxswain called Kyle to the table. "Off caps!" he snapped, and Kyle removed his cap. Warily Shadde examined the drawn face, the erupted skin and the dark rebellious eyes. There was a large bandage over Kyle's temple. He was a slight, forlorn figure.
The coxswain read the charges. Kyle was accused of conducting himself to the prejudice of good order and naval discipline, in that he had remained ashore without leave and behaved in a drunken and disorderly fashion.
When evidence had been given concerning Kyle's apprehension ashore and return to the ship, Shadde said. "Well, Kyle, what've you to say?" His stare from under bushy eyebrows transfixed the young prisoner.
"Sir, it wouldn't be no good. Nobody'd believe me anyhow."
"I'll decide that, Kyle. What is your story?"
In short, disjointed sentences Kyle told of his night in Stockholm, skipping as delicately as he could over the events in Ingrid's apartment.
"Kyle," Shadde said, "why do you forage about ashore on your own? An English sailor alone in a foreign port is always fair game. You've been in the service long enough to know that."
Kyle was silent. He gazed into space.
Shadde turned to the engineer officer. "Lieutenant Commander Evans. What can you tell me about this man?"
Rhys Evans' kind, open face was distressed. "Indeed, he's a good man, sir. Diligent at his work and reliable."
Dear old Chiefy, Shadde thought. Always puts in a good word for any of his people in trouble. But he doesn't understand Kyle. Then Shadde's eyes met the doctor's. He could see what O'Shea was thinking, He needs help, not punishment. His mind shut with a snap. He wasn't going to be influenced by any psychiatric humbug. Kyle had missed his ship. That was a serious offense. And he was just the nasty little type who might try his hand at sabotage. When they got back to their base he must be drafted ashore. In the meantime an example must be made of him.
"Kyle, there's no place in submarines for men who don't know how to behave ashore, particularly in a foreign country. I'm going to stop your leave for twenty-eight days."
Kyle's lower lip trembled. They would be in Portsmouth in a week. This meant he wouldn't get the leave he'd planned to spend with Mum. His eyes filled with tears.
"On caps! About turn! Double march!" snapped the coxswain. Ernie Kyle replaced his cap and doubled from the control room.
Shortly before noon Shadde invited the engineer officer to his cabin for a glass of sherry. Officially, this was to discuss the submarine's coming refit in Portsmouth; unofficially, it was because Shadde needed company. They talked about the refit and then Shadde began to complain about the torpedo exercise.
"It's damned serious you know, Chiefy."
"Oh! It's not that bad, sir. You're worrying too much these days. A good rest you need."
Shadde frowned. "I'm not exaggerating. This boat's not the fighting unit she should be. Trouble with a long peace. Everything's a lark. Nobody believes the real thing will ever happen."
With a shock Rhys Evans noticed how gray Shadde's hair was going. He held his sherry up to the light and examined it carefully. "I'm not surprised at that."
"Even you don't take it seriously, Chiefy. Just this morning Number One said he couldn't believe we'd ever use Retaliate in earnest. My first lieutenant! Damn dangerous, this it-can't-hap-pen-to-us sort of idea. Like Pearl Harbor." Shadde searched the engineer's face intently. "Know what I think? Retaliate will be used—when we least expect it. And d'you know what worries me?"
"Be the end of everything?"
"No, not that," Shadde said irritably. "I'm afraid that when we are needed you'll find half the crew are ban-the-bomb rabble."
Embarrassed by the captain's vehemence, the engineering officer sipped at his sherry. Shadde frowned. "And the doctor'll explain that we're badly adjusted and need compensating."
Evans laughed, a small forced laugh. "You'll be taking leave in Portsmouth, sir?" he tried.
Shadde looked at him gloomily. "Yes, I suppose so."
"Taking the little lady motoring in France, didn't you say?"
Shadde got up and made much of putting a book on the shelf. "I haven't any plans."
"But only the other day you told me of them."
To Evans' astonishment Shadde rounded on him, blazing. "Will you kindly stop prying into my private life."
Seeing the hurt on the Welshman's face, he said thickly, "Sorry, Chiefy . . . point is . . . may not have a wife soon. She wants to leave me." Then his mouth shut in that final, implacable way. "Well, Chiefy, I've work to do. See you later."
Rhys Evans was shocked. An old friend of Shadde's, he had often met his wife, but never really got to know her. It had never occurred to him that they were anything but happily married, or that a man of Shadde's character and authority could be a victim of anything so untidy as marital trouble. But he knew from that sudden outburst that it must be serious.
After lunch they surfaced off Cape Arkona on the German coast. The wind across the north-going stream had piled up a short, confused sea which often broke over the submarine and drenched the watchkeepers on the bridge. The motion was distinctly uncomfortable, and at 1330, much to the crew's relief, Shadde reduced speed from eighteen to twelve knots. Because of Retaliate's deep draft he deemed it inadvisable to approach Copenhagen from the south through the shallow Sound, so he set about course instead for the west passage by way of the Great Belt, a journey of some two hundred and twenty sea miles. Having done this he went the first in a long while to his bunk and fell into a deep sleep. He was wakened about an hour later by an unfamiliar sound, the faint whine of a saxophone, and twined around it the husky voice of a woman crooning.