Shadde's mouth set grimly. "What specialist, may I ask?"
"Someone who specializes in diagnosis, sir." He'd like to have said a psychiatrist, but he dared not.
Shadde stood up. "I sent for you, O'Shea, because I can't sleep. We go to sea at o-eight-thirty. I want to sleep now, do you understand? I can't wait for Haslar and your quack friends."
The doctor's face was grave. "I could give you a sedative, sir. But it's too late. You'd feel drugged at o-eight-thirty."
"Thank you," Shadde said icily. "I see you're not anxious to help. You're like so many of the officers in this boat. You've all got a great deal to say, but when it comes to doing things you're not an impressive bunch. You don't really know what's the trouble, do you?"
The doctor hesitated. He couldn't tell the captain what Rhys Evans had said to him that morning so he said, "I can tell you, sir, that your nerves are in bad shape."
Shadde went white. "Nerves" meant Sabre and the Lombok Strait. So this filthy little medico was trying to get at that, was he? He moved quickly to the door and slid it open.
"Get out," he shouted. "Get out before I throw you out."
As soon as the doctor had gone Shadde sent for Gracie and made him sit down. Hollow-eyed and disheveled, the captain started pacing the cabin floor. "You remember our talk about those signals, Gracie?" Shadde watched him closely. "I shall want them today. When we're at sea."
Gracie rose; it was awkward sitting there while the captain was on his feet. "Since you first mentioned it, sir, I've thought of some snags," he said uneasily.
Shadde stopped pacing. "Snags? Snags?"
"Signals about missile states of readiness and firings are top secret, sir. I don't know the address groups and prefixes."
Shadde gave him a dry smile. "Don't worry about that. I'll prepare the signals. All you do is transmit them on that closed circuit you told me about and get 'em through your teleprinter."
Grade's forehead puckered. "A genuine firing signal would give the target coordinates, sir. They're top secret, too."
Shadde went on pacing, head thrust forward, hands clasped behind his back. "That's not your worry either. I'll look after it."
There was a long silence. "Anything else, sir?"
The captain seemed to be listening to something far away. "Anything more?" he said, as if he were trying to remember something. "No! Except—" his eyes bored into the telegraphist "—not a word of this to anyone, d'you understand?"
Ten minutes before the submarine sailed from Copenhagen, the engineer officer and Mr. Buddington went into the steering compartment and shut the watertight door behind them. They devoted the next hour to the port ram cylinder, constantly loosening and tightening, and sometimes just observing the drain plug and the brass locknut which secured it. They did these things while the steering gear was at rest; while it was moving; while it was being tested hard aport and hard astarboard; while the submarine was slipping from her buoy; and finally as she turned into the Sound. At last Mr. Buddington said, "Well, thank you very much. That will do very nicely."
The engineer officer scratched his head. "Indeed, and I have no idea what you're after, but I hope it will help you."
"Oh! It has already," said Mr. Buddington with unusual enthusiasm. "You know I spent some time in here between Stockholm and Copenhagen, and it was then that I had this idea. And now these tests have really given me what I was looking for."
The engineer officer darted a keen look at him. "Not trying to poke my nose in, but . . . d'you think you've got your man?"
"No, no!" said Mr. Buddington hastily. "But I've got a useful line to work on."
They were leaving the steering compartment when Rhys Evans noticed a dark object lying on the deck on the far side of the steering gear. He went across and picked up a folded watch coat. He looked at the name tab. "Kyle's! That explains it. Must have been sitting on it here when he was on the drunk last night."
But Mr. Buddington was seeing something else: a piece of oil-smeared gray silk, with one side torn, hanging out of a pocket.
By nine o'clock Retaliate was northward-bound up the Sound, running on the surface in a gray sea. She was on the last lap of her voyage, and the crew's spirits were high. In two days' time they would be steaming into Portsmouth, and Portsmouth meant leave, wives, girl friends and families. In every compartment, men were exchanging grins and lighthearted chaff. Another patrol was coming to an end, and England, home and beauty lay ahead.
Down in the wardroom pantry Dusty Miller was confiding some astonishing information to his friend "Bullseye" Target, and the doctor, sitting in the wardroom, could not help overhearing. "Skipper rings for me at half past seven and says, 'Miller, take this driving license into the police station and show it to Inspector Jensen. Make it sharp,' 'e says. 'And Miller,' 'e says, 'I would appreciate your treating this matter as confidential!'"
"Blimey, Dusty, what's the old man been up to?"
Miller cleared his throat importantly. " 'Old on a minute and I'll tell you. When I get to this Inspector Jensen, 'e looks at the license and writes something in a logbook. Then 'e asks me about our missile lot and what my job is. I told 'im I don't know nothing about missiles because I'm the captain's steward, and then 'e says, quietlike, 'Tell me, does your captain drink much?'"
"What did you say?"
"I said, 'Well, the old man likes a snort now and then like any naval officer.' Then this bloke says, quite nasty, 'How many drinks does your captain 'ave in one go?'"
"Stone the crows," said Target. "Nosey parker."
"'E was and all. Anyway I closed up then and said, 'The captain's a man what's very moderate with 'is drink. Never known 'im have more than a couple at one session.'"
"Goodo, Dusty. But what's 'is lordship been up to?"
"Ah," replied Miller. "I knew you'd ask that one, Bullseye. I said to the inspector casual-like, 'Captain asked me to ask you what's going to 'appen?' 'E said, 'Tell him the charge ain't framed yet but it'll probably be something like reckless and negligent driving while under the influence of alcohol.'"
"Cor, strike a light!" Target's breath came heavily. "Skipper up for drunken driving. Where'd 'e get the flipping car?"
"Ah!" said Miller triumphantly. "Inspector told me it belongs to a young Danish lady. What's more, when the skipper 'ad the accident—with a Danish bloke—she was in the car with 'im!"
Target chortled hoarsely. "Blimey, if the Daily Mirror gets hold of that lot! Can't you see the 'eadlines, Dusty? 'Atom-sub captain drunk in car smash with Danish model.' "
After an alteration of course off Halsingborg, Shadde left the bridge and went to his cabin. Soon afterward Mr. Buddington came in. At Shadde's invitation he sat down primly, feet and knees together. From his pocket he produced two pieces of gray silk.
"Ah!" said Shadde. "Rhys Evans told me. What's the verdict?"
"It's certainly the other half of the piece you found."
"Is it, by Jove! So Shepherd was right. And it was in Kyle's watch coat. We've got him now, haven't we?"
Mr. Buddington coughed. "I'm afraid we haven't, Captain. I admit that this looks suspicious, but other factors suggest he's not our man."
"Such as?" said Shadde dryly.
"At this stage, sir, I'd prefer to mention only one of them. The same man was presumably responsible for all three incidents of suspected sabotage. Well, on the two previous occasions—Portsmouth and Queensferry—Kyle had been on leave for at least ten days when the incidents occurred."
"That doesn't necessarily clear him of the Stockholm business. Surely that gray silk in his watch coat is damning evidence? And his outbursts about fixing this boat?"
Mr. Buddington's voice was firm. "No, Captain, it's not damning. I am, I admit, puzzled, but I don't think Kyle is the man."