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TWO BIRDS WITH ONE
STONE
Nik Morton
“Sorry, sir,” Torrence said, shaking his
narrow-shaped head. He cleared his throat loudly. “The cargo's been in The
Star's hold too long, Mr Grant. It's surprising what a little dock-strike
can do...”
Lined face
blotched with red, George Grant scowled at his shipping agent. “And who knows about this?” Torrence must be getting past it, he thought
savagely, to make such an elementary mistake.
“Myself.” Torrence
paused, grey eyes evasive. “And the
Second Engineer.” Before Grant could
react, he hastened on: “He learned of it by accident. Came straight to me. Seemed to think there might be something in
it for him...”
“Sounds like he
can be bought,” Grant remarked, stroking his thick dry lips. Being in a position of power wasn't enough
some days; it was much better when people could be manipulated, like the good
old days when he first began his climb to the top. He suddenly smiled, light blue eyes
sparkling. “Right. Would you bring him round to my house tonight
- at eight?”
As
Torrence left, suitably chastened, Grant leaned across his teak desk, his
paunch ample testimony of the countless business lunches he had attended. His wife still argued with him about the
coronary he was nurturing. She still cared for him, he felt sure.
He
picked up the gilt-framed photograph of Susan. His heart turned, threatening
that same thrombosis at the thought of those cupid's-bow lips kissing another
man, of those wide, exquisite hazel eyes looking lovingly at another... Her
auburn hair, tastefully draping her delicately boned shoulders, stroked by the
hand of another man! Moisture brimmed
his eyes.
For
some time now he’d suspected that Susan's lover was employed on The Star. Now, if he could get the Second Engineer to
scuttle the ship for the insurance - which seemed why he'd approached Torrence
anyway - then that would solve the rotten food problem.
And,
unbidden, a dark thought occurred to him.
He had not climbed to his successful position without treading on many
people, but he'd always resisted outright violence, no matter how much he may
have longed to “dispose” of a competitor.
But where Susan was concerned he was not always rational. The scuttling
would also perhaps rid him of Susan's lover as well... Two birds with one
stone!
***
That evening, Susan greeted him warmly
enough, obviously keeping up the pretence of a loving wife. “Busy day at the office, darling?” Now, it sounded like a hollow cliché! Inwardly, he went very cold at the touch of
her lips on his cheek.
He never
discussed his work with Susan and had even less cause to do so now. “A small
crisis has cropped up,” he said, hanging up his overcoat. “I've had to invite a
couple of chaps round tonight - to talk ship. You'd no other plans, I hope - ?”
Fleetingly,
her look implied that he could have telephoned to warn her, but she simply
said, “No, darling. It will make a nice
change, won't it?”
Torrence
arrived punctually and Grant ushered him and the tall angular Second Engineer
into the comfortable lounge. The small chandelier's lights glinted on the
glasses and bottles of the drinks cabinet in an alcove; trendy tapas
decorated the coffee table and chair arms.
“May
I introduce Martin Connolly?” the shipping agent said.
Susan
paled noticeably. After a slight hesitancy, she shook hands with the seaman.
Grant
glared, his heart hammering. His whole
body tensed; he was unaware that his teeth were grinding together. The telling exchange of glances had been
brief, but he’d been quick enough to detect the unspoken communication in their
eyes: as if she had said to Connolly, “And why the hell didn't you phone me?”
So...
Connolly was her lover!
But what did she
see in him, a grease-smelling engineer, with a take-home salary barely a
fraction of mine? His dark brown eyes,
too close together, were too shifty by half, looked intense, scheming... Plans
would have to be revised slightly. He
hadn't wished to get personally involved, but now he had no choice. He wouldn't trust Torrence with the
task. A trip to Jacko in Soho would be
necessary... Tactfully, Torrence vanished into the kitchen to assist Susan with
the coffee. The swing-door shut behind
them.
“I
think you know why I'm here, Mr Grant,” Connolly said. “I want to marry Susan,” he blurted out. “Will you give her a divorce?”
The
direct, no-messing approach, so much like his own attitude in his youth, now
annoyed Grant.
They
stared at each other.
Finally,
Grant replied, coldly, “Not without a fight.”
Connolly
hesitated, nervously brushed fingers through his shock of black hair.
Grant
thought of his own balding head, and his other remorseless signs of physical
neglect and age, and realised what she saw in the Second Engineer.
“What
are you doing about the rotten cargo, Mr Grant?” he asked pointedly.
“I know Torrence slipped up - it wasn't
adequately insured...”
It
made sense. Connolly would keep quiet
about the perished cargo if Susan had a speedy divorce... The scheming,
conniving – “That depends on you,” he heard himself saying.
“Oh?”
“My
wife has a price: that cargo and ship.
I'd want you to open the cocks of The Star in mid-Channel.”
The
swine never even batted an eyelid! “As
ships go, she's past her prime, anyway, Mr Grant... And the divorce?”
Connolly nodded
unhesitatingly and they shook hands on the deal just as Susan and Torrence
joined them with the trolley of coffee and cakes.
***
Next day, directly after his Soho visit,
Grant stepped onto The Star's gangway.
Salt-spray on the estuary's breeze sprinkled his face.
“Nice to see
you, Mr Grant.” Captain Henderson's
craggy features cracked into a grin. “If you're worried about the cargo, then
rest assured, the strike's over. We sail tonight at eleven and arrive New York
Thursday.”
“That's fine,
Captain!” Summoning a smile, Grant stammered, “Is it all right for me - to go
below?”
Captain
Henderson cocked his head enquiringly.
Grant
shrugged. “The engine-room,” he
mumbled. “An old friend's there - Martin
Connolly.” Heart throbbing, he gripped
his weighty briefcase tightly, knuckles showing white.
“Ah,
Marty!” the Captain beamed. “Along that
passage, third hatch on your right. Two
decks down... Mind your step, sir...” He
turned back to supervise the loading of some additional cargo.
Once
below-decks, Grant ignored the Skipper's directions and headed aft;
half-choking on the sudden overwhelming stench of diesel-oil, he descended
three deck-ladders to the machinery space just for'ard of the
propeller-shafts. There was nobody
about. All busy saying their farewells,
probably...
He
gingerly removed the package his old associate Jacko had constructed for
him. It looked ridiculously amateurish,
like something out of a cartoon or B-movie, but Jacko had assured him that it
would do the trick. It had better,
thought Grant as he hurriedly left the ship.
He returned home
just after midnight, slightly the worse for celebrating the ship's sailing.
Susan's lover would go down with the ship at ten sharp tomorrow... A pity about
the crew, though. Perhaps only the
engine-room would have fatalities... He eyed Susan's photograph, and cried at
the lengths he would go to just to keep her.
Then he saw the
note, on the mantelpiece.
George, I'm
sorry, but I'm leaving you. Martin
doesn't know but I'm booked on The Star. I'm sure I can persuade him to stay
with me in America. I'm sorry. Susan.
Oh, no!
Everything swayed before his eyes. He unconsciously crumpled the note into a
ball and threw it viciously across the room.
Supporting his trembling frame against the mantel-shelf, he clenched and
unclenched his fists. His heart felt like it was doing the clenching too... He
couldn't live without her - didn't she understand that? And now he'd murdered her... unless he
confessed, alerted the ship...
Unwelcome,
a vision swam before his mind's-eye, of The Star riven by the explosion,
a fountain of water gushing through the blasted deck-plates, steam gushing, oil
spewing, flames cavorting, a pall of smoke, men shouting, shouting, panicking,
fire-fighting, swimming... And Susan, perhaps cast into the sea, bleeding or
burned or both, her beautiful features unrecognisable...
He
sobbed aloud and cursed. Now, there was
no feeling of smugness, of revenge, and no contentment. Only a fathomless sensation of emptiness, his
life stretching ahead, barren. Strange, he'd rather have shared the little he
had of her than this... he hadn't wanted her dead - well, not after the first
hot rage at discovering she'd been cheating on their marriage...
It
was Connolly - he'd enticed her away.
But
if I alert Henderson, I'll be as good as confessing to attempted sabotage,
fraud, and murder; I'll be imprisoned, ruined, parted from her possibly for
years...
Hands
trembling, fidgeting with countless chain-smoked cigarettes, he paced out the
hours.
***
Unshaven, with bloodshot blue-hooded eyes,
he lurched past his astounded secretary, Miss Gaskell, grabbed the office phone
and rang the dockside.
“Mrs
Grant boarded The Star an hour before it sailed,” he was told.
Hanging
up, he snapped, “What's the time?”
“N
- nine, sir.”
Grant
jumped up, eyes staring wildly. Damn the consequences! There was still time to save Susan. “Miss Gaskell, quick - I'll dictate an
e-mail!”
Concerned
eyes fixed on him, she sat with pad and pencil poised as an anxious-looking clerk
dashed in, waving a message.
Grant
grabbed the sheet, scanned its contents twice, his heart quaking.
Face crumpling,
he slowly sat down.
AT
0840 GMT TODAY 'THE STAR' SANK FOLLOWING A MYSTERIOUS EXPLOSION.
Jacko's timing
device must have been faulty...
TWO DEAD, FIVE
MISSING.
At
that moment a tall stranger in a tweed overcoat was escorted into the office. “I'm
Detective Inspector Stokes,” he said, producing credentials from a pocket.
Grant looked up
with a start, seeing the detective in front of his desk. A strange feeling of relief seeped into him.
Somehow, they knew... Dazedly, he nodded, mouth dry, and said, “I did it.”
“Pardon, sir?”
“Sank
The Star - what else - that's why you're here, isn't it?”
***
Previously published in the Costa Blanca News, 2005.
Copyright Nik Morton, 2014
If you liked this story, you might like my collection of crime tales Spanish Eye, which
features 22 cases from Leon Cazador, private eye, ‘in his own words’. He is also featured in the story
‘Processionary Penitents’ in the Crooked Cat Collection of twenty tales, Crooked Cats’ Tales.
Spanish Eye, released by Crooked Cat Publishing is available as a paperback and as
an e-book.
