Caine Mutiny, The - Herman Wouk [180]
The head of Queeg poked around the doorway into the shower room. “Well, well, well. Everything getting under way nicely?”
“Yes, sir,” said Willie.
“Fine, fine. Put Farrington to work, hey? Fine, fine.” The head grinned, and nodded, and disappeared.
“Who’s got a cigarette?” said Willie, a little shakily.
“Right here, sir.” Meatball extended a pack, and swiftly struck a match, shielding it with a cupped fat palm. He said genially, as Willie puffed, “Gives a guy the heebie-jeebies, don’t it, sir?”
Captain Queeg walked forward with rapid steps, ignoring the malevolent looks of the sailors clustered in doorways and under tarpaulins. Raindrops bounced from his yellow poncho. He encountered Maryk climbing out of the narrow hatchway of the forward engine room. “Well, well, Steve. How’s it going down there?”
“Okay, sir.” The exec was flushed and sweating. “Just started, of course-it’ll take about four hours-but they’re really going at it-”
“Fine, fine. Budge is a man you can rely on. Yes, sir. Fact, Steve, I think all our chiefs and first-class are doing themselves proud, and the officers, too, for that matter. Why, even Keith-”
“Pardon me, sir.” The yeoman, Jellybelly, was at the captain’s elbow. He saluted, panting, with a glance at Maryk.
“Yes, Porteous?”
“You-wanted a report, sir, from me. I’ve got it for you-”
“Oh, yes, yes. Excuse me, Steve. Keep an eye on things. Keep ’em moving. Come along, Porteous.”
Queeg closed his cabin door and said, “Well?”
“Sir, you meant that about yeoman’s school in, Frisco?” Jellybelly’s look was cunning and timorous.
“Of course I did, Porteous, I don’t kid about such things. If you have any information which can be proved-”
“It was the mess boys, sir,” whispered the fat yeoman.
“Oh, hell, it was not. Damn it, why do you waste my time-”
“Sir, Chief Bellison saw them. It was around one o’clock that night. He was coming back from breaking up a crap game in the forward crew’s compartment. He passed the pantry. He told a couple of chiefs, and-”
“Are you trying to tell me that my chief master-at-arms would see pilfering, and not make an arrest, and not even report to me?” Queeg pulled steel balls out of his pocket and began to roll them. The happy look was fading from his face, the sick wrinkles reappearing.
“Well, sir, he didn’t think nothing of it, see, because the mess boys, well, they’re always chowing up on wardroom leftovers, it ain’t nothing new. And then when this big fuss was kicked up, he felt sorry for them, he thought they’d all pull BCD’s, so he kept quiet. But it’s all over the ship, sir, this morning-you can prove it easy-”
Queeg dropped into his swivel chair, and looked around dully at the myriad keys stacked on the deck. His mouth hung slightly open; his lower lip was pulled in. “Porteous, this conversation of ours is to remain confidential.”
The yeoman, his face twisted in a rueful leer, said, “It certainly will, sir, I hope.”
“Type out your application for that school, with an approving endorsement, and I’ll sign it.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“That’s all, Porteous.”
After a half hour, Maryk began to wonder what had become of the captain. The plan called for Queeg to supervise topside and forward while the exec concentrated on the labyrinthine engineering spaces, but the busy, smiling figure of the commanding officer had vanished from the search scene. Maryk went to Queeg’s cabin and knocked. “Come in,” called a harsh voice. The captain was lying on his bunk in his underwear, staring at the ceiling, rolling balls in both hands. “What is it, Mr. Maryk?”
“Pardon me, sir-I thought you were supervising topside-”
“I have a headache. You take over.”
The exec said uncertainly, after a pause, “Aye aye, sir. I