The Floating Admiral - Agatha Christie [6]
“Dam’ bad whisky but dam’ good. WhadImeansay is,” he explained with laborious logic, “whisky dam’ bad, but dam’ bad whisky dam’ good thing.”
“He’s had more than whisky,” said one of the Swedish sailors in Swedish American.
“He’s had everything there is to have, I should think,” replied a Pole with a refined accent.
And then a little swarthy Jew, who was born in Budapest but had lived in Whitechapel, struck up in piping tones a song he had heard there: “Every nice girl loves a sailor.” And in his song there was a sneer that was some day to be seen on the face of Trotsky, and to change the world.
The dawn gives us the third glimpse of the harbour of Hong Kong, where the battleship flying the Stars and Stripes lay with the other battleship flying the Union Jack; and on the latter ship there was turmoil and blank dismay. The First and Second Officers looked at each other with growing alertness and alarm, and one of them looked at a watch.
“Can you suggest anything, Mr. Lutterell?” said one of them, with a sharp voice but a very vague eye.
“I think we shall have to send somebody ashore to find out,” replied Mr. Lutterell.
At this point a third officer appeared hauling forward a heavy and reluctant seaman; who was supposed to have some information to give, but seemed to have some difficulty in giving it.
“Well, you see, sir, he’s been found,” he said at last. “The Captain’s been found.”
Something in his tone moved the First Officer to sudden horror.
“What do you mean by found?” he cried. “You talk as if he was dead!”
“Well, I don’t think he’s dead,” said the sailor with irritating slowness. “But he looked dead-like.”
“I’m afraid, sir,” said the Second Officer in a low voice, “that they’re just bringing him in. I hope they’ll be quick and keep it as quiet as they can.”
Under these circumstances did the First Officer look up and behold his respected Captain returning to his beloved ship. He was being carried like a sack by two dirty-looking coolies, and the officers hastily closed round him and carried him to his cabin. Then Mr. Lutterell turned sharply and sent for the ship’s doctor.
“Hold these men for the moment,” he said, pointing to the coolies; “we’ve got to know about this. Now then, Doctor, what’s the matter with him?”
The doctor was a hard-headed, hatchet-faced man, having the not very popular character of a candid friend; and on this occasion he was very candid indeed.
“I can see and smell for myself,” he said, “before I begin the examination. He’s had opium and whisky as well as Heaven knows what else. I should say he’s a bag of poisons.”
“Any wounds at all?” asked the frowning Lutterell.
“I should say he’s knocked himself out,” said the candid doctor. “Most likely knocked himself out of the Service.”
“You have no right to say that,” said the First Officer severely. “That is for the authorities.”
“Yes,” said the other doggedly. “Authorities of a Court Martial, I should say. No; there are no wounds.”
Thus do the first three stages of the story reach their conclusion; and it must be admitted with regret that so far there is no moral to the story.
CHAPTER I
By Canon Victor L. Whitechurch
CORPSE AHOY!
EVERYONE in Lingham knew old Neddy Ware, though he was not a native of the village, having only resided there for the last ten years; which, in the eyes of the older inhabitants who had spent the whole of their lives in that quiet spot, constituted him still a “stranger.”
Not that they really knew very much about him, for the old man was of a retiring disposition and had few cronies. What they did know was that he was a retired petty officer of the Royal Navy, subsisting on his pension, that he was whole-heartedly