Читать книгу Bodies from the Library: Lost Tales of Mystery and Suspense by Agatha Christie and other Masters of the Golden Age - Агата Кристи, Georgette Heyer, Agatha Christie - Страница 21

ALICE: I hate him! There, I’ve said it at last, I hate him.

LAURENCE: But, Alice—

ALICE: No, I’m not being hysterical. I won’t—sometimes I think that’s what he wants—to drive me mad.

LAURENCE: Now you are exaggerating, my dear. James is not—well, not one of the world’s leading charmers. But—

ALICE: Hate. I wonder if you know what it’s like. Real hate. Oh, Laurence, what’s going to happen? I’ve stood it for nearly three years. The humiliations, the scenes, the horrible little pinpricks, all the things he does to break down my pride. You can’t imagine—

LAURENCE: Perhaps I can, my dear. Remember, I have to work with him.

ALICE: It’s like having a—a huge toad sitting across the path, blocking it, blocking it, blocking out the whole future. Oh God, I—

LAURENCE: There’s one way out, Alice?

ALICE: One way out.

LAURENCE: My darling. I love you. You must know that. Come away with me. Leave him.

ALICE: I wonder if you mean that. Do you realise—? No, listen. It would be the end of your partnership in the firm. Daddy would be sacked too, and James would see he never got another ship. I couldn’t do it.

LAURENCE: My sweet, do you love me?

ALICE: I—oh, I don’t know, Laurence. I’m fond of you. You’ve been so kind to me all these months—

LAURENCE: Kind!

ALICE: No, please don’t make it more difficult for me. You know I can’t. If it was just ourselves—but there’s Daddy. He set all his hopes on me. He wanted me to have the world—and he thinks I’ve got it. Lady Braithwaite! No, it’d break his heart. I am grateful to you, my dear—

LAURENCE: Very well. I understand. I’ll not say a word more about it. For the present. Perhaps James will fall overboard during the voyage or something.

ALICE: The voyage. I’m dreading it. Do you know why I’m so upset this morning? Why James is bringing you and Laura and me on the voyage? Do you realise what this Mr Strangeways is for?

LAURENCE: Strangeways? He’s coming as a temporary secretary, your husband told me.

ALICE: Secretary! Laurence, it’s vile. James suspects—shh—oh, it’s Laura.

LAURA: Hello, you two. You look very cheerful, I must say. I’ve just been laying in some Mother Siegel’s. Where’s James?

(Fade. Sound of subdued voices. Voice of Page-boy growing louder.)

PAGE-BOY: Calling Sir James Braithwaite. Room 15. Calling Sir James Braithwaite. Room 15. Calling Sir James Braithwaite. Room—

(Snapping of fingers.)

JAMES: Here, boy. Haven’t you got eyes in your head? What is it, now?

PAGE-BOY: Mr Nigel Strangeways to see you, sir. In the lobby, sir.

(Sir James rises. As he goes out, the murder of voices is heard again. Above it, three voices rise.)

VOICE I: Who’s that old bird, Reggie?

VOICE II: Sir James Braithwaite. The shipowner. Sailing on one of his own ships next tide, I believe.

VOICE III: Jimmy Braithwaite sailing on one of his own ships? Crikey! Is he tired of life, or what?

(Fade. A door closes.)

JAMES: Morning, Strangeways. So you’ve decided to take on the job, eh?

NIGEL: Yes, Sir James. I—

JAMES: Just step out on the terrace with me a moment. It’ll be quieter out there.

(Sound of swing-door. Lobby noises cut off.)

NIGEL: (brisk, cheerful, not at all overawed by Sir James) Yes. You made such a mystery of it over the telephone. And I just can’t refrain from poking my nose into mysteries.

JAMES: (very frigid) Indeed? It is understood that you will be sailing as my employee, my secretary?

NIGEL: (faintest note of amusement in voice) Yes, Sir James.

JAMES: Very well, As I think I told you, we are to sail on one of my own ships: the ‘James Braithwaite’. She’s a freighter of some 2,500 tons, with accommodation for a few passengers. My wife—Lady Alice; Laurence Annesley and his sister, Laura—he’s a junior partner in my firm—will be coming as well. We go out on the evening tide.

NIGEL: And where does the—er—secretary come in?

JAMES: Your job is to keep your eyes open, Strangeways—and your mouth shut.

NIGEL: Hmm. A sea trip and a nice fat fee for—keeping my eyes open.

JAMES: When I need a job doing, young man, I can afford to pay for it.

NIGEL: So you’ve purchased the best detective that money can buy, to keep his eyes open. Open for what, Sir James?… Are you anticipating an attempt on your life, for instance?

JAMES: Don’t be ridiculous … I’ll tell you more when we get on board. There’s several kinds of treachery, young man.

NIGEL: Just one thing, Sir James. Why the ‘James Braithwaite’? Why have you decided to sail on a small, uncomfortable cargo-steamer, when—

JAMES: That’s my affair. Nothing wrong with my ships, let me tell you—

(Fade out. Fade in to quayside. Sound of seagulls, winches, commands. Voices, Tyneside accent, are of two stevedores and one seaman.)

VOICE I: Got the owner sailing with you, Geordie, eh?

VOICE II: Aye, the old—(loud expectoration). And a cargo of skirts. Women on board! I don’t like it. It’s not lucky.

VOICE III: Won’t be the first time a Braithwaite boat’s been unlucky, mate.

VOICE II: Aye, and for why? Look at the way he sorts them out. Ruddy suicide ships, that’s all they are.

VOICE I: Reckon your owner doesn’t worry. He gets the insurance, see?

VOICE II: Too true he does. (lowers voice) I was on the ‘Mary Garside’, chum. Gaw, she was a packet! Chuck a cupful of water at her, and she’d start her rivets. And roll! Jees, we was hardly off soundings, and she rolled so you could see passing ships through the ventilators. When she went down—

VOICE III: Pipe down, Geordie. There’s the master going aboard.

GREER: Morning, Mr Maclean.

MACLEAN: Good day to you, Captain.

GREER: Got your loading done?

MACLEAN: There’s just those crates for Number 3 hold to go in. She’s trimmed by the head a wee bit, I’m thinking.

GREER: Step this way a minute, mister. Let Mr Cafferty attend to it.

(Steps along deck, down companionway. Noises shut off as they enter the captain’s saloon. The two men relax.)

GREER: A-Ah. Well, Donald, they’ll be aboard presently, it’s a great day for me—Alice and Sir James sailing with us.

MACLEAN: I don’t grudge it to you, John. I wish he might have picked on some other ship, though.

GREER: I know. But ye must let bygones be bygones.

MACLEAN: Bygones be bygones! I could forgive him for sailing out the ‘Mary Garside’ ill-found that voyage. Maybe I’d find it in my heart to forgive him that. But when he sets on his lawyers at the inquiry to make out it was my fault, when he loses me my master’s ticket—na, na, John, flesh and blood wilna endure that.

GREER: I know, Donald. But he had to save his face. And he kept you on in the company’s service.

MACLEAN: Wasn’t that great! A robber steals your reputation and allows ye to keep your badge-cap! And now he’s coming aboard to gloat over it. I’m wondering how I’ll keep my hands off the blasted wee runt. Why must he choose the ‘James Braithwaite’?

GREER: You know that as well as I do. (lowers voice) It’s a nice bit of eyewash, sailing on one of his own fleet. After the ‘Triton’ and the ‘Mary Garside’, well, there was nasty talk going about. So he’s sailing with us just to show the Braithwaite ships are all right. And he chose this ship because he knows she’s the soundest in the fleet. He’s got his head screwed on all right.

MACLEAN: He’s a damned hypocrite, John, and you know it.

GREER: Eh, well, you don’t get on in this world without a bit of that, and he’s good to Alice. Remember that, Donald. He’s made her happy. You should see the letters she writes me. She’s got everything she wants, everything I wanted for her—money, a grand position, hobnobbing with the swells—

MACLEAN: Everything she wants?—

GREER: Eh, it’s a fair knock-over. To think of my little Alice riding about in a Rolls-Royce—and me who started life a deck-side Geordie. Lady Braithwaite. Her mother’d be proud if she could see her now. And I’m to be a grandfather next year. What d’ye say to that, Donald? A grandfather … No, I’ll not deny he gave you a bad deal: but he’s not as bad as he’s painted—not when he makes my little girl so happy …

(Fade out. Fade in to dockside noises and approaching voices)

ALICE: Hello, Daddy, here we are.

GREER: Well, isn’t this great! Why, you’re looking pale, lass. She needs the sea air to put some roses in those cheeks, doesn’t she, Sir James?

JAMES: Evening, Greer. Everything ready for us? You know Mr Annesley. This is his sister—Captain Greer, Miss Annesley. My secretary, Mr Strangeways.

GREER: Welcome aboard, Miss Annesley. Gentlemen. Hope you’ll enjoy your trip. This way, please. The steward’ll show you your cabins.

LAURA: Steward! Oh, it makes me feel quite queer already. Stewards and basins do seem to go hand in hand, if you follow me, don’t they? Oh, Captain Greer, I do hope this is a steady boat. I always …

(Fade out with receding footsteps. Fade in to general conversation.)

GREER: This is my saloon. You must make yourselves at home here. There’s a radio set: and you’ll find playing-cards, and—

NIGEL: And dominoes? Do you play dominoes, Captain, during the long dog-watches? That’s a game I—

LAURA: Oh, Captain, what’s that perfectly dinky contraption over there?

GREER: That’s the radio telephone. You can talk to your friends ashore.

LAURA: Well, isn’t that sweet?

(Knock at door. Door opens)

GREER: My first mate. Mr Maclean.

MACLEAN: Good evening, ladies. Evening, Sir James—and gentlemen. Pilot’s come aboard, sir.

GREER: Very well. Carry on, mister.

(Deck and bridge sounds. Orders. Casting away the hawsers. Sound of telegraph. Steam-whistle. Pulse of engines grows louder, quicker. Presently its rhythm is mixed into a different sound—the tapping of a pencil on a table. We are in James’ and Alice’s cabin.)

ALICE: James. Please stop tapping with your pencil. It—it gets on my nerves … Why are you looking at me like that?

JAMES: Aren’t you a little overwrought, my dear? I was just thinking, you’ve a nice long sea-voyage before you. A nice long voyage with—your husband.

ALICE: Yes, James.

JAMES: And with young Laurence Annesley. You don’t seem so very pleased with the prospect. Two admirers, and no competition.

ALICE: Can’t you say straight out what you mean? Isn’t it rather cowardly—this perpetual hissing?

JAMES: Of course, he’s a younger man than I am, isn’t he? A good-looking young fellow, too.

ALICE: James, this is contemptible. I—

JAMES: And sea air does bring ’em up to scratch, doesn’t it? These shipboard romances. The moon, a lonely deck, the waves swirling past … But of course you wouldn’t encourage anything like that. You’re faithful to your husband, who has—the money. Yes. But you’d be glad of a little extra protection, I’m sure. Strangeways will help to keep an eye on you, and see that nothing—

ALICE: So that’s it. I was right. You’ve hired him to spy on me. You admit it.

JAMES: Indeed no. I admit nothing. Ask him, if you like.

ALICE: You haven’t even got the courage of your own vileness. You have to get somebody else to do your dirty work.

JAMES: But perhaps it’s a case of shutting the stable door after the horse is out. This child you’re going to have. It is mine? You’re quite sure?

ALICE: (breaks down: sobbing) Oh! How dare you say—? Oh God!

(Slam of door. Sobbing fades; then grows louder again, more intermittent, mixed with sea-sounds. We are on deck.)

LAURENCE: Darling, what is it? Tell me. Has he been—?

ALICE: (during this conversation she gradually controls herself, till towards the end her voice has the flat finality of despair) He—no, I can’t tell you, it’s too horrible for words.

LAURENCE: Tell me. You’ll feel better for it.

ALICE: He said—he accused me of—that the child I’m going to have isn’t his.

LAURENCE: Not his? But that’s—

ALICE: He hinted things—about you and me. That’s what he’s got Mr Strangeways for. To spy on us. He’s a detective.

LAURENCE: The swine. That settles it. I’m going to have to talk with Sir James Braithwaite.

ALICE: No. Stop. It’s no good. You don’t understand, Laurence. I don’t mind the things he says. Not now. I’m broken in, I suppose. One gets used to anything, even the misery he’s made of my life. Yes, I’ve forgotten what happiness feels like. But when he talked about my child, it came to me—what sort of life would it have with him for a father? I can put up with his bullying, his meanness, his suspicions: but I won’t let my baby—

LAURENCE: You must leave him, my dear. You must.

ALICE: He’d never let me go … (very flat, speaking half to self) Unless … yes, there is one way … Perhaps I shall leave him … Sooner than he—

(Cough. Footsteps)

GREER: Well, lass, sharpening up your appetite? That’s right. But what’s this? Tears? Well now, this won’t do.

ALICE: It’s nothing, Daddy. I—this baby makes me feel weak and silly. It’s nothing, really.

GREER: Come now, that’s better, take my arm. We’ll go into the saloon. It’s just on dinner-time.

(Footsteps recede. Noises of sea. Then fade into general conversation)

LAURA: Well, that’s what I call a slap-up dinner. I only hope I will be able to keep it inside me. Is it going to be very rough tonight, Captain?

GREER: Don’t you worry, Miss Annesley. Weather reports say we may run into a bit of local fog. Nothing worse than that. She’ll not jump about much till we get into the Bay, and you’ll have your sea-legs by then.

LAURENCE: Well, Strangeways, how’s the—secretarial work going?

NIGEL: O.K., thank you kindly.

JAMES: Mr Strangeways is a confidential secretary, Annesley?

LAURENCE: yes. To be sure. A formidable responsibility—to be the repository of Sir James Braithwaite’s secrets.

(Embarrassed pause)

LAURA: I’m sure it’ll be very nice for Mr Strangeways to have something to do—to keep his mind occupied, I mean. I mean, there are limits to one’s capacity for playing deck-quoits. I say—that reminds me—where are all the sailors, Captain?

GREER: The sailors?

LAURA: Yes. I was on the deck quite a long time before dinner, and I never saw a single one. I thought there’d be dozens of them—polishing the binnacle and letting the bullgine run, and so on.

LAURENCE: Bad luck, Laura. All your beautiful cruise-wear wasted.

GREER: A modern cargo vessel pretty well runs itself, Miss Annesley. You’ll not find seamen on the deck, except when the watches are being changed. We’ve nothing to do but squirt oil into the engine now and then; the rest of the time we spend knitting socks for our nippers.

LAURA: Knitting socks?—He’s pulling my leg, isn’t he, Sir James?

JAMES: The modern seaman certainly has an easy time if it, compared with the man of thirty years ago.

GREER: Aye. All that brass we had to clean. Wherever they could put a bit of brass on those old tramps, they did.

JAMES: —And nowadays he doesn’t know when he’s well off. Better food, more comfortable quarters, overtime pay.

MACLEAN: He’ll have an easy time, maybe—till the ship starts to go down under his feet.

(Another embarrassed pause)

LAURA: Oh but how gruesome you are, Mr Maclean. Have you ever been in a shipwreck? Do tell us all about it.

GREER: Well, if you ladies and gentlemen will excuse me, I’ll just see if the shore agent has got anything to tell me. He rings me up at 8.30. You see, Miss Annesley, I just put on these headphones, and turn this switch, and—

(Pause. Faintly we hear, as over the radio telephone—)

VOICE: ‘James Braithwaite’. ‘James Braithwaite’. ‘James Braithwaite’. Cullercoats radio calling. Cullercoats radio calling. Cullercoats radio calling the ‘James Braithwaite’. Over to you.

GREER: ‘James Braithwaite’ answering. ‘James Braithwaite’ answering Cullercoats radio. Over to you.

(Sound of switch being put over. The others begin to talk quietly, so that we now only hear the captain’s end of the conversation. His sudden excitement, however, soon stops their talk.)

GREER: Hello, Tom … How’s the wife keeping?… That’s fine. Anything for me? What’s that? (Long pause: the passengers’ talk dies out: we hear squeaky unintelligible noises through the radio telephone.) Well, that’s a nice thing. Why can’t they keep a better look-out?… Eh?… And what am I supposed to do about it: I haven’t got a padded cell on my ship, have I?… Oh, get out with you!… Oh, he is, is he? Yes, I see. I’ll take action. Yes, I’ll take action. Goodbye, Tom.

(Pause. They are expecting the captain to speak)

JAMES: Well, Greer, what is it? What was all that about?

GREER: I’ve had a rather disagreeable message … A warning, you might say.

ALICE: ‘Warning’, Daddy? What—?

GREER: it seems a chap escaped from that lunatic asylum at Newcastle last night.

LAURA: Oo-er. Is he swimming after the ship?

GREER: They’ve just had a report that someone answering to this chap’s description was seen hanging round the docks early this morning, near the ‘James Braithwaite’. A big chap, with a limp—a sort of shuffling walk—is the way they describe it. An ex-seaman, he is.

JAMES: (sharply) Well, what about it?

GREER: Well, it seems this chap has delusions. He’s what they call a homocidal maniac.

ALICE: Oh!

GREER: Now don’t upset yourself, lass. No reason to suppose the fellow got aboard. We’ll have the ship searched, just to make sure he’s not here. Mr Maclean, take a search-party if you please, and go right over her.

MACLEAN: Very good, sir.

(Gets up: sound of door closing)

GREER: Lucky we’ve got a detective on board. May come in useful.

LAURA: Detective? Well, I’ll say this is a surprise packet. First we get a loony, then a detective—what’ll you give us next?—the Grand Lama of Tibet? Where is this mysterious detective?

GREER: (quickly) Now I think we’ll rearrange the cabins a bit. Miss Annesley won’t want to sleep alone. We’ll put her in with Alice: and Sir James can shift into Number 2 cabin—that’s the single one next to mine. Mr Annesley and Mr Strangeways stay as they are in Number 4. Just an extra precaution. No need to fret yourselves. Mr Maclean will find this chap, if he is on board.

(Fade. Fade into forecastle. Talk. An accordion or mouth-organ playing)

MACLEAN: Tumble out, the watch. Search-party. Stowaway aboard. Evans, take three men and search the deck—lifeboats and everything. Watch yourselves, he may show fight. Escaped lunatic. The rest, follow me.

(Someone whistles. Feet running up ladder, dispersing. Voices. We follow footsteps along deck, down iron ladder into engine-room. Sound of engines grows louder. Following conversation carried on fortissimo)

MACLEAN: Evening, Chief.

VOICE: This is an unexpected pleasure. What can I do for you, Mr Maclean?

MACLEAN: Search-party. There’s a lunatic escaped. He may have come on board last night.

VOICE: Indeed? If you’re looking for lunatics, ye’d better try the bridge, Mr Maclean. Ye’ll not find them in the engine room.

MACLEAN: Sorry, Chief. Captain’s orders.

VOICE: Lunatics! In my engine room! T’chah!

(Sounds of search. Noise of engines fades into noise of sea. On deck. Footsteps)

VOICE I: He’s not in this lifeboat, any road.

VOICE II: I always said it was unlucky, bringing women aboard.

VOICE III: My sister’s husband went balmy. Used to see angels walking about in t’back yard, in nightgowns. Fair knock-off, he was. They had to put him away.

(Voices and steps approaching)

VOICE I: He’s nowhere on deck, sir.

MACLEAN: Very well, Evans. Follow me, you men. Number 1 hold first.

(Sound of steps: then of hatch-cover being removed. Fade into comparative silence of hold, where men are bumping about in search.)

MACLEAN: Show a light over here.

VOICE II: Jees, look at that, chum! The man with the glaring eyes!

VOICE III: It’s a rat, you silly bleeder!

VOICE II: What I say is, no luck ever came from having women aboard.

VOICE I: We heard yer. Talk about a needle in a haystack. Chap could stay hidden for days in this stuff. What I say—

(Fade. Fade in to saloon)

GREER: I didn’t want to say it in front of the ladies. But I don’t mind telling you gentlemen, with all this cargo we’ve got below hatches, a chap might stay hidden for a long time—search-party or no search-party. He’s an ex-seaman. He’d know his way about.

JAMES: Why wasn’t a better watch kept while she was tied up at the quay? Who’s responsible?’

GREER: You can’t allow for escaped loonies running about loose on the docks.

JAMES: You’d better put about, Greer. We’re only four hours out.

GREER: (with cheerful authority. Throughout this scene, James is made to sound peevish and insignificant, in contrast with the assurance of the two ship’s officers. We must realise that he is a rather nasty, frightened little businessman, quite out of his element) No need for that, Sir James.

JAMES: May I remind you that you’re in my employment?

GREER: And you’re in my ship, Sir James. I’m master of this ship, and my authority holds till we’re on soundings again … No, I’ll not make a laughing stock of us both by putting back to port just on the strength of a rumour.

JAMES: You may regret this, Greer.

NIGEL: We mustn’t get excited. After all, even if he is on the ship, it doesn’t necessarily mean he’s going to run amok and stab us right and left. Homicidal maniacs are like volcanoes—dormant most of the time. Unless this chap’s delusions are centred on someone on board, he—

(sharp knock at door)

JAMES: (frightened) What’s that?

GREER: Come in.

MACLEAN: Ship searched. No sign of a stowaway, sir.

JAMES: (breathes audible sigh of relief)

GREER: Well, Mister Maclean?

MACLEAN: I was just thinking, Sir. Ye said this escaped lunatic was reported to be an ex-seaman—a big chap with a limp, a sort of shuffling walk—didn’t ye?

GREER: That’s so. What about it?… Come on, man.

MACLEAN: Well, e-eh, there was a seaman aboard the ‘Mary Garside’ when she went down, A big chap. His leg was crushed when the falls of the starboard lifeboat parted. As you know, we were in an open boat for six days. What with the pain of his leg, and—well, he went off his head.

JAMES: Poor fellow. Very tragic. But I scarcely see—

MACLEAN: They put him in an asylum. The asylum at Newcastle.

(Pause)

JAMES: (whispers to self) At Newcastle?

NIGEL: Ah. This gets more interesting. Perhaps the fellow’s delusions are centred upon someone in this ship. In which case—

JAMES: (wildly) What the devil is this nonsense?

MACLEAN: The poor chap, in his crazed mind, may be holding one of us responsible for the injuries he—

JAMES: Are you suggesting?—

MACLEAN: Maybe it’s myself. I was captain of the ‘Mary Garside’. Maybe you, Sir James. Maybe he holds one of us responsible for the parting of that lifeboat’s falls, for the ship going down, and—

JAMES: I advise you to be careful, Maclean.

MACLEAN: But we’re agreed it’s just a delusion the poor fellow has. Neither of us could have wanted the ‘Mary Garside’ to founder. Eh, Sir James?

GREER: Well, I’ll be turning in for an hour or two. My watch at midnight. As you’re sleeping alone, Sir James, perhaps you’d like the loan of a revolver. I’ve got a spare one here—

(Sound of drawer being opened, revolver taken out and loaded)

—not that I think you’ll need it. The chances are twenty to one against the chap being on board. And remember there’s a communicating door between your cabin and mine, in case you—(voice drowned by bellow of steam-whistle overhead)

JAMES: Presumably some sort of watch will be kept on the decks?

GREER: Surely. But if this fog thickens, it may not be so easy to—

JAMES: Lot of damned poppycock. You’re all talking like a pack of old women. I’m off to bed. Tell the steward to call me at 7.30 sharp, Strangeways … You and your lunatics!

(Door slams)

NIGEL: I suppose the women have locked their door all right.

GREER: I told them to, Mr Strangeways. Just to be on the safe side.

(Fade in to women’s cabin. Stirring of bunks. Prolonged blast of steam-whistle overhead.)

LAURA: Rocked in the bosom of the deep. What life! (Yawns) I wish I could go to sleep. You did lock the door, darling, didn’t you?

ALICE: Yes, Laura. We’re quite safe in here. I wish Daddy hadn’t to go on the bridge tonight, though.

(Faint sound of telegraph. Steam-whistle again.)

LAURA: These marine noises get in my hair. Why must they keep blowing that hooter? We might as well be sleeping in the Zoo.

ALICE: It’s not that. It’s because we’re afraid. I know Daddy told us they’d searched the ship and couldn’t find anyone: but we don’t really believe it yet. That’s why we can’t go to sleep.

LAURA: You’ve said it, darling … Should we shut the port-hole, do you think? Just to be on the safe side?

ALICE: If you like … No. No, please don’t. I hate feeling as if I was in prison.

LAURA: Snap out of it, duckie—this is sheer claustrophobia.

ALICE: Claustrophobia? (slight laugh) Is that what you call it? (half to herself) You don’t know what it’s like to be in prison. No hope of escape … Ever … But there is a way out—