Incident Off Land's End

His Broad, Pinkly-Scrubbed English face set in the jovial grin appropriate to these traditional last-night-at-sea festivities, Chief Purser Joseph Amberley moved his impeccably uniformed portliness swiftly but without apparent haste through the cheerfully packed first class smoking room of the Royal Mail Steamship Atlantic, uneasily aware that something was up.

Something unusual and therefore possibly unpleasant, else why this urgent summons to the Captain's quarters? Ordinarily, the Captain would have been making his courtesy rounds of the major last-night parties, at each of which, as commodore of the line and master of its flagship, he was expected to put in an appearance.

Squeezing his bulk into an elevator for the ascent to the bridge deck, Amberley reviewed his plans for the evening and found them in order: dancing in the first class ballroom; costume party in the cabin class dining room, amateur theatricals in the tourist class cinema. The weather was perfect and the Atlantic was steady as a palace as she thrust her 75,000 tons towards Southampton at better than 30 knots through a moonless night.

Outside the heavy walnut door to the Captain's suite, the Chief Purser paused, straightened his flawless bow against the snowy wings of his collar, and knocked. There was the sound of a lock turning, and he stared in astonishment as the door opened a crack, stayed that way for a moment while his identity was established, and then swung open only far enough to permit him to edge through.

Except for the soft yellow glow of the reading lamp on the Captain's gleaming mahogany desk, the room was in deep shadow, and Amberley started involuntarily as the door shut quietly behind him and once again the lock snicked over. He got a worse shock as his eyes accustomed themselves to the comparative darkness after the brightly lighted passageway, and he saw the ghastly expression on the normally ruddy and genial face of Captain Sir James Faulconer, K.B.E., D.S.O. And then he felt the whole menace of the silent room and was suddenly afraid.

Faulconer was inexpressibly weary, slumped in one of the deep leather armchairs flanking his desk. "This is my Chief Purser, Mr. Amberley." The introduction went unacknowledged by the two men Amberley now discerned standing just beyond the halo of light cast by the lamp. "Mr. Amberley," the Captain continued, raising his gaze from the floor and staring into nothingness, "I have to inform you that this ship is presently in the control of pirates." The Chief Purser took an instinctive step forward, felt immediately the pressure of a gun in his back, and was aware that a third man, the one who had locked the door, was still behind him.

"Perhaps," a smooth, curiously muffled voice broke in mildly, "I'd best do the explaining." One of the two men Amberley could see moved into the light and, fantastically, his face was that of a fiercely snarling ape. It took Amberley the fraction of a second to realize that the man wore a rubber mask which fitted entirely over his head, and which accounted for the oddly strangled sound of his speech. It was a perfect disguise and yet, coupled with the penguin-like anonymity of the man's dinner jacket and the generally confused gaiety of the last-night celebrations, above suspicion, for its wearer would have been taken only as a rather enthusiastic celebrant on his way to or from some bibulous assembly.

"This," the ape-faced man remarked casually, holding up a smart tan leather attaché case, "is, despite its appearance, a small but most efficient radio transmitter." Amberley noted automatically the educated accent; it was not much help in establishing an identity, but it would be worth remembering. "To it," the masked man went on, "are tuned receivers concealed in steamer trunks now resting in three first class staterooms -- I may say, Captain, that our accommodations have been eminently satisfactory, thanks doubtless to your Mr. Amberley here, and how you both must be wondering just which three staterooms -- and to receivers in several other trunks now in one or another of the baggage holds. The trunks, I should add, are otherwise packed with TNT. All may be detonated by means of a signal sent by this transmitter.

"Unless my instructions are followed exactly, I shall press the transmitting key, and some 800-odd pounds of high explosives will go up. From which you can take it that we're very much in earnest, since we'll go up with them." One of the men in the shadows giggled, an unexpected and frightening noise.

"But I trust it won't come to that." The smooth voice ignored the giggle. "The important point is that in just under two hours from now the ship is to be stopped. In the meantime, wireless equipment aboard will be rendered temporarily inoperable. We will then be approximately 100 miles off Land's End, at which point we'll rendezvous with a fishing boat that will chance to be in the area. We will have roughly seven hours of darkness, during which you will transship the two tons of gold bullion now stowed in a specially constructed strong room located beneath the after baggage holds. I leave the technical aspects to you, but I should imagine a block and tackle arrangement might be feasible." And now Amberley knew why he had been called to the Captain's cabin, for the ship's strong rooms were the Chief Purser's responsibility.

"I should add," Ape-Face observed, "that the range of the transmitter aboard the fishing vessel -- which is also turned to the receivers in the trunks aboard the Atlantic -- is sufficiently powerful to make any attempt at pursuit on your part most unwise. In fact, I forbid it."

"Do you now?" Amberley grated. "And how do we know this isn't all bluff or a damned poor joke?"

"Mr. Kendall was sent off before you arrived, with one of these beggars to stand guard over him." Sir James Faul coner exhaled heavily. "He inspected one of the trunks. It's as Monkey-Face says." Kendall was the Atlantic's communications officer and, Amberley knew well, not a man easily panicked.

"You may call me King Kong," the man in the mask said pleasantly. "So much nicer than Monkey-Face, I think. And now, perhaps we'd best be getting on with business. One of my associates will accompany the Captain to the bridge, to insure that we keep on course. The other will assist your communications officer in disabling his gear. Both of my friends know their jobs, so I should advise no nonsense."

Despite himself, Amberley felt a grudging admiration for the brutal simplicity of the scheme and he wondered, idiotically, why no one had ever thought of it before. The information that the Atlantic was carrying bullion bought in the States by the Bank of England, while theoretically confidential, could have been purchased from any one of a number of criminal sources along the New York waterfront well in advance. The arrangement with the fishing boat, probably of long standing, could have been set in motion by an innocent wireless message sent from the ship itself. And Faulconer, of course, was in an impossible situation; no responsible officer would entertain for a moment the thought of risking his ship and the lives of nearly 3000 passengers and crew for a thousand tons of bullion, much less two.

Nor was there any doubt that the operation could be brought off. Fishing boats, French, Dutch or British, all look pretty much alike, and the utter blackness of the night, erratically lit by the glow from the Atlantic's decks, would make identification of any particular boat even more difficult. Plus which, if these men displayed as much ingenuity in the latter phase of their project as they had shown in its preparation, even before it disappeared into the maze of shipping along the Channel coasts, the fishing boat would have undergone a drastic change in its appearance. Dummy masts, ventilators and deckhouses could be rigged or dismantled, as the case might be, or a fresh coat of paint applied to the upper works. It had been done often enough during the war, heaven knew, in embarking or disembarking agents or supplies on a neutral or unfriendly shore.

But now the man who wished to be called King Kong was speaking again, urbane and almost amused, "To avoid alarming the passengers, as well as an over-abundance of witnesses, Captain Faulconer will make an announcement over the ship's public address system, stating in firm, seamanly tones that the stop is part of an Admiralty exercise involving co-operation with Merchant Navy, and that for reasons of security no one will be permitted on deck except officers and crew in the performance of their duties. Judging from the way the parties are going, this should present no major difficulties."

As if to lend ironic emphasis to the comment, a faint burst of music made itself audible in the Captain's cabin. Dancing had begun in the first class ballroom, and Amberley glanced, the habit automatic with years at sea, at the brass-cased clock fixed to the paneled bulkhead above Faulconer's desk. (continued on page 22) Incident (continued from page 14) The luminous hands, glowing dimly green against the black face, stood at 2000 hours. He saw, but seeing, took no note. Time, he thought savagely, if there was just some way of gaining time to think. It was beyond belief that these men should succeed, yet they seemed to have thought of everything; to possess an amazingly detailed and accurate knowledge of the ship. The glowing green hands stared unhelpfully back at him.

And a wildly insane idea flared starshell bright inside his brain. There was just a chance, the most miserably faint hope of a chance, provided Faulconer kept his wits about him. And if it didn't come off, matters would stand no worse than they stood now. He took a deep breath and decided to risk it, staking everything on greed and overconfidence.

"And how," he inquired, trying and succeeding in keeping his manner casually contemptuous, "do you propose to deal with the other stuff aft?" From the corner of his eye, he saw Faulconer glance up, abruptly quizzical. But it was a look that might have been interpreted as a reproach.

For the first time there was a note of uncertainty in King Kong's voice. "Stuff aft?" Amberley took heart and plunged on, putting every ounce of sincerity at his command into the sham.

"Look here, the Captain and I know very well it's not the bullion alone you're after, although that should be enough to content you. But I assure you, it's not in the strong room. For one thing, international regulations won't allow it; for another, the passengers mightn't be especially happy having it anywhere near their cabins, although it's certainly not dangerous." Would Faulconer see what he was trying to do? Amberley dared not look at his commander.

One of the shadowy men moved suddenly into the light, and Amberley saw with no particular amazement that he wore the outrageous features of Popeye the Sailor. "What the hell's he talking about?" Popeye wanted to know, his accent harshly American.

"I'd like to know myself. Just what are you talking about, Chief Purser?" Without waiting for a reply, King Kong swung around to face the Captain. "Do you know?"

Faulconer stared hard at his Chief Purser. "You bloody idiot," he said, his voice flat with anger. And Amberley exulted. Faulconer had not understood, but his bitter reply was all Amberley could have prayed for.

"Good Lord!" He felt he was overacting horridly, but at least he had managed to sound like a man who has realized that he has talked too much; choked and flustered. "But I thought----"

"All right, you." King Kong was no longer amiable, and through the absurd mask's vision slits Amberley saw the cold glint of rage in the man's eyes. "Now I suggest that you tell us what this 'other stuff aft' is, and damned quickly, too."

Amberley let his shoulders sag in defeat. "Radium," he said dully. "Nearly six ounces of the stuff, packed by the quarter ounce in individual lead containers." Amberley had no idea whether that much pure radium existed in the world, and his heart took a long pause as he waited for King Kong's reaction.

"Go on." The masked man's voice was tense now and there was greed and something of triumph in it. Now, too, the Chief Purser knew there was a chance of victory. The bullion would fetch over £1,000,000 in the black markets of Europe, a titanic haul but picayune in comparison with what might be gained through the sale of that much radium. The world was full of war-racked hospitals and research laboratories, of rich, sick men, of unscrupulous quacks who would pay fabulous prices for a gram. It was a bonus beyond anything ever wished for; a gift handed over by this ruddy fool of a Chief Purser.

"It has to be stored as far as possible from the passenger quarters," Amberley said, and then injected what he hoped was the correct note of defiance in his tone. "But I'll take you to it only on condition that the watertight doors be closed once we get below. You're not a trained seaman, and if you stumble and set off those damned bombs of yours, the passengers are going to have at least half a chance."

"What makes you think I'm going anywhere with you? Have the stuff brought up when you move the bullion."

Amberley's smile was vicious, the snarl of the trapped rat. "And how," he asked, "can you be sure there aren't more than six ounces?"

"I'll send one of my men with you, then."

"But it's just possible that your little chums might not care to take the risk." Amberley spoke slowly, to let the import of his words strike home. "They've probably heard wild stories about radium burns, blindness, they say it causes, or cancers, or madness. You and I know that's all a lot of nonsense, of course, but do they? And suppose this were a trap?"

"Of course it's a trap!" Popeye's voice was high and edgy. "Let the stuff alone, will y----"

"Shut up."

There was a long moment of silence. Amberley's stomach was knotted with the tension of his gamble and he felt a wave of nausea sweep over him. Then King Kong, his ape's face frozen in its fanged grimace, shrugged. The effect was wildly incongruous. "Let's get on with it. And you can do whatever you damned well please about your watertight doors, but make sure I don't stumble, Chief Purser. Make bloody sure."

"Will you telephone the after engine room, sir, and let them know we're coming?" Amberley saw the light of sudden comprehension spark in Faulconer's eyes. Once the watertight doors were closed, the Atlantic's chances for survival were vastly increased by the compartmentation of her hull. The trunk bombs might flood as many as four compartments and the Atlantic could still remain afloat; terribly injured, but afloat.

Amberley's collar was throttling him. He had won the first part of this insane game, and he knew what he must do if he were to win the second. The knowledge was hideous.

"I want the telephone system cleared," King Kong was saying now. "I shall call my associates from below decks, and should they fail to answer..." The rap of his fingers against the leather case was loud and ominous in the stillness of the cabin.

Nothing about the spectacle presented by the Chief Purser and King Kong as they made their way below could have excited any special comment. A number of passengers had put on similar outlandish masks as their contribution to the last night's frolic, and as for the attaché case, it might have held a couple of extra bottles on their way to a party. The grinning elevator operator who carried the two men to the lowest passenger deck, made bold by the conviviality of the evening, even ventured to suggest that Amberley should obtain a mask of his own, "just so's to get into the spirit of things, like you might say, sir."

Amberley led the way thereafter, through a dozen hatches marked "Crew Only," and down passageways no passenger had ever visited, until at length they stood on a platform of steel grating, peering down into the cavernous depths of the starboard engine compartment, an immaculate and fantastic cathedral of spotless white paint and gleaming metal, filled with the heavy, steady roar of the furnaces forward and the giant turbines which drove the Atlantic's propellers. Waves of sluggishly oily heat surged up around the two men on the grating.

(continued on page 26) Incident (continued from page 22)

"Where the devil are you taking me?" King Kong leaned close to shout the words into Amberley's ear.

"This is the only way we can get to the radium locker. It's off the inboard starboard shaft alley, as far away from the passengers and crew as we can get it. As I told you, international regulations," Amberley shouted in return, wondering as he did whether any such regulations had ever been published, and if so, what they really said.

Finally, a series of steeply slanted ladders behind them, they stood on the vibrating deck plates of the engine compartment, surrounded and dwarfed by the Atlantic's immense machinery. MacKinnon, the engineering officer on watch, impeccable in fresh white coveralls, glanced up from his desk beneath a great bank of dials and gauges and nodded an impersonal greeting, as though the Purser's appearance in his domain were an everyday occurrence.

Back between the towering bulks of the turbines, Amberley led, amazed as always that so many thousands of horsepower could be generated amid such fanatic cleanliness and without the chaotic clutter of steaming pipes and hissing, clanking valves which had been the order of things when he had begun his career at sea.

Now they stood between the two huge steel shafts, spinning at full speed, which disappeared through the heavy after bulkhead to take their separate courses aft until finally they emerged from the giant hull through their tremendous iron-wood sleeve bearings into the icy black waters of the North Atlantic and turned their propellers in revolutions that churned up the seas by the foamy scores of tons. These were the raw muscles that rammed the ship through the ocean, and their awesome power was an almost tangible thing that infused the air like an electric current.

Amberley pushed the black button set into the bulkhead beside the watertight door leading to the inboard starboard shaft tunnel. A red lamp, one of dozens in a panel facing the engineering officer's desk, glowed, and MacKinnon pressed the switch which would open the door. It slid noiselessly upwards on its thickly oiled rollers to reveal the swiftly diminishing perspective of the shaft tunnel, with the stout girth of the shaft narrowing to a gleaming needle point at the far end, interrupted regularly along its length by the thick rings of its supporting bearings on their squat mounts. Over each bearings hung a strongly protected light, and in the glare of these the big glass oil cups atop the bearings shone like so many amber jewels.

Once more Amberley led, stepping over the high coaming and waiting while King Kong gingerly followed his example. Inside the tunnel, the Chief Purser pressed the twin of the button on the other side of the bulkhead, and the door moved silently shut behind them, abruptly silencing the constant thunder of the engine room and leaving them in comparative silence. They stood on the narrow grating of the inspection walkway which paralleled the polished perfection of the spinning shaft. A slender pipe rail, looking wholly inadequate, offered a minimum of protection to anyone walking the tunnel, and Amberley was grimly pleased to see the whiteness of King Kong's knuckles as he gripped it with his free hand. It occurred to the Chief Purser that beneath the rubber mask, and in spite of the coolness of the tunnel, King Kong might be perspiring dreadfully. The sea was very close to them down here.

"Good luck it's calm weather," Amberley said, raising his voice to carry over the deep hum of the shaft. "This can be tricky going when there's any sort of a sea running. Makes you wonder why anybody in his right mind would want to be an engineer."

"Let's keep moving." Now there was the slightest edge to King Kong's voice. "Save your discussions for the Sea Scouts, would you?"

"Not at all." Amberley moved slowly down the walkway. "Less than two inches of steel between us and the bottom of the ocean," he called back over his shoulder. "Double hull and all that, but it makes you think a bit." He got no reply.

The watertight door was more than a hundred feet behind them, and just perceptibly the tunnel was narrowing towards the stern. The sound of the shaft seemed louder, somehow, in the increasingly confined space and back here, far from the warmth of the engine compartment bulkhead, the steel walls glistened solidly with condensed moisture. There was another sound, too, back here -- the muted rush of the seas past the Atlantic's hull plates.

Amberley reached out a hand and laid it gently on the shaft.

"Quite harmless, actually. Care to try for yourself?"

"Damn you, stop that nonsense and take me to this radium locker of yours, wherever it is." There was an approach to panic in the words.

The Chief Purser turned and faced the man in the lunatic rubber mask. "Surely," he said gently, "surely you didn't honestly believe there was any radium aboard this ship." Behind his frightening calm he felt, himself, close to panic. Everything, everything depended upon how well he carried off the next few seconds, and he felt his shirt and undervest clinging to him, coldly wet. "We're locked in here, you know. The watertight door can only be opened from the engine compartment."

A curious, whimpering noise came from behind the ape mask, and King Kong clutched the attaché case close to his chest.

"Go ahead," Amberley said, his voice a rasping croak. "But it won't be very pleasant in here. It won't even be quick." He leaned back against the tunnel wall, feeling the cold lance through his uniform coat, and rested his hand on a thickly insulated switch. "This is probably the strongest section of the ship, you see; has to be, because you don't want your propeller shaft taking any strains, and you'd want to keep it turning even in the worst emergency. So it's quite, quite watertight..."

"Shut up, damn you! Shut up!"

"So that even if we go down with her, we shan't be drowned," Amberley continued, his smile ghastly. "We will simply strangle after, I should estimate, four or five hours on the bottom, knowing there was no possible hope. We should get to know one another quite well before we die."

The man in the mask was staring down with terrible fixity at the attaché case he held against his chest, and from behind the ape's obscene features came a stream of profanity, soft and utterly chilling in its hatred.

"Or perhaps we'll be lucky." Amberley was inexorable. "We're not too far from the after baggage hold, and perhaps one of your bombs will help us go very quickly."

Beside the two men on the walkway, the great inboard shaft spun with an eerie, terrible efficiency which suggested that somehow, long after the Atlantic had started its last, awesome glide towards the bottom, it would still be revolving; revolving until the huge, dying hull crashed silently against the ocean floor and the massive propeller blades bit into the muck of eons and were finally stopped. Or until the ship plunged her thin plates into some unfathomed deep where the pressures of countless millions of tons of water would suddenly crumple her like a paper toy in a child's fist. Amberley drove the image from his mind.

"Unless you hand me that case, I shall now turn out the lights," he said tonelessly. "After that, and regardless of the gun I see bulging your jacket, I am coming after you. I am a larger man than you, and doubtless in the scuffle one or the other of us will trigger your bombs. I don't think you will want that to happen. I don't think you will want (concluded on page 68) Incident (continued from page 26) to die in the dark."

King Kong's whole body trembled and his hand, arched and dead white, tensed over the leather case's brass lock, and Amberley knew that this was the transmitter key. Fantastically, he noted that King Kong but his nails.

"I hope I needn't do anything so childish as counting to three," he murmured. "Take your hand away from the lock," he added soothingly. "Take your hand away and give me the case, there's a good chap."

The white hand quivered horribly, and from behind the mask came the dreadful sound of a man sobbing in mingled rage and animal fear. For long, indescribable seconds, Amberley wondered if he had misjudged his man, and whether the next split instant might not see the awful consequences of his error; might not see them drowned when the hull cracked and the cold, gray-green sea poured into their steel coffin or condemned to the longer wait, the sickening lurch and downward glide and then the hours that might remain, too hideous to contemplate, while the air turned fetid and finally deadly. He dared not think of the thousands of others on the decks above who might die, too, because of his mistake.

And then the hand dropped away from the lock, and the man in the ape's mask held out the attaché case in arms that shook almost out of control. Amberley took it carefully and motioned him back towards the entrance to the shaft tunnel whence, so many ages ago, they had come. But King Kong's nerve had gone too far past the breaking point, and he could only cling blindly to the handrail, incapable of any further voluntary action. Like one who leads a combat fatigue case back from the front lines, Amberley took his elbow and guided him slowly back along the walkway. Halfway to the watertight door, the man who wanted to be called King Kong began to laugh; his laughter was high and hysterical by the time the two men reached the bulkhead and Amberley pressed the button which would open the door to another day, to life.

It was, the Chief Purser realized numbly, all over, and he was deathly tired.

There remained only to tell MacKinnon what had happened. The Scots engineer would see to dispatching an armed detail of his stokers topside to the bridge to deal with King Kong's associates on the bridge and in the communications office. It was all over, and he, Joseph Amberley, had won.

Little more than half-an-hour later, Captain Sir James Faulconer poured out two tremendous bracers from his private stock of ancient brandy, while Amberley, his tie pulled open and his unspeakably wilted collar askew, sprawled exhausted in one of the deep leather armchairs by the Captain's desk. The Atlantic was steaming at flank speed on an emergency course which would carry her many miles to the north of the position at which she had been expected to meet the fishing boat, far beyond the effective range of the fisherman's wireless transmitter. Kendall, the communications officer, had dealt with the trunks in the cabins, and Murchison, the Third Officer, had crews in all the baggage holds, searching out the remaining trunks. They, with the attaché case, would be needed when the trial of the three men now in the ship's prison took place.

"R.A.F. Coastal Command reports that a plane has been sent out from Plymouth to locate and keep an eye on the fishing craft," Faulconer said as he handed Amberley his glass. "Until the Navy can get a fast launch on the spot; probably they're sending something out of Falmouth. Here, try this and see what you think of it."

Amberley took the glass and held it up to the light. And remembered the oil cups atop the bearings in the shaft tunnel. He took a deep swallow.

"That was a damned fine piece of work this evening, Chief Purser, as I needn't tell you," Faulconer was saying. "The directors, I'm certain, will wish to make some more tangible expression of their regard for your quick thought and gallantry, although I'll confess I'm damned if I twigged what you were up to. All that rot about radium--thought you'd gone wonky in the head, or something. And if I'd known you intended to take that madman into one of the shaft tunnels...well..." Sir James stared hard at the man who had just saved his ship.

Amberley hardly heard him. He would have to put on a fresh shirt and uniform. Then he would drop by the first class ballroom and see that the orchestra wasn't playing too many rhumbas. He might even have to soothe that Italian actress in Suite A-2 for the third time that day, blast her! And then, by Heaven, he would retire to his cabin and finish the novel he'd bought in New York; find out how young Captain Hornblower had dealt with those two French frigates.

As always, he felt a twinge of envy at the thought of young Hornblower. Now there was a chap who could have brought this evening off with dash and style. There, Amberley reflected, was a real sailor; an iron man in a ship of oak. Those were the days.