Slow Boat From Marseilles

Ashburton Guardian, Volume 70, Issue 256, 16 August 1950, Page 7

Slow Boat From Marseilles

3 By Michael Hastings. E

3 Serial Story E

3 (Copyright) 3 iViiiiiiAiiiiiiiiiiiiiuiiiiiiiuiiiiiiiiiuiiimut CHAPTER IX. THE INJURED SEAMAN ■ Zakas frowned. He had no particular liking for Lacoste; but he could riot blind himself to the fact that a mutual dislike of Dr. Prinz was bringing them together. He guessed that the Frenchman was thinking on similar lines. He wished that he couid have more time for considering the situation. On the outward voyage Prinz had remained in the background and Zakas had leaned heavily upon Johansen. Now that was changed. Prinz was attempting to run affairs, and Johansen was no longer with them. Lacoste fumbled for a packet of cigarettes and lit one. He closed an eye as the smoke stung it. “The doctor does not seem to have any great liking for us,” he observed. While this conversation had been taking place, John Oliver had gone down into the forward two well decks in order to obtain a closer view of the crew. The boatswain, Red Connor, acted as unwilling guide. He was a . short, thick-set man, with arms which hung nearly to his knees, and a crop of hair which accounted for his nickname. He had small, restless eyes, and his general appearance suggested a cross between an old-time prizefighter and an ape. * His manner was morose and suspicious. He answered questions, but with a minimum of information. ' “Two of the hatch wedges are not fixed properly,” Oliver told him. “Pedro!” roared Connor. “Blast your idle soul! Fix those two wedges. Why didn’t you do it right first time?” And he gave emphasis to his annoyance with a hearty kick. It was obvious that he ruled by brute force. Oliver observed this without feeling sympathy for the crew.. With one or two exceptions, they were 1 typical waterfront loafers, more willing to acquire money by crime than by hard work. Ashore, they would keep themselves by engaging in petty thefts from warehouses and by assisting smugglers. Whoever had signed them on for the “Connecticut Lass” had done the harbour police a good turn. There must have been a good cash inducement, he reflected, in order to persuade them to sail. Moreover, as they had not deserted in Marseilles, it was obvious that only a fraction of their wages had been paid. “Did you select the crew?” Oliver asked Connor. The boatswain shook his head. With his first indication of friendliness, he added: “I’d ha’ picked up workers; not a crowd of idlers.” With seeming reluctance, he tacked a “sir” on the statement. ■ “I want the ship spruced up,” said Oliver briskly'; “And the decks swilled properly.” Connor showed that he resented the order; but he shouted the necessary instructions, and quickly had the men on the move.

“Have to watch ’em every minute,” he growled.

Oliver admitted to himself that he had never seen a' worse crew. Not one man was . turned out smartly. Most of them were in shapeless, oilsmeared trousers and grubby vests. There was a bewildering mixture of nationalities. Evidently Connor read his thoughts, for he said: “There isn’t a mother son among them that knows his own father’s name.” Oliver came near to adding, “or nationality.” But he refrained. His attention was taken by a black-haired man whose already unprepossessing features were marred by the signs of recent combat. Nose and lips were swollen, and his tongue was exploring an unaccustomed gap where two teeth were missing. “What happened to him?” he asked Connor. “Trouble ashore,” said the boatswain. “His name’s Augustus—known as ‘ Augie.’ He went ashore last night and returned in 3 had state. Another man, who went with him, didn’t return.” “I’d like a word with him.” said Oliver. “Augie” shouted Connor. . The mfin came briskly enough. He seemed in a nervous, apprehensive state, which was not soothed by Connor’s blunt “The first mate wants to question you. Take your hands out of your pockets!” Augie obeyed. He didn’t look at Oliver. His dyes seemed to have a •quicksilver capacity for sliding from one thing to another. Now that he was nearer, Oliver saw that he had a bruise on his forehead.” “You look as though you’ve been having a stack-up fight with a bulldozer,” said Oliver lightly. “What happened?” Augie, still looking away from him, shrugged his shoulders awkwardly and said; “I was ashore last night. We were attacked by about half-a-dozen men in a dark street.” His voice was soft and sibilant. He spoke with a slight accent. Italian, Oliver thought. “We?” “Yes, sir—Max and myself. We went together.” “And where is Max?” Augie’s gaze moved further away. His fingers twitched nervously. “I do not know,” he said. “We ran for it and lost each other in the dark.” “What time did this happen?” “I don’t know, sir,” said Augie. “We’d had a few drinks,” he explained. “Do you carry a knife?” Augie tried to look horrified, and shook his head stopping suddenly as it hurt him. * “Did Max carry one?” “I don’t think so, sir.” “By the saints!” roared Connor. “Isn’t there a word of truth in ye?” To Oliver he explained, “Max was always flashing a knife arbund. I told him more than once that it would get him, into trouble.” Augie shrank back. • He moistened his swollen lips with his tongue. “It doesn’t matter,” said Oliver, almost lazily. “I was rather interested: that was all.” He walked away, leaving both men puzzled. Connor recovered himself first and shouted to Augie to get back to work. The man went, thankful to escape so lightly. It wasn’t proof, thought Olover, as he went up the companionway; but there was sufficient to confirm his own suspicions. First there had been the warning from Lacoste. Then the attack. Now there was a man with a battered face; and a man missing. Furthermore, a man who was fond of using a knife. That was the one he had struck with the belaying-pin. Most probably he was in hospital somewhere, and not yet in a fit state to talk. £To be Continued.)