Saturn Over the Water (23 page)

Where Rother was buried, I never knew. Mr Jones vanished the night we reached that farm, leaving behind two addresses for me – his own in Santiago, and that of the Osparas waiter, Pablo Mandoza, who had taken Joe Farne to his home in Puerto Montt. Fortunately, I’d had a thick wad of
peso
notes from that bank in Santiago, the morning Mr Jones picked me up. I was able to leave with the Chileno farmer and his wife, a decent hard-working couple destined for unending failure, far more money than they expected. I was able too to pay the modest bill presented by the doctor, who, when he came to see if I was fit to move on, ran me back to Puerto Montt with him. I’d like to be able to say that I resumed my search for Joe Farne, and my quarrel with whatever Wavy Eight might be, with immediate zest and enthusiasm. But the truth is, I just went through the motions, doing what I knew I ought to do, that’s all. I was still down there in that depression. Perhaps, according to our mood and our approach, we can bend things our way or push them off. Moving round like a zombie, I certainly bent nothing my way. Everything was a dead flop.

The doctor took me to the Mandozas’ and offered to interpret. I learnt through him and one fat woman and two thin ones that Pablo himself had just gone back to Osparas, and that Joe, accompanied by Pablo’s brother who’d landed a job in an hotel up there, had gone to Santiago either eight (the fat woman and one thin) or nine (the other thin woman) days ago. The next morning I climbed into the old Dakota and when I finally arrived at Santiago, the place seemed hotter than ever. I ate a kind of
pa
e
lla
dish for dinner, and was sick half the night. Next morning I trailed round to the British Embassy, and saw the first secretary, who was acting as consul. He said I was looking rather seedy, and I said I was feeling seedy. Yes, Farne had called about a week ago, to ask for assistance to get to Lima, where he had a substantial credit in one of the banks.

‘Incidentally, he was looking frightfully seedy – spoke very slowly and in rather an odd way – ’ He broke off, just to give me a very sharp look, as if he thought Joe and I had spent a few weeks attending the same orgy. ‘But we checked his story and were able to arrange an air passage to Lima. Then a miserable thing happened. He was asking about letters and any inquiries for him, and then one of the girls on duty remembered we’d had a message about his wife dying. I had to tell him of course – wretched business – and he took it very badly. However, off he went to Lima.’

And off I went to Lima, next day. The same runaround. Joe had been and gone, after taking his money out of the bank, a week ago, but now nobody knew where. I tried several airline offices and travel agencies, but had no luck. There was just a chance that he might be still around, so after inquiring at my own hotel, where they’d never heard of him and weren’t sure they’d heard of me, I tried three others, all a blank. Lima was still in the same grey Turkish bath; I sweated like a pig; I didn’t want to eat, strong drink was dangerous, and the tobacco in my pipe might have come from a gardener’s bonfire. Then at last I did what I knew I’d been wanting to do all day. I put a call through to Arnaldos’s house at Uramba. After a lot of false starts and cursing, I heard the blessed voice of my friend, Mrs Candamo.

‘This is Tim Bedford – you remember, Mrs Candamo? Could I speak to Rosalia, please?’

I think I knew the answer before it came, the luck being so far out. ‘Oh – I am sorry, Mr Bedford.’ And I could hear, even over that crackly line, that she really
was
sorry. ‘Rosalia is not here. She went away – oh – it was just after you left us, Mr Bedford. I’m so sorry – ’

‘So am I, Mrs Candamo. Where has she gone?’

‘Well – that is difficult – I am not supposed to say – ’

‘
Please
, Mrs Candamo – ’

She spoke now in a quick low tone. ‘She has gone to Australia – and I hope you will go and find her there, Mr Bedford. Good-bye.’

Next day I flew back to Santiago, Chile. Why, I don’t know. It didn’t seem to be on the way to anywhere I wanted to go. I went to the address Mr Jones had left with me. And not only was there no sign of Mr Jones, but his office, which pretended to import something or other, was having its furniture moved into the street. So now I hadn’t even Mr Jones’s address, if he still had one. I went to a travel agency and was shown how I could fly to Australia, but there seemed to be so much doubling back and jumping around that I refused to go on with it. Then another man, who looked as if he might be closely related to Mr Jones, said that an Australian cargo ship, the
Yarrabonga
, had now arrived at Valparaiso, on her way to Wellington and Sydney. She only carried twelve passengers but one of them – ‘a lady invalid,’ he said, as if this was her profession – had left the ship at Callao, so that for once the
Yarrabonga
had a vacant berth. I took it, really I think because I needed some time off from the Wavy Eight mystery, as well as a rest, before almost starting all over again in Australia. Joe Farne might have gone there or by this time he might be on his way to New York or Peking. I didn’t know. And I might be still using his wife’s money now, not to look for him but to go chasing after Rosalia Arnaldos. But it seemed to me, after arguing it out with myself, that booking a passage on this ship was at least as good a move as any other.

Late the following morning I was unpacking my two cases in a small and stuffy single cabin, where traces of the invalid lady were still lingering, on the starboard side of the boat deck of S.S.
Yarrabonga
. The other eleven passengers were still ashore, sight-seeing. There was a bar of sorts and I went along to see if I could get a drink. It was almost filled by a large oldish steward, who looked like a brown bear dressed in dirty whites and wasn’t pleased to see me, and a fat man, who didn’t turn round but who was wearing a crumpled suit I’d seen before. Yes, it was Mr Jones.

‘Jolly damned good!’ he cried, shaking my hand, ‘Mike my friend, now you meet Mr Bedford, the same man I told you about last night, the one I rescued from those bloody Nazis down at Osparas. Shake hands, my friends. Mr Bedford, you are not looking tiptop. I was told you were sick after our poor little Rother died. You are making a sea voyage to Australia? A topping idea – just what the doctor ordered. Mike is an old friend and comrade, he will see you have a ripping old time on this
Yarrabonga
.’

‘I’ll do what I can, Mr Bedford.’ Mike was friendly now but dubious. ‘But don’t expect too much.’

‘What sort of a ship is she?’ I asked.

‘A bastard,’ said Mike without any hesitation whatever.

I felt I was already on my way to Australia.

14

We seemed to be rolling in the Pacific for six months. The actual time from Valparaiso to Sydney was just under three weeks, but every week appeared to last about a couple of months. There were times when I cursed myself for booking a passage on this
Yarrabonga
, whose behaviour in bad weather was as ugly as her appearance. These times were generally during meals, which I hated, especially dinner. We had it at half-past six; the food was eatable but boring; the service was slap-happy; and we all pretended to be matey and bright and not tired of one another. There were little jokes that went on and on and on. If we’d allowed ourselves to be candid, grumpy, sometimes insulting, like the crew, we’d have all felt better. Away from the dining saloon, on my own, it wasn’t so bad. In Valparaiso I’d bought some water-colours, as a change from
gouaches
, and a lot of sketching paper that might have been worse, and in a corner I claimed, at the forward end of the deck, just under the bridge, I spent a lot of time making quick sketches or just staring at the sea and sky and ruminating. This was during the quiet days when often we seemed to be cutting our way through blue-black marble and even the foam was solid ivory. The skies in the early morning and the late afternoon belonged to some other world, a long way from pigment and paper, though I did pick up a few colour ideas that I’ve used since. On the rough and blowy days, I drank a good deal of gin, wedged myself into my bunk and read old detective stories. I soon felt a lot better than I’d done not only after Osparas but ever since I’d left London, when too much had happened in too many quick changes of scene. The huge emptiness, the monotony, the ruminating, perhaps even the boring people (they might not have been boring if I’d known more about them, but I was dodging that), began to make me feel at home with myself again.

One result of this expanding, relaxing, settling down with myself, surprised me. The whole Wavy Eight thing didn’t seem more improbable than it had done while I was buzzing around it on land. Not a bit. It might be still a mystery, even though some parts were beginning to take shape, but during these weeks of foam and cloud, sunlight and starlight, as a world conspiracy it began to seem more and not less likely. It was solider in my thoughts. It was the Enemy.

There’s nearly always some Top Man in every isolated group. Ours on the
Yarrabonga
was a big heavy man in his late sixties, a financial tycoon who was an Australian but had made most of his money and had bought his peerage in London – Lord Randlong. He was smooth, brown, sweet-tempered, everybody’s chum – a baron made out of butterscotch. He bought a lot of drinks for himself, though they did nothing to him except put a red glaze over him late in the evening, and he was always ready to buy drinks for everybody else too. Every day was his birthday, you might say. He took a fancy to me, so that soon I had to begin dodging him, to have some time alone, except in the long evenings after that early dinner. He liked my company, I think, for two reasons. First, because of my London background. I wasn’t straight out of the egg like some very tedious types we had from Brisbane and Adelaide. Secondly, being a randy old boy, he’d been trying to make a rather pretty little widow called Mrs Tetzler, one of those fluttery women who are the most determined teasers. When I came along, thirty years younger and a real artist, she tried to switch over to me as a deck-and-bar escort. This would have annoyed Lord Randlong if he hadn’t soon discovered that I wasn’t interested and didn’t mind if he used me as bait for Mrs Tetzler.

When she went below to lock her cabin door against wicked old peers, his lordship and I soon left the bar for what was called his stateroom. It was the only large cabin in the ship, Randlong being one of the directors of the line. There we could talk at ease over the excellent Scotch he provided, well away from Mr Jones’s comrade, Mike the bar steward, who not only didn’t think his lordship a wonder man but obviously hated his guts. Randlong, who was no fool, had plenty of smooth sweet butterscotch talk, in which he could laugh at himself – he liked to throw back his head and laugh and slap his thigh – without really opening himself out very much. He was very curious about this visit of mine to Australia, saying more than once that if my object was to paint and sell pictures he could, and would, do a lot for me. But I’d made up my mind – and about time too – that now I wouldn’t talk too much, and when he pressed me hard, all in friendship, I finally hinted that I was chasing a girl and couldn’t say any more than that. But a curious thing happened before we parted. It was between Wellington and Sydney, a roughish night, and we were listening to a radio he’d had installed. The news said that a most provocative speech, a very sharp challenge to the West, had just been made at the U.N. by the new Soviet delegate there. His name was Viktor Melnikov.

After he’d switched off, Randlong looked curiously at me. ‘I don’t say you gave a jump, Bedford – nobody does – but I noticed what they call a sharp reaction. Know anything about this Melnikov?’

It seemed wiser to admit something than try to dodge the question. ‘Yes, I’ve met him. First, in London. At the house of a fellow who occasionally buys a picture of mine – Sir Reginald Merlan-Smith.’

His roar of laughter came a fraction of a second too late. I just caught something first, a cold flash. ‘Don’t tell me Reggie Merlan-Smith’s hobnobbing with the Commies. Business, I guess. Reggie’s very sharp. Don’t I know it. And what about that grey-haired continental piece of his – what’s her name little Nadia – eh, Bedford? Bet you noticed her all right, didn’t you – never mind any Melnikovs – o-ho – what a wicked piece! Yes, our friend Reggie looks after himself very nicely. But he’s a sound fellow, sound as a bell. Ought to have put his money into the Commonwealth but he prefers South America – can’t imagine why. Now look, my boy – you don’t want to talk about this girl you’re after – don’t blame you – but where are you making for, after we land? Staying in Sydney?’

‘No, I think I’ll go straight to Melbourne. Only a short flight, isn’t it?’

‘Quite short and no trouble at all. Australia’s a different place now you can fly everywhere. Well now – look. First thing I have to do is to visit Canberra – business not pleasure, you can bet on that – and then I go down to Melbourne. I’ve a suite at the Windsor Hotel. You want to meet people – you want to make friends – try me, and we’ll kill another bottle or two. We’ll stick to Scotch too. And here’s a tip, my boy. Keep away from the beer. It’s the curse of the country. They’re all muzzy with it – half-drowned. Stick to Scotch and you’re four moves ahead of the average Aussie every time.’

He was my butterscotch and other Scotch Uncle Santa Claus Randlong right up to the time we crept into that super-harbour at Sydney, which seemed to be waiting for something classier than the
Yarrabonga
. When we landed he was met by a young man, some office stooge, and whisked away, and the next time I saw him, not to speak to, was through the open door of a waiting-room at the airport, where he was being photographed and interviewed. I flew to Melbourne, where it was steamily hot, and got a room in a small hotel in Collins Street. In some ways it was stranger than Lima or Santiago, Chile. As if Liverpool had been cleaned up and moved to the subtropical Pacific. The people in the hotel were very free-and-easy and didn’t put themselves out very much for the customers, but at least there seemed to be none of that barely disguised contempt and hate you notice in the larger European hotels. Melbourne gave the impression of being big, rich, important, but nothing much appeared to be happening there. At least the newspaper I bought couldn’t promise much.

I came across one item, though, that I couldn’t shrug away. The evening before, it told me, a lecture attended by a large and enthusiastic audience had been given by Dr Magorious, the well-known psychologist and psychiatrist from London. It was one of three lectures telling us in the Free World how, psychologically, we should reply to the Challenge of Communism. Dr Magorious had rated a whole-column report, and clearly was going over big in Melbourne.

Late next morning I ran into him. I’d been to the desk of the Oriental Hotel – it was the fourth I’d visited – to inquire if Miss Rosalia Arnaldos was staying there or had been there recently, and had just drawn the fourth blank. I wasn’t surprised, but it had seemed a long shot worth trying. Just as I was going out, Dr Magorious was coming in with two other men, oldish and not smart, university types probably. ‘Hello Dr Magorious,’ I cried, loud and clear. He walked past me without a word, without any obvious sign he’d either heard me or even seen me. It was the most deliberate complete brush-off I’ve ever had. I went out into the glare and noise of the street full of fight and determination. The Magorious treatment had at least done me a bit of good.

I needed it too. Of course I knew a lot more about what I was up against than I’d done when I arrived in South America, but that didn’t help much. Going round Melbourne inquiring about Rosalia, I knew even while I was doing it, was just marking time. There were several mysterious and tantalising clues to somebody or something on Joe Farne’s list, my favourite being
Old Astrologer on the mountain
, but only one definite place, the same one that Rosalia had given me, Charoke, Victoria. And of course this was why I’d come straight to Melbourne. I bought a large-scale map of Victoria, and after some trouble I found Charoke, which was in the north-west, about seventy miles north of the main highway, going through Ballarat and Ararat, from Melbourne to Adelaide. The map showed a branch railway line not a long way off, but a fellow I talked to in the bar of the hotel, a cattle man from those parts, said the only thing for me to do was to hire a car and drive myself up there. I could just about manage this, but what worried me was what to do when I got there. After all, my last contact with this organisation was when I sapped one of its larger employees with a blackjack. Von Emmerick, feeling silly, might have kept this information to himself, and nobody at Osparas or the Institute knew I’d come to Australia. But I felt this visit to Charoke, miles from anywhere, was dicey to say the least of it, and that I was very much out on my own. In fact, during the afternoon, after I’d fixed up to hire a car for a week – it was oldish but a big tough Buick – and to pick it up in the morning, I wondered if I ought to tell somebody where I was going. I could go round to the Windsor, to see if my genial shipmate Lord Randlong had arrived, just to tell him. Or at a pinch perhaps I could tell the police. After all, I wasn’t in Peru and Chile now. Wasn’t I a citizen in good standing of our great Commonwealth of Nations?

Like hell I was. This is what happened within an hour of my leaving the car-hire garage. Turning the corner, back into Collins Street, I ran into Mike the bar steward, no longer in dirty whites but still looking like a truculent but melancholy bear. We’d parted friends, in spite of my sessions with Lord Randlong, and now I must have a drink with him in a favourite boozer of his near-by, where no bleeding crook beer was rotting the guts of the poor bastards who knew no better. So in we went, hot and thirsty, into the shade and air-conditioning, while I repeated to Mike his lordship’s warning remarks about Aussies and their beer. Mike shoved me into a corner and lumbered off for our drinks, after promising to open my eyes a bit wider. But no sooner had he come back than I opened my eyes very wide. A man nearly as big as he was gave Mike a sharp tap on the shoulder.

‘Oh for Christ’s sake!’ said Mike, looking at the man in disgust. ‘Not again.’

‘What
is
this?’ I said.

‘Yew tew, mister,’ said the man. Outside a young policeman was waiting for us.

I tried the young policeman. ‘Look here – what’s happening?’ And not only didn’t he reply, he didn’t even look at me. Perhaps he’d attended Dr Magorious’s lecture, the evening before. The four of us got into a car, which was driven by another policeman, and a quarter of an hour later, after telling the first man my name and where I was staying, I found myself sitting in a little room – not a cell but no centre of gracious living either – with no company except my own angry feelings. I was there two whole hours before anything happened. Then, as I was told, Major Jorvis of Security was now ready to see me.

So there he was, sitting behind a desk, a big pink bull of a man, with angry red-rimmed blue eyes and a ginger moustache that he kept trying to chew. He was exactly the kind of man – I’d had dealings with several of them in the army – I’ve never been able to get along with anywhere at any time. I knew at once that this Major Jorvis was a king specimen. He was the type right up where it belonged, in Authority, Security, Blood and Iron. A final touch of horror came with his voice and accent. Not because he had an Australian accent – I can enjoy any accent if it genuinely belongs somewhere – but because he’d brewed for himself a nasty mixture of Australian and Field-Marshal Viscount Montgomery speech-on-parade English.

‘I’m Major Jorvis,’ he began.

‘I know you are,’ I said angrily. ‘But what I want to know is why I’ve been brought here, kept here for a couple of hours – ’

‘And I’ll tell you when I’m ready to. But I’ll ask the questions. Now you arrived in Sydney yesterday in the
Yarrabonga
, didn’t you?’ He did a looking-at-papers act.

‘Yes – and my name’s Bedford, I came from Valparaiso, I live in London, I’m a painter by profession, and I didn’t come to Australia to sit in cubbyholes – ’

‘We can soon show you worse ones than that. Now – stop shouting – and answer my questions, if you don’t want another long wait. You’re a member of the Communist Party, aren’t you?’

‘No, I’m not. And never was at any time.’

‘That’s the answer we expect to get of course – ’

‘Why do you ask the dam’ silly question then?’

‘To prove you’re all ready to tell lies. Now, Bedford, are you willing to swear you’re not a member of the Communist Party?’

‘Certainly, with pleasure.’

He looked pleased. He had me trapped, somewhere in the lost jungle of his mind. ‘That question and your answer have just been recorded, you might like to know.’

‘It won’t sell. Not without music.’

That annoyed him of course, but he didn’t explode. Instead, he was quiet, ruthless, deadly now, the way he’d seen it done on films. ‘We don’t guess, y’know, Bedford. We go to work on information. We have some about you or you wouldn’t be here. Now I’ll ask you another simple straightforward question. Why have you come to Australia?’

I hesitated, as of course he observed with great satisfaction. ‘Surely that’s my business,’ I began, rather stupidly playing for time.

I was saved – or I thought I was – by somebody buzzing him. What he heard through the receiver lifted his horrible moustache above a grin. ‘That’s just great. Of course. Bring him along at once. And you stay – second witness.’ He put down the receiver, leant back, half-closed his eyes and hummed or purred, a cat with a ginger moustache and a mouse.