The Murder Line (C.I.D. Room Book 8) by Jeffries Roderic

Author:Jeffries, Roderic [Jeffries, Roderic]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Endeavour Press
Published: 2016-11-21T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 10

The T.S.S. Western Sand was a twenty-two thousand ton passenger ship, now in her last years of service and profitably only because of an advantageous mail contract the Sand Steamship Company had negotiated five years previously. She had had one major refit in her thirty years’ service and the most obvious result of this was that now she had a raked bow, single raked funnel, and raked fore and mainmast, instead of up-and-down bow and masts and twin upright Woodbine funnels. She had an air of grace she had not possessed when new and because of her traditional build she possessed great beauty in the eyes of those who loved ships before the competition of planes had dramatically altered their raison d’être and therefore their basic construction.

Pilgrim was no lover of the sea or of ships, traditional or modern. In anything stronger than a very light swell he felt queasy and in the heavy storm three days before — the ship’s log merely recorded a moderate sea and swell — he’d all but died.

He sat at the bar and ordered another whisky on the rocks and the bartender poured it out for him. It was just possible to hear the noise from the discothèque, one deck below. He’d tried to run a course with the blonde who did a creditable D.J. job, but she’d made it all too clear that she preferred lamb to mutton. Hell, he thought a shade drunkenly, he might never see thirty-five again, but experience was worth something.

The tannoy system came alive. “Hullo, hullo. Calling Mr. Pilgrim. There is a message for Mr. Pilgrim at the purser’s office on C deck. Thank you.”

Knowing an unwelcome tension, he finished the whisky. Then he left the bar and walked through to the square beyond and the ancient, rattling lift which always made him wonder if it had any form of fail-safe system.

The purser’s office was in the square of C deck. There was an open working area, twenty feet long and ten deep, with a counter and to port of this was an enclosed office in which the chief purser was reputed to drink two bottles of whisky a day. Behind the counter was a young, smooth, male purser with two rings on his arms and a snappy brunette with one ring. He told the brunette he was Pilgrim and how come he hadn’t seen her before on this trip. With a weary smile she said she’d been very busy otherwise she was sure they’d have met. She handed him a ship’s telegram.

He opened and read it. ‘Regret Abbot died last night Stop Drop everything on return and come home immediately.’ It was signed Anne.

He crumpled up the cable and dropped it into his pocket. He was vaguely aware that the one-ringed purser was looking at him, her attention caught by something about his expression, but he ignored her. He crossed the square to the lift and returned to the bar, where he ordered another whisky on the rocks.

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