alistairmaclean.bearisland-第6部分

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man　being　she　had　to　have　something　or　somebody　to　love；　something　or　somebody　to　return　her　affection。　She　had　tried　cats；　it　was　said；　but　that　hadn't　worked：　the　cats；　apparently；　didn't　love　her　back。　But　one　thing　was　indisputable。　Tall；　slender；　with　wonderful　Titian　hair　and　classically　beautiful　in　the　sculptured　Greek　fashion；　Miss　Haynes；　it　was　universally　conceded；　couldn't　act　for　toffee。　Nonetheless；　she　was　a　very　hot　box　office　attraction　indeed：　the　bination　of　the　wistfully　regal　expression；　which　was　her　trademark；　and　the　startling　contrast　of　her　lurid　private　life　saw　to　that。　Nor　was　her　career　in　any　way　noticeably　hindered　by　the　facts　that　she　was　the　daughter　of　Otto　Gerran；　whom　she　was　said　to　despise；　the　wife　of　Michael　Stryker；　whom　she　was　said　to　hate；　and　a　full　partner　in　the　Olympus　Productions　pany。
　There　was　nothing　much　wrong　with　her　physical　condition　that　I　could　see。　I　asked　her　how　many　tablets　of　various　kinds　she　had　consumed　in　the　course　of　the　day　and　after　dithering　about　helplessly　for　a　bit　and　totting　up　the　score　with　the　shapely　and　tapering　forefinger　of　her　right　hand　on　the　shapely　and　tapering　fingers　of　her　left…she　was　alleged　to　be　able　to　add　up　pounds　and　dollars　with　the　speed　and　accuracy　of　an　IBM　puter…she　gave　me　some　approximate　figures　and　in　return　I　gave　her　some　tablets　with　instructions　as　to　how　many　and　when　to　take　them；　then　left。　I　didn't　prescribe　any　sedatives　for　the　dogs　they　looked　okay　to　me。
　The　cabin　occupied　by　the　Count　and　Antonio　was　directly　opposite　across　the　passageway。　I　knocked　twice；　without　reply；　went　inside　and　saw　why　there　had　been　no　reply：　Antonio　was　there　all　right；　but　I　could　have　knocked　until　doomsday　and　Antonio　would　not　have　heard　me；　for　Antonio　would　never　hear　anything　again。　From　the　Via　Vene　to　via　Mayfair　to　die　so　squalidly　in　the　Barents　Sea：　for　the　gay　and　laughing　Antonio　there　could　never　have　been　a　right　or　proper　or　suitable　place　to　die；　for　if　ever　I'd　met　a　man　in　love　with　life　it　had　been　Antonio：　and　for　this　cosseted　creature　of　the　sybaritic　salons　of　the　capitals　of　Europe　to　die　in　those　bleak　and　indescribably　bitter　surroundings　was　so　incongruous　as　to　be　shocking；　so　unreal　as　to　momentarily　suspend　both　belief　and　prehension。　But　there　he　was；　just　there；　lying　there　at　my　feel？；　very　real；　very　dead。
　The　cabin　was　full　of　the　sour…sweet　smell　of　sickness　and　there　was　physical　evidence　of　that　sickness　everywhere。　Antonio　lay　not　on　his　bunk　but　on　the　carpeted　deck　beside　it；　his　head　arched　impossibly　far　back　until　it　was　at　right　angles　to　his　body。　There　was　blood；　a　great　deal　of　blood；　not　yet　congealed；　on　his　mouth　and　on　the　floor　by　his　mouth。
　The　body　was　contorted　into　an　almost　impossible　position；　arms　and　legs　outflung　at　grotesque　angles；　the　knuckles　showing　ivory。　Rolling　around；　the　Count　had　said；　sick；　a　man　on　the　rack；　and　he　hadn't　been　so　far　out　at　that；　for　Antonio　had　died　as　a　man　on　the　rack　dies；　in　agony。　Surely　to　God　he　must　have　cried　out；　even　although　his　throat　would　have　been　blocked　most　of　the　time；　he　must　have　screamed；　he　must　have；　he　would　have　been　unable　to　prevent　himself：　but　with　the　Three　Apostles　in　full　cry；　his　cries　would　have　gone　unheeded。　And　then　I　remembered　the　scream　I　had　heard　when　I'd　been　talking　to　Lonnie　Gilbert　in　his　cabin　and　I　could　feel　the　hairs　prickling　on　the　back　of　my　neck：　I　should　have　known　the　difference　between　the　high…pitched　yowling　of　a　rock　singer　and　the　scream　of　a　man　dying　in　torment。
　I　knelt；　made　a　cursory　examination；　finding　out　no　more　in　the　process　than　any　layman　would　have　done；　closed　the　staring　eyes　and　then；　with　the　advent　of　rigor　mortis　in　mind；　straightened　out　the　contorted　limbs　with　an　ease　that　I　found　vaguely　surprising。　Then　I　left　the　cabin；　locked　the　door　and　hesitated　for　only　a　moment　before　dropping　the　key　in　my　pocket：　if　the　Count　were　possessed　of　the　delicate　sensibilities　he　claimed；　he'd　be　glad　I'd　taken　the　key　with　me。
　
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　〃Dead？〃　Otto　Gerran's　puce　plexion　had　deepened　to　a　shade　where　I　could　have　sworn　it　was　overlaid　with　indigo。　〃Dead；　did　you　say？〃
　〃That's　what　I　said。〃　Otto　and　I　were　alone　in　the　dining　saloon：　it　was　ten　o'clock　now　and　at　nine…thirty　sharp　Captain　Imrie　and　Mr。　Stokes　invariably　left　for　their　cabins；　where　they　would　remain　inmunicado　for　the　next　ten　hours。　I　lifted　from　Otto's　table　a　bottle　of　raw　firewater　on　which　someone　had　unblushingly　stuck　a　label　claiming　that　the　contents　was　brandy；　took　it　to　the　stewards〃　pantry；　returned　with　a　bottle　of　Hine　and　sat　down。　It　said　much　for　Otto's　unquestioned　state　of　shock　that　not　only　had　he　not　appeared　to　note　my　brief　absence；　he　even　stared　directly　at　me；　unblinkingly　and　I'm　sure　unseeingly；　as　I　poured　out　two　Fingers　for　myself：　he　registered　no　reaction　whatsoever。　Only　something　pretty　close　to　a　state　of　total　shock　could　have　held　Otto's　parsimonious　nature　in　check　and　I　wondered　what　the　source　of　this　shock　might　be。
　True；　the　news　of　the　death　of　anyone　you　know　can　e　as　a　shock；　but　it　es　as　a　numbing　shock　only　when　the　nearest　and　dearest　are　involved；　and　if　Otto　had　even　a　measurable　amount　of　affection　for　any　one；　far　less　for　the　unfortunate　Antonio；　he　concealed　it　with　great　skill。　Perhaps　he　was；　as　many　are；　superstitious　about　death　at　sea；　perhaps　he　was　concerned　with　the　adverse　effect　it　might　have　on　cast　and　crew；　maybe　he　was　bleakly　wondering　where；　in　the　immensity　of　the　Barents　Sea；　he　could　lay　hands　on　a　make…up　artist；　hairdresser；　and　wardrobe　man；　for　Otto；　in　the　sacred　name　of　economy；　had　bined　all　three　normally　separate　jobs　in　the　person　of　one　man；　the　late　Antonio。　With　a　visibly　conscious　effort　of　will　power　he　looked　away　from　the　Hine　bottle　and　focussed　his　eyes　on　me。
　〃How　can　he　be　dead？〃
　〃His　heart's　stopped。　His　breathing's　stopped。　That's　how　he　can　be　dead。　That's　how　anyone　can　be　dead。〃
　Otto　reached　out　for　the　bottle　of　Hine　and　splashed　some　brandy　into　a　glass。　He　didn't　pour　it；　he　literally　splashed　it；　the　spreading　stain　on　the　white　tablecloth　as　big　as　my　hand：　his　own　hand　was　shaking　as　badly　as　that。　He　poured　out　three　fingers　as　pared　to　my　two　which　may　not　sound　so　very　much　more　but　then　Otto　was　using　a　balloon　glass　whereas　mine　was　a　tulip。　Tremblingly；　he　lifted　the　glass　to　his　mouth　and　half　of　its　contents　disappeared　in　one　gulp；　most　of　it　down　his　throat　but　a　fair　proportion　on　his　shirt　front。　It　occurred　to　me；　not　for　the　first　time；　that　if　ever　I　found　myself　in　a　situation　where　all　seemed　lost；　and　the　only　faint　hope　of　life　depended　on　having　one　good　man　and　true　standing　by　my　right　shoulder；　the　name　of　Otto　Gerran　was　not　one　that　would　leap　automatically　to　my　mind。
　〃How　did　he　die？〃　The　brandy　had　done　some　good；　Otto's　voice　was　low；　just　above　a　whisper；　but　it　was　steady。
　〃In　agony；　I　would　say。　If　you　mean　why　did　he　die；　I　don't　know。〃
　〃You　don't　know？　You…you're　supposed　to　be　a　doctor。〃　Otto　was　having　the　greatest　difficulty　in　remaining　in　his　seat：　with　one　hand　clutching　the　brandy　glass；　the　other　was　barely　sufficient　to　anchor　his　massive　weight　against　the　wild　plunging　of　the　Morning　Rose。　I　said　nothing　so　he　went　on：　〃Was　it　seasickness？　Could　that　have　done　it？〃
　〃He　was　seasick；　all　right。〃
　〃But　you　said　a　man　doesn't　die　just　from　that。〃
　〃He　didn't　die　just　from　that。〃
　〃An　ulcerated　stomach；　you　said。　Or　heart。　Or　asthma…？'
　〃He　was　poisoned。〃
　Otto　stared　at　me　for　a　moment；　his　face　registering　no　prehension；　then　he　set　his　glass　on　the　table　and　pushed　himself　abruptly　to　his　feel？；　no　mean　acplishment　for　a　man　of　his　bulk。　The　trawler　rolled　wickedly。　I　leaned　quickly　forward；　snatched　up　Otto's　glass　just　as　it　began　to　topple　and　at　the　same　moment　Otto　lurched　to　one　side　and　staggered　across　to　the　starboard…the　lee…door　of　the　saloon　leading　to　the　upper　deck。　He　flung　this　open　and　even　above　the　shrieking　of　the　wind　and　the　crash　of　the　seas　I　could　hear　him　being　violently　sick。　Presently　he　re…entered；　closed　the　door；　staggered　across　the　deck　and　collapsed　into　his　chair。　His　face　was　ashen。　I　handed　him　his　glass　and　he　drained　the　contents；　reached　out　for　the　bottle　and　refilled　his　glass。　He　drank　some　more　and　stared　at　me。
　〃Poison？〃
　〃Looked　like　strychnine。　Had　all…〃
　〃Strychnine？　Strychnine！　Great　God！　Strychnine！　You…you'll　have　to
　carry　out　a　post…mortem；　an…an　autopsy。〃
　〃don't　talk　rubbish。　I'll　carry　out　no　such　thing；　and　for　a　number　of　excellent　reasons。　For　one　thing；　have　you　any　idea　what　an　autopsy　is　like…it's　a　very　messy　business　indeed；　I　can　assure　you。　I　haven't　the　facilities。　I'm　not　a　specialist　in　pathology…and　you　require　one　for　an　autopsy。　You　require　the　consent　of　the　next　of　kin…and　how　are　you　going　to　get　that　in　the　middle　of　the　Barents　Sea？　You　require　a　coroner's　order…no　coroner。　Besides；　a　coroner　only　issues　an　order　where　theirs　a　suspicion　of　foul　play。　No　such　suspicion　exists　here。〃
　〃No…no　foul　play？　But　you　said…〃
　I　said　it　looked　like　strychnine。　I　didn't　say　it　was　strychnine。　I'm　sure　it's　not。　He　seemed　to　show　the　classical　symptoms　of　having　had　tetanic　spasms　and　opisthotonos…that's　when　the　back　arches　so　violently　that　the　body　rests　on　the　head　and　the　heels　only…and　his　face　showed　pure　terror：　there's　nearly　always　this　conviction　of　impending　death　at　the　onset　of　strychnine　poisoning。　But　when　I　straightened　him　out　there　were　no　signs　of　tetanic　contractions。　Besides；　the　timing　is　all　wrong。　Strychnine　usually　shows　its　first　effects　within　ten　minutes　and　half　an　hour　after　taking　the　stuff　you're　gone。　Antonio　was　at　least　twenty　minutes　here　with　us　at　dinner　and　there　was　nothing　wrong　with　him　then…well；　seasickness；　that's　all。　And　he　died　only　minutes　ago…far　too　long。　Besides；　who　on　earth　would　want　to　do　away　with　a　harmless　boy　like　Antonio？　Do　you　have　in　your　employ　a　raving　psycho　who　kills　just　for　the　kicks　of　it？　Does　it　make　any　kind　of　sense　to　you？〃
　〃No。　No；　it　doesn't。　But…but　poison。　You　said…〃
　〃Food　poisoning。〃
　〃Food　poisoning！　But　people　don't　die　of　food　poisoning。　You　mean　ptomaine　poisoning？〃
　I　mean　no　such　thing　for　there　is　no　such　thing。　You　can　eat　ptomaines　to　your　heart's　content　and　you'll　e　to　no　harm。　But　you　can　get　all　sorts　of　food　poisoning…chemically　contaminated…mercury　in　fish；　for　instance…edible　mushrooms　that　aren't　edible　mushrooms；　edible　mussels　that　aren't　edible　mussels…but　the　nasty　one　is　salmonella。　And　that　can　kill；　believe　me。　just　at　the　end　of　the　war　one　variety　of　it；　Salmonella　enteritidis；　laid　low　about　thirty　people　in　Stoke…on…Trent。　Six　of　them　died。　And　there's　an　even　nastier　one　called　Clostridium　botulinum　kind　of　half…cousin　of　botulinus；　a　charming　substance　that　is　guaranteed　to　wipe　out　a　city　in　a　night…the　Ministry　of　Health　makes　it。　This　Clostridium　secretes　an　exotoxin…a　poison…which　is　probably　the　most　powerful　occurring　in　nature。　Between　the　wars　a　party　of　tourists　at　Loch　Maree　in　Scotland　had　a　picnic　lunch…sandwiches　filled　with　potted　duck　paste。　Eight　of　them　had　this。　All　eight　died。　There　was　no　cu