The Strode Venturer by Hammond Innes Page A

transmitter hung like rubies in the sky. The air was remarkably clear after the rain, the clouds all gone and the night sky brilliant with stars. “Ugly old bitch, ain’t she, sir?” Slinger shouted in my ear as we roared out across the slight chop produced by the breeze.
    The shape of the Strode Venturer was standing out now against the horizon and I could see that she was a typical “three-islander” of pre-war vintage. She looked about five thousand tons and her outline, with the single vertical smoke stack set amidships, was uncompromisingly utilitarian. She came of a long line of economical vessels designed and built by British yards for tramping cargoes in and out of a far-flung empire’s more primitive ports. “When was she built?” I asked.
    “God knows, sir,” the corporal replied. “Before my time anyway.” And he grinned as he swung the launch under the rounded counter and came up alongside under her lee. There was no gangway down. The black-painted hull was blotched with rust which shone redly in the launch’s port navigation light. We shouted and eventually one of the crew, a Chinese, put his head over the side. “Take my advice, sir,” Slinger said. “See the Chinese steward. He just about runs the ship as far as we can see. Calls himself the purser. You won’t get much sense out of the captain. Hean’ his first officer are just there for decoration as you might say.” A rope ladder hit the deck with a thud. “All right if I leave you for half an hour? I got to check the barges and landing craft.”
    I told him half an hour would do fine and climbed the rusting sides of the ship. The deck above was cluttered with stores, the hatches open, the cargo booms not properly stowed. The ship looked a mess. From somewhere deep in the bowels of her a radio was blaring forth Eastern music. It was the only sound, the only sign of life—that and the man who had thrown me the rope ladder. He appeared to be some sort of steward dressed in cotton trousers and jacket. But when I asked for Captain Deacon he grinned at me and said, “Yessah, Capting not seeing anybody.”
    It was a good start. But these ships are all roughly alike and I pushed past him and made for the captain’s cabin which was in the usual place, below the wheelhouse. I knocked. There was no answer so I pushed open the door. The cabin was dark, the curtains drawn and the portholes closed; it reeked a sour smell of whisky and sweat. I switched on the light. He was lying on his bunk, the waistband of his trousers undone and his shirt open. He was a big man and the great barrel of his chest, covered with a mat of black hair, rose and fell with quiet regularity. He wasn’t asleep, nor was he in a stupor, for I could see his eyes watching me. “Captain Deacon?”
    He didn’t say anything. He just lay there staring up at me with his head twisted a little on one side whilst I told him who I was and why I’d come. It was a very strangely-shaped head, almost bald, with a high bulging forehead. “Strode, you say.” His voice was no more than a whisper as though all his life he’d had to keep it in check.
    “Yes, Peter Strode. He’s on board and …”
    “What d’you want with him?” The big hooked nose, slightly bent to one side, lifted as though to sniff a scent, and the small eyes, still staring at me from under the shaggy brows, glinted suspiciously in the glare of the unshaded light.
    “I want a word with him, that’s all,” I said.
    “A word with him.” He repeated it to himself as though chewing on a lean piece of meat. “And you say you’re from the London Office. Well, it’s got nothing to do with London who I ship as crew.”
    “A member of the Strode family,” I said. “Surely you must have realized …”
    He shifted angrily in his bunk. “If a man wants to lead his own life, well, Christ, he’s entitled to, isn’t he? I’d have given him my own cabin if he’d wanted it. Did it once before when he came on board