An Owl Too Many (20 page)

“Good. Go help.”

Not at all hurt by being thus rudely dismissed from his post as steersman, Peter took the empty mug and coffeepot and went below. Winifred was pleased to see him.

“President Svenson must be exhausted. How is he doing up there?”

“Still the firm hand on the helm. I spelled him long enough to let him stretch his muscles and drink his soup, but he didn’t think much of my performance.”

“I’m sure you were admirable, whereas if we’d let Dr. Svenson into the galley he’d have spilled the soup and blown up the stove,” Winifred replied loyally and no doubt accurately. “I’ve been busy, too. As you suspected, Mr. Fanshaw is a man of many parts.”

“What did you find?”

“A fascinating collection of passports, stuck up inside the locker with masking tape. He must have had a glorious time posing for photographs, I particularly like this one of him as a geisha girl. Note that he calls himself Sayonara Atakuku and claims Japanese citizenship. I wonder how he manages to keep track of which identity he’s using at any given moment.”

“Fanshaw must have a mighty competent forger on his payroll,” Peter grunted as he leafed through the spurious documents. “Or else he fakes them up himself, which wouldn’t surprise me any. He may also do a little business peddling passports to other crooks; some of these look as if they’ve never been used.”

“You don’t suppose he just does them as a hobby?”

“I’m ready to suppose anything of that bird. This is a real find, Winifred. Have you turned up anything else?”

“A few mustaches and a pair of elevator shoes. Oh, and the boat’s name is the
Lollipop.”

Peter snickered. “The good ship
Lollipop,
eh? That ought to tickle the president. In whose name is she registered?”

“You’re going to love this. Commodore George Dewey, with a beard to match.”

Peter thumbed through the passports. “Ah yes, here he is. Not a bad likeness from what I recall of the original, which isn’t much except for ‘Damn the torpedos, full speed ahead.’ I like the yachting cap and blazer; did you find those?”

“No, but I found a slinky green satin negligee with lace trimmings. You don’t suppose Fanshaw’s really a woman?”

“By George, that’s a possibility. You didn’t happen to notice whether he was looking suspiciously unkempt about the jowls last evening?”

“Peter, what an odd question! Oh, you mean that if he was a man, his whiskers might have started to grow in by then. Yours are quite apparent by now, I see. No, I can’t remember but it doesn’t really signify, does it? Some men are less inclined to hirsuteness than others, whereas some women are quite hairy. Aunt had rather a dapper little mustache in her later years. Anyway, Fanshaw would have shaved when he put on his Tugboat Annie getup, don’t you think? I didn’t find a passport for Annie Brennan, by the way, though I don’t suppose she’d be one of his going-abroad personae. And I certainly can’t envision his taking
Lollipop
all the way to Seattle. Can you?”

“No, but the president might. We may have to mutiny unless his Viking blood simmers down or the gas runs out. Do you suppose daylight will ever come?”

“It always has so far,” said Winifred. “What I’m wondering is whether this rain will ever stop.”

“It seemed to be tapering off a little when I last went out,” Peter was happy to reply. “I have a vague recollection of Bulfinch telling us at the station that the storm’s supposed to blow out to sea sometime tomorrow. Come to think of it, this is tomorrow. Or ought to be. You don’t happen to have a watch on you? I forgot to wear mine.”

“I could tell the time by the stars if there were any. As a guess I’d say it must be somewhere around half-past two or three o’clock. And I never did get that nap, did I? Perhaps I’ll try for forty winks now, if you don’t mind.”

“By all means do. Are there any blankets?” Peter hadn’t dared to leave the galley stove running any longer than it had taken to boil the kettle and heat the soup; by now the chill had crept back into the cabin.

“Yes, we have blankets, though goodness knows when they were last washed. No matter, I’ve slept on worse in my camping-out days.”

Winifred lay down on the bunk from under which she’d taken Fanshaw’s many forged passports, covered herself with one of the blankets, and shut her eyes. Seconds later she was breathing steadily, peacefully, and deeply; and smiling in her sleep. Peter gave her a thoughtful look, picked up another of the tobacco-reeking blankets, and stretched out on the bunk opposite.

When next he opened his eyes, the wind was down from a roar to a whine. He pulled aside the cabin curtain; the rain had all but stopped and the sky showed medium gray instead of muddy black. He leapt out the door and up to the pilot house.

“President, are you—”

“Coffee?”

“Er—soon. How’s she heading?”

“Urrgh!”

“Aye, aye, sir. Back in a trice.”

Peter hid himself below, filled the kettle, and lit the galley stove. He opened a can of something or other—corned beef or a reasonable facsimile, he guessed—and sandwiched hunks of it between pilot biscuits. As soon as the water began to steam, he filled two mugs with instant coffee, extra strong, and returned to the pilot house bearing breakfast, such as it was.

“Can we talk now, President?”

“No.”

Svenson attacked the meat and biscuits like a hunger-maddened malamute. Peter sipped gingerly at his coffee and decided he’d better snaffle a morsel or two for himself while there was still any food to be had.

There was no place for him to sit; he stood and looked out through the rain-streaked glass. Grayness was all he could see: gray water, gray sky, Svenson’s gray flannel shirt, his iron-gray hair plastered to his forehead by dampness and sweat or some of each, gray whiskers sprouting from cheeks, and chin gray with exhaustion.

“God, President,” he exclaimed, “you look like the ghost of banished hope. Want me to take the wheel while you go below and stretch out for a while?”

“Coffee.”

“Here, finish mine. I’ll go make some more.” He swapped his mug for the one Svenson had emptied and yet once more descended the narrow ladder to the cabin. He should have brewed a potful in the first place. Fortunately he’d decided the boat had quieted down enough now so that he’d dared to leave another kettle heating on the stove in case Winifred should wake up and want her tea.

He found her serenely pounding her ear. Being kidnapped must have been a fairly exhausting experience for Winifred, now that he had leisure to reflect on the matter. He’d better let her sleep as long as she could. Svenson wouldn’t be able to go on much longer without a rest, either, from the look of him. Furthermore, they were almost out of pilot biscuits and Peter didn’t even want to think about what might be happening inside the gas tank.

They’d have to risk landing soon, that was all there was to it. His own brief experience at the helm, however, had convinced Peter that he was not the man to land them. Somehow he had to keep the president functioning until they could locate a safe place to dock. Even an only somewhat safe place would do; he’d settle for getting firmly stuck in a nice, squishy mud bank. Anything but this eternal water, water everywhere. He opened another can of meat, chopped it into three parts, balanced each segment on half a biscuit. He rinsed last night’s soup out of the percolator, filled the pot with boiling water, dumped in what was left of the powdered instant coffee, and went topside.

“Best I can do,” he said when Svenson cocked an eyebrow at the half-biscuits. “As of now, we’re on short rations. Do you suppose there’s any hope of our getting ashore in the near future?”

Svenson had his mouth full of meat; he made some kind of noise and waved his coffee mug. Peter stood watching him chew.

“Damned if I don’t think you’re enjoying this, President.”

The big man gulped and shrugged. “Why not? Have to do it anyway. Look over the side. See what’s out there.”

“I know what’s out there, more dratted water. What the flaming perdition do you expect me to see?”

“Sea serpents, mermaids, telephone poles, street signs, how do I know? Shandy, I don’t know where we are. I don’t know how fast we’ve been moving, I’m not even sure in what direction. We could be on the Clavaclammer or the Amazon or in some farmer’s back pasture. Find me a landing. Find me a lamppost. Find me any goddamn thing we can tie up to. And find it fast. Engine’s started to cough. We’re running out of gas.”

P
ETER STARED AS HE
had never stared before, straining his eyes toward where he hoped the riverbank might be. The river was still foaming with crosscurrents, the rain had picked up again. How Svenson had managed to get them this far without bumping into anything catastrophic was a feat only a titan or a sorcerer could have accomplished; fortunately Thorkjeld Svenson was both. Now if he could pull off one more miracle—was that a building over to the right? Peter waved his own right arm frantically.

“That way, I hope.”

Shut up in the pilot house, Svenson wouldn’t hear him yell. God willing, he’d be able to see the signal and make the boat obey.

The president had seen,
Lollipop’s
bow was turning. Peter kept on pointing. Now he could make out a shoreline, and movement. People, by George! Definitely people carrying sandbags, adding height to a dike they’d built along the bank. Now, was there any place to land safely? Yes, that was surely a dock; boats were bobbing in the water, tethered to some kind of wharf or pier that was now under water but still holding.

They were gliding in toward the boats, less noisily now; Svenson had either cut the engines or was riding on the fumes. Peter moved over to the thick rope that the perfidious Fanshaw had cast loose so many eons ago, picked up the end that had the loop in it, and got ready to throw it over anything that looked to be even halfway stationary.

Now those on shore had spied the
Lollipop.
They were waving, those who weren’t too encumbered with sandbags. Peter waved back desperately enough, he prayed, to make them understand the boat was in trouble. They were pointing down at something. A pillar or stanchion of some kind; he pointed to it, too. Svenson understood, he was bringing them in slick as a weasel. What a man! Peter balanced himself as best he could, summoned up every scintilla of skill he’d acquired in a lifetime of horseshoe pitching, and threw a perfect ringer.

Somebody behind the sandbags was cheering, or maybe Peter himself was making the racket; he was too benumbed with relief to know or care. The pilot-house door opened, Svenson came out. The yelling turned to an awed hush as the great man’s feet sought the narrow ladder. He’d put his red cap with the white bobble back on; all the president needed were a double-bitted ax and a great blue ox to pass for Paul Bunyan, Peter thought proudly.

Svenson paused, he was scanning the sandbag dike with mild amusement. Peter could see why. Those above had built well and truly, there was no gap through which stranded mariners could climb up. He didn’t care, they’d manage one way or another. For now it was enough to be at least comparatively stationary.

One of the spectators yelled something Peter didn’t catch. Svenson evidently did, he cupped his hands to his mouth and roared.

“Out of gas. Been traveling all night. Going below to get some sleep.”

He ducked through the cabin door. Peter stayed on deck and took over the bellowing. “Where are we? Still on the Clavaclammer?”

“Yes! Just barely!”

There was more yelling but Peter couldn’t make it out. He was feeling wobbly in the knees, it must be from lugging all that coffee. He waved to the sandbaggers and staggered into the cabin.

Svenson would never have fitted on one of those narrow bunks. He’d wrapped himself in a couple of blankets and stretched himself out on the floor to sleep the sleep of the just, as he well deserved to do. Peter kicked off the wet boots he’d been wearing, tiptoed around the slumbering giant, and got back into the bunk he’d so recently left. Winifred was still asleep also, he might as well just lie here a little while and rest his weary bones.

Then, somehow, bright sunlight was streaming into the cabin. Winifred, washed and brushed and neat as a pin, stood just outside the door, surveying the flood scene and drinking tea. Svenson was sitting up, scratching his bristly cheeks. Peter realized that his own whiskers were itching.

“Was there a razor among Fanshaw’s effects, Winifred?”

“I believe so.” She stepped inside and set down her mug on the bunk she’d vacated. “If you’d just scooch over a little, President, so I can get this drawer open? Thank you. Ah yes, here we are. Razor, shaving cream, and a bottle of after-shave lotion.”

“Sissy stuff,” growled Svenson. “Any more coffee?”

“Is there, Peter?”

“Sorry, President. Want some tea?”

“No.”

Svenson lay back down and gathered his blankets around him. Peter took the razor and shaving cream, spurning the lotion lest he be thought a sissy, and went into what he supposed he ought to think of as the head. This was a tiny place with no shower nor any room to put one. He didn’t care, he’d been more than adequately showered on during the past God knew how many hours.

It did feel good, though, to get rid of the stubble and have a wash. He bethought himself of fresh clothing he’d spied in Fanshaw’s luggage, reflecting that he and the man of many passports were fairly close in size, and committed an act of piracy. Clean underwear, a clean jersey, dry shoes and socks, and the suit Fanshaw had been wearing before he changed into his Tugboat Annie outfit did much to boost his morale. The shoes were too wide and the pant legs an inch or so too long, but those were trivia compared to the bliss of getting out of garb that felt as if it had been tailored from wet seaweed.

Now to call Helen. She might be phoning the field station, worrying because he wasn’t there. Peter tried the boat’s telephone, but it wasn’t working. Too much pounding, he supposed. “Drat,” he fumed to Winifred, “I’ve got to get on shore and find a phone.”

“What an excellent idea.” Winifred herself, of course, had stayed as dry as a bone since she’d been snatched aboard the
Lollipop
before the second storm hit and had barely stuck her nose outside the cabin door until after it blew over. In her trim gray slacks and neat light-brown pullover, with her short-clipped hair waving softly from all the dampness, the heiress looked pretty much the way she always looked. No stranger could have guessed she’d been through such a drawn-out ordeal.