“I have it in safe keeping,” said the Doctor, smiling. “It will be in your hands by this time tomorrow.”

There was a knock at the door. It was the Leavitts’ doctor. As we were going out I thought the Doctor wanted to say something to him, but decided not to. We went to our waiting taxi.

The Doctor asked the driver to let us out on the edge of downtown. “We may as well walk a little, Andre,” he said. “Perhaps we will find a decent restaurant if we keep our eyes open.” St. Louis cuisine, I’d noticed, didn’t agree with him at all.

“That was an interesting situation, wasn’t it?” he said after we’d walked a block or so. “Irritating, though, because we have to stay another day.”

“Doctor,” I said, “why would that woman, Mrs. Leavitt, think that money is hers?”

“What do you mean?”

I told him what Mary Leavitt had said to me when I was alone with her. He thought for a while, and said,

“Hmm. I didn’t think that was a particularly happy household. It seems that Mary Leavitt might have thought of her brother-in-law as an ally. One wonders what her situation might be if he hadn’t… disappeared. I’ll have to give this some thought.” He sighed. “Why must these things be so complicated?”

 

On our way to the Leavitts’ house the next day, I decided to say something I’d been thinking about. “Doctor,” I said, “I think we should be a little careful today at Mr. Leavitt’s. I think perhaps it might be dangerous, because there are things that we don’t know about Mr. and Mrs. Leavitt.”

“There are many things we don’t know about them. But why should that be dangerous? It’s not as though we’ll ever have anything to do with them again.”

“I mean, it was something to do with this Robert, Mr. Leavitt’s brother, and his wife. Why would she think that Robert would have wanted her to have that money?”

“I have no idea, Andre. Until yesterday I didn’t even know that Robert Leavitt had a brother. Especially one who is a miserable, suspicious failure in life. And a drinker, too, who browbeats his wife, and maybe beats her too, for all I know.”

“But Doctor, how do you know those things?”

“It’s simple. Didn’t you notice those books and things in his study? How to profit by investing in mining ventures, how to invest in stocks and bonds, how to live like a king without a salary. And so on. Issues of the Wall Street Journal and other financial papers. All covered with an inch of dust. That house – falling to pieces, in a neighbourhood that’s in decline. She spends all day scrubbing and polishing in a futile effort to convince herself that all is well, or maybe to please him, I don’t know. And he sits in that junkyard he calls a ‘study’ and drinks and reads the funny papers. That wasn’t coffee in that cup on his desk, you know.”

“But he didn’t act drunk, yesterday. And why do you say he beats her?”

“He didn’t act drunk because he’s had so much practice at drinking that it takes a lot to bring on the symptoms. And he speaks to her roughly, blames her for his troubles. You heard it yourself. But when I shook hands with her I did notice that several of her fingers have been broken and healed crookedly. And I’m sure I saw bruises on her arms after she fainted. The other thing was that doctor of theirs. He and Grover make a pair, all right. I suspect he’s been called in to quite a few little emergencies at the Leavitt household, and paid to keep his mouth shut.”

We didn’t say anything more after that, but I was glad I had my pistol in my pocket, just the same.

Mary Leavitt answered the door again. She said she was, “Quite well. It was nothing, you know, Mr. Devereaux, just a little spell.” But to me she looked bad – weak and excited at the same time, and skinnier than ever. Grover Leavitt was waiting for us in the parlour this time, and I noticed that the coffee tray, with a different sugar bowl, was already sitting on a little table.

Mr. Leavitt looked happier. “Well, well, Mr. Devereaux, I’m sure we’ll be able to finish our business quite quickly now, won’t we? Probably before Mary manages to remember to pour the coffee, I imagine.” He said that last part to her, quite loud.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, and ran off to the kitchen. I almost went too, to help, but figured it wouldn’t be a good idea. Besides, I had to stay with the Doctor.

“Yes, indeed,” said the Doctor. “There’s only one adjustment, a minor one, to what I told you yesterday. In fact, it’s just as well that this delay occurred, however unfortunate its cause. I reviewed the papers again yesterday evening, and discovered a small irregularity.”

“I don’t follow you, Mr. Devereaux. What irregularity?” Mr. Leavitt’s face was starting to get that splintery look again. The crease was back in his forehead, and he looked like he might be getting a mal de tete.

Mary Leavitt came back with the coffee pot. She poured a cup for the Doctor and me and filled up her husband’s cup, even though it wasn’t empty yet. She was about to go out of the room, when the Doctor said,

“Mrs. Leavitt, I think you should join us here. This business matter concerns you as well.”

She looked at her husband, put down the coffee pot and sat on the edge of the sofa, next to me. Grover Leavitt’s face was getting redder and redder. Every bit of happiness was gone from it. “What’s all this about, Devereaux?” he asked.

“It’s quite simple, really,” said the Doctor. “You see, when your brother took out this policy with us, he named you as his next of kin, but his designated beneficiary is Mary Leavitt, your wife. For everything to be in order, the sum I mentioned yesterday must go to her. It’s a technicality, but surely not a serious one.” He took some papers from a portfolio. “Please sign here, Mrs. Leavitt.”

Mary Leavitt looked at him, then at her husband, then at the Doctor again. “Thank you,” she said, so quiet I almost couldn’t hear her. She took the pen he held out to her and bent over the paper.

“Wait just one God damned minute here!” yelled Grover. “What kind of game are you playing with me, you little bastard? Yesterday you come here and say you have some money for me. Now it’s for her.” He jabbed his finger at his wife. “That’s an irregularity, all right, and you’d better explain it. Robert was my brother, not hers.”

“I’ve already explained it,” said the Doctor. He took a wad of bills from an envelope and handed them to Mrs. Leavitt. “Please count that and make sure that the full amount is there.” She took the bills, but didn’t count, just clutched them to her chest. The Doctor turned back to Mr. Leavitt. “The policy designated your wife as beneficiary. Hence the money goes to her. I was in error yesterday when I told you otherwise. But surely this is only a formality? After all, she is your wife.”

“Like Hell, she’s my wife,” said Grover in a choking kind of voice. He turned on her. “It was always Robert, wasn’t it? Every chance you got you threw Robert in my face. Look at Robert, he’s got a profession! Look at Robert, he saves his money! Look at Robert, he doesn’t drink! Well, all I can say is – who did Pa leave the house to? Who did Pa leave his money to? Who got Pa’s brains? Not Robert – all he knew was work, work, work, for someone else, for next to nothing! Who lived in Dempsey’s Boarding House because he couldn’t afford anything better? Who had to peddle some kind of shit machinery from a suitcase? Who ended up getting himself murdered, or worse, in some pissant burg in New England? And all the time he was fooling around behind my back, with her!”

Leavitt’s face was purple. I thought he was going to explode. Then he got another thought, and started jabbing his finger at the Doctor.

“And how do I know who you really are, Mr. Insurance Agent from New York? You come here and give me some kind of line, then next day it’s a different story! You want to know what I think? I think Robert’s behind all this. He’s not dead at all, just skulking somewhere, and I bet you’re some friend of his, trying to give her money so she can run away to him. Well, it’s not going to happen!”

He stood up and made as if to grab the Doctor around the neck. But the Doctor stood up quicker and took hold of Leavitt’s wrists. I knew he was a lot stronger than he looked. I had seen him lift men heavier than himself. Once on my father’s farm a cow got nearly strangled when some fool tied her in the barn on a short rope and she got it wrapped around her neck and fell down. My father and the Doctor got her up on her legs in time. “I never thought he’d have it in him, that one,” my father said to me later. “But there was no one else around, and by God, when I said ‘Hup!’ the two of us got her up just like that!”

Grover Leavitt, even though he was half a head taller than the Doctor, was pretty scrawny. I figured he never lifted anything much heavier than that bottle of his. “Mr. Leavitt,” said the Doctor, holding his wrists tight, “I think our business is finished now. The money is in your wife’s hands, as your brother intended. You and she will have to work this matter out between yourselves. But keep these points in mind – your mistreatment of your wife is no longer a secret between you and your friend Dr. Pearson. I think I may pay a visit to your local police force before I leave St. Louis.”

He let go of Leavitt’s wrists. The man stood there like someone had nailed his feet to the floor, and bonked him on the head too. Then he dropped down into his chair and put his face in his hands.

Mary Leavitt was sitting very straight, the money clutched in her hands, staring at her husband. Her eyes were brighter than I ever thought they could get. That was how we left them. Neither one said anything when we told them good-bye.

In the taxi again, the Doctor said, “That didn’t turn out very well, did it? But at least the money is in their hands, his or hers. I suppose it doesn’t matter, really.” I could see it still bothered him, though. It bothered me, I knew that. I was pretty shook up, so I didn’t tell him that I’d come pretty close to shooting Leavitt when he grabbed him.

That night the Doctor went out to a music concert by a symphony orchestra. He said he needed something to take the taste of Leavitts out of his mouth. I guess the dinner we had didn’t do the trick, even though I thought it was pretty good. He asked if I wanted to go too, but I didn’t. That kind of music makes me go to sleep, and I’d rather do that in a bed. So I packed up our things, since we were leaving for New Orleans the next day. New Orleans! I knew that was one of the places Acadians went to, after being kicked out of Nova Scotia in 1755, so I was excited to be going there. I went to bed and slept well all night.

The train for the South didn’t leave until afternoon, which was a good thing, because the Doctor took a long time to wake up. I didn’t know when he got back the night before. At the station, I walked around to pass the time while the Doctor made sure about our tickets and luggage and bought some newspapers.

A little while later I went back to where I’d left him. “Doctor,” I said, “I will not be sorry to leave St. Louis, but it has been interesting to see it. Now I know even better how good it was in – ” I stopped when I saw his face. It was pale and his eyes had a look that scared me. The Doctor can tell more with his eyes than with any words, sometimes. So I thought I would not say anything about Arkham.

But that wasn’t it. He held out the newspaper he’d been reading, and pointed to a story. “Read that, Andre. I never intended this. Damn it, now what should I do?”

The way he was talking reminded me of those last months in Arkham, just before he killed himself. I sat down beside him and took the newspaper.

“What is it, Doctor? Wait – don’t get yourself in a flap. Let me read this thing, here.” He watched me while I read, looking like he wanted to do it for me.

 

Murder and Suicide in College Park

Police were called to a house in the North College Park neighborhood early this morning, after a gunshot was heard. They found the body of Mr. Grover Leavitt, age 46. The cause of death was apparently a self-inflicted gunshot. Further investigation revealed the body of Mrs. Mary Leavitt in an upstairs bedroom. She had been strangled. There are indications that this was a domestic dispute that ended in violence. Neighbours reported a loud argument in the house earlier that evening. Robbery could not have been a motive, since a large amount of cash was found on the premises.

Investigations continue, since at least one neighbour reports seeing an individual emerging from the Leavitt residence some time after dark. It is not known whether this person was one of two strangers who visited the Leavitts on the afternoon before the unfortunate incident.

Mr. Leavitt was the son of the late Prof. Paul Leavitt. His occupation is given as ‘businessman,’ although it is not known what business he was engaged in. He and Mrs. Leavitt had lived in North College Park for many years, but were not well known to their neighbors. The couple had no children.

 

All this was a shock for me, but I couldn’t see why he was so taken to pieces by it. “It’s a bad thing, for sure,” I said. “But Doctor, something like this would probably have happened anyway. I think those two people hated each other.”

“Yes, but I made it worse! I gave them a reason to kill each other. So the result is two more deaths, all because of my meddling. I tell you, Andre, I’m ready to give up, except that the idea of putting myself into the hands of the police, and in St. Louis, of all places…”

There was more. I didn’t follow it all and I didn’t try. Instead, I kept my eye on the clock and got us aboard the train for New Orleans. The Doctor didn’t seem to notice, just kept going on about how he shouldn’t have done this or that. I was glad he’d bought the tickets and taken care of the baggage before the fit happened. Once we were settled in our compartment, I tried to talk him around.

“Doctor,” I said, “there is no way you should blame yourself for those people being dead. That was a bad marriage – we don’t know how bad. You were just trying to do the right thing, trying to clear up your debt. It’s not your fault, what happened after.”

“I should have seen it somehow,” he said, talking into his hands. “I should have read that stuff in Leavitt’s case. There might have been something in there about Grover. Or I should have tried to find out more, before going there. Or no – the best thing would have been to send the money anonymously, to Carl Leavitt. Who knows where it would have ended up, but I would have been free of the thing. But no, I had to have my hands on it, to manage it directly. The working out of fate! Damn Charles, damn Quarrington!”

I could see he hadn’t heard a thing I’d said, and wasn’t about to listen to me. I had no idea what he was talking about. All I knew was that last time I’d seen him like this, he ended up dead. Well, if he did that again, he’d be focqué, all right, because there was no way I could bring him back (even if it could be done a second time, and I didn’t think so, because we tried it once in Arkham, with no luck).

Finally, I had enough. He didn’t want any supper, he said, but I did. So I went off to the dining car. But I didn’t enjoy the food, because I kept worrying about him. What if he went off his head and jumped out of the train? So I rushed back without having any dessert. Well, there he was, asleep. In his clothes, and without his berth made up, because I hadn’t done it before I went. I didn’t want to wake him up, and it seemed wrong just to go to sleep myself. So I sat there while night came and the train went on, clacking its way south along the Mississippi River.

 

By the time we got close to New Orleans, I got interested in that river. Every time I saw it, it was bigger and stronger. I asked the Doctor some questions about it, but he wasn’t in a talking mood. He did a lot of reading, mostly newspapers that he asked me to buy. He read and he slept. That was it. I ended up talking to the conductor and porters, and some of the other passengers. The conductor and porters were black men, Negroes, I guess. It took me a while to get my ears used to the way they talked, slower than I was used to, with sounds stretched out in new ways.

In New Orleans, we got rooms in a nice hotel on the edge of the French Quarter. The Doctor was still in a bad mood. I tried to get him to talk, but he wouldn’t. “Are you still bothered about St. Louis?” I asked. “About those Leavitts? Because I don’t think you should be.” He answered politely, like always, but I got one of those ball-freezing looks like John Spillane called them, along with the answer.

“I know what you think, Andre. Now please leave me alone for a while, so I can determine what I think.”

I took this as an order to go out and look around, which I did. I went out every chance I got, day and night. And I fell in love.

I fell in love with New Orleans – with the people, the sounds, the smells, everything. For a while, everything else went out of my head – Arkham and Grassadoo, even the Doctor and his troubles. In the daytime I thought, this is a city that lives by favour of the river. It was like a floating garden. You couldn’t go very far before you came to water. It rained a lot, too – quick, hard rains that left the air washed and clean. That was good, because it wasn’t a very clean city. You could see that everywhere, and smell it too. But I didn’t care.

Especially at night. Because this was, most of all, a city made for the night. The magic started as soon as it got dark, and the coloured lights came on. Then the faces all changed, from everyday faces of people going to work, going home, going to buy things, to faces of people who might have been doing anything – horrible, wonderful things, things to do with murder and magic and love and hate. Brown faces, black faces, faces that looked like they were made of bronze, or copper, or gold, and eyes like old polished jewels.

It was an old city, like Arkham, but not like. Here the air was black velvet, soft and full of smells you could almost touch. It came from a warm ocean, its breath full of things I’d never known before. It was full of music too, hanging in the air like colours. As I walked, music faded behind me and started up somewhere else. When I left the coloured lights behind, I came to streets of old houses, with gates and balconies and railings made of metal like lace. I saw the warm glow of lamplight in curtained windows, saw gorgeous women coming and going, heard music and people laughing. I thought, "Later, they will come back to cool shadowy rooms with high ceilings, full of polished wood and filmy curtains and old secrets. Like the Doctor’s house, but made from the things of this city, full of its magic air."

I thought, "Maybe I can find a place for myself here. I speak French and English, and I know how things are done in a good house. Maybe there’s some rich lady who needs a chauffeur or a butler, and wouldn’t mind if he was a handsome young fellow from a far away place, someone like she’s never seen before…"

I got to thinking about that and forgot where I was going, until I realized I was getting close to the waterfront. And somewhere ahead I heard music again, music like I thought I’d heard before. Fiddles, an accordion… yes, it sounded like home. I followed the sound to a narrow alley. Finally, a doorway – light and music and bodies spilling out like it was overflowing. Over the door was a sign. La Perle Noir.

The name didn’t really tell what kind of place it was, but in a funny kind of way it did. It was different things at different times of the day – a café, a restaurant, a night club or just a place where people came to meet each other. It was even a kind of hotel, upstairs. But the thing for me was that the guy who owned it was a Cajun – Black Pierre Boule – and a lot of the customers were Cajuns too. They came to drink beer and eat gumbo and make music, all night long if they felt like it. As soon as I went in, I knew I was among friends. And when I opened my mouth to say something, it came out in French – “Laissez les bontemps rouler!´”

I spent a couple of days there, at the Black Pearl, drinking and dancing and eating and talking. I spent all my money too, but earned some of it back helping Pierre clean up and get ready for the next day. The Black Pearl was his life. He didn’t have to go anywhere, he said, the world came to him. I could see that. There were all kinds of people – sailors just in from the sea or about to go back to it, longshoremen that worked close by, even some people from those fancy houses. And there were some pretty ladies who were very friendly because I was a stranger in town, they said, and deserved a good time. Pierre introduced me to everyone he knew, and I found out a lot of things I never knew before.

“If you really want to see the Acadie of the south, Andre, mon nègre,” he said, “you have to travel a bit. Lafayette, that’s the place to go. I know lots of people up that way. Any of them would put you up. You just say Pierre Le Noir sent you.” He seemed to think I was really going to go there, but that reminded me that I wasn’t a free man on a holiday.

“Thank you, but I don’t think I can do that, this time,” I said. “You see, I’m working for a fellow who is travelling, but I don’t know where he wants to go from here.” Thinking about it, I figured the Doctor probably didn’t know either.

“Lafayette, of course!” said Pierre, with a big laugh. “Everyone should see Lafayette once before they die. It’s a great place. Let me just tell you…” And he poured me another drink and started telling me a complicated story, so I forgot all about the Doctor again.

On my way back to the hotel, two or maybe three days later, I remembered him, of course, and I wondered what he’d been doing. Suddenly, I thought maybe it wasn’t so good that I’d been gone so long and started to hurry up.

The lobby was almost empty, since it was early in the morning. The fellow at the desk gave me a funny look along with my key. I unlocked our door as quietly as I could. The Doctor was probably still asleep, and since I was worried about what he might say to me it would be better if he kept on sleeping for a while.

But I got a big surprise when I opened the door. There he was, the Doctor, fully dressed and wide awake, standing a couple of steps inside the door, pointing a pistol at me. He didn’t look very friendly. In fact, if I had to say how he looked with only one word, that word would have to be ‘crazy.’

My breath went in sharp and came out in a gasp. I held my hands out from my sides and tried not to panic. “Doctor,” I said, “it’s just me, Andre. I’m back. I’m sorry I was gone so long. I didn’t mean to be. Has… something happened?”

He stopped pointing the gun at me and started to laugh. But it wasn’t a happy laugh. “So you didn’t mean to be gone so long. Is that supposed to comfort me? And your sorrow as well? You come back here after three days, reeking of beer and garlic and the Devil himself knows what else, and that’s all you have to say? Yes, something has happened. We have become fugitives from justice, you and I. For all I know, it might have been the police at the door just now, come to arrest me. But you, it seems, are not worried about that possibility. It’s not nearly as urgent as wallowing in the fleshpots of this self-indulgent city. Good Lord, Andre, what have you been doing, getting into street fights?”

He’d been walking circles around me while he talked. I kept turning with him, so I could keep an eye on him (he was still holding that pistol, after all), but finally I gave up because it made me dizzy. I guess he asked that question when he saw my backside. I remembered slipping and falling down a few times, maybe last night, maybe the night before, when a sailor thought I was someone else and caught me by surprise. I tried to clean up my clothes after, but maybe I didn’t do such a good job.

“No, Doctor,” I said, “not fighting. Just some dancing and drinking and… I met some Cajuns, you see. They are related to us acadiens and – "

“I’m quite aware of the history of your people and their migrations,” he said. “That is irrelevant to our present situation, however.” Suddenly, he ran out of steam and sat down, looking pale and shaky. I held out my hand.

“Please will you give me the gun, Doctor?” I said. “I know where you keep it. I will put it away for safety. Then will you please tell me what has happened?”

He looked at me hard and almost said something. Then he held out the pistol. “All right, but go and have a bath first, and get into some decent clothes. I’ll order us some breakfast.”

A little later, washed and wearing a clean suit, I joined him at the breakfast table. “So what has happened, Doctor? You said something about the police.”

“They’re looking for us, or for me anyway. It’s quite obvious.”

It wasn’t obvious to me. “What police?” I asked. “Here, in New Orleans? Why should they be looking for you?” To myself I thought there was more chance they would be looking for me, after some of the goings-on the past couple of nights.

“For all I know, yes. But I was thinking of St. Louis and the Leavitt business.”

“There’s no reason for anyone to think that either you or I had anything to do with that! Mr. Leavitt killed Mrs. Leavitt, and then he killed himself. Why he did that, we don’t know, even if we can guess, but – ”

“That’s what you think. But I've been following the investigation.” He pointed to a pile of newspapers. “The latest development is that the police are seeking two strangers who were seen visiting the Leavitts several times just before the deaths. Two strangers. Now, who do you suppose they could be?”

“Several times. That means more than two, doesn’t it? We were there only two times.”

He looked uncomfortable. “Yes, the two of us were there only twice. But… well, I went back, after the concert.”

This made me forget about my omelette, even though it was pretty good. “The night of the murder!”

“Exactly.”

“But why, Doctor? Why did you go back? Did you see anything? And did anyone see you?”

“It’s to your credit, Andre, that among all those questions you didn’t include, ‘Did you kill anyone?’ Why did I go back? Simply because I couldn’t forget the way she looked when we left. Mary Leavitt. That expression of…crazed triumph on her face, it troubled me. When I thought of that, and of her husband’s perpetual anger, I couldn't see a happy outcome. And the fact that I had helped to create that situation bothered me. I’m not quite sure what I thought I could do. Just see what was happening, whether they’d managed to come to terms with things, maybe. Or talk to them, although I don’t think there was anything I could have said to change things.” He sighed and looked at the wall on the other side of the room like it was interesting. I waited, but he still didn’t say anything.

“So what did you see there, at the Leavitts’?” I asked, finally. I almost said I would eat his omelette too, since he didn’t seem to want it, but I wasn’t sure about that.

“Nothing!” he said, sounding like he was closing a door. “By the time I got there, I suspect they were pretty much beyond help, mine or anyone’s.” He pushed his plate toward me. “Here, have this, if you like. Toast is enough for me this morning.”

“How did you leave? By the same taxi again?” It was a very good omelette; I was happy to eat it.

“No. Going there, I asked the fellow to let me off three or four blocks away, on a fairly busy street. I walked back there and got a different taxi to take me back. Any number of people could have seen me, but no one would have guessed where I’d come from.”

“Well then, it doesn’t sound like there’s anything to worry about. Maybe we should just tell everything to the police. Then they’ll know we didn’t do anything wrong and leave us alone.”

“Andre, your ignorance of the police and how they work is appalling. In a serious investigation they track down anyone who could possibly have any information. Once you’re in their clutches they don’t let you go so easily; the bird in the hand, you know. I would be surprised if they haven’t traced us as far as our hotel in St. Louis, and from there to the railroad station, and even here, to New Orleans. And you say it’s nothing to worry about!”

“Well, so what do you think we should do now?” I asked this as if I didn’t know what his answer would be, but I was already feeling sad at the thought of leaving this wonderful city and the new friends I had made.

“It’s quite obvious. We must leave here immediately.”

“And go where?”

“To sea, of course,” said the Doctor, pouring himself another cup of coffee. His hand was shaking, which made me nervous. “And not on any sort of ordinary passenger ship, with ticket agents and a set course. No, what we need is an unlikely ship, a trader of some sort that comes and goes when and where its captain decides – a tramp steamer, in fact. And you, Andre, with your new education in the doings of the New Orleans waterfront, will be the one who finds it for us. I don’t dare show my face in the street, so I’ll stay here and deal with our baggage.” He got up, taking his coffee cup with him, as though he was going to start packing up right away.

At first I wanted to argue. The whole thing seemed stupid to me. To run away to sea on some rusty old ship manned by God knows what sort of people – that seemed much more dangerous than the chance that the St. Louis police followed us to New Orleans. But then I thought that maybe he wouldn’t have all these ideas if I hadn’t gone and left him alone. Maybe if I’d stayed with him, he would have decided to live here, to buy one of those houses with the iron balconies and live graciously, with Andre Boudreau as his servant and chauffeur. On my evenings off I would go to the Black Pearl and get some joie de vivre. But now that wasn’t going to happen. I kissed the idea good-bye, like a baby I would never see growing up. What did I owe this man, after all? Only my life.

“Well, Doctor, I guess I’ll see what I can do,” I said.

But before I left, I asked him something. There seemed to be more to this Leavitt business for him than there should have been, considering what he’d told me. If he wanted me to help him out with it, he’d have to tell me more.

“Doctor,” I said, “what was it that you did to Robert Leavitt, anyway? That debt of honour, what was it about? Card games or something like that?”

He put his cup down on a little table near the door and laughed in that way that meant he wasn’t happy. “Card games? No. I’ve never been given to gambling. Not like that, anyway. Too bad it wasn’t something like that. What did I do to Robert Leavitt? I killed him.”

“Killed him? How? It was a mistake, some surgery that didn’t work out?”

“Oh, things didn’t work out, all right. But that was afterward. No, I killed him quite deliberately. I badly needed a subject for my research, and he happened along. I revivified him, but he died again soon after, because of… complications. Altogether, it didn’t seem desirable to report the matter to the police. Now you know.” He came back to the breakfast table and sat down, like he needed to rest.

“So it was for… scientific research?”

“Of course.”

“Do you really think that was right? To kill a man just for – ” I didn’t want to argue with him, but I was shocked. “Mon Christ, you’re a doctor; you’re supposed to help people, not kill them!”

His face got red and his eyes went from my face down to his hands. “So. Even Andre…” he said quietly, like he was talking to himself. He looked up at me again. “Now I don’t think it was right, but I was different then, don’t you remember? I’m no longer that man, but…”

Then it was like something broke in his face and he couldn’t go on. He stopped talking and flopped down on the table, putting his head on his arms. It was a good thing he gave me his omelette. If it was still there he would have landed right in it.

“He’s still with me, Andre,” he mumbled, rolling his head from side to side as though it hurt. “You heard him just now – ‘I killed him quite deliberately.’”

“Who are you talking about?” I went closer to him so I could hear what he said, talking into his folded arms.

“Herbert West. He’s not really dead, haven’t you realized? I don’t know who I am now, or how to mend what he destroyed. The Leavitts – I can’t give their lives back to them. Any of them.” His shoulders shook like he had an earthquake going on inside of him.

It took me a while to realize that he was crying. I didn’t think the Doctor knew how to cry, and seeing him do it scared me more than his pointing that pistol at me.

Andre, you’ve got to do something, you’ve got to help him, you’ve got to get away from him, quick now, before he – My brain was screaming at me. I wanted to run away, but it was like my feet were stuck to the floor. I wanted to help the Doctor, but I was afraid to touch him.

It felt like a long time before the Doctor sat up and wiped his face with a handkerchief. He looked tired and pale, but at least his eyes weren’t crazy any more. “Andre,” he said, “forgive me, but I need to be by myself for a while.”

I was relieved to hear this, because I still didn’t know what to think or say, but at least now I could move.

“All right, Doctor, I’ll go now.”

I took the pistol with me, because I didn’t think it was safe to leave him alone with it.

 

I went back to the Black Pearl. I didn’t know where else to go, and anyway there I could find out about the kind of ship the Doctor wanted. They were busy with lunch when I got there except that Pierre was still sleeping.

“All that pistroli he put on for you, it wore him out,” said one of the waiters, laughing.

I said I’d wait until he got up, and had some lunch. Oh, those chevrettes of New Orleans, I can still taste them! While I ate, I thought about the Doctor and what I should do next. I almost decided not to go back to him. I would stay at the Black Pearl and work for Pierre. But then I got a picture of Pierre asking me, “What happened to that man you worked for?” I would have to answer, “Oh, he told me some things I didn’t like, so I left him crying like a baby.” That was the trouble. Leave him, maybe. But leave him when he was in trouble, no. Because it was only because of him that I could think and talk and run at all.

I don’t know if someone told Pierre I was back, but it wasn’t too long before he came downstairs, wearing clean clothes, his hair and beard damp with washing.

“Eh, Andre, can’t stay away, can you? My cooking has bewitched you.”

I told him that was so, but that I needed to find out about something. I’d thought about things a bit more while eating those beautiful chevrettes, and decided I’d better not say anything about police or murders or investigations. I just said that the man I worked for wanted to leave New Orleans quickly and quietly, and he didn’t care on what kind of ship. Without saying it, I tried to tell that it was because of money, or maybe an affair of honour.

“Ah, he’s a bit of a croche, this fellow, is he? Or maybe you would say a gentleman in a bad spot?” He winked.

“Well, maybe a bit of both. You know how it is.”

“Don’t I? They all end up here, those fellows. Well Andre, mon cher, you seem like a straight sort, and you’re from la vraie Acadie, so I’ll play fair with you. Just wait, I’ll ask around, see what’s in port and leaving soon.”

A little while later, he called me over to a table where a bunch of sailors were drinking and laughing. “You’re in luck,” said one of them. “The Pluzhnikhov’s leaving tomorrow night.”

“Pluzhnikhov?” The name felt funny in my mouth. “What’s that?”

“The Aleksander Pluzhnikhov,” said Pierre, laughing. “Captain Liadov, the Crazy Russian. He came in for breakfast just this morning, I hear. The Pluzhnikhov is the ship for you.”

“Why?”

“Liadov might be crazy about some things, but he’s a good master. Knows the sea, treats his sailors better than most.” A couple of the others rolled their eyes at this, and laughed in a way that made me wonder.

“Well, he knows how to make that old tub of his pay its way, at least,” said an older fellow. “But I don’t know, it’s the last ship of a whole lot, if you can believe what you hear. He lost all of them but this one.”

“He’s always going to Alaska,” said one of the eye-rollers. “To preach his gospel to the Russians there. But he never gets there – just one more trip, one more cargo. It’s been going on for years. Good old Crazy Ivan, he’ll be trying to get to Alaska until he kicks the bucket.”

For the next couple of hours I listened to them talk – about the Aleksander Pluzhnikhov and her captain, about other ships they’d sailed on, good captains and bad, storms at sea, good ports and bad, other sailors, good women and bad, and on and on. I got lost in all the stories, almost felt like I’d been on a couple of voyages myself. I was surprised when I saw it was nearly four o’clock.

“Well, Andre?” Pierre asked. “I think Liadov’s your man. He takes passengers sometimes, I hear, especially if they can work their passage. Is your man handy at anything?”

I almost said, "Yes, he can make dead men come back to life, and he’s a surgeon like no other." But then I remembered, and said, “Yes, he can shoot a pistol and throw a knife, if he has to. And he can cook.”

“Oh, a real bon vivant, I see!” Pierre laughed. “Are you sure he isn’t a Cajun, after all? If you’re serious about sailing on the Pluzhnikhov, come back tonight and someone will show you where to find her.”

That was the last time I saw him, Black Pierre Boule. “I was glad to meet you, Andre Boudreau,” he said. “It’s always good for us down here to remember you néo-brunswickois. Reminds us where we came from. Good luck to you, and lache pas la patate!

 

The ship Aleksander Pluzhnikhov was, when I first saw her, better than I’d hoped. German built, she was 254 feet long, 1,800 tons, four derricks, with a crew of twenty-three. She was still loading cargo when we went aboard, the Doctor and I, but her steam was up and you could see she was getting ready to sail.

The Doctor still wasn’t himself – either one of his selves. But at least he was on his feet and seemed to understand what was happening. That was a miracle, considering what I saw when I got back the night before, feeling pretty good that I made all the arrangements for us myself.

Even though the Doctor didn’t want to be Herbert West any more, I thought he was easier to deal with than Francis Dexter. Herbert West always knew what to do and did it, not like Francis Dexter, who seemed weak and shaky. On the way back to the hotel I wondered which one of him I would find there.

Neither, as it turned out. Our rooms were, as he would have said if he’d been able to, in a state of chaos. There were piles of clothes and books all over the place. Except for no dust or spider webs, the room reminded me a lot of the late Grover Leavitt’s study.

And the Doctor? Well, his word would have been inebriated. My word was drunk. Or, as they say in Grassadoo, saoul comme un botte. He was lying on the bed, between a pile of suits and a pile of shirts. A bottle with not much left in it stood on the table beside him.

Once I had a good look at all this, I started talking to myself, giving myself orders. Someone had to, and it sure wasn’t going to be him. “Andre, mon nègre,” I said, “you’re going to have a busy night. All that stuff was packed in those trunks pretty good, so it will fit in them again. You’d better get busy, if you want to get some sleep tonight. As for him, just leave him there. Let him sleep. You can deal with him whenever he wakes up with the grand mal de tête.”

I sounded pretty sure of myself, but inside me I was scared. Because it looked like I was in charge now, not only of packing up all that stuff, but the whole trip. And I had to look after my crazy employer, or friend, or whatever he was. There was a minute when I thought I would just run – away from the hotel, away from New Orleans, and make for… Lafayette, maybe. But then my fingers found the little bumpy place on my neck. The place where he put my life back into me. So I got busy with the packing, and tried not to worry about everything else.

By next morning it was all done, all except the Doctor himself. He was still out cold when I got going again at seven. I was just closing the second trunk when he woke up. I figured it was a good thing he’d managed to sleep so long, because he didn’t look as bad as I’d expected. He sat up and looked around like he didn’t know where he was.

“Good morning, Andre. Is it still morning?”

“Good morning, Doctor. For almost two hours it is still morning. And tonight we will be leaving New Orleans, so I hope you feel well.”

He rubbed his forehead. “I don’t know about that. But don’t you worry about me. Somehow or other I’ll manage. A bath will help, to start with.” On his way to the bathroom, he stopped and said, “Thank you for dealing with the packing. I’m afraid I left a bit of a mess last night.” A few more steps and he stopped again. “Order some breakfast, will you Andre? I'm lucky to have someone I can count on.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” I said. But I was thinking that I couldn’t count on him any more.

Well, we got aboard the Pluzhnikhov all right, just after dark on November the First. Maybe not the luckiest night to start a voyage, but I guess Captain Liadov had other things on his mind. Or maybe they don’t have the Day of the Dead in Russia.

Things were still in a bit of a hustle when we got there – cargo being loaded and some crew members still to get back. The ship had been in port for ten days, and that’s long enough for sailors to get into plenty of trouble, especially in New Orleans. So it wasn’t Captain Liadov himself that welcomed us on board, but his First Mate, Mr. Belov. And even he was in a rush. He asked another fellow to deal with our trunks, and led us below.

Opening a door, Belov asked, “Which of you is Dexter?” He waved the Doctor into a small, dark cabin that smelled like my mother’s root cellar. I was surprised to see sacks of apples and potatoes, and other things, I couldn’t tell what they were. Belov didn’t explain why this stuff was in the Doctor’s cabin. I was about to ask, but then I thought that beggars can’t be choosers, and he did say the first ship I could find.

“Breakfast in the saloon at eight,” said the Mate, and waved to me to follow him. “This way, Mr. Boudreau.”

I almost said, “But I’m Dr. Dexter’s man. I have to stay with him.” Then I figured I’d better keep quiet. Was I his man any more? Maybe both of us would just have to put up with things.

The Mate and I walked a long way, down and down. Finally he showed me into a kind of closet. I wondered what I was supposed to do in there, when I noticed my bag was already there. “Here you are, Boudreau,” said the Mate. “Breakfast at eight. Then report to the Captain.” He backed out of the door and left.

I sat down on the bunk and looked around. I was deep in the guts of the ship. There was no porthole. There was a shelf above the bunk and a couple of drawers under it. A bunch of hooks on the bulkhead opposite. That was it. Home sweet home. Suddenly I couldn’t stay there any more. I got up and found my way back to where I’d left the Doctor.

I was surprised to see that he was getting on with unpacking. His cabin looked really big to me now, even with the stores. “Funny kind of place, isn’t it?” I said. “Do you think it will be all right?”

“It will be moving away from New Orleans and the rest of America soon,” he said, “which makes it all right to me. Here, put these in that drawer.” He handed me a pile of folded shirts. “Where have they put you, Andre?”

“Two decks below this one. Not much room, but I hope it’ll do.” I didn’t tell him that the place reminded me of a rat-hole, and that I was thinking this whole thing was a mistake.

“Well, bring your surplus up here, if you like, and I’ll stash it somewhere for you.”

It was lucky we’d had supper before leaving shore, since there didn’t seem to be any chance of a meal on the ship until breakfast. I thought it was best for the Doctor to have an early night. He still didn’t look very good. After I helped him unpack a few more things and got him settled, I went back to my cabin and got into my bunk. At first it was so dark it felt like I was already in my grave, but after a while I saw a little bit of light leaking in around the door and felt a bit better. I lay for a while, listening to noises that seemed far away. I must have fallen asleep pretty quick, because when I woke up, I knew it was a lot later, and we were at sea.

 

Chapter 6

 

From the Diary

November 1, 1925

Aboard the A. Pluzhnikhov, somewhere in the Gulf of Mexico

 

For the second time I have eluded investigation into the death of someone named Leavitt by leaving the country. It should not have been necessary this time. Not only was I innocent of their deaths, I was trying to make reparations for his brother’s murder.

How was I to know that Robert Leavitt’s nearest surviving relative would be a man so riddled with suspicion and resentment that his brother’s blood money would be an incendiary device, rather than the balm I intended?

I went back to his house, although I should have known better. I must have arrived soon after he’d killed her. I can still see his shadow on the curtain, pacing back and forth, back and forth. Is it imagination only, or did I hear his voice, haranguing endlessly, arguing with himself, or perhaps, still, with her. I wonder if it was when he realized that she was beyond the reach of his anger forever that he shot himself.

Would it have made any difference if I had broken down the door and wrestled the gun away from him? Would that have cancelled out his brother’s murder? These deaths were the result of my ignorance and presumption, and they weigh upon me along with the other two.

Now, in addition to all the other ties I’ve cut, I must add those that hold a man to his country. I will not be able to return to the United States of America, except as a fugitive. I don’t even know where I am going. The mate was quite vague about our destination. “Across the Gulf. Through Panama, then north.” Well, I did tell Andre I wanted a ship with no scheduled course.

On top of everything else is the tedious business of money. The failure of the Maryland & Delaware Bank has nearly wiped out the cash I intended to use for these travels. The rest is tied up in long-term investments. So I am in something of a pinch for a while.

Finally, this damned pain won’t go away. It is not angina. I don’t know what it is, and that alone is maddening.

 

*******

 

We showed up for breakfast right at eight. The saloon was big enough for the whole crew at once, but of course not all of them were there. The forenoon watch ate first, then everyone else. I didn’t know that then, but I certainly do now. No one took much notice of us, except for two curly-headed fellows with aprons on. One was fat and the other was skinny, but aside from that they could have been brothers. They brought us some breakfast and told us to “Enjoy, enjoy.” But we didn’t. We soon gave up on the rubbery eggs and burnt toast, and were finishing up with some weak coffee when a fellow came over and said he would take us to the Captain.

He took us to a big room on the boat deck, a pretty nice place, paneled in wood. Captain Liadov had a lot of books, just like the Doctor, but his desk was almost bare. Just a few papers and a pen. The Captain stood up when we came in. He was a medium-sized guy with black hair and a beard that was going grey, and black eyes that were hard to look at straight. His uniform was almost as nicely tailored as the Doctor’s suits. He spoke English about as well as me, meaning he had an accent, except his was Russian.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said. “I apologize that I was not available to meet you when you came on board. We left port in more of a hurry than was proper, I’m afraid. I am Captain Liadov, by the way. And you are – ” He looked at a paper on his desk. “Mr. Dexter, I believe? And Mr. Boudreau?”

I nodded, but I was suddenly afraid that I’d made a big mistake, telling our real names. I looked sideways at the Doctor, but he was looking at Liadov.

“Francis Dexter,” he said, holding out his left hand, but quickly switching to the right. “I’m happy to meet you, Captain Liadov, and I hope our voyage with you will be a pleasant one.”

“Well, I hope I can make it up to you for our bad beginning. I usually see the new hands as soon as they come on board.”

“Excuse me, Captain,” said the Doctor. “New hands? There must be some mistake. We are passengers.”

Liadov smiled, a smile that made him look younger and less serious. When I first saw him I thought, this is a man who hardly ever smiles, but I was wrong. He said, “The Aleksander Pluzhnikhov does not take passengers, Mr. Dexter. And I need two crew members. So you must be they.”

The Doctor looked annoyed. “I was given to understand by my… by Mr. Boudreau here, who made the arrangements, that we were to sail as passengers.”

“Not on the Aleksander Pluzhnikhov,” said the Captain. “And since we are already half a day out to sea, you are not going back to New Orleans. Unless you can fly like angels. I need two men, and there are two of you. It makes perfect sense.”

I didn’t know what to say. I looked from Liadov to the Doctor and back again. The Doctor had a funny little smile on his face. I thought maybe he figured he was dealing with a crazy man.

“Well, Captain Liadov,” he said, “what kinds of men do you need? Engineers, boatswains, able-bodied seamen? Because neither Mr. Boudreau nor I is in any way qualified. Don’t you find that disconcerting? Do you always allow chance to do your recruiting for you?”

Liadov didn’t look a bit disconcerted. “Actually, yes,” he said. “It works quite well, I have found. I need a deckhand and a cook. You must have noticed that this morning’s breakfast was not very good. Mr. Delray, our cook, was unavoidably detained in New Orleans. He is in jail there, and likely to remain so for a while.” He sighed. “I thought he was doing quite well, since he joined us a year ago, but it seems that the city presented too many temptations. And just last night, when we were finishing up the loading, one of the men fell down a hatch and broke a leg. So we had to sail short-handed, technically. I knew, of course, that you had come aboard, so I wasn’t particularly worried.”

“You knew that we would be able to take those men’s places? On what evidence?” The Doctor didn’t look annoyed any more, just interested.

“Oh, evidence.” Liadov waved his hand as though he was brushing away a fly. “Now, which of you will be our cook? I was hoping one of our seamen could cope. His family runs a restaurant in Cuba, I believe, but he is hopeless. It’s a matter of attitude, you know, as much as anything.” His eyes were darting from one to the other of us while he talked, but when he finished he looked at the Doctor. “Mr. Dexter?”

“You are indeed fortunate, Captain,” said the Doctor. “I’m quite a good cook. But I have never cooked for a living, only to amuse myself. How large is your crew?”

“Twenty four, including yourselves. Twenty-six, with Professor Herring and me. You will learn soon enough. All you need is to work out a method. And you will have assistants. Jacko and Pip. They’re good boys, and are trying hard. I will show you the galley now.”

“Excuse me, Captain,” I said. I knew they had forgotten me, but I wanted to make a delay, to give the Doctor time to think about what was happening. I had a cousin who worked as a sailor on a merchant ship out of Halifax. I met him when he was home at Grassadoo when the Doctor and I were there. He had lots of stories. One thing I’d picked up, listening to him, was that on ships like this, the lowest forms of life are the cook and his pot-boys. This Liadov couldn’t know it, of course, but the man he was telling to be the cook for his ship was the famous Dr. Herbert West – surgeon, professor, magician. Not a ship’s cook, not him.

“What would you like me to do?” I asked.

He answered with a question of his own. “What experience do you have of the sea?”

“Not much,” I said. “Fishing from small boats on the Atlantic coast. Three days out, three days back. That kind of thing.”

“So you know how to handle a boat, how to read the weather, how to deal with different situations, some dangerous. But most of all, you know what it’s like to be at sea, on your own, in the cradle of the winds and the waves.” He was beginning to look like a priest in the pulpit, or someone about to say poetry. I didn’t bother to tell him that I hadn’t gone out of my way to go to sea. I found that cradle too cold and wet for my liking. I just said, “Yes, I suppose I do, Captain.”

“Well, that’s the best beginning you can have. And you play the fiddle too, of course.”

“Yes, but – How could you know that, Sir?”

He made a funny little movement with his right hand, as if he was trying to catch butterflies, and smiled again. “The world speaks to those who listen,” he said.

“But I don’t have a fiddle,” I said.

“I do,” said Liadov. “Or rather, the ship has one. For whoever can play it. It’s been a while since we had a fiddler on board. We will have some good times, this voyage…” He looked back at the Doctor. “Well, Mr. Dexter? Would you like to see the galley?”

As I’d hoped, the Doctor had been doing some thinking. “Captain Liadov,” he said, “I have a proposition for you. All this is most unexpected. I was under the impression that my – that Mr. Boudreau here and I were to be passengers on your ship. But obviously there has been a misunderstanding.” He shot me a look, and I felt goose bumps on my – well, you know. “You have explained the situation quite thoroughly. I will undertake to manage the cooking for your vessel, on the condition that you permit me to retain Mr. Boudreau as one of my assistants for the first several weeks. I’m sure the regular assistants are fine fellows, but I would prefer to have an extra pair of hands at my disposal until I’ve worked out my methods. And Andre – excuse me, Mr. Boudreau – is nearly competent in a kitchen, under supervision.”

This was a surprise. Then it hit me, what he was up to, and I nearly started to laugh. Andre had gotten him into this mess, so Andre would damn well be stuck in it too, at least for a while. No being a sailor for me, while he was sweating in the galley with Jacko and Pip. Oh well, I thought, maybe he’s right at that. And we ought to stick together until we figure this place out.

Captain Liadov considered for a minute, his head to one side. “Yes, it makes sense,” he said finally. “All right. Until Belize City. That’s our first port. That should be long enough.”

That was how the Doctor and I became galley slaves.

 

The Aleksander Pluzhnikhov was indeed bound for Alaska, but not in any hurry. This was the fifth time Captain Liadov had made the voyage since he had come west with his ship after the Bolshevik Revolution in Russia in 1917. He wanted to go back there, but the Bolshies were still running things. So Captain Liadov sailed his ship from the Caribbean to Anchorage, leaving the tropics in the fall and getting to the northern seas just as things started to warm up there. I heard this in bits and pieces over the next few weeks.

But first, the Doctor and I had to conquer the galley. The Captain showed it to us himself, that first day. You could tell he was proud of it – the stoves and ovens, sinks, pots, kettles, tubs, knives and all. “It’s quite modern, you see,” he said. “And Mr. Delray kept everything very nicely.” He looked at the Doctor, maybe expecting him to agree, but the only thing he got was a nod.

I noticed a couple of fellows watching us, the ones who’d brought us our breakfast – one thin, the other fat, both of them with brown skin and curly brown hair. I figured they were about my age – about thirty. Captain Liadov pretended not to see them for a while. Then he called them over. “Pip and Jacko, I’d like you to meet Mr. Dexter, our new cook. And Mr. Boudreau, or Andre rather, who will be helping him for a while. And now I must leave you, gentlemen. The midday meal is at twelve, supper at six. And a little something left out for the men on the night watches. Good luck to you.”

I looked at the Doctor. It was already after nine. In less than three hours, with the help of these two strangers, we were expected to provide a meal for twenty-six people. But he didn’t seem to be worried at all. He strolled around the galley, opening lockers, peering into an oven, picking up a knife and testing the edge. Then he said, “I see there’s a pot of coffee on the boil. Suppose we sit down and get acquainted over a cup.”

I wondered, does he really know what’s going on? I remembered the way he was the night before we left New Orleans, and how I decided I couldn’t rely on him any more. So who was this – the man I found drunk on his bed, or le médecin merveilleux of Grassadoo and Arkham?

Pip fetched some mugs and Jacko poured coffee. The Doctor took a sip and said, “This is very good coffee. Quite a bit better than what we had at breakfast.”

Pip and Jacko looked at each other and laughed. “It worked,” said Jacko. “Told you it would.”

“We figured you’d hate it,” said Pip to the Doctor. “Would be all ready to come and show us how to make coffee right.”

“Those eggs, too,” said Jacko. “It was a real shame, to ruin nice fresh eggs like that. But we had no choice. It was either that or put up with Monsieur La De Dah. We made sure that the Captain’s eggs were mostly raw this morning,” he added. “He doesn’t like them that way.”

“I see,” said the Doctor. “You were not happy with the man Captain Liadov asked to be the cook when Mr. Delray didn’t come back?”

“That’s right,” said the two together. “Anyone but him,” said Pip. “We didn’t know you from a monkey wrench, but we figured you had to be better.”

“He thinks he’s a chef, you see,” said Jacko, like he was adjusting a tall hat on his head. “Too good to do any cooking, just give orders.” He put on a different face, pretended to be twisting the end of a moustache he didn’t have, and said, “No, Jacko, you peel this potato, not that potato. You do what I say, and I say this potato.” Then they both laughed so hard they had to hold each other up.

“Thank you for your confidence in me,” said the Doctor. “I hope you will find that it’s justified. And now I suppose we’d better think about lunch.”

“Tomato soup,” said Jacko.

“And shrimps and rice,” said Pip. “With beef steaks or chops, either or both.”

“And two kinds of cake for dessert.”

“Indeed?” said the Doctor. “You have it all worked out.”

“Mr. Delray had a system,” said Pip. He went to a shelf and picked up a notebook. “We can’t actually read, Jacko and me, but we know it all by heart. Four two-week rotations. Then start all over again. That’s too good for this bunch, really. Most of them can’t remember what they ate from one week to the next.”

Jacko snorted. “Most of them can’t remember one day to the next. Lots of them just have one favourite food and could eat it every day. But not all the same, of course. That would be too easy.” He grinned. “It’s all laid out, right here in the book. All we have to do is cook it. Unless you have your own ideas, Mr. Dexter.”

I could tell by looking at them that they were testing the Doctor. One of Monsieur La De Dah’s mistakes must have been to try to change Mr. Delray’s system.

The Doctor paged through the book. “Right now the only idea I have is that Mr. Delray was very clever to write down his menus like this. I would be a fool to change them at this stage.” He stood up. “All right, what do you fellows usually do? I suggest one of you deals with the shrimps. Are they fresh? The other can start on the soup. I rather enjoy making cakes, myself, so I’ll do those, and the steaks and chops. Andre can peel things, chop things, and watch the pots. Oh, and do you have a couple of clean aprons to spare? We dressed like gentlemen passengers today, not honest working men. Let’s get on with it.”

He picked up the knife he’d been looking at before and quick like lightning threw it so it stuck in a bulkhead. Jacko and Pip looked at it, at him, and at each other, and started to laugh again.

That day, lunch was served aboard the Aleksander Pluzhnikhov right at noon, in the saloon with its dark wood paneling and white tablecloths. The captain and his officers were waited on by yours truly. I couldn’t have done better if I’d been back in Arkham, at one of the Doctor’s dinners. It all came back to me. Everyone ate, no one complained. When it was all over, we four galley slaves had what was left over, with a few little extras we’d saved specially, and Pip and I cleaned up while the Doctor and Jacko began to get ready for supper. Then the same thing all over again, only more. It was almost midnight when the Doctor and I went back to our cabins.

“Well Andre, you have to admit one thing, anyway – we shall certainly not be plagued with boredom on this voyage.”

“No, not bored,” I said. “But I think it would have been easier, being a deckhand. They sure eat a lot. And it’s so hot! I’ll bet only the engine room is hotter than the galley.”

He laughed. “Now you realize the importance of keeping your wits about you on the waterfront. It will be interesting to observe how Liadov gets us all to work for the common good, or whatever vision he is pursuing.”

I wasn’t sure what he was getting at, and I was too tired to care. That night I had no trouble at all getting to sleep in my cabin, even if it was like a coffin.

 

The next couple of weeks, while the Aleksander Pluzhnikhov steamed across the Gulf of Mexico, through the Yucatan Channel and on to Belize City, for the Doctor and me, were a string of days just like that first one. If the Doctor had an idea, back in New Orleans, that he would be spending his time in a chair on the deck, reading some of the ton of books we had lugged all the way from New York City, he was wrong. Both of us were busy, busy, busy. We hardly even had time to look at the ocean, never mind sit down. We were too busy feeding the crew.

But we did it. I have to say, when we left New Orleans, I had a lot of doubts about the Doctor. And when Captain Liadov sprang his surprise on us, that first day, I thought, "Shit, this will finish him off for sure. What a fucking mess I’ve gotten us into."

But he surprised me. Not for the first time, or the last. It was as though he shifted his gears or something, and changed himself into another person. Now and then I wondered how long it would last, but it lasted.

Part of the reason we did so well was Jacko and Pip. They were good fellows, just like Liadov said, and they knew how to cook. Sometimes I got tired of their jokes, but I couldn’t say they were lazy. And they liked the Doctor. They liked that he listened to them, and that he worked as hard as they did. And they liked his style, the way he’d toss an apple into the air and slice it in two on its way down, the way he could turn chops in the pan by flipping the pan, the way he could chop things so fast you couldn’t see the knife moving. But the thing they liked most was the way he threw knives around. People who didn’t belong in the galley had to be careful. You could never tell when a knife would go whizzing past your nose and bury itself in a timber. The right thing to do was to yell “Knife!” just before you threw, but it was still kind of dangerous. Of course, the boys had to try their hands at it too. Jacko got pretty good, but I was happy when Pip finally realized he didn’t have the eye for it and stopped.

The crew of the Pluzhnikhov ate pretty well on that voyage. It wasn’t exactly the sort of cuisine that graced the table, as the Doctor would say, at No. 74 Boundary Street, Arkham, but it was good stuff. Once we started putting into ports all along the shores of Mexico and Central America, we bought a lot of interesting things to cook. Oh no, it wasn’t salt beef and ship’s biscuits for us, not by a long shot!

In port, the four of us would go to the local market. Jacko and Pip were our translators. They could talk Spanish, which the Doctor and I couldn’t, so they asked all the questions for him – what was this, what was that, how would you cook those beans or that fish, what chilies should be used for what dishes. Almost all those people liked to talk about the stuff they were selling. They could go on all day about how their grandmothers and mothers and aunts cooked things. “She says you boil that until the skin comes off, then you turn it to mush…” Jacko or Pip would translate, and the Doctor would make notes, mumbling things like, “Saute, puree, simmer in a court bouillon, remove seeds, parboil,” and so on. I was just the guy who helped lug everything back to the ship. We’d go back with loaded baskets, and more stuff would be delivered later. And the next few days, the crew would get something new – sauces made with red and green tomatoes, soups with fruits in them, little thin pancakes made from corn meal. I sometimes wished my mother could have a taste of these things.

Every now and then one of the sailors would catch or shoot something – a big fish or some other kind of sea creature. After they’d had their fun, the thing would end up in the galley. It was like we were back in the laboratory, except instead of trying to make a dead man come alive, we’d be cutting up a creature neither of us had ever seen before, trying to decide if it was worth cooking. I can still see the Doctor, in his apron and white shirt, bending over a swordfish or a dolphin or something, dissecting it as neat as you please, then turning it into fillets or steaks or a stew. He had me unpack his books on natural history, and borrowed some from the captain, too, so he could learn about the creatures that lived in the ocean we were sailing on. Whether it was the furthering of scientific or gastronomic knowledge, as the Doctor would say, we did our best.

Captain Liadov showed up in the galley sometimes. Mostly he'd find us all in a whirl – soup simmering, something sizzling in a frying pan, something else in the oven, a whole mess of good smells in the air, the place hotter than Hell. And in the steam and sizzle, the four of us good fellows, Jacko, Pip, the Doctor and me, slicing, chopping, stirring, throwing things around, yelling at each other or singing in Spanish or French or English, sometimes all three at once. Liadov wouldn’t say much. He probably couldn’t hear himself think, so he’d just stand by the door and watch us and smile. We barely knew he was there before he was gone.

I stayed in the galley long after we left Belize City behind. By then I was getting used to the heat and the work didn’t seem so hard. I began to think that standing watch and chipping rust and painting things wasn’t just what I wanted to do, after all.

No one made jokes about us. Most people liked what they ate. No one complained or tried to send anything back. Except Professor Herring.

Professor Herring. I have to tell about him now. He wasn’t a crew member. He seemed to be a passenger, even though Captain Liadov told us he didn’t take passengers. Maybe he was a good friend of the captain’s. Or something. He was a German gentleman, tall and thin, with silver-coloured hair that he combed back straight from his forehead, and a way of talking that made me feel like a bug under a magnifying glass. That’s when he talked to me at all, which wasn’t much. He spent a lot of time in a deck chair, reading, just like the Doctor thought he was going to do, except he became the ship’s cook. When he wasn’t doing that, Prof. Herring wandered around the ship and watched people working, standing there like a heron waiting for a fish to catch, writing things in a little notebook.

I kept telling myself I shouldn’t think bad things about him, but I couldn’t help it. I didn’t like him, maybe because he was the only one who complained about our cooking. He dined with the officers, waited on by me. Every couple of days he would send something back. The soup was too salty. This sauce was too bland. The meat was tough, or not cooked enough. The toast was burnt. Now that was a big lie. The toast was never burnt. Neither was our bread, cakes, pies or biscuits. If we managed to burn something, the Doctor made us chuck it overboard.

At first I just nodded politely and took the dish away. But after a while that wasn’t good enough. One night Prof. Herring told me that a sauce was “not sufficiently piquant,” and he wished to speak with the cook. So I went and told the Doctor what was up.

“I’ll go and have a chat with him,” he said, taking off his apron and changing into a clean shirt, the second one that day. With a jacket and necktie, and his spectacles polished, he looked like one of the Captain’s guests, not the cook.

I followed him into the saloon. After all, I had a job to do.

The Doctor sat down next to Prof. Herring and they had a talk about sauces. “Yes, I know some think it’s all in the deglazing,” I heard the Doctor say. “But it can be improved by adding a soupcon of garlic just before serving. Just a little, mind you. And a little fresh thyme, which, unfortunately, we do not often have on board. Perhaps that was the reason you found it bland.”

He sounded very serious, and the Professor answered the same way, but somehow I thought they were really talking about something besides sauces. Then Captain Liadov said, “Thank you, Mr. Dexter,” in a way that really meant, “Go back to the galley,” and asked Prof. Herring what he thought of the wine they were drinking that night. Prof. Herring had a lot to say about that, and the Captain listened to his answer, nodding his head. That made me mad, and I wondered if the Doctor felt that way too, but I couldn’t tell.

 

*******

 

From the Diary

January 5, 1926

Off the coast of Costa Rica

 

I think I have it now. Yes, I am the ship’s cook, but I have the role, it doesn’t have me. An important distinction – one must shape one’s place in the world, not the reverse. Is it better to run the lathe, or to be the wood clamped in the vise? The answer to that is plain enough.

I admit that when we first came on board and met Liadov, I was not very happy with Andre, but a moment’s thought showed me he wasn’t to blame. I wasn’t much good in New Orleans, and he did what he could with the direction I gave him. It became quite plain when my choices came down to being Liadov’s cook or returning to port, which he probably would have done with sufficient monetary incentive, but where would that have left me? Back in the alligator’s jaws, most likely.

It has been a bit of an adventure. Those two reformed pirates, Pip and Jacko (not their real names, of course; Liadov likes to re-christen his projects, although I, having recently re-christened myself, managed to resist), were a great surprise, taking to my ways as readily as they did. I don’t know what did it – the fact that I can cook, or maybe the flying knives. Both, probably.

One thing is certain – I have shaken off pursuit, for now. I was a little apprehensive while we were going through Panama that the officials there would be on the lookout for Mr. Devereaux, but it was not so. I don’t dare return to an American port any time soon, though. Fortunately, Liadov keeps a leisurely pace. I suspect he intends to linger in the tropics until spring is imminent, when we will venture into temperate climes. Do I want to go to Alaska? Not really, but at least I have time to consider my options, however limited they may be.

I have spent some interesting hours trying to figure out Captain Liadov. He is a White Russian of a good family, who once owned a prosperous shipping business. He was at sea at the time of the Revolution, but most of his other ships were seized by the Bolsheviks, and his brothers were killed or imprisoned. So this ship became his home, as well as his source of livelihood. But of course he longs for his own country, to which he cannot return. He is an exile like me, with much of his past stripped away. But he has made something of himself, even though he is curiously irrational in many ways. For his crew he chooses the most unlikely sorts, almost seeming to seek out misfits and riff-raff, with the intention of reforming them. He must have extraordinarily good luck, but I suspect there is a slowly diminishing cache of gold subsidizing the A. Pluzhnikhov. Some of his notions remind me of old Quarrington’s. Like Q., Liadov is an educated man, and can be counted on for a good debate, when he’s in the mood. He is an eccentric, rather than a fanatic, I am happy to say; the latter are impossible to argue with. Prof. Dr. Karl Gustav Herring is another sort of creature altogether, one I have not yet been able to classify.

 

*******

 

We steamed through the Panama Canal just after Christmas. By that time we’d all shaken down together. I can say without lying that the Aleksander Pluzhnikhov was a happy ship, then. From Captain to cook’s helper, everyone knew his job and did it. Mostly we got along with each other. Of course, it was different than a ship that goes on long voyages over empty water, with weeks or months between ports. If someone gets on someone else’s nerves then, that’s bad. But the Pluzhnikhov was a coaster. Pick up bananas, unload shoes. Pick up smoked meat, unload sewing machines. That kind of thing. I liked watching cargoes come and go. When we were in port, most of the cooking for the watch on board was done by either Pip or Jacko, with me helping. Everyone else went ashore.

We didn’t go to many really big towns because there aren’t many on that coast. But I didn’t care. I didn’t need much – just new sights and smells and new talk being talked. That was enough for me. Oh, not to say I didn’t have a few adventures ashore, like any sailor, when I got a chance. I got friendly with some of the other fellows, who knew all the places and showed me around.

I was never really sure what the Doctor did with his free time in port, but Prof. Herring usually said that he was going to “study the natives.” I wasn't sure what he meant by this, but I hope the natives (whoever they were) didn’t mind being studied.

Captain Liadov couldn’t seem to get himself away, except to talk to shipping agents and the like. Supervising the cargo loading was Mr. Belov’s job, but the Captain was usually there too. “Loading cargo is an art, Mr. Dexter,” I once heard him say to the Doctor, who must have asked him why he wasn’t going to sample the delights of whatever place we were in – maybe Puntarenas, maybe Acapulco. “A poorly loaded cargo can kill a ship in bad weather. And one must always expect bad weather, no matter how good it’s been. Especially if it’s been as good as this.” Because up ‘til then we’d had weather as sweet as summer – only some big swells from storms far away.

I have to admit, I had only a fuzzy idea of where we were, at first. Captain Liadov must have figured that out from something I said, because one day he showed me a globe he had in his office. “Here is the world, Mr. Boudreau,” he said, making it spin around. “And here are we.” He stopped the spin and put his finger on a spot where South America joined to Central America. Thin as a string, that bit of land looked, on the globe. And beyond it, to the west, was nothing but blue for more miles than I could imagine.

“We are at the end of the world,” I said, after a while.

“That’s right, Mr. Boudreau,” said Liadov. “You could say we are traveling near the end of the world, the seam where one day is fastened to the next.” I didn’t know what he meant by that, but I’ve always remembered it.

One time, when we were in a little place called Puerto Angel, I was hanging around on one of the decks, enjoying the fresh air that was so much cooler than in the galley. Skylights and ports were open all over the ship. I heard people talking close by. It must have been going on for a while, only I hadn’t noticed. One of the voices was Captain Liadov’s, the other was the Doctor’s.

Their talk reminded me of the Doctor’s dinner parties in Arkham, when he would argue with some of his professor friends, sharp and hot, but always friendly in the end. “Do you mean to say, Liadov, that you actually select your crew members by personality types, as perceived by you, of course? How can that possibly be efficient?”

I knew Liadov well enough by then to picture the way he waved his hand when he said, “Efficiency is not all it is thought to be in some quarters, Mr. Dexter. When I bring someone on board, it is not efficiency I am concerned about. That would be setting my standards too low. No, what I look for is someone with the right timbre to add to the orchestra that is my crew. Or the right flavouring for the dish. Perhaps you can relate better to that concept.”

“I must say, that seems absurd to me. If I had only heard about your methods, without having seen the way the ship operates, I would not have believed that you could survive even one voyage without a mutiny or similar disaster. Never mind making it pay.”

“But you have been with us, as one of us, for more than two months now. All of us – deckhands, officers, galley crew, even Prof. Herring and I – we all work in concert.”

“But to what end, Captain?”

“Mutual betterment. We interact with one another and in the process our natures are refined. You can see that it works. In fact, you yourself contribute. So how can you doubt it?”

“I don’t doubt what I see, but I wonder if the principles at work are other than what you believe them to be. Have you considered that possibility?”

“I do not concern myself much with principles. Beyond the fundamental ones, of equality, fraternity and harmony, that is.”

“Harmony? Not liberty?”

“Harmony produces liberty, of a sort. Surely you must have seen…”

They went on and on, but I soon loosened my ears from what they were saying, and watched a couple of fellows on shore cleaning fish and arguing. They talked Spanish, of course, which I was just starting to learn a bit, so I couldn’t understand what they were saying. But I thought how different their argument sounded from the one I’d just been listening to. These guys were talking about something that really mattered – whether to sell the fish fresh or smoke them first, maybe. The Doctor and Captain Liadov were just throwing ideas back and forth, like children playing with a ball. What did that mean? Did it mean anything? It was too much for me. I went to the galley to see if Jacko needed any help getting supper. I could always count on him for a laugh or two.

The night before we sailed, we had a party on the ship. It was to get everyone in a good mood and make us feel happy that we were Captain Liadov’s men. At least, that’s what I figured. We had an extra nice supper, with singing and dancing after. Yes, dancing. The Captain let people from the town come on board, so there were ladies. The early part of the evening was one big hustle for us fellows in the galley, to cook and clean up in time to have some fun. Me especially, because I played the fiddle for the dancing.

Other guys played accordion, harmonica, and a couple of guitars. Some of us could sing, and a few couldn’t but didn’t know it. We were pretty good. I overheard the Doctor telling Captain Liadov that we made a “fine cacophony,” whatever that is. But everyone going ashore had to leave by midnight. After the last song and dance the guests were hustled – no, the Captain called it ‘escorted’ – ashore, and everyone but the night watch went below.

 

A couple of days out, that leg, the Doctor and I were at the port rail, looking out to sea between lunch and supper. “We’re doing pretty well, aren’t we, Doctor?” I said. I called him that only when we were alone. The rest of the time he was Mr. Dexter.

“Yes, Andre, I suppose we are, if you’re referring to our work in the galley.”

“What else? I was a bit worried at first, whether we could do it.”

He didn’t say anything to that, only went on like he hadn’t heard me. “And Captain Liadov’s experiment, so far, appears to be going well too.”

“The Captain is doing an experiment?” This was news to me. The only thing that word meant to me was the things I had helped the Doctor with, back in Arkham. And I hadn’t seen any dead bodies on the Pluzhnikhov.

“Of course,” said the Doctor. “Haven’t you noticed? You could say this entire voyage is an experiment of sorts, in the… interaction of personalities. The Captain told me a little about it a few days ago.”

I remembered the talk I’d heard, back in Puerto Angel. “But different people always… interact, if they’re together all the time. That’s the way it is, on a ship. So how is this different?”

“We have been specially selected, it seems, like the spices in a sauce, in accordance with the ideas of one Aleksander Nikolaevich Pluzhnikhov.”

“Pluzhnikhov – that’s the name of this ship!”

“Exactly. Liadov renamed his last remaining ship after his hero. And turned it into a kind of floating laboratory, as well as his home.”

“But who was this Pluzhnikhov?”

“A philosopher, Liadov calls him. But I don’t know what he means by that. In my experience the word covers a lot of territory. He has all the man’s writings, on a shelf in his office. All in Russian, unfortunately. I know nothing about him besides what the good Captain has told me. He was obviously a man of many ideas, but I cannot judge as to their merits.”

“What do you think this means – for us, I mean?”

“You’re ever the pragmatist, Andre. I don’t know what it might mean for us. Probably nothing. Liadov is a competent ship’s master, or he would have come to grief long ago. That’s what matters for us. And now I think it is time to fire up the ovens for tonight’s roasts.”

I thought about all this later, while I peeled potatoes. I figured it was a good thing that the Doctor was getting to be friends with Captain Liadov. That meant the Captain knew he was more than just a cook, no matter what ideas he might have about personalities. Besides, talking with the Doctor would maybe give him different ideas than what he might get from his other friend, Prof. Herring.

I was right about this, but as we all found out soon enough, it wasn’t really a good thing.

 

Chapter 7

 

We had to work fast and hot in the galley a lot of the time. With all the knives and choppers we used and the stoves going, and things boiling and sizzling, it wasn’t a surprise that little accidents happened, like cuts and burns. The Doctor was always fast to deal with them. He made sure we cleaned up cuts and bandaged them properly. When something more serious happened, he dealt with it himself, putting on a dressing or even a few stitches, like when Pip, who was a bit clumsy, cut a finger nearly to the bone.

After a while, word leaked out to the rest of the crew about this, that Mr. Dexter the cook was handy with wounds and injuries and had the tools and drugs to deal with them. So fellows from the Mates on down would slip into the galley for a bit of first aid – cuts, scrapes, sprains, bruises and burns, and once a chip of rust in a guy’s eyeball. The Doctor would leave whatever he was doing and help the person. After all, that was his real business, not cooking.

A couple of days out of Acapulco we got our first really bad weather. From what the other fellows said after, it wasn’t such a big thing. But it meant we had to dish up a cold supper, except for a big pot of stew we’d managed to make earlier.

We’d just got everything to rights in the galley (and a lot of fun it was, with the ship rolling the way it was) when the Second Mate came running in. “Mr. Dexter, can you come?” he said. “We have a sick man below.”

The Doctor got out of his apron, grabbed his bag, which by then he kept handy in the galley, and went with Mr. Garshon. I went too, because I thought he might need me to help. And besides, I wanted to know what was going on.

I followed them down companionways and passages, to the crew quarters on the other side of the ship from mine. Outside one of the two-bunk cabins there were some fellows standing around, looking nervous, and I could hear somebody groaning inside. It turned out to be Joe Matthews, a black fellow from somewhere in the Caribbean, Antigua, I think.

“It is nothing that cannot be cured with sleep and a little of this,” said a voice from inside the cabin. I looked in and saw Prof. Herring, holding a little bottle and a spoon.

“Yes, Professor, I know what you think.” Mr. Garshon was leaning into the door, and the Doctor was beside him. “But just to make sure, to be safe, you understand, I would like Mr. Dexter to have a look. He also has some knowledge of these things.”

"You bet he has some knowledge," I thought. Just a couple of weeks before, Garshon had come down with the galloping trots. An officer can’t set a good example for his watch if he’s got to go racing to the head every five minutes. Luckily for him, the Doctor had just the right stuff on hand.

Herring snorted. “You will ask the cook? For that until the man is dead you should wait.”

The Doctor ignored all the talk. He knelt down by Matthews’s bunk and started talking to him, quietly asking questions and then feeling his stomach. Matthews stopped groaning while he answered. “Since last night,” he said. “Got me in the night. I tried to shake it off, but now it’s got me for sure.” Suddenly he let out a yell. The Doctor looked up and said,

“It’s acute appendicitis. Absolutely no doubt about it. The only thing is to operate. A couple of you fellows carry him to the galley. It’s the best place. Let’s get on with it.”

There was a flurry of movement as everyone got on with it. No one questioned him, except Prof. Herring. He put out a big hand and grabbed the Doctor by the shoulder. “You will operate?” he said. “You? Come along, Mr. Dexter, this is a man, not a piece of meat. You may be able to fillet fish and carve roasts, but – ”

The Doctor shook off his hand and gave him a look I hadn’t seen on his face for a long time. Like a flash of steel. “Excuse me please, Professor,” was all he said.

Ten minutes later, there was a little crowd in the galley. Someone must have told the Captain what was happening, because he was there too. Joe Matthews lay on the big table we used for everything from chopping vegetables to kneading bread dough. Where the Doctor used to dissect the big fish and other critters the sailors caught. Now it was covered with a clean sheet and the Doctor’s instruments were on a tray nearby. The Doctor and I were just finished washing up. The smell of carbolic soap seemed wrong in that place. Most of the time it was bread baking or meat roasting, or onions frying.

“I must ask most of you to leave now,” said the Doctor. “Captain, you may stay. Everyone else must leave.”

Everyone did, even the Professor. He made a fuss, though, shuffling around and saying, “Captain, I cannot believe you are letting this man do this.” Finally the Captain almost pushed him out, saying, “Please, Professor, you must leave. It is necessary.”

Matthews’s body looked very black against the white sheet, but his face was turning a kind of grey colour. I hadn’t done anything like this for a long time, not since Alain Richard in Grassadoo, more than two years ago. It was amazing how I remembered, though. Part of it was that the Doctor was so calm. From the minute he gave Matthews the chloroform, until he closed the incision less than half an hour later, anyone watching must have thought that he did this all the time.

“We weren’t a minute too soon,” he said, as we finished up. “Another few hours, and it surely would have ruptured. That would have been a bad business, especially under these conditions.”

I figured he was right. Looking at the swollen, pus-filled thing that he’d taken out of Matthews made me feel like puking. I wasn’t used to that stuff any more. Herring was right about that, anyway – it wasn’t like gutting fish.

The Captain found a couple of fellows to carry Matthews and the Doctor told them how to lift him without hurting him. They took him to the Doctor’s cabin. “He’ll be more comfortable there, for one thing. And it will be more convenient for me to keep an eye on him.” Less of a job to get him there too, I thought, remembering the struggle we’d had to carry him up.

After they’d gone, I cleaned up the galley, getting rid of the dirty sheets and scrubbing everything down until I could be sure the Doctor would be happy with it. Then, remembering the War, I made some tea, strong the way he liked it, with plenty of sugar. When I got to the Doctor’s cabin with the tea, he took the mug and thanked me. “You remembered, Andre,” he said, smiling.

Just then the Captain came in. He looked at Matthews, who was still sleeping, and turned to the Doctor. “I must extend my thanks to you, Mr. Dexter. You handled that very well. That is a thing that has troubled me from time to time, that I have no doctor on the ship. But usually we are lucky. Tonight, the credit is all yours.”

“Thank you, Captain,” said the Doctor, “but he has yet to recover.”

“I think his chances of recovery are better now than they would have been… otherwise,” said Liadov. It looked like he was about to go, but then he turned around and came back. “Mr. Dexter, or should I say, Dr. Dexter, I cannot help wondering – a man who has travelled, who has had many experiences, he might be able to deal with a small accident, apply a few remedies. But to carry out a surgical operation like this, that needs some special knowledge, does it not? And you have the proper instruments too… So tell me, you are a doctor, is that right?”

The Doctor didn’t answer right away. He went to the bunk, felt Matthews’s pulse and took a look at the dressing. He straightened up and said, “Yes, I have been a doctor. Some years ago. Fortunately I have kept most of my old skills. The instruments are more than relics. But I would prefer to remain Mr. Dexter the cook for now, if it’s all the same to you, Captain.”

“I see,” said Liadov. “All right, but I am doubly glad you are with us, just the same. I will explain the situation to Prof. Herring tomorrow.”

“Prof. Herring?” asked the Doctor. “What does he have to do with this?”

Liadov looked a bit worried. “Well, he sees himself in a way as the ship’s doctor, although he is not, of course. He is an educated man, though, and knows a great deal about medicinal plants. From his ethnographic studies, you understand. I took him aboard after he lost his position at a German university. He said he was unjustly driven out for doing experiments that were not approved of. I hoped that he would find help with us. Sometimes he gives medicines to those who ask for them, but it was clear last night that he did not know what to do for this man. I am happy to leave such matters in your hands. I shall explain that to Prof. Herring, as a matter of courtesy.”

“Thank you, Captain,” said the Doctor.

I don’t know how much courtesy passed between Captain Liadov and his friend the Professor, but the next day, when we were in the middle of cooking lunch, we got a visit from Herring himself. I’d figured that Jacko and Pip and I would be on our own that day, since the Doctor had been up most of the night with Matthews. But he was on deck to cook breakfast, as usual.

“Matthews is coming along,” he said, when I asked him. He didn’t say any more and I didn’t ask. He looked tired, so I asked Pip and Jacko to keep their noise down.

When Prof. Herring showed up, I could tell right away he wasn’t there to sneak some petits morceaux before lunch. He pushed past me, nearly bumped into Jacko, who was lugging a kettle of soup, and went straight to the Doctor, who was up to his elbows scaling fish. They were very tasty little fish, once cooked, and the seamen managed to catch lots of them, but they were the devil to prepare. He looked up when the Professor’s shadow fell between the light and the fish he was working on.

Herring didn’t spend any time on greetings. “So I hear you are now the doctor of the ship,” he said. “Tell me, please, Herr Dexter, what qualifies you for that job?”

The Doctor put down the fish and the knife, rinsed his hands and dried them. Then he looked at Herring. “I suspect I have rather better qualifications than you,” he said. “But I don’t actually think I owe you an explanation.”

“Oh no? You do not? As a man of science, I have seen the Captain and his crew through many troubles. Then you come along, a cook” – he said that the way you’d say ‘a turd’ – “and now I hear that if there is any doctoring to do, you will do it. And you think that you do not owe me an explanation! I am a professor, I have a degree of Doctor. That is more than the fellow who cooks the fish for my lunch, I am certain.” His face was getting red.

The Doctor leaned back against a bank of lockers and listened, his arms folded over his chest. When Herring was finished talking, he said,

“Professor, you must admit that if I had not done what I did last night, Matthews might very well be dead by now. As it is, he has a chance at a full recovery. I don’t know what kind of nostrum you wanted to give him, but it was clear to me that you had no idea what was wrong with him, or how to treat it.”

“I use medicines distilled from plants. Plants have great power, Herr Dexter, but it requires time to manifest itself.”

“Seaman Matthews didn’t have time for such treatment. That’s the issue here, not any paper qualifications that either you or I might produce. A physician must decide what treatment is best under the circumstances, and that judgment comes from training and experience.”

“Very well, Herr Dexter, where did you acquire this training and experience? In some kitchen?”

“In the War, Professor. In France. As a matter of fact, I saved a couple of your countrymen from death. They were prisoners of war, but that didn’t matter to me. What happened to them after they left my hands I do not know, but they left me with their lives.”

“The War! Of course, you Americans must always talk about that! You and your President Wilson! So you learned your doctoring in some army tent. Were you the cook who wasn’t happy with his pots and frying pans, and wanted some better amusement? Or did the American Army use cooks as surgeons? Is that why you are cooking for Liadov now?”

“That’s my business, not yours, Professor. I must ask you to leave now. As you can see, I have work to do.” The Doctor picked up the knife he’d been using.

Instead of leaving, Herring took a step closer to him. “I want to tell you, Herr Dexter, that cheap showing off does not always work. Seaman Matthews is not yet a well man. I advise you to stick to your cooking.” He took a few steps toward the door, but then turned around, like he had a new idea.

“You are really American, Herr Dexter?”

The Doctor looked surprised. “Yes I am. Why do you ask?”

Herring ignored the question. “And your ancestors – from where are they?”

“I consider myself a Yankee, Prof. Herring. I suppose my ancestors came from England, originally. ‘On the Mayflower,’ as we say. Except… except that my mother was half Italian.” He had a funny little smile on his face.

“Italian?” said the Professor, as though he didn’t believe it. “Not German, not Scandinavian?”

“Not as far as I know,” said the Doctor. “Excuse me, I don’t quite follow your line of inquiry here.”

“I am not surprised. Well, well, an Italian Yankee,” Herring said, laughing to himself. “Be careful with that knife. Because if you cut yourself, who will doctor you?”

That finally got to the Doctor. He went closer to Herring. “Professor,” he said, quietly, so I had to stretch my ears to hear him, “if I wished to, I could turn you into something your own mother would not recognize. You do not know me. So keep your assumptions and your advice to yourself. Now get out of here.”

Herring went. He didn’t say anything else, but I didn’t like the look on his face.

 

After that visit I started thinking more about Prof. Herring, and watching him too, when I could. Why was he so bothered that the Doctor had patched up Matthews? You’d think he’d figure he was lucky, because if Matthews had died after taking the stuff Herring wanted to give him, that would have made the Professor look bad, wouldn’t it? And anyway, Liadov hadn’t told Herring to stop giving people his medicines, if they still wanted them.

When I had some free time, I looked up Roberto Diaz, the Pluzhnikhov’s second engineer. I got to know him and the other engineers soon after we left New Orleans, when the engine started acting up and I heard them talking about it when I was serving lunch one day. Something made me say that I knew a bit about engines. Well, maybe they thought they’d have some fun with the cook’s helper, so they asked me to come down and have a look. I got the laugh, though. Listening to that big brute I knew just what it was up to. I could always do that with the Doctor’s car, back in Arkham, but she was a lady and couldn't keep a secret. After that I’d slip down to the engine room regularly. Roberto called me the ‘consultant engineer.’ I guess that was sort of like the ‘savant of the machine.’

I found Roberto talking with Tom Pick, the bosun. After a bit of joking around and engine talk, I asked, “What is Prof. Herring? I mean, why is he on the ship? He acts like a passenger, but Captain Liadov says there aren’t any passengers. So what is he?”

Roberto and Tom looked at each other and laughed. “Oh that’s a good question,” said Roberto.

“I guess you could say he’s our resident parasite,” said Tom.

“Parasite?” I asked. “Like worms in the guts?

“Well,” said Roberto, “he lives on board and eats on board – and you should know better than most how much – and he doesn’t do any work. Except talk to the Old Man, to keep him from getting bored with all of us estupidos who didn’t go to school much.”

“Ah, there’s more to it than that, Roberto,” said Tom. “I figure Herring’s got something on the Old Man. Probably owns half the ship, something like that.”

“Maybe, maybe,” said Roberto. “But why does he want to be on the ship all the time? Most owners stay on shore and rake in the money.”

“Don’t know,” said Tom. “Maybe he likes travelling. And he always says he’s studying things.”

“Ha! I bet he just wants to get away from someone – like Mrs. Herring.” Roberto laughed.

“I heard Captain Liadov say that he was kind of the ship’s doctor,” I said.

“Well, he thinks he is,” said Tom. “Me, I wouldn’t take any of that stuff he hands out. He picks up all sorts of things from God knows who in the ports. Medicine men, witch doctors, quacks, who knows? The guys he sells it to are fools, if you ask me.”

“Sells? So he makes money, doing that?” I couldn’t see how the little bits of money he might make from the sailors would add up to anything much.

“Sells, gives,” said Roberto. “I don’t think money matters much to him. What he likes is people asking him for help. It makes him feel important. And if they’re willing to part with a few pesos for it, so much the better. Maybe Herring thinks that even though Liadov’s the one who gives the orders, he’s the guy with the brains. Like he’s the king’s vizier.”

Tom rolled his eyes. “Vizier? Diaz, you read too many fairy tales.”

“Well, find another word, if you like. 'Vizier,' that says what I mean.”

Well, I sure didn’t know what a vizier was, but that didn’t matter. “Do you think Captain Liadov thinks that too?” I asked. “That Herring’s got more brains than he does?” I found this hard to believe. To me, the Captain seemed to be a much more complicated man than Prof. Herring.

“I don’t know,” said Roberto. “No, maybe not. But it’s for sure that he lets Herring think so. Don’t you ever think you’ve got the Old Man figured out, Andre. He’s got something – something that lets him see more than most of us. So if he doesn’t mind Herring playing professor and doctor on his ship, there’s a reason for it.”

“Oh, I don’t think I have Captain Liadov figured out, don’t worry about that,” I said. And I was thinking, “No more than I have the Doctor figured out.”

 

*******

 

From the Diary

January 26, 1926

Off the coast of Mexico.

 

Well, it seems I have become the grit in the machine, producing friction between the holy fool Liadov and that pompous polymath Herring. What would the venerable A.N. Pluzhnikhov think of that? All I can say is that it’s a good thing for sailor Matthews (and by extension for Liadov) that there is someone on board this vessel who operates by scientific principles rather than will o’ the wisps, or merely out of a desire for self-gratification.

What is this Herring? What is it about me that provokes him? He appears to have no connection with Arkham, the Leavitts or Clapham-Lee. He was a professor of botany and anthropology at some German university, who has for some reason decided to take up Liadov’s offer to live on his ship. And something about me has provoked his antipathy. But what? Does it have anything to do with all those questions he asked me about my ancestry? He does seem to be fixated on notions about ancestry and race. Odd in one who purports to be a scholar, even a scientist. I don’t understand him, so I shall probably not be able to avoid irking him further, especially if he persists in irking me.

 

*******

 

Things changed aboard the Aleksander Pluzhnikhov after Matthews’s operation, slowly at first, then so fast we all wondered what happened. It was like when cargo shifts a little in a moderate blow, causing a ship to list just a little bit, then founder next time there’s a storm.

By this time we were off Baja. Our last port had been Mazatlan. There was only Ensenada before we would say goodbye to Mexico and be back in American waters. I think this bothered the Doctor. He didn’t say much, but I didn’t think he’d let go of his ideas about police looking for him because of those Leavitts. And besides, he was tired. He’d been on double duty for days – his usual job in the galley and looking after Matthews too.

Matthews wasn’t getting better as quickly as the Doctor thought he should. The incision was healing up, but Matthews didn’t seem to be getting his strength back. He couldn’t work, so guess who had to take his place on Mr. Garshon’s watch? Right – Andre, that’s who. That left them short-handed in the galley, but orders are orders. So I got to do some of the things real sailors do – but just the ones that needed no more than hands, ears, eyes and half a brain. I have to say – it was better in the galley. The only thing I didn’t miss was the heat.

One day, Mr. Garshon sent me to the cargo hold because he wanted to make sure that some sacks of dried peas weren’t about to burst and send peas rolling all over the place, or that they weren’t getting damp, which would be just as bad, or worse. So there I was, poking around, trying to tell which sacks were full of peas and which ones had something else in them. For sure peas aren’t the size of grapes, I thought. These must be something else, nuts, maybe. So where are the damn peas?

Then I heard voices. At first I figured someone else was working down there and almost yelled hello. Maybe they’d know about the peas. But then I pulled in the yell and just listened. Because I knew one of the voices. It was Prof. Herring’s.

The voices got closer. I pressed myself against the piled sacks and hoped like hell they wouldn’t come my way, even while I tried to hear what they were saying.

“You have to fight for your rights,” Herring said. “The time it is finished when these autocrats can rule over ordinary men. Look at Russia. If those peasants can rid themselves of a tyrant, so can you. If he doesn’t want to listen to you, there are ways to make him. There is only one of him, and most of the men will be on your side. Especially if you explain that you’re trying to get more for them too. But it will take time…”

Herring’s voice went on and on, like he was singing a lullaby for a baby – yes you can do it, yes you should do it, here’s how you do it. But what was it that had to be done? And who was Herring talking to? So far I hadn’t heard a peep out of the other guy. By this time, though, I’d managed to figure out just where they were. As quietly as I could I worked my way to where the piled sacks turned a corner. Just as I reached it I heard footsteps, moving away. They must have been finished talking by then. I put my head around the sacks and took a look. Herring, all right, but I already knew that. It was the other guy I wanted to see. I leaned out a bit more. I only saw his back, going away, but that was enough. It was Mr. Stenek, the Third Mate.

Tadeusz Stenek, except most people called him Ted. I didn’t know him very well. He was a Pole, and at first I thought that was a kind of Russian, until Roberto straightened me out. “Man, you don’t know a thing about Poles if you think they’re Russians,” he laughed. “They hate each other’s guts, usually. Why? I don’t know why. Some sort of historical thing – old wars or something. You have to wonder why Stenek shipped with Liadov – just one of those things that happens on the Pluzhnikhov, I guess. I don’t think the Old Man hates Stenek. That’s not his way. But Stenek can’t wait to find another ship, I hear.”

I wasn’t sure about the stuff I’d overheard. It almost seemed like Prof. Herring was telling Stenek to start a mutiny, but why would he do that, if Captain Liadov was his friend? I didn’t like the sound of it, and figured I should tell someone, but I wasn’t sure who. Captain Liadov? Roberto? No, I decided, I would tell the Doctor. But before I could do that, something else happened.

 

I was on the morning watch next day. Four hours of peering into the dark beyond the ship’s bow, looking for lights, or other ships, or anything that might mean trouble. To tell the truth, I was just a set of eyeballs on legs, without much in the way of brain. I didn’t know that coast, so I didn’t really know what I was seeing. The mate told me, “If you see anything at all that seems different, tell me, tell someone. Just stay awake and speak up.”

A couple of times an hour, one of the other fellows would come by. “Seen anything, Andre?” he’d ask, and we’d talk for a minute before he went on his way. Or I’d go visit him. It wasn’t nearly as exciting as being in the galley when a meal was, as the Doctor said, reaching its climax.

Anyway, this one morning was a lot like others I’d seen. The night turned from black to grey, and I could see something off our starboard bow that might have been a fog bank, or maybe the coast of Baja California, miles away. A bunch of birds flew over the ship, making noises that sounded like they were arguing about whether to have breakfast now or later, and I thought about how happy I would be to go off watch and get mine. I thought about how the Doctor and the others would be cooking it up. Not for the last time I wished I was back there with them, telling jokes and doing imitations of people on the ship who just had to be imitated. Jacko and Pip could imitate anybody. Not even the Captain and his officers escaped, or the Doctor and I, when they figured we couldn’t see or hear them.

Right at eight, the watch went below. I was just heading up to the saloon, when another fellow from my watch grabbed me. Bob Duke, his name was. He was from another of those Caribbean islands I can never keep straight. Arbuda, Barbuda, Antigua, Anguilla – who knows? Anyway, Bob’s eyes were bugging out of his head, and he looked scared. “Andre!” he said, almost yelling in a kind of whisper, “you got to come, man! Something’s bad here, I think!”

“What’s up, Bob?” I asked. “Trouble?”

“Damn right, trouble,” he said. “It’s Joe – can’t wake him up!”

“Joe Matthews?”

“Damn right, Joe Matthews, who else? We got a deal these days – I wake him up when I come off watch, so we go to breakfast together. So I go to wake him up just now. But he don’t!”

This sounded bad, all right. Matthews was getting better, but slowly. He’d been up and walking around for about a week. I talked to him a few times and he told me a bit about where he came from and some of the things he wanted to do. He seemed a good enough guy, and I was glad the Doctor had saved him, so maybe some day he could go back to his old mother and some girl he called ‘my little bird.’

“All right, I’ll come with you,” I told Bob. “Let’s go have a look.”

Matthews was still in his bunk. “He was laying just like that before,” Bob whispered from close behind me. “Hasn’t moved a bit.”

I went over to the bunk and said, “Hey Joe, how is it with you? Are you all right?”

He didn’t say anything, didn’t move, just lay there on his side, his face turned away from me. Bob leaned into the cabin but didn’t come inside.

“He still ain’t talking, eh? Maybe he’s gone sick again. What was that thing Mr. Dexter took out of him? Maybe it came back.”

I ignored his silly talk and took a hold of Matthews’s shoulder. I shook it a bit, but he still didn’t move or say anything, so I rolled him over onto his back and saw his white eyes looking at me, his mouth open and foam on his lips. Then I knew for sure. “Bob, he’s dead.”

Bob’s eyes got big. Sailors are full of ideas that make no sense, unless you’re one of them. Superstitions, the Doctor calls them. A lot of them have to do with bad luck, and finding a dead body on board a ship was bad, all right, never mind how it got that way. I thought Bob was about to go running up to the main deck, yelling about Matthews to everyone in sight. So I said, “Look, Bob, someone has to go tell the Captain, and someone has to stay here with Joe. I think I can run faster than you, so I’ll go.”

“What do you want me to stay here for?” asked Bob. “I don’t want to touch him, no way. I don’t even want to get close to him. Everyone knows jumbies like dead folks.”

“You don’t have to touch him, or get any closer than you are right now. In fact, you’d better not touch anything. Look, I’ll close the door. Just stay right here, and don’t let anyone else in there until the Captain comes.” Then I ran.

By now I knew that the Captain always got to breakfast a little late. He liked to be on the bridge when the watch changed, so he usually showed up in the saloon about half past eight. I knew where to find the Doctor too, so I went straight to the galley.

He and Pip and Jacko were in the middle of dishing up a mess of eggs and other stuff that any other time would have made my mouth water. As soon as he saw me, he guessed something was up.

“Doctor!” I said, forgetting to say ‘Mr. Dexter.’ “Joe Matthews is dead. You better go see. I’m going to tell the Captain.” I heard him say something to Pip and Jacko, and then he was right behind me.

Captain Liadov was on the bridge, just as I’d expected. He listened to me until I was done, then he said, “I’ll come right away.” The two of us hurried down to the lower deck.

The Doctor was already there, talking to Bob Duke, telling him that he shouldn’t worry about jumbies. When he heard us coming, he turned around and said, “Good morning, Captain. Not so good for Matthews here, though. He’s dead. And you should know – I haven’t touched anything here beyond what was necessary to make that diagnosis. Isn’t that right, Bob?”

“Right,” said Bob. “He just looked at Joe, Captain. That’s all.”

“He had a relapse, Mr. Dexter?” asked Liadov.

“No. The incision was pretty much healed. There was no infection. He was certainly not ill when I saw him about eleven last night.” The Doctor pointed to a tin mug that stood on the floor, partly under the bunk. “He drank something from this mug, it seems. But it wasn’t here when I checked him last night.”

“You are sure of that?” asked the Captain. “He could have gotten himself a drink at any time, surely?”

“Of course. But I’m certain this mug was not here last night. So it must have arrived later. Whether Matthews got it himself or someone brought it to him I can’t say. Whatever the drink was, there’s some of it left, you see. An analysis of it may be revealing.”

“Indeed,” said the Captain. “Give me the mug, please. We are a few days from Ensenada. Matthews’ body should be put in the hold and someone must pack up his belongings. They will have to be returned to his family.”

“Aren’t you going to investigate his death?” asked the Doctor. “If there’s any question that it was suspicious, it would be best to take action before we reach Ensenada.”

“I am aware of that, Mr. Dexter,” said Liadov. “Thank you for your opinion. Now I must see Prof. Herring. Would you find him, please, and join me in the chart-room?”

“You want to see Prof. Herring? And you want me to fetch him?” I could see that the Doctor hadn’t expected this.

“Yes. Please do as I ask, Mr. Dexter.” He turned away, taking Matthews’s cup with him.

The Doctor and I looked at each other. “Well, I suppose I’d better find Herring,” he said finally. “He’ll still be at breakfast, I expect.”

“I’ll get him,” I said. I didn’t like it that Liadov wanted the Doctor to be a messenger boy. And I wanted to see Herring’s face when he heard about Matthews.

“No, Andre. The Captain wants me to do it, so I shall do it. He does nothing for no reason. Even though some of his reasons are based on fantasy.” He said this last bit quietly, like he was talking to himself.

We’d forgotten Bob Duke. “Can I go now?” he asked. “I don’t want to stay here no more.”

“All right, Bob,” I said. “You go up to breakfast while there’s still some left. Come on.”

The three of us trooped into the saloon. Bob made straight for the seamen’s tables, where the other fellows from our watch were finishing up. The Doctor went over to Prof. Herring, who was buttering a piece of toast. I followed right behind him.

“Good morning, Professor,” said the Doctor. “I’m afraid I must interrupt your breakfast. Captain Liadov would like to see you in the chart-room, about a matter of some urgency.”

Herring looked up from his toast. His eyes gleamed, and when he smiled they were almost hidden by wrinkles. “Well, well, Mr. Dexter,” he said. “You are running errands for the Captain now, as well as cooking?

The Doctor turned away without answering. At first I thought Herring wasn’t going to come with us, but when we left the saloon I heard him coming along behind us. I also heard a buzz of talk starting from everyone else, and knew that Bob had spilled the beans to his messmates.

When we got to the chart room I was surprised to see the Second and Third mates there. The First Mate, Mr. Belov, was officer of the watch. I was hoping Liadov wouldn’t notice me; after all, he hadn’t asked me to come. I stood just inside the door, trying to keep behind the Second Mate, who was a big tall fellow. The Captain got right to the point.

“Joe Matthews is dead.”

“Blood poisoning, nein?” That was Herring. “From that completely unnecessary surgery, of course.”

The Doctor looked hard at Herring. “Professor, what are the symptoms of blood poisoning? Describe them for us, please.”

Herring snapped his fingers. “Details, details,” he said. “What else could it have been?”

“Please, gentlemen,” said the Captain, “I haven’t called you here to have you make accusations against one another, but to review Matthews’s situation rationally. Mr. Dexter, how would you describe his state last night?”

The Doctor hesitated before answering. “His state was much the same as it has been for some time.”

“And that was… what? I would like some particulars, please.”

I looked over at Prof. Herring, and sure enough he was smiling again.

“Well, Captain,” said the Doctor, “Matthews had more or less recovered from the surgery, but he was weaker than he should have been. He made good progress for a week or so, but a decline set in after he returned to his own quarters.”

Herring leaned forward. “Might it be, Herr Dexter, that your post-operative care was not quite what it should have been? After all, your duties in the galley take up a good deal of your time.”

The Doctor looked angry and was about to say something, but Captain Liadov beat him to it.

“Arguments of this sort are not helpful, gentlemen. I want only to tell you this – we are a few days from the port of Ensenada. A small place, but it is the nearest one where we can speak to a civilian authority. We will turn over Matthews’s body and his belongings to the Mexican police. I imagine they will want to question all of you and the seamen as well. If we were far out at sea, I would deal with the matter myself, but since we are close to a port, I believe this is the proper thing to do. Are there any questions?”

“Police?” said Herring. His face was getting red. “What do you expect them to see that you already have not? You let this cook do an operation on a sick man, and now that man is dead. What besides that will you tell the police?”

“Prof. Herring, you do not understand,” said the Captain. “I have seen Matthews’s body. His wound had healed completely. There were no signs of infection. The cause of his death is unknown, and may be related to the weakness that Mr. Dexter mentioned. A residue of a drink that Matthews may have taken last night was found near his body. A chemical analysis of this residue will need to be done, in order to rule out the possibility of poisoning, intentional or otherwise.”

Herring went pale. "A regular chameleon," I thought.

Captain Liadov continued, “I have arranged for the body to be put in the hold. His belongings, including the mug and its contents, have been secured. Our stay in Ensenada may be longer than we expected because of this business. That is all I have to say. For the present we will carry on as usual.”

Well, that was easier to say than to do. From that minute, the Aleksander Pluzhnikhov became an unhappy ship. Everyone looked sideways at everyone else. Fellows would get together in twos and threes and talk, only to jump apart, looking guilty, when someone else came along. No one trusted anyone any more.

It was like a thunderstorm building up, and it broke three days later. For me they were bad days, because no matter where I was, I felt I should be somewhere else. The Pluzhnikhov wasn’t a very big ship – 250 feet or so, and with twenty-six people on board, plus the cargo and fuel, you’d think we’d be falling over each other. But actually you could go for days without seeing anybody but the fellows on your watch, except for at meals, of course. And even then we weren’t all there at once, because there was always one watch on duty.

Those three days, there were too many people I figured I had to keep my eye on – starting with Herring and the Third Mate, Stenek. Ever since I’d heard them talking in the cargo hold, I had a bad feeling, and it got worse after Matthews died.

I started noticing men from Stenek’s watch huddled up in corners with each other, or talking to other members of the ship’s crew, arguing with them sometimes. The more I saw the less I liked it. I tried to decide who I should watch more than anyone else, because I couldn’t watch all of them. Stenek himself, maybe? The trouble with that was when I was off duty, he was on, and the other way around. In the end, I just tried to have an idea where he was most of the time, and Herring too, and kept my eyes and ears open. I swear they got bigger.

At least I knew where the Doctor was. I decided I’d better have a talk with him, because I didn’t like being the only one with ideas like the ones that were growing in my brain. On a ship anything can happen. A bad step on a ladder, a slippery deck on a dark night, and it’s goodbye.

He answered my knock on his cabin door with, “Who is it?”

“Andre,” I said.

“What was the number of the house on Boundary Street?” he asked.

I was surprised. “Number 74,” I said.

“All right, Andre, come in.” He laid his pistol down on the writing desk when he saw me. “My apologies for the suspicion, but it’s necessary.”

“That’s just what I came to talk to you about, Doctor.” I was so relieved to find that he was thinking the same as me that I could have cheered.

“Well, it’s been obvious since Matthews died that something’s up. What have you seen, Andre?”

I told him about Stenek and Herring in the hold. I told him about the men on Stenek’s watch, and about the way that everyone on the ship seemed to be taking sides. “It looks like some of them might be planning a mutiny.”

The Doctor thought for a moment. “Hmm. It’s moving faster than I expected, then. Matthews’ death, that was meant to discredit me, but it backfired on him and now he thinks he has to strike higher. The mutiny would be carried out by that Pole, Stenek, under the direction of Prof. Herring. From what you’ve told me, Herring has been inciting him to settle some grievance with the Captain, by carrying out a miniature version of a proletarian revolt. And now it must happen before we reach Ensenada, which should be in just a day or two. Andre, when is Stenek’s crew on duty, exactly?”

I told him who had what watch for the next few days. After a bit of thinking, we decided that the most dangerous times would be when Stenek and his men were in control of the ship at night, with everyone else asleep. Which would happen on the middle watch the very next night.

“Yes, that would be the time,” the Doctor said. “They would be the only ones up and about. Not even we galley slaves are stirring until nearly the end of the watch, as you know. All they have to do is seal off the bridge and kill or capture Liadov and the other two mates, who would be asleep in their cabins, in the normal course of events.”

“Capture or kill? That bad?” He was moving too fast for me.

“Of course. It’s possible that he killed Matthews, didn’t he? This isn’t a game any more.”

“Well, but Matthews was only a – ”

“Only a nigger sailor? And Liadov and his mates are only Russians. An inferior race, he calls them, primitive and incapable of sophisticated reasoning.”

“Is that what he calls them? Mr. Stenek?” I couldn’t see Ted Stenek saying words like ‘primitive’ or ‘incapable.’ Mostly he stuck to short words, when he talked at all.

“Not Stenek, Andre. He’s only the tool. Herring. This is all his show, from Matthews’s murder to the mutiny he’s inciting. I think he’s been planning something like this for a long time – to destroy Liadov’s ship from within, right under his nose. He’s just moving faster than he planned, that’s all.”

“I see,” I said slowly. But I didn’t, quite. “Why, Doctor? Why would Prof. Herring want to do that?”

“I don’t know. But it has something to do with me, which is why I have to do something to stop it. I've tried to warn Liadov already, but he wouldn't listen. He's not a bad fellow, but a little irrational. And I don’t want any more deaths on my… to be responsible for more deaths, even indirectly. So listen now, Andre. This is what we have to do…”

 

I didn’t get much sleep that night, what with planning, excitement and fear. Yes, I was afraid. Part of it was that we might be in danger. But the other thing was that I wasn’t sure about the Doctor. Did he really know what was going on, or was this the same line of thinking that landed us on the Pluzhnikhov in the first place? The only things I had to go on were the stuff I’d overheard and the feeling in my guts.

Next day I did my job with only half my brain. The other half was chewing over the plan, worrying, worrying. I didn’t eat much and I tried not to look at Prof. Herring or Stenek or any of those guys. Someone asked me if I was all right. I said yes and thought I’d better perk up before everyone noticed I was acting funny.

Finally the day was over. The sun sank into the ocean and the sky got dark. I felt better, somehow, maybe because the waiting was nearly done. After supper, I went to my bunk, for a little rest I thought, but I fell hard asleep. I woke up in a big panic – what if I’d slept all night and it was over? What if the Doctor and Captain Liadov were dead? It would be my fault. Then I looked at my watch and saw it wasn’t even eleven.

There was no one in the passage or the companionway. I raced up and dodged around the corner to the galley. Closing the door behind me, I felt safe in that warm place, full of smells I knew well – a whiff of bacon from the pantry and the pea soup, fresh bread and coffee waiting for the fellows who’d want them when they came off watch. And underneath, a smell of stove oil from a leak we’d never managed to fix.

“Less noise, Andre,” said a quiet voice. The Doctor. He was standing so that when the door opened he was behind it. “You’re breathing like a bellows. Sit down and wait.”

We waited. The only sounds were the noise of the engines far away, and my breathing, which did seem pretty loud. I tried to breathe quietly and nearly burst until I relaxed and forgot to think about it. It was so warm I just about fell asleep again. But not him. I woke up when he touched my arm. “Listen,” he whispered.

I heard a door open not far away, and a voice. I hadn’t realized that sounds carried so well from the passageway that went to the Doctor’s cabin. “All right, Dexter. Wake up and come with us.” Then some thumps. “He’s not here. Bunk’s been slept in, though.”

Another voice said, “Shit, what does it matter where he is? Probably taking a piss. We’ll get him later. Belov and Garshon, they’re the ones. Let’s see how Raul and Jimbo are making out with them.” The door slammed and we heard footsteps going away.

“Not exactly models of discipline, are they?” said the Doctor. “This is our chance. Have you got the pistol? All right, stay close behind me.”

We made first for Liadov’s cabin. The door was open and the place was empty. The bunk hadn’t been slept in. “He’s not here,” said the Doctor. “Damn it, I told him to lock himself in. But there are no signs of a struggle. He must have gone to the bridge. Somehow I’m not surprised.”

We wasted no time getting up to the bridge. One of Stenek’s men was at the wheel. I recognized his shape. Everything looked normal, but Liadov wasn’t there. Or Stenek, come to that.

We slipped along into a passageway before the helmsman saw us. A few yards forward, I stuck my head around a corner and saw a man standing in front of the chart-room door. A guard, for sure – Marcus Freeman, another of Stenek’s buddies. I pulled back and let the Doctor have a look.

With a flick of his wrist, the Doctor threw one of the knives he’d picked up in the galley. It flew past Marcus and made a ‘thock’ sound as it stuck itself into the door opposite. When the guy turned to see what it was, I cracked him on the head with the Doctor’s pistol and he flopped.

I stuck Freeman’s gun in my belt behind my back and pounded on the chart-room door. “Who’s that?” said a voice.

“We’ve got Dexter here,” I said, trying to sound like one of the guys who’d come looking for the Doctor.

“Bring him in.” Stenek’s voice. I opened the door and pushed the Doctor in, staying just behind him. Over his shoulder I could see Herring sitting by the chart table. Liadov was there too, tied to a chair, with Stenek holding a pistol to his head. The Captain looked pretty calm, considering everything, like he was watching a play or something.

“Well, well, it is the good doctor,” said Herring, getting to his feet. “Here is your new friend, Captain. I thought you might want to go together. All right, Mr. Stenek, let’s send them on their way. Their boat is all ready.”

“Not so fast,” said Stenek, turning his head away from Liadov and toward Herring. “We have to wait for Belov and Garshon.”

That was my moment. I pushed all the way into the room, my pistol trained on Stenek. “Put that gun down, Mr. Stenek,” I said.

I heard someone running, not too close by. Two someones, at least. I hoped to God they weren’t the fellows that had come looking for the Doctor, because I wasn’t sure we could handle them and Stenek too.

Slowly, he put his gun on the chart table. “Move away from it,” I said. “With your hands up. That’s good.”

The Doctor went to Liadov. Suddenly there was a thump and a yell, outside. A gun went off, close by this time. I whipped my head around. That was a mistake. Stenek lunged for his pistol. “All right, Boudreau,” he said. “Now it’s your turn. Pistol on the table.”

Herring made a noise like a leaky bladder. He must have been holding his breath. “Very good, Mr. Stenek,” he said. “So we have another pigeon for our pie.” I guess he meant me. “Tie up the cook and his assistant, then go see what the others are doing. In the meantime, I will keep our guests amused. Give me that pistol, you.”

Moving slowly, I set the pistol near the edge of the chart table. Stenek wasn’t having any luck tying up the Doctor, mostly because there was no more rope handy. He had one of the Doctor’s arms twisted behind his back and kept his pistol pointed at him, though. Herring saw the problem and whipped off his necktie, wrapped it around the Doctor’s wrists and jerked it tight.

“That should hold him,” he said, turning around and reaching for my pistol. “Now for this one.”

The sounds outside got louder – thumps and shouts. Stenek stepped sideways, maybe to take a look out the door, and bumped into Herring. Herring’s hand hit the pistol; it slid off the table onto the floor. Herring dived after it, moving faster than I ever thought he could.

I saw my chance and pushed his behind hard with my foot. He crashed into the bulkhead with a curse, or something that sounded a lot like one, but I don’t know German, so I can’t say for sure.

Stenek had his gun pointed at the Doctor’s head, and didn’t do anything to help Herring. His eyes were jumping from the Doctor to me, then to Herring, who was still under the table looking for my pistol. I couldn’t take Marcus Freeman’s gun out of the back of my pants because if Stenek saw it he might shoot the Doctor. But I did have a little something up my sleeve, and I had learned more in the galley than cooking.

Shaking the nice little filleting knife down between my fingers, I got it into the correct throwing position – then a fast flick of the wrist, just like the Doctor had shown us in the galley.

Stenek yelled and dropped his gun, his right hand spouting blood. I managed to grab the gun just as Herring crawled out from under the chart table with my pistol. Before he could get up, I stepped over to the Doctor. The knot that tied his wrists together was too complicated to untie quickly, so I cut Herring’s necktie with the paring knife I had in my pocket.

“Here, Doctor!” I put Stenek’s pistol in his hand, but it must have been numb and he couldn’t hold onto it. Herring was on his feet, fiddling with the pistol like he wasn’t sure what to do with it. Whipping Marcus Freeman’s pistol out of my belt, I shoved it in Herring’s face and said, “Don’t bother, Professor.” This time I kept my eye steady on my man, even when I heard someone right outside the door. The hard part was looking at the hate in his eyes. I didn’t dare bend over to pick up the gun the Doctor had dropped, but kicked it out of reach, maybe a bit too hard, because it hit the bulkhead hard and went off with a bang. In that small space, it was as loud as an explosion, and the smell of gunpowder was choking.

The door of the chart-room crashed open. Someone shouted in Russian, then in English. “Who got shot in here?”

“It’s all right, Mr. Belov. No one’s been shot,” said the Doctor. “And here’s the Captain.” Rubbing his wrists, he bent to untie the ropes that held Liadov to the chair.

Belov was in the doorway, carrying a rifle. Behind him was Mr. Garshon. Captain Liadov got on his feet. He was a bit shaky and looked kind of white, but sounded pretty calm when he started to talk.

“Well, gentlemen, we can sort out our differences in a minute. But first someone must see to the ship. Mr. Belov, please do so immediately. Mr. Garshon, Mr. Boudreau, conduct Prof. Herring to his cabin and see that he does not leave it. Mr. Dexter, we have an injured man here, and possibly others elsewhere, considering the shots we heard.”

We had forgotten about Stenek. Or at least I had. He was standing right where he’d been when I threw the knife, face white as cheese and eyes bulging. Three inches of steel were sticking out of his palm, blood dripping from the point. No wonder he hadn’t moved.

The Doctor went over to him. “I’m sure Mr. Boudreau extends his apologies to you, Mr. Stenek. Captain, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll take him away and deal with his injury. It’s not a fatal wound, fortunately. Bear up, Mr. Stenek.”

I didn’t think Stenek would give him any trouble. He looked like a wet rag that had been wrung out and tossed aside. I was more worried about the Professor.

His eyes were full of hate when Garshon and I took charge of him, but he didn't mean it for us. It was like we weren't even there. He stopped by the Doctor.

“Enjoy the taste of victory while you can, Mr. Dexter," he said, hissing like a snake. “You should know by now that it doesn't last.”

The Doctor looked up at him. “I know that, Professor. And you shouldn't imagine that I regard this as a victory.”

Herring smiled, a mean kind of smile. “Oh, you lie! But I am not like these fools.” He jerked his head at the rest of us. “You need not for me put on a show. I know more about you than you guess, Doctor Francis Dexter. You could have learned some lessons from me, but unfortunately, that is now not possible. So I will leave you perhaps a memento.”

I got the feeling he was just getting going on a speech, but Garshon poked him in the back with his rifle and said, “Come along now, Professor.”

I looked back at the Doctor, to see what he might be thinking, but he was busy with Stenek and didn't watch us go out.

Herring was still a man with a plan; I could see it in his eyes when Garshon and I locked him in his cabin. I wondered why Liadov hadn’t put him in a place that would be harder to escape from. Maybe the Captain still thought the guy was just a professor, but I knew different. I wondered what Herring’s 'memento' was, and how I could protect the Doctor from it.

Garshon told me to stand guard outside Herring’s door until he could send some other fellows to take over. I wasn’t too happy about being left alone. Who knew what Herring might have in there? I could hear him moving around, but nothing happened. Half an hour later I was relieved by a couple of seamen, Bob Duke and a fellow named Pete Trosty.

“What’s going on, Bob?” I asked. “Is everyone all right?”

He grinned. “All right, except for a guy that got shot in the leg. Mr. Dexter’s looking after him. And Mr. Stenek, of course, but you know about him.”

“What about the others that were with Stenek?”

“Oh, they changed their minds. Did it pretty fast after Jimbo got shot, most of ‘em. Captain’s having a talk with ‘em now.”

I hurried forward, wondering what to do next. For some reason – habit, maybe – I made for the galley. To my surprise, Pip and Jacko were there, cooking hard.

“What’s up?” I asked. “Kind of early for breakfast, isn’t it?”

“Captain’s orders,” said Jacko. “We don’t argue, we just cook.”

“’Cook breakfast for the crew’ he told us,” said Pip. “So that’s what we do.”

“PDQ,” said Jacko.

“Need some help?” I asked.

 

Chapter 8

 

Breakfast aboard the Aleksander Pluzhnikhov started very early the morning after the Herring-Stenek mutiny. The Captain asked me to sit at his table, on his right. “We wouldn’t be sharing this meal if not for you, Mr. Boudreau,” he said. “You and Mr. Dexter.”

The Doctor was there too, of course, on Liadov’s left. The Captain asked him to tell how we figured out when the mutiny would happen, and what we did to stop it.

“Captain Liadov,” said the Doctor, when he’d finished. “why on earth did you let them capture you? When I saw your cabin was empty, I thought you had decided to go up to the bridge. Do you mean that you simply gave yourself up to them?”

“It was necessary,” said Liadov. “If they hadn’t got me they wouldn’t have gone through with it, and so would have become more desperate, with probably worse consequences later. So I took the risk. You understand about risks, do you not, Mr. Dexter? You took an enormous one, there in the chartroom. It was fortunate that Mr. Boudreau was able to deal so well with the situation.”

“Yes indeed,” said the Doctor. “But what were Stenek and Herring about to do to you, when we came in?”

“We were waiting for Mr. Stenek’s men to arrive with Mr. Belov and Mr. Garshon, and you, of course. Their plan was to put us all in one of the lifeboats and commend us to the mercy of the sea. Perhaps you did not realize it, but ever since Mr. Stenek’s crew came on watch, we had been steaming due west. They were going to leave us well out to sea, without food or water. Now tell me, please, what would be a suitable reward for both of you? One thing that occurs to me is once again to make an exception of my rule to take no passengers, and offer you that status immediately, until we reach a port of your choice.”

The Doctor looked at me as if to ask if I wanted to say anything, but I left it up to him. “I’m honoured,” he said, “and I’m sure Mr. Boudreau is as well. But Captain, who will do the cooking, in that case? Surely not Prof. Herring? For one thing, Pip and Jacko would drive him mad. No, I’m quite content to continue as cook, until… well, until we reach our destination.”

“Exactly, Mr. Dexter. What is your destination? Anchorage, Alaska? Because that is where I am going. Then I will work my way back down the coast, so as to be in the Caribbean again by autumn. Forgive me, but I do not think you wish to be cook on the Aleksander Pluzhnikhov for the rest of your life. The ship no longer needs you, you see. The thing which was to happen has happened. There is something else you must do now.” He looked hard at the Doctor with his quiet black eyes. The Doctor looked back at him, then down at the table. That was the first time I’d seen where he couldn’t look someone in the eye.

“You’re right,” he said, so quiet I almost didn’t hear him. Then he looked up at the Captain again. “But I don’t know how to begin.”

“Is that all? Well, the answer will come to you, Mr. Dexter. You have only to… ” he made the little fluttering movement with his fingers that I remembered from the first time we’d met him – “to receive it,” he said.

The Doctor smiled at him, the way I’ve seen mothers smile at a child who is a little slow but trying hard. “Well, I hope I receive something soon,” he began. “Because – ”

Suddenly we heard a bang, not too loud, but for sure not a normal sound. Then running feet again. I reached in my pocket for the pistol, feeling lucky I'd kept it on me. Bob Duke pounded into the saloon, shouting, “He killed Pete! He’s gone! Made a big bang and took off! I tried to hold ‘im, but I couldn’t. He’s gone!”

The Captain stood up. “Who’s gone?” he asked. But I knew, even before Bob got it out.

“Prof. Herring,” I said.

The Professor still had a few tricks, all right, and Captain Liadov hadn’t bothered to take them away. One of them was some sort of explosive. For some reason Herring had waited before breaking out, maybe because he figured it would be easier once everything settled down a bit. He set off a blast that blew the door off his cabin and stunned one of the guards. Pete Trosty wasn’t killed; that was just what Bob Duke thought at the moment. In the noise and smoke, Herring got away from the other guard, who was Bob, of course. That wouldn’t have been too hard, knowing Bob. Herring launched the lifeboat that he was going to use for the ship’s officers and escaped.

The Captain didn’t seem too worried. In fact, I thought he looked relieved. Maybe he hadn’t known what he was going to do with Herring after all. “I suppose he waited until we were closer to land. He told me that he had done a great deal of sailing in the Baltic Sea and the North Sea. The boat he took is equipped with mast and sails, so I am sure that he will reach land and find his fate, whatever it is.” Soon after that he called off the search.

The ship steamed on its course again, with one dead sailor in the hold, several men recovering from injuries, and minus one German gentleman. I wondered how Liadov would explain all this to the people at Ensenada, considering that speech he gave right after Matthews died. When I said something about that to the Doctor, though, he laughed.

“Don’t tell me you believed all that nonsense about ‘authorities,’ in this Mexican backwater, who would be eager to investigate the death of a sailor on a foreign ship, even to the extent of doing chemical analyses! That little bit of theatrics on Liadov’s part was just his way of flushing out the guilty party, and it worked, if a little too well. No, if anything happens at Ensenada, it will be a matter of a report, a few bribes, that’s all. A telegram sent to Matthews’s family, perhaps.”

“But what about the body?”

“I expect it will be buried somewhere near the town. It’s hardly practical to ship him home, after all. Other ships’ masters wouldn’t have hesitated to bury him at sea.”

“Too bad you couldn’t have – ”

“Couldn’t have what?” He gave me a look like a slap in the face. “I don’t know what you’re trying to say, Andre.”

I wanted to say, "Yes you know exactly what I’m trying to say." But I didn’t have the guts. Actually, I’d been thinking about embalming – what he did to that double of himself the two of us made, back in Arkham. That way maybe Matthews could have been shipped home and buried in a place where people who knew him could come and remember him. But I guess the Doctor thought I was starting up about revivifying again.

When Prof. Herring’s cabin was cleared out, some interesting things turned up. A whole lot of books, which Captain Liadov decided to keep, except for a few that he said the Doctor should take. Then there was a wooden box full of little glass bottles and jars with powders and seeds and leaves and pieces of roots in them. Also bundles of dried plants wrapped in oiled cloth, and some notebooks and papers.

“You’d better have this box too, Dr. Dexter,” said the Captain, “You may find these things useful, since you are a chemist, after all.”

“Why do you say that?” asked the Doctor.

“Well, it’s true isn’t it?” said Liadov, smiling.

“Yes, all right, it’s true. Or was at one time. No doubt you guessed it when I said something about analyzing that stuff in Matthews’ cup.”

“No doubt,” said the Captain, still smiling. But I didn't smile, because I remembered what Herring said about a ‘memento.’ Then I told myself not to be silly, because how could dried leaves and seeds be dangerous?

 

When we were in American waters again, off California, the Doctor stopped going ashore while we were in port. San Diego, San Francisco, Portland – he didn’t see any of those places. I asked him why.

“You know why. St. Louis.”

“But Doctor, that was so long ago! And St. Louis is a long way from here. I bet no one cares about that any more. Especially out here.”

“It’s been less than six months. And it was murder. Mary Leavitt was murdered. There’s no end to some things. But you may be right – I could probably show my face in any of these places with impunity. The trouble is, if that’s not so, by the time I realized it, it would be too late.”

“But you have to live somewhere! We both have to. We can’t stay on this ship forever, or any other ship. You can’t keep running, Doctor. And I don’t want to.”

I had a picture in my mind, of the two of us going round and round the world together, on ships, on trains, on foot, getting older, finally falling down dead in some place where no one knew us.

“I don’t want to keep running either,” he said. “I’ll think of something soon, don’t worry.”

In the end it was Captain Liadov who thought of something. I don’t know if the Doctor told him that he didn’t want to go to the United States, or if he just guessed. Anyway, one night after supper, when I dropped in to visit the galley, the Captain showed up too. He’d do that sometimes – come to drink tea and talk with the Doctor after Pip and Jacko had gone. I made like I was going to leave too, but he called me back. “Please stay here if you wish, Mr. Boudreau,” he said. So I sat down and lit up my pipe and listened.

“It seems to me, Dr. Dexter,” said Liadov, “that you have two choices. You can look for a ship going to the Orient, where a man can become as lost as he needs to be, and more, or you can stop in British Columbia.”

“That’s part of Canada, isn’t it?” asked the Doctor.

“Yes, indeed. To you Americans, a foreign country. But quite a few Americans end up there, for one reason or another. Especially in the borderlands. The Islands of the Gulf, for example.”

“Borderlands?” said the Doctor, looking interested. “And what are the Islands of the Gulf?”

“Come up to the chartroom tomorrow and I will show you. The boundary between Canada and the United States passes among many little islands, in a body of water called the Gulf of Georgia. You could do far worse than settle there. The climate is temperate. It is true that things are a little new, a little raw perhaps. To those of us who come from what we think of as civilized places, it may seem crude. But the city called Victoria, which is the capital of the province, is a pleasant place. We will be calling there, incidentally. After that, the Pluzhnikhov steams northward, through narrow passes that wind among the islands of a wild coast, and so to Alaska. Yes, Dr. Dexter, after Victoria the world grows wilder.”

 

Day by day, we steamed north. We had left the warm places behind, for sure. The air got colder and sharper, and when we got close enough to see the land, there were hills all covered with trees, so dark green they looked black, and behind them sometimes we could see mountains with snow. The air smelled green too, like a forest, and cold, like snow.

One morning I went on deck and saw there was land on both sides of the ship. “We’re in the Strait of Juan de Fuca,” said Jacko, when I asked.

“Juan de Fuca?” I asked. “Who was he? Do they talk Spanish here too?” I’d looked at Captain Liadov’s charts, but they hadn’t told me much.

“Don’t know who he was,” said Jacko. “One of those old explorer types, maybe. And no, they don’t talk Spanish. American on that side,” he pointed to starboard, “and Brits over there. Or mostly Brits, from what I’ve heard in Victoria. Hoity-toity and la de dah. I don’t think you’ll fit in, Andre. You better stay with us.”

“I want to settle down, Jacko,” I said. “Put down roots, you know, get a piece of land, maybe get married. But I don’t know if this is the place for me.”

“If you want to do all that, you’d better say goodbye to him.” Jacko rolled his eyes toward the galley. Maybe because of his worries or some other reason, the Doctor had been pretty grouchy lately, throwing stuff overboard right and left and making Jacko and Pip cook some more. “Somehow I don’t think he’s the settling kind. Or marrying, come to that.” He went on to tell me a little story from when we were in one of the Mexican ports. “You can’t tell me he was just seeing the sights, in a place like that,” he said, winking.

I clammed up because I don’t like that kind of talk, even though most of the time I yarn with the best of them. But I had to admit Jacko was right about one thing – the Doctor wasn’t the marrying type. I’d known that since Arkham days.

Next day we entered Victoria Harbour. Since this wasn’t going to be just another port for me, here today, gone tomorrow – or a week from tomorrow, which was more like it – I wanted to get a good look at the place.

We’d been following a shoreline thick with trees that came right down to the rocks along the water. There were lots of little bays and points, with houses and farms here and there. Just past a narrows, the way opened into a neat little harbour. At its far end was a solid-looking seawall, and behind it a great big building, with steep roofs and lots of windows, and a look that said, “Bring money or stay away.” On the right, another bunch of big buildings, with domes and arches and flags flapping in the breeze. But it wasn’t all fancy, I could see that. There were factories and warehouses, chimneys spitting out smoke and a lot of other buildings that could have been anywhere. Four or five steamships were in port, and around them a whole mess of small boats of all kinds. It looked like a busy little place, but somehow I didn’t think a fellow would have much luck there, if he wanted a bit of joie de vivre. Maybe it was just the weather that day – grey, cool and damp, like most of the days since we’d left the south behind. "Well Andre, mon nègre," I told myself, "it could be worse."

Finally the Pluzhnikhov was moored at the commercial dock, and we changed over to port watches and cargo handling crews. The Doctor wasn’t in a hurry to go ashore, so the two of us kept the galley going to feed the fellows that were still on board. I didn’t mind, really, because it gave me a chance to get used to the feel and smell and sounds of the place before I went out in it.

One thing I could tell right away, it was a mixed kind of place, like most seaports. I heard a lot of British sounding voices, all right, just like in the War, but I heard Americans too, and Canadians, who sounded American but not quite. I saw black and brown faces mixed in with the white ones – Negroes and Chinese and Indians too, kind of like the ones we’d been seeing ever since Panama, but different. A couple of times I saw some Indians in a type of boat I’d never seen before – long and skinny, with a bow that poked up and was carved in complicated shapes. It looked like it was made out of one big tree, hollowed out and carved. Where did they get trees like that? I wondered. And how did they do the carving? Suddenly I wanted to see more of this place.

The days went by pretty fast, like they always seem to when you’re about to start something new you’re not sure about. In my spare time I packed up our stuff again. The Doctor gave away some of his suits, to make space for the books and other things that used to be Prof. Herring’s. “These suits are too Bostonian,” he said. “Let ‘em go. We’re in a new world now, and should dress accordingly.” That was what he said, but the fact was, something had to go, and I guess he decided Herring’s stuff was worth it.

Our last day, the Captain gave a kind of party for us. Pip and Jacko cooked the lunch and dished it up. It seemed strange to be sitting in the saloon, at the Captain’s table yet, while they lugged the plates in. I had to stop myself from going to help out when it looked like they were rushed.

“Coming up in the world, aren’t you, Andre?” whispered Pip, when he put my plate in front of me. “Just don’t get a big head, eh? We know how many dishes you’ve washed, and how many you’ve broken too, you lummox.”

When everyone was finished, Captain Liadov got up and made a little speech. He thanked the Doctor and me for our good service and comradeship and wished us luck in our new adventures. When he was done, I was surprised at the clapping and cheering. Even Ted Stenek, who was back on duty, his hand all healed up, even he gave us a cheer.

Everyone left after that, to go back on duty – or off, come to that – but the two of us stayed behind with the Captain, drinking coffee and brandy and talking. Well, the Doctor and Liadov talked. I mostly listened.

“So you are happier now, with the prospect of settling here, Dr. Dexter? You did not seem certain before.”

“Happier would be an exaggeration, Captain. Let’s say that I’m willing to try it. Or, to speak as a pessimist might, I’m resigned to my fate.”

“But you are not a pessimist,” said Liadov with a smile.

“I didn’t use to be, no,” said the Doctor. “But… events that preceded this journey seem to have inclined me that way.”

“That is not good, Dr. Dexter,” said the Captain. “I will tell you something before we part. Not that I am any sort of wise man, you understand. But I have seen something of life, good and bad, these fifty years and more, and I think that counts for a little in the balance.

“I used to spend a lot of time calculating, when I was younger. What were the chances of this or that? What should I do if things turned out differently than I wanted? A man should be able to live by reason, I thought, and I put a lot of work into doing that. Being in the shipping trade, you understand, there was a lot of calculating to be done. Well, it all blew apart when the Bolsheviks took over in Russia. Maybe I did not calculate accurately enough, but very suddenly I went from being one of the owners of a large and prosperous business to having only my own life and this ship. My brothers were dead, murdered, or as good as dead in prison. My poor wife had died some years before, and I had not remarried. Seafarers should not tie themselves up with those who are at home only on the land, perhaps. Anyway, that was when I realized that all those calculations I had done were a waste of time. In the end, a man must deal with what is given to him each day. Deal with that and go on to the next thing when it is time. Because there is more to the world than we can ever begin to understand.”

The Doctor said, “I find that a rather… irrational philosophy, Captain. But it appears to have served you quite well.”

“Oh, it hasn’t served me. Say rather that I have served it. As my old teacher, Aleksander Nikolaevich, said, the real truths are very simple. So simple – that resistance to one’s fate is useless, and that all roads are circles. Even you, Dr. Dexter, with your skepticism and worship of Reason, even you will describe a great circle in the end, one whose dimensions are greater than you can imagine, and whose arc passes through places untouched by reason.”

“That sounds like one of my old teachers, Captain,” said the Doctor, smiling. “In fact, I'm certain I heard Prof. Quarrington say something very like that, many years ago.”

“Quarrington?” said Liadov. “Augustus Quarrington? You knew him?”

“Yes, I studied with him, briefly, about twenty years ago. Are you telling me you’ve heard of Quarrington?”

“Indeed yes. Aleksander Nikolaevich mentions him in his writings, several times. A very wise man, he says, one who could perceive the secret connections between parts of the world that most people think are unrelated. And he knew something of the forces that travel along these hidden paths.”

“Forces. Yes, Prof. Quarrington often spoke of such things. Forces and numbers, and links. But I’m afraid I did not take him altogether seriously then. Or now.”

“No matter, Dr. Dexter,” said Liadov, smiling again, and getting to his feet. “The forces and links exist, whether any of us understands or believes in them. And now, my friends, I think it is time to say goodbye. I have some business to do before we sail. And you are no doubt eager to get on with your new lives.”

“No doubt,” said the Doctor with a laugh, but not a really happy one.

Later that afternoon we watched from shore as the Aleksander Pluzhnikhov left her berth and began to work her way out of the harbour. A few of the fellows stood at the rail and waved at us. Pip and Jacko were there, joking around and slapping each other when they weren’t waving. I had to admit I would miss those two scoundrels. I don’t know how the rest of that voyage went for them, or any other one. All I know is I never saw the Pluzhnikhov again, and some years later I heard she’d gone down in a storm, off the west coast of Vancouver Island.

The Doctor stood for a long time without saying anything, while the ship turned her stern to us and got smaller.

“Well, that’s that,” he said finally. “Now we absolutely must get on with it, Andre. Whatever it is.”

The Doctor took a set of rooms in the best hotel – the same one I’d noticed when we first came into port. It was called the Empress, after the Queen of England. “It’s important to begin well in a new place,” he said.

To begin well. The next few days, I figured we were doing that, all right, as far as looks went, anyway. No one would have guessed that the two us were the cook and cook’s helper on a tramp steamer. We looked more like fellows who had been passengers on one of the smart steamships that docked in the harbour. The Doctor, especially. He looked as good now as he ever had back in Arkham days. It did my heart good to see him that way, after the times I’d seen him go to pieces. So I started to look forward a bit, to whatever was ahead.

 

*******

 

From the Diary

April 17, 1926

Victoria, British Columbia

After a week in this little city I have come to the conclusion that it is not the place. Not for me, and I suspect not for Andre either. (How he regrets New Orleans! I have hardly any memories of the place, but then I was not in the best of shape while we were there).

For one thing, I have a sense that this city has seen better days. The atmosphere is pleasant and salubrious and there appears to be a foundation of solid citizens, assuring a certain degree of prosperity. Moreover, it is a seat of government and redolent of the gentility of retired servants of the Empire, who have come here to live in a civilized way on their pensions. But there is no sense of expansion. The bureaucrats tout it as “a little bit of old England,” which is all very well for those to whom such a notion appeals.

The trouble for me is that there does not appear to be much need for a physician of my sort. I am not keen on shepherding the privileged and near-privileged through their declining years, or dealing with the exigencies of young motherhood and the ordinary afflictions of children. Besides, there is already a sufficient number of doctors in place to serve this clientele. The cadre who rule over the local hospital are like Anglicized versions of the Miskatonian fossils with whom I am all too familiar – Halsey, et al. I detected suspicion and no enthusiasm at all on their part at the prospect of acquiring as a colleague an unknown Yankee who wishes to carve a niche in their comfortable establishment. This is a small pond, and a characteristic of such is that they attract a particular type of fish. I am not sure that I have the resolve to push my way into this milieu, only to find myself in a situation like the one that defeated me in Arkham. And I was younger then, and not burdened with my present losses and uncertainties.

The final reason the place makes me uneasy is almost deliciously ironic. Andre may be forgiven for not realizing this, but to me it should have been perfectly obvious, as soon as I detected its military flavour – Victoria is a haven for the retired military man. Already in my forays about the city I have seen faces I thought I recognized from the War. I have probably been nearly recognized myself. I know that look of dawning recognition on a face – I know that fellow, it says, now where the deuce have I seen him before? Ah yes, France, Etaples… Before he can get out his, “I say, have we met? In France, wasn’t it?” I manage to elude him. (The ultimate irony, of course, is that even when I was in possession of my full powers, I could not use them to alter my own appearance. And I must confess that I would not have wanted to. Such is the folly of vanity).

So what roads remain available to one who is running away from himself? Only westward. If I had been thinking rationally, I would have gone to South America, or stopped in Mexico. But it’s too late for that now. That gate has closed behind me. (Why do I say that? I spent too much time on the ship listening to Liadov). Now the only other road leads west, to places I have thought of all my life as the Far East. Which would mean that I have somehow come to the end of the world.

And just to make things even more uncomfortable, that damned pain is back – all those months aboard the Pluzhnikhov, learning how to be a ship’s cook, running in circles all day long, even when Andre and I dealt with that villain Herring and his botched mutiny – nothing. No pain at all. I was sure it was gone for good. But the minute I set foot on shore, it came on so strongly I thought it would prostrate me. It must be angina, of an atypical sort.

 

*******

 

One morning, the Doctor got impatient with me, saying things he knew I wouldn’t understand. What the hell is a ‘conundrum,’ anyway? I’d never heard him talk about any kind of drum before. What does ‘hubristic’ mean? And who was Hobson, and what kind of a choice did he have to make? It was like the Doctor expected me to do things for him without him having to ask me, like it was too much trouble to ask. To know what to do without being asked, and to leave him alone at the same time, that was what he wanted from me. Well, that morning I just left him alone. "Let him find his own cuff-links," I thought, and went out.

I walked along a street, any street, looking for a place to have breakfast. The Empress Hotel was too full of people showing off, and I was getting tired of it. I kept going until I saw people who weren’t all dressed up, and went into a café where I had some nice little sausages and eggs that tasted good to me. In the Pluzhnikhov’s galley those eggs would have been called ‘too rubbery’ and pitched over the side.

Then I walked some more. I wasn’t really looking for anything, but when I saw a notice nailed to a pole I stopped to read it. Lightkeeper Wanted, it said. Bellefleur Island Lighthouse. Apply in person to Captain F.D. Bellgarde, Dominion Club. That very same day, at noon.

Well, why not? I didn’t know where Bellefleur Island was, and I knew nothing about what a lightkeeper did, but I figured it was worth a try. After all, I’d already learned how to be a farmer, a soldier, a butler and valet, a cook’s assistant and a common seaman. And a savant of the machine, let’s not forget that. I could learn how to keep a lighthouse. As for the Doctor, well, he would just have to resign himself to the inevitable, as he’d say.

First I had to find the Dominion Club. I asked a few fellows on the street, who didn’t know. The next one told me where the club was, but then he said, “Take it from me, buddy, they won’t let you in, except in the back door maybe, if you say you’re looking for a job there. Why do you want to know, anyway?”

When I told him, he started to laugh. “Heck, you are on the wrong track, aren’t you? Everyone knows that Captain Bellgarde is crazy as a loon. He thinks he owns that lighthouse, but it really belongs to the government. He has no business hiring people for it, so don’t even bother. You better go back to Quebec, that’s what I think.” He walked off, shaking his head.

Well, that got me mad, on top of being down in the dumps. Why couldn’t I find someone to work for that didn’t make a point of doing things different from everyone else? The Doctor. Captain Liadov. Now this Captain Bellgarde. Well, I said to myself, three times brings luck, maybe, and went to find the Dominion Club.

When I got there I could see what that fellow meant. There was a brass plaque screwed into the marble by the front door. Dominion Club. Members Only. Inside, there was a polished desk with a skinny guy behind it. When he saw me, he made his mouth look like a chicken's backside, like he’d been eating a lemon and smelling a bad smell. He looked at me over his glasses and said, “Yes?” in a stretched out way, making it into a question. I told him I was looking for Captain Bellgarde. He smiled a tight little smile and said, “I’m sorry, but this Club is for members and their guests only. You are not a member; therefore I cannot admit you.” Then he turned his back to me and started doing something with some papers.

I was going to argue. I was going to say, "But this is where the notice said I have to go, to find out about a job." When I thought about it, I figured that was just what this lemon-eater wanted – to have me lick his boots and maybe pass him a bribe too. Well to Hell with him, and to Hell with Captain Bellgarde and his lighthouse too. I went out into the street, thinking about how I could get back at the lemon-eater without getting into trouble myself.

In the end I went back to the Doctor. He seemed to be in a better mood, so I found myself telling him about the chance I couldn’t get a crack at, all because of Monsieur Mange-Le-Citron.

“Ah, I know these Clubs, Andre,” he said. “One of the reasons for their existence is to exercise this kind of ignorant exclusivity. You might have had better luck if you’d worn a better suit… but no, you were doomed the second you opened your mouth. The man at the desk generally has an ear exquisitely tuned to the nuances of accent, and yours, my friend, does not indicate a Parisian origin. I have an idea – if you’re still determined to pursue this opportunity, I’ll go with you. Or rather, you will go with me. Once I’ve gotten us into the holy of holies you may deal with this Captain yourself. If he chooses to do business in a place like that, you have to wonder what kind of person he’s looking for. And do you really want to live in a lighthouse on some God-forsaken rock?”

“Well, I don’t know, Doctor, but it seems to me if we’re going to live here we’d better find something to do.”

“Right you are. Your initiative is admirable. I see it’s nearly noon, so we’d better be on our way.”

“Are you sure this Captain’s name is Bellgarde?” the Doctor asked suddenly, as we approached the Dominion Club.

“Quite sure, Doctor,” I said. “It was right there on the notice.”

“It’s not a very common name,” he said. “I’ll be interested to see its owner.”

It was almost funny, how different M. Mange-Le-Citron was when the Doctor told him he was there to meet Captain Bellgarde – like a rabbit who’s just found a nice lettuce patch. Maybe it was the card the Doctor gave him, but the dollar bills that went along with it didn’t hurt, I’ll bet. “Certainly, Sir,” he said. “Please wait while I tell the Captain you’re here.” Then he saw me, but before he could say anything the Doctor said, “Mr. Boudreau is with me.” That seemed to do the trick, but I noticed the fellow took another quick peek at the card.

A minute later he was back. “Captain Bellgarde will see you now, Mr. Dexter. Please come this way.” We followed him down a hallway to a room that looked a bit like the Doctor’s study back in Arkham, except that it was smaller. There were only a few books, in a glass-fronted case, and no papers at all, except for some newspapers and a few sheets with writing on them in front of the man who sat behind the desk.

He was an older gentleman, sixty or more, almost bald, but with bushy white whiskers, wearing spectacles that looked too small on his big red face. He got up when we came in, stuck out a hand and said,

“Well, come in, come in! We don’t have any time to waste. Mr. Dexter and Mr. Boudreau, I understand. Which is which?”

The Doctor went up to him and shook his hand. “Francis Dexter,” he said. “This is Andre Boudreau. And you must be Captain Bellgarde, of Bellefleur Island.”

“Yes I am,” said the man, looking pleased as the punch. “I’m glad to meet you both. Now, are you both interested in the job? Because I’ll have to interview each of you separately.”

“Mr. Boudreau is your candidate,” said the Doctor. “I accompanied him out of sheer curiosity, I admit. Bellefleur Island… The name caught my fancy. But I’ll take up no more of your time, Captain. I’m sure you want to get on with your business, so I’ll be on my way.”

“No need for that, Mr. Dexter,” said Bellgarde. “As long as you’re not rivals, I have no objections to your staying. I can tell you all about Bellefleur Island after Mr. Boudreau and I have finished.”

The Doctor nodded and settled himself in an armchair to read a newspaper.

Captain Bellgarde turned to me. “Have a seat, Mr. Boudreau. Now, tell me something about yourself. Where do you come from and how did you get here? And what kinds of work have you done?”

“I come from New Brunswick,” I said. “A little place called Grassadoo. If I’d stayed there I would have been a farmer or a fisherman. Both, probably. But I joined the Army in 1916, so – ”

“Aha! I figured you for an old soldier,” said Bellgarde. “I can always tell. So what was your regiment?”

I rhymed it off for him, regiment, battalion, company, the whole works. I was surprised I still remembered it all. How I was promoted to Corporal. How I was wounded. But not how I died, or how I came back to life. “After that, my mind… wasn’t so good, Sir, so I was an officer’s batman until 1918.”

“Oh? What kind of an officer? What rank?”

“A Medical Officer,” I said. “A Major.”

“What was his name?”

“Does it matter, Sir?” I asked. “He’s dead, you see.”

“A pity. And did you like that work?”

“Yes,” I said. “It was easy, as long as I did what I was told. And did it fast.”

“Of course, of course. I know these officers,” said Bellgarde, laughing. “Well, and after the War?”

“After the War I went to Massachusetts. To… Boston. I worked for a gentleman there.”

“Boston? You didn’t go home?”

“No. I… couldn’t remember some things and I didn’t want people back home to know that. I can’t really explain it, Sir.”

“Hmm. I think I understand. But why Boston?”

“Oh, lots of us Acadians end up there. Someone I met in the Army gave me a tip. So I followed it up.”

“All right, and what did you do for this Boston gentleman?”

“I was his servant. And his butler too, you might say. And chauffeur. I looked after his clothes and his house. And his car. All that.”

“Did you like that work?”

“Very much.”

“Why?”

“Well, everything was so… good there. He had a very good house, very nice things. He wanted everything done just right, and I did it that way. Most of the time. And his car! It was a wonderful car, Captain!”

“Really, what kind?”

I was taking a breath, getting ready to tell him about the Doctor’s Hispano-Suiza, when I saw a little movement out of the corner of my eye. I looked over at the Doctor and saw him shake his head, just a little bit. “A Packard,” I said. “Dark blue. Very nice.”

“I’m partial to English cars myself,” said Bellgarde. “Well, and what would happen if you didn’t do something just right?”

“He didn’t like it if I forgot things. He would say, ‘That won’t do, Andre.’ And if I burned the toast, he didn’t like that at all. Once he threw it at me.” I slid my eyes sideways again. The Doctor was still reading that newspaper. He was just turning a page. Except I thought he was taking a long time about it.

Captain Bellgarde laughed. “Threw it at you, did he? A fussy fellow, eh?”

“Only about toast. And a few other things.” Like experiments, I thought. “But usually I did everything right.”

“And how long did you work for this exacting gentleman of Boston?”

“Five years. Then I went to New Orleans. That was in 1925.”

“Hmm. I make that seven years. 1918 to 1925. Seven, not five.”

I started to feel confused. “But it was 1925. Oh, wait a minute, Sir. First I went home. To New Brunswick. I spent almost two years there. But I found I didn’t really want to live there any more. I didn’t like farming and I didn’t like fishing. So I went away.”

“All right, but what about your man in Boston? Did he fire you, or did you leave on your own stick?”

“No, Sir. He died.”

“Died? An old man, was he?”

“No, Sir. He died of a brain aneurysm. That’s all.”

“That’s enough, I guess. Well, so then you went home? And didn’t like it. Then what?”

“New Orleans.”

“Why there?”

“I thought there would be Acadians there. I thought I might like it.”

“And did you?”

I felt myself smiling. “Yes, I liked it a lot. It is a very good place.”

“So why didn’t you stay?”

“Well, I got into a little bit of trouble. Fighting. Drinking, then some fighting. Nothing too much, but… And I ran out of money, too.”

“A man of spirit, are you, Mr. Boudreau?”

“Well sometimes, Captain. But not too much.”

“All right, so how did you get out of this trouble of yours?”

“I got on a ship. The Aleksander Pluzhnikhov. Captain Liadov. He was going from New Orleans to Alaska. Mixed cargoes. He needed someone to work for him. So I went.”

“And what did you do on this ship, Mr. Boudreau?”

“Stood watch, chipped paint off, put more paint on. Scrubbed and polished things. Oh, and before that I helped the ship’s cook.”

“Helped how?”

“Helped with the cooking. Served the meals to the officers. Washed dishes and pots.”

“Aha, and what did you like best? The galley or the decks? Tell the truth now, Mr. Boudreau.”

“Well… it was very hot in the galley. But more exciting.”

“Exciting? Why would that be?”

“There was so much to do. And it had to be done fast and right, or the cook would get mad and tell us to pitch it overboard and start all over again. Then we might be late and the whole ship would get mad.”

“You seem to have had the bad luck all the time to work for people who were hard to please.”

“I guess. But I did it, Captain Bellgarde! I always worked hard. I never got fired. When I left the ship, it was because I thought I’d like to try settling down somewhere. Captain Liadov said British Columbia might be a good place. Then I saw your notice, so here I am.”

“And here you are. Well, Mr. Boudreau, let’s take a look at your technical qualifications now.” He asked me about all sorts of things then – sea states in different wind conditions, diesel engines, boat motors, pumps, Morse code, how much of different kinds of food a guy would need for six months. That kind of thing. I did all right on most of them, except Morse code, which was something I’d heard of only a couple of times.

Finally we were done. Captain Bellgarde took off his glasses, blinked a couple of times and put them back on. “Just one more thing, Mr. Boudreau,” he said. “Can you give me any references?”

“References, Sir?”

“Yes – names of people who can reassure me that what you’ve told me is the truth. That you’re not an impostor or a crook.”

“Well,” I said slowly, “the Major and Doc—my Boston gentleman are both dead. And Captain Liadov, he’s gone to Alaska. So there really isn’t anyone, except – ”

“Except me,” said the Doctor.

Bellgarde and I both turned and looked at him. He was standing up and smiling at us. “Captain Bellgarde,” he said, “I can certainly vouch for Mr. Boudreau’s character and talents.”

“Can you, now?” said Bellgarde. “How long have you known him?”

“Six months,” said the Doctor, “but the circumstances of our acquaintance were such that the process was accelerated. On board a ship it’s not possible entirely to conceal one’s true nature, as I’m sure you’ll agree.”

“Hmph. So you were on the same ship as Mr. Boudreau. As a passenger, I take it?”

The Doctor didn’t say anything to that, just made a little bow. “I was able to observe Mr. Boudreau in all of his various capacities, I assure you. As cook’s assistant, steward and general seaman he was entirely competent. In addition, I was informed that he had an astonishing knowledge of the workings of the ship’s engines. Yes, it’s quite true. The chief engineer told me so himself.

“But Mr. Boudreau’s true character emerged during a small… crisis that occurred in the course of the voyage. A near-mutiny, you might call it. Order was restored promptly, in large part due to the quick actions of Mr. Boudreau.”

Captain Bellgarde looked from me to the Doctor and back again. “I’m not clear, Mr. Dexter, just why you’re promoting Mr. Boudreau’s cause so vigorously, if all you were was a passenger on a ship where he happened to be working.”

The Doctor began to walk around the room, the way he did when he was getting bothered or excited about something.

“It’s quite simple, Captain Bellgarde. I grew to have some regard for Mr. Boudreau, for reasons I have just explained. When I learned that he intended to seek his fortune here, I offered to be of whatever assistance I could, before continuing on my own travels.”

“Oh, so you’re on a journey, are you? Where to?”

“The world is wide, Captain. I’m in the fortunate position of being able to go where its whims take me. But at present I’m in no hurry.”

“Hmph. And what’s your background, if I might ask, Mr. Dexter? None of my business, you’ll say, but since you’ve volunteered to vouch for Mr. Boudreau here…”

I noticed that Bellgarde’s face was getting redder, and his breathing louder. I wondered if he was getting mad, and just what the Devil the Doctor was up to.

“I quite understand, Captain,” said the Doctor, going over to the window and looking out. He didn’t say anything for a couple of seconds, and then he turned quickly and looked straight at Bellgarde, in that way that always made me feel like I’d been hit by a blast of cold wind. “Would you like the short version or the full story? Because the latter would take the best part of an evening to tell.”

Suddenly the look on his face changed completely, and he rushed across the room to the desk, without waiting for an answer. Bellgarde’s face was pale and blotchy, and he was gasping for air. He put his hand on his chest and made a noise like he was trying to say something but couldn’t.

“Quick, Andre,” said the Doctor. “Help me get him on that sofa.”

Bellgarde was limp and heavy, but we got him out of his chair and carried him over to the sofa. The Doctor loosened his collar and felt his pulse. “Captain Bellgarde,” he said, leaning close to the man. “Can you hear me? Don’t speak, just squeeze my hand if you can understand.”

Bellgarde must have squeezed, because the Doctor asked him some more questions. Did he have pain? Had he ever been diagnosed with angina? Did he have nitroglycerine with him? After that one, the Doctor looked through the man’s pockets until he found a little metal box. He took a pill from it and gave it to Bellgarde.

“All right, Captain,” he said. “Just lie there and don’t excite yourself.” He turned to me. “Andre, go find that fellow that showed us in here, and ask him to call Captain Bellgarde’s doctor. The Captain has had an angina attack. Quickly.”

I went. I remembered what he’d said about how to deal with people like that Mange-Le-Citron at the desk, so I got his orders out fast and sharp. He didn’t waste any time arguing with me, just went to the telephone.

Half an hour later, Captain Bellgarde was in bed in a room on the second floor of the Dominion Club, and the Doctor was having a serious talk with a grey-haired man with a Scottish accent, who must have been Bellgarde’s doctor. Everyone had forgotten about me, and I was wondering what was going to happen. I’d started out that day by trying to get a hold of my life, but it wasn’t working out very well.

Finally the Scottish doctor left, after taking another look at his patient. By this time Captain Bellgarde looked almost the same as when we’d first met him. He was a bit embarrassed too, I thought.

“My apologies, Mr. Dexter,” he said. “This little trouble of mine isn’t usually so disruptive. Fraser insists that I stay cooped up here for the rest of the day, but I have to get back to Bellefleur tomorrow. Those Government people will be on my neck, once they’ve heard about those posters. Both of you will come with me. You, Mr. Boudreau, are to be the new assistant lightkeeper, and you, Mr. Dexter, will keep an eye on me for a week or two. Oh, I overheard you and Fraser nattering together. So I guess it’s really Dr. Dexter, isn’t it?”

“Yes it is,” said the Doctor. “That would have been part of the story I was about to tell you, but it can wait. Dr. Fraser would rather you went into the hospital, but he’s willing to let you go home tomorrow, as long as I go with you. So if you have no objections…”

“Fraser's an old woman. Hospital, indeed! But no, I have no objections. You said you were curious about Bellefleur. And I’m curious about you, I admit. I want to know how a Yankee doctor has ended up in our little paradise by following the whims of the world. So be my guest.”

 

The next afternoon, Captain Bellgarde, the Doctor and I were aboard a big motor launch, setting out from Victoria Harbour. A fellow called Todd was at the wheel. It was a great day, finally, sunshine, blue sky and a brisk breeze that whipped the ocean into little whitecaps.

“Looks like we’ll have a bit of a bounce,” said Bellgarde. “Either of you apt to get seasick?”

I shook my head for no. The Doctor laughed and said, “Never, fortunately.”

“Lucky you,” said the Captain. “I used to be sick as a dog, the first three days out. But that was offshore. Well, enjoy yourselves. There’s only one first time for anything, eh? This is your first time going to Bellefleur, so make the most of it.”

It was a long way to the island – a couple of hours. We left the city behind and followed a rocky shoreline with some pretty nice houses here and there. There were trees, but not thick forests like we’d seen from the Pluzhnikhov in the Strait of Juan de Fuca. To the east there was land too, but farther away. It was like we were in a big blue bowl, with mountains at the edge. After a while I could see a bunch of islands ahead, with a white mountain behind them, far away. Captain Bellgarde saw me looking at them and said, “That’s our little archipelago. Bellefleur is the most northerly of the group.”

Soon we found ourselves in a passage between the islands and the shore of Vancouver Island off our port beam. The water got rougher, a bunch of big standing waves that made the launch buck like a horse with too much pep. It didn’t last long, though. Bellgarde looked at the Doctor and me, to see how we’d taken the rough bit.

“All right, are you?” he asked. “That’s the worst of it, that channel. Some days it can get quite frisky in there, especially when the wind and tide are opposing each other. But you don’t get something for nothing.” He pointed forward and to starboard. “There it is. The best place in the world, as far as I’m concerned.”

We’d left the other islands behind. Ahead was a fair-sized one. I could see green fields, patches of woods, some high bare rocks, and fringes of beach here and there. But no lighthouse. “It has a good deal of topography, your island,” said the Doctor.

“Indeed it does, Dr. Dexter. I sometimes think Bellefleur is a world in miniature. We don’t have jungles or tundra, and our mountain is a modest one, but we have nearly everything else. The lighthouse is on an islet off the north end, Mr. Boudreau, behind the hill.”

By this time we could see buildings and a dock at the head of a wide bay. Todd steered the launch toward the dock. It looked like there was a little crowd of people waiting for us. “They’ll all have turned out to welcome us,” said the Captain. “I telephoned Margaret last night and told her when we expected to arrive. She was a bit fussed over me, but I told her to get a guest room ready for you, Dr. Dexter.”

Then we were tying up at the dock and there was a big flurry of coming and going. It reminded me of when the Doctor and I landed in Grassadoo, except these people weren’t as noisy. I saw Captain Bellgarde take the Doctor over to a dark-haired lady and I guessed he introduced them, because they shook hands and started to talk.

Next thing I knew, Bellgarde was saying to me, “Mr. Boudreau, it might be just as well for you to go to the lighthouse right now. The tide’s just right to get you over to the Barnacle with all your gear. And I know McGregor’s anxious to have you there. That’s the thing about lighthouses, my boy, they have their routines and nothing short of Armageddon can change them. Todd here will help you carry your stuff. That okay with you? I imagine Lucy will have a meal for you.”

Well, it had to be okay, didn’t it? I worked for this man now, not for the Doctor. I looked for him on the dock and didn’t see him. There he was, walking toward a big house, still talking to the lady he’d just met. Was that Margaret? Whoever she was, he was in her hands now, not mine. I had only a quick look at her, but I figured this was the best thing. She was like him, like the Arkham people I’d served at his dinner parties. Like Captain Liadov, even. Maybe he’d be able to find a place that suited him, with these people. One way and another, I’d brought him this far, and now I was done. He wasn’t my problem any more. “I’m ready to go,” I said to Todd.

I had my rucksack on my back and a bag in one hand. Todd had the other bag and we carried my little trunk between us. “It’s not far to the Barnacle,” he said, grinning and showing a bunch of crooked teeth, “but there are some steep bits, so brace up.” Then we got going.

Todd was right about the steep bits. One up, one down, then we were on a rocky beach, with a kind of rough causeway that was just dry at low tide. On the other side was another steep bit, up to the top of the Barnacle rock, where the lighthouse was. The first thing I saw was the white tower, and then two white houses with red trim. We humped and puffed our way up the rock. By that time, I was almost ready to drop, and it bothered me that Todd, who seemed like a pretty old guy, wasn’t breathing half as hard as me. Just when we got to the top, the door of one of the houses opened and a man stepped out – an old fellow, not very tall but tough looking, with bushy hair that was red turning to grey and a bushy grey beard. Behind him I could see a woman, quite young – his daughter, I hoped, not his wife. Her red hair flew around her head in the breeze.

We got to the bottom of the porch steps and dumped my luggage on the ground. Todd started to introduce me, and I was happy to see that it took him a while to get his breath.

Peter McGregor cut him short. “Welcome, Andre,” he said. “You’re just in time for tea. Lucy’s about to dish it up. Come inside. You too, Todd, you never look like you’ve had a decent meal. Sure you’ve got time, man, it’s an hour at least before the causeway floods.”

We went into the house, and a wave of warm air covered me, a smell of bread baking and fresh coffee, and there was Lucy McGregor, shining like an angel.

That’s when I knew I’d come home. For a while, anyway.