“Then there is no point in an autopsy, Roberto. Will you sign a death certificate?”
“Well . . . when death takes place not in a hospital and not under medical care, it is customary to notify the authorities and—”
“Roberto!”
“Yes, Joan?”
“You’re not going to do that to Jake. Notify whom? Somebody in Washington? We’re in Federal waters, and the coroner of San Diego County has no proper interest in this death. But he’d be likely to try to milk it for publicity, once he finds out who Jake is, who I am—and I shan’t let that be done with Jake’s death. Jake was under medical care—yours! You’re our ship’s surgeon. It might be that you saw him die. Think about it.” (Joan, don’t ask Bob to lie. It doesn’t matter if some coroner has his M.E. chop me up.) (I shan’t permit it! Besides, Jake, I’m pregnant. Do you want me to have to go through that? Crowds and questions and pulling and hauling and sleepless nights?) (Mmm. . . tell him to make it an airtight lie, dear.) (Boss is a stubborn bitch, Jock—but she’s usually right.)
“Hmm—” Dr. Garcia took off his stethoscope, put it aside. “Now that you mention it, there was still some heart action after I reached him. Lacking means to determine the instant of brain failure, I am forced to take cessation of heart action as the moment of death.” (That boy would make a good witness, girls—come to think about it, he did make a good witness at the identity hearings.)
“In that case, Doctor, it seems to me that the circumstances are not open to question—and you may be sure that I will spend any amount of money to keep anyone from turning Jake’s death into a circus at any later time. I would like you to certify death and the circumstances and mail a copy to whatever Federal authority should be notified—when next we touch shore. No copy elsewhere, we have no permanent residence other than this vessel. Oh, mail a copy to Alec Train; he has Jake’s will, he’ll need one for probate. And be sure to supply Captain Finchley with a duplicate original for the log.”
“All right, Joan, since that’s the way you want it. And I agree: Here we have a natural death and there is no point in letting bureaucrats poke around in it. But—right now I want to give you something to make you sleep. Nothing much, just a heavy dose of tranquilizer.”
“Roberto, what was my pulse?”
“That’s none of a patient’s business, Joan.”
“It was seventy-two, dead on normal—I counted my heart beats during that thirty seconds from your first glance at your watch until you let go my wrist. I need no tranquilizers.”
“Joan, your heart action should be higher than normal—under the circumstances.”
“Then possibly I need a stimulant, not a tranquilizer. Roberto, you sometimes forget—even though you have been through the whole thing with me—that I am not a normal patient. Not a young bride subject to hysteria. Underneath I am a very old man, almost three times your age, dear, and I’ve seen everything and no shock can truly be a shock to me. Death is an old friend; I know him well. I lived with him, ate with him, slept with him; to meet him again does not frighten me—death is as necessary as birth, as happy in its own way.”
She smiled. “My pulse is normal because I’m happy—happy that my beloved Jake met death so easily and happily. Oh, I’ll go to my cabin and lie down; I usually nap during the heat of the afternoon. But how about Eve?”
“Eh?”
“Have you done anything about her? She’s young, she’s probably never seen death before. She almost certainly needs a tranquilizer—not I.”
“Uh. . . Joan, I’ve been busy. But— Olga. Will you find Winnie and tell her I said that Eve was to have a minimum dose of ‘Tranquille’?”
“Yes, Doctor.” Mrs. Dabrowski left.
“Now, young lady, I’ll take you to the cabin.”
“Just a moment, Doctor. Captain, will you get way on with both sails and auxiliary, and make course for the nearest point of the seventy-five-mile limit? I want us to be in international waters before sundown.”