“C. C., eh?” All suspicion and truculence now vanished. He grinned hugely. “Not Claude Cecil by any chance?”
“One of my names does happen to be Claude,” I said quietly. “I don’t think it’s funny.”
I had read the Irishman rightly. He was instantly contrite.
“Sorry, Mr. Farnborough. Talkin’ outa turn. No offence. Want that me and my boys help you look?”
“I’d be awfully obliged.”
“If it’s there we’ll have it in five minutes.”
He walked away, issued orders to his gang of men. But I had no interest in the result of the search, my sole remaining interest lay in getting off that platform with all speed. There would be no brief-case there and there would be nothing else there. The foreman’s gang were sliding doors open with the abandon of men who have nothing to conceal. I didn’t even bother glancing inside any of the bays, the fact that doors could be opened without unlocking and were being opened indiscriminately in the presence of a total stranger was proof enough for me that there was nothing to be concealed. And apart from the fact that there were far too many men there to swear to secrecy, it stood out a mile that that genial Irishman was not the type to get mixed up in any criminal activities. Some people are like that, you know it the moment you see and speak to them. The roustabout foreman was one of those.
I could have slipped away and down the gangway while the search was still going on but that would have been stupid. The search for the missing brief-case would be nothing compared to the all-out search that would then start for C. C. Farnborough. They might assume I had fallen over the side. Powerful searchlights could pick up the Matapan in a matter of minutes. And even were I aboard the Matapan I didn’t want to leave the vicinity of the rig. Not yet. And above all I didn’t want the news to get back ashore that an intruder disguised as, or at least claiming to be, the general’s secretary had been prowling around the X 13.
What to do when the search was over? The foreman would expect me to go back .to the derrick side, where the accommodation and offices were, presumably to report failure of a mission to Mr. Jerrold. Once I left for there my retreat to the gangway would be cut off. And so far it hadn’t occurred to the foreman to ask how I had arrived aboard the rig. He was bound to know that there had been no helicopter or boat out to the rig in hours. Which argued the fact that I must have been aboard for hours. And if I had been aboard for hours why had I delayed so long in starting this so very urgent search for the missing briefcase?
The search, as far as I could see, was over. Doors were being banged shut and the foreman was starting back towards me when a bulkhead phone rang. He moved towards it. I moved into the darkest patch of shadow I could see and buttoned my coat right up to the neck. That, at least, wouldn’t excite suspicion: the wind was strong now, the cold rain driving across the well-deck at an angle of almost forty-five degrees.
The foreman hung up and crossed over to where I was standing. “Sorry, Mr. Farnborough, no luck. You sure he left it here?”
“Certain, Mr. — ah—–”
“Curran. Joe Curran. Well, it’s not there now. And we can’t look any more.” He hunched deeper into his black glistening oilskin. “Gotta go and start yo-yo-ing that damned pipe.”
“Oh, yes,” I said politely.
He grinned and explained: “The drill. Gotta haul it up and change it.”
“On a night like this and in a wind like this? And it must take some time.”
“It takes some time. Six hours if we’re lucky. That damned drill’s buried two and a half miles straight down, Mr. Farnborough.”
I made the proper noises of astonishment instead of the noises of relief I felt like making. Mr. Curran working on the derrick for the next six hours in this weather would have more to worry about than stray secretaries.
He made to go. Already his men had filed past and climbed up a companionway to the north platform. “Com– ing, Mr. Farnborough?”
“Not yet.” I smiled wanly. “I think I’ll go and sit in the shelter of the gangway for a few minutes and work out what I’m going to tell the general.” I had an inspiration. “You see, he only phoned up about five minutes ago. You know what he’s like. Lord knows what I’m going to tell him.”
“Yeah. It’s tough.” The words meant nothing, already his mind was on the recovery of the drill. “Be seein’ you.”
“Yes. Thank you.” I watched him out of sight and two minutes later I was back aboard the rubber dinghy: another two minutes and we had been hauled back to the Matapan.
“You ‘have been far too long, Mr. Talbot,” Captain Zaimis scolded. His small agitated figure gave the impression of hopping around in the darkness although it would have taken a monkey to hop around that pitching heaving sponge-boat without falling overboard with the first hop. The engine note was much louder now: not only had the skipper been forced to increase engine revolutions to keep a certain amount of slack on the rope tying ‘the Matapan to the pillar, but the vessel was now pitching so wildly that almost every time the bows plunged deep into the sea the underwater exhaust beneath the stern came clear in a brief but carrying crackle of sound.
“You have been successful, no?” Captain Zaimis called in my ear.
“No.”
“So. It is sad. But no matter. We must leave at once.”
“Ten minutes, John. Just another ten minutes. It’s terribly important.”
“No. We must leave at once.” He started to call the order to cast off to the young Greek sitting in the bows when I caught his arm.
“Are you afraid, Captain Zaimis?” Despicable, but I was desperate.
“I am beginning to be afraid,” he said with dignity. “All wise men know when it is time to be afraid and I hope I am not a fool, Mr. Talbot. There are times when a man is selfish if he is not afraid. I have six children, Mr. Talbot.”
“And I have three.” I hadn’t even one, not any more. I wasn’t even married, not any more. For a long moment we stood there, clinging on to the mast while the Matapan pitched and corkscrewed wickedly in that almost impenetrable darkness under the cavernous shadow of the oil-rig, but apart from the thin whistling of the rain-laden wind in the rigging, it was a long silent moment. I changed my tactics. “The lives of men depend upon this, Captain Zaimis. Do not ask me how I know but I know. Would you have it said that men died because Captain Zaimis would not wait ten minutes?”
There was a long pause, the rain hissed whitely into the heaving blackness of the sea beneath us, then he said: “Ten minutes. No more.”
I slipped off shoes and outer clothing, made sure the lifeline was securely tied to my waist just above the weights, slipped on the oxygen mask and stumbled forward to the bows, again thinking, for no reason at all, of big Herman Jablonsky sleeping the sleep of the just in his mahogany bed. I watched until a particularly big swell came along, waited until it had passed under and the bows were deep in the water, stepped off into the sea and grabbed for the rope that moored the Matapan to the pillar.
I went out towards the pillar hand over hand — it couldn’t have been more than twenty feet away — but even with the rope to help me I got a pretty severe hammering and without the oxygen mask I don’t know how much water I would have swallowed. I collided with the pillar before I realised I was near it, let go the rope and tried to grab the pillar. Why, I don’t know. I might as well have tried to put my arms round a railway petrol tanker for the diameter was about the same. I grabbed the rope again before I was swept away and worked my way round to the left towards the seaward side of the massive steel leg. It wasn’t easy. Every time the Matapan’s bows rose with the swell the rope tightened and jammed my clutching hand immovably against the metal, but just so long as I didn’t lose any fingers I was beyond caring.
When my back was squarely to the swell I released the rope, spread out my arms and legs, thrust myself below water and started to descend that pillar something in the fashion of a Sinhalese boy descending an enormous palm tree, Andrew paying out the line as skilfully as before. Ten feet, twenty, nothing: thirty, nothing: thirty-five, nothing. My heart was starting to pound irregularly and my head beginning to swim; I was well below the safe operating limit of that closed oxygen mask. Quickly I half-swam, half-clawed my way up and came to rest about fifteen feet below the surface clinging to that enormous pillar like a cat halfway up a tree and unable to get down.