Maddon's Rock Read Online Free Page B

standing in the open doorway of the galley, a fat, greasy man with a wart on his lower lip and little twinkling brown eyes. He produced a tin mug full of steaming cocoa for me with the conspiratorial air of an amateur producing a rabbit out of a hat.
    I stood chatting with him as I drank, gratefully sweating in the warmth of his roaring galley fires. He’d been in almost every port on the globe. This was his fourth visit to Murmansk. “Ever heard of a man called Kalinsky in Murmansk?” I asked.
    “On Molotov Street—wot used to be St. Peter’s Street?” he asked.
    “Maybe,” I said. “What sort of a bloke is he?”
    “Well, he ain’t a Slav and he ain’t a Jew and he ain’t a Turk neither, nor a Greek,” he said. “But I guess he’s a mixture of every race that ever set up shop to barter the pants off of an honest seaman. He’s wot we’d call in England a fence. Why, you ain’t in trouble with him, are you?”
    “No,” I said. “I’ve got nothing to barter except my rifle.”
    His round little tummy heaved with laughter. “Kalinsky ain’t above buying rifles,” he said. “He’s doing a good trade just at the moment in rifles and sabres with the Yanks as souvenirs of Russia. Swears they’re Cossack, but they range from Lee Enfields to Italian carabinieri carbines.”
    The whole thing fell into place now. Rankin had been in charge of some Naval stores and Kalinsky was a receiver. No wonder Rankin had had plenty of money. But what puzzled me was why the Captain and his first mate wanted a hold over Rankin.
    It was past eleven when I went up on deck again and Bert was on duty. “Any signs of our pushing off?” I asked him.
    “Not a sign.”
    The gangway was still down. But the Captain was up on the bridge, pacing to and fro, his black, pointed beard darting aggressively about him as he surveyed his ship. The quayside was practically empty. A solitary girl walked through the churned-up snow. She was dressed in a khaki greatcoat. A black beret was pulled over her dark curls and she carried a kitbag. She was looking up at the name of the ship, her face white in the dull light. Then she made for the gangway and began to struggle up it, trailing the kitbag behind her.
    “Blimey! there’s a girl comin’ on board,” Bert said, catching hold of my sleeve. “Don’t look all that strong neither. Why don’t yer go an’ give her a ’and wiv ’er kit?” Then as I didn’t say anything, he pushed his rifle into my hand. “’Ere ’ang on to that, mate, an’ pretend yer on guard. If you ain’t goin’ ter be a little gentleman I s’ppose I’ll ’ave ter show yer that’s it’s a board school eddication wot’s the best.”
    It’s incredible to think that I let Bert go and help her up the gangway, instead of going myself. Was it because I was too busy gazing at that white, strained face? It was a sad face and yet it looked as though it should have been gay. I wondered about her nationality and why she was coming aboard a ship bound for England. Some stray emerging from war-shattered Europe—a Pole perhaps, or a Czech, or possibly a Frenchwoman?
    I watched Bert shoulder her kitbag, saw the sudden flash of a smile on that wan face and then a voice at my elbow said, “Have ye seen Warrant Officer Rankin, Corporal?”
    It was Hendrik. “Not for the last hour,” I told him. “Why?”
    “The Old Man wants him. If ye see him, tell him to be gude enough to step up to the bridge.”
    He went for’ard and I stood there looking down at the empty quayside. The ice in the snow ruts ruled black lines beside the sheds. A tug hooted close by and a voice from the bridge—Hendrik’s voice—called through a megaphone, “Stand by to catch that line, Jukes.”
    Bert suddenly materialised from the companionway, his leathery little face puckered in a grin. “Well,” I said as he took his rifle, “what was she like?”
    “As nice a kid as I met in me natural,” he replied. “An’ believe it or not,