“You heard what Dr. Marston said. Captain Bullen. He’s in a critical condition with a hole through his lung.”

“Ah, I think I understand. You agree, doctor?”

I held my breath. The chances were that the old boy hadn’t even the faintest idea what we were talking about. But again I’d underrated ills astuteness.

“For a man with a ruptured lung,” he said gravely, “there can be nothing worse than a smoke-laden atmosphere.”

“I see. Jose!” Carreras spoke rapidly in Spanish to the guard, who grinned amiably, got to his feet, and made for the door, picking up a chair en route. The door swung to behind him.

“No discipline.” Tony Carreras sighed. “None of this brisk sentry-go marching and countermarching like Buckingham palace, Mr. Carter. A chair tilted against a wall. Our Latin blood, I fear. But, I warn you, nonetheless effective a guard for all that. I see no harm in his keeping a watch outside; apart from jumping out through one of the windows into the sea below not that you are in any condition to do that anyway can’t see what mischief you can get up to.” He paused, looked at me consideringly. “You are singularly incurious, Mr. Carter. Far from being in character. Makes one suspicious, you know.”

“Curious about what?” I growled. “Nothing to be curious about. How many of those armed thugs do you have aboard the Campari?”

“Forty. Not bad, eh? Well, thirty-eight effectives. Captain Bullen killed one and you seriously damaged the hand of another. Where did you learn to shoot like that, Carter?”

“Luck. Cerdan recovered yet?”

“Yes,” he said briefly. He didn’t seem to want to talk about Cerdan.

“He killed Dexter?” I persisted.

“No. Werner, the nurse — the one you killed to-night.” For a professed humanitarian, the death of one of his colleagues in crime left him strangely unmoved. “A steward’s uniform and a tray of food at face level. Your head steward, White, saw him twice and never suspected, not that he went within thirty feet of White. And it was just Dexter’s luck that he saw this steward unlocking the radio room.”

“I suppose that same murderous devil got Brownell?”

“And Benson. Benson caught him coming out of the radio room after disposing of Brownell and was shot. Werner was going to dump him straight over the side, but there were people directly underneath. He dragged him across to the port side. Again crew beneath. So he emptied a life jacket locker and put Benson inside.” Carreras grinned. “And just your bad luck that you happened to be standing right beside that locker when we sent Werner up to dispose of the body, just before midnight last night.”

“Who dreamed up this scheme of having the false Marconi man in Kingston drill through from the wireless office to the cold-air trunking in Cerdan’s room below and buttoning the earphones permanently into the wireless officer’s receiving circuit? Cerdan, your old man, or you?”

“My father.”

“And the Trojan horse idea. Your father also?”

“He is a brilliant man. Now I know why you were not curious. You knew.”

“It wasn’t hard to guess,” I said wearily. “Not, that is, when it was too late. All our troubles really started in Carracio. And we loaded those huge crates in Carracio. Now I know why the stevedores were so terrified when one of the crates almost slipped from its slings. Now I know why your old man was so damned anxious to inspect the hold not to pay his respects to the dead men in their coffins, but to see how his men were placed for smashing their way out of the crates. And then they broke out last night and forced the battens of the hatch. How many men in a crate, Carreras?” “Twenty. Rather uncomfortably jammed, poor fellows. I think they had a rough twenty-four hours.”

“Twenty. Two crates. We loaded four of those. What’s in the other crates?”

“Machinery, Mr. Carter, just machinery.”

“One thing I am really curious about.”

“Yes?”

“What’s behind all this murderous business? Kidnap? Ransom?”

“I am not at liberty to discuss those things with you.” He grinned. “At least, not yet. You remaining here, Miss Beresford, or do you wish me to escort you up to your parents in the drawing room?”

“Please leave the young lady,” Marston said. “I want her to help me keep a twenty-four-hour watch on Captain Bullen. He might have a relapse at any moment.”

“As you wish.” He bowed to Susan Beresford. “Good night, all.”

The door closed. Susan Beresford said, “So that’s how they came aboard. How in the world did you know?”

“How in the world did I know? You didn’t think they had forty men hidden up inside the funnel, did you? Once we knew it was Carreras and Cerdan, it was obvious. They came aboard at Carracio. So did those huge crates. Two and two, Miss Beresford, have never failed to add up to four.” She flushed and gave me a very old-fashioned look, but I ignored it and went on: “You both see what this means, don’t you?”

“Let him tell us, doctor,” Miss Beresford said acidly. “He’s just dying to tell us.”

“It means that there’s something very, very big behind it all,” I said slowly. “All cargoes, except those in free ports and under certain transhipment conditions, which don’t apply here, have to be inspected by customs. Those crates passed the Carracio customs — which means that the customs know what’s inside. Probably explains, too, why our Carracio agent was so nervous. But the customs let it pass. Why? Because they had orders to let those crates pass. And who gave them the orders? Their government. And who gave the government its orders? Who but the Generalissimo? After all, he is the government. The Generalissimo,” I went on thoughtfully, “is directly behind all this. And we know he’s desperate for money. I wonder, I wonder?”

“You wonder what?” Marston asked.

“I don’t really know. Tell me, doctor, have you the facilities for making tea or coffee here?”

“Never yet seen a dispensary that hadn’t, my boy.” “What an excellent idea!” Susan Beresford jumped to her feet.

I’d love a cup of tea.”

“Coffee.”

“Tea.”

“Coffee. Humour a sick man. This should be quite an experience for Miss Beresford. Making her own coffee, I mean. You fill the percolator with water…”

“Please stop there.” She crossed to my bedside and looked down at me, her face without expression, her eyes very steady. “You have a short memory, Mr. Carter. I told you the night before last that I was sorry very sorry. Remember?”

“I remember,” I acknowledged. “Sorry, Miss Beresford.”

“Susan.” She smiled. “If you want your coffee, that is.”

“Blackmail.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, call her ‘Susan’ if she wants,” Dr. Marston interrupted irritably. “What’s the harm?”

“Doctor’s orders,” I said resignedly. “O.k. Susan, bring the patient his coffee.” The circumstances were hardly normal: I could get back to calling her Miss Beresford later on.

Five minutes passed, then she brought the coffee. I looked the tray and said, “What? Only three cups? There should be four.”

“Four?”

“Four. Three for us and one for our friend outside.”

“Our friend you mean the guard?”

“Who else?”

“Have you gone mad, Mr. Carter?”

“Fair’s fair,” Marston murmured. “‘John’ to you.” She looked coldly at him, glared at me, and said icily, “have you gone mad? Why should I bring that thug coffee. I’ll do nothing.”

“Our chief officer always has a reason for his actions,” Marston said in sharp and surprising support. “Please do as he asks.”

she poured a cup of coffee, took it through the outside door, and was back in a few seconds.

“He took it?” I asked. “Didn’t he just. Seems he’s had nothing except a little water to drink in the past day or so.”

“I can believe it. I should imagine that they weren’t too well equipped in the catering line in those crates.” I took the cup of coffee she offered me, drained it, and set it down. It tasted just the way coffee ought to taste.”