Trustee From the Toolroom by Nevil Shute
The solicitor rose with him. ‘As you like. Just remember that I’m here to help.’ He picked up the report from his desk. ‘Would you care to take this with you?’
Keith took the report and thrust it deep into the pocket of his greasy raincoat. ‘I don’t want you to think I don’t appreciate everything you’ve done, sir,’ he said. ‘But there’s just one thing sticking out like a sore thumb, and that’s that I’m the trustee. I don’t want to do things in a hurry. Like selling anything.’
He left the office and walked down to Holborn. He stood at the Kingsway corner waiting for his bus, and from habit he bought a copy of the Evening Standard, but he did not read it. He stood in a doorway in the milling crowd deep in thought, trying to resolve his problem. Twelve thousand miles away there was a coral reef in French territory, washed by the sea, not far from a coral island. Wedged upon that reef there was a three-ton lump of lead surmounted by another lump of concrete. Deep buried in the concrete probably would still be the copper box that he had brazed up for John Dermott. In the copper box was Jo’s jewel case, red leather, and he was now certain in his mind that in her jewel case were twenty-six thousand pounds worth of diamonds that belonged to Janice, who had made a little basket-work nest at school to hold the coloured eggs for the plastic duck to sit on.
And he was the trustee.
Chapter Four
Peter James Sanderson was a navigator with the British Overseas Airways Corporation. He lived in South Ealing, convenient to London Airport, and at that time he was working the London-Karachi sector of the Eastern route, flying in Britannias. This gave him about a fortnight of each month at home with his young wife and baby, and plenty of time for his hobby, which was model engineering. He was a devoted reader of the Miniature Mechanic every week. He had fitted up a workshop in a garden shed, and in it he had built a Stuart Turner steam engine and two of Keith Stewart’s designs, the 5 c.c. Hornet single-cylinder compression ignition engine with its built-in reduction gear, and the more ambitious 20 c.c. Gannet four-cylinder horizontally opposed four-stroke engine. He had exhibited the latter at the annual exhibition of the Ealing and District Model Engineering Society which had been judged by no less an authority than Keith Stewart, and he had received a bronze medal from the hands of the great man himself. He treasured this medal and valued it more highly than any of his professional certificates.
It was therefore with surprise and pleasure that he received a telephone call from Keith Stewart asking if he could come round and have a word with him. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Any time you like, Mr Stewart. Now? That’s fine. As a matter fact, I was just reading about your Congreve clock, but I’d rather talk to you yourself.’
He hung up and went to tell his wife of the honour that was to befall them, and she was duly impressed, and hurried to make some hot scones for tea.
Over the scones and tea Keith Stewart unburdened himself partially. ‘I’m in a kind of an awkward position, and I don’t know what to do for the best,’ he said, and he proceeded to tell Mr and Mrs Sanderson about John and Jo and Shearwater. The navigator said softly, ‘I remember reading about this …’
‘Marokota was the name of the island they got wrecked on.’ Keith told him. ‘It’s not marked on our atlas, but seems like it’s somewhere near a place called Tahiti or Papeete or something. Sometimes they say one, and sometimes the other.’
‘Tahiti is an island,’ said the navigator. ‘Quite a big French island. In the Pacific. Papeete is the town on it. Wait a minute, I think I’ve got a chart here that would show it.’
Maps and charts were his speciality, the tools of his trade, and he had acquired a considerable private store. He pulled out a blue volume, the Pacific Islands Pilot, and consulted it. ‘Nine nine two,’ he said. ‘I haven’t got it. But seven eight three - I know I’ve got that somewhere.’ He pulled out the bottom drawer of a long chest, rummaged, and pulled out a chart and laid it on the top of the chest. ‘Well, there’s Tahiti,’ he said. ‘Now, Marokota.’ He turned again to the Pilot and extracted the latitude and longitude of the island. He laid these off upon the chart with pencil and parallel ruler, and marked the position with a little pencil cross. ‘There’s your Marokota,’ he said. ‘About three hundred sea miles more or less due east of Tahiti.’
Keith Stewart studied the chart. He had never seen one before, but he had heard about them, and he was a technician. ‘All these little bits of figures,’ he said. ‘They mean depths?’
‘Depths in fathoms,’ said Mr Sanderson. ‘A fathom is six feet.’
Keith nodded, and stood looking at the chart. He pulled out a packet of Players and offered one to his host. ‘How would a chap set about getting out there?’ he asked. ‘I mean, there’s things to be done - the grave, and that. I don’t kind of like to let all that go, if you understand me. If it was just over the way, in France - well, of course one would go there and see everything done right. What would it cost to get to a place like that?’
The navigator stood in thought. ‘By air, tourist, it might cost about three hundred pounds. You might be able to do it for a little less by sea. Perhaps two hundred.’
‘That’s just for the one way?’
Mr Sanderson nodded. ‘The return fare would be double.’
Keith Stewart said, ‘I was afraid that that might be the size of it. The Miniature Mechanic doesn’t pay that sort of wage packet.’
‘You feel it’s very important that you should go there to tidy things up?’
The engineer nodded. ‘Yes, I do. But there’s things you just can’t do, and that’s all about it.’
They talked for a little while. Finally the navigator said, ‘Take that chart, if it’s any good to you. Let me have it back when you’ve done with it.’
Keith Stewart said good-bye and walked off down the street in the grey dusk, the chart under his arm. Mr Sanderson watched him go from the front door, and went back into his sitting-room, where his wife was clearing away the tea. ‘What did you think of him?’ he asked her.
‘I liked him,’ she said. ‘He’s a very genuine little man.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ he replied.
‘He didn’t mind a bit telling you straight out that he hadn’t got the money to go out to the Pacific.’
‘I know,’ he said. He leaned against the mantelpiece in thought. ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘there are ways.’
‘Ways to get to Tahiti without any money?’
‘Of course there are,’ he said smiling. ‘People get all over the world without any money.’
‘How, Peter?’
‘In aircraft, when the load factor’s a bit down,’ he said. ‘It’s just a question of working the right racket.’
Two nights later he rang up Keith Stewart. ‘I don’t know if this is any good to you,’ he said. ‘Do you remember a chap called Oliver Thorn, who had a model of the Petrolea locomotive in the Ealing and District exhibition?’
‘I remember him,’ said Keith. ‘Fair-haired chap, shortish, with glasses. Works at Blackbushe airport or somewhere.’
‘That’s the chap,’ said Mr Sanderson. ‘He’s chief storekeeper to Albatross Airways. I used to work for Albatross before I got into the Corporation. He thinks a lot of you.’
‘Nice of you to say that,’ muttered Keith.
‘Well,’ said the navigator, ‘the point is this. Albatross have a job coming up to fly a generator rotor to a ship that’s stuck at Honolulu, the Cathay Princess, fifteen thousand tons. She’s a tanker, I believe. She can’t move till she gets this rotor, and she’s costing the owners God knows how much a day. They’ve got to make a new one up in Lancashire, and Albatross are flying it to Honolulu one day next week. They’re sending it in one of their D.C.6.b freighters, but it won’t be a full load. It struck me that it might be possible to wangle you a ride.’
Keith was startled. ‘To Honolulu?’
‘Yes.’ Distances meant nothing to the navigator; one day he would be in Singapore and the next in Sydn
‘How far would that be from Tahiti?’
‘About two thousand five hundred sea miles. It’s not very close, but it’s a good deal closer than you are now.’
‘Can one get from Honolulu to Tahiti?’
‘Ah, now,’ said the navigator, ‘that may be the snag. I can tell you this much - there’s no air line. You’d think there must be some sort of shipping line, but, honestly, I just don’t know. It could be that you’d have to find out that in Honolulu. Mr Thorn told me that the aircraft would go straight through by way of Frobisher and Vancouver, and that it would load the generator rotor at Speke. Well, Speke to Honolulu must be close on thirty hours, so the crew would want at least forty-eight hours rest before starting home. There should be plenty of time in Honolulu for you to find out about sea passages to Tahiti. If there aren’t any, then you could come home again with Albatross. The machine’s got to come back empty, as I understand it.’
‘You don’t think they’d want any money?’ asked Keith, still a little dazed.
‘You’d have to talk to Oliver Thorn,’ said Mr Sanderson. ‘There may be some accountant in Albatross who’d cut up rough, but I don’t see why there should be. After all, if a journalist wanted to go and write up the trip and Albatross Airways, they’d take him fast enough. You’re a journalist, aren’t you?’
‘I suppose so,’ said Keith uncertainly.
‘Well, there you are!’ They talked a little more, and Mr Sanderson gave Keith the address and telephone number of Mr Thorn, and rang off.
Keith Stewart hung up, and went down to his workshop to sit down at his desk. He had Janice’s school atlas there, and he traced the route so far as he was able. Speke - he did not know where that was, nor had he heard of it before; it would be somewhere in the North because the generator rotor was being made in Lancashire. Somewhat to his surprise he found Frobisher Bay without difficulty, but it was in Baffin Land, up further north than Hudson Bay. Then to Vancouver; he knew where that was. And then to Honolulu, girls in grass skirts and not much else. He knew about Great Circle courses, and though he had not got a globe he could visualise this as the shortest route. Besides, when Jo had been speaking to Katie about Janice’s journey, she had mentioned that the aeroplane went near to the North Pole.
He had never been out of England. It was incredible that he should even be contemplating such a journey, with all its expense, all its uncertainties. He would have to have a passport, and he had no notion how to set about getting such a thing. Still, he knew that the bank manager would tell him. He would have to have money, quite a lot of money, for if he succeeded in getting to Tahiti from Honolulu that would cost a lot. Then he would have to pay his own fare back to England. That might perhaps be possible if he were to find the diamonds. But if he didn’t, then he would be stranded out there, in this outlandish place, Papeete.
He thought perhaps that he could raise about a hundred pounds without increasing the mortgage on the house. But Katie would have to know.
If he took a hundred pounds from their bank account it would drain it to the very bottom, to the utmost limit of overdraft that the bank manager would allow. There was a little money owing to him from the Miniature Mechanic, perhaps about fifteen pounds. Katie, in theory at any rate, could carry on for a month or two upon her salary to meet the living expenses of Janice and herself; they had just paid the school fees for the coming term. Without his earnings they could not pay off the debt upon the house, or maintain anything; they could not paint the windows or replace sheets or blankets or pillow-cases or clothes. If he were to take a hundred pounds and go off on a trip like this, Katie would be down to the barest of bare bedrock.
He got up and walked about the workshop, uncertain in his mind. Presently it occurred to him that by his movements he might be waking Janice, who slept in the little room off the workshop that once had been the scullery. He opened the door gently, and looked in. Janice was sleeping deeply, the plastic duck on the table by her side perched hazardously on its basket-work nest stabilised by the weight of the metal eggs. She had thrown the bedclothes off from her shoulders and one arm was out. The room was cold; he went over to the bed and gently put the arm inside and tucked the bedclothes up around her shoulders. She did not wake, and he went back into the workshop, closing the door softly behind him.
The diamonds must be in the jewel case, safe buried in the lump of concrete that had once been Shearwater. It was the only place where they could be. It was just a matter of someone going there and getting them, without attracting too much attention.
And he was the trustee.
He sat down at his desk again, irresolute. Suppose he didn’t go. With the help of Mr Sanderson and Mr Thorn and Albatross Airways he might have enough money to get there - just - but he certainly hadn’t got enough money to get back. He would be leaving Katie with little or no money for an indefinite time, with Janice to look after. John Dermott and his sister Jo wouldn’t have wanted him to do that …
If he didn’t recover her little fortune, well, Janice would be all right. Katie had said that they could manage, and Katie knew. She’d have to work like any other girl as soon as she could leave school; probably Mr Buckley would give her a job in the shop. It would be just as if she was their own daughter. She’d never be a fine lady, but who wanted to be a fine lady these days, anyway?
He sat there in mental torment, knowing that he couldn’t take it that way. Unless he made a real effort to get back what belonged to her, he’d never be able to look at her without feeling ashamed of himself. He’d never be able to think of John and Jo without feeling ashamed of himself. They had made him the trustee.
But, dear Lord, what was Katie going to say about it all?
He went upstairs presently, conscious of a bad half hour ahead of him. Katie was still up, sitting by the fire knitting something for Janice and looking at the television. He sat down opposite her, and said, ‘I’ve got something I want to talk about.’
‘I know what that is,’ she remarked, turning off the set.
‘What’s that,’ he asked, startled.
She said complacently, ‘You want to go out to this place Tahiti. I heard you talking about it on the telephone. I think it’s silly.’
‘Better wait to say that till you know all about it,’ he replied, a little nettled.
‘What don’t I know?’
‘Everything,’ he said. ‘You remember that time when I went down to the yacht with them to fix up an electric light over the compass?’ She nodded. ‘Well, it wasn’t an electric light at all. It was something quite different.’
‘I guessed that much,’ she said. ‘What was it?’
‘Jo’s jewel case,’ he said. ‘Sort of building it into the boat.’ He started in and told her the whole thing; it took about a quarter of an hour. ‘Course, I believed what John told me,’ he said. ‘He told me it was just Jo’s rings and things like that. But now we know that they took twenty-six thousand pounds of diamonds along with them, I bet that they were in that jewel case, too.’
Katie got up from her chair. ‘Make a pot of tea,’ she said. She went and busied herself in her little kitchenette while she thought it over. She came back presently with two cups of tea. ‘Suppose you went out there,’ she said, ‘what’s it all going to cost?’
‘Everything we’ve got and probably a bit more,’ he replied. ‘That’s just to get there. Getting back would cost as much again.’
She stared at him helplessly. ‘But that’s crazy!’
He rubbed his hand across his eyes. ‘I know. The other way is to do nothing and just leave it be.’
She sat in silence for a minute. ‘That don’t seem right,’ she said at last. ‘I can’t say I like that much better.’
He looked up at her gratefully; Katie was coming round to the unthinkable course he had proposed. ‘I like it a bloody sight worse,’ he said. ‘I’d never be able
‘That’s enough of that shop language,’ she said. ‘Drink your tea while it’s hot.’ He obeyed her. ‘This Governor in this place Papeete,’ she said. ‘Suppose you were to write to him and tell him all about it, couldn’t he go there and get the box out of the keel?’
Keith nodded. ‘I thought of that. Tell you the truth, I don’t just know what a Governor does. Would he be the top man? An asylum’s got a Board of Governors, but they aren’t top of anything.’
‘I think he’s the top man,’ said Katie. ‘I read about a Governor in a book once.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ said Keith. ‘If that’s right he’d be paid by the Government - the French Government, I suppose, in Paris. Well, when John and Jo took those diamonds out of England they could have gone to prison for it - that’s what Mr Carpenter said. Maybe the diamonds would have been confiscated if they’d been found out.’ She nodded. ‘Well now, who’s to say that if this Governor got his hands on them they wouldn’t be confiscated again? I just don’t know, and, what’s more, I don’t know who to ask, safely. I mean, twenty-six thousand pounds is worth while anybody going after, if they know it’s there. I don’t feel like telling anyone about it, least of all this Governor.’
She nodded slowly. Twenty-six thousand pounds was an incredible sum of money to her, but if it existed at all it belonged to Janice, and no one else was going to lay a finger on it. She knew from her Sunday newspaper that many a bank manager had fallen from grace for much less than that, and who was to say that a French Governor would be any better? She was reluctant to admit it and to face the infinite difficulties that would ensue, but Keith had the right idea. Better to say nothing to anybody and go after this himself. She asked him, ‘What were you going to do in this place, Papeete, if the island’s three hundred miles away?’
‘I don’t honestly know,’ he said. ‘But look at it like this. Suppose we had lots of money, enough to do whatever we wanted without thinking about it.’ She nodded. ‘Well, I’d go out there and get a headstone for the grave made in this place Papeete, and then I’d hire a ship with a crew that knew the way around, and I’d go to this island and get the headstone set up on the grave and everything done proper. And I’d take a lot of photographs for Janice to see when she’s older. Well, while I was there I’d go out to the wreck upon this reef in a small boat, and I’d know soon as I laid eyes on it if the box was still there in the concrete. Just behind the mast it was, towards the rudder end. I’d be a poor sort of a fish if I couldn’t lay my hands upon it then, and get it away.’