Free The Golden Rendezvous by Alistair MacLean Page A

literally bumped into him. He was panting, as if he'd run a long way, and I could see I had been wrong about the colour of his face: in the half-light on the deck it looked grey, like old newspaper. "Radio office, sir." he gasped out the words and caught my arm, a thing he would never normally have dreamed of doing. "Come quickly, sir. Please." I was already running. "You found him?"
    "No, sir. It's mr. brownell." brownell was our chief wireless operator. "Something seems to have happened to him." I reached the office in ten seconds, brushed past the pale blur of susan beresford standing just outside the door, crossed over the storm sill, and stopped. Brownell had the overhead rheostat turned down until the room was less than half lit, a fairly common practice among radio operators on duty night watches. He was leaning forward over his table, his head pillowed on his right forearm, so that all I could see was his shoulders, dark hair, and the bald spot that had been the bane of his life. His left hand was outflung, his fingers just brushing the bridge telephone. The transmitting key was sending continuously. I eased the right forearm forward a couple of inches. The transmitting stopped. I felt for the pulse in the outstretched left wrist. I felt for the pulse in the side of the neck. I turned to susan beresford, still standing in the doorway, and said, "do you have a mirror?" she nodded wordlessly, fumbled in her bag, and handed over a compact, opened, the mirror showing. I turned up the rheostat till the radio cabin was harsh with light, moved brownell's head slightly, held the mirror near mouth and nostrils for maybe ten seconds, took it away, glanced at it, then handed it back. "Something's happened to him all right," I said. My voice was steady, unnaturally so. "He's dead. Or I think he's dead. Rusty, get dr. marston right away. He's usually in the telegraph lounge this time of night. Tell the captain, if he's there. Not a word to anyone else about this." rusty disappeared and another figure appeared to take his place beside susan beresford in the doorway. Carreras. He stopped, one foot over the storm sill, and said, "my god! benson."
    "No, brownell. Wireless officer. I think he's dead." on the off-chance that bullen hadn't yet gone down to the lounge I reached for the bulkhead phone labelled "captain's cabin" and waited for an answer, staring at the dead man sprawled across the table. Middle-aged, cheerful, his only harmless idiosyncrasy being an unusual vanity about his personal appearance that had once even driven him to the length of buying a toupee for his bald spot - public shipboard opinion had forced him to discard it brownell was one of the most popular and genuinely liked officers on the ship. Was? had been. I heard the click of a lifted receiver. "Captain? carter here. Could you come down to the wireless office? at once, please."
    "Benson?"
    "Brownell. Dead, sir, I think." there was a pause, a click. I hung up, reached for another phone that connected directly to the radio officers' cabins. We had three radio officers and the one with the middle watch, from midnight to 4 a.m., usually skipped dinner in the dining room and made for his bunk instead. A voice answered: "peters here."
    "First mate. Sorry to disturb you, but come up to the radio room right away."
    "What's up?"
    "You'll find out when you get here." the overhead light seemed far too bright for a room with a dead man in it. I turned the rheostat and the white glare was replaced by a deep yellow glare. Rusty's face appeared in the doorway. He didn't seem so pale any more, but maybe the
    subdued light was just being kind to him. "Surgeon's coming, sir." his breathing was quicker than ever. "Just picking up his bag in the dispensary."
    "Thanks. Go and fetch the bo'sun, will you? and no need to kill yourself running, rusty. There's no great hurry now." he left, and susan beresford said in a low voice, "what's wrong? what-what happened to him?"
    "You