Golden Dawn's own hull could dwarf it, each separate blade was longer
and broader than the full wingspan of a jumbo et airliner, a gargantuan
sculpture in gleaming metal.
One! whispered Nick. One only. Yes, Charles Gras agreed, 'Not four -
but one propeller only. Also, Nicholas, it is fixed pitch. They were
all silent as they rode up in the cage of the hoist. The hoist ran up
the outside of the hull to the level of the main deck, and though the
wind searched for them remorselessly through the open mesh of the cage,
it was not the cold that kept them silent.
The engine compartment was an echoing cavern, harshly lit by the
overhead floodlights, and they stood high on one of the overhead steel
catwalks looking down fifty feet on to the boiler and condensers of the
main engine.
Nick stared down for almost five minutes. He asked no questions, made
no but at last he turned to Charles Gras and nodded once curtly.
All right. I've seen enough, he said, and the engineer led them to the
elevator station. Again they rode upwards.
it was like being in a modern office block - the polished chrome and
wood panelling of the elevator, the carpeted passageways high in the
navigation tower along which Charles Gras led them to the Master's suite
and unlocked the carved mahogany doorway with a key from his watch
chain, Jules Levoisin looked slowly about the suite and shook his head
wonderingly. Ah, this is the way to live/ he breathed. 'Nicholas, I
absolutely insist that the Master's quarters of Sea Witch be decorated
like this. Nick did not smile, but crossed to the view windows that
looked for-ward along the tanker's main deck to her round blunt unlovely
prow a mile and a quarter away. He stood with his hands clasped behind
his back, legs apart, chin thrust out angrily and nobody else spoke
while Charles Gras opened the elaborate bar and poured cognac into the
crystal brandy balloons. He carried a glass to Nick who turned away
from the window.
Thank you, Charles, I need something to warm the chill in my guts. Nick
sipped the cognac and rolled it on his tongue as he looked slowly around
the opulent cabin.
It occupied almost half the width of the navigation bridge, and was
large enough to house a diplomatic reception. Duncan Alexander had
picked a good decorator to do the job, and without the view from the
window it might have been an elegant Fifth Avenue New York apartment, or
one of those penthouses high on the cliffs above Monte Carlo,
overlooking the harbour.
Slowly Nick crossed the thick green carpet, woven with the house device,
the entwined letters C and M for Christy Marine, and he stopped before
the Degas in its place of honour above the marble fireplace.
He remembered Chantelle's bubbling joy at the purchase of that painting.
It was one of Degas ballet pieces, soft, almost luminous light on the
limbs of the dancers, and, remembering the unfailing delight that
Chantelle had taken in it during the years, he was amazed that she had
allowed it to be used on board one of the company ships, and that it was
left here virtually unguarded and vulnerable. That painting was worth a
