Bear Island by Alistair MacLean Read Free Book Online

out two Fingers for myself: he registered no reaction whatsoever. Only something pretty close to a state of total shock could have held Otto's parsimonious nature in check and I wondered what the source of this shock might be. True, the news of the death of anyone you know can come as a shock, but it comes as a numbing shock only when the nearest and dearest are involved, and if Otto had even a measurable amount of affection for any one, far less for the unfortunate Antonio, he concealed it with great skill. Perhaps he was, as many are, superstitious about death at sea, perhaps he was concerned with the adverse effect it might have on cast and crew, maybe he was bleakly wondering where, in the immensity of the Barents Sea, he could lay hands on a make-up artist, hairdresser, and wardrobe man, for Otto, in the sacred name of economy, had combined all three normally separate jobs in the person of one man, the late Antonio. With a visibly conscious effort of will power he looked away from the Hine bottle and focussed his eyes on me.
        "How can he be dead?”
        “His heart's stopped. His breathing's stopped. That's how he can be dead. That's how anyone can be dead."
        Otto reached out for the bottle of Hine and splashed some brandy into a glass. He didn't pour it, he literally splashed it, the spreading stain on the white tablecloth as big as my hand: his own hand was shaking as badly as that. He poured out three fingers as compared to my two which may not sound so very much more but then Otto was using a balloon glass whereas mine was a tulip. Tremblingly, he lifted the glass to his mouth and half of its contents disappeared in one gulp, most of it down his throat but a fair proportion on his shirt front. It occurred to me, not for the first time, that if ever I found myself in a situation where all seemed lost, and the only faint hope of life depended on having one good man and true standing by my right shoulder, the name of Otto Gerran was not one that would leap automatically to my mind.
        "How did he die?" The brandy had done some good, Otto's voice was low, just above a whisper, but it was steady.
        "In agony, I would say. If you mean why did he die, I don't know.”
        “You don't know? You-you're supposed to be a doctor." Otto was having the greatest difficulty in remaining in his seat: with one hand clutching the brandy glass, the other was barely sufficient to anchor his massive weight against the wild plunging of the Morning Rose. I said nothing so he went on: "Was it seasickness? Could that have done it?”
        “He was seasick, all right.”
        “But you said a man doesn't die just from that.”
        “He didn't die just from that.”
        “An ulcerated stomach, you said. Or heart. Or asthma-?'
        "He was poisoned."
        Otto stared at me for a moment, his face registering no comprehension, then he set his glass on the table and pushed himself abruptly to his feel?, no mean accomplishment for a man of his bulk. The trawler rolled wickedly. I leaned quickly forward, snatched up Otto's glass just as it began to topple and at the same moment Otto lurched to one side and staggered across to the starboard-the lee-door of the saloon leading to the upper deck. He flung this open and even above the shrieking of the wind and the crash of the seas I could hear him being violently sick. Presently he re-entered, closed the door, staggered across the deck and collapsed into his chair. His face was ashen. I handed him his glass and he drained the contents, reached out for the bottle and refilled his glass. He drank some more and stared at me.
        "Poison?”
        “Looked like strychnine. Had all--”
        “Strychnine? Strychnine! Great God! Strychnine! You-you'll have to carry out a post-mortem, an-an autopsy.”
        “Don't talk rubbish. I'll carry out no such thing, and for a number of excellent reasons. For one thing, have you any idea what an