Nine and Death Makes Ten

by Carter Dickson

  "Then what's the matter with you? Why have you got that funny look on your face?"

  "Oh, you're probably right. I'm not denying it. Only—"

  "Well? Well?"

  "Only, it sounds almost too easy, that's all. The Bloody Thumb.' All done up into a parcel for us. Finger-prints where we couldn't miss 'em."

  There was a silence, while the Edwardic's engines throbbed and churned far below. Commander Matthews permitted himself a bleak smile.

  "Don't get funny ideas, my lad," he warned. "You always were the one of the family for funny ideas."

  "Yes."

  "Now take a look at what really happens. I've seen this sort of thing before. I know. At this minute, the fellow's probably shivering and sweating under the bed-clothes in his cabin, wondering why he did it and whether he's left any clues. Clues!" His face darkened. "Not that it isn't bad

  enough. Just when I was worried about—other things. Fine; business. We've got a maniac aboard."

  "I agree. We've got a maniac aboard, all right." "Yes. Now, see here, Max. I won't have this thing spread round," pursued the captain calmly. "No good alarming everybody. Easy does it; and we get our man. Well take the< finger-prints of every single person aboard this ship. Easy enough to find an excuse for that without giving the show away. Then we lock the fellow up until we get to the other; side."

  "That seems reasonable. Do you know anything about finger-prints? How to identify them, and the rest of it?"

  For a moment this made the captain hesitate.

  "No, but I think the purser does. Yes, I'm pretty certain! Griswold does. Hold on!" He reflected.

  "Didn't that chap What's-his-name—Lathrop—didn't Lathrop tell me he was by way of being an authority on fingerprints?"

  "I imagine he did. He's been telling the rest of us so, anyway."

  "Good idea," muttered the captain, nodding emphatically as the plan unfolded in his mind. "We'll co-opt him, that's what. He's a policeman and he'll know how to keep ; his mouth shut."

  "He's a lawyer. But it probably amounts to the same thing, as far as your purpose goes."

  Commander Matthews was not listening.

  "You can keep your mouth shut, I hope?"

  "Yes. How many people are you going to let into the secret?"

  Again the captain reflected.

  "As few as possible. The purser, of course. And the photographers have to know, because we need pictures of those finger-prints. And the doctor ..."

  "You mean Dr. Archer?"

  "Dr.. Archer? No, I mean the ship's doctor. Who the devil said anything about Dr. Archer? Why tell him?"

  "Because," replied Max, "somebody was practicing knife-j throwing at a drawing of a woman's face outside Dr. Archer's door last night." And he repeated the story. |

  "I'm not trying to pester you, Frank," he went on, while the captain stood with fists on hips and turned down the

  corners of his mouth into a grim arc. "I know you've got too much on your mind as it is—"

  "Nonsense. It's only my job."

  "—but this idea of a sex-maniac doesn't sound very convincing. And you're worried about it yourself. What is all the mystery you were hinting about to me last night? What is it you suspect about one of your passengers? Because there is something. Furthermore, who is your ninth passenger? I'll swear there are nine passengers aboard; and that you know it, and for some reason you're hiding one of 'em."

  Commander Matthews did not reply. He only made a contemptuous gesture.

  "You see, Frank, it can't be a coincidence or an unrelated Incident that this woman gets herself killed at this time. Finally, I suspect those finger-prints."

  "But, damn it, man, there are the finger-prints. They're real. What do you suspect about them?"

  "I don't know."

  "Rats," said his brother shortly.

  "All right. Maybe."

  "Well, why do you say she was killed? You were going about with her, in spite of my advice. Why do you think she was killed?"

  "I don't know."

  "Good. Then let's get on with it and nab the murderer. Now, look here. I want you to go and find Mr. Lathrop, and ask him to come here immediately. The sooner we get started, the better. In the meantime, I'll have a word with the cabin steward. He may have seen somebody going in or out. Also, It might be a good idea to talk to the stewardess who attended to Mrs. Zia Bey. Not that questioning matters a curse in this ease, because we've got the finger-prints. But I was wondering . . ."

  His gaze strayed across to the berth on the right-hand side of the cabin. On the counterpane of this berth lay Estelle Zia Bey's white handbag, open; and her fur coat. Max again noticed what he had noticed before, the two tiny spots of blood on the side of the counterpane which overhung the berth. It seemed a very long distance for blood to have splashed.

  "Whether she'd been robbed," concluded Commander Matthews thoughtfully.

  "I was wondering," said Max, "just the same thing."

  "Why?"

  "She kept nursing that handbag like a baby, all this evening." Max stopped. Other vivid pictures came crowding am flashing back into his mind. "Come to think of it, I've never seen her without a handbag: white, black, or snakeskin. It' never been out of her hand, except when she kept it in he lap. And in each case the handbag has bulged as though she were carrying something clumsy inside."

  They both moved across to the berth. Commander Matthews picked up the open handbag shook it wide, and turned it upside down. A cascade of small articles tumbled out on the counterpane: another lipstick, a powder-compact, a small bunch of keys, some notes and coins, a comb, and a book o stamps. But what drew their attention was the largish-sized object which thudded down on the counterpane among the other things. Max stared at his brother, who made a noise like a man hit in the stomach. They saw now what Estelle Zia Bey seemed to have been carrying, and what made the unsightly bulge in the handbag.

  It was a bottle of ink.

  6

  So he went up to find Lathrop, to fetch him to Mrs. Zia Bey' cabin.

  He stayed in cabin B-37 only long enough to assure him self that there was no secret about the bottle or the ink. It was an ordinary bottle of blue-black writing ink, of a familiar American brand, such as you could buy anywhere for ten or fifteen cents. It was full, and did not seem to have been opened. He and Commander Matthews poured a little of the ink out in the wash-basin to have a look at it.

  The time was now twenty-five minutes past ten o'clock Wind and sea had fallen a good deal: and, though the Edwardic still pitched, it was a slow and ghostly motion done L almost complete silence. The silence seemed as oppressive a the noise had been half an hour before.

  But it allowed Max to find Lathrop without difficulty. Lathrop was playing the grand piano in the lounge, and having a private sing-song all on his own.

  Lathrop was a great stylist and poseur at the piano, making sweeping gestures which brought the cuffs clear out of the sleeves of his dinner-jacket.

  "Oh, the moonlight's fair to-night along the Waaabash, From the fields there comes the scent of new-mown hay—"

  Then Lathrop broke off, still riffling the keys of the piano, to address Max.

  "Sit down," he said. "And settle a late argument between Hooper and me. Do French officers always wear their hats Indoors? Detectives do, I know. And Jews sometimes. But why French officers? I've got a theory about that fellow Benoit. He's really a ghost He—

  "Through the sycamores the candle-lights are gleaming, On the banks of the Wabash, far away"

  Thus Lathrop concluded, interrupting himself. His strong voice, and the tinkle of the piano, reached away into the dim recesses of the lounge. It sounded blattering and almost obscene. But Max found a way of stopping it.

  "Can you come down to B-37 at once? Somebody has killed Mrs. Zia Bey."

  There was dead silence.

  Lathrop's hands rested motionless on the keys of the piano. But he turned his head round, the wrinkles climbing up his leathery neck. His
face now looked as old as his well-brushed white hair.

  "So there was something in that knife-throwing business," he said.

  "Evidently."

  "Killed? Murdered? Great—!" He checked himself. "How?"

  "Her throat was cut. We haven't been able to find any weapon so far."

  "I don't want any part of it," said Lathrop, and struck his little finger on a treble key of the piano.

  "But the captain particularly wants you to go. He's waiting there now."

  "Me? But why me? What can I do? Jumping Jupiter, haven't I got enough on my hands already?"

  "Sh-h!"

  "Yes, but I ask you!"

  "It was true, wasn't it: what you told us this morning? About your knowing all about finger-prints?"

  "Yes, that's true enough." Lathrop whistled. "You mean you've got some finger-prints? I don't mind helping with that"

  Max ignored this.

  "Mr. Lathrop, I'd like you to answer me one question. It may sound like a foolish question. It's probably just a woolgathering notion of mine. Anyway, here you are. Is it possible to forge finger-prints?"

  "No," answered Lathrop, after a slight pause.

  "Are you sure of that? They're always doing it in the detective stories, to implicate innocent persons."

  "I know they are. But here's the truth, if you're interested. It's possible to reproduce a print, of course; yes, and reproduce it very well. But it wouldn't deceive an expert, even aside from the fact that the mark would never stand chemical analysis. If you don't believe me, look it up in Gross. He's the final court of appeal. And Gross (if my memory's got it straight) says that no case has ever been brought to light anywhere in the world in which forged finger-prints have been used."1

  Lathrop paused.

  "Now, young man, I want to know why you asked me that," he added.

  Max gave him a short sketch of the facts. "You're supposed to keep this dark," he warned. "The fewer people who know, the better. Consequently—"

  "Sh-h!" hissed Lathrop.

  A faint gurgling snore, followed by a grunt and mutter as of someone half-roused out of a doze, made Max swing round.

  Mr. Hooper, of Bristol, slept in a tall brocaded wing-chair. The rays of one dim lamp just touched him. His short, stout body was tucked well back into the chair, whose back towered over his head. Mr. Hooper's chin had fallen forward into his collar. His stubbly iron-gray hair, cropped close against a round head, was of a darker color than the curving mustache which blew out with each bubbling movement of his lips. There was a pink flush on his cheeks, as of pleasant after-dinner brandies. His closed eyelids had an almost childlike look. His hands were folded over his paunch, beatifically; and sleep was a beatitude.

  "Keep your voice down," said Lathrop. "The old boy's not feeling very well. Did I tell you his son was very ill? That's why he's hurrying back. And yet—"

  "And yet, what?"

  "Somebody killed that woman," said Lathrop.

  This was when Max first realized that they were moving toward terror, as surely as the ship was moving toward the submarine zone.

  But he tried to fight this feeling off.

  "Well?" he said. "Are you going down to B-37?"

  "Naturally. Anything I can do. You're coming along, aren't you?"

  "Not for a minute. I've got to rout out the purser, and he's got to find the photographer. You go on down ahead. But, between ourselves, what do you think of the finger-print situation?"

  Lathrop got up from the piano. He seemed disturbed.

  "I'm inclined to agree with your brother. Some nut who . . . you know. We ought to get him. All the same, I suppose now they'll be tearing around asking everybody, 'Where were you at such-and-such a time?' "

  "There shouldn't be much of that. Not with the fingerprints to go by."

  "And I can't prove any alibi, for one," said Lathrop humorously. "I was out on deck most of that time. Mean weather, too. The only person I remember talking to, and early in the evening at that, was that curly-haired girl who's been laid up. Chatford, the steward told me her name is."

  "Not the fish-faced female in the white fur?"

  Lathrop stared at him.

  "Here! What do you mean, fish-faced?" he demanded. "She's a good-looker. Got class, too. I didn't get a chance to have a long talk with her, but she struck me as being the real goods and no mistake."

  "She's the world's worst pain in the neck."

  Again Lathrop stared at him, surprised at his tone. Max was surprised at it himself. But he could not help himself: his tongue ran away with him: and, as though for an outlet of his feelings, he put into the words all the concentrated venom which swelled up from other causes than this.

  In fact, he almost yelled at Lathrop.

  "All right, all right," said the latter. "I don't know what you've got against the poor girl, but let it go. I'll hop down and see your brother."

  Max gave a surly assent.

  As he went down in the lift to the purser's office on C Deck, the words "poor girl" rankled. He found the purser's office closed, its wooden blind drawn down. But, when he knocked at a door beside the desk, the purser's clerk—sitting in a fog of cigarette-smoke before a pile of passports and official forms—gave directions.

  "He's not here," the clerk said. "If he's not in the lounge or the smoking-room, you'll probably find him in Mr. Kenworthy's cabin. B-70, on the port side."

  It was in the last-named place that Max found him. The purser's uproarious laughter, followed by weak and sardonic mirth from another person, could be heard from behind the closed door of B-70. Max's knock produced a reply of anguish from the weaker voice.

  "If that's Walsingham," It howled, "go away. I don't want any more scrambled eggs. I can't stand the sight of a scrambled egg. By cripes, Walsingham, If you bring just one more scrambled egg into this place, I'll rub your face in it."

  Max opened the door.

  Mr. Griswold, the purser, was a stout hearty-looking man With big spectacles and a grin from ear to ear. He sat back comfortably in an easy chair near the Invalid's berth, and smoked a cigar.

  "Come in," he invited, "Don't mind Mr. Kenworthy. He's I little upset,"

  "Upset?" said the Hon. Jerome Kenworthy. "Devil burn you, I'm dying. And what do you care?" He blinked at Max. "Look here, I'm sorry. I thought you were the evil-hearted Walsingham. Walsingham is a steward who suffers from the delusion that a constant diet of scrambled eggs, forcibly administered if necessary, can cure any thing from simple Indigestion to the black plague. Don't keep the door open. Come in and witness the passing of my spirit."

  Max later learned from the purser that to pester Jerome Kenworthy was a sport to which he looked forward. But this young man was genuinely ill. He had been able to hold no food in his stomach for twenty-four hours; and he looked it.

  He occupied in grandeur a big three-berth cabin. Lying sideways with his head propped a little up on squashed pillows, he peered weakly at the door. Jerome Kenworthy was a thin, gangling youth whose pallor and prematurely lined mouth were only partly due to illness. His loose fair hair shaded one eye. He wore octagonal rimless spectacles which gave him a deceptively serious look. But his mouth and eyes had humor, even if this quality were now in abeyance.

  The purser blew cigar-smoke in his direction.

  "Griswold," said the young man, "I'm not kidding. I can't stand it."

  The purser's grin faded.

  "Do you mean that?"

  "I'm dying, I tell you," whispered Kenworthy, with every evidence of earnestness. "I tried to stand up a while ago, and went over flop. That was when you tried to play your asinine joke. . ."

  "Nonsense. I haven't been playing any jokes."

  Kenworthy flopped over on his back and closed his eyes.

  "Griswold," he said to the ceiling, "I admit you owe me one or two for that crossing in August. But not now. Wait till I can fight back. This is exactly like the worst hangover I ever had, only ten times worse."

  Suddenly he reme
mbered a duty.

  "I beg your pardon," he added, rolling over and opening one eye at Max. "Er—can I do anything for you?"

  "Sorry to butt in," said Max. "I was looking for the purser. The captain wants him."

  Griswold sat up.

  "The old man wants me?" he asked incredulously. "What is it?"

  "I don't know, but it seems to be pretty serious. Can you come straightaway?"

  "Somebody must have got his throat cut," observed the purser in an offhand tone. "Right! I'm at your service." He got up, spilling cigar-ash. Then he hesitated.

  "See here," he said to Kenworthy. "I don't want anybody to think I'm putting the passengers off their feed. I don't want to get in bad. And, word of honor, I don't know what you're talking about I haven't been playing any jokes on you."

  Kenworthy closed his eyes.

  "Get out," he said with weak malevolence. "I've got Walsingham trained, and now I'll train you. Get out, and don't come back ever again. I mean that. We are not amused."

  "Yes, but what am I supposed to have done?"

  Kenworthy opened one eye.

  "Some people," he whispered, "might think it was funny to wait until this old tub was rolling its worst a little while ago; and make sure most of the lights were off in here, and I was feeling my worst. Then some people might think it was funny to put on a gas-mask, and suddenly pop the door open and look in at me with it."

  The purser blinked at him.

  "A gas-mask?"

  "A gas-mask. Gaa!" said Kenworthy, and kicked out his heels and rattled all over like a skeleton. "I never saw any-think like it since I had D.T.'s in Miami. That damned swine-snouted thing standing still as death, looking in at me, and not moving when I spoke to it."

  "Are you serious?"

  "Oh, blimey. Am I serious? Get out."

  "Old man, on my solemn word of honor, I never—!"

  "Listen," quavered the other. "When I took passage in this hell-ship, I carefully chose a cabin just across the alleyway from all the lavatories. Now follow me. In just about one minute—" he extended a long hand, palm vertical—"I am going out that door at a speed of three hundred and eighty-five m.p.h. Chuck my dressing-gown on the bed. And keep out of my way. In other words, if you can't hear a hint, take pity on a strong man's dying agony, and buzz off about your business."