On Sunday morning, January twenty-first, he awoke to a late breakfast and a stroll on deck. Thoughts of Valerie Chatford were overshadowed by his knowledge of the finger-print census which must now be buzzing through the ship. There was nobody in the dining-room except Dr. Archer, who nodded genially on his way out, but did not stop to speak.
A Sunday quiet existed even here. (They always locked up the dart-board and hid the table-tennis equipment, as a gesture, until after lunch.) He went out on deck into an intensely cold morning, with a light wind and a pale sun shining on the lead-colored sea. The Edwardic was now steering a zigzag track; far away aft, you could follow the pattern in the white froth of the wake until it faded away into black water. They had set watches along the rails of the boat-deck, as well as a man in the crow's nest. But after half a dozen circuits of B Deck, Max encountered nobody except George A. Hooper dozing under a rug in a deck-chair.
And he did not see his brother until the religious service in the lounge at eleven o'clock.
This was conducted by Commander Matthews, who looked rather like a Puritan father, and held the Bible clumsily. He read the Twenty-third Psalm; and read it, Max thought, very well for old Frank. A small orchestra played two hymns. There was no prayer. The only persons present were Dr. Archer, Hooper, Max and Valerie Chatford—who did not look at him.
When the service broke up, Max drew Commander Matthews aside.
"Well? How about it? Have they; got the finger-prints?"
"Sh-h!" urged the captain, glancing round quickly. He seemed, this morning, heavy and thoughtful. "I saw the purser for a few minutes. They got Hooper's and the Frenchman's prints last night; and yours and Lathrop's, of course. They're tackling Dr. Archer, Miss Chatford, and young Kenworthy this morning. They've begun to take the crew in relays of—"
"How long will it be before we know?"
"Now don't be impatient," said Commander Matthews, with the maddening tolerance of one who is patient by nature. "We'll get the swine. He can't get away, you know."
"Yes; but how long before we find out?"
"Lathrop says it may take -all day. Just cool off and keep quiet. Ill send you word as soon as we hear anything."
It was not until half an hour later that Max remembered he had said nothing about Valerie Chatford. Never mind: that could wait. If those finger-prints nailed the murderer, such information as she might have (unless the whole thing were a lie, as he rather suspected) would be only additional details.
Lunch, and still no word.
Dr. Archer, Captain Benoit, Hooper, and Max alone went in to lunch. Talk at the captain's table was sluggish. It chiefly concerned the wireless news posted on the bulletin-board; the prospect of their being convoyed; and their probable port of destination. Dr. Archer thought Southampton. Hooper plumped for Liverpool. The table-steward, consulted as to his opinion, confidently predicted Glasgow.
Tea, and still no word.
Max was getting into a fever. He searched the ship over without finding either Lathrop or the purser. Lathrop's cabin number, he ascertained, was C-42, but Lathrop was not there; the purser's window remained closed, and repeated knockings on the door beside it drew no reply.
The wind had freshened at sundown. Prowling through lounge, Long Gallery, and smoking-room, Max found in one corner of the smoking-room a copy of Gone with the Wind, which had the imposing names Pierre Marie Celestin Benoit Impressed on the fly-leaf with a rubber stamp. He had not been able to find the library-steward (you never could) and get any books from the Long Gallery. So he sat down and tried to read, but even this failed to charm. Despairing, he went on deck. It was here, in the dim red glow between the lights, that the purser found him.
"I've been looking for you," said Mr. Griswold, clearing his throat. "Cruikshank's just gone up to the bridge after the old man. Come down to my office."
"Have you got it?"
"Oh, ah. Yes. We've got it."
Despite the cold wind, Max felt his skin crawl under the thick overcoat. It may have been his imagination, but Griswold's face between the lights looked muddy with nerves.
"Well? Who killed her?"
"Come on," said the purser.
The office on C Deck, whose door Griswold had to unlock, was full of bright lights and a haze of cigarette-smoke. Lathrop, sweating in that close atmosphere, sat in his shirt-sleeves at the desk against one wall. Photographic enlargements— giant's thumb-prints, richly black, and pierced with numbered lines—lay in front of him. There was a magnifying glass almost the size of a saucer. There was a sheaf of notes at his elbow. Behind him the purser's clerk was stacking improvised cardboard files on top of the safe.
"Come in, Commander," Lathrop invited, creaking back In his swivel chair as the door opened again in a hurry, and the captain pushed past Max.
"Cruikshank says—"
"Yes," said Lathrop, rubbing his knuckles into hollowed eyes, and spreading his arms hugely. "You want to know whose finger-prints-those are. I can tell you short and sweet I don't know."
He added:
"They are not the finger-prints of anybody aboard this •hip."
After that bald pronouncement, four voices began to speak at| once. It was Commander Matthews who silenced the rest 1 "Is this a joke?" f
"No. No, no, no, no," groaned Lathrop. "I don't go half| blind to play jokes." He pressed his eyes again. "Neither does Griswold. You can take it from me here and now. We have here—he held up the enlargements—"the prints of a left and right thumb, found on the body. We have here"—he] pointed to the improvised filing-cases—"the left and rights thumb-prints of every living soul on this ship. And the two originals don't belong to anybody."
"It's true, sir," the purser agreed glumly. "But that's impossible!" j
"You're telling me?" inquired Lathrop. "It's true just the same." j
"Some mistake . .." ;
"There's no mistake, sir," said the purser, who had begun' to swell like a bullfrog. "Mr. Lathrop and I have each been over the whole lot twice. There's no possibility of a mistake. | If you don't mind my saying so, there's not much I don't] know about finger-prints myself. It's part of my job." 1
Commander Matthews shouldered his way across the white- ] painted office. He leaned his back against the safe, planted his j feet, and folded his arms.
'This wants thinking out," he declared, with such authority that nobody spoke for some seconds while he ruminated. "The prints," he presently added, peering up from under ] shaggy eyebrows and the brim of his cap, "the prints must ] have been forged." "No," said Lathrop. "Won't do, sir," said the purser. "Why not? Tell me that? With a rubber stamp or some- J thing . . ." Commander Matthews ruminated again. "Stop j a bit! Haven't we got a passenger whose business is manufacturing rubber stamps?"
Lathrop stopped him.
"Oddly enough, your brother"—he blinked at Max—"was asking me about forged finger-prints only last night. So Griswold and I took it up. We ourselves are willing to swear these finger-prints aren't phoney." He tapped the enlargement "But we had to be sure. Now, it seems you've got quite a handy crowd aboard this ship. The surgeon's assistant (Banks? That's it!) is a qualified analytical chemist So we had him make a chemical analysis."
"A chemical analysis?" repeated Commander Matthews. "How do you mean? You can't make a chemical analysis of a photograph on a sheet of paper."
"No. But you can analyze the blood-marks themselves, from the woman's dress," said Lathrop. "That's the final test, Commander. The one thing no forger could ever get round is the oil from the sweat-glands in the human fingers."
He paused.
"We got the report hours ago," he went on. "The two thumb-prints weren't forged in any way. They were made by living fingers. You can take that as established."
For a time nobody spoke. The smoke-haze in the purser's office got into their lungs, but no one made a move to turn on the electric fan.
"This wants thinking out," insisted the captain, shaking his head from side to side. "This wants thinking out."
"Commander," said Lathrop hesitantly, "I don't want to harp on this. But are you sure you haven't got a stowaway? Wait! I don't mean the official stowaway, I don't mean the stowaway you know all about, the ninth passenger whom you're keeping in a cabin on the boat-deck. We've got his prints all right. And he didn't make the marks either."
Max turned round and glanced at his brother. So he had been right after all! There was a ninth passenger, whom Frank was carefully keeping from the public eye. But who? And why?
"What I mean is," pursued Lathrop, "have you maybe got a person hiding himself away, that none of us knows anything about? That's the only other explanation. Are you sure you haven't got a stowaway?"
"Dead certain," replied the captain.
And, when Frank Matthews spoke like that, he meant it
"Then, sir, the thing's impossible!" said the purser. "It can't have happened."
Commander Matthews was very formal with his officers. "What's the good of talking like that, Mr. Griswold? It did happen. And, consequently, there's an explanation for it But there's only one explanation I can see. You or someone else must have mixed up the cards, or made an error somewhere. I'm sorry, Mr. Griswold; but I'm afraid you'll have to take all the finger-prints all over again."
Lathrop uttered a howl of despair, but the purser merely nodded. He seemed a very different person from the doubled chinned and sleepy-eyed joker who had chuckled over Jerome Kenworthy's sea-sickness the night before.
"Very good, sir. But I'm just as certain there was no mistake as you are certain that there's no stowaway."
Commander Matthews brooded. "No chance of somebody's flum-diddling you, was there? Playing games with the cards, or getting the wrong prints to you?" 1
"No." "Surer'
"Cruikshank and I," returned the purser, "took all the 1 prints ourselves, with the exception of four sets—your own, sir; Mr. Lathrop's; the ship's surgeon's; and Mr. Max Matthews'. Both Cruikshank and I can testify that no funny business was put up on us by our group, if Mr. Lathrop can testify the same about his group?"
"I can, definitely," swore Lathrop. "And you might tell | him, Griswold, that I took yours and Cruikshank's; while 1 you re-took my prints as a double-check." 1
"That's right, sir." ]
There was a long silence. 'j
The purser stepped across and touched the button of the J electric fan. It twirled slowly, and then began to hum with a vehemence that sounded sardonic. It blew ashes wide from several ashtrays, but nobody noticed.
"And to knock the last prop out from under you, sir," the purser added, not without malice, "I can tell you they weren't the dead woman's prints either. Not that it was likely she'd have her own thumb-prints in those places. But we thought of it; and made sure."
Commander Matthews, still cradling his folded arms, spoke with toiling lucidity.
"Let me get this quite clear. As I see it, there are three points we've got here.
"One! The finger-prints on the scene of the crime were not forged. They were made by the hands of a living person.
"Two! There is no stowaway, or any person hiding on board whose prints we haven't got
"Three! There was no flummery or mistake about the taking or testing of the prints taken for comparison. That is, •ach person made his proper prints on the proper card, handing it in without trickery; and each card was honestly and accurately compared with a photograph of the original blood-marks.—Is all that correct?"2
"Right," agreed Lathrop.
Commander Matthews straightened up. He removed his cap, which left a tight reddish band in the skin of his forehead. Taking out a handkerchief, he mopped his forehead and rubbed the handkerchief up over his wiry black hair.
"But, damn it all," he shouted, "somebody made the prints!"
"Evidently not."
"You don't think the woman was murdered by a ghost?"
"I don't know," muttered Lathrop.
Commander Matthews put his cap back on again. "It's a murder case," he said. "We've got to be detectives. Funny. Well—let's leave the thumb-prints and try to think back for other clues."
The purser was the first to volunteer. "There was one funny thing that happened last night, sir. With that Frenchman."
They all glanced at him sharply.
"Captain Benoit?"
"Yes, sir. Cruikshank and I started our round at a little past eleven o'clock. We'd orders, you remember, to get the prints of any passengers who were still up. Well, the Frenchman was still up. He's in cabin B-71, on the starboard side. And, the minute I stuck my head in that cabin, I thought, 'By jing, we've got him!' For a guiltier-looking bloke I never saw in my life."
(Interest had grown intense.)
"He was sitting in front of his berth, using it as a kind of table. Spread out on the berth were four or five rubber stamps and an ink-pad."
"Rubber stamps again!" groaned Lathrop. "Anyway, he was printing his address on some big sheets of paper. Now, the Frenchman doesn't speak any English: not more than a couple of words, anyway. And I don't speak much French myself. Cruikshank claims to be able to speak French; but mostly it consists of saying, 'Ah, oui,' and looking wise; so I shouldn't rely too much on his version of the conversation. Cruikshank said, 'Monsieur, nous voulons votre print de pouce,' which didn't seem to mean much to the bloke. He fired back about fifty sentences, very much excited and Cruikshank said, 'Ah, oui.' When finally he did seem to understand what we were after, he started to sweat and twisted his moustache and looked like death. When we insisted, he reached out and was going to press his thumb on the ink-pad—his own ink-pad—to make the impression with.
"Now, there was no earthly reason why he shouldn't use his own ink-pad. Ink's ink, however you look at it. But we were so suspicious we wouldn't let him. I was getting pretty certain we'd nailed our man. Cruikshank grabbed his wrist, and said, "Nong, nong, monsieur, il faut se servir de notre roller.' So we held his wrists and got good, careful prints with; the roller. All the time the bloke was talking away twenty to the dozen, and Cruikshank was saying, 'Ah, oui,' which seemed to surprise him. When we went away the Frenchman was looking at us with a peculiar kind of look—I don't know how to describe it—" "Guilty?" suggested Lathrop. The purser scratched his head.
"N-no. Not guilty. As I say, hanged if I know how to describe it. I asked Cruikshank what he was palavering about, but Cruikshank wasn't sure. We went tearing down to the photographer's. I said, Teddy, get those pictures out in a hurry, because I think we've got our man.' And he did. And," ] added the purser morosely, "the bloody thumb-prints—you know what I mean, sir—weren't Benoit's. Whoever made 'em, he didn't."
The silence of anti-climax hung heavily in the office. "But that doesn't help us, Mr. Griswold," said the captain in some exasperation.
"I know, sir. But it seemed queer. What did he want to , act so funny for?" j
"It may be worth finding out. Max, you used to speak good French?"
"Passable."
"We'll turn him over to you, then," said Commander Matthews. "No other incidents of any kind, Mr. Griswold?"
"No, sir. All the rest agreed as gently as lambs." Again the purser hesitated. "But there's one or two things I'd like to R«k, if I may. What evidence have you got about the murder? Were there any witnesses hanging about? Did the steward or the stewardess see anything?"
Commander Matthews shook his head.
"Not a thing. Or so they claim." He glanced at Lathrop. "But there's one point we might release, if it helps any. According to the stewardess, Mrs. Zia Bey wasn't carrying a bottle of ink in her handbag. She was carrying an envelope •stuffed with letters or papers: the stewardess claims to have seen it once when Mrs. Zia Bey was dressing. Oh, and one other thing! There was no bottle of ink among the lady's possessions. The stewardess helped unpack her trunk, and •wears to it."
"Ink!" said the purser. "Ink! . . . Which means, sir, that the murderer deliberately took along a bottle of ink to her cabin?"
"So it
seems."
"And substituted it for the envelope?"
"Evidently."
"But why," asked the purser unanswerably, "ink?"
"Speaking for myself," grunted Lathrop, adjusting his tie and reaching for his coat, "all I want now is food. But, if you ask me, this whole case is screwy. It sounds like Nick Carter. First the bloody thumb-mark, and now the packet of papers. If you can only dig up a hypodermic full of strange Indian arrow-poison . . . Which reminds me. You'd better have your •surgeon do a regular autopsy: what you call a post-mortem. Yes, I know the woman died of having her throat cut! But that's exactly the sort of point which plays the devil at trials, unless you've taken every precaution; and, as a lawyer, I warn you. Have we any other information?"
"Yes," responded Max—and proceeded to tell the whole adventure of Miss Valerie Chatford.
"Jupiter!" whistled Lathrop. "You do get in with the women, don't you?"
"Not with that one, I'm glad to say."
Commander Matthews's face was a picture of heavy doubt and indecision. "A little thing like that?" he said, evident! referring to the physical presence of Valerie Chatford. "You don't think she could have . . . ?" He made the gesture of one cutting a throat. J
"I don't know," admitted Max. "Perhaps, or perhaps no! There wasn't any blood on her: I noticed that. And the murderer must have got a good deal of blood on him, I think." J "Hold on!" interposed Lathrop querulously. "I hope this isn't going to turn into another of those cases in which it's claimed that the murderer ran around naked—and, consequently, had no blood-stains on any clothes. The Courvoisiel case. The Borden case. The Wallace case." He ticked then off on his fingers. "In each case that was suggested. And in each case there wasn't a scrap of evidence to support it And the cases did seem to prove is that a murderer doesn't gel nearly as messed up with blood as people seem to think." j "Mr. Matthews didn't say anything about Miss Chatford running around naked," the purser pointed out His eye seemed to turn inward, speculatively. "Though, Lordy! what a sight that would be, wouldn't it?"
"Mr. Griswold!"
"Sorry, sir. Although"—disregarding the captain's frown he went on with drowsy happiness—"you remember the time that Yugoslavian countess wandered into the lounge without a stitch on when the priest was conducting six o'clock mass. Not that I think Miss Chatford would, mind!"
Nine and Death Makes Ten Page 7