S.S. Murder

by Q. Patrick

  “It’d be suicide, sir—sheer suicide,” cried the officer. “We’ll stop the ship. We’ll do all we can. Here, hold on to him, boys.”

  Meanwhile Mrs. Lambert was standing perfectly still, moaning helplessly. There was a terrible racket and hubbub. Then, suddenly, I heard a sound which reminded me of the noise that goes on inside one’s head when the dentist starts drilling a tooth.

  “They’re putting the engines in reverse, turning her round —stopping the ship,” shouted an officer in reply to a query from one of the passengers.

  “There’s a woman overboard—”

  By this time I had gone up to Mrs. Lambert and done what I could to calm her. The officer joined us and led us away from the crowd.

  “Please, madam, please, try and collect yourself.” He shook her arm almost roughly. “It’s a serious thing to stop the ship this way. Can you tell us exactly—did you really see the young lady go overboard?”

  Mrs. Lambert stared into his strained, anxious face with dull, unseeing eyes. For a moment I really began to fear that the shock had unhinged her reason. Then suddenly and quite coherently she spoke:

  “He—threw—her—overboard,” she said slowly. “I saw them there talking together. Betty was laughing. He was wrapping her shawl round her. They seemed to be saying good night so I went away. Just as I turned the corner coming back, I heard that shriek—that awful, ghastly shriek. And then a splash—.” She shuddered. “I hurried forward and saw Betty’s shawl floating out over the sea. I ran to the rail and saw—or thought I saw—something—down there in the water. Just for an instant, then—then it was gone!”

  She covered her face with her hands.

  “But the man, Mrs. Lambert? Didn’t you see him?” The officer’s voice was low and stern. “Do try and collect yourself.”

  The widow gulped and looked up at him with wide, horrified eyes.

  “Yes, yes, I saw him,” she cried wildly. “He was hurrying down the deck, away from me. He had an overcoat on and a hat pulled down over his eyes. But when he reached that door—the one there with the light above it—he had to turn. It was then that I caught a glimpse of his face. He was wearing steel-rimmed spectacles—clean shaven—and his face was very tanned. In fact, I could swear that—”

  She gulped again, then her voice came quite clear and distinct.

  “—that he was the man who was playing bridge with my husband the night he was murdered. The man who called himself—Robinson!”

  I didn’t hear any more, Davy. A stewardess came up and took the poor soul down to her cabin. But nothing in heaven or earth could persuade Earnshaw to move. He stood still, towering above the two British sailors at his side, straining his eyes over the ocean, which, now that the ship’s powerful searchlights had been turned on, was as light as the floor of a ball-room.

  The horrible grating noise of the engines had begun to die down and the ship seemed to have come to a complete standstill. Apparently it had been made to double back on its tracks and I suppose we were now somewhere near the spot where Betty had been thrown overboard.

  I saw Daniels go up and question one of the officers.

  “No, sir, there’s not one chance in a thousand of picking her up; she probably got caught in the screws right away. But we have to do all this for the log, sir, a mere formality—”

  I turned away feeling sick, Davy, as you may well imagine. The idea of Betty down there in that cruel, dark water—the thought of her soft young body caught by those merciless, grinding screws. And here we were all standing around like so many dummies, impotent—powerless to help. “A mere formality!” It was too much. For one moment I felt the awful tragedy of the situation as strongly as Earnshaw must have been feeling it—poor little Betty who was afraid of thunder and lightning!

  The deck presented a strange spectacle, crowded as it was with officers, sailors and passengers, the latter in various stages of dress or undress. The sudden stopping of the ship, the noise of the engines going into reverse and the frantic runnings to and fro had caused a number of the more nervousminded to get the idea that we were about to founder. On all sides one heard the reassuring words:

  “No, no, madam, there’s no danger. It’s only a woman overboard!”

  Only a woman overboard, Davy! That was all! And a number of people who hadn’t known Betty were actually standing in little groups, talking and exclaiming as though this were an unexpected thrill in their blase careers—an exciting incident to be stored up as a delicate titbit for their friends when they got home.

  And all the while the searchlights were shooting great ribbons of light out over the sea, and eager eyes were scrutinizing the waters—all to no purpose. Occasionally a hopeful cry would go up when a streak of foam, a whitecap, or a whirlpool assumed for a moment the likenes of a human face or form, but the excitement would soon die down again into broken murmurs of disappointment.

  At some point or other, Davy, it dawned on me that I had not noticed Adam among the crowd. I suppose I’ve become so used to having him tag along that I almost take it for granted that he will be somewhere around. But, after looking carefully at every bald head on deck, I realized that not one of them belonged to Mr. Burr. He was nowhere to be seen, nor, with the exception of Daniels, could I find any members of the captain’s table.

  Feeling an urgent need for speed or action, I went up to the young sailor whom Earnshaw had knocked down a few minutes earlier. He was standing by the rail holding a lifebuoy in one hand while the other caressed his swollen chin. He might have been posing for a sculptor as he stood there, stripped to the waist, his magnificent muscles taut beneath his smooth, brown skin. In spite of Earnshaw’s blow, he looked as eager and alert as anyone on the ship. I felt sorry for him.

  Fumbling in my bag, I drew out a five dollar bill and held it out towards him.

  “Please don’t hold it against him,” I said, nodding towards Eamshaw. “She was his—his girl, you know.”

  The young Britisher flashed me one scornful glance from a pair of clear grey eyes. Then, without deigning to notice the bill, he turned seaward again.

  “Blimey, miss,” he muttered, “there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for a bloke as can land a straight left to the point like that one. And if we do see ’is young lady down there, well, ’e don’t need to jump in arter ’er, ’cos I’m all ready meself. And I reckon I’d stand a better chance than what ’e would, even if ’e is twenty-five pun’ heavier and five inches taller.”

  And after this, Davy, I felt so utterly useless and depressed that I collapsed into the nearest deck chair and had a good long cry all by myself.

  I don’t know how long it lasted, but I must have been doing a bit of sniffling, for, all of a sudden, I was conscious of a large hand holding a sensible-sized handkerchief under my nose. Daphne Demarest was standing by my side.

  “Cheer up,” she said, “though God knows there’s not much to be cheerful about. Here—have a cigarette.”

  I dabbed at my eyes with her handkerchief and returned it. “Is there any news?” I asked.

  As if in reply to my question there was a loud blast from the ship’s siren, followed by the throbbing of the engines.

  We had resumed our course.

  “Poor kid,” growled Daphne. “She’s gone, all right. Her steward and stewardess have been looking everywhere for her, but she’s nowhere to be found. From the story I heard it sounded at first as though Mrs. Lambert had a bee in her bonnet, but I’m afraid she was right—after all.”

  I sighed. “Well, I suppose this means more cross-questioning. Oh, Lord, when will it end?”

  “There’s one comfort,” replied Daphne. “None of the passengers seems to have twigged that it was murder—so far. Jennings told me about it and I suppose the rest of our table will be told too, but they are going to spread the story that Betty was depressed by her uncle’s death and—well, had an accident.” Daphne flicked a cigarette into the sea. “But I suppose it’s only a matter of time before the others r
ealize the truth—oh, blast this ship!”

  The Moderna was now moving slowly through the waters with a sickening vibration. The shouting and the tumult had died, leaving no sound but the turning of the screws. The decks looked dark and gloomy after the lurid play of the searchlights, and the passengers, seemingly conscious for the first time of their déshabillés, were scurrying towards their cabins. Even the faithful young sailor was slipping his tunic over his naked torso and preparing to go below. The search for Betty had been abandoned—

  Only Earnshaw stood where I had last seen him, his eyes still turned seaward—his grey tweed coat lying in a little pool at his side. I was glad I could not see his face.

  Then Dr. Somers went up to him and took his arm. For a few seconds they seemed to be deep in earnest conversation. At length I saw the young surgeon lead him away.

  Finally I went down to my stateroom, Davy, and got out this journal, but I couldn’t write a line. I kept thinking of Betty struggling in the cold, dark water. I tried to sleep, but I couldn’t do that either. That shriek seemed to haunt me. I wanted desperately to have you near me, darling, to comfort me, to protect me, to put your arms around me and hold me close, close—

  And then I started thinking of poor Earnshaw and how dreadful he must be feeling. I thought about everything so much that my head started to throb and I felt I should be really ill if I didn’t sleep. So I got out a little blue bottle—the one Dr. Klein gave me when I left the hospital—and took enough to give me ten hours of blessed oblivion.

  But I’ve had a hunch at last, and it is that somehow this second murder is closely connected with the first; and that somewhere I have the clue in my keeping. I can’t find it—I don’t know where it is; but I’ve got it, and before we reach land I’ve got to find it.

  Before finally dropping off to sleep, Davy, I decided that this ship should be re-christened.

  Never again shall I think of her as the Moderna. To me she will always be—S. S. Murder!

  Monday, November 16th.

  Stateroom,

  10:30 P. M.

  Well, darling, I struggled out of bed in time for tea today and found my fellow passengers playing deck tennis and shuffleboard as though nothing in the world had ever happened. The ship was making good time—the weather was perfect—and no one seemed to be worrying about last night’s fearful tragedy. It gave me a little stab at the heart, Davy, to realize how unimportant the individual really is in the general scheme of things. We come and go, but ships have to stick to their schedules, the public has to be amused, and “the great game must go on.” And it would be just the same if it had been you or me instead of Betty.

  Adam soon joined me in my little nook on the upper-deck. His round face looked pale—and, if you can imagine a haggard plum, Davy—! But, as usual, he was full of information.

  Very cautious inquiries have been made among the passengers who were not in their beds last evening when the tragedy occurred. One woman claims she thinks she noticed Betty talking to a man somewhere near the spot where Mrs. Lambert saw her last. But no one, it appears, actually saw her go overboard or heard the splash, though everyone must have heard that ghastly shriek—even the people in the third class. And the terrible fact remains: Betty is nowhere to be found.

  “Where did you get to during all the excitement?” I asked him at length.

  Adam looked at me closely and cleared his throat before speaking.

  “Well, I thought that it would be a wonderful opportunity for me to make a little personally-conducted search for our old friend Robinson. There are certain spots on board ship where no one thinks of looking in the ordinary way—bathrooms, lavatories and such-like indelicate places. I thought perhaps he might pop into one of them for temporary concealment. I wanted to try and catch him red-handed while everybody else was safely up on deck. I even hung around certain corridors. But, unfortunately, I didn’t see or hear anything at all suspicious.”

  “Well,” I said, “we at least know now that Robinson was in a definite place at a definite time. This fact will probably be helpful in eliminating some people.”

  “It’s not so helpful as it might be,” replied Adam disconsolately. “Almost all our particular little playmates say that they were in bed or in their cabins at the time. But it clears you at any rate—and me.”

  “How come?” I asked suspiciously.

  “Well, you were in the smoking room with Earnshaw when it all happened. And you can take your Bible oath you saw me come in and out several times—at least twice!”

  “Oh, yes, of course, I did see you about ten minutes before the cry—but,” I added maliciously, “that doesn’t prove a thing. And now my conscience tells me I ought to go down to Mrs. Lambert’s suite and see if there’s anything I can do.”

  Adam gave a twisted little smile; then he said inconsequently, “Well, well, my dear, even though you refuse to establish my alibi, I hope you aren’t going to refuse to be my partner in the shuffleboard tournament next week. I put our names down.”

  “Sorry,” I snapped, “but even shuffleboard is too strenuous for my stitches. I’ll see you at dinner.”

  With this exhibition of bad temper, Davy, I made my way to Mrs. Lambert’s suite. You can well imagine that I did not relish my interview!

  I found Earnshaw pacing up and down the little sitting room like a tiger in a cage. He was in his shirt-sleeves, unshaven and hollow-eyed. He looked up at me as I entered with pathetic eagerness. I suppose the poor devil is still hoping against hope and against reason.

  I said and did what I could. It wasn’t much. Then I went into the bedroom adjoining. Mrs. Lambert seems really sick and a nurse-from the ship’s infirmary has been sent to look after her. This second tragedy has given her an air of quiet dignity and I found myself more truly in sympathy with her than ever before. It must have been an awful shock! She spoke with real feeling about Earnshaw, telling me how she had done everything to help things along. She also told me that Betty had been nervous and frightened yesterday and she wondered if, perhaps, it had anything to do with the anonymous letter she had received.

  “Anonymous letter!” I gasped.

  “Yes, didn’t you hear that they found one in her bag? Mr. Jennings has got it.”

  “What—what did it say?” I asked, trying hard not to appear too eager in my curiosity.

  “Why, it was just a printed note from someone, and unsigned. It said that the writer knew for certain who it was that killed Mr. Lambert and, if Betty would be on the starboard side of the ship—on B deck at 10:30—he would meet her and tell her everything. That’s all. She did say something about a rendezvous, but, of course, I advised her not to keep it. I can’t imagine why she went against my wishes. It’s a complete mystery, but I suppose she thought she was safe, poor child—poor child!”

  At this point the nurse intervened with a warning look. I made my excuses, saying lamely that it was time for me to go and dress for dinner.

  Our table tonight was in anything but a merry mood. We alone of all the passengers know the actual facts, such as they are, of the two terrible tragedies. Most of us either mistrust or dislike each other, and this is hardly conducive to sprightly conversation. A pathetic little ripple had barely got decently started when the captain rose to his feet.

  There was an immediate silence in the dining saloon. Not the tinkle of a glass or the clatter of a fork broke the silence. The passengers at the other tables were obviously expecting something pretty lurid. About fifty pairs of eyes were turned toward the skipper in eager anticipation.

  Captain Fortescue made a very sensible little speech, calculated to restore confidence among the passengers, to give the murderer a false sense of security, and to impart no knowledge that was of any possible value.

  He told us that a distinguished business man had died of heart failure on the first night out. His niece, despondent over her uncle’s death, had gone overboard last night. It was very regrettable—very sad—and he was sure the whole ship
joined him in sympathy with the bereaved widow and friend. He wished to say, however, that Mrs. Lambert and Mr. Earnshaw had most particularly requested that none of the ship’s activities should be interrupted on their account. They realized that many passengers were taking this trip for reasons of health or holiday. It was by their express desire, therefore, that deck sports, bridge tournaments, and other recreations should go on exactly as usual.

  A little murmur of appreciation and sympathy ran round the room, as the—

  Stateroom,

  Half an hour later.

  Davy—Davy, darling, the most amazing thing has just happened. I’m still all of a doodah about it, but—thank God there is a good strong lock on my door!

  I was sitting up in my berth writing this just now. It was about eleven o’clock and the ship was reasonably quiet. I had just got to the part where the captain began to make a speech when the thought suddenly flashed through my mind that there must be a mouse in the cabin. I heard a faint rustle on the floor—just a teeny, weeny little mousey noise.

  Well, Davy, you know I loathe cockroaches, I abhor bats, centipedes and spiders, but I don’t object to mice in the very least. Consequently I paid no attention whatsoever, and kept on writing.

  Then, just when I got to the sentence, “—ran round the room, as the—” there was a little puff of wind and something white moved across the floor. At first I had the wild idea that it was a rat—horrors, a white rat at that! This was too much! I jumped out of bed and saw lying in the center of my tiny rug a folded piece of paper—ship’s stationery.

  I picked it up very gingerly and noticed at once that it had some printing scrawled almost illegibly across the page. It was as though some right handed person had tried to make the characters with his left hand in order to avoid recognition of his writing. The result was an untidy mess.

  Holding the sheet to the light, I read (with some difficulty) as follows:

  UNLESS YOU WANT TO GO THE WAY OF BETTY LAMBERT YOU ARE ADVISED TO MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS AND TO DESTROY THAT JOURNAL.