S.S. Murder

by Q. Patrick

  ROBINSON.

  At first, Davy, I felt inclined to laugh. The whole business seemed so positively preposterous. Gradually, however, the full significance of the letter began to dawn on me. Within the last few minutes this fiend—this creature who calls himself Robinson—had crept up to my door and slipped the paper into my stateroom. My head must have been actually within two feet of his hand, with only a thin piece of board in between. He knows about my journal, my detective activities, and he knows me for an enemy. He even pays me the compliment of treating me as a person to be seriously reckoned with!

  A sudden feeling of panic overwhelmed me. I rang the bell for my stewardess and asked her if she’d seen anyone hanging around my room. She said she had seen no one—nor had the steward Trubshaw, who she also consulted.

  Nevertheless, Davy, someone has approached my room within the last half hour because I know the note was not there when I came to bed. For the first time I really feel that I myself am involved in this business. I am no longer just an interested spectator looking on from a safe distance. I am one of the actors in a terrible human drama and, unless I am careful, I may be playing a more important part than is comfortable.

  And that makes three anonymous letters to date in this chronicle, Daphne’s—Betty’s—and now mine.

  Perhaps Robinson has a weakness for the fair sex!

  At any rate—as I said before—thank God for a good strong lock on this door!

  In the future I shall trust no one and I shall guard my journal as I would my jew-els!

  On Deck,

  Tuesday, November 17th.

  11:45 A. M.

  In spite of all the excitement of last night, Davy, I slept remarkably well and woke up feeling more like a sane mind in a sane body than I have for some time. I suppose one reaches an emotional pitch beyond which it is impossible to go, and as I have experienced almost every sensation in the world during the last few days, anything that ever happens to me in the future will seem just an amusing anti-climax.

  And I’m sure I was perfectly calm and self-possessed when I presented myself at the purser’s office shortly after breakfast this morning and showed him the billet-doux which Robinson slipped so romantically beneath my door last night.

  Jennings jumped up from his chair as soon as he saw it.

  “Let’s go to the captain with this, Miss Llewellyn—right away if you don’t mind. He’s got the letter which was found in poor Miss Lambert’s bag, and I know he’ll want to compare the writing. Personally, I believe it’s the same.”

  He went so fast along corridors and up companionways that I was quite out of breath by the time we reached the captain’s quarters. As we stood outside the door, waiting to be admitted, I could have sworn I heard voices inside the room. I must have been mistaken, however, because, when we entered, Captain Fortescue was seated at his desk, alone.

  Who wouldn’t be the skipper of an ocean-going liner, Davy? I never saw such good, solid comfort in all my life. The cabin was furnished with a number of deep “squushy” arm chairs, several bookshelves filled with detective stories, gorgeous purple curtains covering an opening in the rear, a thick carpet, and cheerful pictures on the walls. Altogether there was a homely touch about the place which makes me feel quite certain that the female contingent from Ealing is very much on the job.

  Captain Fortescue gave me a cordial greeting as I came in, and Jennings immediately produced the anonymous letter, briefly explaining how it had reached me. After the captain had read it, he got out a folder from one of the desk drawers. It contained the slip of paper which had been found in Betty Lambert’s bag after her death. For a few moments they compared them in silence.

  “No doubt about it, sir,” exclaimed Jennings at length, “you don’t have to be a handwriting expert to see that they were both written by the same person.”

  Accepting their unspoken invitation, I looked over Jennings’ shoulder and studied the two letters. Even from that distance I could see that the writing was identical in both cases.

  The captain then asked us all manner of questions about the time and the circumstances of the letter’s arrival. When I had told him all I knew, he got out a plan of the ship and we started to study the positions of the various occupied staterooms. By a strange coincidence, Davy, almost all the people who eat at our table are on the same deck as myself and have their cabins literally within a stone’s throw of each other!

  So there wasn’t anything very helpful to be got out of that.

  “I think, Miss Llewellyn,” said the captain at length, “that I had better tell one of the stewards to keep an eye on your cabin after this. You have a lock on the door, of course?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, you can’t be too careful.” He gave me a nice twinkling smile. “What’s this journal, by the way, which our friend Robinson refers to so particularly?”

  I quickly explained how I kept this record of the case from the very beginning, adding that, while I had written it all over the ship, I had mentioned the fact only to the people who were most intimately concerned in the tragedies. I also related the little episode that occurred when I left the book in the Social Hall.

  As soon as I had finished, the captain smiled at me again, this time quite paternally.

  “Of course, Miss Llewellyn, it’s hard for me to remember that a young and pretty girl like you is also a well-known and accomplished journalist, but—”

  Well, here was my opportunity, Davy. There’s no need to tell you that it’s impossible to get anywhere in our line of business if you don’t have a good bit of brass in your composition, so I blurted out:

  “Oh, Captain Fortescue, won’t you please give a girl a break? Let me send an account of all this to my paper. I’ll promise to be awfully careful. You can censor every word I write. I know it sounds heartless, but it’s such an opportunity in my career. I may never get another chance like this one. And then,” I cajoled, “they might dig up some information that will be very helpful.”

  But the captain was shaking his head politely but firmly. “Listen, my dear,” he said, “I have a daughter in Ealing. She’s about your age and she’s ambitious too. You must forgive me if I talk to you just as I would talk to her. I can’t let you do this—for your sake as well as mine. I can’t allow it. You see, we really have no inkling as yet how or why these two unfortunate people died. We have no right even to hint at anything so terrible as murder—that is, to the world at large. Whatever our own private views, we must keep them to ourselves until we know something more definite.”

  I sighed and then smiled at him in as daughterly a manner as I could. “I suppose you are right,” I assented meekly.

  “I can promise you one thing, however. If we do get to the bottom of this terrible business, I’ll do all I can to help

  you get what you Americans call a scoop. But—”

  He glanced at the chronometer on his desk.

  “If I promise this, I want you to do something for me in return. I’ve got forty minutes to spare before I have to make my tour of inspection. I want you to let me read that journal of yours. Will you?”

  I blushed like a gawky schoolgirl.

  “Oh, I’m awfully sorry,” I faltered, “but it’s in the form of—er—private letters. There are things in it that are intended for—for one person only. However—if you are really serious and think it would be helpful, I could read it to you. I won’t leave out anything that’s important—only the personal parts and perhaps some of the descriptions.”

  The captain nodded assent and Jennings jumped politely to his feet.

  “Can I get it for you, Miss Llewellyn?”

  “Oh, no. It’s locked in my trunk. I won’t be a minute.”

  I tore down to my stateroom, found the manuscript book, and quickly returned to the captain’s cabin. Without wasting a moment I sat down in the “squushiest” of the arm chairs and started to read. Jennings and Captain Fortescue both produced pencil and paper and made copious not
es throughout my recital. They listened very attentively.

  Now you can call me fanciful if you like, Davy, but I am perfectly certain that twice, when I lifted my eyes from the page, I saw the purple curtains behind Captain Fortescue’s chair—moving! They were heavy curtains and there wasn’t a breath of air in the room, but something was moving them. I watched them whenever I had the opportunity and I am positive that I was not mistaken.

  When I came to the end, the captain jumped up from his seat and exclaimed heartily:

  “Capital, Miss Llewellyn! It’s as good as Conan Doyle or Mrs. Rinehart. I got so thrilled that I almost forgot it had all actually happened on my ship. I’m very fond of detective stories, as you can see for yourself—” he waved a hand in the direction of the nearest bookshelf—“now I suppose I must try—indeed we must all try—to put our reading to good account.”

  “Talking of reading and mystery stories, Captain Fortescue,” I said as casually as I could, “I wonder if you could explain to me these lines which were written by the greatest American mystery writer—perhaps the greatest one the world has ever known!”

  The captain looked at me with a puzzled frown, but I kept my eyes glued on the still-moving drapes. Then I quoted Poe’s marvelous lines:

  “‘And the silken, sad, uncertain

  Rustling of each purple curtain,

  Thrilled me—filled me—with fantastic terrors,

  Never felt before.’”

  “I’m afraid poetry is rather beyond me, Miss Llewellyn,” replied the skipper, as his eyes followed mine in the direction of the curtains.

  “Oh, all right, if you don’t want to tell me who’s behind them,” I said pertly. “Just as long as you know he’s there—or, perhaps it’s a she. Fie, Captain Fortescue!”

  He smiled, but not very convincingly, then his face became more serious, as he added:

  “Miss Llewellyn, I started talking to you just now as if you were my daughter; do you mind if I go on in that way a minute? You are a very clever young lady, but I advise you, for the present at least, not to know too much. And what knowledge you have is best kept to yourself. Don’t trust anyone and don’t ask too many questions. If you are in any difficulties you can always Come to me. We will count on your cooperation and you can count on ours. We may seem to be rather backward and slow-moving, but we are not going to leave a stone unturned—we are forging full steam ahead in the way that seems best to us. Isn’t that so, Jennings?”

  The purser nodded.

  “And don’t forget,” continued the captain, “that somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean, not so very far behind us, is the body of a girl, like yourself, who was killed, perhaps, because she knew too much. In a locked stateroom on E deck there is the dead body of a man—and—and somewhere on the ship there is this Robinson—somewhere—”

  But here, Davy darling, I interrupted him with an exclamation, jumped up from my seat and almost ran out of the cabin.

  I had suddenly found myself with an Idea—a brain wave! It couldn’t wait. I had to be alone to think it over.

  And it seemed staggering at first—staggeringly simple. My one and only original contribution to this case, Davy! It was the captain’s last remark that put it into my head.

  Can you guess what it was?

  Oh, well, it will have to keep for a while because there is the gong for lunch and I am starving.

  A bientôt chéri.

  Stateroom,

  Tuesday, November 17th.

  6:30 P. M.

  Before I get back to the subject of my Idea, Davy, I must tell you that Mrs. Clapp has taken me to her bosom at last. The unpleasant dinner incident is forgiven and forgotten, and I think we shall be the best of friends in the future.

  After I left the captain I decided that I would start my campaign of suspicion and mistrust by avoiding my old friend Adam for a while. Consequently I stuck by Daphne after lunch and finally joined her and Mrs. Clapp on deck.

  The ex-Marcia Manners is really a remarkable person. She has a flavor to her like a rare old vintage or the tang of early fall apples. She’s impetuous, temperamental and a trifle peppery, but one of the most entertaining women I’ve ever met in my life. I could make a whole volume out of the anecdotes and experiences she told me this afternoon. In fact, when I get to knew her better, I’m going to ask her if she’ll let me write her biography—a nice quiet job for me after we settle down to married life, darling.

  She and Daphne have a strange but rather touching relationship. They met each other during the War while Daphne was nursing and Marcia Manners was “entertaining.” When young Mr. Clapp died last spring, his widow was so broken up that she turned to Daphne for professional help as well as friendship. They have been together ever since, and for all her starry past and triumphs, the older woman seems utterly dependent on her English companion. In fact, my dear, Daphne Demarest is no fool, and she leads Mrs. Clapp by the nose in a thoroughly accomplished manner.

  After tea, I began to work on my private plan.

  Now, Davy, I told you that it was when the captain made his last remark that the Idea suddenly came to me. He was talking about Mr. Lambert’s body and then in the same sentence he spoke of how Robinson might be in hiding. Well, the whole ship has been combed for him—if he is a living, sentient person he must be somewhere. He cannot materialize and disappear at will. He has to eat and sleep. The question before the house is—where is he?

  Now do you see what I’m driving at, Davy? Can you think of the one place on board this ship where a stowaway might be safe—the one place where nobody goes and where no one would think of looking in the ordinary way?

  Davy, Davy, Davy, say that you see it too. Please say that you do—

  Yes, darling, yes! The empty stateroom where they put Mr. Lambert’s dead body after it had been embalmed by the surgeon. (You remember they are keeping it for a more detailed autopsy at Georgetown.) Of course the door has been locked all the time, but skeleton keys, I suppose, would open it; and while one can’t imagine enjoying life in that particular room, one would be safe there, I should think.

  And now, I suppose, you will tell me that I am completely crazy.

  And that is what Jennings probably thought when I outlined my scheme to him about an hour ago, though he was awfully polite about it. You see, I decided that I must let someone else in on it and he seemed the most obvious person. He’s so quiet and reliable—so sane. And then, I knew I should never have the courage to carry this thing through by myself. And there are obvious reasons why it would not be advisable to pick on Burr, Daniels or any of the male passengers.

  Being a purser, he naturally remonstrated at first after I had told him of my plans and vowed him to absolute secrecy.

  “I really don’t see why you need to do this thing yourself,” he said. “I think your idea about Robinson’s hiding place is pretty horrible, but I suppose it’s reasonable. No one else has thought of it as far as I know. I can probably get the keys from Dr. Somers without much fuss. But—why not let me examine the room by myself? It’s not at all a job for a young lady.”

  “Mr. Jennings,” I cried, “will you kindly stop being the chivalrous English gentleman. I’m not a young lady. I’m a journalist. And you might as well try and argue a duck out of the water—a cat away from a mouse—as attempt to persuade a newspaper reporter to stay away from the scene of action. Besides, the captain has promised me a scoop if we get to the bottom of this business. This is my one and only brain-child to date and I want to be in at the death. Also, I’d like to go in the middle of the night, because we might catch him asleep. I think it would be more reasonable and less dangerous than during the day.”

  Finally he gave in. He is young—too—and adventurous. I think the idea of the scoop appealed to him, and I know he likes me. Perhaps I over-persuaded him. I hope not, because I’d hate to get him in trouble. Anyway, it was decided that he should tell no one of our plans except my steward, who would call me at 1:50 A. M. tonight—or tomorrow
morning if you want to be exact. Then I am to join Jennings at about 2:00 A. M. and we are going off together to explore the temporary morgue where Mr. Lambert’s body lies. He will provide a revolver and two flashlights. It was also arranged on his urgent plea that I should go to bed directly after dinner in order to be rested and refreshed for the expedition. I don’t anticipate much sleep after it’s over!

  Now don’t worry about me, darling. I’ll be safe as houses with Jennings to look after me. He’s frightfully protective and maternal.…

  The steward has just brought me a little note—this time, thank God, it’s not anonymous.

  M. L.—Why have you:—

  “Divorced old barren Adam from your—ahem! And taken the daughter of the stage to spouse?” Am I what Voltaire would call “the squeezed lemon”? If not, please join me for a cocktail before dinner.

  Hopefully,

  A. B.

  Have you noticed, Davy, how poor Mr. Burr is always suggesting a fruit either to me or to himself? In some previous incarnation, I think, he must have been a market gardener.

  Well, there’s just time to accept this invitation to cocktails if I hurry up and dress. Before tonight is over I shall probably need all the artificial stimulants I can get.

  Wednesday, November 18th.

  In my stateroom,

  About 3:00 A. M.*

  I’m writing this partly to keep awake and partly to keep sane, so if you ever see it you must bear with me. Somehow I think that if I force myself to go over the horrors that I’ve experienced since I wrote gaily (oh fool! fool that I was!) about needing artificial stimulants—if I can face it all again, and put it down in black and white, then I may be able to exorcise this feeling of impending doom. At least it should keep my mind in the past instead of the present and the even more ghastly future; and I’ll try to be coherent. But if you knew what may be waiting for me—now—outside my very door! Davy, tell me this isn’t possible! Tell me I’m going to wake up in a little while and find it all a hideous nightmare. I’m fairly gibbering now, with terror, and I’m afraid to look in the mirror for fear my hair is turning white. No, I will not look! What wouldn’t I give to be back at home, listening to Aunt Caroline stumping towards the bathroom with her heavy, reassuring tread! How many years of Paradise wouldn’t I forego to have your arms about me, and calm this wild beating of my heart against the steady pound of yours.…