by Q. Patrick
“I think it’ll be all right as far as Silvera’s concerned.”
“Adam, you linguist, you shaper of human destinies, you big executive,” I whispered. “May I ask you if you are going to give me an explanation of all this or are you going to set a price on my silence the way you did with Silvera? If anyone’s been cheated it’s me. I’m nearly eighty cents down, and—”
“Mr. Daniels is going to explain to both of us,” said Adam in a dramatic stage whisper, as a fat woman bore down on our table with the obvious intention of taking the Brazilian’s place.
Daniels gave a little nod. “Come into the purser’s office,” he said, ignoring the large lady.
“I want to save the hands,” remarked Adam, as he picked the cards carefully from the table.
“I’m not sorry about losing mine,” I said. “It was pretty punk.”
Wolcott did not move from his chair. He looked old and dazed. Adam and I followed Daniels into the purser’s office and closed the door. It was unoccupied. We all fumbled for cigarettes.
“Well,” piped the little Cockney at length. “What do you want me to say?” He looked perkily around. “I apologize for myself—and for Wolcott.”
“We don’t want apologies, Daniels.” There was a steely timbre in Adam’s usually fatuous voice. “What I want to know is why that last hand was identical with the one which was played on the night Mr. Lambert was murdered—the one which, unless I am much mistaken, Miss Llewellyn copied down and put first in her journal.”
Here Adam spread the cards out on the purser’s desk. “Look, Mary. You haven’t your journal with you, but you do have your memory. Isn’t this hand familiar?”
Davy, he was right. I haven’t consulted my journal, but I’m sure that he was right. I had been holding the cards held by Daniels himself on that fatal first night out. Wolcott had Mr. Lambert’s hand and Silvera held the cards and was sitting in the position occupied by—Robinson!* Having copied out that hand so carefully I shall never, never forget it. There was no question but that the cards were the same in the essentials. Whether or not we held the same rags, of course, I could not say.
On me, at least, the effect of this announcement was electric. I had suspected nothing. In the smoking room I had simply been too dazed to think of anything except to hope that no one had a gun handy. Adam, from his point of vantage as onlooker had seen and remembered—a remarkable feat when one came to consider it. Realizing that there must be some method in all this madness, he had saved the situation as far as Silvera was concerned, and now he was hot on the trail of Wolcott and Daniels.
But Daniels did not look in the least perturbed. He was blinking his funny little eyes and smiling in a way that showed he was quite master of the situation.
“Well,” he said, looking amusedly from one to the other of us, “now that you have literally laid your cards on the table, Mr. Burr, I suppose I must do the same. If you’ll pardon my saying so, Miss, you have caught me by the short hairs. I suppose I’ve got to admit that it was me that copied the two hands from Miss Llewellyn’s diary the day she so—er—carelessly left it in the social hall. All that I can say is that I did it with the best intentions.”
“Mr. Daniels,” I fumed, “that is the most preposterous thing I’ve ever heard in my life. What right have you—a private manuscript—and who are you, anyhow?”
At this moment the door opened and Jennings came in. He looked surprised to find us holding a conference in his office and the cards on the table must have made the scene similar to one of those old-fashioned pictures—“Gambler’s Ruin or the Road to Hell.”
“Mr. Jennings,” squeaked little Daniels on a falsetto note, “these two have got me in the dock. Now they are asking me who I am. Will you do me the favor to tell them? Yes, yes,” he continued as Jennings hesitated, “you can tell them the truth.”
The exposure of Daniels as a double murderer would, I am sure, have surprised both Adam and me less than what we now heard.
“Mr. Daniels,” replied Jennings calmly, “is a private detective who has been in the service of our line for the past five years. Before that he was at Scotland Yard. He went over to America on the company’s business and is now going to Rio for the same reason. Although he is a valued and trusted employee, he has been traveling as an ordinary first class passenger because—well, perhaps I had better let him tell you that himself.”
I gasped. Funny, chirpy little Daniels an ex-Scotland Yard detective. It was incredible!
“You look surprised, Miss Llewellyn,” said the little Cockney. “Nothing should surprise an American journalist. Yes, I’m a detective all right, though perhaps not the type that you get in your lurid American thrillers. Captain Fortescue was specially anxious for me to travel as an ordinary passenger because there’s a number of international card-sharpers who work this South American trip. Last time the Moderna went from New York to Rio a party committed suicide on board under very suspicious circumstances. A young man he was. He’d been heavily fleeced—”
“And Wolcott?” asked Adam.
“Right the first time,” said Daniels, grinning. “I recognized Wolcott at once as one of the bunch. Someone must have tipped him off as to who I was, because he wouldn’t touch a card until the night of the fancy dress party. Then, he must have thought I was—er—otherwise occupied, because he inveigled two of the wealthiest men on board into a game. They were just sitting down to play at live cents a point when I called him out of the room. I had an idea—”
“But what’s all this got to do with the murder of Mr. Lambert and Betty?” I asked impatiently. “Surely the solution of that mystery is more important than the conviction of an old card sharper—”
Daniels blinked at me and gave a knowing smile. “Naturally, Miss Llewellyn,” he said gravely, “I have devoted all my energies on this trip to the Lambert case. I have, if I may say so, been more busy than you and Mr. Burr. And, I might add—about equally unsuccessful. Captain Fortescue thought I should get further by continuing to mix in with the passengers as one of them. I’ll admit I haven’t got very far, but your journal has helped me considerably from several points of view—”
“My journal! Then it was you behind the curtain that day in the captain’s cabin.”
He nodded. “Perhaps I’d better apologize, Miss Llewellyn. But I’d also like to express my admiration, if you’ll allow me, for the clear way in which—”
“But you had no right,” interposed Adam, “to read it in the social hall without Miss Llewellyn’s permission. That was ungentlemanly and—”
“I’ll admit it,” said the little Cockney a trifle shamefully, “but I’m sure Miss Llewellyn will accept my apologies when she hears my reasons. I did evil, so to speak, that good might come. We were all looking for this party who calls himself Robinson. None of us remember much about him. He was a pretty ordinary person in every way. There was only one thing that stood out in my mind—the badness of his play at bridge. Why, he was even worse than me!”
Daniels paused, almost as if he were waiting for a burst of applause. We all looked at him stonily.
“Well, Mr. Burr,” he continued, “a man may disguise his face, his voice, his figure and his manners, but it is just about impossible for him to disguise his game of bridge. I decided that if I could get Robinson into a rubber—if I could put those same hands before him—he would probably make the same mistakes as he made before. But, you may see my difficulties. I’m not a conjurer. I’m not even a bridge expert. I’m no good at sleight-of-hand or any other parlor tricks. Then suddenly, luck played into my hands!”
“Wolcott!” I exclaimed excitedly.
“That’s the ticket. I caught him sitting down to play bridge for high stakes. I have a good bit of information against him which—well, that’s neither here nor there. At any rate, perhaps I used a certain amount of—er—persuasion. Finally he decided, though much against his will, to put his card-sharping abilities to good use. We went over the two hands and h
e pointed out that, in each instance, there was just one possibility of making a fatal error. Robinson made the mistake both times. Well, Wolcott arranged two packs of cards and we have been trying out those two hands on all the people we could get hold of. We wanted to see if anyone would lead the Jack of Clubs the way Robinson did. Silvera was our latest—er—victim, but unfortunately Wolcott wasn’t feeling very well and must have bungled things. Or, perhaps, that Spaniard is especially keen-sighted.”
“But wouldn’t Robinson remember the hands?” asked Adam, and I could tell that he was fascinated by Daniels’ little scheme.
The detective shook his head. “If Robinson murdered Mr. Lambert,” he said sagely, “he had a good deal more important things to think about that night than the play of the cards. But it is possible that it might be sort of instinctive with him to make the same mistakes, if you see what I mean.”
“And no one has made them yet?” asked Adam excitedly.
“No one so far; we haven’t had a chance to try many people, but we’re hoping to get our opportunity at the bridge tournament tomorrow night. The only trouble is that every man is supposed to play with a woman and I shan’t be able to partner Wolcott.”
“Oh, let me help,” I cried excitedly. “I think it’s a marvelous idea. Not conclusive, of course, but it will at least give us something to go on and help to eliminate a number of people.”
Adam gave me a paternal smile which gradually changed into a severe frown. “No, Mary,” he said grimly. “This is a dangerous business. And if Wolcott were found out again, you’d be involved in a nasty scandal. I can tell you a better idea. Daniels will arrange for you to be Wolcott’s partner and then, just before the tournament starts, you must say you have a splitting headache and retire. I imagine Jennings can arrange for Daniels to take your place.”
The purser nodded. “We’re short of ladies anyhow,” he remarked as he lit his pipe.
“But I shall have to go down to my stateroom and miss all the fun,” I said querulously. “However—I’ll do anything you say to help.”
Burr’s proposal was eagerly agreed to by little Daniels. In the meantime he and Wolcott will carry on the good work of trying to lure any possible Robinson (male or female) into a game, and I am to go round cracking up the bridge tournament and getting everyone to sign up for it. So—if Robinson is a first class passenger, he won’t escape our toils.
Needless to say, Davy, my evening was so full I didn’t get a chance to talk to Mrs. Clapp on the subject of Alfred Lambert. And as I have a hard day ahead of me tomorrow I’d better say good night now, darling.
I blow a kiss to you across the waters—
On Deck,
Saturday, November 21st.
Noon.
We’re in the tropics now, Davy, and no mistake. For the past few days it has been warm, but today is a real scorcher—far too hot at least for the emotional scene which I have just been through. There’s not a breath of air and the Moderna seems to be stationary—“as idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean.” Actually we are making very good time, it seems, and the passengers are all excited over the fact that a record run has just been announced. I say “excited.” As a matter of fact they are lying listlessly about, too hot and lazy to do anything but bore each other.
But I, my lord, have not been idle. Directly after breakfast I decided I must make good my promise to Earnshaw and Mrs. Lambert by interviewing Mrs. Clapp as soon as possible. I hunted around, but I could not find them on deck or anywhere else about the ship. I was told that they have been knocked out of the shuffle-board contest, undoubtedly to their great chagrin, but Daphne (partnered by Daniels) is still a possibility for the deck tennis championship. I made my way to the courts on the upper deck. Daphne was nowhere to be found. As their opponents were waiting for them, anxious to play off the semi-finals before the afternoon heat, I finally volunteered to go and get Miss Demarest from her stateroom.
Accordingly, at about ten o’clock, I knocked at the suite occupied by Mrs. Clapp and her companion. Hearing a noise that sounded like “come in,” I opened the door and entered. I must have been mistaken, Davy, because neither of them could possibly have wanted me or anyone else at that particular moment. Mrs. Clapp was lying on the couch half-dressed in a mauve peignoir and obviously in one of her tantrums. Daphne was standing by the porthole, crying. I say she was crying, my dear. As a matter of fact she was making a noise like a young elephant with a toothache. It must have been one of her snorts that I mistook for permission to enter.
I was just about to state my mission and beat a hasty retreat when Mrs. Clapp sat up on the couch with a theatrical gesture and commanded rather than said:
“Don’t go, Miss Llewellyn. Stay here and try to teach this ridiculous young woman some sense. Apparently I am incapable.”
Daphne had paid no attention when I entered. Hearing Mrs. Clapp’s voice, she turned and faced me. Her nose and eyes were red, her face was streaky and her hair was all at sixes and sevens. Honestly, Davy, she looked perfectly fantastic and even more enormous than usual.
“No bad news, I hope?” I said hurriedly.
“Bad news!” snorted Mrs. Clapp. “Preposterous news, comic news, tragic news—call it what you will! Miss Demarest has just informed me that she intends to get married—in Georgetown of all places!”
Daphne blew her nose into a sopping handkerchief.
“Why, that’s delightful,” I said fatuously. “I suppose it’s Mr. Daniels. I wish you every possible happiness, Daphne.”
“Happiness, Miss Llewellyn? How can you talk of happiness when the granddaughter of an earl marries a common little Cockney nobody of half her size? Why, Mr. Daniels won’t even tell her his profession—if he has one.”
“I can assure you, Mrs. Clapp,” I said chuckling inwardly, “that he has a very reputable profession. Far more so than mine!”
“I don’t care who he is or what he is,” said Daphne fiercely. “He’s rippin’ to me. I like him—”
“You like him, my dear Daphne,” said the great actress in withering tones, “because he is the first man who has ever made a fuss over you. He’s courted you with cheap presents and mash notes as if you were a servant girl. Look, Miss Llewellyn.”
She pointed to a small table which contained about six unopened boxes of chocolates, a geranium in a pot (cut flowers being unobtainable presumably in mid-Atlantic), and a nondescript mother-of-pearl box with a hideous effigy of the Moderna on the lid. This latter article was obviously designed for trinkets, though a more useless possession for the tweed-clad Daphne would have been impossible to imagine.
But there was something incredibly pathetic about the little collection, Davy. One could see how Daniels had tried by his gifts to show this plain, large-boned woman of thirty-five that to him she was a young girl, feminine and desirable. One could see how Daphne, accustomed as she must have been to making a fuss over other people all her life, appreciated these little tributes more than a younger or prettier woman might have done. To her, I felt sure, they were neither comic nor pathetic, even though their giver did not come up to her shoulder and was never too sure of his vowel sounds or aspirates. The marriage may not have been made in heaven, but at least it was more suitable than Mrs. Clapp’s last effort. To my mind the actress was the very last person who had the right to mock at any misalliance.
“Well, Daphne,” I said with forced cheerfulness, “if Mrs. Clapp won’t come to your wedding in Georgetown, I’ll be delighted to give you away and act as maid of honor.”
Mrs. Clapp snorted again. “You probably think, Miss Llewellyn, that my objections are purely selfish. I feel I stand in loco parentis to Daphne. The night of the fancy dress she and Mr. Daniels were making themselves very conspicuous. I reasoned with Daphne; I pleaded with her. I know men. I’ve been married myself several times—and—”
“And as you know very well,” interrupted Daphne with some heat, “you are perfectly capable of marrying several times more. Th
en where would I be! Look at this trip. When you first came on board you swore you’d never look at a man again. You wore all your deepest mourning. You didn’t even ask me to give you face treatments. Now you use a pot of cold cream every night. You’ve got out your Paris frocks, and you make yourself look perfectly stunning—”
Mrs. Clapp preened herself and her ill temper began to disappear visibly. Daphne, you remember, is no fool.
“You can’t blame me for wanting a home of my own,” she continued, seizing her advantage. “A fat lot of good it’s done me to be the granddaughter of an earl. I never got a penny out of it, let alone a husband. Daniels isn’t any Beau Brummel, but he’d never want a great hodge like me if he was. And he’s not so common as you make out, Marcia. His father was a dentist! And I love the little box he gave me and I love him—even if his name is Percy!”
She started to sniff again and I almost felt like joining in, Davy. It ought to have been funny, but there was suddenly something so child-like and defenceless about Daphne that the situation was robbed of its humor and became merely pathetic. And yet, I can understand why the sophisticated Mrs. Clapp, who is genuinely fond of her, wants to save her from making a fool of herself. There’s a great deal to be said for both points of view.
“Daphne, dear,” said Mrs. Clapp a little more gently, “why won’t you trust me more? I’ll give you all you want. You’ll have heaps of opportunities to meet interesting people in South America. Indeed, I am sure a great many men of your own class and—er—size would think you a very fine figure of a woman. Don’t snap up the first man who offers—”
“Nonsense. You know I’m a fright,” snapped Daphne, blowing her nose again and recovering her self-possession with extraordinary rapidity. “And don’t start to tell me I’m a noble character. I’ve heard it all before. And I’m going to marry him, Marcia, so that’s that, tantrums or no tantrums. And now I’m going to play off the tennis semi-finals. We’d have won the shuffle-board yesterday if you hadn’t been flirting with that brown-faced young man from the third class.” Then she added crossly, “Talk about snapping men up. Who has a chance with you about?”