by Q. Patrick
At first I thought Daphne must be pulling the old lady’s leg, Davy, but she was obviously in earnest. Indeed she was just about to stalk out of the room when I remembered that it was her swain who was waiting for her on the upper deck. As her nose was shining like the Pole Star, I begged her, in the name of womanhood and decency, to fix herself up a bit. She retired to the bedroom without a word and finally left, slamming both doors after her. Mrs. Clapp was not to have a monopoly on tantrums!
When she had gone I was invited quite amicably to stay and have a chat. Like most actresses, Marcia Manners is one of the vainest creatures on God’s earth, Davy (not without reason, of course), and I soon had her in the best of humors. We talked about Daphne for a while and then very cunningly I shifted the conversation to Mrs. Clapp’s attraction for men and the brown-faced young man in particular. Suddenly I sprung my bolt.
“There’s a man on board who reminds me very much of your nephew, Alfred Lambert. I met him once some time ago” I added mendaciously. “I wondered if perhaps—”
“Alfred! On this boat!” Her face had gone very pale. “Why that’s impossible. He’s in the Argentine. And how on earth did you know him?”
My reply was evasive, Davy, but she was looking at me so hard and so searchingly that I felt positive she could see through my little strategy. Her tone, however, was elaborately casual as she continued:
“Talking of Alfred reminds me that I really ought to call on Mrs. Lambert. After all, I am in a sense related to her. She’s Alfred’s stepmother, though he’d hate to admit it. And I’m his aunt. I haven’t even offered her my sympathy yet, though I know she knows that I consider her very well rid of that old tomcat. I don’t want the wretched woman to think I’m a hypocrite.”
“Talking of cats,” I expostulated weakly, “I don’t think Mrs. Lambert is a wretched woman at all. I quite like her now.”
“Oh, she’s attractive enough as a person, my dear, but the world’s worst actress. The very, very worst. And her old noodle of a husband simply used to force her into all the best parts in his shows. It was quite a scandal. Still, I think I’ll go and see her. What’s happened to the rather nice looking man who was her husband’s secretary? The one like John Gilbert or Ramon Novarro or someone? Yes, I’ll certainly go and see her.”
“That would be very kind,” I said. “And you would be just the person to take poor Mr. Earnshaw out of himself a bit. Betty’s death has upset him fearfully. The only time I’ve seen him look like a human being since then was the night of your monologue. He admires you—your acting tremendously.”
“Yes, that’s a good idea,” she said musingly. “I ought to call on Mrs. Lambert. I’d better get out my black again, I think. Have you seen this little model I got from Lelong? It’s very suitable.”
We talked a bit more, Davy, about nothing in particular, but she resisted my every effort to bring the conversation back to young Lambert. Frankly, I was afraid to press her, as I felt I had already been clumsy in approaching the subject. Marcia Manners is the most kaleidoscopic of people and you never know which of her many personalities she is going to switch on next. Just as I was leaving, I remembered my second mission.
“Have you entered the bridge tournament?” I asked.
“No, my dear,” she replied, as she performed some mystic operation on her face before the mirror. “The men are all so hideous on the boat that there’s not one I could bear to have sit in front of me for two hours on end.”
“How about the man in the third class that Daphne spoke of?” I asked innocently.
Mrs. Clapp looked very red as she removed a thick gelatinous substance from her chin and cheeks.
“Hardly convenable, my dear. People would talk. Now I wonder if Mr. Earnshaw—or perhaps it’s all too recent.”
“Good idea!” I remarked, “and he is certainly easier on the eyes than some.”
After this I took my leave with the happy thought that, even if I haven’t found out much, I have at least given Mrs. Lambert and Earnshaw a chance to do their own probing with regard to the mysterious young Alfred.
But, I almost forgot to tell you the big news. She’s offered me Daphne’s job if the marriage really comes off at Georgetown. I told her that I had other plans, in which you are intimately concerned, Davy boy. We compromised on my writing her biography the next time she’s in New York. I shall call it, YOUNG MEN I HAVE MARRIED Or BETWEEN BOX OFFICE AND ALTAR.
But for all her frivolity and her fickleness with husbands and companions, Marcia is no fool either.
In fact, she’s a very clever woman. Never forget that, Davy dear.
Stateroom,
Saturday, November 21st.
6:30 P. M.
By this time, Davy, I imagine you are just about as sick of theories as I am. Everybody seems to have one and they are all different.
But, at least—as the dear little boy said when he saw the “Sign of the Cross”—“there’s one poor lion that ain’t got no Christian.” For I myself have no theory. In fact, I’m in such a fog listening to other people’s that I really don’t know what I do think about it all. All I know is that everyone seems to suspect someone else, whereas to my mind no one is above suspicion, least of all, perhaps, the most subtle of the theorists. The trouble is that there are too many suspects and all too few tangible clues.
Now, at the risk of boring you I must tell you all about Adam’s theory—and a perfectly startling one it is too. We spilled the beans to each other on the upper deck this afternoon.
It was too hot to do anything but talk, so I got gossipy and told him all about my visit to Mrs. Lambert and Earnshaw. After that I gave him a somewhat exaggerated and facetious account of my interview with Mrs. Clapp and Daphne earlier in the day. He listened very attentively, as though he were balancing my words in relation to some ideas of his own. After I had finished he did not speak for several minutes. Finally he said:
“You know, Mary, for several days now I’ve had a perfectly fantastic notion which I haven’t dared to mention even to you—in the first place, because you are such a lioness in defense of your own sex, in the second place, because I don’t want you to think me more of a nut than you do at present.”
“You’re nutta nutta tall,” I remarked flippantly. “But what has my sex got to do with it?”
“Nothing has struck you as odd about at least two people on the boat? No? Well, let me explain something in your unsophisticated little ear. You’ve been in love, I presume.”
“Your presumption,” I replied, “is perfectly justified, but we didn’t come up here to discuss love.”
Adam sighed romantically. “Alas, no. But I must remind you that two of our fellow passengers are on the brink of matrimony. Neither of them is what you might vulgarly describe as a spring chicken. Neither of them can be said to exude that strange indefinable something which used commonly to be known as sex appeal. I cannot speak for Daniels’ hidden charms, but as a mere man of normal instincts it is impossible for me to understand how any male under six feet ten can possibly be in love with that armor-plated Amazon who—”
“Rot,” I said angrily, “just because you are crazy about brainless little nincompoops with nothing but curls or curves to recommend them, it doesn’t follow that some men haven’t got enough gumption to like a sensible sort of woman, even if she isn’t any lingerie ad.”
Adam sighed and patted the region of his belt. “I like you, my dear. You have curls, curves and brains, but you interrupt me frightfully, and, like all women, you make things so unpleasantly personal. Look at the thing more judicially. Daniels is a detective, as we know. He comes on board this ship and presumably falls head over heels in love with this great big penniless Englishwoman. Of what does the courtship consist? Billets doux which she shows round to all and sundry; boxes of chocolate which are so large that no one could fail to see them; compliments which are so loud that the whole boat hears them. But have we ever caught them whispering sweet nothings into each other’
s ears by moonlight? Have we seen them deliberately trying to escape the public gaze? Have we seen them doing all those hundred and one little things which you and I would be doing if it had happened to us? We have not.”
“When the really big things in life happen to us,” I protested, “we don’t give a damn about the public. And poor little Daniels is far too busy trying to solve two mysteries to have any time for sweet nothings on the upper deck.”
“And then Mrs. Clapp,” he continued, ignoring my interruption. “Why does she make so much fuss about Daphne’s laggard lover? Why does she act as though this young Lochinvar from Scotland Yard had come to steal a pearl of great price? Why does she lay such emphasis on Daphne’s womanhood? Why—because I don’t believe that Daphne is a woman at all and I don’t believe that Daniels believes it either.”
He got up and started to pace excitedly up and down the deck.
“Now,” he continued, “let’s go back to Earnshaw’s theory, which fits in admirably with mine. He suspects that young Alfred Lambert is on board this ship. He says that he and Mrs. Clapp are—or have been—friendly. She is his aunt. Now do you see what I’m driving at? Now do you understand Daniels’ motive in these preposterous attentions towards a woman twice his size?”
“Yes, yes, I see your idea,” I cried, “but you are missing one very important point in feminine psychology, Adam Burr. You are—”
Later,
Stateroom.
The rest of that sentence, Davy, will never, never be written. So many terrible things have happened since I started to write it that my views on feminine psychology must pass into the limbo of things unimportant and forgotten.
My hand is still shaking so that, as you will see for yourself, my writing is almost illegible. But let me reassure you, darling—I’m locked and bolted in my stateroom now and there is a grim-faced guard in the corridor outside. And I am still alive and completely unharmed—that’s something to be thankful for.
I was just finishing up my last installment at about seven o’clock this evening—in a hurry as usual, as it was about time to dress for dinner. And, as usual, I was sitting on the foot of my berth, the writing pad on my knee and my back to the door. The ship was very quiet. Suddenly I heard a faint noise behind my head and, at the same moment, the awful thought came to me that I had forgotten to slip the bolt. Without daring to move, I lifted my eyes to the mirror above the wash basin. Even in the dim light of my cabin I could see that my door was slowly opening!
The minute that followed was so packed with sensation that it seemed to last for hours, and I could go on describing it for pages. I remember shrinking into myself as I huddled against the side of the narrow berth, back of the door which, silently and relentlessly, was opening to give something entrance into my room. The noise of the engines, even the occasional lapping of the waves against the porthole, seemed to have ceased for a moment, as if the ship itself and the very elements were waiting to listen—watching to see what would happen.
There was a bell at the head of my bed—just out of reach. But I did not dare to move a finger towards it. Some deep-rooted instinct, some sixth sense told me to keep perfectly still because I knew it was important that I should see who was entering my room. This instinct (call it curiosity, if you like) must have been even stronger than the thought of self-preservation.
I was gazing into the mirror, fascinated—like a rabbit watching the deadly approach of a weasel. In the gradual widening space between the edge of the door and the jamb I could still see nothing except the dim outline of the stateroom opposite. And then, suddenly—stealthily—the reflection of a face appeared in the glass; a face pressed, listening, against my door. It became more and more distinct, and then—Davy, even now my head reels when I think of it and my heart thumps so hard that it seems to shake the earth.
In the mirror I saw it was—Robinson!
Even in the dim obscurity there was no mistaking him, though either it was too dark or I was far too upset to take in any details that might throw further light on his identity. But all the things I remember were there—the thick glasses, the thick brown hair, and that smoothly smooth tanned face. The features were commonplace enough and yet somehow they inspired a feeling of revulsion and horror that was almost overwhelming. My hands grow cold and clammy as I recall them.
At first I thought he did not see me. He was peering around the room as though looking for something. By now I could tell that he was dressed in a dark suit and wore a black tie. Then I saw something else. It was the dull gleam of blue steel in his hand. Davy darling, he had a revolver.
I am thankful that I was too petrified to scream. I know that, had I done so, I should not be writing this to you. One sign of the panic I felt—one false move towards the bell—and it would have been all over. But as he stood there behind me and I watched his blurred reflection in the mirror, I lived through an eternity.
Then, suddenly, I felt something that was even colder and more deadly than the numbness of my own senses. There was a slight movement in the mirror and I was conscious of the pressure of cold steel against my left shoulder—a horrible, downward pressure which told me that his revolver was pointed towards my heart.
At that moment, Davy, I felt positive he was going to kill me as he had undoubtedly killed Mr. Lambert and Betty. A thousand thoughts flashed through my head in the split fraction of a second. I thought of you and asked myself, for some absurd reason, whether you would be left saddled with our new apartment. I thought of Adam and the others on board ship who would try frantically to solve this third mystery. Then I found myself wondering whether death would be painful and began to speculate philosophically as to what would come next. I suppose desperation must have lent me a certain amount of courage, or indifference, for I suddenly heard myself saying in a voice that seemed to come from miles away:
“Please, Mr. Robinson, get it over with quickly. Your pistol is hurting my shoulder.”
There was a fragment of a laugh from behind me: a malevolent little cackle. The pressure of the steel was increased until I felt that he must be boring a hole right through me. Normally it would have been agonizing, but I was so anesthetized by the horror of the situation that I did not really feel the pain. The spot is still livid on my skin.
“Don’t move a muscle and above all, don’t turn your head!” The high-pitched voice, obviously another part of the disguise, was exactly as I remembered it during that fatal bridge party.
I sat perfectly still, but my eyes were still watching him in the mirror.
“I shan’t hurt you if you do exactly what I tell you. I want that journal of yours—get up and get it without turning round!”
Still I did not move.
“Get up,” he repeated.
“Mr. Robinson,” I said in a low voice, “my journal is locked in the captain’s safe with the exception of these two pages. If you would like to come with me I will be glad to go and fetch it—or, perhaps, you would rather wait.”
The pressure of the revolver barrel against my back was somewhat relaxed.
“You swear it isn’t here?”
“I swear it. And I’m afraid you’ve wasted your time.”
Once again I heard that ominous little laugh. “I’ve wasted my time, have I?” he muttered. “Well, it won’t be altogether wasted—”
As he spoke there was a click and the cabin was plunged into comparative darkness. He had turned off the lamp behind me. I could no longer see his face in the mirror, but I knew he was there because I still felt, or imagined I felt, the pressure of the revolver on my shoulder.
Then something happened, Davy, the very thought of which makes me feel sick with horror at this moment. An arm was thrown about my neck and I felt my head tilted backward. Before I realized what was happening, I was conscious of warm human breath in my nostrils and a mouth was pressed against mine in the most loatnsome kiss it is possible to imagine. And even at the time I know why it was so loathsome.
Davy darling, hi
s lips tasted of blood!
Something snapped inside my brain. Let him shoot; let him kill me; let him do anything, but I had to escape from tha hideous embrace—from the horror of those vampire lips. I struggled like a fly in a spider-web but the arm around my neck felt like a steel band. I could not cry out. The pressure of the mouth was stifling against mine. Then suddenly, I caught the faint outline of the bell. My arm was close against the button. With all my strength I pushed against it, grinding my elbow into the socket.
I don’t quite know what happened next, but suddenly I heard the door slam and realized—with what relief you can imagine—that I was alone. Far in the distance I could hear the peal of the bell. Louder and louder it sounded until it seemed that the whole ship must hear it. Surely Trubshaw would come; surely someone was near at hand to help me. But there were no reassuring footsteps.
I staggered into the corridor. “Steward, steward,” I screamed. But still the ever-faithful Trubshaw did not appear. The passengers were busy dressing for dinner and, though two or three female heads popped out of doors for a moment, no one came to my assistance.
At last (and I suppose all this actually took about three seconds of time) my middle-aged stewardess came bustling up.
“Is there anything I can do, Miss?” she said. “Mr. Trubshaw don’t seem to be here and I was off duty, but—” Then she gave one look at my bleeding mouth and dishevelled hair—“are you hurt, Miss?”
“A man,” I gasped, “did you see a man in a dark suit leave my stateroom?”
“I passed one in the passage just now,” she said. “He went into the gents’ lavatory—”