The Steampunk Megapack

by Jay Lake

  I resented his easy assumptions. My acquaintance with Jimmie Laven­der had not been without its practical value, and I had learned to distrust plausible stran­gers.

  “That, I believe, is my friend’s situation, also,” I replied stiffly. “However, he must answer for himself.”

  “Of course,” said he with a court­eous nod. “My respects to him, please. His reputation is well-known to me. My name is Rittenhouse,” he added, hand­ing me his card. “And now I must run along and see what has become of my women.”

  He turned away, and I watched him for a moment as he threaded the crowded deck before I, too, turned and went in search of Lavender. It was Lavender’s vacation, I mused, and I was in a sense his nurse—at any rate, his companion—and I did not intend that he should be bothered, if I could prevent. Not that Lavender was ill, but certainly he was tired; and even if the plausible Mr. Rittenhouse were not a professional gambler, bridge was no game for a man who needed rest.

  I circled the promenade deck in my search, and at length climbed to the boat deck, just in time to see Lavender ap­pear­ at the top of the aft companionway, closely followed by a deck steward dragging a couple of chairs. The detective indicated a spot amid­ships, somewhat sheltered, and ba­lanced on either side by a giant air fun­nel.

  “Dump ’em down here,” he or­d­ered. “Hullo, Gilly! This looks like as good a place as any. A quiet spot on the aft boat deck is always to be preferred to the chat­ter and publicity of the pro­menade. I’m sick of crowds!”

  “See anybody you know?” I asked casually.

  “Nary a soul,” said he, “and don’t want to. I’ve seen the purser, however, and the dining-room steward. We’re to sit at the purser’s table—all men. It’s rough on you, Gilly, but I haven’t enough small talk to be good company for the wo­men.”

  “There are two of them looking for you,” I said grimly, and told him of my meeting with Rittenhouse, at whose card until that moment I had not troubled to look. It revealed that the ­military-­ looking man’s name was Joseph, and that he was a Major, retired, in the United States Marine Corps.

  Lavender snatched the card, as if to verify my assertions, then chuckled de­lightedly.

  “By George!” he cried. “It’s Rit!”

  “You know him, then?” I asked, some­what taken aback.

  “Know him! Why we’ve hunted men together! He served two terms as police commissioner of Los Angeles, where I met him. A better man never held office. And you thought he was a crook!” He chuckled again with great happiness. “Where is he?”

  “Looking for his wife and her sis­ter, I believe.”

  “I must hunt him up. I hope you weren’t rude, Gilly! Anybody else of in­terest on board?”

  “I’ve looked over the passenger list,” I replied airily. “There’s a British lord—Denbigh, I think; a Sir John Rutherford; Betty Cosgrave, the screen actress; an Italian baroness whose name I forget, and the Rev. Henry Mur­chi­son of Cedar Rapids, Iowa.”

  “Good!” laughed Lavender. “You have them pat. The baroness, I fancy, is the dark woman who looked me over carefully as I came on board. She was standing at the rail, and I thought she looked as if she knew me, or believed she did. She looked Italian, anyway, and she was romantic enough looking to be a baroness. I thought for a mo­ment that she was going to speak to me, but if she was she thought better of it.”

  “Confound it, Jimmie,” I said, “I hope you’re not going to be bothered by baronesses or Majors, or Majors’ wives, on this trip; or Majors’ wives’ sisters, either. Your nerves are all shot to pieces.”

  “And you are an idiot,” was the amused reply. “However, I’ll promise not to play bridge.”

  “It would be just our luck to blun­der onto trouble of some sort,” I went on morosely. “Jimmie, if anybody robs the ship’s safe, you are not to interfere. Let the Major run down the thief, since he’s such a good man.”

  He laughed again. “All right,” said he, “I’ll go and see him about it now.” And off he went, to hunt up his erst­while crony, the retired Major and man-hunter, whom, I suspect, he discovered in the smoking-room (which was also the drinking-room), for the bar had been open for several minutes.

  And that is the way it all started, the memorable voyage of the trans-Atlantic liner, Dianthus, which added laurels to the reputation of my friend Lavender, and began his vacation in a manner—from Lavender’s point of view—highly satisfying and success­ful.

  Actually, it was the evening of the second day at sea that the first whisper of the trouble I had predicted reached our ears. My sardonic prophecy, however, was not accurate in its detail. The ship’s safe—if it carried one—re­mained unmolested.

  * * * *

  The day had been warm enough, but the evening called for wraps. The pro­menade deck was a scene of some acti­vity, what with the hustling stewards and the eternally tramping Brit­ons, who toiled around the oval like athletes train­ing on a track. An English­man is never happy unless he is walk­ing or sitting before his fireplace; and the ship had no fireplaces. The boat deck, how­ever, was ­compar­atively de­serted; and Lavender and I, wrapped in our rugs, looked out into the windy darkness and smoked contentedly. Our nearest companions were a spoon­ing couple some yards away, half hidden by fun­nels, and wrapped in blankets and their own emotions. Major ­Ritten­house, a likable fellow, as I had rapidly discovered, had surrendered at dis­cretion, and was playing the amiable mar­tyr in the card room.

  An occasional steward drifted past, and once the second officer of the ship stopped for a word and a cigarette, but for the most part we were left to ourselves.

  “Indeed,” said I, “I believe we have the choice of locations, Lavender.” And at that instant the Italian baroness hove into view.

  Her name, we had discovered, was Borsolini—the Baroness Borsolini. She came forward uncertainly, wa­v­ered in passing, passed on, and in a few mo­ments came back. She was quite alone, and obviously she wished to speak to us. On the third trip she had made up her mind, and came swiftly to our side.

  “You are Mr. Lavender?” she murmured. “I must speak with you. May I sit down?”

  “Of course,” said my friend, and rose to his feet to assist her. “Something is worrying you, I fear.”

  “You are right,” said the baroness. “I am very much afraid.”

  Her English was perfect. Her man­ner was pretty and appealing.

  “Something has frightened you?” asked Lavender encouragingly.

  She bent forward and studied his face closely in the darkness.

  “You are a good man,” she said at length. “I can tell. I think you are a poet.”

  Lavender squirmed and feebly ges­ticulated. Before he could deny the am­azing charge, she had hurried on.

  “Yes, I am afraid. Last night—after I had retired—someone was in my cab­in!”

  “A thief?”

  The words came eagerly from the detective’s lips. In his in­terest, he ­for­got her preposterous notion about his pro­fession.

  “I think so. But nothing was taken away. He did not find what he sought.”

  Lavender’s interest deepened. “What did he seek?” he asked.

  “My jewels,” said the baroness. “What else?”

  “They are valuable then?”

  “They are very valuable, my friend. They are valuable because it would cost a fortune to replace them; but they are priceless because they are my family jew­els. I speak of replacing them, but believe me, they could not be re­placed.”

  My friend’s cap came off to the breeze. “Tell me how you know there was someone in your cabin,” he said.

  “I awoke suddenly—I don’t know why I awoke. I suppose I felt someone there. There were little sounds in the room—soft, brushing sounds—and breathing. Light, so light, I could scar­cely catch it. It was only for an instant, then the man was gone. I must have made some little sound myself that alarmed him. As he went, I almost saw him—you understand?
He seemed to glide through the door, which he had to open to escape. He made no sound, and what I saw was just black against gray as the door opened. I only half saw him—the other half I felt. You understand?”

  “Yes,” said Lavender, “I un­der­stand perfectly.

  But how can you be sure it was a man? Probably it was—but are you sure?”

  “I think so—that is all. It is my feeling that tells me it was a man. I can­not explain—but if it had been a wo­man, I think I should have known.”

  Lavender nodded. “No doubt you are right,” he said. “Whom have you told of this, Baroness?”

  “I have told no one but yourselves. You will advise me whom I should tell?”

  “You had better tell Mr. Crown, the purser. He will, if he thinks best, tell the captain, I suppose, or whoever handles investigations of this sort. At any rate, Mr. Crown is the man to whom the first report should be made. I am sure he will do whatever is necessary. Probably he will have his own way of getting at the man who did this. I would see the purser at once, Baroness, if I were you.”

  She rose promptly. “Thank you. I am sure your advice is good. I shall go to Mr. Crown at once. You are very good.”

  “Meanwhile,” said Lavender, “we shall, of course, say nothing. Good night, Baroness, and I hope you will not be disturbed again.”

  We rose with her, and watched her as she tripped away to the companion­way. With a wave of her hand, she de­scended the steps and vanished. La­v­en­der shoved me down into my chair.

  “Stay here, Gilly,” he said. “I’ll be back shortly.”

  A moment later he, too, ha­d dis­ap­peared in the direction of the lower deck.

  * * * *

  Well, it had come! My unthinking pro­phecy had borne fruit, and Laven­der was already involved. Where would it end? I lay back in my deck chair and earnestly consigned the baroness and her family jewels to perdition. It oc­curred to me that it had been nothing less than criminal for her to come on board our ship with the in­fernal things. She could just as well have waited for the Maltania! And La­v­ender might then have been allowed to have his vacation in peace.

  In ten minutes, the subject of my pat­er­nal flutterings was back.

  “She went, all right,” said he la­con­ically.

  “I should hope she would,” I re­torted. “Did you think she wouldn’t?”

  “I wanted to be sure, Gilly,” ans­wered Lavender kindly. “I’m wonder­ing why she didn’t go to the purser first; why she singled me out for her attention; why she didn’t put her blessed jewels in the purser’s charge when she came on board—it’s the thing to do. I’m also wondering how she knows me. For I’m convinced that she does know me, in spite of her as­sertion that I was singled out be­cause I look like a ‘good man.’ I am more than ever convinced that she recognized me when I came on board. She wanted to speak to me then, although she had no attempted jewel robbery to report yes­terday. Really, it’s all very interest­ing.”

  “Yes,” I admitted, “it is. Do you think there will be another attempt, Jim­mie?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” said he thoughtfully. “In fact, I would almost bet on it.”

  Chapter II

  In the dining saloon, the next mor­n­ing, the company had percept­i­bly thinned out, for a stiff breeze and a choppy sea had sprung up in the night. At the purser’s table, however, we sat six strong, as we had begun the voyage. Crown, the purser, pink complexioned and almost ridiculously fat, beamed good nature upon his charges, from his seat at the head of the table. He was in jovial spirits.

  “If there were a prize offered for the table that showed no desertions,” said he with a chuckle, “I think we should win.”

  Beverley of Toronto, who sat at my left, growled humorously. “There are sev­eral days ahead of us,” he significantly observed. “I, for one, do not intend to crow.”

  Lavender, who had been the last one to sit down, was looking around the room. The Major’s wife, thinking him to be looking in her direction, raised her brows and smiled; and he caught the gesture, and smiled and nod­ded back. He spoke to the purser, beside whom he sat.

  “Two of the notables have not ­ma­t­erialized,” he remarked casually. “The bar­on­ess and the clergyman are miss­ing.”

  The purser looked startled.

  “Yes,” he answered, “I noticed that. Murchison is ill, I hear; but I don’t ­understand the baroness’ absence. She looked to me like a sailor.”

  He seemed worried for a moment, and looked back at Lavender as if long­ing to confide in him; but the presence of the others at the table prevented. Lavender himself, having given the offi­cer the hint he intended, devoted himself to his breakfast. From time to time, however, during the progress of the meal, he glanced toward the baroness’ seat at a neighboring table, as if hoping to see that it had been occupied during the mo­ments of his inattention. But the breakfast hour passed away and the ob­ject of his solicitude did not ap­pear. The purser, too, continued to be worried, although he kept up a lively flow of conversation.

  * * * *

  Outside the saloon door, the de­tective and the ship’s officer paused while the passengers dispersed.

  “She may be ill, of course,” said the purser, at length. It was almost humorously obvious that he would have been relieved to hear that the baroness was very ill indeed.

  “Of course,” agreed Lavender, “but we had better find out. She told you, I suppose, that she came to me first?”

  “Yes,” said the purser, “one of my assistants tried to look after her, but she insisted on seeing me. I’m glad she was so cautious about it. Usually, a wo­man gets excited, tells everybody her difficulties, and then in loud tones de­mands to see the captain. As a result, the trouble—whatever it is—is all over the ship in no time, and everybody is nervous. I sup­pose I’m a fool, Mr. Lavender, but some­how I’m nervous now, myself. I hope there’s no further trouble.”

  “What did you do, last night?”

  “Spoke to the night watchman. He’s supposed to have had an eye on her cab­in all night. Of course, he couldn’t watch it every minute, and do the rest of his work, too; but he was ordered to notice it particularly every time he passed, and to hang around a bit each time. I fancy he did it; he’s a good man.”

  “And the baroness herself?”

  “Refused, in spite of all my persuasion, to place her jewels in charge of my office. Of course, in the cir­cum­stances, if anything does happen to them, it’s her own lookout. Just the same; that sort of thing, if it gets out, gives a ship a black eye, so to speak.”

  “Well,” said Lavender, “we’d better have a look at her cabin. Nobody seems to be interested in our movements. Come on, Gilly!” He started up the stairs to the cabin deck to have a look at her cabin. Nobody seemed to be interested in our movements. “Who is her stewardess, Purser?”

  “Mrs. King, a nice old soul. I spoke to her, too, but all I said was that the baroness was nervous, and to do what she could for her. We’ll see Mrs. King at once.”

  He sighed and rolled heavily away, and we followed closely at his heels, down the corridors of the lurching ­ves­sel to the stewardesses’ sitting room. Mrs. King, however, had nothing to tell us.

  “She didn’t call,” said the woman, “and I didn’t go near her.”

  “She wasn’t down to breakfast this morning,” explained the purser, “and we thought perhaps she was ill. You haven’t been to her cabin yet, this morn­ing?”

  “No, sir,” replied Mrs. King, “hav­ing had the lady’s own orders not to wake her if she didn’t choose to get up.”

  “I see. Well, you must go to her now, and see if she needs you. She may be ill, or she may just have missed the breakfast gong and be sleeping. Give her my compliments, and say that I was inquiring for her.”

  The woman seemed reluctant, and hung back for a moment; then she moved slowly off to the door of the cab­in numbered B–12, where she paused un­certainly.

&nbs
p; “All right,” said the purser im­pa­tiently, “knock, and then go in!”

  Mrs. King timidly knocked, and again stopped as if in apprehension.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Laven­der, in his friendliest tones, seeing that the woman was frightened.

  The ship lurched heavily, lay over for a long moment, and came up again. We all braced our legs and clung to the near­est woodwork.

  “She doesn’t—answer,” said the mat­ron faintly.

  “Open the door!” ordered the pur­ser.

  Thus adjured, Mrs. King turned the handle, and with a terrific effort put her head inside the door. In an instant the head was withdrawn. The woman’s face was pale and scared. The purser looked angry. Lavender, how­ever, knew what had happened. With a quick frown, he pushed past the motionless woman and entered the little cabin, the purser and I at his heels. We filled the place.

  There was no particular disorder. The port stood half open, as it had stood through the night, to allow ­ventilation. On the upholstered wall bench stood the baroness’ bags. Her trunk half projected from beneath the bunk. The curtains blew gently with a soft, swishing sound.

  Even in the bunk itself there was small disorder. Yet beneath the white cov­er­ings, with tossed hair and dis­torted features, the Baroness Borsolini lay dead.

  For an instant, we all stood in si­lence. Then, from the corridor with­out, sounded the frightened whimper of Mrs. King, the stewardess. Laven­der beck­oned her inside, and she docilely obeyed.

  “Stay here until we have finished,” he quietly ordered.

  “Good God!” said Crown, the pur­ser, in awed dismay. Then he continued to stare, without speech, at the bed.

  Lavender bent over the silent fig­ure of the woman who, only the night ­before, had whispered her trouble to him.

  “Strangled,” he murmured softly. “Killed without a sound.”

  “Good God!” said the purser again.

  Once more the stewardess’ scared whimper sounded.

  “Don’t, please,” said my friend, gently. To me, he said, “Gilly, can you say how long she has been dead?”