The Steampunk Megapack

by Jay Lake

  “The individual who killed her was the last person to see her alive,” said Lavender coolly.

  “Of course!” cried the boy. “I didn’t think of that. Say, that’s clever!”

  Lavender smiled a little, not ­dis­pleased by the boy’s quick admiration.

  “I think perhaps you have something to tell us, Mr. Russell,” contin­ued my friend. “Don’t hesitate, if you have. Any information is very wel­come.”

  The Hon. Arthur Russell gulped his tea, suddenly and convulsively, then put it aside.

  “Well, I have!” said he. “Not much—but I’ve got her address!”

  “Her address?”

  “Yes, sir. She gave it to me last night. You see, we had struck up an acquaintance, and we liked each other. We sat out on deck and talked, pretty late. I told her about my school life, and she told me a lot about America; and when we were parting, I said I’d like to write to her. So she gave me her address. Wrote it on a piece of paper and gave it to me. Here it is!”

  With something of the air of a con­jurer, he produced the paper. His youth­ful face was alight with the ex­citement of his news, which he be­lieved to be of the highest importance. He could have been no more than twenty, while the baron­ess had been all of thirty-five, although pretty enough. Apparently, the boy had been greatly smitten. It was rather amus­ing, and rather pitiful.

  As he spoke, he handed Lavender the scrap of paper that he had taken from his pocket.

  “That’s it,” he concluded. “‘Florence, Italy. The Hotel Caravan.’ That’s her writing, sir!”

  Lavender rose to his feet and carried the paper to the light. The boy too rose, and followed him. The interest of both was profound, although for the life of me I could see no reason for excitement in the discovery of the dead woman’s ad­dress.

  “Interesting,” said my friend, at length. “Very interesting indeed! And, if I’m not mistaken, very important, too. I’m really very much obliged to you, Mr. Russell.”

  “I’m glad if it’s a help,” said the boy, flushing. His eyes sparkled. “I’d like to think that I had—” Suddenly he broke off, and his eyes bulged. “Why,” he cried, “you’re looking at the wrong side!”

  “No,” said Lavender, with a little smile, “this is the right side. I saw the other side too, and it’s interesting also—particularly as there is no Hotel Caravan in Florence, that I ever heard of. But it is the reverse that interests me most. You say that she took this paper out of her bag?”

  “I didn’t say so,” answered the boy accurately, “but as a matter of fact, she did. Tore it off a large piece, and wrote on it. That’s her handwriting!”

  He was still stupefied by Lavender’s curious action, and still certain that in a veritable specimen of the baroness’s hand­writing he had furnished us with a sensational clue. But Lavender contin­ued to study the reverse of the fragment. At length, he handed it to me.

  “What do you make of it, Gilly?” he asked.

  I looked, and saw nothing but a frag­ment of what apparently had been a printed form of some kind, for there were upon it several words in small print, and a perforated upper edge. The words were quite meaningless, re­moved from their context. Above the small print, however, was the one word ‘line’ in larger type.

  “A ship’s form of some kind?” I ­haz­arded. “Torn from a book of similar forms?”

  “Exactly,” agreed Lavender. “The word ‘Line,’ of course, is the last word of ‘Rodgers Line.’ The rest, at the mo­ment, means nothing. If we had the whole form, it might be very illuminating.”

  There was a tap on the door, and a moment later Major Rittenhouse en­tered the stateroom.

  “Jimmie,” said the newcomer, “there’s a message coming in for you, upstairs. One of the wireless boys just told me, and asked me to let you know. What’ve you got? Something new?”

  “Yes,” said Lavender. “What do you think of it, Rit?”

  Rittenhouse turned the paper over in his fingers, and at the baroness’ writ­ten name and address, he blinked.

  “We are indebted to Mr. Russell for it,” explained Lavender, and re­peated the young Briton’s story. “But what do you make of the other side, Rit?”

  After some cogitation, the Major made of it exactly what I had made.

  “Well,” said Lavender, with a sigh, “I may be wrong; but I thought I saw more than that.” His eyes narrowed. “I’ll tell you what, Rit,” he added suddenly, “take it to your wife, or her sis­ter, and ask either one what it is. I’ll gamble that one of them will tell you.”

  The Major appeared surprised.

  “Are you joking, Lavender?” His tone was a bit indignant.

  “Not a bit of it. I’m intensely ser­ious. Will you do it?”

  “Yes,” said Rittenhouse. “I’ll do any­thing you say, Jimmie; but I’m damned if I know what my wife has to do with this thing!”

  “Meanwhile,” continued Laven­der, “let’s see what New York has to report on the Baroness Borsolini. I’ve a feel­ing that another revelation is at hand.”

  “May I come?” asked Arthur Russell eagerly.

  “If you like,” smiled Lavender, “but I’ll be right back. Better stay here, all of you. We don’t want to parade about the ship in groups, and start a new set of rumors.”

  He hurried away, and we sat back in our seats and impatiently awaited his re­turn. In a few minutes he was back, with a small square of paper folded in his palm.

  “Another interesting document,” he observed. “This is Inspector Gallery’s re­ply to my request for information concerning the baroness. It is in code, but I have translated it. Bear in mind, Rit, that he didn’t know when he wired that the baroness was dead.”

  He began to read the message.

  “Baroness Borsolini probably Kitty Des­mond, well-known adventuress and in­ter­national character. If she has a small mole at left corner of mouth it is—”

  “She has!” interrupted Arthur Rus­sell, in high excitement.

  “Yes,” said Lavender, “she has.” He continued to read: “—it is almost cer­ain. ­Jew­els probably famous Schuyler jew­els, worth half million, stolen here two months ago. Have cabled Scotland Yard to meet you at Quarantine Gallery.”

  Chapter IV

  At the purser’s table that evening, the murder of the Baroness Borsolini was the sole topic of conversation. We still sat six. Besides Lavender and I and the purser, there were Beverley of Tor­onto, Dudgeon of New York, and Isaac­son of St. Louis. The latter three were acquainted with all the rumors, and they questioned Lavender and the purser diligently. That Lavender was a famous de­tective, and had been placed in charge of the case, was a piece of news that had circulated with the rest of the reports. Our fellow passengers at table felt them­selves very fortunate indeed, to be so ­fortuit­ously placed with reference to the foun­tainheads of information, and I fancy they were vastly envied by passengers at the other tables. Throughout the meal, heads were turned constantly in our di­rection.

  The rotund Crown, who, by virtue of his office, had been harassed even more than had Lavender, was inclined to be reticent and a bit short. Lavender merely smiled coldly, and replied with scrupulous accuracy to all questions leveled at him. The facts, he admitted with­out reserve, but he declined to in­dulge in speculation.

  “It is obviously a case of a falling out of crooks,” he concluded. “I have re­ceived a wireless message from New York, which positively identifies the baroness as a well-known and, if you like the term, a high class crook. The stolen jewels, if they have been stolen—and apparently they have been—are said to have originally disappeared in New York, some two months ago. I have no doubt that the baroness was on her way to Europe with them, and that the divi­sion of spoils was to take place there. Possibly she was to sell them. Her ac­com­plices in the original theft, I should imagine, are for the most part on the way to Europe on other vessels. One, however, it would seem—or, any rate, somebody who knows the truth about the jew
els—is on board this vessel. There is no cause for alarm. The decent passengers are quite safe.”

  “She would have had to smuggle them in, wouldn’t she?” asked Beverley of Toronto. The remark was more of a statement than a question.

  “Yes,” replied Lavender, “but that plan was probably worked out to the last comma. Smuggling offers no great difficulties to a clever person.”

  At the close of the meal, we were surrounded by interested questioners; but not even the wiles of Betty Cos­grave, the screen star, could shake Lavender’s re­serve. We heartlessly left the purser to answer all interviewers, and hurried on deck. On the way up, we passed the cap­tain, a pleasant-faced Englishman some­what past middle life. He had something on his mind.

  “Er—Mr. Lavender,” he ob­served, “Mr. Crown has been keeping me in­formed, of course, of ­this ­ex­ra­ordinary business. Nasty—very nasty indeed! Sin­ister! Mr. Crown, of course, acts for me and for the company. I have no wish to interfere with what is in better hands than my own; but you will understand that I am deeply affected by it all. May I ask whether you anticipate a—a success­ful conclusion?”

  “Entirely successful, Captain Rog­ers,” replied Lavender seriously. “It is the sort of case the very simplicity of which makes it difficult; but I believe it is yield­ing to treatment. I believe, quite hon­estly, that before long I shall be able to present you with the murderer of the Baroness Borsolini, and to turn over the stolen jewels.”

  “Thank you,” said the captain with a nod. “I have every confidence in you. And in Major Rittenhouse, too. Crown tells me you are both quite fam­ous men in your field. I am sorry I could not have you at my table. If I can be of service, please command me.”

  We finished our journey to the boat deck, without further interruption, and found our long-unused deck chairs await­ing us. The night had cleared, but a cold breeze was blowing over the sea, and we wrapped ourselves in rugs to our chins.

  “You seem pretty confident of suc­cess, Jimmie,” I ventured, when our pipes were going strongly, and the mo­ment seemed propitious.

  “I am confident,” said he. “It is be­yond credence that this fellow can es­cape. I am working privately on an idea of my own that, I confess, may not work out; but it looks promising. Frankly, Gilly, it has to do with that fragment of paper that the baroness gave young Russell; but that is all I dare say about it, at present. And I will ask you to keep that much a secret. What I want, of course, is the other piece of the paper—the larger piece.”

  “Did Mrs. Rittenhouse identify it?” I asked curiously.

  “She did,” replied my friend, almost grimly. “She identified it in a moment, because both she and her sister have papers exactly like it. Rit is working with me in this, and I may hear from him at any minute. He is less of a figure than I, in this thing, and can snoop about with less attention.”

  We sat in silence for a few mo­ments, listening to the throb of the ship’s great engines, and the rush of water beyond the white line of the rail. Then I spoke again. “Gallery was a bit previous, wasn’t he, Jimmie, in cabling Scotland Yard to help you?”

  “No, it was all right,” replied my friend, with a little smile. “Don’t be jeal­ous, Gilly. I know exactly why Gallery did that. He thought that I might, at the last moment, feel some embarrassment in using the wireless; that is, that I might find myself in a position where I could not use it without be­traying my suspicions, whatever they might be, to the person suspected. He anticipates that my use of the ship’s wireless, if my act­ions are being watched—and, rest as­sured, they are being watched—may alarm the murderer. It was a piece of clear think­ing on Gallery’s part, a resourceful man’s safe­guard against chance or pro­babil­ity.”

  I nodded, and again we sat with­out speech, until a step sounded along the boards, and the tall figure of the Major hove in view. Rittenhouse seated himself without a word beyond a greeting, and for a few moments we all smoked in silence.

  “Murchison is still ill,” he said, “but he’s coming around. I’ve seen him again. He has nothing to add to his first statement. He saw no one but the stewardess last night; he is willing to swear to that. I’ve had another whirl at Dover, the watch­man, too. He now re­members see­ing the doctor leave Mur­chison’s cabin. The incident made no impression on him, and he didn’t think of it before; it was just a part of routine to him, to see Brown in attendance somewhere or other. All in all, Jimmie, there is no escaping your con­clusion, and I am prepared to accept it.”

  “Yes,” replied Lavender, “it’s pretty certain; but the fellow must be made to betray himself. We haven’t enough to go on, as it is. It’s dangerously near being guesswork. You asked Crown about the baroness’s papers?”

  “I did. He has them in safekeep­ing. Not a thing in them, he says, that gives us a clue.”

  Lavender smiled. “There wouldn’t be,” he rejoined laconically. “Anyway, I’ve been through them twice, myself.”

  “However, I told him of the fragment of paper Russell gave you,” continued Rittenhouse. “It startled him.”

  “When are you going to tell me?” I demanded, at this juncture. “Where do I come in, Jimmie? Can I do no­thing?”

  Lavender turned to me very ser­i­ously.

  “The fact is, Gilly,” he said, “you will be a much better witness in all that is to follow, if you know nothing for a while. You can do one thing, though; you can keep an eye on me! I mean it. The fat is in the fire, if I’m not mistaken, and from now on, I shall be a marked man. I shall go calmly about my business, as if all were well, and it is up to you and Rit to see that I don’t get a knife in my back, or something equally unpleasant. Rit and I know the murderer. The question is: does he know that we know? I don’t think he suspects Rit; but he may suspect me. And the more innocent you appear, Gilly, the better it will be all around. But keep your eyes open.”

  “All right, Jimmie,” I replied obediently. But I was horrified by the turn the case was taking, and for a long time I sat and thought deeply, while the two cur­ious fellows who were with me ac­tually sat and talked about base­ball.

  Who, by any chance, could have com­mitted the crime? Who had the op­por­tunity? I faced the problem squarely, and admitted that there were plenty of persons who could have done it. In addi­tion to the great numbers of obscure passengers, first and second class, who had not even been named in the inquiry, there were undoubtedly half a dozen prin­cipals who might very well be definite suspects. The second class outfit, I was inclined to disregard, for a second class passenger surely would have been noticed by one of the stewards, if he trespassed on holy ground. And yet, as I came to think of it, was there so much difference between a first and a second class passenger? Actually, I was forced to admit, there was none, so far as ap­pearance was concerned. Of the principal figures, however, five at least, as I now numbered them, stood forth clearly as possibilities. All had been, or could have been, near the scene of the murder at the time it occurred. And with something of a thrill, I realized that I must add young Russell to the list. I did not for a moment suspect him, but for that matter I hardly suspected any of the others.

  And Lavender was in actual, active danger of one of them! Clearly, there was only one thing for me to do, and that was to watch everybody. I resolved to watch the entire ship, from the captain on down, not excluding Rittenhouse him­self. Since I was to be Lavender’s guard­ian, by Heaven, I would suspect ­every­body!

  In this frame of mind, I went to bed and dreamed a mad, fantastic dream in which the captain of the liner, which curiously had become a pirate ship, stole into Lavender’s stateroom and stabbed him with a ­fragment of paper, while the Baroness Bor­sol­ini joined hands with Rit­ten­house and danced around them. Waking with a start, I sat up and listened. Finally, I knocked three times on the wall of my cabin, and listened again. After a pause, there came back to me Lavender’s reply, in similar code. And after this performance, I turned over and managed to get to sleep.

>   * * * *

  The morning of the fourth day broke clear and fair and cold. I went at once to Lavender’s room, to find him already up and gone. He did not ap­pear until breakfast, and I had no op­portunity to ask him where he had been; but it oc­curred to me that he was not playing fair. If I was to guard him against assassination, he ought at least to keep me posted as to his move­ments. So I thought.

  Breakfast passed with the usual chat­ter about the uppermost subject in every­body’s mind, and at a table not far ­re­moved from ours sat Murchison, the Iowa clergyman, eating his first meal in the saloon. He looked pale and thin, but happy to be on earth and able to eat. Later, I saw him in conversation with the purser, and still later with the captain. Was he, then, the heart of the mystery, and were the coils beginning to tighten?

  Lavender too had a brief talk with the captain, after which they vanished in company, while Rittenhouse and the pur­ser talked in low tones at the door of the latter’s office. Obviously, something was afoot, and I felt strangely out in the cold. Then Mrs. Rittenbouse, and her sister, Miss Renshaw, corralled me, and for an hour I was forced to sing the praises of my friend Lavender to their admiring accompaniment.

  After this, however, the suppressed excitement seemed to loosen up, and for an entire day the routine of ship life went quietly forward with only casual mention of the crime. Some gayety was even apparent in the lounges and in the smok­ing rooms, and I reflected sar­donically on the adaptability and the callousness of human nature. The fifth day would be the last on board, for the sixth morning would bring us into port. It was this knowledge, I suppose, that cheered the passengers, although the Lord knew that the voyage had been anything but bore­some.

  When I asked Lavender what progress had been made, he answered merely that he was “waiting.”

  * * * *

  ON the fifth morning, I suddenly re­membered that this was the ­an­ni­ver­sary of my birth—not a ­par­tic­ularly sig­nificant occasion, Heaven knows, but at least a subject for tri­vial conversation. Lavender, how­ever, greeted the tidings with singular ­en­thus­iasm, and promptly ordered a splen­did dinner for the evening; Rit­ten­house ordered wine dur­ing the after­noon, to drink my health, and Mrs. Rittenhouse and her sister em­bar­rassed me immensely by present­ing me with ridiculous speeches, with tiny bot­tles of perfume and of post-shaving lotion, purchased of the ship’s barber. The dinner went off with gusto, with everybody or­dering cham­pagne and mak­ing ­id­iotic ad­dresses, to which I lamely re­sponded.