The Blind Barber (Dr. Gideon Fell series Book 4)

by John Dickson Carr

  Warren muttered something in muffled surprise, after which they noted something else. Coming down the staircase a short distance behind them shuffled the big and amiable figure of Captain Valvick, whose sandy hair was brushed up straight and his leathery face once more netted with wrinkles as he listened to some tale. The tale was being told him, in fact, by Mr. Charles Woodcock. Mr. Woodcock, who freely described himself as the Bug-powder Boy, seemed excited. Invariably, when excited his thin frame seemed to hop and twist; an optical illusion, because he kept his eyes fixed on your face while he poured out a rapid string of words in a confidential undertone.

  “What’s Valvick up to?” demanded Warren. “All the allies seem to be working except us. Have you noticed our square-head’s been keeping away from Woodcock, because they’re both powerful yarn-spinners and they put each other out like a couple of forest fires? Well, then, look how quiet he’s keeping and tell me what’s on his mind.”

  Morgan didn’t know; he supposed it was Mr. Woodcock’s version of what had occurred last night. If so conservative a Presbyterian as Dr. Oliver Harrison Kyle had suggested rape, then he shuddered to think of the goings-on that would present themselves to the versatile imagination of the Bug-powder Boy. The dining-saloon was rapidly filling up, pulsing now with a joyous babble and clamour as of prisoners released, but they heard Mr. Woodcock’s hearty voice. He said, “All right, old socks. Don’t forget to tell your pals,” and slapped Captain Valvick on the back as he went towards his own table.

  With a puzzled expression Valvick lumbered towards their table. He beamed a good morning, swung round his chair, and uttered the word:

  “Mermaid!”

  Morgan blinked. “Don’t,” he said. “For God’s sake stop! That’s enough. If anybody tells me that Captain Whistler was chasing a mermaid around C deck last night, the last shred of my sanity will be gone. Don’t say it! I can’t bear to hear any more!”

  “Eh?” said Valvick, staring. “What iss dis? Ay nefer hear anyt’ing like dat, dough ay haff a mess-boy once who say he hass seen one. Dis iss Mr. Woodcock’s invention—ay tell you about it, but ay haff to listen to him a lot because he know a lot about diss crook … ”

  Valvick sat down.

  “Listen! Ay got bot’ de hatches full off news. Ay tell you all about it, but first ay tell you de most important. Captain Whistler want all of us up in his cabin after breakfast, and—coroosh!—he t’ink he know who de criminal is.”

  10

  Dramatis Personæ

  AFTER THE CAPTAIN HAD ordered porridge and the table steward had gone, a rather nervous Warren put down his coffee-cup.

  “Knows who the criminal is? He’s not getting any funny ideas, is he? About us, I mean?”

  Chuckling, Valvick made a broad gesture. “Coroosh, no! Not at all. Dat ain’t it. Ay dunno yust what it is, but he send Sparks to my cabin to say we all got to come up after mess. Sparks say de captain get a wireless message, but he will not tell me what iss in it until we see old Barnacle.”

  “I wonder,” said Morgan.

  “So dat remind, and ay say to Sparks—iss de wireless-operator; all de wireless-operators iss Sparkses, you see—ay say, ‘Sparks, you wass on duty yesterday afternoon, eh?’ And he say, ‘Yes.’ And den ay say, ‘Sparks, do you remember when de old man receive dat first message about de crook, and hass a row wit’ you? Wass dere some odder people in de cabin wit’ you at de time?’ When he says yes, den ay describe dat girl we find cracked on de head last night, and ay say, ‘Sparks, was she dere?’ (All Sparkses is hawful wit’ de ladies, so ay know he remember her if she wass.) Halso, if she send or receive a message, he iss going to know her name, eh?”

  “Neat!” said Warren. “Swell! Who was she?”

  “Ahhhh, dass de trouble. He remember her, but he dunno. Dere was several people, and halso a cousin of Sparks which is travelling as a passenger. She came in, and see dere is people in a waiting-line, so he guess she don’t want to wait and she turn round and go out; he say she hass got ’ands full of papers. No matter! We find out when we know who iss missing. Now is de part I want to tell you … ”

  The porridge had arrived. Captain Valvick emptied the creamjug over it, bent his vast shoulders, adjusted his elbows in a wing-like spread, and spoke between excavations.

  “Well, we get to talking, you see, and ay give him a drink of Old Rob Roy, and he say, ‘Coroosh! Captain, but my cousin Alick could haff use dis whisky last night.’ Den he tell me his cousin Alick hass suffered somet’ing hawful with de yumping toothache, and de doctor hass give him somet’ing to put on it, but it don’t do no good. And ay say, ‘So-ho?’ ay say, ‘den he should haff come to me, for ay know somet’ing dat cure him bing-bing.’ It iss composed—”

  “Not to interrupt you, Skipper,” said Morgan, who was keeping a wary eye out for a signal from Peggy at the Perrigords’ table, “but are you sure this is strictly—”

  “Ay am sure, you bet!” returned the other, with snorting excitement. “Listen. He say, ‘Den ay wish you would go see him,’ Sparks say; ‘he iss only round in C 47 … ’”

  “Sorry,” said Morgan, and jerked his head back. “C 47, eh? Well?”

  “So we go to C 47, which iss in de gangway just hopposite Dr. Kyle’s. Eh? And hiss cousin is walking round in circles with de ’ot-water-bag, and sometimes he go and bump his head on de bulkhead, and say, ‘Coroosh! ay wish ay wass dead,’ and ay pity de poor fallar hawful. So ay write out what he hass to get at doctor’s, and send Sparks for it. In fife minutes dat pain go, and de poor fallar can’t believe it, and he got tears in his eyes when he t’ank me. Oh, ay forgot to tell you he iss a prizefighter which is called de Bermondsey Terror. He hask me if dere is somet’ing he can do for me. Ay say no, and ay give him a drink of Old Rob Roy, but ay got a hidea yust de same.”

  With a massive finger the captain tapped the table.

  “Like diss. In de night ay am t’inking to myself, and all of a sudden ay yump up in my bunk, and t’ink, ‘Coroosh! Maybe de doctor and de odders iss honest people, but suppose diss crook sneak into de cabin where Miss Glenn t’row dat hemerald? … ’”

  Morgan nodded. The old skipper was no fool. It took some time for his clicking mind to mesh its wheels, but he arrived. This idea, bringing new implications to worry Warren, caused a silence to fall on the table.

  “You don’t mean”—Warren gulped—“you don’t mean—?”

  “Oh! no! But ay t’ank ay better ask de Bermondsey Terror. Ay say, ‘You wass up all night wit’ de toothache?’ He say yes. Ay say, ‘Did you hear any yumps and yitters out on de deck?’ He say, ‘Yes, ay t’ank ay hear a woman say, “Sock him again,” but ay feel too bad to go see what it iss; besides,’ he say, ‘ay haf de port closed so ay don’t catch cold in de yaw, and can’t hear much, but,’ he say, ‘it iss close in de cabin, and ay haff de door fastened open.’ Dat is de way wit de lime-yuicers. Dey iss hell on cold air. Ay wass in yail once in Boston wit’ a lime-yuicer, and all he do all de time iss to squawk about dat yail because it hass got steam heat … ”

  “And the Bermondsey Terror,” said Morgan, “was up all night, and could see Kyle’s door?”

  “Dat iss right,” agreed the captain. “And he swear nobody go down dere all night. So ay got somet’ing off my mind.” He heaved a wheezy sigh.

  Observing that Warren was about to construe this into further proof of Kyle’s guilt, Morgan said, hastily: “You’ve accomplished lots of work before breakfast, Captain. Was there anything else? What’s this you say about Woodcock knowing something?”

  “Ah! Yes, yes. Ay almost forget!” The captain gave a mighty flip of his spoon. “But ay dunno yust what to make of it. Dat Woodcock iss a funny fallar, you bet. Efery time he talk business, he try to use de subtlety and den ay dunno what he iss talking about. But he say it iss a business proposition. He say he want to speak to Mr. Warren, and he got a deal to make if Mr. Warren will talk turkey. First, he knows what happen last night … ”

  “I’ll bet
he does,” said Warren, grimly. “What’s his version?”

  “No, no, no! Dat iss de funny part. Ay t’ank he know most of it for sure, all except about de girl.”

  Warren seized the edge of the table. “You don’t mean he knows about Uncle Warpus or that film?”

  “Well, he knows somet’ing about a film, ay tell you dat. He iss a smart man. What all he know ay dunno, but he sort of hint he know plenty about diss crook.” Valvick stroked his moustache, scowling. “You better talk to him. De point iss diss. He has invented something. It iss a bug-powder gun wit’ a helectric light.”

  “A bug-powder gun with an electric light?” repeated Morgan, rather wildly. He dismissed the idea that this might be some singular kind of nautical metaphor. “What the hell is a bug-powder gun with an electric light? This strain is gradually sapping my mental powers. I’m going mad, I tell you. Skipper, haven’t we got enough on our minds without you babbling about bug-powder guns and electric lights?”

  “Ay am not babbling!” said the captain, with some heat. “Dat is yust what he tell me. Ay dunno how it vurk, but it iss somet’ing you use to kill de mosquitoes in de dark. He say it will refolutionise de bug-killing profession, and he iss going to call it de Mermaid. He say it can also be used on bedbugs, cockroaches, earwigs, caterpillars, red ants, horseflies … ”

  “I have no doubt,” said Morgan, “that it will enable a good shot to bring down a cockroach at sixty yards. But get back to the subject. Whether or not it has something to do with us, we have more immediate concerns. Dr. Kyle, skipper, did not find the emerald in his cabin this morning. Thanks to you and the Bermondsey Terror, we’ve proved that the Blind Barber didn’t get in to pinch it, either … That leaves the Perrigords. It’s got to be the Perrigords. They’re our last hope. Of course the Perrigords have got it! That’s why Peggy is staying so long over there … ”

  Warren tapped his arm.

  “She’s giving us the high sign now,” he said, in a low voice. “Don’t turn round too obviously now, but have a look. No, wait a minute. It’s no secret stuff. She wants us to come over to the table.”

  “De odder people haff got de emerald?” inquired Valvick, peering over his shoulder. “Haa! Den dat iss all right. Ay tell you ay wass worried.”

  “Lord! I hope so,” said Morgan, fervently. “But Peggy doesn’t look too pleased. Finish your breakfast, Skipper, and then join us. Get ready, Curt. Did you finish that article?”

  “Sure I did,” retorted Warren. He spoke out of the corner of his mouth as they moved out across the dance floor towards the other table. “And don’t go making any cracks about my education either. I can tell you all about it. It seems Peggy’s uncle is the goods. As a classic dramatist he is an eight-cylindered wow, and there’s been nobody like him since Molière. If any impertinent criticism of his jewelled lines can be made by one, one would say a certain je ne sais quoi. I should possibly suggest the introduction of certain deft touches of realism into the speech of, say, so human and breathing a figure as the Knight Roland or the crafty Banhambra, Sultan of the Moors which would lend an element of graphic power … ”

  “An element,” said the loud, concise voice of Mr. Leslie Perrigord in the flesh, “of graphic power. And that is all.”

  Morgan looked him over as he sat stiffly upright at the breakfast-table, holding a fork with its prongs against the cloth and e-nun-ci-a-ting his words through stiff jaws. There was nothing effeminate or lackadaisical about Mr. Leslie Perrigord, that element which most irritated Morgan in the species intellectual. Mr. Perrigord looked as though he could pull his weight in a crew or handle a skittish horse. A tall lath with thin blond hair, a hooked nose, and a mummified eye, he simply talked. He looked at nothing in particular. He seemed far away. If you had not seen the feathery blond moustache floating as in an icy breeze, you would have sworn it was an effect of ventriloquism. But (once started) he showed no disposition to leave off talking.

  A measured stream of hooey flowing from Mr. Perrigord’s lips in concise cadences was checked by Peggy only when it became necessary for Perrigord to wind himself up with ice-water. She said:

  “Oh, I say, excuse me! I’m so sorry to interrupt you, but I must present two very good friends of mine. Mr. Warren, Mr. Morgan … ”

  “De-do?” said Mrs. Perrigord, sepulchrally.

  “Oh?” said Mr. Perrigord. He seemed vaguely annoyed. He had just kicked Shakespeare in the eye and mashed the hat of Ben Jonson; and Morgan felt he was ruffled at being interrupted. “Oh? Delighted, I’m sure. I was—ah—mentioning some of the more elementary points, en passant, in the talk I have been asked to deliver at the ship’s concert to-night.” He smiled thinly. “But—ah—I fear I shall bore you. It is merely a talk serving as an introductory speech to the performance of M. Fortinbras’s marionettes. I fear—”

  “But of course they’ll be interested, Mr. Perrigord!” crowed Peggy, with enthusiasm. “Curt, I was just telling Mr. and Mrs. Perrigord about the time in Dubuque when the Knight Oliver got his pants split in the battle with the Moors, and they had to lower the curtain because all the sawdust came out of him, and he had to be sewed up again before uncle would go on with the play. Mr. Perrigord said it was charming, a charming detail. Didn’t you, Mr. Perrigord?”

  “Quite, Miss Glenn,” said the oracle, benevolently (for him), but he looked as if he wished the others would go and let him get back to literature. He showed that heavy sort of politeness which grows acutely uncomfortable in the air. “Quite charming. These little details. But surely I am boring these gentlemen, who can have no conceivable interest … ?”

  “But just fancy,” continued Peggy, appealing to Morgan. “Hank, you villain, I’ve lost my bet to you, after all. And now I’ll have to stand the cocktails, and it’s a terrible shame. Don’t you think so, dear Mr. Perrigord?”

  Warren did not like this at all.

  “Bet?” he said. “What bet? Who made a bet?”

  Somebody kicked him in the shins. “Because,” the girl went on, “after all my tam-o’-shanter didn’t blow in the porthole of Mr. Perrigord’s cabin last night. It’s beastly luck, because now I’ve probably lost it; but it didn’t, and there’s that. Just before Mr. Perrigord began talking so wonderfully”—here she raised earnest, awed, soft eyes for a moment and kept them fixed on Perrigord’s countenance. He cleared his throat. A sort of paralytic leer passed over his face. Warren saw it. So did Mrs. Perrigord—“just before Mr. Perrigord began talking so wonderfully, he told me he’d found nothing in the cabin at all, and I’m afraid now I must have lost that nice tam of mine.”

  “No deu-oubt,” said Mrs. Perrigord, giving Peggy a nasty look through her monocle. “It was quayte dark on deck, wasn’t it, my de-ah?”

  “Quayte. And, I say, these men do take such advantage of us, don’t they, Mrs. Perrigord? I mean, I think it’s simply awful; but after all what can one do? I mean, it’s much better to submit than cause a terrible lot of fuss and bother, isn’t it?”

  “Well, re-aolly!” said Mrs. Perrigord, stiffening. “I confess I scarcely kneow. To—to one at a time, perhaps. But—ah—reaolly, my deah, since I am olmost certain I heard at least six intoxicated men carousing out the-ah, I confess I should not have been at oll surprised to find on our floor considerably moah than a tam-o’-shanter. As I observed to the steward at the time—”

  “To the steward?” asked Peggy wonderingly. “But, Mrs. Perrigord, wherever was your husband?”

  Mrs. Perrigord’s husband, who now seemed to despair of getting back to the serious business of sitting on literary hats, interposed:

  “Most refreshing, Miss Glenn. Most refreshing. Ha-ha! I like the outspoken views, the free and untrammelled straightforwardness of our youth to-day, which is not by ancient prejudice cabined, cribbed, and confined … ” At this point, Mrs. Perrigord looked as though, if she were not by ancient prejudice cabined, cribbed, and confined, she would up and dot him one with a plate of kippers. “I—in short, I like it. But you mu
st not mind my wife. Ha-ha!”

  “Oh?” said Mrs. Perrigord.

  “Come, come, Cynthia. Jeunesse, jeunesse. A trifle of exuberant ‘seizing the moment,’ so to speak. Remember what D. H. Lawrence said to James Joyce. Ha-ha-ha!”

  “My deah Leslie,” said Mrs. Perrigord coldly, “Babylonian orgies and revels of Ishtar à la Pierre Louys are oll very well in books. But if it is to youah aesthetic taste to have these rites peahfoahmed oll ovah the deck of a respectable linah undah youah window at 2 A.M., I must say I caon’t agree. And I must insist on explaining to this young lady that muh relations with the cabin steward were—ah—puahly those of business—”

  “Coo!” said Peggy.

  “—and were confined,” went on Mrs. Perrigord, in a louder voice, “to ringing the bell, unbolting the doah, and asking him whethah (as my husband will inform you) something could be done to stop the noise. I can assuah you that I slept no moah oll night.”

  Mr. Perrigord said mildly that you had got to remember what James Joyce said to D. H. Lawrence. Morgan felt that he had better do something to culminate this exchange of dirty digs before it reached the hair-pulling stage. All the same, he was aghast. The emerald had to be somewhere. He held no brief for either Lord Sturton or Captain Whistler, but the fact remained that they had pinched a fifty-thousand-pound jewel and thrown it through the porthole of one of those two cabins. If the emerald had somehow incredibly vanished, it meant the vanishing of Sturton’s money and probably Whistler’s official head. Something was wrong. Kyle said it wasn’t in his cabin, and there was testimony to prove the Barber could not have lifted it from there. On the other hand, the Perrigords were awake; noticed the row; would certainly have noticed anything thrown in, and certainly could not have missed it this morning. His bewilderment grew, and he desperately sought for a new lead …

  So Morgan assumed his most winning smile (although he felt it stretch like a hideous mask) and spoke flattering, soothing, cajoling words to Mrs. Perrigord. She was not at all bad-looking, by the way; and he went to work with gusto. While Warren stared at him, he sympathised with her and apologised angrily for the behaviour of whatever disgusting revellers had disturbed her sleep. He intimated that, no matter what might have been the conversation between those two notorious old rips James Joyce and D. H. Lawrence, it had been in very bad taste.