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

by John Dickson Carr

  “Can you think of any better plan?”

  “It has its points, I admit; but—”

  “Very well, then,” said Peggy, flushed with triumph and two whiskies. She lit a cigarette. “I’d do it myself with Mr. Perrigord, only I have to help uncle. I’m the Noises Offstage, you know: the horses, and Roland’s horn, and all that, and I’ve got to get my effects set up this afternoon. I’ll get it over as quickly as I can, because we must find that film. What I really can’t understand is why our crook returned that emerald and yet didn’t—I suppose he really didn’t put the film back in Curt’s cabin, did he? Do you think, we ought to look?”

  Morgan made an irritable gesture.

  “Don’t you see that it wasn’t the barber who did that? Off-hand, you’d say that there was only one explanation of it. When we chucked it away, it landed either in Kyle’s cabin or in the Perrigords’. The obvious answer is that one of ’em found it in the cabin, meditated keeping it, then got scared at the row and sneaked it back to Sturton. But, damn it all! I can’t believe that! Does it sound like Kyle? It does NOT. Conversely, if Kyle is a masquerading crook you can lay a strong wager that a cool hand like the Blind Barber wouldn’t return that emerald—as Whistler said. Wash out Kyle either because he’s a crook or because he isn’t. If he’s genuinely a great brain specialist he wouldn’t do one thing, and if he’s genuinely a great crook he wouldn’t do the other … And what have we left?”

  “You think,” demanded Peggy, “that nasty Mrs. Perrigord—?”

  “No, I don’t. Or friend Leslie, either. I can see Leslie handing over the emerald to Sturton with immense relish, and giving a long dissertation on the bad taste of gaudy baubles, but—Ah! News! Enter our squarehead.”

  He broke off and gestured to Captain Valvick, who had just shambled into the bar. The captain was puffing hard; his leathery face looked redder than ever, and, as he approached, he distilled like a wandering oven a strong aroma of Old Rob Roy.

  “Ay been talking wi’ Sparks and de Bermondsey Terror,” he announced, somewhat unnecessarily and wheezed as he sat down. “And, ay got proof. Dr. Kyle iss not de crook.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “Yess. De Bermondsey Terror iss willing to swear. He iss willing to swear Dr. Kyle has gone into his cabin last night at half-past nine and he hass not left it until de breakfast bugle diss morning. He know, because he hass heard Dr. Kyle iss a doctor, and he wonder whedder he can knock on de door and ask him if he can cure de bad toot’. He didn’t do it because he hass heard Kyle is a great doctor who live in dat street, you know, and he iss afraid of him. But he knows.”

  There was a silence.

  “Hank,” Peggy said, uneasily, “more and more—that radiogram from New York, where they were so sure—don’t you think there’s a dreadful mistake somewhere? What can be happening, anyhow? Every time we think we know something, it turns out to be just the other way round. I’m getting frightened. I don’t believe anything. What can we do now?”

  “Come along, Skipper,” said Morgan. “We’re going to find Mrs. Perrigord.”

  15

  How Mrs. Perrigord Ordered Champagne, and the Emerald Appeared Again

  CLEAR YELLOW EVENING DREW in over the Queen Victoria moving steadily, and with only a silken swishing past her bows, down towards a horizon darkening to purple. So luminous was the sky that you could watch the red tip of the sun disappear at the end of a glowing path, the clouds and water changing like the colours of a vase, and the crater of glowing clouds when the sun was gone. The dress bugle sounded at the hush between the lights. And the Queen Victoria, inspired for the first time by that mild fragrance in the air, woke up.

  Sooner or later on any voyage this must happen. Hitherto-blank-faced passengers rouse from their deck-chairs and look at one another. They smile nervously, wishing they had made more acquaintances. The insinuating murmur of the orchestra begins to have its suggestion on them; they see broad Europe looming, and lamps twinkling in the trees of Paris. A sudden clamour of enjoyment whips the decks like the entrance of a popular comedian. Then they begin by twos and threes to drift into the bar.

  Activity had begun to pulse this night before it was quite dark. The beautiful, mongoose-eyed shrew who was going to Paris for her divorce searched out her shrewdest evening-gown; so did the little high-school teacher determined to see the Lake Country. Love affairs began to flicker brightly; two or three bridge games were started; and the disused piano in the screened deck off the bar was rolled out for use. The dining-saloon was in a roar of talk. Diffident ladies had come out with unexpected rashes of jewels, optimists ordered from the wine-list, and the orchestra was for the first time encouraged. When Henry Morgan—tired, disgusted, and without energy to dress for dinner—entered with his two companions towards the close of the meal, he saw that it was the beginning of what for the sedate Queen Victoria would be a large night.

  His own ideas were in a muddle. After four exasperating hours of questioning, he was almost convinced that the girl with the Greek-coin face had never existed. She was not aboard, and (so far as he could ascertain) had never been aboard. The thing was growing eerie.

  Nobody knew her, nobody remembered having seen her, when at length in desperation he had dropped the pretext of searching for music-hall talent. On the tempers of some already harassed people, in fact, this latter device had been ill-timed. Its effects on Lord Sturton, on an Anglo-Indian colonel and his lady not yet recovered from mal-de-mer, on a D.A.R. from Boston and kindred folk, had been a bouncer’s rush from the cabin before the request was fully out of his mouth. Even Captain Valvick’s easy temper was ruffled by receptions of this kind.

  Mrs. Perrigord, on the other hand, had been invaluable. Although she must have been aware that there was more in the tour than Morgan would admit, she had been impassive, helpful, even mildly enthusiastic. She took on herself a duty of cutting things short in a way that the easy-going novelist admired but could not imitate. When a proud mother eagerly went into long explanations of how her daughter Frances, aged nine, could play “Santa’s Sleigh-Bells” on the violin after only six lessons, and how Professor E. L. Kropotkin had confidently predicted a concert future, then Mrs. Perrigord had a trick of saying, “I reolly don’t think we need waste your time,” in a loud, freezing voice which instantly struck dumb the most clamorous. It was an admirably frank trait, but it did not add to Morgan’s comfort through those long, hot, gabbling, foodless hours in which he acquired a distaste for the entire human race.

  Mrs. Perrigord did not mind at all. She said she enjoyed it, chatting volubly all the while, and coyly taking Morgan’s arm. Morever, she took quite a fancy to Captain Valvick, who, she confided to Morgan in a loud side-whisper, was so fresh and unspoilt, a definition which the skipper seemed to associate vaguely with fish, and which seemed to fret him a good deal. Another curious, puzzling circumstance was the behaviour of Warren, when they looked in on him in the padded cell just before going down to dinner.

  It was growing dark, but he had not switched on the light in his cell. He was lying at full length on the bunk, his face turned to the wall as though he were asleep. In one hand was a closed book with his finger marking the place in the leaves. He breathed deeply.

  “Hey!” said Morgan, whistling through the bars. “Curt! Wake up! Listen … !”

  Warren did not stir. An uneasy suspicion assailed his friend, but he thought he could see the whisky-bottle also, and it appeared to be only slightly depleted: he could not be drunk. Mrs. Perrigord murmured, “Pooah lad!” The sailor on guard duty, who had respectfully risen, said the gentleman ’ad been like that all afternoon; was exhausted-like.

  “Ay don’t like dis,” said Valvick, shaking his head. “AHOY!” he roared, and pounded at the bars. “Mr. Warren! AHOY!”

  The figure moved a little. It raised its head cautiously in the gloom and there was a fiendish expression on its face. Placing a finger on its lips, it hissed “Sh-h-h!,” made a fierce gesture f
or them to go away, and instantly fell somnolent again.

  They went. Whatever the meaning of the episode, it was driven from Morgan’s mind by the prospect of food and drink. The fragrance and glitter of the dining-room soothed his rattled nerves; he breathed deeply once more. But—there was nobody whatever at the captain’s table, not even Dr. Kyle. In the middle of the crowd and clatter, every chair remained ominously empty. He stared.

  “ … Now you must,” Mrs. Perrigord was saying, “you really must come and dine at ouah table to-night, you kneow. Whatever is worrying you, Mr. Morgan, I must insist on youah forgetting it. Come!” Her smile became mysterious as she took her rather dazed guests across the room. “Les-leh will not be with us to-night. He will dine on milk and dry biscuit, and prepare himself foah his talk.” She leaned close to Morgan. “My husband, you know, has rather extraordinary principles, Mr. Morgan. But I, on the othah hand—”

  Again she smiled. That was how she came to order champagne.

  After the soup, Morgan felt a warmth steal through him. After the fish, his wolfish silence began to wear thin and his spirits stirred from their depths. In the midst of a tender steak, done rare between crisp marks on the grill and smoking between those smooth-slipping chipped potatoes whose edges have no hardness, he suddenly felt a pleased sense of relaxation. The music of the orchestra did not sound far away, and he rather liked the appearance of the faces about him. Life looked less like a heap of unwashed dishes, and the warm lights were comforting. Champagne nipped warm and soothing. Captain Valvick said, “Ahh-h!” on a long-drawn note. When the steak disappeared, to be replaced by mysteriously tinted ice-cream and smoking black coffee, his spirits commenced to soar. He appreciated the noise that people were making around him. The champagne nestled through his innards, causing him to beam round on Mrs. Perrigord and the captain; to find himself keeping time with his foot when a reckless orchestra ventured into Gilbert and Sullivan.

  “Ta-ti-ta-ta-ta, ti-ta-ta-ta-ti; sing, ‘Willow, tit-willow, tit-willow,’” murmured Henry Morgan, wagging his head expansively. He smiled, and Mrs. Perrigord spread effulgence in reply. “‘Iss it veakness of intellect, birdie, ay cried—!’” whoomed Captain Valvick, drawing back his chin for a thoughtful rumble; “‘Or a tough worm in youah little in-side—’” gently speculated Mrs. Perrigord, beginning to giggle; and all three together, inspired with a surge of mirth, whirled out together:

  “With a shake of his poor little head he replied,

  “‘Willow,

  “‘Tit-willow,

  “‘Tit-willow!’ (WHEE!)”

  “Oh, I say, you know,” protested Mrs. Perrigord, whose face was growing rather flushed and her voice more loud, “we reolly shouldn’t be doing this at oll, should we? Oh, I say! Heh-heh-heh! Shall we have anothah bottle?” she beamed on them.

  “You yust bet we do!” boomed Captain Valvick. “And diss one iss on me. Steward!” A cork popped, pale smoke sizzled, and they raised glasses. “Ay got a toast ay like to giff … ”

  “Oh, I say, you know, I reolly mustn’t!” breathed Mrs. Perrigord, putting her hand against her breast; “just fancy! What would deah Les-leh say? But if you two positively outrageous people positively insist, you know … Heh-heh-heh! Here’s loud cheaahs!”

  “What I mean to say is this,” said Morgan vigorously. “If there’s any toast to be drunk, first off there ought to be a toast drunk to Mrs. Perrigord, Skipper. She’s been the best sport in the world this afternoon, Skipper, and I’d like to see anybody deny it. She came with us on a fool’s errand, and never asked one question. So what I propose—”

  He was speaking rather loudly, but he would not have been heard in any case. The entire dining-saloon had begun to converse in an almost precisely similar vein, with the exception of one or two crusty spoilsports who stared in growing amazement. They could not understand, and would go to their graves without the ability to understand, that mysterious spirit which suddenly strikes and galvanises ocean liners for no reason discernible to the eye. Laughter in varying tones broke like rockets over the tumult; sniggers, giggles, guffaws, excited chuckles growing and rushing. More corks popped and stewards flew. It being against the rules to smoke in the dining-saloon, for the first time a mist of smoke began to rise. The orchestra smashed into a rollicking air out of The Prince of Pisen; then the perspiring leader came to the rail of the balcony and bowed to a roar of applause, dashed back and whipped his minions into another. Jewels began to wink as total strangers drifted to one another’s tables, made appointments, gesticulated, argued whether they should stay here or go up to the bar; and Henry Morgan ordered a third bottle of champagne.

  “ … Oh, no, but I say, reolly!” cried Mrs. Perrigord, sitting back in a sort of coy alarm and talking still more loudly, “you mustn’t! You two outrageous people are positively outrageous, you know! It’s simply dreadful how you take advantage of a pooah, weak woman who—” gurgle, gurgle, gurgle—“it’s reolly lovely champagne, isn’t it?—who can’t defend herself, you know. Just fancy, you wicked men, I shall be positively tight, you know. And that would be owful, wouldn’t it?” She laughed delightedly. “Simply screamingly, deliciously owful if I am tight when I am tight, and—”

  “What ay say iss diss,” declared Captain Valvick, tapping the table and speaking in a confidential roar. “De champagne iss all right. Ay got not’ing against de champagne. But it iss not a man’s drink. It do not put hair on de chest. What we want to drink iss Old Rob Roy. Ay tell you what. After we finish diss bottle we go up to de bar and we order Old Rob Roy and we start a poker game … ”

  “ … but I say, you mustn’t be so owfully, owfully formal,” said Mrs. Perrigord chidingly. “Henry. Theah! I’ve said it, haven’t I? Oh, deah me! And now you’ll think I’m positively”—gurgle, gurgle, gurgle—“positively dreadful, won’t you? But I have so many things I should like to discuss with you, you know … ”

  A new voice chirped:

  “Hullo!”

  Morgan started up, rather guiltily, to see Peggy Glenn, in a green evening gown that looked rather disarranged, negotiating the last step of the staircase and bearing down on them. She was beaming seraphically, and something in her gait as she moved through the layers of smoke struck Morgan’s eye even out of a warmth of champagne. Mrs. Perrigord turned. “Why, my deah!” she cried, with unexpected and loud affection. “Oh, how reolly, reolly wonderful! Oh, do, do come heah! It’s simply wonderful to see you looking so spic hic, so so sick and span after oll those owful things that happened to you last night whee! And—”

  “Darling!” cried Peggy ecstatically.

  “Peggy,” said Morgan, fixing her with a stern eye, “Peggy, you—have—been—drinking.”

  “Hoo!” cried Peggy, lifting her arm with a conquering gesture by way of emphasis. Her eyes were bright and pleased.

  “Why have you been drinking?”

  “Why not?” inquired Peggy, with the air of one clinching a point.

  “Well then,” said Morgan magnanimously, “have another. Pour her a glass of fizz, Skipper. All I thought was after all that bawling and screaming this afternoon—”

  “Who bawled and screamed this afternoon?”

  “You did. You bawled and screamed this afternoon about Curt being shut up in a foul dungeon with the rats, and—”

  “I hate him!” Peggy said passionately. She became tense and fierce, and moisture came into her eyes. “I hate and loathe him and despise him, that’s what I do. I don’t ever want to hear his name again, ever, ever, ever! Gimme a drink.”

  “My God!” said Morgan, starting up. “What’s happened now?”

  “Ooo, how I loathe him! He wouldn’t even speak to me, the f-filthy w-wretch,” she said, her lip trembling. Don’t ever mention his name again, Hank. I’ll get blind, speechless drunk, that’s what I’ll do, and that’ll show him, it will, and I hope the rats gnaw him, too. And I had a big basket of fruit for him, and all he did was lie there and pretend he was asleep, that’s what he d
id; and I said, ‘All right!,’ so I went upstairs and I met Leslie—Mr. Perrigord—and he said, would I like to listen to his speech? And I said yes, if he didn’t mind my drinking, and he said he never touched spirits, but he didn’t mind if I did; so we sort of went to his cabin—”

  “HAVE ANOTHER DRINK, MRS. PERRIGORD—CYNTHIA!” roared Morgan, to drown out the possibilities of this. “Pour everybody a drink. Ha-ha!”

  “But, Henry!” crowed Mrs. Perrigord, opening her eyes wide, “I think it’s p-perfectly wonderful, reolly, and so screamingly funny, don’t you know, because oll deah Leslie evah does is tolk, you see, and the pooah darling must have been most dreadfully disappointed. Whee!” Gurgle, gurgle, gurgle.

  “Ay like to see de young foolks have a good time,” observed Captain Valvick affably.

  “ … and for Curt to act like that just when everything was nice and arranged for the performance to-night, when I’d finally succeeded in keeping Uncle Jules sober! And it was such a ghastly task, you know,” explained Peggy, wrinkling up her face to keep back the tears, “because four separate times I caught him trying to sneak out after that horrible old GIN!” The thought of that horrible old gin almost overcame her with tears, but she turned a grim if wrinkled face steadily towards them. “But at last I made him see reason, and everything was all right, and he came down here in lovely shape to the dining-room to eat his dinner, and everything is nice—”

  “Your Uncle Jules,” said Morgan thoughtfully, in the midst of a curious silence, “came down where to eat his dinner?”

  “Why, down here! And—”

  “No, he didn’t,” said Morgan.

  Peggy whirled round. Slowly, painstakingly, with misted eyes and lips slowly opening, she scanned the dining-saloon inch by inch. Babble and riot flowed there under a fog of smoke; but Uncle Jules was not there. Peggy hesitated. Then she sat down at the table and burst into sobs.