“ … find out who stole it? Go on, if you like. I won’t stop you. But I’ve got it back, and that’s all I care. I’m not going to prosecute anybody. Ha! Got enough lawsuits as it is. Let the beggar go. Why bother? Shouldn’t be surprised if it got stolen by mistake, and somebody returned it. Never mind. Now get out. Get out! … ”
He was flailing his arms at them like a banshee, with the emerald gleaming on its chain from one hand. They were shooed into the gangway and the door closed behind them. Then they stood in the corridor on B deck and looked at one another.
“You’re quite right, Captain,” agreed Morgan, after listening thoughtfully to the skipper’s rather weak-voiced comments. “If anything, I should think the adjectives were conservative. But the question remains, who, how, and why?”
After Whistler had recovered himself, swabbing his face with a handkerchief, he was weakly jubilant. He had the air of one who had endured blessed martydom in the arena, and suddenly sees ahead of him not the cruel countenance of Nero Ahenobarbus, but a cheering St. Peter at the head of a celestial brass band. The captain drew himself up. His face subtly altered. Taking his receipt for the emerald, he tore it into small pieces and blew them away. Over the battered face, with its plum-coloured eye, there spread a benevolent smile.
“My friends,” he said, placing an arm around the shoulders of Peggy and Morgan, “I don’t know who returned that ruddy elephant, and I don’t care. Whoever it was, he did me a good turn that Hector Whistler will never forget. I could forgive him anything, I could almost forgive him”—momentarily the face darkened, but only for a moment—“this. Yes, even the foul blow, foully struck when I wasn’t looking. If old Sturton doesn’t care—My friends, tomorrow night, our last night at sea, is the captain’s dinner. My friends, I will give such a dinner as has never been seen on blue water since the days of Francis Drake. Champagne shall bubble at every table, and every lady shall wear a corsage. And this, my friends, reminds me. I think, I say I think that I have in my locker at this moment a bottle of Pol Roger 1915. If it will now please you to come with me and accept the hospitality of an old, rough sea-dog—”
“But, hang it, Captain,” said Morgan, “the difficulties aren’t one-tenth over. Not a tenth. There’s the little matter of a murder … ”
“Murder?” inquired the old, rough sea-dog genially. “What murder, lad?”
Mysterious are the ways of psychology.
“But, Captain Whistler!” cried Peggy, “that poor girl … down in the cabin beside Curt’s … that awful razor … ”
“Ah, yes, my dear!” agreed the captain tolerantly benevolent. “Yes, of course. You mean that little joke of yours. Of course. Yes. Ha-ha-ha!”
“But—”
“Now, my dear,” the other pursued, with radiant kindliness, “you listen to me. Come! You take a bit of advice from a rough old seafaring man old enough to be your father. From the first I’ve liked the cut of your jib, Miss Glenn, and the swing of your spanker-boom. Aye, lassie, I might have had a daughter like you if the Mrs. W. that was hadn’t been dead and gone these twenty years, rest her sweet soul. It was in a sou’wester off Cape Hatteras, I mind … But you don’t want to hear of that. This is my advice, lassie. When a murder’s been committed, in my experience, there’s somebody dead,” Captain Whistler pointed out, with irrefutable logic. “And if somebody’s dead, that person can’t be breathing heaven’s free air on my deck. There’s nobody missing, and nobody’s complained, which they generally do in case of a murder. So—come, now; until somebody complains, I’m a free man. Just between ourselves, wasn’t somebody having you on?”
“But you promised, Captain, that you’d co-operate and help us and—”
“And so I will, Miss Glenn,” he told her, heartily, patting her shoulder. “You two—and old Sharkmeat also, if he likes—shall have the freedom of the ship, to question whom you like, and say I sent you. If you have news, ha-ha-ha! come to me … By the way, would you like me to release that poor lad from his cell? No? Well, remember that I offered. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll send him a fine basket of fruit, with my compliments, and a specially cooked capon for his dinner. How’s that? Then, when we touch England day after to-morrow, we’ll see what can be done about obtaining the services of the finest mental-specialist in London … ”
He stopped.
“Yes,” said Morgan, seizing the opportunity, “and that reminds us all of Dr. Kyle, doesn’t it? Not that I believe he’s the Blind Barber, but it takes us back to that radiogram from the Police Commissioner, and the fact that—whatever else you believe or don’t believe—there’s a damned dangerous criminal aboard.”
“H’m!” said Whistler. “H’m! Possibly. In any case, I’ve been instructed not to do anything, haven’t I, in case there’s a mistake, eh? And the more I think it over, sink me!” he said with a happy flash of inspiration, “the more I’m convinced there has been a mistake. Why? I’ll tell you. Because dangerous criminals don’t steal fifty-thousand-pound jewels and then return ’em, do they? Sink me! you know, if I hadn’t been assured by old Sturton that the emerald was returned to him while young Warren was in the brig—well I’d be fairly sure it was more of his mad vapourings. But I know it couldn’t have been young Warren … ”
“Thank God for that,” said Morgan.
“Anyhow,” continued Whistler, assuming his hearty manner again, “I’ll think it over. I believe it’s a mistake and there’s no crook aboard at all. Though—h’m—it would be a feather in the cap of the Green Star Line if I could have the honour of nabbing a notorious criminal before that New York detective arrived. I’ll think it over. So, if you won’t drink a health in Pol Roger—eh—no? Well, good day, good day, good day!”
He was off, saluting jauntily, before the stupefied allies could stop him. He swung his shoulders, his thumbs hooked in his pockets, and he was hoarsely humming a tune to the effect that Captain Ball was a Yankee slaver, blow, blow, blow the man down! His smile was radiant.
When he had gone, Peggy looked about hopelessly.
“Hank,” she said, “it’s no good. We can’t beat Providence. Let’s give it up. Let’s go to the bar and get screamingly drunk.”
Morgan replied grimly: “We will not. Give it up, I mean. But a couple of quick ones in the bar might fortify us before we comb this boat from stem to stern … Why’s the place so quiet, anyway?” He peered round. “They’re all at lunch, that’s it! We’ve missed lunch, and I didn’t even hear the bugle. Never mind; we can get a sandwich in the bar. Come on. This thing has got to be thrashed out. Girl, that emerald’s turning up puts the absolute lid on it! … What do you suppose could have happened?”
“Oh, drat the emerald!” she sniffed, with some pettishness. “Who cares about their nasty old emerald, anyway? We’ll find out about this girl, if you like. But, honestly, Hank, I’m beginning to think we must be wrong, after all. H’m! I’ll bet she was a hussy, anyway … ”
“She was calling Curt’s name,” her companion reminded her. He was determined not to lose his last ally. “She knew something that concerned him, don’t you see? So if you want to help him, she’ll be your first concern. It probably concerns the film; remember that my wench! Besides, have you forgotten another thing? Curt promised that chap Woodcock—definitely gave him his word—that he’d demonstrate by to-day there’d been a murder committed, or else force a bug-powder endorsement out of old Warpus.”
She put her hand to her forehead. “Oh, I say, but I’d forgotten all about that awful little man! Oh, Hank, this is dreadful! And when I think of my poor Curt languishing behind prison bars, sitting there forlornly with his poor head in his hands … ” A sob caught her throat; she choked, and the tears overflowed her eyes. “Oh, it’s awful, awful, awful!”
“Well, my God! don’t cry about it!” said Morgan, waving his arms desperately. He peered round to make sure there was nobody in sight. “Look here. I didn’t know you felt like that about it. Listen! Stop yowling, will you? It�
��s all right. You heard what the skipper said. We’ll go right down and get him out—”
“Oh, I w-wouldn’t g-get him out f-for anything!” she gulped, forlornly, over the handkerchief she was jabbing at the corners of her eyes. Her breast heaved jerkily. “He—h-he’d only d-do some perfectly m-mad thing straight-away and g-get p-put right—right b-back in again. But, oh, d-dear! when I think of the p-poor d-darling l-languishing, p-positively—l-languishing—in—in a—foul d-dun—bubuloo!” choked Peggy, and burst into a spasm of weeping.
These, reader, are the times that try men’s souls: when tears flow by reason of some inexplicable logic that escapes you, and all you can do is to pat her shoulder whilst desperately wondering what is wrong. He tried remonstrance—an error. He pointed out that it was not as though Warren had been shoved in the Bastille, never again to see the light of day; adding that the maniac was quite comfortable there and had been promised a specially cooked capon for his dinner. She said she wondered how Morgan thought the poor boy would have the heart to eat it. She said he was a cruel, callous beast ever to think of such a thing; and went off the deep end again. After this crushing retort, all he could think of was to rush her to the bar for a couple of stiff drinks as quickly as possible.
That her tears were dried was due to a new cause for worry, which he saw presented itself to her as soon as they entered the bar.
The bar (quaintly called smoking-room) was a spacious oak-panelled cathedral at the rear of B deck, full of stale smoke and a damp alcoholic fragrance. There were tables in alcoves of deep leather lounges, and a number of gaunt electric fans depending from the pastoral-painted ceiling. Except for one customer, who stood at the bar counter with his back towards them, it was deserted. Sunlight streamed through windows of coloured mosaic glass swaying gently on the floor; only peaceful creakings of woodwork and the drowsy murmur of the wake disturbed its cathedral hush.
Peggy saw the one customer, and stiffened. Then she began to advance stealthily. The customer was a short, stocky man with a fringe of black hair round his bald head, and the arms and shoulders of a wrestler. He was just raising his glass to his lips when he seemed warned by some telepathic power. But before he could turn Peggy had pounced.
“Ah!” she said, dramatically. She paused. She drew back as though she could not believe her eyes. “Tiens, mon oncle! Qu’est-ce que je vois? Ah, mon Dieu, qu’estce que je vois, alors?”
She folded her arms.
The other started guiltily. He turned round and peered up at her over the rim of his glass. He had a reddish face, a large mouth, and an enormous curled grey-streaked moustache. Morgan observed that the moment Peggy fell into the Gallic tongue her gestures corresponded. She became a whirlwind of rattling syllables. She rapidly smacked her hands together under the other’s nose.
“Eh, bien, eh bien! Encore tu bois! Toujours tu bois! Ah, zut, alors!” She became cutting. “Tu m’a donné votre parole d’honneur, conime un soldat de la France! Et qu’estce que je trouve? Un soldat de la France, hein! Non!” She drew back witheringly. “Je te vois en buvant le GIN!”
This, unquestionably, was Uncle Jules sneaking out with the laudable purpose of knocking off a quick one before his niece caught him. A spasm contorted his face. Lifting his powerful shoulders, he spread out his arms with a gesture of extraordinary agony.
“Mais, chérie!” he protested in long-drawn, agonised insistence like a steamer’s fog-horn. “Mais, ché-é-riii-e! C’est un très, très, très petit verre, tu sais! Regards-toi, cherié! Regards! C’est une pauvre, misérable boule, tu sais. Je suis enrhumé, chérie”—he coughed hollowly, his hand at his chest—“et ce soir—”
“Tu parles! Toi,” she announced, pointing her finger at him and speaking in measured tones, “toi, je t’appelle dégoutant!”
This seemed to crush Uncle Jules, who relapsed into a gloomy frame of mind. Morgan was introduced to him, and he followed them to a table while Morgan ordered two double-whiskies and a milk-and-soda. Uncle Jules appealed in vain. He said he had never had so bad a cold in his life, coughing hideously by way of demonstration, and said that if nothing were done about it he would probably be speechless by five o’clock. Peggy made the obvious retort. She also adduced examples from a long list of Uncle Jules’s past colds, including the time in Buffalo when he had been brought back to the hotel in an ash-cart.
He brightened a little, however, as he described the preparations for the performance that night. Preparations marched, he said, on a scale superb. Three hand-trucks had been provided to convey his fifty-eight separate marionettes (housed in a cabin of their own adjoining his, although they were not sea-sick, happy gosses) together with all the vast machinery of his theatre, to the hall of concert. The three costumes, one in which he spoke the prologue, and two for his extras, the French and Moorish warrior, were now being given a stroke of the iron; the piano and violin for off-stage music were installed behind the scenes as the theatre was set up in the hall of concert. A hall of concert magnificent, situated on B deck, but with a backstage staircase leading up from the dressing-room on C deck. Which reminded him that, while investigating the dressing-room, he and his assistant, Abdul, had met M. and Mme. Perrigord.
“A husband and his wife,” pursued Uncle Jules, excitedly, “very charming, very intelligent, of whom the cabin finds itself near by. Listen, my dear! It is he who has written of me those pieces so magnificent which I do not understand. One thousand thunders, but I am enchanted! Yes, yes, my dear. Among us we have arranged the order of the performance. Good! Also we have met a Dr. Keel, a medicine Scottish, who will make recitations. Good! All is arranged. Two professors of a university who voyage shall be our warriors; M. Furioso Camposozzi at the piano and M. Ivan Slifovitz at the violin have arranged for accompanying my sitting with music of the chamber which I do not understand, see you? but, ah, my dear, what a triumph of intelligence. For me, I shall be superb? I—”
“Dear uncle,” said Peggy, taking a soothing draught of whisky neat and sighing deeply afterwards, “it is necessary that I speak with this monsieur. Go to your cabin and couch yourself. But attend! It is I who speak! Nothing to drink. Nothing! Is it understood?”
M. Fortinbras swore that an old soldier of France would cut his throat sooner than break his promise. He finished his milk-and-soda with a heroic gesture, and doddered out of the bar.
“Listen, Hank,” said Peggy, dropping the language of Racine. She turned excitedly. “Seeing the old boy has just brought me back to business. I’ve got to see that he keeps sober until after the show; but it’s given me an idea … You’re determined on questioning everybody on this boat, seeing everybody face to face … ”
“I’m letting nobody by,” returned Morgan grimly, “except the people we know to be aboard. I’m going to take a passenger-list, and get a crew-list from the captain, and check everybody if it takes all afternoon. It would be devilish easy for somebody to conceal an absence when that first officer went round. ‘Oh, no, she wasn’t hurt—sorry she isn’t here; she’s lying down; but I can give you my word … ’ Peggy, that girl hasn’t vanished. She’s somewhere on the boat. She’s a real person! Hang it, we saw her! And she’s going to be found.”
“Righto. Then I’ll tell you your pretext.”
“Pretext?”
“Of course you’ve got to have a pretext, silly. You can’t go roaring about the ship after somebody who was murdered and starting an alarm, can you? Fancy what Captain Whistler would say, old dear. You’ve got to do it without arousing suspicion. And I’ve got the very idea for you.” She beamed and winked, wriggling her shoulders delightedly. “Get hold of your dear, dear friend Mrs. Perrigord—”
Morgan looked at her. He started to say something, but confined himself to ordering two more whiskies.
“ … and it’s as easy as shelling peas. You’re looking for volunteers to do amateur acts at the ship’s concert. She’s in charge of it. Then you can insist on seeing everybody without the least suspicion.”
Morgan thought it over. Then he said:
“Ever since last night, to tell the truth, I have been inclined to scrutinise any idea of yours with more than usual circumspection. And this one strikes me as being full of weak points. It’s a comparatively simple matter if I encounter a lot of shy violets who are averse to appearing in public. But suppose they accept? Not that I personally would object to an amateur mammy-singer or a couple of Swiss yodellers, but I don’t think it would go well with the chamber-music. How do I persuade Mrs. Perrigord to accompany me, in the first place, and to put all my crooners on the programme, in the second?”
Peggy suggested a simple expedient, couched in even simpler language, to which Morgan rather austerely replied that he was a married man. “Well, then,” Peggy said excitedly, “it’s even easier than that, if you’re going to be fussy and moral about it. Like this. You tell Mrs. Perrigord that you’re after material for character-drawing, and you want to get the reactions of a number of diversified types. On Being Approached to Make Exhibitions of Themselves in a Public Place … Now don’t misunderstand me and get such a funny look on your face! She’ll eat it up. All you’ve got to do is suggest getting somebody’s reactions to some loony thing that nobody’s ever thought of before, and the highbrows think it’s elegant. Then you might jolly her along and sort of make goo-goo eyes at her. As for the volunteers, bah! You can turn ’em all down after you’ve heard ’em rehearse, and say it won’t do … ”
“Woman,” said Morgan, after taking a deep breath, “your language makes my gorge rise. I will not make goo-goo eyes at Mrs. Perrigord, or anybody else. Then there is this question of rehearsing. If you think I have any intention of sitting around while amateur conjurers break eggs in my hat and wild sopranos sing ‘The Rosary,’ you’re cockeyed. Kindly stop drivelling, will you? I’ve been through too much to-day.”
The Blind Barber Page 17