The Blind Barber

by Carr, John Dickson

  A faint, pleasant, gurgling noise behind them caused them to turn. The neck of the bottle had been tilted up among a brush of savage red whiskers. It descended. Red-whiskered and black-wigged, Curtis Warren regarded them affably.

  “Good for the old Bermondsey Terror!” he said. “I’d like to meet that fellow. He’d make a good addition to our crowd. It reminds me a little of the way I served old Charley Woodcock about an hour ago … What does Abdul weigh, Peggy? Woodcock’s fairly light.”

  Cool despair settled on Morgan, so that he felt pleasant and collected now. Nothing more, he was certain, could happen. They might as well bow before the Parcæ and enjoy the gyrations of those relentless sisters.

  “Ha-ha-ha!” he said. “Well, old boy, what did you do to Woodcock? What’s Woodcock got to do with this?”

  “How do you think I got out of the jug, anyhow?” demanded Warren. “It was a stratagem, I’m telling you, and a damned good stratagem, if you ask me. I asked you before, What did Lord Gerald do in Chapter Nine? And I’ll tell you. The trick was this. If they thought he was safely locked up, then he could prowl as he liked and get the evidence that would hang the guilty man. That was my position … So I had to have a substitute to take my place so they wouldn’t suspect anything. And if I do say it myself, I worked it pretty well—though I’ll have to hand the real credit to you, Hank.” He removed his whiskers to talk the better.

  “Woodcock was definitely the one person I could summon to me so that he’d come any time I liked, wasn’t he? Right. Well I carefully prepared my ground by seeming to sleep all afternoon, so they’d get used to it; I refused dinner and everything. Then I wrote a note to Woodcock. I said I had news from my Uncle Warpus, and to come down to the brig at exactly seven o’clock. Just before this, I told him to have a message sent in the captain’s name to the sailor on guard—I’d learned his name—to get him away for ten minutes, so there’d be nobody to hear when we talked business. I asked the sailor whether I could send a message, and he said he supposed it was all right, but he couldn’t leave to take it; so they sent a pageboy. The only thing was, I was afraid somebody might read it, so—” Warren glanced round with triumphant glee, rubbing his hands.

  “Masterly,” said Morgan in a hollow voice.

  “So what did I do? I ripped the book apart. There’s always the heavy mucilage sticking the cover to the inside flaps of the book; and I tore out one of the flaps and sealed it. And it worked! Good old Charley came through. The sailor didn’t like to leave when the fake message came through; but he saw there were bolts on the outside of the door I couldn’t move, and I was asleep, anyway.” Warren made a gesture. “Down comes Woodcock and says, ‘You’ve got it, have you?’ And I said, ‘Yes; just pull back those bolts and open the door for a second; I don’t want to get out, but I’ll have to give you this.’ So he opened the door. And I said, ‘Look here, old man, I’m damned sorry, but you know how it is,’ and I let him have it in the jaw …”

  “Darling!” said Peggy. “Oh, you poor dear idiot. Why didn’t you make him tell before you hit him? … Oh, confound it all, if you’d only done what I wanted you to, if you’d only tortured him before you hit him! Oh, dear … and now look what’s happened, with all this nasty fighting and torturing!” She wrung her hands. “Abdul and Uncle Jules, look at them! And unless we can get them on their feet there’ll be no performance. Listen! I can hear the crowd upstairs already … ”

  She snatched the bottle from Warren’s hand and strengthened herself with a draught. A wheel seemed to go round behind her eyes. “The n-nasty d-drunken b-beasts!” said Peggy; “the—”

  “My deah!” said Mrs. Perrigord, “Oh, I say, I don’t know what has kick-happened, but I think it was most owfully clevah of Mr. Joyce to torture oll those people, and get out of gaol, I do, reolly, especially as it was Henry’s idea, and I think we reolly might have the courtesy to offer Mr. Lawrence a glass of champagne …”

  “SILENCE!” roared Morgan. “Listen, Peggy, the performance doesn’t matter now; hasn’t that occurred to you? Have you realised that we’re saddled again with that blasted emerald … which Curt swears he got out of Kyle’s cabin? Curt, come to your senses. You couldn’t have got it out of Kyle’s cabin, I tell you! Lord Sturton—”

  Warren shook his head tolerantly, agitating the curls of the savage black wig that was jammed over one ear.

  “No, no, old man,” he said. “You don’t understand. Not Lord Sturton—Lord Derreval. Lord Gerald Derreval. If you don’t believe me, go down to Kyle’s cabin—it isn’t far from here—and look behind the wardrobe trunk just under the porthole. The steel box is there; I left the box there so the crook would maybe think the emerald was still in it … ”

  Valvick whirled on Morgan.

  “Maybe,” he said, “maybe it been dere all de time! Coroosh! You t’ink dere is two emeralds, and one of dem a fake, and somebody hass returned de fake to dat English duke, eh?”

  “Impossible, Skipper,” returned Morgan, who was feeling queerly light-headed. “Don’t you think Sturton would know a real emerald from a fake? Unless, somehow, the real emerald was returned to him … I don’t know! The thing’s driving me insane. Go on, Curt. Go on from the consummation of your crafty scheme to entice Woodcock to the brig. What then?”

  “Well, I got in a neat upper-cut, you see …”

  “Yes, yes, we know that. But afterwards?”

  “I tore the sheet up, bound and gagged him securely, and tied him to the berth so he couldn’t move; then I put a blanket over him, so when the sailor came back he’d only look into the cell and think I was there … Neat, eh?”

  “I have no doubt,” agreed Morgan, “that at the present moment Mr. Woodcock thinks very highly of your forethought. If the idea had ever previously occurred to him to tip over the beams concerning your Uncle Warpus, I should think it would recommend itself strongly to him now. You’re a wonder, you are. Carry on.”

  “So I sneaked away and made straight for Kyle’s cabin to get the goods on him. I wasn’t afraid of running into Kyle because I looked through a porthole and saw him in the bar; besides, I knew he was due at the concert. And—there you are. The proof! Also, I’ve got his papers. All I was afraid of was what Captain Whistler had said about maybe catching Kyle, but everything was fine. Now all we’ve got to do is examine his papers, and we’ll find evidence that he’s really the crook who’s impersonating Dr. Kyle …”

  “Yess, dere is de papers, too,” rumbled Captain Valvick. “It is a hawful offence, ay tell you. Worst offence on de high seas to steal a man’s papers. What we going to do now?”

  Morgan stalked up and down the cabin, slapping his hand against the back of his head.

  “There’s only one thing. We’ve got to get Curt back to the brig before the captain learns he’s on the loose. I don’t see how it’s to be done without—Mrs. Perrigord,” he said whirling round, “what are you doing?”

  “But, my own Henry,” protested Mrs. Perrigord, jumping involuntarily. Her face wrinkled up in anguish. “Oh, I do so hope I didn’t offend you! Reolly, I was only ringing the bell for the steward. Pierre Louys wants a bottle of champagne, you know, and you know it would be dreadfully rude if we didn’t kick-offer … But I reolly didn’t know which was the b-bell, so what could I do but ring oll the bells, you see …”

  Morgan reeled. He dived and caught her arm just as she was about to press a last push-button, hitherto overlooked, and labelled “Fire Alarm.”

  “Peggy,” he said, “if you ever showed any sense and speed, show ’em now. If those bells don’t bring down a mob, at least there’ll be a crowd of highbrows swarming in to see if things are all ready for the performance. At the moment, this is the safest place on the ship for Curt if you’ll do as I tell you. Black his face—fit him out in wig and whiskers …”

  “I will, Captain!” said Peggy grimly. “The poor darling sha’n’t go back to that horrible old brig if I can help it. But what—?”

  Morgan took her
hands and looked her steadily in the eye.

  “CAN I TRUST YOU AND CURT HERE FOR JUST FIVE MINUTES—just five minutes that’s all I ask—without your getting in more trouble. You can stay out of more trouble for five minutes, can’t you?”

  “I swear it, Hank! But what are you going to do?”

  “The skipper and I are going to take those papers back to that cabin before anybody discovers they’re gone. There’s no chance of being caught; the only chance and danger is here. Give me that emerald, Curt. I don’t know what’s happened or what it is, but we’ll take it back and be quit of the responsibility. Hand it over!”

  “Are you stark, raving crazy?” shouted Warren. “I risk life and limb and my position in the Diplomatic Service to get the goods on a murdering crook, and now you ask me to hand back—”

  Morgan lowered his voice, perceiving this was the only way of handling the matter, and fixed him with a hypnotic eye.

  “This is subtle, Curt. A subtle, deep scheme, you see. We only pretend to do it. But the moth is in our net now. A pin, a cork, and a card, and we add him to our Baker Street collection! You see? You trusted the wit and resource of Lord Gerald in a tight spot; now trust it again … Eh? Ah, that’s it. That’s it, old chap. Papers all here? Good! And—er—go light on the whisky, will you, or what there is left of it, until we get back? Stout fellow … Now, remember, Peggy, you’ve promised there’ll be no trouble. I rely on you. Come on, Skipper … ”

  He backed away gingerly, as a lion-tamer might swerve to get out of a cage. Mrs. Perrigord said she wanted to go with Henry. She insisted on going with Henry. Exactly how she was dissuaded from this intention Morgan never knew, since he and Valvick slid out a fraction of a second before the closing door.

  The gangway was empty, although a more confused buzzing and laughing, mingled with the deep note of people shuffling chairs, swept down from the staircase up to the stage.

  “Well,” remarked the skipper musingly, “we is de only two people left wit’ any sense, and ay don’t t’ink much of diss Lord Gerald, whoever he iss. Coroosh! Ay don’t believe de government off de United States need to care much about dat movie-film. Ay dunno if dey know it, but dey have bigger worries. All dey got to do iss send dat young Warren out in de Diplomatic Service and dey are going to have a war every week. It iss up to us. We got to save de situation.”

  “We’ll save it, Skipper. Easy, now! … Damn it! Don’t walk like a crook! We’re only out for a stroll. Take these papers. Round the corner here. At least, thank the Lord we’ve kept out of trouble so far. If anybody saw Curt sneaking back to Kyle’s cabin, he’d be pounced on in a second. We haven’t got a chance to put Kyle’s papers back where they were—he’ll know there’s been a burglary—but at least there’ll be nothing missing. In the ensuing search this emerald … Look here, do you think somebody’s pinched it back from Sturton?”

  “Ay not be surprised. Ay not be surprised at anyt’ing. Sh-h-h, now! Here is where we turn off. Listen!”

  At a dim side-passage off the main corridor they stopped and peered down. All the noises of the ship were away from them, in the dim tumult of the throng milling up on B deck towards the concert-hall. Here it was so quiet the sea’s rush and murmur became again discernible, and the low creaking of woodwork. But there were voices somewhere. They listened a moment before they could place them as coming from behind the closed door of C 47 in the passage.

  “It iss all right,” whispered the captain, nodding. “Dat iss ony Sparks and hiss cousin, de Bermondsey Terror. Ay haff start de Bermondsey Terror off on Old Rob Roy, and ay bet he don’t want to stop. But don’t disturb ’em, or we haff to explain. Walk soft … !”

  C 46, Dr. Kyle’s cabin, had its door closed. They tiptoed down, and Morgan felt his heart rise in his throat, growing to an enormous pounding, as he softly turned the knob. He pushed it open …

  Nobody inside.

  One danger passed. If there had been somebody …

  Again he felt hot fear as he switched on the light, but there was nobody. It was a large cabin, with what he supposed to be a bathroom attached, and now in a wild state of confusion. Not even a private detective could have called Warren’s methods in the least subtle.

  Under the porthole stood a large wardrobe trunk with its leaves apart, its lid propped up and top shelf streaming ties. He pointed.

  “Look there, Skipper. If that steel box were thrown in this porthole last night, it would land behind that trunk and nobody would ever see it unless the trunk were moved … ”

  Valvick closed the door softly. He was peering at two valises open on the floor, and an unlocked brief-case lying across the berth.

  “Come on,” he said; “we haff to work fast. Take a handful of these papers and shove ’em somew’ere. Coroosh! Ay feel like a crook! Ay don’t like diss. What you doing?”

  Morgan was groping behind the trunk. His fingers touched metal, and he withdrew the circular box with the hinged lid. He stared at it a moment, and handed it to Valvick.

  “There it is, Skipper. And here’s the elephant”—he stared at Warren’s trophy in his hand and shivered. “Come on; let’s put it back. The less we have to do … ”

  “Listen!” said Valvick, cocking his head.

  Nothing. The porthole was open; they heard the curtain thrumming in the breeze, and the multitudinous rustlings of the sea. Also, very faintly, they could hear the murmur of voices from the gangway opposite, where sat Sparks and the Bermondsey Terror. Nothing else.

  “Come on,” whispered Morgan. “You’re getting nerves, Skipper. Stuff those things away somewhere, and let’s get out of here. We’ll put this little job through without any hitch, and they’ll never suspect us … ”

  A voice said:

  “You think so?”

  Morgan felt his skin crawl, and his head bump forward against the trunk as he knelt. The voice was not loud, but it brought the universe to a standstill like a dead clock. After it the silence was so heavy that he seemed unable to hear the sea or the thrumming curtain.

  He looked up.

  The door to the bathroom, previously closed, was standing open. Captain Whistler stood with one hand on the knob and the other on a trigger. He was wearing full-dress uniform, an arabesque of gold braid against the blue, from which the breeze (Morgan noticed even in that glassy, frozen moment) brought a wave of Swat Number 2 Liquid Insect Exterminator. Captain Whistler’s good eye had a malignant gleam as at the realisation of some obvious fact that had hitherto escaped him … Behind him, Second-Officer Baldwin was looking over his shoulder …

  His glance travelled to the emerald in Morgan’s hand.

  “So you two,” said Captain Whistler, “were the real thieves, after all. I might have known it. I was a fool not to see it first off last night … Don’t move! All right, Mr. Baldwin. Move out and see if they’re armed. Steady now … ”

  17

  Bermondsey Carries On

  THERE WERE, AS THEY afterwards reflected, several courses that thoughtful men might have pursued. Even thoughtful men, however, would have conceded that these two conspirators were fairly in the soup. If at one time explanations might have been made to Captain Whistler, both Morgan and Valvick realised that by this time the Parcæ had so tangled matters up that it was practically impossible to explain anything. Morgan himself doubted whether even half an hour’s lucid thought would enable him to explain the situation to himself. Yet there are certain courses which thoughtful men deplore—those courses are elementary, like a reflex action, and spring to the muscles from a prompting older than reason. Captain Valvick, for instance, might have held out the steel box. He might have thrown the box on the floor at Whistler’s feet, and surrendered in explanation.

  Captain Valvick did nothing of the kind.

  He threw that steel box, in fact, straight at the light in the roof of Cabin C 46, where it spattered glass and extinguished the same in one reverberating pop. Then he nearly yanked Morgan’s arm from his socket swinging him out befo
re himself into the passage and slamming the door behind.

  Morgan dimly heard Whistler’s avenging yell. Flung against the opposite bulkhead, he bounced back in time to hear a weight of bodies thud against the door inside.

  “Dat old Barnacle!” roared Valvick, whose powerful hands were firmly clamped on the knob of the door as he held it. “Dat!&—£/&???(!! ay show him! He t’ank we iss t’ieves, eh? By yumping Yudas, ay show him; Nobody effer tell me dat before; NOBODY! Ay show him. Qvick, lad; rope! Ve got to get rope and tie de door shut … ”

  “Wassermarrer?” inquired a voice behind Morgan.

  The voice had to speak loudly and hoarsely, because insane riot banged at the door inside, mingled with baffled bellowings from the Queen Victoria’s skipper. Morgan spun round, to see that the door of Cabin C 47 was open. Framed in the doorway, his shoulders filling it and wriggling out at either side, stood a young man who was likewise so tall that he had to bend his head to peer out. He had a flattened countenance and a ruminating jaw like a philosophical cow.

  “Coroosh!” roared Valvick, with a blast of thankfulness. He panted. “Bermondsey! Iss dat you?”

  “Ho!” said the Bermondsey Terror, his face lighting up. “Sir!”

  “Bermondsey—qvick—dere is no time to argue. Ay haff done you a good turn wit’ de toot’ache, eh?”

  “Ho!” said the Bermondsey Terror.

  “And you say you like to do me a good turn? Good! Den you do diss, eh? You hold diss door for me until we can go for help and get aw—can get rope to tie dem up. Here, you hold … ”

  Uttering his significant monosyllable, the other leaped from the door with a crack of his head on the doorpost which he seemed to mind not at all, and leant his weight to the knob.