The Lost Master - The Collected Works

by Stanley G. Weinbaum

  Bill said nothing. He made no mention of the previous appearance of Carnes in Arlene Lowell’s quarters, and asked only one further question.

  “How long had he been dead when the doctor saw him?”

  “Not less than twenty minutes. Maybe a little more.”

  Well, that eliminated any chance of his having been dead the preceding night when Arlene had been so startled. Bill thanked the Captain and joined the girl on deck.

  She was a trifle sobered, and some of the sauciness had disappeared from the violet depths of her eyes. “What did you find out?” she asked seriously.

  “Murdered.”

  “Oh I — And do they know who—?”

  “They’ve got Higgs locked up for it. The seaman. Seems they worked together, and that Carnes was something of a thief.”

  “Then—It’s cruel, I suppose, but it’s a relief to know he’s dead. He was the one, Bill. There can’t be any doubt about it now, so I suppose we can stop worrying.”

  “We can start worrying,” he corrected grimly. “Carnes isn’t our man.”

  “W-why do you say that?”

  “Who murdered him, then?”

  “I—I guess Higgs did.”

  “Then your guess is wrong; yours and the Captain’s both. Higgs didn’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because Carnes bad been dead twenty minutes or more when the doctor arrived, and Higgs called the doctor. Do you think a murderer would stand over his victim in a public corridor for twenty minutes? That just isn’t human nature.”

  The girl frowned. “Listen, Bill,” she said softly. “I’m not sure, but I think my room was searched again last night. Not my luggage, but—oh, mattress and chair upholstery and carpet, and so forth. Things didn’t look exactly the way I left them; I think the furniture had been moved.”

  “Damn!” said Bill feelingly.

  “Of course,” she resumed, “Carnes might have done it. In fact, I think he did, and then Higgs probably came by to find out what luck he’d had, and Carnes denied having the stone, and Higgs didn’t believe him, and there was a quarrel, And—Do you see?”

  “I see all right. Only where’d they quarrel? In the corridor?”

  “In my room.”

  “And then Higgs dragged the body into the corridor, I suppose, stood around a while, and then called the doctor. That won’t do, Arlene. In the first place Higgs knows he’s necessary to get any loot ashore. In the second place, he’d never have called the ship’s sawbones unless he’d been pretty well shocked. I think he was on his way to Carnes’ stateroom and came upon the body just as he says, and was excited enough to call. No doubt the pair knew about the emerald, but there’s someone else as well—someone who doesn’t hesitate at murder.”

  Arlene shuddered. “How—how could anyone know?”

  “You guess. A leak in the seller’s household, perhaps. Servants hear things, you know. Or a leak in the bank.”

  “Not,” she said tartly “in Simon’s of course.”

  “Or even in Simon’s. Or even through Jake Bromberg.”

  “Bromberg is honest. Why should he steal his own stone?”

  “Merely,” said Bill, “to collect the insurance and get the stone free. It’s been done.”

  “Well, Bromberg wouldn’t do it. And anyway, Bill, I’m getting sick of talking about the thing. By now our unknown friend ought to be convinced that it isn’t in my room. I’ll lay you a wager there’s no more disturbance for the rest of the trip.”

  “What makes you so certain?”

  “I think Carnes is the culprit.”

  “And I don’t. I’ll take your wager; what’ll it be?”

  “Oh—a ship-clock, for a souvenir.”

  Ketchall chuckled. “That’s if you win, Arlene. I’ll take. . . “ He murmured in her ear.

  The violet eyes flickered over him, then she smiled slowly and nodded. “And now let’s forget the whole matter and play shuffle-board.”

  The day passed pleasantly. It was after midnight when Bill saw her to her quarters, warned her again about the door, and retired. He was sound asleep when he started into sudden wakefulness at the shrill note of a half-muffled scream.

  He seized a robe and sprang to his door, flung back the bolt and thrust. The door refused to budge; somehow, he had been locked in.

  E LUNGED against the door, and with a ripping sound, it gave. A glance showed the trouble; somebody had driven a screw, an ordinary ten-penny wood screw, into the frame in such a manner that it prevented the door from swinging. Like all stateroom doors, of course, it opened outward.

  But he had little time for any examination. Other doors were opening, and heads were peering curiously into the corridor as he lunged toward Arlene Lowell’s room, but hers was closed. He rapped sharply.

  Her voice answered. “Who is it?”

  “Bill!”

  The latch clicked; her face, half frightened, half indignant, peered out at him.

  “Was that you, Arlene? That scream?”

  “Y-yes.”

  “What happened? Quick—what happened?”

  “Not here!” she murmured.

  She was right. He turned toward the curious faces of the onlookers. “The lady had a nightmare,” he announced. “Nothing’s wrong.” Ketchall walked calmly back toward his own quarters, glanced around to make certain there were no watchers, then slipped quickly back to Arlene’s door.

  She admitted him instantly. She had slipped on a clinging blue robe, and the fear had vanished from her face, leaving only anger. “What happened?” he asked sharply.

  “Why—I guess you’ve won the bet.”

  “Another attempt? How? Did they—?”

  “No,” she said grimly; “they didn’t get it.”

  “But what happened?”

  “Well, I was asleep—dozing, at least—and suddenly I heard a sort of scraping. And then the door-latch clicked, and I glanced up, thinking that maybe in spite of everything I’d forgotten to make sure the door was tight. It wasn’t; I saw the hall light through the crack.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, I sat up to close it, and then the crack widened, and a figure rose up between me and the light and came charging in. So naturally I screamed and kicked, and he ducked out and was gone.”

  “That’s bad,” muttered Bill. “That’s very bad.”

  “Bad? But he didn’t get it.”

  “No, but he’s turned his attention from your room to your person, and I don’t like it.”

  “Do you think I do? I’m the one whose room was broken into—and by the way, how was that done?”

  Bill opened the door a few inches, examining the lock. “The bolt was pushed back with a knife-blade or something of that sort. It’s scratched, and that accounts for the scraping noise. And the lock—I suppose he must have a duplicate key. There are duplicates on board, of course, and if he couldn’t get one of those, he could make one.”

  “Ugh!” said the girl. “What now?”

  “Now? I think now you’ll agree to change staterooms. You’ll sleep in mine tonight. I’ll fix it up with the room steward to stay here; and if our man comes back again tonight—well,” he concluded grimly, “so much the better.”

  “But I—Bill, he’s a murderer! I won’t have you staying here! I won’t!”

  “I’m staying. If he comes again we’ll be rid of him.”

  Arlene stared anxiously at him, and then, with a sober little shrug, rose and began to gather her clothing into a bag. He followed her to the door of his own room, unlocked it, passed her his key, and paused as her violet eyes flashed into his.

  “Well,” she murmured, “you won the bet, Bill.”

  He realized suddenly that it was her second reference to that fact. It was significant enough; but this wasn’t the time. Bill took her in his arms, reluctantly kissed her goodnight, and re-tired. He stayed awake for several hours, but the night passed without further incident.

  LL THE next day Arlene
Lowell seemed subdued, as if part of her sauciness had vanished during the night. She spent the entire time in his company, playing shuffle-board or deck-tennis, or simply relaxing in deck-chairs watching the blue-green waters, that had already a tinge of grey in anticipation of the winter that would soon drift down from Greenland.

  Ketchall was in a quiet mood as well; when night rolled out of the west to meet the vessel, they ignored the dancing in the salon to sit under the stars.

  Arlene broke a long silence. “I suppose we ought to turn in, Bill.”

  Ketchall agreed. They rose to go below, and a faint burst of whistling sounded from a figure leaning against the rail—of all tunes, “Rock-a-bye, Baby”. Bill snorted contemptuously.

  The figure spoke. “Pardon, Mr. Ketchall,” said Tormley. “Have you the time?”

  Bill pulled out his watch. In the darkness its dial was invisible, and he stepped under a deck-light. Tormley followed him, but Arlene, after a moment’s pause at the companionway, turned into its dim-lit opening.

  “It’s eleven forty-five.”

  “Thank you.” Tormley was fumbling with a massive, glittering watch. “Look at this, Mr. Ketchall. Picked it up in Rouen. Winds with a key, and was once carried by kings of France.”

  Bill grunted disinterestedly.

  “And on this side,” pursued Tormley, “is a representation of Versailles picked out in jewels. A real piece of workmanship, sir, if you care to examine it closely—”

  “Not right now,” cut in Bill, turning away.

  “But just a moment! On the other side is the crest assigned to Louis XVIII. Over a century old, and it keeps perfect time. Perfect. And you won’t believe what I paid for it. Practically nothing. It cost—well, good night, then, and thank you.”

  Bill had moved in abrupt decisiveness toward the companionway, and as he descended the steps he heard once more the notes of Tormley’s irritating whistling at the rail. Now it was “The Campbells Are Coming.”

  Arlene’s door—his own until the exchange of last night— was closed, and no light was apparent beyond it. He frowned and rapped sharply. There was no response.

  He rapped again. “Arlene!” he called softly.

  A movement sounded, and the muffled tones of a voice came to him. “It’s Bill!” he breathed. “What’s the matter?”

  The latch clicked, and the door opened the merest fraction of an inch. He could see nothing in the darkness beyond.

  Abruptly the door was flung wide. For the briefest possible moment Bill had an impression of a dim masculine figure, a cap pulled low over a face, the glint of light on a clenched fist, and then the fist was driven with vicious strength into the pit of his stomach.

  ETCHELL grunted and doubled. As his assailant rushed by him he clutched at the fellow’s clothes, but a sharp wrench pulled them from his grasp, and the unknown burst into the corridor. Bill whirled to follow, a shout on his very lips, but what he glimpsed in the stateroom as he spun brought him up short, his shout frozen into silence, his muscles rigid.

  Arlene! In the square of light from the corridor he saw her lying crossways on the bunk, her face ashen white, her eyes closed, and her black frock ripped from throat to waist!

  There was no question now as to his course. He cast the swiftest flash of a glance at the figure now disappearing up the stairs, and sprang into the room. Emerald or none, he had to find out what had happened to her. He had a chilling memory of Carnes.

  She was breathing huskily, and already stirring a little as he lifted her feet to the bunk. He closed the door and filled a tumbler with water, but she opened dazed violet eyes as he raised her head to drink. She swallowed obediently at his command.

  She murmured, “Hello. What’s— matter, Bill?”

  “Matter! What happened? How do you feel? Who was—? Arlene! Arlene!”

  Her lids had dropped wearily. Now she opened them again. “Happened?” she echoed dazedly, then wailed, “My head aches—horribly!”

  He held her close. “It’s my fault. I should have insisted that you let the purser keep it.” He groaned. “It was just that I liked the feeling of intimacy— our working together. Damn it!”

  She was coming to full consciousness. “My dress!” she gasped. “It’s— Oh! The Waterbury! It’s gone!”

  He nodded gloomily. “It’s gone,” he agreed; “can you remember what happened?”

  She began to sob. “I—don’t know,” she choked. “I—went on ahead of you, didn’t I? And then—I came in here.” Her voice steadied. “I sat down to wait because—I wanted you to kiss me goodnight again, and in a moment there was a knock. I said, ‘Bill?’ and a voice said ‘Yes’, so I opened the door, and then—”

  She paused confusedly. “What then? Everything Arlene. Every detail.”

  “I’m—trying. There was a man there, and just as I saw it wasn’t you, he pushed the door open and something hit me very lightly on the head. I felt as if I had to sit down on the floor—and that’s all. That’s everything.”

  “He blackjacked you. Did you see him clearly?”

  “N-no. He wore a cap.”

  “The cap’s probably overboard now.” He frowned. “Well, I saw little more than you, Arlene. We’re in for it.”

  “You—saw him?”

  “At the door here. He jumped me, but I’d have had him only—” He broke off, then concluded. “I couldn’t leave you, Arlene; I couldn’t.”

  She began to sob again. “It’s my fault. The whole thing’s my fault. I should have followed your advice instead of Oliver’s.”

  “You certainly should have. But, there—I should have insisted. It’s just as much my fault.”

  “It isn’t. It’s mine.”

  E SHRUGGED. “This is a useless argument, Arlene; we’d better consider what we can do.”

  “Is there anything we can do? It’s gone.”

  “But it’s still aboard. I don’t suppose we can have every person on the ship searched; in fact, we don’t want to, because we can’t afford publicity. But we can come damn close to the same thing at the Customs day after tomorrow!”

  “The Customs?”

  “Of course. The stone has to be smuggled through, doesn’t it? And it’s not going to get through!”

  “Do you—do you really believe that, Bill?” A trace of hope returned to her voice.

  “Believe it! I’m sure of it.”

  “Oh, I hope you’re right! It means my job if you’re not.”

  “Mine too, Arlene. But does a job mean that much to you?”

  “Not just the work,” she said dolefully. “It’s being trusted and then failing. It’s being given a certain duty and then shirking it. What hurts is being stubborn and stupid, and then having it proved to you.” She grew tenser in his arms. “Bill, we’ve got to get it back!”

  “We will.”

  “Have you any idea who—?”

  “I most assuredly have. Not enough evidence for an arrest, perhaps, but enough to warrant our being hopeful.”

  “Then whom do you mean?”

  “Tormley, of course. His stopping me up there with his antique watch— that’s too pat for a coincidence. And his whistling. One could hear it through the port there from where be stood, and—look, it’s open. Did you leave it open?”

  “I—no. There was spray.”

  “Then the thief opened it so he could bear Tormley while he searched you. “Why, even the tune— ‘The Campbells are Coming’— it’s obvious it was meant for a warning.”

  “But what will you do, Bill?”

  Ketchall smiled soberly. “I know Margrave at the Customs,” he said. “I’ve had dealings with him before. We’ll have all the passengers gone over extra carefully, but the search Tormley and his pal Hotchkiss are going to get will be a caution!”

  “But don’t you suppose they’ll expect that? Don’t you think they’ve anticipated it?”

  “Maybe they have. All the same, they can’t leave the Waterbury on the ship, and they can’t get it o
ff except through the Customs. I don’t care if it’s in their shaving brush handle, or the heels of their shoes; if it’s on ‘em we’ll find it. They’ve even got an x-ray and a fluoroscope for cases like this, and I’ll see that they use it.”

  “I hope you’re not just being encouraging,” murmured Arlene, “but you do make me feel as if we haven’t lost everything.”

  “We’ve found everything,” corrected Bill gently. Her arms lightened around him.

  HE LAST full day of the voyage added nothing at all in the way of clues. Arlene Lowell spent most of the time in a deck-chair, where Ketchell joined her in the intervals between the performance of certain duties.

  He had radioed Margrave, and had secured permission for himself and Arlene to go back with the pilot’s’ launch, so as to be on the ground when the first passengers appeared. He had sweated long and painfully over the question of whether to tell the Captain of the theft, and had finally decided in the negative. Informing him would only mean a report to his owners, and thence, beyond doubt, to Simon’s: Gordon, of course, must learn of the loss, anyway; but there was certainly no advantage in having an unwanted and totally useless publicity that violated the firm’s guarantee of secrecy. No; the problem had to be worked out alone—except of course for Margrave—because the Customs must be told of the jewel whether found or not.

  He and Arlene scanned every passenger a dozen times during that endless day, trying to read in their faces some clue, some hint, as to their inward attitudes. It was utterly futile; Tormley whistled his way around the deck with absolute complacence, and Hotchkiss twitched and grimaced, but he had done the same for the entire voyage. He had the pinpoint eyes of a drug-addict anyway, Ketchall thought.

  So the day dragged listlessly past, and the night passed. There was no more damage to be done now; the horse was stolen and the stable carefully locked. And when, in the middle of the following morning, they raised the peaks of Manhattan, both Bill and ‘Arlene felt a distinct relief. Now, at least, they could begin to do something.