Torn between Lovers

by Frank Howell Evans

  Two men appeared simultaneously at the two ends of a corridor with doors on both sides. The ship was swaying gently, but noticeably. The corridor was comparatively long and dark, so each man could see the other as a mere black silhouette at the other end. Nevertheless, each man knew the other, because they were both men of striking appearance and they hated each other.

  They both had gotten onboard in Hamburg. The ocean liner, which had a capacity for a hundred passengers, was only carrying fifteen. This was due to the rumors of impending war, which were emanating from both England and Germany. The signs were easy to see. Planes could be seen in the sky hourly and submarines were to be seen in the harbor. The captain, a former navy man, had ordered all lights at night to be dimmed as a precaution against attacks by either planes or submarines.

  The corridor led on one end to the staircase, and at the other to a deck overlooking the North Sea. Though many doors opened onto the corridor, all had been locked by the steward, as the cabins were unoccupied, except for two, one at each end. One was occupied by a beautiful young woman and the other by a rich publisher.

  The two men in question were admirers of the young woman. They evidently knew her door and counted on it opening, for each approached the door at the upper end of the corridor with equal coolness and confidence. Not, however, with equal speed. The man who walked fast was the man from the other end of the passage, so they both arrived before the door almost at the same time. They greeted each other with civility, and waited a moment before one of them, the fast walker who seemed to have the shorter patience, knocked on the door.

  As private persons both were handsome, capable and popular. As public persons, both were at least weekly in the newspapers. But everything about them, from their glory to their good looks, was of an incomparable kind. Lord Charles Maxwell was the kind of man whose importance was known to everybody who knew. The more you mixed with the uppermost ring of the world of finance, the more often you met Lord Charles. He was the one intelligent man on the boards of ten unintelligent boards of directors. He was so unique that nobody could quite decide whether he was a great aristocrat, who had taken up business, or a great financier whom the aristocrats had taken up. But no one could meet him for five minutes without realizing that they had been impacted by his decisions all their lives.

  His appearance was at once conventional and eccentric. No one could have found a fault with his homburg hat, yet it was unlike anyone else’s hat, a little more colorful, perhaps, and adding something to his natural height. His tall, slender figure had a slight stoop, making him seem quite formidable. His hair was grey, but he did not look old. It was worn longer than a man his age was supposed to wear it, yet he did not look effeminate. It was curly but it did not look curled. His carefully trimmed beard made him look manly and strong, like the lords and dukes of old, whose portraits filled his mansion in London. His grey gloves were a shade bluer. His gold-knobbed cane was a bit longer than the ones other men flapped about the theatres and expensive restaurants in the West End.

  The other man was not as tall, yet he would have struck nobody as short, merely strong and handsome. His hair was curly, fair and cropped close to a strong, massive head like a battering ram. His big moustache and his posture easily identified him as a soldier. He had a pair of frank and piercing blue eyes. His face was square, his jaw was square, his shoulders were square.

  He also was a public man, though with quite another sort of success. Everyone in England had heard of the Hero of Gallipoli, Colonel John Drewitt-Barlow. His portrait was on every other postcard. His maps and battles in every other illustrated periodical. Songs in his honor were sung in every other music-hall. His fame, though probably more temporary, was ten times bigger than the other man’s. Yet he had less power than Lord Charles.

  The door was opened to them by a maid, whose face and figure contrasted intensely with the glittering interior of her mistress’s stateroom. On the inside of the door, like all cabins, there was a huge mirror, which covered the whole of the door. The other features of luxury were a few flowers, a few colored cushions, and stage costumes, flung on the sofa. The young lady to whom the costumes belonged was an actress.

  They both spoke to the dingy maid by name, calling her Padgett, and asking for the lady as Miss Michelle Murs. Padgett said she was in the other room, but she would go and tell her. A cloud crossed the brow of both visitors. Miss Michelle was of the kind that does not inflame admiration without inflaming jealousy. Half a minute later, however, the inner door opened, and she entered as she always did, even in private life, in what seemed a roar of applause. She was clad in an evening dress of peacock green, which gleamed like green metal. Her heavy brown hair framed one of those magnificent faces which were dangerous to all men, but especially to men growing grey.

  She greeted both men with a beaming smile, which both welcomed and kept the beholder at a distance from her. She accepted flowers from Drewitt-Barlow, which were as beautiful and expensive as his military victories. A present from Lord Charles was offered later on and more nonchalantly. It was against his nature to show eagerness, and against his good taste to give anything so obvious as flowers. He had picked up a triviality, he said, which was rather a curiosity. It was the knife used in a celebrated theatre production of Macbeth, five years before. It had been given to him by the actress playing Lady Macbeth. It was made of steel, and, oddly enough, sharp enough to cut anyone still.

  As he was explaining the history of the knife, the inner door burst open and a big figure appeared. He was nearly six-foot-four, and all muscles. Andrew Springfield, dressed in a gorgeous summer suit of white and golden-brown looked more like a barbaric god than the publisher of a woman’s magazine. He leaned on a sort of shepherd’s crook, which he had been using ever since a sporting accident had left him with a broken left foot. His vivid blue eyes rolled volcanically. His bronzed face with high cheekbones, handsome as it was, showed a certain arrogance and self-indulgence.

  “Michelle,” he began, in that deep voice like a violin full of passion that had moved so many women’s hearts, “will you…”

  He stopped suddenly, because a sixth figure had suddenly presented itself just outside the doorway. The figure was so appropriate to the scene as to be almost part of a set. It was a very short man, rotund and clad in evening dress. His luxurious mustache was well kept and everything about the man, not in the least the perfume he was obviously using, spoke of the extraordinary amount of time he spent on grooming. He frowned somewhat as if not expecting to see the occupant of the stateroom surrounded by several men. Still he said with civility, and tipping his homburg hat, “Mademoiselle Murs, she has sent for me, Jules Poiret.”

  It was obvious that the emotional temperature rather rose at the appearance of another admirer of the charming young lady. The exquisite clothes and rich appearance of the new arrival seemed to make the others aware that they stood round the woman like a group of amorous rivals, just as a stranger coming in with snow on his coat will make it seem that a room is like a furnace. The presence of the new man increased everyone’s sense that everybody was in love with her, and each in a somewhat dangerous way. The publisher loved her with all the appetite of a savage and a spoilt child. The soldier loved her with all the simple selfishness of a man of will rather than mind. Lord Charles loved her with an obsession with which rich old men take to a hobby. Even the sorry looking maid, Padgett, who had known her before her triumphs, and who followed her around the room with her eyes or feet, loved her with the fascination of a loyal dog.

  Poiret noted a yet odder thing with a considerable but contained amusement. He had years of experience solving crimes, first as a celebrated policeman in Paris and later after his retirement as a consul
ting detective in London. It was evident that Michelle, though by no means indifferent to the admiration of the distinguished men, wanted at this moment to get rid of all the men, who admired her and be left alone with the man, whom she had invited. Poiret admired and even enjoyed the firm feminine diplomacy and psychology with which she set about her task. There was, perhaps, only one thing that Michelle Murs was clever about, apart from her profession and that was how to treat men. The little detective watched, like a general watches a campaign, the swift precision of her policy for expelling all while ruffling no one’s feathers. Springfield, the big publisher, was so boyish that it was easy to send him off in brute sulks, banging the door on his way out of the stateroom. Drewitt-Barlow, the officer, was immune to thoughts, but meticulous about acts. He would ignore all hints, but he would die rather than ignore a plea from a lady. As to old Lord Charles, he had to be treated differently. He had to be left to the last. The only way to move him was to appeal to him in confidence as an old friend, to let him into the secret of the clear-out. The detective did really admire Miss Murs as she set about achieving her object.

  She put the knife on a dresser and went across to Colonel Drewitt-Barlow and said in her sweetest manner, “I shall value all these flowers, because they must be your favorite flowers. But they won’t be complete, you know, without my favorite flower added to them. Do go over to the purser and get me some yellow roses, and then it will be quite lovely.”

  The first object of her diplomacy, the exit of the enraged Springfield, was at once achieved. He had already handed his shepherd’s crook in a lordly style, like a scepter, to the piteous Padgett, and was about to sit down on one of the cushioned seats like a throne. But at this open appeal to his rival to fetch her favorite flowers for her, there glowed in his eyeballs all the hurt feelings of a bruised self-esteem. He balled his enormous fists for an instant, and then, dashing open the door with its huge mirror, disappeared, limping, into his own cabin beyond. But meanwhile Miss Murs’s experiment in mobilizing the British Army had not succeeded so simply. Drewitt-Barlow had indeed risen stiffly and suddenly, and walked towards the door, hatless, as if at an order. But perhaps there was something remarkable about the distinguished figure of Lord Charles leaning against one of the walls that made him halt at the entrance, turning his head this way and that like a bewildered bulldog.

  “I must show this foolish man where to go,” said Michelle in a whisper to Lord Charles and Poiret, and ran out to the threshold to give additional orders to the parting guest.

  Lord Charles seemed to be listening, elegant as was his usual posture, and he seemed relieved when he heard the lady call out some last instructions to the colonel, and then turn quickly and run laughing down the corridor towards the other end, the end leading to the deck looking out over the North Sea. Yet a second or two later Lord Charles’s brow darkened again. A man in his position had many rivals. He remembered that at the other end of the corridor was the entrance to Springfield’s stateroom. He did not lose his patience. He said some civil words to Poiret, whom he had met in the dining room before, about the likely occurrence of a war between England and Germany, walked around the room to look at all the knick-knacks and then, quite naturally, went out himself into the upper end of the corridor, where the lady had gone. Poiret and Padgett were left alone. Poiret, astonished and rather angry at being sent for and then abandoned, and Padgett, still holding the shepherd’s crook with its pointy end making it look like a spear, were neither of them with a taste for superfluous conversation. The maid went round the room, clearing away the colorful costumes her mistress had left all over the cabin, looking all the more dismal since she was still holding the shepherd’s crook.

  Poiret followed Padgett with an idly attentive eye till she left the cabin and took herself and her absurd shepherd’s crook into the farther room of Springfield, probably to return his walking aid. Then he abandoned himself to his annoyance. He took his golden pocket watch and looked at the time. Before he could see the hands on the dial he heard a cry.

  He sprang to his feet and stood rigidly listening. At the same time Lord Charles burst back into the room, through the open door, white as ivory. “Who’s that man in the corridor?” he cried. “Where’s that dagger of mine?”

  Before Poiret could turn to look Lord Charles was rushing around the room looking for the weapon. And before he could find the weapon, brisk footsteps were heard outside, and the square face of Colonel Drewitt-Barlow was thrust into the doorway. He was grotesquely grasping a bunch of yellow roses.

  “What’s this?” he cried. “What’s that monster doing down the corridor? Are these some of your tricks?”

  “My tricks!” hissed his pale rival, and made a stride towards him.

  At this moment Poiret stepped out of the stateroom into the top of the corridor, looked down it, and at once walked hurriedly towards what he saw in the dark corridor. Seeing this, the other two men dropped their quarrel and ran after him.

  Drewitt-Barlow exclaimed, “What are you doing?”

  “Is it not obvious to you, Monsieur?” said the detective sadly, as he bent over something and straightened himself again. “Mademoiselle Murs, she sent for Poiret, and he came as quickly as he could, but helas, he has come too late.”

  The three men looked down. In the midst of them Michelle Murs lay in her green dress, with her dead face turned upwards. Her dress was torn as in a struggle, leaving her left shoulder bare, but the wound from which the blood was welling was on her back. The lord’s dagger lay gleaming in the spare light of a dimly lit lamp a yard or so away.

  There was a stillness for a while, so that they could hear the ship’s engine cleave through the cold waters of the North Sea. Then the colonel, with a movement so sudden it could only have been caused by passion, took Lord Charles by the throat.

  Lord Charles looked at him steadily without either fight or fear. “You need not remind me of your love for her,” he said in a calm voice. “I’m heartbroken myself.”

  The colonel’s hand hesitated and dropped.

  “That is good enough for me,” replied Drewitt-Barlow, “but I’ll have blood for this before I die. Not yours, because I think I know who did it.”

  And before the others could understand his intention he snatched up the dagger, ran to Springfield’s cabin door at the lower end of the corridor, pushed it open, and confronted Springfield in his stateroom. As he did so, miserable Padgett ran screaming out of the door and caught sight of the corpse lying in the corridor. She moved shakily towards it, looked at it weakly, then moved shakily back into the publisher’s cabin, and sat down suddenly on one of the richly cushioned chairs. Poiret instantly walked across to her, taking no notice of Drewitt-Barlow and the giant publisher, though the furniture was already being turned upside down with their blows as they began to struggle for the dagger. Lord Charles, who retained some common sense, was crying for the ship’s crew at the end of the corridor.

  When the captain and some of his crew arrived it was to tear the two men from an almost animal-like grapple, and, after a few inquiries, to arrest Andrew Springfield upon a charge of murder, brought against him by his furious opponent. The idea that the Hero of Gallipoli had arrested a murderer with his own hand doubtless had its weight with the ship’s captain, who was a former navy man. He treated Colonel Drewitt-Barlow with a certain solemn respect, and pointed out that he had a deep cut on his hand. The injury was slight, but till he was removed from the room the half-savage prisoner stared at the running blood with a possessed smile.

  “Resembles a cannibal sort of fellow, don’t he?” said the captain confidentially to Drewitt-Barlow.

  Drewitt-Barlow gave no answer, but said brusquely a moment later, “We must attend to the...the dead...” and his voice broke up.

  “I suggest gentlemen,” came in the voice of the captain, “that all of you go back to your cabins and we will regroup tomorrow after breakfast in my stateroom for the formal procedure of ascertaining the cause of de
ath of this passenger on my ship.” And he stood looking down the corridor as the ship’s surgeon was kneeling down next to the dead woman.

  The silence was first broken by Drewitt-Barlow, who seemed not untouched by Padgett, crying uncontrollably. “I wish I was her,” he said huskily. “I remember she used to watch her mistress wherever she walked more than anybody. She was her air, and she’s dried up. She’s just dead.”

  “We’re all dead,” said Lord Charles in a strange voice, looking down the corridor. The colonel followed his gaze. Both their faces were tragic, but also stoic.

  The world class mind of the little detective was always working. Thoughts jumped at him, but were too quick for him to catch. He had not yet brought method and order to his thoughts. He was certain of their grief, but not so certain of their innocence.

  “We had better all be going,” said Lord Charles gravely. “We have done all we can to help.”

  “Please to understand, Monsieur,” said Poiret with a wily smile on his face, “when Poiret, he tells to you both that you have done all you can to hurt.”

  They both started.

  Drewitt-Barlow said angrily, “To hurt whom?”

  “To hurt yourselves,” answered the detective. “Poiret, he would not add to your grief if it were not to warn you. You have done everything, Messieurs, you could do to hang yourselves, if Monsieur Springfield, he is acquitted.”

  The two men and the captain looked at the dignified little man.

  “If tomorrow the captain, he asks Poiret to give the witness report, he shall be bound to say that after the cry was heard each of you ran into the cabin in the state, which was wild and began to quarrel about the dagger. Messieurs, as far as Poiret, he is concerned, either one of you as much as Monsieur Springfield may have done it.”

  “What?” cried the colonel.

  “Indeed,” said the lord.

  “Monsieur le Colonel, when did you hurt yourself with the dagger?”