“Four o’clock!” cried Lavender. “And if he thought the baroness was ill, he must have seen —”
“Mrs. King!” gasped the purser, with new horror in his voice.
“I don’t know her name, and neither did Murchison,” said Rittenhouse; “but the woman he saw was one of the stewardesses.”
*****
III
RAIN fell heavily throughout the afternoon, filling the smoking-rooms and lounges of the floating hotel with animated conversation; but in Lavender’s stateroom, as the great liner shouldered through the squall, a grimmer conversation went forward, unknown to the hundreds of our fellow passengers. It was feared that, soon enough, the ill tidings of death would spread through the ship, and throw a blight over the happy voyagers. Meanwhile, the task of apprehending the murderer of the unfortunate baroness had to move swiftly. It is probable that no shipboard mystery ever occurred more fortuitously; that is to say, with two more admirable detectives than Lavender and Rittenhouse actually on board to handle the investigation; but it is equally probable that no more mysterious affair ever engaged the talents of either investigator. We were a little world of our own, isolated from the rest of civilization by hundreds of miles of salt water; our inhabitants were comparatively few in number, and there was no opportunity whatever of escape. Somewhere in our midst actually moved and ate and slept a man or a woman guilty of a hideous crime of violence; yet not a single clue apparently existed to the identity of that individual, unless Murchison’s testimony had supplied it.
Mrs. King, the stewardess, was reluctant to an extraordinary degree, when for the second time she was questioned about her murdered charge. At first, she denied point-blank any knowledge of the events of the night, but then, as Lavender continued to probe, she burst into a storm of hysterical weeping. Confronted with the purport of the clergyman’s information, she made a statement that only added mystery to the case.
“I did go in there at four o’clock,” she said tearfully, addressing the purser, “and, so help me God, Mr. Crown, she was already dead!”
The purser’s astonished glance went round the cabin and settled on my friend; but Lavender only nodded.
“That is what you should have told us at once,” he said. “You were afraid of compromising yourself, but you only compromised yourself more deeply by keeping silent. You see, Rit,” he continued, turning to the Major, “the time element remains unconfused. The murder occurred at about two o’clock, as the body indicated. Now, Mrs. King, let us have no more evasions and no more denials. If you stick to the truth, no harm will come to you that you don’t deserve. Tell us exactly why you went to the baroness’ cabin at four o’clock in the morning.”
“She — she called me!” whispered the woman, in a voice so low that we caught the words only with difficulty.
“That, of course, is nonsense,” said Lavender, severely; but Major Rittenhouse had caught a glimpse of the truth.
“You mean that the call board showed a call from her room,” he interrupted. “But you didn’t hear the bell ring, did you?”
The woman shook her head.
“She was probably asleep, Jimmie,” continued the Major. “She didn’t hear the bell, but when she awoke, some hours after it had rung, the board showed the baroness’ number up. She answered — and found the body!”
“Is that what happened?” demanded Lavender of the woman.
Again Mrs. King responded with a gesture of the head, this time affirmative. The purser was angry.
“You are the night stewardess,” he cried. “You have no right to be asleep.”
“Nevertheless,” said Lavender, “she was asleep. It doesn’t help matters now to scold her. What happened is this: the murderer entered the cabin about two o’clock, and the baroness woke — possibly she had not been asleep. She heard the intruder, and sat up. Before she could scream, his hands were at her throat. There was a struggle, sharp but brief, and somehow the victim managed to reach and touch the call button. The ringing of the bell in the passage alarmed the murderer and he fled. Mrs. King was asleep and did not get the call. Two hours later, she awoke, saw that a call had come from the baroness’ cabin, and responded. Murchison, across the way, opened his door and saw her leaving the room. A pity he didn’t open his door at two o’clock!”
Rittenhouse nodded and took up the quiz. “You saw nothing in the room when you entered?” he asked. “Nothing that would give you an idea as to who did this thing?”
“No,” answered the woman faintly.
“Was there a light in the room?”
She shook her head.
“Then how did you know the baroness was dead?”
“I — I turned on the light.”
“Why did you turn on the light?”
“She had called me,” answered the woman, somewhat defiantly. “I spoke when I went in, and she didn’t answer. I thought maybe she had got up and gone out — I thought maybe she was ill. So I turned on the light, and then I saw — I saw her!”
Rittenhouse nodded again.
“And then you turned out the light, and went away?” Lavender finished. “Why didn’t you tell somebody what had happened?”
“I was afraid,” said Mrs. King simply. “I was afraid they would think I had done it.”
“Hm-m!” said Lavender. He looked at the Major, who shrugged his shoulders.
“I guess that’s all, Purser,” said Lavender, at length. “Let’s have the night watchman in.”
But John Dover, the night watchman, an ex-sergeant of the British army, could tell us nothing. His story was straightforward enough.
“Yes, sir,” said he frankly. “Hi passed that room many times, sir. There was no trouble that Hi could see, sir, hat any time. Hif there ’ad been, Hi’d ’ve looked into it. There was no light in the room, sir, hat any time.”
This, after an hour’s questioning, was still his story.
“It’s probably quite true, too,” observed Lavender, when the man had been cautioned to keep his mouth shut and had been dismissed. “The murderer wouldn’t be fool enough to attract the watchman. Well, Rit, where are we?”
“Just about where we began, Jimmie, I should say,” answered the Major.
“You believe the stewardess’ story?” asked the purser dubiously.
“There’s no earthly reason to disbelieve it, as yet,” responded Lavender. “She could have done it, I suppose, but so could a dozen others. Extraordinary as her statement is, it has many of the earmarks of truth. I believe she did exactly what eight out of ten women would have done in the circumstances. We can’t leave her out of our calculations, of course, but certainly we must allow her to believe that we accept her story in toto. In fact, I do accept it.”
It was not long after these developments that tidings of the death of the Baroness Borsolini were all over the ship. Exactly how the news was started, nobody knew, for everybody with direct knowledge had been sworn to secrecy. It is a difficult thing, however, to hush up as serious a matter as murder, particularly on shipboard; and no doubt the leak could have been traced to the night watchman or Mrs. King, or the clergyman or the ship’s doctor, or possibly even to the Major’s wife or her sister. It is not the sort of knowledge one human being can possess without telling to another.
The purser, Crown, was deeply annoyed, for he was worried about the good name of the ship; but Lavender only grunted and said it could not be helped. As a matter of strict accuracy, it was the very revelation of the murder that brought us one of our strongest and strangest clues. It brought to Lavender’s stateroom, the Hon. Arthur Russell, of Beddington, Herts., England, son of that Lord Denbigh whose name I had discovered on the ship’s passenger list.
All over the ship the rumor of tragedy flew, once it had started, and the passengers gathered in groups to discuss the fearsome occurrence. In the smoking rooms, the
male passengers bragged and told each other what they would do to apprehend the murderer, and in the lounges the women twittered and hissed like the gaudy birds of passage that they were. Many were frankly alarmed at the thought that the assassin was still at large, walking among them. They stated their fears audibly, and the purser was stormed by brigades of them, seeking information and assurances of safety.
“We may all be murdered in our beds,” said they, in effect, so vehemently and in such numbers that Crown probably wished in his heart that many of them would be.
“Idiots!” said Lavender to me in privacy after the harassed purser had told him what was going on. “They are, if anything, safer than before. The murder of the baroness was not a result of blood-lust, nor the beginning of wholesale assassination. The selected victim has been killed, and for the murderer the episode is over. Quite the last thing he would do, unless he is crazy, is kill someone else. What he wants to do now is keep himself a secret, not to advertise himself by further crime. People are funny, Gilly; they don’t think. Most murderers are really very safe men to be near, after they have committed their murder. They have it out of their system; their hate or their vengeance has been satisfied; the one who stood in their path has been removed, and in all probability they will never again commit that crime. The way to stop murder — philosophically speaking — is not to lock up or kill murderers, but to prevent the accomplishment of crime, or even the desire to kill, by scientific, educational methods. This, however,” he added, with a smile and a shrug, “is not a doctrine that I often preach, and never in public. It would land me in the insane asylum!”
I was inclined to agree with his last assertion; but Lavender is a queer fellow, and his philosophy, as he states it, is very plausible. I merely smiled politely, and at his suggestion rang the bell and asked that our tardy luncheon be sent to the stateroom.
As it happened, the Hon. Arthur Russell came in with the tray — that is, he was hard on the heels of the waiter who bore it, and he apologized profusely for interrupting. He was a mannerly young Briton, handsome and likable, and we asked him to sit down and have a cup of tea.
I supposed him to be spokesman for his father, or for some group of the passengers, but his mission, it developed, was quite a different one. He was not seeking information; he had it to impart.
“I say, Mr. Lavender,” he began, “is it all true, this that I hear? That the Baroness Borsolini is dead?”
“Yes,” replied my friend, “quite true. She was found dead in her berth, this morning.”
“And that she was” — he boggled over the word ‘murdered,’ and substituted another one — “that she was killed?”
“Yes,” said Lavender. “There is not a doubt in the world that she was murdered, Mr. Russell.”
“Good Lord!” said the boy. He drew a long breath. “That’s what everybody is saying. I couldn’t believe it!”
“Why?”
“Because — well, I couldn’t, that’s all! It seemed too horrible. Why, only last night, sir, she was with me on deck — full of life — and happy — why, I may have been the last person to see her alive!” he finished.
“The individual who killed her was the last person to see her alive,” said Lavender coolly.
“Of course!” cried the boy. “I didn’t think of that. Say, that’s clever!”
Lavender smiled a little, not displeased by the boy’s quick admiration.
“I think perhaps you have something to tell us, Mr. Russell,” continued my friend. “Don’t hesitate, if you have. Any information is very welcome.”
The Hon. Arthur Russell gulped his tea, suddenly and convulsively, then put it aside.
“Well, I have!” said he. “Not much — but I’ve got her address!”
“Her address?”
“Yes, sir. She gave it to me last night. You see, we had struck up an acquaintance, and we liked each other. We sat out on deck and talked, pretty late. I told her about my school life, and she told me a lot about America; and when we were parting, I said I’d like to write to her. So she gave me her address. Wrote it on a piece of paper and gave it to me. Here it is!”
With something of the air of a conjurer, he produced the paper. His youthful face was alight with the excitement of his news, which he believed to be of the highest importance. He could have been no more than twenty, while the baroness had been all of thirty-five, although pretty enough. Apparently, the boy had been greatly smitten. It was rather amusing, and rather pitiful.
As he spoke, he handed Lavender the scrap of paper that he had taken from his pocket.
“That’s it,” he concluded. “ ‘Florence, Italy. The Hotel Caravan.’ That’s her writing, sir!”
Lavender rose to his feet and carried the paper to the light. The boy too rose, and followed him. The interest of both was profound, although for the life of me I could see no reason for excitement in the discovery of the dead woman’s address.
“Interesting,” said my friend, at length. “Very interesting indeed! And, if I’m not mistaken, very important, too. I’m really very much obliged to you, Mr. Russell.”
“I’m glad if it’s a help,” said the boy, flushing. His eyes sparkled. “I’d like to think that I had —” Suddenly he broke off, and his eyes bulged. “Why,” he cried, “you’re looking at the wrong side!”
“No,” said Lavender, with a little smile, “this is the right side. I saw the other side too, and it’s interesting also — particularly as there is no Hotel Caravan in Florence, that I ever heard of. But it is the reverse that interests me most. You say that she took this paper out of her bag?”
“I didn’t say so,” answered the boy accurately, “but as a matter of fact, she did. Tore it off a large piece, and wrote on it. That’s her handwriting!”
He was still stupefied by Lavender’s curious action, and still certain that in a veritable specimen of the baroness’s handwriting he had furnished us with a sensational clue. But Lavender continued to study the reverse of the fragment. At length, he handed it to me.
“What do you make of it, Gilly?” he asked.
I looked, and saw nothing but a fragment of what apparently had been a printed form of some kind, for there were upon it several words in small print, and a perforated upper edge. The words were quite meaningless, removed from their context. Above the small print, however, was the one word ‘line’ in larger type.
“A ship’s form of some kind?” I hazarded. “Torn from a book of similar forms?”
“Exactly,” agreed Lavender. “The word ‘Line,’ of course, is the last word of ‘Rodgers Line.’ The rest, at the moment, means nothing. If we had the whole form, it might be very illuminating.”
There was a tap on the door, and a moment later Major Rittenhouse entered the stateroom.
“Jimmie,” said the newcomer, “there’s a message coming in for you, upstairs. One of the wireless boys just told me, and asked me to let you know. What’ve you got? Something new?”
“Yes,” said Lavender. “What do you think of it, Rit?”
Rittenhouse turned the paper over in his fingers, and at the baroness’ written name and address, he blinked.
“We are indebted to Mr. Russell for it,” explained Lavender, and repeated the young Briton’s story. “But what do you make of the other side, Rit?”
After some cogitation, the Major made of it exactly what I had made.
“Well,” said Lavender, with a sigh, “I may be wrong; but I thought I saw more than that.” His eyes narrowed. “I’ll tell you what, Rit,” he added suddenly, “take it to your wife, or her sister, and ask either one what it is. I’ll gamble that one of them will tell you.”
The Major appeared surprised.
“Are you joking, Lavender?” His tone was a bit indignant.
“Not a bit of it. I’m intensely serious. Will you do it?”
“Yes,” said Rittenhouse. “I’
ll do anything you say, Jimmie; but I’m damned if I know what my wife has to do with this thing!”
“Meanwhile,” continued Lavender, “let’s see what New York has to report on the Baroness Borsolini. I’ve a feeling that another revelation is at hand.”
“May I come?” asked Arthur Russell eagerly.
“If you like,” smiled Lavender, “but I’ll be right back. Better stay here, all of you. We don’t want to parade about the ship in groups, and start a new set of rumors.”
He hurried away, and we sat back in our seats and impatiently awaited his return. In a few minutes he was back, with a small square of paper folded in his palm.
“Another interesting document,” he observed. “This is Inspector Gallery’s reply to my request for information concerning the baroness. It is in code, but I have translated it. Bear in mind, Rit, that he didn’t know when he wired that the baroness was dead.”
He began to read the message.
“Baroness Borsolini probably Kitty Desmond, well-known adventuress and international character. If she has a small mole at left corner of mouth it is —”
“She has!” interrupted Arthur Russell, in high excitement.
“Yes,” said Lavender, “she has.” He continued to read: “— it is almost cerain. Jewels probably famous Schuyler jewels, worth half million, stolen here two months ago. Have cabled Scotland Yard to meet you at Quarantine Gallery.”
*****
IV
AT THE purser’s table that evening, the murder of the Baroness Borsolini was the sole topic of conversation. We still sat six. Besides Lavender and I and the purser, there were Beverley of Toronto, Dudgeon of New York, and Isaacson of St. Louis. The latter three were acquainted with all the rumors, and they questioned Lavender and the purser diligently. That Lavender was a famous detective, and had been placed in charge of the case, was a piece of news that had circulated with the rest of the reports. Our fellow passengers at table felt themselves very fortunate indeed, to be so fortuitously placed with reference to the fountainheads of information, and I fancy they were vastly envied by passengers at the other tables. Throughout the meal, heads were turned constantly in our direction.
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