The Traces of Merrilee

by Herbert Brean

  A key rattled in a nearby lock and a woman’s voice answered him softly. The door slammed. Then, a subdued murmur continued behind the head of my bed. But I had recognized his voice. The couple who sat with the Pennypackers in the dining room had the suite next to ours. I looked at the luminous dial on my wrist. It was one o’clock.

  I went back to thinking about Merrilee. She certainly had an effect on people.

  It was a nice way to go to sleep.

  Chapter 6

  The Lifeboat

  A brief, reserved jingle broke from the telephone on the bedside table. It made me conscious without awakening me. I looked up into darkness, then found the phone.

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Dickens?”

  “Deacon?”

  “I guess so. This is Merrilee. Remember?”

  Remember!

  “I remember. What time is it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  My watch told me it was six-thirty-one.

  “I’m sorry to wake you up. It’s just that I’m scared. And you said—”

  “I don’t mind being waked up.” I was gradually coming to. “What’s the trouble?”

  “I’ve been calling Sam. Sad Sam. My press agent. His stateroom doesn’t answer.”

  Remembering how I had left him last night, I said, “He’s probably just sleeping heavily. It happens, you know—after a tough day.”

  “But I think that’s not like Sam. He’s the nervous type. Except when he calms himself with Scotch.”

  “He was getting quite calm last night.”

  “But—oh, damn!” Fear made her voice shrill, and for the first time I became concerned. “I tell you, I have a feeling. Something’s wrong.”

  After all, I was supposed to be earning my passage—our passages.

  “I’ll go around and look in on him. Then I’ll report. What’s his cabin number?”

  “M-445. Do you terribly mind? It’s just—I don’t know what it is. A feeling.”

  I climbed into slacks and a jacket, and just stuffed a tie in my pocket. Going down to the main deck, I glimpsed the morning through a porthole. It was gray and overcast, and the sea was tossing white spray. The ship was rolling a little.

  M-445 was forward and I knocked smartly on the door. A steward appeared almost at once from one of those little housekeeping cubbyholes in the middle of the ship.

  “M’sieu?”

  “M’sieur Jones. Has he been up?”

  “No, m’sieu.”

  “He should be.” I rapped again.

  “Permit me.” The steward came to the door and rapped a key softly on the key plate, in gentle reprimand.

  “He wanted me to awaken him.”

  Another key rap, again gently.

  “I wonder if anything’s wrong,” I said innocently. “If he is ill—” The steward turned a serious face to me. “Perhaps if you would just open the door,” I said.

  He looked uncertain.

  “I won’t go in, of course.”

  He opened the door. Over his shoulder I saw a turned-down bed and black pajamas arranged across the foot. The bed obviously had not been slept in. He went in and pulled the door to, without quite shutting it. In a moment he was back.

  “No one in there, m’sieu. I looked all around.”

  “Thank you.”

  I gave him a dollar. But I wondered a little. Had Jones passed out in the bar? Fallen asleep in one of the salons?

  The bar was locked tight. The lounges I walked through were vacant, except for one early morning letter-writer in the library. I went to Merrilee’s suite.

  She opened the door almost the instant I knocked.

  “He’s all right?”

  “I’m sure he is. But he’s not in his cabin. That’s why you got no answer.”

  “Then where is he?”

  She was in a white negligee. She had a newly lighted cigarette between her fingers. Her lips trembled and so did her fingers, so much that they shook the ash from the cigarette. For the first time her face looked almost as old as her dyed hair.

  “Now wait a minute. It’s not that bad.”

  “I’m sorry.” She turned. “Klára!”

  The maid appeared in the doorway to the bedroom.

  “Make coffee, please. I travel with a little espresso machine. Maybe that will help things. I can’t get over—I did get you up, didn’t I? I’m sorry.”

  “I’m usually up early. Coffee sounds fine. I’ll just put my tie on if—”

  “Of course. Bath’s in there.” She pointed to a door.

  But there were two doors, and I opened the wrong one. It wasn’t the door to the bathroom, but led into a closet festooned with feminine coats and jackets. But above all, there was a strange bulk hanging from a high hook. It was a man’s body, suspended by a length of heavy rope.

  I don’t know how long I looked at it. Then the ship’s vibration slowly made it swing around, like a chicken hung by the neck in a butcher shop.

  The bright-blue shirt and the droopy mustache I recognized right away. It was well I did, because Jones’s face was not only strangely drawn and distorted, but it was a bright green, the color of young spring grass. The open eyes were hideous.

  I made myself touch his wrist. It was as cold as the ice in the last drink I’d seen him sipping a few hours ago. I tried the fingers. They were rather stiff. Belatedly I thought of closing the door.

  But a little cry came from behind me. She had come to the door and caught a full look at that green face.

  “It’s him!” she cried. “I’ve been waiting for it for years. Look at his face. It’s what I dreamed years ago.”

  Her indrawn breath was the start of a sob. “My God, it’s happening!”

  * * * *

  I have never come upon a dead body before and my first thought was that this could not be happening. I had known that there might be a possibility of trouble, but not anything like—

  And then the second thought struck. She was not being theatrical; she was not putting this on. And yet why hadn’t they found him before now? He was wearing the same clothes he’d had on last night. So he hadn’t been to bed. When and how did he get here?

  She had called him—at least, she said she had—and become alarmed when he didn’t answer. But had he been hanging here in her closet all that time?

  It takes long to say it, but not to reason it.

  The maid came from the bedroom, a spoon and a can of Italian coffee in her hand. Her iron face never changed, but she put down the coffee, and Merrilee ran impulsively to her. The maid opened her arms as to a child and her big, muscular hands comforted slender shoulders. I saw the hard eyes shift to the open door, and she obviously saw what was hanging there. The expression remained as it was.

  Then she put Merrilee in a chair, and made the coffee. As she did, I said, “When did either of you look into the closet last?”

  Merrilee said, “I guess I did, a little before midnight. I took my sleeping pills out of that little alligator handbag. Then I went right to bed.”

  “And slept well?”

  “I usually do if I take the pills.”

  “But you were awake early this morning.”

  “Yes. I don’t know why.”

  “And you?”

  The maid looked up from the espresso machine. “I tidy the place after my mistress. Then I go to sleep.”

  “Where do you sleep?”

  She pointed to a day bed near the door leading to the corridor.

  “And you heard nothing all night?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Do you usually sleep soundly?”

  She shrugged and began pouring coffee. She handed cups to us. I sipped thoughtfully. Then I motioned Merrilee into the bedroom and closed the door.

 
“Do you trust this maid?”

  “She’s been a mother to me for twelve years.”

  “I mean, is she devoted to you? Deeply?”

  “I’m sure. Yes.”

  “I’m going to get that body out of here. And hide it.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “Yes. Will she keep a secret for you?”

  “Of course; she is fanatically loyal. She is Hungarian.”

  “I know—they go together.”

  I went out the door leading from the suite to the boat deck. Morning air, cold and clear, poured in, and the first thing I saw was the lifeboat near which we had stood last night. Beyond was another. And another. Tarpaulins were lashed over each, tied by intricate knots.

  I walked to the far lifeboat and looked around me. Above, a shadow passed. I saw an excessively tall, thin man with a lean yellowed face striding the sports deck above, eyes closed, his hands holding a white handkerchief over his head with fierce determination. He looked like a Hindu. He turned and strode back out of sight.

  I tried the nearest knot. After a time it came loose with sudden ease.

  The Indian returned, continental heels clicking on the deck above. I shrank against the cabin wall. No one else was in sight. He turned and left again. I untied another knot and rolled the tarpaulin over.

  The Indian’s footsteps returned. I dodged back out of sight. The footsteps went away, and I ducked back into the cabin.

  I said, “You two get into the bedroom. I’ve found a place to hide him.”

  When the bedroom door had closed behind them, I went to the closet, taking with me a knife which had come in a complimentary bowl of fruit.

  But before cutting the body down, I examined as best I could the marks which the rope had made on his neck. I had to force myself to touch him. But I made sure that there were no small black-and-blue marks along the groove which the rope had made in the neck. That was of huge importance. Marks like that are made by the rupture of small blood vessels in the skin, but they can occur only when the person is alive at the time of the hanging. Jones, therefore, was dead when he was strung up.

  I inspected his clothes carefully and saw no bloodstains. I swung him around slowly, and then saw what I was looking for. Blood had thickly matted the hair at the back of his head.

  He had been struck a heavy blow, maybe two, which had slightly indented the skull. I suppose that must have killed him instantly. Then he had been roped up.

  I sawed through the rope with the knife, supporting the corpse with one arm and, as the last strand parted, I heard the sound of heavy breathing behind me. Merrilee and Klára were watching me through the barely open bedroom door. I ruthlessly dragged him to the door leading out on deck. He was heavy and stiff, and his bulk made scrape marks in the carpet.

  The Indian’s loud walk rang out again overhead, turned and retreated. No one was in sight.

  I dragged and lifted the body over the threshold, out onto the deck, and then—as fast as I could—to the lifeboat. I lifted the awkward bundle and pushed it across the gunwale into the boat, not caring how it tumbled. I pulled the tarpaulin back in place.

  The Indian returned. I went back into the lee of the wall. He left, briskly. He was quite a walker.

  I peeked into the lifeboat. Jones was mostly on his back and right shoulder, feet up. I tied the ropes hastily, as they had been tied before, in sailors’ bowlines. I ran back to the cabin. The Indian was coming.

  My coffee was still on the table. I drained it. The maid poured more. She seemed to understand something. Merrilee looked at me round-eyed but thankfully from the chair she had never left.

  That painted face was no coincidence. Someone who knew her old fears—and nightmares—was playing on them with conscienceless cruelty. The enemy was aboard then, and not only aboard, but opening a ruthless war. And Newt had figured she would be secure once she was on the ship!

  Yet even then I felt a pang for Sad Sam Jones. The poor guy had been well nicknamed, all right. But why had he been killed? As an object lesson? Because he had refused to be bribed?

  I drank some more coffee. “How did you happen to call me?”

  “Who else was there?”

  And then I was glad I had done what I had, stupid as it might prove to be. At least it gave us time to figure some things out and might disarrange the plans of whoever we were fighting.

  With the knife, I cut down the fragment of rope tied to the closet hook, put it in my pocket, and finished the demitasse.

  “Better take another sleeping pill,” I said. “There’s nothing else you can do right now. Except lock both your doors when I leave.”

  I left by the boat-deck door. I hoped no one would see me coming out of the cabin.

  I went down to the main deck by a circuitous route, deck stairs, the main stairway, stern-end stairs, a deck ladder. The only people I saw were a couple of elderly gentlemen in loud jackets and their ladies in bright sweaters, heading for breakfast.

  I walked past Jones’s stateroom and noticed an odd thing. Clipped onto every door, where mail or notices are stuck, was the morning’s ship paper. Except on Jones’s door. His newspaper was missing. I stopped.

  I pushed it and the door, now unlatched, swung open. No one seemed to be inside. But someone obviously had been. And had even taken the newly delivered paper. To indicate Sam Jones was up and around? Or to wrap something in?

  I stepped in and closed the door.

  It was a small cabin, with a small bath and a sort of corridor leading to a bleak porthole. Obviously not one of the most luxurious accommodations. Not that it mattered now to Jones. The unused black pajamas were still laid out on the turned-down bed.

  The bathroom held only the usual toilet articles. I didn’t ransack everything in his two bags, but they seemed to have the customary articles, plus two bottles of Scotch. On a little table lay a letter, handwritten and unfinished:

  My Dear Jan:

  Was glad as always to hear from you but sorry about Harvey. Perhaps you’re better off, honey. It looks like a bad marriage, but I’d rather have my daughter realize it, and start over, than go on living in the same old rut.

  It goes without saying, as you asked, that you can count on me. Haven’t you always been able to count on your father—or at least almost always? That time in St. Louis, maybe not.

  I’m on an assignment which will pay well, although right now I’m fairly broke and will be for about another month. But knowing that you need money, I will send you at least $250 no later than three weeks from now, probably from Athens, unless—

  It ended there.

  “Unless...” It is an eloquent word.

  I conjectured what trouble his daughter was in, and what he had planned to do for her. Whatever it was, he would never do it.

  I left the letter where it was. I hadn’t touched anything but the clothes in the bags.

  No one was in the corridor. I left, wondering who had last been in there and had gone out so hurriedly as to leave the door ajar.

  Chapter 7

  A Knowledge of the Score

  At a couple of minutes before noon, we were lying in deck chairs banked around the upper pool. For an April day in the North Atlantic it was more like a bright July morning, and some of the women passengers, especially those with good figures, had donned bathing suits and were getting a little early tan.

  It was lazy and somnolent, but it could not dull the memory of what had happened earlier. Lying there, I thought of what I had done and how many people knew I had done it. I decided I was fairly—fairly!—safe. Neither Merrilee nor the maid had any reason to say anything, and I was quite sure I had not been seen by anyone, including the tall Indian. My only danger was the steward who had opened Jones’s stateroom at my request, and I had worked out an answer to
that, if and when the question came. I was quite sure no one had seen my second visit there.

  “Going below a minute,” Tom said, raised his tall bulk out of the chair, and left.

  “Now what?” asked Twit-Twit.

  “If that bum is getting himself a drink this early,” said Betsy darkly, but she settled herself back in her blanket.

  I returned to my thoughts. When would the question be asked? Would they find him at all? They must; there was surely inspection, as well as patrolling for stowaways. I couldn’t keep my eyes away from the boat deck above us, where, out of my immediate sight, was the lifeboat and its stiffening cargo. I began feeling nervous again. Simultaneously I wished they’d never find him, and that they would find him right away and get it over with.

  All morning I had debated going to the first officer, whom Newt said had been paid to help, and telling him everything. I had decided against it. The main thing now was to keep the opposition off balance while trying to discover who he or they were. The first officer could hardly help in that.

  Tom came back unhurriedly.

  “What took you so long?” said Betsy, who makes a point of treating him with exasperation because she is never exasperated with him at all.

  “I went down to see who won the ship’s pool,” said Tom, dropping into his chair. “They were just getting ready to post the winners, so I had to hang around a minute.”

  Betsy looked at him. “And so?”

  “I spent that minute at the bar,” said Tom. “With a Martini.”

  “Tom Dolan! Without any breakfast? You had a Martini on an empty stomach?”

  “Of course not,” said Torn., closing his eyes comfortably. “My stomach wasn’t empty. Because I had a Martini before the one I’m talking about.”

  I said, “And who won the pool, pray?”

  “Oh,” said Tom. “Somebody named Twickenham,” and didn’t even open his eyes.

  Twit-Twit let out a shout. “Hey! On the level?”

  “On the level. Number three the winnah, and you were on it alone. There’s a hundred and fifty-five bucks waiting for you.”

  “Numerology and clean living always win,” I said.