The Blind Barber (15 page)

So Morgan assumed his most winning smile (although he felt it stretch like a hideous mask) and spoke flattering, soothing, cajoling words to Mrs. Perrigord. She was not at all bad-looking, by the way; and he went to work with gusto. While Warren stared at him, he sympathised with her and apologised angrily for the behaviour of whatever disgusting revellers had disturbed her sleep. He intimated that, no matter what might have been the conversation between those two notorious old rips James Joyce and D. H. Lawrence, it had been in very bad taste.

“ … But to tell you the truth, Mrs. Perrigord,” said Morgan, leaning confidingly over her chair, “I heard that disturbance, too; and, though I can’t say, since of course I wasn’t there, you understand … ”

“Oh, quayte!” said Mrs. Perrigord, relaxing a good deal and much less stiffly indicating that he had her royal ear. “Yes?”

“ … still, I should have said it sounded less like—well, shall we say Dionysian revelry?—than simply a free-for-all scrap. Er, fisticuffs, you know,” explained Morgan, seeking the highbrow
mot juste
. “Especially as (if you’ll forgive my saying so, Mrs. Perrigord) that a lady of your charm and knowledge of refinements in sensual indulgence would probably take a light view of men’s and women’s frailties if only they were staged with any degree of delicacy. Furthermore—”

“Well, no, reaolly!” said Mrs. Perrigord, looking arch. “Come now, Mr. Morgan, you can scarcely expect muh to agree
all
together with that, can you? Heh-heh-heh!”

“Sure! Absolutely, Mrs. Perrigord!” said Warren. He perceived that Hank was trying to win the old girl over, and stoutly tried to help the good work along. “We know you’re a good sport. Absolutely. Remember what the travelling salesman said to the farmer’s daughter.”

“Shut up,” said Morgan out of the corner of his mouth. “And naturally I suppose this idea of a fight occurred to you, too. Gad! I wonder you didn’t get up and bolt the door, Mrs. Perrigord, in case those drunken ba—ah—in case those revellers should decide—”

“But I did!” cried Mrs. Perrigord. “Oh, the doah was bolted, I assuah you! From the very first moment I heard a woman’s voice imploring someone to—to strike someone ageyne, it was bolted. I did not close an eye oll night. I can most certainly tell you that no one came into the cabin.”

(Well, that tore it. Morgan glanced at his companions. Peggy looked upset. Warren angry and mystified. The puzzle was growing worse jumbled and also it was Mr. Perrigord who now seemed to be giving the nasty looks. Morgan felt that they had better go off and cool their heads before going up for the interview with Captain Whistler. He prepared some discreet words … )

“But tell me,” said Mrs. Perrigord, apparently struck with an idea. “Someone said—
are
you the Mr. Morgan who writes the detective stories?”

“Why—er—yes. Yes, I believe so. Thank you very much, Mrs. Perrigord, and you too, sir. It’s been delightful to have made your acquaintance, and I only hope we shall have the opportunity—”

“I adore detective stories,” said Mrs. Perrigord.

Her husband remained motionless. But on his glassy-eyed countenance was a curious expression. He looked as a familiar of the Spanish Inquisition might have looked if, on the morning of an
auto-da-fé
, Fra Torquemada had announced an intention of dismissing the poor blighters with a warning.

“Do you indeed, my dear?” inquired Leslie Perrigord, frostily. “Most extraordinary. Well, we must not detain them, Cynthia. Miss Glenn, I hope I shall have the pleasure of conferring with you to-day—and also your excellent uncle, to whom I look forward to meeting—and arrange matters for the performance to-night.
A bientôt!
”

“But we shall see you at the concert, of course,” observed Mrs. Perrigord. On her face was a narrow-eyed smile which somehow reminded Morgan of Mr. Stanley Laurel. “Les-leh and I have bean conferring with the pursah to arrange it. I shall
so
hope to see you, deah Miss Glenn. An excellent programme has bean arranged. Madame Giulia Leda Camposozzi will sing
morceaux
from the more modern masters, accompanied by her husband, Signor Benito Furioso Camposozzi. I—ah—believe,” she added, frowning as though this did not appeal to her, “that the pursah, a certain Mr. Macgregor, has persuaded Dr. Oliver Kyle to recite selections from the works of Robert Burns. This will of course precede M. Fortinbras’s performance.
A bientôt
.”

“Cheero-ho,” said Peggy, rising from the table, “and thanks most awfully for all the information. You
must
come and see me, Mr. Perrigord, and tell me all about those fascinating things—but, I say—er—if you’re going to see my uncle—”

“Yes?” inquired Mr. Perrigord. He lifted his eyebrows at her worried expression.

“Don’t think me foolish, but I really know him awfully well. And please promise me, if he’s up and about—I mean, I know how
awful
some of you terribly intelligent people are,” she really seemed to be in earnest this time, and even Mrs. Perrigord condescended to look at her as she hesitated; “but promise me you won’t give him anything to drink. I know it sounds silly, but he really hasn’t got a strong head; and—and you’d never believe it, but he has a most awful weakness for gin. I have to watch him, you see, because one night when we were to give a performance in Philadelphia—”

“I never touch spirits, Miss Glenn,” said Perrigord, swiftly and rather curtly. “‘Why should I put a thief in my mouth to steal away my brains?’ as T. S. Eliot somewhere puts it. It is abominable. I am also a vegetarian. M. Fortinbras will be quite safe in my care. Good day.”

In silence the three conspirators hurried away from the table. Morgan, locked up with his own bewildering thoughts, did not speak. Peggy looked scared. It was Warren who broke the silence.

“You see?” he demanded, savagely. “Those two dumb chucks wouldn’t steal anything. Now take my advice before it’s too late. It’s that fake doctor, I’m telling you. My Lord! the thing didn’t just disappear! It’s in his cabin … ”

“Peggy,” said Morgan, “there’s no other explanation. You must have mistaken the cabin.”

They had reached the foot of the staircase, and she waited until a passing steward was out of earshot. “I didn’t, Hank,” she told him, quietly and earnestly. “I’m absolutely positive I didn’t. I was out on deck again this morning, putting myself just where I stood last night … ”

“Well?”

“I wasn’t mistaken. It was one of those two, because there are only two portholes anywhere near. It was one of those two; and I
think
, I say I think, it was Dr. Kyle’s.”

“As far as I’m concerned, I don’t see what more evidence you want,” remarked Warren, rather querulously. “I’ll do what the Brains says, and no questions asked, but I’ve got my own theories. Come on. We’ve got to go up and see Captain Whistler.”

A voice just above them said: “Excuse me, Mr. Warren, I don’t want to bust up anything; but if you’ve ten minutes to spare, I think I can make it worth your while.”

Leaning over the gilt banister, tapping it with his finger, Mr. Charles Woodcock was regarding them in a very curious fashion.

M
R. WOODCOCK’S COUNTENANCE WORE
such an expression of tense and alert seriousness that Morgan felt a new uneasiness. He remembered Valvick’s remarks to the effect that Woodcock had hinted of things, nebulous but dangerous things, the man claimed to know. Never thoroughly at ease before live-wire business men, because his mind could not move as fast as theirs along their own lines, Morgan thought of several disturbing possibilities, including blackmail. And so it was that they encountered a feature of the case which (a week before) Morgan would have considered an absurdity or a frank impossibility, yet which to others was serious: one of the deadly serious things which underlay a tissue of misdirection and nonsense.

Woodcock was a wiry, restless, shock-headed man with a bony face and good-humoured eyes which were nevertheless rather fixed. Round his sharp jaw were wrinkles as though from much talking; the talking, in fact—as he strolled about the ship hitherto—had been rapid, lurid, jovial and winking. He seemed desirous of conveying the impression that he was a bouncing, engagingly mendacious good fellow with little on his mind. Now he leaned over the banister, his sharp eyes moving swiftly right and left.

“Now I spoke to the old skipper,” he went on in a rapid and confidential undertone, “because I didn’t have any idea of shoving myself in, you understand, where I mightn’t be wanted. All right!” said Mr. Woodcock lifting his palm in a gesture as though he expected an objection. He did this each time he said, “All right!” It was a means of noting that he had made a point; and could go on from there with a certainty that, so far, everything was understood. “All right! But I know how it is with these things, and I want to make it man to man, and fair and square, so that I can convince you you’ll be doing a thing you’ll never regret if you come in on my proposition. All right! Now, all I want, Mr. Warren, is ten minutes of your valuable time—alone. Just ten minutes. You can take out your watch and put it on the table, and if I haven’t interested you in just ten minutes—” Here he made a significant gesture of his wrist and raised his eyebrows—“then there’s absolutely no more to be said.”

“Not at all, not at all,” said Warren rather vaguely. He was flustered at this new intrusion, and clearly had the idea Woodcock was trying to sell him something. “Glad to give you all the time you want. Well—we’ll have a drink and talk it over. But not just now. My friends and I have an important date—”

Woodcock leaned closer.

“Exactly, old man. Exactly. I know. With the captain. It’s all right now; it’s all right,” he whispered, raising his hand. “I understand, old man.”

The conspirators stared at each other, and Woodcock’s eyes swept from one to the other of them. “What,” said Warren, “what’s on your mind?”

“Ten minutes,” said the other, “alone?”

“Well—yes. But my friends have got to be there. You can tell all of us, can’t you?”

Woodcock seemed to scent a bluff somewhere. His eyebrows went up, but he spoke in a tone of pleasant and fatherly chiding, anxiously.

“Look, old man. Are you sure you’ve got it straight? Are you sure you’d like to have the young lady there?”

“Why not? Good God! what have you got into your head, anyhow?”

“All right, old man, if that’s what you want!” He was affable. “I admit I’d rather talk to you alone, but I won’t argue. Suppose we go up to the writing-room, where it’ll be quiet.”

On the way he talked steadily and with sprightly bounce of other matters, laughing heartily, amid many jocose references. The white-panelled writing-room was deserted. He led them to an embrasure of full-glass windows, where the morning sun was muffled by thick curtains, and quiet was broken only by the pounding of the engines. Here, when they were seated, he ran a hand through his bristly hair, fidgeted, and suddenly shot into action.

“Now, I want to help you, old man,” he explained, still confidentially, “but you see, it’s a case of mutual benefits, you see? You’re young, and you don’t understand these things. But when you get older and have a wife and family, ah!” said Mr. Woodcock. He made an impressive gesture. “Then you’ll understand that business isn’t only a matter of favours. All right! Now, frankly, you’re sort of in a jam, aren’t you?”

“Shoot,” said Warren briefly.

“Well then. I don’t know what went on on the boat last night, that everybody’s talking about; I don’t
want
to know. It’s none of my business, see? But I do know what happened yesterday afternoon. A roll of film was stolen from your cabin, wasn’t it? No, no, don’t answer, and don’t interrupt.

“I’m going to show you,” continued Mr. Woodcock, after a pause in which he demonstrated himself an admirable showman—“I’m going to show you,” he went on, rather sharply, “a little moving-picture of my own as to what might have happened. I don’t say it
did
happen, y’unnastand. You wouldn’t expect me to pin myself down to that, would you? I say it
might
have happened. All right! Now here’s my little moving-picture. I’m coming along the gangway down on C deck, see? about ha’-past four yesterday afternoon, and I’ve just been up sending off a radio to my firm, and there’s nothing on my mind. All of a sudden I hear a noise behind me when I’m passing one of those little offshoots of the gangway, and I turn around in time to see a guy ducking out of it, and across the gangway into the wash-room. All right! And I see this bozo’s got a whole mess of movie film that he’s trying to stuff under his coat—

“
U-uh
, now!” said Mr. Woodcock warningly, “don’t interrupt! Well, suppose I see this guy’s face so that if I haven’t seen it before I’d know it again wherever I saw it; just suppose that. I wonder what it is, but I figure it’s none of my business. Still, I think there may be an angle to it, see, so I sort of go down and take a peek. But all I can see is a door sort of open and a lot of film and film-boxes scattered around on the floor; and I see a guy—maybe yourself—sort of getting up from the floor with his hands to his head.

“And I think ‘Whu-o, Charley! You’d better get out of this, and not be mixed up in any trouble,’ see? Besides, the guy was coming round and didn’t need any help, or I’d have stopped. But then I get to thinking—”

“You mean,” said Warren, rather hoarsely, “you saw who—?”

“Now go easy, old man, go easy. Let me show my picture now!”

His picture, they discovered, exhibited a sort of strange interlude in which Mr. Woodcock’s memory spoke to him. Apparently he was a great hand at reading the tabloids and scandal sheets, explaining also that he was a subscriber to the magazine
True Sex-Life Stories
. One of the papers, it appeared, had recently published a red-hot, zippy item straight from the capital city. It was couched in the form of innuendo, inquiring what Big Shot had a nephew who could always get a job turning a camera crank in Hollywood; furthermore, was it possible that the afore-mentioned Big Shot, in a sportive mood, had been indiscreet before a camera; and, if this were within the limits of possibility, who was the woman in the case?