The Blind Barber (29 page)

“You mean you didn’t know who the man was?”

“Didn’t I tell you I didn’t know his
name
?” demanded Woodcock urgently. “Think what I said! Remember what I said! And what I said was, I’d know him if I saw him again. And, damn it! he had to be on the boat, didn’t he? So I thought I’d look around and find out who it was. Well, all the possible people were at meals to-day, and I looked, and he wasn’t there! So I thought, ‘What the hell?’ and I began to get scared,” he swallowed hard; “so I went to the purser, and described the man as somebody I wanted to meet. I couldn’t miss him; I remembered everything, including a funny-looking ear and a strawberry mark on the fellow’s cheek. And the purser said, ‘Charley,’ he said, ‘there’s nobody like that aboard.’ And then I thought, ‘Disguise!’ But yet it couldn’t have been anybody I’d already seen, because I’d have known ’em disguise or no disguise—shape of the face, no whiskers, all that.” He was growing unintelligible, but he rushed on. “And then I heard you’d been put in the brig because the captain had accused you of making a false accusation about somebody; and I thought, ‘O God, Charley, this is all your fault and he won’t believe you really did see that.’ When I got your note to come down, I thought you mightn’t blame me after all; but as soon as you hit me—Listen, I’ll make it up to you. I’m no crook, I swear … ”

Good old Parcæ! Morgan felt a rush of gratitude even for this small favour of averting charges of assault and battery, or whatever else might have occurred to Mr. Woodcock in a more rational moment.

“You hear what Mr. Woodcock says, Curt?” asked Morgan.

“I hear it,” said Warren, in a curious tone. He smoothed at his whiskers and looked meditatively at the scimitar.

“And you’re willing to admit the mistake,” pursued Morgan, “and let bygones be bygones if Mr. Woodcock is? Righto! Of course Mr. Woodcock will realise from a business point of view he no longer has any right to ask for that testimonial … ”

“Hank, old man,” said Mr. Woodcock, with great earnestness, “what I say is, To hell with the testimonial. And the bug-powder business too. This isn’t my game, and I might as well admit it. I can sell things—there’s not a better little spieler on the European route than Charley R. Woodcock, if I do say it myself—but for the big business side of it,
ixnay
. No soap. Through. But I’m entirely willing, old man, to give you all the help I can. You see I kept bumping myself against the wall down there in that cell until the sailor looked in; and finally I got the gag out of my mouth. Well, he released me and went off to find the captain. And I’d better tell you—”

From somewhere on the other side of the deck rose a shout. A door wheezed and slammed, and the clatter of feet rushed nearer.

“There he goes!”
said a voice and, rising above it, they heard the view-halloo bellow of Captain Whistler.

“Don’t run!” wheezed Valvick. “Don’t run, ay tell you, or you may run into him. Down de companion-ladder—’ere!—all of you. Watch! Maybe dey don’t see … ”

As the distant din of pursuit grew, Valvick shoved the Moorish warrior down the steps and the Bermondsey Terror after him. The Bug-powder Boy, full of new terrors, tumbled down first. Crouching on the iron steps beside Valvick, Morgan thrust his head up to look along C deck. And he saw a rather impressive sight. He saw Uncle Jules.

Far up ahead, faint and yet discernible in the dim lights, Uncle Jules turned the corner round the forward bulkhead and moved majestically towards them. The breeze blew up his fringe of hair like a halo. His gait was intent, determined, even with a hint of stateliness; yet in it there were the cautious indications of one who suspects he is being followed. A lighted porthole attracted his attention. He moved towards it, so that his red, determined, screwed-up face showed leering against the light. He stuck his head partly inside.

“Sh-h-h!” said Uncle Jules, lifting his finger to his lip.

“Eeee!” shrieked a feminine voice inside. “EEEEEE!”

A look of mild annoyance crossed Uncle Jules’s face. “Sh!” he urged. After peering cautiously around, he searched among the bundle of articles he was carrying, selected what appeared to be a gold watch, and carefully tossed it through the porthole.
“Onze!”
he whispered. They heard it crash on the floor inside. Uncle Jules moved towards the rail of the boat with an air of impartiality. With fierce care he selected a pair of patent-leather dancing-pumps and tossed them overboard.

“Douze!”
counted Uncle Jules.
“Treize, quatorze
—”

“Eee!” still shrieked the feminine voice as a stream of articles began to go overboard. Uncle Jules seemed annoyed at this interruption. But he was willing to indulge the vagaries of the weaker sex.

“Vous n’aimez-pas cette montre, hein?”
he asked solicitously.
“Est-ce-que vous aimez l’argent?”

The din of pursuit burst with a crash of sound round the corner of the deck ahead, led by Captain Whistler and Second-Officer Baldwin. They stopped, stricken. They were just in time to see Uncle Jules empty the contents of Captain Whistler’s wallet through the porthole. Then, with swift impartiality, he flew to the rail. Overboard, clear-sailing against the moonlight, went Captain Whistler’s watch, Captain Whistler’s cuff-links, Captain Whistler’s studs—and the emerald elephant.

“Dix-sept, dix-huit, dix-neuf,
VINGT
!” whispered Uncle Jules triumphantly. Then he turned round, saw his pursuers and said
“Sh-hhh!”

There are times when action is impossible. Morgan laid his face against the cold iron step, his muscles turning to water, and groaned so deeply that under ordinary circumstances the pursuers must have heard him.

But they did not hear him. Not unreasonably, they had failed to observe the strict letter of Uncle Jules’s parting injunction. The noises that arose as the pack closed in on Uncle Jules awoke the sleeping gulls to scream and wheel on the water. They were terrifying noises. But, just as Morgan and Warren were rising again, the implications of one remark struck them motionless.

“So that,” bellowed the appalled voice of Captain Whistler, strangled with incoherent fury, “so that’s the man, is it, who burst in there and—and launched the m-most murderous attack on us that—”

“Sure it is, sir,” said the hardly less sane voice of Second-Officer Baldwin. “Look at him! Look at those arms and shoulders! Nobody but somebody used to swinging those—marionettes day after day could’ve had the strength to hit like that. There’s nobody on the ship who could’ve done it else … ”

“Ho?” muttered the Bermondsey Terror, starting violently.

“Shh!” hissed Captain Valvick.

“ … No, sir,” pursued Baldwin, “he’s not a crook. But he’s a notorious drunkard. I know all about him. A drunkard, and that’s the sort of thing he does … ”

“Pardonnez-moi, messieurs,”
rumbled a polite if muffled voice from under what appeared to be many bodies.
“Est-ce-que vous pouvez me donner du gin?”

“He—he threw that—that emer—” Whistler gulped amid strange noises. “But what about—those—young Morgan—Sharkmeat—those—”

Somebody’s heels clicked. A new voice put in: “Will you let me offer an explanation, sir? I’m Sparks, sir. I saw part of it from my cousin’s cabin. If you’ll let me tell you, sir, that young fellow and the Swede weren’t trying to steal—you know. They were trying to return it. I saw them. They’re close friends of Miss Glenn, this man’s niece; and I should think they were trying to cover him up after the old drunk had stolen it … ”

“F
ROM
D
R.
K
YLE’S CABIN
? What the hell do you mean? They—”

“Sir, if you’ll listen to me!” roared Baldwin. “Sparks is right. Don’t you see what happened? This kleptomaniac souse is the man who stole the emerald from you last night! Who else could have hit you as hard as that? And didn’t he act last night exactly as he’s acting to-night, sir? Look here: you were standing near where you are now. And what did he do? He did exactly what we saw him do to-night—he chucked that jewel through the nearest port, which happened to be Dr. Kyle’s, and it landed behind the trunk … He’s drunk, sir, and not responsible; but that’s what happened … ”

There was an awed silence.

“By God!” said Captain Whistler. “By God! … But wait! It was returned to Lord Sturton—”

“Sir,” said Baldwin wearily, “don’t you realise that this souse’s niece and their crowd have been trying to protect him all the time? One of ’em returned it, that’s all, and I sort of admire the sport who did. The drunk stole it again, so they decided they’d put it back in the doc’s cabin where the drunk had a fixed idea it ought to go, and then tip off somebody to find it. Only we wouldn’t let them explain, sir. We—er—we owe ’em an apology.”

“One of you,” said the captain crisply, “go to Lord Sturton; present my compliments, and say that I will wait on him immediately. G
ET ME SOME ROPES AND TIE THIS LUBBER UP
. Y
OU
!” said Captain Whistler, evidently addressing Uncle Jules, “is—this—true?”

Morgan risked a look. Captain Whistler’s back was turned among the group of figures on the deck, so that Morgan could not see the new damage to his face. But he saw Uncle Jules struggling to sit upright among the hands that held him. With a fierce expression of concentration on his face, Uncle Jules wrenched his vast shoulders and flung off the hands. A solitary pair of shoes remained gripped close to him. With a last effort he sent the shoes sailing overboard; then he breathed deeply, smiled, rolled over gently on the deck, and began to snore. “Ha, whee!” breathed Uncle Jules, with a long sigh of contentment.

“Take him away,” said Whistler, “and lock him up.”

A trampling of feet ensued. Morgan, about to get up, was restrained by Valvick.

“It iss all right!” he whispered fiercely. “Ay know how seafaring men iss. Dey get hawful mad, but dey will not prosecute if dey t’ink a mann iss drunk. De code iss dat whatever you do when you iss drunk, a yentleman goes light on. Shh! Ay know. Listen—!”

They listened carefully while Captain Whistler relieved his mind for some moments. Then he took on a more tragic note in mourning his watch and valuables, thus gradually working himself up to a dizzy pitch when he came to the last trouble.

“So that’s the thief I was supposed to have aboard, eh?” he wanted to know. “A
common drunk
, who throws fifty-thousand-pound emeralds overboard, who—who—”

Baldwin said gloomily: “You see now why that young Warren pretended to act like a madman, sir? He’s more or less engaged to the girl, they tell me. Well, they made a good job of it shielding him. But I’ve got to admit we’ve been a bit rough on—”

“Sir,” said a new voice, “Lord Sturton’s compliments, sir, and—”

“Go on,” sneered the captain, with a sort of heavy-stage-despair. “Don’t stop there. Speak up, will you? Let’s hear it!”

“Well, sir—he—he says for you to go to hell, sir … ”

“What?”

“He says—I’m only repeating it—he says you’re drunk, sir. He says nobody’s stolen his emerald, and he got it out and showed it to me to prove it. He’s in a bit of a temper, sir. He says if he hears one more word about that bleeding emerald—if anybody makes a row or so much as mentions that bleeding emerald to him again—he’ll have your papers and sue the line for a hundred thousand pounds. That’s a fact.”

“Here, Mitchell!” snapped Baldwin. “Don’t stand there like a dummy! Come and give me a hand with the commander … Get some brandy or something. Hurry, damn you, hurry!”

There was a sound of running footsteps. Then up from behind Morgan, an expression of dreamy triumph on his face, rose Curtis Warren full panoplied in Moorish arms. He pushed past the others and ascended the ladder. Drawing his bejewelled cloak about him, shooting back the cuffs of his chain mail, he adjusted the spiked helmet rakishly over the curls of his wig. He drew himself up with a haughty gesture. Before the bleary eyes of the
Queen Victoria
’s skipper, who was reeling dumbly against the rail and almost toppling overboard, Warren strode forward with ringing footfalls.

He paused before Whistler. Lifting the scimitar like an accusing finger, he pointed it at the captain.

“Captain Whistler,” he said in a voice of shocked and horrified rebuke, “after all your suspicions of innocent men … Captain Whistler,
AREN’T—YOU—ASHAMED OF YOURSELF
?”

I
N A CERTAIN BIG
room above Adelphi Terrace, a misted sun was beginning to lengthen the shadows. It was beginning to make a dazzle against a huddle of purpling towers westward at the curve of the river; and from one of these towers Big Ben had just finished clanging out the hour of four. A very hoarse story-teller listened to the strokes reverberating away. Then Morgan sat back.

Dr. Fell removed his glasses. With a large red bandana he mopped a moisture of joy from his eyes, said, “Whoosh!” with a wheezing and expiring chuckle, and rumbled:

“No, I’ll never forgive myself for not being there. My boy, it’s an epic. Oh, Bacchus, what I’d give for one glimpse of Uncle Jules in his last
moment suprême
! Or of the old mollusc, Captain Whistler, either. But surely that’s not all?”

“It’s all,” said Morgan wearily, “I have the voice to tell you now. Also, I imagine, it’s all that’s relevant to the issue. If you think the fireworks ended there, of course, you still haven’t plumbed the spiritual possibilities of our crowd. I could fill a fair number of pages with the saga of pyrotechnics between nine-fifteen night before last, when Uncle Jules threw his last gallant shoe, until 7
A.M.
this morning, when I slipped away from a ship accursed. But I can give you only a general outline … Besides, I hesitated to include all the things I have. It was hair-raising action, if you like, but it seemed to me not to have any bearing on the vital issues … ”

Dr. Fell finished mopping his eyes and subsided in dying chuckles. Then he blinked across the table.

“Curiously enough, that’s where you’re wrong,” he said. “Now I can say positively that it’s a pleasure to me to find a case in which the most important clues are jokes. If you had omitted any point of that recital I should have been cheated of valuable evidence. The cuckoo’s call is the lion’s roar, and a jack-in-the-box has a disconcerting habit of showing a thief’s face. But the clues are sealed now; you’ve provided me with my second eight. H’m! Four o’clock. It’s too late to do anything more, or hear anything that can help me further. If I’m right, I should know it shortly. If not, the Blind Barber has got away. Still—”