The Blind Barber (6 page)

“The captain,” said Morgan, frowning, “seems to have something on his mind … ”

“Verra likely,” agreed Dr. Kyle composedly. “I’ll have the tripe and onions, steward.”

Peggy Glenn smiled at him. “But I say, Doctor, do you think there might be a mysterious master criminal aboard?”

“Why, I’ll tell you,” said the doctor, bending his head. His shrewd eyes were amused; under the ragged brows whisking upwards at the corners, and with the furrows deepening round his mouth, Morgan thought uncomfortably that he looked a little too much like Sherlock Holmes. “And I’ll put in a word of warning gratis. You’re a clever young lady, Miss Glenn. But don’t pull Captain Whistler’s leg too hard. He’d be a bad man to have on the wrong side of anybody. Please pass the salt.”

The dining-saloon soared up on another swell, and tilted amid sour notes from the orchestra. “But, really,” said Peggy, “I mean, it’s perfectly true about poor old Curt …”

“Oh, ah!” said Dr. Kyle. “Was he sober?”

“Doctor,” she told him, lowering her voice confidentially, “I hate to tell it, but he was terribly,
terribly
drunk, poor boy. I mean, it’s all right to speak of these things to a medical man, isn’t it? But I pitied him from the bottom of my heart, poor boy, when I saw …”

Morgan got her away from the table after a brief and telegraphic exchange of kicks. They navigated the big staircase and stood in a breezy, lurching hall upstairs while Morgan said things. But Peggy, her prim little face beaming, only chortled with pleasure. She said she must go to her cabin and get a wrap, if they were going to watch with the others; also that she ought to look in on her Uncle Jules.

“By the way,” she said, doubtfully, “I don’t suppose you’d care to be a Moorish warrior, would you?”

“Not particularly,” said Morgan, with conviction. “Is this relevant to the issue?”

“All you’d have to do, you know, would be blacken your face and put on some gilt armour and shawls and things; and stand at one side of the stage with a spear while Uncle Jules speaks the prologue … I wonder if you’re tall enough, though? I say, Captain Valvick would make a
ripping
Moorish warrior, wouldn’t he?”

“Oh, unquestionably.”

“You see, there have to be two extras, a French warrior and a Moor, who stand on either side of the stage for effect. The stage isn’t high enough for them to be on it; they’re outside, on a little platform … When the play begins they go backstage, and sometimes they help move the figures—the unimportant ones that have nothing to do. Only my uncle and Abdul (that’s his assistant) move the chief figures; they’re the only ones with speaking parts … I say, it would be simply awful if Uncle Jules can’t play. There’s a professor or somebody aboard who’s written all kinds of articles about his art. Abdul’s all right and he could take the main part in place of uncle. But I’m the only other one, and I couldn’t very well say the men’s lines, could I?”

They had gone down into a tangle of passages on D deck, and Peggy knocked at a door. In response to a spectral groan, she pushed the door open. The cabin was dark except for a faint light over the washstand. That scene—with the cabin twisting sideways, and rain slashing the porthole—gave Morgan a slight shiver. Two or three witless-looking dummies were sprawled against the bulk-head in a seated position, and swayed with the motion as though they were moving their heads in a horrible chorus. The straps and hooks for their wires rattled eerily; they were solid lumps about four and a half feet tall; they glittered with gilt armour, red cloaks, and gaudy jewelled accoutrements. Their faces, bearded formidably in dark wool, smirked from under spiked helmets. While they swayed, a powerful-looking man with a flattish dark face sat on the couch with another dummy across his knee. In the dim light he was mending the figure’s cloak with a long needle and blue thread. Occasionally he glanced towards the dark berth where something heavy was burrowing and groaning.

“
Je meurs!
” whispered a voice from the berth, dramatically. “
Ah, mon Dieu, je meurs! Ooooo! Abdul, je t’implore
… ”

Abdul shrugged, squinted at his needle, shrugged again, and spat on the floor. Peggy closed the door.

“He’s no better,” she said, unnecessarily, and they started back to the cabin where Warren was waiting. Morgan, in fact, was not eager for more than a glimpse into that cabin. Whether it was merely night and the rain in the middle of a shouting Atlantic, or merely that dull after-dinner feeling which is not dispelled on shipboard without bibulous hilarity, still he did not like the look of those smirking dummies. Moreover, such an irrelevant impression as that had given him another impression—of trouble ahead. There was no Q.E.D. about it, or even a rational subtlety. But he glanced round rather sharply when they reached the side passage that led to Warren’s cabin.

It opened off a main corridor, and its short length contained two cabins on either side. Warren’s was an end one on the left, beside a door opening out on C deck. It was dark, and the white-painted door was hooked open. Morgan knocked in the manner agreed on at the door beside it, and they slipped inside.

Only the light inside the lower berth was on. Warren sat gingerly on the edge of the berth. And he looked worried.

Morgan said sharply, but in a low voice, “Anything wrong?”

“Plenty,” said the other. “Sit down and keep as quiet as you can. I think we’ve got a long time to wait, but you never can tell what
this
joker will be up to. Valvick’s gone for some soda-water. And we’re set now.” He nodded towards the ventilator high in the wall, communicating with the next cabin. “If anybody goes in there, we can hear him in a second. Then we nab him. Moreover, I’ve got the hook on the door wedged so that, no matter how quiet he tries to be, he’ll make a racket as loud as an alarm clock.”

Warren paused, rubbing his jaw rather nervously and peering about the dim-lit state-room. He had discarded the towel round his head, but absorbent gauze and sticking-plaster along the back of the skull still made his dark hair stand up in a goblin-like way. The glow in the berth illumined one side of his face, and they could see a vein beating in his temple.

“Curt,” said the girl, “what
is
wrong?”

“All hell, I’m afraid. Old Valvick went to see Captain Whistler before dinner … ”

“Yes?”

“Well, I don’t know how much in earnest you people were when we were sitting in there piling up theories about fancy crooks. But the impossible happened. We were right. There’s a very badly wanted little joker aboard, and no joke about it. He’s after old Sturton’s emerald. And—he’s a killer.”

Morgan felt in the pit of his stomach an uneasy sensation which was partly the motion of the ship. He said:

“Are you serious, or is this—?”

“You bet I’m serious. So is Whistler. Valvick got the information from him, because Whistler badly needs advice. Old Valvick’s story is pretty muddled; but that much is clear. Whistler wonders whether to keep it dark or broadcast the news to the ship. Valvick advised the latter: it’s customary. But Whistler says this is a respectable boat, a family boat, and the rest of that stuff … ”

Morgan whistled. Peggy went over and sat down beside Warren. She protested stoutly that it was nonsense and she didn’t believe it.

“Who is he, Curt? What do they know about him?” she demanded.

“That’s just it. Nobody seems to know, except that he’s travelling under an alias. You remember, I told you this afternoon that when I was in the radio-room old Whistler seemed to be having a row with the wireless operator? … Well, that was it. He’d got a radiogram. Fortunately, Valvick had the sense to persuade Whistler to let him take a copy of it. Have a look.”

From his inside pocket he took an envelope, on the back of which was sprawled in crooked handwriting:

Commander S.S.
Queen Victoria
, at sea. Suspect Man responsible for Stelly job in Washington and MacGee killing here sailed under alias your ship. Federal officer arriving to-night from Washington and will send fuller information. Look out for smooth customers and advise if any suspects. Arnold, Commissioner N.Y.P.D.

“I don’t know anything about this MacGee killing, whatever it is, in New York,” Warren went on, “but I know a little about the Stelly business because it raised such a row and looked like magic. It was tied up with the British Embassy. Stelly seems to have been a pretty well-known English jewel-cutter and appraiser … ”

“Hold on!” said Morgan. “D’you mean that Bond Street fellow, the one who’s always designing the necklaces for royalty and having pictures of his work in the newspapers?”

Warren grunted. “Probably. Because it seems he was staying in Washington, and the wife of the British ambassador asked him to reset or redesign a necklace for her. I don’t know the details of it—nobody knows much about it. But he left the British Embassy with the necklace one night, as safe as you please, and about four hours later they found him somewhere out Connecticut Avenue way. He was sitting on the kerbstone with his back propped up against a street lamp, and the back of his head smashed in. He didn’t die, but he’ll be a paralysed moron for the rest of his life, and never speak a word. That seems to be a quaint habit of this joker. He doesn’t exactly kill; but he has a knack of softening their heads so that they’re worse than dead …

“By the Lord!” said Warren, clenching and unclenching his hands, “I’m wondering whether that’s what
I
nearly got in the other cabin, only the fellow missed his aim when the ship rolled.”

There was a silence, made portentous by creaking bulkheads and the blustering roar outside.

“I say, Peggy,” Morgan observed, thoughtfully, “you’d better get out of this, old girl. It isn’t funny. Go up to the bar and entice some gullibles into a bridge game. If this basher comes along and tries to pinch the rest of the film, we’ll let you know, Meantime—”

The girl said, with vehemence, “Bah! You can’t scare me. You
are
a cheerful lot, though. Why don’t you start telling ghost stories? If you start off by being afraid of this chap—”

“Who’s afraid of him?” shouted Warren. “Listen, Baby. I’ve got something to settle, I have. When I get
at
him—” Satirically he watched her jump a little when there was a knock at the door. Captain Valvick, bearing two large siphons of soda-water, bent his head under the door and closed it behind him with a mysterious air.

Morgan always remembered the ensuing two hours (or possibly three) on account of the interminable game of Geography that was played to pass away the time. Captain Valvick—cheerfully twinkling, in no whit disturbed—insisted that they should turn out the light, hook the door partly open, and get enough light from the dim bulb in the passage. First, he administered to each a hair-raising peg of whisky, which made them feel anew the excellence of the adventure; then he placed them in a weird circle on the floor, with the bottle in the middle like a camp fire; finally, he filled up the glasses again.

“Skoal!” said the captain, raising his glass in the dim light. “Ay tell you, diss iss de life. Coroosh! But ay got to feel bad about Captain Whistler. Ho-ho! Dat poor old barnacle iss near crazy, you bet, on account of de crook which like to steal de jewellery. He iss afraid diss crook going to rob de English duke, and he try to persuade de duke to let him lock up de hemerald helephant in de captain’s safe. But dat duke only give him de bird. He say, ‘It be safer wit’ me dan in your safe, or wit’ de purser or anybody.’ De captain say no. De duke say yes. De captain say no. De duke say yes … ”

“Look here, you can omit the element of suspense,” said Morgan, taking another drink. “What did they decide?”

“Ay dunno yust what dey decide. But ay got to feel bad about dat poor old barnacle. Come on, now; we play Geography.”

This game was trying, but in many senses lively. As the whisky diminished, it led to long and bitter arguments between Warren and the captain. The latter, when stumped for a place-name, would always introduce some such place as Ymorgenickenburg or the River Skoof, in Norway. Warren would heatedly cast slurs on his veracity. Then the captain would say he had an aunt living there. As this was not considered
prima facie
evidence, he would embark on a long and complicated anecdote about the relative in question, with accounts of such other members of his family as happened to occur to him. Morgan’s watch ticked on, and the stir about the boat gradually died away into a roaring night, as they heard about the captain’s brother, August, his Cousin Ole, his niece Gretta, and his grandfather who was a beadle. Footsteps went by in the main corridor, but none of them turned into the side passage. It was growing stuffy in the cabin …

“I—I think he probably won’t come,” Peggy whispered, reverting to the subject for the first time. There was an uneasy hopefulness in the way she said it.

“It’s hotter than hell in here,” muttered Warren. Glassware rattled faintly. “I’m tired of the game, anyhow. I think—”

“Listen!” said Morgan.

He had scrambled up and was holding to the side of the berth. They all felt it—a terrific draught blowing through the passage outside, rattling the hooks of the doors, and they heard the deeper tumult of the sea boiling more loudly. The door to D deck had been pushed open.

But it did not close. They were all standing up now, waiting to hear the swish and slam of that door as it closed against the compressed-air valve. Those doors were heavy; and in a wind you dodged inside quickly. But for an interminable time something seemed to be holding it partly open, while the draught whistled. The
Queen Victoria
rose, pitched, and went over in a long roll to starboard, but still the door stayed open. It was impossible to distinguish smaller noises above the crazy wickerwork creaking, but yet Morgan had an eerie sense that the door did not close because it could not; that there was something caught there, trapped in a snare and in pain, between the black sea and warm security inside.

They heard a moan. A faint voice seemed to be muttering something, muttering and repeating thinly in the passage. “Warren!” they thought it said. And again, “
Warren
… ” until it died off in pain.