“You’ve got a gun?”
I patted my armpit. “Never without it. There she is. Quick and sure.”
“I may need protection. I’ve been finding out some things. My life may be in danger. Why, just a little while ago someone nearly gouged my eye out.”
Now he mentioned it, I could see his eye was red and inflamed. I was going to ask him about it when he gasped and put his hand to his mouth. He turned and dashed for the head. You could tell he was seasick.
Well, we could discuss things later. I kicked the steward out of the way, and headed for the bar.
“The Captain’s table? Oh, rather,” said LORD SIMON QUINSEY with the prompt cheerfulness of one prepared to oblige in far more irksome matters than taking the seat assigned him.
Adjusting his monocle, Quinsey surveyed the Lounge as the Chief Steward glided away. A tall mirror, slightly yellowed, swaying with the regular motion of the ship, reflected his slim elegant black and white, his sleek fair head, his general pose of vague bland amiability.
“Oh, damn,” muttered his lordship. Mrs. Chip-Ebberly, an old acquaintance of his sister-in-law the Duchess of Havers, had fixed him with a determined eye. He made his way dutifully towards her.
“I see we are to be tablemates, Lord Simon,” she began in the plangent tones which had opened innumerable bazaars. “But in the most extraordinary company. One had never expected to dine with policemen. Indeed, I have no intention of doing so.”
Her intensity astonished Quinsey. “Oh come,” he said affably. “That won’t do, Mrs. C. The police are the coming thing, don’t you know. Look at young Beauchamps. Look at Lord Lacey’s boy. It’s the new outlet for younger sons. The Church, the Bar, the Army, and the Yard.”
Mrs. Chip-Ebberly gave him the pallid glare of the utterly humorless. “One had forgotten that you engage in—detection yourself.”
“Oh, I used to dabble. But not for years—”
They turned at a rasping, aggressive voice from across the room. It proceeded from a man Quinsey had noticed earlier, a small grey man, singularly unprepossessing; Quinsey fancied that a native tendency to scuttle had been carefully corrected by an offensive and unconvincing swagger. “Call this a ship!” this individual was saying. “Seven days to cross the ocean! I ask you, is this the atomic age, or isn’t it?”
Someone made an indistinguishable response. Clutching at the air as the Florabunda pitched, the small man repeated with even more strident truculence: “Call it a ship? I call it a crappy old tub.”
Glancing at the varied indications of embarrassment, distaste, or amusement elicited by this pretty display of manners, Quinsey saw that one group had been affected rather more seriously. The officers in the Lounge looked with superstitious horror at the Captain, who had just come in—a tall man with a majestic carriage and a beard of the sort attributed to Zeus in the better known statues.
The passenger looked in the same direction and met the Captain’s eyes. He added deliberately: “Nobody but a moron would travel on a boat if he could get a plane reservation, anyway.”
The Captain’s green eyes dilated. Quinsey half expected to see the blasphemer impaled on a trident: but the moment passed: the Captain let out a long and regal snort, turned on his heel, and left the room. In a graceful cascade of tinkles the dinner-gong sounded. Quinsey found himself moving towards the dining-saloon beside the First Officer.
“Who is that chap?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” The First repeated Quinsey’s question to the Chief Steward.
“A Mr. Price, sir.”
“Ah.”
“A pity,” Quinsey suggested as in apology for the passengers in general, “to drive the Captain from his own table—”
“Oh, actually that doesn’t matter,” said the First Officer reassuringly. “The Skipper never does eat down here anyway. We just call it the Captain’s table. If it hadn’t been this blighter Price, it would have been something else.”
“Why?” asked Quinsey, rather intrigued.
But the First seemed to feel he had said too much. “Oh—one thing or another,” he murmured. “Shall we go in?”
ATLAS POIREAU sat at ease in the Lounge, twisted his large, glossy black moustaches, and permitted his dinner to digest.
Only a few hours out, and already one sensed parties, cliques, tensions! One could find food for thought in the grotesque Mr. Anderson, who was worried about something. Or in the pretty, dark jeune fille who sat talking with the fair, handsome Purser. Or in the American who had created the scene just before dinner.
Poireau sighed. To the dispassionate observer of humanity, the speed with which such a specimen as this journalist, ce monsieur Paul Price, could engender whole-hearted dislike among so many people who had never seen him before, was of the highest interest. Instructive. And not without its amusing features.
But too often Poireau had seen such dislikes brew, in confined space, till they exploded into something more. Into hatred. Sometimes even … murder.
“Mr. Poireau?” The ship’s Doctor, a plump man with a pleasant face and round pale eyes, stood before him somewhat diffidently. At Poireau’s invitation he took the next chair. He said eagerly: “There’s great excitement at having so many detectives on board. It’s an odd coincidence, isn’t it?”
Poireau said, “Coincidence, yes.”
“And the oddest thing is, none of you look like detectives! No one would know except from your names. And even when I heard them I didn’t know—the First told me! I don’t go in for that sort of thing. Of course, I would have known you were a Frenchman, Mr. Poireau.”
Poireau said stiffly: “I am a Belgian.”
The Doctor nodded as if this confirmed his statement. He went on, “Now, as you’re a detective, what would you make of me?”
Poireau looked at him coldly. It was ennuyant to be informed that one’s reputation was not known, and then to have one’s abilities put to the test. He said a little coldly: “Eh bien.… I should not have guessed, perhaps, without the aid of your stripes, that you were a medical man.”
The barb missed its effect. The Doctor said enthusiastically: “I say, that’s very impressive! Exactly. I am a doctor only because it gives me time for my real work. I am a poet!”
Poireau saw the journalist Price come up to the young, dark-haired girl and say something which made her turn scarlet. The Purser, who was still with her, jumped to his feet, clenched his fists. His eyes were blazing. The girl seized his arm. After a moment, he pulled himself away from her and strode from the room with an angry look at Price.
"Mr. Poireau?”
With a start, Poireau returned his attention to the Doctor. “A thousand pardons—”
“I said, Do you like poetry?”
Poireau said cautiously: “Sometimes.”
“Well, I will read you a bit of my epic some day. When would you care to hear it? It is called ‘Tipptoppus and Gazella.’ The first canto—” He stopped, seeing that Poireau was again inattentive.
The little Belgian apologized again. “But that child, she interests me,” he said.
“Oh. She’s a Miss Price, I think. The niece of that chap who—”
“Ah, oui, I saw. It was offensive,” said Poireau. “One does not insult the commander as he did.”
“Oh, but of course the Old Man’s dotty anyway,” the Doctor said matter-of-factly. “So you’re interested in the lass, Mr. Poireau? Is it as a detective, or as a Frenchman, eh?” He produced a leer which seemed odd on his round innocent face.
Poireau said calmly: “You are mistaken, mon cher docteur. If Miss Price interests me, it is that she is the niece of her uncle. And also, a little, that she is very unhappy.”
MALLORY KING assured Paul Price for the twentieth time, wearily, that he didn’t know why nine famous detectives happened to be aboard the Florabunda.
“Well, if you won’t talk, I suppose you won�
��t,” Price said raspingly.
Suddenly he turned green in the face, put his hand to his mouth, and dashed away.
With a thoroughly unchristian satisfaction, Mallory watched him flee. Mallory was a kindly soul in normal circumstances, and a touch of seasickness is usually enough to make the whole world kin; but twenty minutes with Paul Price had led him to think that certain humanitarian laws might be suspended when one dealt with him.
Not just those twenty minutes of badgering and snooping, though. For many years Mallory, along with several million other Americans, had known Paul Price’s name; and (since a detective must keep up with things) he had often run his eye over the cozy tidbits of scandal Price peddled daily from coast to coast.
Yes, Mallory knew Paul Price.
Paul Price. Crest, a keyhole and ear. Motto: Think no thing private.
Moreover, King père was high up in the Manhattan police force, and from him Mallory had heard things about Price that were not so widely known.
An unsavory character, Price. Odoriferous. In fact, a stinkeroo.
Mallory turned. In the neighboring group of passengers, conversation had turned on the tourist industry, customs, and souvenirs.
“Speaking of souvenirs …” This was Homer T. Anderson, the pompous man with the turnip head. He had been drinking heavily and, with Price’s hurried departure, he became suddenly self-assertive. “Speaking of souvenirs, I’ll show you all a little something I picked up. Wait here, all of you!” He stumbled over a chair as he hurried off.
Mallory looked at the group, mildly curious. A handful of officers—the First Officer, the Purser, the Doctor; a striking young blonde woman; Winifred Price; and—oddly—the Hon. Mrs. Chip-Ebberly, a frosty dowagerial type. Mallory was puzzled at her remaining. But she was not merely present, but seemed unable to tear her eyes from Anderson as he returned dangling an object before them.
“Do you know what this is?” he demanded. “It’s a blackjack! A sap! You hear about those murders in London last month? Well, fellow I met in—in London,” said Mr. Anderson thickly, “fellow I met knew the cop that caught the killer, see? And he wangled this for me. For my collection. Swell little murder weapon, hey?” He passed it to the Doctor, who weighed it gravely in his hand.
“Aye, ’tis a cosh,” said the Doctor noncommittally. He held it out to its owner and, when the swaying and gesticulating Anderson paid no attention, tossed it onto a table.
“Well,” said Anderson, “that’s my souvenir of Merry England. None of your phony antiques for me. It’s something for my collection.” He hiccoughed. “’Smy—’smy hobby, murder weapons!”
“The fog’s lifting,” somebody called from a porthole.
People drifted to look out. Muttering inaudibly, Anderson lurched from the room. Mallory wanted a closer look at the cosh, having a professional interest in such gadgets. He reached to pick it up.
The table was bare.
The table was bare, and the cosh was gone.
The cosh was gone!
Who could have taken it? Anderson had not picked it up— Mallory could swear to that. But who else would want it?
Mallory grinned as he caught himself puzzling about so elementary a matter. Analytical training should have told him at once that at sea tables do not obey the laws of terra firma. The blackjack, of course, had slipped to the deck with the rolling of the ship. He bent over to pick it up.
Five minutes later, after a conscientious examination, he straightened up.
The cosh was not on the deck, either!
IT WAS GONE!
BRODERICK TOURNEUR took his drink and put three florins on the tray. He watched the steward weave skillfully back to the bar, avoiding the lurches of passengers who were not so sure of foot.
Chief Detective-Inspector Broderick Tourneur was a very tall man, with an air of extraordinary distinction. His face, austerely chiselled, with dark brows that slanted upwards like wings, insistently suggested at once the monk and the Spanish grandee.
Looking about, he sighed inaudibly. First night out, and already the passengers were dividing themselves into those who hugged the bar till closing time and those who retired with novels; those who entertained and those who bored; those who lionized and those who were lions—“and of the latter,” Tourneur acknowledged with a grimace, “I am apparently one.”
He found it hard to classify two women passengers who sat near him. They were not together. One was slight, pretty, and rather touchingly young. In spite of a sophisticated black frock, décolleté and outrageously expensive, the main impression she conveyed was of being a “nice” American college girl; her dark hair, cut modishly short, was as fluffy and soft as a kitten’s. Tourneur fancied he had seen her earlier talking with the Purser. Now she sat alone, sipping slowly at a lemonade, and rebuffed with an almost farouche directness the occasional tentative overtures of other passengers.
The other woman was at least ten years older. She was a blonde with blue eyes, a full scarlet mouth, and a dazzling complexion. She looked self-conscious and yet vacant. What roused Tourneur’s interest was the fact that she, too, seemed determined to be left alone. But not because you’re shy, my girl, Tourneur guessed. I wonder whom you’re waiting for? A moment later he ejaculated inwardly: Good Lord! Can that really be the answer?
Advancing towards her with the doubly repulsive manner of the unalluring male who conquers by other than personal charms and the poor sailor who is uncertain of the state of his stomach, came the columnist Paul Price. The blonde directed a brilliant smile at him. But be interrupted his progress to speak to the dark girl, who sat gloomily regarding the carpet.
“For Christ’s sake, Winifred,” said Mr. Price elegantly. “What are you doing here? I can’t keep my eye on you every minute. You ought to be in bed. You go to your stateroom right now.”
Winifred Price looked up with a start that sent her handbag hurtling to the floor. Her eyes flashed. For an instant, Tourneur thought she might resist this courteous exhortation; but Price had already gone by, and after a moment she rose slowly. Tourneur, whose manners were always extremely good, picked up her bag and held it out to her, bowing slightly. She muttered, “Thank you.” As their eyes met, he was appalled to see two tears roll down her cheeks.
“Well, little Dolores, so you were lonesome?” Mr. Price murmured to the blonde in a thick and fulsome undertone. His button eyes gleamed, and he totally ignored the proximity of Tourneur.
He is like a rodent, Tourneur thought. And an amorous rodent at that.
Price managed, in lighting her cigarette, to fondle little Dolores’ hand, and she responded with a carefully calculated languishing heave of her bosom.
Oh, Lord, Tourneur thought. How beastly. How unutterably, foully beastly. Fastidiously he averted his glance. He finished his drink at a gulp, and left the room.
(TRAJAN BEARE—FROM THE NOTEBOOK OF
ERNIE WOODBIN )
We’d been in London three weeks, but I still did a double-take every time I realized that Beare, who was so jittery about New York traffic that he only left his house on Thirty-sixth Street once or twice a year, had actually travelled three thousand miles, and not even on solid ground. Even when I remembered how high up the high-up in Washington was who’d persuaded him to make the trip, I couldn’t believe it. But I can’t say any more about that—security reasons.
There were two ways of handling the agony, air or sea, and going he’d chosen to get it over quick. Then we’d had to come down at Gander three times with engine trouble, and then hit every air pocket between there and Shannon, so once I’d got him settled in a hotel in London I expected he’d stay there the rest of his life. But either I’d underestimated his patriotism or he couldn’t stand the food. He wanted to come home. He chose the sea this time, only he insisted on getting the trip over with right away, even if it meant passage on a slower ship than the United States. This meant I couldn’t squeeze in the week I’
d wanted in Paris.
Normally this would have made a coolness between us, and when I went into Beare’s cabin and saw him sitting up in bed with a few acres of yellow pyjama wrapped around his four hundred pounds, and his life-jacket within easy reach, I thought of a number of possible cracks, such as saying the Captain was alarmed about a list to starboard, starboard being the side Beare’s cabin was on; but I refrained. For one thing it wasn’t up to my usual level and also I admit I just didn’t have the heart. So I merely asked, Did he realize that if we’d flown we’d be a third of the way home by now?
“Of course, for myself I like an ocean voyage,” I said enthusiastically. “Now, if you get up early tomorrow and join in the fun, you’ll wish you had two weeks instead of only one!”
Beare closed his eyes. “It is understood that I remain here until we dock. I do not intend to leave this room.”
“You’d meet some interesting people. One of them, I’ve often heard you mention—Paul Price.”
Beare opened his eyes and repeated, “Paul Price?” He would have used the same tone if I’d informed him that bubonic plague had broken out on B-deck.
“Yeah. The great man. You’ll be glad to know that your opinion of him is shared by everyone on board, including me. Maybe you’ll see him anyway—he wants to talk with you. Write you up in his column.”
“Ernie.”
“Sir?”
“It is understood that no one is to enter this stateroom without my permission. Should Mr. Price attempt to interview me you will prevent him. Forcibly, if necessary.”
“Okay. But I warn you he may try. He thinks it’s a funny coincidence there should be nine detectives aboard. So do I.”
“Nine detectives?”
“Yes, sir. Mallory King is here, and Jerry Pason. You know about them. Pason has his secretary with him— Will it be all right if I start calling you ‘Chief’? Then there’s Spike Bludgeon, you’d love to meet him; and Sir Jon. Nappleby and Broderick Tourneur and Atlas Poireau and Lord Simon Quinsey. Also a limey lady detective, Miss Sliver; she’s at my table, but she’s over my age limit. Come to think of it,” I said earnestly, “she wouldn’t be bad for you. You’d have your profession in common, and she could knit your socks. She’s great at conversation, she asks educational questions about orchid-growing and the American system of government.”
Murder in Pastiche Page 2
