The First stammered a little in his distress. “I’ve tried to tell each of you what the others are doing, how the investigation is going on. I know I’m not much of a chap for talking, but—”
“My dear chap!” Tourneur was appalled. Damn’, he thought; now I’ve hurt his feelings! Aloud he said very charmingly: “You’ve done splendidly! You are the perfect liaison agent; Watson; and raisonneur!” And, as Mr. Waggish became quite crimson with suppressed pleasure, he went on cheerfully: “And we’ve found out a bit about the fair Dolores. And we know someone was in that cabin. We know there’s something to be found out about Mrs. Chip-Ebberly. We are a bit forrader, after all!”
Trajan Beare
(From the notebook of Ernie Woodbin)
Beare was sitting up in bed, in his pyjamas, the way he had been all his waking hours, and he was drinking beef tea.
I reported: “Latitude and longitude about the same, heavy following sea, still foggy, average speed fifteen knots. There’s a movie in the dining-saloon at eight-thirty, but I’ve already seen it. Paul Price was murdered last night.”
I watched his face for a reaction but wasn’t surprised to see none. He just took another sip of beef tea. I went on with the daily bulletin:
“They don’t know yet who did it. But of course when they come to question me, and they find out you told me to keep Price out of your way by force if necessary—”
“Ernie. I have asked you before. Please don’t play the clown till we reach shore.”
“Yes, sir. It may cramp my style in the investigation, having to play it straight.”
He looked at me then.
I nodded. “No kidding. His head was bashed in."
Beare let out a sigh. “So. I cannot pretend any regret. Price was unprincipled, illiterate, and a boor. The press and the nation are to be congratulated.”
“That’s what the Captain thinks too. When he heard about it he said, ‘Good.’ He seemed to think that ended the matter. But there are five detectives hot on the trail already—”
Beare interrupted. “The salmon last night was respectable. For lunch I will have it again. A clear soup …”
This meant the matter was ended as far as he was concerned too, and that I was to shut up. He spent the next four minutes talking, not too nostalgically, about food. I stood it as long as I could, and then wandered off.
The next few hours I just moseyed about, keeping an eye on the trend of events. It isn’t often that you get a chance to watch your top professional rivals at work, close at hand, and I had to admit some of their techniques looked good, like Poireau twirling that moustache and Nappleby spouting polysyllables and Brody Tourneur always behaving as if he was at a garden party; but after careful study and comparison I decided I’d stick to my own methods, and I still liked Beare’s way of using his eyes, and pursing his lips.
Beare never said a word about the murder, and I refrained from heckling him. But I had a feeling it wouldn’t stay so simple as that, and I was right. Not counting the general request for help they’d issued when Price’s body was discovered and the Purser pointed out that there were professional man hunters on board the Florabunda, we had three special invitations to join the fun.
Late the next afternoon the First Officer came up and we fell to talking. He was about my age, tall for a Limey, with blue eyes and a swell tan, and I’d got the impression that, while his brains might never set the Atlantic ablaze, he was good company and nice to have on a ship where the Captain was balmy and might decide on an all-out effort to break the Atlantic speed record any moment. I asked him if he’d caught the killer yet and he said no, quite seriously.
“Mr. Beare is a great detective, isn’t he?” he asked. “One of the best?”
“The best, I’d say,” I told him. “And he’d agree. He’s a genius. Why?”
“Well, you don’t suppose—”
“If you’re hinting he might like to play cops and robbers too, it’s no use. He only plays for million-dollar bills.”
“Oh, I see. Well, I didn’t really hope he would. I mean, I’ve heard he’s hard to persuade.”
“When there isn’t a fee, he’s reenforced concrete,” I said. “Anyway, this time I don’t see why you want him. You’ve got enough guys at work.”
“It’s only that there isn’t much time, and I thought the more investigators we had—”
“Uh-uh,” I told him. “It’s the law of diminishing returns. Could you sail the ship better if you had nine captains?”
“I see what you mean, Mr. Woodbin,” he said. He let out a yawn. “It’s bad enough one Old Man … I could do with some sleep. And a drink.”
So we had a drink, and then another. I told him about working for Beare, and about Ohio, where I grew up and which he thought was part of southern California. I set him straight on that, and he told me about the Florabunda. He said life at sea wasn’t fit for a human being, and after just one or two more trips he was going to quit and retire to a tropical island he knew about where he could live like a king for ten bob a year. Since at the current exchange that meant about twelve cents a month and no income tax, I figured he had a good thing there, but I took him with a grain of salt. I’d heard sailors talk like that before, and in my experience they never quit till they can’t totter across a gangplank any longer.
That was the first request for help, and I didn’t even bother passing it on to Beare. The second one he knew about for the simple reason that it was delivered to him in person. I was with him when there was a knock at the door, and thinking it was the steward with his beer I yelled, “Come in.” It was Dolores Despana. She walked right in while I was off my guard.
Beare glared. He may have recognized her from things I’d said, or he may not. It didn’t matter. What with his general feeling about women, which is not favorable, and his being away from solid ground, I half expected him to say outright to get out; but he only looked at me in a way that meant I was to say it.
But I ignored him and looked at Dolores. You could tell that two years ago she’d been buying clothes on Fourteenth Street, and that one year ago she kept a wad of chewing-gum in her cheek; but she was coming along fast and there was certainly nothing wrong with what the eye could see. I said, “This is Miss Despana,” and got her settled in a chair.
Beare inclined his head about one-eighth of an inch and continued to glare. Dolores stared at him and asked, “You’re Trajan Beare?” He didn’t reply, and she answered herself, “Yeah,” in a soft voice as if she’d heard but hadn’t ever quite believed a man could be that fat. Once she’d got it established that it was possible, she lost interest, and said in a very businesslike way:
“You take clients, don’t you? I want you to do a job for me.”
Beare gave no sign that he heard. I said, “Sorry, Mr. Beare isn’t taking—”
But she went right on: “You find out who killed people. I’ve seen about you in the papers. Well, I don’t care about that, I didn’t kill Paul Price, I certainly don’t care who did. But he wrote a plug for me and someone stole it.”
"You want Mr. Beare to find it?” I asked her.
She shook her head. “No. Anyone who’s enough of a stinker to steal it and keep it from me would be stinker enough to burn it up, or throw it overboard.” She looked ready to cry. “It would have put me into the big time on Broadway, that plug!”
Beare spoke at last, frowning. “I don’t follow you, madam. You do not fear being arrested for the murder yourself. You do not wish to have the murderer caught. You consider search for this document useless. Why do you want to hire me?”
She eyed him as if he wasn’t so bright as she’d heard. “Publicity,” she said impatiently. “What do you think? You’re a name. If you work on this case as my agent, we’ll both get a good press! You can do it on a percentage basis, a percentage of the profits on my next show. It might be almost as good as a plug in Price’s column.”
At that point I cut in. Beare looked like exploding, and I fel
t almost the same. Her thinking Beare, who charged fees that turned strong bank presidents pale, would do anything contingent on the success of a non-existent Broadway show, was bad enough. But letting him know she was willing to use him as a second-best for Paul Price, who was illiterate, unprincipled, and a boor— I took her elbow firmly and got the door open.
“Sorry,” I said. “Mr. Beare would love to help, but he’s suffering from mal de mer, that’s Portuguese for seasickness, and he might do you more harm than good.” I got her into the passageway and let her go. “One last word,” I said as she flounced. “Just some brotherly advice. Try Anderson. He may not be pretty; but he’s rich, and he’s lonesome. Nobody on board likes him very much.” I gave her a big smile and went up on deck for air. I didn’t want to discuss the thing with Beare. I knew what he’d say, and anyway I hadn’t made up my mind about Dolores. She could be what she looked like, a gorgeous dumb blonde on the make, but I’d been fooled before, often enough to think twice before deciding.
That was the second invitation. The third was anonymous and informal, in fact it was an invitation only if you read between the lines.
I found it on the floor of my stateroom, in a Florabunda envelope that was gummed shut. Thinking it was a notice, I let it ride till morning, and I could have kicked myself when I slit it open and pulled out a sheet of business paper, typed double-space over all of one side, with a rough torn bottom edge.
I’d followed things closely enough so I knew what it was, all right, and even though it wasn’t technically any business of mine I got that feeling you get when something breaks in a case. I sat down and began to read it. The first paragraph was the plug for Dolores Despana and was just another plug if you didn’t know the story behind it.
The de-luscious Dolores Despana has waved byebye to ]ohnny Bull after setting London on fire with the biggest blaze since ye olde incendiary bombs.… Her “Hot Legs” had them drooling.… Saw her wining in Leicester Square with a certain Marquis of you know where, and it’s not too far from those white cliffs. But Dolores tells me she’s true to Times Square. And yours truly predicts Times Square will be hearing a lot about this gal!
Then there was a piece of Hollywood dirt, standard Price stuff:
Jackie O’Dair insists it’s still rings on the finger and bells in the steeple for her and Tony. Says Tony is in Mexico vacationing. But yours truly saw Tony with “friend” Mae in Paris, and it looks like Lohengrin for him and her. Maybe Tony’s en route to Mehico via the Champs Elysées. How about that, Jackie?
And then the pay-off:
Told you about the so-called brains we have on this barge. Well I find there is another mastermind on board who is a horse of a different colour. He is a specialist in murder too but from another angle and he is having fun and games whilst the sherlocks sleep. He does not know I have found him out but next time we meet FIREWORKS MAY BE EXPECTED THE REAL NAME OF THIS CROOK IS NOT ON HIS PASSPORT IT IS GIB
It ended there. By that time I was goggle-eyed. This murder had been screwy enough before, now it was for Krafft-Ebing’s casebook. I got up and carried the goddam thing to Beare’s cabin, holding it by the edges just as a matter of principle. I was pretty sure there wouldn’t be any prints.
Beare was ordering breakfast. He nodded politely and said, “Good morning, Ernie.”
When the steward had gone I told him what I had.
Beare shrugged and picked up the book he was reading.
“You don’t think it’s a clue?”
“No.”
“You think it’s a frame?”
“No.” Beare turned a page.
“Then— Okay. I get it. You’re not interested.”
“Ernie.” Beare put his book down on his belly. “Ernie. I am aware that ever since this murder was discovered you have tried to needle me into undertaking its investigation.”
“I thought it might occupy your mind,” I said earnestly. “The good secretary always tries to—”
“Pfui. Even if we were at home instead of—” Beare closed his eyes and came to a full stop. It was practically the only time I’ve ever heard him leave a sentence unfinished. He opened his eyes and said patiently: “Even if we were at home, I should not take the case. Why should I? There is no client, no fee. Public spirit? I do not condone the murder even of a scurrilous quidnunc, but its investigation does not devolve on me; there are representatives of the constituted authorities aboard who have it in hand. This paper should be taken to the official in charge, at once.”
“Just say you’re too lazy—”
“Enough, Ernie. I do not know the facts, but, viewing the case cursorily, I doubt if it is soluble. A dolt could get away with a crime, under such circumstances. The obstacles in the way of detecting him are insuperable. We cannot trace the past histories of scores of passengers. We cannot distinguish between their normal behavior and their abnormal deviations. We cannot check alibis. The murderer may be some Ordinary Seaman with a grudge against passengers. He may be a rival journalist, incognito. He may be the Captain.”
Making a speech meant Beare was more at ease, anyway. I said, just to keep things going: “You’re the boss. And if one of the other detectives solves the case—well, you’re still the fattest one, they can’t take that away from you.”
Beare growled. “Least of all will you move me by appeals to my spirit of emulation. My taste runs neither to socialized detection nor”—he grimaced—“to relay races.” He picked up his book, and I beat it, carrying the paper.
In my cabin I looked at it again. I hated to let it go just like that, and I played around with the idea of a little investigating on my own; but in the end I decided to take it to the First Officer. After all, we had been palsy over gin and orange, and he had confided in me his plans for the future, so I ought to play fair. When I finally tracked him down and showed him the paper he got as excited as if it was going to have the murderer’s signature on it. But when he’d read it through he said:
“I can’t understand this. It’s daft! There’s something strange about it … Has Mr. Beare seen it? What does he think?”
“He won’t touch it.”
“What the devil does it mean? Do you think that Price had discovered that he was going to be killed?”
“It sounds that way. I wish he had had time to go on, or more space—it breaks off short.”
“Do you think he was going to give the actual name? But what begins with G-i-b?”
“My guess is he was going to say ‘gibberish,’ I told him. “But I’ve got other questions. Who took the paper out of the machine, and why was it put in my cabin?”
Mr. Waggish gave a groan. “Maybe there’s a third person at work, do you suppose? It’s daft. Completely daft!”
“Cheer up,” I said.
“Oh,” he said, “I don’t care, personally. In fact I'm rather enjoying the experience, it’s different from the usual crossing. But the Old Man—he’s already all fouled up like Christ in a whirlpool. And if we have to wait in quarantine on account of this—”
“In quarantine?”
“If we don’t have the criminal, we shall have to wait offshore. And then the Skipper will really blow up, and we’ll have the hell of a trip back home. He hates every day we spend in sight of land.”
I could have told him that was nothing to what Beare felt about every day in sight of open ocean, but I let it go. I said “So long” and went to Beare’s cabin again. I’d decided the time had come for some more needling, this time a good jab, hypodermic size.
Beare was sitting up reading. He put the book down and said: “Three more nights, and we will dine at home. I shall radiogram ahead about the menu. There will be saucisse minuit—”
“It would be nice,” I said wistfully.
Beare blinked, and I guessed he was looking at me suspiciously as I turned my back and went to the porthole to look at the fog. I gave him the latest weather report, and began a blow-by-blow description of the movie I hadn’t gone to in the din
ing-saloon.
“Ernie. What the devil are you insinuating?”
I said cheerily: “Nothing, probably. With all these great Sherlocks on board the crime ought to be solved before too long. Chances are we won’t be delayed more than one or two nights.”
“Ernie!”
I explained what the First Officer had told me.
Beare’s chin quivered. “Confound it!” He drew a deep breath. “Confound it! Very well. Tell me what has been done so far.”
So that was how we got into the case. Beare sat there scowling while I went over it in detail, not leaving anything out, even the flutter of an eyelid. I gave him everything I knew, which was what I’d seen myself and what Waggish and the other detectives, Nappleby, Pason, Poireau, and Tourneur, had found out.
“Where is that paper now?” Beare asked when I had finished.
“I gave it to Waggish, like you said.”
“I want to see it. And I want to see the suspects. Please get them all here in an hour. Bring Miss Price here earlier. It is unlikely that she knows so little about her uncle as she claims.”
“The suspects?”
“Everyone who was there when the blackjack was stolen. Except Mr. King: I take it that he has given all the information he has, and it would be tedious for him to watch another investigator’s scratchwork.”
“You think the killer must be limited to that group?”
“No. The limitation is not absolute. Conceivably the person who took the weapon gave it to another person, and is lying about the theft not because he is guilty of murder, but from fear of the killer, or in hopes of blackmailing him.”
“If anyone but the murderer took it he’s a sap not to say so. The murderer won’t let him stay alive very much longer.”
Beare nodded. “True. But then the suspects in this case do not appear to be distinguished by acumen. At any rate, while the limitation is not absolute it is the soundest working hypothesis. We cannot hold out for absolute truth; ‘he who would fix his condition upon incontestable reasons of preference must live and die inquiring and debating.’”
Murder in Pastiche Page 11
