Okay. He was a rat. But so what? All men are rats, if you come down to it. And, rat or not, for a little while he had been my friend. A spark of decency, generosity, had burst into sudden flame. He’d promised to write about me in his column. Which meant fame, fortune, glory.
Yeah. He was my friend. He’d been killed. And when I got the bastard that did it, I’d see to it he died slow: hard and slow. I’d tear his arms off and watch him bleed … or I’d hold him over the steam of the furnace in the engine-room.… I’d sit down and watch him die, and I’d love every minute of it.
Foolish, maybe. Call me a crazy, romantic crusader if you want. It’s just that Paul Price was my friend, and that’s the kind of guy I am.
Out of the comer of my eye I caught a movement in the murky bewildering fog. I whirled. It was a steward, and he was trying to slink away unnoticed, but when I gave him a look he came cringing up like a dog.
“Yes, sir?” He stammered it out. I could see he was yellow.
I showed him a five-spot.
“Where’s that blonde tomato?” I asked him brusquely.
“Sir?” He gave me a stupid look.
I couldn’t tell if his ignorance was genuine or not. “That fluff. The blonde.”
“Sir?”
“You know who I mean. Dolores.”
“Miss Despana, sir?”
“Where is she?” I was getting tired of his stalling.
“Well, sir, I—I—I expect she’s in her cabin, sir.”
I figured he was levelling. I flipped his pay into his face. It fluttered down, and he scrambled for it. As he reached for it I stepped on his hand and ground my heel on it, hard. There was a grinding, cracking sound. The steward was yellow, all right—he let out a shriek, and I laughed. I laughed again as he ran off holding onto one hand with the other.
It made me feel a little better, but not much. There was still a tight, hot feeling in my guts and it was like a big heavy ball of molten lead and I knew it would be there till I had solved the crime.
I decided to go see Dolores. Oddly enough I hadn’t met her yet. I’d seen her and she’d seen me; and of course like the other dames on the ship she’d given me looks which I knew how to interpret, but we hadn’t got together yet. But now the time had come. As I figured the angles, she might know something about Price that would help me.
The steward hadn’t lied. She was in her cabin. Facing the door, her hands on her hips, smiling at me in challenge. Her hair was like yellow neon light, and her eyes were like violets, and she had full pouting red lips, but from the face down she was even better. You could tell because her black dress was like a coat of glossy paint. A thin coat.
“I’ve been expecting you, Spike,” she said. Her voice was low and throaty.
I found it hard to breathe. I pulled a pack of butts from my pocket, stuck one into my mouth and lit it, and threw another one in her direction. Watching her light it I got myself under control.
“I’ve got a question to ask you, baby,” I told her.
“Ask all the questions you want, Spike,” she said. The violet eyes told me what question she was hoping for, and what answer she would give. It nearly sidetracked me, but I jerked myself back to the business at hand.
“About Paul Price,” I said.
A curious expression flitted across her face. Suddenly her mouth and her eyes looked harder. I remembered how she’d made a play for Price. She was for sale—and her own price went down in my mind, like on a toboggan slide. A moment ago I’d set her at two million bucks. Now she was worth maybe only a hundred grand.
“You saw a lot of him,” I went on.
“So what?” She blew out a defiant cloud of smoke.
“So that’s your business. You’re a grown-up girl, chicken. Unless it was you that bumped him off, and then it’s very much my business. What I want to know right now is, did he ever say anything to you about having been attacked? about someone trying to gouge his eye out?”
“To—” She stared at me. “No, Spike! No! Never. Why?”
“Because someone did try. He mentioned it to me but he didn’t say who did it, and I was too dumb to ask.” I felt screaming mad as I thought how easily I could have found out then—if I’d only known I would never see Price again! “It stands to reason,” I went on. “The guy who pulled a knife on him then is the one who got him eventually with a blackjack.”
Dolores stiffened. The violet eyes narrowed to slits. “He never mentioned it to me, but I can guess who it was, Spike! It must have been the same person who attacked me!”
“Mrs. Chip-Ebberly?” I’d heard about what happened at the boat-drill, from the First Officer.
“Sure!” Dolores quivered. You could see the quiver travel all the way … “She tried to kill me! Why, my leg is all bruised from falling down that ladder—see!”
She hitched up the black silk skirt so I could see, inch by inch. How could I concentrate? I went over and pulled it down. I kissed her—then pushed her away.
“Yeah,” I said, trying to think about Mrs. Chip-Ebberly. “I want to have a little chat with that dame!”
“She’s the killer, Spike! They say she’s a smuggler, too—dope! She’s in a dope-ring! And Paul Price found her out. She must be the killer!”
“Unless you are,” I said. I watched her reaction.
She opened the eyes wide and aimed them right at me. She put her arms around my neck clingingly and kissed me again. This time it was harder to push her away. She whispered: “And if it was me that did it, Spike?”
“If it was you, baby,” I told her, “it won’t matter how swell your curves are. I’ll beat you till you’re black and green all over, and then I’ll put a slug through your beautiful stomach.”
She shuddered. “Well, it wasn’t me!” She looked at me earnestly. “Why, Paul was going to run a plug about me in his column. He was taking me up … it would have meant the big time. Really big time, Spike. Lights—Broadway—chinchillas, instead of my crumby minks! … I have everything to lose by his murder. First my plug got stolen, and now people are saying it won’t get printed because Paul is dead.” Her eyes filled with tears. She dashed them away.
I felt a lump in my throat. “I know. I know how you feel. He promised to write a plug for me, too.” I stopped. The words were like red-hot coals struggling to find their way up from my guts. It was something I hadn’t told a living soul so far. “The plug never even got written. Some bastard killed him first.”
Dolores looked at me. The hardness was gone from her eyes and mouth. “Gee, Spike,” she whispered. Her voice was like honey. “Gee … that’s rough. Worse than with me, even. At least, mine got written.”
“Oh, I’ll get by.” I gave her a lopsided grin.
Her voice changed. “I wish I could do something to console you, Spike.” She smiled gain as she tore off her dress with a silky ripping sound. Her eyes were purple flames.
“Oh, Spike,” she whispered. “Am I being brazen?”
“You’re just right,” I told her. “I don’t like women who are too reserved. Only, now, I’ve got some business …” I pushed her away. “Just wait, Dolores, just wait!”
Outside the door, I opened my notebook and put her name on my list. There weren’t too many ahead of her. The redhead on B-deck. The stewardess down the line. The bleached blonde with the … On second thought, I crossed the bleached blonde off. That brought Dolores up a peg.
I could hardly wait.
Then I saw the old battle-axe, Mrs. Chip-Ebberly, bearing down in my direction, with her layers of blankets and her knitting. I stopped where I was, shook out a butt and lit it, and waited till she came up. Then I stepped in front of her to block her way.
“I want a word with you,” I said.
The look she gave me would have congealed a blast-furnace. She said, “I don’t believe I know you.”
But I could be just as nasty as she could. Instead of moving like she obviously expected me to do I just stood there and stretched out
an arm to the opposite wall of the passage so as to bar her way.
“I’ll introduce myself. The name’s Spike Bludgeon. Occupation, private eye.”
She tried to duck past. I pushed her back and gave her a faceful of cigarette smoke. “Not so fast,” I told her brusquely.
There was a wild look from the midst of her coughing and choking. She didn’t get it. Nobody spoke to her like that. I figured it would be a good lesson in democracy for her.
“Just because you’re royalty, don’t think you can get away with anything you like,” I told her. “A crook’s a crook in my language.”
“Because I am what?”
I reached out and grabbed her knitting bag. She let out a yowl. I pulled one of the needles out of whatever it was she was dreaming up. It was a long, shining, steel thing with a perfect tapering point. I threw the bag into a corner, and waved the needle in her face.
She was gibbering.
“Don’t lose your shirt,” I told her. “Take a look at this. . You used your ball of wool for an ulterior purpose. And maybe this needle, too. It’s just about right for sticking someone in the eye, isn’t it?”
I looked at her hard, but I couldn’t tell if her bewilderment was real or phony.
“Someone tried to gouge Paul Price’s eye out,” I said softly. “You wouldn’t know a thing about that, would you?”
She just looked at me, speechless, her jaw hanging down. Her refusal to cooperate was making me lose my temper. I took her by the arm. “Would you?” I spat the words out.
“No!” It came in a bubbling gasp.
I tossed the needle away. “Okay, grandma,” I said quietly. “Maybe I believe you and maybe I don’t. We’ll let it go for now. Just remember, a crook is open to suspicion.… I know about your smuggling game. Just remember I got my eye on you. Don’t go pushing people downstairs any more. Especially blondes.… I got my own use for them.”
I watched her react, gave her a harsh laugh, and strolled away.
Back in the Lounge there was a hush when I entered. There was a quality in the air. I could feel it.… Hostility … thick, cold. With dirty fear mixed in somewhere. I let my eye run over the passengers slowly. I saw their furtive glances. I could tell they were avoiding my eye. There was only one thing that could mean—guilt. There was some guilty knowledge they were hiding from me.
Just thinking about it I got so mad the sweat rolled down my forehead and my back. I picked up an ashtray and hurled it against the wall. I went out, and met the First Oflicer. He said he had been hunting for me.
“Are there any developments, Mr. Bludgeon?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” I was still keeping my one secret fact to myself. “I wish I knew more about those business deals Price had on.”
“Do you think he was killed for money?”
“What do you think?” I looked at him sharply. He didn’t answer right away, and I had to repeat the question. I said, “What do you think?”
“Oh.” There was a strange look on his face. “I didn’t know, I thought there might be other reasons why people might kill. I mean … Well, there’s love, maybe, or being jealous, or people kill for the sake of an idea sometimes …”
“Love, maybe. Yeah,” I said. “But murder for an idea? Bugs, no.”
“But if it was—” He licked his lips. “Well, you’re the expert, Mr. Bludgeon. I haven’t had much experience of this sort of thing.” He sounded nervous. I couldn’t tell why.
I said bitterly: “That’s right.… I’m the expert. And if you’re smart you’ll never try to be one. You’ll stay away from crimes. Stay on your little ship, out in the middle of the ocean, and perhaps you’ll have a stray killing or two but you’ll never see the things I see. The rackets, the corruption, the filth …”
He looked like a kid whose ice-cream cone has been stolen by a big boy. “I always thought a private investigator had an exciting, adventurous, life—romantic, so to speak.”
“Bugs,” I repeated. I decided I would tell him about the attack on Price. “I’d like to speak to you—privately,” I said. “Maybe there has been a development.”
“We can be quiet in here.” He led me to the cabin that was being used as headquarters.
We found the Doctor in there. He jumped when he saw us.
“I’ve lost a page of my manuscript.” His pudgy face cracked with worry. “I thought I might have left it in— Ah!” The worry uncracked. “Here it is!”
I looked over his shoulder at the paper he’d picked up from under a table. He seemed to be telling the truth. You could see it was poetry because the right-hand margin was uneven.
The way he cheered up when he’d got it back, you’d have thought it was something important. He began to talk, very briskly. “Waggish here has been telling me about the investigation,” he said, “and the various techniques you chaps use. How Sir Jon. Nappleby uses books, and Mr. Poireau likes things to be tidy, and you say it’s good manners that count the most in being a detective—”
The First Officer got all red in the face. He said quickly, “No, no, that’s someone else you’re thinking of.” He looked at me apologetically, and I could see he hadn’t really meant any harm. “What do you consider most important in being a detective, Mr. Bludgeon?”
I gave them both a hard smile. “Guts,” I told him. “Guts are what make the difference. If you’ve got guts you get the killer. If you haven’t, you get bumped off yourself.”
The Doctor nodded, interrupting me. “Like Mr. Price,” he said. “He wasn’t a brave man, and he got killed.”
The First Officer looked at him in surprise. “How do you mean, he wasn’t brave? Do you mean because he got seasick?”
“Well, that; he came to me for pills. But after that he came again.” The Doctor sounded vague. The First Officer was frowning a little, staring at him. “He got some soot in his eye from the smokestack, and came running to me for me to get it out. Well, when I went after the soot he yelled out and began to jump up and down and acted as if I was trying to hurt him.”
It didn’t take me long to get it. I went cold all over. Before I even knew how screaming, scarlet-mad I was, I was on my feet and I’d slashed out at the sawbones with a quick right that had him staggering against the wall. He didn’t have time to take in what had happened before I’d got hold of his arm and was twisting it up behind his back till the bones were ready to break.
The First shouted, “What the devil?” but I paid no attention.
“Go on—talk!” I ordered the Doctor. The words came hissing out like live steam.
He gurgled something.
“Talk!” I twisted the arm some more, digging my fingers deep.
“But—but what do you want me to say?” His fat face was as white as the belly of a dead fish.
I was impatient. I whipped out my .45 and put it to his head.
The First grabbed my arm. At the same moment the Doctor’s eyes rolled up so the whites showed and he fell down in a heap. I had my foot up ready to kick his ribs in when the First shook my arm harder. I wheeled impatiently. “What is it?’
“You’re—you’re making a mistake!” he said.
“I don’t like people to say that to me.” My voice was like a shower of winter hail.
He got pale, but he had guts, all right. He argued with me, even though he couldn’t help stuttering. “I’m not—not—a detective, Mr. Bludgeon,” he said, and then he stopped and swallowed. His eyes were fixed on my gun. “I don’t know what clue you’ve found out. But—why did you go for the Doctor?”
I explained about the attack on Price.
“But the Doctor wouldn’t try to gouge an eye out! No matter What Price thought. If he was getting a cinder out, perhaps his hand slipped, or something of that sort. It must have been an accident!”
“Accident!” I pulled out a crumpled butt and lit it. After a drag on it I felt a little better. “There’s no such thing as accident, in my experience, Waggish. Murder—yes. Assault—yes. Su
icide—yes, sometimes. Accident, no.”
“But why would he do a thing like that?”
I shrugged. “Why? That’ll come out in time. Meanwhile I just want to punish him for doing it.”
He looked down at the Doctor. “Even so,” he said, “he couldn’t have done the murder, you know. It would have been a physical impossibility.”
Well, he hadn’t convinced me. Not a bit. But the fact that the Doctor had been somewhere else when the murder took place would have to be taken into account, maybe. I decided to let the First Officer have his way for a while. The Doctor was still out. I tapped his head with the butt of my .45 to make sure he would stay that way for a good long time, so he couldn’t do any harm.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll talk to him again tomorrow.”
I went to see Dolores again.
“I’m still waiting, Spike,” she said.
“That’s the girl.” I kissed her—then pushed her away, hating to do it. Her face wasn’t hard any longer, and her price had gone up.
“You’re so wonderful, Spike,” she muttered. “All those ugly scars … your broken nose … and the ear that’s chopped off … How could they do it, Spike? How could anyone bear to hurt you?”
“The ones who did it are dead,” I told her. “People who cross me usually end up that way.”
She gave a violent shudder. “Do you think the killer will be caught, Spike?”
“He’s bound to be. And I hope it’s me that gets him.… You see, Dolores, the trouble is, if any of those other dicks catch him they’ll turn him over to the First Officer. And while the First Officer may be okay in himself, he’s like an honest cop on land—at the mercy of a system. He’d just have to turn the killer in and hold him for trial by jury. Whereas if I get him … well, he’ll be sorry he did it.”
She shuddered again. “I’m frightened, Spike!”
“Don’t worry!” I gave her a crooked grin. “You’re safe with me. And maybe—maybe we’ll get that piece about you into the papers yet!”
Murder in Pastiche Page 15
