The Murder League

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  He smiled brightly at the group, although, if the truth were known, the library steward was heartily sick of having to run the games aboard ship. He had taken the position of library steward fifteen years earlier because he had a strong feeling—after seeing the intricately engraved spines and spotted brown leaves of the books locked up there—that few people would be curling up in a chair with Thackeray or Oliver Goldsmith. He had anticipated ample time for a certain pretty stewardess on C Deck; and then they had saddled him with the blasted games. The stewardess had long since married the owner of a landside pub. He watched the tickets being grabbed up like packets of gaspers back in ’48 and sighed prodigiously. He caught the Captain’s eye upon him and managed to turn the sigh into a delighted smile, no easy trick.

  “You buy the tickets,” Briggs said, sotto voce. “Number four. Get enough of them. I have a hunch it may win.”

  Simpson grinned at him.

  “I’m quite sure you have,” he said and wandered over to the table where the tickets were being dispensed by a very pretty girl. When his turn came he brought forth a goodly sum of pounds and exchanged them for an equal number of blue tickets. Turning, he bumped squarely into Captain Manley-Norville.

  “Ah, Mr. Simpson.” The master’s eyes caught sight of the number of tickets in the other’s hand. His gray eyes twinkled beneath their bushy brows. “I see you have a tip from the stable, eh? Number four, eh?”

  Simpson smiled a ghastly smile. “Just a hunch, Captain.”

  “Well, sometimes they’re almost as good as a shot of stimulant, especially with wooden horses. But I’m afraid we’re holding up traffic.” The Captain smiled. “In fact, I think I’ll go along with you on number four, but only for one ticket. No J.G.L. etcetera awards for shipboard captains, you know.”

  He turned back to the table, allowing Simpson to escape, sweating slightly despite the air conditioning. The commerce of ticket selling continued for several minutes more and then dropped off. The box with the money was snapped shut; the library steward moved to the fore again, forcing bonhomie into his voice.

  “Are we ready? Good-O! And a volunteer? Ah, fine! Mr. Briggs! How have you been? You understand your task? You merely twirl this little cage, and then when I read off the numbers on the dice, you verify my reading. In this way—” He chuckled. “Well, there’ll be no doping of horses on this ship—I mean, this track—heh-heh! Now, is everyone ready?”

  The wooden horses continued to look bored, as did the bellboys and a large percentage of the customers.

  “Good-O! All right, Mr. Briggs, a twirl if you please!”

  Briggs obediently gave the small cage a twirl and a gasp came from the audience, their ennui dissipated. The small wire-enclosed box seemed to explode; the three dice scattered about the general area. The library steward stood with his mouth wide, paralyzed for a moment; in all four-thousand-plus games he had directed this had never happened before. For a moment he wondered if possibly it shouldn’t be added as part of the normal routine—it had certainly served to wake up the audience—but then he realized it would quickly lose its glamour. He hurried forward.

  “Oh, dear! This little screw holding the bottom to the sides of the cage seems to have loosened. Does anyone happen to have a pocketknife? Ah, Mr. Briggs! And open, too. Thank you very much. I’ll have it fixed in a jiffy!” He took the proffered tool and tackled the cage; it was only the work of a moment to correct the problem. He closed the knife and turned about. “Mr. Briggs—Mr. Briggs?”

  Briggs was scrambling to his feet. He had located one of the dice and Captain Manley-Norville was handing him a second. A helpful passenger handed him the third. Briggs turned the three over to the library steward, who beamed at him.

  “Ah! Thank you, Mr. Briggs. And your penknife.”

  “Thank you. No trouble at all.”

  “Ah, fine!” A small door in the cage was opened and the three dice deposited within. The library steward took a deep breath. “All right! Good-O! A slight delay because of unruly behavior at the gate, ladies and gentlemen, heh-heh! All set, Mr. Briggs? Then let them be off! A twirl, if you please!”

  Briggs twirled.

  There was a moment’s silence; the audience waited expectantly.

  “A pair of fours,” the steward announced brightly. “And a six. Do you agree, Mr. Briggs?”

  Briggs peered and then bobbed his tiny head. The bellboys dutifully moved their wooden charges the requisite number of squares along the green felt track. The steward smiled invitingly at Briggs, tilting his head. Briggs twirled.

  “An ace,” said the steward, “and another pair of fours. Do you agree, Mr. Briggs? Good-O, then. A twirl, if you please?”

  Briggs twirled.

  “Well, well, well!” said the steward. “Three fours! Imagine that! Do you agree, Mr. Briggs?”

  “You had me sweating a bit until you clumsily dumped them and switched them back,” Simpson said in a whisper. “I should hate to have seen number four winning for the rest of the voyage. Tell me, Tim, how on earth did you ever do it?”

  “I never got arthritis like Billy-boy,” Briggs replied, his voice low. “How much was the haul?”

  “Thirty-four quid.” Simpson sighed. “Unfortunately Captain Manley-Norville was back of me and he also picked number four. A pity I couldn’t tout him off it, but there you are.”

  The two had risen and were moving toward the door, out of earshot of the racing fans who were crowded about the dance floor in expectation of the start of the second race.

  “I think that’s enough horse racing for tonight. Never push your luck, I always say.” Simpson looked at his smaller companion expectantly. “There’s a shuffleboard contest tomorrow. Do you have any ideas?”

  Briggs paused, frowning, considering the problem, and then looked up with a nod.

  “It strikes me,” he said quietly, thoughtfully, “that a touch of powdered wax applied judiciously dead center just before the diamond should cause our opponents no end of trouble. Of course, we’d have to be careful and shoot for the edges.”

  “Beautiful,” Simpson murmured appreciatively, and then paused. “But are there any prizes?”

  “A pewter cup, I believe,” Briggs informed him, “but we should be able to shame our opponents into a small wager, it seems to me. If we put our minds to it.”

  “I should imagine so,” Simpson agreed with a smile.

  He put his hand on the latch bar of the door and then paused. Behind him the library steward had begun to speak and he was not speaking of horse racing. There was also something in his tone of voice that made both Simpson and Briggs swing about. Their faces collectively blanched. Standing at the steward’s side and staring at them with no expression at all on his round, pink face, was Billy-boy Carruthers!

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” The library steward’s voice rose over the normal racecourse clamor. “One moment, if you please! Please! If I could have your attention for a moment, please! I have an important announcement to make!”

  Slowly the din subsided. Heads turned to stare slightly resentfully at this interruption in the normal process of losing money. The library steward, in no way intimidated, beamed; this time his beam looked quite genuine.

  “Ladies and gentlemen! As I am sure you are aware, we are privileged to have three celebrities aboard; the three winners of this year’s famous J.G.L.H.N.M.S. award. One of these gentlemen, Mr. Simpson, was a large winner in the last race. Now, Mr. Carruthers, speaking for all three of the gentlemen, wishes to announce that the winnings will be donated to the Seaman’s Fund!”

  There was a moment’s startled silence, and then, “Hip-hip!” screamed a bediamonded dowager, and was promptly rewarded.

  “Hurrah!” yelled the crowd.

  “Hip-hip!”

  “Hurrah!”

  “Hip-hip!” It was the library steward leading the charge now.

  “Hurrah!” The very rafters—the few ships carry—rang.

  “That’s torn it for fai
r,” Briggs said with a disgusted shake of his head and pushed from the room.

  And Captain Manley-Norville, who only entered the games in a symbolic fashion as part of his duties as host, paused as he was about to place his fifteen-shillings winnings into his wallet and frowned thoughtfully at the money in his hand.…

  “I thought I had made it amply clear to you two reprobates,” Carruthers said coldly, “that fiddling of any nature is out.” He raised a hand to cut off dissent. “And please do not try to tell me that you won the game honestly, because you would be addressing yourselves to an unsympathetic audience. Nine straight rolls with three dice with a minimum of four pips popping up twice per roll. Really!”

  “We were lucky,” Briggs muttered.

  “You were, indeed.” Carruthers nodded his complete agreement. “Had you attempted that trick at one of the gambling clubs in Soho, most assuredly you’d be at the bottom of the Thames right now.”

  Simpson attempted to get a word in. “But—”

  “There shall be no ‘buts.’” Billy-boy’s voice was adamant. “I told you before of this fine American author who was unable to sell a story of our adventures to this book club because we had not been as—well, moral, let us say—as we might have been. Should the opportunity rise for the poor fellow again, I should not like to see it lost because of your ill behavior. Is that clear?”

  “Blast the blagged, bliggidy, blaggedy, blammery, bloggeldy, biggeldy, blattery American author!” Briggs cried with bitterness.

  “I also understand this particular book club frowns on language,” Carruthers said sternly. “So you might want to take that fact into account as well.…”

  3

  Clifford Simpson, stretched out in a deck chair for his afternoon snooze and looking somewhat like a tweed-covered pipe cleaner with closed eyes that snored, was suddenly awakened by having someone fall over him. He opened his eyes to discover an attractive young woman sprawled across him somewhat in the fashion of Limehouse Lil, a creation of his dating some forty years back, who, in addition to being an arsonist, a triple murderess and a bad cook was also oversexed. Still, Simpson was fairly certain the reason for the present assault could be explained on more logical grounds, albeit he still enjoyed the exposure of a length of firm, well-fleshed thigh and the fruits of an excess of cleavage pressed cushioningly into his face. But he did not get to enjoy them for long, because the young lady scrambled instantly to her feet, straightening her dress.

  “Sorry, Pops,” she said, with an effort at contriteness that probably wouldn’t have gotten far with anyone, even Simpson, had he not been still half asleep. She tugged at her decolletage and then peered down it, as if to make sure she hadn’t lost anything during her tumble. “I guess I must have been thinking about something else.”

  “That’s quite all right,” Cliff Simpson said gallantly and sat a bit more erect. He felt he might as well; he was sure that after that experience, getting back to sleep would be a problem. He smiled his forgiveness, pleased that his new plates permitted him to do so without clacking, and started to his feet. The young lady insisted upon helping him. Had it been anyone else, Simpson might well have demurred, especially since—even sitting—his hand was slightly higher than hers; but he had to admit it was pleasant to have a warm, slightly moist hand pressed against his with what he could not escape feeling was affection. Between the efforts of the two he came erect, towering above her. The least he could do in face of this aid, he felt, was to offer the young lady some refreshment.

  “I say,” he said, smiling down at her upturned face, “would you care for a spot of tea? Or possibly something stronger?”

  “I’d give my arm,” she replied, her tone of voice clearly indicating that having either tea or something stronger with the tall, thin man would be the height of an ambition nursed since childhood, “but my husband and me have a date with a couple to play cards.” She smiled at him. “Hey, you’re English, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Simpson, amused. “And you are an American.”

  “I don’t know how you guessed it, but you did.” Her smile remained. “My name is Carpenter; Mrs. Max Carpenter, but you can call me—”

  “Max?” Simpson could not resist, he chuckled as he gave in to the impulse.

  Mrs. Carpenter looked at him curiously. “Mazie.”

  “A beautiful name,” Simpson said dishonestly. “I’m Clifford Simpson.”

  “Pleased, I’m sure.” Mazie Carpenter paused a moment. “Say,” she said, tilting her head skyward to view his face, “you look like a card player. Do you play canasta?”

  Simpson smiled. “I’m afraid not.”

  “How about hearts?”

  “I don’t play that either.” Simpson’s smile faded slightly in the manner of one who had never before realized the full depths of his ignorance.

  “Pinochle?”

  “No.”

  “Fan-tan?”

  “Fan-tan?” He seemed to remember Tim Briggs having advised him to use fan-tan in his story about Limehouse Lil, a story dealing with dark doings in an opium warehouse on Thameside, but up until now he had always thought it was something someone smoked. “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “Poker?”

  “Poker?”

  “That’s right. Stud, draw, spit-in-the-ocean, high-low, one-eyed jacks or even Worcester, where a four-card flush beats a pair?”

  Simpson was deeply embarrassed. “I beg your pardon?”

  But Mazie Carpenter was not the woman to give up. “How about bridge?”

  Simpson beamed, pleased to be back in the world.

  “Bridge? As a matter of fact, yes.”

  “Thank God!” Mrs. Carpenter muttered.

  “I beg your pardon? As I was saying, my partner and I—his name is Carruthers and you may have seen him about the ship, we’re traveling together, and he’s a middle-sized chap from top to bottom, that is, addicted to mustard-colored suits, though one mustn’t call them that, and he has white hair and he’s rather—”

  “Pudgy?”

  “I was about to say—”

  “Fat?”

  “As you will,” Simpson conceded, not to be deterred from his one chance to fall into the grace of this lovely creature. “As I was saying, I believe we play bridge rather well. At least that’s the consensus of our club. We’re the champions. Of course,” he added, his face falling a bit, “there are only three other partnerships in the club—most members play billiards—and two of them are just learning. Bridge, that is, not billiards. Still—” He looked up and then stared, struck by the utter coincidence. His next line was one he would have deleted from any book he had ever written—or even read—but still it came unbidden to his lips. “But, here he is now!”

  It was, indeed, Billy-boy Carruthers. He wandered up, smiling a bit vaguely at the pair, accepted the introduction to Mrs. Mazie Carpenter with his normal old-world courtesy and patted his forehead delicately with his handkerchief.

  “Say, your friend tells me you guys are hot at bridge. He says you’re a partnership,” Mrs. Carpenter said, smiling in intimate fashion. “That’s sort of odd, you know, because me and my husband also are.”

  “Oh, ah?” Carruthers politely refrained from mentioning that some eighty million other people in the world also were. “We’ve played,” he admitted. His deprecating tone of voice was that of an expert going out of his way to denigrate his true ability.

  Mrs. Carpenter bit back a smile of triumph.

  “In that case,” she said, “any chance of a game after dinner? My husband and me are just learning the game, but we would sure appreciate a chance of playing with topnotchers. They say it’s the only way to learn, and we sure want to learn. How about it?” As an extra attraction she added, “I hear the movie is lousy, anyway. J. Arthur Rank, whoever he is. Something foreign.”

  Carruthers appeared truly sad at having to refuse.

  “I’m afraid that after dinner I’m scarcely at my best. Getting on, you know. Early
to bed and early to rise, has some salubrious effect on a man, if I recall my Franklin correctly.” He suddenly brightened as a possible solution to their problem occurred to him. “However, what about tomorrow morning after breakfast? ‘Man is at his best, they say, With ham and eggs to start his day.’” He frowned in recollection. “Armour, I believe; or possibly Swift.”

  “Ten o’clock tomorrow morning, then,” Mrs. Carpenter said coyly. Her attitude was such that had she had a fan, she most certainly would have tapped him with it. “I hope you don’t mind a small bet on the outcome. Max—that’s my husband—believes you only play good if dough is on the line. That is, if somebody has something to win by—” She contemplated the grammatical snare into which she had fallen and escaped as best she could. “—by, well, winning.”

  Carruthers smiled at her with pleasure.

  “Precisely my sentiments, my dear. Your husband is obviously a man of great perception. Fortunately, we happen to be in a position where money is unimportant—if we lose, that is.” He smiled at her with a twinkle in his blue eyes. “On the contrary, we might just come out ahead, you know. We aren’t really all that bad. Champions of our club. I feel I should warn you.”

  “Mr. Simpson told me how good you were. I’m sure you’ll nail us. But it’ll be worth it. And we might just get lucky you know.” Mrs. Carpenter glanced at her wristwatch. “Jesus H. Chr—I mean, good grief, I’ve got to get on my bicycle!” She smiled brightly at the two and disappeared in the direction of the card room.

  “A lovely girl,” Simpson said softly, shaking his head at the memory of her lush body pressed against him so short a time before and regretting—for one of the very few times in his life—the unfortunate passage of the years.

  “Yes, indeed,” Carruthers said, admiringly. “Clever, too.”

  “You think so?” Simpson’s brow furrowed. “I had a feeling she was, but I didn’t think it showed all that much.”