Simpson was giving the tale his fullest attention. “And?”
“And this purser-type looks at me as if I’d been scaling fish all morning, and he says, ‘Thank you,’ and he opens a drawer and drops the book inside. ‘Whoever lost it will be coming back here looking for it,’ he says. ‘This is the lost-and-found department, among other things.’ And that was that. Actually cost two and six, not a shilling,” he added almost absently.
“Hard lines,” Simpson said sympathetically. “Well while you were gone I had a idea myself that might work. If you’ll pardon me.…” He came to his feet, unfolding himself carefully as if to make sure he didn’t break in the process.
“Be my guest,” Briggs said gloomily and reached out for the bottle, pouring himself another drink.
Clifford Simpson, at least, was speedier than his shorter companion, although this may have been because of the greater length of his stride. In any event, he returned in eight minutes, looking no happier than had Briggs upon his return. Briggs recognized the symptoms; he poured a second glass of brandy for his old friend and silently pushed it across the table.
Simpson accepted it with a nod of appreciation, sipped it gratefully and began his own tale of woe.
“My plan was eminently simple,” said he. “I realized that in requesting water, we were, in fact, asking the man to undertake a mission not truly within his scope of authority. Bellboys carry water; dining room stewards carry water—even, on occasion, bar stewards. Purser-types do not carry water. Do you follow me?” he asked anxiously.
“So far.”
“Fine! However, were we to ask the man to perform a duty consistent with the purposes of the purser’s department, he’d be rather hard put to avoid it, what?”
“So far still so good.”
“Yes. I therefore calculated I would merely ask this purser-type to be so kind as to bring me a bit of our luggage from the hold—”
“We don’t have any luggage in the hold.”
“So he pointed out,” Simpson said sadly. “It seems they have a small file in a drawer there with a list of everyone’s luggage that is stored in the hold. So when he started looking through this file to find out which hold, and what section, and all the rest of it, he quickly discovered that, as you said, we had no luggage in the hold. So I could only stand there looking absent-minded, pretend my cramp had returned, and get out of there as quickly as possible.”
“A bit embarrassing, I imagine.”
“Yes.” Simpson frowned, putting the incident from his mind like a good soldier, returning to business. “Do you suppose the call of ‘Fire!’ might get him to move away from that counter of his?”
“I doubt it,” Briggs said sourly. “All those purser-types look the kind to go down with the desk.”
Again there was silence, and then, “I say,” Simpson said, sitting a bit more erect. “Maybe the Carpenters might just wander out of their stateroom and leave the door open. Forget to lock it, you know.”
“Not exactly the epitome of expert planning on our part if they did,” Briggs said dryly and shook his tiny head. “Anyway, they couldn’t if they wanted to. Door locks automatically when it closes. You have to have a key to open it. They have a notice to that effect posted in the cabin. Haven’t you seen it?”
“I don’t recall,” Simpson said sadly and leaned back again.
Silence returned once again; this time Briggs broke it.
“There’s no sense sitting here doing nothing,” he said and came to his feet. “I’m going down and look at the blasted cabin, even if I can’t figure out how to get in. No,” he added truthfully, seeing the question in his friend’s eye, “I haven’t the vaguest notion what earthly use it might be, but it has to be at least as useful as sitting here stewing.” He raised a hand. “Ta.”
“Ta,” said Simpson, and watched him disappear.”
The fresh air on deck and the bright sun in the sky did nothing to cheer Briggs as he made his way forward toward the entrance to the main companionway and started down the broad carpeted steps. For one thing his mind was not on his surroundings but was still tackling the delicate problem of how to get a key to Stateroom B-67.
Bribe the steward or the stewardess who tended that portion of B Deck? Far too dangerous; stewards and stewardesses lead solitary lives, relieved only by gossip in their few free moments. No, wipe out bribery; besides, it cost money, and Timothy Briggs only spent money as a last resort. He shook his head and passed A Deck, descending steadily, still studying the problem.
Possibly if he waited until he saw the Carpenters at the pool they might leave their room key in a swimming robe—except they never went swimming. Pick their pocket in the cinema? Again, since the films were all British and therefore foreign, the Carpenters remained loyal Americans and stayed away. What to do?
What would Second-Story Sam have done that fateful night in 1921 if the library window had been made of steel and required a key? Probably given it up as a bad job, Briggs thought, coming to B Deck and turning down a corridor. Either that or used dynamite. These chaps on TV always seem to have little gadgets they remove from their lapels to put into the lock and apply a match and the things just go phzzz and emit a trifle of smoke and voilà! the door swings open, all in dead silence and with no trouble at all. Unfortunately, in real life getting through a solid door was far from being that simple. What to do? What in the devil to do?
In his concentration on his problem, Briggs was unaware for several moments of the man who was addressing him. When at last he realized the extra voice he was hearing was not coming from his subconscious, he looked up, finally paying attention. Before him a mechanic-type in stained coveralls and wearing a greasy cap pushed far back on his head was apparently trying to communicate.
“—bustit it wide open they did, when they crashit in to grab that nasty ’ol chap,” the man in the coveralls was saying.
“What?”
“Raht!” said the other, as if Briggs had made a valuable contribution to the conversation. “Raht offen the ’inges practically! O’ course they was two o’ them—that master-at-arms he couldn’t bust a paper bag.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Well, he couldn’t. Anyways,” the man in the coveralls went on, “I just finished fixin’ it and puttin’ in a new lock. ’ad to put on new ’inges, too.”
Briggs frowned at the man. “Would you mind telling me what you’re talking about?”
“I was saying it’s all fixed, like. But they don’t like us shop people goin’ up inter the purser’s square dressed like this. An’ the folks what got the cabin ain’t in.”
Briggs stared at him. “So?”
“I was only askin’ as a favor, like, sir. If you was goin’ near the purser’s square and the counter there was orl I was askin’.” He sounded put upon.
“What are you mumbling about?” Briggs demanded.
“I was just askin’ if you could drop them off, was orl, sir.” He dug into his pocket and came up with two sets of keys. “If you was near there, sir. They don’t like us shop people up inter the purser’s square dressed like this.”
Briggs swallowed. “Happy to,” he heard himself say, and heard himself add, “A pleasure.” He watched his own hand reach out in a daze and accept the keys; it was somewhat like seeing one of those mechanical arms in an isotope laboratory extending as if by magic to pick up a crucible of something precious.
“Thank yer, sir,” said the mechanic-type. He picked up his tool kit with one hand and touched the brim of his cap with the other. “Yer a real gent.” And he pushed through a small door and disappeared.
“Well, well,” said Briggs softly, and grinned.
The cabin was dim when he entered, with the drapes drawn over the porthole. He did not bother to set the inner latch, considering that since he was the sole possessor at the moment of keys to the lock, interruption was impossible. Had he thought of the master key in the hands of the stewardess he might not have been quite so in
souciant, but he didn’t and was fortunate enough not to have to during the course of his intrusion. But then Briggs undoubtedly would have felt that his luck having changed, it deserved to maintain a steady course for awhile, at least. With a grin at the thought of the look on Simpson’s face when he heard how entrance was finally accomplished, he pulled the curtains free from the porthole and set to work.
Briggs’ plan was extremely simple. To begin with, he recalled vividly the private stationery Mrs. Carpenter had used in writing Carruthers his invitation to the chicken-bladder swindle, and he intended to stock up on enough of it so that, at a later and more leisurely hour, he could dash off a few compromising notes addressed to various nonexistent males. He was certain he was still up to managing a reasonable facsimile of the woman’s scrawling handwriting; and he was also sure his sense of inventiveness would make the things sound sufficiently damaging in court. Search for the stationery was practically unnecessary; it stood in plain sight atop the dresser, and he pocketed a sufficient quantity before moving to step two of the plan.
In truth, the writing of compromising letters might better be called Step Two of the plan, since they were, in actuality, a sort of back up to the main body of the scheme, to be used only if all else failed. The main essence of the plan was nothing as subtle as compromising letters; Briggs intended to be seen by reliable witnesses leaving Mrs. Carpenter’s stateroom in a state of dishevelment normally attributed only to lovemaking. To this end, the stationery having been taken care of, he turned to the dressing table.
A series of bottles, jars, tubes and flasks of various shapes and colorations dotted the surface. He opened one of the more glamorous-looking bottles, smelled it and winced. Inspection of the ornate label identified it as a corn cure; he capped it and tried another. Here luck was with him, for while the aroma still made him cringe, it was only because of its excessive sweetness. He smiled and dabbed enough about his person to make him reek. The second step was to discover the lipstick, and this was made easier by the shape of the container. A little of the glossy orange-red color went a long way. He checked his appearance in the mirror, added a dab of lipstick to his shirt collar, pulled his tie about and winked at his image roguishly. The few seconds spent in the cabin had definitely been of value, and the trick now was to be seen leaving the room. He checked to make sure everything had been handled according to schedule, pulled the drapes back across the porthole, giving the room the proper dimness suitable for romance, and then moved to the door.
The advantages of steel doors aboard ships are many, of course; they have a tendency to outlast wood in service, they do not burn, and—as Briggs and Simpson could testify—they prove quite difficult for unauthorized personnel to enter. Their major disadvantage, however, is that they are exceedingly hard to listen through. Briggs, pressing his tiny ear tightly against the smooth panel and hoping to encounter footsteps passing in the corridor without, only felt the vibration of the ship’s engines magnified tenfold through the cold metal. Nottingham could have been playing Newcastle rugger in the corridor and he would have missed it. With a shrug, he opened the door and peeked out.
The slightly tilted aisle was deserted. He was not worried about the Carpenters returning; it was his understanding that they undeviatingly followed a pattern of card playing when they were not eating or sleeping. Still, he did feel that traffic on B Deck, even without the Carpenters, could have been a bit heavier; that someone—a steward, a stewardess, a passenger, a waiter—anyone, in fact, other than Captain Manley-Norville—ought to be using the corridor for some purpose or other. He was on the verge of returning to the telephone and calling Simpson to send a bellboy down to B Deck on some excuse or other when his prayers were finally answered. Turning the corner and moving slowly in his direction was a figure that could be identified as a steward because of its white jacket, even at that great distance. It was all that Tim Briggs had been waiting for.
Without wasting further time he swung the door wide and stepped smartly out into the corridor, purposely refraining from glancing in the direction of the approaching steward. With a theatrical ability he had long suspected himself capable of, he made an exaggerated gesture of blowing a kiss toward an invisible occupant of the room.
“I’ll see you around and about, lovey,” he said in a loud tone of voice. He was sure his words were audible the length of the corridor, but even if they weren’t, the smell of that awful perfume was sure to be. “Mind, now, don’t stand in a draft like that without any clothes; you’ll catch your death.”
He reached out and closed the door with the air of the protector, after which he swaggered manfully off down the corridor, keeping his back to the white-jacketed figure, making it quite evident to all that he considered himself unseen.
Once about the corner, he nipped briskly up the steps to A Deck and hurried to their cabin. The door was closed behind him and latched; he leaned against it, breathing deeply. Unfortunately, the inhalation brought the full power of Mrs. Carpenter’s perfume to his nostrils; it was enough to remind him to get cracking. The stationery was stowed in a drawer for future use, after which he scrubbed in a real steaming-hot shower and changed his clothing from skin out before he felt fit to leave the cabin. He had a feeling that Simpson would not be overly pleased with the cloying stench of the laundry he had tossed in the closet, but then, he said to himself as he closed the door behind him, one can scarcely make omelettes without breaking eggs. Although respectable eggs, of course, really shouldn’t smell.…
He paused long enough to drop the keys to Stateroom B-67 in a corner where some curious passenger was bound to notice them and turn them into the purser’s desk, after which he climbed the rest of the steps with an inward grin, made his way to the bar and fell into his chair opposite Simpson, looking like the Cheshire cat. Simpson looked up from his cerebrations, frowning.
“You know?” he said thoughtfully, “I think I’ve got it all figured out. If you could get over the side, somehow, you’re small enough to crawl through the porthole …”
“Don’t worry about it,” Briggs said a trifle grandly, waving his hand. “It’s all been handled.”
“What’s all been handled?”
“The hash of those Carpenter twisters—that’s what’s all been handled!” said Briggs, and laughed aloud. It was a joyous, strident laugh; he suddenly realized he was being a bit noisy and that other customers in the bar were staring at him strangely. He dropped his voice but retained his grin. “Wait until you hear!” he said, his tiny eyes twinkling merrily. “Just wait until you hear!”
Mrs. Penelope Watkins, age forty-three, had been a stewardess aboard the S.S. Sunderland as long as Captain Manley-Norville had been its master, and in the course of the many years she had learned to be shocked by few things. Naughtiness, she had long since found, seemed to be a concomitant of shipboard travel; she was sure that had marriage certificates been required of passengers in lieu of visas, cruise trips would completely disappear. However, the story told her by the steward that a tiny, wrinkled old man smelling to high heaven of scent and talking some nonsense about the woman inside putting on her clothes to avoid catching cold immediately sent Mrs. Watkins to investigate. As mentioned before, it wasn’t that she was particularly worried about the morals involved; it was simply that she knew the Carpenters were never in their cabin at that hour and that therefore anyone seen coming from Stateroom B-67 could only be a sneak thief, although how the wrinkled little old man had gained entrance was a complete mystery to her. She knew the lock had been changed by a mechanic-type just a few moments before, and she knew she had one of the two master keys in that section.
She rang the small bell set in the door lintel, waited a proper time and then used the key itself to knock against the metal panel of the door. Experience had long since proven this to be a far more carrying—not to mention, irritating—sound. When there was no response, she felt her fears had been justified; she opened the door and peered within. Everything seemed to be in
its proper place; she came further into the room and pulled aside the drapes concealing the porthole, examining the room in the greater light that poured in, reflected from the bright sea. The steward must have been drunk and imagining things, she thought, because not a thing had been touched. A few coins on the dresser were still there; even Mrs. Carpenter’s wristwatch was in plain sight on the end table beside the bed, and while it wasn’t diamond studded, what sneak thief would have overlooked it merely because it lacked brilliants? The steward, clearly, had been dreaming.
She pulled the drapes back in place and, from force of habit, smoothed the already wrinkle-free bedspread. The next task, also done from habit, was to check the bathroom for towel requirements. The light switch was on the outside; she flicked it on and pushed the door open, glancing at the towel rack. The full complement of drying equipment was present. The last possible lack was, of course, washcloths, and to investigate the status of these, she drew the shower curtain. And then she screamed and screamed and screamed and screamed and screamed.
Mrs. Carpenter—or rather, her nude body—was lying in a twisted position on the cold tile floor of the shower stall. She seemed to be wearing a bandeau of red about her ample bosom, but on closer inspection, Mrs. Watkins saw that it was merely the flow of blood from the many stab wounds in her chest.…
8
Sir Percival Pugh, relaxing with a book on legalistic maneuvers, was really not greatly astonished to find his solitude interrupted by a hesitant, almost diffident, rap upon his stateroom door. Nor, upon answering, was he particularly amazed to find himself facing Mr. Clifford Simpson. Word of disaster spreads quickly in any medium, and in the rarefied and totally encompassing atmosphere provided by a ship in transit, it speeds about even more quickly. It is extremely doubtful, at that moment, if anyone aboard the S.S. Sunderland was not aware that within relatively few minutes after Mrs. Penelope Watkins’ hysterical shrieks had brought the master-at-arms on the run, Mr. Timothy Briggs was occupying the cell next to his friend, Mr. Carruthers, while the master-at-arms was seriously considering asking for a well-merited raise in pay.
Rub-A-Dub-Dub Page 9
