Nine and Death Makes Ten

by Carter Dickson

  NINE-AND DEATH MAKES TEN

  (aka Murder in the Submarine Zone)

  ©Copyright 1940 by William Morrow and Company, Inc. Copyright renewed 1968 by John Dickson Carr. Reprinted with permission of the author's estate. Cover: Copyright© 1987 by International Folygonics, Ltd.

  Library of Congress Card Catalog No. 87-82442 ISBN 0-930330-69-2

  Printed and manufactured in the United States of America

  First IPL printing October 1987. 10 98765432

  Dedication

  This story is dedicated, as it should be, to fellow passengers aboard M.V. Georgic, in memory of a crossing we made from New York to "a British port" during the early days of the war.

  The crossing took place under much the same blackout and life-jacket conditions as are described here. But there all resemblance to reality ceases. The date was September, 1939; not January, 1940. The ship was not carrying munitions. There were no such regrettable goings-on as occur in these pages. No character in the story—whether passenger, officer, or member of the crew—bears the remotest relation to any living person. In short, everything except the atmosphere is a complete piece of fantasy from beginning to end.

  C. D.

  London, N.W.3, May, 1940.

  1

  Painted battleship-gray, the liner lay by the pier at the foot of West Twentieth Street. She was the twenty-seven-thousand-ton M.V. Edwardic, of the White Planet Line; and she was to sail that afternoon for "a British port."

  Along the New York skyline, buildings glistened as cold as the frozen runner of a skate. Though it was only one o'clock in the afternoon, a few lights twinkled in their windows. The water of the harbor looked choppy and greasy—and as though it would freeze you in a few seconds if you fell in. Nor was the wind, sweeping through that naked customs-shed, much better.

  The Edwardic was a stocky-looking liner, squat and broad-beamed despite her length. Her sides curved out like the arc of a bow. From the customs-shed she seemed blank and blind, drained of life, except for the thin brown haze which hovered over her one squat funnel. It was the exhaust of her oil-burning engines, and it was instantly blown wide by that bitter wind. Gray decks, gray masts, gray ventilators, even gray port-holes: blacked-out and screwed down against light.

  The dock police shivered beside dirty water. You were not allowed to smoke anywhere on the dock, even in the big dank waiting-room. Though the Edwardic had been loaded long ago, the number of guards made it difficult to take a step anywhere without being challenged. Echoes struck back and rumbled along the roof of the shed. A hoarse voice, talking through a loud-speaker, caused a stir among the few dispirited people in the waiting-room. They trailed out, stamping their feet and blowing on their fingers, while a tug hooted from the harbor, and its noise was carried up in hollow vibrations among the girders.

  No visitors were allowed aboard. For the Edwardic, nominally a passenger ship, was carrying munitions to "a British port." Her cargo consisted of half a million pounds' worth of high explosive, with four Lockheed bombers on the top deck. She carried nine passengers.

  *****

  To one man, standing in the fore part of A Deck with his arms folded on the rail, it came as an intense relief when the Edwardic at last moved out.

  He could not imagine why he should be in such a fever to get started. There was no reason for it. He was leaving America for a doubtful job and a doubtful future in his own country. Being partly lame, he would not even be in the army. For the next eight days (or nine or ten or eleven, according to the January weather and the directions of the Admiralty) he would be living inside a floating powder-magazine. One well-placed torpedo would blow the whole mass to pieces, together with every living organism inside.

  Yet nothing relieved his nerves more than when the Edwardic began to glide backwards in a slow, wide curve, and he saw the white-streaked water widen between ship and dock.

  He hunched himself down into his overcoat, leaning the full weight of his body on the rail. He was a dark-haired, rather grim-looking young man in his early thirties, compact, pleasant-faced, but with nothing greatly to distinguish him except a slight limp which he tried to conceal by using a cane. He wore a thick fuzzy overcoat and heavy cap. His name was Max Matthews; once upon a time he had been a newspaperman, and a good one. Also, they said he was a fool for traveling in this ship—there were so many. Italian or American liners, which might take a long time in getting you back to England by the Southern European route, but at least were perfectly safe.

  At the moment he was excited—more excited than he ever remembered having been in his life.

  Thank God, he thought, we're off at last!

  The wind across the harbor struck him full in the face, closing his eyes and chilling him all over. He steadied himself. The Edwardic, butted and nuzzled by screaming tugs, rolled a little as she swung. But she had taken on that smooth gliding motion, animated by the throb of her engines, which emphasized the space of water widening between them and the dock.

  They were moving out into the dark, into a great loneliness ahead. The ship's whistle called against it, against a sky that •seemed even emptier away from land, and the tug whistles mournfully replied.

  "Cold," observed a voice not far from him.

  Max peered round.

  Standing by the rail not far away, looking down over the forward hatches and the forecastle which on ordinary voyage housed third-class passengers, was a tall man in a light overcoat. His head was bent forward; and the brim of his soft hat was blown flat over his eyes.

  "Cold," he said in a non-committal voice.

  Both of them recognized the conversational etiquette of the Ma. This was a tentative opening. If Max merely answered, "Yes, isn't it?" and glanced away again, it was a sign that he wasn't in the mood for conversation. But if he said, "Yes, ain't it?" and added some new remark of his own, it was a sign that talk had been joined.

  He had thought that he was far from being in the mood for conversation. To his own surprise, he suddenly found that he wanted to talk.

  "Yes, isn't it? I expect we shall get it colder yet, though, before we're through."

  "Or hotter than we want it," agreed the stranger, genially but cryptically. He dug his hand into the pocket of his overcoat. "Cigarette?"

  "Thanks."

  This was the final sign that conversation had been joined. The wind whistled at them, even in the lee side under the partial shelter of a companionway; after several polite efforts to hold a match for each other, they concluded by lighting their own.

  The stranger, seen in the spurt of the match-flame, was a tall, heavy man with an easy-smiling mouth showing strong white teeth. His age might have been sixty, and the edges of the hair under his hat were clear white; but his mannerisms were much younger, almost bouncing. His shoulders were •lightly stooped, and he gestured broadly. But he had a strong, tight-looking face, with a pair of sharp brown eyes which shone like those of a young man. They gave him most of his animation. What puzzled Max was that he looked and talked and dressed like an American. Yet American passports for traveling, Max had been given to understand, were

  very difficult to get in these days; and, most of all, Americana were absolutely forbidden to travel in the ships of belligerent nations.

  This if something, all right," he continued, shaking out the already spent match. "Only nine of us, they tell me."

  "Passengers?"

  "Yes, nobody in tourist or third-class. Just the nine of us In first, including two women."

  Max was startled. "Two women?"

  "That's right," said the stranger, fixing his eyes on Max as though his word had been doubted. "No place for 'em, is it? But there you are." He spread out his hands. "The captain s
ays—"

  "Have you seen the captain?"

  "Oh, casually. Just casually," answered the stranger in some haste. "Had a talk with him this morning. Why? Do you know him?"

  "As a matter of fact," said Max hesitantly, "he's my brother. If you've seen him, it's more than I have. I don't imagine we'll see much of him this trip."

  "Your brother, eh? Is that so? I suppose that's why you're traveling in this tub?"

  "One of the reasons."

  "My name is Lathrop," said the stranger, suddenly thrusting out a big hand. "John Lathrop."

  "Mine is Matthews," said Max, shaking the hand.

  Max had a feeling that the acquaintance was progressing too rapidly, but there was at once a cordiality and courtesy about Lathrop which he liked. Both of them blinked, the fire flying from cigarettes, as the wind swung again.

  The Edwardic was now forging ahead down the harbor. Her propellers churned with a deeper vibration which shook upwards through the decks. Towards their left, a nondescript huddle of roofs slid past and presently melted into the skyline of lower Manhattan. It loomed white and powerful against a sky grown so dark that the watchers could barely see(j except when a gleam of light struck through the clouds; then even those towers grew dwarfish against an immensity of water.

  "I was just thinking," Lathrop began abruptly.

  "Yes?"

  "Well, all nine of us rolling around in this big tub. Sort of—peas in a hogshead. They must be pretty determined people, most of 'em."

  "How so?"

  Lathrop leaned against the forward rail, dropping his cigarette, and interlaced his fingers. The wind tore at their eyes and faces, filling the eyes with water. "They must have pretty strong reasons, all of 'em, for wanting to get to England in a hurry. Or as much of a hurry as you can make it nowadays. Look at the safe sea-routes. But if you've got to go clear down to Genoa or Lisbon, and then come back overland, that takes time. If they're risking this box of dynamite rather than do it, they've got good reason to. What I mean is: there must be some very interesting people aboard."

  "I suppose so."

  Lathrop opened one eye at him. "Meaning you don't give a hoot?"

  "No; not that, exactly. But I've been eleven months in hospital with this." Max touched his bad leg with his cane. "All I want now is sea air and an uncrowded ship."

  "Sorry," said Lathrop in a sharp voice, and with immense dignity. "Didn't mean to butt in."

  "No, no. You don't understand. A good trip, with good food and good wine—but, by all the gods, not a 'gay' one. Not a social one. And I have an idea that this run is going to be anything but that."

  Lathrop threw back his head and laughed.

  "You're right there," he agreed, soberly reflecting. "So that's the reason why you're traveling?"

  "If you could call it a reason."

  "And look," pursued Lathrop, eyeing him shrewdly, "I'm not trying to pump you. No smoke-screen intended. As for me, my story's simpler and yet maybe queerer. I'm after a murderer."

  There was a silence.

  A hoarse blast of the liner's whistle beat out against immensity. Even here in the harbor, the water was uncertain and choppy. Looking at the cigarette in his hand, it suddenly occurred to Max Matthews that he was smoking on a munitions-ship; he wondered whether smoking were permitted on deck. He dropped the cigarette and ground it out with care.

  "Time's getting on," he said. "Better get down and unpack. There's some sort of paper we're supposed to fill out for the purser—"

  "You think I'm taking you for a ride?" inquired Lathrop "About the murderer?"

  "Aren't you?"

  "Nope. Not a bit of it." First Lathrop's shrewd brown eye twinkled, giving animation to his face; then he grew confidential. "Tell you about it later. Where are you sitting in the dining-room?"

  "My brother's table, I imagine. Why not join us?"

  "Captain's table? Glad to! Right, then: I'll see you later ... Oo-er!" <

  This last was added under his breath, and mostly to himself, as Max turned away. And Max saw the reason for it.

  Coming towards them along A Deck, across a scrubbed expanse of boards between the dark-gray bulkheads on one side and the line of lifeboats on the other, strode a near| middle-aged woman in a sable coat.

  Her eyes were half closed against the breeze, and her step was firm. Her very light yellow hair, of which there appears to be a good deal, was bound round her head with a colored scarf whose ends streamed out. The face was full and faintly brown, shiny under the eyes as though it had been vaselined there; the eyes (what could be seen of them) blue; the mouth full-lipped. Though undoubtedly in her early forties you did not notice this except at close range. Under her open sable coat she wore a silk blouse, caught at the breast with a diamond clasp, and a dark skirt. The wind, blowing full against her, showed that she was wearing no brassiere that she had full, rounded thighs and admirable legs set off by very high-heeled shoes.

  All three—Max, Lathrop, and the woman—were elaborately unconscious of each other's presence. At least, the woman was unconscious of them. She swept past, her eyes still half closed, and a snake-skin handbag pressed under on arm.

  Lathrop glanced after her, furtively. Max went below.

  He was annoyed with himself because the woman's image went with him. A man fully restored to health after eleven months—eleven intolerable months—of the monastic life of hospital, is susceptible and uncritical. The woman's attractiveness was instantaneous. Max felt it. Yet there was some thing vaguely unpleasant about her face: something like small, mean wrinkle past the mouth.

  Max dragged open one of the doors on A Deck, hopped inside with difficulty, and let it slam after him in the draft. It closed with a booming noise against the quiet of the ship. Inside, the passages were stuffy and rubbery-smelling: dead still except for the faint creaking of the bulkheads.

  That uneasy creaking followed him. He steadied himself down a flight of stairs, which rose and swayed under him with the Edwardic's motion. Downstairs, on B Deck, it was still more stuffy. All bedroom portholes—such were the orders— must be kept closed and screwed-down at all times. Even upstairs in the public rooms, and in the daytime, a porthole might be opened only at the strict discretion of a steward.

  Max had never felt so much the sensation of being alone.

  His cabin, a spacious one with a private bathroom, was on the starboard side of B Deck. He went down a narrow passage; turned into a very short passage, a sort of alcove, branching off it; and opened the door at the left.

  All lights were turned on, shining against white-painted walls. An electric fan whirred in his cabin, partly dissolving the stuffiness. His trunk stood beside one of the white-counter-paned berths: it was a double cabin, though he shared it with nobody. There were a couple of wicker chairs, and a pleasant green carpet on the floor. The tooth-glass vibrated in its rack over the wash-basin; in the bathroom, whose door was open and hooked back, a water-tap gurgled with a kind of snort; and over everything the electric fan, moving from side to side on its revolving neck, swept his face with a cool breeze.

  All very peaceful. But—

  There was one discreet tap at the door.

  "Ah, sir," said the steward, putting a grave face round the edge of the door. "Got everything you want?"

  "Yes, thanks."

  "I brought your trunk in."

  "So I see."

  "One other thing, sir. When you hear the next gong—it'll be in a few minutes now—all passengers are to assemble upstairs in the lounge."

  "What for?"

  "Instructions. Please bring your life-jacket with you. Do you know how to manage your life-jacket?"

  "Yes."

  "Sure, sir?" persisted the steward, insinuating himself smilingly but gingerly into the cabin. He kept the smile steadily in place like a plaster.

  There were two life-jackets on top of the wardrobe, whom mirror reflected the steward's smile. Max reached up am pulled down one of them. It consisted of two large ob
long blocks of cork sewed up in canvas, with canvas shoulder straps and canvas strips for the neck. You thrust your head through these latter strips, so that there was a cork block 01 each side of your neck; then you put your arms through the shoulder-straps, and tightened the whole harness by tying the canvas strings behind like the tails of an apron. Max put on the jacket.

  "That's right, sir," applauded the steward. "And if you'd fill out that form, sir"—he nodded towards the berth, where a long pink sheet of paper lay beside the passenger-list—and take it to the purser's office, with your passport, as soon at you can?"

  "All right."

  Max did not notice the other's departure. Feeling like Goliath in his harness, he was looking down at the gaudily colored booklet which constituted the passenger-list.

  He could not shake himself rid of that image: the (near! middle-aged) blonde, her eyes half closed and the wind blowing against her body, going past with her head in the ail Hang it all, he was free! He would not be bothered with people! He wanted only to doze and lounge. He wanted only solitude; and had got to such a morbid state that he was even willing to travel over a cargo of explosives in order to get it.

  All the same, he wondered what her name was. He opened the passenger-list, whose space devoted to names was pitifully thin. It said:

  Archer, Dr. Reginald.

  Benoit, Capt. Pierre.

  Chatford, Miss Valerie.

  Hooper, Mr. George, A.

  Kenworthy, the Hon. Jerome.

  Lathrop, Mr. J. E.

  Matthews, Mr. Max.

  Zia Bey, Mrs. Estelle.

  Hold on! That was only eight names, and Lathrop had said there were nine passengers. Probably Lathrop's error

  But it was the last name on the list which caught Max's attention. If ever a name suited the woman he had seen, it was "Mrs. Estelle Zia Bey."

  "That's it, for a fiver," he said aloud, to the buzzing electric fan. And then, in a kind of exasperation: "What is she, Turkish or something? She's English if I ever saw it."