Nine and Death Makes Ten

by Carter Dickson

  This was broken by the sound of one pair of hands applauding loudly and hollowly. Both Valerie and Kenworthy jumped. The applause proceeded from John E. Lathrop, who had slipped in unseen and was sitting some distance away from them, smoking a cigar. He winked at Valerie. His enthusiasm was followed by a milder, more man-of-the-worldly pat of clapping from Dr. Reginald Archer, still further away in the pale-lit gloom.

  Valerie and Kenworthy joined in. The orchestra-leader bowed as gravely as though the room had been full of people, after which his men began to pack up their instruments. The applause hung briefly in the air, and died. It was as though music had never been. The small night-noises of the lounge crept out: it began to creak and quiver like a shaky floor.

  The time was thirty-seven minutes past nine o'clock.

  Kenworthy, who had started to speak with some loudness, checked himself.

  "I have begun to feel," he complained, "that I am getting deeper and deeper into something without quite knowing what it is. O hand of hymning angel! If you don't propose to tell the captain and the purser the truth, what do you propose to tell them?"

  Valerie shrugged her shoulders.

  "I shall deny the man Matthews' story. I warned him I meant to, last night."

  "And then?"

  "I shall say I was with you."

  He stared at her. "But you can't do that! When did this cavalcade of dirty work occur? Nine-forty-five to ten o'clock. In that case you'd have to say you were in my cabin, holding my head over the basin. And that won't do."

  "Why not? Who knows where you were?"

  "The purser," retorted Kenworthy unanswerably. He peered up. "And hold on to your hat, my lady. Here comes Griswold now."

  The purser tried to sidle in unobtrusively. But every person who saw him enter, through the door to the" main hall, felt a change in the atmosphere. He passed Dr. Archer, and nodded. Once he saw he was observed, Griswold walked with briskness. He came straight toward Valerie and Kenworthy. Even at a distance they could see that though the purser's fleshy face was composed, a faint rash stood out against the pallor of his forehead, and he breathed hard through the nostrils.

  Valerie almost guessed the sort of news he brought.

  Valerie, always sensitive to atmospheres, felt her muscles stiffen and a breath of pure panic through her body. She tried to hold Kenworthy's eye. She sensed that her original advantage over him might be slipping away. And she wanted to rouse no suspicions. But she tried again.

  "The purser was in your cabin between nine-forty-five and ten last night?"

  Kenworthy thought back. "I don't know what time it was. Zounds, woman. No, wait. I think he came in later than ten o'clock. Yes, I'm sure of it. Unless he was that bloke in the gas-mask: that was earlier. What I am trying to get at is that he knows I was in no shape to entertain female visitors, however char—"

  "Sh-h! Please!"

  "Good evening, Miss Chatford," intoned the purser, looming over their table. His jowl was down in his collar, and his expression frightened Valerie. But he spoke with a sort of buckled-in friendliness and ease. "Good evening, Mr. Kenworthy," he added formally. "Glad to see you're up and about again."

  "Thanks. Have a drink."

  "Not just now. I'd like to have a word in private with Miss Chatford, if I may."

  They could hear him breathe. Out of the corner of her eye, Valerie saw Lathrop get up across the room and stroll over to the piano. The thud of the ship's engines was loud in her ears.

  "But, Mr. Griswold!" she protested. "Anything you have to say, you can say in front of my cousin."

  "Your what?"

  "My cousin. Mr.- Kenworthy is my cousin."

  "This is no time for joking," said the purser, after a pause.

  "It's true, so help me!" cried Kenworthy, and quite honestly believed this. "I've known her since she was so high. Valerie Chatford. She used to have braids and ride on a sheepdog."

  The purser sat down.

  "You never told me you had a cousin," he said, somewhat reproachfully.

  "Nor," Kenworthy pointed out, "have I ever heard you sit down and recite a long list of your own relatives like the catalogue of ships in Homer. Don't be an ass, Griswold."

  "I mean," said the purser, taking no notice of this, "that I had a long talk with you last night, and you never mentioned anything about having a relative aboard. Particularly an attractive young lady like this. That's not like you, young fellow."

  Kenworthy started to answer; but the purser cut him short, which was just as well.

  "Just a minute. I don't know what you're up to, but I've got to tell you frankly that this is no time for any of your usual funny business. We'll come back to that." He paused, and slapped his knee. "Miss Chatford, I represent the captain. By his orders, I want to ask you a few questions. Also by his orders, we've decided it's no good keeping from the passengers any longer"—he looked at Kenworthy—"the fact that there was a murder last night. That stewardess has blabbed. It's all over the ship." He looked back at Valerie. "But then I suppose you'd heard about it?"

  "Yes. I've heard about it," said Valerie, and shivered.

  "Ah? Had you?"

  From his pocket, leisurely, the purser took a broad buff envelope eight or ten inches long. Its contents made the sides bulge. The top was slit open, but across the still-sealed flap had been written the name, "Estelle Zia Bey."

  "This evening," he went on, "Mr. Max Matthews told us a lot of things. Among other things, he mentioned this envelope. You mentioned it to him, Miss Chatford. It was deposited at my office. Acting on the captain's orders, I opened it. Valuable contents? Here's your valuable contents!"

  He twisted round.

  Turning the envelope upside down, he shook it out on the table. All it contained were some wadded strips of newspaper, evidently cut out with a big pair of scissors.

  "Dummies," said the purser. "Now, Miss Chatford, the captain would like to know why you wanted this envelope. He'd like to know why you asked Mr. Max Matthews to get it for you."

  Valerie could hear the blood beating in her ear-drums.

  She might be playing things too far. It would shortly be time to do what she had planned all along—confess certain facts— but not yet. Not, she thought to herself, just yet.

  "I don't understand what you're talking about."

  "The captain would like to know," pursued Griswold, "where you got the idea that Mrs. Zia Bey was hiding a bundle of letters in her handbag, and that the murderer stole them."

  "I still don't understand what you're talking about."

  "The captain would like to know what you were doing in Mr. Matthews' cabin last night."

  "But I wasn't in Mr. Matthews' cabin!"

  "No? Where were you?"

  "I was with my cousin, Mr. Kenworthy."

  All three had been speaking in whispers. All three had been leaning forward confidentially, Griswold with his elbow on his knee. Now the purser sat back. His bristly black eyebrows rose in a furrowed forehead: there was about him a suggestion of George Robey. But he exuded rich satisfaction, as of one who says, 'I knew it!'

  "Is that so, Miss Chatford? You were with Mr. Kenworthy?"

  "Yes."

  "The captain would like to know what time you were with Mr. Kenworthy?"

  "I think I went round to his cabin about half-past nine. I left about ten o'clock."

  "You're sure of that, now? You're sure of those times?"

  "More or less, yes."

  The purser's expression said, 'Oh, stow it!' But he did not comment on this; his bull-frog jowl continued to move in and out. He peered at Kenworthy instead. "What," he asked, "do you have to say to that?"

  "Stop," said Kenworthy, in such a loud voice that Lathrop at the piano glanced up. The piano tinkled in the distance.

  After drawing a deep breath, Kenworthy went on: "Before I get into this third degree, there is some information I must have. From you, Griswold. I am not trying to evade your questions. I'll do what I think is right. Wh
at—I—think—is— right. Tell me. Could I have a look at this Mrs. Zia Bey who was murdered? At the body?"

  Again the purser's eyebrows went up.

  "Certainly. Don't tell me she was a pal of yours?" "No. Not under that name, anyhow. What I'm really getting at is this. You are familiar (I can swear) with a dive called Trimalchio's, in New York?"

  The other looked puzzled.

  "I know it, yes. Haven't been there for a long time. It's a sort of English club. Plenty of Royal Navy and R.N.R. men used to drop in there." He laughed shortly. "And lousy with spies, I hear. What's all this? What's the idea?"

  "Did you know Mrs. Zia Bey?"

  The purser shrugged his shoulders. "I've heard of her. Most people have. Vaguely. A bad lot, but nice-natured."

  "Where did you hear about her? At Trimalchio's?"

  "I don't remember. Why?"

  "What I'm getting at," persisted Kenworthy, opening and shutting his hands, "is this. Did you ever hear any gossip about Mrs. Zia Bey and . . ."

  "Jerome!" cried Valerie, but not a muscle moved in his thin, donnish face.

  ". . . and any man in particular?" he concluded.

  "I shouldn't expect to hear any other kind of gossip about her." Griswold frowned. "No, I don't remember. It seems to me I once heard she was going about with a fashionable professional man, architect or doctor or something of the sort." His frown grew deeper. "I repeat, why?"

  "It was only—What," said Kenworthy, "was that noise?"

  He broke off and held up his hand. A slight but abrupt roll of the ship intensified the rattle and creak of the lounge. All three of them moved to the roll.

  "It sounded," said Valerie, "like a woman screaming."

  "It was a woman screaming," agreed Kenworthy. "Not Mrs. Zia Bey's ghost, I trust."

  "Don't talk like that," said the purser. His forehead shone like butter where the light from a pillar struck it. He was back again in the mood with which he had entered a few minutes ago. "Look here at me. I was sent to ask questions, and I mean to ask 'em. You say that sounded like a woman screaming."

  "Yes, it did," said Valerie. "From downstairs."

  "Miss Chatford, how long have you been here in the lounge? Since when?"

  "I—I don't remember."

  "Since when, please?"

  "Well, I came up here and sat down only a minute or so

  after the orchestra started playing. It was their first number. I can tell you that, if it helps any."

  "Where had you been before then?"

  "In my cabin, brushing up after dinner."

  "What about you, Mr. Kenworthy?"

  Kenworthy rubbed his jaw. "I can't do much better than that myself," he answered. "It wasn't a great length of time after the orchestra started. I got dressed and came up to get a drink. I was going on into the bar, but I stopped here."

  "The orchestra began at nine o'clock," said the purser. "You put it at a few minutes past? All right. All right. All right." He consulted his watch. "You say you heard someone screaming just now. When you were coming up here to the lounge at a little past nine, did you hear anybody yell then? Any commotion at all?"

  "No," said two voices together.

  "Sure of that? No row—from out on B-Deck?"

  "No."

  A tall shadow reared up over the back of Valerie's tall chair, two hands, one holding a cigar, appeared over her head. She turned round, to see the homely face of Lathrop grinning down at her. Though she rather liked Lathrop, she had an intense contempt for him. He seemed to her to have the reactions of a schoolboy in the body of a grown and white-haired man. Valerie was perhaps too frantically serious-minded.

  Lathrop's shambling figure draped itself over the back of the chair. Cigar-smoke blew down at her. He dissipated the smoke by leaning over and fanning a big knuckly hand under her nose.

  "What's this about a row?" he asked.

  "Nothing, sir," said the purser.

  "Glad to hear it. I was hoping nothing had happened to poor old Hooper."

  "Hooper?" repeated the purser sharply.

  "Yes; good old G.A. He promised to meet me here and listen to the orchestra, but he didn't show up." Lathrop was staring straight back at the purser, and staring hard. "I hope he hasn't fallen overboard or anything. He's going to teach me how to play a game called Nap. If he's as good at that as he is at throwing darts, I'm practically ruined. He's taken me for a dollar sixty-five already, and laughs to high heaven whenever he thinks of it. Good night, all."

  "Mr. Lathrop!" said the purser. And the emotional heat of the room went up several degrees.

  Lathrop did not go far. He turned round, slowly, on the soles of his feet.

  "Yes?"

  "As a matter of form, sir, the captain would like to know what you were doing about nine o'clock this evening."

  "Nine?" said Lathrop, without commenting. "I was in my cabin."

  "You too?"

  "Me too. Whatever that means. I came up here about ten past nine to listen to the music. Something else," Lathrop stated rather than asked, "has happened."

  "Yes," admitted the purser. He got to his feet. "Dr. Archer!" he called across the lounge.

  At the far end, near some palms, a lounging figure stirred beside the door. The doctor, a book carried over his arm and a finger between its pages, walked down the strip of gray carpet which constituted the aisle at one side. His tread was jaunty and purposeful; but his lips, in a scrubbed face, looked so dry as to be cracked. He was still pleasant, the kindly physician lending an ear in the consulting-room. His light eyes smiled at Valerie, with an individual nod in greeting to each other person. But his plump hand held the book tightly.

  "Yes, purser?" he invited.

  Griswold was apologetic. "Captain's orders, Doctor. We're checking up. Do you happen to remember where you were round about nine o'clock to-night?"

  "I do."

  "Well?"

  "In my cabin," replied Dr. Archer. "Why do "you close your eyes? Have I said anything so very extraordinary? Most people go to their cabins immediately after dinner. To get a coat. To pick up a book." He held up his own. "I came up from there about a quarter past nine, drifted into the smoking-room, had a drink, and finally wandered in here to hear the orchestra. You will forgive me: but there is very little else aboard this ship to do."

  Without any change of voice or expression he added:

  "Go on and tell us what's happened now. Everybody aboard this ship knows what happened last night. Spit it out. Get it over with. Is anything else wrong?"

  The purser drew a deep breath.

  "Yes," he acknowledged. "There's been another—unfortunate accident. Now, there's nothing to be alarmed about!. I assure you you can trust the captain. And he thinks you'll feel better if you face it fairly and squarely, and know all about it."

  "Another murder?" the doctor asked sharply.

  "I'm afraid so. But there's nothing to be alarmed about."

  Lathrop breathed hard. His voice was incredulous. "Do you mean to tell me," he said, "that what I said—just joking— about poor old Hooper . . ."

  But the purser turned on him.

  "Hooper?" he repeated. "Who said anything about Hooper? Hooper's all right. It's that Frenchman, Captain Benoit. He was shot through the back of the head on B Deck three-quarters of an hour ago." Griswold's face grew suffused with dark blood. "If we'd known what he was talking about last night, we might have saved his life."

  12

  When Max and H.M. heard that shot, from their position by the rail on the starboard side, the time was just one minute to nine o'clock.

  H.M. owns a big gun-metal watch with luminous figures painted on the dial. In that epic darkness, Max saw the watch emerge from under jacket and raincoat, and turn over bodilessly in the air, like an effect of trick photography. As they both began to run towards the place where the shot had been fired, he saw the watch disappear again, presumably into a waistcoat pocket.

  "That means business, son," said H.M.'s voi
ce hoarsely. "For the love of Esau, watch your step. Watch your step!"

  Groping and poking ahead of him with his cane, Max slithered on his bad leg. Darkness was a wall which you might strike palpably with your face. He lost H.M., and failed to find him again. He could just distinguish the black solidity of the rail, and of the steel pillars supporting-the deck above, when they moved with the rolling of the ship.

  He was at a point, he judged, well towards the bows when a yellow light curled and flickered up ahead. It was only the light of a match, and yet it seemed to have the power of a dark lantern. It even seemed to defy the icy wind.

  "Douse that light!" shouted a voice.

  The voice bawled almost directly in Max's ear. He had not realized he was in the midst of a small crowd, until the bitter air was agitated by a dozen movements. Something hard, a shoulder or a hand, struck him hard under the left shoulder-blade, pitching him forward. His knees were stiff with cold, and the cane clattered out of his hand. He knew a second of panic as the rail rushed at him, tilting over deeply to show him the phosphorescent wash boiling below.

  Just ahead of him, somebody reached out of the darkness and struck at the hand that was holding the match. Its light went out. But not before Max, flung back from the rail again with the port-roll of the deck, had seen every detail of the scene picked out in shadow and gleam.

  The match was being held by George A. Hooper. He held it at about the level of his ear. His back was hunched and his shoulders, so that you could see the gray stubbly hair on the round scalp, and the shine of the rolling eyes. Standing a little way back from the rail, Hooper peered at it, and then down to the deck, as though he had seen a snake at his feet. The match went out.

  "Don't you know better than to show a light on deck?" demanded the voice of Mr. Cruikshank, the third officer. "Don't you know better than—"

  Hooper did not reply. He struck another match.

  "Sir, are you crazy? Give me those matches!"

  There was a scuffle. Either the wind blew the match out, or the third officer put it out. Hooper's protest rose plaintively. He did not seem alarmed: only absorbed and fascinated, with a rapidly mounting excitement.