Nine and Death Makes Ten

by Carter Dickson

  And he strode out, unbolting the doors and flinging them open ahead of him.

  Max left behind all paraphernalia. As he left the room, he had a swift vision of Valerie Chatford's head fallen forward across the table, buried in her arms. Commander Matthews was waiting for him in the far corner of the open space on C Deck, by the purser's closed office.

  "Well?" said Max. "What happened?"

  "Neatest trick I ever heard of," snapped Commander Matthews, almost with admiration. "False alarm, and—murder as quick as a wink."

  "They didn't manage to kill poor old H.M.?"

  "No. We can't tell how badly he's hurt. The doctor's with him now." Frank Matthews regarded his brother narrowly. "You look a bit green, my lad. I don't blame you." He laughed a little, unamused. "Never mind. We'll get through. Would you like a drink?"

  "Not now. What happened, exactly?"

  "God only knows. It was only by a miracle Griswold himself didn't get knocked off. We're all sleeping in our clothes. Griswold's cabin adjoins his office. When the alarm went, he got up, opened the safe, unlocked the cash-drawer, and 'phoned for his assistant to round up the money and papers while he—Griswold—went to give Cruikshank a hand with the passengers.

  "Cruikshank said he didn't need any help, and Griswold came back. He'd only been gone five minutes. But the damage was done. You can speak to Griswold yourself."

  Max tried to adjust his thoughts.

  Out of confusion emerged a clear and crooked track, which was the murderer's track. Max could see it wind now like the path of a snail.

  H.M. had spotted the game, whatever the game was. In some way its purpose, or its proof, was concerned with those little finger-print cards which the purser had locked away in the safe. H.M. wanted to get at those cards. So did the murderer. But Griswold would not even have shown them, much less have given them, to any unauthorized passenger; and burgling a ship's safe is not a very practical course for an amateur.

  The false alarm had served a double purpose. It had made the purser open his safe, which he would naturally do in the event of a submarine attack; and it had afforded a screen for the thief, so that in the blind preoccupation of every other person in the Edwardic he could take what he wanted. For a spur-of-the-moment plan, it had realistic genius. Max wondered savagely why he hadn't anticipated some such thing.

  Commander Matthews opened the door of the purser's office.

  "Come in," the purser said dully. "Take a look at the holocaust. Poor old Tyler!"

  The office was in confusion. The improvised cardboard files, in which the purser's assistant had stored the finger-print cards of officers and men, were scattered all over the floor. It seemed carpeted with black finger-prints on white cards, and spidery signatures. The drawers of the desk were pulled open. So was the cash-drawer. A light steel box containing money and papers, its lid up, stood on the desk. The safe was open.

  Griswold sat on a newly mended swivel-chair in the corner, his head in his hands.

  "Five minutes!" he growled. "Five minutes!" And he got to his feet as the captain entered.

  Max looked sideways out of the corner of his eye. Beyond a half open door he could see into the purser's cabin. A human body, covered by a counterpane, had been laid down on the bunk with its knees bent. The counterpane covered its head as well.

  Young Tyler had not bled much. There were very few stains in the office, except on the finger-print cards.

  But Max shut his eyes for a few seconds before he turned to the purser.

  "So," he said, "our murderer stole a march. He got into the safe and stole the finger-print cards."

  "No, he didn't," retorted the purser. "He never even touched the safe."

  "What?"

  "That's just it," insisted the purser, extending a pair of fervent hands as though he held something in them. "The old boy - Sir Henry ... how is he, sir?"

  "I don't know," said Commander Matthews. "You might hop down and see. Dr. Black is with him now."

  "The old boy," resumed Griswold, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead, "warned me somebody might try to crack that safe. I laughed at him. Nobody could crack the safe, if you see what I mean. I told him so when I talked to him tonight.

  "Cripes, I can see what happened as plain as day! The old boy suspected something fishy about that submarine-warning. He came chasing down here to make sure nothing was wrong. The murderer caught both him and Tyler; must have sneaked up on 'em, for they were both hit from behind. Then the murderer got what he wanted. But I'LL take my oath he didn't touch the safe. Look."

  He pulled the door of the safe further open. It had a number of compartments and pigeon-holes, some of the compartments equipped with tiny doors and locks. From his pocket the purser took out a bunch of keys at the end of a chain; his hairy hands shook so that he had difficulty in selecting a small key, with which he opened one of the compartments.

  "There you are," he explained. "Untouched. All the cards inside. Wrapped up in a handkerchief, just as I left 'em. The bloke seems to have gone through all the other cards, and not to have bothered with these."

  Max hesitated. "Maybe he couldn't get at 'em. You had the compartment locked."

  "Ah! But I didn't have it locked then. I only locked it up— later. After Tyler was killed. Locking the stable door: something like that. It wasn't locked at the time of the—the funny business. Oh, and another thing. He's pinched all the passports that hadn't been reclaimed by their owners. But if he was after them, why? Just what in blazes do you make of that?"

  Max whistled.

  "That's going to make it difficult for people when they land at the other side, isn't it?"

  "Damned difficult," conceded the purser. "That is, if any of us ever do get to the other side."

  "Mr. Griswold!" said Commander Matthews sharply.

  "Sorry, sir. I meant—"

  "Whose passports were taken?"

  "Mr. Lathrop's, Miss Chatford's, Captain Benoit's, and Mrs. Zia Bey's. It won't bother the last two, but it may be serious for the others. And to cap matters, the only person who had any idea about what's behind this—Sir Henry—is half dead on us. He had an idea. He told me so, though he wouldn't say what it was. And if he doesn't recover . . ."

  The purser's telephone buzzed.

  Max's wits felt drugged. As Griswold took up the phone, Max saw that the time was twenty-five minutes past four. Then both he and Commander Matthews leaped forward when they saw the expression on the purser's face. It was so quiet in the office that they could hear the voice of Dr. Black, the ship's surgeon, over the phone.

  "Dead?" squeaked the voice. "Of course he's not dead."

  "He'll recover?"

  "Certainly. There's no concussion. He'll have to lie up for a couple of days, and he'll have a headache that'll make him harder than ever to handle; but that's all."

  "When can we talk to him?"

  "Tomorrow or next day. Not earlier. Isn't that good enough for your'

  Griswold replaced the receiver. The breath of relief, and of hope taking on life again, was as palpable in the office as though a hag-ridden spell had left their minds.

  "Got him now!" snapped Commander Matthews, rubbing his hands together. "Look here, I've got to cut along. Mr.

  Griswold. Max. I leave you in charge. Question those people in there, if you like: I must go. It now seems only a matter of time. But carry on as before."

  Never had it seemed to take so long, after that, for the heavy night to grow into morning. More than once, while Griswold took one passenger after another into his office-all without result—for questioning, Max thought the clock had stopped. The thin hours wore away, water dropping on nerves. Yet Max's feeling of buoyancy and hope persisted. At twenty minutes past seven he and Griswold were startled by a wild yell from the direction of the dining-room.

  It was not until they arrived in the dining-room, plunging into the midst of an excited group still imprisoned there, that they realized it had been a cry of jubilation. One
of the portholes had been raised; the gray light of dawn streamed through it, touching faces grown pallid by artificial light. The other passengers were gathered round it. Grinning, the third officer beckoned Max to the porthole.

  The morning wind blew cold and drowsy on his eyelids as he peered out. Smoking with mist, the blue-black sea plunged and ran as the Edwardic dived in a long swell; spray stung Max's face. The horizon was being unveiled in gray. He saw the shapes along it. Small and purple at first, with smudges above them on the sky, they grew from dots into outlines. Max saw the single funnels coiling with black smoke, and the long low hull slipping beneath the line of the forward gun-turret. Stripped and lean, fast as terriers, the destroyers kept guard.

  Hooper took off his life-jacket, and dropped it on a chair. He clapped his hand on Max's shoulder.

  "We're through, lad," he said simply. "The navy's here."

  18

  "This here wallop over the onion," observed Sir Henry Merrivale, not without modest pride, "is a beauty. It'll probably spoil the contour of my Shakespearean skull for good. But I never had anything like it since I played rugger for Cambridge in l."

  He pulled the bed-clothes up round his chest, and settled back among pillows. He did not move his head unduly. Yet his expression—for H.M.—was almost affable.

  His companion stared at him.

  "Look here," Max said, uncomprehending. "Is anything wrong with you?"

  "Wrong? Sure there's something wrong! I'm an invalid, that's what I am. But I never was one to complain, was I?"

  "You're sure/' inquired Max, "it hasn't affected you permanently? I expected to find you raving and cursing the place down. What's the matter?"

  H.M. looked surprised.

  "Nothing's the matter. It's a scar of honor, son. The first I've had in the way of business for twenty-five years. Also, I got everybody aboard this ship jumpin' like a scorched cat at the least word I say. Ho! Chicken broth. Gobble gobble. Wines not served to passengers. Anything I want. Y'know, I bet you—" his expression grew thoughtful—"I bet you if I asked to have my picture taken, in brass buttons and a cap with gold braid, standin' on the bridge and giving orders to everybody, I bet you the skipper would let me do it. No, I'm all right. There's only one thing I can't stand. There it goes now."

  Who-o-o! went the blast of the ship's whistle, doing duty as a fog-horn. H.M. winced and put his hands to his head, glaring malignantly at the roof.

  Up here in his cabin on the boat-deck, the fog-horn had a deafening loudness. The Edwardic was creeping so slowly that you could hear the water wash as though in a gentle lake.

  Max attacked.

  "Listen, H.M. The others are coming up here to burst in on you in a minute. I thought I'd get in ahead of them. Do you know what day this is?"

  "Thursday, maybe?"

  "It's Friday afternoon. You've been out of action since the early hours of Thursday morning; the doctor wouldn't let us see you until today. People are now in a stew wondering when we're going to land, and where. Some say we're going to land tomorrow, though Sunday seems more likely to me."

  "I hear we got a convoy."

  "We're being escorted, anyhow. That's the point. The danger isn't over, but at least it's so much lessened that people are beginning to get pretty wild about something else. I mean this triple murderer who's making hay of the whole ship."

  "So?"

  "When we sighted those destroyers on Thursday morning, we were all pretty pally. Then we remembered, and we're half afraid to meet each other alone in a passage. You've got to do something about it. Do you remember what happened to you when we had the false alarm of a submarine attack?"

  H.M. settled back among the pillows and adjusted his spectacles. He twiddled his thumbs over his stomach. "Oh, yes, son. I remember."

  "Did you see who hit you? Or killed the pursers assistant?"

  "No."

  Max's spirits sank.

  "But if it's any consolation to you," added H.M. quietly, "I didn't need to see. I can tell you who committed the murders, and why, and how. I can tell you where the ghost's finger-print came from, and why it was put there, and what the game was." His expression grew still more somber. "You trust the old man, son. Let me play possum. I know what I'm doin'."

  Who-o-o! went the fog-horn overhead, and H.M. winced again.

  "One person's responsible for all this?"

  "One person, and one only."

  "Anyway, what happened on the night, or morning, the purser's office was robbed? Will you tell me that?"

  H.M. sniffed. "I daresay you can guess for yourself. I warned Griswold (burn me, how I warned him!) someone might try to do it. I wanted him to get the finger-print cards for me in the evening. But, oh, no. He was busy. Tomorrow would do just as well. There nearly wasn't any tomorrow. When I heard that alarm-signal go, I thought it might be a have. I went scrabbling down to the purser's office. There was the young lad—decent feller, too—at the safe. We had our backs to the door. The next tiling I knew, the ceiling fell on me. The last thing I remember, all in a kind of fire-cloud, is the look on young Tyler's face when he turned round and saw who was standing behind me."'

  H.M.'s big jaw tightened. Settling back still further, he pulled the bed-clothes round him.

  "I hadn't seen the murderer's face," he explained, "but young Tyler had. So he had to be disposed of. It was a messy job. The murderer hadn't much time."

  "But hang it all, what did the murderer want there? He wasn't after any of the passengers' finger-print cards!"

  "Wasn't he?"

  "No. He didn't even touch 'em."

  Again the whistle roared, shaking the air with physical pressure against the ear-drums. The blacked-out porthole of H.M.'s cabin stood partly open. Wisps of white mist, as clammy as damp wool, drifted through the crack and faded away like the smoke of breath on cold air.

  A dim light burned at the head of H.M.'s berth, shaded by a heavy berth-curtain. He motioned Max to close the porthole, and exposed the light fully.

  "Y'see," he went on apologetically, "I haven't been quite frank with you. You're not the first visitor I've seen. The captain's been here. And the purser. From the captain I got this." Reaching across to the bedside table, H.M. opened the drawer and took out a .45 caliber service revolver, which he laid in his lap. "From the purser, I finally snaffled these." This time he held up the passengers' finger-print cards, which he spread out fan-wise. "I have an idea I'm goin' to need both before I'm many hours older."

  Max studied the revolver. Uneasiness crawled into the cabin as clearly to be felt as the touch of mist

  "What are you going to do, exactly?"

  "As soon as the captain can get time off," answered H.M., consulting his watch, "he'll be coming round here. I'm going to explain to him what the game was, and how it was worked. Then there are two courses for him. He can either nail the murderer straight away, as he'll probably do. Or else—but that's an idea of mine. In either case, I warn you we've got the swine taped. There's hangin' evidence, son. He must be pretty blind and desperate by this time."

  Who-o-ol went the fog-horn, its noise first blasting the mist and then strangled by it as the echoes trembled away.

  "Now hop it," said H.M. mildly. "And lemme stuff cotton-wool in my ears and keep the top of my head from commin' off."

  "But—"

  "I said hop it. Your brother'll tip you off when he's coming."

  Max shrugged his shoulders and gave in. The last thing he saw, as he went out into the narrow passage running broadside across the boat-deck, was H.M. settling down with ferocious sternness to read a comic-paper. He closed the cabin door. Then he pushed open the outer door down the passage, and breathed fog.

  It moved and curled like smoke. It first tickled and then stung the nostrils; you drew it into your lungs, and coughed; you brushed it from your face, and left a sooty dampness there. Though objects were invisible at fifteen or twenty feet, an outline of them would drift out or retreat into obscurity as the mist moved
. Max groped aft from the forward part of the deck (which passengers were forbidden to visit), passed a little iron gate, and emerged into free territory.

  Despite the fog, there had been a different feel about the air all day. They were coming home. You could almost smell land. Their whereabouts nobody knew except the officers, who did not tell. For the past two days Max had been talking with Valerie Chatford, and playing table-tennis with Valerie Chatford, and swimming in the ship's pool with Valerie Chatford, and racking his brains about Valerie Chatford . . .

  Bump.

  He stopped short.

  He heard the noise, muffled by fog, from somewhere ahead. Quivering, the blast of the whistle drowned it out, but when that explosion died away, he heard it again. Bump. A sound like leather against wood, with savagery behind it.

  Some distance ahead of him, forward of the open space for deck-tennis, a door led you into a small gymnasium. Nobody had used it so far. On the open deck outside the door —mist blotted out everything now—was a small cage for practicing golf-strokes, and a punching-bag hanging from its wooden roof. Somebody seemed to be standing in semi-darkness and, at intervals, letting drive a fist at the punching-bag. And Max sensed, in someone's heart, a fury of terror and despair wordlessly expressing itself.

  Bump.

  "Hello!" he called. There was a final thud of the bag against the wooden roof. You could almost feel the anger of it. A door closed. When Max reached the entrance to the gymnasium, the punching-bag was still swinging, but the other person had gone.

  That was the atmosphere now engendered in the Edwardic. When he went downstairs, he found Valerie crying in a corner of the Long Gallery. She would not speak to him, and went off to her cabin. Something like a row took place between Lathrop and Hooper. Challenged to a game of darts, Lathrop refused; darts, he said, could turn into murderous weapons If used properly. Max tried to read, bracing himself for each roar of the fog-horn as evening drew on. At half-past six, sooner than he expected, the purser accosted him in the lounge.