The Pleasure Cruise Mystery

by Robin Forsythe

  “Ricky, you almost persuade me to be a Christian.”

  “Thanks for the interruption; I was out of breath. Now I’ve got my second wind I’ll be serious. Your concentration and bad luck in the Armadale murder took it out of you. Inspector Heather won in a common canter while you were nibbling grass somewhere near the starting post. Your one-man-show of pictures that followed demoralised you. You must get back to mere living. It’s terribly difficult but not impossible. I’m suggesting to you the easiest and quickest way back—a cruise on the ‘Mars’ with me as your inseparable companion. You’ll be immersed in the joyous inanities of a charming social life, while around you, just to remind you of reality, will be the terrible beauty of the sea, vast, restless, indifferent, but profoundly disturbing at times. Every now and then you’ll experience an inexpressible thrill when her cruel grandeur pokes a mischievous finger into the cosy mental tent of your self-satisfaction. Momentarily she will take you by the collar of your dress shirt and haul you roughly into the presence of the Unintelligible Infinite—nearly as disrupting as being hauled before your C.O. for appearing dirty on parade. I’ve done my rhetorical damnedest—are you coming on this bally cruise or not?”

  “You’re going, of course?”

  “Indubitably. I’m writing up a little brochure for the Green Star Company to cover the cost of my fare. You can lend me the rest. It’s a bit of a literary descent from the Cost of Loving, but I must stoop to conquer the present adverse state of my financial world. Like my namesake I’m an economist!”

  “I’ve half a mind to accompany you, Ricky.”

  “You never had more than half a mind in any case, so the matter’s settled, Algernon. Now what about a soupçon of lunch? Your sherry’s a great appetiser. You’ll have to order some more shortly.”

  “Your presence in my flat’s a constant reminder, Ricky. Shall we go round to our old friend Jacques?”

  “Anywhere for lunch, my dear Apelles, except a modern drapery store. Being persons of refinement and culture about to enter the charming social life of the ‘Mars’ on a footing of equality, we must adhere strictly to our social code. No civilised being could sip a choice wine with brassières at four eleven three in the offing. It simply isn’t done.”

  “When does this pleasure cruise start, Ricky?”

  “The ‘Mars’ leaves the Thames on Monday, March the 26th, a week hence. Lean on me. I know young Wheble up at the Green Star’s offices. His guv’nor is one of the directors. He’ll wangle us the nicest berths and get us a seat at the captain’s table. I’ve met the latter—I mean the captain, not his table—before. Bluff old mariner who keeps up the proud traditions of the British Mercantile Marine and all that sort of bravura, so we’ll have our knobs well in as they used to say in the Army when I was a corporal in the H.A.C. without ‘a marshal’s baton in my kit-bag!”

  “But, Ricky, what’s this going to cost us?”

  “Cost us? Cost you, you mean. We can compute that better on our return, Algernon. When you, I mean we, were busy unravelling the Bygrave case, you promised to take me afterwards to Provence. Fond of romaunts, I was eager to join you as a troubadour, but you dashed off in the scented wake of that provoking jade, Ida Wister, and left me in the lurch, alone in London. I always thought you were a man of principle...”

  “The man who acts on principle instead of being guided by intelligence is a fool, Ricky.”

  “Then I was right, Algernon. On principle you’re going to redeem your debt to me. After lunch I’ll run up to the Green Star’s offices and put the matter on an irrevocable footing. Before lunch what about another spot of your old golden Sherry?”

  “Not for me, thanks, Ricky.”

  “Being guided by intelligence, I’ll wait till we reach Jacques’; your bottle’s empty. Shake yourself and we’ll beat it, Algernon. I’m famished. There’s no time to lose. Some time this afternoon I must root out Aubrey Winter. He’ll be able to lend me deck shoes, a tropical kit and a decent dinner jacket—in fact he’ll think it almost an honour.”

  “Aubrey’s a charming fool,” replied Vereker quietly.

  Chapter Two

  The luxury liner “Mars” lay with her bow up-river and her stern to the incoming tide. Punctually at twelve o’clock the ship’s siren blew a warning blast for departure; friends of those about to start on the well-advertised cruise hurried down the gangway and waved spasmodic farewells from the quay to the ranks of happy, excited travellers lined along the taffrails of the upper decks of the ship. Two fussy tugs tackled the monster, pulling her stern towards mid-river and swinging her nose round to the wharf. In a few minutes, with almost off-hand efficiency, the “Mars” was under way, breasting a light wind and the lazily rolling river. Gradually she drew into the widening estuary of the Thames, and the receding banks became flat bluish-grey stretches dotted with clumps of elms and touched here and there with the lighter coloured splashes of farms and dwellings. Anthony Vereker and Manuel Ricardo stood leaning over the rails of the upper promenade deck, gazing at a determined tug plugging up-river with oil barges in her wake, her black and scarlet prow nosing into a bouquet of snowy spume.

  “It’s the first time I’ve realised the truth and beauty of Walcot’s Thames etchings, Ricky,” said Vereker.

  “Hang Walcot’s etchings, Algernon! Have you noticed the high standard of good looks aboard? Hollywood afloat but not on its own conceit. There’s one dark-looking Argentine maid with eyes, large, Latin, lustrous. I’d like her for keeps. I scent romance, Algernon.”

  “Ricky, my boy, when will you learn that a woman is seldom romantic. She hasn’t time for imagination; she’s always too busy trying to make a man practical. You’ll be horribly disappointed. By the way, did you see her mother?”

  “Oh, yes, the old wisp with onyx eyes and saffron skin. Looks like a compendium of all the vices bound in crepe rubber. I shall have to snooker her. What do you think of our cabins?”

  “I’m glad you got them on this top deck. We’re not quite in the thick of the refinement and culture. If we run into rough weather I dare say we’ll get too much motion.”

  “They’re O.K. even in rough weather. I never mind being rocked in a Ritz of the deep, but I bar cradles. Have you seen your next-door neighbour?”

  “Just a glimpse. She was going to emerge from her cabin as I was entering mine, but on seeing me changed her mind and quickly closed her door. Her action rather puzzled me.”

  “Easily explained, Algernon; her complexion was temporarily dismantled. If you’re searching for mysteries you needn’t look further than a woman’s nose. Was she pretty?”

  “I saw her for an instant only.”

  “Beauty is always instantaneous: character requires a time exposure.”

  “You mean a bad character,” corrected Vereker with a slight twitch at the corners of his mouth.

  “Bien touchế, Algernon; almost up to my standard of brilliant flippancy.”

  “I suppose flippancy’s the name you give to other people’s wit, Ricky?”

  “Only when I’m reviewing a smart book. Wholesome deflation so to speak. But to return to the lady, was she dark or fair?”

  “Fair and English I should say.”

  “But her name’s Mesado.”

  “How on earth did you discover that?”

  “Natural inquisitiveness; my birthright as a journalist. I read the label on a monstrous cabin trunk that was left for a few moments in the corridor outside her state room.”

  “’Pon my soul, Ricky, what will you poke your nose into next?”

  “Anything but a bad smell, Algernon. What makes you think she’s English?”

  “She wears brogues, a signet ring on her left hand, smokes Players and says ‘damn’ deliciously.”

  “Did she damn you when she was about to come out of her cabin?”

  “I flattered myself that she was impersonal; she was cursing circumstance.”

  “She probably thought you weren’t worth a damn or looked su
spiciously like circumstance. You seem to have gathered a lot of information in a ‘palpebral flicker’ as we used to say when we were young enough to think it funny.”

  “Observation’s one of my confirmed habits, as you know. I caught a glimpse of a beautiful left hand holding a fifty box of Players fags, a neat left foot, the line of hip and thigh encased in check tweed, but her face disappeared behind the door before I saw more than a flash of nicely waved fair hair. As I said before, her action puzzled me; it was so unnecessary. I wasn’t unduly inquisitive.”

  “A grave fault in your attitude to a pretty woman, Algernon. She’s out to rouse your curiosity, of course.”

  “Then why did she mutter a faint damn? It was a clear indication of annoyance.”

  “Simulated hostility is the oldest gambit in the game of intrigue. Immediately a woman begins to make you think you’re a nuisance she has definitely removed your apathy. You’ve acquired momentum. You will either run away from her or bally well run after her. If she’s beautiful the deduction’s obvious. Even if you run away she prefers that to your being static. You’ve proved to her that she’s significant. There’s nothing the feminine gender hates more than to be thought neuter.”

  “You’d be the last person to give her the opportunity, Ricky. The petticoat’s an obsession with you.”

  “Most emphatically. I give it its correct status in a world of misplaced values. The only people who think that there’s anything more important than woman are either scientists or lunatics, and it’s damned hard to differentiate between them. Do you think that this lady who has already roused your interest is married?”

  “Yes, I saw her left hand.”

  “A wedding ring’s not unimpeachable evidence; nowadays it frequently extends rather than circumscribes freedom.”

  “She may be a widow. She’s travelling alone. I saw her talking to the married couple in the next cabin. The Colvins are friends or relatives. Mrs. Colvin’s her sister, I should say; they’re very much alike.”

  “So Colvin’s their name. More natural curiosity on your part, Ricky?”

  “Yes. I looked at the label on an exactly similar trunk to Mrs. Mesado’s that was finally dumped in their cabin.”

  “You’re devilishly interested in your fellow passengers.”

  “I see no other way of entering into the charming social life of the ‘Mars.’ We must all get matey. Lands of sunshine, mystery and romance are only verbal flummery in connection with a pleasure cruise.”

  “You’ve seen Mrs. Mesado at close quarters?”

  “I saw her back view when she was chatting with the Colvins in their cabin. She and Mrs. Colvin have the same proud carriage of the head and there’s a marked similarity in their fuselage. Of course they’re not to be compared with my Argentine maid.”

  “You always preferred the Latin type.”

  “Always; the Nordic’s a calculating barbarian.”

  “What’s the male Colvin like?”

  “Short stature, ginger hair, rufous eyed, rubicund. Looks as if he had been suckled on beer but will now drink anything from Schnapps to Tarragona. I passed the time of day with him, and he has a forced heartiness that’s almost ecclesiastical. He’s a lanigerous gent—the kind that wears Harris tweeds, a woolly jumper and superabundant stockings, May be a good fellow, but his chin’s in the wrong quarter and his mouth’s a bit medusal. I like his wife better.”

  “She’s fair like her sister?”

  “I don’t know about her sister, but Mrs. Colvin’s almost platinum. Soft-eyed and sweet-mouthed, self-sacrifice will be a pleasure rather than a virtue with her. I should say Colvin trades on her complacency. Ah, there’s the bugle for lunch! Come on, Algernon, I yearn for a little nutriment.”

  Algernon Vereker took a last glance at the beautiful wide sweep of the grey estuary, every detail softened by an exquisite silvery haze, and accompanied Ricardo down the companion to the dining saloon.

  After lunch, which Ricardo asserted was the best he had eaten since he was paid for his last serial six months previously, the two men wandered up to the lounge where coffee was served. After coffee Vereker became absorbed in Miss Sackville-West’s Edwardians, which he had borrowed from the library.

  “This was worth the two bob deposit, Ricky,” he remarked at length to his companion, who had sunk into the depths of an armchair beside him. A faint snore was Ricardo’s only reply, and noticing that he was fast asleep Vereker rose and wandered out on to the main promenade deck. On the north side of the river the “Mars” was passing a gigantic oil station with its gleaming silver tanks, and some time afterwards a bluish-grey mist swallowed up the coastline and all around seemed limitless ocean. Accustomed to a considerable amount of exercise, Vereker joined in the usual steady pacing round the promenade deck. He noticed the dark, beautiful Argentine of Ricardo’s fancy and her mother, a shrivelled, desiccated edition of the daughter. They were lounging in deck chairs, wrapped in rugs and in earnest conversation with a swarthy fellow countryman who gave Vereker an impression of being all eyes, a mobile moustache and a large diamond ring. Later he passed on his round a man and woman whom he at once recognised from Ricardo’s description as Mr. and Mrs. Colvin. They were walking arm in arm, and Colvin’s red face seemed unduly serious and preoccupied. They were conversing in undertones, and from the expression on Mrs. Colvin’s soft features the subject was evidently distasteful to her. From the passengers Vereker’s thoughts reverted to his own personal affairs. He was engrossed in them when his attention was attracted by a spasmodic hooting on the starboard. It was the warning siren of the Girdler Light. He ceased walking and leaned over the rails, gazing at the ship with idle curiosity, when he was joined by Ricardo.

  “Damned thing woke me up,” said Manuel. “Sounds like a cow with milk fever. I was dreaming I was back at Chalk Farm, where my landlady used to keen periodically for her sons lost in the Irish rebellion. What’s the book?”

  “The Edwardians. Have you read it?”

  “Yes. Jolly good, but I’m now wandering wearily through the Crystal Palace of fiction built by John Galsworthy. To change the subject, it’s time for tea in the garden lounge and I’m going to get busy with my future playmates.”

  “I’m going to dump this book in my cabin, Ricky, and will join you in the lounge for tea,” said Vereker and, leaving his friend, lightly ascended the companion to the upper promenade deck. As he passed along the alleyway to his cabin, No. 88, a woman swiftly emerged from No. 90 and hurried into No. 89. She was still dressed in her shepherd’s tartan tweed suit, and one glance at her figure informed Vereker that she was Mrs. Mesado. She seemed eager to avoid meeting a fellow passenger and disappeared without giving him an opportunity for close observation. On returning to the garden lounge he found Ricardo sitting at the same table as the Argentine lady and her mother, talking volubly over tea to the daughter, who, evidently amused by his light chatter, took every opportunity of displaying a dazzlingly beautiful mouthful of teeth. Vereker chose a seat in a secluded corner of the lounge and was joined at his table by a Scotsman called Ferguson, whose conversation was a questionnaire as to his views on the modern conception of God. Tiring at length of this examination, Vereker lit a cigarette, excused himself and sauntered out on to the deck once more. He felt idle and a trifle bored and began to wonder why he had allowed Ricardo to persuade him into entering on this adventure. Of course the lands of “mystery, sunshine and romance” were ahead, but at the moment they appeared insufferably remote. He glanced at his watch. It was half-past five. Suddenly a commotion among the travellers attracted his attention. He joined the eagerly chattering throng to discover that Gris Nez had suddenly thrust its impressive mass through the haze. Later in the evening a blast from the “Mars’s” siren called attention to the approach of a pilot boat from Boulogne. The white, red and green stars of her lights were reflected in twisted beauty on the sombre ripple of the sea. The simplicity of the dark outline of the boat and the brilliance of the colours awake
ned his artistic appreciation.

  “Nice little subject for a decorative poster,” he thought.

  The pilot boat sheered off and the lights of Boulogne swam into view, a diadem of ruby, gold and emerald on the swiftly darkening sky. Away on the port side the lighthouse on Gris Nez exploded intermittently with dazzling radiance. At length Vereker went below to dress, and as he passed Mrs. Mesado’s cabin door, which was partly open, he caught a glimpse of her putting the final touches to her toilet assisted by her maid. She was wearing a pale blue georgette evening gown, and beneath her neatly trimmed hair there glittered on the white nape of her neck the emerald butterfly clasp of a fine necklace of diamonds. She had evidently dressed for dinner. While he was tying a black evening tie Ricardo, who had already changed, sauntered into his cabin smoking a cigarette with lazy self-satisfaction.

  “How do I look in borrowed plumes, Algernon? Aubrey’s guzzle garments fit me to a nicety. He was out when I called at his flat in Clarges Street. I persuaded his valet that I had Aubrey’s authority to take them. Wrote him a letter of condolence immediately I got on board. They’re really too good to return, and in any case Aubrey can afford another suit. Also tried on his deck shoes, but they were miles too big. Aubrey would be a tall man if he hadn’t so much turned up to make feet. He’s a bit lacking upstairs; balance of Nature I suppose. I had to hump round to Buhl’s in the Arcade and make a costly investment which depleted me considerably.”

  “I see you’ve already made the acquaintance of the dark lady?”

  “Bit of luck, wasn’t it? Got off the mark as if I were being chased by a man with a writ. She’s a Miss Penteado. Saw her and her mother having tea together and pounced on the psychological moment, whatever that may mean. Some fool with a preposterous diamond ring tried to intermeddle, but I outflanked him and put him in a conversational barbed wire enclosure with the mother. He finally wriggled free looking a beaten man, and afterwards I met him at the bar standing our neighbour Colvin innumerable cocktails. Managed to bullock in discreetly and get treated. Thinking it was safe I generously offered a return. It was an error of judgment. I hadn’t reckoned on Colvin. Dias, the chappie crouching behind the diamond, refused. Colvin said he never drank more than one cocktail but graciously expressed a desire for a large whisky and soda. He remarked that he was feeling cold. I succumbed gallantly but wished him in a very warm place. From their conversation when I came over the horizon I should say they weren’t strangers to one another. I don’t like the look of Dias; he’s an untidy bit of sculpture.”