Rub-A-Dub-Dub

by Robert L. Fish

  It had finally occurred to Mrs. Carpenter during all this conversation that not only had her memorizing and dramatics been in vain but that she had been made a fool of in the process. It was not a happy thought, especially for one of her explosive nature. She came to her feet and moved swiftly to the dresser, her wispy covering billowing in the breeze unnoticed. Pulling open a drawer, she fumbled in its interior a moment and came up with a small but efficient-looking nickel-plated revolver. Her hand held it steadily.

  “Okay, wise guy,” she said in a hard voice. “Fun’s fun, and you’ve had yours. This cannon isn’t loaded with blanks like the other one, and baby, you just better believe it!”

  Mr. Carruthers did believe it. The look in her eye did as much to convince him as the small copper-headed pinpoints of light reflected from the chambers on either side of the stubby barrel. He sank back into the easy chair in a watchful manner.

  “Mazie!” Mr. Max Carpenter had had about his fill of guns, loaded or not, for a long time to come. “Put that thing away! What do you think you’re doing?”

  Mrs. Carpenter’s jaw tightened ominously.

  “I’ve had about all I’m going to take from old Humpty-Dumpty here,” she said in a deadly tone. “Up to here! Either he lets go of a good chunk of our dough—at least fifty percent of what they rooked us out of—or I’ll make him the saddest character who ever tangled with Mazie Carpenter, and that’ll be a new record, believe me! Well, Fatso—which is it going to be?”

  “Madam,” said Mr. Carruthers with dignity—he did not feel that calling her Mazie would be appropriate at the moment—“I am, as you know, but one of three. For me to attempt such a portentous decision without consultation with my colleagues would scarcely be cricket. However, if you wish my hasty analysis of what the vote would be were the matter placed before a quorum of our triumvirate I’m afraid it would be strongly in the negative.”

  Mazie Carpenter turned to her husband suspiciously.

  “What’d he say?” she demanded.

  “He said no.”

  “Oh, he did, did he?” Mazie made up her mind. “Okay, Max, get on your bicycle. I’ll handle this myself.”

  “Now, look, Mazie—”

  Mrs. Carpenter swung about, a dangerous glint in her eye, “Now look what, Shorty? Are you going to give me a hard time, too? I said I’d handle it.”

  “No, no, sweets; it’s only that—”

  “Don’t worry,” she said demeaningly, in a tone that said she had read her husband’s mind and as a result didn’t credit him with any more brains than usual, “I’m not going to plug the fat little man. I’m only going to make him wish I had!”

  Mr. Carpenter had seen his wife in these vengeful moods before; as a matter of fact, he had seldom seen her in any other. Mostly, though, they were directed against him and not utter strangers. He had never been able to figure out exactly what inspired the perpetual bitterness on which she seemed to thrive and had long since come to the conclusion that in infancy she had been weaned on vinegar. However, as a dutiful spouse he felt he should at least read her the standard warning.

  “Mazie, you’re making a mistake—” The look she gave him withered the words on the vine: he shrugged dispiritedly. “Okay,” he said wearily. “I’ll be up in the bar.”

  “Drink something cheap,” she suggested curtly and waited until the door had closed behind her mate.

  Mr. Carruthers continued to watch the lady with mild curiosity. As long as he had the assurance that he was not going to be —as the lady put it—plugged, he saw little to lose in enjoying whatever scheme she seemed to have in mind. Mr. Carruthers had a theory that women, given a decent chance to foul up a detail, will do so in direct proportion to the opportunities presented. Had he been called upon to give his hypothesis a name, he undoubtedly would have called it Carruthers’ Law, with no attempt at false modesty. And he would have used both the ill-fated card game and the even more ill-fated chicken bladder swindle as solid evidence. What Billy-boy Carruthers had overlooked, however, was a postulate yet more ancient, which states that even a blind sow discovers an acorn now and then; and it was that acorn that Mrs. Mazie Carpenter now proceeded to unearth.

  With an enigmatic smile from which Medusa might have picked up a tip or two, she walked to the telephone. Raising it, she listened until she heard the operator’s voice on the line and then suddenly put back her head and screamed. Unlike her previous efforts which were purposely meant to keep the sound within the confines of the cabin, this scream seemed to be intent upon being heard as far away as the engine room. Mr. Carruthers, not having expected it, cringed from the onslaught upon his eardrums. The screech was repeated, even while Mrs. Carpenter ripped the hairpins from her hair, destroying the work of hours, and rubbed one hand vigorously about her face, smearing her ample makeup.

  “Rape! Rape!”

  She suddenly seemed to remember the pistol she was holding. With the situation well in hand she recognized it was no longer required and could even prove a handicap, since few women armed with pistols are—statistically—raped. She dropped the receiver with a bang on the tabletop, walked to the dresser, deposited the weapon in a drawer and closed it, not lowering her voice as she did so. She seemed to be two people. One systematically disheveled herself in almost organized fashion while the other furnished vocal accompaniment in the form of banshee shrieks that raised the hair on Mr. Carruthers’ head.

  “My God, somebody save me! Take your hands off, you beast! Please! Don't! Don't!”

  Never had the words of J. Hamilton Grumbach—or some imitator, were they not true Grumbach—seemed to Mr. Carruthers less comical. He had not bargained for an exhibition of this nature. To begin with, he considered it in the worst possible taste; and secondly the lady was giving him a severe headache with her racket. He came to his feet with as much dignity as the situation —and a low, overly soft easy chair—permitted, and moved to the door.

  “Madam—”

  Mrs. Carpenter was there before him. She reached behind him depressing the latch, effectively locking the door. Her faint smile indicated to him that she was actually enjoying herself.

  “Cheat me, will you, baggy pants?” she said under her voice and instantly raised the volume. “Take your hands off me, you animal! My God! What are you trying to do? Have you no shame?”

  “Madam—” Carruthers had to raise his voice to be heard; he knew his effort was wasted, but he still felt called upon to attempt it. “I’m afraid I must insist upon leaving. As for cheating you, that really isn’t fair. You and your husband were fully prepared to cheat us—as you have cheated everyone else you’ve played with aboard. If you’ll just calm down a bit—”

  “Stop it—oh, stop it! Let me go! Don’t—don't—”

  Even as Mrs. Carpenter flooded the air with noise, she reached out and efficiently and effectively ripped Mr. Carruthers’ braces free from his trousers. Since these had never been worn tightly— for Billy-boy Carruthers was a man who believed in freedom in all things—they instantly draped themselves about his ankles, revealing long gray underwear covering his shanks. Mr. Carruthers, shocked by this familiarity, reached down to pull them up; his posture allowed the lady to muss his hair and tug his necktie about, although these occupations did not at all seem to slow down the calliope sounds which continued to issue from her.

  “Rape! Help! Beast! Let go!”

  There was a loud pounding on the door and the sound of an authoritative voice.

  “Open up in there!”

  “Thank God!” murmured Mr. Carruthers and reached for the latch, one hand holding up his pants, but a whirlwind of pulchritude locked itself about him, carrying him backward. He back pedaled wildly, trying to keep his tangled trousers under control, eventually losing the battle and stumbling onto the bed. The continuing racket in his ear, he was certain, would surely result in permanent damage to the tympanum.

  The sounds at the door increased as willing and manly shoulders thumped against it. The
re was sudden crunching of steel and the door flew open, swinging wildly, just as the floor steward came hurrying up with the proper key. In the doorway stood the ship’s master-at-arms, accompanied by a husky sailor. Curious passengers peered into the room about the two official figures.

  Mrs. Carpenter had slid to the floor at the side of the bed, whimpering into her hands, her hair scattered about her like seaweed, her sheer dressing gown torn and revealing. Trying to struggle erect on the bed, Mr. Carruthers was still attempting to untangle yards of ecru trouser legs that inhibited his ankles.

  “Look at the old goat!” the master-at-arms said beneath his breath to the sailor at his side. “Didn’t even take the time to take off ’is jacket!”

  “Can’t say as ’ow I blames ’im,” said the sailor, sotto voce, and the two moved forward to take Mr. Carruthers into custody.

  6

  Captain Charles Everton Manley-Norville stared in frank astonishment at the short, portly, white-haired, angelic-looking man seated opposite him in his luxurious quarters adjacent to the bridge. Mr. Carruthers, quite comfortable, beamed back at him. The cohorts who had hustled him to this pleasant spot had been dismissed, albeit temporarily, and the two men were alone, basking—if that is the proper word—in the severe air-conditioning that kept the room a few degrees above freezing. Mr. Carruthers considered asking if his host’s hospitality extended to a brandy, or something equally warming, but decided that this was not the place and certainly not the time.

  “Now, Mr. Carruthers,” said the Captain in his deep, rumbling voice—and it was evident from his exaggerated patience that he was repeating himself, and not for the first time—“do you mean to sit there and say that you aren’t even going to deny that woman’s charges?”

  “And cast doubt upon a lady’s word?” Mr. Carruthers made it sound like the most shocking proposal he had heard in a life admittedly spent among people who specialized in shocking proposals. He shook his head, his small blue eyes scandalized. “That wouldn’t be very gentlemanly, now, would it?”

  “Damn it, Mr. Carruthers! I’m serious!”

  “So am I, Captain. So am I.”

  Captain Manley-Norville came to his feet and paced back and forth for several moments, coming at last to stand before his prisoner and glare down at him.

  “Certainly, Mr. Carruthers, you are not yet so sen—so out of touch—I mean, certainly you must be aware of the seriousness of Mrs. Carpenter’s charge?”

  “Oh, I’m quite aware,” Mr. Carruthers assured him. He frowned, thinking about it. His eyes came up at last. “Although I believe it isn’t nearly as bad as when I was a young man. In those days, if I’m not mistaken, it was a hanging affair.”

  Captain Manley-Norville restrained with effort from saying that killing the king’s deer was probably a hanging affair in the distant days when Mr. Carruthers was a young man. He stared at the seated man in cold silence awhile and then tried a different approach.

  “I was a witness to your card game with the Carpenters, Mr. Carruthers, and frankly, I’m surprised. Gentlemen of your reputation winning a sum of that nature! I must say as well that I’ve heard it was nearly impossible to win from the Carpenters, and I was on the verge of doing something about it when you won that huge sum.” The Captain reseated himself and drummed his thick fingers on the top of his desk while his steely gray eyes held Mr. Carruthers’ innocent blue ones. “Well?”

  “Well, what?” Mr. Carruthers asked politely.

  “I simply mean that in the circumstances it appears to me that if anyone had a reason to attack anyone else, I would have expected them to attack you or Mr. Simpson, and not the other way around.”

  Mr. Carruthers was forced to acknowledge the logic of this statement, and his thoughtful nod did it for him. However, he apparently did not feel called upon to comment verbally. Captain Manley-Norville waited a few more moments and then continued.

  “I don’t quite know what your game is, Mr. Carruthers—and please don’t be comical and say ‘bridge’—but believe me, I intend to discover it. I don’t care for mysteries on my ship. I’ve been master of the S.S. Sunderland since she was commissioned, and until you and your two friends came aboard, I’ve taken this ship on two hundred transatlantic crossings and over fifty cruise trips such as this without any untoward incident, and I don’t intend to see that record smirched at this date—”

  “I can appreciate your sentiments,” Mr. Carruthers conceded politely.

  Captain Manley-Norville disregarded the interruption. “—despite the fact that you seem intent upon doing so. Things are happening which I do not care to see happening on my ship. And you and your friends seem to be at the center of most of them. Well, Mr. Carruthers?”

  Mr. Carruthers looked pained, as if truly unhappy that he could not find an answer that would satisfy the friendly and cooperative captain.

  “Yes, Captain?”

  Captain Manley-Norville drummed his fingers some more.

  “Well,” he said at last, “as long as you insist upon maintaining silence in face of Mrs. Carpenter’s accusations against you, there is little I can do other than to keep you in confinement until we get to the bottom of the matter.” He hesitated once again, as if waiting to see if this threat might produce some results, but when silence prevailed he sighed mightily and pressed a button on his desk.

  “The fortunes of war,” said Mr. Carruthers philosophically, and then looked concerned for the first time during the interview. “By the way,” he said, “just how is the lady?”

  “The surgeon is treating her for shock,” said the Captain, his cold look of disdain clearly indicating his opinion of a man who could ask such a question in the circumstances.

  “Better tell the surgeon to also feed her some good throat lozenges,” Mr. Carruthers suggested in a kindly tone. “I’m sure the poor girl must need them badly.”

  The door opened, obviously in response to the Captain’s pressed button, and the master-at-arms, accompanied by the same husky sailor, stood in the opening. The two maintained the wary air of someone called upon to pick up Jack-the-Ripper. Mr. Carruthers, properly assuming his interview was being terminated, came to his feet and then made a sudden lunge to keep his trousers from falling.

  “I say, Captain—”

  “Yes, Mr. Carruthers?”

  “Would a needle and thread be permitted in the brig? The buttons for my braces are all gone in front, you see, and it’s a bit embarrassing having my trousers constantly falling about my ankles.” A sudden frightful thought came to the white-haired man. “I say, you wouldn’t be taking away my braces, would you?” He assayed a smile that was pitiful. “I promise not to hang myself with them, or anything like that.”

  Captain Manley-Norville considered the rotund figure before him as if a new and not particularly unpleasant thought had come to him. He turned to the master-at-arms, speaking authoritatively.

  “Give Mr. Carruthers needle and thread,” he ordered. His eyes came up to consider Mr. Carruthers almost challengingly. “And under no circumstances deprive him of either his braces, his cravat, his shoelaces, or anything else of that general nature . . .”

  “Rape!” Tim Briggs snorted. He was speaking through the bars of the small cell on E Deck where Mr. Carruthers was incarcerated. On one side a second cell of equal size and description existed, at the moment empty. On the other side of the cell the sound of the ship’s laundry equipment working away at stained napkins and dirty towels could be faintly heard through a wall. The ship’s screw seemed to be directly beneath their feet, throbbing rhythmically. Tim Briggs snorted again. “They have to be stark, raving mad! Loony as bus conductors! Rape! A man your age!”

  “I’m younger than you are,” Mr. Carruthers reminded him mildly. He was sitting on the small cot furnished by the management, straining backward a bit in order to sew on his brace buttons without removing his trousers. It made for a bit of contortionism.

  “But not forty years younger, which is roughly what
you’d have to be,” Briggs retorted. It was an exaggeration, of course, but exaggerations had never frightened Briggs. He turned to the tall, thin man beside him. “What do you think, Cliff?”

  Clifford Simpson was staring into the cell with his normal air of wonderment for all things in all places.

  “I say! They really do have brigs aboard ships to this day!” he said, sounding properly amazed. “They actually do! I thought they went out with windjammers and leg irons!” He peered into the cell closely, as if to make sure—had they leg irons, or a cat-o’-nine-tails, or other torture devices—that Mr. Carruthers was not hiding them just to protect his friends from worry.

  “Cliff!” Briggs was not interested in windjammers or leg irons. “We happen to be talking about this ridiculous charge against Billy-boy, here. Pay attention.”

  “Oh, I heard you. And I think forty years is putting it on a bit.”

  “Forget the forty years! What do you think of the chances of his really being held on such a silly charge?”

  “Oh, that!” Simpson dismissed the “that” with a disdainful wave of a bony hand. “Silliest thing I’ve heard of in ages. Once this Captain what’s-his-name gets a good look at Billy-boy, he’ll have him out of here in seconds.” He returned to his inspection of the cell. “I say, do you have rats?”

  “No rats,” said Mr. Carruthers. “And the Captain did get a good look at me. That’s why I’m in here.”

  Briggs frowned in disbelief.

  “And you mean he didn’t believe your denial? The man has to be an absolute clod! Can you imagine allowing an idiot of that magnitude to run a ship this size?”

  “Not even mice?” Simpson asked. He seemed to find it hard to believe.

  “Not even mice. As for Captain Manley-Norville,” Carruthers went on, “he isn’t a bad chap at all.” He finished with one button, checked to see that he had sufficient thread and immediately tackled another. “The thing is, you see, that I didn’t bother to deny the lady’s charges.”