She pulled the drapes back in place and, from force of habit, smoothed the already wrinkle-free bedspread. The next task, also done from habit, was to check the bathroom for towel requirements. The light switch was on the outside; she flicked it on and pushed the door open, glancing at the towel rack. The full complement of drying equipment was present. The last possible lack was, of course, washcloths, and to investigate the status of these, she drew the shower curtain. And then she screamed and screamed and screamed and screamed and screamed.
Mrs. Carpenter—or rather, her nude body—was lying in a twisted position on the cold tile floor of the shower stall. She seemed to be wearing a bandeau of red about her ample bosom, but on closer inspection, Mrs. Watkins saw that it was merely the flow of blood from the many stab wounds in her chest. . . .
8
Sir Percival Pugh, relaxing with a book on legalistic maneuvers, was really not greatly astonished to find his solitude interrupted by a hesitant, almost diffident, rap upon his stateroom door. Nor, upon answering, was he particularly amazed to find himself facing Mr. Clifford Simpson. Word of disaster spreads quickly in any medium, and in the rarefied and totally encompassing atmosphere provided by a ship in transit, it speeds about even more quickly. It is extremely doubtful, at that moment, if anyone aboard the S.S. Sunderland was not aware that within relatively few minutes after Mrs. Penelope Watkins’ hysterical shrieks had brought the master-at-arms on the run, Mr. Timothy Briggs was occupying the cell next to his friend, Mr. Carruthers, while the master-at-arms was seriously considering asking for a well-merited raise in pay.
One reason for Mr. Briggs’ almost instant seizure was that, unfortunately, there was a relative dearth of tiny, wrinkled old men aboard; for another his stateroom—when the master-at-arms, now accompanied by the Captain, opened the door—stank to the gunwales with Mrs. Carpenter’s particular and peculiar scent of perfume. Nor did it take Rembrandt’s talent with color to note the similarity in shade between the orange-red on his discarded shirt collar and the contents of the brass tube in Stateroom B-67. Plus (although this was later, after Timothy Briggs had been properly fettered and led away) the master-at-arms, an amateur detective at heart with the full paraphernalia of his hobby, had unearthed loads of Mr. Briggs’ fingerprints all over the Carpenter cabin.
It didn’t look good for the home team, and Clifford Simpson, not the brightest of the triumvirate under normal circumstances, was still sharp enough to know that now, indeed, the services of Sir Percival Pugh were in demand. True, knowing Pugh, he recognized the chances were good that their savings were about to go down the drain, but he couldn’t see anything else for it. Billy-boy Carruthers up for attempted rape and Timmy Briggs in quod for a crime demanding the high step: it certainly didn’t seem like the time to economize on defense.
Sir Percival laid aside his book and stepped back to allow his gangling visitor to enter. The deservedly famous barrister was a handsome, rather well-set-up gentleman in his middle forties, slightly over middle-size in height, with an extremely sharp—if slightly cold—pair of dark blue eyes, fair hair combed a trifle long, and just the faintest bulge to his broad brow to indicate the gigantic brain behind it. Once Simpson had wandered in disconsolately and found a chair, Sir Percival closed the door and seated himself comfortably across from his visitor. For several moments silence prevailed, until, in fact, Sir Percival cleared his throat in a gentle reminder that they were not, after all, in the cinema or the reading room where noise was not encouraged.
“Yes, Clifford?”
Simpson looked up unhappily. Sir Percival looked much the same as he had during the trial when he had successfully defended Simpson on a murder charge: polite, patient, and calm. It was not surprising, since it was only a matter of months since Simpson’s trial, but to the thin, tall man, it seemed like years. Trouble, he seemed to feel, could scarcely be accumulated in such quantities in so short a period. He sighed; it seemed to come from the bottom of his feet, gaining strength on its long journey to his throat.
“They didn’t do it, either one, you know,” he said with a touch of desperation in his voice.
“I’m quite sure they didn’t,” said Sir Percival. His voice remained calm, but there was a touch of sadness in it, too. He was positive his assistance was about to be requested, and since the two old gentlemen were, in his honest opinion, completely innocent, it put the famous advocate in a rather embarrassing position. Freeing the guilty was the basis upon which he had built his tremendous reputation; freeing the innocent, he had always felt, was a little like cheating. Besides, other barristers could usually free the innocent—and on occasion did—which put a severe limitation on the fees which could be charged. The guilty were always more willing to stand for a raid upon the treasury.
“Still,” the famous barrister added, studying Simpson evenly, “it does seem that if your smallish friend Briggs had gone out of his way to establish a perfect picture of guilt, he could scarcely have done it better And Mr. Carruthers, apparently, has not let age bring him wisdom. I doubt if he fully appreciates the seriousness of his position.”
Simpson merely nodded miserably and waited, his large eyes fixed owlishly upon the other’s face.
Sir Percival sighed. “Ah, well, I suppose we’ll have to get the two of them off,” he said a trifle unhappily. “Can’t very well let them garner the punishment they so richly deserve. . . .”
Simpson’s eyes widened in sudden panic. He sat more erect.
“But I thought you said you were sure they were innocent?”
Sir Percival sighed once again. While not the equal of Simpson’s previous sigh, it was ample to indicate his reaction to being misunderstood. Sir Percival hated to be misunderstood— unless, of course, he was in court where being misunderstood usually played a major part in his strategy.
“When I refer to the punishment they deserve,” he said quietly, “I mean this: Mr. Carruthers, for his ridiculous exhibition of misdirected self-esteem, particularly at his age, should be made to go to bed without his supper for at least a week. It also would do his figure no harm,” he added absently.
“And Briggs?”
“Well, Briggs, quite obviously, was attempting to help Carruthers. Undoubtedly with your connivance. He managed entrance to the Carpenters’ cabin and obviously intended to make it appear that Mrs. Carpenter was not a monogamist in the presentation of her favors. He went in, smeared lipstick all over himself, if shipboard rumor is correct, practically drowned himself in perfume, made an unnecessarily dramatic exit—and forgot to check the bathroom while he was inside the stateroom. When I was at law school, errors of this type were considered Mopery with Intent to Gawk, and the punishment was usually ten of the best applied with a cricket paddle by the strongest member of the class—assuming, of course, that he was not the guilty party. Such punishment, I’m afraid, can’t be applied to Briggs—although it might knock some sense into him—but it would be quite proper to let him stew in his cell for the balance of the trip.” His eyes came up. “Unfortunately, Captain Manley-Norville is an old friend of mine, and I cannot permit him to open himself up to a charge of false incarceration. Which, I might state, is lucky for Briggs.”
“Yes,” Simpson said, who hadn’t heard a half of the diatribe, his mind being on more pressing problems. “And to get them off—your fee?”
For a moment the thought of the twenty thousand pounds the three old men had received from the Jarvis-Greater-Love-Hath-No-Man-Society award crossed Sir Percival’s mind, and he recalled quite clearly his feelings on seeing the three the first day aboard. Reluctantly, however, he thrust the thought from him. To begin with, the unfortunate fact was he was sure they were innocent, which changed the picture completely. And secondly, they were in possession of something he wanted at the moment even more than money.
“Tell me,” he said in his usual easy, relaxed manner—a manner known to have drawn some really remarkable confessions from some completely innocent people—“just how did
you clever fellows ever manage to cheat those really quite expert card fiddlers at bridge the other day?”
For a moment Simpson failed to comprehend the sudden change in subject matter.
“Burmese solitaire,” he began, and then suddenly got an unaccustomed rush of intelligence to the head. Sir Percival was a well-known bridge player at several of the more exclusive clubs. He was also known to wager large sums on the outcome. Simpson could not help but feel there might well be a connection. He leaned back, attempting to emulate Billy-boy Carruthers when he was being astute. “As I was saying,” he repeated, tenting his fingers, “through an understanding of Burmese solitaire.”
“Oh, ah?” Sir Percival recognized the evasion for what it was, but getting around evasions was his stock in trade. “And just what—if one might ask—is Burmese solitaire? Not to mention its connection, if any, with my question?”
Simpson was sure he was on the right track. He pictured Billy-boy sitting in his chair and answered accordingly.
“Burmese solitaire,” he said in a voice that exuded sincerity, “is a game of tremendous complexity which can be learned in days or minutes, depending upon the time one has to devote to it. If the lessons gained from its knowledge are properly practiced, it enables the acolyte to win from the expert—cardsharper or not—in a great variety of games. Including, of course, bridge.”
Sir Percival smiled, enjoying himself. “And just how does one go about learning to play this remarkable game? Not, I hope, by going to Burma?”
“Well,” Simpson said sadly, searching his pocket for a cigar and then holding it in his fingers thoughtfully, “your question poses somewhat of a problem. You see, we are seriously thinking of putting our years of research on the subject into book form. We feel that while we can no longer write the tripe the public demands today, they will flock to buy a book on Burmese solitaire. Lines will form before shops; the police will have to be called to maintain order. That sort of thing. And, say, at five or six shillings’ royalty per copy, it might well come to decent money. . . .” He was sure Billy-boy would have been proud of him. “So you can understand. . . .”
He brought a match from his pocket, scratched it into flame, applied it to his Corona and peered in friendly fashion through the smoke at Sir Percival, even as he shook the match out.
“Of course I understand,” Sir Percival said, his eyes twinkling. “I also understand your fear of my fee. Let me clear away some brush: if you tell me the secret of this remarkable game, I shall see that your friends go free without any fee whatsoever. Is it agreed?”
Simpson choked over his cigar. While he had fully expected, and was prepared to accept, a reduction in the fee for information given, he had never expected the fee to be eliminated altogether. He managed to control his coughing, putting his cigar aside a moment to concentrate on the face waiting politely for his answer.'
“You’re serious? I have your word?”
“You have my word.”
Simpson nodded, content. Sir Percival’s word was his bond.
“Well, then,” he said, leaning back, “Burmese solitaire is a game that requires the temporary possession of all the cards on board a ship—or a train, or on the premises of a club, as the case may be. Plus, of course, a soft pencil. . . .”
Sir Percival stared at him a moment and then burst into loud laughter.
“My first thought, obviously, was that you had introduced a marked deck into the game,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “I’m sure the Carpenters also thought so. However, the constant switching of decks—not at your behest, but at his—seemed to negate this possibility. How in the devil did you ever get hold of all the cards aboard ship?”
Simpson told him. Sir Percival grinned.
“And where and how are they marked?”
Simpson told him this as well. “So, you see, if the fourth porthole in the second row is shaded, you have—”
“The jack of hearts.”
“Exactly!” Simpson beamed at the barrister, as if pleased with his ready intelligence in matters unrelated to the law.
“But, fifty decks! You must have had a busy night.”
“Fifty-one decks,” Simpson amended, and smiled. “It really wasn’t too bad, though. Just seventeen decks per person. We were lucky we weren’t on the new Queen Elizabeth.”
“You were, indeed,” Sir Percival said in agreement. “I must remember to travel on small ships in the future, possibly even smaller than the S.S. Sunderland. Even fifty-one decks strikes me as a chore, especially for one man.”
He came to his feet in an easy movement that neatly combined athletic ability with the desire to get moving.
“Well, much as I should prefer to get to the card room quickly, I suppose a bargain is a bargain. I must speak with the Captain and get his permission to visit my newly acquired clients, and then have a word with them. I suggest you go back to the bar and have a few drinks for the both of us. You might toast our success, for it is essential we get them out of pokey as quickly as possible.” He smiled gently at his tall companion who was slowly unfolding himself from his chair. “I—or rather, we—are losing money every moment away from the bridge table. . . .”
Captain Charles Everton Manley-Norville had only one question to ask his old friend Sir Percival Pugh when Sir Percival came to visit him. Actually, it was eight questions, but they were really all the same question, merely put into various forms.
“Why?” he asked plaintively. “Why my ship? Why even on the same ocean? Why not the QE2, or better yet a freighter of Panamanian registry with a leaky hull? Why? Why didn’t they go to the mountains? What curse has been laid upon me that these three Typhoid Marys, so to speak, selected the S.S. Sunderland for transport? Why?”
“You should learn to relax, Charles,” Sir Percival advised calmly. “As I shall easily prove to your satisfaction—as well as to a jury’s, should it ever come to that—these men are completely innocent of the charges against them.”
“As witness the fact that you intend to defend them?” Captain Manley-Norville asked with deep sarcasm.
“Well, no,” Sir Percival admitted freely. He had known the Captain for years. “Despite it, let us say.”
“I’ll admit they don’t look the type,” Captain Manley-Norville said, frowning. “And I’ll admit this Carruthers insisting upon being charged with intent to rape is a bit ridiculous, but what about this Briggs? Practically caught in the act!”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“You wouldn’t, eh?” Captain Manley-Norville snorted. “Not only does he leave a trail that even a police inspector in a private-detective novel could follow, but he then goes up to the bar and brags in a loud voice that nearly shatters the mirror, that he had—and I quote his exact words, I believe—‘settled the hash of those Carpenter fiddlers.’ And you consider these the words of an innocent man? Please, Percy!”
“He said that, eh? I hadn’t heard that bit.” Sir Percival nodded. “Mentioned settling the hash of the Carpenters, did he? And yet, to our knowledge, the hash of only one Carpenter was settled.”
“I’m afraid not,” said Captain Manley-Norville gloomily. He leaned forward in a burst of confidence. “I suppose I can tell you now, but Mrs. Carpenter came to me and reported her husband missing late last night. She was quite sincere, I’m sure. At first I thought it was merely a means of demanding a refund on their passage, since they had lost heavily at bridge, but the woman was truly worried. She was afraid he might have done himself harm.”
Sir Percival was very interested. “And?”
“Well,” said the Captain slowly, “I kept it quiet, of course, for fear of disturbing the other passengers—if he had jumped overboard and word got around, you see, it tends to upset the others—but I went to their cabin with the master-at-arms and the ship’s surgeon and we made quite a search. And we found a smear of blood on the porthole sill in the main cabin. Since there was no sign that Mrs. Carpenter was near this porthole after being stabbed, I
’m afraid we must look elsewhere for an explanation. And one, of course, would be that Mr. Carpenter, also bleeding, went out that porthole.”
Sir Percival frowned. “Twelve hours before?”
“I know it doesn’t make sense, but what does?”
Sir Percival thought a moment and then looked up.
“Tell me, Charles,” he asked, “how do you square the theory that Briggs killed the two—for I assume this is in the back of your mind—with his dabbing himself about with all the lipstick and perfume? Assuming he had killed Mr. Carpenter previously, he must have come to the woman’s stateroom for the express purpose of killing her for her silence. In that case, it’s rather doubtful that they played fun and games first. Why, then, the putting on of the scent and color?”
“A fetish, I suppose,” said the Captain gloomily. “He’s from the North, you know.”
“And you’re sure Mr. Carpenter went through that porthole?”
“Well, nobody saw him, of course, but there is the blood. And we’ve had the ship searched.”
“Oh, ah?”
“Yes.”
“Still,” Sir Percival said, “despite the overwhelming evidence —in your mind, not mine—against the man Briggs, still, he’s entitled to defense.”
“Why?” Captain Manley-Norville demanded.
“British justice.”
“Well, I suppose so,” Captain Manley-Norville said grudgingly. “Still, I wish he’d been on a French ship. They’re considered guilty until proven innocent, aren’t they?”
“Look at it this way,” Sir Percival said in a kindly manner. “Even if the man is guilty, he might have killed another couple other than the Carpenters.”
“True.” The thought seemed to cheer the Captain, if only slightly. “I suppose they were the most expendable, at that. But still. . . . Well, I suppose you’ll want a pass to visit them.”
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