The Blind Barber dgf-4

by John Dickson Carr

  "What's all this?" said Morgan. "You can't hang a man on a joke.";

  "Oh, they're not jokes. You have no idea as to the trend of this?"

  "No." 1

  Dr. Fell scribbled rapidly on a sheet of paper, and passed it over. i

  "Here, for your further enlightenment," he said, frowning, "I have tabulated eight clues. Eight suggestions, if you; will. Not one of 'em is direct evidence — it's the direct evidence I'm looking for you to supply in your next instalment of the story. I feel fairly certain you will mention the evidence I want; and my hunch is so strong that I — like several others — will risk Whistler's official head on it. Eh?"

  Morgan took the paper, which read

  1. The Clue of Suggestion.

  2. The Clue of Opportunity.

  3. The Clue of Fraternal Trust.

  4. The Clue of Invisibility.

  5. The Clue of Seven Razors.

  6. The Clue of Seven Radiograms.

  7. The Clue of Elimination.

  8. The Clue of Terse Style.

  "It doesn't mean a devil of a lot to me," said Morgan. "The first two you could apply in any way you like… Wait! Don't puff and blow, sir! — I say 'you,' meaning myself. And I don't like to consider the suggestion of the third… But what about seven razors? We didn't find seven razors."

  "Exactly," boomed the doctor, pointing his fork as though that explained it. "The point is that there probably were seven razors, you see. That's the point."

  "You mean we ought to have looked for them?"

  "Oh, no! The Barber would have got rid of the others. All you should have done was remember that they were seven. Eh?"

  "And then," said Morgan, "this point about seven radiograms… What seven radiograms? There are only two radiograms I mentioned in my story."

  "Ah, I should have explained about that," said Dr. Fell, skewering a sausage. "Seven — mystic number; rounded, complete, suggestive number with a curious history. I use it advisedly in place of the word 'several,' because we assume there were several. The interesting thing is that I Hill not referring to any radiograms you saw. You didn't see 'em. That's very significant, hey?"

  "No, I'll be damned if it is," said Morgan, somewhat violently. "If we didn't see 'em—"

  "Proceed, then," requested the doctor, waving a large flipper. "I feel positive that before you have finished I shall have noted down eight more clues — sixteen, say — by which we finish and round out our case."

  Morgan cleared his throat and began.

  PART TWO

  13 — Two Mandarins

  Among unthinking chroniclers it is much the fashion, at certain movements of mysticism, to embark on a reflection as to how, if it were not for such-and-such a small thing happening, then such-and-such a larger thing would not have happened, and so on until they have ultimately proved King Priam's bootblack responsible for the fall of Troy. Which is, demonstrably, nonsense.

  Doubtless such a historian would say that all would yet have been well, when Curtis Warren was installed in a padded cell on D deck, if it were not for two tiny circumstances harmless in themselves. In proof of this he would point out that — if they had only known it — the conspirators were within an ace of catching the Blind Barber himself at least once that day; and there would have been no more lurid happenings aboard the Queen Victoria. The present chronicler does not believe it. Men go straight as a stream of liquid exterminator from the nozzle of the Mermaid Automatic Electric Bug-Powder Gun along the line (hat is determined by their characters, nor can any horseshoe nail affect their destinies. Curtis Warren, as may have been observed from time to time, was a fairly impetuous young man much influenced by the power of suggestion. If he had not got into more trouble one way, it would have been in another; and only a thoughtless quibbler could lay the blame on such excellent articles as a detective novel and a bottle of Scotch whisky.

  Sic volvere parcae! To solace him in captivity they could not share, Peggy Glenn presented him with a bottle of whisky (full size) and Henry Morgan with one of his old detective-novels.

  Thereby, incidentally, they showed their own characters. If anybody says Morgan should have known better, it will shortly be indicated how much he had on his mind. Morgan was fighting mad at the perverse orneriness of the Parcae, and his own none-too-good sense reduced to a minimum Besides — as he agreed with Peggy — if that stormy petrel Curtis Warren, were not safe from causing trouble when locked and bolted in a padded cell, where the devil would he be safe?

  Now let's quit this philosophising and get down to business.

  There had been an almost touching scene of farewell after Warren had been shot into the padded cell by three sturdy seamen, of whom two had to undergo considerable repairs in the doctor's office immediately afterwards. It would also take too much time to dwell on their progress down from the captain's cabin to D deck, which resembled | an erratic Catharine wheel of arms and legs whirling down companionways and causing pale-faced passengers to bolt like rabbits. With a last heave he was fired into the cell and the door slammed; yet, damaged but undaunted, he still continued to shake the bars and hurl raspberries at the exhausted sailors.

  Peggy, in a tearful frenzy, refused to leave him. If they would not let her stay with him, she made a loyal attempt to kick Captain Whistler in a vital spot and get locked up herself. Morgan and Valvick also loyally insisted that, if the old sea-cow thought Warren off his onion, they were loony, too, and demanded their rights of being imprisoned. But this Warren — either with a glimmer of sense or a desire to make a gallant gesture — would not hear of.

  "Carry on, old man!" he said, grimly and heroically, shaking hands with Morgan through the bars of the cell. "The Barber's still loose, and you've got to find him. Besides, Peggy's got to help her uncle with those marionettes. Carry on, and we'll nail Kyle yet."

  That Whistler did not accede to their demands for a uniform imprisonment, both demand and consent being made in the heat of rage, Morgan afterwards attributed solely to his desire to produce them as witness to Lord Sturton that he had been treacherously attacked. This did not occur to him at the time, or he would have made use of it as a threat; and Captain Whistler would have been saved trouble, as shall be seen, with the choleric peer. All the three conspirators knew was that their ally had been locked away in the bowels of the ship: down a dark companionway. through a steel-plated corridor pungent with oil and lit by one sickly electric bulb which quivered to the pounding of the ship's engines, and behind a door with a steel grill through which he stared out like King Richard in exile. A sailor with a whistle, reading Hollywood Romances, had been stolidly posted on a chair outside, so that the possibility of a jail-break was nil.

  There was, however, one consolation. The rather sardonic ship's doctor — who believed not at all in Warren's Insanity, but found it prudent from long experience not to cross Captain Whistler before his temper subsided — made no objection to supplying the maniac with cigarettes and reading-matter. If he saw the bottle of whisky which Peggy smuggled through in a roll of magazines, he made no sign.

  Morgan's contributions to the captive were a box of Gold Flake and a copy of one of his earlier novels called, Played, Partner! Now, if you are a very prolific writer of detective-stories, you will be aware that the details of earlier ones tend to fade from your mind even more quickly than they do from the reader's. Morgan remembered in a general way what the book was about. Played, Partner! was the tale of Lord Gerald Derreval, known to West End clubland as a wealthy idler, dilettante, and sportsman; but known to Scotland Yard under the enigmatic and terrible pseudonym of The Will-o'-the-Wisp. As a gentleman burglar, Lord Gerald was hot stuff. His thrilling escapes from captivity under heavy guard made Mr. Harry Houdini look like a bungler who had got out of clink only with a writ of habeas corpus. Of course, there was never anything really crooked about Lord Gerald. All he did was pinch the shirt off any old reprobate who had been low-minded enough to get rich, thereby qualifying Lord Gerald for a high place in
the Socialist literature which is so popular nowadays. Besides, he was redeemed by his love for the beautiful Sardinia Trelawney. In the end he trapped the real villain who had tried to saddle a murder on him; and made it up with Inspector Daniels, the man who had sworn to get him and was in general so: weak-minded and got the bird so often that even in the? midst of pitying him you wondered how he contrived to hold his job.

  These were the details that had faded from Morgan's! mind, but such was the dynamite placed in the hands of J Mr. Curtis Warren along with an imperial-quart of Old J Rob Roy. It would, perhaps, have been wiser to give him a Bradshaw or a volume of sermons; but the moving finger writes, and, having writ, moves on; and, besides, philosophical remarks on this question have already been made. After Peggy had bidden him a tearful good-bye, and Morgan and Valvick had shaken hands with him, they { went up in a thunder-fraught mood to see the captain. 1

  "Honest, now," said Valvick rather broodingly, as they crossed the boat-deck in the sunlight that Warren was forbidden to see, "do you t'ank we are right, or iss dere a mistake? Dat wass no yoke, what dey tell us. If dey say dere is nobody missing, den ay don't see how dere is somebody missing. Maybe we talk about a murder and dere is no murder."

  "I tell you we're right!" snapped Morgan. "We're right, and it's got to be proved somehow. First thing, I'll tackle Whistler in as cool a frame of mind as I can. I'll challenge him to get that blood on the razor and in the berth tested. The ship's doctor can do it, or maybe Dr. Kyle… "

  "Kyle?" said Peggy, staring at him. "But Dr. Kyle—"

  "Will you get your mind off that tedious joke?" said Morgan, wearily. "Let's dispose of it once and for all. Don't you realise that Kyle is the one person on the whole ship who can't possibly be guilty?"

  "Why?"

  "Because he's the one man who's got an alibi, old girl.; Look here, Skipper. You're pretty sure your friend with; the toothache, the Bermondsey Terror, is honest; aren't you? — all right. And what did he say? He said that he didn't lose sight of Kyle's door all night; that he heard the row on deck from title beginning…. Wait a bit. You, didn't know about that, did you, Peggy?" He rapidly sketched out the Bermondsey Terror's information, and also gave Valvick the evidence of the Perrigords. "So what? The Blind Barber stole the rest of that film and killed the

  girl while the row was going on out on deck. Nobody went n or out of Kyle's door all night. So how did Kyle get out and back? It won't wash, I tell you."irl while the row was going on out on deck. Nobody went n or out of Kyle's door all night. So how did Kyle get out and back? It won't wash, I tell you."

  "It's you that's the blind one, Hank," she informed him, scornfully. "He needn't have been in his cabin at all, need he? Alibis! Bah! What's the good of an alibi. They always turn out to be fakes, anyway."

  Morgan gestured.

  "All right. It's easily settled. We're going into action at once, and by the Lord we're going to prove our case. Here's a commission for you, Skipper. Go down and see your friend the Bermondsey Terror and question him. Also sec the cabin steward and make any inquiries you think of… "

  "Now?" asked Valvick, scratching his head.

  "Now. We'll prove it one way or another. To continue," lie said to Peggy, as the other muttered a few reflections and lumbered off, "I'll tackle Whistler about that blood. I'll swear it's human blood; and, if it is, we can safely point out to him that nobody could have lost so much and still show no sign of being hurt this morning. Nobody, old girl! Then we'll make the whole round of the ship ourselves, If necessary. And we'll show 'em."

  He looked rather malevolently about the boat-deck, which was crowded and noisy. Warren's triumphal progress to the brig had taken place belowdecks and by a devious way, but the news was already flying, so that there was a note of shrillness in the clatter of talk. Somnolent figures in deck chairs, set out to dry themselves under the sun, were sitting up from their rugs; a game of shuffleboard had been suspended and two deck-tennis players came up to the net lor a conference. The ship's reigning belle — there is always one — had stopped her professional smiling, her beret pushed over one ear and a cigarette half-way to her mouth, and was bending to listen in a whispering group of admirers. She stood on a raised platform by a lifeboat, her gaudy green scarf blowing against the sky. Far above their heads, on one of the three vast black funnels that showed; a faint stain of smoke, the liner's whistle emitted a sudden hoarse Whooo! as though it were giving an alarm. A suggestion of lunch was now in the air. There was a good deal of laughter. Morgan scowled.)

  They found Whistler getting his cabin set to rights and being particularly rough on the steward.

  "I won't discuss it," he said, "any more. Maybe I was hasty. I won't say I wasn't. But I acted within my rights, and I'll let that young drunkard or lunatic stop there until; I damned well get ready to let him out. We'll say nothing of his story. But take a look around my cabin, just look at; it, and then tell me whether I didn't do the right thing.' He thrust out his jaw, the good eye narrowed in his battered face, and the gold stripes on his sleeves gleamed as he jammed his fists on his hips. But there was something: curiously conciliating about him. "Come now!" he said suddenly. "We're alone. There's no need for you to defend your friend. What's the truth of the matter?"

  They could hear the breath whistling from his nose.

  "Does this mean, Captain," said Peggy, after a pause in which she seemed taken aback, "that you really don't think Curt is mad, after all? Oooh, you villain! After you ordered those nasty men to manhandle and," she gasped, "and mistreat—"

  "I want the truth, madam. The truth, that's all. In my s position—" i

  "I say, Captain," said Morgan, after another pause in which Whistler shut his teeth hard, "does this mean something new has happened?"

  "Why should it?".

  "Oh, I only wondered… He was looking quickly, round the cabin, searching a clue, and then he saw it. j Rolled into a wad at one side of the wardrobe lay what] looked very much like a sheet tied round stained blankets.] "So," said Morgan, "do you mean to tell us a steward saw something queer about the cabin next to Curt's? And went I in and found the berth full of bloodstained sheets? And] then reported to you? Excellent. Here's the razor that was j used in the killing." He took it out of his pocket and laid It on the table, while Whistler stared at him fixedly. "Now everything is fine. All you've done is accuse the wrong man of being a liar and a lunatic, and locked him up under guard. If old Sturton can only get you convicted of criminal negligence to the extent of fifty thousand pounds, the officials of this steamship line will be in an even better humour."

  As a matter of fact, he was (despite himself) feeling lorry for the old mackerel. A persistent voice told him that the whole mess was their own fault. All that made him wild was that circumstances seemed conspiring to prevent belief in something he still fiercely felt to be true.

  "Murder!" said the captain, in a sort of gulp. "Murder! You have the nerve to stand there and talk to me of murder when there's nobody not accounted for on the whole ship? Where's the murdered person?… And don't try to talk to me about what my superiors will think. I put that young lunatic in confinement for an offence against discipline. That's all. An offence against discipline, wild that's my right. My word is law, and any maritime court—"

  "It would make a good story, though," the other pointed out, "printed in the newspapers. Impassioned Defence of Captain Whistler. 'The Dastardly Villain Set on Me with a Dug-powder Gun.' That also would gratify the Green Star Line. Yes, it would. In your eye."

  The captain seemed slightly awed.

  "Isn't there any justice?" he inquired suddenly, and looked rather blankly about the cabin. "In all God's green earth, isn't there any justice? What have I done to deserve (his?"

  It was only the beginning of a genuinely powerful, if rather pathetic, oration, for which there was undeniably dome justification. It was pitched in a rather Biblical strain. Captain Whistler pointed out and enumerated his afflictions. Masked foreigners, he sai
d, attacked him with stilettos and bottles. Uninsured jewels belonging to?!<£&/!! viscounts were stolen while murdering thieves posed as Harley Street doctors at his table. Blood-stained blankets and razors mysteriously appeared in the cabins; women vanished but did not vanish; the nephews of eminent American administrators first went mad and gibbered of bears and geography then ran amok with bug-powder guns, tried to poison him and finally threatened him with razors. Indeed, an unprejudiced listener would have decided that the situation aboard the Queen Victoria was past hope. An unprejudiced listener would have said this boat had been chosen for the annual convention of the Ancient Order of Sorcerers, and that the boys must have been showing off a bit. Captain Whistler said it was too much. He said he was a strong man, but he would rather be thrown to the sharks.

  "I know it, Captain," Morgan agreed, uncomfortably, when the typhoon began to die and the skipper went to pour himself a drink with shaking hands. "And, believe it or not, we feel as badly about it as you do. So the first thing we must do—"

  "There is nothing to do," said the other, with finality, "except maybe get drunk."

  "… is to join forces and start to unwind this tangle. So here's a guarantee of good faith. We'll go with you to Sturton and clear you absolutely. We'll say we saw you suddenly struck down without a chance to defend yourself; for all you know, it may be true… "

  "You'd do that?" demanded the skipper, sitting up. "I was damned if I'd ask a favour of you, but if you would— could… man, I'll do anything. I'll even let that madman out of the brig."

  Morgan reflected. "As a matter of fact," he said, hesitantly, "for the next few hours I'd rather you didn't."

  "Hank!" said Peggy. But she stopped.

  "Yes, you see how it is," nodded Morgan, after some thought. "When we thought the captain wouldn't listen to reason, we'd have blown the wall down to get him out. But if we do have co-operation — have we Captain?"