The Blind Barber dgf-4

by John Dickson Carr

  These, reader, are the times that try men's souls: when tears flow by reason of some inexplicable logic that escapes you, and all you can do is to pat her shoulder whilst desperately wondering what is wrong. He tried remonstrance — an error. He pointed out that it was not as though Warren had been shoved in the Bastille, never again to see the light of day; adding that the maniac was quite comfortable there and had been promised a specially cooked capon for his dinner. She said she wondered how Morgan thought the poor boy would have the heart to eat it. She said he was a cruel, callous beast ever to think of such a thing; and went off the deep end again. After this crushing retort, all he could think of was to rush her to the bar for a couple o!' stiff drinks as quickly as possible.

  That her tears were dried was due to a new cause for worry, which he saw presented itself to her as soon as they entered the bar.

  The bar (quaintly called smoking-room) was a spacious oak-panelled cathedral at the rear of B deck, full of stale smoke and a damp alcoholic fragrance. There were tables in alcoves of deep leather lounges, and a number of gaunt electric fans depending from the pastoral-painted ceiling. Except for one customer, who stood at the bar counter with his back towards them, it was deserted. Sunlight streamed through windows of coloured mosaic glass swaying gently on the floor; only peaceful creakings of woodwork and the drowsy murmur of the wake disturbed its cathedral hush.

  Peggy saw the one customer, and stiffened. Then she began to advance stealthily. The customer was a short, stocky man with a fringe of black hair round his bald head, and the arms and shoulders of a wrestler. He was just raising his glass to his lips when he seemed warned by some telepathic power. But before he could turn Peggy had pounced.

  "Ah!" she said, dramatically. She paused. She drew back as though she could not believe her eyes. "Tiens, tno'n oncle! Qu'est-ce que je vois? Ah, mon Dieu, qu'est-ce que je vois, alors?"

  She folded her arms.

  The other started guiltily. He turned round and peered lip at her over the rim of his glass. He had a reddish face, a large mouth, and an enormous curled grey-streaked moustache. Morgan observed that the moment Peggy fell into the Gallic tongue her gestures corresponded. She became a whirlwind of rattling syllables. She rapidly smacked her hands together under the other's nose.

  "Eh bien, eh bien! Encore tu bois! Toujours tu bois! Ah, zut, alors!" She became cutting. "Tu m'a donne votre parole d'honneur, comme un soldat de la France! Et qu'est-ce que je trouve? Un soldat de la France, hein! Non!" She drew back witheringly. "Je te vois en buvant le gin!"

  This, unquestionably, was Uncle Jules sneaking out with the laudable purpose of knocking off a quick one before his niece caught him. A spasm contorted his face. Lifting his powerful shoulders, he spread out his arms with a gesture of extraordinary agony.

  "Mais, cherie!" he protested in long-drawn, agonised insistence like a steamer's fog-horn. "Mais, che-e-riii-e! C'est un tres, tres, tres petit verre, tu sais! Regards-toi, cherie! Regards!! C'est une pauvre, miserable boule, tu sais. Je suis enrhume, cherie—he coughed hollowly, his; hand at his chest—"et ce soir—" 1

  "Tu paries! Toi," she announced, pointing her finger at him and speaking in measured tones, "toi, je t'appelle degoutant!"

  This seemed to crush Uncle Jules, who relapsed into a gloomy frame of mind. Morgan was introduced to him, and he followed them to a table while Morgan ordered ! two double-whiskies and a milk-and-soda. Uncles Jules appealed in vain. He said he had never had so bad a cold in his life, coughing hideously by way of demonstration, and said that if nothing were done about it he would probably be speechless by five o'clock. Peggy made the obvious retort. She also adduced examples from a long list of Uncle Jules past colds, including the time in Buffalo when he had I been brought back to the hotel in an ash-cart.

  He brightened a little, however, as he described the preparations for the performance that night. Preparations marched, he said, on a scale superb. Three hand-trucks had been provided to convey his fifty-eight separate marionettes (housed in a cabin of their own adjoining his, although they were not sea-sick, happy gosses) together with all the vast machinery of his theatre, to the hall of concert.

  The three costumes, one in which he spoke the prologue, and two for his extras, the French and Moorish warrior, were now being given a stroke of the iron; the piano and violin for off-stage music were installed behind the scenes us the theatre was set up in the hall of concert. A hall of concert magnificent, situated on B deck, but with a back-stage staircase leading up from the dressing-room on C deck. Which reminded him that, while investigating the dressing-room, he and his assistant, Abdul, had met M. and Mme. Perrigord.

  "A husband and his wife," pursued Uncle Jules, excitedly, "very charming, very intelligent, of whom the cabin finds itself near by. Listen, my dear! It is he who has written of me those pieces so magnificent which I do not understand. One thousand thunders, but I am enchanted! Yes, yes, my dear. Among us we have arranged the order of the performance. Good! Also we have met a Dr. Keel, a medicine Scottish, who will make recitations. Good! All is arranged. Two professors of a university who voyage shall shall be our warriors; M. Furioso Camposozzi at the piano and M. Ivan Slifovitz at the violin have arranged for accompanying my sitting with music of the chamber which I do not understand, see you? but, ah, my dear, what a triumph of intelligence. For me, I shall be superb? I—"

  "Dear uncle," said Peggy, taking a soothing draught of whiskey neat and sighing deeply afterwards, "it is necessary that I speak with this monsieur. Go to your cabin and couch yourself. But attend! It is I who speak! Nothing to drink. Nothing! Is it understood?"

  M. Fortinbras swore that an old soldier of France would cut his throat sooner than break his promise. He finished his milk-and-soda with a heroic gesture, and doddered out of the bar.

  "Listen, Hank," said Peggy, dropping the language of Racine. She turned excitedly. "Seeing the old boy has just brought me back to business, I've got to see that he keeps sober until after the show; but it's given me an idea… You're determined on questioning everybody on this boat, seeing everybody face to face… "

  "I'm letting nobody by," returned Morgan grimly, "except the people we know to be aboard. I'm going to take a passenger-list, and get a crew-list from the captain, and check everybody if it takes all afternoon. It would be devilish easy for somebody to conceal an absence when that first officer went round. "Oh, no, she wasn't hurt— sorry she isn't here; she's lying down; but I can give you my word… " Peggy, that girl hasn't vanished. She's somewhere on the boat. She's a real person! Hang it, we saw her! And she's going to be found." "Righto. Then I'll tell you your pretext." "Pretext?"

  "Of course you've got to have a pretext, silly. You can't go roaring about the ship after somebody who was murdered and starting an alarm, can you? Fancy what Captain Whistler would say, old dear. You've got to do it without arousing suspicion. And I've got the very idea for you." She beamed and winked, wriggling her shoulders delightedly. "Get hold of your dear, dear friend Mrs. Perrigord— Morgan looked at her. He started to say something, but confined himself to ordering two more whiskies.

  "… and it's as easy as shelling peas. You're looking for volunteers to do amateur acts at the ship's concert. She's in charge of it. Then you can insist on seeing everybody without the least suspicion."

  Morgan thought it over. Then he said: "Ever since last night, to tell the truth, I have been inclined to scrutinise any idea of yours with more than usual circumspection. And this one strikes me as being full of weak points. It's a comparatively simple matter if I encounter a lot of shy violets who are averse to appearing in public. But suppose they accept? Not that I personally would object to an amateur mammy-singer or a couple of Swiss yodellers, but I don't think it would go well with the chamber-music. How do I persuade Mrs. Perrigord to accompany me, in the first place, and to put all my crooners on the programme, in the second?"

  Peggy suggested a simple expedient, couched in even simpler language, to which Morgan rather auster
ely replied that he was a married man. "Well, then," Peggy said excitedly, "it's even easier than that, if you're going to be fussy and moral about it. Like this. You tell Mrs. Perrigord that you're after material for character-drawing, and you want to get the reactions of a number of diversified types. On Being Approached to Make Exhibitions of Themselves in a Public Place… Now don't misunderstand me and get such a funny look on your face! She'll eat it up. All you've got to do is suggest getting somebody's reactions to some loony thing that nobody's ever I bought of before, and the highbrows think it's elegant. Then you might jolly her along and sort of make goo-goo eyes at her. As for the volunteers, bah! You can turn 'em all down after you've heard 'em rehearse, and say it won't do… "

  "Woman," said Morgan, after taking a deep breath, "your language makes my gorge rise. I will not make goo-goo eyes at Mrs. Perrigord, or anybody else. Then there is this question of rehearsing. If you think I have any intention of sitting around while amateur conjurers break eggs in my hat and wild sopranos sing "The Rosary," you're cockeyed. Kindly stop drivelling, will you? I've been through too much to-day."

  "Can you think of any better plan?"

  "It has its points, I admit; but—"

  "Very well, then," said Peggy, flushed with triumph and two whiskies. She lit a cigarette. "I'd do it myself with Mr. Perrigord, only I have to help uncle. I'm the Noises Off-Stage, you know: the horses, and Roland's horn, and all that, and I've got to get my effects set up this afternoon. I'll get it over as quickly as I can, because we must find that film. What I really can't understand is why our crook returned that emerald and yet didn't — I suppose he really didn't put the film back in Curt's cabin, did he? Do you think, we ought to look?"

  Morgan made an irritable gesture.

  "Don't you see that it wasn't the barber who did that? (XT-hand, you'd say that there was only one explanation of il. When we chucked it away, it landed either in Kyle's cabin or in the Perrigords'. The obvious answer is that one

  of 'em found it in the cabin, meditated keeping it, then got scared at the row and sneaked it back to Sturton. But, damn it all! I can't believe that! Does it sound like Kyle? j It does not. Conversely, if Kyle is a masquerading crook i you can lay a strong wager that a cool hand like the Blind; Barber wouldn't return that emerald — as Whistler said. Wash out Kyle either because he's a crook or because he isn't. If he's genuinely a great brain specialist he wouldn't do one thing, and if he's genuinely a great crook he wouldn't do the other… And what have we left?"

  "You think," demanded Peggy, "that nasty Mrs. Perrigord—?"

  "No, I don't. Or friend Leslie, either. I can see Leslie handing over the emerald to Sturton with immense relish, and giving a long dissertation on the bad taste of gaudy baubles, but— Ah! News! Enter our squarehead."

  He broke off and gestured to Captain Valvick, who had just shambled into the bar. The captain was puffing hard; his leathery face looked redder than ever, and, as he approached, he distilled like a wandering oven a strong aroma of Old Rob Roy.

  "Ay been talking wi' Sparks and de Bermondsey Terror," he announced, somewhat unnecessarily and wheezed as he sat down. "And, ay got proof. Dr. Kyle iss not de crook."

  "You're sure of that?"

  "Yess. De Bermondsey Terror iss willing to swear. He iss willing to swear Dr. Kyle has gone into his cabin last night at half-past nine and he hass not left it until de breakfast bugle diss morning. He know, because he hass heard Dr. Kyle iss a doctor, and he wonder whedder he can knock on de door and ask him if he can cure de bad toot'. He didn't do it because he hass heard Kyle is a great doctor who live in dat street, you know, and he iss afraid of him. But he knows."

  There was a silence.

  "Hank," Peggy said, uneasily, "more and more — that radiogram from New York, where they were so sure— don't you think there's a dreadful mistake somewhere?

  What can be happening, anyhow? Every time we think we know something, it turns to be just the other way round. I'm getting frightened. I don't believe anything. What can we do now?"

  "Come along, Skipper," said Morgan. "We're going to find Mrs. Perrigord."

  15 — How Mrs. Perrigord Ordered Champagne, and the Emerald Appeared Again

  Clear yellow evening drew in over the Queen Victoria moving steadily, and with only a silken swishing past her bows, down towards a horizon darkening to purple. So luminous was the sky that you could watch the red tip of the sun disappear at the end of a glowing path, the clouds and water changing like the colours of a vase, and the crater of glowing clouds when the sun was gone. The dress bugle sounded at the hush between the lights. And the Queen Victoria, inspired for the first time by that mild fragrance in the air, woke up.

  Sooner or later on any voyage this must happen. Hitherto-blank-faced passengers rouse from their deck-chairs and look at one another. They smiled nervously, wishing they had made more acquaintances. The insinuating murmur of the orchestra begins to have its suggestion on them; they see broad Europe looming, and lamps twinkling in the trees of Paris. A sudden clamour of enjoyment whips the decks like the entrance of a popular comedian. Then they begin by twos and threes to drift into the bar.

  Activity had begun to pulse this night before it was quite dark. The beautiful, mongoose-eyed shrew who was going to Paris for her divorce searched out her shrewdest evening-gown; so did the little high-school teacher determined to see the Lake Country. Love affairs began to flicker brightly; two or three bridge games were started; and the disused piano in the screened deck off the bar was rolled out for use. The dining-saloon was in a roar of talk. Diffident ladies had come out with unexpected rashes of jewels, optimists ordered from the wine-list, and the orchestra was for the first time encouraged. When Henry

  Morgan — tired, disgusted, and without energy to dress for dinner — entered with his two companions towards the close of the meal, he saw that it was the beginning of what for (he sedate Queen Victoria would be a large night.

  His own ideas were in a muddle. After four exasperating hours of questioning, he was almost convinced that the girl with the Greek-coin face had never existed. She was not aboard, and (so far as he could ascertain) had never been aboard. The thing was growing eerie.

  Nobody knew her, nobody remembered having seen her, when at length in desperation he had dropped the pretext of searching for music-hall talent. On the tempers of some already harassed people, in fact, this latter device had been ill-timed. Its effects on Lord Sturton, on an Anglo-Indian colonel and his lady not yet recovered from mal-de-mer, on a D.A.R. from Boston and kindred folk, had been a bouncer's rush from the cabin before the request was fully out of his mouth. Even Captain Valvick's easy temper was ruffled by receptions of this kind.

  Mrs. Perrigord, on the other hand, had been invaluable. Although she must have been aware that there was more in the tour than Morgan would admit, she had been impassive, helpful, even mildly enthusiastic. She took on herself a duty of cutting things short in a way that the easygoing novelist admired but could not imitate. When a proud mother eagerly went into long explanations of how her daughter Frances, aged nine, could play "Santa's Sleigh-Bells" on the violin after only six lessons, and how Professor E. L. Kropotkin had confidently predicted a concert future, then Mrs. Perrigord had a trick of saying, "I reolly don't think we need waste your time," in a loud, freezing voice which instantly struck dumb the most clamorous. It was an admirably frank trait, but it did not add to Morgan's comfort through those long, hot, gabbling, foodless hours in which he acquired a distaste for the entire human race.

  Mrs. Perrigord did not mind at all. She said she enjoyed it, chatting volubly all the while, and coyly taking Morgan's arm. Moreover, she took quite a fancy to Captain Valvick, who, she confided to Morgan in a loud side-whisper, was so fresh and unspoilt, a definition which the skipper seemed to associate vaguely with fish, and which seemed to fret him a good deal. Another curious, puzzling circumstance was the behaviour of Warren, when they looked in on him in the padded cell just before going d
own to dinner.

  It was growing dark, but he had not switched on the light in his cell. He was lying at full length on the bunk, his face turned to the wall as though he were asleep. In one hand was a closed book with his finger marking the place in the leaves. He breathed deeply.

  "Hey!" said Morgan, whistling through the bars. "Curt! Wake up! Listen…!"

  Warren did not stir. An uneasy suspicion assailed his friend, but he thought he could see the whisky-bottle also, and it appeared to be only slightly depleted: he could not be drunk. Mrs. Perrigord murmured, "Pooah lad!" The sailor on guard duty, who had respectfully risen, said the gentleman 'ad been like that all afternoon; was exhausted-like.

  "Ay don't like dis," said Valvick, shaking his head. "Ahoy!" he roared, and pounded at the bars. "Mr. Warren! Ahoy!"

  The figure moved a little. It raised its head cautiously in the gloom and there was a fiendish expression on its face. Placing a finger on its lips, it hissed ' Sh-h-h!", made a fierce gesture for them to go away, and instantly fell somnolent again.

  They went. Whatever the meaning of the episode, it was driven from Morgan's mind by the prospect of food and drink. The fragrance and glitter of the dining-room soothed his rattled nerves; he breathed deeply once more. But— there was nobody whatever at the captain's table, not even Dr. Kyle. In the middle of the crowd and clatter, every chair remained ominously empty. He stared.

  "… Now you must," Mrs. Perrigord was saying, "you really must come and dine at ouah table to-night, you kneow. Whatevah is worrying you, Mr. Morgan, I must insist on youah forgetting it. Come!" Her smile became mysterious as she took her rather dazed guests across the loom. "Les-leh will not be with us to-night. He will dine on milk and dry biscuit, and prepare himself foah his talk." She leaned close to Morgan. "My husband, you know, has rather extrooordinry principles, Mr. Morgan. But I, on the othah hand—"