S.S. Murder

by Q. Patrick

  He smiled genially and summoned the steward. Mrs. Lambert and I said we’d take a glass of sherry. Mr. Burr and Mr. Robinson both had highballs, while Mr. Daniels laboriously wrote out the requirements for his rickey, which was finally ordered for himself and Mr. Lambert.

  They then resumed their bridge, with the same partners, and much as I love to watch the game, I remembered my manners and rejoined Mrs. Lambert on the couch.

  I proffered some banality about her charming niece, asking why she was not with us.

  “Oh, Betty’s out on deck,” she said, with an arch little smile. “Youth must have its fling, you know—”

  I flippantly inquired with whom youth was flinging.

  “Why, Jimmy Earnshaw, of course. He’s such a nice boy.”

  Here she lowered her voice as if to impart some fearful indiscretion,

  “They’ve been seeing a great deal of each other lately and—well, we are hoping this cruise may turn out to be something more than a business trip after all.”

  Her eyes had assumed the avid expression of the confirmed middle-aged matchmaker, who eats too much candy, reads too many novelettes and tries to get a vicarious thrill out of other people’s emotional experiences.

  “Well,” I remarked, “I’m not surprised. She’s an awfully pretty girl and would look nice under any circumstances—even in the dentist’s chair.”

  “Oh, but she doesn’t have any trouble with her teeth,” cried my hostess, who was nothing if not literal. She then proceeded to explain that, even if distressing dental contingencies were to arise, Betty’s parents had plenty of money to give her the best of everything.

  You can imagine that I soon got bored with this kind of stuff and finally strolled over to the bridge table again, leaving my hostess a somewhat more sympathetic audience in the person of old man Wolcott.

  Now, Davy, at the risk of boring you and dwelling too much on trivial details, I am going to write out a description of one or two of the hands. You know my habit of always noting down interesting looking hands in the hopes of being able to use them when I have to pinch-hit for the “Contractor” on the bridge page. And then, I’m putting down every single detail that I can remember.

  So here are the hands as I jotted them down on the back of my dinner menu.

  The dear Lord knows why I didn’t lose the paper considering what happened later, but they seemed so exciting at the time that even Mr. Wolcott left Mrs. Lambert and came over to watch them being played.

  Even a lesser bridge player than you, darling, will see at a glance that East and West can easily get their opponents down. The double is perfectly good but what does the ineffable West do? He leads the one and only card in his hand which will enable Mr. Lambert to make his contract, viz., namely and to wit—the lack of Clubs. South takes with Dummy Ace—plays out trumps, leads Clubs and finds (to his great surprise, as you may imagine) that after the Queen has fallen on the King, all those in his hand are good. So he makes his contract—doubled —and Mr. Daniels makes cutting remarks about leads.

  Here’s another hand which struck me as interesting enough to note down, and which illustrates, even better than the last, how a poor lead can completely gum the works.

  Now it’s perfectly plain that if West (Robinson) had made the correct lead—a diamond—South (Lambert) was bound to go down one on his contract. But West foolishly led the Jack of Spades. (The man has a positive mania for Jacks.)

  Lambert, after losing one heart, was able to throw his diamonds on dummy’s clubs and easily made the contract.

  When Daniels asked afterwards, “Why on earth didn’t you lead a diamond?” Robinson made some foolish remark about not liking to lead from a king.

  While one or the other of these hands was being played, I distinctly remember the steward coming in and passing around the drinks. After Mrs. Lambert had taken a sip of her sherry, she called the steward back and started to complain (she’s the whiney sort, you know) that it wasn’t as good as some she’d had before dinner. Mr. Lambert looked over his shoulder and said good naturedly:

  “It’s probably exactly the same, my dear, only before dinner is the more correct time to drink sherry and it possibly tasted better then! It looks all right. At least I’m sure it would if I could see it, but I’ve mislaid my spectacles. In fact, I can hardly count the pips on my cards. Do you happen to have seen them? The spectacles, I mean. I searched everywhere in the cabin before I came up.”

  Mrs. Lambert said rather tardy, “Oh, Alfred, you’re always losing them, and you’re always telling me what I ought and ought not to drink. It’s a woman’s privilege to change her mind and her drinks. Anyhow, I think I prefer port after all.”

  Mr. Daniels made the old bromide about any port in a storm and Adam Burr patted himself and said that port was fattening.

  Then Mrs. Lambert started to enumerate (not unkindly) in a stage whisper a few of her husband’s physical failings; his nearsightedness, his weak heart, his rheumatic twinges. When he caught the drift of the conversation he looked at us and smiled saying, “Yes, Miss Llewellyn, the old man is falling to pieces fast.”

  I tell you all of these footling remarks, Davy, because I have a feeling that some time or another they may have some hideous significance. And it looks as if we are going to need all of our ammunition before we are through.

  Shortly afterwards they finished the rubber. Messrs. Robinson and Daniels, although they had been handsomely up at one time, were finally losers to the tune of three or four dollars. Mr. Lambert pocketed his winnings with the gleeful chuckle of a rich man who has had an unexpected windfall, and immediately suggested another rubber. Mr. Daniels and Mr. Robinson, who were still suffering from mutual dissatisfaction, finished up their drinks and excused themselves, saying that it was time for bed.

  “I’m sure Mr. Wolcott would like to take my hand,” remarked the little Cockney as he moved towards the door.

  “No, no, I’m afraid my bridge is too rusty. I’ll leave that to the younger folks.” The nasty old man gave me a bow that was quite unnecessarily courtly. “It’s the psychology of the game that appeals to me,” he continued, “just the psychology.”

  Daniels left the room with a grunt. Mr. Lambert suggested rather tardily that the ladies join them for a final rubber. Mrs. Lambert said that she was feeling too sleepy. She’d go and get Jimmy Earnshaw and Betty, she said, and see if either of them would like to make a fourth, adding that she’d ask the steward to bring up her husband’s spectacles if he found them anywhere in their suite. Then she said good-night all around and in a few minutes the two young people came in from the deck, both looking rather cold and pale (love, I suppose!). Betty was bearing the most beautiful orange shawl I have ever seen in my life. Normally it would have suited her rather well, but its bright color now seemed to throw into relief the abnormal pallor of her face.

  While Earnshaw stood by the couch talking to me, Betty went over and kissed her uncle good-night.

  “No dear,” I heard her say, “I’m far too sleepy to play bridge; just one more turn on the deck with Jimmie, then I’m going back to my stateroom.”

  “Well, just pull the curtain over that open window before you go,” said Mr. Lambert. “I believe I’m developing a stiff neck. And ask the steward for a plain gin and ginger ale, will you, Betty? Mr. Daniels’ rickey was positively poisonous. I want something to take the taste away.” I noticed, incidentally, that he had drunk only a little of it.

  Betty did as she was asked and then Earnshaw excused himself to me and they both went out together.

  We were now in that unenviable position of being three keen bridge players (Lambert, Burr and myself) in search of a fourth. We talked aimlessly for about ten minutes and I was just about to abandon the idea of a game and go to bed when Daphne Demarest entered the room looking even taller and more hoydenish than she had at dinner.

  She smiled weakly, saying, “I can hardly stagger, but, if I must stagger somewhere, let it be to a bridge table. Bridge
and drinkin’ are about the only two things to do in weather like this.”

  After that I thought it would be mean to refuse to play. I wish to God now I’d never succumbed, but I did and that’s that. Finally I partnered Mr. Burr against Daphne and Mr. Lambert, and we started to play at a tenth of a cent a point. Mr. Wolcott stood behind my chair in ceremonious silence, but although stray passengers sauntered into the room now and again, I am perfectly positive that no one stayed there any length of time.

  And thus, while we dealt and bid, the curtain went down on Scene I of tonight’s hideous drama, and, as I still feel as though sleep is utterly out of the question, I may as well begin on Scene II which contains the climax.

  Well, first of all, I should mention that our positions were like this:

  Then, I remembered, the steward came in with Mr. Lambert’s gin and ginger ale and put it down by him. Just as he was going away our host called him back and ordered a highball for Daphne (“double whiskey with a splash,” as she called it!) and one for Mr. Burr. I said I didn’t want any more to drink as I had an operation to consider. Then Mr. Lambert finished the remains of his rickey and the steward took the glass away.

  Daphne was not a very good player, but she and Mr. Lambert had the cards and they won the first two hands without any opposition; On the third hand our opponents went up to little slam in spades, and it just happened that, although my hand was pretty worthless in the other three suits, I did hold five spades to the jack over Mr. Lambert’s declaration. I doubled and he promptly re-doubled.

  I shall never know what the outcome of the play would have been, but I am positive that only a miracle could prevent my setting him at least one.

  You know, Davy, there is always a moment of tension after a re-double. Partners look anxiously at each other, give nervous little laughs, and then assume smug expressions in an endeavor to hide their apprehension. We did all these things, I suppose, and then Mr. Lambert remarked, “I’ll need a drink if I’m to get home on this one!”

  He took a long pull at his gin and ginger ale, put the glass down on the table, and started to play. At this juncture Mr. Wolcott gave a look at my hand, smiled inscrutably and went out of the room.

  After the first few leads I noticed that Mr. Lambert’s hands were trembling so that he could hardly control the cards, and then—oh God! Davy, shall I ever forget it?—he staggered to his feet with a noise which can only be described as a strangled gurgle. For one perfectly horrible moment he stood there teetering, a ghastly grin on his face, then he crashed forward, dropping his cards, knocking over the three glasses and utterly ruining Daphne’s frock. Before we had time to collect our wits he was lying on the floor writhing in convulsions.

  For what seemed to me like an eternity we all stood perfectly still—staring at him with a kind of horrified fascination. I have often read stories in which people were poisoned and have thought of it as a kindly, peaceful sort of a death, but no gunshot wounds, no bloodshed could have been more hideous than this. It was the most cruel, the most bestial thing I have ever seen—and at the same time the most pitiful.

  I suppose it was really a matter of about two seconds before we recovered, though it seemed an age. Daphne Demarest, who had been contemplating the proceedings in a thoroughly detached manner, was the first to regain her senses.

  “Here, take his feet, Mr. Burr,” she snapped, “and we’ll get him up on the couch. I’m a trained nurse.” Then she stooped down and I swear to you, Davy, she lifted that heavy man as easily as if she were putting a new born baby into its bath.

  “The doctor, quick,” cried Mr. Burr, and the steward, who had been staring at us goggled-eyed, sprang into life and dashed out of the room, as if glad to escape from the hideous thing which it contained.

  Don’t ask me what happened next, Davy. Don’t ever ask me. It is a nightmare which I hope never to think of again as long as I live. I remember being vaguely conscious of the doctor’s presence. I remember hearing him say something about tetanus-like convulsions, cyanosis and I caught a Latin phrase—risus sardonicus it sounded like—and then plainly, terribly plainly, and distinctly came the word STRYCHNINE!

  “Someone had better go off and get the captain. There’s nothing more that I can do for him.”

  I looked eagerly into the face of the surgeon, as they call the doctor on a British boat. Anything—anything to escape from that horrible smoking room.

  He nodded. “You’d better come back,” he said gently. “That is if you can stand it.”

  Without waiting for another word I made for the door

  and rushed blindly out, almost colliding on the threshold with Earnshaw, who was whistling the tune which the orchestra had been playing all the evening. His cheerful expression altered at once when he saw my face.

  “In there—the smoking room—Mr. Lambert,” I gasped, “you’d better go in and help.”

  I did not wait to see what he did but dashed on to find someone—anyone—who would direct me to Captain Fortescue.

  To reach the captain of a ship at midnight is as difficult as getting in for an interview with John D. Rockefeller. Every member of the crew whom I approached for help told me that it was out of the question to speak to the commander at that time because he was busy navigating. But at last an officer appeared and, having enough sense to realize that something really serious was wrong, he took me straight up to the bridge, where I found the captain looking very solid and reassuring. There was a terrific gale blowing, but I didn’t care what it did to my hair or my frock. It was like a heavenly draught of clear spring water to feel the fresh air on my face again after the atmosphere in that stuffy room.

  “Captain Fortescue,” I shrieked, trying to make my voice heard against the wind, “You are wanted in the first-class smoking room. A passenger—Mr. Lambert—has been killed. The surgeon is there and—and—”

  And then I suppose I fainted, for the next thing I knew was that my face was rubbing against the rough serge of the captain’s coat. There was a nice mannish smell that reminded me of you—brandy and cigars, I expect—a strong arm around my shoulder, and a sense of pleasant warmth trickling down my throat.

  “There, there, now you’ll be all right,” said the captain comfortingly. “I’ll come with you at once. Mr. Billings, the ship’s yours.”

  When Captain Fortescue and I reached the smoking room, we found the doors locked. The steward opened them immediately at the voice of authority and we entered the room together. The body was still lying on the couch and had—mercifully—been covered by a rug.

  As I entered I heard Earnshaw saying to the doctor:

  “He had a pretty groggy heart, doctor, and was rather liable to sudden attacks. Mrs. Lambert always keeps digitalis handy.”

  “This wasn’t a heart attack,” said the young surgeon grimly, and then he started to talk to the captain in low tones.

  The steward, meanwhile, was wiping up the mess of drinks and playing cards with which the floor was littered. Daphne Demarest was calmly smoking a cigarette by the window and Mr. Burr hovered solicitously around me.

  After a few moments the captain turned and faced us. He looked far less self-possessed than he had previously.

  “You were all present when this—er—accident occurred?” he asked.

  “All except Mr. Earnshaw,” replied Burr. “Mr. Earnshaw, by the way, is Mr. Lambert’s secretary.”

  Earnshaw nodded. He looked very shaken and upset.

  “I can’t understand it,” he murmured. “He was perfectly well at dinner time. If it wasn’t one of his usual attacks—”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Earnshaw,” interrupted the captain, “but Dr. Somers says that it looks very much as though Mr. Lambert had died from strychnine poisoning. We have searched his pockets, and—unless anyone has anything which may throw further light on the matter, or unless evidence is forthcoming that Mr. Lambert took his own life, there is only one conclusion to be reached.”

  There was a moment of absolute s
ilence in the smoking room, while the captain paused, waiting for one of us to speak. When no one volunteered any remark, he continued: “Of course, I don’t want to jump to conclusions, but it seems to me—and I think Dr. Somers will agree—that Mr. Lambert has been deliberately murdered. I shall ask you to say as little as possible about the matter, of course; we don’t want to upset the other passengers. And while the body is being removed, there are one or two questions which——”

  At this point Daphne Demarest strode across the room with three long masculine strides. There was something magnificent about her as she stood there, facing the commander with flashing eyes.

  “Captain Fortescue,” she cried, “we are all very sorry for your predicament, I’m sure, but if this is awkward for you, just think how—how deuced unpleasant it is for us. If Mr. Lambert was poisoned, then one of us three people—Miss Llewellyn, Mr. Burr or myself—must have poisoned him. Except for the steward we were the only three people present when Mr. Lambert ordered drinks. His glass was standin’ on the table and—well, there’s no need for me to dot my ‘i’s’ or cross my ‘t’s’ I suppose. But what I’m really sayin’ is this—when I got on board the ship this morning with Mrs. Clapp, I never heard of Mr. Lambert in my life—nor, I daresay, had Miss Llewellyn or Mr. Burr. We happen to have been eatin’ at the same table and we accepted his invitation to play cards tonight. As for wantin’ to do away with the poor man—” She finished her sentence with a snap of her fingers and lit another cigarette.

  “Miss Demarest is quite right,” murmured Mr. Burr hoarsely. “And, since we are all more or less implicated, I demand that we all be searched immediately—at least, not Miss Llewellyn, because even in the unlikely event that she had any damaging evidence about her person, she could have got rid of it when she went up to fetch you, captain.”

  By this time the ship’s surgeon had. returned from disposing of the body and with him came the purser (a nice lad called Jennings) and—for no reason at all that I could see—our old friend Mr. Daniels.