by Q. Patrick
We were then searched and thoroughly questioned, but since no one brought out any points that have not been included in my record, there’s no need for me to go into it all again. The only thing new was the information volunteered by Earnshaw that Mr. Lambert’s financial affairs were in perfectly good shape, that he was sixty-two years old and quite happy (as far as he knew) with his wife, (his second effort, by the way), to whom he had been married about two years. That seemed to rule out the probability of suicide.
The secretary added that he was acquainted with the terms of Mr. Lambert’s will, in which, with the exception of a few minor bequests, he had left all of his considerable fortune to his wife.
Mr. Burr and Mr. Daniels then gave the captain a few details about the game of bridge that they had played earlier in the evening; he solemnly wrote down the names of those who had been present and made a few notes about the passing of the drinks.
As soon as the steward came back into the room Dr. Somers called him over and gave him what sounded like urgent instructions on some point or other. I did not hear what he said, but I caught most of the steward’s reply.
“No, doctor, glasses are always washed as soon as they are taken away. No, sir, the poor gentleman upset all three of the second lot when he fell over.”
“Then I suppose analysis of the contents of the tumbler will be out of the question.” The ship’s surgeon sighed and a puzzled little frown crinkled the smooth skin of his forehead.
It was at this juncture (I think) that Earnshaw suggested that someone ought to go down and tell Mrs. Lambert. The captain nodded, gave a few parting injunctions, and then asked Dr. Somers and Earnshaw to accompany him to the Lambert suite.
It was then, and not until then (believe it or not, Davy!) that I thought of my scoop. An important business man had been murdered under my very nose—and my paper panting for crime news! I dashed off to the radio room and wrote out a message for “The Fox.” But it was destined not to be, for I had barely handed it in to the operator when I heard the captain’s voice behind me. Oh, well, I suppose I should have known! He was awfully nice about it and explained very carefully what his position was and how they couldn’t be absolutely sure that it was murder until they’d gone into the matter more thoroughly. Of course I had to give in, feeling very cheap as you can imagine, especially when he told me that Mrs. Lambert was having hysterics in her stateroom and that all Earnshaw’s energies were being devoted to Betty, who was also frightfully upset. “A woman is needed down there,” he said succinctly.
I went down at once and did what I could to comfort the poor widow. Finally Dr. Somers gave her an injection and Betty came in to sleep with her. It was nearly two o’clock when I reached my own stateroom.
And here I’ve been scribbling to you ever since, Davy dear. What a night! A grey streaky dawn is just beginning to break over the ocean and it’s about time I tried to snatch some sleep. Incidentally, I’m about frozen.
And all the while the ship has been going steadily onward—just as though nothing had ever happened. Isn’t it amazing!
Good night and good morning, darling.
On Deck.
Saturday, November 14th.
12:30 P. M.
It’s a heavenly day and the sea is so beautiful that I want to burst into rhapsodic clichés about sapphire skies, pearly clouds and emerald depths. Everything is so peaceful; the passengers have not yet awakened to the fact that there has been a violent death in our midst—and one solitary seagull, wearily tagging after the stern of the Moderna, is a reassuring sign that we can’t have left the coast so very far behind.
But it’s quite far enough for my liking, Davy! I still feel like a dab of whipped cream wobbling precariously on the top of a frozen pudding. And this is the first day of my rest cure!
Well, I got to sleep at last, but it seemed as if I had barely closed my eyes when the stewardess came in with a cup of tea and told me that Mr. Jennings (the purser) presented his compliments and would I kindly stop in his office at 10:30.
I took my bath and dressed as quickly as possible. (I look a fright, and no wonder!) When I reached the purser’s office I found him sitting at his desk with a large sheaf of papers in front of him. He asked me innumerable questions about last night and made very careful notes of my answers. The poor lad is obviously worried to death and quite out of his natural element.
Finally I inquired, “Have you definitely established the fact that it was strychnine poisoning?”
He looked a trifle awkward as he replied, “Dr. Somers is performing an autopsy this morning. We can’t be positive about anything before this afternoon. And now, Miss Llewellyn, there’s a little favor I’d like you to do for me—”
He broke off, very pink and perplexed. I nodded encouragingly.
“The—the captain—has instructed me to interview Mrs. Lambert as soon as possible. It is not—as you may imagine—a commission that I particularly relish. In the first place the poor woman is probably confined to her berth and—I—a mere man—being a journalist, I thought perhaps you’d be used to that sort of thing.” He broke off with a gesture.
“Oh, I see, you’d like me to go down and find out how the land lies?”
“Would you?” he asked gratefully.
I felt sorry for the poor fellow and within a very few minutes I had presented myself at the door of the Lambert suite. Betty let me in and gave me a wan smile in answer to my mute questioning. The girl looked absolutely worn out but she seemed to be forcing herself to bear up with remarkable fortitude.
Mrs. Lambert was propped up in her berth, looking ten years older than she had the previous evening. There were dark lines under her eyes and her appearance was not improved by two blobs of rouge on her cheeks—a pathetic attempt, I suppose, at making herself presentable for callers.
I asked after her health and said all the foolish and useless things one does say on such occasions, but she simply looked at me with dazed, frightened eyes and made no reply to any of my questions.
But, all of a sudden, she gave a sharp jerk as if pulling herself back to sentient life.
“Was he—was he really murdered?” she asked in a whisper. “My poor husband murdered?”
This was my opportunity to carry out the promise I had made to the purser. I told her as gently as I could that nobody was sure about anything as yet, but that she could be very helpful if only she would be kind enough to answer a few questions when Mr. Jennings came down to her room later on.
“Certainly,” she said, “I’ll answer any questions at all, though I’m sure there’s nothing I know that would be of much help. My husband was a happy man, Miss Llewellyn—a very happy man considering his age. He had his business worries of course, who hasn’t these days? But our life together has been all that we could have wished. Of course, my family always thought I was crazy marrying a man old enough to be my father—but he was good to me, a good husband, a kind man—”
She dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief.
“You mean, that you know of no reason why your husband should have wished to take his own life?” I asked.
“No, no, we were so happy,” she insisted tearfully. “But there are a great many people who may have wished him out of the way, for all I know.” She looked at me with veiled eyes. “How well do you know your friend, Mr. Burr?” she asked suddenly. “He seems to be very attentive.”
I replied that I had never set eyes on him before yesterday.
“Well, he says he’s recovering from an operation, but my personal belief is that he came on this trip to try to get a South American contract away from my poor husband. He is the vice-president of a rival company, you know. Mr. Lambert didn’t say anything definite, but I know he was quite upset to find Adam Burr on the same boat.”
“I remember you told me that this was a business trip,” I remarked invitingly.
Mrs. Lambert glanced anxiously towards Betty, who had been staring aimlessly out of the porthole. The girl immed
iately took the hint and left us alone together.
“Yes,” whispered Mrs. Lambert, “it was a very important business trip. I know nothing of the details, of course, but the whole thing was to be kept a dead secret. That’s the reason we brought Betty along. Perhaps Jimmie—Mr. Earnshaw, that is—can tell you about it. But there is one thing I can tell you—”
She shuddered as though she were remembering something particularly unpleasant, and once again I noticed the look of fear in her eyes.
“There was something wrong with that glass of sherry which 1 had last night. You remember how I sent it back and asked for port? Well, I believe that someone had done something to it. The wine tasted absolutely different from what I had before dinner—you heard the steward say it was exactly the same! Can you wonder, Miss Llewellyn, in view of what happened later to my poor husband, that I am frightened for myself—for Betty—even for Mr. Earnshaw, who was my husband’s right hand man and so devoted to his interests.”
She was obviously working herself up into hysterics so I interposed quickly:
“But your husband had a weak heart,” I said. “Isn’t it possible that—?”
“Yes, he did,” she sobbed, “and of course it may have been that. He always went at things so hard—work and play—at his age it was very unwise. It may have been that, oh God knows what it was—”
Here she broke down again, completely, so I summoned Betty, who gave her some aromatic spirits of ammonia and fussed soothingly about her.
After a while I left and went to my chair on the upper deck to enjoy the lovely warm sunlight and try to think things over coolly, calmly and collectedly.
And before I go any further, Davy, I want to say one or two things about Mrs. Lambert. Not that I intend to pose as an infallible psychologist at this stage of the game. I am, however, prepared to bet fifty to one that she did not murder her husband, even if she does inherit his money. After all, it takes a great deal of what you so vulgarly call “intestinal fortitude” to commit a murder, and she hasn’t any of that in her make-up. She’s no fool, of course, and I don’t believe for a moment that she was passionately in love with old Lambert —but, kill him in cold blood, never! She’s too soft—too feminine. Murderers—especially when they are murderesses—should be made of sterner stuff. She may have deceived him, told him fibs, kidded him along, but she did not actually take his life. Of that I am certain. Besides, she never had an opportunity. She was sitting on the couch all the evening and not once did she come within three yards of the drinks on the bridge table—not even when she said good night. She’s a silly woman and I don’t particularly like her, but I’m going to do all I can to help her because she is thoroughly scared—and—well, us girls must cling together in a case like this! So much for that.
Now for the next developments, such as they are.
I hadn’t been long on the upper-deck, sunning myself and sipping my bouillon, before I was joined by Adam Burr. Apparently he had spent his whole morning either in cross-questioning or being cross-questioned. He has found out that Mr. Lambert’s first wife is dead, leaving one child (male) with whom he had not been on speaking terms for some years.
There has been plenty of activity, it appears, from the authorities this morning. The smoking room has been gone over with a fine comb but nothing has been found. The steward (who has been with the company fourteen years and has a blameless record) swears that he fixed Mr. Lambert’s drink exactly the same as usual and that no one approached him or came near his tray while he was carrying the glasses to their respective destinations. Mrs. Lambert’s sherry was exactly the same as before and he is positive that he opened a fresh bottle of soda water for each glass that required it.
Earnshaw has been given an opportunity to look over every passenger, officer, and member of the crew to see if he could identify anyone as being an enemy of Mr. Lambert’s, but he has declared that everyone was a complete stranger—with one exception.
“And you, I presume, are the exception,” I interposed quickly.
“Clever child, how did you guess? Yes, I admit I knew Mr. Lambert slightly—only in a business way, of course.” Here Mr. Burr pulled out a large handkerchief and passed it over his shiny bald pate. “As a matter of fact, I was very much astonished to see Alfred Lambert on this boat at all. His presence could mean only one thing—that he was after a contract! And he had told me that he was never going to have any more dealings with those ‘damned Dagoes’ as he called them. His firm got bitten pretty badly last year when the milreis dropped.”
He went on to explain that both he and Mr. Lambert were connected with different firms and that there was a big contract now going begging in Rio de Janeiro. He admitted quite frankly that they were business rivals but assured me that there was no personal animosity—on his side at least. “Old Al Lambert,” he continued, “was as sharp as a thumbtack, but outwardly he was always a perfect gentleman.”
“Do you think his financial affairs were in such shape that he might have wanted to take his own life?” I asked.
Mr. Burr chuckled, “No, no. Alfred is not the man he was, of course, but nobody really is or was as far as I can make out. Still, I think the old boy could still sign a six-figure check without turning a hair. He feathered his nest all right—wish I could say the same. Besides, as I remarked before, Lambert was always very much the gentleman. And no one would say it would be a gentlemanly thing to do—to take poison in the middle of a game of bridge, to knock the drinks all over the ladies’ dresses, and to make such an exhibition of one’s self in public. Besides, if he had been suicidally inclined, he would at least have waited till the end of the rubber. Al’s middle name was Contract—in more senses of the word than one.”
We then started to discuss the possibilities and probabilities of the previous evening, but Mr. Burr could think of nothing that was out of the ordinary and had absolutely no contributions to offer in the way of a motive. Suddenly it seemed to dawn on us that, considering we were strangers to each other and both under suspicion, we were being extraordinarily frank and outspoken in talking this way. I hope this is all going to sound funny to me some day, but even as I write, I have a horrid, creepy feeling along my spine—. Suppose something got planted among my belongings? I know I’m innocent, but no one else does. Probably Mr. Burr felt about me just as I felt about him—not absolutely sure.
Anyway, after a moment he bent over me and looked at me searchingly.
“Forget those dark thoughts, my dear, and let’s work in double harness on this. I’ve never been in cahoots with the press before and it might really be a help to pool our resources. What do you say?”
He looked so kind and paternal that I broke down and told him all about my visit to Mrs. Lambert, my journal, the Laubenthal case—everything, in short, except the name of my bootlegger.
Oh, well, perhaps I was a fool and perhaps not. Anyhow, there goes the lunch bugle and a cup of bouillon won’t sustain me for ever.
I must fly.
On Deck.
Saturday, November 14th.
4:15 P. M.
I had a little nap after lunch, Davy, and woke up to find Adam tenderly wrapping my steamer rug round my legs. The old dear has now gone off to fetch me a cup of good strong English tea, so I have a chance to scribble down the item of news which he has just imparted.
It’s awful to write about such things on this gorgeous Moby Dick of a day, but I must get pen to paper before medical terms escape my memory.
Apparently Dr. Somers has completed his autopsy and, although he is not a regular pathologist, he has satisfied himself as to the cause of Mr. Lambert’s death. An examination of the stomach contents tends to verify his diagnosis of strychnine poisoning, and the amount swallowed seems to have been enough to cause death even in a healthy young man, let alone an old one with a leaky mitral valve. There’s no-doubt about his heart having been in bad shape, but Dr. Somers says he might easily have lived twenty more years with reasonable care. It was the s
trychnine that did the trick.
Our young surgeon is quite frank on the subject of his own inadequacy, but he has apparently done his best with the rough and ready equipment that he has on board ship. He told Mr. Burr (though why on earth he should have been so confiding beats me!) that he is unable to say when or how the poison was administered or exactly how long it took to act. Certain organs are going to be removed (ugh!) for further analysis when we reach Georgetown.
This afternoon the body will be embalmed and placed in an empty stateroom. Merciful heavens! Just supposing it should be next to mine! Imagine how one would feel if one jumped into the wrong bed and found—oh Davy, it’s too frightful! But I must keep my own counsel, as the general public still doesn’t know a thing. They’ve been told that an elderly invalid died the first night out and no one even suspects foul play. At least, that is the story.
These are a few pleasant thoughts to carry me through my tea—here it comes incidentally. And later on Adam Burr and I are going to slip away to a secluded spot (dear, didn’t I tell you he’s got a head like a plum and a tummy like a pear!) and go over everything we can remember about last night. As a matter of fact, I’m going to read this journal to him, all except certain little asides that are meant for your ears and eyes alone. At present I’m afraid I have nothing more to contribute. In the Laubenthal case I did have a hunch. But now I have nothing—except this record which does at least set down as accurately as possible every single thing I observed consciously last night.
Stateroom,
Saturday, November 14th.
6:30 P. M.
Well, darling, it is just possible that I may have contributed something after all, although, as you will see later, I am still doubtful. In any case I must hurry if I’m going to tell you because it’s getting late and I’ve got to dress. I have a particular reason for wanting to go down to dinner tonight—a very particular reason!
Adam and I had a long conference on deck this afternoon and first of all I read him my journal (minus terms of endearment and all twiddleybits) from the very beginning, while he scribbled little notations. Finally he said:
