by Q. Patrick
“Would you mind beginning again at the part where you first mention drinks being served in the smoking room?”
I started at page 19 and went on until he told me to stop. Then I looked at him and he looked at me, and both in one breath we said:
“If—”
Apparently the same thought had struck us almost simultaneously. So before going any further he hurried off to ask the surgeon whether or not the strychnine might have been administered in the first round of drinks.
He came back in a very few minutes carrying a thick green book entitled, CUSHNY’S PHARMACOLOGY AND THERAPEUTICS.
“Dr. Somers wasn’t there,” he exclaimed, “so I swiped this book from his cabin. Luckily I had one brief and inglorious year in medical school, so dear old Cushny won’t be entirely Greek to me.”
He opened the textbook at the section on strychnine, which, judging from various markers and marginal notes, had recently been consulted pretty freely by Dr. Somers.
Then Mr. Burr started to read me a highly technical description of strychnine, its action on the human body, the fatal dose and the horrible symptoms which follow its ingestion. Suddenly a phrase arrested my attention:
“—the first complaint is a feeling of stiffness in the muscles of the neck and face—”
“Wait a minute,” I cried out excitedly. “Mr. Burr, don’t you remember that Mr. Lambert complained to Betty about a stiff neck when she came in to wish him good night? He asked her to pull the curtain over the window in spite of the fact that the room was as stuffy as a hothouse. And this was before he’d even ordered his second drink.”
Mr. Burr’s only reply was a long, low whistle.
“And,” I continued, turning over the pages of my journal, “you will remember that Mr. Lambert had drunk only a little of his rickey at this point. He didn’t finish it until page 28, or after you and Daphne and I had begun to play—about fifteen minutes before he finally collapsed.”
“Yes, yes,” agreed Mr. Burr, in a tense whisper, “and naturally the alkaloid would have a tendency to stay at the bottom of the tumbler. Oh, boy, I believe we have got something at last. Strychnine, apparently, does not act very quickly and the old man might easily not have gotten the full effect until he drained his glass just before the second round of drinks came on. And then he complained of the bitterness of Daniels’ famous rickey, didn’t he? Well, strychnine has a very bitter taste—oh, my Lord, this looks bad for Daniels!”
We discussed the matter for a while longer and finally decided that Mr. Burr would take it up with the authorities as soon as possible, but, for the time being, we would not tell the others about the new development. Our discovery had, of course, considerably enlarged the list of suspects. If the poison had been put in Mr. Lambert’s second drink—the gin and ginger ale—then either Wolcott, Burr, Daphne, the steward or myself must be guilty. But if the rickey was responsible, then we had to figure on the possibility of Daniels, Robinson, Betty, Earnshavv, and Mrs. Lambert as well.
“I can easily imagine,” Mr. Burr concluded, “that our murderer is now congratulating himself on a tremendous piece of luck. Naturally everyone will have jumped to the conclusion that it was the last drink which contained the strychnine, especially since it has been impossible to analyze what remained in the glass. It is even probable that he—or she—had a perfect alibi by the time Lambert actually passed out.” “Well,” I said, “I think the best thing we can do is to find out as much as we can about our fellow passengers and see if there is any one of them who had a possible motive. I’ll start tonight at dinner to cross-question the captain as tactfully as I can. You follow my lead. In the meantime, why don’t you tell me about the circumstances which preceded the first game of bridge? There might be something illuminating in that.”
Adam hemmed and hawed for a few moments and then began his story of what happened during the earlier part of last evening.
He was, he said, in the smoking room at about 8:30 when the entire Lambert party entered. Mr. Lambert immediately rubbed his hands and suggested a game of bridge, but Betty said she didn’t feel very well and Earnshaw that he had a date with the moon. Then the young people made their escape. Mrs. Lambert didn’t seem keen on bridge either, so she and her husband strolled over to where Mr. Burr was sitting and started to chat with him and Wolcott. Meanwhile a few people drifted in and after Mr. Lambert had finished his cigar (in about half an hour’s time), he started to cast covetous eyes around him once again. Mr. Burr said he’d be delighted to play and then little Daniels popped up quite eagerly and said he’d make a fourth with Mr. Wolcott. But Wolcott refused (quite curtly, it seems) and Mr. Lambert was obliged to go over and ask Robinson, who had just come in and begun to play solitaire at a table near by. They cut for partners, settled stakes (one-fifth of a cent) and started in as I had found them when I came in later.
Nothing else important happened until Mr. Burr went off to fetch me—and the rest, of course, I know for myself.
And now, my dear, if I am to vamp the captain and my fellow passengers into telling me all about themselves, I must slip on something very seductive for dinner and do my damnedest. It’s an awful admission to make, Davy, but there’s a certain part of me that’s really enjoying this case, terrible though it be.
Now for a tub and after that my black lace Chanel—
Saturday,
Writing Room,
8:30 P. M.
Oh, my dear, dinner was a riot. Shall I ever forget it? It was just one of those things that one tries not to remember all the rest of one’s life, only to think of it now and again with an awful prickly sensation of shame and disgrace—I feel as though I had been caught stealing lumps of sugar at a garden party!
And my only excuse is that I had been primed by three cocktails before it all happened. Adam caught me just as I was coming out of my stateroom and rushed me off to the bar.—Never drink quickly, Davy, if you want to keep your wits and your manners about you.
Well, I found our table sadly depleted in numbers, though at first glimpse, while I was still suffering from dual vision, I had the impression of vast multitudes. Daniels, Silvera, Wolcott, Burr, Daphne Demarest, and Mrs. Clapp were the only passengers present. I behaved like a perfect lady all through the hors d’oeuvre and soup, and it was not until the agneau farci that I started to give an exhibition of what happens to a perfect lady when she tries to be tactful on one cocktail too many.
“Captain Fortescue,” I said as cutely and ingenuously as I could, “I’ve always wondered what it is that makes the captain of a liner invite certain people to sit at his table. Are they chosen for their looks, wealth, social position or their allure?”
Our gallant skipper looked at me the way Aunt Caroline does when you offer her a cocktail, blushed the color of raw beef and muttered something about “people who had special letters of introduction to him.”
“Of course,” I went on blithely, “I know that’s how it happened in my case. The City Editor of my paper (commonly known as ‘The Fox’) wrote and told you the worst about me, but I was wondering—take Mr. Burr now—surely nobody would be so rash as to give him a letter of recommendation?” I shot an arch smile across my shoulder at Adam.
“Mr. Burr,” replied the captain stiffly, “has travelled on this ship a great many times. I might go so far as to say that we are old friends.”
“And is Mr. Daniels an old friend too?”
The captain looked anxiously towards the little Cockney, who was wolfing his petìts pois paysanne and talking animatedly to Daphne at the same time.
“Mr. Daniels—er—brought a letter from our London office—he—”
“Oh, I’m quite okay,” interrupted the subject of our conversation, without taking the time to empty his mouth. “Don’t worry about me, Miss Llewellyn. My credentials are all right, but like my photographs, they don’t do me justice.” His piggy little eyes were twinkling with malicious amusement, as he added, “But Mr. Wolcott now—why not ask him how he go
t in such distinguished company?”
Now I’ve already told you, Davy, that I don’t like Wolcott and apparently Daniels doesn’t either. There’s something clammy and insincere about him. But still, he is a grey-headed old man, and even after three cocktails I would never deliberately make him feel uncomfortable at the dinner table. Uncomfortable he certainly was, however, when he caught Daniels’ remark. His face went deep pink and he laid down his fork as though he was never going to pick it up again.
“I—I—came to this table because I was invited by the captain,” he stammered. “If my—er—presence is objectionable, well, there are other tables—”
It was at this point, Davy, just as I was about to try to pour some oil on the waters I had troubled, that a clear, distinct voice rang out in tones of ineffable disgust.
“This is insufferable!”
At first I thought it must be Silvera speaking, but he was munching away and sipping his wine as though he hadn’t heard a word of the previous conversation. Daphne’s face was a mask of well-bred disdain.
It was Mrs. Clapp who had spoken!
Now, I had never properly noticed the widow lady until this moment. I had been conscious of her as a dark, mournful-looking creature who had appeared once before at lunch yesterday, but who hadn’t a word to say for herself. Now, as I looked into her dark, flashing eyes, I realized immediately that she was a person to be reckoned with. I should judge her to be between fifty and sixty, but there’s hardly a wrinkle in her face and her eyes are as clear and handsome as those of a girl of sixteen. It was her voice, however, that was the big surprise. It went through everyone at the table like an electric current.
“It is insufferable,” she repeated, and though she had not risen to her feet, she gave that impression, for everyone’s eyes were fixed upon her. “Why should we be catechized at the dinner table as to our—credentials—our rights to eat when and where we please? We have paid our passage money, Miss Llewellyn, and if you as a newspaper reporter are too young and too ignorant to know who I am—”
At this point the captain interposed a trifle pompously, “I think we are taking Miss Llewellyn’s remarks a little too seriously, and, I’m sure, it’s an honor for us all to have a great artist like Mrs. Clapp at our table. To those of us who remember her as Miss Marcia Manners, it is indeed an inestimable privilege.”
At the words “Marcia Manners” everyone at the table (except Daphne) stared at Mrs. Clapp as though she had been an apparition from another world—as indeed, in a sense, she was. For this mournful, subfusc woman is none other than the greatest of all comediennes—Marcia Manners, who made me laugh at the age of fourteen, made my mother chuckle at twenty-four, and caused my grandmother to hold up her fan to her mouth at forty. This was the woman who created so much fuss and excitement a few years ago by giving up a brilliant stage career to marry a man young enough to be her son; and he had died suddenly, I now remembered, only a few months ago. At last, Davy, I was beholding in the flesh a woman who had counted the world well lost for love.
No one spoke for a moment, but I noticed that Adam Burr had pulled out a pencil and was scribbling frantically on a menu card.
“Yes, Miss Llewellyn,” the beautifully modulated voice came across the table, “and I may as well inform you—since you apparently are so interested—that I am—or was—in a manner of speaking, a sister-in-law of Mr. Lambert’s. Unless I am very much mistaken, the gentleman at your side is writing that piece of information down for you at this moment.” (He was.) “The first Mrs. Lambert was once a Miss Manners. It was a great many years since I had seen my brother-in-law and I will tell you quite frankly that I did not approve of him—nor of the way he treated my sister. Now, Daphne, dear, unless there is any further personal intelligence that Miss Llewellyn requires, I think we may as well leave the table.”
With these words she sailed majestically out of the dining saloon, dutifully followed by her companion. The rest of us completed our meal in silence—and as speedily as we could.
I had just come into this room after dinner and was about to start writing my journal when Daphne came in, carrying under her arm an enormous box of chocolates adorned with all kinds of feminine frills and ribbons. She looked like a guardsman about to go calling on his sweetie.
I immediately went up to her and apologized for my share in the dinner-table fiasco, asking her to express my apologies to Mrs. Clapp for my unpardonable crudeness.
“Oh, that’s all right,” she said good-naturedly, “the old lady loves a scene now and again. I have ’em all the time, but she soon gets over it. She’s chucklin’ about it in her cabin now. She hates the press, you see, as is only natural, considerin’ how much she’s been in the public eye, but she’s a rippin’ good sort at bottom. We’re all in a devil of a. jam after last night and I don’t blame you a bit for tryin’ to find out all you can about our jolly little playmates. Have a chocolate, by the way?”
Her manner was so nice and friendly that I accepted at once. It was the most wonderful thing that I’ve ever eaten—all squishy inside and full of real French liqueur.
“My dear, what heavenly candy!” I exclaimed involuntarily.
Daphne paused with one on the way to her mouth and a doubtful expression passed over her face. I had the idea that she was trying to make up her mind whether or not she would tell me something. Suddenly it came out:
“Look at me, Miss Llewellyn, look as hard as you can and then tell me if you think I’m the kind of woman that would inspire a man’s passion at first sight.”
I looked at her but said nothing. Indeed, what could I say?
Then she plunged an enormous hand down the front of her dress and pulled out a piece of ship’s stationery with some typewriting on it.
“I found this in my room soon after dinner tonight, on top of this box of chocolates,” she said brusquely. “Such a thing has never happened in my life before. Here read it. I haven’t the foggiest idea who sent it.”
The letter went something like this:
DEAR MISS DEMAREST,
I know about last night’s murder and I know of your predicament. Also, I know a lady when I see one. If you find yourself in any difficulties, you have a friend at court who is more than devoted to your interests.
Just give the purser a note and he will deliver it to
Your friend and admirer,
ANON.
“And do you really intend to eat the chocolates?” I asked, wishing I hadn’t been so rash as to take one.
“Hell, yes; no one has ever wanted to do anything to me. I’ve often wished they would! Isn’t it amazin’ though? Well, I must be trottin’ along to Mrs. Clapp.”
With these words she replaced the billet-doux in her bosom and strode out of the room.
Ain’t life queer!
Saturday,
10:30 P. M.
Stateroom.
Well, Davy, I’ve turned in early enough even to please you, and in a few minutes I am going to bed with an allonal tablet (faute de mieux) to make up for the ravages of last night.
But before doing that, I must get down the nêw points which have come up tonight and I’m going to keep the best for the last, because it’s frightfully exciting. In fact it’s so exciting that it doesn’t bear thinking of, so I shan’t dwell on it.
I told Adam this evening that he ought to retire from business and join the rocking-chair brigade—he’s the greatest old woman for collecting gossip about people. And how he seems to love it! He has discovered (don’t ask me how) that Wolcott went to the purser’s office immediately after dinner this evening and made arrangements for a stop-over at Georgetown so that he could continue to Rio on another boat. Apparently he doesn’t find the atmosphere of this one to his liking. He claims that he is sleeping badly and feeling generally rotten. I must say that, for an old man, he looks the very picture of health. I wonder if my remarks at dinner precipitated this move! Or, I wonder—could this be the breakdown after a desperate act?
You will remember that I told you he doesn’t speak a word of English—or, at least, not a word that is recognizable as our mother tongue. He gasps and sputters occasionally, but avoids opening his mouth as much as possible.
Well, my indefatlgable Adam who speaks Spanish like a toreador, approached him tonight and started a conversation in what he claims was ninety-nine and forty-four hundredths per cent. pure Castilian. After they had been talking awhile, Adam says he noticed that Silvera spoke Spanish with a distinct accent. In short he is a Brazilian, trying for some reason best known to himself, to pass as a Spaniard, whereas, of course, Portuguese is his native language.
Then Adam got to puzzling it out and it struck him further that Silvera’s face was quite familiar: he was sure that he’d seen a picture of it somewhere since coming on board. Finally, he discovered it in the current issue of a magazine, The Engineering Age, and Silvera is none other than Gil Da Silviera, President of the Rio de Janiero Construction Company. And the article said that he was in America on business and did not expect to return to Rio until next March!
Now, Davy, all you have to do is to put two and two together and make twenty-two. The Brazilian government is building a new breakwater in the Rio harbor. It will cost at least $90,000,000. Mr. Lambert’s company was after the job; Burr admits quite frankly that he is too—and Silvera is returning home four months ahead of his schedule. The race, apparently, is to the swift and the contract to the lowest bidder!
We were taking a walk round and round the upper deck while he was telling me all this. It is becoming increasingly difficult to be alone with anyone, for the number of passengers seems to have doubled since last night, and they are all so distressingly friendly. As soon as we had reached a more or less isolated spot, Adam paused and said:
