S.S. Murder

by Q. Patrick

  “You know, partner, we’ve now pinned a motive on almost everybody concerned and made a thoroughly efficient job of it. But, there’s one person who seems to have been remarkably backward in coming forward about this whole business—and that’s Robinson. Don’t you think we ought to have a bit of a talk with him?”

  “Gosh! I’d forgotten all about him,” I replied. “I hardly believed I’d know him again if I saw him. I vaguely remember that he had a pleasant coat of tan and wore spectacles. But I think your idea is a good one. He’s probably in the smoking room. It’s open again now—let’s go and see. I’m getting giddy walking round the deck anyhow and my face is stiff from smiling at the same people every time we run into them.”

  We went down the companion-way to the scene of last night’s tragedy, where we were immediately accosted by little Daniels, who callously suggested a game of bridge. We both refused, and I said, smiling:

  “Why not try your friend, Mr. Robinson? You seemed to admire his play last night—!”

  Daniels snorted scornfully.

  “And where is he, by the way?” I continued, “I haven’t seen him around at all since—since—Mr. Lambert’s death.”

  “The less he hangs around, as far as I’m concerned, the better,” snaps Daniels. “Any man who leads the way he does ought to be locked up permanently. I jolly well hope that I never see his ugly mug across a bridge table again as long as I live.”

  “Well, I thought he had a nice mug,” I said mendaciously, “I wouldn’t at all mind seeing it again at a bridge table—just so long as he was my opponent and not my partner.”

  I was about to continue my attempt to draw Daniels out on the subject of Robinson when an incident occurred which even now gives me the strange creepy feeling up and down my spine that is becoming too, too familiar.

  The nice Mr. Jennings came into the smoking room with a piece of paper in his hand and a puzzled frown on his face. As he came over and stood near me, I could not help noticing my own name written on his paper and that of Adam Burr, both with crosses against them. In fact there was only one name on the list which had no cross.

  “Excuse me,” he said politely, addressing the three of us collectively, “but are you quite sure that the fourth bridge player last night was called Robinson?”

  “There’s no forgetting either his name or his play,” said Daniels.

  “Would you be so kind as to tell me once again what he looked like?”

  Daniels and Burr stared at each other helplessly. Then they both turned inquiringly towards me.

  “Why,” I stammered, “I didn’t notice him properly. It was the first night out, you know, and—and—”

  “And Miss Llewellyn is engaged to another man,” said Adam-facetiously.

  “He was sunburnt,” I continued, with a withering glance at Mr. Burr. “He wore a dark lounge suit; he has spectacles and thick brown hair and his age is about—”

  “Thirty or forty,” added Daniels.

  “Or fifty,” appended Adam.

  Jennings looked down at his paper again and the corrugations on his forehead were deeper than ever.

  “There’s a Mr. Robertson in the third class, but he’s over seventy years old—a Methodist minister—wears a beard and is travelling with his wife and daughter.”

  I shook my head, and Mr. Daniels said with some vehemence:

  “Good God, Jennings, the man can’t have vanished. He was here large as life last night. All you’ve got to do is to trace him on the passenger list. There aren’t that many people on board—surely!”

  “Well,” Jennings said slowly, (and it was then that the uncanny feeling began to creep over me), “it may interest you to know that there is no one named Robinson among the passengers or among the crew. Moreover, we have checked your description against every man on the boat, and there is not—one soul—that—it fits!”

  Social Hall,

  Sunday, November 15th.

  12:00 M.

  All yesterday we must have been pressing hard upon the heels of summer, and today we have sailed full tilt into blazing sunshine and sub-tropical heat. I cannot help feeling sorry for you, Davy, back in New York, where the November blasts must be whistling around the corners and where, I’m sure, neither of the two trees in your block has a decent leaf left to cover itself.

  The officers look very smart in white uniforms and all the experienced travellers have put on cotton suits or frocks. There are even more fresh faces about and everything looks quite bright and picturesque. And I have just recaptured something of my childish faith and devotion by going to a church service on board ship. The captain read a beautiful bit from Job about “drawing out Leviathan with a hook and binding the sweet influence of the Pleiades.” Then we sang a hymn about “those in peril on the sea” and I put up a special little prayer for you, Davy boy—and one for us both. It was all very charming and simple.

  So now that I have regained my balance, my sober common-sense and (let us hope) my sense of humor, I can speak more calmly about last night’s development.

  We have all been questioned again about Robinson; the ship has been searched from bow to stern; Daniels and Mr. Burr have themselves examined every male passenger who might possibly correspond to our description; but Robinson has not re-appeared.

  There are four possibilities, according to Adam:

  (1) He is a stowaway and has not yet been found.

  (2) He has fallen overboard.

  (3) He is an impersonation.

  (4) He is a ghost.

  Nos. 2 and 4 seem unlikely because no one called Robinson is registered, you remember, either as a passenger or as a member of the crew, but then I suppose ghosts don’t register anyhow—

  40 minutes later.

  I had just got to that point, Davy, when Jennings came into the social hall and asked me if I’d be kind enough to go down and see Mrs. Lambert, as she’d been asking for me. I jumped up at once and—like a fool—left my journal lying on the table, where I had been writing. However, I did have the sense to close it—of that I am certain.

  Mrs. Lambert, Betty and Earnshaw were all in the sitting room when I entered. The poor widow looked somewhat rested and refreshed, but Betty was still quite pale and pathetic. Earnshaw, on the other hand, seemed to have recovered his poise and self-possession, which is very admirable seeing that, from a material point of view at least, he is really the hardest hit of them all. He has lost his employer, his job—and both he and his girl have probably been done out of a legacy by the old man’s sudden death.

  Acting as spokesman for the party, he explained to me that all three of them had planned to leave the boat at Georgetown, where, after going through the necessary formalities, he would arrange for Mr. Lambert’s cremation. They hoped to get back to America on the next boat.

  It was at this point that Mrs. Lambert interposed with, “But, Miss Llewellyn, I really wanted to talk to you about Betty. The poor child was promised a holiday—it’s bad for her to stay cooped up here all the time and, naturally, she’s a bit shy about appearing alone in public after what has happened. You are the only girl on board whom we know and who is anywhere near her age. I was wondering if you would be so kind—”

  “Oh, Aunt Mabel,” interrupted Betty, a trifle petulantly, “there’s really no point in bothering Miss Llewellyn this way. I can hang around with Jimmie.”

  “I’m going to be pretty busy,” interposed Earnshaw, “with Mr. Lambert’s papers until we get to Georgetown. I shan’t have a minute to spare. You must get some fresh air, Betty.”

  The girl pouted in a manner not very flattering to myself, but I assured her that I should be delighted to have her company.

  “I’ll call for you at 1:30 today,” I said, “and we’ll go to lunch together. I haven’t any friends on board the ship and it will be swell for me to have company. And you’ve no idea how flattered I am at Mrs. Lambert’s saying that we are anywhere near the same age!”

  I said goodbye and Earnshaw ca
me out of the stateroom with me. When we reached the corridor he took my hand in his and pressed it, saying, “You are a brick, Miss Llewellyn. The poor kid’s frightfully upset by all this and she seems worried about something, though she won’t tell Mrs. Lambert or me what it is. You are just the person she needs. It is good of you.”

  We talked for a while longer about the strange disappearance of Mr. Robinson and the possibility that the poison might have been administered in the first round of drinks. These two facts, Earnshaw told me, had been imparted to him that morning by Mr. Jennings. They had, he added, temporarily upset the only self-respecting theory which he had worked out for Mr. Lambert’s death. Then I remembered my journal and he seemed most interested. In fact, he said he was thinking that later on, when he was less busy, he was going to put some things down on paper himself. Then we must compare notes.

  As he stood there talking to me, I noticed for really the first time what an awfully attractive fellow he is. With his small dark moustache and thick black hair he really might easily double for John Gilbert. And then there’s something frank and genuine about him which I like a lot.

  Just as I was about to leave, he added:

  “As I said before, Miss Llewellyn, I shall be busy until we get to Georgetown sorting out Mr. Lambert’s papers. There are an awful lot of them. And since you are so kind about the whole wretched business, I’m wondering if you would give me some advice about a little personal problem of my own. I’ll be working all day, but—could we have a talk some time later on this evening? I’ll look for you then.”

  I gladly promised to meet him any time he was free. Then I remembered my journal again and dashed back to the social hall as fast as my still somewhat invalidish legs could carry me.

  Now, I distinctly told you, Davy, that I left the manuscript book on the writing table closed. Well, you can imagine my consternation when I found it lying where I had left it—open, with two or three sheets of ship’s note-paper lying on the section where I described the two bridge hands which were played the night of Mr. Lambert’s death (page 15). There were quite a number of people in the room, so my first thought was that somebody had just used my journal as a pad on which to write letters. I was about to return the ship’s stationery to the rack and continue writing when I noticed something rather strange.

  The top sheet of note-paper had some faint impressions on it which showed that the writer had pressed down fairly hard on his pen or pencil. I held these up to the light, but at first I could make nothing of them except a number of crosses, scrawled at random across the page. Some child had been scribbling, I thought. I looked again and saw the letters A and K followed by a number of crosses.

  Immediately the amazing truth dawned on me. Someone had been deliberately copying out the bridge hands from my journal. I could see the sequences quite clearly now—A K x x x and again Q J 10. There was no doubt about it at all.

  I turned round to the person who was sitting nearest the table—a large woman dressed in knitted purple.

  “Did you happen to see who was sitting at this table last?” I inquired politely, “I think I—er—left my fountain pen here and it’s gone.”

  She looked up unwillingly from a brightly-jacketed romance.

  “I believe there was a man there a minute or two ago,” she said, “but I didn’t notice him particularly. I don’t believe he stayed very long.”

  No one else in the neighborhood of my table was able to volunteer any information, so I’ve been sitting here ever since writing this and wondering—

  Wondering why on earth anyone should want to copy out those stupid bridge hands!

  Stateroom,

  Sunday, November 15th.

  6:30 P. M.

  I escorted Betty up on deck after lunch and we chatted and napped together quite pleasantly. Of course I didn’t like to pump her too obviously, but I showed a very lively interest whenever she started to talk about the Lamberts—which wasn’t often, as she is a reticent little creature. In addition to the shock of her uncle’s death, I think her affair with Earnshaw is responsible for her air of quiet broodiness. Every now and again she opens her mouth as if she is about to be very confidential, then she closes it again or merely makes some casual remark.

  But what she did say certainly bore out the truth of Mrs. Lambert’s statements. She told me that Uncle Alfred thought nothing in the world too good for Aunt Mabel, who (like her predecessor) before her marriage, had been an actress, but who had turned out to be a good housekeeper, made her husband as comfortable as possible, stayed home at nights, and raised no objection to his having Jimmie live in the house and making the place into a second office when there was any important job on hand. She also told me that Mrs. Lambert had tried her best to reconcile her husband with his son by the first wife (Mrs. Clapp’s nephew, incidentally), who, when last heard of, was running a cattle ranch somewhere in the Argentine.

  At tea-time Betty went down to keep her aunt company and her place was immediately taken by our Adam, who had been hovering round us all the afternoon like a fish hawk over a shoal of herrings.

  “Anything fresh?” he asked at once.

  I immediately retailed to him the scanty items that I’d gleaned from Betty. Then, rather shamefacedly, I told him how I had left my journal in the social hall this morning and asked him if it was he who had opened it.

  “Heavens, no,” he replied, helping himself to sugar, “I was in the bowels of the ship at that time—still looking for Robinson and Jennings. I’ll swear we saw everyone on board except three old ladies who were seasick and there’s no one who even remotely resembles our inglorious fourth. Those who were sunburnt didn’t wear glasses and those who had thick brown hair were too old or too fat or too skinny. It’s the most amazing thing.”

  “I don’t like to think about it,” I said, “especially when the shades of night are beginning to fall. Oh, look, quick—quick—there’s a whale.”

  We rushed to the side of the boat and saw a thin fountain of water coming up at regular intervals.

  “Thar’ she blows,” sang out Adam, as a number of other passengers flocked towards the rail with little squeaks of excitement.

  Then there was a sudden upheaval of water, an enormous tail was shot into the air, and I got a really front-row view of Job’s leviathan. I shouldn’t care to try him out with a hook, Davy; I know that much. I also know that, for the first time on the trip, I really felt that we were in mid-ocean and very, very far from home!

  As soon as the thrill of my first whale had subsided, we got back to business once again. Mr. Burr, who is an ardent reader of detective stories, explained to me (quite gratuitously, I might add) that all self-respecting crime analysis was divided into three leads—Motive, Means and Opportunity.

  “Now,” he said, “I suggest we take everybody one by one and put down what we’ve got against them under these categories. The Means, of course, was strychnine, which is, I suppose, more or less obtainable by any adult person who has set his mind on getting it. So we can leave that out. Let’s concentrate on Opportunity and Motive—now, here’s a piece of paper and a pencil. We’ll be perfectly hard-boiled and scientific. You can begin with me if you like.”

  Here are our notes as we scribbled them down:

  Adam Burr. Opportunity: Slight during the first game of bridge, since he was sitting opposite Lambert, but plentiful during the second game when he was sitting next to him. Motive: Possible business rivalry?

  (Adam then insisted on giving me a write up—and this is his own handiwork entirely.)

  Mary Llewellyn. Opportunity: Abundant during both bridge games. In the first she hovered affectionately around the old man’s chair and in the second she sat next to him. Motive: None; but it’s quite possible that she did it, since the least likely person always does in the best mystery stories!

  Daniels. Opportunity: Plentiful during both games. It was at his suggestion that Lambert took the rickey, whose natural tartness probably masked the bitter
ness of the strychnine. Motive: None apparent as yet.

  Wolcott. Opportunity: Plentiful while watching the play during both games. (Was it a coincidence that he should have left the room just before Lambert’s final collapse?) Motive: None apparent, but neither of us likes him or his behavior.

  Jimmie Earnshaw. Opportunity: Though he came into the room after the first game, M. L. is positive he stayed talking to her by the couch and never went near the bridge table. It is hardly conceivable that he should have been able to flick a strychnine pellet into the right glass from a distance of about eight feet. Motive: None apparent unless he has purloined the petty cash or forged his employer’s signature. He doesn’t look that type (M. L.) You never know with these sheiks (A. B.)

  Betty Lambert. Opportunity: It is possible that she slipped something into her uncle’s glass when she went over to kiss him good night. But, if we are to take his remark about a stiff neck as denoting the first symptoms of the poisoning, then both she and Earnshaw must be exonerated. It is conceivable, however, that Mr. Lambert really did have a stiff neck quite apart from the strychnine, and that he was not poisoned until the second round of drinks. Motive: None apparent.

  Mrs. Lambert. Opportunity: None. Both M. L. and A. B. are certain that she did not approach the bridge table during the entire course of the evening. Motive: Only such as one might get in cheap romances or the tabloids. And then, of course, she inherits something in the neighborhood of a cool million.

  Daphne Demarest. Opportunity: Fairly plentiful during the second bridge game although she was sitting opposite Lambert. (But what was an intervening table with those Olympic arms? —This from Adam.) Here again, if Mr. Lambert was poisoned during the first game, she is exonerated. Motive: Remote possibility through her connection with Mrs. Clapp, who is a relative in-law of Lambert.

  Smoking room Steward (who, for your information, rejoices in the name of Sam Bumstead). Opportunity: More than anyone else. Motive: Absolutely none.