S.S. Murder

by Q. Patrick

  Later.

  I feel better now. The thought of you made me cry, and that relieved me. Then I tried to sleep—but, no! There’s nothing for it but to get on with my story and tell it the best I can—quietly, at first, because I was simply sleepy, when Trubshaw called me at ten minutes to two: sleepy, and disinclined to go through with my ridiculous determination. If I hadn’t made such an issue of accompanying Jennings I could have stayed safe in my bed. No one will ever know how fervently I wish all this could be a bad dream—a grisly chimera which I might forget tomorrow and ever afterwards.

  But what I tell you now I can never forget, I think—if, indeed, I live to remember it. And since it is quite possible that I may never see you to tell the story with my own lips, I must write it down quickly and trust that these words, at least, may reach you safely.

  When Trubshaw’s discreet knocking finally woke me, at 1:50, I lay still for a moment, collecting myself, and cursing my “nose for news.” Then I heard the steward’s whisper through the door.

  “Mr. Jennings is ready,” he said. “Ready when you are, Miss. Is there anything I can do for you, Miss, before you go?”

  Nothing warned me. Instead, I felt a pleasant flicker of excitement, with only a rather invigorating tinge of fear. I slipped on a dress and tennis shoes and made my way to the purser’s office.

  I found Jennings calmly smoking a pipe in his room with two cups of coffee on the table at his side. He greeted me cheerfully, but his cherubic face seemed less pink than usual and there was a serious look in his eye which belied his casual air.

  “Sit down and have some coffee, Miss Llewellyn,” he said, pushing a cup towards me and lighting my cigarette. “We can take our time about starting. There’s not a soul waiting for us—unless it’s our old friend Robinson! But I must confess I’m a bit skeptical even about him.”

  I took a sip of coffee, but to my surprise I found that my teeth rattled so against the edge of the cup that he evidently heard the noise.

  “Look here,” he said paternally, “why don’t you back out of this business now? I can easily go alone and search that stateroom. There’s absolutely no need, for you to come along too.”

  “N-nonsense,” I chattered, “I’m c-razy to g-go!”

  “Well, there’s no hurry. Here—let’s have something to help the coffee down.”

  He produced a bottle of three-star brandy from a cupboard on the wall and poured out two stiff measures. After I had taken a few gulps I felt decidedly better—once more keen to get on with our adventure.

  “You haven’t told anyone about this?” I asked anxiously.

  “No. I don’t like doing this without the captain’s permission, but you made me promise and I’ve kept my word. I had some difficulties in getting the surgeon to give me the keys to the stateroom without telling him exactly why I wanted them. He seemed to suspect me of the most sinister intentions. And you may be interested to know that you were quite right in your supposition. Although the ship has been searched several times for Robinson, no one has been in that stateroom since Somers locked it up last Saturday. Of course, I don’t see how Robinson could get in and out, but there’s a remote chance that he might be hand in glove with some member of the crew.”

  “Whereabouts is this stateroom?” I inquired. “It seems a funny place to put a corpse—surely the neighbors might object!”

  Jennings raised his eyebrows and took a sip of coffee before replying. “It’s not the usual procedure, Miss Llewellyn. But then, this whole business is rather unusual, isn’t it? When anyone dies on board ship we generally bury them at sea—as quickly as possible. If there is any objection to that, the body is put in the isolation ward or the hospital. But, it so happens that one of the pantry boys reported a suspicious-looking rash just after we left the harbor. The little rascal wanted to get to Rio, so didn’t say a word until we were out to sea. Dr. Somers is keeping him isolated for observation. Then the ship’s hospital is in constant use. We couldn’t keep a body there for ten days. That’s why Captain Fortescue decided on an empty stateroom.”

  “But,” I exclaimed, “it isn’t healthy, Mr. Jennings! A dead body right in among the passengers—ugh—!”

  The purser gave me a twisted smile, though inwardly, I am sure, he was cursing me for an interfering woman.

  “Oh, come, Miss Llewellyn, it isn’t as bad as all that. Mr. Lambert’s body is right down on E deck, No. 213 to be exact —in a section of the ship that is at present quite unoccupied. Since the trade slump we’ve been running very light and there are lots of cabins that we never need. A number of our stewards have been dismissed and we are keeping the unused sections of the boat shut up to save heat, light and service. This stateroom is a long, long way from your own—or from anyone else’s for that matter.”

  Involuntarily I gave a little shudder. Then I picked up my tumbler and drained the last drop of brandy.

  “Let’s go,” I said with decision.

  Jennings rose to his feet. Then he took a revolver from his desk drawer and handed me a flashlight.

  “Are you sure you still want to come?” he asked seriously. “The ship’s rolling pretty badly and you may get bumped about in transit.”

  “Lead on, Macduff,” I [mis]quoted* gaily, and together we started off on our journey into the bowels of the Moderna.

  At first it was quite fun, Davy. The passages were all lighted, and we caught several unofficial glimpses of the night-life on board an ocean-going liner. One stray reveller evidently mistook me for his errant lady-love and wanted to start a fight with the stalwart Jennings. We heard nocturnal squabbles between husband and wife; we also heard horrible noises which proved—if further proof were necessary—that the ship was rolling pretty considerably and to the intense discomfort of a number of its passengers. Stewardesses were running to and fro with basins and pursed lips.

  By and by we left the first class behind us. Corpses, apparently, travel third, Davy—an ironic reflection for rich passengers like Mr. Lambert. And now our journey became somewhat more precarious. We passed down very narrow passages where grimy, half naked engine-room hands stood about in little groups, feverishly inhaling a few puffs of cigarette smoke before going to wash the caked sweat from their bodies. We caught an occasional view of the engines themselves—those huge, smooth giants which were carrying us relentlessly forward irrespective of storm and stress. We traversed evil-smelling areas which reminded me of the garbage cans of yesteryear, and we saw pale shadowy forms hurrying upwards from below the water line for a breath of pure air. It takes all this varied humanity to get a huge liner to its destination, Davy. How little of it we realize as we sit and sun ourselves on the upper deck.

  I say a “huge liner.” In reality the Moderna is only about 15,000 tons. Yet it seemed miles long to me last night. I thought we should never reach our destination. At last we came to a heavy iron bulkhead which Jennings rolled back with a harsh, grating noise. Closing this behind us, we stepped into the musty atmosphere consequent upon closed ventilators, shut portholes and the lack of proper cleaning and care.

  Up to this point our journey had at least been warm, well-lighted and full of life; but now we had emerged into a dark, airless region, empty and silent as a vault. And not only was it cold and cheerless, but there was a darkness in the atmosphere—a sense of staleness and decay which was almost as oppressive as actual putrescence.

  “Don’t be afraid of the gun,” Jennings murmured in a terrifying stage whisper which was meant to be casual. “The first chamber is loaded with blank—so, even if it did go off by accident—”

  “I’m not afraid of anything except the cockroaches,” I shuddered, as several ghostly shapes, large as fifty-cent pieces, scudded noiselessly away before our advancing feet.

  But as soon as I spoke, I realized that I was lying in my teeth, Davy. I was afraid of something else. I was afraid that we were being followed. Distinctly, as we progressed, I heard faint noises in the dark distance behind us—noises whi
ch were independent of the weather or the creaking of the ship. I plucked at Jennings’ sleeve.

  “Did you hear that?” I whispered. “It sounded as though someone else had just pushed back that door.”

  “Rats,” he answered and, although I could not see his face, I felt sure he was grinning reassuringly.

  “That’s worse than anything,” I muttered as we crept onward.

  Soon after we had passed a bend in the corridor, the purser began flashing his light on the numbers of the rooms. Suddenly he stopped.

  “Number 213. Here we are.”

  He produced a key and turned it in the lock.

  Then, as the door opened, Davy, my nostrils were immediately assailed by the sickening-sweet smell of formaldehyde—of the embalming fluid which is supposed to arrest decomposition and all its attendant horrors. And, at this moment, I realized that here was one of the things, without my knowing it, had terrified me most about this expedition—the odor of death. It now rushed out at us like a tangible presence; it invaded my hair, my clothes, my whole body; it was almost overwhelming.

  But I had hardly braced myself to follow Jennings into that dreadful room, when the door suddenly swung shut with a resounding crash. We staggered back. For a moment we stood in the corridor, speechless and immovable.

  “My God, was that the ship or was it—was it something inside that room?” I whispered fearfully.

  “We’ll soon see,” muttered Jennings between clenched teeth and gripping his revolver firmly in his right hand, he kicked the door open again and started to fumble with the electric switch. There was a click but no responding illumination.

  “Damn it! They’ve taken out the bulbs,” he muttered, turning his flashlight towards the ceiling and then around the room. “But it must have been the rolling of the ship that closed the door. There’s no one here.”

  Holding my handkerchief to my nose, I entered the room after him and we proceeded to examine it. A fair sized cabin, it would normally have held about six third-class passengers. But now only one berth was occupied, and, try as I would to prevent it, my eyes kept returning to that white, shrouded figure, rigid beneath its covering sheet. There were heavy curtains at the foot of each set of berths. We pulled them back. There was nobody behind them. Outside, we could see the waves dashing against the porthole. The ship was still staggering and shuddering beneath their blows. I noticed that the Thing on the bed had been strapped in place to prevent its rolling on to the floor. A wise precaution. Suddenly, for no particular reason, I began to think of that most ghastly of all ghost stories—“The Upper Berth.” A strange, uncanny sensation of unreality began to sweep over me.

  But just at this moment there was something more tangible —or more audible—to worry us. Jennings’ bent back straightened with a jerk and he stood in a listening attitude. At last he had heard it too. At last he realized that we actually had been followed and that the noises which I had heard earlier were not merely—rats!

  No rat in the world ever made that sound. They may do queer things, but they don’t sneeze! And I had distinctly heard a sneeze in the passage.

  We both moved hurriedly to the door at the same moment and almost bumped our heads together as we reached the passage. There was a flicker of light just around the bend and I caught a glimpse of a white figure, quickly disappearing in the other direction.

  “Wait here,” snapped Jennings, as he started to run towards the light.

  For a moment I stood there,—just outside that terrible stateroom, too dazed to move. I had left my torch in the cabin and it was pitch dark in the corridor. The silence was broken only by the faint whisperings of insects,—the occasional scampering of rodents, and the gulp-gulp of waves against the porthole. Jennings was lost to sight. I was alone in the very entrails of the Moderna.

  And as I stood there, Davy, I began to be conscious of a feeling of blind, overwhelming panic. I had been frightened before, but it was nothing compared with this new feeling of helpless and abandoned terror. Without clearly knowing what I did, I re-entered the stateroom and started to battle with a new idea which had suddenly crashed through my bewildered brain. A crazy, fantastic notion which was so staggering that it actually made me feel safer in that room—alone with a dead body—than I had felt outside in the passage.

  Supposing Jennings himself should turn out to be Robinson!

  Supposing he had brought me to this isolated part of the ship where I could scream until I was black in the face and no one would ever hear me—supposing, I say, he had brought me here to do with me as he had done with Betty Lambert. And if he was Robinson, then there was nothing of which he was not capable.

  And though I knew of no particularly good reason why he should be Robinson, there was also no earthly reason why he should not be, as well as any young or youngish male on board. In my heated imagination I could see those smooth pink cheeks covered with grease paint to give the appearance of tan; those clear blue eyes masked behind steel-rimmed spectacles and that blond hair darkened to a chestnut brown.

  Of course my first thought was to turn and flee—to get away as far as possible from this horrible place. Then I remembered that maze of corridors—those innumerable turns. I had a vision of myself wandering round and round—lost in the bowels of the Moderna. My sense of direction had completely deserted me. I could only stay where I was and wait—and hope.

  I jumped up, flashed my light on the door and fastened the bolt securely from the inside. At least he could not get back into the cabin until I was calmer.

  All this must have taken about three seconds of actual time. In an effort to regain my composure, I sat down again waiting for footsteps, waiting for anything to break the monotonous roar of the waves which seemed to intensify the awful stillness and solitude of that cabin.

  Awful stillness? But was it so awfully still after all? I was beginning to have uncomfortable doubts about my solitude. Somewhere, somewhere in this very room there was a movement. I could swear that there was life other than my own. Or was it just nerves—my heart’s tumultuous beating that I heard?

  Was it the measured breathing of a living being, or was it—another wild idea struck me—was it, perhaps, the corpse?

  What if that shrouded form on the bed were not Mr. Lambert’s body at all but—but—

  I turned my torch on to the opposite berth with a trembling hand. For a few seconds I stared at that awful whiteness. But, despite the flickering and dancing of my light, I could see no ripple, no faint undulation of the covering sheet. It was as still as death itself.

  But I must make sure. True, I had not the courage to pull back the sheet and gaze at what it concealed. But I had hands. I could feel where I dared not look.

  Balancing my electric torch on the washstand so that its light was turned away from the figure on the bed, I moved slowly across the room. But, just as I reached the other side, Davy, the ship gave one of those long, trembling shudders that ships give under stress, seeming to falter in her progress as if frightened by what lay just ahead, and throwing me off my balance so that I clung on to the iron-work to support myself. Then there was a thud. My flashlight had fallen on the floor and gone out.

  The room was in total darkness.

  I didn’t scream, Davy; please always remember that I didn’t scream—at least, not then. I simply put out my arms and groped blindly about to find my bearings. And then—oh, Davy, shall I ever forget it?—my hand touched something soft—something soft and yielding.

  It was human flesh!

  In the darkness, I thought, I must have unwittingly removed the sheet from the body and now, it seemed, I was holding Mr. Lambert’s hand in my own. But, before I had time to take in the full horror of this contact, I suddenly felt that those fingers —those fingers, which I had imagined to be dead—were slowly closing around my own. My hand was held in a vise-like grip.

  It was then, Davy darling, that I thought I must go mad. I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound came except a strangled sob. I
suppose I tried to move my hand away but my muscles refused to obey the dictates of my brain. My senses were numb—my legs seemed to have turned to water—my body was limp and powerless. I only knew in a hazy way that I was going to faint. I-hoped that oblivion would come soon.

  Apparently it did—

  Exactly what happened after that I shall never know, for I did not recover consciousness until I awoke to find myself here in my own stateroom alone, on my berth, with my door shut but of course unlocked. The first thing I did was to lock it, quietly. And no sooner had I turned the bolt than I heard—oh, Davy, this is the part that freezes my blood so that I can scarcely write. I heard Adam Burr’s voice outside my door speaking my name. His voice was quiet, but penetratingly hollow. At the sound—Davy, am I going mad?—doubts and fears came rushing to the surface. What on earth was he doing there at that hour of the morning? It was all I could do to keep from screaming aloud. I pressed, my hand against my mouth, shutting the sound in.

  “Jennings has gone for a stewardess,” the voice went on. “They ought to be back shortly. Can’t I—”

  “No, no!” I said, almost sobbing. “Please go away. I don’t want anyone. I don’t want to open my door again tonight. I can’t—-”

  His voice broke in. It sounded strange and far away—or was it that my senses were leaving me again? He must have asked me a question, because suddenly he spoke my name sharply.

  “Miss Llewellyn, are you really all right? You wouldn’t like me to call Dr. Somers?”

  “No, no,” I repeated, “just leave me alone—please.”

  “All right, my dear, just try to get some sleep. No one shall be allowed to disturb you.”