by Q. Patrick
There was a little cry from Mrs. Lambert. “You oughtn’t to say it, Jimmie. You oughtn’t even to think it. I’m sure that he’s utterly incapable of anything so terrible. Besides, we aren’t even sure that he is still alive himself.”
“Do you know anything about him?” I asked.
“No,” said Earnshaw, “the strange part of it is that neither Mrs. Lambert nor I has ever set eyes on young Lambert. But—and remember this—there are, or there were, three people on board this ship who knew Alfred by sight. One of them was his father, one of them is Mrs. Clapp, the other—” and here I caught a glimpse of steel in his eyes—“was poor little Betty!”
“Good God!” I exclaimed, “if your theory is correct, it would at least explain what to me has always been the most unreasonable, as well as the most terrible part of this whole business. The murder of Betty struck me, apart from being particularly brutal, as being utterly and absolutely pointless unless—!”
Earnshaw squared his jaw. “Exactly,” he muttered, and I noticed that the knuckles of his clenched fists were quite white. “And there’s. another point which everyone has either forgotten or completely overlooked. Mrs. Lambert is quite positive that there was something wrong with the sherry which she had the night Mr. Lambert was killed. Isn’t it just possible—I hate even to say such a thing—but might not Alfred Lambert—as Robinson—have tried to get rid of two people at the same time? Remember there were two obstacles between himself and Mr. Lambert’s money.”
“Then if that is true,” I exclaimed, “Mrs. Lambert is not safe for a single moment. Oh, I don’t want to frighten you,” I added quickly, as the poor widow stirred uneasily in her chair.
“Well, of course,” continued Earnshaw, “there’s been the nurse, and the doctor was always in and out, but even so—I know we shall both be glad to reach Georgetown. But in the meantime, something has got to be done. Now, Miss Llewellyn, let us suppose, just for the sake of argument, that Alfred Lambert came on board this ship disguised as Robinson. He hangs around his father until he gets invited to a bridge game. He has the poison ready. He slips some into his father’s glass and some into Mrs. Lambert’s—”
“That would have been difficult,” I interrupted, “I don’t remember his ever leaving the bridge table.”
“Now that’s exactly where you can really help us,” cried Earnshaw enthusiastically. “I imagined you recorded everyone’s movements that evening. That journal of yours would bring out just such points.”
“I’m not so sure,” I said doubtfully. “It was some hours afterwards that I wrote it and naturally I recorded only what I could remember. And then it’s more or less in the nature of a private letter—”
Here it suddenly occurred to me, Davy, that I had been a little bit over-frank in this chronicle about the Lambert ménage; that I had expressed my opinion pretty freely about Mrs. Lambert’s exact age and I had not always been as kind as I might have been even about poor little Betty. I couldn’t possibly let them read it. I couldn’t even trust myself sufficiently to read it out loud and expurgate where necessary.
“I’m sure I’ll be glad to answer any questions which I can,” I said at length. “But first I’d like to hear more about your theory—especially where Betty is concerned.”
“All right,” said Earnshaw. “I’ll go on with my supposition. Young Lambert has been successful as far as one of his victims is concerned. He probably hopes that everyone will think Mr. Lambert was poisoned during the second bridge game for which, of course, he had a perfect alibi. He discards the disguise of Robinson and either takes another, or keeps himself concealed somewhere in the ship. From now on we can only draw on our imaginations. Let us suppose that he meets Betty by accident and she recognizes him. Perhaps he is a passenger, perhaps an officer, perhaps he is a member of the crew or staff. He knows at once that recognition spells danger. Betty has only to put two and two together and it’s all up with him. He writes her an anonymous letter giving her a rendezvous. And here comes another point which is important. At one time, while Betty was a mere school girl, she admired her cousin tremendously. When I first met her, she was always singing his praises. I believe there was a tenderness on his side too. That may account for the fact that she did not tell Mrs. Lambert about her suspicions or about the rendezvous. At any rate, as we all know, she went to it and met—her death—poor child!”
Earnshaw paused for a moment and cleared his throat. Then he continued in a husky voice.
“Mrs. Lambert came up to look for her that night while you and I were talking in the smoking room. She saw her sitting with a man, whom she afterwards recognized as Robinson. Young Lambert must have been desperate. Perhaps Betty had just said she would tell all she knew. Perhaps—oh, we have no idea as to what passed between them, but he had to act fast—before he was seen and his identity disclosed. And then—the cruel devil—”
Here Earnshaw’s voice broke down completely and there was a long moment of silence. We were all thinking of that dreadful night when a single cry rang out across the sea—
“But what can we do?” I cried at last.
“The first thing is to protect Mrs. Lambert,” replied Earnshaw soberly. “If my theory is correct, she is now the only person who stands between Alfred Lambert and his father’s money. He is a murderer, he is more desperate than ever—”
“Yes, of course,” I rejoined, “but if neither you nor Mrs. Lambert has ever seen young Lambert, how are we going to identify him? Isn’t there a photo—or something?”
Earnshaw shook his head. “No. But there are one or two things that may be helpful. Remember that Mrs. Clapp knows young Lambert by sight. Someone might broach the subject tactfully. As you know, she did not approve of Mr. Lambert. She has not come forward as yet to offer a word of sympathy or regret. Neither of us could approach her on so delicate a matter. She’s a difficult woman, I imagine—artistic and temperamental. But she seems to like you. I wonder if it would be possible—”
I thought hard before answering. “I’ll see what I can do,” I said at length, “but we’ll have to be frightfully careful. Remember Mrs. Clapp is young Lambert’s aunt and, from what you say, I gather she was very fond of him.”
“And then,” continued Earnshaw, “I’d hoped we’d get some help from your journal. Betty might have said something to you—something, anything that would give us a clue—however slight—as to the identity of Robinson.”
“There’s no need to go through my journal for me to tell you that,” I replied. “Betty was very reticent with me. She mentioned young Alfred Lambert once, but she spoke as though he was on a ranch in the Argentine.”
“He’s supposed to be,” sighed Mrs. Lambert.
I was now warming up to Earnshaw’s theory very decidedly. Indeed, it seemed to me like the only really constructive piece of thinking that anyone had done so far.
“But don’t we know anything about young Lambert?” I asked. “His age—height—something to go on?”
“Well,” answered Earnshaw reflectively, “we know he’s under thirty and over twenty-five. And I have an idea, from something. Betty once said to me, that he’s fair and smooth shaven.” A tinge of color spread over his pale cheeks and he passed his hand reflectively over his dark chin. “In fact, she made some not altogether flattering comparisons at one time. I imagine he had a schoolboy complexion. Betty never liked my moustache.”
“All the Lamberts have baby skins,” said Mrs. Lambert absently. “Alfred—my husband—hadn’t a hair on his body. At least—,” she paused and looked a trifle embarrassed.
Earnshaw hurried to the rescue. “There are probably fifty young men on the ship to whom such a description applies,” he said.
“But my recollection of Robinson is that he was older,” I answered. “Between thirty and forty, I should have said.”
“Well, we can’t tell. Remember Alfred has lived on a ranch, and then, one can play almost any kind of trick with make-up. I never saw him myself, but—”<
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“I remember thinking Robinson was about thirty,” said Mrs. Lambert, reflectively. “His back was turned toward me most of the time, but I know he struck me as being awfully healthy looking. So nice and brown—just as though he’d spent his whole life in the open air.”
Well, Davy, we discussed the whole matter a little while longer and finally it was decided that we should keep our own counsel for the time being and not tell the authorities. I am to broach the subject to Mrs. Clapp as soon and as diplomatically as possible to see if I can tell from her manner whether she knows anything of young Alfred’s whereabouts. I don’t expect to get very far because she’s so clever that she could make me believe anything she wanted. However, I’ll do what I can. But I am not very optimistic.
After a final plea from Mrs. Lambert for tact and discretion with regard to publicity, I took my leave and came in to write this all down on paper as quickly as possible.
It may look fine in black and white, Davy darling, but it doesn’t tell us who Robinson is. And who knows that he may not strike again before we do find out?
Stateroom.
Friday, November 20th.
10:30 P. M.
Heavens, Davy, what an evening! Talk of cheap melodrama. I shall never forget it. And there’s so much to tell you, my darling, that I feel I ought to write in shorthand unless I want to sit up all night. But my Gregg is a bit rusty and I shouldn’t sleep anyhow, so I may as well try and get it off my chest, even if it takes me into the wee small hours.
It all started after dinner when I strolled out on the promenade deck by myself to smoke a post-prandial cigarette and think a few pleasant thoughts for a change. It was a heavenly time of the evening, midway between sunset and nightfall and the boat seemed to be plowing its way peacefully onward towards a new world where there is no depression, no Sunday column, to write, and, above all, no crime or fear or suspicion. I had just succeeded in forgetting about the Lamberts and was thinking about our wedding day, our brand new apartment and your nice rugged face, darling, when I suddenly became conscious that someone was standing behind me.
I turned round to find myself looking into the dark, sombre eyes of Señor de Silvera. He looked so lonely and so forlorn that I thought I’d cheer him up with a little Spanish conversation. I proceeded, therefore, to inform him very totteringly that it was a nice night, that the sea was calm and that we should reach Georgetown in a very few days.
“Muy bien,” he said politely, and then continued in execrable English. “Miss spiks well. We will spik togezzer, no?”
Don’t be jealous, darling, when I tell you he’s about the youngest and handsomest president of a corporation that I’ve ever seen. He’s intelligent, too, even if his conversation is more reminiscent of a “First Spanish Phrase Book” than anything else. He is married, he tells me, therefore he is sad. But he is glad, because he is going to his wife. He is bored. He likes not the trip. He was, I am sure, just about to inform me that the cat is on the mat and that the pen of his aunt is in the garden, when Daniels and Wolcott came up and joined us, both eager for bridge.
I asked Silvera if he would like to be my partner. He assented willingly enough, so we all went into the smoking room and started to play. No sooner had the first hand been dealt than Adam came in and started to “kibitz” behind my shoulder. We had decided on a tenth of a cent a point between Daniels and me, and a tenth between Daniels and Silvera. The pious Wolcott still steadily refused to play for money, and even objected to being carried by Daniels. His objections, on this latter score, however, were completely overruled by the little Cockney.
For a while, all went well. I got moderately good hands and Silvera was magnificently if monosyllabically polite, every time I made a contract. Wolcott played brilliantly, and as soon as the luck began to go his way a little, he and Daniels quickly retrieved their losses and were well on the plus side. Silvera’s temper did not improve as we began to go down and he kept growling to Burr in Spanish about his cursed luck at cards. Judging from their bewildered expressions, I should say that neither of our opponents understands any language other than his own.
Now for the excitement, Davy darling. Hold your breath for a moment and read what follows very carefully. Our opponents were one leg on rubber game and we were sitting like this:
Wolcott dealt and bid a spade. My hand was pretty rotten—nothing but a King of Diamonds and a Queen of Clubs. Silvera bid two diamonds and Daniels supported Wolcott’s spades. Finally Wolcott got the bid for four spades and Silvera doubled. Daniels and I passed.
I wasn’t particularly interested one way or the other, but suddenly I noticed a puzzled expression come over Adam’s face. He kept looking from one hand to the other and started rubbing his chin so vigorously that I thought he must be breaking out in a rash.
I was so busy staring at Adam that it was some time before I noticed Silvera’s face. The others were apparently waiting for him to lead, but instead of looking at his cards, he had laid them down on the table and was glowering at Wolcott with an expression of incredible ferocity. His eyes were gleaming like a trapped tiger’s and his upper lip had come away from his teeth in a manner which made one think he was just about to bury his fangs in the old man’s jugular vein. There was a moment of uneasy silence, broken only by the sound of Adam’s footsteps as he hurried tactfully to the door, closed it and turned the key. Sam Bumstead, the steward, was temporarily absent. The other passengers were playing the races in the social hall. The five of us were alone in the smoking room.
Then, in the twinkle of an eye, I saw Silvera raise his hand above his head and bring it down with a crash on poor old Wolcott’s left wrist. A pack of cards, identical with those we were using, fell to the floor in wild profusion. For one awful moment, Davy, I thought the Brazilian had performed the old western trick of pinning his opponent’s hand to the table with a knife.
But, physically at least, Wolcott seemed none the worse for this act of violence. He sat perfectly still, rubbing his wrist gently and staring with mild astonishment at the cards which lay at his feet. Silvera towered above him, beads of perspiration shining on his forehead.
Then came the big surprise, Davy, and I knew for the first time how Balaam must have felt when his ass turned and answered him in the Bible. Silvera had, throughout the trip, talked either in Spanish or broken monosyllables. Now he burst forth into a torrent of almost perfect English:
“Ah—so! You are cheating after all, Mr. Wolcott! I fancied I saw you conceal the pack of cards about your person. And I thought it strange the way your luck turned so suddenly. Your anxiety during the past few days to play with Mr. Daniels—an indifferent player at best—was, to say the least of it, a trifle odd. You are a rogue, sir—I shall inform the authorities. I shall—”
There was absolutely no doubt about it, Davy. Wolcott had had an extra pack of cards hidden up his sleeve, though why on earth anyone should want to cheat at one-tenth of a cent a point was completely beyond me—especially when it was the cheater himself who had declined to play for money. The old man blinked stupidly at Silvera, but did not say a word in his own defense. Instead, I heard him mutter, in a pathetic little whisper: “I told you it was dangerous, Daniels.”
This remark seemed to inflame Silvera more than ever and his voice became so high-pitched and his manner so threatening that I was certain he was about to resort to personal violence. It was Adam who finally saved the situation, and for the first time I realized that he has a hidden strength and virility which certainly is not obvious to the naked eye.
“Un momento, Sr. de Silvera,” he cried. “Tengo algo muy importante que decirle. Estos señores no hablan Español.”
The Brazilian turned flashing eyes towards Adam, and a spirited conversation ensued. When it comes to talking Spanish, I am a weak sister, as you know, Davy; but I can follow a conversation well enough, and I think I caught the general drift of what these two were saying.
Apparently Adam started to tell him that he knew exa
ctly who he (Silvera) was. He also knew exactly why he was going to Rio and how he hoped to win the Harbor Construction contract for his company. He, Burr, was frank to admit that he was after it too. Adam then went on to point out that Silvera, wishing to travel incognito, had posed as a Spaniard (which he wasn’t) and pretended not to speak English (which he did perfectly). Only the four people in the room knew his secret and Adam gave his guarantee that if Silvera would forget this unfortunate incident, the rest of us would forget his extraordinary lapse into English and any other irrelevancies which had cropped up during the trip.
At first Silvera listened to Adam with obvious astonishment. Gradually, however, I saw the dark color mount to his cheekbones. His voice was tense and sibilant as he said in Spanish:
“There is nothing disgraceful in my traveling this way, Mr. Burr. I am doing it for business reasons only. If it were officially known that I am returning to Rio so prematurely, the other construction companies would realize the magnitude of the contract and underbid me before I had a chance to look the situation over. As for my English—if I choose to keep to myself during the trip, that is my own affair entirely.”
Adam gave him a searching look. “Naturally, señor. You did not wish Mr. Lambert to know who you were. I can well understand that. And since you unfortunately found yourself at our table—well, what better disguise could you adopt? And having started the pretence of not speaking English, naturally you had to continue it.”
“It’s my own business,” repeated Silvera angrily.
“But the new breakwater is my business, too,” replied Adam. “A cable to Rio—a little hint as to your movements—” He waved his hand airily.
The anger died out of the Brazilian’s eyes. He turned to Wolcott. “I shall forget it,” he snapped. Then he rose, strode to the door, unlocked it and left the room.
A number of people began to filter in after the door was open. Daniels, Wolcott and I were still sitting in our seats, staring stupidly at each other like wax figures in a shop window. It had all been so quick and so utterly unexpected that we seemed to have been holding our breath for about five minutes. At length Wolcott bent down and slowly began to pick up the cards. Adam was smiling at Daniels in an elfish manner which made his ears stick out.
