S.S. Murder

by Q. Patrick

  “Go after him,” I yelled. “Quick!”

  The stewardess hesitated a moment while modesty warred with her desire to be helpful. Then, she turned and hurried down the passageway. Within a few seconds she was back.

  “He must of gone out the other door,” she said shaking her head. “It leads into the next corridor. All the lavatories have two exits.”

  By this time, Davy, a number of people had appeared from various neighboring staterooms and started to make the usual fatuous inquiries.

  “It’s nothing,” I said. “I bit my lip. Will you send Trubshaw to me, Mrs. Wilson?” As I spoke the steward appeared looking pale and frightened.

  “Miss Llewellyn,” he gasped, “can you come at once? It’s Mrs. Lambert.” He drew me aside. “She—she—oh, I don’t know, but I think she’s dead.”

  Dressed as I was in the flimsiest of wrappers, I started to run towards the widow’s stateroom.

  “Trubshaw,” I cried. “Go and fetch Dr. Somers. Send him here at once—and Mr. Daniels. I’ll do what I can for her. Only hurry, hurry—”

  When I reached Mrs. Lambert’s suite, I stood for a moment in the sitting room. It was empty, except for a frightened young waiter cowering in a corner, but there was an untouched dinner tray on a side table and all around the tiny escritoire was an untidy mass of paper. The drawers were thrown wide open and everything was in wild disorder as though someone had been looking eagerly for something which he could not find.

  With fast-beating heart I went towards the bedroom door and threw it open. There on the floor, lying diagonally across the room, lay the body of Mrs. Lambert.

  I was at her side in an instant, my head against her left breast to see if I could detect her heartbeat. But, before I could decide whether or not life was extinct, I saw something which made me recoil.

  On her white negligée, just above the heart, was a vivid spot of fresh blood, still damp and gleaming—

  At this moment the door behind me opened and Dr. Somers came in, black bag in hand.

  “Would you mind taking her feet?” he said after he made a rapid examination. “I want to get her on the bed.”

  Together we lifted Mrs. Lambert’s prostrate body. Then Dr. Somers turned and started to fumble in his bag.

  “Is she—is she dead?” I asked breathlessly.

  “Dead! Not a bit of it.” There was the usual professional cheerfulness in his tone. “She’s had a nasty shock, but I think she’ll come to in a minute.”

  “But the blood,” I exclaimed. “It looked as though she’s been shot—or stabbed.”

  Instead of answering, the ship’s surgeon pulled aside the wrapper and disclosed Mrs. Lambert’s firm white breasts. To my intense relief there was no wound or abrasion on their smooth surface.

  “The blood probably dropped from your mouth, Miss Llewellyn,” he remarked. “You’ve bitten your lip quite badly. Let me put something on it for you.”

  “Oh, never mind me,” I said impatiently. “I can wait.”

  Dr. Somers was breaking a small capsule under Mrs. Lamberts’ nose. She gave a tiny sneeze and then her eyes opened.

  As long as I live, Davy, I shall never forget the look of stark terror in her eyes.

  “Robinson!” she whispered. Then she sank back on her pillow.

  The surgeon returned to his bag, poured something into a tiny medicine glass and forced it between Mrs. Lambert’s closed lips. A faint tinge of color was coming back to her cheeks.

  “She’ll be all right,” he said, “her pulse is strong. Now I want to put some antiseptic on your mouth.”

  While he swabbed my lips, there came a sound of voices from the small sitting room adjoining. Daniels and Trubshaw were apparently having a heated discussion. I could hear the steward’s story quite distinctly.

  He had been passing Mrs. Lambert’s suite at about seven o’clock, he said, when he met the pantry-boy coming with her dinner tray. (She’s taken all her meals in her room ever since the tragedy.) He wanted to ask Mrs. Lambert if he could do anything for her, so he knocked on the door, but there was no answer. He tried the door and it was unlocked, so they went in. As soon as he entered the sitting room he saw the mess of papers around the writing desk. Growing alarmed, he knocked at the bedroom door; there was no answer. He pushed it and found it locked. Hearing nothing when he called, he went to get the pass key, opened the door, and found Mrs. Lambert lying on the floor as we had found her. He told the boy to stay where he was. He was running for help when he heard the frantic ringing of the bell and saw me standing outside my stateroom looking, as he picturesquely put it, “like she’d just caught the tail-end of a typhoon with stern awash.”

  Dr. Somers had now finished painting my lips with mercurochrome, so I went into the sitting room and gave Daniels my version of Robinson’s visit. He did not wait till I got to the end before he turned to Trubshaw and asked him if he had seen anyone answering Robinson’s description anywhere near the Lambert suite.

  Poor Trubshaw went white.

  “Y—yes, sir,” he stammered, his eyes widening at the sudden recollection. “Just before I got to this room, I saw a gent like that coming away from it, but I didn’t think anything of it because I don’t know all the passengers by sight anyhow.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t notice,” Trubshaw said. “He turned the corner—”

  Daniels turned sharply to the pantry boy.

  “Did you see him too?” he snapped.

  “N—no, sir,” the kid managed to say; he was shaking with fright. “That is—I saw his back—but I didn’t pay no attention—”

  Daniels turned back to Trubshaw; he ordered:

  “Go up and the purser what’s happened. The man must be about somewhere. A search should be made at once—now, while the passengers are in the dining saloon.”

  “And send Miss Bush to me immediately,” added Dr. Somers, as the steward left the room. “Mrs. Lambert will need a nurse tonight.”

  Trubshaw hurried off and Daniels went over to the writing desk.

  “Looks as if he’s been here too,” he muttered. “I wonder if anything is missing.”

  “Earnshaw could probably tell us,” I suggested. “Let me go and fetch him.”

  Daniels nodded distractedly and I went off to Earnshaw’s cabin, which I knew was situated halfway between Mrs. Lambert’s and mine. There was no answer when I knocked, so I pushed open the door. It was an inner cabin and therefore almost completely dark, but in the light from the corridor I saw a white figure lying on the bed. I could tell it was Earnshaw because the dark blot of his moustache stood out against the white background of his face. He was wearing an open shirt and cotton trousers.

  “Mr. Earnshaw,” I cried; but there was no answer.

  I must have been in a thoroughly morbid state of mind, Davy, because it flashed through my mind at once that something had happened to him too. As my hand fumbled for the light switch I found myself vaguely wondering what new horror I should see now. The sound of deep, regular breathing greeted my ears like music. Earnshaw was asleep.

  I turned on the switch. He stirred and rubbed his eyes. As I moved forward to shake him by the arms I almost upset his dinner tray which lay, untouched, upon a chair.

  “Come quickly,” I said. “It’s Mrs. Lambert—”

  He jumped up like a flash. “Good God, she’s not—”

  “No, it’s not serious, but we think there’s been a robbery. You’re needed.”

  As we hurried down the corridor I told him in a few words what had happened.

  “The damned swine!” he muttered.

  “And he must have gone straight from her room to mine!” I rejoined, as we reached Mrs. Lambert’s door.

  We were greeted by Daniels and Dr. Somers, who informed us that Mrs. Lambert could now talk to us. We were only allowed five minutes, however, as he had given her a strong sedative which would, so he hoped, shortly take effect.

  Miss Bush, the
ship’s nurse, was seated at Mrs. Lambert’s bedside when we entered. The widow was propped up on her pillows, still deathly pale, but she gave Earnshaw a brave smile when she saw him.

  “I’m sorry to have been such a fool,” she said in a low, tremulous tone, “but I’ve had such an awful shock and—and—”

  “Don’t distress yourself,” said the young surgeon. “The story can wait, if you’d rather.”

  “No, no,” cried Mrs. Lambert fiercely. “I want to tell you now because it may help you to catch that fiend. Ugh—” She turned her head as if to escape some painful memory. Then she continued in a calmer tone. “I was in here reading, just before dinner. I am—at least I was—feeling a little better today. I heard someone in the sitting room and thought, naturally it was the boy with my tray. I got up and opened the door. Standing at the desk was a man in a dark suit. His back was turned toward me, and he was busy going through the drawers of the writing table. Then he must have heard me for he wheeled round suddenly. In the light from the reading lamp on the desk I could see his features quite plainly. There was no doubt about it at all. It was my husband’s murderer—the man who called himself Robinson. He looked exactly the same as he did the last time I saw him —just after he had thrown poor little Betty overboard. For a moment we stood staring at each other—then he gave a funny, horrible sort of laugh and raised his right hand slowly and deliberately. In it he held a revolver, which was now pointed straight at me. Luckily I was standing on my side of the door, and I just had the presence of mind to step back, slam and lock it. Then—then I’m afraid I don’t remember any more.”

  This recital had evidently tired Mrs. Lambert, for her head sank wearily back on her pillow. Dr. Somers made a sign that it was time for us to leave. We returned to the sitting room.

  “I wonder what he was after,” said little Daniels reflectively, as he gazed down at the mass of papers on the desk.

  “Let me look,’’ cried Earnshaw.

  Daniels moved aside and the secretary started to go through the loose papers in a thoroughly business-like way. There were a number of private letters, bon-voyage telegrams and the like. These he piled carefully on one side. At length he turned and faced us.

  “I thought as much,” he said. “Mr. Lambert’s will is missing. It was in this drawer—”

  “Heavens!” cried Daniels, “why on earth should anyone want to steal that?”

  Earnshaw turned towards me. “You remember I showed it to you yesterday, Miss Llewellyn? It was only a copy, of course. The original is with his lawyer in New York. It’s no good to anyone, but it does at least help to prove the point I was trying to make to you yesterday. This Robinson must be someone who had a vital interest in the disposition of Mr. Lambert’s property.”

  And he appears also to have a vital interest in my journal. In fact he seems to suffer from what Kipling would call “ ’satiable curiosity” about quite a number of things.

  And now, Davy darling, I must stop for a while. Trubshaw has just brought me my dinner consisting of soup, toast and—a half bottle of champagne from dear old Adam.

  Well, I can do with it—!

  Stateroom,

  Saturday, November 21st.

  9:30 P. M.

  I drank every drop of Adam’s champagne, Davy, and it fortified me sufficiently to get dressed, to make the most of what Robinson had left me in the way of looks, and totter upstairs to play my modest part in the bridge tournament. It was supposed to start at 8:30.

  When I reached the social hall I found everything all ready and the dear old ladies were saying, “Can you please direct me to table number eight?” or “I used to play a great deal of whist in the old days but I’m afraid I haven’t mastered this new-fangled contract yet.” And from the younger people one heard the usual nervous inquiries: “Do you use Lenz or the official system?” “Two forcing bid—you must keep it open,” and, “My dear, Culbertson is not a man, he’s a disease.” Judging the skill of the participants by their conver sation, I was rather glad I was scheduled to have a headache for the evening. And it wasn’t going to take much acting. My interview with Robinson had left me limp as a rag that is temporarily buoyed up on a few champagne bubbles.

  I had scarcely time to look around when Adam came over and pounced on me. After thanking him for his most uplifting present, I proceeded to give him some of the highspots of the afternoon’s entertainment.

  “You poor dear!” he exclaimed when I had finished. “And Daniels told me that the brute actually bit your lip!”

  “Now that I come to think it over, I’m not so sure that he really did,” I said reflectively. “Of course I’d like to pose as a martyr, but, as a matter of fact, I probably bit it myself before he started to maul me. I was so petrified I might have bitten my tongue in two without feeling it.”

  “Well,” Adam reassured me, “you look very handsome with that mercurochrome mouth. And there’s an idea for you to make a million dollars, Mary. Why not patent the idea of putting up mercurochrome in a lipstick—hygienic, antiseptic and cosmetic all at once—and permanent too!”

  At this moment Daphne entered by another door with her partner, the silent Sutton.

  “And speaking of cosmetics,” Adams continued, “have you noticed our Daphne tonight? All dressed up for the final extermination of poor little Daniels. Where nature fails, art has stepped in. And, incidentally, both she and Mrs. Clapp were very late for dinner this evening. So was Silvera.”

  I turned my eyes towards Miss Demarest. Indeed she looked, as Mrs. Clapp would have put it, a very fine figure of a woman. Her dress was an epic poem, long and trailing; her eyes and mouth were skilfully made up and she had obviously had the best finger-wave the ship’s barber has to offer. I could even detect traces of a facial in the rosy glow of her skin.

  I turned again to Adam. I saw that he was giving me what the novelists describe as a “meaning” look. “Did you hear me say that both Mrs. Clapp and her companion were very late for dinner tonight?” he repeated.

  I knew exactly what he implied but I chose to ignore it. “I’m not surprised,” I replied, “those movie effects take time. They are called forth only by prayer and fasting. Wait till you see Mrs. Clapp. I’ll bet she’s a knockout. Daphne won’t be allowed to get away with a thing.”

  “If Robinson got into dinner on time, he had to make a mighty quick change,” said Adam stolidly.

  I could not longer ignore the implication.

  “Look here, Adam Burr,” I said with some heat, “yesterday you expounded a cock-and-bull theory about Robinson being a woman or Daphne being a man—or something. Well, you can forget it. I’ve got two things to tell you that will scatter your little brain-storm to the four winds of heaven. In the first place the conversation which I overheard on the night of the fancy dress dance was between Mrs. Clapp and Daphne. Marcia admitted that she was simply trying to persuade Daphne to stay single for her sake—”

  “Nice way for two women to talk,” muttered Adam.

  “Oh, you hundred per cent normal he-man, you,” I cried excitedly. “You’ll never see anything that isn’t an inch in front of your nose. Mrs. Clapp is a temperamental creature who likes to dramatize things. Her emotions aren’t really a bit deep so she makes the most of them while they last. I don’t believe there was anything in it at all, except the normal desire of an old woman to keep a useful servant attached to her. And no wonder, seeing all the things Daphne does for her.”

  “Well, Mary, I think I ought to tell you something which I’ve discovered, though I must admit I’m not very proud of my discovery—nor of my methods.”

  Adam was blushing and looking down like an old-fashioned débutante. I was not going to say anything to help him.

  “Yes,” he stammered. “I got—er—Trubshaw to let me have a peep in Mrs. Clapp’s suite yesterday—while she and Daphne were on deck. The first thing—the very first thing I saw was a safety razor lying on the washstand in the bedroom. Now—!” His voice had risen to a cre
scendo of triumph. I gave him what is usually called one look. He winced. “Mr. Burr,” I said at length, “you must have been a widower for a very, very long time. Or you must have lived a particularly sheltered life lately. Haven’t you any sisters to explain the facts of life to you? If not, I must inform you that what with sleeveless evening dresses and other modern fashions—women need—er—certain timely aids to beauty which they did not need perhaps when you were a boy. But I would prefer not to enlarge on it, as it is a subject that presents but few attractions.”

  Adam turned to me with a puzzled, guilty expression, shook himself and said reproachfully:

  “You always sound so positive, Mary.”

  “Well, at least I’m positive of one thing,” I replied. “Robinson is a man. That kiss carried conviction. There was strength in that arm. Ugh—! No woman could have done what he did to me. No woman would have wanted to.”

  Adam smiled at me and patted my bruised shoulder in a manner that was annoyingly pitying and paternal.

  “Sometimes,” he said, “I don’t think you are very subtle, Mary Llewellyn. This afternoon you gave me a long lecture on feminine psychology, now it’s my turn to give you the masculine point of view. There isn’t a male living who would get any kick out of kissing a girl at the point of a revolver that way. Remember, Robinson is a hunted criminal to whom every second is precious. Presumably he is not a Frankenstein or a Dracula. I believe that kiss was a mere gesture.”

  “You’re not very flattering, Mr. Burr.”

  He ignored my interruption. “And a mere gesture that no sensible man would make, however much he might want to. I don’t mean to detract for a minute from your personal attractions, my dear, but let us look things squarely in the face. A snatched embrace is too high a price for any man to pay who runs the risk of capture and death. A clever woman, on the other hand, might make such a gesture in order to try and put people off the scent. She knows that is the thing which is expected from the villain of the piece—”