S.S. Murder

by Q. Patrick

  “All that I can say, Adam, is that you were not the recipient of the kiss.”

  He took a long pull at his cigar and then stubbed the glowing butt in a fern-pot. He looked at me quizzically.

  “Mary,” he said softly, “what would be your impression if I were to kiss you now?”

  “Rage,” I said sweetly, with some amusement.

  “No, no. I don’t mean that. I mean your physical impressions.”

  I turned away. “Come, come, we are getting too analytical altogether.”

  Adam looked quite embarrassed for a moment, then he stammered out: “Oh, dear, my vocabulary is so weak, but my remark really was quite innocent. Of course, I know my kiss would leave you absolutely cold, but at least you’d get the impression of cigar smoke and Yardley’s shaving soap. If I had kissed you before I shaved for dinner, you would have the impression of whiskers. Now, do you see what I’m driving at?”

  “Adam,” I cried, “I apologize. You really aren’t so dumb after all. Of course, I see what you mean, and I never thought of it myself. I’m the only person on the boat who knows what Robinson smells like. Let me think. Well, apart from the blood, which was probably my own, I have a hazy impression that he might have smoked a cigarette within the last half hour. There was a suggestion of cold cream or something faintly scented and there were no whiskers. Definitely no whiskers. Oh, and one more thing. I don’t believe he smokes a pipe because my boy friend in New York does and I’d know that smell anywhere. Now, do you want me to go round kissing every man on board until I find the right combination?”

  Adam chuckled. “That’s asking a bit too much, my dear; but no whiskers and cold cream—! Men don’t generally use cold cream, you know.”

  “They do if they are disguising themselves as someone else,” I answered. “Or it may have been grease paint. I’m not an expert on smells I’m afraid. No, you can’t persuade me it wasn’t a man and for all your unflattering and ungallant explanations, it was a man who definitely wanted to kiss me, though who on this ship has that desire I can’t imagine.”

  “Well, my dear,” replied Adam softly, “of course I don’t want to incriminate myself, but—I can!”

  Mr. Wolcott appeared opportunely at this juncture and solemnly wagged his goatee over my hand. “It’s a great pleasure,” said the old humbug ponderously, “to be playing tonight with someone who really has a feeling for bridge.”

  For a few moments the three of us stood talking in a corner as we watched the last stragglers take their places. Silvera was playing with the large woman who had burst in upon our momentous game the day before. Jennings had conscientiously volunteered to partner an old whist-fiend with an ear trumpet. Mr. Hirsch was seated opposite his wife. Then Adam left us to join a vapid young thing with a Greta Garbo haircut.

  Wolcott and I were just about to take our places when there was a rustle near the entrance and Mrs. Clapp swam into the room, magnificent in a white satin gown whose startling severity was relieved by a heavy silken fringe. She was closely followed by a tired and handsome Earnshaw. A little knot of people clustered around to pay a final tribute to Fame. Every man in the room strove for a glance or a nod of recognition, and every woman present knew that Marcia had made them all look hopelessly dowdy. Wolcott was swept from my side.

  I seized my opportunity for a few words with Earnshaw.

  “Any news?” I whispered.

  “No,” he answered, as he passed a hand over his smooth, dark hair. “There was nothing else missing that I could see and Mrs. Lambert is sleeping soundly. Otherwise, I couldn’t have come tonight. I hate doing it, but—well, Mrs. Clapp might drop a hint about her nephew, and I promised her anyhow. I hope you are feeling better yourself, Miss Llewellyn. You’ve still got a nasty mark on your shoulder.”

  “I’m not so hot,” I whispered. “Look out for men with bleeding lips—I hope I bit the brute.”

  Then we all took our places and Jennings announced the rules. I dealt the first hand, saw that it was a rotten one, and immediately decided that the moment for my headache had arrived. The purser was summoned; Daniels appeared like magic and the substitution proceeded according to schedule. I was not sorry to get away.

  When I came down to my stateroom I saw the guard sitting at an intersection which commands a view of Mrs. Lambert’s suite and my cabin. He has the nose of a boxer and a torso like Jim Londos’, so if Robinson goes on the prowl again tonight he’ll probably meet his match.

  None the less, sweetheart, I prefer to trust in the Lord and a good stout lock.

  Later.

  I got undressed after I’d finished writing to you and settled down in bed with a novel—a detective story you gave me by that friend of yours, Quentin Patrick.* I found it very nice and restful after the thrills and horrors of his voyage—pleasant milk and water after a steady diet of highballs. And, as I read it, I couldn’t help thinking if your ingenious buddy can make so much out of a synthetic situation in a New York literary agency, what could he not do with a real, red-hot, full-blooded sort of mystery such as we’ve been having on board the S. S. Murder?

  Still, I’ll admit the book kept me awake and held my attention so that it came as a distinct shock when I heard people coming down from the bridge tournament at about twelve o’clock. Presently there was a little tap at my door. I jumped up in bed.

  “Who’s there?” I cried.

  It was Trubshaw’s voice. “There’s nothing to be afraid of, Miss. Just a gentleman wants to speak to you—he says it’s urgent.”

  From his tone, my dear, you might have thought I was in the habit of entertaining gentlemen at this hour every night of my life.

  “But who is it, Trubshaw? I’m in bed and asleep.”

  “It’s Mr. Daniels, Miss. He says, could you—would you mind giving him a minute. He seems a bit upset, but—he’s got a plate of sandwiches for you, Miss.”

  Well, Davy, I suppose a detective who’s in love with another girl is safe enough and I was. ravenously hungry anyhow, so I slipped on my wrapper and told Trubshaw to show the gentleman in. I had a shock when I saw his face. He looked so unhappy and perplexed, and so embarrassed at finding me in bed that he was almost inarticulate. In order to put him at his ease, I greeted him with perfect nonchalance and promptly grabbed a sandwich.

  “Miss Llewellyn,” he stammered at length, “I must apologize—indeed, I must—for troubling you this way: especially as you are probably tired out after your very—er—unpleasant experience of this afternoon. But I’ve come to appeal to you in the name of the line—you are the only person who can help us.”

  “What on earth has happened, Mr. Daniels?” I asked. “Here, have a sandwich. It will calm you down. You’re all jumpy. Didn’t your little scheme work?”

  The detective pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped his face. “Yes,” he said slowly, “it worked—in a way. Then again in another way it’s caused more of a muddle than ever. You see, someone made both the mistakes Robinson made—led the jack of clubs in the first hand and the jack of diamonds in the second. In fact, as Wolcott has just pointed out to me, this same person led a jack, right or wrong, every time there was a jack to lead; they seemed to have a—er—what d’you call it—fixture on leading jacks, just as Robinson did—but the whole trouble is, I’m absolutely certain that this person could not possibly have been Robinson!”

  “Good God,” I cried, now thoroughly excited, “who on earth was it?”

  Daniels shook his head. “Wild horses wouldn’t drag the name from me, Miss Llewellyn. It’s unthinkable—utterly and absolutely unthinkable. It just doesn’t fit. Nothing fits. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Well, you might at least tell me and let me form my own conclusions.”

  The little man shook his head sadly, then continued: “Miss Llewellyn, you may think I’ve been idling my time away on board this ship. As a matter of fact I’ve worked like a nigger. It’s been no holiday for me. I know a great many things that are not in your
journal. For instance I could tell you—approximately, that is—where almost every passenger on the boat was when Mr. Lambert was poisoned. I have a list of all the people who were up and about when poor Miss Betty was thrown overboard. I have a pretty good idea—though this is a lot harder to establish definitely—which of the passengers might have been in a position to make that attack on you and Mrs. Lambert this afternoon. Of course, I don’t say I know about everyone, but at least I have a list of the passengers who have alibis for these times. It’s meant a deal of work for me, but it doesn’t look as if it’s going to help much, because, you see, the person who made those mistakes tonight at the bridge table is on all three of my lists as having a perfect alibi in each instance. Now, do you see how hopeless it is to fit things in?”

  “But, Mr. Daniels,” I said, “you are ignoring two possibilities, surely. Perhaps Robinson really is not a disguise at all. Perhaps he’s a real person still hiding somewhere about the ship—or, perhaps he’s not a passenger.”

  The detective gave me a strange look and his voice dropped to a mysterious whisper. “That might be true as you say, Miss Llewellyn, but it so happens that Robinson was in the social hall tonight while we were playing bridge. He left a—a message!”

  As he said this, Davy, a horribly uncanny sensation began to creep over me. For the first time I began to feel that we must be wrestling with something that was not of human flesh—that the powers of darkness were abroad on the Moderna. I shivered and pulled my wrapper more closely around my shoulders.

  “Don’t be alarmed,” said Daniels, as he consolingly passed the plate of sandwiches. “It was nothing very terrifying, but it does give us definite proof that he was in the bridge room tonight.”

  Here he pulled a document from his pocket and handed it to me. One glimpse showed me that it was the copy of Mr. Lambert’s will which had been stolen from his widow’s stateroom that afternoon. On the back, in the same crabbed printing which I knew so well, had been scrawled:

  I’VE SEEN ALL I WANT.

  THANKS * * * ROBINSON.

  “Heavens!” I exclaimed. “The man is growing more and more daring. He’s positively fresh! If you don’t catch him before we reach Georgetown, there won’t be a soul left on this ship to continue the trip. But how on earth did you get hold of this will?”

  “It’s the most amazing thing,” began Daniels, and then he proceeded to tell me exactly what had happened. It appears that, after bringing me my dinner, Trubshaw had gone up to the social hall to help the other stewards arrange the tables for the bridge tournament. He distinctly remembers moving one of the large decorative fern-pots to make room for a table. He stood by it as the people came in and directed them to their places. He is prepared to swear that at this time there was nothing in the pot except the fern. After the play began, he went below to get his dinner. At ten o’clock he returned to the social hall to help pass the refreshments. At some time or other he took up his old position and noticed, to his surprise, that there was a paper sticking out of the pot. He immediately gave it to Jennings, who in turn handed it over to Daniels. No passenger who was not playing in the tournament came into the room during the course of the evening. Everyone must, at some time or other, have been near the fern-pot. The inevitable conclusion is that Robinson is either one of the players or one of the stewards.

  “I showed the document to Mr. Earnshaw,” concluded Daniels, “and he has identified it as the one that was lost. He suggested looking for finger-prints, but—I’m not an expert, besides I can’t take the prints of everyone who was there tonight. It would cause no end of a pother.”

  “Well, there’s at least one conclusion to be drawn from all this,” I remarked between mouthfuls of the last sandwich. “Mr. Earnshaw’s theory that young Alfred Lambert is on board this ship certainly seems to be borne out stronger than ever. There’s absolutely no one else who could possibly have any interest in the old man’s will. Find Alfred and you’ll find Robinson—”

  “I haven’t heard a word of this,” said Daniels jumpily. “I knew of young Lambert’s existence of course, but—”

  “Oh, Lord, and I promised I wouldn’t tell. I was forgetting you hadn’t read the last installments of my journal, Mr. Daniels.”

  “That’s just why I came here tonight,” he said eagerly. “Miss Llewellyn, you must give me leave to go through that diary of yours. I may have been all wrong in my deductions so far. Perhaps the party—” here he passed a hand tragically across his brow “—who made those fatal leads tonight really is Robinson. It’s frightful to think of, but we at least have something to work on now. If I could get a clue or the least trace of a clue from your journal, I would spend the whole night in sending radios. I could get information that might back up this—this ghastly possibility. I could arrive at the truth before we reach Georgetown. I said a while ago that I knew certain things you couldn’t know. Well, you’ve proved by your last remark that you have certain information which it is my duty to know. You must help me.”

  Davy, I swear to you that the little man almost threw himself on his knees at this point. He was so worked up that I’m sure he must have burst several buttons.

  “Oh, I know what you’re going to say,” he continued in the same impassioned tone. “Your journal is a private communication. You’ve talked about me as ‘that funny little Cockney’; you’ve given your frank opinion of everyone on board; you’ve put in things that have nothing to do with this wretched Lambert business. I know all that. But Miss Llewellyn, this is no time to consider personal feelings. This is a matter of life and death. That journal will never leave my hands. The private parts shall be as sacred as my own dead mother’s memory. I will return it to the captain’s safe unharmed—”

  By this time I was doing my best not to laugh. He looked so comic standing there balancing first on one leg and then on the other like a little sparrow. I almost wanted to throw him some sandwich crumbs.

  “Mr. Daniels,” I said flippantly. “If you talked this way to Daphne I’m not surprised at her promising to marry you. I believe you’d make a girl promise anything. Of course you can have my journal. I’m only too glad to think that my literary efforts may turn out useful after all. But it’s awfully mean of you not to tell me who led those jacks.”

  He wrung my hand. “Oh, thank you,” he said, “I shall never forget this—never. It’s been a beastly business, and—”

  “And it will be far more beastly for you if you ever tell Daphne what Mr. Burr said about her in my journal,” I said grimly. “Married people are supposed to have no secrets from each other, but if that ever leaks out I’ll come all the way to England and shoot you. Here are the last two entries, by the way, if you want them, and now I’ll wish you a pleasant night reading it.”

  He picked up the pages and moved towards the door. I called him back. “Since you won’t tell me anything interesting, you might at least let me know who won the tournament.” “Miss Demarest,” he answered. “They gave her a silver butter-dish with an enamel picture of the boat on the cover. It’s very handsome—and very appropriate. Good night.” How’s that for a finale, Davy?

  On deck,

  Sunday, November 22nd.

  Noon.

  Something seems to be happening at last, Davy, though what it is I don’t rightly know. There’s an air of suppressed excitement everywhere, quite apart from the fact that we reach Georgetown tomorrow. No one has the vaguest idea what it’s all about, but the whole boat seems to feel it.

  And the focal point, as far as I am concerned, is little Daniels. I caught fleeting glimpses of him once or twice this morning after breakfast. He was bustling to and from the radio room, but I could not induce him to stop and talk to me. After what he told me last night I was naturally all agog with excitement, but could read nothing from his preoccupied expression. One thing is certain—he is hot on the trail. Where it will lead him remains to be seen.

  There are no blue laws on this ship, Davy, and immediately after chur
ch service a group assembled on the upper deck to watch the finals of the deck-tennis tournament (mixed)—Daniels and Daphne versus Mr. and Mrs. Hirsch. The latter couple, seasoned old veterans that they are, took the business very seriously and were extremely annoyed at the non-appearance of one of their opponents. They were just beginning to murmur something about winning the championship by default when we caught a glimpse of Daniels in the distance.

  “I’ll get him, I’ll get him,” cried various voices.

  “No,” thundered Daphne, “I will get him.” And without another word she marched off towards the scurrying form of her partner, lifted him bodily off his feet and carried him over to the court. This performance was rewarded with a roar of laughter from the onlookers, in which the little detective joined with good-natured but rather feeble comment about being literally swept off his feet. He insisted, however, that he was far too busy to play; but Daphne was adamant. Other things could wait. Sport must come first.

  After a few more half-hearted protests from Daniels, the game began. It was an exciting contest. Mr. and Mrs. Hirsch were faultless players and I was told they had waltzed through the earlier rounds of the tournament without any difficulty. Daphne and Daniels, on the other hand, were erratic, but colorful. They had the crowd with them, probably because it was rumored that another type of partnership was in the offing.

  During the first set (which finally went to the Hirsches 6-4) the ship’s messenger boys kept up a constant chorus of “Mr. Da-a-aniels, Mr. Da-a-aniels.” I think at least six radiograms were brought up, and his game began to suffer so badly in consequence that Daphne finally seized the whole bunch of them and handed them over to me with instructions not to let her partner so much as look at the backs of them until they’d won the match. Daniels gave me an anxious glance from the back line.

  During the second set things began to get really exciting. Realizing that they were being outplayed by the veteran Hirsches, the English couple adopted entirely new tactics. Daphne stood right up at the net, using all the advantage of her height, caught everything she could get hold of and flicked the quoit back with the wickedest little spin you ever saw in your life. Daniels, in the meanwhile, hopped about the back line like a cricket and gallantly retrieved the very occasional shots which their opponents managed to get past his Amazonian partner.