S.S. Murder
Page 20
He held up a pair of small objects that looked like part of a dentist’s paraphernalia.
“I don’t know what these are called in America, but in England they are commonly known as plumpers. They are, I believe, fixed to the upper row of teeth to swell out the cheeks and give a different shape to the face. Old ladies and actresses use them, I believe;—”
“Why, yes,” cried Daphne from her corner, “I remember reading a feeble book by Elinor Glyn where the old duchess or someone dropped her plumpers in the soup tureen during lunch—”
“Daphne Demarest,” cried her employer, “don’t be vulgar. Duchesses don’t serve soup out of tureens. As the grand-daughter of an earl, you ought to know better than that.”
“But, Marcia—”
“I think,” broke in the captain, “you should explain where these ardcles were found, Mr. Daniels. Also, why there is a false moustache among these—er—effects. Robinson was cleanshaven—”
He bent forward and held up a small, dark object.
“Perhaps Mr. Earnshaw can explain,” said Daniels mildly. “We took the liberty of searching his cabin while he was up here just now—”
Then, Davy, things began to happen so fast that I was utterly unable to follow them in detail. There was a flash from one corner of the room, followed by a howl of pain, and the next thing I knew was that two men had stepped out from behind the purple curtains and were standing one on each side of Earnshaw’s chair. But it was not the same Earnshaw. The dapper little John Gilbert moustache had disappeared and Daphne—Daphne of all people—was standing in the middle of the room holding it aloft in her hand like the Statue of Liberty.
“Look, Percy,” she cried, “it’s come off and here it is. In books and plays the villain always puts on a black moustache to do his dirty work, but this one is quite original. He takes his off. A new idea, Percy, if ever you write your memoirs.”
Earnshaw was fingering his denuded top-lip with a trembling hand.
“And this one,” rejoined Daniels, as he took the other moustache from the captain’s hand and replaced it on the table, “is what you might call a spare part. Very clever, Mr. Earnshaw. That explains why one hardly ever saw you in the daylight—why you kept yourself so much in your cabin—”
“You’re crazy,” screamed Earnshaw, as he moved his arms in an attempt to avoid contact with the two guards at his side. “And you needn’t bother with all this fuss. I’m not armed.”
“And I think you’re crazy too,” cried Mrs. Clapp, with a sympathetic glance at Earnshaw, who looked handsomer than ever without the moustache. “You’ll need to do a great deal of explaining, Mr. Daniels. In the first place, speaking as one who is an expert in make-up—stage make-up, of course—I can tell you that it would have been virtually impossible for Mr. Earnshaw to disguise himself so that his own employer would not recognize him across a bridge table.”
“That’s another point where Miss Llewellyn’s journal helped me, Mrs. Clapp,” replied Daniels. “Mr. Lambert hadn’t got his spectacles that night. He was very near-sighted. I have no doubt at all that Mr. Earnshaw could have told him where they were.”
“But Betty’s death!” continued the great actress hysterically. “You are surely not going to try and persuade us that any young man would be so completely devoid of humanity as to throw his own fiancée overboard!”
Daniels did not answer for the moment. Once again he was shuffling his bunch of radiograms. There was a sad expression on his face and I noticed that he shot a sentimental glance at Daphne, who was glaring at Earnshaw as though she were just about to murder him. “A very natural objection, Mrs. Clapp,” he said mournfully. “But what proof have we that Miss Lambert was Mr. Earnshaw’s fiancée? You must remember that he did not mention this interesting fact until after the girl was dead. We cannot prove his claim in any manner. Indeed, I have made inquiries which seem to point to the contrary. Here is a radiogram from the deceased young lady’s father. He mentions a previous attachment which—”
“It’s a damned lie,” cried Earnshaw desperately, trying to jump to his feet. Restraining hands were immediately laid on his shoulder.
“Well, well,” continued Daniels imperturbably, “I think I can show you that Mr. Earnshaw also had a previous attachment. An attachment which caused him to murder the man who had befriended him; an attachment which Miss Betty probably discovered on the night of her death. It was, if my guess is right, this fatal discovery which made it doubly necessary for Earnshaw to get rid of her before her last message reached Miss Llewellyn. Is there any need for me to tell you what was the nature of this attachment?”
“There certainly is,” cried Mrs. Clapp. “The man is talking in riddles. I for one may be exceptionally stupid, but so far nothing has been explained to my satisfaction.”
“The whole thing is an outrage,” said Mrs. Lambert, suddenly galvanized into life. “A perfect outrage—”
“A perfect piece of acting and a perfect piece of timing,” replied Daniels. “Mr. Earnshaw was not alone in this, as you may have guessed. Someone else had to be at hand to see that he got into the game of bridge with Mr. Lambert. Someone had to help him with his alibi for the time that Betty was supposed to have been murdered. Well, here is his alibi—”
He took from the table a flat, round object and placed it in his mouth. A ghastly shriek echoed and re-echoed throughout the room. It was even more eerie and uncanny than the one which we had heard on the night when Betty was killed.
He removed the object from his mouth and held it up for inspection.
“This,” he said, “looks to me like one of the devices used in the theatre to imitate screams off stage. Last Sunday night it was used to make people think they heard the death-cry of Miss Lambert. A scarf thrown overboard completed the illusion. The murder had been committed earlier in the evening—probably during the thunder-storm—but Mr. Earnshaw and his partner were so clever that we all believed that they both had perfect alibis. Later on they deflected suspicion still farther by a fake attack from Robinson; by a trumped-up stealing of Mr. Lambert’s will; and by its equally dramatic return—to a fern-pot. Everything was thought out and timed to a nicety. It was perfect team-work and it took a pair of actors to carry it through. May I offer you my congratulations—Mrs. Lambert!”
The widow sat staring at her accuser as if thunder-struck. Then, slowly, I saw her hand moving towards the black velvet sack which lay at her side on the couch.
But Captain Fortescue had caught the movement too.
“Quick, Trubshaw—her hand bag.” His voice cut across the room like a cracked whip.
The steward was just in time. A small revolver gleamed in the already opened hand bag.
There was a moment of ghastly silence as the weapon was laid on the table with the other exhibits. It was Mrs. Clapp who spoke. For the first time since I had known her, I noticed that her voice was neither well-pitched nor carefully modulated.
“Mabel Lambert,” she screamed, “I always said you were a rotten actress. I apologize. You are a genius—you—”
But the sentence was not completed, for Mrs. Lambert had fainted—this time, I imagine, in grim earnest.
There’s no need for me to tell you any more, Davy. The case is open and shut. I’ve been through Daniel’s radiograms, but I won’t bore you with scabrous details wrested by the New York Police from all-too-willing chambermaids and other domestics in the Lambert home. The redoubtable Jimmie had been living there, you will remember, some time previous to the trip. They had planned the thing to perfection with Betty as a blind. They would have disembarked at Georgetown, returned to America, and, after a decent interval of mourning, presumably settled down to enjoy poor old Lambert’s money. Certain things, of course, we shall never know. The details of poor little Betty’s death will probably remain shrouded in mystery. We can only draw on our imaginations about what it was that she saw last Sunday night. Perhaps she went into her aunt’s stateroom at an ill-advised moment; perhaps
she over heard some conversation which gave her a clue as to their guilty relationship; perhaps—well, what does it matter? They’re under lock and key now and I, for one, am utterly convinced that they deserve it.
But, as Daniels said, what timing—what perfect teamwork! The almost simultaneous visitation from Robinson to me and Mrs. Lambert was a masterpiece. He must have put on the disguise in Mrs. Lambert’s room and, after that, everything was beautifully arranged so that Trubshaw would be absent in case I did manage to get my finger on the bell, and plenty of time was allowed for Earnshaw to go back to his cabin and change his clothes.
And when I think of that hideous brute standing on deck, straining his eyes over the ocean, in mock despair over the “fiancée” he had just murdered—and when I think of Mrs. Lambert lying pseudo-prostrate in her stateroom and gasping out “Robinson!”—then I can only go one better than Marcia Clapp and say with no uncertain voice that the stage has lost two accomplished actors….
Well, there’s a big commotion going on outside, darling. The passengers are all twittering about with happy little squeaks. They’ve seen a lighthouse or something.
I can hear Adam calling me to come and look at it and I’ve just caught a glimpse of little Daniels, arm in arm between Mrs. Clapp and Daphne—snug as a slice of chicken in a club sandwich.
And now, through the porthole, opposite, I can see it for myself—
A light out of the darkness, Davy.
* This section, obviously written under the stress of emotion, was almost illegible.—Q. P.
* Note. The letters between the brackets are mine.—Q. P.
* See page 15—Q. P.
* I presume the book to which Miss Llewellyn makes this not very flattering reference is DEATH FOR DEAR CLARA (Popular Library, No. 8)—Q. P.
THE END
About the Author
Patrick Quentin, Q. Patrick, and Jonathan Stagge were pen names under which Hugh Callingham Wheeler (1912–1987), Richard Wilson Webb (1901–1966), Martha Mott Kelley (1906–2005), and Mary Louise White Aswell (1902–1984) wrote detective fiction. Most of the stories were written together by Webb and Wheeler, or by Wheeler alone. Their best-known creation is amateur sleuth Peter Duluth. In 1963, the story collection The Ordeal of Mrs. Snow was given a Special Edgar Award by the Mystery Writers of America.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1933 by Farrar & Rinehart, Inc.
Cover design by Jason Gabbert
ISBN: 978-1-4976-9693-8
This 2018 edition published by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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Q. PATRICK
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