The Blind Barber (Dr. Gideon Fell series Book 4)

by John Dickson Carr

  Uttering his significant monosyllable, the other leaped from the door with a crack of his head on the doorpost which he seemed to mind not at all, and leant his weight to the knob.

  “Wot’s up?” he inquired.

  “Dey iss robbers,” said Captain Valvick.

  “Ho?”

  “Dey steal my pearl cuff-links,” rumbled Captain Valvick, with rapid pantomime, “and de platinum studs which my old mudder gave me. Dey steal dis yentleman’s watch and his pocket-book wit’ all de money … ”

  “Robbed you?”

  “Yess. All ay want you to do iss hold de door v’ile—”

  “Ho!” said the Bermondsey Terror, letting go the door to hitch up his belt. “Lemme at ’em!”

  “No!” roared the captain, with a hideous insight of what he had done with his burst of poetic fancy. “No! Not dat! Only hold de door! Ay tell you it is de capt—”

  The Bermondsey Terror’s somewhat diminutive mind was concentrated on business. He hurled his fifteen stone at the door without pausing for explanation or protest. There was a thud and crackle; then a sound suggesting that two rather heavy bodies had been catapulted back across the cabin like bowling-pins. Then Bermondsey plunged into the dark cabin.

  “We’ve got to stop him!” panted Morgan, trying to get through the door. He was stopped by Valvick’s arm. “Listen! he’ll—”

  “Ay don’t t’ink we can do not’ing but run,” said Valvick. “No! Stay back. Ay am sorry for old Barnacle, but—”

  From the cabin issued hideous muffled noises, language reminiscent of King Kong, and the clean inspiriting crack of knuckles against bone and flesh. A large suit-case sailed out of the darkness, as though from a lively spiritualist seance; banged against the opposite wall and showered underwear, socks, shirts, and papers. The passage began to be inundated with Dr. Kyle’s possessions. Morgan, breaking loose, made another effort to dive in at the door. It was a gallant attempt, which might have succeeded if at that moment somebody had not thrown a chair.

  Then he had a vague impression that somebody was dragging him away. Dimly he heard the Bermondsey Terror’s hoarse voice announcing in muffled accents, between cracks, that he would teach people to steal pearl cuff-links and gold watches that their mothers gave them. When Morgan’s wits cleared a second or more later, he was some distance from the scene of tumult. A new sound struck him—a deepening, gathering buzz and laughter. They were in the passage leading to the back stairs of the concert-hall.

  “You ain’t hurt!” Valvick was saying in his ear. “It yust bump you. Brace up! Qvick, now! De hunt be up in a second, and we got to find a place to hide if we don’t want to be put in irons … Sh-h-h! Walk careless! Here iss somebody … ”

  Morgan straightened up, feeling his eyes crossed in a buzzing head, as somebody stalked round the corner into the narrow gangway. It was a steward bearing a large tray on which there were six tall gilt-foil bottles. Paying no attention to them, the steward swung past and knocked at the door of the dressing-room. In response to his knock there was poked out a face of such appalling hideousness that Morgan blinked. It was a brown face with tangled black hair, murderous squint-eyes, and whiskers.

  “Champagne, sir,” said the steward crisply, “for a Mr. D. H. Lawrence. That’ll be six pounds six, sir.”

  The cut-throat leered. On his head he placed rather rakishly a spiked helmet of brass set with emeralds and rubies; so that he could the better reach under an elaborate green robe, where he fumbled a moment, and then laid on the tray two American twenty-dollar bills. The bottles were mysteriously whisked inside by what appeared to be feminine hands behind the warrior. Then, as the steward hastened away, the warrior drew from its scabbard a broad curved scimitar and squinted evilly up and down the passage. Seeing Valvick and Morgan, he beckoned.

  “Well?” inquired the voice of Curtis Warren, as the two conspirators tumbled into the dressing-room and Valvick locked the door. “Did you get it back all right? Did you … ?” The warrior stared. Thoughtfully he pushed his helmet forward and scratched his wig. “What’s the idea, Hank? You’ve still got the emerald! Look … ”

  Morgan nodded wearily. He glanced round. Uncle Jules was on the couch again, sprawled wide, while Peggy was trying to raise his head and insinuate a second dose of baking-soda under his twitching nose. There was a sharp plob as Mrs. Perrigord dexterously opened a bottle of champagne.

  “You explain, Skipper,” said Morgan, sadly juggling the emerald in his palm. “Suffice it to say that the game is up. U-up. Go on, Captain.”

  Valvick sketched out a rough outline. “You mean,” said Warren, quakes and bubbles beginning to show under his ferocious moustache—”you mean the Ber-mondsey Terror is down there murdering the old sardine for stealing Hank’s watch? Why, oh why wasn’t I there to see it? Yee-ow! I’d have given anything to see it! Curse the rotten luck, why do I have to miss every good thing … ?”

  Tears had come into Peggy’s eyes again.

  “But,” she protested, “why, oh why can’t you lay off the poor old captain? What have you got against him, anyway? Why must you go about assaulting the poor dear captain every time you get out of my sight? It isn’t fair. It isn’t just, after he said he almost had a daughter like me off Cape Hatteras. It—”

  “Owful!” said Mrs. Perrigord, clucking her tongue reprovingly. “You owful, naughty boys, you. Have some champagne.”

  “Well, why hass he got to be dere, anyway?” demanded Valvick, hotly. “Ay tell you de old Barnacle call me a t’ief, and now ay am mad. Ay going to find out who iss at de bottom of dis business if ay haff to sving from de yardarm for it. And ay mean it.”

  “He was only trying to do his duty, Skipper,” said Morgan. “We ought to have been warned. You heard what he said this afternoon: he wanted to have the honour of nabbing Kyle for himself. He and the second officer were probably there searching the cabin when they heard us coming. They ducked into the bathroom and when they opened the door and saw us they thought … well, what would you have thought? Skipper, it’s no go. They’ll be having a search party out for us in five minutes. The only thing to do is to go to Whistler, try to explain, and take our medicine. God knows what they’ll do to us; plenty, I should think. But … there you are.”

  Valvick brought his arm down in a mighty gesture. “Ay will not! Ay am mad now, and ay will NOT! Barnacle iss not going to put me in de brig like a drunken A.B. while diss crook laughs ha-ha. We are going to hide somewhere, dat iss what, so he don’t catch us, and den—”

  “What’s the good of that?” Morgan wanted to know. “Calm yourself, Skipper. Even if we could hide, which I doubt, what good would it do? We land day after tomorrow, and they’d be bound to catch us. We couldn’t stay on the ship … ”

  “Haff you forgotten dat de New York detective iss coming aboard at Southampton to identify diss crook, eh?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And de charge we got to avoid iss stealing de emerald … ”

  “With others, including Curt’s jail-break, assault and battery of Woodcock; to say nothing of—”

  “Bah! What iss Woodcock? All you got to do iss promise him de bug-powder testimonial and he be all right. As for de odders, what iss dey? When dat detective point out de right man, do you t’ink Whistler going to get away wit’ accusing us of stealing? Ay bet you not. Dey only t’ink he iss cuckoo, and den we threaten to tell de newspapers about dat bug-powder gun and dey will giff him de bird something hawful if he open his mouth about de rest! Coroosh! It iss easy. Ay will not be put in dat brig! Dat iss my last word. ‘For God. For de cause! For de Church! For de laws!’ Liberty for ever, hooray! Are you wit’ me, Mr. Warren?”

  “Man, you never said a truer word!” said the Moorish warrior, and gripped his hand. “We’ll show ’em, we will! Let ’em try to put me back in that brig!” He flourished his scimitar. Peggy rushed into his arms, beaming through her tears. He burst into song.

  “May the serr-vice united ne-’er se-ver,
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  But hold to its co-oolours so true!”

  sang the Moorish warrior, enthusiastically, and Valvick took it up,

  “Theee ar-my and naaa-avee forever—

  Three cheers for the red—white—and blue!”

  “Sh-h!” howled Morgan as the three of them clasped hands in a dramatic gesture. “All right! Have it your way. If you must do it, I suppose I can be as mad as anybody else. Lead on; I’ll follow … The point is, where do you propose to hide? … Yes, thanks, Mrs. Perrigord, I will have some champagne.”

  Peggy slapped her hands together. “I’ve got it! I’ve got it! I know where you’ll hide so they won’t put you in that nasty brig. You’ll hide with the marionettes.”

  “With the marionettes?”

  “Of course, silly! Listen! The marionettes have a cabin of their own, haven’t they? Adjoining Uncle Jules’s, isn’t it? And the stewards are all afraid to go in there, aren’t they? And you have three uniforms like the marionettes, haven’t you, and false whiskers? And food can be passed in to you from Uncle Jules’s cabin, can’t it? And if they did look in they’d only see marionettes lying in the berth. Darling, it’s wonderful and it’ll work, too … ”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” said Morgan. “Without wishing to be a spoil-sport, it would damp my ardour considerably if I had to hang on a hook all day and then found it didn’t work. Besides, I think enough strain has already been put on Captain Whistler’s reason without having a marionette sneeze in his face when he looked into the cabin. YOU’RE MAD, PEGGY. Besides, how can we get away with it? We’re wasting time. The highbrows will be roaring down on this cabin in a minute, asking if Uncle Jules is ready to begin performing, and then we’re discovered. This cabin is probably surrounded at the moment, and we can’t even get to our hideaway. I also think it probable that a searching-party would feel considerable curiosity concerning three full-panoplied Moorish warriors seen strolling arm in arm down C deck.”

  Peggy pointed her finger at him.

  “No, we’re not caught, either! Because you three will climb into those clothes this minute, and we’ll put on the whole performance ourselves. They won’t know you in disguise, and you can help wheel the marionettes back to the cabin and stay there.”

  There was a silence. Then Morgan got up, with his head in his hands, and danced helplessly.

  “Baby, the idea is a knockout!” breathed Warren. “But how are we going to work it? I can stand in front of the stage with a battle-axe right enough; but what about the rest of it? I can’t even work those marionettes, to say nothing of what they say … ”

  “Listen to me. Quick, champagne, somebody!” She snatched a bottle from the beaming Mrs. Perrigord, and after a moment, brilliant with inspiration, she continued: “We’ll save Uncle Jules’s bacon yet. To begin with, there isn’t a real Frenchman aboard this ship, with the exception of Uncle Jules and Abdul. The audience will be mostly kids, or else people with only a smattering of French, out to see the fighting … ”

  “What about Perrigord?” inquired Warren.

  “I’m not forgetting him, darling. That’s where Hank comes in. Hank will be the Emperor Charlemagne and also the crafty Banhambra, Sultan of the Moors … ”

  “Good for you, old man!” applauded Warren, radiating kindliness and slapping the Emperor Charlemagne on the back.

  “ … because I’ve heard his accent, and it’s at least good enough to deceive Perrigord. People will think he is Uncle Jules, because we’ll stuff him with pillows and disguise him; and when he speaks the prologue it’s behind a lighted gauze screen at the back of the stage, and nobody can tell who it is. Yes, this is wonderful, now I think of it! The rest of the time he’s out of sight. I have a typewritten copy of his part, and all he has to do is read it … As for working the marionettes, you can master that in ten minutes while Madame Camposozzi is singing and Kyle’s reciting and Perrigord is talking. All you need is to be strong in the arms, which is where Curt and the skipper excel, and you can make ’em fight, can’t you? Well—”

  “Yess, but where do ay come in?” asked Valvick. “Ay dunno no French except one or two words. Ay can juggle plates, dough,” he suggested hopefully, “and play de piano … ”

  “You can play the piano? Then,” declared Peggy excitedly, “we’re absolutely all right. Because, you see, the only other speaking parts are very small—the Knight Roland, the Knight Oliver, and Bishop Turpin. Those parts will be taken by Curt. I’ll prompt him roughly, just a few words; but it won’t matter what he says, because the skipper will be playing the piano, loud and hard, with appropriate music … ”

  Morgan roared. He couldn’t help it. The strengthening sizzle of champagne cried, “Whee!” along his windpipe; weariness dropped from him. He looked round at the radiant Mrs. Perrigord, who was now seated on the stomach of the prostrate Uncle Jules and looking coyly at him. Again plans began to twist and shift in his brain.

  “Right you are!” said he, slapping his hands together. “By Gad! we’ll go down in a burst of glory if we do nothing else! It’s mad, it’s risking a thunderbolt from above, but we’ll do it. Up and at ’em! Come on, Skipper; into those uniforms we go—there’s no time to be lost …”

  There was not. From above began to sound now a measured and steady clapping; a deeper buzz and hum which rattled the lights of the dressing-table. Stopping only to execute a brief gleeful round-the-mulberry-bush with Warren, Peggy rushed to set out the cosmetics.

  “And this,” continued Morgan, excitedly stripping off his coat, “is where Mrs. Perrigord comes in. Sing your prayers, lads, to the blessed stars that sent her to us to-night … ”

  “Gloo!” crowed Mrs. Perrigord. “Oh, you positively owful man, you mustn’t say things like that! Whee!”

  “ … because,” he said, tapping Warren on the chest, “she’s going to get rid of the people who were to be extras in our places to-night. Don’t you see? We can’t have anybody behind the scenes but ourselves. Wasn’t this Madame Camposozzi to play the piano, and some Russian the violin; yes, and a couple of professors to be warriors … ?”

  “O Lord! I’d forgotten that!” cried Peggy, freezing. “Oh, Hank, how can we—?”

  “Easy! Mrs. Perrigord simply puts on one of those chilly stares of hers when they come down here, and says the places have been filled. We have the organiser of the concert talking for us, and she’ll be obeyed; otherwise there’d be a row and we could never wangle it … Listen!” he whirled round to her. “That’s all right, isn’t it? Mrs. Perrigord—CYNTHIA—you’ll do it for me, won’t you?”

  There was a world of pleading in his voice. The organiser of the concert did not give him a chilly stare. She said, “Oh, you owful man!” and got up and put her arms round his neck.

  “No, listen! Wait a bit—listen, Cynthia!” said Morgan desperately. “Listen to what I have to say. Let go, damn it! I tell you we can’t lose time! Let me get my waistcoat off … ”

  “I don’t think you’re making yourself quite clear,” observed Warren critically. “Suppose your wife could see you now, you old rip? Let the poor woman go, can’t you?”

  “You’ve got to get her in shape to face ’em, Hank!” cried Peggy, flying across the room. “Oh, it’s p-per-fectly a-awful the w-way we’re p-persecuted and t-tor-tured with these n-nasty drunken p-people … !”

  “Who’s a nasty drunken people, may I ask?” inquired Mrs. Perrigord, suddenly raising a flushed face from Morgan’s shoulder.

  “All I was saying, darling—”

  A fusillade of knocks on the door froze the conspirators where they stood.

  “SIGNOR FORTINBRAS!” exclaimed a voice with a broad rolling accent. The knocks were redoubled.

  “Signor Fortinbras! It ees-a me, Signor Benito—Furioso—Camposozzi! Signor Perrigord he weesha to know eef you are alla-right. He—”

  Peggy raised a quavering voice. “He is quite all right, Signor Camposozzi. He ees-a—I mean, he is dressing now. Please come back in five minutes. Mr
s. Perrigord wishes to speak to you.”

  “Ah! Good! Tenn-mee-noots and we start. Good! Good! I am averra glad to hear it. Signor Ivan Slifovitz hasa tolda me,” bawled Signor Camposozzi, with deplorable Latin lack of reticence, “that he thought you might have drink too moocha Gin … ”

  “Gin!” repeated a sudden, thoughtful, sepulchral voice just behind Morgan. It seemed to come from deep down in the earth. “Gin?”

  Uncle Jules abruptly sat up. He slid off the couch. With eyes half-closed and face intent, as though some illuminating idea had come to him, he walked straight to the door.

  “Je vais chercher le gin,” he explained hurriedly.

  Valvick was after him at a bound, but, since his hand was on the knob of the door, nothing less than a full-sized miracle could have prevented discovery if Signor Camposozzi’s attention had not been momentarily distracted.

  “Eee!” squeaked Signor Camposozzi, for a reason they could not discern. “Sangua della madonne, who are you? Go away! You been-a fighting; you area onea begga crook … ”

  “Now look ’ere, Guv’nor,” protested a hoarse voice, “don’t run away, will yer? ’Ere! Come back! I’ve got ’ere,” continued the Bermondsey Terror, “two gold watches, two sets of cuff-links, two pocket-books, but only one set o’ studs. I’m looking for a chap nymed Cap’n Valvick, ’oo owns part of it, and I wants ter ave ’im tyke his choice. ’Ere! Come back—I only wanted to ask where I could find—”

  There were two sets of frantic footsteps rushing away as the Bermondsey Terror pursued him.

  18

  Gold Watches and Disappearance

  “A LITTLE MORE LARCENY, of course,” said Morgan, “added to the list of our other offences won’t matter a great deal. All the same, Skipper, you’d better stop the Bermondsey Terror and give him time to think up some excuses. Also, it mightn’t be a bad idea to retrieve Captain Whistler’s best studs and cuff-links.”

  Valvick took Uncle Jules, who was smiling vacantly, and propped him against the wall with one hand while he unlocked the door. He called “Bermondsey!” and one set of footfalls stopped. Then Valvick set up Uncle Jules like a sign on a couch just beside the door.