The Lost Master - The Collected Works

by Stanley G. Weinbaum

  He scowled, re-surveyed the chamber, and turned away, closing the door carefully. It was possible, he thought, that Arlene had imagined the thing that had frightened her. Some chance arrangement of shadows, or perhaps merely the result of the strain of guarding a treasure as priceless as the Waterbury.

  He went quietly back to his own stateroom. The girl was still huddled on the berth, but part of her pallor had vanished, and the violet eyes regarded him steadily enough. “Well?” she asked. “Did you—?”

  “I saw nothing.”

  “Nothing! What do you mean?”

  “Just that. There’s nothing and nobody in your room.” He paused. “Look here, are you positive you saw anything? Couldn’t you have imagined it?”

  A trace of anger gleamed. “Do you think I’m a fool?” she snapped. “I saw him—or it. My foot touched it.”

  “Did you have the lights on?”

  “No, but—” She flushed faintly. “I’m sure.”

  “Well, the dear departed has departed,” he retorted. “There’s nobody, dead or otherwise, in your room now, which leads to the conclusion that you didn’t see a dead man.”

  “Are you trying to tell me—?”

  “Softly,” he said. “I mean only that whoever you saw wasn’t dead. Corpses don’t walk away, not outside of Poe’s stories.

  That fellow was either drunk, knocked out, or shamming.”

  “Or he was carried away.”

  “I doubt that. Not enough time between your coming in here and my going in there. He must have slipped out the moment you disappeared.”

  She stood up. “You must think I’m mad,” she said, “but I did see him. And thank you, and good night.”

  “Are you going back in there?”

  She shuddered a little. “I thought of a turn on deck; I’m still a bit nervous.”

  “Do you mind if I come?”

  She smiled. “You know I don’t.”

  S THEY paced the deck, Ketchall frowned out at the glittering silver moon-path. “Suppose,” he said gently, “we rout out the room steward and get your stateroom changed. Would you feel better about it?”

  She shrugged, and shook her brown head. “No need of it. I’m not timid. Anyway, it was probably just what you said—some tipsy passenger.”

  “Did you get much of a look at him?”

  “Why—he was on his back. I don’t think I could recognize him with absolute certainty, though.”

  “Well, I suppose it isn’t of great importance. Will you report it to the Captain?”

  Her dainty lips, dark in the moonlight, compressed determinedly. “No. I won’t report it.”

  “Why not?” He knew well enough, of course.

  “Because—well, what proof is there? I’m not going to act like a hysterical child, seeing things in the dark. What could he do about it? And besides, it probably has no importance anyway.”

  Bill said nothing. They turned and walked slowly aft, while the man wondered silently if the event did have an importance he could not as yet perceive. That Arlene Lowell had seen something he did not for a moment doubt; he was thoroughly convinced of her sincerity. But whether it was a human, dead or otherwise, or whether she had been frightened only by a chance effect of light and shadow, he could not determine. If the former—well, it might be coincidence, or it might have some actual bearing on the great green crystal that had come back with the Crusaders. There was blood on all famous stones; men fought for jewels as they fought for gold.

  They passed a figure hunched against the rail, and a soft undertone of whistling came to Bill’s ears. He scowled in the darkness, gave up his attempt at logical reasoning, and followed Arlene as she turned toward the companionway.

  “I’m tired,” she said.

  “Sailing days are exhausting,” he agreed. “You’re sure you’re not nervous about your stateroom?”

  “I’m not nervous!” she said sharply. “I was a little startled, that’s all. I’m not the nervous sort.”

  Nevertheless, she unlocked her door with a trace of hesitancy. Bill stood at the entrance as she snapped on the lights, but the room was obviously empty of other occupant.

  She smiled back, and then froze suddenly. “My luggage!” she gasped, staring at the open suit-case. “It’s been ransacked.”

  ILL KETCHALL sat smoking, and faced Arlene Lowell as she snapped the catch on her suitcase.

  “Well!” she said finally. “There’s nothing missing; not a thing.”

  “Nothing?” be echoed, watching her narrowly. Not by word or action had she given any indication of concern for the safety of the Waterbury, which meant, doubtless, that it was not hidden among her effects. Therefore it must be in the purser’s safe or—he frowned—on her person. It was part of his job to discover where.

  “You’re sure you’ve missed nothing?” he asked. “Have you any idea why anyone should search your things?”

  Her eyes flickered. “I—why, of course not! Unless it was to steal.”

  “A ship,” he persisted, “is a poor place for theft of anything except money. The crook has to figure on getting his loot past the Customs.”

  “Well, I—I don’t know what else—”

  “And will you report this to the Captain?”

  “I—no.” She flushed under the intent gaze of his eyes. “Why should I?” she proceeded defiantly. “Nothing was taken. How could I prove this any more than—that other?”

  “You don’t have to prove it; all you need to do is to report it, and they’ll keep an eye open for a repetition,”

  “But that’s just what I don’t—” She broke off abruptly. “Oh, all right,” she concluded, averting her eyes. “I’ll report it, then.”

  “I don’t believe you, Arlene.”

  She whirled on him. “You don’t believe me!” she snapped. “What right have you to question?”

  “I have a sort of right.” He puffed his cigarette as if in thought. Gordon, he mused, had not instructed him to conceal his identity from the girl. If be could perform his task better with her cooperation, then that was his privilege—even his duty. At the moment it seemed to him to proper course. “Yes,” he resumed, “I have the right.”

  “Indeed? On an acquaintance of less than a day?” she countered tartly.

  “No. On the knowledge of what your visitor was hunting for.” He rose and smiled down at her.

  She misinterpreted his movement. She paled suddenly and her hand went involuntarily to her breast; then she circled him swiftly and stood with her back against the door.

  “You don’t leave here,” she said steadily, “until you explain that.”

  “Agreed,” he grinned, and sat down again. “Suppose you take a look in the corridor first.”

  HE OPENED the door a crack. A faint undertone of whistling drifted in, but it was only the inveterate whistler Tormley, fumbling at the lock of his stateroom opposite. As Arlene peered out he opened his door and disappeared.

  She whirled back. “Well?” she asked, her violet eyes grim. “What do you think he—or they—wanted?”

  “The Waterbury emerald,” he announced placidly.

  Ketchall saw the girl suppress a quiver of fear. “The—— what?” she gasped. “What are you talking about?”

  He grinned reassuringly. “I guess it must look to you as if everybody on board knows about it. But I’m not after it, Arlene; I’m from Simon’s.”

  “F—from Simon’s?”

  “Yes.” He slipped an envelope from his pocket. “Here’s my credentials. Better look at ‘em.”

  She took the papers as gingerly as if they carried an electric charge. For a moment her eyes remained suspiciously on his face, and then she glanced briefly at the documents. She drew a deep breath. “Oh,” she said, “I’m glad. This whole day has been a terrible strain. I’m glad to share it.”

  “I knew you’d be. Now tell me— where is it?” His voice was very low.

  She hesitated. “I don’t think I’ll tell you,” she
murmured.

  “You needn’t then; I guess. I saw you grab for it under stress of surprise, and if you’ll take my advice, you’ll give it to the purser, to be locked up.”

  “I will not. There’s such a thing as bribery, you know. When something runs into such values, you can’t trust anybody. Oliver said so.”

  “Oliver?”

  “The purchaser; I’m his secretary.”

  “The agent, you mean. Who’s the actual purchaser?”

  “I won’t tell that either.”

  “It’s Jake Bromberg, isn’t it?” he persisted.

  “What do you know about Bromberg?”

  “Pittsburgh steel operator.” said Bill, “but lives in New York. Rich as a Rothschild, self-made, and proud of it. Collects jewels, apparently purely for his own satisfaction, because he doesn’t care if nobody in the world knows he owns ‘em. My hunch is that it’s an inferiority complex; goes back to some peasant ancestry, so that jewels are to him a symbol of having lived down his humble origins.”

  Arlene Lowell gave him a wry smile. “All right,” she said in sudden yielding. “You know the facts, then. And you must know how important secrecy is to both parties. That’s why I’m taking the thing across, instead of Oliver. Nobody can connect me to Bromberg, but somebody might place Oliver. You see, the collections are kept at Bromberg’s home; he won’t keep them in a deposit box because he likes to handle them. I suppose you’d call it gloating over them.”

  “But,” he insisted, “you’d be better giving this one to the purser. It’s safer.”

  “Oliver thinks not. Anyway—you might as well know it— I’ve got it in a bag pinned inside my dress and hung about my neck by a chain. There’s not even a clasp to the chain; it slips over my head.”

  “It sounds safe, but—” He shrugged. “Well, somebody knows you have it. See that your door is bolted on the inside whenever you’re here, and see that it’s locked when you’re not. And for Heaven’s sake, if you see so much as a mouse, scream! I’ll hear you.”

  “If I see a mouse I certainly will,” she smiled. “I’m tired, Bill. Would you mind if we had another try at saying good-night? We might make it stick this time.”

  “You’re sure you’re not afraid?”

  She laughed. He stared down into her violet eyes, frowned thoughtfully, and then turned toward the door.

  The corridor was completely deserted. Ketchall slipped quietly into his own stateroom, pulled out his suitcase, and begin to prepare for bed. But no sooner had he opened his bag than a low whistle escaped him.

  His own luggage had been ransacked.

  ILL MET Arlene at breakfast. She was quite gay and sparkling, and seemed to have spent a thoroughly restful night, which spoke well for her nerves. Neither of them mentioned the events of the preceding day until they bad finished the meal and were ensconced in deck-chairs, gazing out over the faint mist of a September seascape. Smooth blue swells pursued each other endlessly toward the stern. September, Bill mused, was the month of all months for a sea voyage.

  Finally be said, “Was there any further disturbance last night?”

  “Not a sign of any; I slept right through.”

  “I’m glad of that. I’m just as anxious as you are to get this trip over with successfully.”

  “Oh,” she said coolly, “so you’re anxious to get the trip over with.”

  He smiled. “You know what I meant. My job wouldn’t be worth a bent penny if anything happened.”

  “Nor mine.”

  “So,” he pursued, “the thing to do is to prevent anything from happening. One approach is to determine who our opposition is. Have you any ideas?”

  “Not a one. Of Course it’s a man. It was a man I saw lying on the floor.”

  “Of course. Can you describe him at all?”

  “Not very distinctly. I told you I was thoroughly startled. I did see his face, but dimly.”

  “His clothing? Do you recall that?”

  “It was dark in color. But what makes you think he’s connected with the affair? My room could have been searched afterwards, while we were here on deck:”

  “Too much of a coincidence. I think the fellow was shamming. If you’d stood your ground he’d have pretended to be drunk, but since we gave him the opportunity to slip away he took it.” Ketchall paused. “You’ve seen that pair opposite your stateroom—Tormley and Hotchkiss. Could this chap have been one of them?”

  She frowned. “I—don’t think so. I think be was dark-haired. They’re both light. Besides, why do you suspect them?”

  “No good reason,” he said slowly. “It just seems that every time I listen closely I hear that pest Tormley whistling. I hate public whistlers anyway; maybe I’m just prejudiced. But it has to be somebody, and somebody among the passengers, too, unless your visitor got out of uniform for the visit. The trouble is that the Arcturus is a one-class ship. That means it could be any one of the passengers.” He paused as a figure approached to the accompaniment of low whistling, and Tormley passed them with a friendly nod.

  “There goes your star suspect,” smiled Arlene.

  “Yeah, and the more I hear of his tooting the more I hope he’s the villain. It’d give me a great deal of pleasure to pin it on him.”

  HE GIRL puckered her lips and began to whistle “A Life on the Ocean Wave”.

  Bill laughed. “I don’t mind it a bit when you do it,” he chuckled.

  Her violet eyes shifted to his face.

  “All I do is watch your lips,” be grinned. “They look like an invitation.”

  The tune ceased abruptly. “Back to business,” she said, but smiled as she said it. “What’s the next step?”

  “I still say trust the purser.”

  “I won’t; Oliver thinks otherwise.”

  “Then,” said Bill earnestly, “what about me? Would you consider letting me take care of the thing?”

  “I certainly would not.”

  “But—haven’t I convinced you yet that I’m on your side? My interests are the same as yours. All I want is to see the damn stone delivered to Oliver at the Customs. Once there, I’m through with it.”

  “Oh, your face looks honest,” said the girl tartly. “But it takes more than an honest face and a couple of letters to get this thing out of my hands. I’m doing the job the way my employer wants it done, and if he’d wanted Simon’s to deliver it, he’d have asked ‘em.” Then she smiled. “All the same I’m glad you’re aboard, Bill,” she added softly.

  But that was as much satisfaction as this day was to grant him. After lunch, Arlene appeared unexpectedly on deck in the company of young Sykes Mallory, and spent the afternoon at shuffleboard, greeting Ketchall with a smile friendly enough, but without giving him any opportunity of cutting in on her presence. Nor was he particularly pleased at dinner to discover that Mallory had already forestalled him in the matter of the first ship’s dance, to be held that evening. Indeed, it was very nearly midnight before he had the chance to speak to her in the comparative privacy of the deck, and that only by determined method of practically dragging her there.

  “Listen,” he began gruffly, “you’re being damned careless. How do you know you haven’t been dancing with the very crook we’re on guard against?”

  “Young Mallory?” she laughed.

  “Or any of the others.”

  “Oh, don’t be dramatic! People like Sykes Mallory aren’t international jewel thieves. He’s a customer’s man with Quentin and Co., and what’s more, he knows half a dozen people I know, and his uncle knew my mother.”

  ILL GRUNTED. It wasn’t that he was jealous over Arlene, or that he resented her attention being occupied by others. Of course not; it was simply a matter of doing his job, and he could do it best by keeping her entirely to himself. He told her so.

  “In other words,” she retorted, “you want me suspended in a sort of vacuum. Well, I say no thank you.”

  “Listen, Arlene—you’ve got responsibilities too.”

&nb
sp; “And I’m living up to them.” She touched the throat of her black dinner gown. “Will you tell me how anyone could steal an object that’s chained and pinned as this?—And especially in a lighted room with a crowd of people around.”

  “I don’t know how. If I did, I’d probably be in the other end of the business stealing ‘em instead of insuring ‘em. It pays better while it lasts, and besides, I’d be spending my time dancing with you instead of arguing.”

  She laughed. “It’s not my fault that there’s an argument. And lest there be any more of it, suppose we turn in. It’s late.”

  Bill followed her. Halfway down the steps a hubbub in the corridor caught their attention, and they quickened their pace.

  A man was kneeling over a figure prone on the carpeted floor. It was the ship’s doctor who knelt, and about him stood a babbling group, two or three passengers, the Captain, and a frightened seaman who mouthed repeatedly, “I just come up and ‘ere ‘e was! I just come up and ‘ere ‘e was!”

  Bill stared without recognition on the face of the figure on the floor, but Arlene Lowell suddenly reeled back against him with her features chalk-white.

  “That’s the one!” she gasped.

  “That’s the man I saw! And—and look, Bill! He’s lying right outside my door!”

  Ketchall gulped. There was no shamming this time; the staring eyes and contorted mouth were the features of death.

  T WAS given out to the passengers the next day as heart-failure. The man was an individual named Carnes, a passenger, and quickly identified via radio as a minor thief, given to operating on liners. But it wasn’t heart-failure; by presenting his credentials to the Captain and letting that officer know something of his status, Bill Ket-chall secured the disturbing information that it was a crushed skull, and that meant murder.

  The seaman was in the brig. He was a chap called Higgs, and according to the radio’s advices, had had some previous connection with Carnes’ operations, using his freedom as an A.B. to help smuggle any loot through the customs. He was the logical suspect: he had no business in that part of the ship, in the first place, and his apparent connection with Carnes clinched the matter, and at least so far as the Captain was concerned. A simple case of thieves quarreling.