by Frances
“Not a pleasant one,” Cunningham said. “And—I realize it’s none of your concern. Only—well, there’s this.”
This was a message on a radiogram form. It was signed “Follonby.” It read:
“Take appropriate measures but urge discretion to avoid disturbing passengers. Weigand on your list is police officer experienced such matters and might be asked assist at your discretion.”
“Follonby’s the managing director,” Cunningham said. “Great man for discretion. See his point, though. No use stirring up—” He stopped with a shrug. “What it comes to,” he said. “Will you lend a hand? Hate to ask you, but there it is. I can promise you the company’ll be generous.”
“No,” Bill said. “Oh—yes, I’ll lend a hand. But New York City hires me. And—I don’t like murder. Particularly of—” He paused. “In a way,” he said, “Marsh was on our side. We don’t like things to happen to people on our side. You’ve moved the body?”
They had not. An assistant purser was standing by, as unobtrusively as possible, to see that no one did.
“For one thing,” Captain Cunningham said, “people’ll be up and about for hours. Have to take him through passageways, y’know. On the other hand—well, the room’s not air-conditioned. We’re heading south. Have to—er—refrigerate in the course of time.”
“Right,” Bill said. “You’ve seen it?”
“Yes,” Cunningham said. “I’ve seen it. With the doctor. That gold hilt sticking up in the air—doesn’t seem right, somehow. Shell splinter—that sort of thing makes some kind of sense. But this—What did they want with a sword?”
They had wanted it, Bill told him, to carry in a parade.
“Silly sort of business,” Captain Cunningham said. “Shall we get along?”
They got along. They went down in the elevator to A Deck and Bill followed the captain along the corridor to Cabin 88. The movement of the ship was somewhat more apparent than it had been—at least to Bill Weigand. From Captain Cunningham’s balanced progress down the corridor, one would never have known it. “Swell’s from the one that sheered off,” Captain Cunningham said, over his shoulder, referring to a hurricane which, some days before, had gone elsewhere, after giving the Eastern seaboard a week-long fright. “Be out of it tomorrow.”
They had to make themselves thin to get through the partially openable door of Cabin 88. Fortunately, this was not difficult for either of them. Inside a young man in uniform turned from a porthole, out of which he had been looking. He did not look as if he felt particularly well. “Captain Weigand, Forbes,” Cunningham said. “You can shove off, now.”
“Yes sir,” the assistant purser said. He went carefully, as distantly as space allowed, around what was on the floor, and made himself thin going out of the door. Weigand was crouched beside the body.
J. Orville Marsh lay on his back, in a position which seemed incongruously comfortable. The sword stuck straight up from his chest, most of it above his body but enough—oh, quite enough—in it. With the motion of the ship the gilded hilt moved slowly back and forth, seeming to bow to them; seeming to perform a slow, macabre dance.
“Ribs holding it,” Weigand said. “Through the heart, apparently.”
“Dr. Wilson said that,” the captain told him. “Between ribs, into the heart. A lucky thrust, from one point of view. Shall we have the doctor in?”
They needn’t, at the moment, Bill thought. Presumably the doctor had told Captain Cunningham what there was to tell.
The doctor had. One thrust of the thin, sharp steel into the chest of J. Orville Marsh, Marsh dying of it within, at the outside, a minute or so. A stewardess had found the body between nine thirty and nine forty-five. The doctor had seen it about fifteen minutes later—say at ten o’clock. Marsh had not been longer than an hour dead; perhaps less.
Bill nodded and stood up. He looked at the door, down at the body. The ship’s captain waited.
“Probably,” Bill said, “someone knocked. He opened the door. Somebody stood there with the sword ready. Stabbed him while he was standing there, before he had a chance to move. And closed the door. Or, falling backward, Marsh’s feet hit the door and pushed it closed. Is there a ship’s photographer?”
“Well,” Cunningham says, “there’s a gal takes pictures. Of people in the café, y’know. But—”
Bill waited.
“Hate to call her just now,” Cunningham said. “Be a little obvious, wouldn’t it? As a matter of fact, take pictures myself now and then. Amateur stuff. Wife and kiddies. That sort of silly business. Still—”
“Flashlight?” Bill asked him.
“Matter of fact,” the captain said, “yes. Have a shot at it, if you like.”
“Right,” Bill said.
Cunningham used the telephone. Cholly, very quickly, arrived with camera, rigged for flashlight. It was, Bill saw, a very good camera. Photographing the remains of J. Orville Marsh, the captain used it expertly. After he had, as Bill directed, shot from half a dozen angles, he looked at Bill enquiringly. Bill thought they had what they wanted.
Bill twisted a handkerchief into a short rope, looped it through the sword hilt and pulled. The sword clung for a moment; came out with a faint, unpleasant sound. Marsh had been deep chested. Some inches of the sword were bloody. Blood dripped from the tip of the sword. The rest of the blade was bright in the ceiling light; it looked sharp. It had, obviously, been sharp enough. Pam, Bill remembered, had called it a toy sword. It had proved a venomous toy.
“Took a bit of doing?” Cunningham said. “To make the thrust, I mean?”
“Some,” Bill told him. “But the point’s sharp—and missed bone.”
He looked at the dangling sword. The pommel was ridged for sure gripping. The gilding of the hilt was fretted with design. They would look for prints—somehow—and find blurs. Too many blurs, made by too many Old Respectables. Bill knotted the handkerchief and hung the sword by it from a closet hook. It had stopped dripping.
As he turned back, the movement of the ship caught him unawares. He did not precisely stagger, but he swayed toward Captain Cunningham, who did not sway at all.
“Won’t be in it long,” Captain Cunningham assured him. Bill Weigand’s eyes had narrowed slightly, and the captain stopped and waited.
“If I’d happened to have a sword pointing at you, I might have run you through,” Bill said. “A—what? Fifty-fifty chance?”
Captain Cunningham moved his head slowly up and down. “About that,” he said.
He waited.
“It may have been that way,” Bill said. “But, we’re a long way from knowing. From knowing anything, except the obvious.” He leaned down and looked under one of the beds—Marsh, not sparing of expense, had booked a double cabin. There were two large suitcases under the bed. There was a dispatch case.
“You’ll want to go through these things,” Captain Cunningham said, and Bill nodded. He would also want to see the doctor, the stewardess who had found the body. To, he explained, keep things neat. But—
He looked at the body. The cabin was reasonably large, but not large enough for what it contained.
“Rather in the way, isn’t he?” Captain Cunningham said. “But I’d like to wait—oh, say a couple of hours? Longer, if possible. As a matter of—” He paused. “Discretion,” he said. “No use—”
He was interrupted. Someone was knocking at the cabin door. Cunningham started around the body toward the door, but Bill touched his arm. He pointed. He indicated. They pulled Marsh’s body far enough into the cabin so the door would open. The knocking was repeated. This time, Bill nodded. Captain Cunningham opened the door. He said, “Good Evening?” to J. R. Folsom. Folsom was still in uniform. He said, “Oh!” in a surprised tone. He said, “What goes—” He looked into the room. He said, “My God!”
“Quite,” Captain Cunningham said. He turned and looked at Bill Weigand.
“Right,” Bill said. “What brings you here, Mr. Folsom?”
Respected Captain Folsom, although symbolically dressed for the violence of battle, stood in the doorway with his mouth open—and his eyes wide, and a certain pastiness of complexion. He pointed.
“He—” he said, and stopped to swallow. “Something’s happened to him?” He looked at the color of the carpet, which had once been a pleasant gray. “My God!” he said.
“He’s dead,” Bill said. “That’s where the sword was, Mr. Folsom.” He moved to the closet, and unhooked the sword, and let it dangle from the handkerchief. “Did you come for it?”
Folsom made a slight retching sound, and visibly took a deep breath, and conquered it.
“Going to meet him in the bar,” Folsom said. “Have a nightcap. He didn’t show so I—what do you mean, did I come for it? What the hell right’ve you got—”
“Captain Weigand is trying to find out what happened,” Cunningham said. “At my request, Mr. Folsom. With my authority.”
“All the same—” Folsom said, and stopped again.
“You were going to meet Mr. Marsh for a drink,” Bill said. “He didn’t show up and you came to find him?”
Folsom said, “Yeh.”
“There’s a telephone in the smoking lounge,” Bill said. “All you had to do was to ask to be connected with Mr. Marsh’s room.” He regarded Folsom. “Saved yourself a walk,” he said.
“Well,” Folsom said. “I didn’t think of it. That’s all. I didn’t think of it. You always think of everything?”
He was aggrieved. It appeared his feelings were hurt.
“You trying to make me the goat?” Folsom asked, and now he was more aggrieved than ever. “Just because somebody stole our sword? If I killed him, what would I be coming back for?” This thought brightened him. “Tell me that,” he said, speaking with something approaching triumph.
“All right,” Bill said. “I did tell you—to get the sword.”
“What did I knock for?” Folsom said. “Look—you say I killed him. So I know he’s dead, don’t I? So why do I knock? Dead people don’t open doors.”
Cunningham looked at Bill Weigand. He raised his eyebrows.
“All right,” Bill said. “I didn’t say you killed him. Come on in. And—tell us more about the sword.”
Unhappily, Respected Captain J. R. Folsom came in.
4
The sword had last been worn by an officer of the day—Sergeant Walter D. Riggs, real estate—on the tour of duty which had ended at midnight, a little less than twenty-four hours earlier. Between midnight and eight in the morning, the Ancient and Respectable Riflemen dispensed with sentry. (It appeared, although it was not specifically said, that the officer of the day was a species of perambulating sergeant-at-arms, intended to help Ancient and Respectable Riflemen keep themselves under control.) J. R. Folsom was the first to admit that the lack of night patrol was to be lamented.
“To be frank with you,” Folsom said, with the air of one who puts cards on a table, “the boys just won’t do it. Not at night. Hard enough to keep them at it—” He stopped.
In any case, Sergeant Riggs had put the sword in one of the two rifle boxes at midnight—perhaps a little before midnight. He had gone, then, to the smoking saloon, leaving Adjutant Hammond Jones—Jones Bros. Buick Corp.—to lock up.
“Why?” Bill asked. “Why didn’t Riggs lock up?”
“Jonesy’s got the key,” Folsom said, in some surprise. “Adjutant’s responsibility.”
“Go ahead,” Bill told him.
The rifle boxes were stored forward and inboard on the promenade deck, rather in the way of the athletic doing their eight circuits to the mile. The boxes were there so that, when it came time to parade, the rifles could be got at. Once case had been left locked; the other, for the benefit of the sword, was locked only during the night. But the night before, “Jonesy just plain forgot it,” Folsom told them. “What with one thing and another. Not that Jonesy’s what you’d call a drinking man.”
Sometime between midnight and morning, the sword had disappeared from the case. Sergeant O’Brien—James J. O’Brien, flooring—had gone for it at eight, or maybe a little after. It was not there.
“Are you all officers?” Weigand asked. “Or noncoms?”
“Well,” Folsom said, “I wouldn’t go that far. But frankly, mostly. Way we work it, new members are privates for six months. Indoctrination. After that—”
“Right,” Bill said. “Sergeant O’Brien told you, I suppose?”
“Woke me up,” Folsom said, with some retrospective bitterness. “Told him to follow the chain. Chain of command. Told him to go wake up Adjutant Jones. Have Jones report to me. Chain of command, like I said. Anyway, Jonesy was the man supposed to lock up.”
“What did you do to find it?” Bill said.
They had asked around. All the Old Respectables had denied any knowledge of the sword.
“And,” Bill said, “you figured somebody had taken it out, all the same? Hidden it—as—as a joke of some sort?”
“Well,” Folsom said, “some of them didn’t like to wear it. Like I said, because it banged into things. Maybe, come down to it, some of the boys thought it was a little silly.” Folsom stopped. “That’s only what I thought then,” he said. “Way it is now—”
“The way it is now,” Bill said, “you’d rather think it wasn’t one of the riflemen?”
“Way it is now,” Folsom said, “I think anybody on the boat could have got it. All our boys are good one hundred per cent Americans.”
Captain Peter Cunningham blinked.
“You mean,” he asked, politely, “that Americans—one hundred per cent Americans, that is—do not kill people?”
“Oh,” Folsom said. “See what you mean, captain. Not with swords, see what I mean?”
Captain Cunningham looked as if he were about to say he didn’t.
“Why,” Bill Weigand said, “was the sword kept sharp, Mr. Folsom? Since I assume it was a ceremonial sword?”
Folsom did not answer immediately. Then he said, “Well—” and paused again.
“Well,” Folsom said, “I guess you’d say on account of Junior.” He looked from Weigand to Captain Cunningham, as if about to ask them whether they knew what he meant; he appeared to assume they did not.
“Well,” he said, “Junior’s my son. We call him Junior. Mighty fine young—” He began to reach into his tunic. “Got a picture here some—”
“Never mind,” Bill said. “I’m sure he is. The sword was sharpened up for Junior?”
Folsom nodded.
“Why?” Bill asked him, with as much restraint as he could manage.
“To cut the cake,” Folsom said. “What did you think I meant?”
“I,” Bill said, “had no idea at all. A wedding cake?”
“Sure,” Folsom said. “Junior got married last June. Mighty fine young lady he—” He looked at Weigand. “O.K.,” he said. “Junior got married. But the draft’s caught up with him. They decided to get married first. His mother didn’t approve but—there you are. So, as he was going into the Army, I thought, why the hell not? Only, when I looked at it, the sword looked pretty dull and—well, not shined up right. So I sent it to these people and they fixed it up and put an edge on it. That’s all there was to that.”
Involuntarily, he looked at the sword—the sword dangling in sight, which had, in its last use but one, sliced through a wedding cake. He looked away again.
“The only reason you came here,” Bill said, “was to find out why Mr. Marsh hadn’t showed up for a drink at the bar?”
“Yeh,” Folsom said, and spoke quickly. “That’s all I came for. And—I wish to hell I hadn’t.”
“All right,” Bill said. “Go along and have your drink, Mr. Folsom. And—” His glance passed it to Captain Cunningham.
“I’d appreciate it,” Captain Cunningham said, “if you’d say as little about this as possible, Mr. Folsom. As a matter of fact—if you’d say nothing about it at all.” He paused to smile. “No use ha
ving people get the wind up, is there?” he said. “This sort of thing—” He paused again. “Leave a taste in the mouth, wouldn’t it?” he said.
Folsom saw what he meant. After a final quick glance at what was on the floor, Folsom got out of Cabin 88. Cunningham raised his eyebrows at Bill Weigand.
“I don’t know,” Bill said. “He could have come for that. Newfound pal. He’s had a few. Perhaps enough to make old friends out of strangers. But—what was the matter with the telephone?”
Cunningham shook his head.
“On the other hand,” he said, “man’s got a point. If he killed Marsh, why come back?”
Weigand shrugged. He indicated the telephone between the two beds. He asked whether, on that, he could get ship-to-shore. He could. Weigand edged around the body, but the captain was nearer and picked up the telephone. He waited briefly. “Captain here,” he said. “A shore call coming. I’d like you to expedite.” Then he handed the telephone to Weigand. Weigand wanted the offices of Homicide, Manhattan West, in West Twentieth Street. He gave the number. He said, “Thanks,” and hung up the telephone. He said, “How many passengers have you aboard, captain?” and groaned slightly when he was told there were a hundred and forty or thereabouts. Told that there were as many more in the crew—that there were close to three hundred men and women and children aboard the Carib Queen—he groaned audibly.
It was several minutes later that the telephone rang. Bill was pulling the second of two large suitcases from under one of the beds. He put it on the bed with its mate, and with a flat attaché case. He answered the telephone and talked, across miles of water which shone under a three-quarters’ moon, to Sergeant Stein in a small, and somewhat dingy, office in Tenth Precinct station house in West Twentieth Street, Manhattan. He wanted what could be found out about one J. Orville Marsh, licensed private investigator, deceased; one J. R. Folsom, manufacturer of paper boxes in Worcester, Mass.; one Mrs. Olivia Macklin, home address not given except as New York City, and one Hilda Macklin, her daughter; one Oscar Peterson, miller, from Minnesota, and his wife; one Walter D. Riggs, real estate, also of Worcester, and one Hammond Jones, Buick dealer, of the same city and—He said to wait a minute.
