by Rufus King
Valcour smiled sympathetically. “And these gestures, Mr. Wright?”
“Well now, sir—I suppose I was waving my arms around some, and maybe this feller thought I might be about to turn around when he came and pulled my cap down. I thought he did it to make me quit singing.”
“Didn’t you make a grab for him, or anything, Mr. Wright?”
“I guess I was about to when Miss Sidderby, here, screamed. It was kind of upsetting. Come to think of it, I did catch hold of something, though.”
“Yes, Mr. Wright?”
“It must have been a piece of paper. I sort of remember it tearing. The feller who pulled my cap down must have had it in his hand, and I caught hold of it.”
Valcour’s spine felt like ice. “Where is this piece of paper, Mr. Wright?”
“I guess maybe it went overboard, sir.”
“Don’t you know? This is very important, Mr. Wright.”
“Well—as I said, Miss Sidderby screamed about then, and I was trying to yank that cap up from over my eyes, and I guess I just naturally chucked that piece of paper overboard. Maybe it just fell on the deck. I have an idea this feller stooped for something before he beat it, because his arm or his shoulder, or something, hit my knee.”
“Is that the suit you were wearing last night, Mr. Wright?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you mind feeling in its pockets? You might have shoved that piece of paper into one of them without realizing it.”
Mr. Wright obligingly stood up and searched. “It isn’t in any of them, Mr. Valcour.” He sat down again. “I guess I must have just chucked it right out of my hand right after I’d grabbed it.”
“Why so interested in the paper, my dear Valcour? Could it be, by chance, one of the ubiquitous fatal ones?”
Valcour smiled pleasantly. “The trivial details, Mr. Dumarque, usually form the basis for the successful detection of a crime. The criminal, you see, even if he is only normally clever, can generally guard against the main ones. One case that I was on—and it was an exhaustive and expensive investigation that covered a period of six months—was solved by a six-inch strip of cheap calico that had been bought in a Newark department store and which I found a child playing with near an ash heap. Tell me, Mr. Wright, how long you had been standing at the rail before Miss Sidderby screamed.”
“Well now really, Mr. Valcour, I couldn’t say.”
“Did you go there right after supper?”
“No, I guess I kind of wandered around for a while.”
“Where?”
“Just all around.”
“Alone?”
“No, sir, not all of the time. I was on the bridge for a while talking with Mr. Swithers. I guess I must have stayed there with him until he went off watch.”
“That would be eight o’clock, then.”
“So it would.”
“Where did you go from the bridge, Mr. Wright?”
“I went down to my cabin to get me a cigar, sir.”
“You share a cabin with Mr. Force, don’t you?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Was Mr. Force in the cabin, when you got the cigar?”
“No, nobody was in the cabin, sir. I just fussed around there a while and then went on upstairs again. I guess I walked up and down on the lower deck a bit, and then I guess I went up here to this deck and over to that corner, sir, as I said.”
“Which side of this deck did you walk along, Mr. Wright, to get to that corner?”
“The—the side you call the body side, sir.”
“Then you must have passed the door and ports to the wireless room.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Anyone standing there, Mr. Wright?”
Mr. Wright’s eyes bulged a little. “Well now, there was, Mr. Valcour.”
“Who?”
“Mr. Sanford was standing there, if I remember correctly. He was kind of looking in through one of the ports.”
CHAPTER 31
LAT. 35° 12' NORTH, LONG. 64° 29' WEST
“But surely—but surely—” Mr. Sanford, like a phonograph needle stuck in a groove, could get no farther.
“I’m sure that it is quite all right, Mr. Sanford,” Valcour said. “We will come to it in a moment. There is one thing I would like cleared up before we go on. You said, Mr. Wright, that your impression was that the man who pulled your cap down stooped to get something before running off. Which direction, would you say, he ran in?”
“Now really, I don’t know, Mr. Valcour.”
“You could hear his footsteps, surely?”
“No, sir—there wasn’t a sound of a footstep, and by the time I’d gotten the cap off my eyes he was gone, and I heard that shriek, and I guess I just started running and bumped into Mr. Dumarque, here, like he said.”
“How about it, Mr. Dumarque? Did you notice anyone at all—standing still, perhaps, close to the wall—before you hit Mr. Wright?”
“No one, my dear Valcour. I am positive.”
“And you, Miss Sidderby—you noticed no one passing you on the starboard deck?”
“Oh no, Mr. Valcour. Until Captain Sohme and the rest of you came, there was no one with us at all—with that poor, dear young Mr. Gans and me. I think it seemed forever before all of you came.”
“In that case,” Valcour said, “as our man didn’t go to either side, he must have gone up.”
“Dear God, man, up?” Captain Sohme was shocked into vague visions of ascensions.
“Up the ladder to the bridge, Captain.”
“Then the third mate must have seen him, Valcour.”
“I doubt it, Captain. Miss Sidderby had screamed, you see, and the third mate would have been drawn, by the scream, to the starboard end of the bridge. The helmsman would also, almost certainly, have been looking in that direction. The man could have stayed just at the head of the ladder and then come down again, after Mr. Dumarque had passed. He probably followed Mr. Wright aft along the deck.”
Mr. Wright’s brow grew moist. “Thank God, I didn’t know it,” he said.
“Did you keep right on running, Mr. Wright?”
“I just ran right on around the deck, Mr. Valcour, until I came up with the bunch by the body. Of course lots of people were running by that time.”
Valcour smiled. “Then the only thing we can convict you of, so far, is singing. How about you, Mr. Force?”
“From nine on, Mr. Valcour?”
“From nine on, Mr. Force.”
“I haven’t any definite recollection of what I was doing. I’m sure it wasn’t anything special. There’s nothing much you really can do on board a ship, except loaf, is there?”
“Perhaps it will be easier to work backward, Mr. Force. Where were you when Miss Sidderby screamed?”
Young Force didn’t answer right away, and his face had grown pale and set-looking. After a while he said, “I was standing at the top of the ladder leading to the port side of the bridge, Mr. Valcour.” Mrs. Sanford, who had been fingering a metal ash tray, dropped it. Its sound, when it struck the table, was a minor explosion and Mr. Sanford said, “Oh, but for God’s sake, Sue—”
“I see.” Valcour stared thoughtfully at young Force and then smiled. “Unless it was you who killed Mr. Gans, we must alter our premise.”
“Yes, Mr. Valcour.”
“If the man who pulled Mr. Wright’s cap down had run up the ladder you would have seen him.”
“Yes, Mr. Valcour.”
“But you didn’t see him.”
“But I did, Mr. Valcour.”
“You saw the murderer?” Miss Sidderby’s voice was a whisper.
“I didn’t say that, Miss Sidderby. I said that I saw the man who must have pulled Mr. Wright’s cap down.”
“Did you see him actually pull it, Mr. Force?”
Young Force smiled nervously. “Why, you know I couldn’t have, Mr. Valcour. The bridge extends right across the forward end of the boat deck. I couldn’t see Mr. Wright
at all.”
“What did you see?”
“I think that I must have heard something first, something that made me stop at the head of the ladder and look down, because I don’t think I’d have turned otherwise.” Young Force’s smile was still nervous. “It couldn’t have been Mr. Wright’s singing, because he had stopped singing. Maybe it was because he had stopped singing. Does it matter?”
“Everything matters, Mr. Force.”
“Well, the man must have made some noise, then, when he pulled the cap down over Mr. Wright’s eyes, because I did stop and look down and there was this man running hard along the deck towards the stern.”
“Who was it, Mr. Force?”
“I couldn’t say, Mr. Valcour. I guess I must have been standing ten or twelve feet above the deck—that’s about how high the top of the ladder is above the deck, isn’t it?”
“Just about.”
“It was dark down on the deck and this man was running pretty fast. You know how vague things are on a dark night.”
“Was there nothing familiar about the figure at all, Mr. Force?”
Young Force thought this over for a minute. “This isn’t the sort of thing you ought to speculate about, is it, Mr. Valcour? I mean it’s pretty serious, isn’t it?”
“Very serious.”
“Then I’d rather not say, if you don’t mind.”
“Just as you prefer.”
“It isn’t as if I’d seen his face.”
“What was it you did see, which makes you think you might identify this man?”
“I don’t mind telling you that. It’s different, having you draw your own conclusions. What I saw was the end of a white scarf, Mr. Valcour.”
“Like the one that Mr. Sanford wears, Mr. Force?”
“Just the end of a white scarf, Mr. Valcour.”
CHAPTER 32
LAT. 35° 12' NORTH, LONG. 64° 29' WEST
Mr. Sanford’s twittering approached a paroxysm. “I insist—I insist on being permitted to speak!” he was trying to say; and Mrs. Sanford, with two round baleful eyes fastened upon young Force, was saying, “You are a wicked, wicked man!” and Mr. Dumarque, with his eyes also turned toward young Force, was saying, “Thank God I’ve some company at last, old chap !”—“I’ve never been so maligned in my life!”—Mr. Sanford, having gathered enough steam, was drowning them out. “I can prove—prove, I tell you, that I wasn’t within miles of the spot at all—miles, sir—miles!” “Then you must be a fish,” Mr. Stickney was saying. “Sir? Fish?…”
“Gentlemen!” Valcour’s voice was a snuffer. “We will stick, if you please, to one thing at a time. Before taking up the question of that white scarf I would like to know, Mr. Force, what you were doing on the bridge?”
“I had just reached it, Mr. Valcour. I was going to spend a while with the third officer, talking—smoking a cigarette or two.”
“Where had you come from, Mr. Force?”
“Do you want me to go back to immediately after supper?”
“If you would, please.”
“Well, you probably recall that I was in the lounge reading for a while. You were playing bridge, Mr. Valcour.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know just when I left, but it must have been before eight o’clock. Quite a while before eight, I imagine.”
“Why so?”
“Because the third officer goes on watch at eight, and I must have been talking with him in his cabin for at least half an hour before he went up to the bridge.”
“That takes us up to eight o’clock, Mr. Force. What were you doing between then and when you mounted the ladder to the bridge?”
“I just stayed in the third mate’s cabin, Mr. Valcour. It was quieter in there for reading, and he had given me permission to.”
“Was it just coincidental that you left the cabin and went up to the bridge at the moment when you did?”
“Just coincidental, Mr. Valcour. I’d finished the book I was reading.” Young Force’s face was very strained. “Things can be coincidental—even suspicious things—don’t you think so, Mr. Valcour?”
“Certainly. I don’t know just what the average is, but life is filled with coincidences, with ones that sometime seem almost incredible. Did Miss Sidderby scream before or after you had seen this man, Mr. Force?”
“Just after I had seen him.”
“What did you do?”
“Do?”
“Yes, when you heard the scream.”
“I went right down on deck again.”
“Did the scream seem to come from the starboard side of the boat, to you?”
“Yes. I know it came from the starboard side of the boat.”
“Then why didn’t you run across the bridge and use the starboard ladder, Mr. Force?”
“I don’t know.”
“Your action was just impulsive?”
“Just impulsive, Mr. Valcour. Why do people save telephone books and things like that when there’s a fire?”
“I’m not questioning your veracity, Mr. Force. I’m just trying to get the picture as complete as possible.”
“I’m naturally feeling nervous about this.”
“I’m sure there’s no reason to be. Why haven’t you spoken about this running man until now, Mr. Force?”
“Why, you said yourself that the thing was pretty serious.”
“Well?”
“I didn’t feel like incriminating anybody, Mr. Valcour—just because I had seen a white scarf.”
“And that’s all?”
“That’s all, Mr. Valcour.”
“I tell you, sir”—Mr. Sanford’s voice amounted to a shriek—“it was not my white scarf!”
“What was it, then, Mr. Sanford?” Valcour said.
“What was it, sir? How should I know?”
“Then let us wait until we come to it, Mr. Sanford. Did you see the collision between Mr. Wright and Mr. Dumarque, Mr. Force?”
“No, I didn’t, Mr. Valcour.”
“Why not?”
“Because I ran forward and went around to the starboard side of the deck. Mr. Wright had run aft of the ladder.”
“I see. Then you just joined the crowd around the body.”
“Yes, Mr. Valcour.”
“All right now, Mr. Sanford, what about it?”
“Oh, but my dear sir, surely you don’t believe those dreadful accusations?”
“There haven’t been any accusations, Mr. Sanford.”
“But I insist, I insist that there have been, sir! Mr. Wright has me peering into the wireless-room portholes and that poor deluded young man over there has me flying about from the murder in my scarf. Really, I’ve never been so traduced—so vilified—”
“Pull yourself together, Horace, and stop making a fool of yourself.”
“No really, Sue, really—”
“Just take things a little more calmly, Mr. Sanford. Nobody’s trying to vilify you. Mr. Wright has stated that at some time around eight-thirty he saw you looking in through one of the wireless-room ports. Were you?”
“Oh, but of course I was, and I’m sure there’s nothing criminal in doing that. Wireless has always fascinated me, sir—positively fascinated me. When you consider the magic of communicating words and sound through thousands and thousands—”
“Horace.”
“Really, Sue! I should have gone into the wireless room and inspected the set, with Mr. Gans’s permission, had I not seen through the port that he was otherwise occupied with Mr. Swithers. And that, my dear Mr. Valcour, is the answer to that.”
“Then from eight-thirty to nine?”
“Ah, there—there you have me. As I explained this morning, my dear sir—my—that is to say, my little spells.”
“At a minute or two after nine Mr. Stickney states that you were in the smoking saloon with him for, perhaps, five minutes. Is that correct?”
“Oh, quite correct, quite, quite correct. I was endeavoring to recover from the little sp
ell.”
“We’ve reached the really important part now, Mr. Sanford—from nine to nine-thirty. You weren’t suffering from a spell then, were you?”
“Indeed, oh indeed not, sir. I passed that, as you say, critical period up in the bows chatting with a most competent witness, which will be adequate proof that I was not dashing away from a murder on the boat deck in my white scarf.’!
“Who is this witness, Mr. Sanford?”
“It is Mr. Poole, sir—young Mr. Ted Poole.”
“Dear God alive, man, he is dead!” Captain Sohme’s voice boomed through the saloon, and Mr. Sanford’s horse-like features became the color of gray chalk.
“I had forgotten,” he said, “that Mr. Poole was dead.”
CHAPTER 33
LAT. 35° 12' NORTH, LONG. 64° 29' WEST
The sound of eight bells, muffled and very distant, drifted through the open ports on drizzle. No one but Valcour looked directly at Mr. Sanford, and even Mr. Dumarque was at a loss for something inappropriate to say.
“That’s all right, Mr. Sanford,” Valcour said. “This is just an informal inquiry, you know. We’re simply trying to get the picture straight. Miss Ella Sidderby, I know, can’t help us as she played bridge with Captain Sohme, Mrs. Poole, and myself from supper on. But you, Miss Sidderby—have you anything that might be pertinent to add up to the moment when you found Mr. Gans?”
“Oh, I’m certain there was nothing, Mr. Valcour.” Miss Sidderby’s little face was pale from shock, at the agonizing thought that sitting there, so near her, just across that little table from her, might be (with his face like a horse) the shameful murderer of poor, dead, thin Mr. Gans. Her hands were like leaves waiting for some wind to make them tremble, and her voice came queerly from a wrong part of her throat. She was, and knew that she was, thoroughly frightened.
“Where did you spend the evening, Miss Sidderby?” Valcour was very gentle.
“I visited with Mrs. Sanford”—the name was a flame that burned her tongue—“in her cabin, Mr. Valcour. I don’t remember exactly what we talked about.”
“It isn’t necessary, Miss Sidderby.”
“No, I’m sure it wasn’t important, Mr. Valcour—just ordinary subjects such as people talk about when they’re off on a holiday. That’s all we are, you see, Mr. Valcour”—the wind was coming and her hands, which were ice cold leaves, were yielding to it. “We’re just a little group of people who ought to be happy because all of us, I’m sure, are just on a little holiday.” Her smile was a tragic failure and the wind, through her hands, was blowing very strong and shook them even though she had laced their fingers. “I never dreamed when Ella and I left the city that it would be anything like this—you know how it is, Mr. Valcour, when you dream about a trip for a long, long time, and then save enough to take it—little economies which you don’t mind, really—” Her whole body was bending before this strong cold wind and her eyes were two stones of ice in warm wetness and Ella was saying, “Please, please, darling—” and she was saying, “I’m quite all right, my dear,” and knowing, at the same time, perfectly well that she wasn’t, but very determined to keep herself with the last bit of strength left in her from collapsing until this investigation was finished and Mr. Gans—that poor, thin, helpless young thing—should be avenged. “I just stood for a while, Mr. Valcour, on the main deck after leaving Mrs. Sanford, and then I walked up onto the boat deck”—her voice was so very queer that she wondered whether anybody could understand her—“and then I found Mr. Gans.”
