by Rufus King
“No, Mr. Valcour?”
“No, Mrs. Poole. You got rid of Toody because Toody dated you. The child’s advancing years were a record of yours.”
“You are verging on insolence.”
“I am seeking the truth. It will not help that poor devil who has done these things, but it will explain him.”
Her laughter was a broken glass. “Then why didn’t he kill me instead of Larry?” she said.
“That, Mrs. Poole, would have come later.”
“And why wait all these years?”
“Because, for one thing, hatred in itself is rarely a sufficient incentive to kill.”
“Where, oh my dear Valcour, are you going?”
“Right back to the aunt, Mr. Dumarque. You think he killed her. I think he didn’t. I think she probably died a natural death, no matter how much killing she may have deserved. If we establish her death as around the time when the checks were returned undelivered, that would make it a year or two ago. Toody, by then, would be a man. What happened?”
“But of course I see—his income is cut off, and he has nothing left to feed and clothe himself with but his hate, and to this hate which you have established so well as a thesis—do I mean thesis? It does not matter—we can now add the pinch of poverty. More bitterly than ever his eyes are turned towards things as they might have been. And what a tragic turning that ever is, my dear Valcour! ‘Why,’ he would ask himself, ‘am I thus? I am thus because of my aunt, who is dead, and about whom nothing can be done. I am also thus because of that Mr. Lane who made me, in the words of one of our national anthems, what I am today.’ You think I jest? Simply because it is preferable to weeping. He, this misfit, then killed that man who made him one. Yes?”
“But the spark, Mr. Dumarque?”
“Which actually caused the explosion? That I do not know. Do you?”
“I think so. I see this youngster searching for Mr. Lane, finding him, going to him and telling him the facts.” Valcour’s voice was very quiet. “I can almost hear Mr. Lawrence Lane laughing at him.”
“He would,” Mrs. Poole said sharply. “That’s exactly what Larry would do.”
“Toody killed him for that laugh. He took what money he could find on Mr. Lane and his companion. He traced and followed Mrs. Poole. Perhaps Mr. Lane had told him where she was. Perhaps Mr. Lane had expressed his intention of communicating the facts about the masquerade to her. He followed her to Bermuda, to find her married again. He took passage on this ship. He killed Mr. Gans to prevent him from delivering a message to me from police headquarters which would have disclosed his identity and convicted him of the New York crime. He killed young Mr. Poole as soon as Mrs. Poole had drawn a will in young Poole’s favor, superseding the former will by which this youngster hoped to inherit. I think his original intention had been to try and persuade her to alter that former will so that the difference of his sex would not involve him in legal difficulties after her death. For he planned, I think, her death. I may be quite wrong. Perhaps he will let us know?”
Captain Sohme’s great voice broke explosively through the stillness. “Name him, Valcour—name him!”
“Let me first return a few articles which I borrowed, Captain.” Valcour stood up and walked over to where Mr. Dumarque and Mr. Wright were sitting. He took a letter from his pocket. “This belongs, Mr. Dumarque, to you.”
“My dear Valcour, you are certain that you no longer have any need for it?”
“Thank you, none. This leather case, Mr. Wright, containing two photographs of, presumably, your mother and of your sister, is yours.”
Mr. Wright stared stupidly at the folder and put it in his pocket. He started to say something to Valcour, but Valcour was gone. He had moved over to the little table at which Mr. Stickney and young Force were sitting.
“This,” Valcour said, handing the gold-cased watch to young Force, “is yours.”
Young Force’s hands were quite steady. With a thumb nail he pried open the back case of the watch and looked at bare gold. “You’re keeping the picture, Mr. Valcour?” he said.
“Yes, Mr. Force. It will have to be presented as part of the evidence, in court.”
“I don’t think so, Mr. Valcour.”
“No?”
“No. I don’t think your case will ever get to court.”
“Why not, Mr. Force?”
Young Force’s lips were quite white, and they did not smile. “Don’t you wish you knew,” he said.
CHAPTER 44
LAT. ?° ?' NORTH, LONG. ?° ?' WEST
It wasn’t suicide—Valcour was quite certain of that—which young Force, with his bloodless and unsmiling lips, was hinting at. There was too much triumph underlying his quiet manner for that. The disturbing sense of menace which had clung to him since that lashing of the wheel was a cloud, heavy with vague deluge. It would be necessary to crush that youngster and force his secret from him, before it should be too late.
“Do you admit that my statements are correct, Mr. Force?” he said.
“I’d be rather foolish to, don’t you think, Mr. Valcour?”
“It is never foolish to accept the inevitable.”
“Is it?”
“Quite inevitable.” Valcour didn’t like the look of young Force’s smile. It had elements in it that were against nature. “There is no need of prolonging this. Will you believe me when I tell you that I appreciate what you are going through?”
“I’m all right, Mr. Valcour. It takes evidence to complete a case.”
Valcour looked at the white, drawn face and at that peculiar, curious smile. He felt a distaste for this job that was far greater than he had known for any job which he had ever done. It wasn’t that pitiful, distorted youngster with lovely features and dark dulled eyes who had done these things. He was nothing but the instrument, and to the aunt belonged the guilt—to the aunt, and to that woman over there at the table who, with a baffled expression, was staring at young Force who had been, vicariously, her child.
“Why didn’t you come to me?” Mrs. Poole said. “Why didn’t you let me know?”
Young Force’s eyes were not so dulled when he turned them slowly and looked directly at her. “I had not realized, Mrs. Poole,” he said, “that you were so attracted to men.”
It started with her throat and crept to the top of her forehead, this crimson, and her voice was thin ice. “That, I am afraid, is your misfortune.”
Young Force crushed out a cigarette. “It was also Ted Poole’s,” he said.
Miss Sidderby could restrain herself no longer. That tragic face was blending inexplicably with the face of poor dead thin Mr. Gans. “You should have done anything—anything,” she said, “but take human life.”
“That is a commodity, Miss Sidderby, of which I know very little. My own was taken from me at the age of five.”
“Are we to consider that as an admission of your identity, Mr. Force?” Valcour said.
“Certainly, Mr. Valcour.”
“And you will also admit that my statements have been correct?”
“What is your evidence, Mr. Valcour?”
“I have a specimen of your handwriting which you gave me in your translation of Mr. Dumarque’s letter. Our specialists at headquarters will check it with the printing in the letter, addressed to Mrs. Poole, which you dropped on the floor of the Lorelei’s washroom after killing Mr. Lane. I have the picture of you as the child Toody which you kept in the case of your watch.”
“Is that all, Mr. Valcour?”
“That is the same coat you were wearing on the night when Mr. Gans was killed, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Then you will find, on the inside of its breast pocket, traces of red ink which your fingers left there when you took your handkerchief, which you are accustomed to keep in that pocket, in order to wipe up the ink spilled on Mr. Gans’s desk from the overturned bottle. You overturned that bottle, after having killed Mr. Gans, when you went back to the wireless room to
remove the duplicate message blank of the radio that had been sent to me. You removed the ink from your fingers with pumice stone.”
Young Force spread the pocket of his coat and stared at it. “I suppose that chemists will analyze the stain?” he said.
It was there, still—that enigmatic and unnatural smile.
“They will, Mr. Force. You will also be identified by Mr. Beverley, who was with Mr. Lane in the washroom when you killed him, and whom you stabbed. Mr. Beverley will make this identification as soon as I take you to New York. You see, Mr. Force, my evidence is not all circumstantial. We have, in Mr. Beverley, an eye witness to your killing of Mr. Lane.”
“Then it would be stupid, Mr. Valcour, for me not to admit that your statements have been correct.”
“You have no objections to signing them in writing?”
“Not the slightest, Mr. Valcour.” Young Force glanced at his watch and added, “If we have time.”
Valcour’s eyes were slits. “Why did you steal that canvas sack when you were looking to destroy the will?” he said. “Why did you steal that pair of scissors?” His voice was a lash.
“And there isn’t another pair of scissors with magnetic steel on the ship,” Miss Sidderby said.
Magnetic steel—there is something the matter with the stars—the lashed wheel… Valcour felt a shock that was galvanic. He stood up. By an almost superhuman effort he kept his voice quiet. “Mr. Swithers,” he said, “take charge, please, of young Force.” He placed a compelling hand on Captain Sohme’s arm and said, “Come quickly with me.”
They were outside, Valcour and Captain Sohme, hurrying with quick strides through murk of the fog-bound deck.
“What is it, Valcour? Dear God alive, man, what—” His great voice was lost in the siren’s scream.
The ladder materialized dimly, became solid, they mounted it to the bridge, and Valcour made at once for the wheelhouse. The helmsman, with dumb and wide-set eyes, stared at them wonderingly as they stood by the binnacle. Valcour took a small flat flashlight from his pocket. With careful haste he opened a panel in the binnacle and flashed the light inside.
Captain Sohme, who had been worked into a fit of badly suppressed excitement by Valcour’s manner, exploded into a nervous laugh. “There is nothing wrong with the correctors, man. I examined them.”
“It isn’t the correctors, Captain. It’s—”
“Now may the dear God damn that whistle!” said Captain Sohme, after the siren had finished.
Valcour stood up—he had been stooped, and his hand, inside the binnacle, had been carefully feeling. “It’s this,” he said, and his eyes were contracted with fear—not for himself, but for the ship.
Captain Sohme took the very sharp piece of metal and looked at it. “What is this, Valcour?”
“A point broken off from Miss Sidderby’s scissors, Captain. They were made of magnetic steel.” The helmsman, who had been staring like a fascinated rabbit at his captain and at the ship’s most important passenger, and both of whom, he felt, had gone momentarily nuts, took a mechanical glance at the card. His yell of fright extended clearly to the bridge. “Let Saint Joseph protect me—the card!”
The card was a crazy thing released from strain and swung in great arcs—around it swung, back again—swinging—swinging—and Captain’s Sohme’s florid cheeks were sick chalk, and at the bow the lookout’s hysterical cry of “Breakers ahead!” was drowned in the siren’s prolonged and shattering wail. In the deep stillness instantly following it there was a shock—a crash. The ship seemed to sigh a little—shuddered—listed heavily to port—was still.
CHAPTER 45
LAT. 37° 32' NORTH, LONG. 74° 59' WEST
The very stillness of the ship prevented panic—her curious and rocklike immobility. Captain Sohme on the bridge, and splendidly efficient now that he was face to face with a knowledgeable peril, comforted with his great voice the cluttered groups on the deck below. The engines and the siren had been stilled.
“We are beached,” he said. “The sea is calm. There is no danger.”
There was no equivocation in the statement’s tone. It carried complete conviction. The ship herself, unless salvage tugs that would be shortly sent for, could work her off, might lie there derelict and peacefully succumb through the years to future storms, but for the souls aboard her there was a safe and simple fairway to the near-by shore.
A voice shouting “Ahoy!” came at them through the darkening fog, and a small coast guard boat was pulling alongside.
“Where are we?” Captain Sohme wanted to know, after a brief exchange that approached, but did not quite hit, the amenities.
“On the beach, Captain—”
“But dear God in heaven, man, I know that!”
“About halfway between Hatteras and Cape May,” the young and earnest coast guard concluded.
It was decided upon that the passengers and their luggage be taken ashore in the Eastern Bay’s boats at once, before night should set in. They could be accommodated at the coast guard station, which was a quarter of a mile to the south along the beach, until the formalities were concluded and transportation arranged for. Captain Sohme, with his crew, would remain with the ship and stand by to assist in the salvaging operations on the following day.
Valcour left the bridge and went down to the boat deck. He had not realized how complete the strain had been, and now that it was over he felt almost light-headed. He was looking for young Swithers. He wanted personally to attend to the disembarking of his prisoner. The lounge was empty, but that was to have been expected. He went outside again and walked aft. Standing quite still by the railing at the deck’s after end, he found young Swithers.
“Where’s Force?” he said.
Swithers’s voice was thick.
“He isn’t here, sir.”
Valcour stared at him thoughtfully. He looked at the iron belaying pin which young Swithers was holding in his hand.
“Why not?” he said quietly.
“Something happened, sir.”
“What happened, Mr. Swithers?”
Swithers gestured vaguely toward the water. “He broke loose when we struck,” he said. “He ran out on deck and I followed him. He ran aft and jumped over. I guess he hit his head on a stanchion before he jumped over. He swam, crazy-like, to the stern instead of to the beach. The wheel was still turning and I guess it got him.” There was a heavy pause during which Valcour said noting. “I guess he was crazy, sir,” Swithers said.
“Perhaps he was.”
“And they don’t electrocute crazy people, do they, sir?”
“No, Mr. Swithers.”
Swithers wasn’t looking at Valcour. His eyes were going directly through him, into strange distances where, in loneliness, was a friend of his called Gans. “That’s what I thought,” he said.
“I suppose you had that belaying pin to prevent him from escaping?” Valcour said.
Swithers looked at the piece of metal in his hand as if he were seeing it for the first time. “Yes, sir.”
“Then you don’t need it any longer, do you?”
“No, sir.”
“Then why don’t you drop it over the side?”
* * * *
All of the passengers did not go ashore. Miss Sidderby, with her younger sister, decided to remain. There was, she delicately pointed out to Captain Sohme, no danger, he had admitted the probability that the ship would be drawn clear in the morning and could conceivably proceed to drydock under her own power, and she did so want to complete her little holiday upon the water. Would he permit her? It was evident to Valcour, as the boat he was in drew away from the Eastern Bay’s side, that Captain Sohme both had and would. His final view of Miss Sidderby was a little face smiling above a great coat that was nine sizes too large for her. And Captain Sohme, even on the chilliest of evenings, was not the lad to lend his coat…
There was trouble in the coast guard station, when everyone had reached it, about the telephone. The Easte
rn Bay’s first officer, who had come ashore with them, wanted to get at it in order to inform the Mercantile Transport Line of what had happened, and to arrange about the tugs. But he couldn’t. Mrs. Poole, who with an unerring instinct had instantly found it, was using the telephone. She had put through a trunk call to her house in Virginia and with the receiver to her ear and the young and earnest coast guard who had first hailed them at her side, was waiting for the connection to be made. She wanted, and at once, her Rolls-Royce.
“Heming?” The line sputtered, cleared, settled to a drone.
“Hello?”
“Is this you, Heming? Mrs. Poole speaking.”
“Who, madame?”
She clutched after the name she had owned when last she had used the Virginia house. “Mrs. Barton.”
“Oh yes, madame?”
“Tell Charles that I want the Rolls at once.”
“Where, please, madame?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea. There is a gentleman here who will give you complete directions. I’ve just been shipwrecked.”
“Yes, madame.”
“Here he is now, Heming.”
“Very good, madame.”
Mrs. Poole relinquished the receiver to the young and earnest coast guard. She smiled lazily through his “Now listens” and wondered exactly how broad it was—that chocolate-colored neck which pillared above a spotlessly white sweat shirt. “Thank you so much,” she said, when he had finished. “Couldn’t we go out on the beach?”
“I guess we could,” he said.
Mrs. Sanford was in a blanket. She didn’t need it, really, but she had always had a suspicion that her blood was thin, and shipwrecked people were invariably placed in blankets. As Mrs. Poole and the dazed young coast guard passed her, the mumble coming out of her blanket might well have been “That poor, that poor young man.”
Valcour was busied at a desk. The captain of the station had handed him a copy of the message which the police commissioner had caused to be held at all posts along the coast.
CABKA lkclb 55130 ttgyr ilhs rpezz the message read. Valcour ran the lettered words together and the message read: cabkalkclb 55130 ttgyriilhsrpezz. He erased the two final z’s and separated the letters into couples: ca bk al kc lb 55130 tt gy Rl IL hs rp e. He reversed the letters: AC kb la ck BL 55130 TT YG ir li sh PR e. He took the first three letters of the first group and transposed them to its end: B LA CK BL A CK. He did the same with the last group: G IR Li SH PR E TT Y. He closed them: BLACK BLACK 55130 girlish pretty. And he had Mr. Beverley’s description of young Force as Mr. Beverley had seen him in the washroom of the Lorelei on the night when he had been attacked: Black hair, black eyes, five feet five inches tall, weight one hundred and thirty, chief characteristic: girlishly pretty.
