The Traces of Merrilee

by Herbert Brean

  “I began to sense the curious Tinker-to-Evers-to-Chance nature of the conspiracy. Kane wanted to frighten Merrilee out of making this picture, and he knew of her fears and belief in ESP. What better way than to hire a psychologist versed in cruelty and deception—and calloused to them through long study? Such a man would need physical assistance for some parts of the job. Who better at it than the nation’s foremost industrial-espionage agent? And the two cablegrams tied them together.

  “Other material clues emerged. Who’s Who indicated that psychologist Richard Pennypacker had no children. If ‘Beth’ and the seven-pound, eight-ounce child were code, they tended to confirm the identification. Further, he got mixed up on how many grandchildren he had, saying six at first and then changing it to five in a later conversation. That is not the kind of thing grandparents make a mistake about. Again, he claimed to be a professor of business administration, but he did not know what a ‘straddle’ is when, as a test, I asked him. And he always wanted to be friendly with us, a good way to allay suspicion.

  “This, in fact, was a psychologist’s plot, designed primarily to create terror and panic. Murder, incredible as it seems, was only incidental to it. Thus, when Sam Jones refused a bribe to help somehow in the plot, he had to be eliminated. But his murder was turned, with the help of some green make-up and a little stage-dressing, into a powerful convincer to Merrilee that she indeed has precognitive powers. The faked baseball score had the same purpose, and so would the candlelit photograph, had she seen it. Nothing was too outlandish, because only Merrilee presumably could interpret the real meaning of these phenomena.

  “In the same vein was the actual, real-life coincidence of the two names, Reginald and Richard Pennypacker. Richard, as brains of the plot, capitalized on this by not changing either—a psychologist’s clever trick. For, if two men are hired to work independently on a nefarious enterprise, who would expect them to risk identification by bearing the same name? Richard did adopt a disguise of sorts, of course, by changing his college and academic subject. Reginald here was to be the fall guy, if necessary, as shown by the green-painted rope that was planted in his cabin.”

  Pennypacker snorted angrily. “Right. When I was hired in New York, this was to be just a surveillance and bugging job. I was to plant a limited-area transmitter in the maid’s bed, using a key to be supplied to me—it subsequently came in an envelope, taped to my cabin door—and then await further orders. I had no idea that the operation was being masterminded by someone else aboard ship. It was not until the murder of the maid that I realized what was happening.”

  “Then you got out fast.”

  “Right. I purposely made a loud complaint about the green rope and also the meat sheer, to publicly disassociate myself from them, then cabled my resignation. Killing is something I don’t mix in.”

  I nodded. “That little thrust at me with the slicing machine was one more effort at psychological warfare, incidentally. The phone call was made by Pennypacker’s wife, I’m sure. Her cable tonight indicates she was in on the plot.

  “And so was Klára, of course—deeply. She had sold some of Merrilee’s most intimate secrets to get more money for her own retirement. Who else could know about her dream of the man with the green face? Who knew of the baseball score prediction? I told no one of it. The kindest thing we can say for Klára is that perhaps she believed in the prophecy of Merrilee’s mother, and so thought that by betraying Merrilee she was really protecting her from death.

  “In any case, Klára was working directly with Richard Pennypacker—the location of the bug proves that. So does the place where Jones’s body was originally found. Jones could not have been brought in, alive or dead, hung up, and painted as he was without disturbing a woman sleeping nearby. Why Klára’s elimination became necessary we don’t know, but a fairly safe guess is that she finally rebelled against something Pennypacker demanded of her, and so sealed her own fate.”

  I paused to sip coffee.

  “But how did you know for sure it was Richard Pennypacker and no one else?” asked Betsy.

  “The key question. I learned from a handful of aspirin tablets. As you may know, aspirin fluoresces in ultraviolet light. The person behind all these little and big plots had promised to deliver five hundred francs to the ship’s printer, and there was a good chance he would, personally. So I powdered the printer’s mailbox with aspirin dust and then arranged with the first officer to have Richie Pennypacker’s room searched and all the gloves in it—he’d use gloves, of course, for fingerprint reasons—examined under a UV light. This is a common technique for the nabbing of cashbox filchers, although the professional policeman uses a special fluorescent powder.

  “Well, it worked. The first officer signaled me during the poker game what the results of the examination had been. That was the final confirmation.

  “As for the game itself—Pennypacker had carefully constructed an atmosphere of terror to accomplish his purpose, and it occurred to me such an operator might himself be especially vulnerable to the same sort of attack. He had reason to think he had driven Merrilee to suicide, so Tom and I worked out some pat hands which would enable me to make remarks about vanished queens that might stimulate his hopes and uncertainties.

  “After the stage was set conversationally, I arranged for Merrilee to reappear from the dead. It worked, and made his earlier slip in admitting he was a psychologist quite anti-climactic.”

  * * * *

  There was a short silence.

  “What I don’t like about all this,” said Betsy, “is that this man Kane really caused the whole thing, and yet seems to be so remotely connected with it he’ll never be punished.”

  “Don’t be silly.” I looked at Pennypacker. “I’m sure he has good lawyers, but I’m also sure that he is not untraceable.”

  “You’re right,” said Pennypacker.

  “Furthermore, I think Richie will open up when he realizes the murder case against him. And his wife is likely to, also. The cable she sent tonight shows she knew what was going on, though I doubt, with that limp, she took an active part in the physical violence. She could have monitored the bug, and so on, though.”

  From the stateroom next to us, so loud that it came through the wall, we heard a man roar.

  “What the hell happened to my pajamas?”

  Twit-Twit and I grinned at each other.

  There was a knock at the door, and Tom opened it to admit a page holding a tray with a cable.

  “M’sieu Pennypackair?” he asked. Widow’s-Peak took the cable.

  He read it, laughed shortly, and handed it to me.

  UNDERSTAND CONGRATULATIONS IN ORDER STOP REPORT ON LONDON ARRIVAL

  His brow furrowed under his widow’s-peak. “All I want is out,” he said. “If I can help trace some of this back to Kane, I’ll be glad to. Okay?”

  I said, “Okay.” He bowed goodnight and left.

  “I’ve got to go, too,” said Merrilee.

  Tom and Betsy looked at each other. “I never knew you were so clever with cards,” she said. “Next time we go on a trip, it’ll be to Vegas, Leftie. ’Night, everybody.”

  Twit-Twit said, “Merrilee, would you like me to stay with you tonight?” It was nice of her.

  “No, but thanks. I feel safe now.”

  “Well, Deac will take you to your door.” And to me, “I’ll be waiting.”

  It wasn’t a threat; it was a promise.

  As we stepped out into the corridor, we heard a barrage of glassy explosions and strong curses. Steak-Lover had lain down on his bed of light bulbs and thumbtacks.

  “You took a lot of chances for me,” said Merrilee. Her hand found mine. “You could have been killed.”

  “It was really the ocean that came to your rescue. It tipped the table over at exactly the right time. So you see, you have nothing to fear from it.”

  �
��I think you did the tipping.”

  Some people came by, saw us hand-in-hand, and looked twice.

  While I opened her door for her, she said, “The only trouble is, you don’t believe that I am an ESP person. Nobody does.”

  “Of course I do.” But I guess I smiled a little.

  She stepped inside. I wanted to get back to Twit-Twit.

  “You don’t. But if I’m not, then how do I know that when you were about fourteen years old you hurt your right knee playing football? And had to have it strapped up in some sort of sticky tape for weeks? And that it still bothers you at times? I don’t know how I know that, but I do.”

  She was pouting. But I wasn’t smiling any longer.

  I can still feel the aching of that knee, and the burning pain when the doctor yanked off the adhesive tape.…