The Blind Barber (13 page)

“Er—” said Warren, sliding into his chair, “good morning, sir. Yes, indeed, it’s a fine morning! Did you—er—did you sleep well?”

“Ah, like a top!” said the doctor, nodding. “Though, mind,” he added, remembering his habits of thought and correcting himself cautiously. “I don’t say, fra my own experience, that I should judge it a well-chosen worrrd as applied to tops. Accurately speaking (fra my own experience as a boy) I should say it was mair to the purpose for tops in general to refrain fra sedentary habits. However, that’s as may be. I’ll have more of the bacon and eggs, steward.”

This was the first morning incidentally, in which Dr. Kyle had given the letter “r” its full-wristed spin. He looked benevolently on them, and at the green glitter of the sea dancing outside the portholes.

“I mean,” pursued Warren, looking at him curiously, “you didn’t—that is, everything was all right when you woke up, was it?”

“Everything,” said Dr. Kyle, “was fine.” He paused, drawing down his brows thoughtfully. “Ah! Ye may be referring to that disturbance in the night, then?”

“Disturbance?” said Morgan. “Was there a disturbance?”

The other regarded him shrewdly, and in a way that disturbed him.

“I see, I see. You hadn’t hearrd of it, then? Well, well, it didn’t disturb
me
, Mr. Morgan, and all I heard was some speerited currsing on the deck. But I heard an account of it this morning, from a person of my acquaintance—which account I can’t vouch for, you understand—”

“What happened?”

“
Rape
,” said the doctor, succinctly, and closed one eye in a startlingly raffish fashion.

“Rape?” yelped Morgan. There are certain words which have a mysterious telepathic power. Although there was a buzz in the dining-room which drowned his voice, several heads were twitched in their direction. “Rape? My God! who was raped? What happened?”

“I can’t say,” replied Dr. Kyle, chuckling. “However, my inforrmant distinctly heard the girl’s scream when set upon. My inforrmant declares that some scoundrelly dastard approached the poor girrul by telling her of his adventures while hunting big game in Africa. Weel, weel, then, that he offered her ah emerald brrooch worth a fabulous sum. But, failing in his foul design, the rrascally skellum struck her over the head with a bottle o’ whisky … ”

“Great—Caesar’s—ghost!” said Warren, his eyeballs slightly distended. “You—you didn’t hear any names mentioned in the business, did you?”

“My inforrmant made no secret of it,” Dr. Kyle answered philosophically. “She said the abandoned wretch and seducer was either Captain Whistler or Lord Sturton.”

“And this woman’s story is all over the boat?” asked Morgan.

“Oh, it will be,” said Kyle, still philosophically. “It will be.”

Dr. Kyle continued to talk on affably while the others attacked breakfast; and Morgan wondered what would be the ultimate version of the tale that would be humming through the
Queen Victoria
by midday. Evidently Dr. Kyle had not found any emeralds. There remained only the stony-faced Mr. Perrigord and his monocled wife. Well? The ship’s miniature newspaper lay beside his plate, and as he glanced over it between deep draughts of coffee, his eye slid over what appeared to be an article or essay on the back page, stopped, and returned to it. It was headed “
RENAISSANCE DU THEATRE
,” and under it appeared, “
By Mr. Leslie Perrigord, reprinted by permission of the author from the Sunday Times’ of Oct. 25, 1932
.”

“Skirling notes of harps celestial” [began this effusion, with running start] “sweeping one old reviewer,
malgré lui
, counterclockwise from his
fauteuil
, while
nuances
so subtle danced and slithered, reminding one of Bernhardt. Will you say, ‘Has old Perrigord gone off his chump this Sunday?’ But what is one to say of this performance of M. Jules Fortinbras, which I journeyed to Soho to see? As Balzac once said to Victor Hugo, ‘
Je suis étonné, sale chameau, je suis bouleversé
.’ (Molière would have said it better.) A thrilling performance, if that is consolation to the poor British public, but why speak of
that
? For sheer splendour and beauty of imagic imagery, in these subtle lines spoken by Charlemagne and Roland, I can think of nothing but that superb soliloquy in the fifth act of Corneille’s tragedy, ‘
La Barbe
,’ which is spoken by Amourette Pernod, and begins, ‘
Mon âme est un fromage qui souffle dans les forêts mystérieuses de la nuit
… ” Or shall I speak of wit? Almost it approaches some of Molière’s gems, say, ‘
Pour moi, j’aime bien les saucissons, parce qu’ils ne parlent pas français
… ’”

“What’s all this?” demanded Warren, who was reading the article also and making strange whistling noises rather like Amourette Pernod’s soul. “Do you see this attack of dysentery on the back page? Is this our Perrigord?”

Morgan said, “You have no cultural feelings, I fear. As Chimǹe said to Tartuffe, ‘
Nuts
.’ Well, you’ve got to
get
cultural feelings, old son. Read that article very carefully. If there’s anything in it you don’t understand, ask me. Because—” he checked himself, but Dr. Kyle had finished his last order of bacon and eggs and was rising genially from the table. Dr. Kyle bade them good morning, and said he had half a mind to play deck-tennis. Altogether he was so self-satisfied, as he strode away from the table, that in Warren’s face Morgan could see newly awakened suspicions gathering and darkening. “Listen!” hissed Warren in a low voice, and stabbed out dangerously with his fork. “He
says
he didn’t find any emerald when he woke up this morning … ”

“Will you forget about Dr. Kyle?” said the exasperated Morgan. “It’s all right; it simply wasn’t his cabin, that’s all. Listen to me … ”

But an uneasy possibility had struck him. Dr. Kyle didn’t find the emerald. Very well. Suppose the Perrigords hadn’t found it, either? It was an absurd supposition, yet it grew on him. Assuming both parties to be entirely honest, what the devil could have happened to the emerald? They could not have missed it, either of them; he himself had heard the steel box bump on the floor. Again assuming them to be honest, it might mean that Peggy had mistaken the cabin. But this he doubted. There was shrewdness, there was certainty, in that girl’s prim little face. Well—alternatively, it might mean that the Blind Barber was up to tricks. They had ample proof that he was somewhere close at hand during the wild business on C deck. He might very well have seen what happened. Later that night it would have been a simple matter to go after that emerald …

Irritably Morgan told himself that he was flying at theories like Warren. Warren, taking advantage of the other’s blank silence, was going on talking with vehemence; and the more he talked the more strongly he convinced himself; so that Dr. Kyle’s character had begun to assume hues of the richest and most sinister black. Morgan said, “Nonsense!” and again he told himself there was no sense to this doubt. The Perrigords had found the emerald, and that was that. But his real irritation with himself was for not thinking before of a simple possibility like that of the Blind Barber’s having been in attendance. If those æsthetes really hadn’t found the thing, after all …

“There’s this that’s got to be done,” he said, breaking in on the other’s heated discourse. “Somehow, we’ve got to ask Kyle a few questions, tactfully—whether he’s a light sleeper, whether he keeps his door bolted at night … ”

“Now you’re showing some sense,” said Warren. “Trip him up, eh? Mind, I don’t say that necessarily he’s the—the barber. What I do say is that fifty thousand pounds worth of emerald, chucked in on him like that when he thought nobody’d be the wiser … Did you notice his expression? Did you hear the crazy story he told us, knowing the thing’d get so tangled up that nobody would be able to accuse … ?”

“Read that article in the paper,” the other ordered, tapping it inexorably. “We’ve got to make the acquaintance of the Perrigords, even if it’s only a red herring; and you’ve got to be able to talk intelligently about
nuances
. What’s the matter with your education? You’re in the diplomatic or consular service, or whatever it is. Don’t you have to know French to get in that?”

He had hoped that this crack would divert Warren. It did. The young diplomat was stung.

“Certainly I know French,” he returned, with cold dignity. “Listen. I had to pass the toughest examination they can dish out, I’ll have you know; yes, and I’ll bet
you
couldn’t pass it yourself. Only it’s commercial French. Ask me anything in commercial French. Go on, ask me how to say, ‘Dear sir. Yrs of the 18th inst. to hand, and enclose under separate cover bill of exchange, together with consular invoice, to the amt. of sixteen dollars (or perhaps pounds, francs, marks, lire, roubles, kopecks, or kronen) and forty-five cents (or perhaps shillings, centimes, pfennigs … )’”

“Well, what’s the matter with you, then?”

“I’m telling you, it isn’t the same thing. The only other French I know is some guff I remember from preparatory school. I know how to ask for a hat which fits me, and I know how to inquire my way in case I should feel a passionate desire to rush out and visit the Botanical Gardens. But I never had the least desire to go to the Botanical Gardens; and, believe me, if I ever go into a hat-shop in Paris, no pop-eyed Frog in the world is going to sell me a lid that slides down over my ears … Besides, not having a sister who’s a shepherdess kind of cramps my conversational style.”

“Hullo!” said Morgan, who was paying no attention. “It’s begun. Good work. She thought of it … ”

Down the broad polished staircase into the dining-saloon came the tall and majestic figures of Mr. and Mrs. Leslie Perrigord; well-groomed, moving together in step. And between them, talking earnstly, walked Peggy Glenn.

Peggy came just a trifle above Mrs. Perrigord’s shoulder. Evidently as a sort of intellectual touch, she had put on her shell-rimmed spectacles and an exuberant amount of make-up. Her frock was what looked to Morgan like a batik pattern. She was speaking with animation to the monocled Mrs. Perrigord, who seemed to convey
nuances
of reply by ghostly silent movements of eyebrow and lip. At the foot of the stairs Morgan expected her to break off and come to their table; but she did nothing of the kind. To Morgan she made an almost imperceptible signal; of what, he was not sure. Then she went on with the Perrigords to their table.

Warren muttered something in muffled surprise, after which they noted something else. Coming down the staircase a short distance behind them shuffled the big and amiable figure of Captain Valvick, whose sandy hair was brushed up straight and his leathery face once more netted with wrinkles as he listened to some tale. The tale was being told him, in fact, by Mr. Charles Woodcock. Mr. Woodcock, who freely described himself as the Bug-powder Boy, seemed excited. Invariably, when excited his thin frame seemed to hop and twist; an optical illusion, because he kept his eyes fixed on your face while he poured out a rapid string of words in a confidential undertone.

“What’s Valvick up to?” demanded Warren. “All the allies seem to be working except us. Have you noticed our square-head’s been keeping away from Woodcock, because they’re both powerful yarn-spinners and they put each other out like a couple of forest fires? Well, then, look how quiet he’s keeping and tell me what’s on his mind.”

Morgan didn’t know; he supposed it was Mr. Woodcock’s version of what had occurred last night. If so conservative a Presbyterian as Dr. Oliver Harrison Kyle had suggested rape, then he shuddered to think of the goings-on that would present themselves to the versatile imagination of the Bug-powder Boy. The dining-saloon was rapidly filling up, pulsing now with a joyous babble and clamour as of prisoners released, but they heard Mr. Woodcock’s hearty voice. He said, “All right, old socks. Don’t forget to tell your pals,” and slapped Captain Valvick on the back as he went towards his own table.

With a puzzled expression Valvick lumbered towards their table. He beamed a good morning, swung round his chair, and uttered the word:

“Mermaid!”

Morgan blinked. “Don’t,” he said. “For God’s sake stop! That’s enough. If anybody tells me that Captain Whistler was chasing a mermaid around C deck last night, the last shred of my sanity will be gone. Don’t say it! I can’t bear to hear any more!”

“Eh?” said Valvick, staring. “What iss dis? Ay nefer hear anyt’ing like dat, dough ay haff a mess-boy once who say he hass seen one. Dis iss Mr. Woodcock’s invention—ay tell you about it, but ay haff to listen to him a lot because he know a lot about diss crook … ”

Valvick sat down.

“Listen! Ay got bot’ de hatches full off news. Ay tell you all about it, but first ay tell you de most important. Captain Whistler want all of us up in his cabin after breakfast, and—coroosh!—he t’ink he know who de criminal is.”

A
FTER THE CAPTAIN HAD
ordered porridge and the table steward had gone, a rather nervous Warren put down his coffee-cup.

“Knows who the criminal is? He’s not getting any funny ideas, is he? About us, I mean?”

Chuckling, Valvick made a broad gesture. “Coroosh, no! Not at all. Dat ain’t it. Ay dunno yust what it is, but he send Sparks to my cabin to say we all got to come up after mess. Sparks say de captain get a wireless message, but he will not tell me what iss in it until we see old Barnacle.”

“I wonder,” said Morgan.

“So dat remind, and ay say to Sparks—iss de wireless-operator; all de wireless-operators iss Sparkses, you see—ay say, ‘Sparks, you wass on duty yesterday afternoon, eh?’ And he say, ‘Yes.’ And den ay say, ‘Sparks, do you remember when de old man receive dat first message about de crook, and hass a row wit’ you? Wass dere some odder people in de cabin wit’ you at de time?’ When he says yes, den ay describe dat girl we find cracked on de head last night, and ay say, ‘Sparks, was
she
dere?’ (All Sparkses is hawful wit’ de ladies, so ay know he remember her if she wass.) Halso, if she send or receive a message, he iss going to know her name, eh?”