The Blind Barber (21 page)

“Well? Well? Where’s the proof? I don’t see it?”

“These witnesses, you see—”

Morgan got ready, steadying himself. It was unnecessary.

“Who are
you
, young man? Are you the nephew of a friend of mine? Are you Warpus’s nephew? Eh?”

“No, your Lordship,” interposed the captain. “This is Mr. Henry Morgan, the very distinguished writer, who I thought would offer evidence acceptable … ”

Sturton laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. Morgan glanced at Peggy, who had begun to grow frightened. Sturton laughed again.

“Fail first count.
You’d
make no lawyer. I want witnesses I know of. Er—Commander, you stated to me, I think, that you believed you could produce this nephew. Where is he?”

He leaned out and flung the question with a snap of impatience.

The Parcæ were at it again. Morgan could have whistled in admiring astonishment, or sworn from the same situation.

“This morning,” continued Sturton, “you stated to me that you could bring him. Why isn’t he here? Won’t he come?”

Whistler jerked himself out of his hypnotised stare. “Yes, yes, of course. Your Lordship. I—ah—that is, I’m sure he’ll be glad to come.”

“I repeat to you,” squeaked the other, snapping his finger on the Mandarin’s head until the rubies winked demoniacally, “that, as this little trial by the court may cost me fifty thousand pounds, I must insist on a direct answer. Don’t quibble with me. Don’t spoil my entertainment. He was the witness I especially asked for, and the only witness I especially asked for. Why didn’t you bring him?”

“It was not exactly
convenient
… ” said Whistler, his voice beginning to rise to a roar despite himself. His eye rolled round at Morgan, who could only shrug.

“Ah!” said Sturton. “Signals, eh? Signals. Now then … ”

“If you will allow me to go and find him, your Lordship—”

“Once and for all, I demand, I insist on an answer! Where is he?”

All caution boarded the Flying Dutchman and sailed away. “He’s in the
brig
; you dried-up lubber!” roared Captain Whistler, exploding at last. “
He’s in the brig.
And now I’m going to tell you what I think of you and your ruddy elephant and your—”

Sturton was laughing again.

It was an unholy noise in that gloomy, ill-smelling place, with the rubies winking on the table and Sturton’s head bobbing under the broad hat. “Ah.” he said, “that’s better! That’s more like yourself. I’d heard the news, you see. He’s in the brig. Yes, yes, exactly. Why did you put him there?”

“Because he’s stark, raving mad, that’s why! He attacked me with a razor. He tried to poison me. He gabbled about bears. He—”

“Indeed?” said Sturton. “Mad, is he? Well, well. And this is the man, I think, you wished to call as a witness to your spotless behaviour? This is your star witness, who was to testify how you lost the emerald? … Captain Whistler, are you sure that you yourself are entirely in your right mind?”

Peggy went over and patted the skipper on the back, speaking soothing words to him. Her feminine instincts were deeply aroused, for he was almost at the point where there were tears in those honest old eyes. And again he was speechless before the evil weaving of Lachesis. He must now be beginning, Morgan fancied, to have a faint conception of how Warren had felt.

“I am waiting,” said Sturton.

Again the mirth tickled his rusty ribs. But he was watching Whistler wind himself up for a few sulphurous remarks, and forestalled him by holding up a scraggy hand.

“Rubbish rubbish rubbish. Wait. Don’t say it, Commander. You’d regret it.
I
have something to say. It is only fair to you. The joke has been excellent, excellent, excellent. It has amused me, although, as a lawyer, Commander—tut, tut! But it is time to end it now. I have enjoyed myself long enough … Captain, there will be no suit.”

“No suit?”

“None. My secretary informed me of the rumour in the ship. That the nephew of my old friend had been imprisoned for trying to kill somebody. I could not resist amusing myself. Well! Time’s ended. Joke’s up. I have business … No suit. Finished, ended, done. Don’t want to hear of it again.”

“But that emerald … !”

“Oh, yes! Yes, yes. The stone, of course. Very funny things go on aboard this ship. But why should there be a suit? Maybe the thief reformed; got qualms of conscience. How should
I
know? Anyhow—”

He fumbled in the pocket of his dressing-gown.

He laughed again, shaking his lean shoulders.

Before their astounded eyes he held up, twisting on its gold chain and glittering as it slowly revolved, the emerald elephant.

“
DON’T KNOW HOW IT
happened,” continued Sturton, rather carelessly, “and don’t care, now I’ve got it back. I know
you
didn’t recover it. Ha! … Found it lying on the middle of the table there,” he stabbed his finger, “half an hour ago. Saw nobody, heard nobody. There it was. Somebody walked in and put it down—Here’s your receipt back, Commander. You won’t get this elephant again.”

Again his squeaky mirth rose as he blinked at their faces. The receipt fluttered out and fell at Whistler’s feet.

Morgan only half heard him. He was getting to the point where too many surprises were as deadening as too much pain. Staring at the little Mandarin-head smirking and wagging on the table, he heard Whistler gabbling something, the peer assuring him there would be no trouble, and the end of the latter’s squeaky tirade:

“ … find out who stole it? Go on, if you like.
I
won’t stop you. But I’ve got it back, and that’s all I care.
I’m
not going to prosecute anybody. Ha! Got enough lawsuits as it is. Let the beggar go. Why bother? Shouldn’t be surprised if it got stolen by mistake, and somebody returned it. Never mind. Now get out. Get out! … ”

He was flailing his arms at them like a banshee, with the emerald gleaming on its chain from one hand. They were shooed into the gangway and the door closed behind them. Then they stood in the corridor on B deck and looked at one another.

“You’re quite right, Captain,” agreed Morgan, after listening thoughtfully to the skipper’s rather weak-voiced comments. “If anything, I should think the adjectives were conservative. But the question remains, who, how, and why?”

After Whistler had recovered himself, swabbing his face with a handkerchief, he was weakly jubilant. He had the air of one who had endured blessed martydom in the arena, and suddenly sees ahead of him not the cruel countenance of Nero Ahenobarbus, but a cheering St. Peter at the head of a celestial brass band. The captain drew himself up. His face subtly altered. Taking his receipt for the emerald, he tore it into small pieces and blew them away. Over the battered face, with its plum-coloured eye, there spread a benevolent smile.

“My friends,” he said, placing an arm around the shoulders of Peggy and Morgan, “I don’t know who returned that ruddy elephant, and I don’t care. Whoever it was, he did me a good turn that Hector Whistler will never forget. I could forgive him anything, I could almost forgive him”—momentarily the face darkened, but only for a moment—“
this
. Yes, even the foul blow, foully struck when I wasn’t looking. If old Sturton doesn’t care—My friends, tomorrow night, our last night at sea, is the captain’s dinner. My friends, I will give such a dinner as has never been seen on blue water since the days of Francis Drake. Champagne shall bubble at every table, and every lady shall wear a corsage. And this, my friends, reminds me. I think, I say I
think
that I have in my locker at this moment a bottle of Pol Roger 1915. If it will now please you to come with me and accept the hospitality of an old, rough sea-dog—”

“But, hang it, Captain,” said Morgan, “the difficulties aren’t one-tenth over. Not a tenth. There’s the little matter of a murder … ”

“Murder?” inquired the old, rough sea-dog genially. “What murder, lad?”

Mysterious are the ways of psychology.

“But, Captain Whistler!” cried Peggy, “that poor girl … down in the cabin beside Curt’s … that awful razor … ”

“Ah, yes, my dear!” agreed the captain tolerantly benevolent. “Yes, of course. You mean that little joke of yours. Of course. Yes. Ha-ha-ha!”

“But—”

“Now, my dear,” the other pursued, with radiant kindliness, “you listen to me. Come! You take a bit of advice from a rough old seafaring man old enough to be your father. From the first I’ve liked the cut of your jib, Miss Glenn, and the swing of your spanker-boom. Aye, lassie, I might have had a daughter like you if the Mrs. W. that was hadn’t been dead and gone these twenty years, rest her sweet soul. It was in a sou’wester off Cape Hatteras, I mind … But you don’t want to hear of that. This is my advice, lassie. When a murder’s been committed, in my experience, there’s somebody dead,” Captain Whistler pointed out, with irrefutable logic. “And if somebody’s dead, that person can’t be breathing heaven’s free air on my deck. There’s nobody missing, and nobody’s complained, which they generally do in case of a murder. So—come, now; until somebody complains, I’m a free man. Just between ourselves, wasn’t somebody having you on?”

“But you promised, Captain, that you’d co-operate and help us and—”

“And so I will, Miss Glenn,” he told her, heartily, patting her shoulder. “You two—and old Sharkmeat also, if he likes—shall have the freedom of the ship, to question whom you like, and say I sent you. If you have news, ha-ha-ha! come to me … By the way, would you like me to release that poor lad from his cell? No? Well, remember that I offered. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll send him a fine basket of fruit, with my compliments, and a specially cooked capon for his dinner. How’s that? Then, when we touch England day after to-morrow, we’ll see what can be done about obtaining the services of the finest mental-specialist in London … ”

He stopped.

“Yes,” said Morgan, seizing the opportunity, “and that reminds us all of Dr. Kyle, doesn’t it? Not that I believe he’s the Blind Barber, but it takes us back to that radiogram from the Police Commissioner, and the fact that—whatever else you believe or don’t believe—there’s a damned dangerous criminal aboard.”

“H’m!” said Whistler. “H’m! Possibly. In any case, I’ve been instructed not to do anything, haven’t I, in case there’s a mistake, eh? And the more I think it over, sink me!” he said with a happy flash of inspiration, “the more I’m convinced there
has
been a mistake. Why? I’ll tell you. Because dangerous criminals don’t steal fifty-thousand-pound jewels and then
return
’em, do they? Sink me! you know, if I hadn’t been assured by old Sturton that the emerald was returned to him while young Warren was in the brig—well I’d be fairly sure it was more of his mad vapourings. But I know it couldn’t have been young Warren … ”

“Thank God for
that
,” said Morgan.

“Anyhow,” continued Whistler, assuming his hearty manner again, “I’ll think it over. I believe it’s a mistake and there’s no crook aboard at all. Though—h’m—it would be a feather in the cap of the Green Star Line if I could have the honour of nabbing a notorious criminal before that New York detective arrived. I’ll think it over. So, if you won’t drink a health in Pol Roger—eh—no? Well, good day, good day, good day!”

He was off, saluting jauntily, before the stupefied allies could stop him. He swung his shoulders, his thumbs hooked in his pockets, and he was hoarsely humming a tune to the effect that Captain Ball was a Yankee slaver, blow, blow, blow the man down! His smile was radiant.

When he had gone, Peggy looked about hopelessly.

“Hank,” she said, “it’s no good. We can’t beat Providence. Let’s give it up. Let’s go to the bar and get screamingly drunk.”

Morgan replied grimly: “We will not. Give it up, I mean. But a couple of quick ones in the bar might fortify us before we comb this boat from stem to stern … Why’s the place so quiet, anyway?” He peered round. “They’re all at lunch, that’s it! We’ve missed lunch, and I didn’t even hear the bugle. Never mind; we can get a sandwich in the bar. Come on. This thing has got to be thrashed out. Girl, that emerald’s turning up puts the absolute lid on it! … What do you suppose could have happened?”

“Oh, drat the emerald!” she sniffed, with some pettishness. “Who cares about their nasty old emerald, anyway? We’ll find out about this girl, if you like. But, honestly, Hank, I’m beginning to think we must be wrong, after all. H’m! I’ll bet she was a hussy, anyway … ”

“She was calling Curt’s name,” her companion reminded her. He was determined not to lose his last ally. “She knew something that concerned him, don’t you see? So if you want to help him, she’ll be your first concern. It probably concerns the film; remember
that
my wench! Besides, have you forgotten another thing? Curt promised that chap Woodcock—definitely gave him his word—that he’d demonstrate by to-day there’d been a murder committed, or else force a bug-powder endorsement out of old Warpus.”

She put her hand to her forehead. “Oh, I say, but I’d forgotten all about that awful little man! Oh, Hank, this is dreadful! And when I think of my poor Curt languishing behind prison bars, sitting there forlornly with his poor head in his hands … ” A sob caught her throat; she choked, and the tears overflowed her eyes. “Oh, it’s awful, awful, awful!”

“Well, my God! don’t cry about it!” said Morgan, waving his arms desperately. He peered round to make sure there was nobody in sight. “Look here. I didn’t know you felt like that about it. Listen!
Stop
yowling, will you? It’s all right. You heard what the skipper said. We’ll go right down and get him out—”

“Oh, I w-wouldn’t g-get him out f-for anything!” she gulped, forlornly, over the handkerchief she was jabbing at the corners of her eyes. Her breast heaved jerkily. “He—h-he’d only d-do some perfectly m-mad thing straight-away and g-get p-put right—right b-back in again. But, oh, d-dear! when I think of the p-poor d-darling l-languishing, p-positively—l-languishing—in—in a—foul d-dun—
bubuloo!
” choked Peggy, and burst into a spasm of weeping.

These, reader, are the times that try men’s souls: when tears flow by reason of some inexplicable logic that escapes you, and all you can do is to pat her shoulder whilst desperately wondering what is wrong. He tried remonstrance—an error. He pointed out that it was not as though Warren had been shoved in the Bastille, never again to see the light of day; adding that the maniac was quite comfortable there and had been promised a specially cooked capon for his dinner. She said she wondered how Morgan thought the poor boy would have the heart to eat it. She said he was a cruel, callous beast ever to think of such a thing; and went off the deep end again. After this crushing retort, all he could think of was to rush her to the bar for a couple of stiff drinks as quickly as possible.