The Blind Barber (9 page)

“You won’t move,” pursued Captain Whistler wildly, lifting up his hands, squinting at them, and holding them a fraction of an inch apart before his face, “you won’t move so much as
that
distance from where you are. You won’t even move that far. You won’t stir. You won’t—Who was that who spoke?” he broke off to demand. “Who’s there anyway? Who are you? What was that about a coat? Who had the nerve to ask me something about a blasted coat, eh?”

“My name’s Warren, Captain. Curtis Warren. You know me. I hope you don’t think
I’m
the crook you’re after?”

Whistler stopped, stared, and seemed tumultuously to reflect.

“Ah!” he said in a curious tone, “Warren, hey? Warren. Well, well! And who is with you?” When three voices spoke up simultaneously he took on a grim but rather nervous tone. “Stay where you are now! Don’t move … Mr. Baldwin, you watch them. I mean, watch
him
. You’ve been wandering round the boat, have you, Mr. Warren? And what’s that on your head? Come into the light. Sticking plaster. Oh, yes. You hurt your head … ”

Warren made a gesture. “Yes, I did. And that’s what I want to tell you. If you won’t let us go, at least send somebody back to my cabin. Send the doctor, you old fool! You’re all right. Send the doctor, I tell you. There’s a young girl back there—unconscious—maybe dead—I don’t know. Have some sense, can’t you? She’s been hit over the head and knocked unconscious …”

“
What
?”

“Yes. Somebody cracked her over the head and then—”

Between them, the doctor and the second officer got the captain away to a sheltered recess, where he did not stop talking. He would hear of nothing, not a step or a movement. He insisted that the four conspirators should remain within reach of the eye of Mr. Baldwin, who was holding up the flashlight for the repair-work. So they huddled against a glass front that was stung with whips of rain; Warren took off his coat and wrapped it round the girl, and they took whispered communion.

“Listen,” said Morgan, peering over his shoulder to make sure they were out of earshot. “We’re going to be jolly lucky if we don’t get shoved in the brig. Scuttle my hatches, the old man’s raving. He’s insane, and you don’t want to cross him. What fathead dropped that whisky-bottle beside him, anyway?”

“Ay did,” replied Captain Valvick, thumping his chest. He beamed proudly. “Ay tank dat was a touch of yenius, eh? What iss wrong? Dere wass no more whisky in it, honest. Eh, eh; you t’ink dere be fingerprints on it, maybe?”

Warren frowned and ran a hand through his goblin hair. “Say, Hank,” he muttered uneasily, “that’s an idea. If it occurs to the old boy … And there’s another thing. Baby, what possessed you to fire that box through the porthole of somebody’s cabin?”

She was indignant. “Well, I like that! With those officers coming down on us—you didn’t want me to chuck it overboard, did you? Besides, I think it was a splendid idea. It can’t be blamed on us, and it won’t be blamed on anybody else. I don’t know whose cabin that was. But there’ll be a hunt for the box. And then whoever has the cabin will wake up to-morrow morning and find it on the floor; then he’ll take it to the captain and explain it was thrown through the porthole, and there you are.”

“Well,” said Warren, drawing a deep breath, “all I can say is that we had a piece of luck. I tell you, I damn near died when you did that. I had visions of somebody sticking his head out the porthole just as those officers were coming up, and saying, ‘Hey, what’s the idea of throwing things through my window?’”

He brooded, staring out through the glass at the murky night ahead, dimly luminous from the glow above on the bridge; at the sharp bows shouldering up in mist; at the white torrent that poured, swirled, and fell away round stubborn winches. From far above smote the clang of the liner’s bell—
one-two, one-two, one-two
—that is the drowsiest of sea noises by night. The wind had a flat whine now; it was dying, and rain had ceased to tick on the glass. Stately as a galleon, the tall foremast rose, swung, and tilted as the bows smashed down again into a fan of spray …

Warren glared straight ahead.

“I’ve let you people in for all this,” he said in a low voice. “I’m—I’m damned sorry.”

“Dat iss de bunk, son,” said Captain Valvick. “Ay ain’t had so much fun in a long time. De only t’ing, we got to agree on a story dat we are all going to tell … ”

“I got you into this,” continued Warren doggedly, “and I’m going to get you out. Don’t worry about that. You let me do the talking, and I’ll convince him. There’s nothing wrong with my diplomatic talents. I very, very seldom go off half-cocked”—Morgan coughed but the other obviously believed what he was saying, so nobody spoke—“and I’ll fix it. All that burns me up—” declared Warren, lifting a heavy fist high and bringing it down on the rail—“all that makes me burn and sizzle with bright murderous flames is that there really is a lousy, low-down, black-jack-using crook aboard this tub, and he’s giving us the merry horse laugh right now. Goroo! This was made to order for him. And I’m mad now. I’m good and mad. I’ll catch him. I’ll get him, if it’s the last thing I ever do, and if I have to sit up every night and wait for him to come after that fi—”

He stopped, stiffening, as an idea struck him. Slowly he turned round a lean, hollow-eyed, startled face.

“Film!” he said, clutching at the ends of his spiked hair. “Film! In my cabin. The rest of it. Unguarded! The rest of poor old Uncle Warpus’s speech, and he’s probably pinching it right now … ”

Before anybody could stop him, he had whirled round and was stumbling back towards his cabin along the slippery deck.

“Curt!” said Morgan, with a groan which ended deep in his stomach. “Listen! Hey! Come back! The captain—”

Over his shoulder Warren called out a suggested course of action for the captain. Whistler was out of his alcove at a bound and trumpeting. He shouted to the second officer to follow; then he stood and gibbered while Baldwin pursued the flying shirt-sleeved figure down the deck. Warren got inside the door, and Baldwin after him. In vain stout Valvick attempted to pacify his fellow skipper. Captain Whistler,
imprimis
, objected to being addressed as “barnacle,” and described horrible surgical tortures he would like to perform. He was in no better mood when presently Warren, with Second-Officer Baldwin keeping a firm grip on his arm, emerged from the door. Warren seemed to be expostulating as they skidded back down the deck.

“But haven’t you got any heart?” he demanded. “All I ask you to do, one little thing, is go into that next cabin and see whether that poor girl is alive—whether she needs help—whether—Or let
me
go. But no. I’ve got a good mind,” said Warren, closing one fist with a meditative air, “to—”

“What was he up to?” Whistler demanded eagerly, as the culprit was led up. “Why did he bolt?”

A very harassed-looking Baldwin regarded Warren in some uneasiness.

“I don’t know, sir. He rushed in ’is own cabin, and when I got there he was kneeling on the floor throwing motion-picture films over his shoulder and saying, ‘Gone! Gone!’”

“Yes,” agreed Warren. Wryly he shook his head as he glanced from Peggy to Morgan. “The little joker’s been there in the meantime. He’s swiped it all right.”

“What is gone, young man?” inquired Captain Whistler.

A little of the first shock of rage had gone from him. He was still in a thrice-dangerous mood, but the insult of the attack had been partly put aside in favour of appalling reflections as to its consequences. Evidently what bulked large in the captain’s rather small brain, larger than whisky-bottles or upper-cuts, was the fact that an emerald trinket worth fifty thousand pounds had been stolen while in his possession. And Lord Sturton had a crusty reputation. Captain Whistler savagely waved aside the doctor, who had not yet completed his ministrations. A few strips of sticking-plaster lent an even subtler Cézanne touch to his purple countenance; he narrowed his good right eye, squared his shoulders, and repeated with hoarse control of his temper: “What is gone, young man?”

“I can’t tell you,” returned Warren. “And anyway it’s not important. To you, anyway. It doesn’t concern whatever he stole from you. All I would beg and plead of you, if you have any heart, is don’t let that poor girl lie there, maybe dying … !”

“Mr. Warren,” said the skipper, with a tense and sinister calmness, “I
will
have some sense out of this … I will start at the beginning, and I will tell you that there is known to be aboard this ship a dangerous criminal who has stolen from me an object of enormous value … ”

“Ay told you, Barnacle,” interposed Valvick, shaking his head gloomily—“ay told you it be better to post a notice and warn all de people. Now look at what iss done.”

“N
EVER YOU MIND WHAT YOU TOLD ME, SIR
. You keep out of this, Sharkmeat. You stow your t’g’lant-royals and come off the high and mighty when you talk to me, Sharkmeat. I remember the time—” He caught himself up. “Hurrum! No matter, I will continue, Mr. Warren. You are the nephew of a very distinguished gentleman and were confided especially to my care. I have read Mr. Morgan’s stories; he has travelled with me before, and I know him. Captain Valvick, God knows, I am familiar with. I am not drunk or mad, sir. I do not believe that any of you is this notorious criminal. Kindly understand that. But I do believe, Mr. Warren, that from the time Miss Glenn told me about you at dinner tonight, you have been guilty of very odd behaviour. Now, when you tell me about a young lady who has received an injury to the back of her head, I insist on hearing your full story.”

“Right!” said Warren, with the air of one coming to an agreement. “That’s fair enough, Skipper, and here you are. We don’t know anything about the attack on you. It happened this way. We were all together, you see, when this unknown girl staggered in, badly hurt. We knew somebody had hit her, so we rushed out to see whether we could find the assailant. While we were on deck we heard your yell—”

(“Not bad for a start,” thought Morgan uneasily. “Steady now.”)

“I see,” said the captain. “And where were you then?”

“Eh?”

“I said,” repeated the captain, looking so curiously like the headmaster at old St. Just’s that Morgan shivered a little, “where were you when this alleged unknown woman came in? You weren’t in your cabin. I looked in there and I know.”

“Oh! Oh! I see! No, of course not,” Warren answered, with some heat. “Naturally not. We were in the empty cabin next door.”

“Why?”

“Why? Well—er—well, it was just an idea, you see. A kind of idea I had. I mean,” said Warren, his wits clicking out words desperately in the hope of finding the right ones, “I mean, I thought it would be a good idea. Anyway, we
were
there, damn it! You can ask any of them. They were sort of taking care of me … ”

“Taking care of you,” repeated Captain Whistler heavily. “And what were you doing there?”

“Well, we were sitting on the floor playing Geography. And then we heard the door to C deck open, and this girl who was attacked started calling my name. I don’t know who she is; I only saw her once before,” pursued Warren, acquiring greater assurance and fluency as he hurried on, “and that was in the wireless-room, when I got the cablegram—about—euh!—I mean, when I got the cablegram—about the bears, you see.”

“What bears?”

Warren’s jaws moved. He glanced wildly at Morgan for assistance.

“It’s quite all right, Captain,” the latter explained as smoothly as he could. He had a lump in his throat and a feeling that if Warren kept on explaining he would go insane himself. “Naturally Curt’s a bit upset, and I suppose he tells things in rather an odd way. But it’s quite simple, after all. It’s about some stocks—you understand. The bears were raiding the market, you see, and his stocks had depreciated.”

“Oh! He’s been worried about financial matters has he? Yes, yes,” said the captain heavily. “But let’s come down to terms, Mr. Morgan? Do
you
vouch for the truth of this crazy story?”

“Go and see, why don’t you?” shouted the exasperated Warren. “That’s what I’ve been asking you to do from the first, if you’d had any sense. Here you’re keeping Miss Glenn shivering in my coat, and all of us standing out here on a zero deck when that poor girl may be dying. Aren’t you coming, Doctor?”

“We are all coming,” said the captain, with sudden decision. He beckoned his two subordinates, and the weird little procession went down to the door. Warren tugged it open, while they all piled through; a pale-faced Peggy, trembling and breathing deeply in the warm air. For a moment they blinked against the light.

“All right, there you are,” said Warren, himself shivering as he stood against the wall of the white passage. “There’s where she got caught in the door. You see the blood on the rubber matting … ”

The captain looked at him.

“Blood? What blood? I don’t see any blood.”

There was none, although Morgan knew it had been there. He took off his spectacles, wiped them, and looked again without result. And again he felt in the pit of his stomach that uneasy sensation that behind this foolery there was moving something monstrous and deadly.

“But—” said Warren desperately. He stared at the captain, and then threw open the door of the stateroom beside his.

The light in the roof was burning. The berth on which they had laid the injured girl was empty; the pillow was not disarranged, or the tucked-back sheets wrinkled. There was not even the smeared towel with which Peggy had wiped blood from the girl’s face. A fresh towel, white and undisturbed, swung from the rack of the washstand.

“Yes?” said Captain Whistler stormily. “I’m waiting.”

I
N ITS OWN WAY
that was the beginning. It was the mere prospect of an empty bed and a clean towel, not in themselves especially alarming things, which sent through Morgan a sense of fear such as he had not known even in the past during the case of the Eight of Swords, or was to know in the future during the case of the Two Hangmen. He tried to tell himself that this was absurd and was a part of the crack-brain comedy on C deck.