A KNIFE IN THE DARK
When Captain Hugh North tried the door of cabin Number 20 it swung open at once.
“Good Lord! Did you ever see such a mess?”
In growing dismay and bewilderment Captain Carstairs stared at a scene of confusion such as North had seldom seen equaled. That this was more than a crime passionel now became a conviction. Someone had ransacked the dead English agent’s effects with a thoroughness that bespoke a reckless determination to find what was sought. The drawers of the cabin’s small white-painted dresser had been jerked open and thoroughly rummaged; the carpet was on edge, and the bed had become a hurrah’s nest of tangled sheets and blankets lying on a mattress slashed from one end to another. The top of a well-worn traveling case, which had evidently been locked, had been hacked open with a sharp instrument, and a small snowstorm of private papers lay scattered in wild confusion over the floor.
“Somebody surely has made a hell’s delight of the place,” Captain Carstairs sighed. “It will cost a lot of money to repair the damage. I’m afraid the owners will be very annoyed. I wonder if he found what he was looking for?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Ah, I see.” Captain Carstairs nodded with an air of deep wisdom. “When he didn’t find what he wanted, the murderer lay in wait for, and killed, Trenchard. I wonder what it was he wanted—since it wasn’t money?”
North passed a thoughtful hand over his chin, making a little scraping noise. “That, Captain, is a most vital question; one the Settlement Police and not I will have to worry about—thank God!”
But even as the words left North’s lips a lively doubt on that point entered his mind. Was the United States concerned in this? When such people as Ruby Braunfeld, Sam Steel, and Mr. Chang were as definitely involved in the murder of a British Intelligence officer, there must be vast forces moving in the background.
No, North decided, he didn’t envy Kilgour the job of unraveling this case. What was it Trenchard had planned to put in Captain Carstairs’s safe? And why had the Englishman played up to Ruby so convincingly as to fool everyone and to even arouse Steel’s jeering contempt? His perplexity grew as no answer presented itself.
At present, then, all he could do was to assume that something of a tangible nature had been stolen—but had it been stolen? Possibly Trenchard might have hidden his precious object. Possibly this point might be cleared up through the reactions of certain figures in the growing mystery.
Like swallows skimming a twilight pond, North’s deep-set eyes flitted over the room until, emitting a little exclamation, he stooped and examined the side of the cabin’s brightly varnished dresser. A line of evenly spaced dots perhaps five inches long was scratched in the glossy surface and clearly enough indicated.
“What’s so interesting about them?” Carstairs demanded. “It’s just a scratch.”
“Yes,” was the Intelligence Captain’s abstracted reply. “It’s just a scratch, just as these”—he bent and picked up several little lumps of reddish dirt from the carpet—“are just bits of clay; but both may be significant.”
“Well, Captain North, what’s next?” presently inquired the Kiangsu’s master. “I hope this investigation of yours is not going to take much longer. We dock early tomorrow, and I’ve my reports on this sad affair to write in addition to the ship’s regular work.”
“Please keep this cabin locked,” directed the Intelligence Captain as he turned to the door. “And you can go now if you wish.”
“Then you’ve finished?”
“No, not quite. There are a few people I want to talk to.”
“Sure I can’t help you any more, Captain?” was Carstairs’s unenthusiastic query as he put hand to the stair rail.
“Not beyond sending a wireless to the Settlement Police—I think they’d better get on the job at the earliest possible moment.”
“Right-o. I’ll have Sparks send a message at once.”
Head bent in thought, North’s gray-flannelled figure set off down the passage, where only the creaking of the steamer’s fabric broke the stillness. But in passing he saw four stalwart and solemn-visaged white stewards in the act of lifting Trenchard’s corpse onto a collapsible canvas stretcher. Three Chinese stewards, equipped with soap and cold water, were meanwhile vigorously scrubbing the ugly stains which showed so sharply against the cabin’s gray carpet.
Deliberately North turned sharp left, crossed the passage with unhurried stride, and rapped gently at cabin Number 13.
“Hello,” greeted Michael Smith when he saw the Intelligence Captain standing in the brassbound cabin doorway. “You’re late. I fancied you’d be here long since.”
“Late?”
The Englishman uttered a mirthless laugh and stepped back, beckoning North inside.
“Yes, since my cabin is very near to Trenchard’s, I would be likely to have heard anything significant, wouldn’t I?”
“You would,” North replied with a smile that freed his reply of any implications. His opinion of this rather likable and friendly Michael Smith’s intelligence rose several notches. “And that was just what I came for. As you suspect, I was wondering whether you heard or saw anything of interest.”
The tea trader, with a square, strong hand, pushed back a strand of blond hair which had fallen over his forehead. “I’m afraid I can’t help you much. Just before the shot rang out I was sitting in here packing some things in my suitcase. As you know, it was pretty late, and the boat was quiet. I certainly would have heard steps passing my cabin door.”
“Did you hear anything else?”
“Yes.” The Englishman’s ruddy face contracted with thought. “I thought I heard someone gasp just an instant or so before the report sounded.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“Yes, after the shot I heard poor Trenchard scream and heard the sound of his body falling. But I didn’t hear footsteps at any time. By the way, you haven’t formed any theories about who did Trenchard in, have you?”
“Who said Trenchard didn’t commit suicide?” North demanded.
“One of the officers told Mrs. Chatfield it was a case of murder—not suicide. It’s all over the ship by now. I was wondering—”
“Wondering about what, Mr. Smith?” inquired North while mentally damning that talkative officer.
The other’s bright blue eyes narrowed a little, and he regarded North somewhat accusingly.
“Surely you don’t expect me to think that you haven’t recalled Steel’s attitude on the stern? And what about that damned Chinaman, Chang? He wasn’t wasting any sweet looks on Trenchard.”
Beneath North’s close-clipped mustache appeared a gaunt smile. “No, I remember it all right, but theorizing isn’t my part in this affair. I’m only a sort of human camera for the Settlement Police. I’ll leave the theorizing to them.”
“Well, then, have you any idea why Trenchard was murdered?”
“None.”
Again Smith persisted in his fruitless questioning. “I overheard Trenchard’s last words—did it sound to you like ‘Carol’s doll’?”
The Intelligence Captain frowned a little. “Yes. Puzzling, isn’t it? You haven’t any theories on the subject?”
“No, unless there’s someone aboard called Carol.”
“You said you knew Ruby once in Berlin, I believe—she never was called ‘Carol,’ was she?”
“Not that I know of, though she’s been called plenty of names—and things.”
Though the tea dealer’s manner continued outwardly frank and open, North abruptly sensed a change since the matter of “Carol’s doll” had been brought up.
The Englishman seemed to be thinking furiously beneath his casual bearing.
“You can’t recall anything else? Remember, any detail may be important.”
The tea dealer shook his square blond head. “Sorry, old chap—wish I could. You’ll call on me if I can help?” He got up and held out his hand.
“Maybe I will, Smith. I’ve an idea this affair isn’t finished yet,” North said, and his hand closed over the cold brass knob of the door. “Good-night.”
“Good-night, Captain,” the Englishman said. “Hope you get somewhere.”
As North turned, he gave one last look about the cabin and then glanced out of the open porthole through which could be glimpsed the moonlit Yangtze. It was still and peaceful out there—quite different to the seething little world of the steamer.
Once outside, the Intelligence Captain held a momentary consultation with himself and deliberately made his way back to cabin Number 22. Certainly, as things stood, more might be learned from Ruby Braunfeld than from any other figure in this tragedy.
Drawing himself up and at the same time clearing a mental slate on which to register impressions, he raised his hand to rap on the cabin door. Just then, however, he noted a scrap of paper on the floor. Ever vigilant, he stooped to pick it up, and at that precise instant felt something stir his hair.
Instantly rigid, he heard some object violently strike the door frame. Ignoring the missile where most men would have wasted time in looking up at it, North, with catlike speed, spun about and peered down a dark passageway which connected the port with the starboard side and so caught just a glimpse of a shadowy figure.
The .32 almost flowed into his hand as he bounded in furious pursuit, but when he reached the port passage only a vista of closed doors and sleepily winking brass knobs greeted his eye. Behind which one lurked the person who, save for an accident, would have murdered him? It was unnerving not to know.
Lips drawn tight, Captain Hugh North made his way back to Ruby Braunfeld’s temporary cabin. Then he very carefully extracted from the woodwork in which it was embedded to a depth of at least two inches a needle-pointed dagger of undoubtedly Chinese origin. Swathing it in his handkerchief in order to preserve possible fingerprints, North slid the murderous weapon into his side pocket. Gently again, he raised his hand to tap on the smooth white panels of the coaster’s1 door, but once more his interview with Ruby Braunfeld was postponed. “Captain North, if you please.”
No less a person than the Kiangsu’s first officer was drawing near, in his hand a pair of yellow envelopes.
“These radiograms just came, sir. Captain Carstairs thought you had better have them right away.”
Trouble was certainly wasting no time in catching up with him, North reflected as he gloomily accepted the messages.
The first, he was not surprised to find, was from Bruce Kilgour.
Please use every care this affair. Thousands of lives possibly dependent on it. Concerns United States as well as England and of overwhelming importance.
Kilgour.
The second message was from James Parker, United States vice-consul. Why was this message from him rather than Conroy, who had taken over North’s Shanghai assignment? He learned as soon as he ripped open the envelope.
Much relieved learn where you are. Conroy murdered. Confusion here. Communicate Consulate instantly on arrival.
Parker.
Conroy dead? A wave of resentment at his successor’s fate invaded North’s being. Damn! That meant he’d have to plunge once more into the hotbed of international intrigue at Shanghai.
“Any answer, sir?”
“No,” said North bitterly.
Deeply depressed, he watched the first officer turn and make his way above, while ever darker grew the aspects of this affair. So his successor had been murdered and the Consulate-General left in the dark at this, of all times!
Smothering a little sigh, he rapped at Ruby Braunfeld’s door.
1 Coaster: Woman plying an ancient trade on the Chinese coast