Chapter 15

A Little Further Knowledge of the Score

But after establishing Twit-Twit at the bar with the Dolans, I left and went to the library. I got out the Who’s Who and this time read all there was to read about the other Pennypacker that the book listed.

Besides being a retired professor of psychology, he had been born in Long Beach sixty-four years ago, I learned, had married Edith Sweet, was evidently childless, had an M.A from Ohio State University, a Viennese doctorate, and had published in professional journals: “The Psychic Bases of Sadism,” “Compulsive Transvestitism,” “Detecting Pathological Lying, So-Called.” He was associated with a psychological testing laboratory and his home was in Long Beach.

I went back to the bar, so thoughtfully that for a time I ignored my drink, and Merrilee even slipped onto the bar stool next to me without my immediately knowing she was there. A lot of other people did, though; every eye in the place was on her.

I performed introductions, and it was nice to notice how everyone accepted everyone without the self-conscious effluvia that often accompanies the introduction of a celebrity. She said she’d have a Dubonnet on the rocks, and the bartender practically sprinted for the bottle. She looked palely in need of it.

When I got a chance I said sotto voce, “Are you all right?”

“Of course. I guess. I don’t know. I’ve—I’ve been crying. Klára was...was...I don’t have any real friends, you know. She—I depended on her. And I have no one now.”

“Yes, you do. Drink your drink.”

She barely sipped it. “Drinks don’t help. When you’re really alone.”

“Where were you this morning?”

“In my cabin.”

“Like hell you were. I dropped by, knocked several times, and the maid went in. She said your bed hadn’t been slept in.”

“The maid was right. I slept in the tub.”

“The tub!”

“Yes. I got in awfully late from the party, and Klára wasn’t—that’s why I wanted to have lunch with you. Because I feel so alone. I don’t know anyone on the ship, really. I hope your friends don’t mind too much.”

“Don’t be silly. They’ll love you.”

She gave me a sudden child-smile of appreciation. She wanted to be loved, and she needed to be. It was so ironic. She needed plain, simple affection far more than the average, plain, simple girl.

She went on. “When I got in last night I didn’t know about Klára, of course. It was nice, their keeping it from me. I guess. But I couldn’t sleep, and she wasn’t there, so I finally drew a bath myself and got into the tub and let the warm water run slowly. It’s a way I have of getting to sleep. Just lie in the tub with the warm water running slowly. Try it some time.”

“I will.”

“You probably don’t have trouble getting to sleep. You look like that. You’re lucky.”

“Yes. So that’s where you were this morning?”

“Until almost ten. Then I woke up. A little waterlogged. Someone was pounding on my door.”

“One of the officers?”

“Two of them. They—they broke the news. And then took me to the captain, who wanted to ask me some questions. They were all really very nice. Sympathetic. Everyone has been so nice.”

“I’m sure they were.” Twit-Twit, next to me, was listening with more than half an ear. I leaned back to include her in the conversation; after all, I didn’t want another civil war. “They wanted to know when you last saw Klára, no doubt.”

“Yes.”

“When did you?”

“I can’t bear to think about it. When I left my stateroom to go to the party, about ten-thirty. We’d been—been arguing.”

“What about?”

“Oh, she meant well, poor thing. But she began giving me this hard sell again about going back to New York as soon as we landed. I finally had to shut her up. I hate myself now.”

“How could you know what would happen? What else did they ask you?”

“Where I was before and around midnight.”

That was about when she and I had gone for a walk on the deck. Who were they checking on, her or me?

“Why? That’s when they figure Klára was attacked.”

“Yes. It has something to do with the blood coagu—you know what I mean. Anyway, the doctor figures it happened between 11 and 11:30.”

I began trying to remember who had been in the salon at that particular time. Everybody, it seemed. Mesh-Gloves for sure, although exactly when he had come in I was not sure. The first officer, yes. Widow’s-Peak Pennypacker? I thought he was. With the college girls. I couldn’t remember. Old Cotton-Hair Pennypacker? No, definitely. The Indian? Dr. Cyclops? I couldn’t remember. Maybe Tom could.

“How about lunch?” Betsy was saying. “Lunch anyone? I’m starved.”

“So am I,” I said. Merrilee had hardly touched her drink. “What do you say, Twit?”

“I’m for le dejeuner.”

We went down for what I figured would be a restful and restorative lunch. And I was right—for a while.

* * * *

The steak-lover was not complaining this noon, and Cotton-Hair Pennypacker looked over and waved but did not ask us to play bridge. Maybe the fifth person at our table overwhelmed him. Widow’s-Peak Pennypacker ate by himself as usual, tasting the cold salmon and its accompanying mayonnaise intently. The Indian was there and so were the college girls and their tall, pretty chaperone. The murder, news of which must by now have spread all over the ship, did not seem to have disquieted anyone, nor was there noticeable talk of it. Especially at our table.

Tom read the ship’s newspaper.

“I just want to see what the market did yesterday,” he said.

“We’re in the market,” said Betsy. “We have A.T.&T. One share. We also have one share of I.B.M. Or is it B.M.I., dear?”

“B.M.I is an association of song writers, you mutton,” said Tom.

“Then that’s what we’ve got,” said Betsy. “We’d never have anything valuable like I.B.M.”

“Shut up,” Tom growled cheerfully. At that moment the first officer came up to the table, cap in hand. He bowed to all of us. But he addressed Merrilee.

“Pardon. I ’ave been asked to give you this, Mademoiselle.”

It was a stateroom key.

“It is the key to your stateroom. It was in the apron pocket of the—of your maid. It is all she ’ad on her at the time in the way of the possessions.”

“Oh.” There was something poignant about that tagged rod of heavy brass. “Thank you.” She put it on the table, as if she didn’t like holding it.

He bowed all around again and left. I watched him go out, cap in hand, and observed how many other people were watching, too. Being with her a couple of hours was really moving into a goldfish bowl.

Tom was looking around at the others, too, and his gaze stopped at Widow’s-Peak Pennypacker.

“I’d still like to get that guy for a TV interview,” he said. “Next fall. If he’d open up.”

“Maybe you could persuade him.”

“Maybe I could if I asked him over here. He’s sure interested in what’s been going on at this table. I noticed it when the officer was standing here.”

“Why don’t you brace him after a while? Maybe he’d go for it.”

“Maybe. You never can tell.”

“Also, you might just find out where he was last night between 10:30 and midnight. I don’t know that he was at the big gala all that time.”

Tom looked at me. “Is that the time, and what we want to know?”

“That’s what we want to know. About a lot of people.”

“Then I brace. Tom Dolan, boy detective.”

We had reached the coffee stage. Merrilee’s fingers stroked the key.

“Why do you want to know that?” she asked.

“I just like to know things. Sometimes a couple of them fit together and tell me something more.”

“Like what?”

I didn’t want to go any further.

“Come on, Sherlock,” said Twit-Twit. “Give us a f’r-instance.”

“Well. Like that key.”

“What more does that tell you?”

“That the people who killed Klára don’t need it. Otherwise they wouldn’t have left it in her apron. So it means they can get into your cabin any time they want without it. It’s something to bear in mind, Merrilee. I’m serious.”

“And with that happy thought,” said Twit-Twit, pushing her chair back, “we’ll leave you. Have your port and cigars, gentlemen. The ladies are retiring to the drawing room. Or to a stroll on deck. Why don’t you come along, Merrilee?”

She got up, and had to balance herself against the ship’s roll. Merrilee looked appealingly at me for an instant. “Will you drop by and see me in an hour?”

“Of course.”

“I have—premonitions. Or something—you know what I mean. They have nothing to do with the key.”

“Right. Forget about the key for now.”

As a matter of fact, she did. She got up from the table and left the key where it was. Whatever else she was, she was irresponsible, and dependent on other people to pick up the pieces. And right now in a kind of daze.

Tom said, “More coffee?”

“Just a touch. I shouldn’t have said that, I guess.”

“Yes, you should have. It’s a very valid point. She should be on her guard. And something should be done, like changing the lock.”

“Something will be. I’ll see to it.”

Cotton-Hair Pennypacker, his wife, and the Steak-Lovers were getting up. He smiled at us as usual. “Got a little game going,” he said. “Nothing else to do on an afternoon like this but play cards and forget the rolling.”

“Right,” said Tom.

“I’ve given up inviting you boys to play, at least temporarily.” He grinned. “Our friends here—” he gestured toward the Steak-Lovers “—are joining Mrs. Pennypacker and me this afternoon. But I’ll be after you again.”

“And we’re pretty scared about playing them,” said Mrs. Steak-Lover.

“How is that?” I asked.

“You know how these business experts are. They’re awful tricky.” She smiled archly.

“Business expert?”

“Doctor Pennypacker is professor of business administration at Grinnell University,” Steak-Lover announced importantly.

They got up.

“Well, don’t take any wooden market-predictions,” Tom said. “How are the chickadees?”

Pennypacker grinned. “Haven’t a single stock to my name,” he said. “And all five are great.”

When they had left Tom said, “Let’s get on with the war. Or the alibis. I’ll talk to that other Pennypacker guy. Who else should I take?”

“Thanks. I’ll take the guy with the bad eye—Dr. Cyclops, let’s call him ’til I get his name. You take the little joker with the white-mesh gloves. He was eyeing Merrilee pretty closely last night. I’ll take the Indian—and the first officer, because I have to talk to him anyway. He’s supposed to be on our side.”

“Do you really think he’s a suspect?”

“All I have for sure is that two people have been killed, and the approximate time of each murder. If we find someone who has no real alibi for one, we begin to check that person on the time of the other. And we also know this—that the enemy is aboard, and he is probably a man, but he may have a girl assistant.”

“We know all that? How?”

“I think the voice that lured me to Jones’s porthole was a woman, trying to sound like Merrilee, though I could be wrong. But the maid was slugged by a man. It took strength to make those skull depressions.”

“It might have been a woman in a maniacal fury.”

“These are not crimes of passion. And if the killer is a man, it would make sense to give him a girl assistant, because a woman can do things and get places men cannot.”

“Like girls’ powder rooms.”

“Exactly, Watson. Which reminds me—I’m latching onto that key.” I dropped it in my pocket.

Tom was making little notes on his ship’s newspaper. “Those crazy Mets,” he said.

“What about them?”

“They won the opener yesterday. In thirteen innings. But did you ever see such a wild score?”

Somehow I knew what was coming, and I didn’t want it to come.

“Look.” His finger pointed to a line in the mimeographed sheet.

Mets 21 dodgers 19

I felt the normal air go out of my lungs and cold night vapor seep in.

“What the hell,” said Tom. “You’re white as a sheet.”