Chapter 19

The Middle

I said, “Oh?”

“You knew him, m’sieu?”

“Slightly. A bar acquaintance.”

“That is two, of course. Of the friends of the mademoiselle. It is—it is most ominous.”

“Yes.”

The first officer looked around, carefully not seeing Tom. “Can we speak alone, m’sieu?”

Tom said, “Pardon me. See you later,” and went into his room.

The first officer bowed acceptance in his direction and spoke lower. He did not see Twit-Twit’s shadow.

“M’sieu. M’sieu Jones was murdered. Slugged and ’anged. But obviously he was not ’anged in a lifeboat. No. So in my opinion to solve this matter is not only to find the person who kills people, but to ascertain why put them in lifeboats. Someone who thinks he may get off the boat before they are even found, perhaps.”

“Yes.”

Twit-Twit’s shadow was still there. The first officer was still looking elaborately away from me, yet our glances met. Because he was watching me, and had been all the time, in the mirror over the Louis XIV commode. He looked away.

“His steward ’as told me you wanted to get into his cabin early yesterday.”

That one I was ready for.

“Yes. We had had a nightcap at the bar, and I mentioned I like to take a turn around the deck early in the morning. He said he would like that too, and asked me to knock at his door. So I did. When he did not answer, I became a little worried—he had had a lot to drink. I asked the steward to look in, just to see if he was all right. That was all.”

“I see.”

“Are you checking alibis, or anything like that?”

“M’sieu! At least, not here.”

“Then where, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Nowhere, yet.”

“Has the news gone out to—the rest of the world?”

“Only to our headquarters in Le Havre. A secret.”

And how long would it stay a secret there?

“Just one thing, since we were speaking of alibis.” I was, anyway. “I gather the maid must have been killed last night during the gala. Have you determined a time of death, or figured out who was at the gala and who wasn’t all evening?”

“It would be impossible, m’sieu. People go in and out. Except people like you and me. We both know we were there all evening.”

“Oh, of course.”

So I had an alibi. Or so he thought. Or so he wanted me to think he thought. And he had one too. Or so he wanted me to think.

“M’sieu. I must ask a favor.”

“Of course.”

“There is one part of the ship we ’ave not searched.”

“Her stateroom?”

“No, m’sieu. Yours. Your suite. May I?”

I saw Twit-Twit’s shadow vanish.

“Please do, by all means.”

“It is just that—a formality.”

“Of course. I had just better warn Miss Twickenham.” Twit-Twit was coolly creaming her face at the make-up table when I looked in. “Visitor,” I said.

He excused himself abjectly, then looked carefully in the closet, around the bathroom, and under the bed. He even glanced into the life-preserver rack. Then he did Tom’s room. If the entire search of the ship was like that, it would be impossible for them to overlook a five-pound sack of flour.

Back in the parlor, I said, “Now I’d like you to give me a hand with something.”

“M’sieu?”

“It involves the ship personnel, and may have something to do with Miss Moore’s disappearance.”

His glance narrowed. “Oui?”

“I want to talk to the man who runs the ship’s newspaper. I’ll do the talking. But I want you there to scare him. To make him think his job is in danger.”

“Beaubien?” He sounded thunderstruck.

“If that’s the printer. Could we do it now?”

“He would be ’aving dîner. Below. Far below.”

“Then let’s go see him.”

“Oui, m’sieu.”

I went to Tom’s bedroom door. “I’m going out for a few minutes. Will you or Twit-Twit be here?”

“Sure.”

“It’s important that someone be in here to take messages.”

“I dig.”

“Back in fifteen minutes.”

We went down, down, down in the elevator and then by stairs. Finally he led me through a narrow, rather grimy, corridor and opened an unmarked door. It was a small wardroom, apparently below the waterline. Half a dozen crewmen were scattered at several clothless tables, eating. A bottle of red wine stood on each table.

One of those eating was the printer. He saw us bearing down on him and looked alarmed. He got to his feet, rubbing his mouth with a paper napkin.

“This gentleman wants to talk to you,” the first officer said shortly.

“M’sieu?”

“I want the truth about the baseball score.”

“M’sieu? Baseball score?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do not understand the anglais very good, m’sieu.”

“Yes, you do.” I spoke slowly. “This is a police matter. You understand that, don’t you? I want the truth about that baseball score I asked you about earlier today. The truth. Start talking.”

The first officer said nothing. He stood with folded arms, frowning at the printer. He didn’t know what I was talking about, but he was playing his part.

The printer touched his lips again with the napkin.

“I-I—”

“The truth, immediately,” I said. “Or the police in Le Havre.”

“Immediately, Beaubien!” The first officer echoed.

“I—oui. Yes. I change the score. The—how was it?—the Dodgairs against the Mets. It is true.”

“Why did you do it?”

“I receive a letter.”

“From whom?”

“I do not know, m’sieu. It was dropped in the mailbox on the door of my printing shop. I found it yesterday evening.”

“And?”

“There was a five-hundred-franc note. And the letter said the writer ’ad made a joking bet on the baseball score with a friend. He want me to make it a certain numbers in the paper. And if I did, there would be another five-hundred-franc note.”

“And so you did.”

He shrugged. He did not look at the first officer. “What difference makes a baseball score, m’sieu?” He did not look at me either. “I am sorry if it was wrong.”

One thousand francs. About two hundred dollars. The first officer said, “Did you save the letter you received?”

“No, m’sieu le commandant.”

“Where is it now?” I asked.

He gestured toward the empty wastebasket and shrugged.

“And did you get the other five hundred francs?”

“Not yet, m’sieu.”

That was interesting. Were they simply cheating him? Or playing things doubly safe?

“When you get it,” I said, “if you do, preserve everything. The envelope it comes in. The franc note. Everything. You can have the money. But we want every bit of evidence we can get.”

He shook his head emphatically yes.

“Bring it,” said the first officer, “to me. If you get it and do not bring it at once—” He smiled sardonically and made that wonderful little Gallic gesture, a flick of the wrist at waist level, which says so much. Among other things, you know how things happen.

As we went out, I looked back at the printer. He had sat down and, hands on knees, was staring into his plate un-hungrily.