Chapter 18
The Corpse
As I paced, I swayed a little, and at first I figured that my footing was uncertain because I was nervous. And I was. In a crisis inaction is the crudest torture.
But after a few minutes I realized the reason I was swaying was not nervousness. It was the ship.
Outside, the wind was beginning to growl and howl alternately. The forward rises and plunges were perhaps a little heavier than before, but they were not so noticeable because she was rolling so deeply from side to side. Things moved and slid by themselves on the bureaus and desk, and water slopped out of the carafe by my bed. In the closets, clothes on hangers made brushing sounds and clinking noises.
This was heavy weather.
I looked out a window. All you saw was flying gray water and watery-gray light, and you could not tell where the sea stopped and the sky began.
The door to the suite swung suddenly open, and I thought the storm had done that, too, but Twit-Twit lurched in and slammed it shut.
“God help the poor sailor on a night like this,” she said.
“Have you seen Merrilee?”
“Why are you so anxious about Merrilee? I almost broke my ankle on the—”
“Haven’t you heard the news?”
“What news? I damn near break my neck going up the stairs to get up here—they’ve got ropes all over the place, but they don’t help much—and the first thing I hear—”
“God damn it, Twit, tell me. Where did you last see her?” She surveyed me.
“Why is it so important at this moment?”
“Because the whole ship is being hunted for her. She may have gone overboard.”
Twit-Twit looked at me searchingly. “You mean it. Something’s really wrong.”
“Something is God-damned wrong. She may have been killed. There’s a bloodstain in her cabin. She may—please tell me when you last saw her.”
She said, “I’m sorry. I last saw her at the movie.”
“Which just let out?”
“Yes.”
“But they’ve been hunting her for half an hour. All over the ship.”
“That must be what the paging meant.”
“What paging?”
“She and I and Bets met at the movie. Marlon Brando in—”
“Screw Marlon Brando.”
“We’d hardly sat down when they paged her. You know. Over the PA system.”
“And?”
“She sort of scrounged up next to me and said, ‘Now what do they want?’ I said that maybe it was a cable or something. She said she didn’t want any cables. She seemed scared.”
“It figures.”
“I guess so. Anyway, she said, ‘I just want to stay here and see the picture.’ But after a little while they paged her again, and in a few moments she whispered she had a date at the hairdresser, and got up and left. Quite suddenly. Bets and I stayed until the end.”
Was she back in her cabin?
I picked up the phone and dialed Cabin B-78. It didn’t answer.
I found the coiffeur in the ship’s telephone list and dialed that.
“Did Miss Moore get in yet?”
“Who is calling, m’sieu?”
“This is the bridge,” I lied. “M’sieu Deacon. I am calling for the captain, who is alarmed.”
“Oui, m’sieu. J’ai compris. Mademoiselle Moore n’a pas apparue.”
“Merci.” I rang off. “No dice. Twit—I’m scared.”
She patted my arm. Through the wall from the cabin next to us, there came the bull-like bellowing of Mr. Steak-Lover, roaring angrily at his wife. Twit-Twit said, “Don’t panic yet. They’ll turn her up. Just wait until all the returns are in.” The telephone rang in my hand; I’d never released my grip on it.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Deacon?” It was a woman’s voice. But not the right one.
“Yes?”
“I have a transatlantic call for you. One moment.”
It was several moments. Then Newt’s voice broke in. “Hello? Hello? Deac?”
“Yes. What’s up?”
“Well, I’ll tell you. I am definitely going to buzz over to London and meet all of you when you land at Southampton.”
“That may be a good idea.” I wondered how to break the news. “In fact, it is a good idea. I just hope we’re all there to meet you.”
“How do you mean?”
“Merrilee is missing,” I said. I couldn’t think of any kinder way to say it.
“What do you mean, missing?” Fear raised his voice half an octave.
“She went to the movie this afternoon. Left early to go to the hairdresser. She never got there. The entire ship is being searched right now. So far, no dice.”
I have never heard so long a silence.
“You think they got her some way?”
“Somebody’s hid her away, at least.”
“But on a ship—there are only so many places.”
“On a ship there is always the ocean.”
There was another long silence.
“Blame me for it. But God, Newt, she was even at a movie with friends of mine. Before that, we had all lunched together. And she’d been thoroughly put on guard.”
“Stop it. I blame myself. We should have shipped her to Europe in a lead container, like uranium, surrounded by twenty-five uniformed cops. But where—? Do you have any ideas about who ‘they’ are—the ones on the ship?”
“Oh, yes. But revenge or punishment won’t—if they’ve—if they’ve hurt her.”
“You sound in a bad way.”
“I may kill somebody before I get off this boat.”
Twit-Twit’s eyes widened.
Newt said, “Now for Almighty God’s sake, Deac, don’t get Irish and crazy.”
“I won’t,” I said, “because I have no real proof right now. This is a hell of a clever operator, and he has good help. Tell you one thing you can do.”
“Right.”
“Do you have this morning’s paper handy?”
“Sure.”
“Look in the sports pages and tell me who won yesterday’s ball game between the Mets and the Dodgers.”
“For the love of heaven! Is this a time to worry about baseball?”
“Do what I said. I just want the final score.”
“Just a minute.” A pause. Then, “The Dodgers won, four to one.”
“Are you sure you’ve got the right paper? And the right date and game? It was yesterday’s game. The opener.”
“Sure. Right here in the New York Times.”
“Four to one.”
“That was the score.”
“That may help quite a lot.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Never mind now.”
“Call me as soon as you get a report—no matter how bad it is. You have my home number.”
We hung up.
Twit-Twit and I exchanged looks. I suppose how I felt showed in my face. She came forward and put her arms around me. She didn’t kiss me or anything. It’s the sort of thing that made me fall in love with Twit-Twit.
“Relax a minute,” she said. “Then we’ll figure what to do next. And what I can do to help.”
“You’ll stay here and answer the phone.”
“While you—?”
“While I communicate with these bastards.”
“You mean, the people who—?”
“Yes. I can send them a message. It may help. It can’t do any harm.”
“Where’s Tom?”
“In his room, asleep. Call on him if you need anything. Where’s Betsy?”
“She was going to do a little shopping in the boutique, then come right up here.”
“I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“Do I have time to change and get into something loose?”
“Of course. All you have to do is listen for the phone. Or a knock at the door.”
“I’ll even leave the john door open.”
“You don’t have to be indelicate.”
But I kissed her and left.
* * * *
Walking around the passageway to Merrilee’s suite, I thought about what I would say. I could not risk overstating my case, because my case wasn’t that strong, even though it was shaping up. But if it was going to help her—if, indeed, it could help her—I had to make it convincing.
No one was on guard in front of her cabin. I used the key and stepped inside and, as I did, a silly, wistful hope flashed across my mind—that somehow she would be there, dressed or undressed, or maybe making splashing noises in the tub. But there was no sound at all. I closed the door carefully and went directly to the day bed.
All I had to do was switch the bug on, perhaps give it a minute to warm up, and then talk into it. They’d get the message, all right. Immediately, or by tape, or however they worked it.
I pulled the covers back and reached. And that was all.
The bug was not there.
I took the elevator back up to the suite. As I swung into our corridor, I saw the first officer standing at our door. He pushed the button.
Twit-Twit opened the door promptly.
“M’sieu Deacon. Is he in?” the first officer asked.
“I guess he is now,” said Twit-Twit.
I said, “Hi.” We went inside.
Tom was sitting in a chair in shirt-sleeves and slacks, looking deliberately sleepy, from which I knew he was very much awake.
“What’s the news?” I said.
“It is not good, m’sieu,” the first officer said. He held his cap in his hands apologetically. “It is—it is not at all good.” He was excessively polite, as though he felt he were to blame.
“Then what is it?”
The deep-pile carpeting we stood on rose and sank beneath us as the ship plowed and rolled. The parlor’s subdued lighting was oppressive, like that in a funeral home. Suddenly I wanted a strong, heady drink, or a cigarette (I don’t smoke), or a change of scene—like an English moor. Illogical, but real.
“It is—we’ve found something, m’sieu.”
“Well, Christ! What?”
“The search is not complete. The men—we even brought out the night crews to—how you say?—expedite l’affaire. The men ’ave gone over the ship, except for the lowest part, where is the propeller shaft. They are going through that now.”
“But you said—”
From the wall behind me came a loud bumping sound in the next cabin. It was the storm, moving furniture around, or Steak-Lover bouncing his wife off the wall.
“M’sieu, you are a friend of Mademoiselle Moore. You are associated with her.”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps you feel a—responsible for her?”
“In a way. What are you driving at?”
He seemed to summon his courage. Tom was watching him like a judge watches the key witness at a murder trial. Twit-Twit had gone into her room, but I could see by a shadow on the wall that she was eavesdropping just inside her door.
“We ’ave found the body, m’sieu.”
I died, and he saw it.
“Oh, not hers. But one of her associates. The M’sieu Jones? In a lifeboat. Like the maid.”