11

“The ruddy library steward said—” Simpson changed his tone of voice, raising it slightly, giving a fair imitation of the prissy voice of the steward. “‘The Captain had some extra decks in his digs—private like, sir—and he told me to offer them in case you, Mr. Simpson, wished to play cards. I had no idea he had them, sir, but wasn’t that thoughtful of him? And those birds; my, aren’t they pretty? Don’t you think so, sir?’ No,” Simpson went on, resuming his normal tone, “I didn’t think them pretty!”

“The Captain, eh?” Carruthers looked thoughtful. “I had a cold feeling in the pit of my stomach that our uniformed Charon wasn’t as stupid as he looked.” He sighed and shook his head. “What did Pugh say? And where is he, by the way?”

“He didn’t say anything,” Simpson said. “After I excused myself from the game, he stayed on, playing. Picked up the cards, shuffled them right smartly, and dealt them.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “The game ought to be breaking up soon, though. Getting on toward lunch time, you know.”

“That’s our bloody barrister for you,” Briggs said with bitter accusation from the adjoining cell. “Here we are in the bloody brig and he’s off playing bloody cards.”

“He may still learn something, though, you know,” Simpson said with a thoughtful frown. “I watched for a few moments and he seemed to hold the deck in the same fashion as that Carpenter chap. You know, fingers curled around the edge of the deck? And Pugh won the first three hands in a row.…”

“Oh, ah?” Carruthers smiled brightly. “You may be right. He may still learn something from the game.”

“Cheating, eh?” said Briggs with fine illogic, and sniffed disdainfully. “I’m not surprised. Just his cup of tea, plan or no plan! He’s just a twister at heart!”

Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of their meal trays, brought from some mysterious source around a bend in the corridor by James V. King. He set them on the floor until he could unlock the doors and deliver them to the tables in the small cells, but at no time did he allow his watchful eyes to waver for one instant from his prisoners. It made for a dangerous journey as far as the soup was concerned, but the salad, joint and trifle made it without trouble. Simpson, peering in as his friends sat down to their meal, seemed surprised at the fare. Carruthers saw the look on his face and properly interpreted it.

“No,” he said gently. “No vermin.”

“So I see. I say,” Simpson went on, turning to the suspicious warder who had retired to his stool and was keeping a sharp eye on the tall thin man to make sure he didn’t surreptitiously take a bottle of acid from his pocket and attack the bars, “I don’t suppose you could manage to arrange another tray—?”

To his complete amazement, King, James V. rose to his feet with alacrity and started off down the corridor, but his surprise turned to disappointment when he saw the action had not been occasioned by any desire to furnish Simpson with nourishment; it had been prompted by the approach of Sir Percival Pugh. The master-at-arms put the requisite distance between himself and the cells and then settled down on his heels, taking his usual broom straw from one of his many pockets and applying it to his teeth. The famous barrister came up, smiled first at Simpson who was the nearest and then treated the two imprisoned men to equal time as far as his smile was concerned.

Carruthers put down his knife and fork, but Briggs continued to sustain himself, keeping a watchful eye on their visitor as he did so. Sir Percival nodded to him pleasantly and seated himself on the small stool.

“Bon appétit.”

Briggs made no acknowledgement of this politeness, continuing to chew on his joint. Carruthers studied Sir Percival’s face.

“Any luck?”

Sir Percival nodded. “Quite a bit, actually. Sixty-four pounds, eight shillings, fourpence. Really not bad, considering the smallness of the stakes. Half of which sum,” he continued, turning to Simpson, “is, technically, I suppose, yours. Although, under the circumstances, I hardly think—”

“No, no!” Carruthers said impatiently. “I mean any luck in determining which of the men you played with might have killed the Carpenters? That was the idea of the game, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, it was,” Sir Percival admitted, “but I’m afraid that part was a bit of a washout.” He shook his head. “An amazingly complacent group. I did everything but reach across the table and help myself to their chips, and not a peep out of any of them.”

Simpson was properly astounded. “Not even that huge chap with the ugly mug?”

Carruthers looked from one to the other. “Who?”

“A chap,” Sir Percival explained, “named—believe it or not—Marmaduke Montmorency. As Clifford correctly states, large and unpretty. He offered his name to me more as a challenge, I do believe, than for any other purpose. He seemed to calm down considerably, however, when he heard mine. In fact, I believe I noted a touch of sympathy in his attitude from then on.”

“He looked the sort who would stuff a chap through a porthole just for the laughs,” Simpson said. “Do you mean he allowed you to cheat him openly and said nothing?”

“That is precisely what I mean. Oh, he frowned once or twice, but that could have been headache. Mr. Montmorency really isn’t a bad chap, you know. Large in the shoulders, but small in the brainpan, I’m afraid. I’m not even sure he knew he was being cheated. Wilkins, now—”

“Who?” Simpson frowned.

“The one who brayed whenever you said anything. His attitude with me was more chiding than anything else. He runs a small bookmaking establishment in the near East End and his outlook seemed to be that if he attempted my tactics with his customers, he’d be out of business in a week. Possibly,” Sir Percival added, “with a broken back.”

“What about the others?”

Sir Percival’s broad brow wrinkled in concentration.

“There was a certain Arthur Tompkins, the one on my left. The one with the bifocal glasses,” he added for the benefit of Simpson’s recollection. “A certified accountant, by profession. I recall we split one hand—equal flushes, not a particularly simple thing to arrange. At any rate, I elected myself to divide the money in the pot. I took two shillings for each one I slid across the table to him. And still not the slightest argument.”

“But why?” Carruthers demanded.

Sir Percival shrugged. “Possibly the man is weak in mathematics.…”

Simpson wasn’t through with his catechism. “And that chap on your right?”

“A certain James Wellington. What he does in private life I do not know; but if he does not conduct his affairs with more acumen than he exhibited during that poker game, he’ll never be a client of mine. He won’t be able to afford it.”

“But why?” Carruthers repeated, a touch of desperation in his voice. “Why? Why would any one of them, let alone all of them, let you get away with it? Without one of them saying a word?”

“I can think of several reasons,” Sir Percival said seriously, and then allowed his seriousness to dissolve into a soft smile, “none of which I am prepared at this moment to divulge.”

“Great!” It was Briggs, entering the conversation the way he entered a room, bursting in with disgust. He had finished his trifle, cleaned his plates with his tongue and reseated them and was now girded for battle, energy from the joint flowing through his veins. “So all that came out of that fancy plan was that you picked yourself up thirty-odd pounds. Because regardless of how you feel about it, half of that money belongs to Cliff!”

“If you insist,” Sir Percival said equably. “Actually, as you know, the cards were supposed to be recognizably marked, easing our task, and they were not. And my idea was to stake Clifford out as a sort of sacrificial goat, and again I was forced to take his place. However, I must admit the role seems to have ended up on the cutting-room floor, so I shall not argue the point.”

“And what are your plans now?” Carruthers asked anxiously. “We’re still in here and the murderer is still outside someplace. What’s your next scheme? Scheme number one seems to have failed dismally.”

“Scheme number two,” Sir Percival reminded him. There was a touch of rebuke in his voice. “My scheme number one entailed saddling any one of a number of people with the crime or crimes and later, once we are all back home in England, defend him and get him off. I still like it, you know,” he added gently.

“Defend him at our expense!” Briggs muttered.

His words were louder than he intended, or possibly he meant them to be heard. In any event, they were.

“Of course at your expense,” Sir Percival said, amazed. “The man would be innocent, and his arrest and trial would merely be for your convenience.” His tone indicated that anyone who thought he paid for defending innocent people out of his own pocket had to be crazy. He turned to Carruthers. “I don’t suppose you’ve changed your mind on that score?”

“I certainly have not!” Carruthers shook his white locks indignantly. “Accuse an innocent man? Never!” His air of indignation faded; he peered through the bars at the famous barrister. “So what will you do now?”

There were several moments of silence while Sir Percival pondered. Then he shrugged delicately.

“We land tomorrow at Gibraltar,” he said slowly. “The—”

“Gibraltar? So soon? I hadn’t noticed!” Simpson beamed. “I recall, back in ’15—” His voice trailed away apologetically in view of the look Sir Percival was bending upon him.

“As I was saying, we’ll be there twenty-four hours. In that time our murderer can calmly visit the rock together with any other camera-laden peripatetic passenger and simply fail to return aboard. All of Spain is at his disposal, as well as the rest of Europe beyond. Not to mention Africa in the foreground …”

“From whence he can reach Asia Minor, and from there China, Japan or New Guinea,” Briggs muttered sarcastically.

“Exactly,” Sir Percival said agreeably and came to his feet.

“But why should the man?” Simpson asked, perplexed. “His failure to return to the ship will automatically cast suspicion on him, even if it doesn’t brand him as the killer outright?”

“Of course we’d be freed if the foolish bloke breaks for it,” Briggs said thoughtfully.

Carruthers snorted. “On what basis? Do you expect him to leave a note behind confessing all? All it would mean is that the murderer would be gone and we’d be even deeper in the soup.” He turned back to Sir Percival. “You wouldn’t be above paying someone not to get back on the ship, would you?”

Sir Percival smiled. “I wouldn’t be above it—if someone else paid for it—but in this case, as you so intelligently point out, it would scarcely aid our case. No, if the murderer takes to his heels—as I expect he may well try to, unless stopped, he will do so without my connivance.”

“But, to return to my first point, why would he run?” Carruthers demanded. “Nobody knows who he is, or even suspects him!”

“Ah!” said Sir Percival with an enigmatic smile and prepared to take his leave. He paused significantly a moment. “But suppose someone does suspect him? What then? Suppose someone does know him? Eh?”

He tapped the side of his patrician nose with a thin patrician finger, winked through the bars at the portly prisoner for good measure and ambled slowly down the corridor, pausing only long enough to exchange a word with James V. King. He turned for a final wave of encouragement and then was gone.

“Boobly squinch, that’s what he knows!” Briggs said sourly.

Both Carruthers and Simpson were forced to suspect that Briggs was probably right. Sir Percival had put on a good show for their benefit, but it had been meant, they were sure, to raise their spirits and that was all. The plain truth was, in all likelihood, that in reality it all amounted to boobly squinch.

To Sir Percival, who had endured the hard gaze and harsher words of the toughest judges on the bench, the disapproving glare from his old friend Captain Manley-Norville glanced off with about as much effect as a raindrop on granite. The two men were seated comfortably in the Captain’s suite adjoining the bridge; sunlight streamed through the windows which served the luxurious quarters in place of portholes, and the normally rolling waters off the mouth of the Tagus were as smooth as glass.

Sir Percival sipped a private brand of brandy far superior, he was sure, to that served in the bar, and looked at his companion with faint disapprobation. Attack, he knew from long experience, was by far the best defense, and now that the social amenities had been observed in the traditional offering of alcoholic beverage, he knew the Captain was about to launch into a diatribe. Sir Percival meant to beat him to the punch.

“Really, Charles,” he said, his voice fraught with reproach, “I do consider your conduct a bit reprehensible. You shouldn’t have done it. You really shouldn’t.”

There was a moment’s silence while the Captain choked on his drink. When at last he caught his breath he came close to exploding.

“You consider my conduct reprehensible? You consider my conduct reprehensible? You consider—” For a moment Captain Manley-Norville found himself at a loss for words, a rare occurrence. He set his glass aside and leaned forward, his square jaw thrust ahead like the prow of the S.S. Sunderland. “Now, you listen to me, Percy, my lad! Five minutes after that ridiculous bridge game between those two reprobates and the Carpenters—for whom I’m holding no wake—I was having words with the library steward. Burmese solitaire! The only reason I didn’t have every deck of cards on board this ship commandeered and thrown overboard is that only those three were involved, and the other passengers were unaware of the markings. And I gave word to the steward that if either the Carpenters or any of those three ever got into a card game again, he was to hand them one of my personal decks I keep in case I have guests in for cards in my quarters.” The Captain shook his head in disgust. “Burmese solitaire! Indeed!”

“A fine game,” Sir Percival said, and sighed. “Unfortunately, it appears that too many people on board know the rules.”

“A fine game! You would think so,” said Captain Manley-Norville unkindly, and snorted. “And then, when Mr. Last-of-the-Mohicans Simpson comes walking into the card room, by whom is he accompanied? By none other than Sir Percival Pugh, no mean card player himself, and advocate for Mr. Simpson’s imprisoned friends!”

“You do have your sources,” Sir Percival murmured admiringly. “How did you ever hear of it so quickly?”

Captain Manley-Norville looked grim.

“You seem to forget that I am master of this ship,” he said in a hard tone of voice. “And the library steward is under my command. He serves passengers, but he obeys me!”

“But even so, I fail to see—”

“Allow me to finish! When, as I said, Mr. Simpson comes walking in, he walks in with Sir Percival Pugh, who has the nerve to sit across from me at this moment, completely forgetting the many times I’ve sat in his drawing room of an evening and watched him entertain a roomful of guests with card tricks!”

Sir Percival felt it was time to get his oar in. He had purposely allowed the Captain to blow off steam, well aware that the other would be the weaker for it. He made his voice professionally cold.

“Still, Charles,” he said, “in view of our years of friendship, I still consider your conduct reprehensible. When did you arrange it? When I went to wash my hands? Or am I correct in assuming your library steward arranged it at that time? And, more important, why did you do it?”

“Do what?” Captain Charles Everton Manley-Norville attempted to maintain his belligerent tone, but it was a failure. As Sir Percival had calculated, his previous explosion had taken a lot of wind from his sails, and besides, the chilly eye he was facing had made many a hardened prosecuting barrister quail in the past.

“You know very well what I mean!” Sir Percival’s voice was scathing. “You—or your sycophant steward—told those players in that poker game some story that permitted them to lose to me without a murmur, even though I was obviously cheating them left and right. What was it you told them?” He dropped his voice calculatingly; it sounded all the more deadly for being merely conversational in tone. “Eh? What was it you told them? That I was gathering material for a book? That I was practicing for a stage turn at card tricks?”

“I—”

“Or did you say I was doing a thesis on toleration to cheating and merely wished their reactions?”

“I—”

“Or did you simply tell them I was scatty? A kleptomaniac at the card table, so to speak? And that their losses would be returned to them by my keeper after the game if they would only humor me? That one is my choice.”

Captain Manley-Norville felt he had to defend himself.

“Percy, the fact is that there has been too much cheating on this ship as it is. The fact is that you were cheating passengers, as well; and it’s my duty to protect them. As I said before, you seem to forget that I am master of this ship. And you also seem to forget that the master of a ship has certain responsibilities!”

Sir Percival shook his head in pity at the weakness of the argument.

“And you seem to forget, Charles, that there is a murderer loose on your ship! And the only one you are protecting with your interference in my affairs is him!” He leaned forward. “Do you honestly believe that I was cheating those men for the thruppeny-ha’penny winnings involved?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Well, no, but what? The fact is you didn’t think at all, and that’s the fact! Somebody killed Mrs. Carpenter, and you seem to have completely forgotten it, and that’s the fact!”

“Briggs was right there in the room,” Captain Manley-Norville said darkly. He seemed to imply that if Briggs was guilty, then his—the Captain’s—actions regarding the poker game would somehow be defensible.

“Don’t try to make up for your past errors by multiplying them,” Sir Percival advised coldly. “Among the many other points I could prove—to free Briggs if I wished to—is that you know as well as I do that had Mrs. Carpenter ever faced Briggs with him holding a knife, the chances are she would have made him eat it. He didn’t come up to her shoulders, and she probably outweighed him a good four stone.”

“Unless he crept up on her and stabbed her in the back.”

“How do you creep up on somebody in a bathroom roughly three feet square?” Sir Percival asked curiously. “Not to mention that Mrs. Carpenter was stabbed from the front. Besides, Briggs hasn’t the temperament for a stabbing.” He thought awhile, remembering the Murder League, and changed his tone a bit. “Anyway, not a woman. And certainly not for free.” He shook his head a bit forlornly. “I was attempting to discover, in that poker game, who the Carpenters had cheated to the extent of engendering resentment to the extent of murder. I had hoped that one or more of the players would demonstrate equal resentment in my case, and—to coin a cliché—unmask himself.” His eyes came up, cold again. “You put an end to that quickly enough.”

“I’m sorry, Percy,” said the Captain contritely.

“You should be. I will admit,” Sir Percival said, thinking back, “that for a few minutes there, when my cheating didn’t bring out the faintest snarl or the slightest resentment, I considered seriously the possibility that the four of them might have worked as a team to handle the Carpenters. I thought they might even have utilized the services of their wives and/or girl friends. Looking at that group playing canasta in the other corner and listening to them, I could conceive of no crime they might not be capable of committing. And, of course, all of them had been victimized at one time or another by the Carpenters at the bridge table. But then I thought that four murderers—or eight, adding wives and/or girl friends—was a bit much, so I looked elsewhere for an explanation of their complaisance at being cheated. And, of course, lit upon you first out of the box.”

“I can only repeat that I’m sorry.”

“Water over the dam,” said Sir Percival philosophically and changed the subject. “What’s on the docket in the form of entertainment tonight? The ship’s newspaper hasn’t been too informative, lately.”

“The master-at-arms is also our reporter. He’s been busy, you know.”

“If picking your teeth with a broom straw constitutes business, he’s been busy,” Sir Percival admitted. “You haven’t answered my question. How do the peasants frolic this eve?”

“Captain’s party, as a matter of fact.” Captain Manley-Norville unconsciously preened a bit as he said it. “Formal, you know.”

“Well, I wouldn’t worry about that. Easy enough to cancel. And what time do we dock tomorrow?”

“Elevenish in the morning. But about the party tonight—”

“One of those things. One can’t have everything. The party, I’m afraid, is out.”

“But, why?” Captain Manley-Norville almost wailed.

“Because, Charles, pet, tomorrow, as you say, we dock at eleven. And our murderer may well decide not to take a chance by returning to the ship. While he may feel safe at the moment—or may not—he knows, as well as I do, that little Timmy Briggs is as pure as the driven snow, at least as far as killing Mrs. Carpenter is concerned. And eventually, of course, this fact is bound to come to light, despite the distractions placed in the paths of justice by ship’s masters. At that time, of course, suspicious glances are going to be cast in other directions. One of them might well be his. Our next stop after Gibraltar is Funchal, I believe, on an island from which it is relatively difficult for a fugitive to escape. If I were an enterprising murderer not wishing to take chances, I do think I would leave the ship at Gibraltar tomorrow and not return.”

“But what’s that got to do with my party tonight?”

“Tonight, Charles, we shall turn our efforts to more vital purposes.” He came to his feet, smiling faintly. “In any event, Captains’ parties are old hat. Tonight we shall give the passengers of the S.S. Sunderland entertainment in a more unusual form.”

Despite the loss of his party, Captain Manley-Norville found himself intrigued.

“In what form?” he asked.

“In the form of a Coroner’s Inquest,” Sir Percival said quietly, and moved toward the door.