When they knocked at the door of Captain Whistler's cabin just abaft the bridge, it was opened by a melancholy steward who was making up the berth and clearing away breakfast dishes in a large, comfortable, rosewood-panelled cabin with curtains of rather startling pattern at the portholes.
"Commander ayn't 'ere, sir," the steward informed them, squinting at Warren in a rather sinister fashion. " 'E's gorn to see Lord Sturton, 'e said you wos to wait, if you please."
Warren tried to be nonchalant, but he showed his apprehension.
"Ah," he said, "Ah! Thanks, steward. How is the old mackerel feeling this morning? That is — er—"
"Ho!" said the steward significantly, and punched at a pillow as he arranged it.
"I see," said Warren. "Well, we'll — er — sit down."
The steward pottered about the cabin, which gave evidence that the captain had fired things about in some haste, and finally doddered out with the breakfast tray. The nasty look he gave them over his shoulder confirmed their hypothesis that the beauties of nature did not induce in Captain Whistler any mood to stand on the bridge and sing sea-shanties.
"I guess he's still peeved," was Warren's opinion. "And this is kind of a delicate matter, Hank. You do all the talking now. I don't think I care to risk it."
"You bet your sweet life I'll do all the talking," agreed Morgan. "I wouldn't answer for any of us if the skipper walked in here and saw you with this razor in your hands. Especially as he's just gone to see Sturton, he is not likely to be in a playful frame of mind. Understand — you are to keep absolutely silent throughout the whole interview.
Not a word, not a movement unless you're asked to confirm something. I refuse to take any more chances. But I don't know—" He sat down in a leather chair, ruffled his hair, and stared out of one porthole at the pale sky. The sunlit cabin, swaying with drowsy gentleness in a murmurous swish of water conveyed no sense of peace. "I don't know," he went on, "that I feel altogether right about it myself. For the moment let Woodcock keep his information and blast him. What has happened to that emerald? That's the question."
"But after all, Hank, it isn't any business of ours," Peggy pointed out, with a woman's practical instinct. She took off her shell-rimmed glasses with a pleased air of having solved the thing, and shut them into her handbag with a decisive snap. "I shouldn't bother, old boy. What's the odds?"
"What's the odds?"
"Yes, of course I'm jolly sorry for Lord Sturton, and all that; but, after all, he's got pots of money hasn't he? And all he'd do would be to lock the emerald up in some nasty old safe, and what's the good of that?… Whereas this film of Curt's is really important, poor boy. I know what I'd do if I were a man," she declared scornfully. "I'd take that nasty little Woodcock chap and torture him until he told. Or I'd lock him up somewhere, the way they did to that baron what's-his-name, in The Count of Monte Cristo, and not let him have anything to eat and hold soup under his nose and laugh ha-ha until he was willing to tell me. You men Bah! You make me tired."
She made a gesture of impatience.
"Young lady," said Morgan, "both your ruthlessness and your logic are scandalous. I have sometimes observed a similar phenomenon in my own wife. Aside from the practical impossibility of holding soup under the bug-powder king's nose and laughing ha-ha, there's the sporting element to consider. Don't say bah. The fact remains that we have pinched old Sturton's emerald and the responsibility — What the devil's that noise?"
He jumped a little. For some moments he had been conscious of a low, steady, hissing noise somewhere about him. In his present frame of mind, it sounded exactly like the sinister hissing which Dr. Watson had heard at midnight in the dark bedroom during the Adventure of the Speckled Band. It was, in fact, the Mermaid Automatic Bug-Powder Gun.
"Curt," said Peggy, whirling suspiciously, "what are you up to now?"
"Handy little gadget at that," declared Warren, in some admiration. His eyes were shining, and he bent absorbedly over the elaborate silver and enamel tube. It was a streamlined cylinder full of scrolls and flutings, with a complicated array of black buttons. From the nozzle a thin wide spray, as advertised, was flying out across the captain's papers on the centre table. Warren moved it about. "All the buttons are marked, you see. Here's "Spray" — that's what I've got on now. Then there's "Half Power" and "Full Power."…
Peggy put a hand over her mouth and began to gurgle. This unseemly mirth annoyed Morgan still more. Besides, the spray was peculiarly pungent.
"Turn the damn thing off!" he howled, as a thin spray began to glitter all about them. "No, don't turn it at the wardrobe, you fathead. Now you've got the captain's spare uniform. Turn it—"
"All right, all right," said Warren, rather testily. "You needn't get griped about it. I was only trying the thing out… All I've got to do, you see, is press this dingus and — What's the matter with the fool thing? Hey!"
The pressing of the dingus, it is true, did away with the spray. It substituted what to the skilful engineers who designed it was presumably "Half Power." A thin but violent stream of liquid bug-powder ascended past Warren's shoulder as he tried to look at the nozzle and somewhat frantically twisted buttons. All he succeeded in doing was turning on the electric light.
"Give me the swine," said Morgan. "I'll fix it. Do something, can't you? It's raining bug-powder; the place is becoming impregnated with bug-powder! Don't turn it on yourself, you blithering idiot. Turn it… O my God, no! Not in the captain's berth. Take it out of the captain's berth… No, you can't shut it off with a pillow. Not under the bedclothes, dummy! You're—"
"Well, it's better than having it soak up the room, isn't it?" inquired Warren's hoarse voice, out of a luminous mist of bug-powder. "All right. Don't get apoplexy. I'll shut it off. I'll—" He avoided Morgan's arm, a fiendish expression on his face, and rushed to the middle of the cabin. "No, you don't. I turned this thing on and, so help me, I'll turn it off!" He gestured with the Mermaid, which was hissing like an enthusiastic cobra. "And this is the lousy thing my uncle is asked to endorse, is it? It's a cheat! It's no damn good! I'll find Woodcock and tell him so! I've turned every lousy knob… "
"Don't stand there orating!" shouted Morgan, whom the clammy mist had begun to envelop. "Do something. Fire it out the port-hole… "
"I know what I'll do!" said Warren, with fiendish inspiration. "I know what it is. I'll try " Full Power." That's probably the only thing that'll shut the swine off. That's it! If Woodcock had told the truth about it—"
Woodcock had told the truth about it, and could have exhibited a pardonable pride in its response. From the nozzle a fine stream of liquid insect exterminator shot with the force and violence of a fire-hose. Nor could Mr. Woodcock have in the least complained of its accuracy. In fact, it sizzled across the cabin full and true into the face of Commander Sir Hector Whistler just as he opened the door.
Morgan shut his eyes. In that moment of blasting and appalled silence he did not wish to look upon Captain Whistler's countenance. He would sooner have tried to outstare Medusa. Moreover, he wished he could summon his muscles to dive out of the room and run. But he could hear the Mermaid still hissing on the door-post beside the captain's head; and he risked one eye to look, not at Whistler, but at Warren.
Warren found his voice.
"I couldn't help it, Skipper!" he yelled. "I swear by all that's holy I couldn't help it. I tried everything. I pressed every button, but it wouldn't stop. Look! See, I'll show you! Look…!"
There was a sharp click. Instantly the stream gurgled, fell, and died away from the Mermaid's nozzle. It stopped. The Mermaid was as innocuous as she had been before.
Morgan afterwards realised that only one thing saved them then. Peering over the captain's shoulder in the doorway he had seen the startled countenance of Captain Valvick. Only the strangled words, "So — it's— you!" issued from the quivering lungs of the Queen Victoria's commander before Valvick had shot a big hand over his mouth. With one hand over his mouth and the other impelling him by the sack of the trousers, he hustled the insane skipper into the cabin and kicked the door shut.
"Qvick!" rumbled Valvick. "You get somet'ing to gag him wit' till he cool down, or he call de chief mate and den maybe we iss all in de brig. Ay am hawful sorry, Barnacle, but ay got to do diss… " Frowning, he turned a glance of angry reproachfulness on Warren. "What you want to playing for, anyway, eh? Diss iss no time for playing, ay tell you. After ay take al de time to smoot' old Barnacle down and tell him what we are doing, den it iss no time for playing. Coroosh! What iss dat stuff ay smell in de air?"
"It's only bug-powder, Skipper," insisted Warren. "After all, it's only bug-powder!"
A spasm racked the stout frame of Captain Whistler; his good eye bulged, but his internal noises beat in vain against the Gibraltar of Valvick's hand across his mouth. Nevertheless, Valvick had to use two hands to keep him quiet.
"Honest, Barnacle, diss iss for your own good!" Valvick begged, dragging him over to the chair before his desk and pushing him in. He was answered by a variety of muffled sounds like a steam-calliope heard underground. "Odder-wise you are going to do somet'ing you regret. Dese yentle-men can explain; ay know it! If you promise to do not'ing, ay let you loose. Ay mean, you kin svear all you like if it reliefs your mind, but you are not to do not'ing. Odderwise we got to gag you, eh?… Ay tell you it iss for your own good!… Now! You iss a man of your word. What about it, eh?"
A noise of assent and an inclination of the head like the Dying Gladiator answered him. Valvick stepped back, removing his hand.
The ensuing half-hour is one of the things in Morgan's life that he likes to forget. To say that it was nerve-racking would be to employ a spiritless word, and one without those nuances which Mr. Leslie Perrigord declares are essential to the power of classic drama. There was much classic fire at one point in the captain's remarks — that at which he frequently clutched his throat, stabbed a shaking finger at Warren like Macbeth seeing the ghost, and kept repeating "He's mad, I tell you! He tried to poison me! He's a homicidal maniac! Do you want him to murder my passengers? Why don't you let me lock him up?"
If, eventually, more sober counsels prevailed, it was due to a circumstance which Morgan did not at the moment understand. Captain Whistler, he was compelled to admit, had certain reasonable grounds for protest. Aside from all questions of personal dignity (the Mermaid's aim had gone straight as Locksley's good clothyard shaft into the skipper's damaged left eye), there was reason for complaint in the general omnipresence of bug-powder. The cabin was haunted by bug-powder. It rose in ghostly waves from his dress uniform; it soaked his berth, pervaded his linen, clung round his shoes, made fragrant his log-book, and whispered sweet nothings from his correspondence. In short, you could safely have wagered that not for months would even the most reckless cockroach be daredevil enough to venture within smelling-distance of anything that was Captain Whistler's.
Therefore it considerably astonished Morgan that in the short space of half an hour he was prevailed on to accept their explanations. True, he placed the Mermaid Automatic Electric Mosquito Gun in the middle of the floor and jumped on it. True, he no whit retreated from his declaration that Curtis Warren was a dangerous lunatic who would shortly be cutting somebody's throat if not placed under observation. But (whether due to Peggy's blandishments or to another cause shortly to be indicated, you shall decide) he consented to give Warren just one more chance.
"Just one more chance," he proclaimed, leaning forward in the chair and bringing his hand down on his desk, "and that's all. If there's one more suspicious move out of not only him, but any of you— Any of you, do you understand? — then he goes to the brig under guard. That's my last word." Glaring he sat back and sipped the healing whisky-and-soda that had been brought him. "Now, if you don't mind, we'll get down to business. And first I'll tell you this. I promised to share any information I might get, Mr. Morgan, because I considered you at least a sane man. Well, I have some information, although I admit it puzzles me. But before I tell you, there's something I want to point out. The young maniac, and you three as well, have caused me more trouble than anybody I ever had aboard a craft of mine. I could murder all four of you! You've caused me more trouble than anybody except the man who stole that emerald; and, in a way, you're involved in that… "
("Steady," thought Morgan.)
"But that's more important. And, if you liked, you could, I say, you could, help me a little in return… Are you sure there's nobody listening at that door?"
His tone was so gruffly and uneasily conspiratorial that Valvick peered out the door and closed all the portholes. Peggy said, earnestly:
"I don't think, Captain, you have the least idea how glad we'd be to make it up to you. If there's anything we can do—"
Whistler hesitated. He took another sip of whisky.
"I've just seen his lordship," he went on, as though he hated to make a confession, but that Hector Whistler was a desperate man. "He's — haaa — up in the air, because the emerald wasn't insured. He had the cheek to say I was drunk or careless, the??!!!£!!!/???% Vz YaV^Mold?!!!£?<£%!—that's what he said! He said it would never have happened if I had left it with him… "
"You haven't found it, by any chance, have you?" asked Morgan.
"No! I have searched this ship with fifteen picked men from fo'c's'le-head to rudder, and I have not found it, young man. Now, then, be quiet and listen. I don't think he'll sue the line. But there's a question of law to be considered. That question is: Was I, or was I not, guilty of careless conduct? The emerald was technically in my possession, although I had not locked it in my safe. Show me the lubber," snarled Captain Whistler, glaring from one to the other of them, "who says I was guilty of careless conduct — contributory negligence — just show him to me, that's all. Let me so much as glimpse his sky-s'ls, and I'll make him regret the day his father first went courting. Am I guilty of careless conduct if four armed Dagoes take me from behind and give me the marlinspike with a bottle? Am I? No," was Captain Whistler's reply, delivered with a gesture like that of the late Marcus Tullius Cicero, "no, I am not. Well, then. If somebody would tell old Sturton that I was murderously set on without a chance to defend myself… Mind, I don't want you to tell him you saw me attacked. If there's any lying to be done, sink me! I can do it myself. But if you could tell him you are able to swear, from your own observation at the time, that you believed me to be the victim of a ruthless attack… well, the money don't count much with him, and I'm pretty certain he won't sue… How about it?" inquired the captain, suddenly lowering his voice to a startlingly more normal tone.
There was a chorus of assent.
"You'll do it?" Whistler demanded.
"I'll do more than that, Skipper," said Warren, eagerly. "I'll tell you the name of the son of a bachelor who's got that emerald right now."
"Eh?"
"Yes. I'll give it to you straight from the table. And the man who's got that emerald at this very minute," announced Warren, leaning over and pointing his finger in the captain's face, "is none other than the dastardly crook who's masquerading on this boat as Doctor Oliver Harrison Kyle."
Morgan's spirit, uttering a deep groan, rose from his body and flapped out the porthole on riddled wings. He thought: It's all up now. This is the end. The old mackerel will utter one whoop, go mad, and call for assistance. Morgan expected many strange, possibly intricate observations from the captain. He expected him to order a strait-waistcoat. He expected, in fact, every conceivable thing except what actually happened. For fully a minute Whistler stared, his handkerchief at his forehead.
"You, too?" he said. "You think so, too?" His voice awed. "Out of the mouths of babes and — and lunatics. But wait. I forgot to show you. That was why I wanted you here. I don't believe it. I can't believe it. But when even the maniacs can see it, I've got to hard my helm. Besides, it may not mean that. I don't believe it. I'm going insane myself. Here! Here! Read this!" He whirled to his desk and rummaged. "This was what I wanted you to see. It came this morning."
He held out a radiogram, delicately scented with Swat Number 2 Instantaneous Insect Exterminator, and handed it to Morgan.
Commander, S.S. Queen Victoria, at sea [it ran]. Federal agent reports unknown man picked up supposedly dying Chevy Chase outside Washington March 25. Thought victim auto accident concussion of brain. No identification no papers or marks in clothing. Patient rushed to Mercy Hospital in coma. Two weeks delirious until yesterday. Still incoherent but claims to be person aboard your ship. Federal agent thinks crook responsible Stelly and MacGee jobs. Federal agent thinks also physician is impostor on your ship. Well-known figure and must be no mistake made or trouble, and medical profession influential care all sides…
Morgan whistled. Warren uttered an exclamation of triumph as he read the message across the other's shoulder. "You've come to that, have you?" demanded Captain Whistler. "If that message is right, I don't know what to think. There's no other physician than Dr. Kyle aboard the ship — except the ship's doctor, and he's been with me seven years."
Will not be definite case trouble. Arrest nobody yet. Am sending man Inspector Patrick knows accused personally. Patrick sailed S.S. Etrusca arrive Southampton one day before you. Afford him facilities. Advise. Arnold, Commissioner N.Y.P.D.
"Ha-ha!" said Warren. He threw out his chest. He took the radiogram from Morgan and flourished it over his head. "Now say I'm crazy, Skipper! Go on, say it — if you can. By God! I knew I was right. I had him figured out… " "How?" demanded Captain Whistler. Warren stopped, his mouth slightly open. They all saw the open trap into which, with cheers and wide eyes, Warren had deliberately walked. To tell why he thought Dr. Kyle guilty was exactly the one thing he could not do. Morgan froze. He saw his companion's eyes assume a rather glassy look in the long silence…
"I'm waiting, young man," said Whistler, snappishly. "Sink me! I'd be eternally blasted if I'd let the police get all the credit for a capture on my ship, sink me! provided I could think of a way to trap that — Go on! Speak up! Why do you think he's guilty?"
"I tell you I've said it from the first. Ask Peggy and Hank and the captain if I haven't! I've sworn he was posing as Dr. Kyle, ever since he batted me over the head in my cabin…"
He stopped suddenly. Captain Whistler, who had started to take a healing pull at his whisky-and-soda, choked. He put down the glass.
"Dr. Kyle batted you over the head in your cabin?" he said, beginning to look curiously at the other. "When was this?"
"I mean, I was mistaken. That was an accident! Honest it was, Captain. I fell and hit my head—"
"Then I'll give you the benefit of the doubt, young man.
/ will not be trifled with any longer. You made an accusation, and it seems — I say it seems —to be right. Why did you accuse Dr. Kyle?" Warren ruffled his hair. He gritted his teeth feverishly.
"Well, Captain," he said,after a pause, "I knew it! He looked guilty. He — had a kind of guilty look about him when he was so pleasant at breakfast and said somebody'd been raped; that's why… You don't believe me, do you? Well, I'm going to show you, and I'm going to prove that he's got to be put under lock and key! So I'll tell you why I came up here to see you. There was a murder committed aboard this boat last night, you old sturgeon! Hank," said Warren, whirling around, "give me that razor."
It is a literal fact that Captain Whistler shot at least six inches into the air. Without doubt this was due partly to the extraordinary power in his sea-legs that uncoiled him from his chair like a spring; but behind this materialistic explanation there surged a stronger spiritual ecstasy. And he did not forget what to do. Even as he was descending, his hand flashed into the drawer of the desk and emerged levelling an automatic pistol.
"All right," he said. "Steady, me lads____"
"Captain, it's absolutely true," said Morgan, seizing his arm. "He's not mad and he's not joking. This criminal did commit a murder; I mean, the impostor on the boat. If you'll give me one minute, I'll prove it. Come on, Valvick. To hell with his gun. Let's hold him back in his chair and sit on him until we can jam the truth down his throat. By this time your second officer will have made the rounds of the boat, and he'll find a woman missing. That woman was murdered last night, and she's overboard now—" There was a knock at the door. Everybody froze; why, none of them knew, except that it may have been some latent idea they were all making outstanding asses of themselves. A silence fell while Whistler gibbered a command to come in.
"Beg leave to report, sir," said the crisp voice of the second officer. "And" — his eyes flashed over— "and to Mr. Morgan, as you ordered. Two of us have made a complete round of the ship. We have investigated every passenger and member of the crew. There was nobody hurt last night."
A vein was beginning to beat in Morgan's temple. He controlled his voice. "Right-ho, Mr. Baldwin. But we're not looking for a person who was merely hurt. We're looking for a woman who is murdered and missing… "
Baldwin stiffened. "Well, sir, you may be," he said in a tone of regret. "But you won't find her. I have checked over personally everybody on this ship, and there is nobody missing, either."
"Is that so, Mr. Baldwin?" inquired Whistler, almost genially. "Well, well."
Warren was escorted to the brig, under heavy guard, at exactly 11:45 Eastern daylight-saving time.