The Pleasure Cruise Mystery (12 page)

“I can quite understand that,” agreed Vereker, and added casually: “It wasn't long after you bade her good night.”

“I left Beryl's cabin about one o'clock, and Dick, my husband, who had some business matter to discuss with her, followed later,” replied Mrs. Colvin innocently.

“She wasn't ill at that time?” asked Vereker.

“As well as you or I.”

“I can't understand her going out on deck at that time of night. It was miserably cold and foggy,” said Vereker reflectively.

Mrs. Colvin was evidently disturbed by this remark. An uneasy look passed swiftly across her features. She hesitated a moment and then replied quickly:

“Doubtless she went up on deck for a breath of air. One of the symptoms of her trouble was a sense of suffocation. I believe it occurs in most heart cases.”

“Of course,” continued Vereker, “the shock she got in her accident didn't do her any good. Aftereffects so to speak.”

“What accident?” asked Mrs. Colvin with a surprised air.

“I was inferring that she had met with some mishap to injure her hands so badly,” said Vereker.

“Oh, yes, she had a motor smash on the road from London to Tilbury. It was a wonder she wasn't killed then. She was lucky to escape with minor injuries to her hands. Glass windscreens are awful things in an accident.”

“Where did it happen, Mrs. Colvin?” asked Vereker casually.

“Oh—er—let me see. What's the name of the place?” said Mrs. Colvin, and puckered her brow in an effort to remember.

“I don't know the road very well,” said Vereker, awaiting her answer with suppressed eagerness.

“Stifford—Stifford—that's the name,” concluded Mrs. Colvin with an air of relief.

“Can't say I've heard of the place. She was motoring down to join the ship, I suppose.”

“Yes. Skidded on a wet road and ran into a lamp standard. She had to leave her car in a local garage and hire for the remainder of the journey.”

“That accident was the cause of all the trouble, I should say,” remarked Vereker.

“It brought it to a head, anyway,” agreed Mrs. Colvin, “but we were led to expect her death at any moment.”

“Had she her maid with her at the time of the smash?” asked Vereker.

“Oh, yes. Gautier escaped without a scratch.”

“She was lucky. No further news of Mrs. Mesado's missing necklace?”

“No. I'm afraid it's gone for good—probably stolen.”

“It's the one with alternate cinnamon and white diamonds that's missing, isn't it?” asked Vereker, and turned to observe the effect of his words. He noted the air of perplexity that at once settled on Mrs. Colvin's face.

“Er—how d'you mean?” she asked hesitatingly, and her reply informed Vereker that he was dealing with a woman of charm rather than astuteness.

“I was under the impression that it was her other one, of pure white diamonds with an emerald clasp in the shape of a butterfly,” said Vereker carelessly. Producing his cigarette case he opened it and offered it to Mrs. Colvin. A delicate scarlet flush had mounted to her cheeks, and her brow was knit in a frown of displeasure or distress.

“Oh, we have that one all right,” she replied with false assurance.

“Fortunate that the thief didn't collar them both while he was about it,” said Vereker.

“Well, you see, Beryl had locked that one safely away in her jewel-case. She had doubtless left the other lying on her cabin dressing table. She was terribly careless with her jewellery. She never seemed to realise the value of things,” continued Mrs. Colvin with glib improvisation.

“One of the prerogatives of being rich,” said Vereker and, feeling that he had gathered sufficient information for the moment from his interview, excused himself by saying that he had forgotten to bring the book he was reading with him and departed. He ascended leisurely to the upper promenade deck and was about to indulge in his usual morning exercise when he noticed Doctor Macpherson leaning over the taffrail, smoking his pipe and lost in a brown study. Vereker joined him and, after some adroit fencing on the part of the doctor, dragged the conversation round to the subject of Mrs. Mesado's death.

“D'you know, doctor, there's something about the whole affair that puzzles me,” remarked Vereker.

“How d'you mean?” asked the doctor, turning a suddenly interested gaze on the speaker.

“There was a heated discussion and a scuffle in Mrs. Mesado's cabin only a quarter on an hour before Ricardo found her body on the deck.”

“Is that so?” remarked the doctor distantly. The conversation had evidently entered forbidden territory as far as he was concerned.

“You see, I'm in the next cabin, and I heard the row,” continued Vereker obstinately and not in the least disconcerted.

“H'm!” grunted the doctor, “even if there was, we can't interfere in the private quarrels of our passengers as long as they keep within certain bounds.

“I suppose not; but don't you think it had some connection with the lady's death?”

“Indirectly. Might have brought on the seizure.”

“I'm referring to a more direct connection—say murder.”

“Nonsense! You're being romantic, Mr. Vereker. There's not the slightest evidence to suggest such a thing.”

“Did you notice that her hands were all cut and bruised, doctor?”

“Her sister said that she had met with those injuries in a car accident.”

“There's something rather unsatisfactory about that explanation. Why didn't she get her hands bandaged as soon as possible after the accident?”

“I really can't say. It also struck me as unusual.”

“Besides, I saw, or thought I saw, one of her hands the previous day, and there was no sign of injury on it.”

“You probably made a mistake. We've got to accept her relatives' story as true as far as I can see.”

“There's a further complication,” continued Vereker.

“Oh, and what's that?” asked the doctor, his interest increasing.

“Of course this is strictly confidential. The dead lady had a very valuable diamond necklace, and it's missing.”

“Good Lord!” exclaimed the doctor impatiently, “the skipper won't like to hear that news. This damned cruise seems to be bewitched.”

“Being romantic, I coupled Mrs. Mesado's death with the loss of her necklace. Of course I may be utterly wrong. It may only be fancy,” observed Vereker quietly.

“I don't think there's anything in it, Mr. Vereker. Sheer coincidence in my opinion.”

“Possibly. I suppose rigor mortis has set in, doctor?”

“Oh, yes, I took particular notice of that when the body was being removed to the sick bay this morning.”

“Then the flaccidity of the body when we came upon it wasn't secondary?”

“How could it possibly have been?” asked the doctor with a note of impatience. “Do you know what secondary flaccidity is?”

“Yes, the relaxed state of the muscles which sets in after the stiffness called rigor mortis has passed away.”

“That's so, and in the light of your knowledge I can't see what you're driving at.”

“Only theorising, doctor. I'm afraid it's a bad habit of mine. Your information about rigor mortis has temporarily upset one of my little fancies.”

“I believe you're a keen amateur detective, Mr. Vereker?”

“I have that reputation, with an emphasis on the amateur.”

“Then that accounts for your fancies. You can take it from me that there's nothing shady about this affair.”

“You're trying to destroy one of my beliefs now, doctor, and I'm as obstinate as an ass,” said Vereker with a disarming laugh.

“Tell me the reasons for your belief, Mr. Vereker. I'm interested in more ways than one. We've got to be jolly careful on board ship, as you know.”

“Yes, I know, but you'll have to hear my story another time, say over a peg of whisky in my cabin. I suppose they'll bury the lady at sea?”

“Well, we can't keep the body for the duration of the cruise. You know the usual rule at sea?”

“Yes, but I thought the Colvins would cut their trip and take the body ashore at Lisbon. We put in at Lisbon tomorrow.”

“That would suit the skipper, but the Colvins seem to be anxious for a burial at sea.”

“You ought to persuade them to put ashore. There may be an unpleasant resurrection of the whole affair when I get back to England. I may leave the ‘Mars' at Lisbon and return with one of the Blue Star homeward bound liners.”

“Ah,” said the doctor uneasily, “you're going to pursue the matter further.”

“I shall see my friend Chief Inspector Heather of Scotland Yard immediately I get back, and we'll ferret out the whole business together if it's humanly possible. This mystery wasn't born on the ‘Mars'.”

For some minutes Doctor Macpherson was silent, and then said, “I'll see the skipper this evening. He may alter his plans, but for heaven's sake say nothing about this affair to anyone.”

“D'you think he'd mind if I persuaded the Colvins to put ashore with the body at Lisbon? It would save him a lot of trouble.”

“He'd be jolly glad.”

“Then tell him definitely that they're going to do so and leave the rest to me. I'll be discretion itself.”

“Very good. We'll leave it at that,” replied the doctor. “You've roused my curiosity, Mr. Vereker, so much that I won't be satisfied until you let me into your secret theory.”

“If I don't let you into it before I leave the ship tomorrow, doctor, I'll come aboard when you return from this trip and tell you my yarn. It'll cost you a dinner.”

“I'll put the dinner on the company, but I'll foot the wine bill. Is it a bet?”

“Certainly, and in the meantime may I come and ask you seemingly irrelevant questions?”

“Do by all means. You know my cabin. Pop round any time after lunch or dinner. I'll be in.”

II

At quarter-past eleven Vereker put in an appearance at the races held under the rules of “The Mars Turf Club”. The course, marked out in chalk on the main promenade deck, was thronged with eager racegoers who, having backed their fancy with the totalisator, were excitedly watching the throwing of the dice that sent the six horses of the field forward at varying paces. Procuring a race-card from one of the stewards, Vereker learned that the first race on the flat was for the Mars Cup. Glancing down the list of horses and owners he found that the third horse, “Serial Rights,” was owned by Mr. Manuel Ricardo. The owner's stakes were three pounds. The betting booth was doing a lively business in shilling tickets. As he wandered in the bright sunshine round the thronged deck with its happy faces, excited chatter and gay laughter, Vereker remembered that in a cabin above lay the body of a woman whom he felt certain had met her death by foul means, possibly for the very material gain which in a minor degree lent zest to the human play going on around him. His thoughts reverted to the book by Professor Dorsey that he had been reading. “Human hogs,” said that writer, “are made not born. Greed is not part of our inheritance, not to the stuff we are made of has it biologic value.” He was pondering on this statement. It appeared too sweeping an assertion. “Hunger,” said the same writer, “is back of life, the primordial drive in life. Hunger has led to crime, suicide, cannibalism…” There seemed to Vereker some contradiction here, for greed was simply intensified hunger. Certainly hunger either for money or woman was the main incentive to murder. And a lively social instinct, the fear of and desire to avoid the censure of one's fellow beings, paradoxically another powerful motive. Hunger, an impulse for satisfaction, certainly was part of “our inheritance”. He was musing on the subject, for the psychology of crime and the criminal interested him deeply, when he ran across Manuel Ricardo in company with Miss Renée Gautier. Ricky had evidently managed to make the acquaintance of that lady and was in animated conversation with her regarding the chance of his horse, “Serial Rights”. He was laughingly persuading her to “put her camisole on it”. Vereker strolled up to them leisurely and was informally introduced. He seized the opportunity during the ensuing conversation to have a good look at Mrs. Mesado's maid. She was undoubtedly a very fascinating specimen of young womanhood. Her figure was what is called svelte, one of those French terms that seem to express so much more than any equivalent English epithet. Vereker for some unknown reason disliked the word, but it instinctively rose to his mind. Her hair was dark, her eyebrows had been trimmed into a perfection of curve that lost the charming irregularity of nature and detracted from individuality. Her lips, well shaped but inclined to severity, had been loosened by art into curved bows. As she turned to greet Vereker she looked at him with disconcerting directness with a pair of very pale grey-blue eyes. There was a peculiar penetration and hardness in their glance which stole something from the attractiveness of the face, from the general feminine appeal of her whole person.

“Miss Gautier has plunged heavily on my gee, Algernon,” said Ricky jovially. “Knowing that he's out of ‘Royalties' by ‘Best Seller,' I think she has invested her money well.”

“I didn't know you owned a stable, Ricky,” said Vereker banteringly.

“Your education has been sadly neglected, Algernon. We train on the high seas. You might say our nags are sea-horses. The only thing that worries me is that I stand to lose three quid on my own account, and several bob on Miss Gautier's.”

“You're usually lucky, Ricky,” commented Vereker.

“Great Scot, it looks like it! They've just put ‘Serial Rights' two spaces—I might say instalments—backwards! I wish you'd go away, Algernon. You remind me of my car mascot. It was a skeleton, by the way, and the first day I fixed him up on my M.G. I ran into a fruit barrow and lost heavily on a pile of squashed grapes. I had several bones broken and the coster who picked me up remarked sympathetically to a pal, ‘Blimey, if 'e ain't like a bag of walnuts, Alf!' You're a spectre on the course. Avaunt and have a Vichy water at my expense at the bar.”