The Clock Ticks On E-Book

Valentine Williams

• Herausgeber: Librorium Editions
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

FIVE DAYs out from Southampton, the Megantic, nose to New York, forged her way carefully through placid seas. There was fog about, and from time to time the great ship’s siren sent its melancholy call booming through the June night. Dinner was an hour past: there was dancing in the big salon that evening and the men had the smoke-room to themselves. The air was clouded with the fumes of tobacco and vibrant with the desultory murmur of conversation.
A group of four men, clustered about a corner table, was silent. One of them, a pursy individual with a bald head, eyes screwed up against the cigar stub he held between his teeth, was reading a novel; a scientific magazine engrossed the attention of the second, who faced him across the table; the third was playing patience; while, as for the bespectacled youth who made up the fourth member of the circle, he smoked his pipe reflectively, gazing before him into space.

Leseprobe

THE CLOCK TICKS ON

Valentine Williams

1883-1946

1933

© 2022 Librorium Editions

ISBN : 9782383835431

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 1

FIVE DAYs out from Southampton, the Megantic, nose to New York, forged her way carefully through placid seas. There was fog about, and from time to time the great ship’s siren sent its melancholy call booming through the June night. Dinner was an hour past: there was dancing in the big salon that evening and the men had the smoke-room to themselves. The air was clouded with the fumes of tobacco and vibrant with the desultory murmur of conversation.

A group of four men, clustered about a corner table, was silent. One of them, a pursy individual with a bald head, eyes screwed up against the cigar stub he held between his teeth, was reading a novel; a scientific magazine engrossed the attention of the second, who faced him across the table; the third was playing patience; while, as for the bespectacled youth who made up the fourth member of the circle, he smoked his pipe reflectively, gazing before him into space.

With a bang that set the cards dancing, the bald-headed man shut his book and slammed it down on the table. ‘Tripe!’ he vociferated disgustedly.

The card-player glanced up from his patience. ‘Steady, Sir Alfred!’ he murmured banteringly.

The other snorted. ‘Sorry, Reardon. But, really, the muck they publish nowadays! Great Scott, I could write a better crime story myself!’ He gazed about him for an audience and, perceiving that the youth with the pipe was regarding him with mild interest, immediately fixed upon him. ‘A big employer of labour like me,’ he pronounced pompously, ‘has to be able to read men, see? I— er— flatter myself I can detect ability at a glance— er— deduction, yer know. I employ something over fourteen-hundred hands’— he seemed to swell a little— ‘and I study ’em individjerly, see what I mean? I get reg’lar reports on my work-people, and if I spot a man or woman with brains, I promote ’em. If you were to talk to any of my friends in Birmingham, where I come from, they’d allow that Alf Wellow’s a pre-etty fair judge of people, I reckon. I’ve been at it that long I jes’ can’t help studying ’em. In the train, now, or in the Rolls driving to the works of a morning, I like to look at the folks and try and place ’em...’ He wagged his shining pate in self-approbation. ‘A rare good detective I’d have made...’

As this was obviously a monologue calling for no conversational activity on his part, the youth held his peace.

‘Take you, young Dene,’ Sir Alfred proceeded. ‘I’ve met you for the first time aboard this boat and I know nothing about you. Let’s see what I make of you...’ With a quick movement the young man removed his pipe and gazed rather hard at the speaker through his glasses.

‘You’re studious-looking,’ Sir Alfred went on, ‘and you wear what’s obv’ously a college tie. Yet I’d say you were too old to be still at college. A medical student, that’s what you are. Am I right?’

Dene laughed easily and replaced his pipe between his teeth. ‘I’m reading for the Bar, as a matter of fact,’ said he.

Sir Alfred beamed. ‘You see? I wasn’t so fer out...’ Then, noticing that the man opposite had put aside his magazine and was listening, ‘I was just having a little experiment with our young friend here,’ he explained.

‘So I see,’ remarked the other. ‘I’d no idea you went in for that sort of thing, Sir Alfred...’ His tone was faintly sarcastic.

‘Oh, just in an amachoor way, Blain, just in an amachoor way,’ Sir Alfred conceded, a fatuous smile on his fat and glowing countenance.

‘Quite,’ said Blain bluntly, gazing round the smoke-room. He was a long-nosed man with a strident voice. ‘Let’s test you out. D’you see that fellow over there? The old boy in the grey suit— there, he’s just drinking a glass of water...’

Sir Alfred settled his pince-nez on his nose to examine the person indicated. ‘Ah,’ he commented. ‘A kindly, refined face. American, obv’ously. Quietly dressed: apparently neither drinks nor smokes...’ He took off his glasses. ‘Well, Blain, I’ll tell you. I’d judge him to be a social worker of some kind, perhaps a lay preacher...’

Blain cackled discordantly. ‘ “Social worker” is good. That’s Jack Finnegan, the con. man. He’s been working the boats for years. If you sit round here long enough, he’ll probably come over and offer to make your fortune!’

The patience player looked up from his game with a grin and even the stolid young man at Sir Alfred’s side relaxed into a smile. Sir Alfred cleared his throat. ‘That’s not a fair test...’

‘Right-o,’ Blain retorted. ‘Try me. I’ve told you nothing about myself. What do I do for a living?’

Sir Alfred was silent for a moment, drawing on his cigar and studying him. ‘Well,’ he said slowly, ‘you obv’ously belong to the professional classes. Yet I wouldn’t say that you were a doctor or a lawyer— you look to me more like a chap whose life is spent in the fresh air. And you read The Scientific American. I’d guess you were a civil or mining engineer...’

Blain shook his head. ‘Wrong. Anyone else like to have a shot?’

There were no takers. ‘I’m a vet.,’ he announced, with an undisguised air of triumph. ‘I spend my life travelling about the world gelding race-horses. Twice a year I go to the States. I’m on my way now to the Blue Grass country— Kentucky, you know.’ He laughed unpleasantly. ‘Spotting people’s occupations isn’t as easy as you think, Sir Alfred...’

With a peevish air the other sliced his cigar ash into the match-stand. ‘Perhaps you can do better yourself,’ he suggested, and glanced about him. ‘Take Captain Reardon here. What does he do for a livelihood? Or has he told you?’

The card-player shifted a king and smiled. He was an attractive-looking man in the forties, exceedingly well-groomed, with a gardenia in the lapel of his evening coat.

‘D’you mind, Reardon?’ Sir Alfred asked.

‘Go ahead,’ said the other.

‘All I know about Captain Reardon,’ Blain observed, ‘is that he left the Army after the war and is going to New York on business...’

‘What business?’ Sir Alfred demanded, with a malicious glance round the table.

‘Do you know?’ Blain enquired.

‘Certainly...’

The vet. hesitated. ‘Let’s see. I shouldn’t wonder if he didn’t represent one of the big English luxury houses, motor-cars, or pipes, or perfumes...’

‘Wrong!’ Sir Alfred proclaimed.

‘If it were polo ponies, I’d know him.’ Blain remarked. ‘He might be secretary of a club or something...’

‘Wrong!’ the reply came again.

Blain laughed and turned to the young man with the glasses. ‘Go on! You have a shot,’ he said.

Dene laughed and shook his head.

‘Come on, young Dene!’ cried Sir Alfred, clapping him on the knee. ‘If you guess right, I’ll stand a round of drinks. Reardon don’t mind, do you, Reardon?’

‘Go ahead,’ said the card-player as before.

Dene shrugged his shoulders. ‘Captain Reardon’s obviously artistic,’ he pronounced. ‘I should say he’s an interior decorator or a designer, something like that...’

Reardon laughed and turned to his neighbour. ‘I’m afraid the drinks are on you, sir...’

‘D’you mean to say he’s guessed right?’ Blain demanded.

‘Near enough,’ remarked Sir Alfred. ‘He’s in the antique business.’ He crooked his finger at a waiter.

Blain turned to Dene. ‘Well, I’m blessed. How did you know?’

The young man shrugged. ‘He’s got artistic hands...’

Blain glanced across the table. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I suppose he has. But how did you spot ’em?’

Dene took off his glasses and began to polish them on his handkerchief. ‘I dunno. I always look at people’s hands. You can learn a lot from hands...’

‘But where did you get the interior-decorator notion?’ Blain enquired.

‘I happened to see him studying the frescoes in the big saloon,’ Dene explained.

‘He might have been an artist, mightn’t he?’

The young man shook his head. ‘Too well-dressed. Besides, he mentioned that he was going to the States on business. Artists don’t talk like that...’

Voices raised in heated argument were now audible from the table at the back of the group.

‘He had a fair trial, didn’t he?’ cried one, an unmistakably English voice.

‘I’m not saying he didn’t,’ was the retort in a nasal American accent. ‘I’m only pointing out that the evidence was purely circumstantial...’

‘Circumstantial or not, they’ll hang him,’ the first speaker declared with considerable emphasis. ‘If you think you can transplant your damned gangster methods to England...’

Dene had turned his head in the direction of the altercation and was listening with his habitual non-committal air. A little stir brought his attention back to his own table. The men had risen to their feet. A pretty blonde American girl stood there. She wore a little jacket of white fur over her blue evening frock and clasped a backgammon board under one arm.

‘Please don’t get up, everybody,’ she begged rather breathlessly, and addressed Reardon. ‘Oh, Larry,’ she said, ‘Fay Montagu and Enid and George and the whole gang are down in Jack’s stateroom. Jack’s getting up a backgammon tournament and you’ve got to come along...’

Reardon swept the cards together. He moved round the table. ‘Count me out on the drinks, do you mind, sir?’ he told Sir Alfred. ‘I’m with you, honey,’ he said to the girl. With a faint blush on her pretty face, she was gazing ecstatically at the tall Englishman. Reardon smiled at her: He showed very white teeth when he smiled, and his eyes, smouldering blue under long, close lashes, twinkled. ‘Come on, Helen. We’ll clean those guys out,’ he exclaimed. Long-legged, leisurely, and debonair he took her arm and they went away together.

A little Jewish man, round as a ball, was leaning forward to speak to Dene. It was Harry Solomons, the New York buyer, who sat next to him at meals. ‘It was just like I told you, boy,’ he pronounced solemnly. ‘We shall be late docking tomorrow, the Chief Officer says...’

‘An infernal noosance,’ grumbled Sir Alfred, who had overheard the remark. ‘I’m expected in Chicago Sunday morning. The convention opens Monday and I’ve got to see that the newspapers get advance copies of my speech... How late are we going to be, do you know?’ he asked the buyer.

‘It depends on the fog lifting,’ Solomons replied. The wail of the ship’s siren cut across his words.

Out of the shattering echoes of the foghorn’s warning, the disputing voices, heard before, emerged. A burly Briton with a flat provincial accent and a loud, hectoring manner was engaged in heated controversy with a plump, middle-aged American and his friend, likewise American, a short, aggressive individual. It was one of those bar-room discussions, interminable, digressive, in which no one is allowed to finish a sentence, everybody talks at once, and a faint aroma of whiskey hangs over all.

‘I’ll tell you why he won’t speak,’ vociferated the Englishman. ‘It’s because the police proved their case up to the hilt and he can’t say anything without giving himself away...’

‘Without giving the higher-ups away, you mean,’ the short man put in. ‘I’m not saying a word against your Scotland Yard boys, but they can’t be expected to know the ways of these gunmen. Take the Becker case, fr’instance...’

‘The way it looks to me and one or two Americans I’ve talked with,’ his plump friend interjected, ‘this bird Cloan or Atbury, or whatever he calls himself, is...’

‘You’re darned right, Gus, darned right,’ the other American struck in. ‘What I mean to say is...’

‘You can argue till you’re blue in the face,’ cried the Briton irascibly, ‘and you’ll never get away from the fact that Cloan killed the butler. You know damned well that Scotland Yard did a thundering smart piece of work: the trouble is you won’t admit it...’

‘Wait a minute, wait a minute...’ objected the short man.

‘When they bumped off Rosenthal...’ his friend began.

But the Englishman’s stentorian voice overtoned them. ‘What did the police have to go on? Nothing,’ he proclaimed. ‘No finger-prints and the safe unscratched. Yet in a week they’d nailed their man. Why, in America he’d never have been arrested, let alone brought to trial and convicted...’

‘Just let me ask you one thing...’ the plump American was interposing when his friend stopped him.

‘Hold it, Gus, while he tells me this...’ He bent forward impressively towards the Englishman. ‘Did the police bring any evidence to show how he opened the safe? Will you answer me that?’

‘You said yourself the case against Cloan was purely circumstantial,’ the Englishman countered irritably. ‘The Cartwrights thought the world of him. Both Mr. and Mrs. Cartwright had the combination of the safe. Cloan could easily have got hold of it somewhere. After all, that was what he was there for, with faked references and all...’

‘And how did he get into the house?’ the plump American broke in. ‘He lived out, didn’t he, over the garage?’

‘He was in and out of the house all day,’ the Englishman retorted. ‘Used to valet Cartwright, didn’t he? He could have had a key made, left a window open or something...’

The plump man applied himself to his glass.

‘Well,’ said his friend, ‘I was reading in the ship’s paper where some Congressman was conferring with the American Embassy about the case...’

‘A fat lot of good that’ll do Cloan,’ was the blunt answer. ‘The Home Secretary don’t dare grant a reprieve. Public opinion wouldn’t stand for it...’

A bell-boy tripped through the room. ‘Paging Mr. Baldwin,’ he chanted.

The plump American rose hastily. ‘That’s my call from New York,’ he explained. ‘You coming along to say “Hello” to Edie, Joe?’ he said to his friend.

‘Okay, Gus,’ the latter replied. They hurried away.

At the corner table a steward was serving the drinks Sir Alfred had ordered. Little Solomons declined to join the three men: he did his drinking by proxy, he explained. There was the murmur of staccato salutations.

‘Well,’ remarked Sir Alfred, setting down his glass and wiping his moustache, ‘our noisy friend is right. They’ll hang this chap Cloan if only to show people that you can’t shoot a man in England and get away with it...’

Blain nodded. ‘The old Daily Mail had a pretty stiff leader. They never got the stuff back, did they?’

Sir Alfred shook his head. ‘No. Fifty thousand quid-worth of diamonds. Pretty nice haul!’

‘What case are they talking about?’ Solomons said to Dene.

The young man was silent, staring in front of him and smoking his pipe.

Blain answered for him. ‘It’s the Oldholme Priory jewel robbery,’ he explained, and, perceiving that the other’s face was a blank, added, ‘You must have read about it in the newspapers?’

‘I’ve been travelling in France for the past two months,’ the buyer replied, ‘and I don’t read the French papers so good...’

Sir Alfred seized the opportunity to resume the direction of the conversation. ‘Some Americans called Cartwright took this place, ‘Oldholme Priory, for the summer,’ he informed his questioner. ‘They brought this man Atbury— his real name is Cloan, but he called himself Atbury— with them as chauffeur from New York. Mrs. Cartwright had a lot of valuable jewellery which they kept in a safe in the library. One morning— last April, I think it was— the butler was found shot dead beside the safe and the jewellery gone...’

‘Seems to me I did hear something about it,’ Solomons put in. ‘The chauffeur was an ex-convict, wasn’t that it?’

‘Yes. His real name is Gerry Cloan. He’d served a term in Sing Sing. One of these rum-running cases— he’d shot a policeman or something...’

‘Pardon, Sir Alfred,’ Blain interposed. ‘It was Ed Cloan, the brother, who killed the policeman. Ed Cloan was never brought to justice. Gerry Cloan was only driving the car...’

‘Anyway, his references were forged...’

‘Not forged. Stolen,’ Blain corrected. ‘The real Atbury is a chauffeur in Detroit. He was robbed of his papers in a speakeasy. Gerry Cloan admitted that the papers weren’t his: said he’d bought them off a man when he found his prison record prevented him from getting work...’

‘A pack of lies!’ Sir Alfred affirmed. ‘Why, he swore he was in bed and asleep at the time of the shooting until the police produced a witness who’d seen him hanging about the Priory Gates at two o’clock in the morning...’

‘What settled Cloan’s hash, however, was the gun,’ Blain pronounced very positively; he seemed to delight in parading his knowledge of the case before Sir Alfred. He turned to Solomons: in the animation of their discussion the two men appeared to have overlooked the buyer, who was vainly trying to edge his way back into the conversation. ‘They found it in the reeds of a pond in the grounds,’ Blain explained to the buyer.

‘With a silencer attached,’ Sir Alfred interjected promptly. ‘That explained why no one heard the shot...’

Little Solomons nodded. ‘They don’t allow them to be sold at home any more...’

For the first time Dene, who had sat by smoking in stolid silence, spoke up. ‘Is that a fact?’

‘Sure...’

‘Nevertheless...’— Sir Alfred’s tone was triumphant— ‘I believe I’m right in saying’— he glanced at Blain— ‘that both gun and silencer bore the American maker’s name?’

‘The gangs back home get hold of them, I guess,’ Solomons commented. ‘What does this egg say about it, anyway?’

‘His system is to deny everything,’ Blain replied. ‘He declares he never saw the gun in his life and that he has never had a gun in his possession since he left America...’

‘The old racket,’ observed the buyer cheerfully. ‘If they talk, they get bumped off by their pals, and if they don’t talk, they go to the chair. It’s one hell of a life, it seems to me...’

‘A man at my club,’ Blain remarked, ‘knows Packett, who defended Cloan. Packett was in despair, he says: Cloan gave him no help whatever. There was this trip of Cloan’s to London, for instance, a week before the murder. The prisoner refused absolutely to say a word about it— it did him a lot of harm with the jury. The police never explained it, did they?’ he asked Sir Alfred.

Sir Alfred assumed a mysterious air. ‘It was to arrange for the disposal of the diamonds, probably through an accomplice in touch with— er— a fence at Antwerp or Amsterdam. This is the police theory, at any rate. I was talking to our Chief Constable just before I sailed. He’d been up to town seeing the Yard about something or other and ran into Chief Inspector Manderton who’s been in charge of the case. Between ourselves, Manderton, who’s an old friend of his, told him that since times have been so hard on the other side a lot of American criminals have been operating over here...’

‘One up to Old Man Depression,’ little Solomons observed humorously.

A measured frown corrected this display of levity. ‘It seems there have been several big jewel robberies on the Continent in which American women were the victims,’ Sir Alfred proceeded, in his pompous way. ‘Safe robberies, like this one, see? There was one at Cannes and another, I believe, at Biarritz— Manderton thinks the women were followed from America, as in this case...’

‘Organization, eh?’ said Blain.

‘Smart work all right,’ Sir Alfred agreed. ‘The French police were completely in the dark. The thieves got away and the jewellery was never recovered...’

‘But you pulled in this guy over in England, didn’t you?’ the buyer asked.

Sir Alfred puffed out his chest. ‘England ain’t the Continent, friend. Scotland Yard put their hands pre-etty promptly on the right man...’

‘But not on the stuff, eh?’

‘They’ll get back the stuff all right, don’t you worry. In the mean time, they charged Cloan at the assizes and he was sentenced to death...’

‘They’ll hang him, that guy back there was saying?’

‘You bet they’ll hang him. And the sooner the better...’

‘Right off the bat like that?’

‘Why not? The fellow’s guilty...’

Little Solomons shook his head. ‘Kinda tough luck...’

‘Are you suggesting that the blackguard should be reprieved?’ Sir Alfred demanded, bristling.

‘I’ll say not,’ the buyer assured him heartily. ‘I was only thinking he’d have done better to have stayed home. With us he’d always have found a lawyer to keep stalling things along...’

‘As a matter of fact,’ Blain now put in, ‘there’s a good chance of the execution being deferred. Packett told this friend of mine he was in hopes of getting the Home Secretary to review the whole case again, just as Joynson Hicks did in that Brighton murder, remember? The Home Office were calling for all the papers, he said...’

‘Lot of tomfool nonsense,’ declared Sir Alfred. ‘I’d string him up first and give ’em the papers afterwards...’

‘I don’t suppose it’ll make any difference in the long run,’ Blain proceeded. ‘But Packett said it would delay the execution for a week. If I were Gerry Cloan, I’d rather have it over and done with...’

Little Solomons shuddered. ‘Can’t you gentlemen talk of something else?’ he asked plaintively. ‘You sure give me the willies...’

Dene, who had apparently been sunk in a brown study during this desultory discussion, stood up abruptly.

‘What? Have you had enough, too?’ Solomons demanded jokingly.

Dene laughed. ‘It’s a bit smoky in here,’ he said. ‘I’m going to get a mouthful of fresh air before I turn in...’

He nodded unconcernedly to the three men and, going to the door, passed out on deck.

Chapter 2

OUT ON the deck it was dark save for the rare patches of light cast by the frigid, naked lamps in their wire cages. Dene found himself alone with the wind and the fretful, never-ceasing noises of a ship at sea. Awnings slapped against their frames: high above his head the breeze went piping through the gossamer of the wireless aerials; at his feet the water hissed and foamed as it slithered away from the vessel’s sides. Everything dripped with the sea-mist. But the fog was lifting. Past the stark silhouettes of the smokestacks reared against the black curtain of the night, there was the glint of stars between the flying cloud-wrack.

The young man went to the rail and turned to let the wind blow upon his face and flatten his thin evening clothes against him. Sombrely he gazed into the darkness. Beneath his feet the deck quivered in time with the rhythmic tremolo of the propellers, as he stood there in silence, his mind filled with the grim tragedy they had been discussing, it seemed to him that the steady pulsation was beating out a name. With an unwilling gesture he shifted his position and, leaning on the clammy bulwark, cast his glance down to where a frothing, curling edge of inky water advancing and retiring was visible in the glow from the tiered decks.

Gerry Cloan... thump-thump: Gerry Cloan... thump-thump: like piano-keys striking their wires the propellers seemed to hammer out their endless refrain upon his taut nerves. A face that had haunted him all through the voyage rose to the surface of his mind. He closed his eyes to shut it out, and, when it appeared more clearly than before, opened his eyes again only to see it far below, forming and dissolving in the eternal to and fro of the waves. It was a young man’s face, ghastly with the prison pallor, the eyes haggard with misery and despair. Out of the sea those eyes seemed to stare up at him imploringly as they had stared at him from the dock. The man at the rail shivered and, turning his back on the ocean, went below.

In the privacy of his modest stateroom on D, he stripped off his dinner-coat and, lighting a cigarette, sat down on the bed. With a distraught air he ran his fingers through his thatch of tawny hair. The coat he had removed lay beside him on the bunk. As though on a sudden impulse, the young man felt in the inside pocket and took out a flat leather wallet. From it he drew a folded letter.

At that moment the cabin door was softly tapped. Swiftly the young man replaced the letter and slipped the wallet in his pocket.

‘Who is it?’ he cried.

‘It’s me, sir,’ a cockney voice made answer.

Dene opened the door. His steward was there. ‘Beggin’ your pardon, Mr. Dene, sir’— his manner was more than usually impressive— ‘but the Captain wishes to see you immediate...’

The young man lifted his eyebrows. ‘Me, Bligh? At this time of night? Are you sure there isn’t some mistake?’

‘Oh, no, sir. ’Is stooard jes’ come down with the message. If you was in bed you was to dress yourself, was the Captain’s order. If you’ll kindly foller me, sir...’

With a perplexed air Dene put on his coat, adjusted his tie in the mirror and smoothed his hair, and followed Bligh out.

THE CAPTAIN’S sanctum, abaft the bridge, was commodious and many-windowed. With its cream walls, its water-colours and bookcases, and its big bowl of Hampshire roses on the writing-table, it suggested the morning-room of an English country-house. The curtains, close-drawn against the windows streaming with moisture, lent the cabin a cosy, intimate air. The throb of the screws, imparting a gentle vibrato to every object there, was the only sound.

In the smart blue-and-gold mess-jacket, with its double row of medal ribbons, the Captain was a gallant and dignified figure. He rose from behind the desk, a big man, grizzled and authoritative, as his steward, to whom Bligh had consigned his charge, ushered the caller in.

‘This Mr. Trevor Dene?’ The Captain bent a searching glance upon the visitor.

Beaming through his large glasses, the young man bore his scrutiny with the utmost equanimity. ‘That’s my name, sir,’ he replied with a guarded air.

The Captain made a perceptible pause while he waited for the door to close behind his steward. Then he added significantly, ‘Of Scotland Yard, I believe?’

On the instant his visitor seemed to stiffen. To all appearances he remained contemplating the Captain with an unchanged air of languid interest. But his face had grown stonily impassive. The features registered neither admission nor denial.

‘Nothing like discretion, Mr. Dene,’ said the Captain heartily. ‘But you needn’t be discreet with me. I have a wireless message for you:— from Chief Inspector Manderton. Sit down!’ He indicated a chair, at the same time resuming his own seat at the desk. ‘Drink?’

‘No, thank you, sir. I’ve just had one.’

‘Smoke?’ He slid the box of cigarettes across and Dene helped himself.

‘It came after dinner,’ the Captain explained. ‘Sent to me in the Company’s private code. I always decipher these messages myself. So I had to wait until I came off the bridge. It was pretty thick earlier on, but it’s clearing now. Unfortunately, there’s a cipher group mutilated in the message and I had to ask for a repetition. It’ll be through any moment now. I wanted to catch you before you went to bed...’

Dene cleared his throat. ‘Perhaps I ought to tell you, sir, that it’s absolutely essential that no one either on board this ship or in America should discover that I’ve any connection with Scotland Yard...’

‘I think you can rely on my discretion, Mr. Dene,’ said the other rather stiffly. ‘Just out of curiosity,’ he went on, ‘I took a look at your declaration for the Immigration authorities. You describe yourself as a student, I see...’

‘Yes, sir.’ He paused. ‘I’m actually reading for the Bar,’ he added.

The Captain was eyeing him discreetly. ‘If you’ll forgive the remark, Mr. Dene,’ he said slowly, ‘you’re scarcely my idea of a detective...’

The young man grinned— his smile was a comprehensive affair that spread itself in crinkles to the farthest corner of a frank and very good-humoured face. ‘Not such a bad thing, is it? In a movie I saw once they spoke of one of the characters as “the well-known secret agent.” That wouldn’t help much in our business.’

The Captain’s basso laugh rolled through the quiet stateroom. ‘By James, you’re right. What I mean was that you’re unlike the ordinary run of Scotland Yard men, if you understand me...’

‘I’m afraid I left my deer-stalker and my powerful lens behind in London,’ Dene retorted drily.

The Captain chuckled. ‘Now you’re pulling my leg. You mustn’t think I don’t know what a Scotland Yard man looks like. I’ve had some of you fellows travelling on ships with me before. And you’re not the type. What I mean to say, you look different and you speak different. More like a...like a...’— he was about to say ‘gentleman.’ but substituted ‘public school man’— ‘more like a public school man than a detective...’

‘That may be because I was at a public school,’ Dene suggested mildly.

‘ ’Varsity, too, I shouldn’t wonder?’

‘Cambridge, as a matter of fact...’

‘And now you’re a what-do-you-call-it? A criminologist?’

‘God forbid!’ cried Mr. Dene earnestly. ‘I’m merely a plain-clothes man employed at Headquarters. “A split” or “a busy,” in the engaging vernacular of the criminal classes...’

‘But I thought everybody at Scotland Yard had to go through the ranks...’

‘So they have. I was a cop myself for eighteen months, not counting training and probation...’

The Captain examined him curiously. ‘You don’t say! Well, I’m from the ranks myself, and neither of us is any the worse for it, I expect. Metropolitan Police, was it?’

‘Yes. X Division. One of the largest in London. Runs all the way from Paddington to Edgware and South Mimms. I started at the Harrow Road police station. That put me over the jumps all right, I can tell you. Charming neighbourhood. Know it?’

‘I’m from Sunderland myself,’ observed the Captain.

The detective wagged his head. ‘Tough lot. Wife-beating and cop-bashing the favourite sports, especially on Saturday nights; oh, I got into some lovely scraps. I liked the life on the whole. A policeman sees a lot, you know. For instance, you wouldn’t believe how few people can look a bobby straight in the eye: we’ve all got more or less guilty consciences, I suppose. I made a fairly good cop, though I say it as shouldn’t. I managed to see one confidential report about me and it bucked me up no end. It said, “Not a very intelligent officer, but keeps himself smart and works hard...” ’ Mr. Dene smiled seraphically through his gig-lamps at the Captain.

‘Well, I’ll be jiggered,’ the latter exploded. ‘I meet all sorts, ferrying across the drink, Mr. Dene, but I’ve never fetched up with a case like yours. And did you go straight into the police from Cambridge?’

‘Yes...’

‘Didn’t your people object?’

‘My Guv’nor was killed in the War. Mother was a bit hipped until one day I stopped the whole of the traffic in the Edgware Road to let her cross the street. I think she got a kick out of that...’

‘And you started at the bottom of the ladder and worked your way up?’

‘Rung by rung, as far as I’ve got, which isn’t very far. From burst water-pipes and rescuing kids with their heads stuck through railings to armed burglary, barratry on the high seas, and wilful murder. The self-made sleuth. Another powerful instalment next week...’

The Captain’s guffaw made the walls ring. ‘Fine. And now you’re at Headquarters?’

The young man nodded brightly. ‘Finger-Prints. As the lady said, “Nice work if you can get it!” The trouble is, there aren’t nearly enough murders to keep me really interested. Not on our side of the herring pond, anyway...’

‘And Inspector Manderton’s your boss, is that it?’

Dene’s face lit up. ‘You know him?’

‘Certainly. He crossed with me a few years ago— he was taking an absconding banker back to Cincinnati— and we’ve met two or three times in Town. Stout fellow, Manderton. How do you get on with him?’

‘A.1. He’s not my boss officially. I’m a sort of protégé of his. That’s to say, when he’s on the job and wants a man from Finger-Prints he usually asks for me...’

‘Thinks a lot of you, does he?’

‘I wouldn’t say that. You know what Uncle George is— that’s his nickname at the Yard, you know— a bit self-opinionated and that sort of thing...’

The Captain cast up his eyes. ‘You’ve said it. I never met a more cocksure chap in my life...’

Dene laughed. ‘Manderton’s all right when you understand him. He approves of me, I think, because I never argue with him. Hardly ever, that is,’ he added, with a faint smile.

The Captain laughed. ‘Well, I dare say you can hold your end up when it comes to an argument, eh, what? You’ve been to America before, I suppose?’

‘No, sir. This is my first trip...’

‘Making a long stay?’

‘Only a week or two, I expect...’

‘Well, well, perhaps I may have the pleasure of your company on the voyage back...’ He broke off as a knock came at the door. ‘Ah, this’ll be from the wireless room... Come!’ he called. His steward entered with a sealed envelope which he silently placed on the desk and withdrew. The Captain was unlocking a drawer. ‘Now we’ll see what we make of it,’ he said to Dene as he took from the drawer a small black book. ‘Excuse me a minute...’ He broke the seal of the envelope and spread out the message it contained on the blotter.

For a short spell the Captain’s hard breathing, as he referred from the code-book to the message, and the scratching of his pen as he filled in the text above the cipher groupings, were the only sounds in the quiet room.

Presently he uttered a sigh of relief and laid down the pen. ‘My writing’s not so good,’ he remarked. ‘Perhaps I’d better read it to you...’

‘If you wouldn’t mind,’ said Dene.

‘Here goes, then... It’s addressed to me personally, as I told you.’ He cleared his throat and read out:

Very secret. Kindly give our Mr. Trevor Dene, D. 306, following message. Begins. Home Office action in reopening case strongly attacked House of Commons this afternoon. Stop. Understand Home Secretary will inform American Embassy tomorrow satisfied no justifiable grounds exist for interference course justice and unable recommend postponement. Stop. Date execution stands as originally fixed, Tuesday next June 14, 9 A.M. Message ends. Regards.

Manderton, Criminal Investigation Department, Scotland Yard.

Dene put out his hand and took the message from the Captain. The gesture with which he adjusted his glasses to read it was purely automatic. He seemed utterly dismayed.

‘That’s the Oldholme Priory case, isn’t it?’ remarked the Captain briskly. ‘Well, I thought he was for it...’

‘Is it true that we shall be late arriving tomorrow?’ Dene asked. His air was very perturbed.

The Captain nodded. ‘We certainly shall...’

‘When are we likely to dock?’

‘Not before evening at earliest...’

‘Evening?’ The Scotland Yard man was aghast. ‘As late as that?’

The Captain heaved his broad shoulders. ‘Fog’ll make a monkey out of the fastest ship afloat, Mr. Dene...’

‘What time in the evening?’

‘Round about nine. Later if we strike any more fog. But I fancy we’re running into clearer weather...’

Dene’s fingers drummed on the desk. All the resilience appeared to have gone from him. He looked thoroughly downcast. ‘That makes us practically a day late...’

‘If it’s important for you to go ashore quickly,’ the Captain suggested, ‘I dare say I could arrange to send you on by the tug that meets us at Quarantine...’

Despondently Dene shook his head. ‘Thank you, sir. But I’m afraid I shall have to land with the other passengers in the ordinary way...’ With rather uncertain fingers he folded the message and thrust it into his pocket.

‘Well,’ said the Captain, ‘if you change your mind, let me know...’ He had stood up and they shook hands. The Captain’s glance was approving as the door closed upon his visitor. The young man had good manners; besides, there was an absence of affectation about him which, in a snobbish age, was refreshing.

No sooner was Dene out of the Captain’s presence, however, than that important personage passed altogether from the young man’s mind. He was beaten to the earth, panic-stricken, by these tidings that had come to him over the air out of the Atlantic brume. This was the night of June 9 and on June 14 Gerry Cloan was to die. Manderton had given him to understand that the execution was postponed for a week. From June 10, the day they were due in New York, to June 21 was eleven days. Now this respite had been reduced to what? They were still far out in the Atlantic at the mercy of fog and storm. In the most favourable circumstances he could not hope to set about his task until tomorrow, Friday, evening. And on Tuesday Cloan was to go to the gallows.

Saturday, Sunday, Monday— he had three clear days. Seventy-two hours. What chance had he of achieving in the time the purpose of his mission?

Seventy-two hours; and the Megantic was running at half-speed.

Chapter 3

DAY BY DAY, he had set down in his diary the slow growth in his mind of his doubts and misgivings about Gerry Cloan. Back in his cabin with the door fastened, he drew from his pocket the little book stamped with his initials, T. D.— his mother’s present. Throwing himself full length on his bunk, he turned to a date in April and began to read:

April 9. Had a word with Cloan at magistrates’ court, first chance I have had. Gave him some gum. Brown-haired Irish type, quiet and probably slow-witted. Nice-mannered. Not highly educated. Said he was ‘raised’ on Ohio farm: fields ten times size of ours. Never been to England before: thinks it ‘kinda cute.’ Seems restless and unhappy. Doesn’t suggest killer type, but that Lombroso stuff all bunk, anyway. Before I could switch talk round to murder, they fetched him away.

April 12. Resumed inquest. Coroner completely gaga. Manderton ran him from start. ‘Wilful murder’ against C. Uncle G. unbearably cockahoop at lunch. Thinks Priory job organized in New York, like robberies at Cannes and Biarritz last winter. Mem. look them up. Marvellous beer at ‘Crown.’

April 14. Finger-prints wash-out. Back in town. Thinking over Priory job. Cloan must be pretty stout chap to have pulled it single-handed. Good organization, too, to get safe combination, break into house and out again and smuggle swag away.

April 15. Thinking about that safe. Cartwright doesn’t see how Cloan could have got hold of combination which known only to self and Mrs. Cannot remember whether he or Mrs. ever worked combination in C.’s presence, but unlikely, though C. often came to them in library for orders. Manderton thinks object C.’s trip to town to get combination from accomplice as well as arrange about fence.

April 18. Safe-makers’ report. Safe old-fashioned model. Might have been opened by touch.

April 20. C. at Yard. Watched him waiting corridor, but didn’t speak. Certainly not my idea of armed burglar. Looks absolutely despairing like man stunned by misfortune. Manderton very stuffy as C. won’t talk. M. says typical of American gunmen’s code of honour. Files on Cannes and Biarritz cases on M.’s desk. Borrowed them.

April 22. Mugged up Cannes and Biarritz cases. Princesse Montegattino’s villa Cannes entered Sunday afternoon last Jan. while lady at races and staff off. Princesse recently returned from U.S. American maid detained, but released, as clear record. Police suggest gigolo, as Princesse given to whoopee. Safe opened clean. No arrest. Pearls not recovered. In Biarritz case (Feb.) Mrs. Gregson (American) also just back from U.S. bringing valuable jewellery she had inherited. Safe in dressing-room opened during night without scratch. Evidence (candle) thief worked several hours: house entered through basement window. Mrs. G. entertained largely and police suspect gentleman crook, though no evidence against known criminals at Biarritz. No arrests. Jewelery not recovered. Hablard, Paris Sûreté, whom I met on Legendre extradition, investigated for insurance. Wrote him.

April 26. Manderton says French police think same man behind Cannes, Biarritz job. Suspect a friend (probably lover) of Cannes lady, Hungarian calling himself Count Valda who went Egypt from Monte Carlo two days after robbery and disappeared. Sûreté theory is that Valda identical with one Ramiro Gutierrez, alleged Argentine, frequent visitor to Mrs. Gregson’s at Biarritz, who eventually vanished, ostensibly to return Argentine. A woman who accused Gutierrez of blackmail put Sûreté on him, but never caught. Valda known to associate with American crook on Continent. No trace of him in England.

April 30. Letter from Hablard, very ‘mon vieux-ish.’ Calls Valda an ‘ace’ (un as). Highly expert safe-manipulator. Better than Danny McClintock whom we sent up for seven years last year. Indications V. author of interrupted attempt on safe at Duchesse de Carmay’s (American born) at Aix last summer. Hablard says Biarritz safe unquestionably opened by touch, Cannes probably the same. Valda not Princesse de M.’s lover: H. says Riviera police always use this let-out when English or American women are robbed. Sûreté has no photo of Valda, not even positive of real nationality. Good linguist and expert at disguise.

May 2. Cloan at Yard. He puzzles me. I can’t see him deliberately croaking anybody; looks too good-natured. This job certainly resembles Valda’s handiwork. But we found no trace of any accomplice at Priory. Left Hablard’s letter for Manderton.

May 4. Manderton knew all about Valda. Already had him in mind. I suggested he might have used Cloan as inside worker. But M. insists no evidence of more than one man on job.

May 6. Still wondering about Cloan. If he didn’t have combination, he must have opened that safe by touch.

May 8. If Cloan opened that safe without the combination, I’m the Queen of Spain. Manderton had some papers for him to sign today, couldn’t go himself so sent me. Five minutes with C. in visitors’ room at prison. I looked at his hands. Danny McClintock whom I finger-printed last year had hands like a woman, small and slender. C.’s are big and strong and horny. He might blow a safe, but never work the tumblers. He looked utterly wretched. I tried to make him talk about the case, but he shut up like an oyster. When I persisted, he said savagely, ‘Get out. I’m spilling nothing, see?’ A warder told me he never speaks. Mem. Is he shielding someone?

May 12. What about the brother, Ed? A notorious gunman and probably quick on the trigger. Could he have been in on this? Sounded Manderton. M. says Ed recognized in Albany (New York State) few days before the murder and still at large. You can’t beat Uncle G.— he thinks of everything.

May 16. This damned case on my mind. Why won’t C. try and clear himself?

May 17. To Assizes with Manderton. Big crowd. Counsel for Crown very effective. Packett K.C. defending says C. refuses give evidence on own behalf. Packett cross-examined me regarding prints. Short and sweet, as there warn’t none. C. didn’t seem to know what it was all about. His eyes are tragic.

May 18. Cloan sentenced to death. Jury out 1 hour 45 mins. C. never budged muscle. Very game. His eyes met mine as Judge put on cap, but he gave no sign of recognition. His face ghastly, not with fright, but despair. I shall dream of it.

May 19. I can’t believe C. is psychologically type to have pulled daring job like this single-handed. The man who killed Cartwright’s butler, instead of tying him up and gagging him, was a ferocious brute totally unlike this quiet, rather self-effacing young American. But how to make Manderton see it? I can’t forget those eyes...

With a quick gesture Dene closed the book and, swinging his legs to the floor, began to undress. Everything in the cabin was oscillating: the Megantic was at full speed again. In shirt and trousers he knelt on the bed and gazed out of the porthole. The night was clear and dark, now, and the stars were shining. Head back, he drank in the pure air. The wind on his face, the movement all about him, gave him at once a sense of exhilaration and of solace. With every hour he slept the great ship would be bringing him nearer to the unknown city where Hermann Rontz awaited him, this enigmatic stranger who held the life of a human being in his hands.

Seventy-two hours!

Chapter 4

THE MEGANTIC was at the dock. Canvas-covered gangways, gaily striped, red-carpeted, and brightly lit, stretched from ship to shore. Funnels of mystery thrust into the bottle-neck of the New World, they seemed to Dene as, his overcoat on his arm and his suitcase in his hand, he prepared to join the slow-moving throng of passengers and set foot on American soil. He had reached the gangway when a thought struck him. There might be a message for him at the purser’s office— he’d better enquire. He turned back.

A large man in a Panama monopolized the attention of the only clerk on duty at the desk— the others were busy in the rear of the office. Dene set his suitcase down and waited. More from habit than anything else, he studied the individual ahead of him. ‘Detective,’ his trained eye deduced without hesitation. The stolid, somewhat suspicious air, the erect carriage, the dark suit— the symptoms were unmistakeable. The clerk, busy and rather distrait, was listening with a somewhat impatient air to a long story the other was pouring into his ear.

‘And amn’t I after seein’ him go on board meself?’ the man was saying in a rich Irish-American brogue. ‘A little runt uv a fella— Nick, they call him. I spotted him on th’ dock awhile back with another uv thim gorillas, but lost ’em in the crowd— they must have slipped out on me. And who’d be lavin’ a couple uv heels loike that come on th’ boat at all? They gotta have tickuts, haven’t they?’

‘It’s nothing to do with me, Jack,’ the clerk remarked plaintively. ‘You’d better see the purser. He’s around somewhere. Yes, sir?’ He addressed himself to Dene and the detective drifted away.

Dene gave his name and asked if there were any letters for him. Some chord within him had gently vibrated at the sight of the detective and he had a faint pang of homesickness. He turned to glance after the plain-clothes man and came face to face with The Girl.

He thought of her immediately like that, in capitals, so definitely did she emerge from the drabness of her background. The stuffy lobby was a bedlam. Passengers were clamouring for their stewards and stewards for their passengers; ship’s officers, dock officials, and cable company messengers came and went; and in and out of the medley people drifted vaguely looking for their friends.

In this welter of nondescript humanity The Girl alone appeared cool and dainty and unflurried. She was with a pleasant, middle-aged American woman who had sat at Dene’s table at meals, a Mrs. Fanning, and Dene guessed that the third member of the group, a florid, rather lumpy girl, was Mrs. Fanning’s daughter, who, his fellow-passenger had confided to him, was to meet her. Mother and daughter were engrossed in one another. Their companion stood aloof, her eyes, inscrutable and rather haughty, idly ranging over the jostling crowd.

This was the typical American girl, Dene decided. Point by point he appraised her— she responded to every test. The somewhat disdainful air with which she surveyed her surroundings could not veil the winsome vitality of her whole personality, the limpid intelligence, the latent humour, the frankness, of her gaze. The little white hat she wore was chic and becoming; and the brim rolled up on one side to display a wave of nutbrown hair coquettishly set off the charming line of her face. Her bare arms, emerging from the sleeveless green and black-flowered crêpe, were tanned a golden brown: her ankles were slim and finely turned. She was slim, and healthy, and eager.

Her glance met Dene’s and he sought to hold it. With complete indifference it passed him by. The young man sighed. He had no vanity, but a romantic heart fluttered beneath his grey flannel suit. Carrotty hair, freckles, and spectacles, he knew, held in the ordinary way no allurement for the other sex. Still, even as he pored over his lens and records in the strictly prosaic surroundings of the Finger-Prints Branch, day-dreams would come to him in which Chief Inspector Dene, the brilliant and unfailingly resourceful sleuth, would extricate from the gravest jeopardy some flower-like creature whose melting glance would unerringly pierce the famous criminologist’s unflattering exterior to the solid worth within.

Reardon, immaculate in blue serge, was mounting the main staircase. Dene’s glance was charged with wistful envy. There was a fellow, if you liked, who knew how to charm the women— one had seen him at work. He feigned aloofness, indifference, but he had a trick of flattering with his eyes every personable woman he met. The women on the boat had fairly swarmed about him. His pretty backgammon partner was with him now, dressed very becomingly for the shore and laughing up into his handsome, careless face. Dene sighed. He could imagine Reardon sweeping The Girl off her feet with a single glance.

He looked for her again. His powers of perception, sharpened by his police training, were swift to catch her change of mood. She was standing where he had seen her before, but now her hands were clasped tensely before her and she was staring with a frozen air towards the stairs. The Scotland Yard man had seen that look on a woman’s face before.

It was fear.

Perplexed, he glanced over his shoulder, following the direction of her eyes. Passengers were streaming up and down the stairs: he recognized shipboard acquaintances looking strangely unfamiliar in their shore-going clothes. There was the argumentative Briton railing at a coloured porter; behind him that Polish rabbi with the corkscrew curls; Sir Alfred Wellow came plodding up, chatting with rather obvious affability to a perspiring individual in a Palm Beach suit, probably a New York business friend who had come to meet him; Blain’s long nose was visible at the turn of the stair; and here was Fay Montagu, the film star, stopping to use her magnificent eyes on Reardon in a tender farewell. In vain Dene’s gaze travelled over the briskly moving, commonplace throng— he could discern nothing capable of explaining that terror-stricken stare. His eye sought the girl again. Mrs. Fanning and the daughter were still there, giving instructions to a baggage-man; but She had disappeared.

At the counter behind him he heard his name spoken. He swung about. It was the purser’s clerk— he had forgotten all about him. ‘Nothing for you, sir!’ Dene nodded and picked up his suitcase. At the same moment he was aware of an individual lounging in front of the ship’s notice-board and regarding him intently. He was a small and rather dapper fellow, swarthy of face, who wore a blue-and-white spotted tie. Dene’s glance picked up the tie: he noticed such things. On catching the Englishman’s eye, the man turned swiftly on his heel and, with a springy gait, walked off towards the gangplank.