Death of an Angel (31 page)

Captain Cunningham moved his head slowly up and down. “About that,” he said.

He waited.

“It may have been that way,” Bill said. “But, we're a long way from knowing. From knowing anything, except the obvious.” He leaned down and looked under one of the beds—Marsh, not sparing of expense, had booked a double cabin. There were two large suitcases under the bed. There was a dispatch case.

“You'll want to go through these things,” Captain Cunningham said, and Bill nodded. He would also want to see the doctor, the stewardess who had found the body. To, he explained, keep things neat. But—

He looked at the body. The cabin was reasonably large, but not large enough for what it contained.

“Rather in the way, isn't he?” Captain Cunningham said. “But I'd like to wait—oh, say a couple of hours? Longer, if possible. As a matter of—” He paused. “Discretion,” he said. “No use—”

He was interrupted. Someone was knocking at the cabin door. Cunningham started around the body toward the door, but Bill touched his arm. He pointed. He indicated. They pulled Marsh's body far enough into the cabin so the door would open. The knocking was repeated. This time, Bill nodded. Captain Cunningham opened the door. He said, “Good Evening?” to J. R. Folsom. Folsom was still in uniform. He said, “Oh!” in a surprised tone. He said, “What goes—” He looked into the room. He said, “
My God!
”

“Quite,” Captain Cunningham said. He turned and looked at Bill Weigand.

“Right,” Bill said. “What brings you here, Mr. Folsom?”

Respected Captain Folsom, although symbolically dressed for the violence of battle, stood in the doorway with his mouth open—and his eyes wide, and a certain pastiness of complexion. He pointed.

“He—” he said, and stopped to swallow. “Something's happened to him?” He looked at the color of the carpet, which had once been a pleasant gray. “My God!” he said.

“He's dead,” Bill said. “That's where the sword was, Mr. Folsom.” He moved to the closet, and unhooked the sword, and let it dangle from the handkerchief. “Did you come for it?”

Folsom made a slight retching sound, and visibly took a deep breath, and conquered it.

“Going to meet him in the bar,” Folsom said. “Have a nightcap. He didn't show so I—what do you mean, did I come for it? What the hell right've you got—”

“Captain Weigand is trying to find out what happened,” Cunningham said. “At my request, Mr. Folsom. With my authority.”

“All the same—” Folsom said, and stopped again.

“You were going to meet Mr. Marsh for a drink,” Bill said. “He didn't show up and you came to find him?”

Folsom said, “Yeh.”

“There's a telephone in the smoking lounge,” Bill said. “All you had to do was to ask to be connected with Mr. Marsh's room.” He regarded Folsom. “Saved yourself a walk,” he said.

“Well,” Folsom said. “I didn't think of it. That's all. I didn't think of it. You always think of everything?”

He was aggrieved. It appeared his feelings were hurt.

“You trying to make me the goat?” Folsom asked, and now he was more aggrieved than ever. “Just because somebody stole our sword? If I killed him, what would I be coming back for?” This thought brightened him. “Tell me that,” he said, speaking with something approaching triumph.

“All right,” Bill said. “I did tell you—to get the sword.”

“What did I knock for?” Folsom said. “Look—you say I killed him. So I know he's dead, don't I? So why do I knock? Dead people don't open doors.”

Cunningham looked at Bill Weigand. He raised his eyebrows.

“All right,” Bill said. “I didn't say you killed him. Come on in. And—tell us more about the sword.”

Unhappily, Respected Captain J. R. Folsom came in.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1961 Frances and Richard Lockridge

Cover design by Andy Ross

ISBN: 978-1-5040-3140-0

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