Redcap (12 page)

The body looked lonely, forlorn.

The moustache moved wispily in a strong breeze coming throught the port. Gresham wasn’t sandy any more now; he looked grey and withered and pathetic, a man who had lived for an ideal and, perhaps because he wasn’t very clever, had had to die for it. Then Shaw caught himself up; there was nothing particularly to suggest murder. There was no blood, no sign of violence at all, and the face didn’t look like that of a man who had been suddenly or viciously killed. And yet to Shaw murder seemed the most likely explanation. He drew the sheet across, shutting Gresham back in his privacy.

The Captain and the ship’s doctor were both there. Sir Donald’s face was full of worry now. He said, “It’s a blow to me, Shaw, quite apart from the questions it raises now—in the circumstances. Gresham and I had got very friendly.”

“Yes, sir. I’m very sorry. He wouldn’t have hurt a fly, that man.” Shaw turned to the doctor, asked: “How did it happen?”

Dr. O’Hara said in a puzzled voice, “I can’t say definitely.

It just seems his heart stopped.”

“Had he a weak heart?”

O’Hara shrugged. “If he had he’d never consulted me about it. So far as I can say, he was perfectly healthy. When did you last see him, Commander?”

“Last evening, just before dinner.”

“He was quite normal then?”

Shaw said, “Yes, absolutely. And yet his heart—just stopped, you say. Tell me, doctor, could it be murder?” His eyes were hard, steely.

O’Hara said hesitantly, “Well, of course, that I can’t really say with any certainty without a post-mortem, d’ye see?” He screwed up his eyes in thought, pulled at his ear. “At first sight, the body shows no sign of disease whatever. It’s a little suspicious, I’ll say that—but are you really suggesting it’s murder?”

“I don’t know yet.” Shaw hesitated, thinking fast. “Are there any marks of any kind?”

The doctor said, “Only this.” He pulled back the sheet again, indicated a small mark, no more than a very slight bruise, a mere discoloration, on the neck. The skin was unbroken. Shaw bent down and studied this mark closely for some time in silence and then asked:

“Who found him?”

“His steward, when he brought in his tea.”

Sir Donald said, “Steward’s a youngster, doing his first voyage on the cabins. I don’t think he’d seen death before, but he recognized it all right. There’s a strict Company’s ruling that stewards are never to wake passengers by touching them, and the lad didn’t touch Gresham, apparently. But when he didn’t wake he took a closer look and ran along for the doctor.”

“I see. He was dead when you got here, I suppose, doctor?” O’Hara said, “Oh, yes. In my opinion he’d been dead for something like six hours.”

Shaw nodded. “That mark you showed me. Could it have caused death?”

O’Hara shrugged. “I can’t be too definite. I’m not committing myself on that yet. Medically I’d say it
could
have done, but that’s very different from saying it
did
."

“How do you think the mark itself was caused?”

“That’s what I’m not sure about.”

“Could it have been caused by, say, considerable pressure from a knuckle, or from . . . well, a small-headed metal instrument, perhaps?”

The doctor said cautiously, “Well . . . yes, it
could
."

Shaw took a deep breath. “Thank you, doctor. That’s all I wanted to know.” He swung round, his face grim, spoke to the Captain. “I’d like a word with you, sir, in private if I may.”

Sir Donald raised his eyebrows a little, but gestured to the doctor. He asked, “Nothing else you want to do, is there, O’Hara?”

“Not just for the moment, sir.” O’Hara, taking the hint, gathered up his gear and left the cabin.

“Well, Shaw?” Sir Donald spoke abruptly. “What is it?”

“Just this, sir. Gresham was murdered, and it’s fairly clear to me who did it.”

Sir Donald stiffened. “How’s that?”

“From the method used. It’s part of our job, you see, to know any specialities of people who kill in this game. Well —there’s a man called Karstad, a Norwegian, a particularly nasty specimen of a fine race ... he used this method a lot during the War. It was quick, it was efficient—and it was absolutely silent and fool-proof. It had to be, just as it had to be last night—”

“But—”

“Just a moment, sir. Karstad was the only man we ever came across who used this particular method, and always in that one spot on the neck. It was something he’d worked out for himself and found it suited him, I suppose—and our experience is that once a man gets used to any specialized method of killing, he never uses any other if he can help it. Don’t ask me why. It kind of gets into their minds, I suppose, and they can’t re-orientate after a while when they’ve found a nice easy way. It’s almost a trade mark.”

Sir Donald asked directly, “You’re telling me this man’s aboard my ship?”

“Yes, sir, I am.” Shaw hesitated. “I’d better tell you now, I did hear from my chief last night that Karstad was dead . . . but now I’m absolutely certain he’s not. He’s aboard all right—I was pretty sure I’d recognized him even before this happened. But he doesn’t call himself Karstad. He calls himself Andersson. Sigurd Andersson.”

Sir Donald stared. “Andersson. The card-player—the man who’s tight half the time?”

“Yes, sir.”

“But—he’s always appeared perfectly harmless! Why. Gresham himself was quite friendly with him. He told me so.”

“Yes, I know that. He could have been too friendly, perhaps.” Shaw rubbed the stubble on his long chin. “Anyhow, Karstad must have known there was something Gresham had that
he
wanted, sir. I mean those secret signals.”

The Captain looked at him sharply. “That was only a fake set.”

Shaw said, “I know that. Gresham told me. But Karstad wouldn’t have known they were fakes. It stands out a mile, that was what he was after. It begins to look as though they do intend to get hold of REDCAP rather than blow it up— and then use it as a world threat, a kind of blackmail.” Shaw found that his hands were trembling a little. He asked, “Do you know if anything’s been moved around in here, sir, since Gresham was found?”

“Not so far as I know. Only the steward and O’Hara have been in here, and they wouldn’t have touched anything.”

Shaw nodded. He examined the cabin closely, but could find nothing that appeared starkly out of place. The cabin was neat and tidy, almost militarily precise; Gresham seemed to have been a methodical and tidy man. Shaw went across to the combination safe which, as in his own cabin, was welded to the bulkhead inside the big, roomy wardrobe. Covering his fingers with a handkerchief, he turned the dial, listening carefully to the sound of the tumblers. After a while he emerged and said:

“I’m not much good at these combinations. Karstad is probably an expert—he wouldn’t have been on this job otherwise. I think we’ll have to smash it open, sir. We’ve got to see if the signals have gone, even though they’re fakes.”

“What about finger-prints?”

“Karstad wouldn’t leave prints behind, sir. I used a handkerchief myself just now, but that was just second nature. There won’t be anything there to smudge.”

Sir Donald nodded, rang a bell. When a steward came along, he said: “Find the bos’n, tell him to send the blacksmith along at once.”

It took a long time for the blacksmith to smash open the heavy safe, but the lock came away in the end and Shaw reached in. He took out a long white envelope bearing the MAPIACCIND arms.

He said, “This hasn’t been tampered with, anyway. Seals are intact, and it’s a genuine MAPIACCIND envelope.” After a brief hesitation, he slit the flap. The list of signals was there and intact, and he showed it to the Captain.

Sir Donald grunted. “That doesn’t help much, theft.”

Shaw tapped the envelope reflectively against his palm. “Not a lot. Of course, they could have been copied and replaced—but there’s that seal, and the embossed envelope. Karstad wouldn’t have access to MAPIACCIND seals and stationery. We can’t get over that . . . not unless there’s even more behind this than we’ve suspected so far.”

They looked at each other. Sir Donald asked tautly, “You mean complicity inside MAPIACCIND?”

“In these times you can’t rule out even that, I dare say.

But it would mean some one in Geneva itself is in this racket, and that’s a very long shot. Anyhow, I hope we’re going to find out when we haul Andersson—Karstad—in.”

Sir Donald said, “Shaw, just a moment. I can’t arrest a passenger and charge him with murder on mere suspicion of being some one else—”

“But look, sir—”

Sir Donald said firmly, “There’s got to be a preliminary inquiry at least before I consider doing any such thing. I take it there’s no real proof the man’s Karstad. There’s no proof Gresham was murdered, even. Meanwhile,” he added with a straight look at Shaw, “nothing is to be said which may suggest anyone’s under suspicion. I know how important this thing is, Shaw—you mustn’t doubt that—but you have to remember I’ve got my Company’s interests to consider as well.”

The inquiry took place immediately after breakfast, in the Captain’s day-cabin. The first man to be brought up was the night-steward stationed on the section which included both Colonel Gresham’s and Andersson’s cabins; by this time Sir Donald had examined the Chief Steward’s Night Rounds Book and had seen an entry by the night-steward to the effect that he had been called to Andersson’s room at 00.50 hours.

Sir Donald asked him, “Did you find anything at all out of the ordinary during the night?”

“Oh, no, sir. Anything unusual like, I’d ’ave entered it in the rounds book.”

“Quite. I’m asking you if there was anything slightly unusual, but not sufficiently so to warrant an entry in the book.”

The man shuffled a little, looked up at the deck-head and thrust out his lower lip in an effort at concentration. As he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down in a stringy neck, rising above the high collar of his blue jacket. He said, “No, sir . . . not
unusual
, like. There was that Mr. Andersson, ’e seemed to ’ave drunk more’n ’e ought, sir. An’ ’e ’ad two bottles of whisky with ’im, sir, when ’e went to ’is room. ’E was playin’ cards again, sir.”

“Well, there’s nothing in that, I suppose.” The Captain looked up sharply, tapping a pencil on the desk. “How d’you know he was playing cards?”

“Well, sir, I see ’im when I answered a call for iced water at ten to one, that’s in the rounds book.” The Captain nodded, and the steward went on, “ ’E was pretty full then, sir, if you’ll pardon me. An’ then ’is bedroom steward, sir, ’e said as Mr Andersson an’ the other gentleman was still at it when ’e went in with the tea this morning. That was just after I come off watch.”

“I see.” Sir Donald made a note on the sheet of paper before him. “An all-night session. And you’re sure of the time you took the iced water along—ten to one?”

“Positive, sir.”

“You don’t happen to know who the other gentleman was?”

“No, sir, not by name, sir.” The man hesitated. “ ’E ’ad what I’d call a sort of—of un’olesome face, sir, all marked with pits. I see ’im earlier, too, goin’ along to Mr Andersson’s cabin.”

The Captain glanced up at the Chief Steward, who was standing beside him. “Know him, Chief Steward?”

“Yessir.” The Chief Steward stared woodenly ahead. “Name of Markham, sir. Big poker player. Flush with lol—money, sir.”

“Thank you.” Sir Donald turned to the night-steward again. “Does Mr Markham often go along to Mr Andersson’s cabin?”

“Yes, sir, ’e do.”

“Has he been in there all night before?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Playing poker?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I see. Nothing else to report?”

“No, sir.”

“Very well, thank you. Remember you’re not to talk to anyone about what we’ve discussed. All right?”

“Yes, sir, thank you, sir.”

Sir Donald nodded in dismissal; after that he saw in succession the various barkeepers and the cabin steward on Andersson’s section. The tavern barkeeper confirmed that Mr Andersson had taken two bottles of whisky away with him at about 9.30 the evening before and that he had appeared to be somewhat unsober at the time. The cabin steward confirmed that Mr Andersson, together with a Mr Markham, had been at the card-table in his cabin at 7.30 that morning, that there were two bottles of whisky on the dressing-table, one empty and the other three-quarters full, and that Mr Andersson had looked bleary and bloodshot and hardly able to concentrate on the game. The steward added that Andersson had turned in soon after and was still in bed and sound asleep—he seldom, in fact, ever got up before lunch-time. After that evidence Sir Donald sent down for the man with the pockmarked face. When the passenger was seated comfortably in an easy chair, Sir Donald said: “Well now, Mr Markham, I’m very sorry to have to trouble you with this, but I should like to know how you spent last night.”

Markham flushed and looked truculent. He appeared to be suffering from a gigantic hangover. He asked, “Why? What’s that to do with you or anyone else?”

Sir Donald said diplomatically, “I’m sorry. Perhaps I didn’t put that very well. You mustn’t think I’m in any way checking on your movements. But the fact is—you are bound to hear sooner or later what has happened—a passenger has died in somewhat unusual circumstances—”

“I’ve heard that already,” Markham cut in sourly. “It’s all over the ship.”

“I suppose so. Anyway, you’ll understand, I’m sure, that I have to make certain inquiries of the other passengers on his deck, in case they heard anything—er—suspicious during the night.”

“I see. You could have said so, then.” Markham scowled. “As a matter of fact I was playing cards. All night. . . ."

A little later Sir Donald told Shaw the whole evidence and added, “We’re no forrarder. Markham was clear enough. Neither he nor Andersson left the cabin the whole night— not once. And we know that about the time the doctor says Gresham died, the night-steward was called to Andersson’s cabin to top up with iced water, and he saw them both in the middle of a game. It’s no good, Shaw. Your theory won’t hold water.”

Shaw said bitterly, “He’d naturally get an alibi prepared in advance.”