Murderer's Trail Read online

  Where was he going now? That was one question. What was he going to do when he got there? That was another. Answer to the first question—captain. Answer to the second—Gawd knows!

  Other questions: How was he going to re-establish contact with the strange little pickpocket down among the coal? If she were caught, what would happen to her? And if he were caught, and had prevented her from being caught, what would happen to him?…

  ‘Now, then, look where you’re going!’ barked the third officer.

  Then there was that murdering chap. Faggis, she’d called him, hadn’t she? Where was Faggis now, and what new game was he up to?

  In order to obtain some clarity on this particularly vital question, Ben took his mind back to Hammersmith, and tried to piece together Faggis’s actions and motives. Perhaps if he could complete the first part of Faggis’s story, he might make something out of the second part …

  ‘Of course, if you want to step straight into a hole, it’ll be your funeral, not mine,’ said the third officer.

  Faggis had been working on his own. Right. Fell in with the girl, and got her to join forces with him. Right! And this Hammersmith affair had been their first job together. The girl had said so. Right. All clear so far.

  Why hadn’t Faggis continued to work alone? P’r’aps he had had his eye on the old miser’s crib but required a partner to help him crack it. P’r’aps he needed someone small, like this girl, to shinny up a water-pipe, and then slip in through a window. P’r’aps he was tired of his own company, and liked the girl’s face. Anyway, into the house they get, and start collecting. Find plenty of new money. (The chap at the coffee-stall, who had left in a hurry, had paid in new money.) Then the old miser comes down, the girl does a bunk into the garden, Faggis attacks the old man, and kills him. Didn’t mean to kill him. But kills him. And, once you’ve started killing, you ain’t too pertickler if you have to go on …

  ‘Turn to the right, man, unless you want to get your face scorched off!’

  Faggis rushes out into the garden. The girl scoots. Faggis follows. She gives him the slip, runs back to the house for a quick squint—plucky, that was!—and then off she goes again, with Faggis after her.

  P’r’aps Faggis never let her out of his sight at all. That might be. Anyhow, he must have stuck pretty close, and he gave her a scare when she came barging round that corner, and bumped into Ben. Then Faggis probably lost sight of her till he picked her up again near the coffee-stall. That was why he slipped away from the coffee-stall so quickly. And after that, one by one, all three of them—the girl, Faggis, and Ben went into dockland through that open gate!

  The girl got into the ship. Either to escape from Faggis, or from the police, or from both. By this time, she’d probably decided not to tell the police, but to concentrate on her own get-away. Her mind would be in a terrible tangle.

  Yes, but something happened to Faggis before he got into the ship!

  Ben’s mind grew dark, and he shuddered, for now he was dealing with the evidence of his own eyes, and not with mere theory. In spite of the unpleasantness of the business, however, he grappled with it, and tried to complete the story. He realised that his future actions, and possibly his future fate, might depend upon the extent of his knowledge.

  Now, then! Get on with it! Girl in the ship. Faggis, not yet. Ben, asleep against a post. What happens?

  Faggis wants to get into the ship, if he knows the girl has got in. If he doesn’t know, then he’s still poking around for her. Along comes a man.

  ‘Who are you?’ says the man.

  ‘Who are you?’ replies Faggis.

  Something like that. Or perhaps Faggis doesn’t wait to inquire! He’d be in a stew. Anyway, there’s a tussle. P’r’aps the man is from the ship, and is trying to stop Faggis getting on it. P’r’aps the man recognises Faggis, and threatens to give him up. Or p’r’aps the man doesn’t know anything, but is going to make a row, and that’s the last thing Faggis wants. Slosh! The man goes down, hit with a spanner or a knuckle-duster. Probably a spanner. The third officer had referred to a spanner in the conversation in the coal bunker, and the report in the paper had said that the knife had been found by the police. Very likely Faggis had plenty of tools on him, and the spanner was one of them.

  Down goes the man for the count. Death does the counting. He cries out as he goes down. Ben hears the cry, and thinks at first it is an echo of his own. The echo was this poor fellow’s death cry …

  ‘Now you’re for it,’ said the third officer. ‘We’re nearly there.’

  What happens then? Faggis gets the wind up. He starts lugging the man he has killed towards the water, hears Ben approaching, drops the body, darts away, and leaves it for Ben to topple over.

  Was Faggis watching Ben as he croquet-hooped over the dead body? Whew!

  Next? That’s easy. Ben rushes off on his circular tour. Faggis returns to the body, continues with his journey, and drops the man into the water. Splash!

  ‘Stoker?’ thought Ben suddenly at this point. ‘The deader was a stoker!’

  The thought was illuminating. Dead man, stoker. Faggis, who had killed the dead man, referred to by the third officer as ‘Mr Hammersmith Stoker.’ Taken on in his place, eh? By the third officer, who somehow got to know all about it! Now, why would the third officer take a murderer on to his ship, allowing him to fill the vacancy caused by the murder?

  Ben turned suddenly, and stared at the third officer. The third officer stared back.

  ‘What the hell are you stopping for?’ demanded the third officer.

  ‘I was jest thinkin’,’ answered Ben, ‘’ow much I loves yer.’

  The third officer swung him round and kicked him in the back.

  ‘Tha’s orl right,’ thought Ben, struggling not to cry. ‘You wait!’

  8

  In the Captain’s Cabin

  The stomach of a ship, as has been indicated, is not the pleasantest place to reside in. The brain is more appealing. There are instruments in it which may fill a novice with a certain awe. There are wheels and levers, intricate barometers, compasses with bulbs and lights, and other electrical devices, all bearing the mute message, ‘Do not touch!’ But sunlight plays about them, and clear air bathes them, driving away one’s nightmare thoughts; and in the adjacent sanctuary where the brain rests, luxury mixes very pleasantly with necessity.

  While Ben was ascending from the stomach, two men sat in the brain’s sanctuary. One was dressed in immaculate dark blue. His sleeve bore four imposing gold lines, the middle two interwoven to form a diamond. (The third officer’s sleeve had only one line, and his diamond was just tacked on.) His face was as immaculate as his cloth, but the immaculateness of both the face and the cloth spoke of efficiency, not of dandyism. The chief engineer can give orders with grease on his clothes and smuts on his face, but the captain’s appearance, saving in emergency, must be irreproachable.

  The other man possessed quite another kind of distinctiveness. His clothes too, were of the best, if money stands for quality. Brown tweed, of expensive roughness. A coloured shirt that glowed in daring contrast to the suit. ‘I am right!’ it shouted to the doubter. ‘Notice my silk. Men who can afford me can make fashion!’ Brown boots, solid and highly polished. A tie that cost even more than it could show—it is a tragedy that mere appearance is so limited—and a pin to bring tears to covetous eyes. The pin was secretly secured against the covetous eyes, however, by an eighteen-carat gold clip.

  And presiding above all this was a large monarch of a head, full of ancient business furrows that were now comfortable creases. A grey moustache, also large and comfortable, concealed the upper lip. But today something disturbed the usual ostentatious comfort of this man, and his eyes as they gazed at the captain sitting opposite were bright with restlessness.

  ‘Say, I’ve heard of your silent navy,’ said the large man, breaking a pause that was getting on his nerves; ‘but I didn’t know it spread to the Mercantile Marine!’
/>   The captain, quite unperturbed by the little sarcasm, allowed a few more seconds to pass. Then he replied, unnecessarily informative:

  ‘I’m thinking, Mr Holbrooke.’

  ‘Well,’ growled Mr Holbrooke, ‘I should say even thought’s got a time limit.’

  ‘In your country, perhaps,’ said the captain. ‘Not in ours. I’m thinking of what you’ve told me just now—and wondering—’

  ‘Yep?’

  ‘If you’ve told me everything?’

  Mr Holbrooke frowned, looked away for a moment, and then hastily looked back.

  ‘I don’t get you!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘It ought to be easy,’ observed the captain. ‘What’s really making you so scared?’

  Mr Holbrooke did not like that, and his large eyebrows went up in protest.

  ‘Say, who’s scared?’ he demanded.

  ‘Well, suspicious, then,’ the captain corrected himself dryly. ‘Choose your own term, Mr Holbrooke.’

  Mr Holbrooke regarded the cigar he was smoking thoughtfully. It was one of the captain’s cigars, and, to his surprise, it was quite as good as his own.

  ‘Ah—I see what you mean,’ he murmured. ‘Yes, I’m suspicious, don’t worry. Suppose I say it’s just a hunch?’

  ‘A hunch,’ repeated the captain, nodding slightly. ‘And do you seriously expect me to search the whole of this ship for you on account of a hunch?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘And to watch every passenger? And to ring a Curfew at eight? And to send a wireless to Scotland Yard? Because that’s really about what it comes to, Mr Holbrooke, isn’t it?’

  Mr Holbrooke’s frown grew.

  ‘Maybe that’s putting it rather strongly, sir,’ he protested. ‘I’m not aware that I’ve said anything about any Curfew!’

  The captain shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Then what do you want me to do?’ he inquired.

  Mr Holbrooke stared at the ground, and then suddenly banged his fist down on the arm of his chair.

  ‘No, by Gosh, you’re right!’ he exclaimed. ‘That’s what I do want you to do! Within reasonable limits, of course—and I dare say we can spare the Curfew! The point is, as I’ve mentioned, that you’re not dealing with—well, sir, just an ordinary person. You understand me? What I’m telling you is that I’m able and willing to pay for what I’m asking—’

  He paused, as the captain raised his hand. The captain spoke a little stiffly.

  ‘The normal protection of passengers on board the Atalanta is included in the price of their passage,’ he said. ‘And, even if it were not, the expense of the extra service you suggest would be rather high for—well, just a hunch.’

  ‘Wouldn’t that be my affair?’ suggested Mr Holbrooke, unhappily.

  ‘In the strictest sense,’ responded the captain, ‘everything on board the Atalanta is my affair.’

  ‘Then, by golly, make it your affair!’ cried Mr Holbrooke, exasperated. ‘You call it a hunch! It’s a darn sight more than that—’

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘Yes, sir! It’s—’ He broke off, and stared at the captain speculatively. ‘Say, do you never have enemies in your country?’

  ‘What sort of enemies?’

  ‘Well—I don’t mean wives.’ He smiled rather foolishly at the cumbrous jest. ‘No, you can deal with wives. Flowers—a theatre—that’s easy! I’m talking of—’ The smile faded. ‘This kind—people who are jealous of you—jealous of your success and your position—jealous of the money you’ve made and the brains and industry you’ve made it by—people who hate you like poison, and will do any sort of God-darn trick to bring you down a bit to their level!’

  His eyes narrowed. For a moment, he almost seemed to forget that he was in the captain’s cabin, and the captain regarded him with increased interest. He had been on the point of ending the interview. It was not to his taste. But now he decided to continue it.

  ‘I see,’ he commented quietly. ‘So you’ve got enemies of that kind?’

  ‘There’s not a successful man in the United States who hasn’t!’

  The statement was delivered in the form of a retort. The captain interpreted it as an attempt to modify the significance which, a moment earlier, had been insisted on, and he was unable to suppress an ironical smile at the awkward manœuvring of his wealthiest passenger. It was child-like in its inconsistency. When a clever millionaire became child-like, there must be some solid reason behind it. Was the reason, in this case, stark terror?

  ‘I’m quite ready to help you if it’s necessary, Mr Holbrooke,’ said the captain; ‘but you haven’t made out your case yet. If your enemies are the sort that every successful American possesses, then every successful American would require the captain of every ship he travelled on to give him special protection. Captains would have a busy time. It seems to me that these enemies of yours must be more malicious than the average. Otherwise, you’d hardly waste my time over them.’

  ‘Well—we’ll say they are?’

  ‘Then may we also say, perhaps, that they have more reason to be?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘I merely put the question.’

  ‘Well, suppose you explain the question?’ grunted Mr Holbrooke, with an exclamation of annoyance.

  He did not relish the question. His face grew rather red. The captain’s own face became a trifle sterner.

  ‘Please try and be calm, Mr Holbrooke,’ he said. ‘I really can’t assist you otherwise. What I’ve got to find out is how real this danger you talk of is—’

  ‘It’s real enough!’ interrupted Mr Holbrooke excitedly. ‘Say, do you suppose I’d be here if it weren’t? You English—if you’ll forgive me saying it—want shaking up. You’re so darned slow! You can’t see things that are right before your nose. Now, listen here! Something’s wrong on this ship! Why, there’s even a rumour that a stoker fell in the water before we moved out of dock. Suppose he didn’t fall in the water. Say he was pushed in?’

  Someone knocked on the cabin door. ‘Come in,’ said the captain. A small man entered, in spotless whites. It was Jenks, the captain’s steward. He had light hair, and watery blue eyes, and he looked like Jenks.

  ‘From the third officer, sir,’ he said, saluting.

  He advanced with a note. The captain took it, and read it. He considered for a moment.

  ‘Ask Mr Greene to stand by, Jenks,’ said the captain. ‘I’d like to see him in a few minutes.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ answered the steward.

  When they were alone again, the captain turned to his visitor.

  ‘Rumours are dangerous things, Mr Holbrooke,’ he remarked. ‘You may remember that, during the early part of the war, there was a rumour of Russians passing through London. Take my advice, and pay no attention to this one. Or, if you must, don’t pass it on with additions from your own imagination. I think, if you don’t mind, we will confine ourselves to facts rather than fancies, and get back to the facts of your own case. You suspect some particular enemy?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘Then I’ll put it another way. Has your successful business been of a kind to produce a special type of enemy?’

  ‘I’m not sure that I rightly understand you.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Perhaps it is time you did. You’ve asked me for special protection, Mr Holbrooke. You have been, if I may say so, unusually—persistent. You’ve asked me to make inquiries and to take precautions that could only be justified in a case of the most extreme urgency. When I ask for reasons, you give me general ones, and you call me slow and short-sighted when I do not organise an elaborate plan for circumventing a shadow. Materialise the shadow for me, and perhaps there will be something I can arrange to hit. But if you don’t materialise the shadow, I can only conclude—’ He paused, and his eyes fell vaguely on the note still in his hand. ‘I can only conclude that you have some special reason for withholding the necessary information.’

  ‘Such as?’ demanded Mr Holbrooke.
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br />   ‘Well—I take it your success has depended on the failures of others?’

  ‘All success does that.’

  ‘Oh, no. Not necessarily.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Necessarily. The pound I make, you lose.’

  The captain bent forward.

  ‘Not, Mr Holbrooke,’ he suggested, ‘if you give me full value for the pound.’

  Mr Holbrooke took it well.

  ‘I see,’ he said. ‘That’s not too bad, captain. You’re not as slow as I took you for. I get you.’ He looked at his well-manicured finger-nails. ‘Well, sir, I expect I’ve made a few people sore.’

  ‘Quite a number, perhaps?’

  ‘Sure thing.’ All at once, as though humanised by the admission, Mr Holbrooke smiled. ‘Business men aren’t saints, and I make no claim to wings. I got some good knocks when I started out. Well, I’ve knocked back. Way of the world, isn’t it? But I’ve never run foul of legislation. Barring Prohibition, of course, and that don’t count.’

  ‘I don’t disbelieve you, Mr Holbrooke,’ answered the captain, and now his tone lost a degree of its coldness. ‘As you say, business is business. But, played in that spirit, it undoubtedly creates enemies—and I expect some of yours have sworn to get even with you?’

  ‘Sworn black and blue,’ nodded Mr Holbrooke. ‘They’ve none of ’em done it yet, but the swearing just goes steadily on! Now, sit right down on your next question, because I guess I know it. Which particular enemies are on this ship? There I’m beaten. I don’t know. There’s too many! But I’ve had more threats lately than I’ve ever had before, and—darn it, sir—I’ve got my daughter on board with me, and I don’t like it!’ He didn’t like admitting it, either. It wounded his pride. ‘Darn it, this is supposed to be a pleasure trip for us!’

  ‘About these threats,’ said the captain. ‘When did the last occur?’

  Mr Holbrooke hesitated, then pulled a small sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it to the captain. ‘Found it slipped under my door an hour ago,’ he grunted shortly. ‘This is really what brought me here.’

  The paper bore the words, ‘You’re for it!’