The Blind Barber

Defence of Captain Whistler. 'The Dastardly Villain Set on Me with a Dug-powder Gun.' That also would gratify the Green Star Line. Yes, it would. In your eye.'

The captain seemed slightly awed.

'Isn't there any justice?' he inquired suddenly, and looked rather blankly about the cabin. 'In all God's green earth, isn't there any justice? What have I done to deserve (his?'

It was only the beginning of a genuinely powerful, if rather pathetic, oration, for which there was undeniably dome justification. It was pitched in a rather Biblical strain. Captain Whistler pointed out and enumerated his afflictions. Masked foreigners, he said, attacked him with stilettos and bottles. Uninsured jewels belonging to?!< ?&/!! viscounts were stolen while murdering thieves posed as Harley Street doctors at his table. Blood-stained blankets and razors mysteriously appeared in the cabins; women vanished but did not vanish; the nephews of eminent American administrators first went mad and gibbered of bears and geography then ran amok with bug- powder guns, tried to poison him and finally threatened him with razors. Indeed, an unprejudiced listener would have decided that the situation aboard the Queen Victoria was past hope. An unprejudiced listener would have said this boat had been chosen for the annual convention of the Ancient Order of Sorcerers, and that the boys must have been showing off a bit. Captain Whistler said it was too much. He said he was a strong man, but he would rather be thrown to the sharks.

'I know it, Captain,' Morgan agreed, uncomfortably, when the typhoon began to die and the skipper went to pour himself a drink with shaking hands. 'And, believe it or not, we feel as badly about it as you do. So the first thing we must do—'

'There is nothing to do,' said the other, with finality, 'except maybe get drunk.'

'… is to join forces and start to unwind this tangle. So here's a guarantee of good faith. We'll go with you to Sturton and clear you absolutely. We'll say we saw you suddenly struck down without a chance to defend yourself; for all you know, it may be true… '

'You'd do that?' demanded the skipper, sitting up. 'I was damned if I'd ask a favour of you, but if you would— could… man, I'll do anything. I'll even let that madman out of the brig.'

Morgan reflected. 'As a matter of fact,' he said, hesitantly, 'for the next few hours I'd rather you didn't.'

'Hank!' said Peggy. But she stopped.

'Yes, you see how it is,' nodded Morgan, after some thought. 'When we thought the captain wouldn't listen to reason, we'd have blown the wall down to get him out. But if we do have co-operation — have we Captain?'

'To the water-line, man.'

'Then it may be much the best thing to leave him where he is for the moment. He's thoroughly comfortable, and we have a breathing-space while he's in a place where he can't possibly get into trouble. At least,' Morgan amended, rather doubtfully, 'I don't see how he can get into trouble. The whole thing was in your attitude, Captain. If you'd like us to talk to Sturton now, we're ready.'

They met storm signals at the door of the peer's large Mild rather elaborate suite of cabins on B deck. The door to the drawing-room was on the latch, and they penetrated Into a stuffy finery of curtains drawn at the portholes, gilt furniture disarranged, and an array of medicine-bottles sprawled round a chaise-lounge on which Sturton had evidently taken his hitherto sea-sick rest. Whether his recovery had been due to smooth weather or the loss of the emerald they did not know; but he had definitely recovered. From behind the door of the bedroom rose a dry, quick, high-pitched voice in a sort of pounce.

'… and take a radiogram. Ha. Now. 'Messrs. Kick-wood, Bane, and Kickwood, Solicitors.'… Spell it? Damn it, Miss Keller, you spell it the way it's pronounced: K-i-c-k-w-o-o-d, Kickwood. Ha. '31b King's Bench Walk.' Or is it 31a? Why can't these confounded lawyers make up their minds? How should I remember their infernal addresses? Wait a minute, wait a minute… '

The door popped open in the gloom. A lean figure in a shabby grey dressing-gown, with a worsted plaid shawl wrapped round its shoulders, stared at them. Even indoors It wore a broad-brimmed black hat, and the greyish face underneath had so queer a look, in the midst of Lord Sturton's costly trinkets strewn about the drawing-room, that it reminded Morgan of one of those pictures of wizards in an Arthur Rackham illustration. Also, Morgan wished somebody would open a porthole.

The figure said, 'Hah!' and stalked over. It was observable that before this man Captain Whistler looked exactly m Warren had looked before Captain Whistler.

'Well?' said Lord Sturton. 'I'm waiting, I'm waiting.' lie took a thin finger and thumb and flicked at one of his sideburns. 'Have you got that emerald?'

'If you'll only be patient, sir,' replied Whistler, as

though he were trying to swell himself out with affability and be his public beaming self, 'I — ha-ha! Of course we shall get it.'

'Then you haven't got the emerald. Very well. Why don't you say so?'

'I only wished to say—'

'Rubbish, rubbish, rubbish! Answer me, yes, or no. If you haven't got the emerald, why are you here?' Sturton shot out his neck.

'It was about that little matter we were discussing— ha-ha!' returned Whistler, with a broad gesture of paternal friendliness. 'You know I said, your Lordship, that I could bring witnesses to show I had behaved within my duties. You said I was responsible—'

'So you are, so you are. I have your signed receipt. Here.'

'The great line of which I have the honour to be one of the senior commanders has always wished, your Lordship, to avoid unpleasantness,' began the captain, in a rolling voice. 'However, having its best interests at heart…'

'Pfaa!' snapped the other, suddenly sitting down against the back of the chaise-longue and hunching his shawl round his shoulders. 'Why don't you say what you mean? You mean that you've been caught fair and square; but what you want is a sporting run. Eh? Eh?'

'That, your Lordship, is putting it harshly… '

Sturton thrust his finger out of the shawl and pointed. 'I'll give it you. Damn no man without proof. Bible says so. Prove it to me; no damage suit. There.'

Morgan got the impression that he immensely enjoyed being arbiter of somebody's official head; that it tickled a nerve of perverted humour under his dry ribs. He could humour a whim — but the whim had to have its compensations. Morgan realised that, with this sharp-eyed old lad questioning, a lie had to be good. Well, he should be beaten. In a way, Morgan thought, that was incentive enough to save Whistler's bacon! Sturton was leaning back, hugging the shawl round his head. On the table at his elbow was a curious trinket of his own: a Mandarin- head that would wag on its pedestal, and had two rubies for eyes. At intervals he would reach out and set it wagging.

'Well?' he said, abruptly. 'Anything to say?'

'A while ago, your Lordship, you intimated to me — as 1 told this lady and gentleman — that, if I could offer you the proof I said I could,' Whistler cleared his throat, 'you would not — ah—'

'Well? Well? Where's the proof? I don't see it?'

'These witnesses, you see—'

Morgan got ready, steadying himself. It was unnecessary.

'Who are you, young man? Are you the nephew of a friend of mine? Are you Warpus's nephew? Eh?'

'No, your Lordship,' interposed the captain. 'This is Mr. Henry Morgan, the very distinguished writer, who I thought would offer evidence acceptable… '

Sturton laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. Morgan glanced at Peggy, who had begun to grow frightened. Sturton laughed again.

'Fail first count. You'd make no lawyer. I want witnesses I know of. Er — Commander, you stated to me, I think, that you believed you could produce this nephew. Where is he?'

He leaned out and flung the question with a snap of impatience.

The Parcae were at it again. Morgan could have whistled In admiring astonishment, or sworn from the same situation.

'This morning,' continued Sturton, 'you stated to me that you could bring him. Why isn't he here? Won't he come?'