The Blind Barber

which they generally do in case of a murder. So— come, now; until somebody complains, I'm a free man. Just between ourselves, wasn't somebody having you on?'

'But you promised, Captain, that you'd co-operate and help us and—'

'And so I will, Miss Glenn,' he told her, heartily, patting her shoulder. 'You two — and old Sharkmeat also, if he likes — shall have the freedom of the ship, to question whom you like, and say I sent you. If you have news, ha- ha-ha! come to me… By the way, would you like me to release that poor lad from his cell? No? Well, remember that I offered. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll send him a fine basket of fruit, with my compliments, and a specially cooked capon for his dinner. How's that? Then, when we touch England day after to-morrow, we'll see what can be done about obtaining the services of the finest mental-specialist in London…'

He stopped.

'Yes,' said Morgan, seizing the opportunity, 'and that reminds us all of Dr. Kyle, doesn't it? Not that I believe he's the Blind Barber, but it takes us back to that radiogram from the Police Commissioner, and the fact that— whatever else you believe or don't believe — there's a damned dangerous criminal aboard.'

'H'm!' said Whistler. 'H'm! Possibly. In any case, I've been instructed not to do anything, haven't I, in case there's a mistake, eh? And the more I think it over, sink met' he said with a happy flash of inspiration, 'the more I'm convinced there has been a mistake. Why? I'll tell you. Because dangerous criminals don't steal fifty-thousand-pound jewels and then return 'em, do they? Sink me! you know, if I hadn't been assured by old Sturton that the emerald was returned to him while young Warren was in the brig — well I'd be fairly sure it was more of his mad vapourings. But I know it couldn't have been young Warren… '

'Thank God for that,' said Morgan.

'Anyhow,' continued Whistler, assuming his hearty manner again, 'I'll think it over. I believe it's a mistake and there's no crook aboard at all. Though — h'm — it would be a feather in the cap of the Green Star Line if I could have the honour of nabbing a notorious criminal before that New York detective arrived. I'll think it over. So, if you won't drink a health in Pol Roger — eh — no? Well, good day, good day, good day!'

He was off, saluting jauntily, before the stupefied allies could stop him. He swung his shoulders, his thumbs hooked in his pockets, and he was hoarsely humming a tune to the effect that Captain Ball was a Yankee slaver, blow, blow, blow the man down! His smile was radiant.

When he had gone, Peggy looked about hopelessly.

'Hank,' she said, 'it's no good. We can't beat Providence. Let's give it up. Let's go to the bar and get screamingly drunk.'

Morgan replied grimly: 'We will not. Give it up, I mean. But a couple of quick ones in the bar might fortify us before we comb this boat from stem to stern… Why's the place so quiet, anyway?' He peered round. 'They're all at lunch, that's it! We've missed lunch, and I didn't even hear the bugle. Never mind; we can get a sandwich in the bar. Come on. This thing has got to be thrashed out. Girl, that emerald's turning up puts the absolute lid on it!… What do you suppose could have happened?'

'Oh, drat the emerald!' she sniffed, with some pettishness. 'Who cares about their nasty old emerald, anyway?

We'll find out about this girl, if you like. But, honestly, Hank, I'm beginning to think we must be wrong, after all. H'm! I'll bet she was a hussy, anyway… '

'She was calling Curt's name,' her companion reminded her. He was determined not to lose his last ally. 'She knew something that concerned him, don't you see? So if you want to help him, she'll be your first concern. It probably concerns the film; remember that my wench! Besides, have you forgotten another thing? Curt promised that chap Woodcock — definitely gave him his word — that he'd demonstrate by to- day there'd been a murder committed, or else force a bug-powder endorsement out of old Warpus.'

She put her hand to her forehead. 'Oh, I say, but I'd forgotten all about that awful little man! Oh, Hank, this is dreadful! And when I think of my poor Curt languishing behind prison bars, sitting there forlornly with his poor head in his hands…' A sob caught her throat; she choked, and the tears overflowed here eyes. 'Oh, it's awful, awful, awful!'

'Well, my God! don't cry about it!' said Morgan, waving his arms desperately. He peered round to make sure there was nobody in sight. 'Look here. I didn't know you felt like that about it. Listen! Stop yowling, will you? It's all right. You heard what the skipper said. We'll go right down and get him out—'

'Oh, I w-wouldn't g-get him out f-for anything!' she gulped, forlornly, over the handkerchief she was jabbing at the corners of her eyes. Her breast heaved jerkily. 'He — h-he'd only d-do some perfectly m-mad thing straightaway and g-get p-put right — right b-back in again. But, oh, d-dear! when I think of the p-poor d-darling l- languish-ing, p-positively — l-languishing — in — in a — foul d-dun— bubuloo!' choked Peggy, and burst into a spasm of weeping.

These, reader, are the times that try men's souls: when tears flow by reason of some inexplicable logic that escapes you, and all you can do is to pat her shoulder whilst desperately wondering what is wrong. He tried remonstrance — an error. He pointed out that it was not as though Warren had been shoved in the Bastille, never again to see the light of day; adding that the maniac was quite comfortable there and had been promised a specially cooked capon for his dinner. She said she wondered how Morgan thought the poor boy would have the heart to eat it. She said he was a cruel, callous beast ever to think of such a thing; and went off the deep end again. After this crushing retort, all he could think of was to rush her to the bar for a couple o!' stiff drinks as quickly as possible.

That her tears were dried was due to a new cause for worry, which he saw presented itself to her as soon as they entered the bar.

The bar (quaintly called smoking-room) was a spacious oak-panelled cathedral at the rear of B deck, full of stale smoke and a damp alcoholic fragrance. There were tables in alcoves of deep leather lounges, and a number of gaunt electric fans depending from the pastoral-painted ceiling. Except for one customer, who stood at the bar counter with his back towards them, it was deserted. Sunlight streamed through windows of coloured mosaic glass swaying gently on the floor; only peaceful creakings of woodwork and the drowsy murmur of the wake disturbed its cathedral hush.

Peggy saw the one customer, and stiffened. Then she began to advance stealthily. The customer was a short, stocky man with a fringe of black hair round his bald head, and the arms and shoulders of a wrestler. He was just raising his glass to his lips when he seemed warned by some telepathic power. But before he could turn Peggy had pounced.

'Ah!' she said, dramatically. She paused. She drew back as though she could not believe her eyes. 'Tiens, tno'n oncle! Qu'est-ce que je vois? Ah, mon Dieu, qu'est-ce que je vois, alors?'

She folded her arms.

The other started guiltily. He turned round and peered lip at her over the rim of his glass. He had a reddish face, a large mouth, and an enormous curled grey-streaked moustache. Morgan observed that the moment Peggy fell into the Gallic tongue her gestures corresponded. She became a whirlwind of rattling syllables. She rapidly smacked her hands together under the other's nose.

'Eh bien, eh bien! Encore tu bois! Toujours tu bois! Ah, zut, alors!' She became cutting. 'Tu m'a donne votre parole d'honneur, comme un soldat de la France! Et qu'est-ce que je trouve? Un soldat de la France, hein! Non!' She drew back witheringly. 'Je te vois en buvant le gin!'

This, unquestionably, was Uncle Jules sneaking out with the laudable purpose of knocking off a quick one before his niece caught him. A spasm contorted his face. Lifting his powerful shoulders, he spread out his arms with a gesture of extraordinary agony.

'Mais, cherie!' he protested in long-drawn, agonised insistence like a steamer's fog-horn. 'Mais, che-e-riii-e! C'est un tres, tres, tres petit verre, tu sais! Regards-toi, cherie! Regards!! C'est une pauvre, miserable boule, tu sais. Je suis enrhume, cherie—he coughed hollowly, his; hand at his chest—'et ce soir—' ¹

'Tu paries! Toi,' she announced, pointing her finger at him and speaking in measured tones, 'toi, je t'appelle degoutant!'

This seemed to crush Uncle Jules, who relapsed into a gloomy frame of mind. Morgan was introduced to him,