Death of an Angel (30 page)

Respected Captain Folsom sat next the man who had brought his wife orchids for their anniversary. (How different, Pam thought, some men were from Jerry.) Marsh, a little late, sat next Folsom. They needed better assortment; they did not come properly two by two. It would have been easy to arrange, since Mrs. Macklin and her daughter sat across the table from Folsom and Marsh. They could have been split.

It was true that, this evening, they were not both there to split. Hilda was, in a dinner dress which seemed not so much to have been designed as to have happened. Mrs. Macklin was not. Pam, resolutely, decided to be charitable. No doubt the motion of the ship had diminished her appetite—for food at any rate.

“It would be pleasant,” Jerry said, gently, “if you would make up your mind which table you're sitting at. The man says the roast” beef looks very naice this evening.”

They ate. They sat on the afterdeck, enjoying the cradling motion of the ship. They danced, later, and then the cradling movement was less desirable; Pam found herself always backing downhill, which seemed obscurely unfair. The anniversary couple danced, gently, once; the honeymooning couple danced briskly, often. The dark young man danced with a blond young woman, and they both danced noticeably well.

Elsewhere in the ship work was done. A seaman stood at the wheel; the second officer got a fix, moved parallel rulers to the compass rose, adjusted the course. Dish-washing machines ground in the galley; in the dining saloon, waiters set up for breakfast and speculated about tips to be received. And Stewardess Felicia Brown found the Old Respectables' missing sword.

She was not looking for it. She was doing her nightly chores. When she got her chores done, she would go below decks to the cabin she shared with Mrs. Palsey and Mrs. Fish and young Miss Pratt—a bit of a flibbertigibbet, Miss Pratt—and get the sleep she had earned. It would be fine to get her feet up. Her feet were killing her. It was a pity some of these people with nothing to do but stuff themselves and sit in the sun, couldn't turn down their own beds.

Mrs. Brown knocked on the door of Cabin 84, forward on the starboard side of A Deck and, being unanswered, opened the door and went in and turned down the beds. One of them had been napped on, and had to be smoothed out. You'd think, what with deck chairs, they'd manage to stay off the beds in the daytime. For any purpose, she thought, and mildly dusted the dressing table, on which powder had been spilled. She held a bottle of perfume to her nose and shook her head and put it down again.

She went aft to Cabin 86 and knocked, and waited, and went in and turned down the beds. Most nights, it went on like this, never meeting anybody to pass the time of day with. Like as not, most of them thought the beds turned themselves down; from the tips one got, one'd think that. The breakfasts in were different. Then you could make yourself felt. This way—

She went out of Cabin 86, and knocked on the door of Cabin 88. Again there was no answer. She pushed on the door and there was resistance. One of them had left a valise or something in the way, which was like some of them. She pushed harder and the door partially opened, and she began to wedge herself through the opening. She got far enough to see—far enough to find the sword.

The sword was in J. Orville Marsh, who lay on his back on the floor. He had bled on the carpet. The sword was not all the way in, but far enough. It didn't take a doctor to know it was far enough. The amount of blood told that.

Mrs. Brown wanted to scream. She also wanted to be sick. But it was not her place to scream, or to be sick. Leave that sort of thing to “them.” She went, as fast as heavy old legs would carry her, to authority. Authority was not the highest—it was an assistant purser. It served.…

It was a little after eleven. Dorian Weigand was propped up in bed, looking extremely lovely, reading—but not as if hopelessly engrossed. There was a telephone in the room, Bill Weigand thought, hanging his white dinner jacket in a closet, reaching to loosen his black tie. There was a telephone, but this time it would not ring, as so often it rang. The policeman's life is an interrupted one, but not tonight—not here, far from land, in the snugness of this cabin, on this gently rocking ship. There would be no sudden calls—no sudden canceling of leave. If they wanted him back, tonight, they would have to come after him. By helicopter. Half of New York could kill the other half, and Captain William Weigand, Homicide, Manhattan West, would help worry about it another time. In, say, a week. Now—

Now somebody knocked at the cabin door. The knocking was not loud, but it was insistent. Pam or Jerry, presumably, with some sudden idea. Not that it would be like either of them. But still—The most reliable people may relax on vacation, and give exaggerated value to sudden ideas. Like, even, joining together for a nightcap.

Bill Weigand went to the door and opened it, fixing on his face a smile as cordial as he could manage. The knocker was not a North. The knocker was Cholly, captain's steward. Cholly's face was, for it, a little pale. Cholly's white teeth tugged at his lower lip.

“Captain's compliments, sir,” Cholly said. “He'd appreciate it if you could come to his quarters.”

“Now?” Bill said.

“He'd appreciate it, sir,” Cholly said. “He said to tell you it's urgent, sir.”

Bill looked at him.

“Very urgent, sir,” Cholly said. “The captain would very much appreciate it, sir.”

Bill continued to look at the boy, who wasn't beamish at all at the moment.

“It's about the sword, sir,” Cholly said. “The captain said I could tell you they've—they've found the sword.”

“Right,” Bill said. “Wait a minute.”

He closed the door. He looked at Dorian.

“Damn,” Dorian Weigand said, not loudly but with conviction.

“Right,” Bill said. “But—there we are.”

He leaned over the bed and kissed her.

“Oh,” Dorian said. “I know it isn't your fault. Go find out about the sword. Nevertheless—damn.”

Bill followed the steward along the corridor of A Deck; to the elevator and into it. When the elevator stopped, he went up a short flight of steel stairs, still following Cholly. Cholly knocked and Captain Peter Cunningham, RNR, opened the door at once.

“Oh,” he said. “Glad you could make it. Appreciate your coming, Weigand.” He led the way back into the cabin. He said, “Scotch?” Bill shook his head.

Captain Cunningham nodded. His long, intelligent face was not particularly expressive. He did not look worried. On the other hand, he looked by no means happy.

“As a matter of fact,” Captain Cunningham said, “a rather sticky situation has come up.” He considered this. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “quite a sticky situation.”

It was not often, Bill Weigand realized, that Captain Peter Cunningham, RNR, went, thus, into superlatives. All hell had, apparently, broken loose.

“Your boy,” Bill said, “tells me the sword's been found.”

“Quite,” Captain Cunningham said, and told him where.

Bill listened.

“You don't,” Captain Cunningham said, “seem greatly surprised.”

“You send a steward for me, fairly late at night,” Bill said. “He says the matter's urgent, and mentions the sword. In effect, I said, earlier, that the sword would concern me only if it was found in someone. I supposed it had been.” He smiled, faintly. “In short,” he said, “I'd already had my surprise.”

“Not a pleasant one,” Cunningham said. “And—I realize it's none of your concern. Only—well, there's this.”

This was a message on a radiogram form. It was signed “Follonby.” It read:

“Take appropriate measures but urge discretion to avoid disturbing passengers. Weigand on your list is police officer experienced such matters and might be asked assist at your discretion.”

“Follonby's the managing director,” Cunningham said. “Great man for discretion. See his point, though. No use stirring up—” He stopped with a shrug. “What it comes to,” he said. “Will you lend a hand? Hate to ask you, but there it is. I can promise you the company'll be generous.”

“No,” Bill said. “Oh—yes, I'll lend a hand. But New York City hires me. And—I don't like murder. Particularly of—” He paused. “In a way,” he said, “Marsh was on our side. We don't like things to happen to people on our side. You've moved the body?”

They had not. An assistant purser was standing by, as unobtrusively as possible, to see that no one did.

“For one thing,” Captain Cunningham said, “people'll be up and about for hours. Have to take him through passageways, y'know. On the other hand—well, the room's not air-conditioned. We're heading south. Have to—er—refrigerate in the course of time.”

“Right,” Bill said. “You've seen it?”

“Yes,” Cunningham said. “I've seen it. With the doctor. That gold hilt sticking up in the air—doesn't seem right, somehow. Shell splinter—that sort of thing makes some kind of sense. But this—What did they want with a sword?”

They had wanted it, Bill told him, to carry in a parade.

“Silly sort of business,” Captain Cunningham said. “Shall we get along?”

They got along. They went down in the elevator to A Deck and Bill followed the captain along the corridor to Cabin 88. The movement of the ship was somewhat more apparent than it had been—at least to Bill Weigand. From Captain Cunningham's balanced progress down the corridor, one would never have known it. “Swell's from the one that sheered off,” Captain Cunningham said, over his shoulder, referring to a hurricane which, some days before, had gone elsewhere, after giving the Eastern seaboard a week-long fright. “Be out of it tomorrow.”

They had to make themselves thin to get through the partially openable door of Cabin 88. Fortunately, this was not difficult for either of them. Inside a young man in uniform turned from a porthole, out of which he had been looking. He did not look as if he felt particularly well. “Captain Weigand, Forbes,” Cunningham said. “You can shove off, now.”

“Yes sir,” the assistant purser said. He went carefully, as distantly as space allowed, around what was on the floor, and made himself thin going out of the door. Weigand was crouched beside the body.

J. Orville Marsh lay on his back, in a position which seemed incongruously comfortable. The sword stuck straight up from his chest, most of it above his body but enough—oh, quite enough—in it. With the motion of the ship the gilded hilt moved slowly back and forth, seeming to bow to them; seeming to perform a slow, macabre dance.

“Ribs holding it,” Weigand said. “Through the heart, apparently.”

“Dr. Wilson said that,” the captain told him. “Between ribs, into the heart. A lucky thrust, from one point of view. Shall we have the doctor in?”

They needn't, at the moment, Bill thought. Presumably the doctor had told Captain Cunningham what there was to tell.

The doctor had. One thrust of the thin, sharp steel into the chest of J. Orville Marsh, Marsh dying of it within, at the outside, a minute or so. A stewardess had found the body between nine thirty and nine forty-five. The doctor had seen it about fifteen minutes later—say at ten o'clock. Marsh had not been longer than an hour dead; perhaps less.

Bill nodded and stood up. He looked at the door, down at the body. The ship's captain waited.

“Probably,” Bill said, “someone knocked. He opened the door. Somebody stood there with the sword ready. Stabbed him while he was standing there, before he had a chance to move. And closed the door. Or, falling backward, Marsh's feet hit the door and pushed it closed. Is there a ship's photographer?”

“Well,” Cunningham says, “there's a gal takes pictures. Of people in the café, y'know. But—”

Bill waited.

“Hate to call her just now,” Cunningham said. “Be a little obvious, wouldn't it? As a matter of fact, take pictures myself now and then. Amateur stuff. Wife and kiddies. That sort of silly business. Still—”

“Flashlight?” Bill asked him.

“Matter of fact,” the captain said, “yes. Have a shot at it, if you like.”

“Right,” Bill said.

Cunningham used the telephone. Cholly, very quickly, arrived with camera, rigged for flashlight. It was, Bill saw, a very good camera. Photographing the remains of J. Orville Marsh, the captain used it expertly. After he had, as Bill directed, shot from half a dozen angles, he looked at Bill enquiringly. Bill thought they had what they wanted.

Bill twisted a handkerchief into a short rope, looped it through the sword hilt and pulled. The sword clung for a moment; came out with a faint, unpleasant sound. Marsh had been deep chested. Some inches of the sword were bloody. Blood dripped from the tip of the sword. The rest of the blade was bright in the ceiling light; it looked sharp. It had, obviously, been sharp enough. Pam, Bill remembered, had called it a toy sword. It had proved a venomous toy.

“Took a bit of doing?” Cunningham said. “To make the thrust, I mean?”

“Some,” Bill told him. “But the point's sharp—and missed bone.”

He looked at the dangling sword. The pommel was ridged for sure gripping. The gilding of the hilt was fretted with design. They would look for prints—somehow—and find blurs. Too many blurs, made by too many Old Respectables. Bill knotted the handkerchief and hung the sword by it from a closet hook. It had stopped dripping.

As he turned back, the movement of the ship caught him unawares. He did not precisely stagger, but he swayed toward Captain Cunningham, who did not sway at all.

“Won't be in it long,” Captain Cunningham assured him. Bill Weigand's eyes had narrowed slightly, and the captain stopped and waited.

“If I'd happened to have a sword pointing at you, I might have run you through,” Bill said. “A—what? Fifty-fifty chance?”