Voyage into Violence (11 page)

Stein had radioed at considerable length concerning Marsh's secretary, who was named, rather unexpectedly, Miss Perky. It had been, Bill gathered, some years since the name had been descriptive, if it once had been. It was evident that Miss Perky had interested Stein. He would see her again. Meanwhile—it could be assumed that Marsh was not retired.

One current case, Miss Perky admitted to, although Stein thought she had told as little as she could manage. Marsh had been, when he went aboard the
Carib Queen
—“but that was merely a vacation”—engaged in a search for a Mrs. Winifred Ferris. Mrs. Ferris was—even this came grudgingly—“middle aged.” Pressed to be more specific, Miss Perky had failed to be. She had never met the woman. How could she have met her, since she was missing? She had never seen a photograph of Mrs. Ferris. That sort of thing was not her job. Who had retained Marsh to search for her?

She had considered that, sitting in her small, plainly neat, apartment in the Bay Ridge section of Brooklyn. She had, finally, decided that that fact was not, in itself, confidential. She had said she “understood” Mrs. Ferris's children had engaged Mr. Marsh. She did not, she said, know the names of the children. She did not, she said, know where the children lived. Stein had pointed out, with increasing firmness, that her responsibility now—whatever it had been in the past—was to co-operate with the police.

She had insisted she did not know—that there had been no correspondence relative to Mrs. Ferris, that Mr. Marsh kept confidential matters confidential, even from her. But she would, finally, say this much:

On the previous Wednesday, Marsh had made a trip to Boston. She had got his parlor car reservation. She had gathered that it was in regard to the Ferris matter, since Marsh had said it was business, and since—she thought, could not be sure—the Ferris matter was the only one in which he had been, currently, engaged. Leaving the office to catch a midday train to Boston on Wednesday, Marsh had told her that she would not, probably, see him again until he returned from the cruise. He had, she thought, planned to catch the midnight train from Boston Thursday night, pick up what he wanted from his hotel, and go, then, to the ship.

She had debated with herself again, and had finally decided that it was not confidential that Mr. Marsh had made up his mind to go on the cruise only the previous Tuesday. Telephoning to make a reservation at so late a date, she had at first been told that it would be impossible. But later the travel agency had called back to say that, if Mr. Marsh would take a double stateroom—at one and a half times the two in a room rate—he could be accommodated. He had agreed to that, Stein thought rather to Miss Perky's surprise.

Stein had found five subscribers named Ferris in the Worcester telephone book. They were being checked out to discover whether any had a mother missing.

The secretary of the Clover Club had reported, resignedly, that half the members indecipherably signed their names. Show him the signature, and he would identify it. Bill Weigand sighed. He looked out the porthole, with some resentment, at the shining blue water which so implacably separated him from things that needed doing. The Clover Club had some two hundred members. One of the things which might turn out to need doing was to enquire of each whether he had employed one J. Orville Marsh, private detective. And the members might reasonably feel it was nobody's business but their own.

Dorian reported herself ready for cocktails with the captain. She looked it, in a white piqué dress, fitting closely down to the waist, flaring below it, with high-heeled blue linen slippers on slender feet. They went by the purser's bureau on their way to the captain's quarters, although the bureau was not on the way. They were the first in Captain Cunningham's office-sitting room, which was according to plan. Bill Weigand had time for a brief conference with the captain, which was also as planned. Another steward, older than Cholly, supplied cocktails, poured Captain Cunningham a glass of sherry.

Folsom and Hammond Jones came. Folsom was not in uniform—he wore a dark, double-breasted business suit, and his plump, ruddy face was set in a serious pattern—gave the effect of being double-breasted, too. Mr. Jones was sparer, and in uniform—and still; indefinably, like Folsom. Captain Cunningham told them both it was good of them to come and when Folsom waited, as if for more, merely smiled pleasantly and asked what they would have to drink. Folsom had bourbon on the rocks; Jones, scotch and ginger ale. It was, Bill thought, a credit to British composure that Captain Cunningham did not wince at that, and that the steward said, merely, “Thank you, sir.”

The Furstenbergs came next, and met the others with dignity, as if, in their lengthening lives, they had met people of many kinds, and met all with tolerance. Furstenberg's rather heavy face was moderated by a courteous half smile. He wore a dark suit of Italian silk, beautifully cut. He wore rimless glasses, to which a black ribbon was looped. His wife was, within the restraints of dignity, cheerful, in face and in manner. Bill made mental comparisons, and found it extremely unlikely that she could be the original of the photograph Marsh had carried. The lines of her face were upward lines; those in the photograph drooped sadly. The Furstenbergs asked for sherry.

Jules Barron was the last to come. He wore slacks of a yellowish hue, and sandals; he wore a jacket of soft brick red, slightly broad of shoulder, and a scarf, in lieu of necktie, to match the jacket. He was a handsome youngish man, black haired and—dashing. The word, with all its implications, came trotting to the mind.

But for all this, Jules Barron somewhat lacked assurance—seemed a little surprised to find himself there. That Folsom should show himself wary—should look from time to time at Bill Weigand, and away again quickly; at Captain Cunningham and as quickly away again—was to be expected. Captain Folsom suspected something was up, and had reason to. Folsom, understandably, might fear that he was about to be sneaked up on. But Mr. Barron had no obvious reason to feel uneasy.

It was possible, Bill thought, smiling rejection of another cocktail, that Barron merely did not see quite where he fitted in. Folsom and Jones were mature businessmen; the Furstenbergs even more mature and of a world which Jules Barron probably did not frequent. (It was difficult to imagine the Furstenbergs at a night club—as difficult as it was easy to imagine them at Carnegie Hall.) It was, faintly, difficult to imagine Barron out of a night club.

And it was likely also, Bill thought—while agreeing with Hammond Jones that great strides were being made by the automobile industry, and in particular by General Motors—that Barron missed suitable women. Admittedly, the small pre-luncheon cocktail party in the master's quarters of the
Carib Queen
was not too well assorted. The expression of Jules Barron brightened as he looked on Dorian Weigand, as did the expressions of most men, but there was, clearly, only one of her, and that one, as evidently, attached. Mrs. Furstenberg brought out a good deal of charm in Jules Barron, but that, Bill assumed, was reflexive. Mr. Barron might, in short, reasonably wonder why he was there at all.

And the others, also, might feel that Captain Cunningham gave somewhat odd parties—that he was either an inexperienced or a careless host. But that was a chance that had had to be taken, if anything was to come of the party. It was probable that nothing was.

“As to this talk about too much horsepower,” Jones said, “that's a lot of malarkey. Get in a jam on the road, and if you don't have it, where are you? I'd like to have them answer that.”

Bill Weigand agreed he had a point. He continued to listen, to nod encouragement, as Mr. Jones progressed. He learned, not to his surprise, that the manufacturers put a lot of pressure on dealers and what part of the anatomy that sometimes gave a pain in. He listened, also, to the others—to the captain telling Mrs. Furstenberg that he was sure she would enjoy Havana; to Dorian's few words as she listened, with an attention which only a husband could doubt, to Folsom's description of his son's wedding. Folsom showed pictures of it, now. And Folsom's uneasiness had, apparently, diminished. Mrs. Furstenberg was being charmed by Mr. Barron, and taking it well.

Captain Cunningham gave his attention to Aaron Furstenberg. There was another round of drinks—now it was only a pleasant small party; a service of the
Carib Queen
for those to be especially honored, for those on the captain's little list. Still listening to Hammond Jones—who was now evaluating other automatic transmission as against Dynaflow—Bill Weigand nevertheless caught Captain Cunningham's eye. Almost imperceptibly, Bill nodded.

“Speaking of jewels,” Captain Cunningham said, and just as imperceptibly raised his voice. “Got something here I'd like to show you. Pick your brains, what?” Furstenberg sat near him, but the captain's voice was still raised a little. “Got them here somewhere,” Cunningham said, and reached out to a drawer of his desk, and looked into it, and shook his head and tried another. “Here we are,” he said. “What do you think of these, Mr. Furstenberg?”

He held four photographs out to Aaron Furstenberg—four glossy photographs of bracelet, necklaces, ring set with a single large stone.

“Wife's great-aunt,” Cunningham said. “Left her these. Tell us they're valuable. Only, I'm not sure I trust this solicitor chap. Know what I mean?”

Bill Weigand did not think anyone was likely to know what Captain Cunningham meant. That was all right, too.

“What I mean is,” Cunningham said. “Sell them there, through this solicitor chap? Or have them shipped to the States, sell them there? Not the sort of thing my old girl would think suitable to wear around, y'know.” He paused. “Harumph,” he said.

The captain, Bill decided, was being carried away by his role. Apparently the British, too, read Wodehouse. Bill shook his head slightly, thinking Cunningham might be on the verge of a second “Harumph.”

“Appreciate your advice,” Captain Cunningham said to Aaron Furstenberg, and permitted himself a small sip from his glass of sherry. He nodded, just perceptibly, assurance toward Bill Weigand.

If Furstenberg was surprised at this intrusion of business on a social gathering, he was too courteous to show surprise. He did not, in fact, show anything. He took the photographs and looked at them with care, holding them so that the light fell first from one direction, and then another. Bill watched him; he managed also to watch the others.

Folsom, in midstream, ended his flow of family reminiscence. He watched Furstenberg turn the photographs in manicured fingers.

The captain's slightly raised voice had done it. Other conversation stopped; Aaron Furstenberg's study of the photographs became the center of attention. Bill leaned back in his chair, looking at the others—looking at Folsom, at Hammond Jones. He looked, also and quickly, at Jules Barron. The handsome young man, so Latin for a man born Finnegan, was leaning forward in his chair, his attitude one of interested attention. Folsom's face and attitude were more revealing, which was understandable. Whatever he knew—and he might know nothing beyond the fact that J. Orville Marsh was dead with a sword wound in his chest—J. R. Folsom did not believe in Cunningham's wife's great-aunt. It was Folsom's understandable belief that something was up. Jones, so far as Bill could determine, showed merely the polite interest due a host's concerns.

“They appear,” Furstenberg said, in a soft voice, a voice carefully modulated, “to be very nice pieces. Probably of considerable value. Of course, from photographs—” He did not bother to say the obvious. He did not seem surprised that Captain Cunningham had not seen the obvious.

“Oh,” Cunningham said, “imagine they're real enough. Old girl wasn't the type to wear paste. Have to give her that.”

They gave her that, sight unseen.

“Quite,” Furstenberg said. “I hadn't meant precisely that, captain. But the value of gems varies a great deal with their character. Entirely aside from their size. No one could appraise from photographs.”

“Oh,” Cunningham said. “I realize that, of course. Hadn't expected an appraisal. But—probably worth quite a bit, aren't they?”

“I should,” Furstenberg said, “imagine they would be worth a good many thousands, captain. In dollars—or in pounds. But—they'll be officially appraised, of course. By your tax people.” He looked at the photographs again, politely. “I shouldn't imagine it will make much difference whether they are sold in London or New York,” he said, and held the photographs out.

And as he did so, Jules Barron leaned still more forward in his chair.

“Mind if I have a look, captain?” Bill said, and reached out for the photographs, and was told that, certainly, the captain did not mind. Bill took the familiar photographs and studied them. He produced a low whistle of admiration.

“They look,” Bill said, “like a lot of money. Wouldn't you say so, Mr. Barron?”

And he held the photographs out to Barron, whose hands seemed eager for them. Barron looked quickly. He did not look long at any of the pictured pretty things, and there was no change in the expression on his face—there was, indeed, no expression readable on his face. He handed the pictures back.

“Do to me,” he said, and then drew his lips into a smile. “Not that I know much about things like that.”

“Oh,” Bill Weigand said, “nor I. You interested in jewelry, Mr. Folsom? Mr. Jones?”

Folsom took the photographs—he took them a little as if he expected they might be hot. He looked at them and said that to him, too, they looked like money. He looked up at Bill Weigand and his eyes seemed slightly puzzled. He looked again at the pictured bracelet, and handed the photographs to Hammond Jones, who looked longer and said he wished his wife had that kind of a great-aunt and handed the pictures on. Mrs. Furstenberg looked at them, and said that they were beautiful, and Dorian looked at them and said they certainly were and handed them back to Captain Cunningham. And then the public-address system, with chimes, announced the second sitting.