Voyage into Violence (7 page)

Folsom made a slight retching sound, and visibly took a deep breath, and conquered it.

“Going to meet him in the bar,” Folsom said. “Have a nightcap. He didn't show so I—what do you mean, did I come for it? What the hell right've you got—”

“Captain Weigand is trying to find out what happened,” Cunningham said. “At my request, Mr. Folsom. With my authority.”

“All the same—” Folsom said, and stopped again.

“You were going to meet Mr. Marsh for a drink,” Bill said. “He didn't show up and you came to find him?”

Folsom said, “Yeh.”

“There's a telephone in the smoking lounge,” Bill said. “All you had to do was to ask to be connected with Mr. Marsh's room.” He regarded Folsom. “Saved yourself a walk,” he said.

“Well,” Folsom said. “I didn't think of it. That's all. I didn't think of it. You always think of everything?”

He was aggrieved. It appeared his feelings were hurt.

“You trying to make me the goat?” Folsom asked, and now he was more aggrieved than ever. “Just because somebody stole our sword? If I killed him, what would I be coming back for?” This thought brightened him. “Tell me that,” he said, speaking with something approaching triumph.

“All right,” Bill said. “I did tell you—to get the sword.”

“What did I knock for?” Folsom said. “Look—you say I killed him. So I know he's dead, don't I? So why do I knock? Dead people don't open doors.”

Cunningham looked at Bill Weigand. He raised his eyebrows.

“All right,” Bill said. “I didn't say you killed him. Come on in. And—tell us more about the sword.”

Unhappily, Respected Captain J. R. Folsom came in.

4

The sword had last been worn by an officer of the day—Sergeant Walter D. Riggs, real estate—on the tour of duty which had ended at midnight, a little less than twenty-four hours earlier. Between midnight and eight in the morning, the Ancient and Respectable Riflemen dispensed with sentry. (It appeared, although it was not specifically said, that the officer of the day was a species of perambulating sergeant-at-arms, intended to help Ancient and Respectable Riflemen keep themselves under control.) J. R. Folsom was the first to admit that the lack of night patrol was to be lamented.

“To be frank with you,” Folsom said, with the air of one who puts cards on a table, “the boys just won't do it. Not at night. Hard enough to keep them at it—” He stopped.

In any case, Sergeant Riggs had put the sword in one of the two rifle boxes at midnight—perhaps a little before midnight. He had gone, then, to the smoking saloon, leaving Adjutant Hammond Jones—Jones Bros. Buick Corp.—to lock up.

“Why?” Bill asked. “Why didn't Riggs lock up?”

“Jonesy's got the key,” Folsom said, in some surprise. “Adjutant's responsibility.”

“Go ahead,” Bill told him.

The rifle boxes were stored forward and inboard on the promenade deck, rather in the way of the athletic doing their eight circuits to the mile. The boxes were there so that, when it came time to parade, the rifles could be got at. Once case had been left locked; the other, for the benefit of the sword, was locked only during the night. But the night before, “Jonesy just plain forgot it,” Folsom told them. “What with one thing and another. Not that Jonesy's what you'd call a drinking man.”

Sometime between midnight and morning, the sword had disappeared from the case. Sergeant O'Brien—James J. O'Brien, flooring—had gone for it at eight, or maybe a little after. It was not there.

“Are you all officers?” Weigand asked. “Or noncoms?”

“Well,” Folsom said, “I wouldn't go that far. But frankly, mostly. Way we work it, new members are privates for six months. Indoctrination. After that—”

“Right,” Bill said. “Sergeant O'Brien told you, I suppose?”

“Woke me up,” Folsom said, with some retrospective bitterness. “Told him to follow the chain. Chain of command. Told him to go wake up Adjutant Jones. Have Jones report to me. Chain of command, like I said. Anyway, Jonesy was the man supposed to lock up.”

“What did you do to find it?” Bill said.

They had asked around. All the Old Respectables had denied any knowledge of the sword.

“And,” Bill said, “you figured somebody had taken it out, all the same? Hidden it—as—as a joke of some sort?”

“Well,” Folsom said, “some of them didn't like to wear it. Like I said, because it banged into things. Maybe, come down to it, some of the boys thought it was a little silly.” Folsom stopped. “That's only what I thought then,” he said. “Way it is now—”

“The way it is now,” Bill said, “you'd rather think it wasn't one of the riflemen?”

“Way it is now,” Folsom said, “I think anybody on the boat could have got it. All our boys are good one hundred per cent Americans.”

Captain Peter Cunningham blinked.

“You mean,” he asked, politely, “that Americans—one hundred per cent Americans, that is—do not kill people?”

“Oh,” Folsom said. “See what you mean, captain. Not with swords, see what
I
mean?”

Captain Cunningham looked as if he were about to say he didn't.

“Why,” Bill Weigand said, “was the sword kept sharp, Mr. Folsom? Since I assume it was a ceremonial sword?”

Folsom did not answer immediately. Then he said, “Well—” and paused again.

“Well,” Folsom said, “I guess you'd say on account of Junior.” He looked from Weigand to Captain Cunningham, as if about to ask them whether they knew what he meant; he appeared to assume they did not.

“Well,” he said, “Junior's my son. We call him Junior. Mighty fine young—” He began to reach into his tunic. “Got a picture here some—”

“Never mind,” Bill said. “I'm sure he is. The sword was sharpened up for Junior?”

Folsom nodded.

“Why?” Bill asked him, with as much restraint as he could manage.

“To cut the cake,” Folsom said. “What did you think I meant?”

“I,” Bill said, “had no idea at all. A wedding cake?”

“Sure,” Folsom said. “Junior got married last June. Mighty fine young lady he—” He looked at Weigand. “O.K.,” he said. “Junior got married. But the draft's caught up with him. They decided to get married first. His mother didn't approve but—there you are. So, as he was going into the Army, I thought, why the hell not? Only, when I looked at it, the sword looked pretty dull and—well, not shined up right. So I sent it to these people and they fixed it up and put an edge on it. That's all there was to that.”

Involuntarily, he looked at the sword—the sword dangling in sight, which had, in its last use but one, sliced through a wedding cake. He looked away again.

“The only reason you came here,” Bill said, “was to find out why Mr. Marsh hadn't showed up for a drink at the bar?”

“Yeh,” Folsom said, and spoke quickly. “That's all I came for. And—I wish to hell I hadn't.”

“All right,” Bill said. “Go along and have your drink, Mr. Folsom. And—” His glance passed it to Captain Cunningham.

“I'd appreciate it,” Captain Cunningham said, “if you'd say as little about this as possible, Mr. Folsom. As a matter of fact—if you'd say nothing about it at all.” He paused to smile. “No use having people get the wind up, is there?” he said. “This sort of thing—” He paused again. “Leave a taste in the mouth, wouldn't it?” he said.

Folsom saw what he meant. After a final quick glance at what was on the floor, Folsom got out of Cabin 88. Cunningham raised his eyebrows at Bill Weigand.

“I don't know,” Bill said. “He could have come for that. Newfound pal. He's had a few. Perhaps enough to make old friends out of strangers. But—what was the matter with the telephone?”

Cunningham shook his head.

“On the other hand,” he said, “man's got a point. If he killed Marsh, why come back?”

Weigand shrugged. He indicated the telephone between the two beds. He asked whether, on that, he could get ship-to-shore. He could. Weigand edged around the body, but the captain was nearer and picked up the telephone. He waited briefly. “Captain here,” he said. “A shore call coming. I'd like you to expedite.” Then he handed the telephone to Weigand. Weigand wanted the offices of Homicide, Manhattan West, in West Twentieth Street. He gave the number. He said, “Thanks,” and hung up the telephone. He said, “How many passengers have you aboard, captain?” and groaned slightly when he was told there were a hundred and forty or thereabouts. Told that there were as many more in the crew—that there were close to three hundred men and women and children aboard the
Carib Queen
—he groaned audibly.

It was several minutes later that the telephone rang. Bill was pulling the second of two large suitcases from under one of the beds. He put it on the bed with its mate, and with a flat attaché case. He answered the telephone and talked, across miles of water which shone under a three-quarters' moon, to Sergeant Stein in a small, and somewhat dingy, office in Tenth Precinct station house in West Twentieth Street, Manhattan. He wanted what could be found out about one J. Orville Marsh, licensed private investigator, deceased; one J. R. Folsom, manufacturer of paper boxes in Worcester, Mass.; one Mrs. Olivia Macklin, home address not given except as New York City, and one Hilda Macklin, her daughter; one Oscar Peterson, miller, from Minnesota, and his wife; one Walter D. Riggs, real estate, also of Worcester, and one Hammond Jones, Buick dealer, of the same city and—He said to wait a minute.

“The others at your table, captain?” Bill said. “Young couple; elderly couple.”

The captain looked puzzled; he gave names. “Mr. and Mrs. Carl Buckley, some place in Kansas. Mr. and Mrs. Aaron Furstenberg, Central Park West,” Bill told Sergeant Stein, over static. “And—get hold of the passenger list. Have the identification boys go over it. See if any of our favorite names show up. Right?”

“O.K., captain,” Stein said. “Having a nice trip?”

“Wonderful,” Bill said. “Entirely wonderful, sergeant. Man with a sword in him. Mullins' new baby showed up?”

“Boy,” Stein said. “Eight pounds six ounces. What you want'll take time.”

Bill Weigand knew it would. As things cropped up, if things did crop up, information could be telephoned along. It would be useful if it could also be air-mailed to Havana. He hung up.

“Folsom I understand,” Captain Cunningham said. “And Jones—Adjutant Jones—and Riggs. Buy why the Petersons, Mrs. Macklin and the Buckleys and Furstenbergs? Nice young couple, the Buckleys. Interesting accent. Why?”

“Mrs. Macklin makes herself felt,” Bill said. “As for the others—we have to start some place. Also, they've met Marsh.” He smiled at Cunningham's expression. “Oh,” he said, “I know it's tenuous. I know we'll be wasting time. But—three fourths of all the motions we go through are wasted motions.” He looked at the ship's captain, used to more orderly procedures. Captain Cunningham merely looked interested. “Before we can make a fix,” Bill said. “That's the word, isn't it?”

“Oh,” Cunningham said. “Quite, Weigand.”

Bill got on with it. He got on first, with a suitcase which, lifted, had felt empty. It was empty. He went to the other suitcase, which had not felt empty. It was not. Marsh had been using it as a hamper for soiled clothes. He had made several changes. Either he was a man of very scrupulous cleanliness, or he had brought soiled clothing aboard. It might be, Weigand thought, that he had spent a few nights in a hotel before embarking. He rummaged in the clothing. He found a .38 caliber, police positive, revolver. He took it out. It was loaded.

“I thought,” Cunningham said, “you told me that Marsh didn't carry a gun?”

Bill had. He admitted he had. It appeared he had been wrong. He emptied the clothing in the case onto the bed and further examined the case. He found nothing; he tossed the clothing back in. He turned to the attaché case—a smooth, rectangular box of leather. It was locked. Cunningham watched him.

“Here,” Cunningham said, “let me have a go at it, what?”

He produced a heavy knife, and opened a heavy blade. He prized at the lock. He broke the blade of the knife.

“Bad steel,” Cunningham said. He opened another blade and prized again, more carefully. His hands were deft; when it became necessary, they were strong. The brass tongue of the lock snapped up. “There we are,” Captain Cunningham said, pleased.

The shallow case was only partly filled. One by one, Bill Weigand took objects from it.

He took a square brown envelope and opened it and four glossy photographs slid out. They were photo graphs of jewelry—of a wide bracelet, heavily jeweled; of a ring, with a single large setting—again probably a diamond; of two necklaces, presumably of pearls. All these pretty things had been photographed against black cloth; Bill presumed, black velvet. He held the photographs out to the captain, who looked at them. The captain said they looked like money—like a great deal of money.

Bill agreed to that, adding that one couldn't tell. The diamonds might be glass, the pearls graduated beads.

“Silly to photograph them if they were,” Cunningham said, reasonably. Bill agreed to that, and went on.

There was a photograph of a heavy elderly woman with white hair. She wore a dark dress. Her eyes and her face seemed sad, and her face drooped sadly. Bill showed this to the captain, and Cunningham shook his head.

“Nor I,” Bill said, and turned the photograph over, and found nothing written on the back of it.

Bill opened a black notebook and a letter fell out of it. There was no envelope. There was the discreet letterhead of The Clover Club. There was nothing to say where The Clover Club might be. The letter was dated October 3. It was addressed to “Dear Mr. Marsh.” It read: