Murderer’s Trail. J. Farjeon Jefferson

ship, and is trying to stop Faggis getting on it. P’r’aps the man recognises Faggis, and threatens to give him up. Or p’r’aps the man doesn’t know anything, but is going to make a row, and that’s the last thing Faggis wants. Slosh! The man goes down, hit with a spanner or a knuckle-duster. Probably a spanner. The third officer had referred to a spanner in the conversation in the coal bunker, and the report in the paper had said that the knife had been found by the police. Very likely Faggis had plenty of tools on him, and the spanner was one of them.

      Down goes the man for the count. Death does the counting. He cries out as he goes down. Ben hears the cry, and thinks at first it is an echo of his own. The echo was this poor fellow’s death cry …

      ‘Now you’re for it,’ said the third officer. ‘We’re nearly there.’

      What happens then? Faggis gets the wind up. He starts lugging the man he has killed towards the water, hears Ben approaching, drops the body, darts away, and leaves it for Ben to topple over.

      Was Faggis watching Ben as he croquet-hooped over the dead body? Whew!

      Next? That’s easy. Ben rushes off on his circular tour. Faggis returns to the body, continues with his journey, and drops the man into the water. Splash!

      ‘Stoker?’ thought Ben suddenly at this point. ‘The deader was a stoker!’

      The thought was illuminating. Dead man, stoker. Faggis, who had killed the dead man, referred to by the third officer as ‘Mr Hammersmith Stoker.’ Taken on in his place, eh? By the third officer, who somehow got to know all about it! Now, why would the third officer take a murderer on to his ship, allowing him to fill the vacancy caused by the murder?

      Ben turned suddenly, and stared at the third officer. The third officer stared back.

      ‘What the hell are you stopping for?’ demanded the third officer.

      ‘I was jest thinkin’,’ answered Ben, ‘’ow much I loves yer.’

      The third officer swung him round and kicked him in the back.

      ‘Tha’s orl right,’ thought Ben, struggling not to cry. ‘You wait!’

       8

       In the Captain’s Cabin

      The stomach of a ship, as has been indicated, is not the pleasantest place to reside in. The brain is more appealing. There are instruments in it which may fill a novice with a certain awe. There are wheels and levers, intricate barometers, compasses with bulbs and lights, and other electrical devices, all bearing the mute message, ‘Do not touch!’ But sunlight plays about them, and clear air bathes them, driving away one’s nightmare thoughts; and in the adjacent sanctuary where the brain rests, luxury mixes very pleasantly with necessity.

      While Ben was ascending from the stomach, two men sat in the brain’s sanctuary. One was dressed in immaculate dark blue. His sleeve bore four imposing gold lines, the middle two interwoven to form a diamond. (The third officer’s sleeve had only one line, and his diamond was just tacked on.) His face was as immaculate as his cloth, but the immaculateness of both the face and the cloth spoke of efficiency, not of dandyism. The chief engineer can give orders with grease on his clothes and smuts on his face, but the captain’s appearance, saving in emergency, must be irreproachable.

      The other man possessed quite another kind of distinctiveness. His clothes too, were of the best, if money stands for quality. Brown tweed, of expensive roughness. A coloured shirt that glowed in daring contrast to the suit. ‘I am right!’ it shouted to the doubter. ‘Notice my silk. Men who can afford me can make fashion!’ Brown boots, solid and highly polished. A tie that cost even more than it could show—it is a tragedy that mere appearance is so limited—and a pin to bring tears to covetous eyes. The pin was secretly secured against the covetous eyes, however, by an eighteen-carat gold clip.

      And presiding above all this was a large monarch of a head, full of ancient business furrows that were now comfortable creases. A grey moustache, also large and comfortable, concealed the upper lip. But today something disturbed the usual ostentatious comfort of this man, and his eyes as they gazed at the captain sitting opposite were bright with restlessness.

      ‘Say, I’ve heard of your silent navy,’ said the large man, breaking a pause that was getting on his nerves; ‘but I didn’t know it spread to the Mercantile Marine!’

      The captain, quite unperturbed by the little sarcasm, allowed a few more seconds to pass. Then he replied, unnecessarily informative:

      ‘I’m thinking, Mr Holbrooke.’

      ‘Well,’ growled Mr Holbrooke, ‘I should say even thought’s got a time limit.’

      ‘In your country, perhaps,’ said the captain. ‘Not in ours. I’m thinking of what you’ve told me just now—and wondering—’

      ‘Yep?’

      ‘If you’ve told me everything?’

      Mr Holbrooke frowned, looked away for a moment, and then hastily looked back.

      ‘I don’t get you!’ he exclaimed.

      ‘It ought to be easy,’ observed the captain. ‘What’s really making you so scared?’

      Mr Holbrooke did not like that, and his large eyebrows went up in protest.

      ‘Say, who’s scared?’ he demanded.

      ‘Well, suspicious, then,’ the captain corrected himself dryly. ‘Choose your own term, Mr Holbrooke.’

      Mr Holbrooke regarded the cigar he was smoking thoughtfully. It was one of the captain’s cigars, and, to his surprise, it was quite as good as his own.

      ‘Ah—I see what you mean,’ he murmured. ‘Yes, I’m suspicious, don’t worry. Suppose I say it’s just a hunch?’

      ‘A hunch,’ repeated the captain, nodding slightly. ‘And do you seriously expect me to search the whole of this ship for you on account of a hunch?’

      ‘Eh?’

      ‘And to watch every passenger? And to ring a Curfew at eight? And to send a wireless to Scotland Yard? Because that’s really about what it comes to, Mr Holbrooke, isn’t it?’

      Mr Holbrooke’s frown grew.

      ‘Maybe that’s putting it rather strongly, sir,’ he protested. ‘I’m not aware that I’ve said anything about any Curfew!’

      The captain shrugged his shoulders.

      ‘Then what do you want me to do?’ he inquired.

      Mr Holbrooke stared at the ground, and then suddenly banged his fist down on the arm of his chair.

      ‘No, by Gosh, you’re right!’ he exclaimed. ‘That’s what I do want you to do! Within reasonable limits, of course—and I dare say we can spare the Curfew! The point is, as I’ve mentioned, that you’re not dealing with—well, sir, just an ordinary person. You understand me? What I’m telling you is that I’m able and willing to pay for what I’m asking—’

      He paused, as the captain raised his hand. The captain spoke a little stiffly.

      ‘The normal protection of passengers on board the Atalanta is included in the price of their passage,’ he said. ‘And, even if it were not, the expense of the extra service you suggest would be rather high for—well, just a hunch.’

      ‘Wouldn’t that be my affair?’ suggested Mr Holbrooke, unhappily.

      ‘In the strictest sense,’ responded the captain, ‘everything on board the Atalanta is my affair.’

      ‘Then,