Читать книгу Unneutral Murder - Footner Hulbert - Страница 3

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The time was August, 1943. Intending passengers on the Portuguese ship Dom Joäo III had been instructed to go aboard before 11 p.m. In wartime guests were not permitted on the ship, and since the bar was closed there was nothing for the passengers to do but turn in. Some time during the night the trim ship quietly cast off her lines and slipped out to sea. As a neutral ship she required no escort. Along her sides in gigantic letters appeared her name and her nation, together with the Portuguese flag, the whole brilliantly displayed under floodlights.

Having been forced to go to bed early, most of the passengers were out on the promenade before breakfast. They found the ship gleaming with fresh white paint, the attendants solicitous. It was better than they had expected in wartime. The American coast had already sunk below the horizon astern; the ship was alone on the sea. It was a rare morning; the sun shone gloriously on the blue expanse; the breath of the sea was as exhilarating as wine.

“Man litters up the earth,” remarked little Mr. Mappin to his secretary as they stepped out on deck, “but he cannot spoil the sea.”

“Yes, sir,” said the secretary impassively. His name was William Miller, a big, blond, pink-skinned fellow with thick spectacles that gave him an owlish appearance. Helped by the spectacles, he cultivated an absolutely dead pan.

Mr. Mappin went on: “I’m glad we chose the ship instead of a plane. We’ll have a blessed interlude of peace at sea before plunging into the mess over there.”

The younger man looked out across the sea, scowling. “The ship is so slow!” he murmured. “It’s hard to wait!”

“As for me,” said Mr. Mappin, holding up his glasses to the sky and peering through them, “I’m not naturally a man of action. Haven’t got the figure for it. So I’m willing to put off what is before us as long as possible.”

“You were a brave man to volunteer for it,” said Miller gravely. When he spoke softly his voice rumbled.

“Not at all,” said Mr. Mappin, adjusting his glasses. “I was too cowardly to refuse the job.”

“What’s the difference?” said the other, shrugging.

“Well, anyhow, if we had taken the plane we should have been marked from the start as important travellers. This way we may escape notice.”

“Not much chance of that,” said Miller sombrely.

Even here on the peaceful, sunny sea the ship’s company reflected the troubles on shore. All the passengers were supposed to be on the side of the United Nations, or what would they have been doing in the port of New York? But it was clear from their sidelong glances that they doubted each other. A cloud of suspicion hung over the promenade deck. Passengers were guarded in their approach to others, and some pointedly kept to themselves. The feather-brained women and the garrulous old men of peace-time voyages were conspicuous by their absence. Everybody aboard the Dom Joäo III was on business. For instance, a trim, smartly-dressed young woman with magnificent black eyes.

“It’s not natural for such a one to keep such eyes lowered as she walks the deck,” remarked Mappin to Miller. “Who is she?”

“Down on the passenger list as Miss Kate McDonald of Dundee. Has a British passport. The purser told me.”

“Could be forged.”

“If so, it’s a good job. Bears the stamp of a dozen British consulates, including New York.”

“Maybe so,” said Mappin, “but don’t tell me those eyes opened for the first time in Scotland.”

One young man, an exception to the other passengers, was making up to all and sundry. A good-looking, smiling young fellow, as blond as Miller, but livelier, he seemed to be of a type that is to be found on shipboard during peace or war.

“Name of Ronald Franklin,” said Miller in response to Mappin’s question. “An American; agent for Swiss watch movements in America. As they are doing an enormous business during wartime, he has to make continuous trips back and forth.”

“Hm!” said Mappin. “Why can’t he transact his business by cable?”

“Looks like a harmless fellow,” said Miller indifferently.

“Look again,” said Mappin. “Notice that while he grins and jokes with everybody his handsome blue eyes are sharp and wary.”

“You’re right, sir.”

William Miller drifted away and plump Mr. Mappin toddled around the promenade alone. In a sheltered open space astern, a ping-pong table had been set up. Young Franklin was bouncing a celluloid ball as Mappin came along.

“Like to play?” he asked, with the winning smile.

“Not with you,” said Mappin, glancing at Franklin’s long legs. “Give me somebody my own size.”

Franklin laughed and fell in beside him. “Ronald Franklin,” he said, offering his hand.

“Walter Brown,” said Mappin, taking it.

Franklin’s conversation flowed as smoothly as a tidal river. Before they had made two rounds of the promenade Mappin was in possession of all the salient facts about him. His job of selling Swiss watch movements in America; his headquarters at the McAlpin Hotel; unmarried; born in Elyria, Ohio, where his parents and younger brothers and sisters still lived; educated at St. Paul’s School and Yale. He embarked on a lively description of his youngest brother, Johnny, who not only had the makings of a good athlete but was smart at his books too.

“I’m going to take charge of that kid’s education,” said Franklin. “He deserves the best and he shall have it!” And so forth and so forth. “You may think it funny that a husky looking guy like me isn’t in the army,” he said with a sidelong look, “but as a matter of fact I only have one lung.”

“So,” said Mappin sympathetically.

After completing two rounds of the deck, Franklin said with a charming, deprecating laugh: “But I must be boring you with these personal details.”

“Not at all!” said Lee. “I am never bored.”

A pause followed which Lee Mappin understood was to give him a chance to talk about himself. This young man was too smart to ask leading questions. “I envy you your life of usefulness,” Lee said with an innocent air. “I inherited a bit of money and I’ve never done any work at all. Just travelled. It was pleasant enough until Pearl Harbour, but then it got on my nerves. I was too old to serve in the Army and I had had no business or professional training. There was absolutely nothing I could do in the war. So I decided to write a book. I always wanted to write a book. I’m going to write a history of Portugal. That’s what I’m going to Lisbon for.”

“How interesting!” murmured young Franklin. “Who’s the young fellow who’s travelling with you?”

“My secretary, William Miller. He will do the necessary translating for me. Speaks Portuguese and Spanish and all that.”

“A fine-looking fellow. How did he get exempted from the Army?”

Mappin blinked mildly through his polished glasses. “Defective eyesight, poor fellow.”

When Mappin finally dropped in his deck chair, William Miller looked at him inquiringly. “We lied to each other fluently,” said Mappin. “And neither believed a word. It was good comedy.”

There was one couple among the passengers who were above suspicion because everybody knew who they were and what their business was. This was John Stanley and his young wife. It had been announced in the papers that Stanley was going to Lisbon as Fourth Secretary to the hard-pressed United States Legation. He was nearly seven feet tall and broad in proportion, and, as is so often the case, his pretty little wife stood scarcely breast-high beside him. They had only recently been married. She was Vera Whittier, daughter of the tobacco nabob.

When the chimes sounded for breakfast the Stanleys and Mr. Mappin came face to face on the landing where the two branches of the descending stairway came together. “Why, Mr. Mappin!” said Mrs. Stanley, “what a delightful surprise!”

Mappin blinked at her mildly from behind the polished glasses. “I beg your pardon! My name is Brown.”

The girl became red with embarrassment. “Sorry,” she said stiffly; “my mistake.”

She ran down the rest of the stairs, followed by her lumbering young husband.

When the couple faced each other across a little table in the dining saloon she was seething with anger. “I’ve never been treated so rudely in my life! Certainly that is Mr. Mappin. He’s been to our house to dinner! There’s nobody else could look like that, the ugly little toad!”

“Easy, my pet,” said Stanley. “Remember this is wartime, and he probably has good reasons for not wanting to be known.”

“Well, he didn’t have to stare me down, did he? Such rudeness!”

“You should have waited for a sign from him.”

“Not at all! My mother said it was the woman’s place always to bow first.”

“We have left the comfortable, easy-going States behind us,” said Stanley seriously, “and now we will have to watch our step and weigh every word.”

“And do I have to submit to a lecture from you into the bargain?”

“No, my pet. But, God knows! all this has just been rubbed into me down in Washington! Be very careful not to mention to anybody that Mr. Mappin is aboard.”

Mrs. Stanley tossed her pretty head.

At another little table across the saloon, Miller murmured: “Unfortunate you were recognised, sir.”

“It hardly matters,” said Mappin.

Miller glanced across the saloon through his lashes. “She is angry. She’s giving her husband hell about it.”

Mappin shrugged. “Poor young devil! He would marry an heiress!”

“Hadn’t you better get her aside and square yourself with her?”

“Not at all,” said Mappin calmly. “If I did, I’d have to bear with her meaning glances and secret signals during the whole voyage.”

“She is likely to gossip to the other passengers.”

“Let her gossip. We are safe away from port. It was advance information of our sailing that was dangerous.”

“The ship’s wireless is working, sir.”

After breakfast, when young Mr. and Mrs. Stanley resumed their promenade on deck with cigarettes, they were presently joined by the agreeable Ronald Franklin. The young man’s charming manner and smile recommended him to both husband and wife.

They continued their stroll with the little woman in the middle. Franklin was able to give the budding diplomatist much valuable information about the complicated situation in Lisbon. He had left there only six weeks before.

“Rather like a madhouse,” he said, “but conducted with the most punctilious regard for diplomatic procedure.”

By and by a cabin boy presented a radiogram to Stanley. It required an answer and the tall young man hastened away to the radio cabin on the bridge deck.

When he was left alone with the bride, Franklin’s conversation assumed a warmer tone. Vera Stanley, who had been around, was instantly aware of it, but since she was in love with her giant husband, she felt safe in leading another man on a little. In fact, she rather admired his cheek.

“How delightful to find anybody like you aboard this stuffy ship!” Franklin said.

“What good will that do you?” she asked pertly.

“Oh, don’t misunderstand me,” he said, turning a pair of blue eyes on her that seemed to beam with deep (but modest) admiration. “I know you’re just married and all that. For me, it will make the voyage pass more quickly just to have you to look at!”

“Really!” said Mrs. Stanley, dimpling.

There was considerably more of this as they circumnavigated the promenade. Vera Stanley enjoyed it. This young Franklin, she told herself, had a continental finish you never found in an American boy. It was one of the things she had looked forward to in Europe. “A fast worker,” murmured Mr. Mappin to William Miller as the couple passed their chairs.

“What an odd-looking little man!” said Franklin to Vera casually, when they had passed out of hearing of the chairs, “With his white vest and spats and neat Panama. I saw you meet on the stairs at breakfast. So odd-looking and so distinctive, you feel that he must be somebody.”

“He is,” said Vera dryly. She had forgotten her husband’s warning. “It’s no less a person than Amos Lee Mappin.”

“Mappin,” said Franklin carelessly. “Sounds familiar, but I don’t seem to connect it with anything. Who is he?”

“Why, he’s one of the best-known men in New York. It’s considered quite a triumph when you can get him to come to dinner. He’s been at our house, but I couldn’t see the attraction. Never spoke a word to me.”

“What has he done to become so famous?”

“He writes books. The history of famous crimes and how they were solved and all that. And once in a while he solves a case himself. Don’t you remember the boarding-house for ex-convicts on Henry Street a couple of years ago? The house with the blue door, the newspapers called it.”

“I must have been out of the country,” said Franklin. His smooth face had stiffened. “A detective, eh?”

“Oh, it makes him mad to be called a detective. He poses as a psychologist or a criminologist, or something high-sounding like that. They say he charges a terrific fee, and won’t take a case at any price unless it happens to interest him. Horrid little man! Did you see him try to stare me down? I detest him.”

Mr. Franklin, treating the subject as of no interest, allowed it to drop.

When John Stanley returned, Franklin, with his charming deprecating smile, handed over his wife and, leaving them, made his way in turn, nonchalantly and by a circuitous route, up to the radio shack.

Some minutes later, Captain Gonçalves came striding aft along the starboard promenade. A handsome man with a firm, seaman-like expression, he was rendered magnificent by the lavishness of his gold braid. By this time the sea was heaving gently and there were only a few passengers left in their chairs. When the Captain came opposite to Mr. Mappin’s chair, he stopped suddenly and pointed across the sea.

“Look!” he said dramatically.

Mappin and William Miller scrambled out of their chairs and approached him. Still pointing across the sea, he said swiftly: “Sir, I have need to speak with you without being observed. Please to be waiting for me in your cabin at eleven.”

“Why, of course!” murmured the astonished Mappin.

Other passengers were crowding up. “What is it, Captain? What is it?”

“A whale spouting,” said the Captain coolly. “But now he has flipped his tail and sounded. You will not see him again.”

“What is sounded?” asked a lady passenger.

“Dived to the bottom of the ocean, Madam.” The Captain bowed and continued down the deck.

“What do you suppose is biting milord?” said Mappin to William as they regained their chairs.

“Very mysterious,” said William.

“Even an honest seaman soon learns to put on a conspiratorial air in these bad days!” said Mappin.

It lacked less than half an hour of eleven, and Mappin and Miller presently descended to their cabin. They had one of the two de luxe cabins of the Dom Joäo III, a pleasant room, gay with cretonne covers and curtains, having two single beds, a sofa and a whole row of big portholes looking out on the blue sea. It was entered by a short passage with a bathroom on one side and a trunk room on the other.

Promptly on the hour, there was a knock on the door and the magnificent Captain entered with his gold-laced cap under his arm. He was accompanied by a room steward, but at a glance from the Captain, the steward remained in the little passage. The Captain closed the inner door of the suite, and after bowing to Mr. Mappin and to Miller, looked inquiringly at the latter.

“This gentleman?” he inquired.

“My secretary, Mr. Miller. He enjoys my entire confidence, Captain. You may speak freely.”

“Gentlemen, you must have been astonished by my method of address on deck,” began the Captain.

“Nothing astonishes me nowadays,” murmured Mappin.

“The fact is,” the Captain went on, “one suspects spies in everybody during these unhappy times. My ship’s company is selected and investigated with the greatest care, but alas! I have only too much reason to believe that there are spies among them.” The Captain laid his hand on his heart. “The people of my country are on your side, gentlemen; never doubt that, but there are corruptible ones among them as among all peoples, and the enemy is lavish with his money.”

Mappin interrupted this little speech with just a shade of impatience. “Quite so, Captain. But what is the particular trouble?”

“I know that you are Mr. Amos Lee Mappin,” the Captain went on. “The New York office of the line—how do you say it?—tipped me off. But of course I shall respect your desire to travel incognito. I am entirely at your service, Mr. Mappin.” Another bow.

Mappin matched his bow. “I am extremely obliged, Captain. I see by your face that there is something else you had to say.”

“Yes, sir, I wanted to convey a warning. Have you noticed a passenger who calls himself Ronald Franklin?”

“I have.”

“I suspect him of being an enemy agent. His papers are all in order, so I cannot take action. But he travels back and forth on our ships with suspicious frequency.”

“Very good, Captain. I’ll act accordingly.”

“I mustn’t appear to single you out during the voyage,” Captain Gonçalves went on, “but I entertain all the first-class passengers from time to time. There is no reason why you shouldn’t drop in at my quarters on the bridge deck if you wish to speak to me. Or better still, I make my inspection of the ship every morning at eleven, and if you happen to be in your cabin at that hour ...”

“I get you. And thank you again, Captain.”

With more bows the Captain retired, and presently they heard him enter the next stateroom.

“A little long-winded,” remarked Lee Mappin, “but his heart is in the right place.”

At the luncheon table William Miller reported to his chief: “I’ve been talking to Franklin. Or rather I let him talk to me. He’s German.”

“So,” said Lee. “Did you hear it in his voice? I couldn’t.”

“No. He speaks good American plus slang, correctly used. No trace of an accent.”

“Then how did you know?”

William smiled a little bitterly. “It takes a German to know a German.”

“Quite,” said Lee. “And if you spotted him for a German, he must have spotted you for the same. It increases your danger.”

William shrugged off the suggestion of danger to himself.

“Also bear in mind that if he’s smart, he now knows that you know he’s German. So watch your step.”

“I’ll do that,” said William grimly.

As they were finishing their lunch, a cabin boy handed Lee a radio envelope.

Inside it bore a cryptic message written on the radio operator’s typewriter:

“Please go to your cabin in ten minutes.”

Lee smiled. “Another mystery!”

William murmured, “Sir, you treat it too lightly!”

Lee answered in the same tone: “Perhaps I take it more seriously than I let on.”

In their cabin Lee tore the message into small pieces and tossed them through the open port. Presently Captain Gonçalves walked in without knocking. He said:

“I take some risk in visiting you at this hour, but the matter seems important.”

“Why are you reluctant to meet me openly?” asked Lee mildly.

“I am in your hands, Mr. Mappin. My orders from my government are that I must not under any circumstances favour either one side or the other in this war. Portugal’s very existence depends on maintaining the strictest neutrality.”

“Good man!” said Lee, shaking hands with him. “What’s the trouble?”

The Captain handed him another radiogram form. It bore a message written in pencil in a flowery hand. “When I returned to the bridge after inspection, the radio operator gave me this, saying he thought I ought to see it. Ronald Franklin handed it in to be sent.”

The message read: James A. Dryden, —— West 32nd St., N.Y. Grand weather. Regards to all. (Signed) Amos Lee Mappin.

“What do you make of it, Mr. Mappin?”

“Very ingenious,” said Lee, smiling. “Naturally the ship does not accept messages in code during wartime, and so our enemy has been forced to construct a code out of innocent-sounding phrases. He wouldn’t have a code phrase for my name, of course, so he had to write it out in full, and it appeared most natural as the signature. The purpose of this message, Captain, is simply this: Amos Lee Mappin is aboard this ship.”

“I wasn’t sure what it meant,” said the Captain, “but it is obviously unneutral and it has not been sent.”

“Thank you, Captain. I’ll give you a message now.” There were forms for radiograms in the cabin desk, and Lee wrote quickly: Stan Oberry, —— W. 42nd St., N.Y. Look into activities James A. Dryden, —— W. 32nd St. N.Y. (Signed) Lee.

“For your information, Captain, this Oberry is a private detective whom I sometimes employ. If he turns up anything suspicious, he will pass it on to the F.B.I.” Lee handed back Franklin’s faked message. “Let Sparks file this with his other transmitted messages,” he said, “because it is likely that Franklin may use some pretext to assure himself that it has been filed. At the end of the voyage it can be returned to me for evidence.”

“Very well, Mr. Mappin.”