Читать книгу The Road to Bagdad - George Fort Gibbs - Страница 9

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It seemed necessary in the morning for Camilla to get a new slant on the events of the previous day, so that her thoughts would make sense. An important fact seemed to emerge. She had been most earnestly embraced by a man she had met only two days before. Another important fact was that she seemed to have liked it. These thoughts were more extraordinary when Camilla reminded herself that she had never been what is so casually known as a “necker.” The next important thought that came to her was the possibility—even the probability—that Ronald Barker might have thought that she was accustomed to being embraced by strange young men. That idea annoyed her exceedingly. She wondered a little at her new attitude of mind when last night she had been so willing to take everything Ronald Barker said for granted. It was, she thought, that she was a little resentful at her docility—a little angry with herself because of the ease with which he had conquered her resistance.

She took her coffee in her room and after her bath found herself with a new point of view which refused to accept Mr. Barker at his face value.

And yet there was something to be said about the value of a face. Hers was distinctly worthwhile and Ronald Barker must have thought so. But whatever he had thought about her last night, whatever he thought this morning, she was sure she did not want to talk to him until she had a chance to look him over by daylight. Certainly she had no intention of hunting for him.

So she was glad when there was a clatter at the door and Josephine Holloway and Kitty Trimble rushed in. All night they had been ready to explode with curiosity, they said, for the story of Camilla’s part in the affair was all over the ship, much distorted, making her a heroine of sorts.

“Well, toots, you certainly put one over on Asad,” Josephine gurgled, “and Slim and Michael, to say nothing of all the eligible females on this ark.”

“What I came in to find out,” Kitty Trimble said, “is what you’ve got that I haven’t got. You haven’t even got the experience of a handsome grass-widow twice removed. And yet you walk off with the mystery man under my very eyes, lead him out into the moonlight which makes every woman beautiful so he can make love to you; and then, just to show him how indispensable you are to him, you save his life from a bunch of assassins.”

“To say nothing of getting Michael and Slim ready to throw him overboard.”

Kitty Trimble sat on the bed and took out her compact, demanding information.

“It’s very unfair of you, Camilla—”

“There’s nothing to tell except that he’s half American, working for the British Government—very interesting and what you’d call a good egg—”

“But who was it wanted to kill him and why?”

“I don’t know—”

“Didn’t you try to find out?”

“Yes, I did, but he wouldn’t talk.”

“Why not?”

“You’ll have to ask him.”

Josie gave a sniff of impatience. “Seems to me you’re awfully snooty about him. You warn the man and keep him from being shot and he doesn’t even tell you—”

“It was none of my business—”

“Or ours, I guess you mean. Oh, well—”

A knock on the door and a steward entered.

“Captain’s compliments, Miss Dean, and if it’s convenient for you he would like to see you in his office at once.”

The other girls got up as the steward went out.

Camilla slipped into her coat and with a wave of her hand hurried out toward the gangway to the upper deck.

She was surprised to find a number of people, who almost filled the Captain’s cabin. Her glance passed over them quickly, passengers with whose faces she was familiar. There were Slim, Michael, Ronald Barker, the Russian—Stephanov, Asad, Torelli, and several other men. A steward, a member of the crew apparently just off duty, came in and stood near the desk where Simpson sat with the Purser, Mr. Disston.

“Captain Simpson asked you up here,” Barker whispered, “on the chance that you might recognize some of these men or their voices. It’s pretty hopeless, but he wants you just to sit in and listen while they talk.”

She nodded and took the chair he offered her.

The Captain addressed them all. “I invited you here because the room stewards have reported that none of you had turned in before half past one o’clock last evening. It was after that hour that a murder was attempted on this ship. Some one sneaked along A deck, in the darkness, and fired through the port of Mr. Barker’s stateroom. Mr. Barker, fortunately, had not turned in and the shots aimed at his bed went through the pillow where his head should have been. Mr. Barker fired at the intruder from the sofa where he was lying but in the dim light his shot went wild.”

Simpson went on, looking sternly at the faces of his visitors. “Now, the Captain of a ship,” he continued, “is also Chief of Police, Judge, Jury, and Public Prosecutor, with unlimited power to investigate and prevent sabotage or crime. I don’t accuse any person in this room of firing the shots but I’ve asked you here to testify as to what you were doing at that hour. In other words, I want alibis and plenty of them. Mr. Asad, you were on the promenade deck just before the occurrence. Will you stand up and tell me if you heard the shots, where you were, and what you did?”

Joseph Asad smiled cheerfully.

“Gladly. I had come in from a walk on deck where I passed Miss Dean and Mr. Barker. I stopped for a while in the saloon to find a book and then went down the main gangway of B deck and stood aft talking to the Chief Engineer who had just come out of his office to go below to the engine-room. It was while I was talking to the Chief that the shots were fired. Chief Zimmerman will, of course, verify this statement if you wish it. We could not tell where the shots came from but we went at once to the saloon on A deck where a number of other passengers were gathered. It was there that I heard who had been shot at. Aside from this I know nothing about the affair.”

“You have no idea as to who might have attempted to murder Mr. Barker?”

“Not the least idea,” Asad finished.

Captain Simpson made a signal for Mr. Asad to be seated and called on Mr. José Serrano to testify. Mr. Serrano was a small man with a scrubby brown pointed beard, streaked with gray, which he stroked affectionately. His back was bent as though from an injury and he leaned upon a cane.

“Mr. Serrano, you are an Assyriologist?”

“Yes, sir,” he said, in excellent English. “I am on my way east to investigate some new discoveries in the Tigris-Euphrates valley.”

“Did you ever see Mr. Barker before you came aboard this ship?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you ever hear of him?”

“In a general way, yes. Mr. Ronald Barker is very well known in Egypt and Palestine. I read his monograph on some of the Cairene diggings. I am very glad to meet him in the flesh.”

“Can you imagine any reason why anybody on this ship should want to kill him?”

“I cannot.”

“Have you heard any conversations aboard the Orizaba which might suggest a motive for this crime?”

“I have not.”

“Have you any suggestions to offer which might lead to the criminal?”

“No, sir. None.”

“You received a wireless message yesterday, didn’t you, a code message which contained the words ‘dog’ and ‘Saguache’?”

“I did.”

“Would you mind translating?”

“Not at all. Saguache was the name of the man who sent the message. The word ‘dog’ is just a symbol. It clarified my plans of operation for my visit to the Tigris where a certain mound shaped like the head of a dog was to guide me.”

“All right, Mr. Serrano. Will you hold yourself in readiness to help me in this investigation by answering further questions, if necessary?”

“Of course, sir.”

The little Spaniard sat down, caressing his little beard in the patriarchal manner.

Captain Simpson consulted a paper in the Purser’s hand.

“Mr. Mark Aronberg.”

A tall young man with a long nose and pale face stood up beside the Captain’s desk. He had a husky voice and regarded his inquisitor with heavily lidded eyes.

“You were on A deck last night just after one o’clock?”

“Yes, sir. I had been sitting aft by the smoking-room listening to the singing.”

“What singing?”

“Mr. McManus, singing in the bar.”

“Oh! Was any one with you?”

“Yes, Mr. David Levinstein.”

“Did you hear any shots?”

“Yes, sir. Two or three shots very fast, just as we went down to B deck to go to bed.”

“Did you pass any one on the stairway to B deck?”

“No, sir. I saw nobody until I came up to the saloon and joined the rest of the passengers.”

“You heard nothing to make you suspect that an attack was to be made on Mr. Barker?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you ever see Mr. Barker before?”

“Never.”

“Or hear of him?”

“Not until he came aboard at Marseilles.”

Mr. Levinstein confirmed his friend in every particular. They were traveling together. Their destination was Haifa.

“I want to tell you gentlemen,” Simpson said, “that every person in this cabin, though not accused of any participation in this crime, is under suspicion. And I want to warn you all that any further attack on Mr. Barker will be dealt with in a drastic way.” He consulted the Purser’s list again. “Mr. Mahmoud Daoud.”

Near the door a man got up. He was tall, his hair tightly curled and oiled, his complexion the color of a horse-chestnut and polished as highly. He had a fine aquiline nose and might have stepped from a carving on an Egyptian tomb.

“You are an Egyptian?”

“I am. My family have lived there always. My grandfather was a cousin of the late Khedive.”

“Good enough credentials, Mr. Daoud. You are going to Cairo now?”

“I am.”

“What is your business?”

“I am a merchant of antiques.”

“You know of Mr. Barker?”

“Of course. Who in Cairo does not?”

“You are friendly to the British Government?”

“I am.”

“You have no cause to dislike Mr. Barker?”

“Why should I dislike him? He is very friendly to my people.”

“And you know nothing of the attempt on his life?”

“No, sir. Nothing. If I had known I should have warned him. I would be glad to help you, but I cannot.”

“Mr. Daoud,” Simpson went on, “a wireless message came to this ship since we left Marseilles. It was in code. Here is the message. The wireless operator thought it was intended for you.”

Mr. Daoud took the paper and glanced at it. “Yes, I saw it. Why should he think it was for me? My name is not Mohammed Ali.”

“He thought, Mr. Daoud, that perhaps a mistake had been made by the sender, Mr. James Robinson of Harwich Crescent, London—”

“Evidently, since it was delivered to me.”

“H’m. You never heard of Mr. Robinson?”

“No, sir.”

“Or Harwich Crescent?”

“No, sir.”

“I see. Well, you can sit down, Mr. Daoud.”

After a few more perfunctory questions of Slim McManus and Michael Gay, Captain Simpson dismissed all of his visitors except Camilla and Ronald Barker.

“Was it possible for you to recognize any of these men, Miss Dean, by their appearance or voices?”

“Not their appearance certainly. It was too dark. But I seemed to recall certain tones of voices.”

“Whose?”

“I’m not positive. All deep voices sound alike. No, I couldn’t attempt to identify them.”

“Mr. Barker, could you say that any of these men bore a resemblance to the man you fired at?”

“No, I couldn’t, sir.”

Simpson turned toward the door.

“Well, Mr. Disston, I think that’s about all we can do. Much obliged, Miss Dean.”

On the deck outside Camilla said to her companion, “Mr. Barker—”

“Ronnie,” he corrected.

She flushed prettily. “Did you tell Captain Simpson of your theories in regard to those wireless messages?”

“There was no need to. I’m already in wireless communication with Cairo and London. I’ve found out what I wanted to know. By this time James Robinson of Harwich Crescent is watched by Scotland Yard.”