“Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep.” It was a feeble, belated funeral service for Rosemary Fraser, Miss Withers fancied. Had the girl laid her down in peace to sleep, then?
No one went to bed on that Sunday evening, for the little American Diplomat was slipping in the fog past clusters of shore lights to port, past the white chalk cliffs of Dover, and then, miraculously, pushing on up a narrowing river that smelled as Miss Withers had always known the Thames would smell. The lights to port and starboard closed in steadily, and then, shortly before midnight, the throb of the engines stopped. The anchor went down with a roar of chain, and through portholes misted with rain Miss Withers could see a mammoth electric sign announcing the virtues of “OXO.”
“Passengers in the social hall, please!” a steward was shouting. His gong rang endlessly up and down the corridors. Miss Withers opened her porthole and saw that a slim black launch, with one staring eye, was coming down the river from where the glow of the city shone brightest. She tidied her hair and joined the excited, nervous gathering.
Everyone wanted to know if there was a chance of getting ashore tonight, and everyone was assured several times over that the British Customs close at 6 P.M. “Not until morning,” the purser was saying, in his thin and worried voice.
“Then what are we here for?” the Honorable Emily demanded. Nobody told her, but through the half-open door that led to the deck Miss Withers heard the muffled beating of a powerful motor. There were voices on the deck, the motor rose to a roar and died away, and then Captain Everett entered the social hall. He seemed to have regained the weight he had lost the night that Rosemary Fraser disappeared. Behind him was Jenkins, the first officer, and last of all came a tall, bulky man wearing a bowler hat and a dingy yellow trench-coat.
In spite of his bland, innocent face, in spite of his slick blond hair and the brown spats he affected, Miss Hildegarde Withers was instantly aware of the fact that she was staring at an operative of the C.I.D. She knew it by the pale hazel eyes that looked once—and saw everything. She knew it by the neatly blacked shoes, bump-toed as are the shoes of any man who has ever walked a beat, in any city of the world.
The three men disappeared through the curtain of the smoking room—the bar had been locked since the ship entered British waters—and there was a long silence. “I’m a British subject,” the Honorable Emily once began, and failed to finish her protest. The passengers were restless, but nobody felt like talking. Even the terrible Gerald was silent, staring intently at his unsmiling parents. Andy Todd pretended to read, and smoked cigarettes chain fashion.
At last the curtains opened, and Captain Everett showed his face. He beckoned to Peter Noel, who stood near by in his best uniform, and whispered something to him.
Noel nodded. “Miss Hildegarde Withers,” he called. He held open the curtain, and Miss Withers entered to see the two ship’s officers on the settee, and the Yard man facing her across a bridge table. She was not asked to sit down.
“This is Chief Inspector Cannon of New Scotland Yard,” said Captain Everett gently. “He’d like to ask you a few questions…”
Miss Withers started to say something, but the Yard man leaned forward. “You were the last person to see Rosemary Fraser?” he asked. He began writing in his notebook before she had worded her answer. Whatever ideas the good lady might have held regarding the telling of her story in her own way were instantly dispelled. She answered question after question, and in less than five minutes had told everything that she knew and nothing that she suspected about the passing of Rosemary Fraser. “Thank you,” said Cannon, without obvious interest. She went back into the social hall.
“Miss Candida Noring,” announced Peter Noel, after another prompting from Captain
No one went to bed on that Sunday evening, for the little American Diplomat was slipping in the fog past clusters of shore lights to port, past the white chalk cliffs of Dover, and then, miraculously, pushing on up a narrowing river that smelled as Miss Withers had always known the Thames would smell. The lights to port and starboard closed in steadily, and then, shortly before midnight, the throb of the engines stopped. The anchor went down with a roar of chain, and through portholes misted with rain Miss Withers could see a mammoth electric sign announcing the virtues of “OXO.”
“Passengers in the social hall, please!” a steward was shouting. His gong rang endlessly up and down the corridors. Miss Withers opened her porthole and saw that a slim black launch, with one staring eye, was coming down the river from where the glow of the city shone brightest. She tidied her hair and joined the excited, nervous gathering.
Everyone wanted to know if there was a chance of getting ashore tonight, and everyone was assured several times over that the British Customs close at 6 P.M. “Not until morning,” the purser was saying, in his thin and worried voice.
“Then what are we here for?” the Honorable Emily demanded. Nobody told her, but through the half-open door that led to the deck Miss Withers heard the muffled beating of a powerful motor. There were voices on the deck, the motor rose to a roar and died away, and then Captain Everett entered the social hall. He seemed to have regained the weight he had lost the night that Rosemary Fraser disappeared. Behind him was Jenkins, the first officer, and last of all came a tall, bulky man wearing a bowler hat and a dingy yellow trench-coat.
In spite of his bland, innocent face, in spite of his slick blond hair and the brown spats he affected, Miss Hildegarde Withers was instantly aware of the fact that she was staring at an operative of the C.I.D. She knew it by the pale hazel eyes that looked once—and saw everything. She knew it by the neatly blacked shoes, bump-toed as are the shoes of any man who has ever walked a beat, in any city of the world.
The three men disappeared through the curtain of the smoking room—the bar had been locked since the ship entered British waters—and there was a long silence. “I’m a British subject,” the Honorable Emily once began, and failed to finish her protest. The passengers were restless, but nobody felt like talking. Even the terrible Gerald was silent, staring intently at his unsmiling parents. Andy Todd pretended to read, and smoked cigarettes chain fashion.
At last the curtains opened, and Captain Everett showed his face. He beckoned to Peter Noel, who stood near by in his best uniform, and whispered something to him.
Noel nodded. “Miss Hildegarde Withers,” he called. He held open the curtain, and Miss Withers entered to see the two ship’s officers on the settee, and the Yard man facing her across a bridge table. She was not asked to sit down.
“This is Chief Inspector Cannon of New Scotland Yard,” said Captain Everett gently. “He’d like to ask you a few questions…”
Miss Withers started to say something, but the Yard man leaned forward. “You were the last person to see Rosemary Fraser?” he asked. He began writing in his notebook before she had worded her answer. Whatever ideas the good lady might have held regarding the telling of her story in her own way were instantly dispelled. She answered question after question, and in less than five minutes had told everything that she knew and nothing that she suspected about the passing of Rosemary Fraser. “Thank you,” said Cannon, without obvious interest. She went back into the social hall.
“Miss Candida Noring,” announced Peter Noel, after another prompting from Captain
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