nonsense and she didn’t believe it.
“Who is he, Curt? What do they know about him?” she demanded.
“That’s just it. Nobody seems to know, except that he’s travelling under an alias. You remember, I told you this afternoon that when I was in the radio-room old Whistler seemed to be having a row with the wireless operator? … Well, that was it. He’d got a radiogram. Fortunately, Valvick had the sense to persuade Whistler to let him take a copy of it. Have a look.”
From his inside pocket he took an envelope, on the back of which was sprawled in crooked handwriting:
Commander S.S. Queen Victoria , at sea. Suspect Man responsible for Stelly job in Washington and MacGee killing here sailed under alias your ship. Federal officer arriving to-night from Washington and will send fuller information. Look out for smooth customers and advise if any suspects. Arnold, Commissioner N.Y.P.D.
“I don’t know anything about this MacGee killing, whatever it is, in New York,” Warren went on, “but I know a little about the Stelly business because it raised such a row and looked like magic. It was tied up with the British Embassy. Stelly seems to have been a pretty well-known English jewel-cutter and appraiser … ”
“Hold on!” said Morgan. “D’you mean that Bond Street fellow, the one who’s always designing the necklaces for royalty and having pictures of his work in the newspapers?”
Warren grunted. “Probably. Because it seems he was staying in Washington, and the wife of the British ambassador asked him to reset or redesign a necklace for her. I don’t know the details of it—nobody knows much about it. But he left the British Embassy with the necklace one night, as safe as you please, and about four hours later they found him somewhere out Connecticut Avenue way. He was sitting on the kerbstone with his back propped up against a street lamp, and the back of his head smashed in. He didn’t die, but he’ll be a paralysed moron for the rest of his life, and never speak a word. That seems to be a quaint habit of this joker. He doesn’t exactly kill; but he has a knack of softening their heads so that they’re worse than dead …
“By the Lord!” said Warren, clenching and unclenching his hands, “I’m wondering whether that’s what I nearly got in the other cabin, only the fellow missed his aim when the ship rolled.”
There was a silence, made portentous by creaking bulkheads and the blustering roar outside.
“I say, Peggy,” Morgan observed, thoughtfully, “you’d better get out of this, old girl. It isn’t funny. Go up to the bar and entice some gullibles into a bridge game. If this basher comes along and tries to pinch the rest of the film, we’ll let you know, Meantime—”
The girl said, with vehemence, “Bah! You can’t scare me. You are a cheerful lot, though. Why don’t you start telling ghost stories? If you start off by being afraid of this chap—”
“Who’s afraid of him?” shouted Warren. “Listen, Baby. I’ve got something to settle, I have. When I get at him—” Satirically he watched her jump a little when there was a knock at the door. Captain Valvick, bearing two large siphons of soda-water, bent his head under the door and closed it behind him with a mysterious air.
Morgan always remembered the ensuing two hours (or possibly three) on account of the interminable game of Geography that was played to pass away the time. Captain Valvick—cheerfully twinkling, in no whit disturbed—insisted that they should turn out the light, hook the door partly open, and get enough light from the dim bulb in the passage. First, he administered to each a hair-raising peg of whisky, which made them feel anew the excellence of the adventure; then he placed them in a weird circle on the floor, with the bottle in the middle like a camp fire; finally, he filled up the glasses again.
“Skoal!” said the captain, raising his glass in the dim light. “Ay tell you, diss iss de
“Who is he, Curt? What do they know about him?” she demanded.
“That’s just it. Nobody seems to know, except that he’s travelling under an alias. You remember, I told you this afternoon that when I was in the radio-room old Whistler seemed to be having a row with the wireless operator? … Well, that was it. He’d got a radiogram. Fortunately, Valvick had the sense to persuade Whistler to let him take a copy of it. Have a look.”
From his inside pocket he took an envelope, on the back of which was sprawled in crooked handwriting:
Commander S.S. Queen Victoria , at sea. Suspect Man responsible for Stelly job in Washington and MacGee killing here sailed under alias your ship. Federal officer arriving to-night from Washington and will send fuller information. Look out for smooth customers and advise if any suspects. Arnold, Commissioner N.Y.P.D.
“I don’t know anything about this MacGee killing, whatever it is, in New York,” Warren went on, “but I know a little about the Stelly business because it raised such a row and looked like magic. It was tied up with the British Embassy. Stelly seems to have been a pretty well-known English jewel-cutter and appraiser … ”
“Hold on!” said Morgan. “D’you mean that Bond Street fellow, the one who’s always designing the necklaces for royalty and having pictures of his work in the newspapers?”
Warren grunted. “Probably. Because it seems he was staying in Washington, and the wife of the British ambassador asked him to reset or redesign a necklace for her. I don’t know the details of it—nobody knows much about it. But he left the British Embassy with the necklace one night, as safe as you please, and about four hours later they found him somewhere out Connecticut Avenue way. He was sitting on the kerbstone with his back propped up against a street lamp, and the back of his head smashed in. He didn’t die, but he’ll be a paralysed moron for the rest of his life, and never speak a word. That seems to be a quaint habit of this joker. He doesn’t exactly kill; but he has a knack of softening their heads so that they’re worse than dead …
“By the Lord!” said Warren, clenching and unclenching his hands, “I’m wondering whether that’s what I nearly got in the other cabin, only the fellow missed his aim when the ship rolled.”
There was a silence, made portentous by creaking bulkheads and the blustering roar outside.
“I say, Peggy,” Morgan observed, thoughtfully, “you’d better get out of this, old girl. It isn’t funny. Go up to the bar and entice some gullibles into a bridge game. If this basher comes along and tries to pinch the rest of the film, we’ll let you know, Meantime—”
The girl said, with vehemence, “Bah! You can’t scare me. You are a cheerful lot, though. Why don’t you start telling ghost stories? If you start off by being afraid of this chap—”
“Who’s afraid of him?” shouted Warren. “Listen, Baby. I’ve got something to settle, I have. When I get at him—” Satirically he watched her jump a little when there was a knock at the door. Captain Valvick, bearing two large siphons of soda-water, bent his head under the door and closed it behind him with a mysterious air.
Morgan always remembered the ensuing two hours (or possibly three) on account of the interminable game of Geography that was played to pass away the time. Captain Valvick—cheerfully twinkling, in no whit disturbed—insisted that they should turn out the light, hook the door partly open, and get enough light from the dim bulb in the passage. First, he administered to each a hair-raising peg of whisky, which made them feel anew the excellence of the adventure; then he placed them in a weird circle on the floor, with the bottle in the middle like a camp fire; finally, he filled up the glasses again.
“Skoal!” said the captain, raising his glass in the dim light. “Ay tell you, diss iss de
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