Shaw looked at him in some surprise — the man seemed on edge. Shaw said, “Yes, that’s me. What is it?”
“Captain would like to see you, sir. In Colonel Gresham’s cabin.”
Shaw stared, sat up straight. “Why, what’s happened?”
The man said, “The colonel, sir. He’s dead.”
Shaw gave an exclamation, felt the blood draining from his face. He threw off the sheet. Pulling on his dressing-gown, he ran out of the cabin.
The body looked lonely, forlorn.
The moustache moved wispily in a strong breeze coming throught the port. Gresham wasn’t sandy any more now; he looked grey and withered and pathetic, a man who had lived for an ideal and, perhaps because he wasn’t very clever, had had to die for it. Then Shaw caught himself up; there was nothing particularly to suggest murder. There was no blood, no sign of violence at all, and the face didn’t look like that of a man who had been suddenly or viciously killed. And yet to Shaw murder seemed the most likely explanation. He drew the sheet across, shutting Gresham back in his privacy.
The Captain and the ship’s doctor were both there. Sir Donald’s face was full of worry now. He said, “It’s a blow to me, Shaw, quite apart from the questions it raises now — in the circumstances. Gresham and I had got very friendly.”
“Yes, sir. I’m very sorry. He wouldn’t have hurt a fly, that man.” Shaw turned to the doctor, asked: “How did it happen?”
Dr. O’Hara said in a puzzled voice, “I can’t say definitely.
It just seems his heart stopped.”
“Had he a weak heart?”
O’Hara shrugged. “If he had he’d never consulted me about it. So far as I can say, he was perfectly healthy. When did you last see him, Commander?”
“Last evening, just before dinner.”
“He was quite normal then?”
Shaw said, “Yes, absolutely. And yet his heart — just stopped, you say. Tell me, doctor, could it be murder?” His eyes were hard, steely.
O’Hara said hesitantly, “Well, of course, that I can’t really say with any certainty without a post-mortem, d’ye see?” He screwed up his eyes in thought, pulled at his ear. “At first sight, the body shows no sign of disease whatever. It’s a little suspicious, I’ll say that — but are you really suggesting it’s murder?”
“I don’t know yet.” Shaw hesitated, thinking fast. “Are there any marks of any kind?”
The doctor said, “Only this.” He pulled back the sheet again, indicated a small mark, no more than a very slight bruise, a mere discoloration, on the neck. The skin was unbroken. Shaw bent down and studied this mark closely for some time in silence and then asked:
“Who found him?”
“His steward, when he brought in his tea.”
Sir Donald said, “Steward’s a youngster, doing his first voyage on the cabins. I don’t think he’d seen death before, but he recognized it all right. There’s a strict Company’s ruling that stewards are never to wake passengers by touching them, and the lad didn’t touch Gresham, apparently. But when he didn’t wake he took a closer look and ran along for the doctor.”
“I see. He was dead when you got here, I suppose, doctor?” O’Hara said, “Oh, yes. In my opinion he’d been dead for something like six hours.”
Shaw nodded. “That mark you showed me. Could it have caused death?”
O’Hara shrugged. “I can’t be too definite. I’m not committing myself on that yet. Medically I’d say it could have done, but that’s very different from saying it did."
“How do you think the mark itself was caused?”
“That’s what I’m not sure about.”
“Could it have been caused by, say, considerable pressure from a knuckle, or from… well, a small-headed metal instrument, perhaps?”
The doctor said cautiously, “Well… yes, it could."
Shaw took a deep breath. “Thank you, doctor. That’s all I wanted to know.” He swung round, his face grim, spoke to the Captain. “I’d like a word with you, sir, in private if I may.”
Sir Donald raised his eyebrows a little, but gestured to the doctor. He asked, “Nothing else you want to do, is there, O’Hara?”
“Not just for the moment, sir.” O’Hara, taking the hint, gathered up his gear and left the cabin.
“Well, Shaw?” Sir Donald spoke abruptly. “What is it?”
“Just this, sir. Gresham was murdered, and it’s fairly clear to me who did it.”
Sir Donald stiffened. “How’s that?”
“From the method used. It’s part of our job, you see, to know any specialities of people who kill in this game. Well — there’s a man called Karstad, a Norwegian, a particularly nasty specimen of a fine race… he used this method a lot during the War. It was quick, it was efficient — and it was absolutely silent and fool-proof. It had to be, just as it had to be last night—”
“But—”
“Just a moment, sir. Karstad was the only man we ever came across who used this particular method, and always in that one spot on the neck. It was something he’d worked out for himself and found it suited him, I suppose — and our experience is that once a man gets used to any specialized method of killing, he never uses any other if he can help it. Don’t ask me why. It kind of gets into their minds, I suppose, and they can’t re-orientate after a while when they’ve found a nice easy way. It’s almost a trade mark.”
Sir Donald asked directly, “You’re telling me this man’s aboard my ship?”
“Yes, sir, I am.” Shaw hesitated. “I’d better tell you now, I did hear from my chief last night that Karstad was dead… but now I’m absolutely certain he’s not. He’s aboard all right — I was pretty sure I’d recognized him even before this happened. But he doesn’t call himself Karstad. He calls himself Andersson. Sigurd Andersson.”
Sir Donald stared. “Andersson. The card-player — the man who’s tight half the time?”
“Yes, sir.”
“But — he’s always appeared perfectly harmless! Why. Gresham himself was quite friendly with him. He told me so.”
“Yes, I know that. He could have been too friendly, perhaps.” Shaw rubbed the stubble on his long chin. “Anyhow, Karstad must have known there was something Gresham had that he wanted, sir. I mean those secret signals.”
The Captain looked at him sharply. “That was only a fake set.”
Shaw said, “I know that. Gresham told me. But Karstad wouldn’t have known they were fakes. It stands out a mile, that was what he was after. It begins to look as though they do intend to get hold of REDCAP rather than blow it up— and then use it as a world threat, a kind of blackmail.” Shaw found that his hands were trembling a little. He asked, “Do you know if anything’s been moved around in here, sir, since Gresham was found?”
“Not so far as I know. Only the steward and O’Hara have been in here, and they wouldn’t have touched anything.”
Shaw nodded. He examined the cabin closely, but could find nothing that appeared starkly out of place. The cabin was neat and tidy, almost militarily precise; Gresham seemed to have been a methodical and tidy man. Shaw went across to the combination safe which, as in his own cabin, was welded to the bulkhead inside the big, roomy wardrobe. Covering his fingers with a handkerchief, he turned the dial, listening carefully to the sound of the tumblers. After a while he emerged and said:
“I’m not much good at these combinations. Karstad is probably an expert — he wouldn’t have been on this job otherwise. I think we’ll have to smash it open, sir. We’ve got to see if the signals have gone, even though they’re fakes.”
“What about finger-prints?”
“Karstad wouldn’t leave prints behind, sir. I used a handkerchief myself just now, but that was just second nature. There won’t be anything there to smudge.”