"Well, re-aolly!" said Mrs. Perrigord, stiffening. "I confess I scarcely kneow. To — to one at a time, perhaps. But — ah — reaolly, my deah, since I am olmost certain I heard at least six intoxicated men carousing out the-ah, I confess I should not have been at oil surprised to find on our floor considerably moah than a tam-o'-shanter. As I observed to the steward at the time—"
"To the steward?" asked Peggy wonderingly. "But, Mrs. Perrigord, wherever was your husband?"
Mrs. Perrigord's husband, who now seemed to despair of getting back to the serious business of sitting on literary hats, interposed:
"Most refreshing, Miss Glenn. Most refreshing. Ha-ha! I like the outspoken views, the free and untrammelled straightforwardness of our youth to-day, which is not by ancient prejudice cabined, cribbed, and confined… " At this point, Mrs. Perrigord looked as though, if she were not by ancient prejudice cabined, cribbed, and confined, she would up and dot him one with a plate of kippers. "I— in short, I like it. But you must not mind my wife. Ha-ha!"
"Oh?" said Mrs. Perrigord.
"Come, come, Cynthia. Jeunesse, jeunesse. A trifle of exuberant 'seizing the moment,' so to speak. Remember what D. H. Lawrence said to James Joyce. Ha-ha-ha!"
"My deah Leslie," said Mrs. Perrigord coldly, "Babylonian orgies and revels of Ishtar a la Pierre Louys are oil very well in books. But if it is to youah aesthetic taste to have these rites peahfoahmed oil ovah the deck of a respectable linah undah youah window at 2 a.m., I must say I caon't agree. And I must insist on explaining to this young lady that muh relations with the cabin steward were — ah— puahly those of business—"
"Coo!" said Peggy.
"— and were confined," went on Mrs. Perrigord, in a louder voice, "to ringing the bell, unbolting the doah, and asking him whethah (as my husband will inform you) something could be done to stop the noise. I can assuah you that I slept no moah oil night."
Mr. Perrigord said mildly that you had got to remember what James Joyce said to D. H. Lawrence. Morgan felt that he had better do something to culminate this exchange of dirty digs before it reached the hair-pulling stage. All the same, he was aghast. The emerald had to be somewhere. He held no brief for either Lord Sturton or Captain Whistler, but the fact remained that they had pinched a fifty-thousand-pound jewel and thrown it through the porthole of one of those two cabins. If the emerald had somehow incredibly vanished, it meant the vanishing of Sturton's money and probably Whistler's official head. Something was wrong. Kyle said it wasn't in his cabin, and there was testimony to prove the Barber could not have lifted it from there. On the other hand, the Perrigords were awake; noticed the row; would certainly have noticed anything thrown in, and certainly could not have missed it this morning. His bewilderment grew, and he desperately sought for a new lead…
So Morgan assumed his most winning smile (although he felt it stretch like a hideous mask) and spoke flattering, soothing, cajoling words to Mrs. Perrigord. She was not at all bad-looking, by the way; and he went to work with gusto. While Warren stared at him, he sympathised with her and apologised angrily for the behaviour of whatever disgusting revellers had disturbed her sleep. He intimated that, no matter what might have been the conversation between those two notorious old rips James Joyce and D. H. Lawrence, it had been in very bad taste.
"… But to tell you the truth, Mrs. Perrigord," said
Morgan, leaning confidingly over her chair, "I heard that disturbance, too; and, though I can't say, since of course I wasn't there, you understand…"
"Oh, quayte!" said Mrs. Perrigord, relaxing a good deal and much less stiffly indicating that he had her royal ear. "Yes?"
"… still, I should have said it sounded less like — well, shall we say Dionysian revelry? — than simply a free-for-all scrap. Er, fisticuffs, you know," explained Morgan, seeking the highbrow mot juste. "Especially as (if you'll forgive my saying so, Mrs. Perrigord) that a lady of your charm and knowledge of refinements in sensual indulgence would probably take a light view of men's and women's frailties if only they were staged with any degree of delicacy. Furthermore—"
"Well, no, reaolly!" said Mrs. Perrigord, looking arch. "Come now, Mr. Morgan, you can scarcely expect muh to agree altogether with that, can you? Heh-heh-heh!"
"Sure! Absolutely, Mrs. Perrigord!" said Warren. He perceived that Hank: was trying to win the old girl over, and stoutly tried to help the good work along. "We know you're a good sport. Absolutely. Remember what the travelling salesman said to the farmer's daughter."
"Shut up," said Morgan out of the corner of his mouth. "And naturally I suppose this idea of a fight occurred to you, too. Gad! I wonder you didn't get up and bolt the door, Mrs. Perrigord, in case those drunken ba — ah — in case those revellers should decide—"
"But I did!" cried Mrs. Perrigord. "Oh, the doah was bolted, I assuah you! From the very first moment I heard a woman's voice imploring someone to — to strike someone ageyne, it was bolted. I did not close an eye oil night. I can most certainly tell you that no one came into the cabin."
(Well, that tore it. Morgan glanced at his companions. Peggy looked upset. Warren angry and mystified. The puzzle was growing worse jumbled and also it was Mr. Perrigord who now seemed to be giving the nasty looks. Morgan felt that they had better go off and cool their before going up for the interview with Captain Whistler. He prepared some discreet words…)
tell me," said Mrs. Perrigord, apparently struck an idea. "Someone said—are you the Mr. Morgan writes the detective stories?" "Why — er — yes. Yes, I believe so. Thank you very much, Mrs. Perrigord, and you too, sir. It's been delightful to have made your acquaintance, and I only hope we shall have the opportunity—"
"I adore detective stories," said Mrs. Perrigord. Her husband remained motionless. But on his glassy-eyed countenance was a curious expression. He looked as a familiar of the Spanish Inquisition might have looked if, on the morning of an auto-da-fe, Fra Torquemada had announced an intention of dismissing the poor blighters with a warning.
"Do you indeed, my dear?" inquired Leslie Perrigord, frostily. "Most extraordinary. Well, we must not detain them, Cynthia. Miss Glenn, I hope I shall have the pleasure of conferring with you to-day — and also your excellent uncle, to whom I look forward to meeting — and arrange matters for the performance to-night. A bientot!"
"But we shall see you at the concert, of course," observed Mrs. Perrigord. On her face was a narrow-eyed smile which somehow reminded Morgan of Mr. Stanley Laurel. "Les-leh and I have bean conferring with the pursah to arrange it. I shall so hope to see you, deah Miss Glenn. An excellent programme has bean arranged. Madame Giulia Leda Camopsozzi will sing morceaux from the more modern masters, accompanied by her husband, Signor Benito Furioso Camopsozzi. I — ah — believe," she added, frowning as though this did not appeal to her, "that the pursah, a certain Mr. Macgregor, has persuaded Dr. Oliver Kyle to recite selections from the works of Robert Burns. This will of course precede M. Fortinbras's performance. A bientot"
"Cheero-ho," said Peggy, rising from the table, "and thanks most awfully for all the information. You must come and see me, Mr. Perrigord, and tell me all about those fascinating things — but, I say — er — if you're going to see my uncle—"