He fumbled in the pocket of his dressing-gown.
He laughed again, shaking his lean shoulders.
Before their astounded eyes he held up, twisting on its gold chain and glittering as it slowly revolved, the emerald elephant.
14 — Can These Things Be?
"Don't know how it happened," continued Sturton, rather carelessly, "and don't care, now I've got it back. I know you didn't recover it. Ha!… Found it lying on the middle of the table there," he stabbed his finger, "half an hour ago. Saw nobody, heard nobody. There it was. Somebody walked in and put it down — Here's your receipt back, Commander. You won't get this elephant again."
Again his squeaky mirth rose as he blinked at their faces. The receipt fluttered out and fell at Whistler's feet.
Morgan only half heard him. He was getting to the point where too many surprises were as deadening as too much pain. Staring at the little Mandarin-head smirking and wagging on the table, he heard Whistler gabbling something, the peer assuring him there would be no trouble, and the end of the latter's squeaky tirade:
"… find out who stole it? Go on, if you like. I won't stop you. But I've got it back, and that's all I care. I'm not going to prosecute anybody. Ha! Got enough lawsuits as it is. Let the beggar go. Why bother? Shouldn't be surprised if it got stolen by mistake, and somebody returned it. Never mind. Now get out. Get out!…"
He was flailing his arms at them like a banshee, with the emerald gleaming on its chain from one hand. They were shooed into the gangway and the door closed behind them. Then they stood in the corridor on B deck and looked at one another.
"You're quite right, Captain," agreed Morgan, after listening thoughtfully to the skipper's rather weak-voiced comments. "If anything, I should think the adjectives were conservative. But the question remains, who, how, and why?"
After Whistler had recovered himself, swabbing his face with a handkerchief, he was weakly jubilant. He had the
Mir of one who had endured blessed martyrdom in the arena, and suddenly sees ahead of him not the cruel countenance of Nero Ahenobarbus, but a cheering St. Peter at the head of a celestial brass band. The captain drew himself up. His face subtly altered. Taking his receipt for the emerald, he tore it into small pieces and blew them away. Over the battered face, with its plum-coloured eye, there spread a benevolent smile.
"My friends," he said, placing an arm around the shoulders of Peggy and Morgan, "I don't know who returned that ruddy elephant, and I don't care. Whoever it was, he did me a good turn that Hector Whistler will never forget. I could forgive him anything, I could almost forgive him" — momentarily the face darkened, but only for a moment—"this. Yes, even the foul blow, foully struck when I wasn't looking. If old Sturton doesn't care — My friends, to-morrow night, our last night at sea, is the captain's dinner. My friends, I will give such a dinner as has never been seen on blue water since the days of Francis Drake. Champagne shall bubble at every table, and every lady shall wear a corsage. And this, my friends, reminds me. I think, I say I think that I have in my locker at this moment a bottle of Pol Roger 1915. If it will now please you to come with me and accept the hospitality of an old, rough sea-dog—"
"But, hang it, Captain," said Morgan, "the difficulties aren't one-tenth over. Not a tenth. There's the little matter of a murder… "
"Murder?" inquired the old, rough sea-dog genially. "What murder, lad?"
Mysterious are the ways of psychology.
"But, Captain Whistler!" cried Peggy, "that poor girl… down in the cabin beside Curt's… that awful razor…"
"Ah, yes, my dear!" agreed the captain tolerantly benevolent. "Yes, of course. You mean that little joke of yours. Of course. Yes. Ha-ha-ha!"
"But—"
"Now, my dear," the other pursued, with radiant kindliness, "you listen to me. Come! You take a bit of advice from a rough old seafaring man old enough to be your father. From the first I've liked the cut of your jib, Miss Glenn, and the swing of your spanker-boom. Aye, lassie, I might have had a daughter like you if the Mrs. W. that was hadn't been dead and gone these twenty years, rest her sweet soul. It was in a sou'wester off Cape Hatteras, I mind… But you don't want to hear of that. This is my advice, lassie. When a murder's been committed, in my experience, there's somebody dead," Captain Whistler pointed out, with irrefutable logic. "And if somebody's dead, that person can't be breathing heaven's free air on my deck. There's nobody missing, and nobody's complained, which they generally do in case of a murder. So— come, now; until somebody complains, I'm a free man. Just between ourselves, wasn't somebody having you on?"
"But you promised, Captain, that you'd co-operate and help us and—"
"And so I will, Miss Glenn," he told her, heartily, patting her shoulder. "You two — and old Sharkmeat also, if he likes — shall have the freedom of the ship, to question whom you like, and say I sent you. If you have news, ha-ha-ha! come to me… By the way, would you like me to release that poor lad from his cell? No? Well, remember that I offered. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll send him a fine basket of fruit, with my compliments, and a specially cooked capon for his dinner. How's that? Then, when we touch England day after to-morrow, we'll see what can be done about obtaining the services of the finest mental-specialist in London…"
He stopped.
"Yes," said Morgan, seizing the opportunity, "and that reminds us all of Dr. Kyle, doesn't it? Not that I believe he's the Blind Barber, but it takes us back to that radiogram from the Police Commissioner, and the fact that— whatever else you believe or don't believe — there's a damned dangerous criminal aboard."
"H'm!" said Whistler. "H'm! Possibly. In any case, I've been instructed not to do anything, haven't I, in case there's a mistake, eh? And the more I think it over, sink met" he said with a happy flash of inspiration, "the more I'm convinced there has been a mistake. Why? I'll tell you. Because dangerous criminals don't steal fifty-thousand-pound jewels and then return 'em, do they? Sink me! you know, if I hadn't been assured by old Sturton that the emerald was returned to him while young Warren was in the brig — well I'd be fairly sure it was more of his mad vapourings. But I know it couldn't have been young Warren… "
"Thank God for that," said Morgan.
"Anyhow," continued Whistler, assuming his hearty manner again, "I'll think it over. I believe it's a mistake and there's no crook aboard at all. Though — h'm — it would be a feather in the cap of the Green Star Line if I could have the honour of nabbing a notorious criminal before that New York detective arrived. I'll think it over. So, if you won't drink a health in Pol Roger — eh — no? Well, good day, good day, good day!"
He was off, saluting jauntily, before the stupefied allies could stop him. He swung his shoulders, his thumbs hooked in his pockets, and he was hoarsely humming a tune to the effect that Captain Ball was a Yankee slaver, blow, blow, blow the man down! His smile was radiant.
When he had gone, Peggy looked about hopelessly.
"Hank," she said, "it's no good. We can't beat Providence. Let's give it up. Let's go to the bar and get screamingly drunk."
Morgan replied grimly: "We will not. Give it up, I mean. But a couple of quick ones in the bar might fortify us before we comb this boat from stem to stern… Why's the place so quiet, anyway?" He peered round. "They're all at lunch, that's it! We've missed lunch, and I didn't even hear the bugle. Never mind; we can get a sandwich in the bar. Come on. This thing has got to be thrashed out. Girl, that emerald's turning up puts the absolute lid on it!… What do you suppose could have happened?"