"Sure it is, sir," said the hardly less sane voice of Sccond-Officer Baldwin. "Look at him! Look at those arms and shoulders! Nobody but somebody used to swinging those-marionettes day after day could've had the
strength to hit like that. There's nobody on the ship who could've done it else…"
"Ho?" muttered the Bermondsey Terror, starting violently.
"Shh!" hissed Captain Valvick.
"… No, sir," pursued Baldwin, "he's not a crook. But he's a notorious drunkard. I know all about him. A drunkard, and that's the sort of thing he does… "
"Pardonnez-moi, messieurs," rumbled a polite if muffled voice from under what appeared to be many bodies. "Est-ce-que vous pouvez me donner du gin?"
"He — he threw that — that emer—" Whistler gulped amid strange noises. "But what about — those — young Morgan — Sharkmeat — those—"
Somebody's heels clicked. A new voice put in: "Will you let me offer an explanation, sir? I'm Sparks, sir. I saw part of it from my cousin's cabin. If you'll let me tell you, sir, that young fellow and the Swede weren't trying to steal — you know. They were trying to return it. I saw them. They're close friends of Miss Glenn, this man's niece; and I should think they were trying to cover him up after the old drunk had stolen it…"
"From Dr. Kyle's cabin? What the hell do you mean? They—"
"Sir, if you'll listen to me!" roared Baldwin. "Sparks is right. Don't you see what happened? This kleptomaniac souse is the man who stole the emerald from you last night! Who else could have hit you as hard as that? And didn't he act last night exactly as he's acting to-night, sir? Look here: you were standing near where you are now. And what did he do? He did exactly what we saw him do to-night — he chucked that jewel through the nearest port, which happened to be Dr. Kyle's, and it landed behind the trunk… He's drunk, sir, and not responsible; but that's what happened…"
There was an awed silence.
"By God!" said Captain Whistler. "By God!… But wait! It was returned to Lord Sturton—"
"Sir," said Baldwin wearily, "don't you realise that this souse's niece and their crowd have been trying to protect him all the time? One of 'em returned it, that's all, and I sort of admire the sport who did. The drunk stole it again, so they decided they'd put it back in the doc's cabin where the drunk had a fixed idea it ought to go, and then tip off somebody to find it. Only we wouldn't let them explain, sir. We — er — we owe 'em an apology."
"One of you," said the captain crisply, "go to Lord Sturton; present my compliments, and say that I will wait on him immediately. Get me some ropes and tie this lubber up. You!" said Captain Whistler, evidently addressing Uncle Jules, "is — this — true?"
Morgan risked a look. Captain Whistler's back was turned among the group of figures on the deck, so that Morgan could not see the new damage to his face. But he saw Uncle Jules struggling to sit upright among the hands that held him. With a fierce expression of concentration on his face, Uncle Jules wrenched his vast shoulders and flung off the hands. A solitary pair of shoes remained gripped close to him. With a last effort he sent the shoes sailing overboard; then he breathed deeply, smiled, rolled over gently on the deck, and began to snore. "Ha, whee!" breathed Uncle Jules, with a long sigh of contentment.
"Take him away," said Whistler, "and lock him up."
A trampling of feet ensued. Morgan, about to get up, was restrained by Valvick.
"It iss all right!" he whispered fiercely. "Ay know how seafaring men iss. Dey get hawful mad, but dey will not prosecute if dey t'ink a mann iss drunk. De code iss dat whatever you do when you iss drunk, a yentleman goes light on. Shh! Ay know. Listen—!"
They listened carefully while Captain Whistler relieved his mind for some moments. Then he took on a more
tragic note in mourning his watch and valuables, thus gradually working himself up to a dizzy pitch when he came to the last trouble.
"So that's the thief I was supposed to have aboard, eh?" he wanted to know. "A common drunk, who throws fifty-thousand-pound emeralds overboard, who — who—"
Baldwin said gloomily: "You see now why that young Warren pretended to act like a madman, sir? He's more or less engaged to the girl, they tell me. Well, they made a good job of it shielding him. But I've got to admit we've been a bit rough on—"
"Sir," said a new voice, "Lord Sturton's compliments, sir, and—"
"Go on," sneered the captain, with a sort of heavy-stage-despair. "Don't stop there. Speak up, will you? Let's hear it!"
"Well, sir — he — he says for you to go to hell, sir…
"What?"
"He says — I'm only repeating it — he says you're drunk, sir. He says nobody's stolen his emerald, and he got it out and showed it to me to prove it. He's in a bit of a temper, sir. He says if he hears one more word about that bleeding emerald — if anybody makes a row or so much as mentions that bleeding emerald to him again — he'll have your papers and sue the line for a hundred thousand pounds. That's a fact."
"Here, Mitchell!" snapped Baldwin. "Don't stand there like a dummy! Come and give me a hand with the commander… Get some brandy or something. Hurry, damn you, hurry!"
There was a sound of running footsteps. Then up from behind Morgan, an expression of dreamy triumph on his face, rose Curtis Warren full panoplied in Moorish arms. He pushed past the others and ascended the ladder. Drawing his bejewelled cloak about him, shooting back the cuffs of his chain mail, he adjusted the spiked helmet rakishly over the curls of his wig. He drew himself up with a haughty gesture. Before the bleary eyes of the Queen Victoria's skipper, who was reeling dumbly against the rail and almost toppling overboard, Warren strode forward with ringing footfalls.
He paused before Whistler. Lifting the scimitar like an accusing finger, he pointed it at the captain.
"Captain Whistler," he said in a voice of shocked and horrified rebuke, "after all your suspicions of innocent men… Captain Whistler, aren't — you — ashamed of yourself?"
20 — Disclosure
In a certain big room above Adelphi Terrace, a misted nun was beginning to lengthen the shadows. It was beginning to make a dazzle against a huddle of purpling towers westward at the curve of the river; and from one of these towers Big Ben had just finished clanging out the hour of four. A very hoarse story-teller listened to the strokes reverberating away. Then Morgan sat back.
Dr. Fell removed his glasses. With a large red bandana he mopped a moisture of joy from his eyes, said, "Whoosh!" with a wheezing and expiring chuckle, and rumbled:
"No, I'll never forgive myself for not being there. My boy, it's an epic. Oh, Bacchus, what I'd give for one glimpse of Uncle Jules in his last moment supreme! Or of the old mollusc, Captain Whistler, either. But surely that's not all?"
"It's all," said Morgan wearily, "I have the voice to tell you now. Also, I imagine, it's all that's relevant to the issue. If you think the fireworks ended there, of course, you still haven't plumbed the spiritual possibilities of our crowd. I could fill a fair number of pages with the saga of pyrotechnics between nine-fifteen night before last, when Uncle Jules threw his last gallant shoe, until 7 a.m. this morning, when I slipped away from a ship accursed. But I can give you only a general outline… Besides, I hesitated to include all the things I have. It was hair-raising action, if you like, but it seemed to me not to have any bearing on the vital issues… "
Dr. Fell finished mopping his eyes and subsided in dying chuckles. Then he blinked across the table.