The Blind Barber by John Dickson Carr

hope the poor man hasn’t been drinking, has he?”
    “What’s that rattling on the deck?” demanded Warren, who was peering about him in the gloom. Following his glance, the uneasy second officer directed the beam of the flashlight down on the deck …
    “I—I do believe it’s a whisky-bottle,” said Peggy, earnestly contemplating the object that rolled there. “And—er—it seems to be empty. Oh, poor man!”
    Morgan looked at her over his misted spectacles. A fair-minded person, he was bound to consider that this was laying it on a bit thick. Besides, he was momentarily afraid that Captain Whistler might have an apoplectic stroke. There were even richer hues blooming in the Cyclopean-eyed face; there were gurglings and rattlings and mysterious internal combustions which apparently defied nature. The second officer coughed.
    “Come along, sir,” he urged, soothingly. “Let me help you up, now. Then the doctor can—”
    Captain Whistler found his voice.
    “I WILL NOT GET UP !” he roared, gasping. “I AM PERFECTLY SOBER !” But so violent was the steam pressure that it even blocked the escape-valve; he could only gurgle insanely, and the pain of his swollen jaw made him grimace and stop, clapping a hand to it. Yet one thought remained burning. “That bottle—that bottle. That’s what they hit me with. I AM PERFECTLY SOBER , I TELL YOU . That’s what they hit me with. There were three of ’em. Giants. They all jumped on me at once. And—my elephant. O, my God! what’s happened to my elephant?” he demanded, galvanized suddenly. “They stole my elephant! Don’t stand there like a dummy, damn you! Do something. Look for it. Find that elephant or, strike me blind? I’ll have the ticket of every crimson immoral landlubber on this …”
    There is no discipline like that of the British merchant service. The second officer stiffened and saluted. His not to reason why.
    “Very good, sir. A search shall be instituted immediately, sir. It cannot have got far. In the meantime,” he continued crisply, and turned to the others with a jealous safeguarding of the captain’s reputation, “while the hunt for the commander’s elephant is in progress, it is his instructions that all of you go below. Captain Whistler feels that it will be unnecessary for any of his guests to mention what has occurred to-night … Let me help you up, sir.”
    “Sure thing,” said Warren affably. “You can trust us. We’ll keep quiet. If there’s anything we can do—”
    “But do you really think it’s safe?” Peggy asked the second officer in some anxiety. “I mean, poor man, suppose he sees the elephant sitting up on top of the smokestack or something, making faces at him, and orders one of you to go and coax it down … ”
    “Smell my breath!” cried the captain passionately. “Smell my breath, blast you; that’s all I ask. I tell you I have not taken one single scarlet drink since five o’clock this evening.”
    “Look here,” said the ship’s doctor, who had been kneeling beside the anguished commander, “you people be sensible. He’s not—upset. He’s quite all right, Baldwin. There’s something very queer going on here. Steady on, sir; we’ll have you feeling top-notch in a moment … We can get you up to your room without anybody seeing you, you know … No?” Evidently Captain Whistler’s soul shrank from encountering passengers or crew at that instant. “Well, then, there’s a recess forward here on the leeward side, with some tables and chairs. If Mr. Baldwin will hold the flashlight I’ve got my bag … ”
    This, Morgan felt, was the psychological moment for a retreat. The real object in remaining so long had been to ascertain definitely whether Captain Whistler had recognised his assailant. And it seemed they were safe. But he felt that suspicion was growing in the air. The doctor’s sharp words had roused the first officer, who now seemed uneasy, and glanced several times at them.