The Blind Barber by John Dickson Carr Page B

more whisky in it, honest. Eh, eh; you t’ink dere be fingerprints on it, maybe?”
    Warren frowned and ran a hand through his goblin hair. “Say, Hank,” he muttered uneasily, “that’s an idea. If it occurs to the old boy … And there’s another thing. Baby, what possessed you to fire that box through the porthole of somebody’s cabin?”
    She was indignant. “Well, I like that! With those officers coming down on us—you didn’t want me to chuck it overboard, did you? Besides, I think it was a splendid idea. It can’t be blamed on us, and it won’t be blamed on anybody else. I don’t know whose cabin that was. But there’ll be a hunt for the box. And then whoever has the cabin will wake up to-morrow morning and find it on the floor; then he’ll take it to the captain and explain it was thrown through the porthole, and there you are.”
    “Well,” said Warren, drawing a deep breath, “all I can say is that we had a piece of luck. I tell you, I damn near died when you did that. I had visions of somebody sticking his head out the porthole just as those officers were coming up, and saying, ‘Hey, what’s the idea of throwing things through my window?’”
    He brooded, staring out through the glass at the murky night ahead, dimly luminous from the glow above on the bridge; at the sharp bows shouldering up in mist; at the white torrent that poured, swirled, and fell away round stubborn winches. From far above smote the clang of the liner’s bell— one-two, one-two, one-two —that is the drowsiest of sea noises by night. The wind had a flat whine now; it was dying, and rain had ceased to tick on the glass. Stately as a galleon, the tall foremast rose, swung, and tilted as the bows smashed down again into a fan of spray …
    Warren glared straight ahead.
    “I’ve let you people in for all this,” he said in a low voice. “I’m—I’m damned sorry.”
    “Dat iss de bunk, son,” said Captain Valvick. “Ay ain’t had so much fun in a long time. De only t’ing, we got to agree on a story dat we are all going to tell … ”
    “I got you into this,” continued Warren doggedly, “and I’m going to get you out. Don’t worry about that. You let me do the talking, and I’ll convince him. There’s nothing wrong with my diplomatic talents. I very, very seldom go off half-cocked”—Morgan coughed but the other obviously believed what he was saying, so nobody spoke—“and I’ll fix it. All that burns me up—” declared Warren, lifting a heavy fist high and bringing it down on the rail—“all that makes me burn and sizzle with bright murderous flames is that there really is a lousy, low-down, black-jack-using crook aboard this tub, and he’s giving us the merry horse laugh right now. Goroo! This was made to order for him. And I’m mad now. I’m good and mad. I’ll catch him. I’ll get him, if it’s the last thing I ever do, and if I have to sit up every night and wait for him to come after that fi—”
    He stopped, stiffening, as an idea struck him. Slowly he turned round a lean, hollow-eyed, startled face.
    “Film!” he said, clutching at the ends of his spiked hair. “Film! In my cabin. The rest of it. Unguarded! The rest of poor old Uncle Warpus’s speech, and he’s probably pinching it right now … ”
    Before anybody could stop him, he had whirled round and was stumbling back towards his cabin along the slippery deck.
    “Curt!” said Morgan, with a groan which ended deep in his stomach. “Listen! Hey! Come back! The captain—”
    Over his shoulder Warren called out a suggested course of action for the captain. Whistler was out of his alcove at a bound and trumpeting. He shouted to the second officer to follow; then he stood and gibbered while Baldwin pursued the flying shirt-sleeved figure down the deck. Warren got inside the door, and Baldwin after him. In vain stout Valvick attempted to pacify his fellow skipper. Captain Whistler, imprimis , objected to being addressed as