“I know!” Elsa laughed. “I spied on you once — when you came down last night. I hoped you’d be a motherly old soul who could look in on me if I were ill. I hated you desperately when you turned out to be a man.”
“I trust that’s diminished this evening — with the storm.”
“This evening,” said Elsa, “I’ve reached a point where I can enjoy my dinner.”
Cliff signaled the steward, gave the order, and turned back to the girl. She was carrying a gold-trimmed white handbag. As Cliff turned back, she held it open in her hand and was busy with lipstick, using the open top of the bag for a mirror. Unexpectedly she raised her eyes and saw him watching her.
Cliff smiled quickly, but he was glad the steward appeared just then and saved his making any remark. Unless he was badly mistaken, the delightful Elsa Graves was packing a gun.
They talked desultorily over their soup, and Cliff’s efforts failed to get him much information. All they brought forth was that she had been in Paris for two years studying art and was on her way home to some small town in the Middle West.
She was chattering on about her experience in the art schools when shouts from the deck outside brought them both to their feet.
“What is it?” Elsa asked, and briefly her face was drawn with fear.
“You have nerves,” Cliff told her. “You’d better stay right here. It’s probably just a scuffle in the Second Class on the deck below. I’ll find out and report if it’s really exciting.”
He stepped outside and was hurrying toward a group of passengers near the rail when the small form of a girl detached itself from the crowd and bumped violently into him.
Momentarily he stared down into troubled eyes, searching an olive-skinned piquant face, old beyond its years. The light from the saloon window obliquely touched over-red lips and errant blue-black hair.
“Pardon, M’sieu’. He fell overboard!” Her worried eyes swept Cliff’s face. “I saw him run to the rail and I turned away. I thought him ill, M’sieu’ — seasick. I had no wish to embarrass him. I walked part way down the deck — then I heard a yell. When I turned around, he was falling over the edge. I screamed for help. Oh, M’sieu’, will they find him?”
Her question was so marked with anxiety that Cliff asked quickly, “Do you know him?”
“I have never seen him before. Oh, what’s that?” She pointed toward the soft blackness of the sea.
The rhythmic cadence of the Moriander’s turbines had died away while they were talking. On the port side, slipping swiftly astern, a splash of crimson fire dyed the ocean’s hills and dales dull red.
“It’s a flare,” Cliff explained. “It’s attached to a life ring. If the man’s still alive and can swim, they’ll pick him up shortly. They’re lowering a boat now.”
“Oh, I am so relieve — for him,” she breathed. “Now — I must go below. Thank you, M’sieu’, for your kindness.”
Cliff lingered to watch the heavy surfboat hauled up the side, and a limp bedraggled bundle of black and white removed from it. Then he turned back to the dining saloon.
“A man fell overboard,” he reported gravely. “Yes, he was rescued. And who do you think it was? Our friend, M. Martone, the cosmetician.”
“Poor fellow,” Elsa murmured. “I don’t like him — but he’s such a helpless little man.”
“All of us are rather helpless,” Cliff said soberly, “when we’re alone in the middle of the ocean.”
They finished dinner, listened to the orchestra, and later sat through a movie in the lounge. The wind had abated somewhat when they went below after a late turn on deck.
Elsa offered her hand before she went into 115. “You’re a swell guardian,” she said. “Do try to make the weather respect your authority tomorrow.”
“I’ll see to it!” Cliff assured her. “I’m certainly not going to let it keep my ward out of circulation. Good night.”
It was quarter to three by the luminous hands of his watch when he was roused by a tapping on his door. He sat up and swung his feet to the floor. Clammy wetness made him draw them quickly up and switch on the reading light to find his slippers. Wisps of rain, which had started since he retired, were blowing in through the open port.
Still almost half-asleep, he searched around for his dressing gown. The tapping on the door continued, timid, but more insistent — conveying a hint of dread and fear by its stealthy staccato.
Elsa Graves was standing in the passageway pressed close to his door. Its unexpected opening flung her into the room. Cliff had a glimpse of dainty bare feet and black pajamas.
“Dorette!” she blurted out. “In there — in our cabin — dead! Dead — Cliff!”
“Listen to me, Elsa!” His voice was kind, but commanding enough to stave off her threatened hysterics. “You wait here. I’ll be back shortly — and then you’ll have to talk. Now try to compose yourself.”
When he felt she was calm enough to be left alone, he stepped across the hallway to 115, closed the door and leaned against it, gazing down at the pajama-clad body of the girl he had met on deck so short a time before.
Death always saddened Cliff Chandler — and Dorette Maupin was far too young to die. Yet without its heavy make-up her face appeared older than it had on deck. Older and harder.
Cliff knelt down beside her and passed his hand over her dark, carefully waved hair. For a second or two he squatted motionless, staring intently at his outstretched palm. Slowly he rubbed it down the side of his bathrobe, got to his feet, and turned his eyes toward the porthole.
The heavy, brassbound, circular glass was down, closed, but swinging loose and unfastened. Above it was a strong brass hook suspended from the ceiling — used to hold it up for ventilation. Quickly he turned back to the lifeless form beside him, lifting it slightly. There was no doubt about it. At the nape of the neck Dorette Maupin’s hair was wet.
Cliff bit down tightly on his lower lip. Across the back of the dead girl’s slender neck was an ugly bruise. Clotted blood seeped out from one side of it. Gently Cliff placed a hand on each side of her face and moved her head from side to side. He knew then why the head had lolled so limply when he raised the body. Dorette Maupin was dead with a broken neck.
He covered the body with a blanket, then straightened up and turned his attention to the cabin.
Both beds were mussed. On the head of one hung a pink net sleeping cap, one of those wisps women wear at night to protect their waves. Cliff touched it with a finger — it was slightly damp. On a chair were intimate feminine garments — and more on the lounge under the porthole.
Working swiftly, Cliff found a traveling bag with the initials “D.M.” It yielded an identifying passport and more clothes. Under the chic Paris underwear which cascaded from the traveling bag was an unopened box of face powder bearing the label “Chez Martone.”
It was an ornate oval box, cellophane-wrapped and bright with printed flowers. Cliff carried it with him when he locked the door of 115 and stepped across the corridor to his own stateroom.
Elsa Graves was just where he had left her — sitting disconsolately on the lounge. He gave her hand a reassuring pat and spoke quietly.
“There are some things I must know without delay. I told you my name — but I didn’t tell you this. I’m a detective employed by this line.”
She paled.
“You’re in a jam, Elsa,” he continued, “but I can help you if you’ll tell me the truth. Dorette Maupin was murdered.”
“That’s preposterous — impossible.”
“Is it?” Cliff lighted a cigarette and asked through the smoke, “Did you know Dorette Maupin before you came on board?”