He held her suddenly tighter. "That was what I told you to do. Run and yell like hell and . . . Listen, Marcia, what was there about him that you recognized?"
"Not anything, really. There couldn't have been! His face and head were bandaged. It was all so quick and confused. I can't be sure of anything."
"But it was a man? You are sure it wasn't—well, Gili? Or Daisy Belle Cates?"
She hadn't thought of that.
And had the patient with the bandages over his face actually been one of the Lerida survivors? Had he murdered Manuel Para? The red-clothed, faceless figure had had for her a curious sense of horror. Actually, though, had a primitive sense of danger outside herself intervened to warn her?
Josh Morgan was so white that he looked gray. He said: "We'll go to the Captain."
Again the scene suddenly dissolved into another. They left the little office and were in the narrow passageway, climbing stairs, hurrying through the ship.
A ship that was subtly different.
Only the wards were guarded and unchanged, protected by all the minute, invulnerable mechanism, of care from even the knowledge of murder. Brightly lighted, cheerful, invincibly protected, it was as if the wards were sanctuary. They had an entity apart from the rest of the ship; the fact of murder was outside and could not touch them.
But the news of the murder had gone like wildfire over the rest of the ship, and there was already a hubbub of swift and controlled activity. Groups of men, transportation officers and staff, accompanied by seamen who were not then on duty, searched the ship, leaving no inch of hiding place unexplored.
The Lerida survivors had been brought aboard, and murder and suspicion had been brought aboard with them. It was almost as if the ship herself was aware of it, as if every shadow might harbor murder, as if every creak might betray that stealthy presence. The men searching went armed.
Twice on the stairway to the upper deck Marcia and Josh passed such groups, hurrying and intent, with revolvers in holsters strapped around their waists.
They reached the door of the Captain's quarters. It opened and Mickey started out, saw them and stopped.
"Marcia!" He was pale and excited; he took her hand and drew her toward him. "Marcia, where have you been? Are you all right? I tried to find you. . . ."
Behind him, Captain Svendsen said: "Come in, Colonel Morgan. You too, Miss Colfax."
Colonel Wells, the medical officer in command, was there too. The room was shadowy, except for a light on the desk which threw the Captain's weathered face and the weary dark pockets around his eyes into sharp relief. "I was about to send for you, Miss Colfax," he said. "Tell me exactly what happened."
So again she told her story. When she had finished the Captain and Colonel Wells exchanged a long look.
"There is a patient with a bandaged face on this trip, isn't there, Colonel?"
Colonel Wells cleared his throat. "Right. He's navy, an enlisted man. If I remember the case correctly his face is burned. He was on a destroyer which was torpedoed. He got the burns—bad facial burns and paralyzed throat muscles—swimming through oil that was on fire."
"I think I've seen him on deck."
"He's ambulatory; nothing the matter with him except his face and throat. He'll eventually get a plastic and skin grafting job. However, he ought not to have been on deck today. No deck privileges were granted, owing to the fog. And"—Colonel Wells cleared his throat again—"and besides it may not have been he. There are hundreds of red bathrobes. And I suppose if anyone wished to he could get hold of some gauze and wrap up his face. It would be an excellent disguise for a man or for a woman."
The Captain's eyes were like pins of light, impaling Marcia. "Was it a man or was it a woman?"
"I thought then that it was a man. I suppose it could have been a woman."
"You didn't recognize him? Or her?"
"N—no."
"You are not sure. Was there anything familiar about him? His height? The way he walked? The way he carried his arms? There are a hundred ways in which you recognize people, besides seeing their faces. What was it?"
"I don't know. I don't know anything about him. Except that he was there."
"Have you seen the patient Colonel Wells mentioned?"
She had seen hundreds of patients. She could not have identified one of them in any way, but she could not remember any whose face was bandaged except the figure on the stairway. She said so quickly. Captain Svendsen made a brusque move of impatience and Colonel Wells moved to the telephone. "I'll check on this man," he said. They listened to his terse questions. He said finally: "Tell him to report to the Captain's quarters at once. Send his field jacket along with him. Right, Lieutenant." He hung up the receiver and turned toward them. "His name is Jacob Heinzer. He's not in a ward, he's in one of the cabins. Ambulatory, as I say, and perfectly able to take care of himself. Matter of fact, I've never even seen his face. The present bandages won't be removed until he gets to the surgeon. But aside from that he's all right. However"—Colonel Wells looked out into the fog again for a moment and said—"if he was there on the stairway, why didn't he report the murder? He must have seen Para; he must have seen Miss Colfax. And what happened to him? I got there as soon as it was reported to me; it couldn't have been over five minutes. He wasn't there then; I'm sure of that. Of course in five minutes on a ship anybody can get anywhere, almost. But still, I cannot help thinking of the ease of assuming that particular disguise—a red bathrobe, gauze. Every patient on board has a red bathrobe. They were issued to the Lerida survivors also, men and women alike. As to the gauze . . ." The Colonel shrugged. "That should not be difficult, either."
The Captain's bleached eyebrows were drawn somberly together. "What about the knife? No weapon was found; it could have been thrown in the sea. It doubtless was."
"From the wound, I'd say it was a sizable knife. Not a pocket knife. But that could not have been taken from any of the surgeries or dispensaries," said Colonel Wells flatly. "That is impossible. The cases are sterile and locked."
The Captain sat down. He looked thoughtfully at his red, strong hands. "We'll have to try to establish the approximate time of the murder; try to investigate from that basis. You examined the body, Colonel?"
"Right. But I can't say to the minute when he was murdered, Captain. I'd say he'd been dead not much over an hour, certainly more than half an hour, at the time I looked at the body. That was immediately after the murder was reported. But that is only approximate, as to time. There were no other wounds, no marks of struggle. I'd say the murderer took him by surprise."
"That's over an hour's leeway," said the Captain. "It's a wide margin of time, on a ship, with people coming and going constantly." He turned again to Marcia. "How long were you on the boat deck before you found Para?"
"I don't know exactly. I went there directly from here."
He glanced at a watch strapped on his thick red wrist. "That must have been about two hours ago. It has been nearly an hour since the murder was reported. According to Colonel Wells then. Para might have been murdered during the time you were on the boat deck."
Colonel Wells interceded hurriedly. "I can't be sure of that, Captain. There's an inevitable margin of a few minutes more or less either way . . ."
The Captain went on: "Surely Para could call for help; surely he would struggle. It seems incredible, Miss Colfax, that you, sitting on the deck directly above, heard nothing."
"There was the foghorn," said Josh suddenly. "It drowned every other sound. I was on the boat deck, too, talking to Miss Colfax. ..."
"When?" said the Captain.
Josh told him, quickly. He wasn't sure about the time. But he had met Miss Colfax and Miss Duvrey. Miss Duvrey had gone inside. He and Miss Colfax had strolled aft, he had got out a steamer chair for her and they had talked a while.