A tall, well-built man, a patient obviously, for he wore a long crimson dressing gown, came into the room, followed by Major Williams, who closed the door again behind him. Captain Svendsen said: "Miss Colfax, this is Colonel Josh Morgan."
The tall man in the red dressing gown turned to her quickly. She caught a flash of narrow and rather intent blue-gray eyes before he bowed, and then took the hand she held out toward him—took it, however, with his left hand as his right arm was in a sling. He said, conventionally, except for that intent look in his browned face and in his level eyes: "How do you do, Miss Colfax?"
Captain Svendsen said: "You haven't met before, I take it."
"Why—no." Colonel Morgan hesitated, looked at Marcia again directly, and said: "Or have we?"
She had met, casually, many Americans in Paris before the war, and in Marseilles after the Americans came. But she would have remembered this man, she thought suddenly; his black hair, the curve of his mouth; his quick, direct look; something strong and substantial and yet daring and youthful about him, that suggested imagination and inventiveness held in reserve, weighed and tested by a matter-of-fact good sense; she would have remembered him for all that. But also there was some spark, some extra bit of electricity in the air between them; it was curious, a small and unimportant fact, but a fact. She knew that she'd have remembered him. She said slowly: "No, no, I'm sure we've not met," and Colonel Josh Morgan said: "No, of course not. I'd have remembered you," and smiled briefly.
It was, merely, a conventional, pleasant compliment, but it startled her a little, because it was so near her own thought. She met his eyes for an instant that suddenly seemed a long time; as if she had met that deep and direct look, unguarded, with no barriers between many, many times. Which was nonsense! She turned abruptly toward Captain Svendsen, who said: "Colonel Morgan was a newspaperman in civilian life. He spent considerable time in Paris before the war. I thought conceivably you might have met."
Marcia thought swiftly: he is trying to check my story, my identity. Why?
Josh Morgan said shortly: "Paris is a big place."
"Yes," said Captain Svendsen, heavily. "Yes. Still the American colony was not large. One often knows one's compatriots in any city. There were some other Americans on the lifeboat we picked up, Colonel."
"Oh, is Miss Colfax one of the Lerida survivors?" said Colonel Morgan.
Captain Svendsen nodded. "There were five passengers," he said exactly. "And two seamen, besides the man who was killed. They were"—Captain Svendsen's blue eyes watched Colonel Morgan sharply as he named them—"a Mr. and Mrs. Cates, Americans. I mean United States citizens. Gili Duvrey, French. Miss Colfax, here. An Andre Messac—French also."
It seemed to Marcia that a flash of something like surprise came into Colonel Morgan's eyes. When he spoke, however, his voice was flat and impersonal. ''The Cates?" He asked. "The famous Cates? I think his name is Luther."
"Yes. Do you know them?"
Colonel Morgan reached for cigarettes and with his free hand managed to extract one. "I knew of them. It's a famous name. Tons of money—patrons of the arts—fashionable, smart. Rather decent as I remember. But I never knew them."
"Well," the Captain sighed and rose. "I won't trouble you further just now. Miss Colfax. I hope you are comfortable. I see they've made a nurse of you. There was no civilian clothing for any of you; the Geneva Convention forbids us to carry civilians. But we couldn't leave you to float around in a life boat!"
There was a faint brief twinkle in those deep-set, far-seeing blue eyes. She said quickly: "I haven't thanked you, Captain Svendsen . . ."
He would have none of that. He made a brusque motion with the great hand that held the pipe. "Part of my job, part of my job. Fortunate we happened upon you and saw your rocket. Unfortunately, once we'd rescued you we cast the Lerida lifeboat adrift. That was before the doctor attending you discovered the fact about Castiogne. So"—he lifted his massive shoulders—"if there were any clues to his murder in the lifeboat they are gone now. Well, that's all now. Thank you. ..."
Major Williams opened the door. Colonel Morgan made a sort of motion toward her, stopped, and said: "I hope we'll meet again, Miss Colfax."
"You're very likely to," said Captain Svendsen rather dryly. "The ship is not a large one."
Major Williams at the door, looking very young and thin and tall, and smiling down at her in a friendly way, said: "Do you feel all right? Shall I take you to your cabin . . . ?"
"I'm quite all right, thank you, Major." She took up the nurse's coat which had slid back upon the chair.
Colonel Josh Morgan turned to watch her leave. Captain Svendsen, very thoughtful-looking, returned to his pipe. The door closed behind her and she walked along the narrow, shining, gray passage.
Murder, in that tossing, frantic lifeboat with the crash of wind and waves all around them—while they sat huddled together; while they watched. Only, of course, they hadn't watched, really. Anything could have happened during, say, one of those blinded, frantic forays of wind and waves and terror.
Yet it was still impossible, really, to comprehend it. Who would have wanted to murder Alfred Castiogne? Who cared, just then, about anything in the world but the next wave, the next breath of air, the next pulse of life?
She reached the central passageway with its flights of open, ladderlike stairways going up and down, and Mickey was waiting for her, lounging against a bulkhead, smoking and talking to Luther Cates and a young lieutenant with the golden, spoked wheel of the Army Transport Corps on his sleeve. Mickey sprang forward when she emerged.
"Okay, Marcia? Let's get out on deck. Better put on that coat. It's still cold."
Luther Cates had followed him; the young lieutenant gave them a brief look and disappeared into an office near at hand. Luther looked tired and old, as if the previous night had added years. His face was drawn and gray; there were deep pouches under his pale-blue, rather bewildered eyes, but he was freshly shaved and the thin gray hair over his temples was plastered down neatly. He too wore an army uniform from which the insignia had been removed and managed somehow to look, as he had done in black beret and shabby topcoat on the Portuguese ship, exactly as if he had stepped—although rather wearily—from the pages of Esquire. He took her hand in his own thin and boneless clasp. "How are you, my dear? Better? Daisy Belle said you were sleeping so none of us called you. I suppose they've been questioning you about this man, Castiogne?"
"Yes."
"They've questioned all of us. Daisy Belle was quite annoyed; said the only thing she knew of him was that he smelled of garlic. Well, well, it's a queer thing, of course. I can't understand it myself. I don't remember anything at all that is suggestive; I had no idea he was dead. But obviously one of the two seamen did it. Nobody else would have had a motive."
"How is Daisy Belle?"
"Oh, she's all right. She always says she has the constitution of a horse. More than I've got. . . ." He coughed a little, apologetically. "I think she's in the dining salon now. With— er—Miss Duvrey."
Mickey took her coat and slipped it .over her shoulders. Luther added, smiling: "You make a very beautiful nurse, my dear. Daisy Belle is quite enchanted with her uniform. They seem to have taken up a collection for us in the way of clothing. I believe we are the only civilians aboard. And very lucky to be aboard, I'm sure."
He waved as they turned toward the deck.
The air was fresh and cold, suddenly, on her face. It was night and the sea was very black, but the ship was lighted everywhere. The Red Crosses painted on her sides and on her smokestack were brilliantly outlined with red lights; portholes all along the decks were lighted; floodlights shone down further to illuminate the enormous Red Crosses. Those painted, lighted symbols of mercy had been the ship's protection. The sound of a radio came from an open port near by; somewhere in the distance some men were singing.