“Go on, Arnold. Henderson took Floyd in?”
“Yes. Floyd didn’t say where he was going, but he did apparently intend to return, because he told Henderson he might be late and would take the water taxi back.”
“Any guesses as to where we might look?”
Arnold nodded. “One, yes. There’s a show girl at the Montmarte Club who might know. Doris Dawn. Floyd has a fairly regular binge schedule, and he seldom staggers back until the next day. But it’s well over twenty-four hours now, and that is unusual. Only other time was when he started a brawl, slugged a man he hadn’t been properly introduced to, and woke up a day later in a hospital suffering from a bullet wound and under arrest. Gentleman he tangled with turned out to be a well-known professional gunman on his night off. But even then he phoned out for bail.” Arnold related this with some relish. He was obviously not too fond of Floyd.
“That would happen at the Montmarte Club,” Merlini said. “If we ever contact mainland again we’ll check with Miss Dawn and the hospitals.”
On those words the front door opened and Henderson came in from the hall. “I can’t raise anyone on North Brother,” he announced, addressing Arnold. “The rain’s stopped, but the visibility is bad. Fog. We’ll have to wait until it clears.”
“All right, thanks. But keep an eye out and if it does clear, get busy. We must get the police as soon as possible.”
He nodded and started to go when Merlini asked, “What trips did you make into town today, Henderson?”
Henderson glanced at Arnold before replying, but at the latter’s nod, said promptly, “I went in at eight for the mail. I took Colonel Watrous in at noon, Miss Verrill and Mr. Lamb just after lunch, about two. I brought the Colonel and Mr. Lamb back on my six o’clock trip, and I got Miss Verrill at 8:30. That’s all.”
“What did you do then?”
“I locked the boathouse, played a game or two of Russian bank with my wife, listened to the radio some, and we were just going to bed as Miss Verrill pounded on our door.”
“You and Mrs. Henderson were together all the time, then, from 8:30 on?”
“Yes.”
“Notice any signs of anyone else on the island at any time today or tonight?”
“No. Only that man in the motorboat.”
Merlini nodded, thanked Henderson, and turned to Arnold. I could think of a lot of other questions that needed answering, but Merlini, who always gets along with a scandalously small amount of sleep, suddenly suggested bed.
“There’s not a lot more we can do before the police arrive,” he said. “Some of my questions don’t seem to get replies, and I have no authority to force them.”
Ira Brooke seemed to think the shoe fitted. “I’m glad you understand my opinion,” he said stiffly. “If the police want to know certain things you seem to be interested in, that may be a different matter. I shouldn’t wonder that they’d also like to know what you two—” he glanced suspiciously at me—“are doing on this island and how you spent your time the last few hours.” He exited on that, going determinedly upstairs.
Merlini watched him go, smiling. “Trouble is, he’s right.” Then, to Arnold: “Harte and I can camp here in the living-room if we may. The davenport looks comfortable.”
Arnold objected solicitously. “No. There aren’t any unoccupied guest rooms, but you can have Floyd’s. If he shows up, that’s his hard luck.”
I was afraid Merlini had some ulterior motive for sleeping downstairs and would insist on the davenport. Bed, I suddenly realized, was going to feel awfully good. But be made no objection, and when Dr. Gail had said good-night and had gone out, Arnold took us upstairs. Sigrid and Colonel Watrous said good-night in the hall as Arnold showed us into Floyd’s room, directly across from Linda’s where the Do Not Disturb card still hung on the doorknob. My first look, as Arnold switched on the lights, made me glance at Merlini, half expecting to catch him just finishing the cabalistic pass or still muttering the mystic spell that had magically transported us to the 17th century — or at least to the pirate wing of some museum. Colonel Watrous had mentioned Floyd’s collection, but I wasn’t prepared for this.
The bed and dresser, furniture of importance in any ordinary bedroom, were entirely subordinated, almost out of place. Above the bed a great flag stretched across the wall, carrying on its torn and tattered black ground the familiar device of skull and crossbones. The remaining wall space was almost completely filled with framed maps, naïvely drawn woodcuts and engravings of galleons and low rakish craft, a yellowed poster whose thick block letters announced that $100 would be paid for the capture of Stede Bonnett, and many smaller flags. A blood-red pennant near the door bore a bunch of white and green ribbons, and the small card tacked beneath it read, Captain Bartholomew Sharp, 1652–1692.
There were two massive chairs of Spanish workmanship, a great iron-bound sea chest and a glass-covered bookcase. A row of display cases along the left-hand wall added to the museum feeling. I glanced over them quickly. The first held a collection of small arms, swords, daggers, and pistols, all richly ornamented. One sword hilt, without blade, was almost unrecognizably misshapen, and the card beside it read, Found on the site of old Panama, sacked and fired by Henry Morgan, 1671. The second case contained bits of ore and numerous small barbaric ornaments, earrings and bracelets, whose cards bore such names as Valverde and Titicaca. The third case held coins. Pieces of eight, doubloons, onzas, cross money, and several guineas, but none dated as late as 1779, and all of a slightly different design from the ones I had found.
Arnold commented on the exhibit and seemed talkative, but Merlini appeared very sleepy and made few answers. Arnold left after a moment, and with the closing of the door Merlini’s sleepiness promptly vanished.
“Floyd’s going to prove interesting,” he said. “People with hobbies usually are, unless it’s match covers. Buccaneers and buried treasure is one I could go for myself.”
Then he proceeded to contradict himself completely with a one-man imitation of the whole Federal Bureau of Investigation that included a thorough examination of everything but the piracy display. He started in the bathroom where he poked about in the medicine cabinet and then, returning, began to go methodically through Floyd’s dresser drawers. His swift and eager display of energy made me sleepier than ever. I pulled off my coat, vest, and tie and began unbuttoning my shirt.
“Lose something?” I asked.
He looked around, and then, with surprise, said, “What are you doing?”
“Undressing,” I explained. “I sleep better that way. Find any pajamas?”
“Do you mean to tell me—” he began.
“Yes.” I cut him off short. “I do. I’m way behind on sleep. I’ve been blackjacked. I’ve had to put up with peg-legged ghosts and corpses. I’ve had fires set under me and guns waved in my face. I’m going to take a nice warm shower and sleep it off. Wake me when the marines have landed.”
“I see,” he said, apparently giving in. “Do me a favor?”
“Not without knowing what, I won’t. That’s how this all started.”
“Do your undressing over there in front of the window.”
“I will not! If you’re going to bust out with an exhibitionist complex you can do your own strip tease. What’s the idea?”
“Pull the shade and stand between it and the light so your shadow falls on it. Forget your girlish modesty for once.”
“Oh, so,” I said. “Someone may be watching. And if it’s the murderer, how do you know he won’t take this opportunity for a little target practice?”