She certainly wouldn’t have admitted anyone into her own stateroom in her fearful mood! And she must have run directly into the arms of her murderer, as Mitchell had predicted in his letter.
Troy’s eyes hardened as he thought of Winter. Had the man waited outside, and clubbed him as he opened his door? Had he intended to attack Troy in his cabin in the first place, and had he, Troy, forestalled his plan by too great a watchfulness?
Suddenly Troy was tired, and he stopped thinking and pressed his fevered head against the cool bunk pole.
The knocking came twice before he heard it — discreet, respectful.
It was the steward, a heavy-figured, amiable Irishman whom Troy knew from previous trips. Troy had stepped out on deck, closing the door behind him and scowling heavily.
“You wanted to see me, Mr. Troy?” the steward asked.
“Did someone say I did?” Troy parried.
“Yes, sir. You left a note on my spindle.”
“What did it say, I forget” He made a hazy gesture to his forehead.
“Well, sir, it simply told me to look in cabin one hundred and two.”
Again Troy was shaken, but he thought quickly and said: “Well, I wanted to ask if all the cabins were opened by a different key?”
“Oh, yes, sir. Every one different. And the master key I keep in my pocket at all times.” The steward patted his coat pocket where it was obvious the key now resided.
“And the locks are hard to pick?”
“Impossible, sir. They’re Newgate locks. I’ve tried ’em myself — just to test ’em, of course! If anyone gets into your cabin, Mr. Troy, it’s because you forgot to lock your door!”
“Thanks steward.” Troy nodded as if his curiosity were satisfied.
“Thank you, sir.” And the steward went on his way.
Troy stepped back inside the cabin, took another swallow of whiskey, and faced the fact. The murderer had intended that the steward should discover Troy lying upon his cabin deck with the dead Clara Berg beside him! The fact that Troy had awakened in time to ward off the disclosure didn’t mean that he was safe. The murderer would probably try again to implicate him. All that Troy had accomplished was the gaining of a little time. He would have to act fast.
The first thing he had to do was to get Clara back to her own stateroom.
The walk along the deck with the dead woman in his arms seemed an endless trek along the rim of disaster, and Troy prayed that no passengers would appear. He had almost reached her stateroom when the thought struck him with paralyzing force that the door might have locked itself behind her. Sweat broke from every pore, as he felt with tingling fingers for the knob. But then the door swung open and he stepped inside, kicking it shut after him. He laid Clara gently upon the bunk with shaking arms and then stood looking around him.
Everything appeared to be the same as he’d left it: His poker solitaire set-up still lay upon the table. Clara’s suitcase stood open, and her clothes, neatly folded, lay within. Troy frowned. Obviously the garments had not been disturbed, and he had expected that her murderer would search for that incriminating letter. Why hadn’t he?
Slow, heavy footsteps sounded along the deck, and Troy snatched the revolver from his pocket. He’d neglected to lock the door. The steps paused, and Troy tensed for an unwelcome encounter.
“Clara?”
It was Auslander’s voice.
Troy swung the door open. “Come on in, Auslander.”
Blinking, the round-faced man stepped inside. “Don’t you ever let Clara be alone for a while?” he asked, aggrieved.
“I’m afraid she’s alone for good now, Auslander,” Troy said, motioning towards the bunk.
“Was ist!” Auslander’s blue eyes stared at the still form beneath the blanket, and his face turned ashen. “Clara?”
“She’s dead. Somebody strangled her.”
Auslander let out a cry and turned, fumbling for the door knob, but Troy pushed his revolver roughly into his side.
“Sit down! Somebody’s trying to palm off the blame for this thing on me. I’ve got to find out who killed Clara before we reach San Francisco. Here — read that.”
He pushed Nate Mitchell’s letter into Auslander’s hands and the latter read it, forming some of the words with trembling lips. When he had finished he looked up with round, wondering eyes.
“Then it is Mitchell who killed her. Give it to the police only, then you are free.”
“I’ve got a responsibility,” Troy said grimly glancing towards Clara. “I’m going to find him myself. I think Mitchell is one of two men who are on this boat with us. Ex-captain Ferris, or the preacher, Winter.”
“How will you find out?”
“I may need your help. Even if you have been hating me, why shouldn’t you give it? After all, Clara is out of it now. There’s no reason for us to quarrel!”
“Clara!” Tears rolled down Auslander’s fat cheeks, and he stepped over to the bunk and leaned over it, his shoulders quaking. After a few seconds he made an effort to control himself. “I will help you, Mr. Troy.”
“Good.” Troy replaced the revolver in his pocket. “First of all, I gave Clara a Derringer pistol to defend herself with. It should be here somewhere, so let’s look for it.”
The German nodded and started searching the table and the floor while Troy examined the bunk, lifting Clara’s head gently to search under the pillow. He had purposefully omitted telling Auslander that Clara had come to his cabin. No need to incriminate himself needlessly.
Troy didn’t believe she would have walked along the deck without the pistol, but the fact remained that it had not been in her possession when he’d found her dead beside him and that fact was all-important.
Five minutes later, Troy pondered an apparently insoluble puzzle. The little Derringer was not in Clara’s cabin. Where was it?
“I can’t see the murderer taking the gun with him,” Troy said thoughtfully.
“Unless he wanted the pretty little thing for himself!”
“But if he were found with it, it would incriminate him.”
“But if he wanted it very badly,” Auslander said with, a wise look “and he was sure that somebody else would be held for the crime, and that he would not even be investigated...”
Troy shook his head. “I doubt it. But I’ll keep my eye out for it, just the same. I’m going to search their cabins — Winter’s and Ferris.’ ”
“Where will you get the key?”
“That’s easy.” Troy took out his revolver again. “They’ll do the searching themselves.”
“And how can I help?”
“Stay here, or wait in my cabin. One hundred and two.”
Auslander looked sadly towards the bunk, then with a sigh he removed his alpaca overcoat, stripped off his kid-skin gloves and placed them in his pocket.
“I will stay here with Clara,” he said. “It is the least I can do for her, now!”
Jim troy found Winter in the dining cabin, staring moodily into a gilt-framed back mirror, and sipping an evening cup of coffee.
“I’m ready to listen to your talk now, Mr. Winter,” Troy said. “I’ve got more time. Let’s go to your cabin.”
The preacher turned sullen eyes upon Troy and shook his head. “The spirit does not move me to talk to you now.”
“Not even about Clara Berg?”
Troy weighted the question heavily with implication, and it worked. The preacher gave him a quick look, rose, paid his check, and led the way amidships to his cabin. Inside he turned and demanded: “Now what do you wish to say about Clara Berg?”
“I think you ought to pray for her soul, Winter. She’s dead.”
At his words, Winter’s mouth fell open, and his face looked more like a tragic mask than ever; the intake of his breath rasped plainly. But Troy was in no mood to be gullible. He took out his revolver.