“The ringleader,” she said breathlessly.
Klaus, the burly blonde stowaway-still in his stolen stewards’ whites-lay on his side on the shining linoleum, his blue eyes staring at nothing, his expression one of disappointment and surprise. . a common enough one, at the point of death, I should think. Who among us won’t be naively disappointed, and bitterly surprised, when the inevitable arrives?
She sealed herself within her quarters, and I returned to the body. At this time of the morning, the corridor was otherwise deserted. Kneeling over the man, I noticed a wound in his back, a blossom of crimson, still dripping.
I remembered the vague sense that there’d been a commotion outside the stateroom-that had been, after all, what stirred me from my slumber. I’d quickly dressed and exited, so if that commotion indeed had resulted in the violent death of the blonde stowaway, this was a freshly created corpse. . born within the past ten minutes or less.
Proving that a woman could indeed dress as quickly as a man (should the situation call for it), Miss Vance emerged in a simple blue-gray gingham morning dress-well, this was morning, after all-with collar and cuffs of dotted lawn and a rather loose skirt. She looked nothing like any detective I ever heard about.
Or such was the case until she knelt next to me, eyes narrowed, unhesitant to achieve a close proximity to the corpse.
“Have you touched anything?” she asked.
“Somehow I managed to resist. Is that a bullet wound?”
She leaned in, her pretty nose damn near touching the blossom of blood. Then she drew back, her eyes meeting mine and holding them. “No-that’s a knife wound. Possibly a hunting knife-judging by the width of the tear in the fabric. . nearly two inches.”
“Couldn’t the cloth have been torn in the struggle?”
She shook her head. “I don’t believe there was a struggle-this is the classic example of a man stabbed in the back.”
I disagreed-telling her I had heard a to-do in the hall. Surely this was the result of a scuffle escalating into tragedy.
She shrugged. “Perhaps there were two other men. . two assailants, let us say. One is arguing with our late friend here, facing him, and the other is behind him.”
“I see-one keeps him busy, the other stabs him in the back.”
“Or one is arguing with the victim, and as the argument seems about to get out of hand, the accomplice ends the discussion with a two-inch blade of steel.”
She stood and so did I.
“Of course,” she said, “what immediately comes to mind is his two friends-the other stowaways.”
“Yes! If Klaus escaped the cell, so must have the others-and there was tension between them. . I witnessed it.”
Nodding, she said, “The other two seemed more likely to cooperate, to talk-wasn’t that your opinion, after interrogating them?”
“It most certainly was. . Shouldn’t we alert Staff Captain Anderson, or perhaps Captain Turner himself?”
“We should. But I’d like a few moments, here, at the scene of the crime. . before too many well-meaning fools come tromping through.”
I was doubtful this was wise. “We may have two stowaways at large, remember-one of whom is armed with a hunting knife.”
“Van, I scarcely think they’ll be trying to take over the ship with it-they are probably seeking a new hiding place, not looking for another victim.”
Miss Vance requested that I stand near her doorway, and she returned to her quarters and emerged moments later with a magnifying glass.
I had to laugh. “How Sherlock Holmes of you!”
“What may seem a cliche in Conan Doyle,” she said, “is a valuable tool in real detection. . Physical evidence has put many a guilty neck in the hangman’s noose.”
The detective in gingham knelt to examine the linoleum in the area of the corpse, an activity that took several seemingly endless minutes.
Finally she turned toward me, her eyes glittering in a predatory fashion. “Droplets of blood,” she said.
Walking along, half-bent over, gazing through the magnifying glass, she followed a trail of tiny scarlet globules. She stopped at the mouth of the short corridor next to my cabin.
“Come,” she said, motioning to me. “Hug the wall, as you do.”
I joined her-and there on the floor, halfway down the short corridor so near where I slept, was a black-handled hunting knife, smeared crimson. Blobs of blood trailed toward where it lay. Miss Vance said this indicated the knife had been flung there-by the murderer.
Gesturing back down the hall, toward the corpse, she said, “The murderer walked along with the bloody knife at his side-probably held out, a ways, to prevent getting any blood on his clothing. Then, seeing this corridor, impulsively pitched the murder weapon away.”
“Then this was not a carefully calculated affair-rather a killing by impulse?”
“Yes-but by a person carrying a deadly blade. That indicates some forethought of foul play. . Now it’s time to contact the good staff captain.”
Within five minutes Anderson had arrived, looking remarkably crisp in his gold-braided blue jacket with cap, for after two in the morning, anyway.
“Sorry to have disturbed you,” I said. Miss Vance had made the call. The master-at-arms was on his way, as well.
“I’d just returned to my cabin,” he said, his expression wide-eyed yet business-like as he surveyed the corpse on the linoleum, “having dispatched a second group of crew members to continue the search of the ship. We’ve found nothing thus far.”
“Until now,” Miss Vance said, with a redundant gesture toward the corpse. She quickly filled Anderson in, leading him for a look at the discarded knife that lay on the floor of the adjoining short corridor.
“I would like to take that weapon into evidence,” she said. “While I’m limited, I do have a kit with me that includes fingerprinting works.”
“Good Lord,” Anderson said, “what if you find prints on the handle? What would you compare them to? Would you have us fingerprint everyone on shipboard?”
“If need be. However, might I suggest, for the present at least, that we not advertise this matter.”
Anderson sighed in relief. “I’m very pleased to hear you say that. As soon as possible, I would like to arrange for the body to be taken to the ship’s hospital.”
Miss Vance nodded. “Splendid idea, Captain-I would like the ship’s doctor to have a look at the body. I would also like to examine all of the late stowaway’s effects.”
This was agreeable to the staff captain, who requested the use of Miss Vance’s phone.
“We’ll get the doctor up here,” Anderson said, “and a stretcher, and remove the deceased to a comfortable bed.”
“I’m sure he’ll appreciate that,” I said.
A voice said, “Good Lord,” which seemed to be the exclamation of choice here in the corridor; the master-at-arms, Williams, had arrived. The short, sturdy fellow had come from the direction of my cabin, and he stood a respectful distance from the dead man, gazing down with mouth and eyes agape, his thick dark eyebrows pushing his forehead into his scalp.
No one greeted the master-at-arms-it didn’t seem warranted.
“The captain will have to be woken, too,” Anderson said to no one in particular, rubbing his chin, apparently contemplating the various phone calls he would need to make from Miss Vance’s room.
“Mr. Williams,” I said to the master-at-arms, “who was guarding the stowaways?”
“No one,” he said with a shrug, still gazing at the corpse.
“And why is that?”
Anderson answered for him. “They were locked in the cells, and the brig itself is kept locked. No one sees them except the steward who brings them their supper.”
“Which,” I said, “would be Mr. Leach.”
With a nod, Anderson said, “I have to make my calls,” and was turning toward Miss Vance’s door when I spoke again.
“That’s all well and good,” I said, “but shouldn’t a priority be to check the status of those cells? Until we do, we won’t know for certain that all three stowaways are at large.”