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848
T372





LAST TRUMP
By Lee Thayer
Author Of THE SILENT BULLET, DEAD END STREET, etc.
Around the one-cabin passenger ship Sutherland, five days
out from New York, the fog lies thick. Her public rooms are
lighted, gay and cheerful—but upon her decks Death stalks.
Peter Clancy, clever private investigator, with his faith-
ful servant, Wiggar, wait and watch, knowing full well that
behind some apparently commonplace personality a Killer
bides his time. Theirs is the desperate task of unmasking the
perpetrator of the brazen, braggart "Ace of Spades" murders
before he strikes again.
The clues are few. The chance of error as long as the pas-
senger list—less one . . . And Peter asks himself—Who
marked the death card, found floating above the body? And
why? Whose hand had switched the light off, and what had
happened in the night mists that hid the afterdeck?
How Peter Clancy discovered the keys to the secrets of
many hearts and minds, this book sets forth. The reader who
takes it up will not lay it down until all the cards are on the
table and Peter has trumped the last trick.


THE RED BADGE BULLETIN
A quarterly Bulletin giving current and advance
information about Red Badge books, publishing
communications from authors and readers, discuss-
ing trends and conducting interesting puzzles and
competitions, is issued quarterly. It is intended for
"the enlightenment and enjoyment of mystery and
detective story connoisseurs" and will be sent free
of charge upon request.
Would You Like to Know
how RED BADGE books are selected?
Each year, hundreds of detective-story manu-
scripts are submitted to the literary editors of
Dodd, Mead and Company. From these only a
very small number receive the coveted Red Badge
imprint. This is because every detective story that
carries the Red Badge must first pass a rigid eight-
point test—so severe that all but absolutely first-
class mysteries are eliminated.
If you would like to receive this eight-point test,
we will be glad to mail you a copy without charge.
Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc.
Department R B
449 Fourth Avenue, New York


Copyright, 1937
By DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, Inc.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
NO PART OF THIS BOOK MAY BE REPRODUCED IN ANY FORM
WITHOUT PERMISSION IN WRITING FROM THE PUBLISHER
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
BY THE VAIL-BALLOU PRESS, INC., BINGHAMTON, N. Y.


To
Carrie Olmsted Allen
AS A MOST INADEQUATE AND INAPPROPRIATE
TRIBUTE
THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY
DEDICATED





NOTE
To those who have never sailed on so small a boat as the
Sutherland a short description may be of interest.
Except for the radio room and the officers' quarters, her
top or boat deck is entirely open.
Below that a broad sheltered promenade deck includes a
lounge, writing room, bar and smoking room. The bridge
may be reached from this deck by means of a short narrow
canvased bridge that crosses the open forward space of A
deck.
Commodious staterooms occupy the center part of A
deck. Aft of them is a large unroofed deck in which is a
bathing pool. Some distance behind that is a small super-
structure used on occasion as a hospital. Narrow roofed
decks, port and starboard, connect forward and after decks.
B and C decks are entirely enclosed, most of the space be-
ing occupied by staterooms, baths, and so forth. There is
storage space, fore and aft, under the open main deck.
Below B and C decks are the engine room and hold.





LAST TRUMP


«
CHAPTER I
Early dusk was falling. The good old ship Sutherland,
plodding stolidly along her appointed sea lane, made only
a slight fore and aft concession to the Atlantic swell be-
neath her sturdy hull.
Within an hour the wind had changed. The day's cool
persistent drizzle had unaccountably given place to a strange
oppressive heat, and fog lay thick above the gray slippery
waves.
The decks were well nigh deserted for it was that moment
of the unpurposed day when idleness reaches a kind of
apogee. Too late and too wet for deck sports. Tea some time
over and dinner not yet imminent enough to make insistent
demands on the outer or inner man.
Through the open windows of the lounge the voice of the
steward proclaiming the winning numbers of a horse race
could be heard distinctly. In the shelter of the weather canvas,
still laced to the forward deck rails, a man paused and very
unobtrusively glanced inside. His movement was not exactly
stealthy and there seemed nothing equivocal in his plain, open
face under its thick thatch of red hair. A pleasant, idle fel-
low who gave his name as Cairns: Cairns, Mr. Percival, as
the passenger list rather elegantly elaborated the man's simple
statement.
A person of easy manners, he had made friends with all and
sundry, and on this fifth day out from New York the possi-
bilities of the Sutherland's human freight had by him been
docketed with considerable care. There, under his eye at the


2
LAST TRUMP
minute, was the shrewd old German lady of quality, the
period of her American visa having expired, reluctantly re-
turning to her empty house and barren acres. She played the
little wooden horses every afternoon and won with remarka-
ble regularity.
Next her was a young American boy with a gay voice and
eager laugh who made love to every length of skirt, slacks
and shorts on board and referred to them all as "girls."
Though he spoke scarcely a word of German, he backed the
old lady's play much to her sedate entertainment.
Incongruous against the usual background of emanci-
pated students and escaped school teachers "having them-
selves a time," was the man who drank far too much and
had become the bane of the stewards; also a picturesque
dark-skinned animal trainer and showman who called him-
self Rickard Zootorius but who spoke with an ineradicable
brogue. Behind these two, on the outskirts of the crowd was
another type, a man of even darker hue, who placed no bets
but watched the more volatile occupants of the lounge with
smiling, inscrutable oriental calm.
For the rest they seemed to be merely confirmed travelers
of the class idle but not too rich. The Sutherland, old but
staunch, was a one cabin, seven day boat. She could not hope
to compete with the large modern floating hotel. An excellent
table, however, did much to offset her archaic athletic equip-
ment and her modest efforts at diversion. The passengers
now proceeding to place new bets on the little wooden ponies
seemed amused and well content.
The watcher at the window, leaning idly, yet surveyed the
ordinary scene with more than ordinary attention. The lights
in the lounge had been put full on but it was comparatively
dark in this canvas sheltered part of the deck. The noise


LAST TRUMP
3
and laughter within contrasted oddly with the great empty
spacious rush of spray under the bows. There was no sound
on the deck save the soft thud of the feet of an indefatigable
little Englishman pacing his stipulated mile.
He made some casual remark as he passed and immediately
disappeared around the curve of the deck. Mr. Percival
Cairns replied with a pleasant word but his tone was some-
what absent. He shifted his position, drawing swiftly and
smoothly back into the shadow.
Across the lounge, in the opposite window, for the briefest
instant he had seen a pale face that disappeared with the
eerie suddenness of dissolving mist. It was not the first time
that the unaccented features of this passenger, Mr. Henry
Williams, had thus dawned upon his vision only to vanish like
the Cheshire cat. If Mr. Cairns was in the habit of observing
others, he could hardly have had any doubt that he himself
was an object of special and continued interest to his incon-
spicuous shipmate.
Upon this new occasion, instantly then, Mr. Cairns stepped
farther back and, clear of the outstretched feet of deck chairs,
went aft with silent space-devouring strides.
He passed the ship's writing room, situated directly behind
the lounge, glanced through the narrow open passage that
connected port and starboard decks, looked in at the nearly
empty bar and went hastily across to the door of the smoking
room.
Here his manner changed abruptly. With an air of detach-
ment and infinite leisure he sauntered through the door and
was greeted with obvious enthusiasm.
"You're almost too late for the party, Mr. Cairns," cried
Kate Oliver, a thin, angular woman in late middle-age with
a face like a very clever and intelligent horse, who let it be


4
LAST TRUMP
understood that she was a feature writer for some American
newspaper syndicate. "We're all crowded up on this side of
the table, but you can squeeze in over there. It's worth listen-
ing to, I can tell you."
"Oh, yes indeed, Mr. Cairns." Evelyn Heather looked up
with an adorable but somewhat absent-minded smile. "Mrs.
Temple's telling the most wonderful fortunes. You never
heard anything like it."
"Simply amazing!" exclaimed John Suffern, leaning over
the girl's shoulder until his bronzed cheek nearly touched her
glorious red-gold hair. "Go on, Mrs. Temple. Tell us some
more."
"You've spent too much time on Evelyn already, Mrs.
Temple," urged June Worth, threatening the card layout with
a slender outstretched hand. "It's my turn now. Please! And
for goodness' sake make it exciting. I'm bored stiff. Nothing
ever happens on a slow old tub like this!"
"Wait." Mr. Percival Cairns caught the pretty hand and
held it. "What's this all about? May I hear, Mrs. Temple?"
She met his eyes with a faintly challenging glance. Sophisti-
cation, obviously shared, may be a bond between two people
—or distinctly the reverse. What she recognized in the plain
pleasant face bending over her caused Ariadne Temple to
reply with a curious little smile. "You didn't guess that I had
a Gipsy grandmother and that second sight was as common-
place to me as my own lipstick, Mr. Cairns?"
"And why have you been hiding these occult powers from
us?" he replied swinging a chair into position on her left. "Be
sweet, June, move over and give me room."
"Stop holding her hand. She's my girl," cried Bunny Trav-
ers, crowding in between them. "What's going on here, any-
way?"


LAST TRUMP
5
"Are the horse races over, Bunny? Did your old German
woman win again?" Miss Oliver laughed across at the irre-
pressible boy.
"You bet. And so did I, darling. What's on now? Fortunes?
Oh, simply swell! Mrs. Temple, tell mine. It'll be good I know
if you tell it."
"Oh, stop it, all of you, for goodness' sake and let her finish
with Evelyn." John Suffern's cultivated English voice rose
pleasantly above the din. "Come on, Mrs. Temple. She has
great artistic ability and is on her way to study in Paris.
What else? Can you see into the future as well? It's a wonder-
ful thing, Cairns." He turned excitedly. "Mrs. Temple's told
Evelyn things none of us could possibly have known. And the
same with me. The only mistake she made was about my look-
ing just like my father, which I don't in the least. Oh, yes,
and she slipped up on two of his initials, but she had the first
one right. Everything else was absolutely correct. It's really
marvelous."
"You read it all out of the cards, I suppose." Cairns smiled
teasingly into the clever face of the perfectly modern seeress,
pointing as he spoke. "I see the knave of clubs has his back
toward the queen of hearts. That's obviously Bunny's defec-
tion to June. He was in love with Miss Evelyn for the first
three days out. A perfect nuisance to the rest of us in fact."
"Until Suffern cut me out," retorted the boy unblushingly.
"There he is in person, see? John or Jack of hearts. And is
he some knave? You can take it from me!"
"What card shows she's going in for art?" Cairns asked
looking down into Ariadne Temple's slightly narrowed eyes.
"That's a new one on me and I used to know 'em all pretty
well. Here's old ten of diamonds for plenty of money . . .
And the deuce there is a letter, isn't it?"


LAST TRUMP
7
with him. Some fun! He's been trying to persuade everybody
to buy his drinks, but he's tackled two stiff ones this time."
The pale face of Mr. Henry Williams that had but recently
appeared at and disappeared from the window of the lounge
could now be seen quite clearly. That the present situation
was causing this retiring individual considerable distress was
easily understood, for one indecorously plaided arm of the
ship's principal alcoholic problem was thrown about Williams'
neat shoulders while the limp figure depending therefrom with
difficulty kept its feet by clinging to the tweed lapel of Mr.
Francis Buckleigh. Swaying grotesquely the small group in-
advertently pivoted itself away from the bar and toward the
door of the smoking room.
"John!" burst out Buckleigh. "Stop grinning like an idiot
and come here at once. Can't you see—"
"Cummon, folks!" shouted the inebriate, stiffening sud-
denly. " 'S drinks all 'roun'. Health Br'sh Empire. Mis'r Wil-
liams, Mis'r Buckleigh. Three cheers! Yip, Yip, ray! Britons
never ne—ver—"
"Innes, for God's sake brace up," growled Francis Buck-
leigh, as the legs of the unwelcome burden spasmodically
executed a weird tap dance that brought the group with a
ridiculously undignified swing, inside the smoking room door.
The young people rose from the card table in some con-
fusion and John Suffern started to his uncle's aid. Mrs. Tem-
ple stood with her hands on the scattered cards. The expres-
sion on her face was one of disgust and contempt hardened,
not softened, by the toleration of wide experience. Or it was
thus that one observer interpreted it as he turned swiftly
away?
"Stan' to your glasses steady," sang Innes, clinging
tightly to his reluctant captives. "For moment—va—va—"


LAST TRUMP
He lifted bleared eyes as a sudden gust of air swept in
through the window. "For moment-see ” he gurgled“va-
por flies. Or–or maybe—'tisn't vapor. No. Seems t'be a
card. Maybe 's your card, lady? So? Yesh. Allow me!”
He swayed wildly, reaching for one of Mrs. Temple's cards
that the wind had carried across the room. It lay face down,
square between Buckleigh's feet. The drunken effort only
served to turn it over.
Cairns heard a sharp gasp behind him but he did not look
back. His glance was fixed on the blanched face of Francis
Buckleigh who, staring downward, had recoiled with an oath
and a strange gesture of abject horror.
“ 'S matter, ole pal?” gurgled Innes. Even in his besotted
condition he seemed to sense something vaguely amiss. He
took in the whole company with his vacant grin and winked.
"Jus' a bit seedy, maybe. Poor ole fella. Needs pick me up.
Come on, ole Lion an' th' Uni-unicorn. Drink 'sealth. Evr-
body's health. . . . Stan' t' your glasses steady,” his voice
rang out in the sudden silence, “Here's health, Cummon,
Williams. Buckle, ole pal! George's awaitin' us atta bar.
Here's a heal-a health t-"
Cairns turned then to discover that Mrs. Temple was lean-
ing stiffly upon the table, her eyes fixed on the card that lay
behind him on the floor. He thought at the time that the look
of dread on her face was merely the effect of a common
superstition, deeply rooted.
The card was the ace of spades.


CHAPTER II
"Stand to your glasses steady
For a moment the vapor flies.
Here's a cup to the dead already
Hurrah for the next that diesl"
The woman's voice, scarcely above her breath, sounded un-
expectedly deep and rich in the ear of Mr. Percival Cairns
as Kate Oliver attached herself to his arm and drew him a
little aside upon the dim deck.
A steward had appeared opportunely and Lawrence Innes
was by way of being persuaded to return to his cabin. His
blurred accents could be plainly heard demanding to "she
th' Cap'n find out why one gen'l'man shouldn' treat 'nother
t' lil drink." Buckleigh and the other Englishman had ad-
journed to the bar. The party in the smoking room was
breaking up.
"Here's a cup to the dead already." The voice hummed
again the old refrain. The shrewd eyes of Kate Oliver
searched the face of the man who was looking intently into
the gathering fog. "Doesn't that remind you of anything,
Mr. Cairns?"
Under the suggestion of the hand upon his arm he stopped
beside the rail. "Should it? What do you mean, Miss Oliver?"
he asked somewhat absently. "It's an old song I know, but
I don't see any connection—"
"You're from New York, Mr. Cairns?" She interrupted
with a sharp upward inflection.
9


10
LAST TRUMP
"Why—er—yes, Miss Oliver," he answered smiling, "I
was even born there, which puts me in a small but distin-
guished class."
"So was I," she countered shortly. "And all New Yorkers
read the papers."
"Well," his voice was amusedly tolerant, "with few excep-
tions I should say that was a demonstrable fact. That is, if
the circulation claimed by the newspapers were added to-
gether and compared with the population at the last census—"
"Don't you know what I'm talking about, Mr. Cairns?"
she broke in again in a crisp decisive tone. "You aren't dumb
—far from it. You saw how scared John Suffern's uncle was
when he saw that ace of spades. Just an accident that it
blew over to his feet, of course."
"And just an accident that it was the ace of spades and
not some other card," he appended.
"Was it?" asked Kate Oliver darkly.
"Why of course. It couldn't possibly have been deliberate.
I mean it was the wind. No one touched the cards that you
saw?" His voice was for that instant sharply focussed but
she evidently did not notice for Kate Oliver went on with
her own own train of thought.
"I'm no more superstitious than many other people," she
remarked half to herself; "Mrs. Temple, for instance. She
dodged telling Evelyn about that spade card in her fortune.
You know as well as I do that the two of spades is bad news—
and the ace—is the death card."
"Yes," he admitted slowly. "So what?"
"Did you see Mr. Buckleigh's face? Do you think he doesn't
know what that card stands for?"
"Oh, yes. Perhaps. But—it doesn't seem possible that—"
"That anyone in his senses could take a thing like that so


LAST TRUMP
11
seriously? And yet he did, Mr. Cairns. Now it's my turn to
ask you. So what?"
"How am I supposed to know?" He shrugged.
"Because you're clever. Don't think I sat at the same table
with you for nearly five days without finding that out."
"You do me far too much honor, dear lady. The reward of
a good listener, perhaps. I only form an intelligent back-
ground for your wit. I'm eagerly waiting now to learn what
the deuce you're driving at."
"Tst-ch-k!" She made an indescribable sound of dis-
claimer. "You're perfectly well aware that when I spoke of
reading the newspapers I was alluding to—"
"The ace of spades murders," he interrupted in turn with a
grim nod. "I'm not entirely dumb. The second one broke a
week before we sailed, didn't it? Some egomaniac making a
sensation by leaving a sort of picturesque signature to his
crimes. That's the way I sized it up. And you?"
"It made a swell story." Kate Oliver's eyes were gleaming.
"If there should be another—on this boat!"
"You bloodthirsty bean!" He laughed a little under his
breath. "You look as if you'd almost stage a murder yourself,
if driven to it, for copy. I hate to think such things about a
sweet lady like yourself."
"Sweet! Humph. You say that to all the girls, Mr. Cairns,
but you don't catch old hens with chaff. At my age a little
corn is more to the point."
"You mean corn-whisky?"
"You know very well what I mean. There's plenty of talk
going around the ship about the Honorable John Suffern and
his uncle. You must have heard it."
"Only that they are supposed to be rather grandly con-
nected in England. Probably because young John is or was


LAST TRUMP
13
f riendly open face of her companion and traveled out across
the gray water toward the dim arc of misty horizon. Her
voice was very low as she added: "I've felt—something queer
—about this boat for days. I'm not psychic . . . And I'm
not generally considered fanciful. I suppose it's just the usual
ordinary crowd aboard. I've crossed a dozen times. And on
the surface this lot is pretty much like all the others on a
smallish inexpensive ship . . . There are always a few freaks.
This animal trainer, for instance. Zootorius and the monkey
he has down in the baggage room. I can hardly bear it. Last
time I crossed with a whole African expedition, including
some little beasties, but that seemed different. The people
were the big open air sort and the animals were to be placed
in various Zoos. That creature down in the cage is so big and
so human looking. I can't stand seeing it cooped up like
that."
"Well, cheer up, then." Mr. Percival Cairns looked at the
watch on his wrist. "I understand Zootorius is letting his
chimpanzee out tonight. Giving an exhibition. Part of the
program of the passengers' night. Haven't you heard?"
"No. Well, it will be a comfort to see the poor beast hav-
ing some liberty. I've been down talking to him almost every
day. He's perfectly harmless." Her long pale face lightened
with the smile of the true lover of animals.
"They might give him the run of the ship as far as that's
concerned," Cairns agreed. "Or so Zootorius says. But I
fancy some of the passengers might object."
"That's right." She laughed suddenly. "Dressed in regular
clothes that chimp might be taken for one or another of them.
His master, certainly, and that little Mr. Dass as well."
"No, no, no. Not Mr. Dass," Cairns expostulated. "The
little Indian gentleman has good features. He's pretty in-


14
LAST TRUMP
telligent, you know. Eager to learn. Always asking questions."
"Especially of John Suffern," Miss Oliver put in quickly
with a queer look from the corners of her light greenish eyes.
"Surely you haven't spent so much time and become so
friendly with the Honorable John without having noticed that,
Mr. Cairns."
"Suffern is an Oxford man and so, I understand, is Mr.
Dass. That ought to be enough to account for a good deal of
friendly converse, one would think."
"One would, wouldn't one, as one might say if one went
British all of a doggone sudden, Mr. Cairns. But since we
both admit that we were brought up more or less on the
sidewalks of New York and speak the same Broadway patois,
as man to man, don't you think this Mr. Dunga Dass is very
specially interested in John Suffern—and his uncle?"
"Duriga Dass?" Cairns repeatedly lightly. "Wasn't one of
Kipling's characters named something like that? I'm not
thinking of Gunga Din. It was nearer than that."
"I'm not sure." She wrinkled her nose and rubbed it with
the side of her finger; a gesture of unconscious absurdity
eminently characteristic. "It sounds phoney to me, anyhow.
And I can't get used to the way he appears suddenly, right at
your elbow, in any part of the ship. It's uncanny. I don't
like to seem a fool, Cairns. Believe me. At my age I ought
to know better than to get jumpy—over nothing. Lord! I wish
that fog-horn would stop. It sounds so—" She turned swiftly.
"What was it? What did you see?"
"Nothing, Miss Oliver. Nothing!" His eyes came back to
meet hers with a reassuring smile in their keen blue depths.
"Mrs. Temple stepped out on the deck forward for a second.
Thought she might be looking for me but she wasn't, evi-
dently."


LAST TRUMP
IS
"Hard luck for you, Mr. Cairns? Or do you prefer 'em still
younger?"
"I prefer 'em clever, Miss Oliver," he protested with a
meaning grin. "And when a specially able one confides in me
I'm that flattered I could purr. I was fast becoming con-
vinced that you had none of the frailties of your sex and was
getting perfectly discouraged. But if you get shivery over
fog-horns and bad luck cards, you may have other feminine
weaknesses and I can still hope. Come on. Let's have a cock-
tail to celebrate."
"Celebrate? You young idiot," she laughed. "Celebrate
what?"
"Oh, I don't know! Can't we just—celebrate?"
"It's a good idea, Cairns." She took his proffered arm and
stepped out with youthful enthusiasm. "If you lead me to a
Manhattan I don't know but that in spite of my gray hairs,
I'll let you call me 'Ollie.'"
"After two, I warn you, I'm likely to call you Kate," he
retorted.
They reached the door of the bar just as Williams and
Buckleigh emerged. The two Englishmen stood aside to let
Miss Oliver pass. Buckleigh murmured something and nodded
to Cairns as they turned away, but Williams kept his eyes
fixed shyly on the ground.
"Didn't you think he still looked kind of pale?" whispered
Kate Oliver behind her hand as her red-headed escort helped
her up on the scarlet cushioned seat beside the bar.
"Who? Buckleigh? Your imagination, I think. Two Man-
hattans, George. And two more to follow immediately. That
right, Ollie?"
"It is if you don't make it plain Kate at the end of the
second glass, my son. In vino Veritas, you know. I may call


16
LAST TRUMP
myself that, but I won't let anyone else do the same." She took
the cocktail in two tilts and threw her fine gray head far back
to capture the cherry. "And as for you, Mr. Percival Cairns,
if you think any number of drinks would make me call a
braw lad like you 'Percy'—"
She paused abruptly. Reflected in the mirror opposite be-
tween the bottles on the shelf, for the fraction of a fleeting
second, she thought she saw a face in the window behind her.
When she swung half-way about on the pivoted stool, it had
disappeared. She glanced swiftly up at her companion. He
was spearing an extra cherry from the dish in front of the
busy bartender—and apparently had seen nothing.


CHAPTER III
Dinner had not been long over that night when Mr. Percival
Cairns excused himself and stepped purposefully out upon the
deck. Fresh air and exercise were the reasons he gave and as
he was a very vigorous type it was perhaps understandable
that he did not ask for company.
With long quick strides he made the round of the prome-
nade deck. The rows of chairs with their folded rugs and
cushions were mostly empty but a number of the young people
gay in evening dress, were pacing back and forth on the lee-
ward side. The air was damp but oppressively warm and even
to windward there was little more than a light breeze. John
Suffern had discovered this and brought his companion,
Evelyn Heather, around to that side. They were leaning on the
rail, so deep in conversation that they gave no evidence of
noticing the tall dark figure that went swiftly by.
Mr. Cairns' pace, however, slowed a little as he passed the
windows of the brightly lighted bar where George, the stew-
ard, was busily dispensing cordials. It was to be expected, per-
haps, that Francis Buckleigh should be there. Kate Oliver, at
dinner, had called her younger friend's attention to the fact
that the little Englishman, at a nearby table, was by way of
dining not wisely but too well. Evidently he purposed to go on
from grace to glory in spite of the warning of the unenviable
condition of Lawrence Innes who had eluded the room stew-
ard and returned to the goal of his desires, where, upon being
refused more drink, he had laid his head upon the counter and
passed out completely, much to the amusement of the younger
17


18
LAST TRUMP
and more volatile occupants of the bar. There was a good deal
of loud talk and even louder laughter in which Buckleigh tried
to join. The only quiet person in the room, as Mr. Percival
Cairns was to remember afterward, was Mrs. Ariadne Tem-
ple. She sat alone at one of the small tables near the door. Her
strong vital looking fingers played with the stem of an empty
brandy glass. Under a mass of golden hair only slightly tinged
with gray, her clever face, somewhat hardened by experience,
looked at the world through eyes that must once have been
beautiful, and still held in their depths a challenge to fate.
They observed the scene before her with attention. As the
man outside the window moved away, he saw her square her
handsome shoulders and beckon to the steward to fill her glass
again.
That Mr. Cairns moved with alacrity was perhaps due to
the fact that Mr. Henry Williams, in perfectly tailored eve-
ning dress, had that instant crossed a shaft of bright light and
was coming quite quickly in his direction. Mr. Cairns rounded
the rear of the smoking room at a rapid pace and came again
upon the windward side. In a sheltered corner, Evelyn
Heather was seated in a deck chair. Suffern crouched on the
footrest, was leaning forward talking with intent earnestness.
There was no one else on that side of the ship.
With a quick glance fore and aft, Cairns slipped over to the
shelter of a companionway that led to the wireless room and
the top deck and with an inward chuckle went up two steps at
a time.
The breeze that struck his face as he emerged was so light
that it sarcely ruffled his thick hair. The scarves of fog stole in
softly across the water like curious ghosts. The ship's great
black funnels reared themselves against the mist and at defi-
nite intervals sent a deep hoarse call into the thickening gloom.


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19
A man in uniform came out of the officers' quarters and
went aft to join a knot of his fellows in the far corner of the
deck. Otherwise the place was deserted. Mr. Percival Cairns
made one complete circuit, then strolled back to the port side
and stood looking over the rail at the after part of the main or
A deck far below.
This, like the one he had just left, was perfectly empty of
life. A few lights, spaced far apart, showed near the stern a
small white structure used, if occasion arose, as a hospital. In
front of it was a closed hatch and to right and left, ghostly in
the mist, two large lashed and canvassed objects which by day-
light were obviously motor vehicles of some sort. Nearer at
hand, mysterious gleams and shadows were reflected in the
water that sloshed about in the archaic but practical bathing
pool that, by means of cribwork and a huge square canvas bag
sunk inside, had been rather cleverly improvised in the depths
of the open main hatch. At the four corners of this, rising
gibbet-like against the sky, tall masts for hoisting freight
stretched their spars out horizontally to be lashed fast to the
rail of the promenade deck, just below.
The lonely watcher stirred and looked behind him. There
was a daunting effect of concentrated loneliness in the empty
decks and the barren sea and sky. The faint voices of the
young officers by the starboard rail only seemed to underline
the vastness of the space in which the sound rose—and was
lost. If they saw the solitary passenger standing in the lee of
a lifeboat on the other side of the ship they gave no heed.
Minutes passed. Still he remained there—with the air of a
man who waited—for what?
At length a light almost imperceptible sound fell on his at-
tentive ear. A cautious footstep—nearing—close at hand. He
did not turn. Silent as a ghost another figure slipped into the


20
LAST TRUMP
deeper shadow alongside the rail.
An arm clothed in perfectly fitting broadcloth. A cuff with
links that left nothing to be desired. A trouser leg with an im-
peccable crease. A foot encased in a patent leather pump that
even in that low light caught a momentary gleam. Mr. Percival
Cairns found it necessary to take but one glance at the face
that hung like a pale mask against the shadow of the lifeboat.
He knew by instinct that its haunting watchfulness of the
evening would culminate at this point. Scarcely above his
breath he said: "Well. Let's have it. And I warn you it had
better be important."
Mr. Henry Williams allowed himself a breath that held in
it a deep note of apology. "I feel I must speak with you, Mr.
Peter."
"Sh-ush-sh. Didn't we agree that Peter Clancy should not
once be named between us until we got ashore? I thought I
had impressed it on you that until this investigation is finished,
Wiggar—"
"There you go, sir. You see? You know it's really safe for
the minute, Mr. Peter, don't you, sir? Else you wouldn't have
waited for me here like this."
Peter Clancy, alias Mr. Percival Cairns, grinned to himself
in the darkness. "Move along a bit," he whispered. "There's
no one in this lifeboat, and he couldn't hear us anyway, but I
like to do things strictly in the open. It's plenty dark and
lonely here. Now spill it. What do you know?"
"N—nothing, I'm afraid, sir."
"What?"
"I've followed instructions, Mr. Peter. With great care, sir.
I have. I assure you. But aside from what you yourself must
have observed, I'm afraid I've discovered nothing."
"You're sure you searched the cabins thoroughly?"


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21
"Just as I reported to you last night, Mr. Peter. One has to
be extremely careful. The fact that my stateroom is so close
by doesn't help as much as you might think. The stewards are
very capable."
"But at meals the room stewards are busy in the dining
room and only a boy left on duty in the passages."
"Yes, sir." Meekly. "The voyage has given me a wonderful
appetite, Mr. Peter, but of course, if you say so, I'll give
breakfast a miss tomorrow morning and see what I can do."
"Better wait until dinner," said Peter Clancy, hiding a
smile. "It'll give you a longer time and I'll find a way to make
sure of whatever boy happens to be on duty. Send him down to
my stateroom for something. That'll take some time. By the
way, you know I had myself transferred to C deck today—on
account of the noise."
Mr. Henry Williams looked around sharply. "Good gra-
cious, sir, wasn't it bad enough to be on B deck in a ship like
this one? Surely you don't expect me to occupy a stateroom so
much better situated than your own! It's enough to be mas-
querading as a gentleman—"
"A part for which you were designed by nature, Wiggar, so
let's say no more about that." The low voice took on a deeper
tone as Clancy added: "I have my own reasons for moving
to the lower deck. May be only fancy, but I have a curiosity
to know—certain things. I don't mind telling you, Wiggar, in
strictest confidence, that I'm getting a bit uneasy. So far we've
accomplished nothing. Absolutely nothing. I'm no wiser on
the main issue than when we came aboard. I don't believe any-
one suspects us so far but we mustn't take chances. I'm a bit
worried about that clever old newspaper woman who's at my
table. Have you noticed her? She's charming, as smart as a
whip and a keen observer—"


22
LAST TRUMP
"Yes, Mr. Peter, if you'll allow me the liberty. I saw how
hard she looked at you tonight at dinner. And I thought, if
you'll excuse me, sir, I understood the reason."
"What?" Clancy turned sharply.
"I have endeavored to conduct myself, sir, in such a man-
ner that no one could suspect me of being your valet." Wiggar
(or Mr. Henry Williams) allowed a plaintive note to
creep into his surprisingly deep low voice. "But I have to ask
you, Mr. Peter, if you think you have been entirely fair. That
blue tie that you wore with green hose this morning, sir! Was
that playing the game? Was it cricket? I ask you. And tonight
—your tie, sir! It's been getting more acute with every passing
day. I've followed you about at a distance all the early part of
the evening, hoping you'd take the hint and allow me to speak
with you even for a moment. I felt that if you appeared at din-
ner with your tie in the condition in which I have seen it every
night since we came aboard this terrible boat, I might not be
able to answer for myself. Miss Oliver observed it I'm sure.
Thank heaven I was able to behave in an ordinary manner,
but now—"
With a little gulp, Wiggar took his master's shoulders in a
respectful but inescapable grip and turned him to face what
light there was. An instant and the limp bow at Peter's throat
had been reduced to its primitive form and incontinently
dropped overboard. Like a stroke of legerdemain a fresh tie
appeared in the valet's hand and magically became a perfect
bow beneath his master's chin.
"There," breathed Wiggar in a tone of deep thanksgiving
as he reached up to flick away an imaginary speck from a pair
of broad black-coated shoulders. "You're quite all right now,
Mr. Peter, and I have only one thing more to ask."


LAST TRUMP
23
"God bless my soul," gurgled Peter. "Name it, and I'll do
my best."
"You'll wear tails and a white waistcoat at the Captain's
dinner tomorrow night, sir." It was an admonition rather
than a question.
"If you say so, Wiggar. Yes. Of course."
"Then, Mr. Peter," the valet faltered, "won't you contrive
some way so that I may finish you up—complete your toilet?
Lawn, if I may make the point, sir, is very tricky. Even I my-
self have experienced difficulties on one or two occasions. I
dread, sir, to think of what you might do to a white tie if left
to your own devices. Surely we might be considered suffi-
ciently acquainted, after five days on the same ship, to allow
me to come to your stateroom a few minutes before dinner. It
shouldn't attract any attention. I'd be very cautious. Very
circumspect. Your new number is what, sir?"
"C nineteen." Clancy had been laughing internally but had
allowed only a cheerful smile to appear on his face. "But you'd
better not come down there, Wiggar. Understand. I—I think
I may have stumbled on something. May be all wet and it's
beside the main issue, but I have a fancy to clear it up on the
way—I hope—to something more important. Looks now as if
we'd get no light on the main problem before we land, so—
you know that noble line something about doing all the good
we can as we go since we may not pass this way again?"
"Pardon, sir. I would be happier if you did not try to make
a diversion."
"You mean from our more important assignment? Oh, I'll
let nothing interfere with that."
"I meant—about the tie, sir."
"Oh, that," said Peter. "Sure enough. Well, you can meet


24
LAST TRUMP
me in the men's lavatory back of the bar just before dinner
and we'll try to fix it about the tie if you don't approve of my
unaided efforts. Listen." He laid a strong hand on his com-
panion's arm. "There goes the gong. Hear it? The party's be-
ginning. We'd better go down. Give me two minutes start. And
don't forget—"
When the two passed each other a few minutes later on the
deck below there was nothing to suggest that Mr. Percival
Cairns and Mr. Henry Williams ever had been or ever would
be on confidential terms.
Williams was pacing sedately beside Francis Buckleigh.
The latter was carrying his liquor with dignity and care. He
stopped Cairns to ask if he'd seen his nephew anywhere about.
"Not lately," Peter answered with truth. "Everybody's
going into the lounge now to see what kind of a show the pas-
sengers have gotten up. He's probably there. Aren't you
coming?"
"Not this minute, thank you, Cairns. Williams and I are
going back to have one more little drink. You'd better come
along."
"No thanks. I promised Mrs. Temple I'd join her party in
the lounge at nine and it's nearly that now."
"Mrs. Temple! That woman," Buckleigh commented with
a frown. "I can't think why anyone notices her."
"Oh, come. She's noticeable enough surely," returned Peter.
"But she's a good sort, really, and very entertaining."
"That's as may be." Buckleigh's frown deepened angrily.
"She's shockingly bad form if nothing worse. I hate to see my
nephew playing around with that crowd. But he's young and
headstrong. Never will listen to advice. I could tell you—" He
pulled himself up short. "Never mind. Are you coming, Wil-
liams?"


LAST TRUMP
25
"Thank you. One more drink, and then I suggest we look in
at the lounge. It might be amusing."
The two Englishmen disappeared arm in arm as Mr. Perci-
val Cairns entered the nearest door.


CHAPTER IV
The passengers' entertainment was getting off to a rather
heavy start. A school teacher from Bethlehem, Pennsylvania,
had rendered an aria from "Carmen" in a manner that spoke
more highly of her courage than her judgment. She was pretty,
however, and the audience applauded so vigorously as to
bring on an encore for which some of them had not bargained.
The master of ceremonies was introducing another number
when Peter Clancy strolled in and looked about him. The
side of the lounge where the piano stood was raised a step
above the floor. The seats were arranged to face this, so that,
coming in from the main companionway, he was at the end of
the rows and could overlook the audience without difficulty.
He did not see Mrs. Temple, however, nor Evelyn Heather
with whom she usually sat. Though theirs was obviously only
a shipboard acquaintance, the two women, so different in age
and temperament, had struck up one of those friendships that
seem inexplicable. The gay group that usually surrounded
the older woman being dispersed and herself not in evidence,
Mr. Cairns felt absolved from his promise to join Mrs. Tem-
ple, and accepting the invitation of Kate Oliver's beckoning
hand, slipped past several people into the place beside her.
"Have you been saving this for me?" he whispered with a
flattered but doubting smile. "You are rather a darling, you
know, and that's a perfectly swell dress you're wearing and
awfully becoming. I wanted to tell you at dinner."
"Humph," murmured Kate, rubbing her long nose. "If
sunbacks and shorts had been popular in the days of my youth,
26


LAST TRUMP
27
I don't mind admitting that I might not have reached the ripe
age of—oh, well, skip it—my present age—in a state of single
blessedness. But when a girl was allowed to show only her
face—" She spread her ample mouth in a disgusted grin and
turned back toward the improvised stage. "I am," she twisted
her head to whisper, "well preserved—but not canned yet,
thank heaven!"
"I'll say you're not!" He patted her hand and becoming
conscious of a bespectacled glare from two sisters they had
christened the Battleaxe and the Hatchet, he said: "Sh-h-h,"
in Kate Oliver's ear and proceeded to give his attention to a
jolly little old professor of music who was tinkling gaily his
second Viennese waltz.
It was about this time that Francis Buckleigh made his ap-
pearance. Peter Clancy, unable to fix his mind on the unim-
portant performance, saw him come in and seat himself in a
chair that the lounge steward opened out for him in one of the
few remaining spots near the door. A charming young fellow
from "Cedartown, Jawga," intervening at the moment with
some quaint and original darky stories, Clancy did not notice
John Suffern and Evelyn Heather when they came in. It was
not until the young southerner had made it plain that he
"couldn't tell no mo' stories, nohow!" that Miss Oliver called
the attention of her companion to the two who were standing
just inside a second door near the stage where the volunteer
actors were making their entrances.
"If those two do something it'll be worth looking at, at
least," she murmured. "Did you ever see a more beautiful girl
than Evelyn Heather? Or a handsomer man than the Hon-
orable John? Looks to me as if they belonged together. Same
type. A splendid pair. Wouldn't be surprised if they'd really
be a news item by the time we dock."


28
LAST TRUMP
"Yes," said Clancy slowly. "Now that you speak of it . . .
I don't think I ever noticed—"
"For the love of heaven, where are your eyes? Does it need
an auld auld maid to tell you when a man's head over heels in
love and a girl is falling rapidly in the same direction? Are you
listening to me, Cairns?" Kate finished a trifle tartly, "Or
are you looking for someone?"
"It was only that I promised Mrs. Temple—" He spoke ab-
sently. "But she isn't here yet . . ."
"And won't find much room if she does come." Kate ob-
served her companion with raised eyebrows. "But if you want
to go look for her don't let me detain you."
He laughed at that and drew her hand through his arm.
"Wild horses could not separate thee and me," he whispered.
"Naught but death shall come between us this evening. I
swear it."
"Don't." Kate Oliver drew back sharply. Peter was aston-
ished to see that her face had become for the instant deadly
serious. "I'm an old fool." She pulled herself together with a
puzzled half laugh. "Don't know what came over me. I'm all
over goose flesh. Pay no attention. What's that boy saying?"
"Ladieees and Gentlemen!"
Bunny Travers, in as near a showman's kit as he could
manage, leapt upon the stage from the adjacent door and
raised his voice in true "barker" fashion.
"Ladieees and Gentlemen! I have the great honnaire to an-
nounce the most stupen-dous and educational riddle of the
century. An exhibition, and if I may so put it, an irref—an
irre-futable proof of a fact that science has taken years, nay
centuries to—er—to determine. Applause? Thank youf I
thank you.
"To resume! It is our great good fortune to have with us


30
LAST TRUMP
ship's lanterns on the front edge of the low platform. "As
long as I'm being rewarded I think of nothing except how
nice it is. Have to be blammed over the head to learn any-
thing. Are they putting out the lights?"
"Yes. It seems so," said Peter. "If you're frightened you
may hold my hand."
He was a little surprised to have his cheeky offer promptly
accepted. There was nothing sentimental, however, in the
hard grip. He felt the vibration in her strong, blunt fingers
for only a minute. Then she released him.
"Kate, you're getting to be all kinds of a fool," she said,
half aloud. "That mixture of red and green is a horrid light,
Cairns. Don't you think so? What are they waiting for? I
wish they'd get it over. If we were near the door I believe I'd
slip out."
"Don't be silly," whispered Peter reassuringly. He could
just see the flash of her eyes against the surrounding dark-
ness. "This is going to be good. I know you're nuts about
animals but just remember that the chimp probably loves it.
The chimp— Oh, by George, this is good! Look. There are
two of them. Dressed just alike. Made up exactly. Oh, that
is funny, Kitty, isn't it? And clever. Don't you like it?"
A roar of applause drowned her answer. The two apes
simultaneously removed their little round red caps and re-
placed them bowing low, arm in arm. Bunny, the delighted
showman, was again upon the stage.
"Ladies and Gentlemen." He shouted to make himself
heard. "These gentlemen of ancient lineage will now go
through their stunts. You will notice that one of them has a
red flower in his buttonhole and the other a white one. If at
the end of the performance you will tell the steward at the
door whether it is Zootorius himself who wears the white


LAST TRUMP
31
flower and Zootorius II who wears the red, or vice versa, he
will present all those giving the correct answer with an ele-
gant souvenir of this momentous occasion.
"Your attention now, Ladies and Gentlemen!"
Bunny stepped back laughing excitedly. Again the audi-
ence applauded with enthusiasm. The two absurd figures in
the weird light bowed with grotesque dignity. Then they
rolled over, turning somersaults from end to end of the plat-
form. So quick was the action it was difficult to keep the
eye on either hairy shape for a minute at a time. They
climbed on each other's shoulders seeming to display equal
agility. They romped on the floor, presenting rear elevations
identically trousered.
"If a chimp only had a tail we'd know all now," laughed
Peter. "Which are you betting on, Kitty? I'll lay you two to
one that Zootorius has the red flower."
"Done," said Kate Oliver. "Five dollars to ten and don't
you dare to change your mind. Zootorius has the white
flower. The red carnation is the real chimp. His arms are
longer. Even in this light I'm sure of that much. Poor baby.
I hope he is enjoying it. He seems happy enough to be out of
that dreadful cage. He's gentle as a kitten. Watch him,
now!"
"You have your eye on the man, not on the monkey,
darling. No wonder he seems gentle to you. Watch now—
when they bow. I'm not welching on my bet. The red carna-
tion for my money. There they go. Let's ask the steward.
Come on!"
"Ladies and Gentlemen!" Bunny hopped up on the plat-
form once more. "Please keep your seats. The two Zoo-
toriuses—or should I say Zootorii—wish to gain a place of
seclusion before the lights are put on again, and in the mean-


32
LAST TRUMP
time we have one more surprising and wonderful act! Mr.
Dunga Dass has been persuaded to perform for us some of
the marvelous feats of Hindoo Magic! What's that, Mr.
Dass? Oh, yes, you must! I thought you said you would.
Here, Farnsworth," he appealed to the master of ceremonies,
"you make him come. Pass him along there, Jerry. Now, Mr.
Dass, you can't disappoint all the customers this way. Show
'em some of the tricks you did for us kids in the smoking
room last night. You will, won't you now? Give him a great
big hand, Ladies and Gentlemen. Up you come, Mr. Dass!"
Smiling nervously and bowing many times in his em-
barrassment, the smooth dark-skinned little gentleman was
half lifted to the platform by eager hands. The applause was
loud and cheerful, literally. When the shouting had abated,
Mr. Dass spoke:
"My lords—and ladies," he said, in soft dipt English, "it
is of an absurdity that I try these small feats before you. I
do not pretend to the so called magic of the true Indian fakir.
Of these things I am humbly ignorant. All I showed Mr.
Bunny, were a few simple matters—of the handkerchief—
of the coin—of the card. If it so please you, I do them, but
I assure you they are of no moment."
He had regained his poise and looked down at the clap-
ping hands with smiling oriental benignity.
"If you please, a handkerchief? A lady's, if you will be so
good." Dass leaned forward over the colored lanterns and
accepted one from the Battleaxe who was in the front row.
"We might have a little more light, Mr. Bunny," he sug-
gested with a gleam of brilliant teeth. "Mine is not black
magic, you know."
"Steward," Bunny called. "Lights."
It was a minute more before they were switched on. In the


LAST TRUMP
33
sudden brilliance, Clancy blinked and turned to his neighbor.
She was leaning forward her eyes fixed intently.
"You like sleight of hand, Kitty?" Peter asked.
She paid no attention to the continued impertinence of his
address. "I— Oh, yes. I wasn't thinking. Yes. I like all sorts
of tricks, Cairns, unless they hurt somebody. I don't think
our little Indian friend is any too pleased to be forced into
the limelight this way."
"He is a retiring chap," Peter remarked in a very low
voice. "But he's making the best of it. By George, that was
rather good. What did become of that handkerchief? If he
doesn't reproduce it the Battleaxe will be in his hair. Oh,
there it was all the time in Bunny's ear. Old but good. What's
next?"
Another neat exhibition of palming followed, this time
with a coin. It was made to appear and disappear, to become
several coins and its single self again. It was expert rather
than mysterious, but the easily pleased "customers" liked it.
The little Indian gentleman accepted the applause with a
slight smile. "Now, if it please you," he said modestly, "I
will show you the last trick in my so small repertoire. It is a
simple one of the cards that any of you could do with a little
practice. Steward, a pack of playing cards, if you please."
"Must it be a new pack, sir?" asked the lounge steward,
doubtfully, thinking someone should pay for a new pack.
"Oh, no, no." Mr. Dass looked at the audience. "Unless
someone has an objection? No? You do not suspect me of
colliding— How do you say? Of having collusion with the
steward? No? Very good then. A used pack if you have one.
Thanks so much."
The steward had taken a pack from the drawer of a con-
sole near the door. The Indian pulled off the rubber band


34
LAST TRUMP
that held them, shuffled the cards expertly and pushed up his
sleeves.
"Now my lords and ladies," he repeated, "I will ask you
to concentrate, all of you, on the cards which I will show
you one by one. I shall endeavor to read them—from your
minds, let us say. That is part of the trick. Now. Quiet if you
please . . . Concentrate . . ."
He raised the pack face out and moved it slowly from side
to side so that everyone might see. His dark face was tense,
his eyes half closed. He lifted one thin brown finger and
touched the face of the card. There was only an instant's
hesitation, then he said in a queer low voice: "It is what you
call the ace of spades."


36
LAST TRUMP
tor said was: 'Kate, as a feature writer you're a good stenog-
rapher.' I believed him, so here I am, Cairns, nothing but an
old newshound—tired of following the scent, and yet getting
all nervy because—because nothing happens, I guess."
"Did you expect something to happen?" Peter asked
quickly.
Her pale, greenish eyes focussed suddenly. "You're sure
you're not connected with the press, Cairns?"
"I swear it by my mother's honor." The words were
spoken lightly but there was convincing sincerity in his di-
rect gaze. "Cross my heart and hope to die," he added and
they both laughed.
"Well, then, I'll answer you," she said slowly. "It was
thought by certain persons—that there might be a story—
on this boat . . . That something might happen to add to
the facts we've already uncovered on the quiet. Something
that would make it possible to print what we know—with all
the trimmings. And a swell scoop it would be. Do you get the
idea?"
Peter nodded.
She smoothed back her thick gray hair impatiently. "I've
had my ear to the ground and my eye at the keyhole as one
might say ever since we started, and except for getting the
beginnings of a nervous breakdown for poor old Kate, noth-
ing's happened." She waited for the fog-horn to pause and
added: "Something's going to break soon, Cairns, I warn
you. Either I'll be found in my berth Greta Garboing my
lashes with mascara and weeping to go home, while I plait
my toes into a doormat—or else—I'll do something—start
something to write home about."
"Won't you break down and tell me what—or who—the
scoop's about?" Peter wheedled in his best manner.


LAST TRUMP
37
"Whom the scoop's about," she corrected. "No."
"I might be a lot of help," he coaxed. "I've buzzed around
every flower on board including the cabbages."
"Is a cabbage a flower?"
"Until it's converted into sauerkraut—yes."
"Pickled, you mean?" Kate nodded toward Innes who
had appeared for an instant near the door of the bar and
vanished again. "When it gets to that stage it isn't funny any
more. At least not to me—but both those men are laughing.
And you, too, Cairns. I'm surprised at you."
"Oh, have a heart. He always does look like a comic strip.
That plaid coat that's too big for him and the way his feet
trip themselves up."
"I shouldn't think they'd let him have anything more to
drink," said Kate severely. "Nobody's ever pinned blue rib-
bons on me, but there's a limit. I have no patience with the
way men act."
"Can't blame the management in this case I guess." Peter
spoke judicially. "I understand George won't sell him any-
thing at the bar and they don't know where he gets it. Innes
has plenty of money and it would look as if someone was
turning a pretty penny on the side. The chief steward sus-
pects the passengers but won't admit any of his boys could
be bribed ... By the way, Kitty, that gives me a thought.
Aren't you passing up some good copy there? I've heard
Innes says he's heir to a big English fortune and is on his
way over to collect."
"Oh, bah! And don't call me Kitty, Impertinence. You
have your babies mixed. It's John Suffern that's likely to
come into—" Kate Oliver stopped and made a little gesture
of impatience.
Peter laughed. "You didn't give anything away then, dar-


38
LAST TRUMP
ling. A little bird has already whispered in my shell-like ear
that Suffern is the son of Thomas John Suffern, Viscount
Dunworthy, and is the heir apparent to his titles and
estates."
"Who told you that?" She put the question sharply.
"Why, Kitty. It's more or less common knowledge, dar-
ling."
"Well, of course. I didn't mean—"
"There's something else on your mind." Peter's glance
swerved to meet her eyes fixed upon him. "So. It's John Suf-
fern you're expecting to get a story out of, Miss Oliver! Am
I right? Tell papa what you know about the Honorable John.
I dare you!"
"There's nothing to tell." She shut her lips firmly, but
opened them to add, "Worse luck!"
"Not even an engagement?" Peter laughed. "I saw you
watching them through the window a while ago and I
couldn't blame you. Suffern and Evelyn Heather were by far
the most attractive couple on the floor. Most of the kids now
go in for dancing cheek to cheek, but I thought it was rather
special—with them. Didn't it strike you that way?"
"That's as may be," she said noncommittally. "I'm too
old a prune to risk making comments. But I will admit I was
sorry when they left. They certainly filled the eye." She
sighed. Her face looked white in the cold light of the half
obscured lamps on the roof of the deck. "I'm tired," she said
nervously. "Haven't had too much sleep the last few nights so
I think I'll turn in. You've been very good to me, Cairns,
and—" she smiled suddenly, "if you like to call me Kitty I
really don't mind. I have a passion—for cats."
"You're a duck," he said, patting her shoulder. "I hope
you'll sleep well. Oh, here. Look out. Your magnificent


40
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the U.S.A. it's illegal to buy any lottery tickets good or bad.
So they couldn't go to the police with the swindle."
"No," she agreed shortly. "If the tickets were faked the
loser couldn't ask for protection. It's a great racket. So keep
out of it, Cairns. Thanks for the ten-spot. Good night—and
pleasant dreams."
Peter looked after her as she turned away. A gallant fig-
ure, somehow, in spite of age and angularity. Temperamental
she might be, and impulsive. Not too scrupulous perhaps on
occasion . . . But interesting. No doubt about it.
His attention was attracted then by Bunny and June Worth
who went romping by. The Battleaxe and the Hatchet came
along and stopped to exchange a word of gossip with the dis-
tinguished looking Mr. Cairns who was so "pleasant and
common when you came to know him."
"I call it a real shame," said the Battleaxe, "for June
Worth to lead on a mere boy like Bunny. There's no crazy
thing she'll stop at. He's years younger than she is and look
how she lets him carry on. Kissing her right before every-
body. I think it's a scandal."
"Just love's young dream, sister," said the Hatchet. "I
only hope, Mr. Cairns, that the poor lad won't get a rude
awakening. Oh! There goes Mrs. Temple. Where's she been
all the evening I wonder. I suppose she's too grand to be
amused by any such party's we had tonight. But it was
good, Mr. Cairns. Didn't you think so? You and your (hur-
huh) girl-friend seemed to have plenty of fun between you
we noticed."
"Miss Oliver's real cute for an old lady," commented the
Battleaxe. "Dresses too young, of course. So does Mrs.
Temple. Ever see such a low cut back! Wonder how she
keeps it up. Did you notice at dinner, Mr. Cairns? I was real


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41
worried until she put that long black wrap over. That helped
quite considerable."
"It drapes kinda stylish, don't it?" said the smaller and
slightly less acidulated sister. "But I think Mrs. Temple's
shoulders are too wide to be real pretty. Do you suppose
Miss Grimes could make me something like that next winter
if we go to Florida? It'd be just the thing. Can you see how
its made? Oh, there she goes. Wonder who she's looking for.
Evelyn Heather, I bet. It's a scandal the way she monop-
olizes that young girl."
"Somebody else doing that right now," corrected the Bat-
tleaxe with a smirk. "I saw the Honorable John Suffern and
her going down to the lower deck quite a while ago. It's thick
fog back there now. You can hardly see a thing. Maybe they
like that. Who knows? Anyway, Mrs. Temple won't find them
unless she goes right down where they are. Say, Mr. Cairns,
have you heard Zootorius gets a hundred dollars a night for
doing what he showed tonight for nothing? Do you believe
it? Don't you think somebody paid him?"
"You'd better ask Mr. Zootorius that," Peter suggested
mildly. "And at the same time try to find out if he divides the
proceeds with the chimp. I'm crazy to know. If you'll excuse
me—good night." He smiled genially, bowed to each in turn
and departed.
Though it was getting late, the dance was in full swing
in the lounge as he made the round of the promenade deck.
The writing room was practically empty. A last drink was
being served in the bar. The smoking room was closing and
the bridge insatiates were hastily finishing their final game.
Curiously enough none of the persons occupying his
thoughts at the minute was among those present.
Why this vaguely disturbed him he could not have said.


42
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Any or all of them might have retired for the night—might
have been merely passing on one side of the public rooms as
he went by on the other—might have preferred another
deck. . . .
He stepped inside the lighted companionway and went
quietly down the broad stairs. A bored steward nodded to
him sleepily as he passed out again upon the lower deck. It
appeared unnaturally quiet after the noise and gaiety above.
The fog-horn still sounded a melancholy note though it
seemed to Peter that after three days of persistent bad
weather the heavy air was clearing to some extent.
As he rounded the forward end of the cabins he almost
collided with a smaller man who was pacing sedately toward
him.
"So sorry! I— Oh! It's you, Mr. Cairns."
"It is indeed. Well met, Mr. Williams."
"Thank you, sir." The soi-disant Mr. Henry Williams
dropped his voice to a mere breath. "Anything you want,
Mr. Peter?"
"Unless you have something to report—"
"I—I'm afraid it may be nothing of importance, sir."
The two men turned by mutual consent and moved forward
to the shelter and shadow under the bridge. "Maybe you
saw it for yourself, Mr. Peter. I mean the talk between Mr.
Buckleigh—and Mrs. Temple."
"Mrs. Temple? No," exclaimed Peter. "Why he despises
the woman."
"Quite right. That's the impression he gave me too. Per-
haps the interview was not of his seeking, sir. But it was
a long one—and—though it was of course necessary for me
to keep my distance—it appeared to me from the first to be
somewhat heated."


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43
"That's funny," said Peter. "Where was all this?"
"They were walking about on this deck. Stopped by the
rail for a few minutes and then went aft."
"But Buckleigh was up in the lounge. I saw him there."
"Quite right, sir. But he stayed only a few minutes. He
appeared very restless and went back again to the bar. Mrs.
Temple spoke to him as he was coming out again and they
both went down the after-companionway and out on this
deck."
"Hum-m-m," said Peter slowly. "Now that's an angle I
haven't seen the possibility of, Wiggar, I don't mind telling
you. It may be necessary to revise our ideas . . . consid-
erably . . ."
"Yes, Mr. Peter?"
"I saw Mrs. Temple not more than ten or fifteen minutes
ago. Where's Buckleigh? Has he gone to bed, do you know?"
"I'm sorry, sir. They went aft and I lost sight of them
quite a little while before you came. I was just hanging
about hoping to see you for a minute. You won't forget—
about the white tie tomorrow night, Mr. Peter."
"No," Peter smiled, "I promised didn't I? By the way,
Wiggar, you haven't been down to my new stateroom?"
"Certainly not after what you said, sir. But if you thought
of reconsidering the matter I could put your things in order
in a very short time." The valet's tone was eager.
"It's sort of an out of the way place," Peter said, thought-
fully. "Somehow I'd feel easier if I knew you could find it
without having to ask questions. Suppose you were to follow
me now—at a properish distance."
"Oh, thank you, Mr. Peter."
"I think it was once the steerage but its been all rebuilt
and it's just about as nice as any other part of this old boat.


44
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But you have to go to the very back end of the cabins on
B deck before you come to the stairs that go down to C
deck. The entrance to them is rather a blind one so you
might follow along. It's bed time for me. Let's go."
As he started aft, Peter saw for a second a woman's muf-
fled figure emerge from the misty half light of the far end of
the main deck and disappear behind the corner of the cabins.
Remembering the comments of the Battleaxe and Hatchet,
he had no doubt at the time that it was Evelyn Heather and
that on account of the lateness of the hour some idea of
propriety had caused her escort to remain in the background
for a discreet period. The passing thought registered as a
fact since he knew that there was a door in the rear end of
the passage leading to the staterooms on A deck and that
would be the shortest way to her own, which was situated in
that quarter.
He thought no more about it at the time. His mind was
busy with other matters. In the main companion way he met
the captain who had just come off the bridge. They stopped
for a minute's conversation.
"How are things going for you, Mr. Clancy?" Captain
Northcote asked in a guarded voice that held an anxious
note. "So far its been all plain sailing, hasn't it? I venture to
hope that your mission, whatever it is, won't affect the
pleasure of the voyage—for any of the passengers. Captain
Kerrigan assured me that I could count on your discretion."
"I'll try not to let Jake down," said Peter with a frank
smile. "And in any case he had no reason to expect trouble
on the boat. I'm helping him out only because I was going
to Europe anyway. The change of name was, perhaps, un-
necessary. Just an extra precaution. It was nice of you to
cooperate, Captain Northcote. By the way, there's another


LAST TRUMP
45
one of the passengers I'd like to get a line on in the morn-
ing. Another look at the booking records—just in case."
"Of course, Mr. Clancy." The captain frowned. "What-
ever you think necessary. I hope you'll be cautious though.
I don't want any trouble. Any scandal."
"No more do I," Peter acceded with an earnest shake of
the head. "Good night, Captain Northcote."
"Good night, Mr. Cairns," the other responded in a louder
voice as he turned thoughtfully away.
With a genial wave of the hand, Peter went down the stairs
to B deck. Wiggar, who had remained inconspicuous in the
offing, followed quietly. A narrow white-painted hallway
stretched before them. It was broken at short intervals by
the cross passages on which the rooms opened and was much
longer than the one on A deck since the cabins at this level
ran for some distance under the main deck, fore and aft.
A draft of wind from the open door at the extreme rear
end of the passage blew coldly in. Perhaps it was the ab-
sence of other doors that made the narrow white tunnel look
so interminable and inescapable. The straight black figure
of Peter Clancy went unhesitatingly along.
It was very quiet. Wiggar following, soft-footed, could
hear the faint drip, swish, drip, from the oozing canvas of
the makeshift but practical bathing tank which, reinforced
by open cribwork, occupied that portion of the closed deck
just beyond the open door. He had seen a steward loafing
on the other side of the after-companionway as he passed,
but in all the half lighted quiet place there was no other sign
of life—only the tall black figure that went steadily on.
Suddenly it stopped. Does he have to go out on that wet
deck to get to his stateroom? thought Wiggar frowning. If
so, I'll insist—


46
LAST TRUMP
Unconsciously he had closed up the distance between
them. His master was standing rigid in the doorway. The
stairs that led to C deck were inside, off to the left, but
Peter Clancy had not even glanced in that direction. As if
turned to stone he was gazing out-out into the mysterious
liquid darkness of that obscure place.
Poised as if for a spring he reached back as Wiggar came
close and caught his arm.
"Look,” he whispered in a voice that shook. “Good God!
Look there!”


CHAPTER VI
WIGGAR's breath caught in his throat. For an instant he
thought his eyes were deceiving him. The lights were so
vague. The shadows—ah the shadows. Strange. Daunting.
There was the wet floor of the outer deck, faintly reflecting
the light from the passage. On each side ambiguous dimness
framed the great square bulk of canvas, hanging from above
-lighted from the upper deck lights-translucent—with the
dry rim above the water just discernible—and below the foot
of the shadowy ladder that led down into its depths some-
thing-something that seemed to move, shifting awfully with
the motion of the ship.
"Drowned!” gasped Wiggar. “Someone has fallen- It's
a body, sir! A human—"
The terrible grip on his arm was instantly released. “The
ship's doctor,” breathed Peter swinging about. “Get him.
Quick. But don't raise an alarm. And the captain. As quietly
as you can, but hurry!”
He was off. Racing at full speed down that interminable
passage, up the nearest companionway, catching the steward
stationed there as he ran.
“Don't talk. Follow me!”
The man, suddenly alert, obeyed. Disciplined and intelli-
gent he took his cue from an obvious superior without ques-
tion. Imitatively he dropped into a walk as they passed
the little Indian gentleman who was evidently on his way to
bed for he wished Mr. Cairns a pleasant goodnight, and also
the steward as he went by.


LAST TRUMP
49
The wet white face stared up from between half-closed
lids as they laid the body down upon the gray-white deck.
It looked to Peter horribly wise with all the answers to all
the questions he longed to ask. Was there any hope? Any
chance that he could be brought back—even for a minute?
"Doctor!" Eagerly Peter repeated his thought aloud as the
physician came swiftly near and bent to make his examina-
tion.
"We can try." The doctor had already pulled off the tie
and loosened the buttons at the neck when his quick fingers
paused. He looked up into Peter's face with a significant ges-
ture. "I'm afraid it's no use," he muttered, too low for the
steward to hear. "Look at that."
Peter drew a deep breath. "Choked," he whispered.
"Choked before he—fell in."
The two men looked at each other steadily for an instant
that might have been an hour without adding to the convic-
tion that their eyes expressed.
The doctor straightened. "Charles," he said, "drop down
the scuttle over there and get one of the crew to come up
with a stretcher. Do it quietly, understand? Pick a man who
can keep his mouth shut—and be quick about it."
"Aye, aye, sir."
The captain was seen hastily approaching and the steward
obeyed with more than ordinary alacrity.
"We'll take him to the sick bay," the doctor proposed
after a hurried consultation. "Best in any case. I'll try artifi-
cial respiration but it will be only a form, Captain Northcote.
I'm certain the man's beyond help."
"Don't leave a stone unturned," ordered the captain, ur-
gently. "This is bad business, Doctor Hobbs. I don't need to
tell you that the quieter it's kept the better. Warn all the


50
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men and any of the stewards you may have to use. We'll
keep it from the passengers as much as we can. Any kind of
death on a ship is bad enough—but this—" He broke off,
turning sharply on his heel. "Mr.—ahem—Mr. Cairns. I'd
like a word with you before— I say! Mr. Cairns. For the
love of heaven!"
Without a word of explanation Peter had plunged once
more into the half filled pool. The tiny flashlight he had been
using had suddenly picked out for his searching eye a small
object floating on the water. Before he grasped it he knew
what it was and his heart sank within him. He held it up to
the captain's gaze in a hand that was none too steady.
"You see," he said in a low, flat voice. "The doctor can do
nothing. It's finished. Signed, sealed and delivered. This card
is the ace of spades. The death card. Buckleigh has been
murdered."
"But why?" Doctor Hobbs leaped to his feet. "I guessed
this was no accident. But what object— He was such a decent,
inoffensive little chap. Kind of pompous and stupid I
thought. Why—I played bridge with him—only last night!"
"Hush." Captain Northcote turned as Charles, the stew-
ard, and one of the crew came forward with a stretcher. He
glanced at them sharply. "Oh, Jim," he said, "I'm glad
Charles picked you. You can keep a still tongue in your head
and so can he. I'm lucky to have men I can trust. You're to
follow Doctor Hobbs' instructions, and you're not to know
anything—anything about this—accident—you understand
unless I give you leave. That'll be all. Better not stand star-
ing, Jim. Get on with it."
"Excuse me, Captain." The sailor touched his forehead
in a half salute. His awed face was gray and grim. "You
calls this here thing an accident, sir? It shouldn't be me


LAST TRUMP
51
that's asking—only—"
"Only what?" prompted the captain sternly. "Speak up,
man, if you have anything to say."
"It comes over me, sir, like I don't know what when I
looks at the gentleman lying dead here before me face and
eyes." Jim hesitated, lowering his rough voice. "Maybe its
nothing to do with it. And I don't know what it was exactly.
And I couldn't see because all these here deck lights was off."
"What!" ejaculated the captain, incredulous.
"Only for a few minutes they was, sir, just like I'm telling
you. And only on this after part of the deck. See? I thought a
fuse had blew and waited a coupla minutes to see was I right.
Then when the light didn't come on I went below to get the
electrician. He was asleep and it took a few minutes to wake
him and when we come up on deck the lights was O.K. So
he spoke his piece to me. Said I was nuts and went below
again."
"From where are the lights controlled?" Peter put in
swiftly.
"From just inside the door there, sir," Charles hastened
- to reply, pointing to the oblong of light that marked the en-
trance to the cabins.
"You were on duty, steward," admonished the captain.
"Did you know of any trouble with the lights?"
"No, sir. But I've been back and forth and round about.
Answering bells and the like. What Jim says may be true all
right—"
"It is true, Captain," urged the sailor, "and that ain't all,
sir." From the limp ominous figure that seemed to stir
stealthily with the motion of the ship Jim dragged his eyes
and shuddering, glanced aloft. "While it was dark," he
whispered in a shaking voice, "something seemed to pass—


52
LAST TRUMP
overhead. Up among the rigging. I don't know where it came
from-and I don't know where it went-but-God help me
- I thought it was sort of laughing to itself-crazylike ...
And later, when the lights come on—there was nothing-only
this—that I'd no idear of—this dead man-at the bottom
of the tank!"
There was a long pause. No one moved. The captain, cool
Yankee that he was, felt the hair lift along the back of his
scalp, Instinctively he turned to Clancy with a gesture that
was half command, half appeal.
"You say there was no one on the deck. Are you sure?”
Peter asked with deadly seriousness. “There are lots of
places to hide here. Behind those winches—or back of those
two big cars ... Even the hoisting masts would be cover
for a slim person. How can you be certain?”.
"Well—” Jim hesitated, “_when you put it that way,
maybe I can't, sir. What I mean is there wasn't no one in
sight. That I can swear to.”
“That's not much help,” Doctor Hobbs put in. “Stands to
reason that a murderer wouldn't hang about.”
“Then it wasn't no accident?” Jim recoiled a pace farther
from the body and again glanced uneasily aloft.
"Be more explicit about what you saw in the rigging," said
Peter in a tone of command. “Tell us exactly how "
"Must have been Jim's fancy,” interrupted the captain.
“All sailors are superstitious.”
"No, sir. No, Captain Northcote.” The man's face was set
and determined. “This wasn't no imagination. And look,
Boss." He turned to Peter. "See there-how that spar's
lashed to the deck rail above? Any sailor—any man handy
with his feet, could come across on it,” he pointed, "to the
mast here and down this here iron ladder to the deck. In a


LAST TRUMP
55
dress. The doctor gave the word and the tiny procession
moved off toward the small lonely white hospital in the stern.
The moaning of the fog-horn filled the air. The fog was
closing in again, thick with mystery, blotting out sea and
sky.


CHAPTER VII
"May I ask you to come to my quarters with me, Mr.
Clancy? We can be private there. I'm afraid I must get you
to answer some questions." Northcote had been silently
watching Peter as with the aid of his flashlight he examined
the vicinity of the pool. When at length the detective picked
up and put on his discarded pumps, the captain spoke with
a resumption of authority.
"Certainly, sir," Peter replied promptly. "I'm afraid
there's nothing more to be discovered here in this bad light
in any case. As soon as it's daylight I'll have another look
around, but there may easily be no clues at all—except
this." He held out the playing card that he had carefully
pressed between the folds of an unopened handkerchief.
"Will you allow me to retain it, Captain, at least for the pres-
ent? Thank you. And I suggest we take Wiggar along with
us, if you don't mind. He may be able to give us some in-
formation. I can assure you that he's absolutely to be
trusted."
Northcote became once more aware of the man who had
summoned him and who for the last few minutes had been
waiting, silent and self-effacing, a short distance off. "As you
think best, Clancy, of course," he said. "I understood from
Captain Kerrigan that you two were associated and on his
authority accepted the fact that both your passports were
correct, even though you were temporarily using other
names."
"Quite so, sir. He's Henry Williams on the sailing list but
56


LAST TRUMP
57
I'd like to present Wiggar to you under his own name and
character—which is the stanchest ever a man was blessed
with."
"Mr. Peter does me too great an honor, sir." Wiggar
bowed neatly from the hips. "I am very glad to be his—and,
if you'll allow me, your humble servant, Captain Northcote.
In masquerading as a gentleman I have been merely follow-
ing instructions, I beg you to believe, sir. Mr. Peter thought
it best."
"And that was enough for Wiggar, Captain Northcote.
He's done many more difficult things than this," said Peter,
"and has been of great service. So—"
"Let him come by all means." Northcote gave the required
permission absently. His mind was filled with anxiety and a
deep sense of his own position. "Now, if you'll follow me."
"Pardon, Mr. Peter." Wiggar coughed apologetically. "I
foresaw the probability of your needing dry clothing and
took the liberty of bringing some up to my cabin where you
can change in a few minutes. Your appearance at present,
sir, if you'll allow me, leaves much to be desired and could
scarcely fail to attract attention if you were observed."
"That's right." Northcote spoke hurriedly. "I should have
thought of that. Change as fast as you can, and meet me in
my quarters, Clancy. Don't delay. There are certain things
that ought to be done immediately."
"Be there inside of ten minutes." Peter made a short ges-
ture of acquiescence and motioning Wiggar to follow made
his way quickly to the door of the lighted passage.
If there were stewards about anywhere there were none
in sight. The light switch, which was much in his mind,
Peter located with ease—an ordinary button in a large pro-
jecting round of thick white porcelain.


53
LAST TRUMP
"Quite within the reach of all," he muttered in Wiggar's
ear. With the point of a penknife he pressed the button,
switching the outer deck lights off and instantly on again.
"Sections work independently. Makes for efficiency and
economy . . . and furnished the opportunity . . ."
For a second his keen eye searched the adjoining space of
clean heavily painted wall. "Can't see anything, but you'd
better try for finger-prints here, Wiggar, the first minute you
get. Though I don't much hope—"
The low voice stopped with a jerk. Automatically Peter's
glance had dropped to the floor. Like the rest of the passages
on A and B decks, it was covered with thick dark red carpet,
fairly new and meticulously kept. There was no dust—but
down the centre there appeared a line of spots of slightly
darker hue.
With a quick motion to Wiggar, Peter bent low and
touched the nearest. Wet. Wet, certainly—but colorless.
Water. He glanced along the row of spots, measuring them
with his eye ... If they were footprints, which seemed
entirely possible, it was not a long stride. And the shape of
the foot? Impossible to determine. In the nap of the thick
carpet water would spread quickly. The first spot was fully
thirteen inches long and perhaps six wide. The others were
successively somewhat smaller—until they stopped . . .
They didn't dim off to nothing. They just stopped short.
Peter's eyes narrowed as he straightened his bent back and
looked about him. There were no inside staterooms on A
deck. Unlike B deck the large cabins opened directly on the
main fore and aft passages. Keeping close to the wall, Peter
followed the prints. They led him to the door of A 19 . . .
There was no necessity to make inquiries. Slipped into a


LAST TRUMP
59
bright brass frame on a level with the eye was the neatly
typed name of the occupant. He bit his lip as he read “Miss
Evelyn Heather.”
Like a flash his mind recorded the muffled figure that he
himself had seen pass alone out of the fog—so lateso
lately. Impossible. He put the inference hastily behind him.
Those wet spots looked too big for a woman's feet, didn't
they? he argued silently—and had to answer—too large for
a man as well. So what? Why did they stop just there? The
decks were only damp with the fog. Why should anyone's
feet be dripping-dripping wet? Unless-
A horrible picture formed itself in his reluctant mind. A
man, half choked—and held down-his head under water-
until the body grew limp-resisting no more ... Hide-
ous . . . No woman ... The thing couldn't be. If the doc-
tor found that Buckleigh was already dead when his body
was thrown into the pool—there would have been no neces-
sity for the murderer to have had feet that still dripped
Peter looked down at his own. His pumps, being dry, had
left no trace. Nothing but a few scattered drops from the
other clothing remained to show that he had passed that
way.
Wiggar was beside him. “Photograph of this,” Peter whis-
pered. “As soon as possible. Come on. Quick.”
Someone had opened a door farther forward along the pas-
sage. Peter had just time to slip into the men's lavatory and
bath which was in a cross passage close at hand.
“Who was it? Did you see?” The question was only
half uttered over Peter's shoulder as Wiggar followed him
through the other entrance into the passage on the starboard
side.
Tas


60
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"Zootorius." Wiggar reached past his master, opened the
door of his own stateroom and closed it quickly behind
them.
"Zootorius! I'd forgotten he was on this deck."
"And a shame it is, sir. I mean that you should occupy
such inferior quarters when I—" Wiggar's hands were fly-
ing.
"How was Zootorius dressed?" Peter interrupted.
"He wasn't. Just a dressing gown. On his way to the bath
I should judge, sir."
"Urn, yes," said Peter. "Well, be sure there's nobody
about when you get those pictures, Wiggar. Understand?
Watch your chance but do it as soon as possible . . . Thank
goodness you're expert and your outfit makes no noise."
"Thank you, sir. A touch to your hair now, Mr. Peter, and
I think you'll do. I'll attend to those things later." Wiggar
glanced somewhat sadly at a pair of hopeless looking dress
trousers.
"Never mind them." In spite of his preoccupation, Peter
smiled inwardly at the valet's distress. "Get your camera
and things ready and don't forget to try for finger-prints on
that light switch and around. That—and those wet spots on
the floor. They may have no bearing, but we've got to be
sure. I'll tell the captain—" He was at the door.
"Mr. Peter. If you please." Wiggar held out a small snub-
nosed automatic.
Peter cocked an eye. "Think I'll need that?"
"I'll feel much more comfortable, sir."
"O.K." Peter slipped the weapon into a carefully tailored
pocket under his left armpit. "Watch yourself now, Wiggar.
This boat, it seems, is far from healthy. I don't have to tell
you to be careful."


LAST TRUMP 61
"No, sir." Wiggar allowed himself an almost perceptible
smile. He opened the door, glanced along the passage and
turned back with a nod. "All clear, Mr. Peter. Thank you."
Peter stepped out into the empty passage. He went swiftly
forward and up the after-companionway, meeting no one
until he reached the promenade deck above. The bar and
smoking room were closed and dark but as he turned the
corner he heard voices and laughter. Bunny and June Worth
were coming toward him, skylarking with suspicious aban-
don.
"Hello, Mr. Cairns," Bunny called. "Where've you been
all the evening? Not asleep at the switch I bet. Lookee." He
caught Peter's arm with an excited laugh. His eyes were
brilliant. It was evident that his spirits had been raised by
spirits of another sort. "See what I wangled out of— Oh,
I'm not going to tell you who. If old man Innes can get it—
why may not we? Have jus' a little drink with June and me.
Won't hurt you. It's best ole apricot brandy you ever tasted.
Nice and sweet too. Do you good, sir, if you'll allow me."
"No, Bunny. Thanks." Peter put the two young things
hastily aside. The contrast of their irresponsible gaiety with
the scene he had just been through made him shiver in-
wardly. What did children like that know of the horrible
side of life? What need they ever know? To keep the world
safe—safe for innocent beings ... A task beyond human
strength . . . One could only do one's bit.
Peter went hastily along the deck. In the lounge the musi-
cians were putting away their instruments. The space that
had been cleared for dancing looked bleak and empty. The
stewards were busy putting things to rights—for early mass
in the morning, Peter remembered, with a sudden over-
whelming sense of the incongruities of life and living . . .


62
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of death—and dying. This frail chip, floating on an unseen
sea beneath a blind sky, contained in microcosm the ele-
ments of all. Threads interwoven—for a short span—some
to slip free at the end of the voyage—some already irrev-
ocably tied—or tangled—and one at least broken—by a
violent murderous hand.
Whose? That question, like Aaron's rod swallowed all the
rest as Peter quickly made his way across the little connect-
ing bridge that led from the promenade deck to the upper
level of the superstructure in which were the captain's quar-
ters.
"Come in." The response to Peter's knock was curt but
there was expectancy in the face of Jared Northcote. He had
made this voyage many hundreds of times, with the regu-
larity of a ferry boat, but never had the like of this tragedy
happened before in a ship of his. Instinct told him that his
best hope lay in the plain red-headed passenger that Provi-
dence, via Captain Kerrigan of the New York police had sent
him. His own ship's detective, Nathan Underwood, whom he
now introduced, was more or less adequate for routine mat-
ters but could not be considered brilliant in any respect.
Underwood, by a happy chance, had heard of Peter
Clancy; was quite thrilled to know he was on the ship and
was willing, even glad to take orders.
"You were a little more than your allotted ten minutes
getting here." Northcote spoke hurriedly. "Did—did you dis-
cover anything, Mr. Clancy?"
Peter told briefly of his findings in the passage and of his
instructions to Wiggar.
"It's lucky you have a confidential assistant who can make
these necessary records. And we must chance his being seen
and questioned by a passenger. I can see it's necessary,"


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63
agreed the captain, frowning heavily, "but I think, Under-
wood, you'd better go down and see if you can be of assist-
ance."
"He might learn something," Northcote continued a trifle
sardonically as the door closed behind the ship's detective.
"You certainly are well served, Mr. Clancy. Now, what
next?"
"I want to send a radio at once," Peter replied promptly,
"to my partner—and in code if you've no objection. An in-
quiry that seems so absurd I prefer to make it on my own
responsibility, but I'll let you know the answer, Captain, if
it seems to have any real bearing on the case. The time is so
short, if we're to be spared embarrassment when we dock,
that I want to be as forehanded as possible. You under-
stand?"
"In part at least, Clancy. Sit here. Will it take long?"
"The code is simple and O'Malley knows so much the
message can be brief."
"IH ring for a steward to take it up to the radio room."
"Thanks."
Peter kept the steward waiting only a few minutes. When
he had gone, Northcote stopped his nervous pacing and sat
down opposite the detective. "Have you any theories,
Clancy?" he asked eagerly. "Is there anything you can tell
me? Any suggestions?"
"We have just one definite clue," Peter answered taking
a folded handkerchief from his breast pocket. "One thing
that must have been left purposely for us to find. That fact
may mean much—or little—as the case may be."
The captain stared down at the open handkerchief and the
card that lay upon it. Peter turned it over.
"I have a hunch," he said, "that I've seen this particular


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65
ton," he cried. "What is it? Something wrong?"
"I'm afraid so, sir." The petty officer stepped in and obedi-
ent to Northcote's gesture closed the door. "We don't know
just what to do. Jim Stiles wanted to come to you, but I
thought I'd better."
"Jim?"
"Yes." Vinton spoke hurriedly. "He saw it again, sir, and
we went to investigate."
"Holy jumping Moses! Saw what?" thundered the cap-
tain.
"I'm trying to tell you, sir. We went right away forward
to look. The cage was empty. The monkey—you know, sir—
The monkey has escaped."


CHAPTER VIII
"But how? How could he have gotten out?" Breathing heav-
ily with the haste he had made as they rushed down to the
cage, Captain Northcote peered in the half light about the
space between the forward decks.
"The cage door—was opened—from the outside," Peter
Clancy responded. He was still examining the big cage that
stood in a fairly unencumbered part of the large storage
space. "Or it wasn't securely fastened when Zootorius put
him in," he added as an afterthought. "The man should be
here by now. He was still up a little while ago."
"Where the brute is now is more to the point," said North-
cote throwing the beam of a flashlight over the barrels and
boxes that hid the corners. "I didn't suppose the ape was
dangerous, Clancy," he muttered, coming closer. His voice
was filled with horror.
"He may not be," Peter answered in the same low tone.
"But he must be found—and secured. No doubt about that.
Here's Zootorius."
"Surehe couldn't have got out by himself, Captain!" The
trainer seemed half wild as he dashed into the storeroom.
"I'll swear he couldn't. And I'll have the hide of the fella
that opened the cage if old Zoot comes to any harm! See if
I don't. He must be around here somewhere. Zootie, ole pall
Come along out of that! Come to papa now and be good."
There was no response to his wheedling call.
"Where was the chimp last seen, Mr. Vinton?" Peter
asked, watching the trainer from the corner of his eye.
66


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67
“Jim Stiles was just going below after helping Doctor
Hobbs about something—I don't know what—" Vinton was
prone to indirection—"when he saw what he first thought
was a man sitting on top of one of the automobiles, back
near the stern. He admits he was terribly scared but he
called out—and the thing came down like a streak and gal-
loped off along the deck. Whether it went into the passage or
escaped up over the hoisting apparatus he couldn't see, but
by the speed of it and the way it moved it came over him
all of a sudden that it was the monk, loose, and Jim ran after
and bumped square into the middle of my dinner.”
Knowing nothing of the tragedy, the young officer might
be excused for taking the matter lightly, but Captain North-
cote glared at him and barked at Zootorius: "Find that ani-
mal of yours and be quick about it. Understand! There's no
telling what he may do. A brute like that is a menace"
"He's nothing of the kind, Captain,” the trainer retorted
belligerently. "He's as mild and gentle as what I am. Maybe
more so. Why a child could play with Zoot by the hour.
Children have played with him. Yes, sir. I give you my word
-and no worse off except maybe for a coupla fleas—which
Zoot wouldn't like any more than what they would. No, sir.
He's the finest chimp that ever was born. I wouldn't take
twenty-grand for him, that I wouldn't. Here, Zootie. Come
now! Come to papa like a nice boy.”
“There's every reason to think he's not here.” The captain
spoke peremptorily. “One of the crew saw him on the after-
deck. Don't stand there, Vinton, as if there was nothing to
do. Gather in a dozen men—or more if you need 'em—and
comb the ship from stem to stern. Try the boat deck—and
the hold if necessary. That chimp's got to be found dead
or alive.”


68
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"Mother of Mike!" exclaimed Zootorius, "If you injure
one hair of his body I'll— Look here, Captain," his tone
changed, "Zoot may be a bit mischeevous but honest to gawd
he wouldn't hurt a fly. I'll find him. Sure I will. On deck,
you say? That's right. He would go up for a bit of air and
exercise. That'd be his first thought—and then belike he'd
make a try for the pantry. He's that cute he could smell a
bunch of bananas, if so there was any, a mile away. If he
could get to the stores, now—specially fruit—that's where
we'll find him as soon as he's had his run."
"Show him the way, Vinton," ordered the captain, "and
don't make any noise if you can help it. You'd better take
some of the boys on night duty along with you. And watch
out for yourself. Those apes are lots stronger than a man."
"And I tell you once more he's as gentle as a kitten." The
trainer fired the retort over his shoulder as he hastily fol-
lowed Vinton back into the white painted closet-like space
that separated the forward storage room from the long fore
and aft passage of B deck.
Scarcely had he disappeared when Northcote turned again
to Peter. "For God's sake tell me," he said with stark
urgency. "Don't let's beat about the bush. We're both think-
ing the same thing. Was it the ape?"
Peter shook his head impatiently. "It might have been.
That would explain some of the—to say the least—improb-
able facts."
"Such as—" Northcote prompted eagerly.
"What was the reason for drowning a man in a shallow
tank—with the whole Atlantic Ocean at hand—so conven-
ient?"
"Seems a poor choice," the captain responded. "But an
ape wouldn't reason. Would just do the thing that occurred


70
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any sound of disturbance. Only the deep pulsation of the
engines could be heard—and the faint secret whispering of
the old ship's timbers as they complained to the sea.
"Suppose we go direct to Suffern's stateroom," suggested
Peter softly as they reached the main companionway. "If we
talk low we won't disturb anyone. Buckleigh's cabin is next
—and will be empty."
"Right." Northcote nodded soberly.
"He's on A deck. Starboard side. Number twelve."
"You know a good many things already, Clancy," mur-
mured the captain. "About the ship—and the passengers."
"We've tried not to miss a trick, Wiggar and I between
us," Peter admitted. "But I don't know half I should. Will
you knock, please, and take the lead, sir?"
Suffern's cabin was dark. For ventilation the door was
open perhaps six inches and secured by a long nickel hook.
"Who's there?" The answer came promptly on the cap-
tain's knock. Either Suffern was a light sleeper—or he was
still awake. He pushed the button at the head of his berth as
Northcote without a word lifted the hook and entered. Blink-
ing in the sudden light the young man sat up in his berth.
Peter closed the door behind them.
"I have bad news for you, Mr. Suffern." The captain in his
spotless white uniform seemed to fill the small room with a
sense of ineluctable fate.
"What is it?" John Suffern threw back the bedclothes and
swung his feet to the floor with the same motion.
"You can't guess?" Northcote asked sternly.
"My uncle? Is it about him?" The young face wore a
peculiar expression, difficult to analyze.
"Why do you think it might be?" The seaman's glance was


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71
sharp. That of the detective was keener still though less
obvious.
"He wasn't in his room a few minutes ago when I looked
in, and it's getting late.” Instinctively Suffern turned to the
man with whom he had somehow slipped into terms almost
of intimacy. "What is it, Cairns?” he asked hurriedly. “Is
he hurt? Why don't you tell me?"
Northcote hesitated. Peter responded at once. “Mr. Buck-
leigh has met with a serious accident, Suffern. It seems neces-
sary to tell you. He is dead.”
"Dead! Why—why you don't mean— He didn't fall over-
board?"
“No.” Peter shook his head and watched the effect of his
words. “But apparently he was-drowned.”
"Drowned? Impossible. You can't mean that, Cairns !
How could he”
“He died in the swimming tank.” Peter explained briefly.
“Are you crazy, Cairns, or am I?” Suffern was on his feet,
glaring from one man to the other. “There isn't water enough
in that tank! Even if-" He threw out his hands with the
palms up. “I know my uncle was in and out of the bar a good
deal tonight. Was it that? You might as well tell me.” His
voice was suddenly hard. "Was he so drunk when he fell in
that—that he didn't realize-couldn't help himself?”.
“He couldn't help himself,” Peter answered grimly.
His glance traveled swiftly about the little room. He had
been there once before. Nothing seemed to have been
changed. A picture of Thomas John Suffern, Viscount Dun-
worthy, in a leather frame, looked down upon the son, so
unlike himself in every feature, yet there must have been a
real bond between them or this photograph would not ap-


LAST TRUMP
73
"Wait," said Northcote with an arresting gesture. "I don't
think you're quite fair, Cairns, in saying it wasn't an acci-
dent. With that ape loose, I put it to you it might have
been—in a sense. I mean you can't call it murder if an ani-
mal attacks a man—unless—" A sudden thought stopped
him.
"Unless the animal was humanly directed," Peter finished
the sentence for him.
Suffern gasped with horror. "Don't tell me—I can't be-
lieve— This is too—too—" He seemed unable to go on.
"There were marks on the throat," Peter said somberly.
"It may be possible to determine from them whether the
hand was human—or otherwise ... In the meantime can
you make any suggestions, John? Do you know of anyone
who might have a reason for putting your uncle out of the
way?" The detective's tones had become quite friendly.
"Anyone on the boat," muttered Suffern thoughtfully.
"On the boat," Peter repeated. "Necessarily. And that nar-
rows it down to just the people we see and meet and talk to
—perhaps someone he's been friendly with. Can you think?
Had he any suspicions? Was he nervous? Fearful? Had he
been in good spirits?"
"I don't know," Suffern replied slowly. "On the whole he
was cheerful or at least I think reasonably so. He—disagreed
with me about a certain matter—that could have no bear-
ing—"
"In fact you've not seen eye to eye with your uncle in a
good many ways," Peter suggested on a sympathetic note.
"But aside from that, from what we've observed, I should
say that he'd had a pleasant voyage—up to this afternoon."
Suffern's head came up with a jerk. "What's that, Cairns?"
"I thought he showed considerable agitation—this after-


74
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noon—in the smoking room—when the death card fell at his
feet."
"The death cardl Surely you aren't superstitious, Cairns!"
"Not exactly," said Peter quietly. "And yet, sometimes
one is forced to believe—" He had taken a handkerchief
from his breast pocket and unfolded it—"To believe," he
repeated, "in signs."
"Where—where did you get that?" The voice was scarcely
above a whisper.
Peter turned the playing card over on his open palm. "Do
you recognize this, John?" he asked sternly. "Would you
say it was the same?"
The strong muscles of the lean jaws contracted. Suffern's
brows met above his staring eyes, but he said not a word.
"You were in the smoking room this afternoon," Peter
urged. "You had your fortune told. You were looking at
those cards a long time. You must remember something about
them. Isn't this a card from Mrs. Temple's pack? Look at
it carefully, John. Wasn't this the identical ace that blew off
the table when she was telling Evelyn Heather's fortune?
The one that fell at Buckleigh's feet?"
Suffern wet his lips and swallowed hard. "I—I can't
think," he said in a strange voice. "The whole thing is too
terrible. If—if anything serious hangs on identifying that
card—I didn't observe them closely enough this afternoon.
And I can't be sure."
Peter's eyes narrowed. "Then one more question, John, if
you don't mind. What became of that card up in the smoking
room? Can you remember?"
"No," Suffern answered almost violently. "I haven't the
faintest idea. You were there yourself, Cairns. Don't you
know?"


LASTTRUMP 75
"My attention was attracted by something else." Peter
shrugged disgustedly. "There was so much confusion. I can't
be sure who picked it up. And at the present time," he fin-
ished darkly, "I'd give a lot to know."


CHAPTER IX
A few minutes later when Peter and Captain Northcote left
Suffern's stateroom they met Vinton in the main companion-
way.
"Oh, there you are, sir." He was a little out of breath.
"I was just looking for you to report."
"Well, well," exclaimed the captain impatiently. "Have
you found the beast?"
"We have and we haven't," Vinton replied cautiously.
"That is to say, sir, we sighted the old fellow from below.
He was on the boat deck having himself a time, swinging
from the rails and everything else in reach. But when we
got up there he was gone. We looked everywhere, I give you
my word—"
"Zootorius too?"
"Oh, yes. But he's given it up."
"What! He can't do that. You're taking this thing too
lightly, Mr. Vinton. I don't care what the trainer says about
the beast being harmless. It's got to be caught and caged
before any of us dare sleep. That's orders, sir. You're to get
that ape if you have to roust out every man jack on the
ship." The captain's voice was like the low roll of thunder.
"Pardon me, sir," Vinton responded with conscious cor-
rectness of attitude. "Of course the search will proceed and
the beast be recaptured. I only meant that Zootorius advised
us to concentrate on the place where the fruit is stored—
especially the bananas. He assured me that sooner or later
the chimp would locate them by the smell and go for them
76


LAST TRUMP
77
like a bee to a flower, he said. He's a comical chap."
"I dare say," growled the captain. "Is that where all
hands have gone?"
"Not quite. I've scattered several men about, just in case
the old fellow might turn up somewhere else. It's a good
thing the passengers are all safe in their cabins, isn't it, sir?
Someone might be startled if they saw the chimp roaming
about."
"To put it mildly," Northcote agreed with sardonic em-
phasis. He was more nervous and upset than he would allow
to appear. "Half the dam' passengers sleep with their doors
on latch like Suffern had his." He turned to Peter. "And
we're expected to make sure that everything is O.K. I have
to see that nothing is stolen—and nobody gets hurt. I'm
responsible. While Suffern is getting dressed I'm going down
to stir up Zootorius. He can't just sit in front of a bunch
of bananas and wait for his twin to turn up!"
"May I go with you?" asked Peter quickly. And when
they had left Vinton some distance behind he added: "The
laundry is down here somewhere, too. Isn't it?"
"Yes. What's on your mind?"
"Is it customary for a man's linen and so forth to be re-
moved as quickly as John's appears to have been?"
Northcote paused in the lower passage and looked Peter
in the eye. "Things are pretty well run on my ship, small as
it is. If a passenger asks to have any special thing attended
to, it's done. Within reason, of course." He dropped his
voice still lower. "If Suffern didn't like soiled things lying
about, the night steward would remember to take them away
as soon as they were taken off."
"Fine." Peter nodded his approval. "And where would
he take them?"


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"To the laundry."
"That's what I thought. Let's go."
Northcote turned promptly and led the way down to the
level of C deck. He paused beside a closed door amidships.
"You're looking for something special, Clancy?" he whis-
pered.
"Before it's too late." Peter spoke in the same low tone.
"It would ease my mind to locate a pair of wet socks, Cap-
tain ... Or to make sure that a certain pair is dry. You
see a man can easily take off a pair of pumps. A mere matter
of seconds. But hose take longer. Considerably longer. And
there would be no object. A bare foot as well as a stocking
foot would leave a track. You get the point?"
"I do." Northcote bent his head grimly and opened the
laundry door. The room was full of light-suffused steam.
"Oh!" exclaimed Peter stepping forward. "You work a
night shift!"
"Have to," said the captain. "Bed and table linen—and
limited space. We'd be swamped otherwise."
Peter scarcely heard the explanation. He stepped hastily
to a woman who was apparently in charge. "Where's to-
night's laundry from A 12?" he asked. "Gentleman thinks
his gold links were left in."
"Well, they wasn't," asserted the laundress with a startled
look at the captain. "I just tended to the gentleman's things
myself, sir. I always look particular. You can see for your-
self. They're right over there."
"In the tub?" asked Peter.
"Sure. Where would they be?"
"You've put them to soak?"
"Of course, sir. We let 'em lay over night. Saves a lot of
time in the morning."


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79
"And the—socks as well?"
"The socks more than the rest if anything, on account of
because feet's bound to perspire in shoes—meaning no of-
fense, Captain."
"A pair of socks came down tonight from A 12?" North-
cote asked shortly.
The laundress looked at the chart on the wall. "Sure, sir.
There's the list you see. Hose, two pairs. He's neat, sir, is
A 12. Don't stint himself none when it comes to washing."
"Always sends it down every night?" Peter asked pleas-
antly. "I suppose there wasn't anything unusual in what he
sent tonight. You didn't notice his black silk hose particu-
larly?"
"Why no, sir." She looked at him curiously. "What should
be funny about a pair of evening socks? Holes you mean?"
"No," said Peter casually. "I just wondered if—perhaps—
they might have been sent down—wet."
"Well, as to that, sir," she laughed, "I really couldn't
say. Everything's been awful damp today. They mighta been,
too, but I wouldn't likely notice a thing like that. They're
good and wet now I can tell you. Would you like to see 'em?"
"No," said Peter. "No, thanks. The captain and I thought
we could settle a bet, but I guess there's nothing doing.
Thanks a lot. Good night."
"That cat didn't even get started on a fight," he added as
the door closed. "I don't like this job, Captain Northcote, the
way it's turning out. I'd be much happier in my mind if we'd
caught John's laundry in time to make sure that the socks he
wore tonight—were dry. Because in spite of everything, I
do like that boy."
"In spite of—what?" Northcote asked forcefully.
"Well—" Peter hesitated but went quickly on: "—I have


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very good reason to believe that he and Evelyn Heather must
have been out there on the afterdeck at the time of the mur-
der. I thought—and still believe I saw her come off the deck
—shortly before I discovered Buckleigh's body. It stands to
reason John wouldn't have left her there alone. So he must
still have been out there when I saw her come in."
Northcote pressed his lips together. After a second he
said: "The fog's been thick all the evening."
"Yes," Peter agreed. "One might reasonably say that only
lovers would want to be roaming about out there in the
dampness. And if they were very much 'that way' about each
other they might have been 'way back in the stern—on the
other side of the hospital cabin."
"In which case they would have seen nothing," the cap-
tain put in hopefully.
"That's what I'd like to think, I don't mind admitting,"
said Peter. "But what about those wet tracks I told you of?
They stopped directly in front of Evelyn Heather's door—
and we must face the probability, Captain Northcote, that
they were made—by the murderer."
"I hate the whole damn business," growled Northcote.
"From every possible standpoint, and especially— Look here,
Clancy, in spite of everything, it seems ridiculous to suspect
a charming well-bred young fellow like Suffern. I under-
stand he is very highly connected in England."
"So I've heard," said Peter gloomily. "And his uncle
Francis didn't stand between him and his inheritance appar-
ently. It's his own father that has the title and estates. Buck-
leigh is related on the mother's side."
"But he seemed to have plenty of money," remarked
Northcote uneasily. "I suppose Suffern would come in for
that."


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81
"Quite possibly. I haven't seen any indication of John be-
ing hard up though, have you? On the contrary he seems
very free with his money."
"And has some valuables he keeps in the safe," Northcote
added.
"He has?" Peter stopped short and turned on the captain
an enigmatic eye. "What sort of valuables, do you happen to
know?"
"Certainly not," Northcote denied curtly. "How should
I? The purser has charge. I merely happened to notice a
package in the safe with Suffern's name on it. It's heavily
sealed so I judge the contents probably would be valuable."
"How big is the package?" Peter's tone was strangely
urgent. "Did it look like a box? How heavy was it? What
did it feel like?"
"Really, Clancy," the captain drew himself up, "I don't
pry into the affairs of the passengers."
"You may have to," Peter retorted. "And you must have
noticed the size at least. Can't you give me some—" He
broke off quickly. "Later," he whispered. "Here's Suffern
now."
"The steward said you were down here, Captain." The
handsome young face was white and drawn. "I looked for
you up on deck."
"They're searching for the monkey that's escaped," Peter
explained briefly. "Zootorius thought— What's that? Lis-
ten!"
"Good Lord!" cried Northcote starting forward. "Do they
have to make so much noise?" He dashed back to the service
door and looked down the passage between the cabins. It
was short, owing to the space required on this lower deck
for kitchens, etcetra, and he was upon the little group as-


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sembled there before they were aware of his presence.
"Vinton," he exclaimed in a low fierce growl, "can't you
keep them quiet? Is there anything to laugh at, man? What
on earth—"
The young officer was hilariously rocking back and forth
in the entrance to the men's lavatory. He beckoned to the
captain, too full of laughter to speak. Several stewards and
deck hands gave way as Northcote pushed through with
Peter and Suffern at his heels.
"He locked himself in like a gentleman," Vinton gurgled,
"but Zootorius got him out. Now he's washing up. Can you
beat it?"
The chimpanzee was standing upright beside one of the
set basins. Zootorius, unable to resist the opportunity of
showing off his pet, and anxious to put the search party in
good humor, had taken from the basket of used towels sev-
eral small ones and was handing them in turn to the ape who
with grotesquely human motions was proceeding to dry his
hairy face and body.
"Wait! Hold up, Zootorius." Without ceremony Peter
pushed through into the center of the room. "Will he let me
touch him?" he asked sharply.
"Sure he will." The trainer patted the beast on the shoul-
der. "Shake hands with the gentleman, Zootie, ole pal. That's
right. See? What'd I tell you, Captain? Gentle as a kitten."
Whatever Peter may have felt, he showed no reluctance
in touching the extended paw of the chimpanzee. The ani-
mal's handshake was no more of a clasp than that of a
trained dog, but Peter drew back. "Where did he get the
liquor?" he asked. The flash of steel was in his eyes.
"Liquor? Zootie? Never in your life," cried Zootorius. "I
ain't that kind of a guy, mister. The chimp and me are


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83
strickly blue ribbon. I promised my old mother I wouldn't
drink and I never have. So why should I be feeding it to a
chimp? You must be crazy."
"Don't you smell it?" Peter glanced sternly about.
"I certainly smell alcohol," said the captain after a com-
prehensive sniff.
The ape was grinning and chattering softly and with ap-
parent good nature. Peter bent nearer. "Doesn't seem to be
on your pal's breath, Zootorius," he admitted with less sever-
ity of manner. Cautiously he put out his hand and bending
still closer stroked the animal's flank, then down the leg to
the foot.
Zootorius II seemed to like it. He made no objection when
his new acquaintance gently lifted one of the paws on which
he rested, smoothed it soothingly and placed it again upon
the floor.
"What's the idea?" The trainer had been watching, curi-
ous and alert.
Peter smelled of his own fingers. "Your little playmate
seems to have mixed himself up with some brand of alcohol,
somewhere," he said. "It's on his outsides if not within."
The captain was glowering. "Enough of this," he said in a
peremptory tone. "Take the beast back to his cage, Zooto-
rius, and see that he doesn't get out again. I'll hold you re-
sponsible. Understand?"
"Sure, Captain. I'll pay if he's swiped any fruit or food or
anything. Sure I will. If any thing's missing, tell me in the
morning and I'll fix it."
"It can't get out of its cage again? You're certain of that?"
"Not by himself he can't, Captain. You could see for
yourself. There's a heavy steel mesh all over and he couldn't
possibly get to the latch. No way, he couldn't."


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“Just the same you detail a man, Mr. Vinton, to watch
the door of that storage room forward on B deck,” barked
the captain. “The rest of you get to your quarters."
As the men dispersed, Peter felt a touch on his arm.
“Curious!” John Suffern's face had gone from white to
gray. His hand was clamped hard around his lower jaw.
“That brute,” he whispered, "how long has he been loose?"
"For some time," Peter replied shortly. “They don't know
just when he escaped.”
“Was-was it—drunk?” Suffern shuddered.
Northcote thrust his head forward to speak in Peter's ear.
“That was clever,” he muttered. “Were the hind feet wet?”
Peter raised his eyebrows and shook his head. "Not very,"
he said aloud. "It was hard to tell. I couldn't be sure."
Suffern thought the answer was for him. He hesitated but
moved forward when he saw that both Cairns and the cap-
tain were at his heels. Over his shoulder he said anxiously:
“You must-I think you must have considered this beast's
escape-in connection with my uncle's—my uncle's death."
Horror seemed to have unmanned him. i
“We'll know a lot more, I hope, when we get the doctor's
report.” Peter spoke with an air of detachment.
“We're going there now," said the captain. "You'd better
come with us.”
There were no more words. The three men ascended to A
deck along the silent passages and stairs. Outside the fog
crowded in wavering mysterious circles around every lonely
lamp. The water in the bathing pool gave back a secret
glimmering reflection that drew Suffern's eyes with sickening
compulsion, but under the urge of Peter's hand he went on
without pause.
Doctor Hobbs met them at the door of a small but fairly


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85
well appointed operating room. He closed the door behind
him and beckoned them into a neat hospital room of exquisite
cleanliness.
"Well?" said the captain grimly.
The doctor glanced at Suffern, whom he knew slightly.
"Sorry," he said with a shake of the head. "This is rough on
you but you'll have to know I suppose. There's no doubt
your uncle was murdered. Intentionally. There was water in
the lungs. He must have been partially strangled and held
under water until—" A graphic gesture finished the sen-
tence.
"Would that have required great strength?" Peter asked
quickly.
"In this case ... no. I believe—not necessarily." The
doctor's reply was deliberate. "Offhand one might have
thought it was the work of a brute or a madman. But since
you raise the question, Mr. Cairns, I must say it seems to
me the answer should be negative. Mr. Buckleigh was not a
muscular type. On the contrary, as you may know, Mr. Suf-
fern, he was rather frail."
"But—" Suffern began.
The doctor held up his hand. "I hadn't quite finished," he
said with a slight touch of asperity. "You may also know
that your uncle—had been drinking. He had taken a consid-
erable quantity of alcohol. In his condition, therefore, he
might have been overpowered by someone of even inferior
strength. Do I make myself clear?"
"Perfectly." Suffern bit his lip. "On the other hand—an
attack like that! Oh," he turned to the captain, "tell him
about the chimpanzee breaking loose! That surely would be
the most natural explanation of a perfectly unprovoked at-
tack."


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87
fortably. He was a downright person and Suffern was carry-
ing himself with an effect of dignity in a trying situation.
"Oh." Suffern repeated the word with a different inflec-
tion. He thought a minute then he said: "Cairns has too
much money—too much side, as you may say in the States
—is too much of a personality altogether, don't you know,
to be the ship's detective. But, Captain Northcote, that he's
a professional and a skilled one is patent to the meanest
intelligence after one's seen him in action. I consider that
we're extremely fortunate to have him willing to trouble
himself in this matter. I'd be glad if you'd let him know
that."
"I will." Northcote heaved a short sigh. "I only hope to
God he's as clever as he appears."
"Amen to that." Suffern was silent after that until the
operating room door opened, and even then it was his dis-
turbed eyes that questioned.
"I agree with Doctor Hobbs," Peter said soberly, "that it
would be impossible to be absolutely certain. There's little
indication of violence except the bruises on the throat. I be-
lieve they could have been made by the ape. His nails I
noticed were unusually short."
"Yes. But on the contrary," urged the doctor, "the marks
could have been made by a fairly small hand."
"Possibly," said Peter slowly, with his eye on Suffern's
worried face. "We must admit the fact—that quite possibly
that is so."


CHAPTER X
After explaining to Suffern the obvious reasons for desiring,
and their hasty plans for securing secrecy, the captain led
the way out again to the gray misty deck.
"Do you think it possible to prevent talk, cooped up as we
are on the ship?" The young voice sounded moody and fore-
boding.
"We must do what we can." Peter appeared hopeful. "It's
only two days, you know, John. If we haven't cleared things
up by that time—everything will have to be made public in
all probability. At present, of course, the officers and per-
sonnel of the ship will have to know of Mr. Buckleigh's
death. But they needn't be informed of the circumstances."
"I can answer for those who know them already." The
captain spoke with conscious pride. "The men on my ship
are a picked lot and obey orders."
"Of course you may depend on my playing the game to the
best of my ability, Captain Northcote."
"I'm sure of it, Mr. Suffern." If there was any over-
emphasis in the captain's statement, the other appeared not
to notice.
"Can you think of any way I can be of further service?"
Suffern included Peter in the question.
"Oh—just one more thing," Peter suggested in an offhand
manner: "Do you happen to know, John, whether your uncle
had anything of value on his person—or in his stateroom?"
"Not that I know of. A small amount of jewelry perhaps."
"Money?"
88


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"Only be careful how you use Mr. Clancy's name in pub-
lic I beg," urged the captain. "Much may depend on secrecy
and Peter Clancy is a name too well known to be chucked
about. You understand, Suffern, I'm sure."
"Oh, quite." The man's handsome innocent looking dark
eyes flashed a keen glance at Peter. He bowed with consider-
able grace and elegance and promptly withdrew.
"I suggest you have Buckleigh's stateroom locked up right
away," said Peter, in a low voice as they came to the door
of the passage. "No doubt we'll find Underwood here. Wig-
gar must be nearly through."
Both of which suppositions were true. When Peter had
finished a short whispered consultation with Wiggar, Under-
wood helped the able valet carry his paraphernalia through
to the starboard side. After depositing the things in Wiggar's
stateroom, they secured that door and the next which was
the one that had belonged to Francis Buckleigh. There was
no difficulty about the latter since, as is the custom on a well
run ship, the key was in the unlocked door.
"Now what?" asked the captain wearily when Wiggar
and the ship's detective had joined them in the main com-
panionway.
"I vote we call it a day," said Peter, eyeing the seaman's
bronzed face in which the lines had deepened. "It's nearly
three o'clock."
"All right, Underwood." Northcote took off his cap and
smoothed his bald head with a heavy hand. "You may get to
bed. You'll have to be bright as well as early in the morning
if you're to be of any service."
The detective seemed to be impervious to sarcasm. "Thank
you, sir, and goodnight all," he said cheerfully and took him-
self off.


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91
"There's just one little thing more," said Peter after the
man had vanished. "I hope it won't bother you, Captain
Northcote, but I'd feel a lot safer if—" he lowered his voice
still more as he touched his breast "—if this card that seems
to have played the devil with everything, were locked up in
the safe. Could that be done?"
"Why of course, Clancy, if it's necessary."
"It won't be too much trouble?"
"I have keys to the purser's office and I know the safe
combination," said Northcote. "It'll only take a minute.
Come along."
A watchman making the rounds saluted as he passed and
went on his way. The ship seemed to be moving in its sleep,
groaning a little and muttering to itself. There was no other
sound but the moan of the fog-horn and the faint stealthy
swish of the waves.
"You see we have a pretty up to date strong room for so
old a ship," said Northcote ushering them through the purs-
er's office. "Fireproof as near as we can make it. And a
thoroughly good safe."
"Better make Wiggar turn his back while you work the
combination," laughed Peter. "He has eyes like a hawk."
Wiggar, near the door, turned obediently. There was a
slight clank as the safe door swung back. Northcote grinned
a little when Peter came near to hand him the tragic bit of
pasteboard. "Your man is as good as a marine for obeying
even an implied order," he remarked taking the card in its
protective handkerchief from Peter's hand. "I guess I'll put
this in my own compartment," he continued, suiting the oc-
casion to the word. "Now it's safe as wheat."
"Safer I should think," said Peter. He had come very
close. "By the way, Captain, is that John Suffern's precious


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package? That one there, with the seals?"
Northcote nodded, glancing at it from under frowning
brows.
"Let me see it." Like a flash Peter had reached past the
uniformed shoulder and possessing himself of the large
heavy envelope he stepped out of reach. ♦
Startled, Northcote turned to confront a face vivid and
alive with purpose.
"Let's open it," said Peter quietly.
"Impossible! What're you thinking of, Clancy?"
"I could lift those seals and put 'em back so no one would
ever know," Peter insisted brazenly. He laughed again but
the muscles along his clenched jaws looked hard as flexible
steel.
"You're not serious, of course!"
"I am, Captain, dear." Peter's voice was like silk.
Northcote, aghast, found himself looking straight into the
round steel pupil of an automatic, held in a steady hand.
"You'll never dare, Clancy," he gasped.
"Come now, sir. Be sensible," urged Peter stepping farther
back. "I don't want to do anything we'd both be sorry for.
All I want is ten minutes to myself, and I promise you can
have this back with the whole works intact—if you say so."
"You must be mad!" Northcote's eyes were fixed on the
face of the red-headed detective. "I wouldn't give you per-
mission to open a package entrusted to my care if I were to
die for refusing. I had Captain Kerrigan's word that you
were an honorable man."
"But he didn't mention," Peter observed with a sudden
grin, "that the reason I resigned from the force was that
police regulations are too cramping to the style of an im-
patient chap like myself. I can't wait for things to happen


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93
if I can make 'em happen. See? Wiggar!"
The name snapped out like a pistol-shot. He had enticed
the captain into a favorable position by means of apparent
carelessness. And when the ship's officer made a sudden dash
for the package that Peter had placed on the table he was
dexterously tripped over an extended foot. Before he could
recover himself Wiggar had moved forward and deftly
clipped his wrists behind him in a pair of undecorative
bracelets.
"Huh! Outrage!" Northcote panted. "I'll have you dis-
barred for this, Clancy, or whatever they do to men of your
stamp."
Peter had returned the automatic to his pocket and was
helping the irate officer to a chair. "Now be sensible, Cap-
tain, dear," he repeated. "Your honor is safe and you're safe
too, your honor! On my word of honor." The country of his
ancestors peeped through his speech. "You're much too smart
and too keen a sportsman to raise an alarm. Besides, I'm
thinking it would be hard to make anyone hear through
these fireproof walls. And that's what I was counting on
when I told Wiggar to bring along those little dissuaders
around your wrists and to lock the door just now."
Northcote's lips were set in a straight line and remained
tightly closed.
"That's all the cooperation we need for the present," Peter
went on eagerly. "Just silence and a friendly eye." He was
working swiftly as he spoke. "You can be thankful, Captain,
that I'm not like you, passing up a bet that may settle all
our troubles by the time we get to shore. Thank heaven I
have my scruples under perfect control. See how sweetly
this seal comes off under a hot blade? Isn't that pretty? And
not injured a bit."


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The captain snorted but he watched with irrepressible in-
terest as Peter carefully heated the thin blade again in his
cigarette lighter and after quickly wiping it clean slid it
gently under the next heavily dented bit of red wax.
"You can depend, Captain Northcote," Peter continued
with greater seriousness, "on being able to produce two wit-
nesses to your entire innocence in this matter. Wiggar and
me." He lifted the last seal. "If the thing has to be brought
into the open, the contents of this package will clear us all.
Otherwise—"
Peter broke off to concentrate on the knots that secured
the cord around the envelope. He talked on in a low tone as
he worked them loose. "These are sheet-bends and reef-
knots, you notice, Captain. Tied by a sailor or a lad with
boy scout training perhaps. Not that it matters except that
we want to remember in order to restore the package to its
original appearance, if necessary. And I can do that so that
its own mother wouldn't know the difference. You can rest
easy . . ."
The last knot had been carefully untied. The clasp of the
envelope released. Peter lifted it gently by the corners and
slid the contents out upon the table. His glance was not more
avid than that of the silent captain.
At first it seemed there was little reward for his labors. A
perfectly commonplace brief-case and a small flat leather
box. The case was secured by a lock. The box—
Swiftly Peter drew an extra handkerchief from his pocket.
Protecting his fingers with it he picked up the box and
pressed the spring that secured the lid.
"Good lord!" For several strained minutes Peter sat as
if paralyzed. Then slowly he pushed the box over in front
of the captain. "Can you beat that?" he said softly. "Heav-


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95
ens above! of all the infernal asses I am the worst . . .
Now we get the set up from the proper angle . . . You un-
derstand, don't you? Wiggar, you seel"
The valet nodded. The captain looked perfectly blank. All
three pairs of eyes were focussed on a leather box lined with
purple silk against which, beautifully modeled in silver, ap-
peared a coursing greyhound.
Presently Peter drew the brief-case toward him and
through his handkerchief felt it over with great care.
"Thank heaven it's locked," said Northcote truculently.
Peter glanced up with a grim smile. "That wouldn't stop
me, Captain, dear. I could pick that lock easily enough
though it is a good one."
"Yes, you could!"
"I could," said Peter with a wider grin, "but I'm not go-
ing to let your evident curiosity and my well known vanity
get together on this job. This is where my conscience gets
busy. Wiggar, you can unlock the captain's jewelry. He won't
interfere with what we have to do now."
"You aren't going to open the brief-case, Mr. Peter?"
"You, too, Wiggar? No. I am not going to any unneces-
sary trouble. There are nothing but papers in that case, and
a million to one they're in code. We've found out enough for
our present purpose. If we have to know more—we can take
the necessary steps to find out."
"You seem very sure of yourself, Clancy." The captain
was rubbing his wrists as if the loose handcuffs had left a
real rather than an imaginary mark.
Peter was looking down at the silver greyhound. "I'm just
about as sure of you, Captain Northcote," he said, closing
the leather box that seemed somewhat too large for its con-
tents. "You'll sit here comfortably and watch me tie the cor-


CHAPTER XI
Though Northcote carefully maintained his semi-outraged
attitude to the end, there was no real rancor in his eyes when
at last Peter wished him a "Good night."
"There's not much of it left, good or bad." The captain
glanced at the watch on his wrist. "But I suppose there's noth-
ing more we can do until morning."
"Unless we could go through every stateroom on the ship
to make sure whether or not any passenger had clothes nearly
if not quite as wet as mine were," said Peter.
"Perhaps you'd like to do that, Mr. Clancy." The captain's
tone was sarcastic.
"I would," Peter admitted with a grin. "But I feel I've al-
ready imposed on your good nature, sir."
Northcote dismissed that remark with a "Humph!" that
spoke volumes, but added: "It might do as well to get the
room stewards to make a report on that matter to Underwood
in the morning."
"You forestall my every wish, Captain. Nothing could be
better. With your cooperation and my talents—ahem—my
peculiar talents let us say, I believe we may hope. Oh, yes.
Quite certainly. We may at least hope for a complete solu-
tion."
Northcote only grunted but he could not quite keep the
twinkle out of his weary eyes. "You don't spare yourself at
least, Clancy," he said. "I hope you'll get some rest."
Wiggar echoed this wish a few minutes later with consider-
ably more feeling. Peter had stopped to give his faithful „
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friend, servant and helper a few final instructions. "Me? I'm
as fresh as a daisy," Peter retorted and without further con-
versation they parted for the night. Wiggar ascended to his
own quarters. Peter lingered in the companionway of B deck.
After four. Peter glanced at his watch and then paced from
one side to the other of the open space so that the two long
fore-and-aft passages were in turn brought under his specula-
tive eye. On the port side the narrow hallway showed no sign
of life. At the extreme forward end on the opposite side, in
view of the only entrance to the place where the ape was again
shut in his cage, a steward dozed in his chair tilted back
against the wall, nearly blocking the passage.
Peter nodded to himself as if making up his mind. From an
inner pocket he drew a case and from it extracted a card on
which he wrote briefly. Then, quite casually, but taking care
to make no noise, he went forward along the left-hand pas-
sage to the very end. The watcher (if such he might be called),
on the other side of the ship was separated from him by a
series of bathrooms and lavatories. Peter had little fear of
discovery, yet he knocked with utmost caution on the door
of the stateroom in front of him.
He listened—ear against the panel. Yes. There was move-
ment inside. Immediate. Not asleep or there would have been
delay.
"Kitty!" The name in the small brass holder on the door
was "Miss Kate Oliver," but Peter used his own impudent di-
minutive, stooping to whisper it softly through the keyhole.
A second—and "What is it?" came to him breathlessly
through the same small aperture.
"Read this." Peter slipped a card under the door and has-
tily stole away on tiptoe.
The good ship Sutherland boasted all night service—of a


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99
sort. Peter, ascending to the promenade deck, found a steward
in the small pantry from whence bouillon and tea were ordi-
narily dispensed.
"I can't seem to get to sleep, Paul," he said pleasantly. "Do
you suppose you could get me a bottle of beer and a few sand-
wiches. I'm fairly starved."
"Right, sir. In a coupla shakes. Bring 'em into the lounge?
Right you are, sir." The steward roused himself with alacrity
and to such purpose that he had served the required meal
when Miss Kate Oliver, fully dressed, walked into the lounge.
"Well, for crying out loud," exclaimed Peter, jumping to
his feet. "Couldn't you sleep either? What luck for me. Here,
Paul. Bring another glass and more beer and things. You will
join me, won't you, Miss Oliver? It will make my bliss com-
plete."
He had placed a chair and regained his own seat before she
spoke to any purpose.
"So—" she said producing a small bit of engraved paste-
board, "—we lay our cards on the table, Mr. Clancy."
"We do," Peter replied with some emphasis.
"You seem to care very little about my reputation—mak-
ing an assignation in the middle of the night like this!" Miss
Oliver observed tartly, with a shrewd inquiring glance.
"On the contrary I'm treating you most tenderly. You
ought to appreciate it."
"Because you ordered me up here instead of barging into
my stateroom, do you mean?"
"Oh, that wasn't out of consideration for the proprieties."
Peter spoke in a bantering tone but his eyes were keen and
watchful. "Perhaps I'd have busted into your cabin, except
that the walls are very thin—and might have a tongue as well
as ears."


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“And you think a steward won't talk?".
"He won't have quite so much to talk about.” Peter
grinned. "Also a steward can be silenced—and passengers
can't—at least not quite so readily."
The man in question appearing at that instant, Peter went
on talking gaily about nothing until he had placed the re-
mainder of the supper and departed with a generous but
nicely calculated tip.
“Large enough to make him grateful, Kitty. But not big
enough to make him suspicious,” Peter leaned across the ta-
ble to explain.
Miss Oliver was fingering the card she had brought up
with her. On the uppermost side it read: "Peter Clancy, Pri-
vate Investigator," and in the lower corner "Stormfield Build-
ing, Forty-sixth Street, New York City.”
"So—” she said meeting the glance fixed upon her“ _I was
right even if I was wrong. You aren't a reporter but equally
you aren't Mr. Percival Cairns.”
"A man may call himself anything he likes in a free coun-
try," Peter retorted lightly.
“But I might be arrested for what I'd like to call you right
now," she countered. “Spoiling my beauty sleep. If I'd been
twenty or thirty years younger ”
“I hope you'd have come far more gladly."
“But seriously”
“Seriously,” Peter repeated, becoming so in a sudden flash,
"I didn't rouse you from your beauty sleep-not because you
haven't your own very definite claims to beauty, dear lady
... But you were not asleep.”
“Score one for the private investigator. I was not.”
“What kept you awake, Kitty?”
“Can you ask? Or don't you know that Zootorius II escaped


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101
tonight—and was finally brought back."
"And it was the noise that kept you from sleeping? I thought
we were very quiet."
"Oh. You were with them. Well, they did manage pretty
fairly considering. But, as you may have observed—with your
trained eye—my stateroom is only a few feet away from the
poor beast's cage, and the partitions in a boat are none too
thick. I'm often conscious of him when he moves around and
it always makes me restless, too. After all, we're of one blood,
you and I and Zootorius II."
"Perhaps that's why I'm drawn to you in spite of my better
judgment."
Miss Oliver paused with a glass halfway to her lips. "What
do you mean by that crack?" she asked sharply.
"Can't you guess?"
"No, Mr. Clancy, Private Investigator. And I didn't get
up in the middle of the night to answer riddles."
"Then just why did you respond so graciously to my un-
conventional invitation?" Peter leaned across the table. His
narrowed eyes were fixed on the long characterful face before
him.
"It wasn't your beaux yeux, my good young man," she
replied with a comical tilt of her long chin. "So don't flatter
yourself. It's only the response of an old news hound to the
view halloo. I thought I might get a story out of a private in-
vestigator traveling incog."
"You'd do almost anything to get news. Wouldn't you,
Kitty?" Peter's voice dropped and he added sternly: "Or to
make it."
"What!" She drew back with a startled angry glance. "Look
here, Cairns—or Clancy—or whatever your name is—if
you're serious—"


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"I am," Peter interrupted. "Deadly serious. And I mean to
know, Miss Oliver, why you let that ape out of its cage!"
"Are you crazy?"
"Not in the least. Didn't you tell me just a few hours ago
that if something didn't happen soon you'd make a break?
You wanted something to write home about. Well, so you did
the thing that might easily occur to anyone who hates to see
animals in any sort of trouble."
He paused. The woman's knuckles were pressed against her
teeth. She said nothing but her greenish glance did not waver.
Peter went on: "You may have believed that the animal was
perfectly harmless. You had no reason to doubt that. Surely
something interesting might be expected to happen with a
chimp loose on a ship. A bizarre and unusual situation."
"Did something happen, Cairns?" Her face looked very
white in the pale overhead lights in the ceiling and the gray
streaks of the day that was yet to dawn.
"Yes . . . You'll hand me your solemn promise not to re-
lease it until I give you leave?"
"I give you my word of honor." Even her lips had lost their
color.
"A man was murdered."
"Who?" she gasped.
"That can wait." Peter spoke hurriedly. "But you can see
now how serious the question may be as to who it was that
let the ape out of his cage. It wasn't an accident. I mean the
beast couldn't have gotten out by himself. That's certain. I
examined the cage and I know."
"And what else do you think you know?" She glanced
swiftly around the empty lounge. "There's something more,
Mr. Peter Clancy. Out with it!"
For answer he took a twisted bit of paper from his pocket,


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103
opened it carefully and rolled from it a small semi-oval piece
of gleaming crimson.
"This was on the floor of the storeroom inside the door," he
explained soberly. "Can you account for its being there?"
Instinctively her hand clutched her breast.
"That's right," Peter said quickly. "It's from that magnifi-
cent Woolworth pin of yours, that unfortunately, has its jewels
so lightly glued in. Let me see. Take it off. I know it'll fit.
See there!"
She had obeyed as if hypnotized and was staring down at
the replaced imitation ruby.
"So what?" asked Peter sharply.
"I was in there. Of course." Her words came slowly. "But
it was before dinner . . . No. No, it wasn't. It was before
the party. After dinner, but before the party," she repeated
urgently. "That was when it was. You see?"
Peter regarded her with a glint of steel in his eyes. "Well
thought of, Miss Oliver. Yes. I understand. I might be ex-
pected to have noticed in the bright light of the dining room
whether or not one of those four glass rubies was missing, but
I probably couldn't have been sure about it when I saw the
pin afterwards out on the deck ... All right. We'll accept
that as read—for the time being . . . And what did you go
out into that dusty storage room for—after dinner—when
you were all dressed for the evening?"
"It was an old frock. That didn't matter." She appeared
nervous but not, apparently, angry at Peter's persistent ques-
tions and insinuations and he had a strong impression that
some part of the gravity of the situation might have struck
her earlier—considerably earlier. "When I went down to
powder my nose, I heard the poor beast chattering and ramp-
ing around his cage," she continued. "Of course I felt sorry


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for him so, as I always have fruit in my room, I took him
some."
"What kind of fruit?"
"A banana."
"There was no banana skin left in the cage or around it.
I can swear to that. And monkeys rarely if ever eat them
skins and all."
"Then Zootorius or someone threw it away. That's obvious
enough."
"Still you haven't told me why you let that beast loose."
"I didn't!"
"Can you prove it?"
"No. But it's perfectly absurd. You can't be serious. A
woman of my years! To do a harum-scarum thing like that!
Who'd believe it?"
"A good many people—if they knew what I do," Peter re-
plied steadily. "And the matter is a serious issue in the cir-
cumstances. We may be able to keep the tragedy a secret, but
the fact that the monkey had the run of the ship for several
hours can't possibly fail to leak out and be discussed. Other
passengers besides you must have been disturbed, and it may
be just as well to have the night's excitement laid at the door
of the chimp's cage. It's safer to let people think they know
everything . . . But there's bound to be a showdown as soon
as we land—if we haven't found the murderer before then."
"Tell me, Cairns," she leaned forward and held his eyes
with her imperative glance. "Do you believe that apparently
gentle animal—could have done—such a horrible thing?"
"A chimpanzee isn't considered ferocious, like a baboon or
a gorilla, but I imagine it might be possible. There's one thing
certain, though. He was not in it alone."
"You mean—"


LASTTRUMP 105
"An animal might be able to kill a man, but he'd hardly
have sense enough to turn off lights while he was doing it. And
another thing—a beast may, like Kipling's Bimi, have too
much 'ego in his cosmos,' but he'd hardly have enough to want
to sign his crime."
"Clancy!" Her voice was startled, scarcely believing.
"That's right. You've guessed it," he responded grimly. "It
seems to be another ace of spades murder."
"Great heavens!" she clutched her throat. Her eyes were
burning. "So it happened. Again. And on a ship! Who'd have
expected that? Who'd have the nerve?"
"To handicap himself in such a way?" Peter put in eagerly.
"Don't you see it's in character? The egomaniac 'show-off'
raised to the nth degree? He's been successful until he thinks
he's absolutely immune. And he may be this time. Even on a
ship of a hundred or so passengers, how is the right one to be
spotted? What do we know of the antecedents of any one of
them? What might have been their previous connection, one
with another? When—or if—they part at Southampton
they're swept into a maelstrom and may vanish utterly. Pass-
ports have been faked often enough. I might show you mine,
but how could you be sure it was O.K. after my traveling un-
der an assumed name, unless the captain would be willing to
back me up on the send-off Kerrigan gave me? And what do
I really know about you, Kitty?"
"You're plenty clever enough, Peter Clancy, to size me up
for what I am, an old warhorse of a newspaper woman. And
you're decent enough to get me up to warn me that I could
be implicated in the escape of the ape. Also you think that, by
satisfying my curiosity beforehand you can keep me from
snooping too much on my own, and perhaps sending news be-
fore you're willing for it to break."


106
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"You're a sharp one, Kitty." A quizzical light dawned for
a minute in Peter's watchful eyes. "I'll admit most if not all
of your impeachments. The news of this murder must not leak
out for the present. You understand. That's orders."
"I understand all right, but good lord, what a story!"
breathed Kate Oliver. "Three murders—by the same person.
And the last—dropped right in my lap. Go on, Clancy! Tell
me more."
"Wait! Wait a minute." Peter held up his hand. "We can't
afford to jump at conclusions. Wouldn't it be a clever trick—
on the part of someone in the know—to take advantage of
two spectacular crimes—and make the third seem to be in
sequence?"
Kate Oliver's long jaw dropped, but she brought it back to
normal immediately with a sharp click. "Is that a serious
suggestion, Clancy? Or only a feeler? You see I happen to
have heard something of the methods of one Peter Clancy,
though you do manage to keep out of the spotlight. Bill Gor-
ham of the New York Meteor, it also happens, is a friend of
mine too. He says you find out most things by asking about
something else."
Peter looked at her sidewise. "But in this case I'm serious
enough," he said. "It would be a smart way to throw the po-
lice off the scent. We mustn't lose sight of that fact."
"I suppose you're right . . . And yet—the other two mur-
ders certainly had several things in common."
"You know that?" Peter spoke quickly.
"And you do too, as I think I may have mentioned before,"
she retorted. "Tell me—why did you bring up the inadvisa-
bility of betting on the Sweepstakes—and particularly, Mr.
Peter Clancy, why did you mention the United Kingdom Hos-
pital Sweeps before we parted (as I hoped, vainly it seems),


LAST TRUMP
107
for the night? You needn't pretend you don't remember. I
thought at the time you did it purposely."
"I said you were sharp, Kitty. I sized you up correctly, at
least to that extent." The quizzical light in his eyes deepened.
"And I'm also sure you appreciate how serious the whole
damn thing is. There'll be hell to pay if we can't solve it be-
fore we dock. No matter what restrictions can be imposed, the
chances of nailing the guilty party are reduced incalculably.
Always bearing in mind that the use of the death card may
have been only a blind, we have to consider carefully the other
alternative—and as a matter of fact I'm very anxious to learn
what you already know."
"Oh! So that's what's on your mind, Mr. Clancy. That's
another reason why you dragged me from my virtuous bed!
I don't believe you ever really thought I was silly enough to
open that poor beast's cage."
"There was enough evidence against you to give you a bad
hour, you know," he said seriously. "If anyone had seen you
go to the cage—even at another time."
"That's right," she admitted. "Although I didn't know that
anything serious had happened, the fact that the poor beast
was out worried me and kept me awake. But I couldn't see
how anyone could know that I'd been to the cage. I went from
my stateroom through the little cross hall where the wash-
rooms are and out into the storage room whenever I pleased
but I don't remember that anyone ever noticed."
"That's the trouble on a ship." Peter frowned. "There are
dozens of ways of getting from one point to another without
being observed. All the decks, the cross halls, the fore-and-aft
passages, the stairs front and rear, besides those outside con-
necting one deck with another. A person could appear sud-
denly at any given point."


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"And frequently does," Kate put in meaningly. "You know,
Clancy, the only individual that I can't get out of my mind
is that little Indian. He's more like a monkey than a man. I
even saw him climbing that straight iron ladder that runs
from A deck right up to the boat deck. It was outside the
storm canvas too. What do you suppose he'd do that for?"
"To get to the boat deck in a hurry." Peter's frown deep-
ened. "It was the shortest way."
"But why was he in such a rush?"
"Search me. Why do you think?"
"I can't imagine. All I know is, that Evelyn Heather was
playing deck tennis there—with the Honorable John Suffern."
She paused an instant and added as if under compulsion:
"You've got to tell me now, Clancy! Who was it—who was it
that was killed tonight?"
"You can't guess?"
"No. Unless—" Her eyes were filled with horror. "It wasn't
—John Suffern?"
"Ah!" said Peter. "You thought it might be?"
"But it wasn't?"
"It was not."
"Then who—"
"It was the man who had the warning—in the smoking
room last evening." Peter spoke the words with heavy delib-
eration.
"What? You don't mean—his uncle—Buckleigh!"
"I do," Peter answered slowly, watching her face. "The
murdered man is Francis Buckleigh. And what do you know
about that?"


CHAPTER XII
Peter's question was destined not to be answered for many
minutes. Completely roused, Kate Oliver could not rest until
she had extracted all that Peter was willing to tell her of the
details of the crime. After her renewed agreement not to send
any cables until he released her from her promise, Peter told
her of his horrible discovery of Buckleigh's body through the
semi-transparent canvas of the tank; of his subsequent ef-
forts and most of his findings. But of his strong-arm interview
in the purser's office with Captain Northcote, for many ob-
vious reasons, he made no mention.
When he had finished she looked him over with a keen ap-
praising eye. "If you fix it so I get a scoop with this story,
Peter Clancy, I'm yours to command forever after. In the
meantime I understand that Mr. Buckleigh is ill in his state-
room and not to be disturbed."
"That's our story," Peter agreed. "And I hope we won't
be stuck with it."
"You won't if it depends on me," she asserted. "And now
before I go back to my lowly bunk, is there anything you
think I could do to help?"
"Has your stateroom a porthole giving on that storage
room?" Peter asked unexpectedly.
"Yes. Of course it's kept shut. There's another that opens
'toward the outer air."
"But one could make observations through a closed port
perhaps?"
"One could."
109


110
LAST TRUMP
"And has?" Peter continued quickly. "Have you seen oth-
ers beside yourself who occasionally or frequently visit the
chimp?"
"I've heard people in there. It would have been necessary
to climb up on the other berth to see, and I wasn't interested."
"Could you be now?"
"I could. Is that all?"
"No. Don't go yet, please. I need all the help I can get on
this job, Kitty, and I'd like to find out anything more that I
can about those other ace of spades crimes."
"The ace of spades crimes," she repeated quickly, "or the
Sweepstake murders, Mr. Clancy? What a swell name for an
old fashioned dime novel that would be."
"The Sweepstake angle never got into the papers," Peter's
voice was eager. "Why was that—if you know so much?"
"Gentleman's agreement not to print it—but we were wise
to the fact that fake tickets on a certain lottery . . . the
United Kingdom Hospital Sweeps, to be exact, were discov-
ered in the rooms of the two victims previously men-
tioned . . . And also in one other locality."
Peter's glance sharpened. "So that's why you're on this
ship?"
"Yes."
"You thought John Suffern—"
She nodded. "We knew he left Washington under a cloud.
Did you hear rumors that it was suspected in certain quarters
he might have abused the diplomatic mail privileges?"
"And did you know, Kitty, that the lottery tickets that were
found in the rooms of those two murdered men were of British
manufacture? Unquestionably. Excellent forgeries. On Brit-
ish made paper and even receipts forged to make it look ab-
solutely real and safe."


LAST TRUMP
111
"I didn't have that point," she admitted, "but we assumed
as much. The British Legation in Washington is, of course,
screwed up so tight even a woman couldn't work it loose with
a hairpin—and yet there was a leak. Don't ask me how? or
who? I don't know. But our Big Boy in Washington cer-
tainly believed he had it on unquestionable authority that
young Suffern was mixed up in a dirty deal about those same
United Kingdom Hospital Sweeps. It was hushed up and he
was allowed to resign and make as if he were going home of
his own accord. Now I've told you, and heaven help me with
the old man if I've sized you up wrong, Peter Clancy."
"You'll have no reason to regret laying down the cards, I
give you my word, Kitty. And you needn't have any compunc-
tion, because the police are already wise to that much. I've
been deadly interested because among others caught in the
swindle were two sporting old characters I know—and—love.
It isn't really too strong a word. They're the tops. Well, the
greater part of the money they'd saved out of a school-
teacher's pay for their old age was swallowed up in the late
depression. What they had left—Miss Hannah told me that
she and Miss Ella thought they might as well be drunk as the
way they were—so they put it into what they believed to be
the authentic United Kingdom Hospital Sweeps. The hellishly
cruel thing was—that they won. I mean their number did.
But, on comparison, it was easy to prove that the receipts and
tickets were spurious. Of course there was nothing they could
do. They couldn't take it to the police because as a matter of
fact they had no business to break the United States laws
that way. But they're dead game sports. And never a whimper.
I found out because I discovered they were arranging to go
into what Miss Hannah called 'The Home for Indecent Fe-
males.'"


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"Oh!" Kate Oliver shut her teeth with a grimace of pain.
"After they thought they'd won. It's a little too much!"
"It's a devil of a lot too much if you ask me." Peter glanced
out at the lightening sky and sea. "I—I managed to find a
market for some stock they thought was worthless. That'll
tide 'em over for the time being. And I believe there's a reward
been offered by the authentic United Kingdom Hospital lot-
tery for the discovery of the head of the gang that has been
cashing in on forgeries of their tickets. If I can land that,
these two fine old friends of mine will be fixed for life. It
would be due them, you understand, because if it hadn't been
for those two sisters I don't believe Kerrigan could have per-
suaded me to take over this line of the inquiry. Though I was
inclined to think at the time this was the best bet . . . And
now I'm practically sure of it."
He pushed back his chair as if to rise, but Kate Oliver
reached across the corner of the table and clutched his wrist.
"You're not going to get me all worked up and leave me
like this," she exclaimed. "I've got to have some rest, and I
won't sleep a wink. Why are you sure? And how are you going
to prove—"
"I can't prove anything right now," Peter returned. The
two vertical lines deepened between his brows. "But I'm be-
ginning to see—a few things. The rest is all confused. But I'd
like to spin a bit of theory to you and see if you think well
of it. Kerrigan didn't."
"Kerrigan? Captain Kerrigan of the New York detective
bureau?"
"Yes."
"Humph. He has a lot of hits to his credit."
"You're right. Also a good many runs—but as I happen
to know—several errors. This time I think he's dead wrong."


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of getting his spurious tickets and receipts over to America.
At least that's the way I size it up. If there was an offer to
let him into the American combine—he refused to play ball.
So he was warned . . . The killing of that operator in Chi-
cago where a lot of the bogus British tickets were discovered,
was a warning. Also the second one in New York which had
the same earmarks. I would stake my reputation, such as it
is, on the theory that those killings were definite notices to
the chief of the British outfit to quit. How could it have been
anything else? It wasn't internal trouble in the English game,
or certainly those tickets wouldn't have been left to be found
by the police. On the other hand, they would unquestionably
have been suppressed. Isn't that obvious?"
"Why—why, yes. Of course." Kate nodded eagerly.
"Well, for some reason I can't fathom, Kerrigan won't agree
to this. He thinks those two killings were gang murders and
the tickets left by mistake or something. Men disobeyed or-
ders—or were crooked—and some members of the British
racket—rubbed 'em out." Peter shifted his position nerv-
ously. "But for me that doesn't even meet, let alone click.
Those first two murders were done by a rival shop."
"And this last?" The question was like a sharp single shot.
Peter looked at the clever old newspaper woman but did not
answer directly. "What's more, Kitty," he said, "those first
two were done by one man or I'll eat your best hat, no matter
how big. There was part of a finger-print, undoubtedly be-
longing to the murderer, found in Chicago. He was wiser and
left no prints in his victim's room in New York. But I have
a hunch it was the same man. One man . . . one person . . .
who was so steeped in the success of various crimes against
society that there was no hesitancy in adding murder to the


LAST TRUMP
115
list. Not only that. There was definite pride in the crowning
villainous accomplishment—and in its repetition. The addi-
tion of a picturesque signature would take it out of the ordi-
nary gangster class and make it front page news."
"Right," Kate agreed shortly, "but it sounds mad to me."
"And that may be true, too," said Peter somberly. "All
great criminals are more or less mad. Laws are based on public
opinion. A devil of a lot of people have to imagine a thing and
agree that it's good, before a law about it can be put over—to
stay. Most of us sincerely disapprove of cheating and murder.
That's normal. The criminal mind is abnormal—and usually
increasingly so. A touch of madness in the first place, when
fed deep with success, becomes a greater menace. There is a
deeper anxiety for recognition as an extraordinary being. The
egomaniac grows to prefer bizarre conditions—and hazards.
Will pull his stuff where escape is extra hazardous, and will
put on fancy touches—like using the death card as a signature
—and a warning."
"Clancy! You—you don't think there'll be more?"
"I believe," said Peter grimly, "that this criminal will not
stop unless—or until—the head—the head man of this Brit-
ish racket has been removed forever from the scene."
"Unless—or until, Clancy? Why then you mean—"
"It's something to think over in your spare time, Kitty . . .
But you must get some sleep." Peter rose with an air of final-
ity and drew back her chair. "There'll be two or three hours
before the passengers are astir. That will be enough for me,
but you stay and rest as long as you like. I'm sorry I had to
rout you out."
"For the love of heaven don't apologize. I wouldn't have
missed it for the world. You can count on my keeping my


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mouth shut and my perfectly good ears open."
"And you'll report your findings, if any, only to one, Peter
Clancy?"
"On the honor of a belligerent old battering-ram."
He took her extended hand. "Swell. Good night, Kitty."
For an instant a smile made her strong lined face almost
beautiful. "Good night," she said. "Good night—and thank
you—Peter."
-


CHAPTER XIII
Wmxfe Peter Clancy was "engaged in conference" in the
lounge, the so-called Henry Williams was equally if differ-
ently occupied in his own commodious stateroom.
The light from a ruby lamp suffused the valet's pale fea-
tures* with a rosy glow. The development of the pictures he
had taken had proceeded satisfactorily and his labors for the
night were nearly completed—when his quick ear caught the
sound of a stealthy movement in the passage outside his door.
If it had been a firm quick step he might have supposed it
to be a steward or watchman and have thought no more of it,
but a door farther forward had been opened very quietly . . .
an almost imperceptible footfall approached . . . and
stopped at the door of the adjoining stateroom . . . the
empty one . . . that should have been occupied by Francis
Buckleigh.
The latch was being tried—very carefully—very determin-
edly.
Wiggar reached for his bathrobe, had it on in a swift sec-
ond and with no more than the quietness of any considerate
person, opened his door.
"Pardon me," he said sleepily as he brushed by and went
straight on to the lavatory.
The man who was vainly endeavoring to get into Buck-
leigh's stateroom in the dead of night was the murdered man's
nephew, John Suffern.
"What was he trying to get in there for, Mr. Peter?" Wig-


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gar asked when, early the following morning, he finished his
report.
Peter glanced along the empty deck and down at the silver
sweep of the bow wave and the aquamarine of its drowned
foam. "He wanted to make sure of something . . . And he
hoped the captain might have neglected to lock the cabin."
The low voice was slow and contemplative. "When we've com-
pleted the investigation of that stateroom I may be able to
answer your question more fully, Wiggar—and I may not.
We seem to be getting nowhere very fast indeed. I'm disap-
pointed because your clever work on those photographs last
night drew a blank. No finger-prints at all on the light switch
at the end of the passage leading out to the deck nets us only
one negative item. The person who pushed that button last,
before we discovered the crime, took pains to wipe off the
porcelain disc that surrounds it. Otherwise there must have
been left some indication of prints from the hand of whatever
steward was in charge."
"I see that, sir," said Wiggar with a shrug and a slight lift
of dissatisfied eyebrows.
"To which I think we might add," Peter continued, "the
practical certainty that the shutting off of the deck lights at
the precise time of the murder—was not exactly a fortuitous
concatenation of circumstance."
"Fortuitous—?"
"Concatenation."
"Fortuitous concatenation. Thank you, Mr. Peter. I'll try
to remember it. A handsome phrase indeed, sir, if I may make
so bold."
"We call them fifty-cent or college words, Wiggar."
The valet's face was entirely blank. "They seem valuable.


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119
Quite. I appreciate your helping me to improve my collection,
sir."
"The pleasure is all mine," Peter responded gravely. "And
speaking of collections, Wiggar—"
"Yes, Mr. Peter."
"You won't forget to make a try for those new items about
which I spoke to you last night."
"No, Mr. Peter. I'll make a point of securing them as early
this morning as possible."
"Don't let them suspect, of course." Peter spoke lower still
though there was no one in sight except an inconspicuous
salesmanish-looking passenger doing his constitutional round
the deck. "You've been very clever so far, Wiggar. No one
would ever dream that you'd been steadily collecting finger-
prints ever since we sailed."
"It was a very easy matter, sir." Wiggar bowed modestly.
"When you indicated a person you thought might be of inter-
est, I'd only to watch where he put down a tea saucer or what
not, to secrete it and to carry it to my stateroom to make the
necessary test at my convenience. There, too, I presume we've
drawn a blank, Mr. Peter?"
"So far—yes," Peter answered anxiously. "It is a haphaz-
ard game at best. Nothing at all to go on, really. To match that
part of a thumb print found in Chicago in the room with the
first ace of spades murder, we might have the world to choose
from. Believing we've narrowed it down to the hundred or
so people on this boat isn't so much of a cinch. It might be
almost any one of the passengers—or even of the crew. Sev-
eral of the men were newly signed on for this sailing. The
person we want may be rich man, poor man, beggar man,
thief. Especially thief, curse him, for he's the worst kind,


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even though he has no criminal record—hasn't been caught
and finger-printed. Yet."
The last word stood by itself, a threat and a promise. After
a minute Peter said: "I'm going down to get some coffee. I
need it after last night. We'd better not be seen together more
than is absolutely necessary, Wiggar, but if anything new
turns up don't hesitate to let me know as quietly as possible."
"Thank you, sir." The valet started to say something more
but hesitated and stopped.
"Oh, by the way," said Peter, turning back. "If you can
manage it, be in your stateroom around nine-thirty to ten. I'll
have to see the captain before that and check up on various
matters, but we should be ready to examine Buckleigh's state-
room—officially—about that time. It might pay you to stick
around."
"Oh, Mr. Peter. It was what I hoped. I mean I would es-
teem it a great privilege to be present. Thank you, sir."
They parted in the casual manner of mere acquaintances.
Peter went down to the dining room. He had scarcely given his
order when Captain Northcote appeared looking worn and
haggard.
Peter was alone at his table. The others were nearly empty
at that early hour. The captain immediately crossed to him.
"You look lonely all by yourself, Mr. Cairns," he said in a
rather loud and cheerful tone. "Nobody at my table yet either.
Steward! Bring my usual breakfast over to Mr. Cairns' ta-
ble." He sat down heavily and rubbed his forehead with a
nervous hand.
"Have to take advantage of every minute," he went on in
an undertone. "You know, Clancy, I have to run the ship
somehow while we carry on this infernal investigation."
"That's right. I feel for you," said Peter. He paused to call


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121
out a cheerful greeting to Evelyn Heather who entered at that
minute looking radiant as the dawn. Suffern came in almost
at the same time. He went at once to the girl and bowed over
her outstretched hand but Peter thought his constraint was
obvious. A little later Mrs. Temple put in an appearance and
Suffern went on to his own table.
The older woman sat down beside her beautiful young ship-
mate. There was something of pathos in the way she returned
the girl's spontaneously affectionate greeting. They had been
at the same table—had occupied adjoining deck chairs—for
less than a week, but some indefinable attraction had evi-
dently drawn them into one of those unpredictable friend-
ships.
For a minute Peter lost the drift of what Captain North-
cote was saying. "I beg pardon." He turned back with a start.
"That's why I'm putting myself in your hands in spite of
the outrageous way you behaved last night," repeated the
captain. "I'm beginning to think Underwood's worse than use-
less. Look at that disgraceful creature over there in the corner.
Blear-eyed and half soused at breakfast, making a fool of him-
self, and a nuisance. Johnson!" He called the chief steward.
"Take that big bunch of flowers off Mrs. Vanderloken's table
and put it in front of that object over there. I can't bear to
look at him."
"Say it with flowers." Peter's sense of the ridiculous brought
an irrepressible chuckle, though his sympathy for the har-
assed captain was none the less keen.
"I'd like to lay 'em on his tomb," said Northcote bitterly.
"We've done what we could to keep Innes from being a dam'
nuisance, but that fool Underwood can't find out where he
gets the stuff."
"Think it would be any use for me to give your detective a


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hint when I don't know myself whether or not it's a good
one?" Peter asked quickly.
Northcote shook a discouraged head. "You'd better tell me
—if you haven't time to follow it up yourself."
"I may—later. I think that fresh young kid, Travers, knows
something about where drink may be obtained out of season.
And another thing, Captain. Quite a little liquor had been
spilled in the washroom on C deck, where we found Zootorius
II. Remember?"
"Liquor? I thought it was alcohol someone had used after
shaving, or something."
"I believe it was whisky," said Peter. "The monkey had
gotten into rather a lot of it. It was on his pelt when I felt
of it."
"And I figured that was only an excuse to find out whether
the beast was wet." Northcote leaned nearer. "You thought
he was not, Clancy."
"His hair was damp. Very damp. Body, feet and all. But
it was pretty much the same all over. The heavy mist last
night might be entirely accountable."
"And might not. Excess water will shake off an animal's
hide very quickly."
"True enough," said Peter with a nod. "But I didn't think
the beast's condition when found could be accepted as con-
vincing proof for or against the theory—" He broke off. "Here
comes Suffern. He must have eaten scarcely anything."
"Good morning, Captain Northcote. Good morning Mr.—
er—Cairns."
"Hello, John." Peter's greeting showed not the slightest
diminution of the friendly tone that he had employed through-
out the voyage. "Won't you sit down? Lots of room. Almost
everybody seems to be lazy after last night's party."


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123
"Thanks. I just stopped to say that I'll be playing deck
tennis on the boat deck—unless you want me for something."
The last was spoken lower and the voice sounded strained and
cold.
"Good enough," Peter responded heartily. "It's the finals
of the tournament today, isn't it? Wish you all kinds of luck."
"Thanks." The young man bent his handsome blond head
and went off with Evelyn Heather.
The captain sighed. "A beautiful pair they'd make, Cairns,
wouldn't they? It isn't often that the boss of a ferryboat like
this gets to wishing that a seven day romance could 'take,' but
up to yesterday I had a kind of an old fool's hopeful eye on
this one. Well—" he threw down his napkin— "I'll just men-
tion one more helpful item that Underwood handed me this
morning, and then I must get on. He says he intended to speak
to the room stewards about whether the state of anybody's
clothing would indicate that they might accidentally have
stepped into the pool last night. But it seems Charles, the
steward who was on the job at the time, you remember, gave
him to understand it wouldn't be any use, for the simple rea-
son 'that a lot of the passengers, both gents and ladies, wash
out their own stockings and hang them on the curtain poles
to dry. They're found that way when the stewards go to make
up the rooms after breakfast. So Underwood told him it
wouldn't be worth while to bother."
"Swell!" Peter's grin at the captain's obvious disgust was
shortlived. "I'd better get hold of Underwood at once. Maybe
the matter of wet stockings would be inconclusive at the best.
But there might be other things. Trousers that one would
think could hardly fail to have been wet nearly to the knee.
Quite possibly it wouldn't show on the black of dress trousers,
but neither would they dry very quickly. The cuffs of the


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coat, too, could be expected to show signs—unless the mur-
derer had taken it off. And I don't think that's probable . . ."
He paused for an instant and added grimly: "They'd better
check up also on any evening dress that shows too much damp-
ness around the bottom of the skirt."
"Clancy! You don't think, seriously, that a woman could
or would have pulled off that kind of a murder?"
"Doctor Hobbs said it wouldn't have required any great
amount of strength, and from Buckleigh's condition, I'm sure
he's correct. Improbable as it may seem, we have no right to
rule out that possibility. Buckleigh went out on that deck—
with a woman—and so far as we know—he was never seen
alive again. There's another point, but I'd rather not talk
about it just now. I must find Underwood. You'll excuse me,
Captain?"
"No. Wait a minute, Clancy. I want to ask you something
that's been bothering me a lot. As a seaman, it seems to me
absurd that the body wasn't just toppled over into the ocean.
Why overcome a man—render him sufficiently helpless, and
then hold him down in a shallow, makeshift swimming pool
until he—drowns? It doesn't make sense to me."
"One reason is that you're a very strong, able man," Peter
replied in a voice even lower than that of the captain. "I think
the person who pulled off this crime may not have been. I
figure that Buckleigh was standing near the pool when he
was attacked—probably from behind—and partly strangled.
It would have required far more strength to have carried him,
in that condition, across to the deck rail than it would to push
him over, head first, into the pool. As a matter of fact, North-
cote, as I think it over, I'm getting to believe we must face
the possibility that we may not find any wet clothing to help
us, for the simple reason that, if Buckleigh was sufficiently


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125
drunk he couldn't have put up much of a fight—may have
ceased to struggle almost at once. In which case, with the
victim insensible and his head under water, the murderer
might have been able to hold him in the required position by
the lower part of the trunk, or merely by the legs, for the few
necessary minutes."
"Hum-m-m." The captain nodded dourly. "I get the point.
And as far as I can see, if it turns out to be true, it cuts most
of the ground from under our feet. Leaves us practically noth-
ing to build on."
"I grant you there isn't much," returned Peter. "The phys-
ical clues may be practically nil. But there's a psychological
element in this that may lead us to the centre of the maze. If
it was merely an imitative gesture that floated that ace of
spades above Buckleigh's body, we have one kind of set up.
If, on the other hand it was a strange kind of half mad van-
ity ... we have another. And that, Captain, with your per-
mission, is the angle on which I propose to start.
"I'll require that card we put in the safe." Peter spoke in
Northcote's ear as they turned together to leave the dining
room. "I mean to find out who owned that particular ace of
spades."


CHAPTER XIV
An increasing number of passengers were going down to
breakfast when Peter left the purser's office and went up to
the lounge. The early morning mass had been over for a few
minutes and he met the officiating priest on the stairs.
"Good morning, Father Cassidy."
The priest beamed upon him benignly from bright little
blue eyes. "God guide you, my son," he said.
Peter bent his head. He professed no accepted form of re-
ligion but he valued the spirit that prompted the blessing.
"Thank you, Father Cassidy," he said, and added with a half
serious smile, "a little guidance at this point wouldn't come
amiss."
The priest, with crisp black eyebrows slightly raised,
glanced after him as he rounded the railing of the stairwell
and disappeared through the door of the lounge. "And I won-
der what that long red-headed grandson of Erin has on his
mind this morning," Father Cassidy said to himself. "Not
even stopping to pass me a joke. It's not like the lad. Well,
well. I hope it's nothing serious at all that's bothering him."
He thought no more about it at the moment and went quickly
on to his stateroom for he remembered he had an appointment
to keep.
Peter found the lounge deserted except for the steward who
was putting away the small altar in an all-enveloping canvas
cover.
A minute later Underwood appeared, all out of breath with
haste and eagerness. "Captain Northcote said you wanted me,
126


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127
Mr.—oh—er—Cairns."
"Yes. Good of you to come in such a hurry, Underwood. I
need your help, but perhaps it might save time if you just
vouch for me to the steward and let me try my hand at getting
the information we must have now. You understand?"
"I—er—yes. Oh, yes, of course." Underwood beckoned to
the lounge steward, a young Englishman whose improbable
name was Allover. With the help of Peter's repeated sugges-
tions he was able to get over to the steward in short order the
fact that the gentleman was a private detective; was con-
ducting an inquiry with the cognizance and complete approval
of the captain; that his questions were to be answered fully
and the whole matter to be kept in absolute secrecy.
"Right you are, sir," Allover responded competently.
"What is it you'd like to know?"
"You have a stock of playing cards that you sell to pas-
sengers, Allover?"
"Quite, sir."
"May I see them?"
"Certainly." The steward unlocked the drawer of the con-
sole near the door.
Peter picked up one and then another of the neatly stacked
packages and examined the stamp-sealed cases. "These two
are of the same pattern," he remarked. "Have you any other
design?"
"Oh, yes, sir. We have several. This. And this. And these."
"I see," said Peter. "And you have a number of packages of
each?"
"Naturally, sir."
Peter picked up one that had an elaborate scroll design in
red on the back of the cardboard case. "Do you happen to
remember what sort of an ace of spades goes with this one?"


128 LASTTRUMP
he asked.
"I don't, sir. But I think I can tell you without opening the
pack. There are several broken decks in this other drawer. I
keep them in case a passenger loses a card. See? Here are
some of that red kind. Maybe—" He took off a rubber band
and shuffled through them hastily. "No. The ace of spades is
missing . . . But wait. I've a lot of loose cards—"
He gathered up a number from the bottom of the drawer
and was rapidly sorting them when Peter, picking up the pack
the steward had just discarded asked casually: "Wasn't this
the one Mr. Dass used in his tricks last night?"
"I don't think it could have been, sir," Allover answered
running another lot of cards swiftly through his fingers. "I
counted to be sure I was giving him a full deck."
"But it was one of the used ones?"
"Oh, yes, sir." The steward nodded. "And here," he said
triumphantly, "is the ace you want, Mr. Cairns. See? The red
back—and a monkey holding up the spade. Rather amusing,
isn't it?"
"Yes," said Peter, but there was no answering smile on his
face. "Can you tell me, Allover, how many packs of this par-
ticular design you've sold this trip?"
"I could tell you how many have been bought in all, sir,"
the steward responded doubtfully, "but as to the patterns,
you see, I couldn't be not to say sure. I had fifty packs when
we sailed and there's—let me see—thirty-six left. Fourteen
sold. But how many of them were that particular de-
sign . . ."
"It ought not to be hard to figure." Peter curbed his im-
patience admirably. "You probably had an equal number of
each kind, didn't you? There are five different backs. Look.
Then weren't there originally ten of each?"


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shining black enameled lighter, he was on his way to his own
stateroom to make an accurate record of the finger-prints she
had left thereupon.
"The question I want to ask you is a perfectly innocent one,
but it concerns Mrs. Temple, so I wish you could identify her
in your mind, Allover. She is a lady of perhaps forty-five years
or maybe a little over." Peter was intent on following out a
certain line of thought. "She has short curled hair, gold but
turning a little gray. Dresses beautifully in rather bright col-
ors. Makes up, but does it very well. Has an unusually fine
profile and an out-size in dark eyes. Seems as if you must
have noticed her."
"I fancy I have, sir, but there's so many ladies that paints
and all that."
"She's about with a bunch of young people," Peter went on
hurriedly. "Bunny Travers. You know him. And Miss Evelyn
Heather—"
"Oh, the beautiful one. I've remarked Miss Heather, sir,
and who wouldn't? The older lady that she's with all the
time—is that Mrs. Temple? Certainly, sir. I know now the
one you mean. Wait. I think there's a picture of her here.
They were just finished this morning. Have you seen them,
sir? There. There she is. Is that the lady?"
"Yes. Yes, that's Mrs. Temple." Peter's voice sounded cu-
riously blank. "Who took these pictures, Allover?"
"Julius, one of the deck stewards, sir. He's got a tiny bit of
a camera and he's very quick. Mostly the passengers don't
know they're being snapped and they're tickled to death to
find themselves here on the board. They order the prints to
send home as postcards—ten cents apiece or three of one kind
for a quarter. It nets a tidy penny— Oh, pardon! Please don't
take the picture off the board. You can give Julius your order.


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131
That's the way—"
"Explain to Julius that Mr. Underwood required this print
for a certain purpose." Peter spoke in a tone of authority that
brooked no denial. "Caution him to say nothing about the pic-
ture and not to put it on the board again unless Captain North-
cote gives him leave. Do you understand?"
"Well—yes—and no, sir. But I'll follow instructions." The
steward glanced at Underwood who nodded portentously.
Peter slipped the photograph into his own pocket. He stood
a minute lost in thought. Then he roused himself.
"All right, Allover. Now that we've established Mrs. Tem-
ple's identity—do you remember selling that particular lady
a pack of cards?"
The steward shook his head. "No, sir. I can't say that I do."
Peter looked up sharply. "But you see her playing here
sometimes."
"Oh, yes, sir."
"You wouldn't, of course, have noticed the kind of cards
she uses," murmured Peter regretfully.
"Well now you speak of it, sir," the steward exclaimed with
an alert gesture, "I believe they use Miss Heather's. They
almost always play together you may have noticed, sir."
"Yes," said Peter in a muted tone. "Miss Heather . . .—
Did you, Allover, by any chance, sell Miss Heather a pack of
cards?"
"Oh, yes, sir," the man responded helpfully. "Quite early
in the trip I think it was. We sailed Saturday ... It wasn't
Sunday . . . No. It was Monday the young lady came in
and bought them."
"Indeed," said Peter slowly. "Do you remember what pat-
tern she selected?"
"I'm sorry. As to that I really couldn't say. The young lady,


132
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if you'll excuse me, sir, has the kind of looks would keep one
from noticing anything else in particular."
"I agree with you entirely. It really doesn't matter," said
Peter. "Thank you, Allover. You've helped us a lot."
"And with that," Peter reported to the captain a few min-
utes later, "we'll have to be content for the minute. At the
first opportunity we must find out which one—if any—of
those four red decks is shy the ace of spades. If all four are
complete, it's literally on the cards that the one I have (fig-
uratively) up my sleeve may have come from one of the
broken decks in the unlocked drawer of the side table in the
lounge. Anybody could have taken it out of there without be-
ing observed . . . Or, as a matter of fact, the card might
have been brought aboard by someone out of the picture en-
tirely so far as we've been able to deduce."
"It would be a pretty queer coincidence that it matches one
of the styles we stock on the ship," argued Captain Northcote.
He twisted nervously in his swivel chair to look out at the
great curve of water as it broke under the bows.
"With the thousands of different patterns that are brought
out in the U.S.A.," Peter mused, "it would."
He was sitting beside the captain's desk, looking down at
the card that occupied his thoughts. It was the first time he
had had an opportunity thoroughly to examine it. Suddenly
he leaned down and looked closer. Then he took out a small
but powerful glass. His voice was ominously gentle as he said:
"Look here, Captain Northcote. This is a marked card."
"What?"
"You see that small spot of faint lavender, with a darker
dot in the middle?"
"Yes, yes. I see."


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133
"What do you think it is?"
"Might be anything so far as I could say," muttered North-
cote. "And no reason to think it wasn't accidental. A speck
of something in the water—of the tank, you know."
"I don't think so," said Peter shaking his head. "No. I don't
think so."
"Well, then for heaven's sake tell me what you do think."
"Gladly," said Peter. "Wait a sec. What's that?"
A low knock sounded on the door. "I'll have to find out,"
growled the captain. "Come in."
The card on the desk was covered by a sheaf of papers when
a steward opened the door.
"Beg pardon, sir," he said, touching his cap. "Doctor
Hobbs' compliments and could he speak with you a minute.
He says it's rather important, sir."
Northcote glanced aside at Peter. "Very good," he said.
"Show him in."
"Captain Northcote!" The doctor nodded at Peter as he
closed the door. "Thought I'd better tell you at once, sir. I've
had to make a—a sort of statement about—Mr. Buckleigh.
I think it will go no further—"
"What kind of a statement?" Northcote questioned angrily.
"And to whom?"
"Why it was this way, sir. It seems Buckleigh had some
kind of a date with Father Cassidy—to meet him in his, the
priest's, stateroom at nine o'clock this morning. I met the
Reverend out on deck a few minutes ago and he asked me if
I'd seen Buckleigh this morning. I said yes, for God knows
it's true. It was almost morning when—"
"Skip it, Doctor, if you don't mind," Northcote interrupted
"You told the priest that Buckleigh was ill in his cabin, of
course?"


134
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"That's the worst of it. Father Cassidy had already been to
Buckleigh's stateroom. 'So why is the door locked?' he asks
me. 'And why doesn't he answer when I knock? How sick is
he, and what's the matter with him anyhow?' he says."
"And what did you tell him?" Northcote's glance was sharp
and worried.
"What could I say? Seemed to me there was nothing for it
but to plump right out with the truth."
"You told him the man had been murdered?"
"Oh, no. Only that he was dead and we didn't want it known
on account of it casting a gloom over the ship. Then, con-
found it, he asked if he could say a prayer beside the body.
I had to admit there were certain reasons why I thought it
would be inadvisable at present. He looked curious, but he
seems a wise old gentleman. He just whistled a little under his
breath and started on his way. I said: 'You won't mention
anything of this, Father?' and he said 'Have no fear. As the
saying goes I've had practice in keeping silent in seven lan-
guages.'"
"He's a peach of an old chap," Peter put in. "I don't think
you need worry, Captain, about his spilling any beans."
"Well, I hope not." Northcote looked somewhat reassured.
"Anything more, Doctor?"
"Isn't that enough?" Hobbs wiped his heated brow. "I hope
nobody else comes worrying around."
"You handled this all right," the captain approved. "Be
sure the door's shut when you go out. Thank you, Doctor."
The card they had been examining reappeared coincident
with the sound of the closing door.
"You were about to say, Clancy—" prompted Northcote.
"About the little purple spot." He pointed.
"Look at it again through the glass." Peter handed the lens


CHAPTER XV
"You believe that, Clancy?" Northcote's face was a study.
"Absolutely."
"It's only circumstantial evidence," worried the captain.
"But look here! We can prove one thing without the shadow
of a doubt."
"You mean find the pack and see if this card is missing?"
"Right."
"And if they have a complete deck?" *
"Then we guessed wrong about this card belonging to that
particular one." Northcote spread out his hands with the
broad palms up.
"Can't agree with you there entirely." Peter shook his head.
"Why couldn't either lady or anyone else slip a card out of
that unlocked drawer in the lounge? And then what price the
full pack? ... I believe that lot we found with the rubber
band around it was the one Dass used last night. That was
shy the ace of spades. But, hang it all, there was another loose
in the bottom of the drawer. Same pattern and all. May or
may not have been in the pack when Dass returned the cards
to the steward. How do we know?"
"We could have all the loose cards sorted."
"Yes. But how much better off would we be? Allover says
they're broken packs the passengers have left around on other
trips . . . No. There's too much leeway about our prize clue.
Too much entirely to suit me. I want something more defi-
nite . . . And, in a way I may have it . . . But I don't see—
exactly—how it fits. Look here."
136


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137
Peter took from his pocket the postcard size photograph
he had just appropriated from the board in the lounge and
laid it before the captain.
“Mrs. Temple—and by all that's holy-Buckleigh!"
“Talking—apparently very confidentially—at the stern
rail,” said Peter in a queer, considering tone.
"I've never seen them together. Have you?” Northcote
asked thoughtfully.
“On the contrary. Buckleigh spoke of her in my hearing
only last night with great contempt,” Peter replied. "I wonder
- I wonder what day this was taken.”
"Julius might remember. Is it important?"
“Maybe not. But I'd like to know. Wait. I think I have it.
The flag is flying from the jack-staff. It's only been run up
once—when the Bremen passed us. That's right isn't it?".
“Surely is. And that was Monday.”
“Monday,” Peter repeated. “The second day out ...
They've avoided each other ever since . . . Until last night.
Wiggar saw them talking then-quarreling he thought ...
And Buckleigh is—dead . . . With a card (that I'm morally
certain belongs in a deck she handled) floating above him.”
"You're going to check up on that card business further,
Clancy, before you make any accusation?”
“And then some,” said Peter with a curt nod. "But there
are other things I'd like to do first.”
“Such as-"
"I want to go over Buckleigh's stateroom myself with a fine
toothcomb. Have I your permission?".
“Certainly. Want Underwood to help?"
“I'd much rather have Wiggar, if you don't mind. I've
trained him and no one could be better. He has the next state-
room aft of Buckleigh's. You may not know that. He's wait-


138 LAST TRUMP
ing there now I suspect. If you'll give me the key."
"The chief officer is on the bridge now," said Northcote ris-
ing. "I think I'll go along with you."
"Perhaps we'd better not make it a parade," Peter sug-
gested. "Give me the key and you follow in a couple of min-
utes."
"Very good, Clancy. I'd like to see you at work. Ill be
along."
The port of Buckleigh's stateroom gave directly on the outer
deck. Peter had only just drawn the heavy rep curtains across
when Wiggar slipped in, followed almost immediately by
Captain Northcote. Behind the locked door with all the lights
turned on the detective and his helper went systematically
to work.
"You try for finger-prints, Wiggar. I'll do the rest," Peter
whispered.
The captain's bronzed face was full of excited interest as
he watched. "I never saw any of this sort of thing before," he
growled in a low bass. "But I don't see why finger-prints here
when the man was murdered on deck."
"Routine," Peter explained tersely. "Taking no chances.
Might find something of interest. Can't tell."
He was going through Buckleigh's effects with the orderly
celerity of long practice. The unlocked suit case on the sofa
under the window yielded nothing but the silent testimony
that its late owner was neat and orderly and did himself well
in the matter of sartorial accessories. The steamer trunk under
the lounge was locked but that fact delayed Peter only a few
minutes.
"Seems as if a fine crook was wasted in you, Clancy," com-
mented the captain, as Peter, having finished with the trunk,


LAST TRUMP
139
relocked it with meticulous care.
"Wiggar and I are both the best there are," responded
Peter modestly. "If we ever get mad at the universe, the uni-
verse better watch its step. Eh, Wiggar?"
"Thank you, Mr. Peter. Beg pardon, but would you care
to look at this now, sir?"
"What? The door? Plenty of finger-prints there. I can see
the black powder on 'em from across the room. In just a shake
— Oh, I say." Peter whistled one startled note. "No. This is
all wrong. Simply cockeyed. Come here, Captain. Do you see
what I see?"
"Tickets? Lottery tickets. A whole envelope full. Well I'll
be—"
"Make it as strong as you like, Captain. You won't shock
me. I'm immune." Peter had found the envelope tucked under
some ties in the bottom of one of the shallow drawers of the
cabinet surrounding the somewhat old fashioned wash stand.
He had pulled out a sliding shelf and was decanting the tickets
upon its shiny surface without touching them with his fingers.
"The United Kingdom Hospital Sweepstakes." He read
aloud the black letters on the blue ground. "History repeats
itself you see, Captain. Now we have the set up complete. An
ace of spades murder—with all the fixings."
"What do you mean by that?" Northcote asked in a startled
voice.
Peter explained briefly.
"And these are bogus tickets?" The captain bent to look at
them more closely.
"I'm practically certain."
"But Buckleigh—with his connections!" Northcote was
plainly incredulous.
"Since the war many highly placed Europeans have been


140
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desperately in need of money."
"You think—you seriously think, Clancy, that Buckleigh
may have been connected with a gang of swindlers?"
"Doesn't it look like it to you?"
"It certainly does." Northcote sat down again heavily.
"Then—" he hesitated—"if what you said just now is true,
Clancy ... I mean if there's a rival lot of these racketeers
—then—then—one of them—must be on my ship."
"I guess you'll have to face that possibility, Captain."
"But—but, good heavens, it might be anybody, Clancy.
How are we to know?"
"It's a stiff proposition, sir." Peter was sliding the blue
tickets back into the envelope. "I've got to have time to think
it out . . . There's something phony about this bit of evi-
dence besides the counterfeit tickets . . ."
"Yes?" urged the captain.
"Why did Buckleigh have them in a place where they could
so easily be found? It doesn't make sense. Unless— What is
it, Wiggar?"
"Excuse me, sir. Might I speak with you one minute? In
confidence as it were, Mr. Peter."
Northcote frowned. "Is it something you don't want me to
know?" he asked bluntly.
"No. No, of course it can't be," said Peter hastily. "What
is it, Wiggar?"
"Well, if you'll pardon the necessity, Captain Northcote,"
Wiggar began in his best valetish manner, "Mr. Peter thought
it advisable to observe the staterooms—of a few of the pas-
sengers—some days ago, sir. I had the honor to search this
one thoroughly—"
"What?" burst out Northcote. "Without permission?"
"I had my orders," Wiggar responded with unshaken calm.


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141
"Yes—yes. It's my responsibility," Peter put in hurriedly.
"These tickets, Wiggar! They weren't here when you went
over the place before. Is that right? Are you sure?"
"I am positively certain, Mr. Peter."
"Well—well, then—but—" sputtered Northcote.
"Exactly," Peter agreed as if the captain's phrases had been
coherent. "A plant. These tickets were put here—to be found.
Definitely."
"By whom?" Northcote's face was red with unaccustomed
mental strain.
"Within certain limits it might have been anyone on the
ship," Peter observed running his fingers through his thick
red mane. "The odds being, of course, all in favor of the mur-
derer. When was it you searched here before, Wiggar?"
"On Monday, sir."
"Monday," Peter repeated half aloud. "Any day since
then . . . But no. No. Buckleigh would have seen them. It
would have been too dangerous to plant them—in a drawer
that was in constant use—until the man was safely—dead . . .
I think we can count on that . . . The murderer's line of ac-
tion seems probably to have been—to locate Buckleigh on the
after-deck—to turn off the light—creep across the short
space between the door there and the pool—commit the mur-
der—and have the light on again in the space of a few min-
utes . . . And then, what?"
Peter paused an instant. Northcote intently following every
word, held his peace.
"Then I think he came through the passage and right here
as fast as he could make it." Peter answered his own question.
"The stewards were all very busy last night and the pas-
sengers—most of them—thoroughly occupied. The probabili-
ties are that no one saw him. But even if they had, who would


LAST TRUMP
143
not Buckleigh's, is it?"
"No, sir. Those are his. There and there. Just looked at
them through the glass. I'm quite sure. But this one—I'm
almost equally certain, Mr. Peter, that this one was made by
Mr. Suffern."
"By Suffern?" Peter took a fiat wallet from his pocket and
from it extracted a sheaf of photographic prints which he ran
through hastily. "John Suffern," he repeated. "Here we are.
Yes. Look at the one on the drawer through the glass, Captain,
and compare it with this enlargement. No mistake about that,
is there?"
"Why—why no. Certainly not."
"He'd have no trouble in making a plausible explanation,
of course," Peter remarked with pursed lips. "May be in the
habit of borrowing his uncle's ties—or something. But he did
try to get in here after you locked up last night."
"What for?" Northcote asked eagerly.
"Search me," said Peter shaking his head. "I could make a
guess, but I'm not sure enough of anything to be willing to
take a chance on letting you see how fallible I am. Might lose
confidence in me altogether. Wiggar, was it another of the
Honorable John's prints you wanted me to look at on the
door?"
"Er—no, Mr. Peter. I hesitate to commit myself, sir. Would
you be so good as to look for yourself?"
Something in his valet's carefully contained manner focused
Peter's attention. He went quickly to the door. With his mag-
nifying glass he examined the three small prints indicated.
"Hum-m-m. I don't recognize these, Wiggar," he said after
a second. "They—they are so narrow—they look as if they
must have been made by—a woman. Is that what you
thought?"


144
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"Quite so, sir."
Peter turned and looked down into the expressionless face
that was raised to him. "You think you know them, Wiggar?"
"Pardon. I can't show you at the moment, sir. I was about
to finish the enlargement of the record you asked me to get
early this morning. I've examined it carefully though myself.
I'm sure it is the same."
"The same?" echoed Peter.
"What? What's that?" barked Northcote. "Whose is it?
What woman's been here? Speak up, Clancy!"
"The same," Peter said once more. "The woman we seem
to run up against at every turn. Mrs. Ariadne Temple."


CHAPTER XVI
"Well, I'm swamped! Sunk with all hands aboard!" cried
Northcote. "What was that woman doing here? Why did she
come? When was it? Have you any idea, Clancy?"
"I have a headache full of ideas, all right." Peter pressed
his temples with both palms. "The pretty part is that none
of 'em want to play with any of the rest. But about the time
of the lady's call . . . let's see. How often are the stewards
supposed to wash the paint? Do you know?"
"Those details are hardly in my province," growled the cap-
tain. "I'm generally supposed to command the ship, but—"
"Pardon, sir. Excuse me, Mr. Peter." Wiggar coughed
slightly behind his hand. "I've observed that the stewards wipe
down the paint daily—that is in the portions likely to be much
handled. Not too thoroughly, I must admit, but sufficient to
obliterate or very much blur any previous prints."
"Thank you, Wiggar." Peter's glance of approval under-
lined the too often prefunctory expression. "That being so,
we may perhaps take it for granted that Mrs. Temple's visit
was after the stewards had finished in the morning and before
we locked this door last night."
"That is to say," commented the captain, "she could have
been here almost any time yesterday afternoon or evening."
"Not quite," Peter amended. "I remember seeing her on
deck knitting a good part of the afternoon while Evelyn
Heather read to her. Their deck chairs were side by side. They
were in the lounge at tea time . . . Afterward Mrs. Temple
was telling fortunes up in the smoking room . . . She wouldn't
have risked coming here at the time Buckleigh would be dress-
145


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ing for dinner if she wished to avoid him, and the probabili-
ties are she wouldn't have met him in his own stateroom at
that time—unless there was far more intimacy between them
than meets the eyes."
"Which leaves the evening," considered the captain.
"Yes. Most of it, so far as we know. Mrs. Temple didn't
put in an appearance at the passengers' party. After the show
was over I saw her, apparently coming up from her stateroom
which, as you may know, is A 11."
"That would be directly across the ship from here on the
port side," said Northcote.
"Precisely," Peter agreed. "By coming through the women's
wash rooms she could slip in and out without much risk of
being seen . . . But why did she come?"
"To plant those fake lottery tickets, if you ask me." North-
cote presented the result of an almost subconscious argument
in his own mind.
"Would she have remembered to wipe the finger-prints off
the drawer-pull—and have left them on the door?"
"Oh, lord, how do I know?" burst out the captain. "This
is beyond my depth, Clancy. I'd better get back to the bridge
where things happen that I understand. What are you going
to do next?"
"I'd like to locate Mrs. Temple," Peter responded. "Also
John Suffern. I want a word with him. And while I'm having
it, with your permission, I'd like Wiggar to go over Suffern's
stateroom, next door. You're to note, Wiggar, if anything is
different from the way it appeared when you examined it—
last Sunday that was? Yes. I thought so. Do the usual stuff.
You know. Keep the door locked and avoid observation if
possible."
"Thank you, Mr. Peter." A slight access of starch sug-


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147
gested that Wiggar considered the latter portion of his instruc-
tions an unnecessary waste of language.
After a few more words the captain departed to attend to his
regular duties.
Peter took only a hasty glance around Suffern's room, then
leaving Wiggar busily in charge he went up to make the round
of the promenade deck.
Mrs. Temple was not in her deck chair when he passed. He
could not see her through the windows of the lounge, writing
room or smoking room. The bar in which he had watched her
drinking alone the night before, was untenanted at this hour
except for a few devotees, among whom conspicuously mourn-
ful, was poor Underwood's pest, Innes. He looked a good deal
like a dog sitting up on its hind legs to beg, and the remote
disdain of George the barman, righteously carrying out in-
structions to furnish this passenger nothing more to drink, was
so superior and ludicrous that in spite of his preoccupation,
Peter grinned to himself as he went on up to the boat deck
where, for the first time in several days, the sun was trying to
shine. Shuffle-board, quoits and flirtations were in full swing
on the forward deck. On the more sheltered after-deck, a
gallery of lounging observers watched the agile players toss-
ing the ring across the tennis net. But Peter realized with a
frown that Mrs. Temple was not among those present.
Most of her youthful associates were there. Notably, Suff ern
and Evelyn Heather. The beautiful lithe movements of the
girl's young body as she tossed and caught the ring were like
music or poetry, so perfect was the rhythm of all the lines and
contours. Suff ern supplemented and accented every springing
gesture, like the bass notes in a harmony or the structural
angles that give strength and value to gracious foliations of
design.


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"The gods on Olympus never saw anything fairer," com-
mented an old sculptor with whom Peter had a slight acquaint-
ance. "If I were young again—with models like that . . .
Well. Thank God I can still see beauty—and worship."
Peter repressed a sigh as he turned away. So bright the
fleeting sunshine fell upon those two. So dark hung the un-
perceived shadow in their wake. Incongruous it all seemed—
to the point of unreality. The sea like a big blue plate with the
steadily sailing ship always in the exact center no matter
whether she moved fast or slow. Down on the main deck far
below, children danced around waiting for the bathing pool,
which had been emptied, to be refilled with fresh sea water.
Nothing in the world could have appeared less tragic. The
small superstructure that housed the hospital in the stern
shone cheerfully white and innocent in a flying spot of sun-
light.
On the top deck gay voices and applause announced that
the players had stopped for a short recess and a check up on
scores. Peter caught Suffern's eye and summoning him with
a well nigh imperceptible gesture strolled off along the nar-
row part of the deck and paused at the rail between two life-
boats. Here a minute later Suffern joined him.
"Well?" The younger man's manner was none too gracious
and yet had in it an undefinable appeal.
"Where's Mrs. Temple this morning?" Peter asked in an
ordinary light conversational tone. "I haven't seen her since
breakfast."
"I haven't either," Suffern responded with greater ease.
"Something new. She's almost always somewhere about. I
can recommend her if you have a daughter you want chaper-
oned, Mr. Cairns."


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149
"She's stuck pretty close to Miss Evelyn—and you—on
this trip, hasn't she, John?"
Suffern's eyes were nearly on a level with Peter's own. They
flashed a look, of inquiry, but he answered: "Why yes. If she
hadn't been so entertaining herself—it might have been a bit
of a nuisance."
"You weren't all together, though, last evening?"
"No. Why, no. It was the first time—I mean . . . Out with
it, Mr. Clancy. What do you intend to imply—if anything?"
"I can't tell you right now, John," said Peter in his usual
friendly way. "But I need to know a few things and I want
you to tell me. Will you?"
"You may ask your questions of course." Suffern spoke
guardedly.
"How well did Mrs. Temple know your uncle?"
A startled look came into the dark eyes. "Why, scarcely at
all. They met on the ship, informally, of course. Uncle Francis
took a violent dislike to her. Heaven knows why, except that
she's a western woman and a little more free of speech than
his own countrywomen would be."
"So far as you know they met first on the ship?" Peter
repeated.
"Yes. Certainly."
"Well, then, that's that," said Peter easily. "Now the next
thing." He drew the wallet from his pocket and sheltering it
with his coat from the wind he pressed it from the ends so that
it bulged sufficiently to expose to Suffern's gaze the envelope
they had just discovered in Buckleigh's tie drawer. The flap
of this he lifted with the point of a nail-file. "Ever see any
tickets like these, John?" he asked quietly.
For an instant there was complete silence between them.


LAST TRUMP
151
"Yes. I know it. I lift a dress tie now and then when I have
hard luck with my own. In fact, I did last night, come to think
of it."
"Your uncle wasn't in his room then?"
"No."
"No. He wouldn't have been." Peter's voice was like silk.
"Or perhaps you wouldn't have opened that drawer yourself,
John. Your finger-prints were quite plain. Funny, isn't it?
I suppose you didn't see this envelope there?"
"I did not," Suffern answered with controlled violence. "It
couldn't have been there or I would have. I tossed the ties
about a bit, I remember. I'd surely have seen anything as
unusual and conspicuous."
"So one would think," said Peter quite calmly. "But they
were there this morning. No doubt about that fact. Now, did
your uncle put them there, himself, perhaps?"
"He'd never have been such a fool." Suffern bit his lip. "I
mean, if he'd bought them, you know, Cairns, or, or— Maybe
that's it," he exclaimed suddenly. "Perhaps he bought these,
thinking they were genuine."
"There must be several thousand dollars worth in this
bunch," Peter remarked thoughtfully. "Would he have been
so careless? The door was unlocked at that time . . . Oh, by
the way, John, what was it you were looking for last night?"
"Last night? When? Where?"
"After you knew of your uncle's death," said Peter gravely.
"And after the captain had locked up his stateroom."
"Nothing in particular," Suffern answered coolly. "I was
upset by the tragedy. Naturally. I wondered if I could dis-
cover anything by looking over things in there—any clue.
Amateur efforts mine would have been, Mr. Clancy, but I,
too, would be very much interested in finding out who killed


LASTTRUMP 153
the police found tickets—like these I just showed you—some-
where in the immediate vicinity of the victims. They kept that
clue secret. Probably you would have no means of knowing,
but it's a fact."
Suffern's clever young face became a mask. He said:
"That's strange," and shut his lips in a straight line.
Peter waited a minute. "You are not prepared at this time
to offer any helpful suggestions, John?"
"No." The reply came with slow determination. "I know
nothing that would be of service to you, Cairns. Here comes
Evelyn." He touched Peter's arm. "Don't let her know there's
any trouble."
"You haven't told her?" Peter asked hurriedly. "Or Mrs.
Temple?"
"Only that my uncle is ill."
"Where is Mrs. Temple now, John? Do you know?"
"In her stateroom. Has a headache. I must go, Cairns. She's
calling me. Sorry I can't be of more use."
"I appreciate your position," Peter said. As the other turned
hastily away he raised his voice. "See you later, John."
Suffern paused an instant and glanced back. The colloquial
Americanism that ordinarily takes the place of "au revoir,"
"auf Wiedersehen," sounded in his aroused foreboding con-
sciousness strangely like a threat.


CHAPTER XVII
The good ship Sutherland ploughed along on her appointed
course. Steady, methodical, safe, old and reliable to the,point
of banality. Her place in the shipping news might have been
made into a slug and retained for insertion, so little did the
matter of it vary from season to season and from year to
year. Not fast, not luxurious. Old fashioned but cheerful,
comfortable, dependable.
Except for a little excited boasting of the passengers who
had been aroused the night before by the escape and recapture
of Zootorius II, there seemed to be nothing at all out of the
ordinary as Peter once more made the rounds of the various
decks on his way down to his own stateroom. Why light sleep-
ers so often seem to consider the trait a mark of distinction,
he had wondered many times before. It came into his mind
irritatingly just now for he was in no satisfied mood and any
extraneous consideration was as welcome as a hornet in a close-
visored steel helmet.
He wanted to line up his findings and put them in orderly
sequence but they kept hopping about and coming to discon-
certing dead ends. The confined area of the ship, which ought
to prove a restriction on possibilities, was overbalanced by the
lack of background of practically every figure in the picture.
How size up what a person might be capable of without any
line on what he or she had been, other than the uncertain testi-
mony of a self-witness? Apparent strangers might have been
intimately connected at some undiscoverable time and in some
unacknowledged place ... So little to pin an inquiry on . . .
154


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155
There were the facts that he and Kate Oliver shared in com-
mon about John Suffern's previous career . . . The matterof
the package in the safe that he had kept to himself . . . And
now this business of Evelyn Heather—and Mrs. Temple.
As he ran down the short flight of stairs leading to C deck
Peter instinctively looked at his watch. How soon could he
possibly get a reply to the radio he'd sent to O'Malley? Even
allowing for the difference in time surely nothing before mid-
night. Probably would be another dead end. A crossed wire—
like all the rest. He hadn't found out yet who let the ape out
of his cage—or why. Hadn't even discovered who was selling
liquor under cover—to a minor, like Bunny Travers and to a
confirmed alcoholic like Innes.
A pretty despicable thing. Peter had flattered himself he
could take it in his stride. With his ability for sizing up char-
acter he had spotted a man that he thought might easily turn
out to be the culprit. It was to have an eye on Mr. August
Erlanger that he had had his stateroom changed to C deck.
The inconvenience of smaller and more primitive accommoda-
tions was to have been trifling since Peter had no idea that the
matter would take more than a short time and little effort to
clear. The important inquiry in which his mind and heart
were deeply involved having so tragically intervened after
five days of utter absence of development, he was out of
patience with his natural appetite for clearing things up as
he went along and of taking responsibility that could be con-
sidered his only because he believed in his own ability to set
a matter straight.
Little Miss Fixit! Peter wrinkled his nose at his image in
the glass. He had stopped in the men's wash room as the old
fashioned plumbing in the cabins on C deck left much to be
desired. In spite of the lower price, the inconvenient arrange-


156
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ments had resulted in many empty staterooms on that level.
The Battleaxe and Hatchet, a prosperous but careful young
Norwegian with a wife and two daughters, Innes, the old Ger-
man lady who so consistently won every afternoon at the horse
races, Father Cassidy who spent never an unnecessary cent
on himself, and August Erlanger, were, so far as Peter knew,
the only occupants.
All these empty staterooms, he thought to himself uneasily
as he dried his hands. What a devil of a hide and go seek could
be played even on a small boat like this. Zootorius, the ape,
must have had a gay time last night cavorting around these
deserted passages. He was funny standing by the mirror over
there. Might have been as pifflicated as he looked with the
smell there was on him. Seems as if—Peter sniffed. Well, he'd
be darned if he couldn't smell it yet. He pushed open one of the
half doors. That's right. It was in here. Now why would good
liquor be wasted . . .
It was Peter's habit to carry on long arguments with him-
self in his own brain. Sometimes they were quite heated. Now
one side of his mind took the other by the collar. For the love
of heaven forget the whisky and come along, it said. Con-
centrate. Don't wander. The murder. The Sweepstake racket.
Push every other thought aside and—
"Mr. Cairns?" A room steward was coming from the direc-
tion of Peter's stateroom. He had a note in his hand.
"Yes. Is that for me?"
"Lady said it was in a hurry, sir. Thank you, sir." The
steward caught the coin and departed whistling cheerily.
Peter tore open the envelope. A bold handwriting that he'd
never seen. He read: "Come. Hurry. Knock twice. B 1. K.O."
"O.K., K.O.!" Peter said under his breath with a sharp grin
of comprehension. He apologized automatically as he pushed


LAST TRUMP
157
past the steward and went up the short flight of stairs two at
a time. Crossing to the left he went forward to the end of the
passage and softly rapped twice on the door of B 1.
It opened instantly. Kate Oliver stood there, her finger on
her lip. He stepped in and closed the door quietly. She pointed
to the forward porthole which was at the moment tastefully
garnished with a delicate and beautiful garment composed
chiefly of lace.
"Would look as if I'd hung it up to dry, if anyone noticed,"
she whispered. "You can see through the openwork. No chance
they'd see you. Get up and look."
Peter had stepped up on the upholstered lounge and she
beside him before she had finished speaking. He found himself
looking down from a point of vantage into the half light of the
storage space where stood the cage of Zootorius II. His master,
Zootorius I, stood near it but facing their way. No articulate
sounds came through the heavy glass of the closed port, but
the gestures of the trainer were eloquent.
"Who is it he's rowing at," Peter whispered, his lips close
to Miss Oliver's ear.
"You'll see in a minute. And I'm not much surprised. It was
a foolish escapade—just like that young devil."
"Bunny Travers," exclaimed Peter, careful to keep his
voice low. "I can see him now. Looks as if he was up against
it. But Zootorious might be mad at him for something else."
"Possibly, Mr. Peter Clancy, but when I saw Zootorius
drag him in there by the scruff of the neck as it were, I thought
you might wish to ascertain and find out if it wasn't Bunny
that let the animal loose last night. So I sent you a hasty
wire."
"Smart girl." Peter's glance of approval was a tribute.
"Hey! Lookee, lookee." He steadied her by the elbow.


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"Bunny's trying to square things. Those're good American
dollars he's peeling off of his roll. No kid of his age should be
allowed a wad like that. His mother must be a fool."
"Stop worrying about parents, Peter. Aren't you going to
do anything? Question Zootorius—or—"
"I think I'd rather see what can be razzled out of the kid
first." Peter was poised on one foot like a Mercury. "May I
bring him inhere?"
"The more the merrier," Kate responded glancing around
the confines of the small room. "Bring Zootorius too, if you
like. I don't even draw the line at the monkey. Help yourself."
"I'll be back, Miss Clever." Peter gave her arm a little
squeeze. "Keep a lamp in the window to guide me home."
He was gone. Kate didn't hear a sound after the door closed.
She hopped up on the sofa again with a queer kind of angular
grace. Zootorius was grooming and feeding his pet. They
looked absurdly alike in the thick dusty light of the store-
room. A minute or two later a faint scuffle at the door warned
her of Peter's return. She snatched the lace garment from the
porthole and was sitting demurely on the couch when the door
opened and Peter half dragged young Travers into the cabin.
"For the love of Mike, Miss Kitty! What d'you know?
Mr. Cairns here has gone red-headed and I thought he was
about to drag me into his lair and tear me apart. I bet I'd make
good eating. I have so much tenderness, at least for the fair
sex of which you are an ornament. And he brings me into
your boudoir! Swell! But what's it all about?" The words
fell glibly over each other-but it was quite plain to be seen
that Bunny Travers, for once in his life, was not at ease.
"Sit down, Bunny. Yes. Sit down." The last two words
were in the imperative mood, present tense. Peter motioned
toward the lounge. Kate Oliver let the boy have it to himself


LAST TRUMP
159
and sat with Peter in the berth on the opposite side. The bunk
above made it necessary for them to lean forward at an acute
angle. The looked funny but Bunny was too nervously ex-
pectant to risk mentioning it.
"What were you giving money to Zootorius for just now?"
Peter asked bluntly.
"Why, what makes you think—" Bunny followed the direc-
tion of Peter's eyes, saw the porthole and did not attempt to
finish the sentence.
"Come on," urged Peter. "Come clean, Bunny."
"The money? That's what you want to know?" The boy
tried to laugh. "Don't see that it's any of your business, Mr.
Cairns, but you've been a swell guy, and I'll tell you. It was a
—bet we made last night."
Peter looked straight at him but said nothing. Kate followed
suit. There was something dampening to the spirit in the con-
tinued silence. After a minute Bunny broke it.
"What's the big idea, Mr. Cairns?" he asked nervously.
"You don't own or run the ship. I'm old enough to tend to my
own affairs and you've no call to come butting in."
"I'm making this matter my business, Travers, and you'll
have to do with that. If I could trust you, if I thought you had
any discretion at all, I'd tell you the reason. It's a serious one
I can assure you." The light in Peter's eyes was like the sudden
flash of a naked sword. "That wasn't a bet you had with
Zootorius. You're far too free with your money. You'd have
settled a bet without being hauled over the coals as you were
just now."
"You couldn't hear what was said," Bunny retorted. "Don't
try to bluff, Mr. Cairns. Those ports can't be opened without
a special wrench to do it with and that one hasn't been."
"I couldn't hear what was said," Peter agreed grimly. "But


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I could see what Zootorius said all right. I took lessons in lip
reading long ago and I'm good, I don't mind admitting."
"It's a steer. I don't believe it." The boy's veneer of grown-
upedness was cracking.
"Say something with your lips without making a sound and
I'll prove it to you," said Peter.
Fascinated, Bunny complied.
"The first words aren't used in the presence of ladies."
Peter spoke with a severity he found it hard to maintain. "For
the rest, you said 'I wish you'd mind your own business, you
old so and so.'"
"Gosh!" The boy stared. "Excuse me, Mr. Cairns. I never
thought you could do it."
"All right. I haven't time to be insulted and I'm not going
to take you over my knee, which would be appropriate and
richly deserved. I'll even get Captain Northcote to be as easy
with you as possible if you'll answer all my questions right
here and now without holding anything back. That was hush
money you gave to Zootorius just now. He threatened to tell
the captain and you gave him a tidy sum to square yourself
for having let the chimp out last night."
"I—" The brazen denial on Bunny's lips melted in the glare
from Peter's eyes. "Oh, well, I guess it's no use," he con-
cluded, forcing a laugh. "After all, remember, it was only in
fun."
"It was you, then, Bunny, that opened the cage," said Miss
Oliver with great severity. "Don't you know that was a dread-
ful thing to do?"
"Oh, come now, Miss Kitty. The chimp? Why he's as gentle
as a girl. More gentle than some I could name. You wouldn't
be hard on a fellow for having a bit of a lark. Zootorius let
me take him up to the lounge last night and he acted just like


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"Oh, gee, Mr. Cairns, do you think it'd be sporting for me
to give him away?"
"Sporting!" Peter burst out. "With a sneak like that? It's
a man on C deck, isn't it?"
"Er—ah— Yes."
"Name's Erlanger? August Erlanger?"
"How did you guess?" The boy looked at him with awed
frightened eyes.
"I don't exactly go around with my eyes shut," said Peter.
"So it was Erlanger. And I suppose it was that stewed owl
Innes that tipped you off."
"What makes you think that?"
"I gathered it from something you said last night when you
weren't altogether yourself," Peter replied with a menacing
frown. "But from now on, Bunny, I warn you you'd better
keep a clear head. You will need it—very—very much—be-
cause you are not to say a word to a living soul about this con-
versation. Understand? Not to your mother—"
"Oh, gosh, no!"
"—nor to June Worth." The boy's face fell a little. "Espe-
cially not to June or any one of your pals. Don't hint that you
know something they don't, or any foolish baby-stuff like that.
The less said about the chimp the better—"
"And what about Erlanger, Mr. Cairns? You won't tell him
I was the one that gave him away? Plenty of other people be-
sides Innes know now where you can get the stuff."
"The captain will attend to Erlanger, Bunny. Don't worry
about that," said Peter darkly. "Now, on your way, and see
that you behave as if nothing had happened."
As soon as the door closed behind the boy's deflated figure,
Kate Oliver reached out and caught Peter by the coat.
"Sit down a second, Peter Clancy," she said. "You can't


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163
go right off like that. You've got to tell me—"
"Yes?" said Peter.
"It looks now," she raised shrewd inquiring eyes, "as if the
chimpanzee was not let out—purposely. That's clear, isn't it?"
"No mistake about it, Kitty. Thanks to your swell line of
snooping."
She did not smile. "That being the case it seems as if this
wasn't, after all, another Murder in the Rue Morgue."
"So it would seem." Peter looked down at her and suddenly
his eyes sparkled. "Good lord," he gurgled. "I believe on my
soul the little woman's disappointed!"
"It would have made a swell story," she mourned un-
abashed.
Peter was still smiling when a few minutes later Wiggar
encountered him in the companionway. His face changed as he
met the valet's eye.
"I must speak to you, Mr. Peter." The voice was low and
insistent but the manner was entirely casual. "Perhaps out
here by the rail."
They strolled out together and along the deck until they
were practically alone. Peter's eyes were on the far horizon.
"What is it?" he asked quickly.
"I've finished in Mr. Suffern's stateroom," Wiggar answered
in an undertone. "Everything pretty much as it was when I
looked before, except—" He kept the direction of his master's
glance but moved his head nearer. "Except," he repeated, "for
the finger-prints. I checked up a bit on our—er—augmented
collection, sir, and found that those on the inside of the door
of Mr. Buckleigh's room were unquestionably Mrs. Temple's.
Also—would it surprise you, Mr. Peter, to know that the same
prints were in evidence in Mr. Suffern's stateroom?"
"What?" exclaimed Peter. "Where were they?"


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"On the front of the cabinet drawers, on the transparent
celluloid of a photograph frame and at the corner of the
mirror. There may even be more of them but I thought those
would be sufficient for your purpose, sir, and I was sure you
would wish to know at once of still another set that I dis-
covered."
"Naturally." Peter cast a swift glance about. "Could you
identify them?"
"From the collection. Yes, Mr. Peter. They were among the
first that you told me to secure. Remarkable foresight on
your part I couldn't help thinking, sir." Some people were
approaching. He slanted his head nearer. Scarcely movine his
lips Wiggar spoke a name in his master's ear.


CHAPTER XVIII
For only a few minutes after Wiggar had gone upon his sedate
inconspicuous way Peter lingered by the rail in deep thought.
Then, his mind made up, he strolled along the deck to the
little outer stair that led up to the radio room. The wish-
fathered inquiry there was met by the reply that he knew was
all but inevitable. There were no wireless messages for Mr.
Percival Cairns.
"I'm expecting a rather important one. You'll let me have
it immediately?"
"Yes, Mr. Cairns. Without fail."
Peter turned abruptly away and went aft with a determined
step. The contesting tennis teams were finishing the last games.
Suffern had wrapped Evelyn Heather in his own coat and was
sitting with her on the side lines. She was watching the game.
He apparently had eyes only for her.
It was many minutes before Peter succeeded in catching
his attention and several more before the younger man was
able to excuse and tear himself away.
"Sorry to interrupt you, John." Peter's tone was somewhat
curt. "Certain developments seem to make it necessary."
"See here, Cairns," Suffern said bluntly, "I know as well
as you do that it seems callous to carry on as I'm doing with a
—a near relative—lying dead in that little white hospital
down there. But what would you have? I ask you. Captain
Northcote doesn't want anything to leak out. If I don't go on
playing the game, if I back out of my place in the tournament,
what explanation can I give? I fancy it would have incon-
165


166 LASTTRUMP
venienced you, rather, if I'd pretended to be ill also, and stayed
in my stateroom."
"Ah," said Peter coolly. "You foresaw that, did you?"
"I fancy it would be detective routine to make an exhaustive
search in such an obvious direction."
For a silent minute Peter studied the able young face before
him. Great physical beauty often goes with quite moderate
intelligence. It was not so, Peter decided, in this case.
"You're quite right, Suffern. Naturally," he said. "Your
frankness does you credit. Will you be so good as to extend it
still further?"
"In what direction, Mr. Cairns?"
"You had visitors in your room yesterday—last night—or
early this morning. Would you mind telling me who they were
and why they came?"
"Visitors?" The dark eyes glanced quickly at Peter and
then down at a spot on the gray-white deck boards where sea
water and rust had stained them redly. "I don't remember any
callers," he said slowly.
"You mean—they came when you were absent?"
"I should think my meaning was obvious, Mr. Cairns. Per-
haps you can tell me who they were."
"Certainly," said Peter. "One of them was Mrs. Temple."
"Mrs. Temple?" The surprise seemed genuine. "Are you
sure? Did someone see her there?"
"Not that I know of now," Peter replied to the last ques-
tion.
"Then what makes you think—"
"Her finger-prints are all over your stateroom. There's a
group of three prints on the inside of Mr. Buckleigh's door.
Can you explain that?"
Suffern shook his head. He looked bewildered. "No. Of


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167
course I can't. I can't see any possible reason—" He stopped.
"The one that's just occurred to you," Peter spoke quickly.
"Aren't you willing to tell me, John?"
"It's too absurd. No, Cairns." He shook his head again. "I
don't know why Mrs. Temple went to my room. Why don't
you ask her?"
"I will," said Peter and there was no doubt of his intention.
"I won't press you further about her—but about the other
visitor, John. I hope you won't be equally reticent."
"You're talking in riddles, Cairns. You know about this
second person. I don't. Who was it? Do you know that, too?"
"Yes. It was your little friend from India, Mr. Dunga
Dass."
"Dass!"
"You said you were not there when he called, John."
"No." The tone was a little breathless.
"He must be a free lance and without a great amount of
training," said Peter. "For that very reason he may be spe-
cially dangerous. I warn you, if I were in your shoes, I'd
watch my step."
"Thanks," said Suffern soberly. "I appreciate your inter-
est."
"Haven't you anything on your mind you want to tell me?"
Peter asked, almost wistfully.
"No," said the younger man after a minute. "No. I'm sorry.
There is nothing I can tell you."


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171
"Though I haven't much hope you'll find anything," Peter
finished dourly a little later, pacing the deck beside his faith-
ful servitor. "He's been careful up to now and it's not likely
he's slipped this time. As the saying goes, 'He may be crazy
but he's no fool.' A long head he has, quick action as well as
the observing eye. Of course he'd have been watching. Anyone
to whom the captain suddenly took a fancy would be suspect,
in the circumstances. Too bad, but it was unavoidable, so no
use crying over used up gas. Don't look like that, Wiggar.
What's the matter with you?"
"I'm thinking of those long empty passages, fore-and-aft,
on every level, sir," said the valet with a hardly repressed
shudder. "And all the little cross halls where it would be so
easy to take a pot-shot and be somewhere else all in a mo-
ment. You will be careful, sir?"
"Of course. Don't worry. Nobody's handed me the spot
yet."
"The spot, sir?"
"Don't you remember your Treasure Island, Wiggar? I'm
ashamed of you. In this case the spot is the ace of spades, of
course. I have a fancy that our friend the enemy may add to
his theatrical effects now by giving warning. May be wrong,
but it looks a bit that way . . . Which brings my mind back,
by a circuitous route, to—Mrs. Temple."
"Mrs. Temple!" Wiggar started.
"Where is she? Do you know?"
"I haven't seen her, sir. It's lunch time. She may be in the
dining salon."
"Or in her own stateroom. I'll have to find out," said Peter
hastily. "Have you seen Miss Oliver?"
"She was in her deck chair a few minutes ago."
"Fine. See you later." Peter appeared his own care-free


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self as he started away.
But Wiggar stuck at his side for another minute. "Let me
get my pistol for you, sir. Please. I'd be so much more con-
tent."
"In the daytime! Don't be an idiot," retorted Peter. "But
you'd better make sure you have your own safe and sound.
At this point I'm pitch and being seen with me might not do
you so much good. Our bird might think it worth while to lift
your gat as well."
"Oh, Mr. Peter. Gat! Tut, tut."
"My dear fellow, I believe you're the only tut-tutter left
in the world." Peter's chuckle sounded sincere enough. "A
rose by any other name will shoot as far. Make sure of your
own, now. After which—you know what to do."
"Thank you, Mr. Peter."
Wiggar glanced back dubiously as he left the deck. Peter
waved him a cheery farewell and went to look for Kate Oliver.
"At last, my clever sleuth!" she murmured as he bent above
her chair. "I've cruised all around the ship looking for you be-
fore I dropped anchor. Any news? What did the captain say
about that miserable wretch Erlanger?"
"Haven't had time to tell him yet. No harm to let that ride
for the minute." Peter drew the next chair closer and perched
on the side of it. Nearly everyone had gone down to luncheon
and they seemed quite alone. "I've another job for you though,
Kitty, if you'll take it over."
"You know you don't have to ask twice." She sat up
alertly.
"This is very confidential," he said, "and I don't know
anyone but you who's keen enough to pull the trick without
rousing suspicion."
"I like sugar on my grapefruit, too. Go on."


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from the stair landing and disappeared from view. She con-
tinued on down to the dining room.
"Do you know I believe it's getting ready to rain again,"
she said, as she stopped casually beside Mrs. Temple's table.
"Isn't it an awful bore? What are you doing after lunch? How
about a game of bridge? It's dreadfully damp and miserable
on deck and I've read until I can't hold a book any longer.
All the interesting ones these days weigh simply tons. I had
to go to bed with Anthony Adverse—the book I mean—and
Seven Pillars. Gone With the Wind isn't much lighter, and
now this Keyholes of Hollywood is physically just as heavy
even though the content is the airiest persiflage. Have you read
it, Evelyn? Well you needn't on my account. Gives me the
wrist if not the headache. How about the game? Think we
could make up a table?"
Miss Oliver's off-hand rattling style was natural and suited
her well. She took care not to exaggerate her ordinary manner
and to her great satisfaction her invitation was promptly ac-
cepted.
"See if John Suffern won't make a fourth, Evelyn," sug-
gested Mrs. Temple. "Shall we meet in the lounge about two-
thirty?"
"That will be fine," Kate Oliver agreed heartily and went
on to her own table.
"I don't want anything but a salad and some cheese and
coffee," she told the steward as she sat down. "Bring it as
soon as you can."
She had noted the fact that Mrs. Temple was at least half
through her lunch and Kate Oliver had no intention of letting
the object of Peter Clancy's solicitude out of her sight. By
careful calculation she kept pace with the service at the other
table and was not a half minute behind Mrs. Temple when


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175
that lady left the dining room.
"Let's take a turn around the deck before we sit down,"
said Miss Oliver, catching up with her quarry on the stairs.
"Do you mind? I always feel stuffy if I don't." She slipped
her hand under the other's arm. "We can trust Evelyn to
capture a fourth for us. She could take her pick of the entire
ship's crop and I fancy the Honorable John's the best of the
lot. He seems rather grand for a boat like this, doesn't he? Do
you know how he happened to sail on this line?"
"He told Evelyn he wanted a complete rest and thought a
slow boat would exactly fill the bill."
"Well, from the way they played tennis this morning I
should say it wasn't physical repose that he needed," Miss
Oliver remarked with a smile. "But I daresay the likes of us
are an interesting change. He's pretty sure not to meet his
customary social set in these surroundings."
"People like John Suffern don't have to put on airs," said
Mrs. Temple, somewhat sharply. "They can go where they
please and do what they please. He's the type that asks odds
of nobody. Don't you think that's right, Miss Oliver?"
It seemed to Kate that it was a genuine, oddly wistful ap-
peal. "I should say that he was no snob—and had the courage
of his convictions," she replied, and added quietly: "Here
they come."
Though the sun had gone and a light drizzle had set in there
was as yet only one set of card-players in the lounge. Kate
led the way to the most distant table.
"Oh, goodness," she said as they sat down, "I forgot. Has
anyone a pack of cards—or shall I get mine?"
"Don't bother," said Evelyn with her usual brilliant smile.
"We always keep one within reach. In your knitting bag,
dear?" She reached for the gay chintz one that Mrs. Temple


176
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was about to hang on the back of her chair. "It's a shame to
make you carry them, but since I don't knit—" Her brown
fingers had been delving in the depths of the work bag. "Ah,
here they are," she cried and slid the deck out of its red and
white cardboard case. "Cut for deal?"
"Low?" said Kate Oliver. "Ah, then it's mine." Her heart
skipped a beat as she picked up the cards. She glanced at the
two handsome young faces beside her and then at the worn
and rather hard but somehow gallant one opposite—and found
it in her heart to pray that the pack would turn out to be—
"A misdeal?" said Evelyn Heather. "Why, Miss Oliver
you have only twelve cards."
"Perhaps I dropped one." Kate pushed her chair back and
bent as if to search the floor, but the bright green eye above
the table top did not fail to note the curious expression that
flitted swiftly across the face of John Suffern. He was looking
straight at her and his glance was as sharp as her own. In-
stantly they both bent lower and searched in earnest.
"Nothing there," said Kate after a minute in as light a tone
as she could command. "I must have made a mistake. Shall I
pass the deal to you, Evelyn, or shall I try again?"
"Oh, keep the deal by all means." The girl's lovely face
looked as innocent and happy as a cloudless sky.
Kate gathered in the cards swiftly and dealt once more.
"One card short," she announced carelessly. She had re-
gained her self-control and her mind was working at full
power. "Let's run through and see what's missing. I bought
some cards like these and I know the steward has a lot of
extras loose in the drawer there. Maybe he can fill in for us.
If not, I'll dash down and get mine."
Her hands had been moving at top speed while she spoke.
Evelyn, too, had turned her cards face up and was already


LASTTRUMP 177
sorting them. Suffern had eyes only for the black and red
pasteboards that fell swiftly from his fingers. Mrs. Temple
picked up the hand that had been dealt her, turned it over
and pushed it slowly to the middle of the table. Kate saw
Suffern glance up before he swept up the remaining cards and
laid them down again according to suit.
"Hearts seem to be all right," said Evelyn, running them
through quickly.
"And the diamonds are all here." Suffern's controlled voice
gave little indication of strain.
"It—it seems to be the ace of spades that's missing," said
Kate Oliver, spreading out the black cards.
"The ace of spades. Well then—" As Evelyn turned to look
for the steward her eyes fell upon Mrs. Temple and she broke
off sharply. "Darling!" she cried. "What is it? Are you ill?
You seem so—"
"It's nothing, Evelyn. Don't worry, my dear. Just the head-
ache come back." Mrs. Temple managed a smile. "I hate to
break up the game but I'm afraid I'd better not try to play.
You get someone else, John. I'm so sorry but I think I'll go
and lie down. No, no, darling. I don't need anyone. I'm really
quite all right. Just a little neuralgia or something. I'll be all
right if I lie quiet for a while."
"Don't you think you'd feel better on deck?" Kate Oliver,
ignoring the other woman's protestations, was supporting
her by the arm. "I'll take care of her, Evelyn. You two go
on and play. She'll be all right. Come along, Mrs. Temple.
I'll put you in your deck chair and get you some tea—or
brandy or something. The air will do you good."
"No, no." The woman shook her silver-gilt head. "You're
very kind, but I'm going to my room. I'll be better there.
This is nothing but foolishness. It will pass off. I can't think


178
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what's upset me so." She stopped at the head of the stairs.
"Do you ever feel—" Her glance sought the clever plain face
leaning above her. "No, you wouldn't I guess. You have too
much brains."
"Don't bother," said Kate kindly. "Come out and take a
turn around the deck. You seem better already. All you
need is—"
"To lie down," said Mrs. Temple firmly. "No, don't come
with me, Miss Oliver. I would really rather be alone. But
please realize that I appreciate how nice you've been to me all
this voyage."
Kate's heart smote her. She had done all she could. She
had found out what Peter Clancy wanted to know. Now,
whatever he was up to, he must take his chance. She told
herself she would not play the spy any longer—but she found
that she wanted something from her own cabin and descended
the stairs almost on Mrs. Temple's heels. In the companion-
way of A deck she paused for an instant. The woman who
was disturbing her thoughts could be seen a few paces down
the port side passage. She had stopped and was unlocking
the door of her stateroom.


CHAPTER XX
"What in God's name are you doing here, Mr. Cairns?"
Peter swung on his heel to meet the startled dangerous
glance of Ariadne Temple as she stood rooted to the threshold.
"I'm sorry you came so soon," said Peter quietly. "Would
you mind closing the door?"
"But I left it locked." The carefully applied rouge stood
out against the white face. Her voice was low in her throat.
"The ship's detective, Mr. Underwood, was so good as to
let me have his pass-key." Peter's manner was courtesy itself.
"The ship's detective," she repeated. "Then you—"
"In my own humble way I follow the same calling." Peter
bowed.
"And that Miss Oliver?" Her voice shook.
"Oh, no. She's just a newspaper woman."
"God!" The appeal in the tone made the word sound al-
most like a prayer. The woman sank down on the couch
under the port. "What do you want, Cairns? What is it you're
after?"
"Can't you guess?"
"No. No!" She reiterated the violent negation.
"Then perhaps I'd better explain." Peter slipped his fin-
gers inside his coat. "Miss Oliver found just now that there
was one card missing from the deck you customarily use,
didn't she?" With his eyes fastened upon her Peter took his
hand from his breast pocket. "Was this the one?"
"The—the ace—" She drew back as if the thing had power
to strike her down. "How do I know? One card is like an-
other."
179


180
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"But not if the one in question has a peculiar mark." Peter
turned it in his hand but kept it just out of her reach. "Violet
ink of a very unusual shade, Mrs. Temple. Did you lend your
pen to anyone recently?"
"No." She waited a minute, moistening her lips. "I'd just
as soon tell you about it if it's anything to you, Mr. Cairns.
I'm a superstitious fool. Of course you can see that. It's in my
blood and in my bones. I've not had the chances of some—to
get an education and all that. There's some things I haven't
been able to shake off—and belief in the cards is one. My old
mother could read 'em like you'd read a book. I'm not so good,
but I know what they mean, all right. And yet—I thought I
could fool them . . . She—I mean all those children have
been teasing me to tell their fortunes. I—I couldn't stand—I
didn't want the death card to come up—for any of them. So I
marked it. A tiny spot on the back. Was there any harm in
that?"
"If that was the real reason, certainly not," said Peter.
"What makes you think it wasn't?"
"Oh, far be it from me to doubt a lady's word. But, in the
circumstances, I can't help being curious. Very curious."
"About what? Not that I think you have any right to know.
Only I'm a bit curious myself, Mr. Cairns." Her voice and
manner had undergone an odd change. It was as if a hot iron
had been run over a limp fabric bringing out the sizing with
which it was impregnated.
Peter, watching her, felt that she might be found, under
certain conditions, a wary and able adversary. He came at
once to the point. "What intrigues me at the minute, Mrs.
Temple," he said thoughtfully, "is—how well you knew Mr.
Francis Buckleigh."
For an instant she gazed straight at him. "Knew?" she re-


LASTTRUMP 187
"Did she tell you that ace was missing?"
"She admitted it, but not much else. I can't stop to talk
now, Kitty. I need your help again."
"Some more dirty work?"
"Don't take that tone with me. Please. You didn't do any-
thing to Mrs. Temple that wasn't absolutely necessary. Can't
you see that?" Peter insisted. "Anyhow you won't have any
compunction about letting the captain know what we discov-
ered about Erlanger. It will please him and keep him satisfied
until I can hand him out something more important."
"I'll go straight and find him." Miss Oliver threw up her
gray head like an eager war horse.
"No," Peter objected quickly. "Promise me, Kitty, you'll
be careful not to let anyone suspect that I've involved you in
this. I mean, just be easy and casual. Laugh and be your old
teasing self when we pass this bunch of men."
"My old self, Mr. Cairns?" She played up with spirit. "How
old do you mean? Do you think that was nice? I may be an-
tique enough to be your favorite aunt or grandmother but I
hardly relish its being flung in my teeth. Rather neat meta-
phor that, don't you think? I usually mix mine but relish and
teeth go nicely together, don't—" The other passengers were
out of hearing. Her tone changed. "You're worried, Peter.
What about?"
"General principles only." Peter waved the question aside
but his face was grave. "This is what I suggest, Kitty. Write
a note to the captain, about Erlanger, you know. Tell him I
asked you to since you were really the one who made the dis-
covery. Better do the writing in your own room and give it to
the purser to send up to the bridge by someone he can trust.
He's enough in Northcote's confidence so he'll realize its im-
portant. That'll do the trick. Sure and safe."


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"Peter." She looked up at him searchingly. "You're keep-
ing something back. Are you in danger?"
"Only from the shafts of your emerald eyes, darling." His
tone was gay as he nodded to a passing acquaintance. When
the man was out of sight, Peter said: "Don't worry about me,
Kitty. I have a self-constituted bodyguard with the eyes of a
hawk. He's fluttering somewhere in the offing at this minute.
Can you spot him? It's my valet, Wiggar, otherwise known as
Mr. Henry Williams."
"The little Englishman with a face like a well-groomed
oyster!"
"The same. He's priceless," said Peter smiling. "If you
ever need anything you can count on him to the death—es-
pecially if it's sartorial. There he is now. Would you think
he had the slighest interest in anything?"
"Not in the heavens above nor the waters under the ship,"
said Kate. "Are you going to speak to him?"
"Not now. Later, perhaps. Just at the minute I'm a puppet
strutting on a lighted stage with only a very little time to fig-
ure out who's in the audience. All the faces confused and
dark—and my job is to pick out one—just one." He pulled
himself up. His manner changed. "And by God's help (with a
little of yours thrown in)," he finished half seriously, "so I
will!"
She looked after him as he swung away along the deck.
"What a man," she said to herself. "In the words of the
movies: 'What a man!' If I were ten—fifteen years younger—
He probably wouldn't look at you twice, Kate. So be thank-
ful."
As she turned away she saw the neat and rather elegant
Mr. Williams stop by the rail to call Mr. Cairns' attention to


LASTTRUMP 189
some porpoises that were cart-wheeling in the middle dis-
tance.
"Cut it short, Wiggar. What is it?" Peter's eyes were on
the flashing fins.
"Please, Mr. Peter, won't you let me have your things
moved back to your old stateroom on B deck? Now that
you've definitely fixed the onus of the illicit liquor traffic on
Erlanger, there can be no object—"
Wiggar's language always tickled Peter but now he had no
time to waste. "I don't mind, old man," he said. "If it means
a lot to you, arrange it quietly with the purser for me—but
don't forget and go doing any of the actual work yourself."
"No, certainly not, sir. I don't suppose, Mr. Peter," hesi-
tantly, "that you would consider exchanging quarters with
me. I'd be so glad."
"A swell idea," Peter responded with gentle sarcasm. "It's
very nice of you but there are cases, Wiggar, when it does not
pay to advertise."
"Very good. Thank you, Mr. Peter."
Wiggar turned away and Peter continued his apparently
aimless walk, determining in a few minutes that the person
he sought was not out on any of the decks. As the stewards
were beginning to serve tea he decided to try the lounge. Hav-
ing eaten nothing since breakfast a little sustenance would not
come amiss in any case.
The room with the lights already on looked warm and cozy.
Peter took in the ocqupants with a swift circular glance . . .
Some one of those commonplace people sitting quietly there
drinking the most innocent of beverages and eating thin bread
and butter and little cakes with pink icing—some one person,
merging himself with the general run of the mill, might even


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191
open minded student of the Eastern question; a man of great
sympathy and understanding. Mr. Dass, too, seemed to be
entirely innocent. A monomaniac on the subject of his coun-
try, its industries and religion; its present troubles and its
past greatness. The future, he thought, rested in the hands of
its seers who received "illumination" which they in turn were
able to pass on in the form of definite guidance.
On religion and nationalism he could be eloquent. So much
so that Peter gave up trying to make him talk of anything
else. Darkness was falling. Tea was over and the tables were
being moved back to make room for the race of the little
wooden horses. Mr. Dass never missed the spectacle, so Peter
excused himself and departed.
Intent on the various facets of the case that whirled in
dazzling flashes before his mental vision, it was not until
Peter had opened the door of his stateroom on C deck and
found the room cleared and empty that he woke up to the fact
of his belongings having been removed already to the one he
had previously occupied on the deck above.
He almost regretted the change, it seemed so quiet and re-
poseful here. Absently he sat down on the edge of the berth,
made a few notes in cipher in a tiny memorandum book he
always carried, and then, bethinking himself that it was grow-
ing late, he left the stateroom and had almost reached the
short stairway when without the faintest warning a shot rang
out.
Instantly Peter dropped as the bullet whizzed past. In a
split second he was on his feet again. The passage behind him
was empty but the shot had been fired from that direction.
Peter leaped forward and plunged incontinently into the very
middle of Father Cassidy's broad clerical waistcoat.
The priest must have just dashed out of his own cabin.


192 LASTTRUMP
"What is it, my son?" he gasped. "Sounded like a shot!"
"And how!" cried Peter. "See anyone?"
"Not a soul." The heavy black figure turned and lumbered
with surprising celerity in Peter's wake. A short distance aft
and they both paused, panting.
"Might have been from back there at the end of the pas-
sage," Peter whispered, "or from the washrooms here. I'm
going this way, will you go that?"
The priest nodded eagerly.
"Watch your step, Father," he admonished and hurriedly
slipped noiselessly into the lavatory.
A minute later he was out again on the farther or port side
and met the priest coming along the passage, out of breath
with haste, for he had made the circuit of that part of the
cabins.
"Nothing," he muttered shaking his head. "What are you
going to do, Cairns?"
"I've a fancy I know who's down here at this minute."
Peter was balancing something in his hand.
The priest started. "Is that your pistol?" he asked.
"Yes," said Peter softly. "But it wasn't I who used it just
now. I found it in the washroom—where anyone could have
left it."
Father Cassidy looked at him curiously but realizing that
this was no time for explanations he asked: "What are we
going to do now?"
At another time Peter might have been amused at the
change of pronoun. Now he was far too much involved in se-
rious considerations. "This, obviously, being the weapon," he
murmured half to himself, "there's nothing to be gained by
searching the staterooms."
"But the blackguard must still be here, Cairns," urged the


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to Father Cassidy.
"Seen anyone?" asked Peter coming close.
"Not a soul," answered the priest shaking his head. "And
you?"
"The place is nearly deserted," Peter replied. "The little
old German lady must still be playing the ponies. The Battle-
axe and the Hatchet—I mean those two school teachers—are
in their room way back there. Alfred helped Innes to bed a
while ago—soused as usual. Erlanger—well it's easy enough
to understand why he's growling like a bear with a sore
head . . . They wouldn't have told him I had anything to
do with that . . . But he might have guessed."
Peter's voice had dropped. He seemed to be talking to him-
self. Suddenly he took the page boy by the shoulders. "Have
you seen anyone down here who didn't belong, Alfred?" he
asked. "Earlier—or just now? There'd be no excuse for any
person who hadn't a stateroom on this level to come here."
"No, sir." The boy answered promptly, hesitated, and then
as an afterthought: "Only the animal trainer, Mr. Zootorius,
you know."
"Him?" said Peter slowly. "What does he do down here?"
"Why his pet monkey loves bananas. He often comes down
to get him some. Maybe the captain wouldn't like it any too
well . . ."
"He does it on the quiet then?" Peter's glance was keen.
"When was he here last? Do you know?"
"Why he was in the pantry when I came through a few min-
utes ago."
"In the pantry? Through that door?" Peter's face sharp-
ened. "How long has he been there?"
"Oh, not long I guess. One of the cooks had just gone off to
get him the bananas. If you want to speak to Mr. Zootorius


LAST TRUMP
195
you'll have to hurry. He'll go forward as soon as he gets 'em.
He always does."
"Can't you say more definitely about the time, Alfred?
Think," said Peter urgently. "Zootorius—might—have seen
something—or somebody. If he'd left here only a few minutes
ago—"
"All I know is he was in the pantry when I came through. I
didn't stop. When I got back here I saw you, sir. I can't say
more accurate than that."
"Hum-m-m," said Peter thoughtfully. "I guess we won't
talk to Zootorius—yet. He's probably feeding his little play-
mate by now. There wouldn't be a thing—unless—"


CHAPTER XXII
"Come in here a minute, my son." Father Cassidy spoke with
the simple authority of one who is used to unquestioning obe-
dience. He held open the door of his little cabin and paused
for Peter to enter. After which he closed it quietly.
"Sit down." The priest took his hanging gold cross in his
hands and began pacing the three available steps, back and
forth. "I know too much—and too little, Mr. Cairns," he con-
tinued almost at once. "There's desperate work going forward
on this ship. I'd be something less than a fool not to guess that
much . . . I'm not allowed to say a prayer over the dead
body of a man I saw in health last evening—who was to have
come to me, here in this room, this morning. And, my son, I
can think of but one reason for that."
"Yes?" said Peter quietly.
"They wish to keep it secret that the man did not die from
natural causes . . . Why?"
"On account of throwing a gloom over the ship."
Father Cassidy fanned his forefinger sidewise in an effec-
tive gesture. "You know very well, Cairns, that I'm asking
why was the man murdered."
Peter looked suddenly and shrewdly up into the wise little
eyes that met his. "Maybe it's you should be telling me that,
Father," he said.
"Well, well, and how do you figure that out, my son?"
"The man who died last night belonged to your faith, sir?"
"Yes."
"He came to you some time—probably early—last eve-
ning." Peter's voice was a tense whisper. "It was to tell you
196


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197
that he went in fear of his life."
The priest nodded. "I can admit so much. Yes."
"And why not the rest, Father Cassidy? You know a lot
more. I can see that," Peter insisted. "I'm a detective, sir.
I've been working on this case—before it happened in a sense.
I've gathered evidence—sorting and sifting as well as I could.
And yet I don't know—I don't know who stole my gun and
shot at me with it just now— Only sure that he's no shot,
whoever he is. It's not his best technique. But he's versatile.
Try anything once. No telling where he'll stop. Oh, Father
Cassidy, if you know anything that will help me put this fiend
where he belongs—"
The torrent of words ceased. The priest shook his head
sadly. "I know very little," he said. "Nor whether it might
be of service. And I can't let you pass judgment upon it be-
cause what Francis Buckleigh told me was under the seal of
the confessional."
There was finality in the tone. The priest sank down beside
Peter and for a minute buried his wise old face in his hands.
Peter thought fast. When at length Father Cassidy lifted
himself up, Peter was ready for him. At least the priest might
be able to clear some of the way through the wood—to verify
some of Peter's deductions. Two Irishmen together ought to
be able to find a common ground.
"Father Cassidy," he said, turning squarely to face the old
man, "if you were to hear one person maligning another,
would you stand by and keep silent?"
"How's that, my son?" The little bright eyes narrowed with
sudden caution.
"If I were to speak an untruth—about a man who was dead
and couldn't defend himself, and you knew to the contrary,
would you let me get away with it?"


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"Certainly not."
"On the other hand, supposing I were to mention something
about a person—and you happened to have a special reason
for believing that my statement was correct—"
"There'd be no course open to me but to hold my peace,"
said Father Cassidy gravely.
"Then," said Peter in the same measured tone, "since you
dragged me in here to pump me, sir, I'll break down and tell
you—what I believe I know."
"If you think it advisable," the priest responded with quiet
emphasis, "I shall be glad to hear."
"In the first place—" Peter bent his head to hide the twin-
kle in his eyes—"let us admit, Father, that Francis Buck-
leigh got no more than he deserved, seeing he'd already killed
two men."
"What?" The round clean-shaven face turned with a jerk.
"Impossible! I don't believe it."
"Neither do I," said Peter with a straight face. "Now we
understand one another perfectly and I continue."
The priest's long upper lip twitched but he said nothing.
"We've already agreed," Peter went on at once, "that
Buckleigh went in fear of his life. Now I'll tell you why. Al-
ready two men—in his employ—had been murdered. He felt
that it was a warning to him. He decided to leave a very profit-
able business in the States and was returning to England as
fast as possible on an inconspicuous ship. He believed that he
was safe—until last night—when a curious accident oc-
curred."
Father Cassidy's glance did not waver. He made no sign of
dissent but Peter corrected himself quickly.
"I say accident, but Buckleigh did not think it was one.
And perhaps he was right in a sense. Who or what it was that


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199
caused the death card to fall at his feet I'm not prepared to
say. Perhaps you are, Father. Be that as it may, it frightened
Buckleigh beyond reason, or so anyone would have thought
who didn't know his story—and the guilt that was on his
soul."
The priest, sighing, uttered no word.
"Perhaps you may feel, sir," Peter continued earnestly,
"that murder is a worse crime than being, as Buckleigh was,
the head and hands and feet of as cleverly managed and as
dirty a racket as can well be conceived. A swindle that tempts
weak or desperately needy people to go against the laws that
are framed to protect them and to which they consequently
are unable to appeal. With Buckleigh's fine connections he
was able to put up an impeccable front, and keeping it all in
his own hands, he sowed and reaped to his heart's content
. . . Am I boring you, sir?"
"No, Cairns. No." Father Cassidy stirred uneasily. "But
do I understand you to say this Sweepstake—I mean this
racket you speak of, could have been run without competi-
tion?"
"Oh, far from it." Peter paid no attention to the slip. "What
I'm saying is that Buckleigh was the head man in the British
outfit—the one who imported the cleverly counterfeited tick-
ets, and receipts as well, for the United Kingdom Hospital
Sweeps. That Buckleigh, himself, was the Big and Only Boss
of that particular layout."
Peter stopped abruptly. It was a point he wanted most
earnestly to determine. Father Cassidy, still rigidly silent,
looked him straight in the face—and Peter knew without the
shadow of a doubt that his guess had made a bull's-eye.
"So you see, sir, that puts us one step farther on our way."
Peter started to rise.


200
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"Wait a minute, Cairns. Am I to understand that you, too,
believe that the head man of a rival racket is here on the
ship?"
"I, too?" Peter returned swiftly. "Then that's what Buck-
leigh thought." The priest bit his lip. Peter, waiting not for
confirmation or denial went quickly on: "His death would
seem to prove that he might have been right. The police at
home had figured the thing out differently—in some respects
at least. But from the evidence it seems fairly clear that the
other—the American—country-wide system of sweepstake
racketeering was under the management of one very able
head. A number of sporadic arrests of underlings have been
made, but from the nature of the swindle it's possible to make
it almost like a mail-order job. The accomplices were gener-
ally quite innocent as far as the swindle was concerned, though
of course they knew they were operating against the lottery
regulations. It's bred in the bone with us Americans—the idea
of making our own laws—and even very decent people wink
at the violation of one they personally wouldn't have put on
the statute books.
"But this selling of bogus chances and fake tickets is an-
other matter entirely. It's so dirty—that I can't be honestly
sorry, Father, about Buckleigh, though death may have been
an excessive penalty. I don't know. If I'd seen what was com-
ing I would have protected him, of course.
"Now, with this other criminal there's no question. He's
not only a black scoundrel but he apparently has rubbed out
his only real competitor after having murdered two of his
henchmen. When and if we get him we can give him a dose of
his own medicine and we'll have gone far to scotch the whole
despicable traffic."
"But you don't know who it is, Cairns. How do you pro-


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205
Heather, but had been often, if not always, in Mrs. Temple's
keeping . . .
What was the woman's connection with the dead man? His
dislike for her had seemed genuine. Her hatred of him was
patent. No short casual acquaintance could account for such
bitter antagonism as flashed in her face.
"Where, where, and how does Buckleigh come into her
story?" Peter asked himself half aloud. "If I could only see
that." He rested his elbows on the little pulled out shelf of
the cabinet and buried his face in his hands. For many min-
utes he sat thus without stirring. At last he roused himself and
once more opened his wallet. From the inmost compartment
he took out the two photographs that he had already secreted
when Mrs. Temple had surprised him in her stateroom. He
had found them in a leather case buried in the depths of a
suitcase. The locks were good and had given him some
trouble.
Now he laid the two pictures face up under the bright light.
One had been taken, judging from the clothing, perhaps
twenty years ago or more. The woman was then at the height
of her beauty, which even in the faded picture was enough to
take one's breath. The lines of the figure now were no longer
supple. The face had hardened, but there was no doubt as
to the identity ...
And it was not for herself, Peter shrewdly guessed, that
Ariadne Temple had kept this old photograph so carefully.
Rather it was on account of the man who stood at her side—
and he a perfect foil and complement to her loveliness.
Peter's eyebrows met above his brooding eyes. He had been
startled the instant he discovered the portrait by the resem-
blance. Except for a difference in height—and the cut of the


206
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hair—the picture of the man who was seen looking tenderly
down at his companion might have been an exact presentment
of the Honorable John Suffern.
Slowly Peter stretched out his hand and placed the second
picture close beside the first. The identity here was unmis-
takable: A snapshot taken years before when she was in her
early teens: The girl was Evelyn Heather.
Peter sat lost in tense concentration until the crescendo of
the soft tones of the gong passing along the hall warned him
that he had scarcely time to dress for his assignation with his
spirited newspaper correspondent.


CHAPTER XXIII
Peter was able to keep his appointment with one second
to spare. Kate Oliver appeared from nowhere as he raced
up the companionway and he took her at once into the
crowded bar.
"I'll swap twelve of the promised cocktails for a little
advance information," she murmured as Peter gave their
order.
"I won't say 'keep your shirt on,' Kitty." He laughed as
he glanced over her shoulder at the back of her handsome
low-cut frock. "Since even a mere man could guess you
must have dispensed with it already. I don't suppose I
ought to let my imagination roam, but do tell me, old dear,
how in hell you girls keep things on."
"The herring you're dragging across the trail is redder
than your hair," she retorted scornfully. "I wouldn't be
as mean and low as you are for— Oh, oh." She lowered her
voice as she lifted her cocktail. "Don't look now but here's
your British bloodhound."
Peter raised his eyes to the mirror behind the bar and
for an instant caught Wiggar's gaze fixed upon him. At
almost the same instant he felt a bit of paper thrust into
the hand he had dropped expectantly. He opened it below the
bar and read it in a flash.
"Will still be waiting in the men's lavatory behind the bar.
Very important. Thank you." As Peter read he remembered
and his hand went instinctively to his tie. He raised guilty
eyes to the mirror but Wiggar had already disappeared.
207


208
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Peter ordered another drink for Kate Oliver and excused
himself. "Be back in a minute. Wait for me here. We'll go
down to dinner together."
She had seen enough to be assured that it was no time
to demur or ask questions. Peter was back before she had
captured the cherry at the bottom of her second cocktail.
"Notice any difference?" he said as he slipped in beside
her at the rapidly thinning bar.
"Except that you look as if someone had handed you a
hatful of electric sparks." She eyed him curiously.
"Isn't my tie a perfect dream now?" he asked with a
chuckle.
"Good heavens," Kate exclaimed sarcastically. "Was that
the inside story of the mystery just now? Can't you tie up
your own neck, for the love of Mike?"
"But don't you think this is an improvement? Lawn is
so temperamental, and I must go in tails to the captain's
dinner."
"You'll go somewhere in a shroud," she muttered, "if
you don't tell me what's happened to pep you up so all of
a sudden. No, I won't have another drink. You can owe me
the remaining twelve." She slid off the stool and took his
arm. "Everybody's going down to dinner. No one will hear.
You might at least give me a hint."
They were on the stairs now. For the minute there was
no one in sight. Peter had only to bend his head a little to
speak in her ear.
"We've got onto something definite now, Kitty," he whis-
pered. "Wiggar just told me. He's here on the ship. We know
it, positively, at last."
"Who? For goodness sake, Peter, who is he?"
"I don't know."


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"Then how do you propose—"
"'Man proposes and God disposes'," Peter quoted not
irreverently. "I know now, absolutely, that the man I want
is on this boat, and he'll have to be a smaller louse than he
is to get through my fine tooth comb."
"I don't think that's a pretty remark to hand a lady, but
I'll forgive you, Peter. I'll forgive you anything if you'll
take care no newshound but me gets the story when it
breaks."
"I promised, didn't I? You have nothing to worry about,
my good woman—except your nose-for-news. It needs pow-
dering."
"Idiot. Does it really?" Kate touched it with her cus-
tomary gesture. "It'll take some time to do it all over. I
may be late to the dance."
"And so may I," Peter said. "I must try to see Captain
Northcote if possible. Don't be worried if I'm late, but
save me some dances or I'll weep all over your beautiful
frock even if I have to get down on my knees to do it."
Kate watched him go up the dark little stair that led to
the radio room. Almost immediately thereafter Mr. Henry
Williams dawdled over and disappeared in the same direc-
tion. At which she drew a sigh of relief and went down
obediently to powder her nose.
Peter nodded to the radio operator and sat down sidewise
at the little desk outside the glass partition so that he could
face the door. Once, as he rapidly worked out his code
messages, he saw Wiggar pass across the dark misty aper-
ture. After which he proceeded with entire concentration on
the matter in hand.
He had only just completed the radiograms and was read-


216 LASTTRUMP
and a bandit if you like, but I have my own code. Telling
tales out of school isn't one of my vices. Perhaps showing
off how much I've succeeded in finding out is. At any rate,
at the risk of boring you with what you already know I
think this the point where I'd like to get a few things cleared
up if you've no objection."
In Suffern's face many emotions seemed struggling for
mastery. All he said was: "Very good, Clancy. Carry on."


LAST TRUMP
219
swindles in which your uncle was not implicated—we would
have him now on a charge of murder—and could rub him
off the slate. In which case and for the sake of clarity—"
Peter's voice was almost pleading—"won't you admit,
John, that the person who was guilty of abusing the diplo-
matic mail privileges was your uncle—not yourself."
"And if I admit that much, Clancy?"
"Then I can easily tell you the rest of the story without
fear of possible disproof," said Peter squaring his shoulders
and drawing a deep breath. "There was a definite reason
for letting it appear that it was you who were going home
under a cloud. It was necessary to send Buckleigh back to
England where he could be watched, though owing to his
connections, he was to be spared as far as possible, on
promise of good behavior. Your chief owed that much to
you, John, for he was asking a good deal of your personal
loyalty. Though he is, no doubt, prepared to make it up to
you later by signal public honors, he was asking that you
allow it to be inferred that you were being sent back to
England in disgrace . . . Because, by so doing, he be-
lieved he could remove any chance of suspicion that you
were carrying papers so important and so secret that you
enclosed with them only the silver greyhound, having de-
posited elsewhere, I have no doubt, the unmistakable re-
mainder of the badge of a King's Messenger."
"Clancy!" Suffern's fingers bit deep into Peter's wrist.
"You didn't—"
"No. No, John." Peter shook an emphatic red head.
"I didn't look at the papers. I give you my word. It wasn't
necessary. Politics—secret missions—are no affair of mine—
except by special government request—my own govern-
ment, I mean. You would know whether or not the U.S.A.


CHAPTER XXV
"Forgive me for being so late, Kitty." Peter's arm was
about her trim waist, her hand was clasped in his and in
spite of her fifteen years' seniority she moved with him in
smooth perfect rhythm across the dance floor of the lounge.
"Anything happened?"
Their heads were so close together that the low tone
carried to Peter's ear above the music of the orchestra.
"You'll be glad to know I've just definitely cleared up one
point." He accompanied the whispered words with a senti-
mental glance that shocked the Battleaxe who was happily
cavorting with one of the gentlemen "in clux and suits."
"Yes. What?" Kate breathed.
"It was Buckleigh and not Suffern who was guilty in the
lottery swindle."
She jerked her head back and gave him a smile that made
her strong face quite marvelous. "Thank God for that," she
exclaimed. "Anything else?"
Peter glanced about uneasily and then bent to press his
cheek against hers. "Let's give the Battleaxe an eyeful,
Kitty," he mentioned in parenthesis and added: "Have you
seen Mrs. Temple anywhere?"
"If you're trying to break my heart, you've handed your-
self a tough job, Peter, and you're taking off a lot of my
makeup but I don't care. Your handsome friend Mrs. Temple
was about some time ago in a particularly stunning black
evening frock. She wasn't dancing and I lost sight of her.
Why?"
224


LAST TRUMP
227
muttered. "Things I should have had the wit to foresee. To
prevent ... Go down quickly. You're a brick, Kitty."
He almost pushed her into the lighted companionway.
"When he turned he found Wiggar at his elbow.
"Yes, Mr. Peter." It was like a private in the array re-
porting for duty.
Without a wasted word Peter made the position and his
instructions clear. They parted instantly, Wiggar passing
along the port and Peter along the starboard side of the
promenade deck. Meeting in the stern they went hastily
down to the main deck but a brief reconnaissance determined
the fact that the person they sought was not there. Back
on the deck above, they glanced in once more from opposite
sides at the smoking room, the bar, the writing room and the
lounge.
"We'll try the boat deck," said Peter when they met once
more in the stern. "It's not so damp now. She may be there."
Wiggar knew his master's heavy breathing was not alone
due to their rapid pace. Foreseeing the loneliness of the top
deck at that hour the valet would have given much to be
allowed to stick at Mr. Peter's heels, but he was too wise to
even make the suggestion. Keeping each to his own side of
the ship the two men mounted to the upper level.
The air had cleared somewhat though there was little
wind. A few stars showed white and unconcerned through
the thinning clouds. The deck lights, spaced far apart, some-
how gave the small ship on that vast empty stage a peculiar
effect of vulnerability.
There was no one on the forward deck which was Peter's
immediate concern. Though the boats along the side, hang-
ing from their davits, might be adequate, they looked to his
heated imagination puerile to the point of tears against the


230
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seemed wrung from her. "It was a pretty classy place and
honestly run, Cairns. The girls well treated. Came of their
own accord. Better life than free lancing the streets, you can
take it from me."
"You're trying to stall but it won't get you anywhere.
Buckleigh may have run into you by accident in Chicago
but you'd known him before that." It was only one of Peters
"hunches," but he played it for a direct statement.
"I don't see what makes you think—"
He would not let her finish. "You weren't much afraid of
Buckleigh's giving you away about that," Peter insisted.
"He was on bad terms with his fine upstanding young nephew
already and wouldn't help his position by advertising the
sort of places he frequented. So why did you search his room?
And Suffern's, too? What did you expect—or hope to find?"
She watched his face with passionate intensity but made
no answer.
"You and Buckleigh came to some sort of agreement as
early as Monday when you talked together out there in the
stern, back of the hospital—where his dead body is hidden."
Peter leaned forward holding her glance. "After that, Mrs.
Temple, in spite of the obvious shortness of acquaintance
with Evelyn Heather, you became a strangely interested
chaperon. You must have seen that she attracted and was
very much attracted by a certain person, but you managed
very cleverly to be constantly with her—with them—" He
paused and finished slowly—"until last night."
She sat as if turned to stone. Peter caught her wrist and
held it in a hard grip as he continued: "That change of atti-
tude on your part, Mrs. Temple, interests me strangely, as
they say in books. And I ask myself, was it because Buck-
leigh lied to you in the first place? Did an apparently casual


LAST TRUMP
231
remark of Suffern's raise a question in your mind? Did you
search his and his uncle's staterooms hoping desperately to
prove that what Buckleigh had told you—or allowed you to
believe—was a vicious falsehood?"
She breathed heavily but her only response was a shaking
of the head that was more like a nervous rigor than an at-
tempt at denial.
Peter suddenly shifted his position and dropped her hand.
To his ear, highly attuned, had come a faintly whistled bar
of "Rule Britannia." Glancing along the deck, he saw Wiggar
holding converse with a dark figure that he was able to
identify as Father Cassidy when he passed by, apparently
without seeing them, a minute later.
The pause had been a welcome one to Peter. Now he
changed his ground. Touching his breast pocket he said: "I
have a photograph here, Mrs. Temple, of you—and a man
you knew—a long time ago. What was that man to you?
And how can you explain to me his strange likeness—to John
Suffern?"
She made no sign of having heard, but her gaze was still
riveted on his face. Her great eyes were deep wells of tragedy
but they had lost much of their hardness. Peter's hand re-
mained pressed strongly against his breast.
"I will not give up that photograph until you answer,"
he warned. "And I will keep the other, too, unless you can
tell me, since you and Evelyn Heather were strangers before
you met here on the boat, how it happened that you have,
carefully preserved and hidden, a picture of her at the age
of ten or twelve. How did you come by it? And why have
you treasured it for years?"
She put her hand up over her mouth as if to stifle a cry.
"Don't you realize," Peter exclaimed, "that you must tell


CHAPTER XXVI
"Stop! Oh, stop. You've said enough." Wildly the beaten
woman covered her face and cowered down upon the bench.
"If you'll spare her, Cairns, I'll tell you everything you want
to know. You'll promise. You'll keep faith. Oh, my God!"
She choked down a cry—"What's that?"
A dark grotesque gibbering face was thrust out from the
edge of the boat directly overhead. A weird chatter broke the
wave-washed quiet—and then a human voice.
"What in hell— Oh. It's you, Zootorius." The accent was
thick and somewhat blurred.
Startled, Peter had jumped to his feet. Almost on a level
with his head the half human face and body of the chimpan-
zee hung dark against the lashed canvas of the lifeboat.
About the ape's middle was a broad belt from which de-
pended a long leather thong. Zootorius was at the other end,
far enough away so that the leash, hanging like a skipping
rope, had tripped up the unfortunate Innes who had blun-
dered into it and now lay sprawling, sending up a series of
uncompliments into the trainer's peering face.
The situation should have been humorous but to Peter's
tense nerves it seemed somehow horrible, like a nightmare
that holds over a tantalizing half remembered threat after
the sleeper was wakened. Wakened. From what? Every quiv-
ering nerve attested the fact that he had not been asleep . . .
Peter instinctively looked behind him along the deck.
Wiggar was not there. Instead a tall slender figure, swathed
in a heavy wrap moved aside with a pleasant word to the
233


234
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chimp and his trainer as they went by her, continuing the
beast's exercise. Innes had picked himself up and was some-
what unsteadily departing in the opposite direction. Again
the place was quiet. Peter's spirits rose a little. He had no
trouble in deducing the fact that for some good reason Kate
Oliver had relieved Wiggar and was standing guard instead.
Somehow, it made the world on the instant, seem more
decent, kindly and safe.
When, a few seconds later, Wiggar materialized at his
elbow with a top coat over his arm, looking as if he would
stand there silent until the crack of doom unless his master
put it on, Peter felt a little warmer inside as well.
After he had seen Wiggar resume his sentry duty, it was,
however, with no diminution of purpose that Peter turned
back to the woman who, through the short disturbance, had
remained hidden in the deep shadow. He took his place
again at her side. "Are you ready to go on, Mrs. Temple?"
he asked quietly.
"What do you want to know?" Her voice was very low but
had in it an acceptance of the inevitable. •
"It's already plain that you are Evelyn's mother. It seems
to me equally certain that the man with you in the photo-
graph is her father. Am I right?"
She bowed her head.
"You knew him as Thomas Heather?"
"Yes. At first. I knew what his real name was, though,
when he married me."
"There was a marriage?" Peter's head came up with a
jerk and his eyes were sharp with attention.
She laughed with the sadness of a sigh. "I was a good
girl once, Cairns, though you may find it hard to believe.
There was a marriage though I'll never try to prove it now.


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235
There'll be no need. No occasion. And it's all gone by."
"Tell me," said Peter. "Your own way."
"Oh," she spread out her hands with a shrug, "you've
heard nearly the same story a thousand times. He was young
and wild—and beautiful. Dazzling. He had been touring
the States, gambled away most of his money and got into
some kind of trouble—not serious—but I suppose he didn't
want his family to hear of it. So he joined our troupe out in
Denver, using a stage name . . . We fell—oh, but desper-
ately in love. It was a kind of madness for him—that
couldn't last. I found that out only too soon. I wasn't in his
class, of course.
"He'd been drinking some the night we were married.
But I thought—honestly, at the time, I believed he knew
what he was doing. We were wildly happy for a little while.
Just a little while. And then we began to quarrel ... It
wasn't his fault I guess. I wasn't a lady then though I've
taught myself some of the tricks since, and for the last three
years— Oh, well. Skip it. I'm not going to put up any bluff.
You're a wise one and can see for yourself."
"When did he leave you?" Peter prompted from the script
of wide experience.
"I left him," she corrected quickly. "When I realized how
things were. I didn't know then that I was going to have
a baby or I'd have acted different—differently. When I knew
—it was too late. He was so proud and hot-headed, I don't
know if he tried to find me, but when I looked for him he'd
disappeared off the face of the earth as far as I could tell."
"You were in a difficult position," said Peter trying to
keep to a cool judicial tone. "Handicapped for money, too,
I suppose. Not able to work. What did you do after the baby
came? With her, I mean."


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"I kept her with me until—until I had no money to feed
her with." Dark desperate eyes were fixed on the detective's
face. "I lost my job as cashier in a little place ... I knew
where the money was kept—and when the amount would be
the biggest. I watched my chance—and got away with it.
But they caught me and sent me up for five years. My baby
was put into a home. When I got out I swore I'd get her back.
"And I thought I had a sign from heaven!" The low
laugh sent a pang to Peter's heart. "Can you imagine it,
Cairns? When they let me out and gave me back my clothes,
they'd wrapped the dress up in a newspaper. It was dated
the day after I was cut off from the outside. See? And
tucked away in one of the back pages was the story of how
Thomas Suffern had come into an English title because his
older brother had been killed in those first days of the World
War. He had swell friends he'd visited when he first went
out to the States, so they printed his picture. There wasn't
any mistake. It was my Tom."
"Five years too late," exclaimed Peter. "Now I see why—
Yes, yes. Go on. You wrote, of course."
"Oh, yes. Again and again. I had no pride. I wanted my
baby to have a chance for a decent life. It was all that mat-
tered. The paper told where the estate was—and none of the
letters came back. But I waited—and waited—and got no
answer.
"So then I went into what they call woman's oldest pro-
fession." Her voice had grown hard again. "I had looks and
some brains and I made a lot of money. Enough to have my
baby taken from the home by a lawyer—a friend I made—
one I can trust. He acts as guardian. She thinks he was her
dead mother's best friend—and perhaps that's so. Her
mother is—dead—and he has been faithful to his trust. He


LAST TRUMP
239
sister who was then alive-would have been left very much
out in the cold.”
There was silence for a minute. Then, through clenched.
teeth the woman said: “It would be only one more reason
for hating Buckleigh-and I will hate him to the day of my
death-for the days—and days I've spent on this ship-
helpless—believing that I would have to tell Evelyn the
truth-or else stand aside and let her marry her own half-
brother. It was for that,"
She stopped as Peter laid a firm hand again upon her
wrist. “Was it for that,” he asked slowly, "that you killed
Francis Buckleigh?”


242
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which she would be conspicuously involved.
These and other thoughts and considerations raced through
Peter's anxious mind. Only a brief silence had intervened
when he said: "Curiously enough, Mrs. Temple, I believe
you." The change in his voice pierced the fog of her troubled
mind. "I do a lot of things that wouldn't look well in print,
and I, too, have a code. Your secret is safe so far as I'm able
to protect it. I can't see anything to be gained by publicity.
If there is an inheritance due your daughter, it looks now as
if she'd come into it by marriage, and that's better all around.
Even though she doesn't know what you are to her, she's
fallen for you in a big way."
"Thank God," Mrs. Temple whispered brokenly. "It's
better than I could have hoped. Oh, Cairns, if you can keep
her from knowing that she has a mother to be ashamed of,
I'll bless you to my dying day. I'll do anything you say.
Anything."
"I'll test that a bit," said Peter quietly putting his hand
over her cold fingers. "But I'll try to explain to you. You
must leave these two photographs with me until after we
land. Your luggage will be examined—perhaps with special
care. If these were found—"
"I see," she interrupted swiftly. "God bless you, Cairns.
You'll hide them well?"
"Unless it becomes absolutely necessary to produce them
for some reason that I can't see now, no one shall lay eyes
on them before I hand them back to you on the dock. I
promise."
"I trusted you before in my own mind, Cairns." There
was a catch in her throat. "I left a sealed note for you with
the purser. I believed you'd keep my secret—after I'd gone.
With Buckleigh dead no one else would know. And if they


244 LASTTRUMP
had given him when he had gone down earlier to get Mr.
Peter's top coat. At that time the way the room had been left
filled him with ill-controlled disgust. It would take only a
few minutes to put it right. Wiggar felt that he owed that
much to himself.
In the meantime Peter was pouring a carefully edited
story into Kate's eager ear. She already knew so much that it
was necessary to give her more facts and to trust to her
discretion.
"I'm terribly glad, Peter," she whispered when he had
finished. "Don't worry. I wouldn't hurt that poor woman for
all the scoops in Herald Square. The Sweepstake racket is
my meat, though. If I get in first with that—"
"And if I let you in on it, you'll go with me to dinner
tomorrow night at the Ritz, Kitty? We'll both celebrate. If!"
"Oh, that devilish word, 'if,'" she mourned. "I wish,
Peter—I wish— Why, isn't that Wiggar, there by the door?
Look. The man's alive. Not wood but flesh and blood."
"Good heavens," breathed Peter, "something's happened.
I'd better see."
He swung her easily and they moved in faster rhythm
until they were opposite the door, then Peter thanked her,
smiling, for the pleasure of the dance, and they left the
lounge together. Outside, on the lonely deck, Wiggar caught
up with them.
"Mr. Peter," he panted. "Might I speak with you a
minute, sir?"
"Don't mind me," said Kate forcefully. "Go ahead, Wig-
gar. Hurry."
He glanced at her and then had the unprecedented temer-
ity to clutch his master's arm. "I found it in your coat,
sir," he groaned. "Just a few minutes ago. I only took time


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245
to blow some powder over it. There were no finger-prints.
Look."
Sheltering it from observation by their closeness, the three
looked down at the black and white bit of pasteboard in
Wiggar's shaking hand.
"In my pocket?" Peter questioned swiftly. "What coat
was that?"
"The brown and tan plaid one you had on today. I noticed
you changed about teatime."
"Right," Peter agreed. His face looked as if it had altered
in its material texture. "I remember. It seemed cool and I
put on a heavier one. What pocket was it in, Wiggar?"
"The outer one on the left-hand side, sir."
"And who knows how long it may have been there," Peter
observed with sudden irritability. "Thanks to you, Wiggar,
I don't believe I put my hands in those pockets once a week!"
"It makes such a difference with the set of the coat," said
Wiggar deprecatingly. "But in this instance I'm sorry, sir."
"You'd better be," Peter retorted. "Hum-m-m. I've had
that coat on all day—until teatime . . . and my stateroom
has been locked ever since."
"That's true, Mr. Peter."
Kate Oliver was still staring down at the card. "The
warning," she breathed. "Putting the finger on you, Peter.
Handing you the spot ... He must have been sure that
you—"
"Were on his trail," Peter put in grimly. "If only I were!
. . . Wait. Wait a minute. I believe . . ."
He stopped. A queer look that Wiggar knew well had
come over his face. Kate stared at him in amazement. His
body was there, familiar and commonplace enough, but it
looked somehow deserted—empty—so great was the con-


246
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cent ration in his eyes.
They were standing in a dim corner of the forward prome-
nade deck, sheltered by the weather canvas from the rising
wind. No one could approach without being seen for some
distance. The remorseless syncopation of the orchestra
sounded sardonic and almost ribald above the solemn rush
of deep water under the bows.
Wiggar stood like a statue, his fingers resting lovingly on
a hard object that scarcely even bent the elegant curve of
satiny black that covered his shoulder and chest. Though he
looked like a politician about to make a noble speech, his
position was a great comfort to Kate Oliver during those
minutes of tense waiting. It was not until her anxiety and
dread had almost overcome her power of restraint that sud-
denly Peter's whole being came to life and even then at first
the sudden torrent of words only added to her confusion.
"That's it! That's it!" he cried with a triumphant snap
of his fingers. "Fool! Fool not to have thought of it before!
Why did the chimp smell of whisky, Kate? Oh, of course you
wouldn't have known—but I should! I should have guessed
long ago. Twice there was a strong smell of whisky in the
lavatory on C deck. That's where the automatic was—my
own—. Don't you see?"
"No! For heaven's sake. No, Peter!" Kate Oliver thrust
boldly into the tide of low swift words. "What has the
smell of whisky got to do—"
"The smell of it—and not smelling it! That's the crux of
the whole works," Peter whispered excitedly. "I'm sure now.
That must be the answer. Listen. What would you do if you
wanted to be here or there or anywhere on a ship without
being suspected of an ulterior purpose? Next to a baby,
who's the most innocent appearing person in the world?"


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247
"Don't talk in riddles, Peter." Nearly frantic, Kate Oliver
shook him by the arm. "Tell us! Don't askl"
"But I must, Kitty. See. Follow this line logically. Who
had a perfectly good opportunity to grab off Mrs. Temple's
ace of spades in the smoking room early last evening? Who
was with Buckleigh on and off later? Who could sit in a
corner, disappear and come back again—and no one think
anything about it? And blunder in and out of conversations
without a hint that he might be eavesdropping? It was al-
most as good as an invisible coat—and I never caught on.
Even when he fell almost into my arms early this morning—
while I was wearing that plaid coat, Wiggar. He—I'm sure
now. He was the only person who came that near me."
"He?" whispered Kate, half comprehending. "It wasn't—
Could it be—" She would not hazard the guess.
"Innes. The drunkard! You're right," Peter responded in
the same low thrilling tone.
"But a drunken man couldn't have killed Buckleigh and
gotten away." Kate repudiated her own half-formed convic-
tion.
"That's just the point," Peter argued hotly. "He wasn't
drunk! Hasn't been from the first. Erlanger played into his
hands by selling it to him on the quiet. Innes intended to
have it known that he still had a source of supply so he told
Bunny and some others where they could get what they
wanted when they were refused at the bar."
"Yes. Yes. I can see that," Kate agreed. "Go on, Peter!"
"But of course Innes only pretended to drink what he
bought. I'm sure now that, since the ports have been closed
on C deck for the last three days, he disposed of it quite
simply by flushing it down the toilet. He must have spilled
some. The chimp had quite a lot on him. I smelled it then—


CHAPTER XXVIII
"Peter! I want to go with you!"
"Don't be an idiot, Kitty," he said sharply. "Tell you
what you can do, though," he added in a low hurried whis-
per. "Slip through the little covered footway there—where it
says 'No Passengers' and on to the bridge. Tell Captain
Northcote what I think I've discovered and that we've gone
down to Innes' cabin to get the proof. The old devil may be
there—in which case we can take care of him. If he's some-
where about the ship, suggest that Underwood locate him
and stand on and off, without arousing his suspicions, if pos-
sible, until we come. Is that clear?"
"Clear—but not very exciting," said Kate bitterly.
"And after that, don't you go looking for Innes," Peter or-
dered in a peremptory tone. "You've been in bad company,
being seen with me, my girl, so watch your step and keep
out of mischief. Promise?"
"Oh—all right, Peter."
"O.K." Peter held Wiggar in check until Kate had disap-
peared. Then he said swiftly—"No use mentioning it to her,
but I've no fancy to let Underwood go dithering around the
ship looking for Innes, until we see if we can't spot him first.
I wouldn't have that fake drunkard and head devil get the
wind up for the price of the national debtl He's so erratic,
mad and uncertain by now that he might jump overboard
and it's not in me to let him off that easy after the hell he's
raised so long."
"But the proof, Mr. Peter! Don't you need to get his
250


LAST TRUMP
251
finger-prints first of all?"
"He'll have them on him, Wiggar." Peter's face was grim
and hard in the faint light. "I'm that sure, I'll risk, getting
them direct. Come on."
"You have your pistol? You'll be careful, sir?"
"Of course. We'll take this deck first, Wiggar. One on each
side, as we did before and we'll meet in the stern. Walk—
don't run. Just be casual, as if you were taking a turn before
going to bed. If you see him, saunter to the rail, keep him in
sight and wait till I come. Those are orders. I know you
won't try anything rash. It would spoil everything."
"Thank you, Mr. Peter." It was with a supreme effort that
Wiggar concealed his reluctance as he turned away. Mr.
Peter was so absolutely unafraid and there were so many
lurking places on a ship. Moreover, the criminal's choice of
role and the fact that he had actually worked on Wiggar's
sympathies, filled the valet with loathing and dread. But he
had no thought of disobedience. Orders—when given like
that—were orders.
Peter stopped at the lighted windows of the lounge just
long enough to make sure that he himself was not being ob-
served and that Innes was not among the dancers or those
sitting at tables along the walls. John Suffern was there,
dancing with Evelyn, cheek to cheek, oblivious of all else,
their young faces glorious, radiant. Watching them from a
far corner was Mrs. Temple. There was no hardness now in
her expression. A new quietness and dignity had come upon
her. Her head was up as if she faced life with renewed
courage.
As he looked, Peter's heart burned with an influx of loath-
ing for the man who had taken advantage of an accident to
turn suspicion against an already burdened soul. Sniffing


LAST TRUMP
255
fierce glow of relief that almost wrecked his sternly main-
tained pose of unbreakable calm, he stood beside his master
and looked down at the whipped cur that writhed there,
holding his burning hand to his shaking lips.
"I saw the broken glass, Mr. Peter," whispered Wiggar.
"And the stain on the deck. Was it—"
"He tried to get me with sulphuric acid," Peter answered
without waiting for the valet to finish. "I had to break the
bottle in his hand . . . Might be a good idea to help him cool
off. What do you think?"
"Ah?" Wiggar's glance followed that of his master and,
comprehending, he found difficulty in keeping the awakened
thrill of satisfaction out of his voice. "An attractive thought,
Mr. Peter, sir. I shall be very glad to assist. Shall it be the
pool here—or the ocean? It rather seems to me that the lat-
ter is indicated."
"Oh, no, no," Peter said quickly. "Much too easy—and
think how annoyed Captain Kerrigan would be not to be in
at the death. If you'll take the feet, Wiggar—"
"Oh, my God," wailed Innes as he felt himself being lifted
bodily. "Where are you taking me? What are you going
to do?"
"In order to awaken in your dirty soul some ideas of jus-
tice—" Peter spoke through set teeth—"pending your ap-
pearance before your maker, we'll give you a little taste of
what happened to Buckleigh last night. Ready, Wiggar.
One! Two!! Three!!!"
Innes' scream was drowned in a great splash as they
swung and dropped him in the canvas tank. He gasped,
floundered, and with difficulty gained his feet. The water
where he stood came only to his armpits.
"I won't hold you down head first as you deserve," said


256
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Peter, fiercely quiet, looking down into the liquid blackness.
"But you'll stay where you are until Captain Northcote
comes. If you try to get out, or if you make any disturbance,
I'll shoot you in various painful places or bash you over the
head as I see fit. So stay where you are and be quiet!"
"There's someone coming, sir," Wiggar warned hastily. "I
can't see yet, but I think it's Miss Oliver."
"It would be," Peter exclaimed with a sense of wild ela-
tion. "Pop off, Wiggar, and tell her that the situation is well
in hand. Don't let her come here. It's no place for a lady. Ask
her to wait in the lounge till I come. Then you get in touch
with Captain Northcote. Hurry. And be careful. There must
be no leak before Miss Kitty has her innings."
"By all means. Very good, sir." Wiggar could not keep his
deep voice from expressing a little of the enthusiasm of his
cooperation. He bowed slightly and hurried away.
Peter saw him stop to speak to Kate Oliver who, instead
of obeying his behest, turned after a minute and came swiftly
toward him through the shadows of the after-deck. She did
not speak until she reached his side.
"Wiggar told me about the vitriol, Peter." She was pant-
ing with haste and horror. Leaning close she peered down
into the tank. Her voice quivered. "A good thing to make
him take some of his own medicine," she muttered. "This
will give him a chance to sober up from his week's de-
bauch . . . And then what, Peter? What will they do with
him—until the police take charge?"
"Hide him somewhere under heavy guard. He'll have no
chance to escape," said Peter with grim certainty.
"There's the ape's cage they could use to advantage," said
Kate. With a bitter half-laugh she watched the effect of her
words. "Heaven knows it would be better and safer to give


* LAST TRUMP
257
the run of the ship to the chimpanzee—than to this beast."
"But it might attract too much attention," Peter objected.
A ray of light accented the threat of his automatic as he
leaned beside her over the raised edge of the hatch. "My idea
would be to put him in irons and guard him back here in the
hospital. It's out of the way. No one would disturb him—and
for company he'd have the body of the man he drowned here
in the pool last night."
"No, no! Oh, have pity." An anguished wail welled up
from the wet darkness. "Don't do that, Cairns. Let me out
of this awful water! It's cold—and dark. I'll tell you every-
thing you want to know. Oh, have mercy— Mercy!"
"You can begin your story right here and now, Innes."
Keeping his pistol well in evidence, Peter turned and spoke
over his shoulder. "There's no time to waste, Kitty," he said
in a low excited voice. "This is where I try to get square for
the bully way you've stood up to this case. Here come the
facts—and if I size you up correctly, my girl, your own ex-
clusive story of the same will be spread across the U.S.A.
from New York to San Francisco and from Canada to the
Gulf before we dock in Southampton tomorrow!"
Something in the menacing joy of Peter's words seemed
to bring their import home to the cringing wretch in the
tank. For a second he gazed up into the stern implacable
faces bent above him and to his abnormal consciousness
there came a sense of drama—of power. He—he, himself,
was still the center of the stage. These two that he had
tricked and duped waited now, hanging upon his words. And
for all their cleverness they could not deprive him of his
place in the spot-light. For the last time the irresistible force
of the man's ego swept him beyond all material considera-
tions.


260 LASTTRUMP
I feel as fresh as paint. Oh, Peter, you've been a pal! How
can I ever—"
"Skip it," Peter interrupted returning the pressure. "Pals
we are, Kitty. And pals we will remain. I enlist for the dura-
tion of the war. And you?"
"The same, Peter."
Their hands met. For a minute, sea green and steel blue,
their glances mingled. Then Kate Oliver's eyes began to
crinkle at the corners.
"Look at the Battleaxe," she gurgled. "Oh, do look, Peter.
I believe she and the Hatchet have landed the two buyers in
'clux and suits.'"
"And may the lord have mercy on their souls," he whis-
pered back. "Come on, Kitty. There's the Honorable John
beckoning. We may not get a better chance to say good-bye
to them all."
Peter had already had a talk with Suffern that morning.
Except that he had held Mrs. Temple's secret inviolate, he
had laid down all his cards. The young Englishman's face
was full of confidence as he wrung Peter's hand.
"Promise you'll come to see us as soon as we're settled,
old chap," he said. "You, too, Miss Oliver. We won't take no
for an answer. You ask them, Evelyn. No one can resist
you."
The girl raised her sweet joyous face. "Indeed I wish that
were true, Mr. Cairns." She smiled as she threw her arm
about Mrs. Temple who stood beside her. "We've had such
a lovely voyage. It's my very first and I don't want it to end
or to lose touch with the friends we've made." She looked up
into the eyes of the woman who was her mother, drawn to
her by some deep kinship of blood. "Oh, do say you will
come some day, darling," she insisted. "I wish you were


LAST TRUMP
261
planning to live in England—like John and me."
"Not in England, dearest." Mrs. Temple looked up and
with a sudden warming glow caught the smile in Peter's eyes.
"Perhaps—perhaps I may live in France—if I find a place I
like. I learned a little of the language from one of the—from
a girl who worked for me. I'm flying to Paris tomorrow."
"And we'll be going over on our wedding trip," said Evelyn
flushing adorably. "We'll look you up. You must keep in
touch with us. Have you John's address, darling? He's tak-
ing me down to Devonshire right away to meet his father.
Do you think he'll like me?"
"I—I think he will," said Mrs. Temple softly. "And the
address—yes, John. You'd better give me that. I'll write.
Perhaps—perhaps you may come to see me in Paris—now
and then."
"And that's that," said Peter in Kate's ear as they turned
away. "Thank God. There should be little danger—"
"And none from me," she responded quickly. "I can read
between the lines—the ones you left out, Peter—and wild
horses couldn't drag a word out of me—I'm that pig-headed."
She blew her nose violently and turning on her heel bumped
into June Worth.
"Oh, there you are, Mr. Cairns," cried the girl holding out
both hands. "I wanted to say good-bye. You've hardly
looked at me all the voyage but I think you're real nice and
I don't mind telling you so. But it's been an awfully slow
trip, hasn't it? Bunny's the only boy that's proposed to me
and he's too young to be really amusing. I almost wish now
I'd gone tourist on the Queen Mary. I might have known
that nothing exciting could ever happen on a poky old tub
like this!"
THE END