Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 17, No. 4, April 1972
- Автор: Breese Edward Y., Бриттен Уильям
- Год: 1972
- Язык: английский
- Год: H.S.D. Publications
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 17, No. 4, April 1972». Краткое содержание книги:
Next evening, Brentford invited me to his stateroom for a quiet nightcap together. I regarded it as a compliment that he should wish to share my company alone. When I looked in, around ten-thirty, he was waiting for me with Scotch and ice, soda and glasses. He seated me royally in the easy chair and then mixed a couple of highballs. Handing one to me, he lounged back on the settee, stretching out his long legs, and raised his glass.
“Cheerio and down the hatch, to make it appropriate to the milieu.” He took a long drink and then extended his glass in the direction of the sizable steamer trunk standing in one corner. “I’ve finally made up my mind what to do about that miserable encumbrance — overboard!”
“Overboard?” I repeated, not thinking him serious.
“The ideal solution. Margot neglected to send the keys, or if she did send them, they weren’t delivered to me. So I won’t be able to open it for customs inspection. I’d have to break the locks. I don’t intend to put on an exhibition like that on the pier, like some idiot tourist.”
“If you inquire around,” I suggested, “someone may come up with a key that’ll fit. Trunk keys are very much alike, I’ve found. Or the ship’s carpenter may be able to open it for you.”
“Doc, old chap, I heartily dislike foisting my troubles onto third parties.”
“It seems a pity to throw all that clothing overboard. Why not leave it behind? Tell the room steward what’s in the trunk and let him do whatever he likes with it.”
“And have him look daggers at me for the rest of the voyage, thinking that’s to be the handsome tip I promised him in return for handsome service?”
“How will you explain to your wife?”
“Quite simple: it got lost — not an unusual happening with luggage, I think you’ll agree. I needn’t add that it was lost overboard. So, if you’ll kindly lend me a hand—”
Brentford put down his glass and went to the trunk. I gave up trying to dissuade him; he had obviously made up his mind. Brentford hooked back the door and, each of us taking one of the thick leather handles on either end, we carried the trunk out into the passageway. It seemed somewhat heavy for clothing, and I remarked so to Brentford.
He chuckled. “I wouldn’t mind wagering that Margot thinks they’re still on war rations, too, and threw in some cans of corned beef hash.”
A young woman in evening dress was coming along the passageway. The sea was a little choppy, and we weren’t too steady on our legs. She pressed close to the wall to let us by, as if fearful for her gown. She eyed us curiously, as if astonished to see the ship’s doctor and Brentford doing porter’s work. She treated Brentford to a big smile, and offered no comment.
A few doors from Brentford’s stateroom was a short passage leading out to the lower deck. The deck was dimly lighted, and deserted except for a few passengers gathered along toward the forward end. We carried the trunk out to the rails, heaved it up to the topmost one, and then pushed it overboard. It struck the dark sea with a loud plop.
“Many thanks,” said Brentford. “That’s a load off my mind now, as well as off my hands. Now to celebrate a little with the nightcaps.”
At breakfast next morning, when I told about giving the trunk the deep six, Brentford came in for some banter as a wife deceiver, and we all laughed when Liebman, the law clerk, said, “Doc, you’re an accessory after the fact, aiding and abetting in disposing of the corpus delicti.”
Brentford didn’t win the shuffleboard or any of the competitions, but there was little doubt who would be chosen to present the prizes before the passengers assembled in the main lounge for the occasion. Brentford delivered a witty speech suited to each award, and when the winner went up to receive it, I’m not sure the loud applause wasn’t as much for Brentford as for the prize winner.
Before disembarking in London, Brentford shook my hand warmly. “If you get up to the city while in port, you’ll find me in the bar of the Savoy any day around opening time.” He then handed me his business card. “For your daughter.”
On the back he had penciled a note to Mr. Avelardi, requesting that all courtesies be shown to the lady named therein. “An infinitesimal token of my deep appreciation for making my voyage most enjoyable,” said Brentford. “I suggest you take it to Avelardi during your next stay in New York. He’ll be leaving on his vacation soon.”
Next morning I had occasion to go up in the neighborhood of the Savoy toward noon, and I looked into the bar, anticipating a pleasant interlude with Brentford. There was no sign of him. I lingered until one o’clock and then left, disappointed.
On returning to New York, I telephoned my daughter from the ship that evening; being a widower, I lived aboard in the home port. My daughter hadn’t been down to New York yet to look at art-metal furnishings, and so I told her about Brentford and Avelardi. On sailing day, after doing a little shopping, I called at the Madison Avenue showrooms of Art Metal Crafts, and as I walked in among the vast display of ornamental tables and chairs, gates and arches, a salesman approached me.
“May I speak to Mr. Avelardi?” I asked.
He led me to a small office off one of the side rooms, where a man sat behind a desk on a wrought-iron chair with a filigree back. Avelardi was swarthy, with black, alert eyes under heavy brows. The afternoon was warm, and his black silk jacket was spread over the back of the chair. He rose to receive me.
I introduced myself and then said, “Mr. Brentford suggested I call on you.”
I handed him Brentford’s card, note side up. Avelardi read it and turned it over. He appeared sunk in thought for a moment or so, and then glanced up at me.
“Dr. Jenks,” he said, “I’ll be most pleased to attend to your daughter. I must tell you, though, that Mr. Brentford is no longer with us.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I hastened to say. “I hadn’t the slightest idea. If I’d known—”
“Not at all, Doctor. It will be a privilege to show your daughter around and advise her.” Avelardi spoke with an accent. He seemed to run his eyes over me and my packages in appraisal. I was in civilian clothes, of course, nothing indicating I was a ship’s officer. “May I ask if you’re an old friend of Brentford’s?”
“Not exactly an old one, But long enough to be a good one, I hope. He gave me that card a few weeks ago and suggested I take it to you next time I was in New York.”
Avelardi seemed to hesitate, and then asked me to sit down. He resumed his chair behind the desk. I put my packages to one side and sat in another metal chair facing him, my curiosity aroused.
“As you’re a good friend of Brentford’s,” began Avelardi gravely, “I feel I should perhaps let you know why he’s no longer with us, since you’re bound to hear of the reasons eventually. Brentford phoned me about four weeks ago to say he was ill and wouldn’t be able to come in for a few days — feverish, with high temperature. After two weeks went by and no sign or word of him, I phoned his apartment, but got no answer. The same result when I called next day. I could only conclude that he’d gone off with his wife somewhere, for rest or recuperation, perhaps, but I was puzzled that he hadn’t let me know. It wasn’t like Brentford. A couple of days ago I received a telephone call from his mother-in-law in California, inquiring for him. Yesterday, two police detectives came here to question me as to his whereabouts.”