Chapter 13 Chapter Thirteen

The overhead lights in the B-71 cabin shined brightly, in true French style.Captain Burner had booked one of the smallest single cabins on board. The cabin is a narrow rectangle with the door at the narrow end.From the outside, it was a small room painted white.The bunk is against the wall on the left, the bunk is very long, the head of the bed is against the wall, and the wall is facing the door.There was a place on the wall opposite the door for a dresser and washbasin.In the right-hand wall there is a deeper recess, ending in a sealed porthole.To the right of the door is a wardrobe with glass doors.There is a chair in the room.

There was only room for HM in the cabin, so the others stayed outside. HM walked in stumblingly, with anger in his eyes.He watched in the cabin, becoming more and more dissatisfied. A woolen nightgown hung from a wall stud, and beneath it a pair of slippers.Life jackets, gas mask boxes, and blankets are neatly stacked on chairs. HM examined the items carefully, then turned his attention to the dresser. There was a foldable travel photo frame on the dressing table, and there were two photos in it, one was an elderly French soldier with a majestic upturned beard, and the other was a man with a very bad temper. Nice middle-aged woman—both probably Bernard's parents.These two photos give this dead man's cabin a touch of home.Combs, brushes and scissors are neatly arranged in a line.And a can of Kleen-O shoe polish to polish the brass buckles on my boots.A coat brush and shoe brush hung on hooks beside the washbasin, and the washbasin shelves were lined with shaving kits, toothbrushes, and tooth powder.

HM opened the dresser drawer and peered into the alcove of the porthole again.Then he knelt down with difficulty, reached under the bunk and pulled out a flat cabin box.It was empty except for a few dirty underwear. HM pushed the box back and opened the wardrobe door. Inside he found a spare uniform with the three gold stripes identifying a captain on the shoulder straps, two suits, ties hanging on a hanger, a spare pair of knee-high boots, and two Pair of leather shoes. HM adjusted his glasses, apparently seeing nothing, and inspected the sleeves of his uniform.Finally, HM reached for the top of the cupboard, but found nothing.

"Oh, my eyes!" he muttered. The whole time he was smoking his empty pipe, his expression growing more sombre with each passing minute. "What is it?" Max asked at the door. "What are you looking for?" HM sat on the edge of the bunk. The third mate came after the purser.Lieutenant Colonel Matthews gave them both some instructions in a low voice, and then got away to do his work.The boss was gone, and the third officer, who was very interested in this matter, dared to whisper to the chief purser. "Looks drunk," he said. "I'm thinking, damn it," HM said, opening one eye furiously. "That's how I think about it. Now, let me think about it."

He stood up again with difficulty, and checked the dresser again.From above the neat stack of shirts and socks in the top drawer, he took out a small cardboard box.He shook the contents of the box onto the bunk, including five rubber stamps with wooden handles and a box of ink pads. "You two police dogs," HM said relentlessly, waving a rubber stamp viciously at the third officer and the purser, "were you here last night. Huh? You came to get Captain Burner's fingerprints." Printed?" "Yes, sir," admitted the third mate, shifting nervously. "And Captain Burner is sitting here (I hear) with a bunch of rubber stamps and a box of ink?"

"Yes, sir." "Is it these stamps?" The third officer stepped into the cabin cautiously.He picked out two or three stamps and turned them over. "Anyway, it looks like the original seal. I didn't look closely at the time." "When you finally made it clear to him that you wanted his fingerprints, he offered to give you thumbprints on this box of ink. Which is to say, that's what he wanted at first. But you stopped him before he could, And took his fingerprints with your own ink wheel. Is that so? Huh?" The third officer nodded. "It is so, sir."

"Excuse me, excuse me!" A new voice came in, looking interested. It was Hoover's voice, and they forgot him.All the time he stood in the back, alternately lost in thought about his adventures, alternately gazing bewilderedly into the cabin.The rubber stamp caught his attention, and he wandered into the cabin, making it even more crowded.He picked up the stamps one by one and studied them carefully with an expert attitude.The style seemed so expert, as if to announce an authoritative opinion, that everyone was silent. "I carved the seal," he explained. "Hoover's Seal Shop,."

This conclusion seemed reassuring until he opened the ink to stamp one of the stamps.He paused, however, for the box of ink had interested him more than the stamp.He examined the ink carefully, touched it with his fingers, and held it up to eye level.A look of surprise quietly appeared on his plain face. "Strange," he said. "The poor fellow must be stupid! Well, is there a bottle of ink in his things?" "Ink?" HM growled, a little agitated. "Yes. About half a bottle of ink," agreed Hoover, his eyes on the ink. "I bet you don't see what's wrong with this ink?"

"I don't see it. Is there a problem?" Hoover pursed his lips and laughed. "Ah! But I can. It's fresh ink. Brand new! And do you know what the poor fellow did? The box was already full of ink, and he poured half a bottle of ordinary writing ink on it! Wrecked the ink; of course it did, like glue. See, people do do stupid things, don't they?" After this thoughtful comment, he put the ink on the bunk.The third officer, the purser, and Max looked at each other. "But why would he do that?" the third mate wanted to know the answer. "Ah!" said Hoover. "do not ask me!"

He patted the dust off his hands. "Uh-oh!" he added, looking at his watch. "It's nearly nine-thirty. I'll bet five quid that I've missed the concert. Totally forgot. But who can forget seeing a poor fellow go overboard with a bang like that? You still What do you want me to do?" "Wait a minute, young man," HM said, looking stony.He said to the purser: "Has the captain given you any orders?" "Just following your orders." "Oh-oh. Very well. Did the dead Mrs. Gia Bay leave the sealed envelope in your office?" The purser snapped his fingers. "I almost forgot. Yes, sir, she left an envelope. I opened it on the orders of the old man—excuse me, the captain. That's it." He drew the pale yellow envelope from his pocket. "There's nothing in there except some crumpled newspapers, which you can see for yourself."

HM took the envelope, poured out part of the contents, weighed it in his hand, and smelled the smell again.He didn't speak for a long time, so that the others couldn't hold their breath and coughed.Finally, he returned the envelope to the purser. "There. Tell me, young man. Will you frighten people?" The purser furrowed his George Robbie brows with a savage expression. "Very well, I have a task for you. I don't intend to be involved in this matter unnecessarily. I want you to find this Chafford girl, show her the envelope, and frighten her. Trying to find out what she was doing last night in Max Matthews' cabin. You won't find out, but you're just starting and I'll be closing. If you see any other passengers, you can ask They—but, with a little skill—what are they doing tonight at nine o'clock. Got it?" "understood." "That's it. Go. You," HM said to the third mate, "stay here. And you, um... Mr. What..." "Hoover." "Hoover. If you have nothing important to do, stay here too. Now we can have some peace." "Washington," HM repeated.As Kruychenk pushed the box back, he felt a little easier. "I'm going to verify his identity and itinerary. You have his passport, right?" The other party breathed a sigh of relief. "Yes; I don't think the passport has been returned," he said. "Still in Griswold's office. Those passports—" He stopped abruptly. "Hello! Where's Mr. Hoover?" This unnoticed rubber stamp maker is gone.Even Max, who was standing at the door, didn't notice him leaving. With a roar, HM jumped up from the bunk and stood up straight. "I hope he understood the captain's orders," HM said. "Damn, how the hell did he get out of here? He's preoccupied with his great adventures. I hope he's not going to confide in some friendly stewardess or stewardess." The third officer became alert. "Shall I go find him?" "You'd better go. Get the thought out of his head, and he'll be quiet. If there's panic on board, it's going to be hard to quell." After Kruychenk left the cabin, HM seemed extremely disappointed.He bumped back and forth in the limited space of the cabin, picking up and putting down things.He picked up a comb and fiddled absently with a dry shaving brush.He noticed that Bernard had been brought up in the Spartan tradition with folding razors; and suddenly with a cry of surprise he grabbed the razor and opened it.The sharpened blades gleamed evilly in the lamplight. Max Matthews felt sick to his stomach. "Are you thinking," Max said, "that this would be an ideal weapon for slitting throats?" "yes." "But we know Bernard didn't do it." "Oh, of course," HM said, raising the razor slowly and suggestively across the air. "We know it wasn't Bernard. We also know--" A scream came from the door, almost causing him to cut off his left thumb. HM stared and hunched his neck, and the flight attendant in Berner's cabin showed his head behind Max.The flight attendant straightened up.He was an elderly man with delicate features and a soft voice like a retired vicar. "Did you ring the bell, sir?" "Nope," HM said, and waited for the other person to finish. There was an understanding silence as HM slashed through the air again with the razor, and the steamer's engine hummed dully far below.The creaking of the bulkhead sounded like the creaking of the cabin attendant's muscles as he tried to brace himself. "Excuse me, sir. May I ask a question?" "Of course. What's the question?" "Is what I heard true? Captain Burner shot himself?" "I'm afraid so. Why do you ask that?" The steward moistened his lips. "Then I'm sorry. I think I must have burned his suicide note." Deathly silence. HM closed the shaver and put it back on the shelf above the sink. "But it's in the wastebasket!" protested the flight attendant, in a mild voice with a little excitement. "I clean the cabin and make the bunks during dinner time, and it's in this wastebasket." He pointed to the kind of wastebasket you'd usually find next to the dresser. "The note isn't torn. But a note in the wastebasket, what can I do but throw it away?" "Wait a minute, young man!" HM stopped him from continuing.He took the dead pipe from his mouth and put it in his pocket. "What's in the wastebasket?" "A note, sir. It's on the ship's letterhead. Captain Burner signed it." "You found the note?" "Yes, sir, but I can't read it. The note is in French. All I can tell you is that it is addressed to the captain—the captain, I mean. It's just a piece of paper, anyway. It's 'Mr Captain Edward Dick', in very large letters, taking up a whole line." "The note is in the waste paper..." HM remained expressionless, but his broad chest heaved and fell.He stopped talking, his eyes scanned the cabin, and finally landed on a place by the door.He walked over with plodding steps and pressed the button of the electric fan. The sound of the fan was soft at first, and then slowly hummed in this small space.It began to swing side to side with regularity, blowing all over the cabin.There were several sheets of paper in Berner's rubber-stamped box. HM keeps one of these near the edge of the dresser.A gust of wind swept across the table, passed and returned, and the paper began to vibrate.Sixty seconds later—sixty seconds seemed a long time to both the beating of a heart and the ticking of a clock—they saw the paper float away.It floated in the air, touched the edge of the wastebasket lightly, and landed on the carpet. "I see," the flight attendant murmured.They all stood there staring at the note. "If that note had been what it is now, you would have had the poor gentleman's suicide note." "Suicide note!" HM scoffed at that; but he restrained himself and just snorted. "Where is that paper now, young man?" "I'm afraid it's in the incinerator." Outside the cabin, far below the row of jet-white cabins, a woman began to scream. HM looked sullen. "I don't know what that is about," he said to Max. "But if I were to prophesy well, I'd have a good chance of hitting it. As I said, our friend Hoover was full of his own adventures. If he started spreading the story among the crew—" he said After a pause, he turned to the flight attendant. "That's all, young man. No, it's not your fault! You don't have to keep it a secret. The Frenchman left a note, shot himself, and burned the note. No secrets." .you can go now." He gestured for Max to enter the cabin. They listened intently, but the screaming did not reappear.The sea began to churn, and the ship shook more and more.The brightly colored curtains on the portholes unfurl like flags blown by the breeze with the pitch of the ship, and then float gently to the other side, while the cabin of B-71 rattles like teeth chattering. "The truth," HM said angrily, pointing to the wastebasket. "Perhaps the whole truth. The discreet Bernard wrote the truth carefully. It lay there for our kind hand to discover. But we missed it in vain because... the book that Bernard was reading what is it call?" "," Max said, laughing, for the first time since boarding the ship. The Edward Dick cuts through the waves.

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