Voyage into Violence Read Online Free PDF Page B

vacation.
    â€œVery interesting,” Captain Cunningham said. (The place was certainly, Pam thought, full of captains, especially if one counted Bill, as she supposed one had to.)
    â€œHave you,” Dorian asked, “found the sword?”
    Somewhat gloomily, Folsom shook his head—from which he had, as an afterthought, removed his cap.
    â€œSword?” Captain Cunningham said. The Petersons merely looked puzzled. “Oh, of course,” Cunningham said. “Officer of the deck’s sword.”
    â€œDay,” Folsom said. “Officer of the day.”
    â€œMuch the same thing,” Cunningham said. “You’ve lost it? On the ship? Job for you there, Weigand. Your line of country, what?”
    â€œNot,” Bill said, “unless it’s found on somebody. More J. Orville’s.”
    The ship’s captain, and the Old Respectables’ captain looked blank at that, and the Petersons politely puzzled. Briefly, Bill explained J. Orville Marsh. Recognition dawned on Captain Cunningham’s long face.
    â€œMatter of fact,” he said, “got him on my list, I think. That is—” He stopped.
    â€œBut of course, captain,” Pam said. “There would have to be a list. Because if you’d picked just anywhere, we wouldn’t have come in a—a set, would we?” She looked hopefully at Captain Cunningham. He looked hopefully back. “Bill and Dorian,” Pam said. “Jerry and me. We must have been in a bracket on your list.”
    â€œOh,” Cunningham said. “As a matter of fact, yes. Comes from the head office, the list does. Special people the directors want to—er, honor. Awkward word for it, but there you are.” He paused. “Or,” he said, “ here you are. Mrs. North could do with a cocktail, Cholly.” Cholly was the beamish boy; Cholly brought drinks. “One of the pleasures of my trade, as a matter of fact,” the captain said. He sipped sherry. He was still on his first glass, and the glass was still almost full.
    â€œMissing persons, eh?” Folsom said, and seemed much interested. “That all he does?”
    â€œDid, he tells me,” Bill said. “No. Some corporation work. Employee investigation. That sort of thing. Shortages which aren’t clear enough to sign complaints, for example. You still think one of the—one of your organization—hid the sword? So, I gather, as not to have to wear it?”
    For a moment, it appeared that Respected Captain Folsom was thinking of something else.
    â€œOh,” Folsom said, returning. “Sure—that’s all it could be. Seems Jonesy forgot to lock up last night. The gun cases, that is. Jonesy’s the adjutant. Slipped his mind, what with one thing and another. So he doesn’t know if it was in. Old Riggsy says he put it there and he had the last tour. But—there you are.”
    It was not entirely clear where they were. Bill Weigand is a man who likes things clear: Pam could see the desire for clarity flicker briefly in his eyes.
    â€œVacation, darling,” Dorian said from the deep chair in which she was sitting, a foot tucked under her. “Remember?”
    â€œRight,” Bill said.
    â€œIt’ll turn up,” Folsom said. “Always does. About this private detective, does—”
    Somebody knocked rather loudly at the door of the captain’s quarters. Cholly came out of the captain’s sleeping cabin, in temporary use as a serving pantry, and went to the door and opened it. Mrs. Macklin, her red hair neat again, but wearing a green dress, came in at once, brushing past the steward.
    â€œI am Mrs. Macklin,” she said, speaking to Captain Cunningham; ignoring the others. “I am seated at your table.”
    She spoke loudly, in her high voice, and the voice cracked. There was a kind of violence in the elderly woman, with the skin drawn to such unnatural tightness over the