Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 5, No. 19, November 1944

Her deep blue eyes, watchful at first, softened as she estimated the set of Cliff’s shoulders and the cut of his evening clothes. Her answering smile started in her eyes and worked down to disclose even white teeth between parted red lips.

“That may be quite an order, Mr. Chandler, unless you can persuade this ship to stand on its own feet and behave!”

“You’ve been ill?” he asked sympathetically.

“I’ll?” She wrinkled her nose delightfully. “For two days I’ve been trying to die in 115. I’m rooming with a French girl named Dorette Maupin. She’s a dear. Only the fact that she’s been worse than I have has helped me to survive. We’ve shared our lemon juice and—”

“You’re in stateroom 115?” Cliff asked, surprised. “We’re neighbors. I’m in 114, right across the hall.”

“I know!” Elsa laughed. “I spied on you once — when you came down last night. I hoped you’d be a motherly old soul who could look in on me if I were ill. I hated you desperately when you turned out to be a man.”

“I trust that’s diminished this evening — with the storm.”

“This evening,” said Elsa, “I’ve reached a point where I can enjoy my dinner.”

Cliff signaled the steward, gave the order, and turned back to the girl. She was carrying a gold-trimmed white handbag. As Cliff turned back, she held it open in her hand and was busy with lipstick, using the open top of the bag for a mirror. Unexpectedly she raised her eyes and saw him watching her.

Cliff smiled quickly, but he was glad the steward appeared just then and saved his making any remark. Unless he was badly mistaken, the delightful Elsa Graves was packing a gun.

They talked desultorily over their soup, and Cliff’s efforts failed to get him much information. All they brought forth was that she had been in Paris for two years studying art and was on her way home to some small town in the Middle West.

She was chattering on about her experience in the art schools when shouts from the deck outside brought them both to their feet.

“What is it?” Elsa asked, and briefly her face was drawn with fear.

“You have nerves,” Cliff told her. “You’d better stay right here. It’s probably just a scuffle in the Second Class on the deck below. I’ll find out and report if it’s really exciting.”

He stepped outside and was hurrying toward a group of passengers near the rail when the small form of a girl detached itself from the crowd and bumped violently into him.

Momentarily he stared down into troubled eyes, searching an olive-skinned piquant face, old beyond its years. The light from the saloon window obliquely touched over-red lips and errant blue-black hair.

“Pardon, M’sieu’. He fell overboard!” Her worried eyes swept Cliff’s face. “I saw him run to the rail and I turned away. I thought him ill, M’sieu’ — seasick. I had no wish to embarrass him. I walked part way down the deck — then I heard a yell. When I turned around, he was falling over the edge. I screamed for help. Oh, M’sieu’, will they find him?”

Her question was so marked with anxiety that Cliff asked quickly, “Do you know him?”

“I have never seen him before. Oh, what’s that?” She pointed toward the soft blackness of the sea.

The rhythmic cadence of the Moriander’s turbines had died away while they were talking. On the port side, slipping swiftly astern, a splash of crimson fire dyed the ocean’s hills and dales dull red.

“It’s a flare,” Cliff explained. “It’s attached to a life ring. If the man’s still alive and can swim, they’ll pick him up shortly. They’re lowering a boat now.”

“Oh, I am so relieve — for him,” she breathed. “Now — I must go below. Thank you, M’sieu’, for your kindness.”

Cliff lingered to watch the heavy surfboat hauled up the side, and a limp bedraggled bundle of black and white removed from it. Then he turned back to the dining saloon.

“A man fell overboard,” he reported gravely. “Yes, he was rescued. And who do you think it was? Our friend, M. Martone, the cosmetician.”

“Poor fellow,” Elsa murmured. “I don’t like him — but he’s such a helpless little man.”

“All of us are rather helpless,” Cliff said soberly, “when we’re alone in the middle of the ocean.”

They finished dinner, listened to the orchestra, and later sat through a movie in the lounge. The wind had abated somewhat when they went below after a late turn on deck.

Elsa offered her hand before she went into 115. “You’re a swell guardian,” she said. “Do try to make the weather respect your authority tomorrow.”

“I’ll see to it!” Cliff assured her. “I’m certainly not going to let it keep my ward out of circulation. Good night.”

It was quarter to three by the luminous hands of his watch when he was roused by a tapping on his door. He sat up and swung his feet to the floor. Clammy wetness made him draw them quickly up and switch on the reading light to find his slippers. Wisps of rain, which had started since he retired, were blowing in through the open port.