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

Still almost half-asleep, he searched around for his dressing gown. The tapping on the door continued, timid, but more insistent — conveying a hint of dread and fear by its stealthy staccato.

Elsa Graves was standing in the passageway pressed close to his door. Its unexpected opening flung her into the room. Cliff had a glimpse of dainty bare feet and black pajamas.

“Dorette!” she blurted out. “In there — in our cabin — dead! Dead — Cliff!”

“Listen to me, Elsa!” His voice was kind, but commanding enough to stave off her threatened hysterics. “You wait here. I’ll be back shortly — and then you’ll have to talk. Now try to compose yourself.”

When he felt she was calm enough to be left alone, he stepped across the hallway to 115, closed the door and leaned against it, gazing down at the pajama-clad body of the girl he had met on deck so short a time before.

Death always saddened Cliff Chandler — and Dorette Maupin was far too young to die. Yet without its heavy make-up her face appeared older than it had on deck. Older and harder.

Cliff knelt down beside her and passed his hand over her dark, carefully waved hair. For a second or two he squatted motionless, staring intently at his outstretched palm. Slowly he rubbed it down the side of his bathrobe, got to his feet, and turned his eyes toward the porthole.

The heavy, brassbound, circular glass was down, closed, but swinging loose and unfastened. Above it was a strong brass hook suspended from the ceiling — used to hold it up for ventilation. Quickly he turned back to the lifeless form beside him, lifting it slightly. There was no doubt about it. At the nape of the neck Dorette Maupin’s hair was wet.

Cliff bit down tightly on his lower lip. Across the back of the dead girl’s slender neck was an ugly bruise. Clotted blood seeped out from one side of it. Gently Cliff placed a hand on each side of her face and moved her head from side to side. He knew then why the head had lolled so limply when he raised the body. Dorette Maupin was dead with a broken neck.

He covered the body with a blanket, then straightened up and turned his attention to the cabin.

Both beds were mussed. On the head of one hung a pink net sleeping cap, one of those wisps women wear at night to protect their waves. Cliff touched it with a finger — it was slightly damp. On a chair were intimate feminine garments — and more on the lounge under the porthole.

Working swiftly, Cliff found a traveling bag with the initials “D.M.” It yielded an identifying passport and more clothes. Under the chic Paris underwear which cascaded from the traveling bag was an unopened box of face powder bearing the label “Chez Martone.”

It was an ornate oval box, cellophane-wrapped and bright with printed flowers. Cliff carried it with him when he locked the door of 115 and stepped across the corridor to his own stateroom.

Elsa Graves was just where he had left her — sitting disconsolately on the lounge. He gave her hand a reassuring pat and spoke quietly.

“There are some things I must know without delay. I told you my name — but I didn’t tell you this. I’m a detective employed by this line.”

She paled.

“You’re in a jam, Elsa,” he continued, “but I can help you if you’ll tell me the truth. Dorette Maupin was murdered.”

“That’s preposterous — impossible.”

“Is it?” Cliff lighted a cigarette and asked through the smoke, “Did you know Dorette Maupin before you came on board?”

Elsa shook her head, and tears crept into her eyes again. “No. Accommodations were scarce. I had to share a cabin.”

Friendliness left Cliff Chandler’s voice. “That’s a lie. You were carrying a gun in your handbag tonight, Elsa Graves. I checked up on you with the purser. You deliberately asked for half of 115. Now you’re deliberately asking for trouble. You’re facing a nasty murder. Isn’t it time to think fast and talk straight?”

“I guess you’re on the level,” Elsa said slowly. She leaned toward Cliff. “I did take that cabin with Dorette Maupin. You’re a detective. So am I. Dorette Maupin was a diamond smuggler.”

“And you are—” Cliff broke off, studying the box of powder in his hand.

“An employee of Clonnet et Cie, the Paris jewelers. A steady stream of uncut diamonds has been getting by the U. S. Customs — diamonds bought from Clonnet. I’ve traced two previous purchases indirectly to Monsieur Martone. Clonnet, like most of the fine houses, is determined to stamp out the smuggling of its gems.”

Cliff gave a low whistle. “I was wondering about this extra box of powder in Dorette’s suitcase. I noticed another one just like it in your cabin. Is that yours?”

Elsa shook her head. “It’s Dorette’s, too. And there’s no doubt, Cliff,” she declared earnestly, “that Dorette and Martone were working together. He makes lots of crossings taking samples of powder to the United States—”

Cliff’s fingers swiftly dug under the cellophane wrapper of the powder box and tore it loose. The opened lid disclosed an inner wrapping of brittle paper. Cliff ripped it off while Elsa bent over to watch.