CHAPTER IV
WHO MURDERED HANS SCHLAK?
"My God! Don't look at me like that, sir—I didn't do it!"
Trembling in every limb, the secretary shrank back against the berth, staring up at Hammer with horrified eyes.
The American, to whom Jenson was repulsive, made no attempt to lay a finger on the man, but stood looking at him with sternly questioning eyes; palsied with fear, the fellow babbled out protestations of his innocence until suddenly Hammer waved him silent.
"That's enough from you. How long have you been here?"
"I just came in, Mr. Hammer. I can prove it by Dr. Krausz; I've been with him until just now——"
Hammer leaned over and touched Schlak. The second mate was dead, and had been dead for some time, since the body was set fast in the rigor mortis. For a moment he looked down, frowning, then swept the cabin with his gaze.
Evidently here had been a struggle, and a desperate one. A chair was broken and overturned, clothes and papers were strewn about the floor, and the clenched fists of the body showed that death had not found Hans Schlak unawares.
In one hand Hammer saw a fragment of paper, and after a moment's work got it away intact; it was a torn corner of a letter, probably, for a few words in German could be made out written in pencil.
Contrary to his own will and even against his first supposition, the American was forced to the conclusion that the cringing secretary was innocent. True, he had the man standing over the body, but Schlak had been dead for an hour at least—in all probability he had returned from the dining-saloon to find his fate awaiting him.
Therefore, someone must have been in his room during his absence at mess. Who? Not Jenson, for Jenson had been at the table with them; and Hammer mentally accounted for every member of the officers' mess that evening, except John Solomon.
An instant later he remembered that he himself had sent the supercargo off to make up some accounts which Harcourt desired to see, and that Solomon had returned a few moments after Schlak had left the table.
Therefore, it would seem that the pudgy supercargo was cleared; and at the thought of the little man killing the viking Hans Schlak, Hammer smiled grimly.
"So you didn't do it, eh?" he said sternly, thinking to make the secretary cringe for a moment. Hammer had a thorough dislike and contempt for the man, and made no secret of it. "I find you standing over this body, and you claim innocence! Do you think that will stand when you get up before the German Consul at Mombasa?"
For a moment Jenson broke out anew with his frenzied babbling, weaving his hands in and out, his face ghastly with terror; then he caught the American's contemptuous smile and shivered into silence. Hammer was satisfied, but he was to pay dearly for that short moment of play with Adolf Jenson's nerves.
"Oh, you're cleared all right, Jenson! Now go down and send Captain Harcourt here, and Dr. Krausz with him. Tell no one else what has happened."
With which Hammer went forward and investigated among the crew. But one and all could account for themselves and proved good alibis, even to the Arabs; so he returned in disgust to the bridge and relieved Harcourt temporarily.
In ten minutes the captain returned with Krausz, all three men entering the chart-house gravely enough.
Hammer told his story, exculpating Jenson fully, and produced the torn scrap of paper taken from Schlak's hand. Dr. Krausz, who had taken the news with astonishing equanimity, examined the paper and uttered a cry of surprise.
"It iss the paper I lost that day when I was drank! Mein Gott, gentlemen, but thiss iss queer! It iss a copy of one of those Portuguese 'relations', concerning the place to which we going are."
"So?" Harcourt inspected the end of his cigar. "Then whoever took it from you that day must have been in the cabin with Schlak, and the row probably started over that paper, by Jove!" He looked up with sudden excitement. "Is anyone else after this treasure, Dr. Krausz?"
The big German blinked in surprise.
"Hein! It would be of no interest to others, but to archaeologists, yess. No one knows but myself. There iss not any chance of sich a thing, I am sure."
"Well, here's the knife. It ought to be recognized."
Harcourt laid the weapon on the table—a plain, horn-hafted sheath-knife, with no scratch on the haft to proclaim ownership.
As Hammer had not revealed the cause of his visit to the forecastle, it was decided to call in each man on board the ship, from stewards to stokers, and see if the weapon would be recognized.
"It's a cinch that the murderer is on the ship," declared Hammer confidently. "If that knife belongs to any of the men it'll probably be recognized."
"By the way," exclaimed Harcourt, "we ought to have Solomon up here. I believe that chap has some brains, and he can help us out with the Arabs. Can you handle their bally talk at all, Hammer?"
"Fairly well, but not for rapid-fire work. Yes, better have John come up, and then start in with the men. I'd better get the articles and see that we get hold of every man aboard, hadn't I?”
The captain nodded, and Hammer went below. He went first to his own cabin, where he dug to the bottom of a ditty-bag full of soiled linen and fished out an old-style revolver of small size but heavy calibre.
"Not that I want to shoot her any," he grinned to himself, "but she feels comforting with murderers aboard! Guess I'd have to have a man within a yard of me to hit him with this mule of a gun, anyhow."
Visiting Harcourt's cabin, he procured the ship's papers, sent Roberts to ask John Solomon to step to the chart-house and to follow himself, and returned. At anyrate, he thought grimly, this cruise bade fair to beat cattle-boats as far as excitement was concerned.
He found the others as he had left them, Harcourt smoking and Krausz staring glumly at the knife, which lay on the table before them. A moment later the supercargo arrived, puffing after his climb, and at Harcourt's invitation dropped into the fourth deck-chair.
"Do you know that knife, Mr. Solomon?"
"Why, cap'n, I can't say that I do—no, sir; I never laid eyes on it afore, not as I knows of. I—why, dang it! There's blood——"
"Yes," cut in Harcourt grimly. "Mr. Schlak was murdered this evening. Oh, hello, Roberts! Tell the men to come up here one by one—come in here first. Ever see this knife before?"
Roberts approached the table and replied in the negative, after which Harcourt waved him away. John Solomon said no more, but stared from one to the other of the three, silent with the horror of the thing.
Taking pity on him, Hammer explained the affair, and had barely finished when the men began to come in, wondering greatly at the time and place of the summons.
One by one they passed through, each denying any knowledge of the knife, and Hammer pricked off the names. The four Arabs had not yet appeared when Adolf Jenson came to seek his master on some trivial errand and stopped, pale-faced and with a virulent glance at the American, as he noted what was going on.
Solomon's eyes turned to him, remaining in a fixed stare; and after a moment the secretary evidently became uneasy, for he passed out into the night again after returning a brief negative to Harcourt's formal question.
There were only five men left—the four Arabs and the German boatswain, Hugo Baumgardner. Two of the Arabs, the only ones who knew English, came through, and after them the boatswain. Then for the first time things began to look interesting.
"Yes, sir," replied Baumgardner slowly, scratching his mop of black hair reflectively and speaking excellent English, "it seems to me I've seen that knife before; there's a funny twist to the handle if you notice, sir."
An electric-charged silence settled down, while Baumgardner scratched his head and stared at the table. From outside came a murmur of voices from the waiting men; then very quietly John Solomon rose and stepped to the door.
No one except Hammer paid any attention to the movement, and the American, after noting that Solomon was saying something to some person out of sight, centred his thoughts on the stalwart boatswain.
"Well, tell us where you saw it," spoke up Krausz encouragingly, as Solomon resumed his chair. Baumgardner frowned heavily, then his face cleared.
"Why, sir, it was the day after we left Malta—I remember that Mr. Solomon was breaking out a case of champagne and I was helping him with it. Yes, that's it. I asked him for a knife—I'd left mine in my bunk—and he passed me that one to cut away the straw around the case. Just let me hold it a minute." Harcourt passed over the knife and the German folded his great hand around it, nodding. "Yes, I could swear to it, Mr. Harcourt. I hope there's nothing wrong, sir?"
"Nothing, Baumgardner. You have seen the knife at no other time, I suppose?"
"No, sir. I only remembered it because it had that little hitch at the end of the handle, but it's the same one."
"Very well. That will do."
No one said anything for a moment. Hammer's eyes went to Solomon, and he surprised a peculiar look in the other's face—a peculiar look which he could not fathom. It was as if John Solomon's faith in human nature had suddenly received a shock, and if it was acting, then it was cleverly done.
A second later the third Arab entered, replied to Harcourt's question, which Solomon translated with a curt negative, and passed on. The fourth Arab, however, glanced at the knife, and before a word had been uttered his eyes lit up. Harcourt caught the gleam and checked Solomon.
"Wait a moment, Mr. Solomon. Hammer, I think you'd better ask him, to avoid any suspicion against Solomon's question; not that we suspect you, Solomon, but under the circumstances it might be better."
"Quite so, sir," rejoined the supercargo humbly. "I'm werry sorry, o' course, sir."
Hammer put the question in faltering Arabic, and the man nodded at once.
"Yes, effendi, I have seen the knife. Has it a small nick near the end of the blade?"
The American translated and Harcourt picked up the weapon.
"Correct. Ask him where he saw it."
Then Hammer received a surprise.
"I saw it two days ago, effendi—no, it was four days ago, two days after effendi was drunk and you hit him very hard. I was cleaning the brasswork. I saw the little black man come near me, and there was a bad place in the brass. I asked him if he had a knife, for I had none, and he lent me this one. I remember the nick in the blade, for Allah willed that it scratch my thumb."
Startled, Hammer made the man repeat his statement to make sure there was no mistake and that he had understood correctly; then he translated for the others. He saw Krausz dart a single flaming glance at Solomon, which the latter seemed not to note, and then Harcourt spoke up:
"Ask him who he means by the little black man."
The Arab could not say, except that he would know the man again; but Hammer felt no doubt in his own mind that Jenson was indicated, and summoned the latter. Upon his arrival the Arab identified him at once.
"That is the man, effendi. If he says that the knife is not his, then he is a——"
The Arab's opinion of Jenson coincided more or less with that of Hammer, but the American cut short the Hood of expletives and ordered the man to stand aside.
"Gentlemen," said Harcourt gravely, "this situation would be laughable were it not so deuced serious. One man states that Mr. Solomon had the knife when he left Malta; Solomon denies having ever seen it before; another man states that Mr. Jenson had it since that time. You will have noted that the Arab recognized the blade by its slight nick, of which he could have had no previous knowledge. In my opinion neither witness is to be doubted."
Not until then did the unhappy secretary realize what had transpired, or why he had been sent for. Comprehending the drift of things at Harcourt's words, transfixed by his master's gloomy eye, poor Jenson shrank back, trembling, an agony of fear in his livid features.
"I—I never had it!" he cried in a strangled voice. "Heir Doctor—gentlemen—I swear before God and the Virgin—I never had the thing, never saw it——"
"Don't cry before you're hurt, Jenson," said Harcourt coldly. "Then you deny having had the knife in your possession, eh?"
"Yes! My God, yes!" With a sudden snarl that brought out his rat-like teeth he whirled on Hammer, "It's you who framed this thing up—you always hated me; you accused me of doing it in the first place——"
"Shut up!" The heavy voice of Krausz silenced his frenzied words. "Captain Harcourt, you are in command here; but if you please I would like a word to say, yess?"
"Certainly, doctor."
"Then I can witness that thiss man, Adolf Jenson, wass with me from the time I went to my cabin after mess until five minutes before I wass called up here. Also, I left the dining-saloon before Schlak did. If poor Schlak wass killed after then thiss must surely absolve Jenson."
"It would certainly seem to, by Jove!" exclaimed Harcourt, frankly puzzled. "Mr. Solomon, kindly explain to us why you denied all knowledge of the knife when we first asked you about it. Do you stick to that denial?"
"No, sir," and the wide blue eyes, which had rested on Jenson with a wondering look, shifted to Harcourt. "You see, sir, I don't carry weapons, not as a rule. Everything in its place, I says, and a supercargo 'e don't rightly 'ave no use for knives. When so be as I wants a knife I gets one from the steward, or borries one anywhere. It may be werry well be as the bos'n says——"
"Then why did you deny it in the first place?" shot out Harcourt sternly.
Solomon hesitated, his eyes shifting from face to face appealingly.
"Well, sir, I suspicioned as summat was wrong. I don't 'old to gettin' shipmates into 'ot water, sir, beggin' your pardon, and I says to myself, 'John Solomon, tell a lie,' just like that, sir. 'Tell a lie,' I says, 'and don't be a-gettin' of a poor shipmate into 'ot water. Do as you would be done by,' I says——"
"Confound it," exclaimed Harcourt, "tell me who you borrowed that knife from or I'll put you in irons!"
"Well, sir," sighed the supercargo, "I must say as I remembers it werry well, and werry sorry I am to 'ave to say it, Mr. Jenson; but you——"
"You lie!" screamed Jenson terribly, flinging himself forward. With unexpected agility Dr. Krausz leaped up and gripped him. "You lie! You lie! You lie!" Over and over the words were shrieked out until a torrent of German from the scientist quieted the livid-faced secretary.
It was a scene that lingered long in the mind of Hammer—stolid, pudgy Solomon sitting quietly with something like sadness in his eyes, while Jenson, an agony of dumb horror in his face, panted in the grip of the Teuton, Harcourt watching with a troubled frown, and the Arab standing back in silence.
"Ordinarily that would be good evidence enough," stated Harcourt finally. "However, it is only your word against Jenson's, Solomon, with the preponderance of evidence in your favour.
"Still, Jenson has an excellent alibi. Where were you while you were absent from the dining-saloon?"
"In me own cabin, sir," came the prompt answer. "Fixing up them accounts, sir."
"Anyone see you there?"
"Not as I knows on sir."
"Then your bally alibi's smashed and we're worse tangled up than ever!"
Silence once more settled over the chart-house. For the life of him Hammer could not solve the puzzle, and in desperation he suggested that the remainder of the crew be sent for.
Since two of the forecastle mess had recognized the weapon there was a chance that some of the engine-room crew might have seen it and so might corroborate either the Arab or Baumgardner.
Harcourt accordingly summoned every man on board but with no result. Each and all positively denied ever having seen the knife, and finally the Arab was dismissed with the rest, Baumgardner being advanced to acting second mate with orders to prepare the body of Schlak for burial the next morning.
"I'm bally well stumped, gentlemen," announced Harcourt wearily. Jenson was now standing beside his master, one of Krausz's big hands resting on his arm. "What's your opinion, Hammer?"
The American hesitated. Plainly the secretary believed him to have framed up the charge, and it was next to impossible to believe that the fellow had really murdered the giant mate. Besides, the alibi was heavily in the man's favour.
"From the evidence of the Arab and John Solomon," he said slowly, "it would seem that Jenson is guilty. But the body was stiff, remember, and there had been a struggle, to say nothing of the alibi. On the other hand, Solomon cannot prove where he was at the time. I would suggest entering on the log that Schlak was murdered by persons unknown, and then put the matter up to the German Consul who would probably have jurisdiction at Mombasa."
"No," corrected Harcourt. "Extra territorial rights have been withdrawn in British East Africa. The government would have jurisdiction. What is your opinion, doctor?"
"I would leave it to you, captain. I say it iss for you to settle."
"And I say," exclaimed Harcourt with sudden harshness, "that no man is to be murdered in my ship without someone swinging for it, by the Lord Harry! We'll get into Kilindini, and never a man goes ashore until this has been ferreted out. John Solomon, and you, Adolf Jenson, mind that!"
So the matter ended for the present, after affidavits and statements had been drawn up and signed by all concerned. But, as he paced the bridge that night, Cyrus Hammer thrashed the matter over and over in his mind. The strands were twisted a little bit too much to his manner of thinking.
Solomon's absence in his own cabin was bad, for there was nothing to prove that he had been there, save his own word. This, however, was balanced by the fact that the knife seemed to belong to Jenson, whose flat denial of this evidence looked very bad also. Yet his alibi was unimpeachable.
What with Baumgardner testifying against Solomon, and the latter against Jenson, the thing was badly tangled. Yet the evidence was in favour of the secretary clearly. He would hardly have stolen the paper from Krausz, over which the struggle would seem to have been waged, and he could account for his movements.
Despite the ownership of the knife, there would seem to be a much better case against John Solomon, except for the testimony of the Arab—and at this the American paused. What had the supercargo said there at the door of the chart-house?
For a long moment Hammer stood staring out at the sea, startled by this thought which had winged its way into his brain. Was it possible that in that moment Solomon had given the Arab his cue?
But why? He had not desired to testify against Jenson at first, beyond doubt. Hammer's mind flashed back again—Jenson also had left the chart-house shortly before Baumgardner's recognition of the blade.
Was it possible that Jenson had instructed the boatswain what to say, that Solomon had read his purpose and blocked the move by the counter testimony of his Arab?
"By Godfrey," thought the American, "that's expecting too much altogether of Solomon's wits. Besides, Baumgardner doesn't look as if he'd lie in order to save that little shrimp of a secretary. Well, I guess it's up to the authorities at Mombasa, and here's hoping they can find more sense in the whole affair than I can."
With which he patted the side-pocket of his coat reassuringly and devoted himself to keeping a sharper lookout than usual.
The next morning Schlak was buried, and the Daphne went once more upon her way with the mystery still unsettled, until in due time she rounded into Kilindini, the southern harbour of Mombasa, and her anchors crashed down into the waters of the port.