“I assumed it was you. Who else would do it? A few minutes ago I checked to see that everything was in order. The doors were locked. It sounded like someone was inside the theater, running a movie.”
“We never run films in port,” Dessard said firmly. “And at no time are those doors locked. I’ll look into it.”
Ordinarily, Claude Dessard would have investigated the report immediately, but now he was harassed by dozens of urgent last-minute details that had to be attended to before the twelve o’clock sailing. His supply of American dollars did not tally, one of the best suites had been booked twice by mistake, and the wedding gift ordered by Captain Montaigne had been delivered to the wrong ship. The captain was going to be furious. Dessard stopped to listen to the familiar sound of the ship’s four powerful turbines starting. He felt the movement of the S.S. Bretagne as she slipped away from the pier and began backing her way into the channel. Then Dessard once again became engrossed in his problems.
Half an hour later, Léon, the chief veranda-deck steward, came in. Dessard looked up, impatiently. “Yes, Léon?”
“I’m sorry to bother you, but I thought you should know…”
“Hm?” Dessard was only half-listening, his mind on the delicate task of completing the seating arrangements for the captain’s table for each night of the voyage. The captain was not a man gifted with social graces, and having dinner with his passengers every night was an ordeal for him. It was Dessard’s task to see that the group was agréable.
“It’s about Mme. Temple…” Léon began.
Dessard instantly laid down his pencil and looked up, his small black eyes alert. “Yes?”
“I passed her cabin a few minutes ago, and I heard loud voices and a scream. It was difficult to hear clearly through the door, but it sounded as though she was saying, ‘You’ve killed me, you’ve killed me.’ I thought it best not to interfere, so I came to tell you.”
Dessard nodded. “You did well. I shall check to make certain that she is all right.”
Dessard watched the deck steward leave. It was unthinkable that anyone would harm a woman like Mme. Temple. It was an outrage to Dessard’s Gallic sense of chivalry. He put on his uniform cap, stole a quick look in the wall mirror and started for the door. The telephone rang. The chief purser hesitated, then picked it up. “Dessard.”
“Claude—” It was the third mate’s voice. “For Christ’s sake, send someone down to the theater with a mop, would you? There’s blood all over the place.”
Dessard felt a sudden sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. “Right away,” Dessard promised. He hung up, arranged for a porter, then dialed the ship’s physician.
“André? Claude.” He tried to make his voice casual. “I was just wondering whether anyone has been in for medical treatment…. No, no. I wasn’t thinking of seasick pills. This person would be bleeding, perhaps badly…. I see. Thank you.” Dessard hung up, filled with a growing sense of unease. He left his office and headed for Jill Temple’s suite. He was halfway there when the next singular event occurred. As Dessard reached the boat deck, he felt the rhythm of the ship’s motion change. He glanced out at the ocean and saw that they had arrived at the Ambrose Lightship, where they would drop their pilot tug and the liner would head for the open sea. But instead, the Bretagne was slowing to a stop. Something out of the ordinary was happening.
Dessard hurried to the railing and looked over the side. In the sea below, the pilot tug had been snugged against the cargo hatch of the Bretagne, and two sailors were transferring luggage from the liner to the tug. As Dessard watched, a passenger stepped from the ship’s hatch onto the small boat. Dessard could only catch a glimpse of the person’s back, but he was sure that he must have been mistaken in his identification. It was simply not possible. In fact, the incident of a passenger leaving the ship in this fashion was so extraordinary that the chief purser felt a small frisson of alarm. He turned and hurriedly made his way to Jill Temple’s suite. There was no response to his knock. He knocked again, this time a little more loudly. “Madame Temple…This is Claude Dessard, the chief purser. I was wondering if I might be of any service.”