“What do you mean?”
“I mean this.” Guns have different characteristics in appearance. Some look relatively harmless, some ugly, some businesslike, some wicked. The Mannlicher-Schoenauer in my hand just looked plain downright wicked. Very wicked indeed. The white light from the Coleman glittered off the blued metal, menacing and sinister. It was a great gun to terrify people with.
“You wouldn’t use it,” Swanson said flatly.
“I’m through talking. I’m through asking for a hearing. Bring on the bailiffs, friend.”
“You’re bluffing, mister,” Hansen said savagely. “You don’t dare.”
“There’s too much at stake for me not to dare. Find out now. Don’t be a coward. Don’t hide behind your enlisted men’s backs. Don’t order them to get themselves shot.” I snapped off the safety catch. “Come and take it from me yourself.”
“Stay right where you are, John,” Swanson said sharply. “He means it. I suppose you have a whole armory in that combination-lock suitcase of yours,” he added bitterly.
“That’s it. Automatic carbines, six-inch naval guns, the works. But for a small-size situation, a small-size gun. Do I get my hearing?”
“You get your hearing.”
“Send Rawlings and Murphy away. I don’t want anyone else to know anything about this. Anyway, they’re probably freezing to death.”
Swanson nodded. Hansen went to the door, opened it, spoke briefly, and returned. I laid the gun on a table, picked up my flashlight, and moved some paces away. I said, “Come and have a look at this.”
They came. Both of them passed by the table with the gun lying there and didn’t even look at it. I stopped before one of the grotesquely misshapen charred lumps lying on the floor. Swanson came close and stared down. His face bad lost whatever little color it had regained. He made a queer noise in his throat.
“That ring, that gold ring–” he began, then stopped short.
“I wasn’t lying about that.”
“No. No, you weren’t. I–I don’t know what to say. I’m most–”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said roughly. “Look here. At the back. I’m afraid I had to remove some of the carbon.”
“The neck,” Swanson whispered. “It’s broken.” –
“Is that what you think?”
“Something heavy, I don’t know, a beam from one of the huts, must have fallen–”
“You’ve just seen one of those huts. They have no beams. There’s an inch and a half of the vertebrae missing. If anything sufficiently heavy to smash off an inch and a half of the backbone had struck him, the broken piece would be imbedded in his neck. It’s not. It was blown out. He was shot from the front, through the base of the throat. The bullet went out the back of the neck. A soft-nosed bullet–you can tell by the size of the exit hole-from a powerful gun, something like a thirty-eight Colt or Luger or Mauser.”
“Good God above!” For the first time, Swanson was badly shaken. He stared at the thing on the floor, then at me. “Murdered. You mean he was murdered.”
“Who would have done this?” Hansen said hoarsely. “Who, man, who? And in God’s name, why?”
“I don’t know who did it.”
Swanson looked at me, his eyes strange. “You just found this out?” –
“I found out last night.”
“You found out last night.” The words were slow, farspaced, a distinct hiatus between each two. “And all the time since, aboard the ship, you never said. . . you never showed . . . My God, Carpenter, you’re inhuman.”
“Sure,” I said. “See that gun there? It makes a loud bang, and when I use it to kill the man who did this, I won’t even blink. I’m inhuman, all right.”
“I was speaking out of turn. Sorry.” Swanson was making a visible effort to bring himself under normal control. He looked at the Mannlicher-Schoenauer, then at me, then back at the gun. “Private revenge is out, Carpenter. No one is going to take the law into his own hands.”
“Don’t make me laugh out loud. A morgue isn’t a fit place for it. Besides, I’m not through showing you things yet. There’s more. Something that I’ve just found out now. Not last night.” I pointed to another huddled black shape on the ground, “Care to have a look at this man here?”
“I’d rather not,” Swanson said steadily. “Suppose you tell us?”
“You can see from where you are. The head. I’ve cleaned it up. Small hole in the front, in the middle of the face and slightly to the right: larger exit hole at the back of the top of the head. Same gun. Same man behind the gun.”
Neither man said anything. They were too sick, too shocked to say anything.
“Queer path the bullet took,” I went on. “Ranged sharply upwards. As if the man who fired the shot had been lying or sitting down while his victim stood above him.”
“Yes.” Swanson didn’t seem to have heard me. “Murder, Two murders. This is a job for the authorities, for the police.”
“Sure,” I said. “For the police. Let’s just ring the sergeant at the local station and ask him if he would mind stepping this way for a few minutes.”
“It’s not a job for us,” Swanson persisted. “As captain of an American naval vessel, with a duty to discharge, I am primarily interested in bringing my ship and the Zebra survivors back to Scotland again.”
“Without endangering the ship?” I asked. “With a murderer aboard, the possibility of endangering the ship does not arise?”
“We don’t know he is–or will be–aboard.”
“You don’t even begin to believe that yourse1f. You know he will be. You know as well as I do why this fire broke out and you know damn well that it was no accident. If there was any accidental element about it, it was just the size and extent of the fire. The killer may have miscalculated that. But both time and weather conditions were against him: I don’t think he had very much option. The only possible way in which he could obliterate all traces of his crime was to have a fire of sufficient proportions to obliterate those traces. He would have got away with it, too, if I hadn’t been here, if I hadn’t been convinced before we left port that something was very much wrong indeed. But- he would take very good care that he wouldn’t obliterate himself in the process. Like it or not, Commander, you’re going to have a killer aboard your ship.”
“But all of those men have been burned, some very severely–”
“What the hell did you expect? That the unknown X would go about without a mark on him, without as much as a cigarette burn, proclaiming to the world that he had been the one who had been throwing matches about and had then thoughtfully stood to one side? Local color. He _had_ to get himself burned.” –
“It doesn’t necessarily follow,” Hansen said. “How was he to know that anyone was going to get suspicious and start investigating?”
“You’d be well advised to join your captain in keeping out of the detecting racket,” I said shortly. “The men behind this are top-flight experts with far-reaching contacts–part of a criminal octopus with tentacles so long that it can even reach out and sabotage your ship in the Holy Loch. Why they did that, I don’t know. What matters is that top-flight operators like those _never_ take chances. They always operate on the assumption that they _may_ be found out. They take every possible precaution against every possible eventuality. Besides, when the fire was at its height–we don’t know the story of that yet–the killer would have had to pitch in and rescue those trapped. It would have seemed damned odd if he hadn’t. And so he got burned.”
“My God.” Swanson’s teeth were beginning to chatter with the cold but he didn’t seem to notice it. “What a hellish set-up.”
“Isn’t it? I dare say there’s nothing in your Navy regulations to cover this.”
“But what–what are we going to do?”
“We call the cops. That’s me.”
“What do you mean?”
“What I say. I have more authority, more official backing, more scope, more power and more freedom of action than any cop you ever saw. You must believe me. What I say is true.”
“I’m beginning to believe it _is_ true,” Swanson said in slow thoughtfulness. “I’ve been wondering more and more about you in the past twenty-four hours. I’ve kept telling myself I was wrong, even ten minutes before I kept telling myself. You’re a policeman? Or detective?”
“Naval officer. Intelligence. I have credentials in my suitcase which I am empowered to show in an emergency.” It didn’t seem the time to tell him just how wide a selection of credentials I did have. “This is the emergency.”
“But–but you are a doctor.”
“Sure I am. A Navy doctor–on the side. My specialty is investigating sabotage in the U.K. armed forces. The cover-up of research doctor is the ideal one. My duties are deliberately vague, and I have the power to poke and pry into all sorts of corners and situations and talk to all sorts of people on the grounds of being an investigating psychologist which would be impossible for the average officer.”