Murder on the Leviathan

Renate Kleber

She woke up in an excellent mood, smiled affably at the spot of sunlight that crept onto her round cheek where it was creased by the pillow, and listened to her belly. The baby was quiet, but she felt terribly hungry. There were still 50 minutes left until breakfast, but Renate had no lack of patience and she simply did not know the meaning of boredom. In the morning sleep released her as swiftly as it embraced her in the evening, when she simply sandwiched her hands together and laid her head on them, and a second later she was immersed in sweet dreams.

As Renate performed her morning toilet she purred a frivolous little song about poor Georgette who fell in love with a chimney sweep. She wiped her fresh little face with an infusion of lavender and then styled her hair quickly and deftly, fluffing up the fringe over her forehead, drawing her thick chestnut tresses into a smooth bun and arranging two long ringlets over her temples. The effect was precisely what was required demure and sweet. She glanced out of the porthole. Still the same view: the regular border of the canal, the yellow sand, the white mud-daub houses of a wretched little hamlet. It was going to be hot. That meant the white lace dress, the straw hat with the red ribbon, and she mustn’t forget her parasol - a stroll after breakfast was de rigueur. Only she couldn’t be bothered to drag her parasol around with her. Never mind, someone would fetch it.

Renate twirled in front of the mirror with evident satisfaction, stood sideways and pulled her dress tight over her belly. Although to tell the truth, there was not much to look at as yet.

Asserting her rights as a pregnant woman, Renate arrived ahead of time for breakfast - the waiters were still laying the table. She immediately ordered them to bring her orange juice, tea, croissants with butter and everything else. By the time the first of her table-mates arrived - it was the fat M. Gauche, another early bird - the mother-to-be had already dealt with three croissants and was preparing to set about a mushroom omelette. The breakfast served on the Leviathan was not some trifling Continental affair, but the genuine full English variety: with roast beef, exquisite egg dishes, blood pudding and porridge.

The French part of the consortium provided nothing but the croissants. At lunch and dinner, however, the menu was dominated by French cuisine. Well, one could hardly serve kidneys and beans in the Windsor saloon!

The first mate appeared, as always, at precisely nine o’clock.

He enquired solicitously as to how Mme Kleber was feeling.

Renate lied and said she had slept badly and felt absolutely shattered, and it was all because the porthole didn’t open properly and it was too stuffy in the cabin. Alarmed, Lieutenant Renier promised that he would make inquiries in person and have the fault rectified. He did not eat eggs or roast beef - he was a devotee of some peculiar diet, sustaining himself largely on fresh greens. Renate pitied him for that.

Gradually the others also put in an appearance. The conversation over breakfast was usually listless. Those who were a bit older had not yet recovered from a wretched night, while the young people were still not fully awake. It was rather amusing to observe the bitchy Clarissa Stamp attempting to coax a response out of the stammering Russian diplomat. Renate shook her head in disbelief: how could she make such a fool of herself?

After all, my dear, he could be your son, despite those impressive streaks of grey. Surely this handsome boy was too tough a morsel for this ageing, simpering creature?

The very last to arrive was the Ginger Lunatic (Renate’s private name for the English baronet). Tousled hair sticking out in all directions, red eyes, a twitch at the corner of his mouth - he was a quite appalling mess. But Mme Kleber was not in the least bit afraid of him, and given the chance she never missed the opportunity to have a bit of fun at his expense. This time she passed the milk jug to the Lunatic with a warm, guileless smile. As she had anticipated, Milford-Stokes (what a silly name!) squeamishly moved his cup aside. Renate knew from experience that now he would not even touch the milk jug, and he would drink his coffee black.

“Why do you start back like that, sir?’ she babbled in a quavering voice. ‘Don’t be afraid, pregnancy is not infectious.’ Then she concluded, no longer quavering: ‘At least not for men.’

The Lunatic cast her a glance of withering scorn that shattered against the serenely radiant glance opposed to it. Lieutenant Renier concealed a smile behind his hand, the rentier chuckled. Even the Japanese raised a smile at Renate’s prank.

Of course, this M. Aono was always smiling, even when there was absolutely no reason for it. Perhaps for the Japanese a smile was not an expression of merriment at all, but indicated something quite different. Boredom, perhaps, or repugnance.

When he had finished smiling, M. Aono disgusted his neighbours at table by playing his usual trick: he took a paper napkin out of his pocket, blew his nose into it loudly, crumpled it up and deposited it neatly on the edge of his dirty plate. A fine ikebana arrangement for them to contemplate. Renate had read about ikebana in one of Pierre Loti’s novels and the aura of the word had stuck in her memory. It was an interesting idea - composing bouquets of flowers not simply to look nice, but with a philosophical meaning. She would have to try it some time.

‘What flowers do you like?’ she asked Dr Truffo.

He translated the question to his English jade, then replied: ‘Pansies.’

Then he translated his reply into English as well.

“I just adore flowers!’ exclaimed Miss Stamp (what an impossible ingenue!). ‘But only live ones. I love to walk across a flowering meadow! My heart simply breaks when I see poor cut flowers wither and drop their petals! That’s why I never allow anyone to give me bouquets.’ And she cast a languid glance at the handsome young Russian.

What a shame, otherwise absolutely everyone would be tossing bouquets at you, thought Renate, but aloud she said: ‘I believe that flowers are the crowning glories of God’s creation and I think trampling a flowering meadow is a crime.’

‘In the parks of Paris it is indeed considered a crime,’ M. Gauche pronounced solemnly. ‘The penalty is ten francs. And if the ladies will permit an old boor to light up his pipe, I will tell you an amusing little story on the subject.’

‘O, ladies, pray do indulge us!’ cried the owlish Indologist Sweetchild, wagging his beard a la Disraeli. ‘M. Gauche is such a wonderful raconteur!’

Everyone turned to look at the pregnant Renate, on whom the decision depended, and she rubbed her temple as a hint. Of course, she did not have the slightest trace of a headache - she was simply savouring the sweetness of the moment. However, she too was curious to hear this ‘little story’, and so she nodded her head with a pained expression and said:

‘Very well, smoke. But then someone must fan me.’

Since bitchy Clarissa, the owner of a luxurious ostrich-feather fan, pretended this remark did not apply to her, the Japanese had to fill the breach. Gintaro Aono seated himself beside Renate and set to work, flapping his bright fan with the butterfly design in front of the long-suffering woman’s nose so zealously that the bright kaleidoscope rapidly make her feel genuinely giddy. The Japanese received a reprimand for his excessive fervour.

Meanwhile the rentier drew on his pipe with relish, puffed out a cloud of aromatic smoke and embarked on his story: ‘Believe it or not as you wish, but this is a true story. There was once a gardener who worked in the Luxembourg Gardens, little papa Picard. For forty years he had watered the flowers and pruned the shrubs, and now he had only three years to go until he retired and drew his pension. Then one morning, when little papa Picard went out with his watering can, he saw a swell dolled up in a white shirt and tails sprawling in the tulip bed. He was stretched out full length, basking in the morning sunshine, obviously straight from his nocturnal revels - after carousing until dawn, he had dozed off on the way home.’

Gauche screwed up his eyes and surveyed his audience with a sly glance. ‘Picard, of course, was furious - his tulips were crushed - and he said: “Get up, monsieur, in our park lying in the flower beds is not allowed! We fine people for it, ten francs.”

The reveller opened one eye and took a gold coin out of his pocket. “There you are, old man,” he said, “now leave me in peace. I haven’t had such a wonderful rest in ages.” Well, the gardener took the coin, but he did not go away. “You have paid the fine, but I have no right to leave you here, monsieur. Be so good as to get up.” At this the gentleman in the tails opened both eyes, but he seemed in no haste to rise. “How much do I have to pay you to get out of my sun? I’ll pay any amount you like if you’ll just stop pestering me and let me doze for an hour.”

Old papa Picard scratched his head and moved his lips while he figured something out. “Well then, sir,” he said eventually, “if you wish to purchase an hour’s rest lying in a flower bed in the Luxembourg Gardens, it will cost you eighty-four thousand francs and not a single sou less.” ‘ Gauche chuckled merrily into his grey moustache and shook his head, as if in admiration of the gardener’s impudence. ‘ “And not a single sou less,” he said, so there! And let me tell you that this tipsy gentleman was no ordinary man, but the banker Laffitte himself, the richest man in the whole of Paris. Laffitte was not in the habit of making idle promises: he had said “any amount” and now he was stuck with it. As a banker it would have been shameful for him to back down and break his word. Of course, he didn’t want to give away that kind of money to the first impudent rogue he met for a mere how-d’ye-do. But what could he do about it?’

Gauche shrugged, mimicking a state of total perplexity. ‘Then suddenly Laffitte ups and says: “Right, you old scoundrel, you’ll get your eighty-four thousand, but only on one condition. You prove to me that lying for an hour in your rotten flower bed is really worth the money. And if you can’t prove it, I’ll get up this very moment and give your sides a good drubbing with my cane, and that act of petty hooliganism will cost me a forty franc administrative fine.” ‘ Crazy Milford-Stokes laughed loudly and ruffled up his ginger mane in approval, but Gauche raised a yellow-stained finger, as if to say: don’t be so hasty with your laughter, it’s not the end yet. ‘And what do you think happened, ladies and gentlemen? Old papa Picard, not put out in the slightest, began drawing up the balance: “In half an hour, at precisely eight o’clock, monsieur le directeur of the park will arrive, see you in the flower bed and start yelling at me to get you out of there. I shall not be able to do that, because you will have paid for a full hour, not half an hour. I shall get into an argument with monsieur le directeur, and he will kick me out of my job with no pension and no severance pay. I still have three years to go before I retire and take the pension due to me, which is set at one thousand two hundred francs a year. I intend to live at my ease for twenty years, so altogether that makes twenty-four thousand francs already. Now for the matter of accommodation.

They will throw me and my lady wife out of our municipal apartment. And then the question is - where are we going to live? We shall have to buy a house. Any modest little house somewhere in the Loire region will run to twenty thousand at least. Now, sir, consider my reputation. Forty years I’ve slaved away loyally in this park and anyone will tell you that old papa Picard is an honest man. Then suddenly an incident like this brings shame on my old grey head. This is bribery, this is graft! I think a thousand francs for each year of irreproachable service would hardly be too much by way of moral compensation. So altogether it comes out at exactly eighty-four thousand.” Laffitte laughed, stretched himself out a bit more comfortably in the flower bed and closed his eyes again. “Come back in an hour, you old monkey,” he said, “and you’ll be paid.” And that is my wonderful little story, ladies and gentlemen.’

‘So a year of faultless conduct went for a thousand f-francs?’ the Russian diplomat said with a laugh. ‘Not so very expensive. Evidently with a discount for wholesale.’

The company began a lively discussion of the story, expressing the most contradictory opinions, but Renate Kleber gazed curiously at M. Gauche as he opened his black file with a self satisfied air and began rustling his papers. He was an intriguing specimen, this old grandpa, no doubt about it. And what secrets was he keeping in there? Why was he shielding the file with his elbow?

That question had been nagging at Renate for a long time.

Once or twice she had tried to exploit her position as a motherto-be by glancing over Gauche’s shoulder as he conjured with that precious file of his, but the mustachioed boor had rather impudently slammed the file shut in the lady’s face and even wagged his finger at her, as much as to say: now that’s not allowed.

Today, however, something rather remarkable happened.

When M. Gauche, as usual, rose from the table ahead of the others, a sheet of paper slid silently out of his mysterious file and glided gently to the floor. Engrossed in some gloomy thoughts of his own, the rentier failed to notice anything and left the saloon. The door had scarcely closed behind him before Renate adroitly raised her body, with its slightly thickened waist, out of her chair. But she was not the only one to have been so observant. The well-brought-up Miss Stamp (such a nimble creature!) was the first to reach the scrap of paper.

‘Ah, I think Mr Gauche has dropped something!’ she exclaimed, deftly grabbing up the scrap and fastening her beady eyes on it. ‘I’ll catch up with him and return it.’

But Mme Kleber was already clutching the edge of the paper in tenacious fingers and had no intention of letting go.

‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘A newspaper clipping? How interesting!’

The next moment everyone in the room had gathered around the two ladies, except for the Japanese blockhead, who was still pumping the air with his fan, and Mrs Truffo, who observed this flagrant invasion of privacy with a reproachful expression on her face.

The clipping read as follows:

The fiendish murder of ten people that took place the day before yesterday on the rue de Grenelle continues to exercise the imagination of Parisians. Of the possible explanations proposed thus far the two most prevalent are a maniacal doctor and a fanatical sect of bloodthirsty Hindu devotees of the god Shiva.

However, in the course of conducting our own independent investigation, we at Le Soir have uncovered a circumstance which could possibly open up a new angle on the case. It would appear that in recent weeks the late Lord Littleby was seen at least twice in the company of the international adventuress Marie Sanfon, well known to the police forces of many countries. The Baron de ML, a close friend of the murdered man, has informed us that his Lordship was infatuated with a certain lady, and on the evening of the fifteenth of March he had intended to set out for Spa for some kind of romantic rendezvous.

Could this rendezvous, which was prevented by the most untimely attack of gout suffered by the unfortunate collector, possibly have been arranged with Mile Sanfon? The editors would not make so bold as to propose our own version of events, but we regard it as our duty to draw the attention of Commissioner Gauche to this noteworthy circumstance. You may expect further reports from us on this subject.

The municipal health authorities inform us that the foci of the cholera infection which they have been combating energetically since the summer have finally been isolated. The vigorous prophylactic measures taken by the physicians of Paris have yielded positive results and we may now hope that the epidemic of this dangerous disease, which began in July, is beg

‘What could that be about?’ Renate asked, wrinkling up her brow in puzzlement. ‘Something about a murder, and cholera or something of the kind.’

‘Well the cholera obviously has nothing to do with the matter,’ said Professor Sweetchild. ‘It’s simply the way the page has been cut. The important thing, of course, is the murder on the rue de Grenelle. Surely you must have heard about it? A sensational case, the newspapers were all full of it.’

‘I do not read the newspapers,’ Mme Kleber replied with dignity. ‘In my condition it places too much strain on the nerves. And in any case I have no desire to learn about all sorts of unpleasant goings-on.’

‘Commissioner Gauche?’ said Lieutenant Renier, peering at the clipping and running his eyes over the article once again.

‘Could that be our own M. Gauche?’

Miss Stamp gasped:

‘Oh, it couldn’t be!’

At this point even the doctor’s wife joined them. This was a genuine sensation and everyone started talking at once: ‘The police, the French police are involved in this!’ Sir Reginald exclaimed excitedly.

Renier muttered:

‘So that’s why the captain keeps interrogating me about the Windsor saloon …’

M. Truffo translated as usual for his spouse, while the Russian took possession of the clipping and scrutinized it closely.

‘That bit about the Indian fanatics is absolute nonsense,’ declared Sweetchild. ‘I made my opinion on that clear from the very beginning. In the first place, there is no bloodthirsty sect of followers of Shiva. And in the second place, everyone knows that the statuette was recovered. Would a religious fanatic be likely to throw it into the Seine?’

‘Yes, the business of the golden Shiva is a genuine riddle,’ said Miss Stamp with a nod. ‘They wrote that it was the jewel of Lord Littleby’s collection. Is that correct, professor?’

The Indologist shrugged condescendingly.

‘What can I say, madam? Lord Littleby only started collecting relatively recently, about twenty years ago. In such a short period it is difficult to assemble a truly outstanding collection.

They do say that the deceased did rather well out of the suppression of the Sepoy Rebellion of 1857. The notorious Shiva, for instance, was “presented” to the lord by a certain maharajah who was threatened with court martial for intriguing with the insurgents. Littleby served for many years in the Indian military prosecutor’s office, you know. Undoubtedly his collection includes quite a few valuable items, but the selection is rather haphazard.’

‘But do tell me, at last, why this lord of yours was killed!’

Renate demanded. ‘Look, M. Aono doesn’t know anything about it either, do you?’ she asked, appealing for support to the Japanese, who was standing slightly apart from the others.

The Japanese smiled with just his lips and bowed, and the Russian mimed applause:

‘Bravo, Mme Kleber. You have quite c-correctly identified the most important question here. I have been following this case in the press. And in my opinion the reason for the c-crime is more important than anything else. That is where the key to the riddle lies. Precisely in the question “why?”. What was the purpose for which ten people were killed?’

‘Ah, but that is very simple!’ said Miss Stamp with a shrug. ‘The plan was to steal everything that was most valuable from the collection. But the thief lost his head when he came face to face with the owner. After all, it had been assumed that his Lordship was not at home. It must be one thing to inject someone with a syringe and quite another to smash a man’s head open. But then, I wouldn’t know, I have never tried it.’ She twitched her shoulders. ‘The villain’s nerves gave out and he left the job half finished. But as for the abandoned Shiva …’ Miss Stamp pondered. ‘Perhaps that is the heavy object with which poor Littleby’s brains were beaten out. It is quite possible that a criminal also has normal human feelings and he found it repugnant or even simply frightening to hold the bloody murder weapon in his hand. So he walked as far as the embankment and threw it in the Seine.’

‘Concerning the murder weapon that seems very probable,’ the diplomat agreed. ‘I th-think the same.’

The old maid flushed brightly with pleasure and was clearly embarrassed when she caught Renate’s mocking glance.

‘You are saying quite outrageous things,’ the doctor’s wife rebuked Clarissa Stamp. ‘Shouldn’t we find a more suitable subject for table talk?’

But the colourless creature’s appeal fell on deaf ears.

‘In my opinion the greatest mystery here is the death of the servants!’ said the lanky Indologist, keen to contribute to the analysis of the crime. ‘How did they come to allow themselves to be injected with such abominable muck? Not at pistol-point, surely! After all, two of them were guards, and they were both carrying revolvers in holsters on their belts. That’s where the mystery lies.’

‘I have a hypothesis of my own,’ Renier announced with a solemn expression. ‘And I am prepared to defend it against any objections. The crime on the rue de Grenelle was committed by a person who possesses exceptional mesmeric powers. The servants were in a state of mesmeric trance, that is the only possible explanation! Animal magnetism is a terrifying force. An experienced manipulator can do whatever he chooses with you. Yes, yes, madam,’ the lieutenant said, turning towards Mrs Truffo, who had twisted her face into a doubtful grimace, ‘absolutely anything at all.’

‘Not if he is dealing with a lady,’ she replied austerely.

Tired of playing the role of interpreter, Dr Truffo wiped the sweat from his gleaming forehead with his handkerchief and rushed to the defence of the scientific worldview.

‘I am afraid I must disagree with you,’ he started jabbering in French, with a rather strong accent. ‘Mr Mesmer’s teaching has been exposed as having no scientific basis. The power of mesmerism or, as it is now known, hypnotism, has been greatly exaggerated. The Honourable Mr James Braid has proved conclusively that only psychologically suggestible individuals are subject to hypnotic influence, and then only if they have complete trust in the hypnotist and have agreed to allow themselves to be hypnotized.’

‘It is quite obvious, my dear doctor, that you have not travelled in the East!’ said Renier, flashing his white teeth in a smile. ‘At any Indian bazaar the fakir will show you miracles of mesmeric art that would make the most hardened sceptic gape in wonder. But those are merely tricks they use to show off!

Once in Kandahar I observed the public punishment of a thief. Under Muslim law theft is punished by the amputation of the right hand, a procedure so intensely painful that those subjected to it frequently die from the shock. On this occasion the accused was a mere child, but since he had been caught for the second time, there was nothing else the judge could do, he had to sentence the thief to the penalty prescribed under shariah law.

The judge, however, was a merciful man and he sent for a dervish who was well known for his miraculous powers. The dervish took the convicted prisoner’s head in his hands, looked into his eyes and whispered something - and the boy became calm and stopped trembling. A strange smile appeared on his face, and did not leave it even when the executioner’s axe severed his arm up to the very elbow! And I saw all this with my own eyes, I swear to you.’

Renate grew angry:

‘Ugh, how horrible! You and your Orient, Charles. I am beginning to feel faint!’

‘Forgive me, Mme Kleber,’ said the lieutenant, taking fright. ‘I only wished to demonstrate that in comparison with this a few injections are mere child’s play.’

‘Once again, I am afraid that I cannot agree with you …’

The stubborn doctor was preparing to defend his point of view, but just at that moment the door of the saloon swung open and in came either a rentier or a policeman - in short, M. Gauche.

Everybody turned towards him in consternation, as if they had been caught out in some action that was not entirely decent.

Gauche ran a keen gaze over their faces and spotted the ill starred clipping in the hands of the diplomat. His face darkened.

‘So that’s where it is … I was afraid of that.’

Renate went over to this grandpa with a grey moustache, looked his massive figure over mistrustfully from head to toe and blurted out:

‘M. Gauche, are you really a policeman?’

‘The same C-Commissioner Gauche who was leading the investigation into the “Crime of the Century”?’ asked Fandorin (yes, that was the Russian diplomat’s name, Renate recalled). ‘In that case how are we to account for your masquerade and in general for your ppresence here on board?’

Gauche breathed hard for a few moments, raised his eyebrows, lowered them again and reached for his pipe. He was obviously racking his brains in an effort to decide what he should do.

‘Please sit down, ladies and gentlemen,’ said Gauche in an unfamiliar, imposing bass and turned the key to lock the door behind him. ‘Since this is the way things have turned out, I shall have to be frank with you. Be seated, be seated or else somebody’s legs might just give way under them.’

‘What kind of joke is this, M. Gauche?’ the lieutenant asked in annoyance. ‘By what right do you presume to command here, and in the presence of the captain’s first mate?’

‘That, my young man, is something the captain himself will explain to you,’ Gauche replied with a hostile sideways glance at Renier. ‘He knows what is going on here.’

Renier dropped the matter and took his place at the table, following the others’ example.

The verbose, good-humoured grumbler for whom Renate had taken the Parisian rentier was behaving rather differently now. A certain dignity had appeared in the broad set of his shoulders, his gestures had become imperious, his eyes had acquired a new, harder gleam. The mere fact that he could maintain a prolonged pause with such calm confidence said a great deal. The strange rentier’s piercing gaze paused in turn on each person present in the room and Renate saw some of them flinch under its weight. To be honest, even she was a little disturbed by it, but then she immediately felt ashamed of herself and tossed her head nonchalantly: he may be a police commissioner, but what of that? He was still an obese, short winded old duffer and nothing more.

‘Please do not keep us guessing any longer, M. Gauche,’ she said sarcastically. ‘Excitement is dangerous for me.’

‘There is probably only one person here who has cause for excitement,’ Gauche replied mysteriously. ‘But I shall come back to that. First, allow me to introduce myself to the honourable company once again. Yes, my name is Gustave Gauche, but I am not a rentier, alas I have no investments from which to draw income. I am, ladies and gentlemen, a commissioner in the criminal police of the city of Paris and I work in the department which deals with particularly serious and complicated crimes.

The post I hold is entitled Investigator for Especially Important Cases.’ The commissioner pronounced the title with distinct emphasis.

The deadly silence in the saloon was broken only by the hasty whispering of Dr Truffo.

‘What a scandal!’ squeaked the doctor’s wife.

‘I was obliged to embark on this voyage, and to travel incognito because …’ Gauche began flapping his cheeks in and out energetically in an effort to revive his half-extinguished pipe.

‘… because the Paris police have serious grounds for believing that the person who committed the crime on the rue de Grenelle is on board the Leviathan.’

‘Ah!’ The sigh rustled quietly round the saloon.

‘I presume that you have already discussed the case, which is a mysterious one in many respects.’ The commissioner jerked his double chin in the direction of the newspaper clipping, which was still in Fandorin’s hands. ‘And that is not all, mesdames et messieurs. I know for a fact that the murderer is travelling first class …’ (another collective sigh) ‘… and, moreover, happens to be present in this saloon at this very moment,’ Gauche concluded.

Then he seated himself in a satin-upholstered armchair by the window and folded his arms expectantly just below his silver watch chain.

‘Impossible!’ cried Renate, clutching involuntarily at her belly.

Lieutenant Renier leapt to his feet.

The ginger baronet began chortling and applauding demonstratively.

Professor Sweetchild gulped convulsively and removed his glasses.

Clarissa Stamp froze with her fingers pressed against the agate brooch on her soft collar.

Not a single muscle twitched in the face of the Japanese, but the polite smile instantly disappeared.

The doctor grabbed his wife by the elbow forgetting to translate the most important thing of all, but to judge from the frightened expression in her staring eyes, Mrs Truffo had guessed for herself.

The Russian diplomat asked quietly:

“What reasons do you have for this assertion?’

‘My presence here,’ the commissioner replied imperturbably, ‘is explanation enough. There are other considerations, but there is no need for you to know about them … Well then’ there was a clear note of disappointment in the policeman’s voice - ‘I see that no one is about to swoon and cry out: “Arrest me, I killed them!” But of course, I was not really counting on that. So listen to me.’ He raised a stubby finger in warning. ‘None of the other passengers must be told about this.

And it is not in your interests to tell them - the rumour would spread instantly and people would start treating you like lepers.

Do not attempt to transfer to a different saloon - that will merely increase my suspicion. And you will not be able to do it; I have an arrangement with the captain.’

Renate began babbling in a trembling voice.

‘Darling M. Gauche, can you not at least spare me this nightmare?

I am afraid to sit at the same table as a murderer. What if he sprinkles poison in my food? I shan’t be able to swallow a single morsel now. You know it’s dangerous for me to be worried.

I won’t tell anyone, anyone at all, honestly!’

‘My regrets, Mme Kleber,’ the sleuth replied coolly, ‘but there can be no exceptions. I have grounds to suspect every person here, and not least of all you.’

Renate threw herself against the back of her chair with a weak moan and Lieutenant Renier stamped his foot angrily.

‘You take too many liberties, monsieur … Investigator for Especially Important Cases! I shall report everything to Captain Cliff immediately.’

‘Go right ahead,’ said Gauche indifferently. ‘But not just at this moment, a bit later. I haven’t quite finished my little speech.

So, as yet I do not know for certain which of you is my client, but I am close, very close, to my goal.’

Renate expected these words to be followed by an eloquent glance and she strained her entire body forward in anticipation, but no, the policeman was looking at his stupid pipe. He was probably lying and didn’t have his eye on anyone in particular.

‘You suspect a woman, it’s obvious!’ exclaimed Miss Stamp with a nervous flutter of her hands. ‘Otherwise why would you be carrying around a newspaper article about some Marie Sanfon? Who is this Marie Sanfon? And anyway, it doesn’t matter who she is. It’s plain stupid to suspect a woman! How could a woman ever be capable of such brutality!’

Mrs Truffo rose abruptly to her feet, ready to rally to the banner of female solidarity.

‘We shall speak of Mile Sanfon on some other occasion,’ the detective replied, looking Clarissa Stamp up and down. ‘I have plenty of these little articles and each of them contains its own version of events.’ He opened his file and rustled the newspaper clippings. There must have been several dozen of them. ‘Very well, mesdames et messieurs, I ask you please not to interrupt me any more!’ The policeman’s voice had turned to iron. ‘Yes, there is a dangerous criminal among us. Possibly a psychopath.’

(Renate noticed the professor quietly shift his chair away from Sir Reginald.) ‘Therefore I ask you all to be careful. If you notice something out of the ordinary, even the very slightest thing, come to me immediately. And it would be best, of course, if the murderer were to make a full and frank confession. There is no escape from here in any case. That is all I have to say.’

Mrs Truffo put her hand up like a pupil in school.

‘In fact I have seen something extraordinary only yesterday! A charcoal-black face, it was definitely not human, looked in at me from outside while I was in our cabin! I was so scared!’ She turned to her other half and jabbed him with her elbow: ‘I told you, but you paid no attention!’

‘Oh,’ said Renate with a start, ‘and yesterday a mirror in a genuine tortoiseshell frame disappeared from my toiletry set.’

Monsieur the Lunatic apparently also had something to report, but before he had a chance the commissioner slammed his file shut.

‘Do not try to make a fool of me! I am an old bloodhound.

You won’t throw Gustave Gauche off the scent. If necessary I shall have every one of you put ashore and we will deal with each of you separately. Ten people have been killed, this is not a joke. Think, mesdames et messieurs, think!’

He left the saloon, slamming the door loudly behind him.

‘Gentlemen, I am not feeling well,’ Renate declared in a weak voice. ‘I shall go to my cabin.’

‘I shall accompany you, Mme Kleber,’ said Charles Renier, immediately leaping to her side. ‘This is simply intolerable! Such incredible insolence!’

Renate pushed him away.

‘No thank you. I shall manage quite well on my own.’

She walked unsteadily across the room and leaned against the wall by the door for a moment. In the corridor, which was empty, her stride quickened. Renate opened her cabin and went inside, took a travelling bag out from under the bed and thrust a trembling hand in under its silk lining. Her face was pale but determined. In an instant her fingers had located a small metal box.

Inside the box, glittering with cold glass and steel, lay a syringe.