Free The Blind Barber by John Dickson Carr Page B

wits ceased to whirl. “!&£&/£/!” He gasped, he blinked, and then, as the full realisation smote him, he lifted shaking arms to heaven and set soaring his soul in one hoarse blast: “!!!!&/£—!!?????&—&£/!!/? ⅔¾⅓!? T HIEVES ! M URDERERS ! H ELP !”
    “That’s torn it,” breathed Morgan, in a fierce whisper. “Quick! There’s only one … What are you doing?” he demanded, and stared at Peggy Glenn.
    After saying, “Eiee!” the girl did not hesitate. Just behind her there was the porthole to somebody’s cabin, open and fastened back. As the obliging boat rolled over to assist her aim, she flung the steel box inside. It was a dark cabin, and they heard the box bump down. Without looking at the others, who were staring aghast, she had turned to run, when Morgan caught her arm …
    “Gawd lummy!” said the ghostly voice from the top of the companionway, as though it were coming out of a trance, “that’s the old man! Come on!”
    Morgan was shooing his charges before him like chickens. He spoke so fast, under cover of the crashing swell, that he wondered if they heard him: “Don’t try to run, you fatheads, or Whistler’ll see you! He’s still groggy … Stick in the shadow, make a lot of noise with your feet as though you’d heard him and were running to help! Say something! Talk! Run about in circles … ”
    It was an old detective-story trick, and he hoped it would work. Certainly their response was magnificent. To Captain Whistler, opening gummy eyes as he sat on the deck, it must have seemed that he was being rescued by a regiment of cavalry. The din was staggering especially Captain Valvick’s realistic impersonation of a horse starting from far away and growing louder and more thunderous as it galloped near. Morgan’s stout-hearted trio also cut the gale with such cries as, “What is it?” “What’s wrong?” “Who’s hurt?” They had timed themselves to spin round the forward bulkhead just as the second officer and the doctor came pelting up, their waterproofs swishing and the gilt ensigns on their caps gleaming out of the murk. There was silence while everybody clung to what was convenient, and several moments of hard breathing. The second officer, bending down, snapped on his flashlight. One good eye—undamaged, although the pickled-onion blaze of its pupil was distended horribly—one good eye smouldered and glared back at them out of a face which resembled a powerful piece of futurist painting. Captain Whistler was breathing hard. Morgan thought of the Cyclops, and also of incipient apoplexy. Captain Whistler sat on the wet deck, supporting himself with his hands behind him, and his cap was pushed back over his short white hair. He did not say anything. He was incapable, at that moment, of saying anything. He only breathed.
    “Gor!” whispered the second officer.
    There was another silence. Without removing his gaze from that terrifying face, the second officer beckoned behind him to the doctor. “I—er—” he faltered; “that is, what happened, sir?”
    A certain terrible spasm and shiver twitched over the captain’s face and chest, as though a volcano were trembling at its crust. But he still said nothing, and continued to wheeze noisily. His Cyclopean eye remained fixed.
    “Come on, sir!” urged the second officer. “Let me help you up. You’ll—er—catch cold. What happened?” he demanded, bewilderedly, turning to Morgan. “We heard—”
    “So did we,” agreed Morgan, “and came running when you did. I don’t know what happened to him. He must have fallen off the bridge or something.”
    Among the dusky figures Peggy pressed forward. “It is Captain Whistler!” she wailed. “Oh, the poor dear! This is awful! Whatever can have happened to him? I say—” She seemed to have a shocking presentiment. Although she lowered her voice, there was only a hissing recoil of waters on the rise, and her shocked whisper to Warren carried clearly. “I say, I