The Studied Financier (18)

 18

“I don’t care frightfully about this case after all,” I told my father at breakfast the next day.

“Which, the man in the tub or Mr. Nuavy?”

“Both. I say, should we go to the Virtual Escape Room, today?”

“You can if you like,” replied the detective; “but you forget I have to run this cruiseshuttle.”

“I just don’t know what to do. I have my theory as to what happened to Nuavy, and I’m fairly certain the man in the tub ties in, somehow. My problem is how do I connect them.”

“I’d start interviewing all the people who were in the cabins around 14105. I’d beguile them into conversations and suddenly mention the words ‘body’ and ‘pince-nez,’ and see if they squirmed.”

“You would, would you?” I said with a grin. “Well, I’m going to review the files Marshaggins sent me that we got from Nuavy’s room. I don’t suppose you would like to find a few of those people who are still floating around on the ship and interview them?”

My father grimaced.

“Well,” he said, “I would love to track down all these leads for you, but I was planning on meeting an old friend for lunch. Would you like to come with? He knew Mr. Nuavy.”

“I’d love to,” I said. “But now, I have to check in and make sure everything is going well in reception.”

“We’ll be at the Supernova at 12:00 sharp.”

“See you then!” 

The Studied Financier (17)

 17

“I mean to say,” I interrupted excitedly, “that it was not Nuaban Nuavy who was seen entering this suite. I say that it was another man, perhaps a several inches shorter, who came here in Nuavy’s clothes and let himself in with Nuavy’s latchkey. Oh, he was a bold, cunning devil. He had on Nuavy’s boots, and every stitch of Nuavy’s clothing down to the skin. He had rubber gloves on his hands which he never took off, and he did everything he could to make us think that Nuavy slept here. He took his chances and won. He walked into his room, undressed, and he even brushed his teeth, though he didn’t use the hairbrush for fear of leaving red hairs in it. He had to guess what Nuavy did with boots and clothes. He happened to get one guess wrong and the other right. The bed needed to look as if it had been slept in, so he got into it, and lies there—probably in the victim’s pajamas. Then, in the morning sometime, probably in the deadest hour between 02:00 and 03:00, he gets up, dresses himself in his own clothes that he brought with him, and creeps downstairs. If anybody wakes, he is lost, but he is a bold man. He takes his chance. He knows that people do not wake as a rule—and as he expects, they don’t wake. He opens the door—he listens for the stray passer-by. He slips out. He pulls the door quietly shut. He walks briskly away in rubber-soled shoes—he’s the kind of criminal who isn’t complete without rubber-soled shoes.”

I paused for a moment then added, “He did all that, and he had everything at stake. Either Nuaban Nuavy has been spirited away for some silly practical joke, or the man with the auburn hair has the guilt of murder upon his soul.”

“Dear me!” ejaculated the gendarme. “You’re very dramatic about it.”

I ran my fingers through my hair distractedly. The personal assistant looked horribly disturbed.

“But what happened to Mr. Nuavy?” he asked, his voice cracking. 

“Well, he was spirited away—which seems to be such a joke because I don’t believe he’d hurt a fly himself. I’m sorry, but I don’t have all the answers, yet. It could be he is just being held captive somewhere.” That helped the man regain some of his hope. “Thank you for your time. I’ve finished what I needed to do here,” I said.

“Yeah, I got everything I was supposed to get and then some,” the gendarme confirmed. 

“We’ll let ourselves out. Thank you for helping us.”

The personal assistant gave a grim smile and went to do continue his work. I had little hope of finding Nuavy alive—people who kidnap others generally want to be found so they can get a ransom—but I hoped I was wrong for the servants’ sake.

The Studied Financier (16)

16

“Five foot eight,” I said, “and not an inch more.” I peered dubiously at the depression in the bed clothes, and measured it a second time just to be sure. The gendarme wrote the number in the notebook.

“I don’t see why that’s important,” he said. 

“I suppose,” I said, “a six-foot-two man might leave a five-foot-ten depression if he curled himself up.”

“Here am I, sweating my brains out to introduce a really sensational incident into your police investigation, and you refuse to show a single spark of enthusiasm,” I said.

“Well, it’s no good jumping to conclusions.”

“Jump? You don’t even crawl distantly within sight of a conclusion. I believe if you caught a cat with her head in a cream jug, you’d say it was conceivable that the jug was empty when she got there,” I said peevishly. 

“Well, it would be conceivable, wouldn’t it?”

I let out a frustrated sigh and bent over the pillow. “Give me the tweezers, please,” I said. 

“What is it?” the gendarme asked.

“It’s a hair,” I said grimly. “Let’s go and look at Nuavy’s hats, shall we? And do you mind finding that personal assistant?”

I was squatting on the floor of the dressing room before a row of hats arranged upside down when the gendarme returned with the personal assistant.

“There you are,” I said cheerfully. “Now, this is a guessing game. Here are nine hats, including three top-hats. Do all these hats belong to Nuaban Nuavy?” The personal assistant nodded. “Very good. Now I have three guesses as to which hat he wore the night he disappeared, and if I guess right, I win; if I don’t, you win. See? Ready? Oh, wait—I suppose you know the answer yourself, by the way?”

“Do I understand you to be asking which hat Nuaban wore when he went out the night he disappeared?”

“No, I’m asking if you know, but don’t tell me. I’m going to guess.”

“I do know,” the personal assistant said reprovingly.

“Well,” I said, “since he was dining in the main dining room, I think he wore a top hat. Here are three. Hmm, I guess if I give myself three guesses, I’d be bound to hit the right one, wouldn’t I? That doesn’t seem very sporting. I’ll take one guess. It was this one.”

I pointed to a hat next the door.

“Am I right—did I win the prize?”

“That is the hat in question,” the personal assistant said without excitement.

“Thanks,” I said. Turning to the gendarme, I asked, “hat fingerprints have you found?”

“Well, I haven’t photographed them yet, but I won’t deny that their appearance is interesting. The little book off the night table has only the marks from one set of fingers—there’s a little scar on the right thumb which makes them easy to recognize. The hairbrush, too, has only the same set of marks. The umbrella, the waterglass, and the boots all have two sets of fingerprints: the hand with the scarred thumb, which I believe is Nuaban’s and a set of smudges superimposed upon them, which may or may not be the same hand in rubber gloves. I could tell you better when I’ve got the photographs made and had time to look at everything more closely. The bathroom floor was gratifying, though. Besides the marks of Nuaban’s boots, there’s the print of a naked foot—a much smaller one. It measured not more than nine inches.”

I smiled jubilantly. 

“It had to be a mistake,” I breathed. “It’s a little one, but he can’t afford it. When was the floor washed last?” I asked the personal assistant.

“Monday morning. The housemaid did it,” he replied.

His features expressed disdain.

“What did I say, Parker? Five-foot-ten and not an inch longer. And he didn’t dare to use the hairbrush. Why? But he had to risk the top hat. That’s how he concealed his face. Look! what do you make of it? Two sets of fingerprints on everything but the book and the brush, two sets of feet on the floor, and two kinds of hair in the hat!” 

He lifted the top hat and extracted the evidence with tweezers before placing it in an evidence bag and sealing it.

“Think of it—to remember the hairbrush and forget the hat—to remember his fingers all the time, and to make that one careless step on the tell-tale tile floor. Here they are, you see, black hair and tan hair—black hair in the bowler and the panama hat and black and tan in last night’s top hat. And then, just to make certain that we’re on the right track, just one little auburn hair on the pillow—on this pillow, which isn’t quite in the right place.”

“Do you mean to say—” said the gendarme.

The Studied Financier (14)

14

“If this were a detective story, the murderer would have tracked in a beautiful set of muddy marks, which could only have come there between 06:00 and 07:00, but this being real life on a cruiseshuttle, there will never be footprints, I suppose,” I said. “I set up a diagram last night of all the occupied cabins nearby—and came to the conclusion that any person in any cabin down the entire hall might have done it. To make matters worse, all the stairs and elevators are right there! Anyone on the entire ship could have easily accessed the cabin and then darted into the elevator to another deck without being noticed.”

“Well, look at this, Vixie, your notice about the found chain for the pince-nez is running in the newsfeed today!” I glanced over curiously at his com-tab. He continued, “You don’t think the fellow who left that chain on the body is going to give himself away by coming to reception and inquiring about it, do you?”

“Of course not, Pops,” I said a politely as my haughtiness allowed. “That’s why I’ve tried to get hold of the jeweler who originally sold the chain. See?” I pointed to the paragraph describing it. “It’s not an old chain—hardly worn at all.”

Detective Marshaggins entered the dining room at that moment and came directly to our table.

“Hello, Detective, will you join us?” I asked. 

“I just wanted to let you know I sent you the copy of all the data we have. I was very excited about the fingerprints one of my subordinates found. I’d overlooked them. I give her full credit for the discovery.”

I got into the files he had sent me and pulled up the fingerprints. My father looked over my shoulder as we examined them.

“The criminal,” said the detective bitterly, “must have gotten something on his fingers. He arranged the body in the bath, and wiped away all traces of himself except two, which he obligingly left to show us how to do our job. We learned from a smudge on the floor that he wore rubber boots and from this admirable set of fingerprints on the edge of the bathtub that he had the usual number of fingers and wore rubber gloves. That’s the kind of man he is.”

Unimpressed, I closed the file.

“What do you suggest doing this morning?” my father asked me.

“Well,” I said, “it seems to me it’s about time I learn a little more about this financier that’s missing. Do you have any objections to me looking over Nuaban Nuavy’s cabin, Detective?”

“I don’t know how you can jump from this crime to that disappearance all at once like that,” he replied. “You’re welcome to go look around.”

“Would I also be welcome to get the video and evidence you collected from that?”

“We haven’t done much up there because he’s still missing. With all his connections there isn’t much of a case until we find him or his body. Since you say the guy in the tub wasn’t him, I have to have some other data—like the DNA results to make that connection and solve both of these cases.”

I struggled to keep the shock from showing on my face. One thing was certain, I was glad I was not a missing person!

“Marshaggins, how can you delay such a thing? The case will be cold!” my father said through gritted teeth.

“It’s always the budget.”

“You have a rather large budget since this is a luxury cruise,” I countered.

“But there are only twenty-six hours in the day. It’s my time that’s the problem. And the distraction of it. Working on two cases at once gets a little confusing.”

“But according to you, this is the same case. Didn’t it occur to you that if your aim is to prove the body is Nuavy, you might find clues to that part of the case in his room?” 

The detective leaned back in his chair with a look on his face as if I had slapped him. 

“That’s a very good point. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that. I send someone up to you as soon as I can.”

The Studied Financier (15)

 When I arrived at the stateroom suite, Nuavy’s maid answered the door. After explaining who I was and that I was interested in looking for her employer, she invited me in anxiously.

“I hope you can put more effort into finding him than that detective,” she said leading me to the sitting area. “He told me Mr. Nuavy probably went on a little mini-vacation to tour the first city the original colonists built. That’s a bunch of malarky! Mr. Nuavy lives by his schedule book and never missed an appointment before this.” 

“What if something comes up?” I asked.

“You always know his schedule, so there isn’t a surprise really. A quiet, orderly, domestic life has much to be said for it. Meals at regular hours; decent, respectable families to dinner—even when his wife is gone there’s no sneaking other women in and out—and no servants are needed at night. There’s much to be said for it. I will say. no one could call Mr. Nuavy vulgar, and my lady at any rate is country-simple, and both of them always most considerate. Regular hours and considerate habits have a great deal to recommend them.” 

When I finished interviewing the maid, I wandered into the kitchen area and found the cook. 

“I heard he had very simple in his tastes—for such a rich man, I mean.”

“Very simple indeed,” he replied. “The meals he and her ladyship have when they’re by themselves—well, there now—if it wasn’t for the dinners, which is always good when there’s company, I’d be wastin’ my talents and education here, if you understand me, Major Thomatian.”

After asking a few more questions in a roundabout way, I then went in search of the personal assistant. I found him shutting the curtains in all the rooms. 

“Ah! Not fond of the view, are you?” I asked.

“Mr. Nuavy believes that sleep cycles are most important. He feels that space travel interferes with them drastically. For that reason, he has the curtains opened and closed every day at the same time. I, personally, feel that if he isn’t here it should make no difference, but who am I to complain?” he replied. 

“I know that sometimes I don’t get back to my cabin until very late, but I enjoy looking out nonetheless. My sleep’s a lot better on the cruiseshuttle though because all the shops close and there really isn’t much to do at 03:00 or 04:00. I have to be up again early each day to deal with some new difficulty that might arise. I have so many options here, though, I no longer need any of my servants except my own personal assistant. If I have to collapse on the bed in the middle of the night, I can chuck my muddy footwear into a corner and toss my clothes in a pile on the floor. By morning, it’s all taken care of as if I never wore the things.” 

“With Mr. Nuavy,” the servant countered defensively, “he’s never lost his good old-fashioned habits. Clothes folded up neat, boots put in his dressing room where they belong. If he gets a stain or scuff, I am told so I can fix it immediately. There is nothing worse than trying to deal with a stain days after the fact.”

“But Mr. Nuavy forgot them the night before last, though.”

“The clothes, not the boots. He’s always thoughtful for others. Ah! I hope nothing’s happened to him.” The man turned away for a moment, and I could tell he was fighting tears.

“Indeed, no, poor gentleman,” I said, resting my hand upon his shoulder for comfort. 

He turned back to me so quickly that I jumped backward. 

“And as for what they’re sayin’,” he said sharply, “that he’d have gone out surreptitiously to do something he shouldn’t have, well, I’d never believe it of him, not if I had to take my dying oath upon it.” After a few moments the anger in his eyes subsided. “If you’ll excuse me, now, I have other things that I must attend to. I want everything in order the moment he arrives back.” 

With that, he left the room. Thankfully, I only had a short while to wait before the gendarme from the detective arrived.