Dead water - Barbara Hambly [92]
Molloy came down the steps again, strode past Rose and January to where Cain was just coming from checking the spancels on his slaves. As he swaggered past the dealer, the pilot said something quietly—impossible to hear, but the angle of his head, the crowding jostle of his shoulder, were like a shove.
Torchlight shone on Cain's pockmarked, impassive face as the bigger man jostled by. Winslow murmured, “Molloy better watch how he mess with that man. That's a hard man, an' no mistake.”
“They both strike me as hard men,” remarked Rose.
The gray-haired valet shook his head. “Molloy, he a loud man, an' he no gentleman, but he's not hard. Not hard like that Cain. A bully'll crowd a weaker man, or a nigger, someone who can't fight back, but he like a barkin' cur-dog. He think Cain ain't gonna push back, 'cause of that letter he's got—”
“Who's got?” asked January. “Molloy?”
Winslow nodded. “This mornin', when it start to rain so bad, I went to the stateroom to fetch Mr. Roberson's umbrella for Mrs. Roberson. Our stateroom's next to Mr. Weems's, and I heard someone movin' around in there. An' I stay still, wonderin' if it's Thu makin' Mr. Weems decent, or Mr. Weems himself . . . Mr. Roberson gives lectures about history at the University in Lexington, an' he's always tellin' me how there ain't no such thing as the dead walkin' or whisperin' or bleedin' when their murderer comes near, but I don't know about that. I seen some damn strange things in my life.”
He watched as Molloy moved on away toward the bow. In the darkness the end of Cain's cigar glowed briefly brighter, like the Devil's eye when Satan speculates evil in Hell.
“So I hears the door open an' I figures it got to be Thu, 'cause whatever I hear of haunts, they don't bother openin' no doors. But next minute I hear Mr. Molloy say, from out on the promenade, It's no good lookin'—I got it.”
“Got what?” asked January in his most fascinated voice. And indeed he was—he traded a sidelong glance with Rose, and returned his gaze to Winslow's face.
“Got no idea,” replied the valet, shaking his head. “But Mr. Cain say from in Weems's stateroom, I don't know what you're talkin' about, an' Mr. Molloy said, Have it your way—BREDON. But if you don't want to see it printed in the Mayersville Gazette, you and I better come to an understandin'. Then he walked away—I heard his boots goin' off along the promenade—and Cain must have stood there in Mr. Weems's stateroom for two minutes 'thout movin', for I didn't hear a sound. Then he walks off, too, fast.”
“Printed in the Mayersville Gazette,” repeated Rose, and propped her spectacles on her nose.
“So I think it got to be a letter,” concluded Winslow. “A letter Weems had that Molloy got hold of somehow. You mark my words, whatever they sayin' about your master”—he jabbed a finger at January—“it was either Mr. Molloy or Mr. Cain that pushed poor Mr. Weems overboard. You just mark my words.”
And he turned away to greet Andy and Jim as the two valets came down the steps, shaking their heads over the lateness of supper and the fact that the Silver Moon was likely to be sitting still until after midnight.
“Your words are definitely marked.” January watched as the three servants greeted one another and displayed tidbits abstracted from the galley or stateroom trays. “But unfortunately they won't do us much good until we can figure out a way Cain could have murdered Weems without Gleet becoming aware of it, or Molloy could have done so while he was in the pilot-house with Souter.”
“Molloy might not have been there constantly once Souter came on,” pointed out Rose. “I can easily see him leaving his replacement for a few minutes, saying he's going to check on the paddle after thrashing loose from the bar. . . .”
“And what?” asked January. “For him to have been gone any substantial length of time would rouse comment from Souter. And if Molloy had been on watch since six, he wouldn't have known where Weems was or what he was doing. It's not