Gladstone struck the floor of his cabin at a steep tilt, immediately tumbling onto a heap of loose objects and furnishings. Had the ship struck an iceberg? Unthinkable at this latitude. Would even a German U-boat dare torpedo a civilian ship flying a neutral nation's flag? As the professor's wits began to return, so did the deck begin returning to level. The professor surmised that they must have been struck athwartships by a massive storm wave. The thunderous crash was probably the result of furniture slamming into starboard walls throughout the ship. Reaching blindly for where he expected to find the cabin chair, he was relieved to find it still screwed to the deck where he'd last seen it. Gripping for dear life, he braced himself to endure the ship's predictable rebound. Soon, it rocked in the opposite direction and as he clung, the accumulated flotsam avalanched beneath him, downslope, adding its own thunder to that outside.

Once the worst of the rocking had eased, Gladstone let go of the chair to roam the floor, searching for his suitcase. Besides the radio, it contained a flashlight, which would be extremely helpful right now. As he crawled, he somehow encountered both of his shoes, one after the other, and stopped where he was to put them on his feet. The sensation of wool within reach suggested his jacket. He would have put that on, too, but met with unexpected resistance when he tugged at it, as though it were snagged or caught beneath something heavy. Wary of ripping it, he carefully gathered the fabric hand over hand, gently feeling his way towards the obstruction.

Clammy fingers brushed against his own, and he jerked upwards and to one side, emitting a startled yelp. But whose fingers could they be? The door had been locked and dead-bolted. Had he only imagined the touch of flesh? Had Madam Zosi's uncanny soothsaying —if that was what it was—opened his mind to the paranormal? Or worse, had it revived latent, childhood superstitions? He felt ashamed of his reaction.

Somewhere below, as the ship's backup generators engaged (or reengaged), the cabin's wall lamps began to glow unsteadily, first orange then brightening to an incandescent, yellowish white. Gladstone's heart thumped fearfully as he watched the shadowy mound separate into two, parallel, long, dark shadows. Somewhere between them was the source of the clammy fingers. Once the room was bright enough, the shadows became differentiated by color. The blacker shape proved to be the robe belonging to one of his cabinmates; the dark, red shape beside it, blood—so much that the owner must be mortally wounded, if not already dead. Gladstone's neck hairs prickled. How had the monk gotten into their double-locked room? The only possibility was that he must have been hiding in the cabin closet, all these hours. Warily, Gladstone reached for a protruding ankle and shook it.

"Hey, there! I say! Hey there!"

No response. If he was still alive, the blighter was going to need emergency medical attention. Before he left for help, however, wasn't there something the professor should be doing with a tourniquet? The most urgent step was to locate the source of bleeding. The professor crawled forwards straightening the robe fabric as he went, searching for tell-tale stains or cuts. The injured man lay prone; face and beard partially submerged in the crimson puddle. It was the same cabinmate he had argued with. A knife handle now protruded from his throat. Obviously, a tourniquet was out of the question.

It might have been suicide, but Gladstone reasoned that the likeliest explanation was that the poor fellow had accidentally impaled himself during the crash.

He realized that reporting the incident still needed to happen. Because there had been no word of an arrest relating to the murder in the lounge the prior night, any delay in reporting would draw suspicion. On the other hand, a stabbing victim found inside his locked cabin looked incriminating. From his own perspective, the circumstances strongly implied that his dead cabinmate might, in fact, have been the very murderer the investigator was seeking. Why else would the monk be hiding in the closet with a knife except to ambush the professor?

Further complicating matters was that becoming ensnared in a murder investigation, however briefly, would impede if not foil his secret mission. During the inevitable, routine search of his possessions, all his damning spy paraphernalia would be discovered and catalogued in an official report. This information, unless strictly contained, would soon imperil his associates in New York and Alexandria. Lord Thackeray had predicted that the war would be over by Christmas, but in case he was mistaken, Gladstone dreaded sharing the blame.

The professor rose to his feet, snatched his tweed jacket, thrust his arms into the sleeves, and headed for the door, collecting his suitcase on the way out. His only hope was to seek out the ship's security officer and appeal to him privately, explaining the circumstances and somehow convincing him of both his innocence and the need for discretion. Afterwards, if he wasn't placed under arrest, he would seek out Madam Zosi, to thank her for the warning. Assuming he had truly solved the murder, there would be no more need for a séance, and therefore no awkward need to introduce her. He was relieved about that. More than ever, he needed to keep a low profile.

Apart from that element, he considered wistfully, he had enjoyed their exchange. Perhaps they could keep their dinner appointment anyway and chat a bit more. She had predicted that they would become lifelong friends. That was unmistakably a flirtation. There would be no harm in making polite conversation about her plans and lodgings in Alexandria.

After exiting his cabin, as he stopped to lock the door behind him, he heard men's voices approaching aft from the main tourist-section hallway. Should he dodge back inside? Too late! Turning the corner towards him was a broad-shouldered ship's officer in a double-breasted blue uniform, featuring brass, security badge and a holstered pistol on his hip. It was the same officer he had seen in the common area following the prior night's murder—presumably, the master at arms. But this was not the private opportunity he had hoped for. Accompanying the stranger was Gladstone's least-favorite bellhop, Francis Bradstreet, who, upon seeing him, stopped to point an accusing finger.

Gladstone looked around quizzically, pantomiming innocence and then finished locking the door, before pocketing the key.

The investigator strode forward with an outstretched hand. "Professor Keith Gladstone?"

"That's me, officer." He said, shaking the proffered hand and then nodded at Bradstreet. "Hello, again, Francis."

The bellhop looked away and ran a dismissive finger under his chinstrap.

"I'm Petty Officer Martin Noyes, S.S. Oceanus head of security," explained the officer. "Madam Sonya Zosi has requested the pair of us to look in on you specially, to make sure that you had landed on your feet after the wave crash."

"Oh, that was thoughtful of her. I'm perfectly well, as you can see. Took a toss, but no bruises."

"What about your hand?" The bellhop aimed the same finger lower this time.

Gladstone glanced down and saw that his left hand was, indeed, stained with blood.

"Oh!"

"Let's get you to the sick bay to have that looked at," said Petty Officer Noyes.

"But this is a mere scratch," Gladstone protested. "I'm sure the ship's medics must be inundated with real patients, right now."

"That's the truth, sir. Especially the diesel minders and kitchen staff. Burns and scalds aplenty besides knocks and cuts, as you can imagine. Even so, your wound must at least be washed and bandaged before you eat. Madam Zosi is quite anxious to see you as soon as possible."

"Is it so late? I must have lost track of time."

"Totally understandable. I'm sorry to say you've already missed the main course. Rumor is that half the salmon was dashed to the floor and could only be salvaged for tomorrow's soup—I mean the soup for steerage, of course. You're still in time for dessert, however. Our head chef has a clever solution for the broken cakes. He's making parfaits."

"That sounds delicious. Well, the common head near the lounge is along the way. I'll use the sink in there." The professor dug out another shilling and proffered it to the bellhop. "Francis, why don't you run ahead and tell Madam Zosi that we are coming."

"That one's got blood on it," said Bradstreet, conflicted.

"Just get moving, then!" ordered Noyes, batting the lackey on the back of the head.

"Yes sir." He marched forward, repositioning his cap along the way. Pausing at the doorway, he gave the professor a parting glare. "You can owe me, sir," he said.

Once they were alone in the corridor, Gladstone confronted the investigator, holding up his cabin key. "Now we're alone, for a moment, sir, I need to show you something."

Just then, a young man and wife entered the hallway from another cabin. Gladstone hid his bloody hand and twirled out of their way.

"Good evening, Sir, Madam," said Noyes, tipping his flat cap.

"Good evening gentlemen."

"Good evening."

The professor smiled, nodded, and touched his forehead.

Once they'd gone, the investigator put his hand on the professor's shoulder and firmly steered him forward. "There's no time to stop, Professor. I'm expected at Madam Zosi's séance as well. Let's talk as we walk if you don't mind."

"But one of my cabinmates is dead!"

Noyes stopped, aghast. "Dead? How did he die?"

"During the crash." Gladstone put down the suitcase and stroked his neck. "Impaled on his own knife. I wonder if he might have been the murderer!"

"Why do you say that?"

"Why else would he need a knife in his own cabin!"

"Perhaps to cut fruit?"

"You mean like watermelons?" Gladstone positioned his palms six inches apart.

"So, it was a big knife?… I see. Well, in that case, I must ask you not to return to your room until we've had time to inspect the scene. I'll send someone to keep guard in the meantime. Let's get a move on."

The professor picked up his suitcase and they resumed walking. Approaching the first flight of stairs, they stopped at the common room head, where Gladstone found a sink to wash the blood off his hands.

Noyes greeted him in the hallway again with an unexpected grin. "So, what's your impression of Madam Zosi?" he asked dreamily as they resumed walking. "A sweet patootie, don't you think? A real looker." He wagged his eyebrows conspiratorially as they ascended.

"She's certainly an attractive woman," he agreed, uncomfortably, while sidestepping a tourist-class passenger descending the same stairs.

"You said it, Mack! The dame's sure got her quirks, though. I'm not sure yet what to think about all this ghost hooey. How about you? I'd be curious to know what a college professor thinks."

"Well, there are no doctorates in ghost studies, Petty Officer Noyes, so I won't pretend any expertise. But science has never confirmed their existence, so I certainly don't believe in them."

"But there have been witnesses throughout history!"

"Oh, I believe in human imagination, sir! I also believe in drunken hallucinations and tricks of light.

"Ah, I take your point."

As they reached the first-class section of the ship, ceilings were higher and both the furnishings and architecture became markedly more luxuriant. Passengers were also better dressed. Apart from a piano with one broken leg tilted against the floor, the only evidence of the previous hour's storm wave was the well-dressed passengers animatedly discussing it.

Petty Officer Noyes resumed his gregarious chatter. Apart from minding his hand gestures to keep from striking any of the passengers, he seemed otherwise oblivious or indifferent to the spectacle he was making of himself. At least, such was the impression of the introverted professor.

"As for me? I'm sure of nothing," Noyes continued. "I mean, as tykes, we all believed in ghosts and Santa Claus, right? Then as we got older, we got wiser—or so we thought!" He raised a finger. "But just, look at our smug wisdom, now. Science is making breakthroughs every year! From sail to steam, then steam to diesel. Automobiles, airplanes, penicillin! Our parents had only eight planets, now there are nine! How long before Einstein figures out how to penetrate the spirit veil?"

"Do you regard Madam Zosi as a scientist?"

"I suppose not. But maybe she has psychic gifts! Maybe her brain has reached the next stage of evolution."

"That's a lot of maybes."

"When investigating a murder, one can't afford to leave any stone unturned."

"It's certainly a novel method of investigation."

Noyes gave him a hard look. "Was that sarcasm?"

They had just reached a balcony overlooking a wide stair descending to the entrance of the first-class dining hall. Awaiting them below, a headwaiter stood behind a podium between two waiting benches separated by leafy shrubs in pots. A maroon figure seated on one of the benches stood up suddenly and began hurrying up the stairs.

"No disparagement intended, Petty Officer Noyes! Surely, I'm only stating the obvious. Outside of a Shakespeare play, one rarely has the opportunity to question ghosts about a murder."

He chuckled. "True enough." The officer struck a dramatic pose, one arm outstretched, as if holding an invisible skull. "Wherefore art thou, Romeo?"

"Heh! So, then you're convinced Madam Zosi's authentic?"

"Kook, con-artist or the real McCoy. The jury's still out. Some of the best grifters I've ever seen have been hot tomatoes with a gift for gab, and she fits that profile. Still, I plan to keep an open mind. Bottom line, I figure that as long as she puts on a good show, it might still spook a confession out of someone in the audience."

Gladstone nodded, genuinely impressed. "I must admit, that sounds like a very sensible plan. Hamlet would approve."

Noyes touched his nose and winked.

"There you are!" said Bradstreet, reaching for the professor's elbow. "Madam Zosi is waiting for you to introduce her. Shall I take your suitcase?"

"No!" Gladstone recoiled, alarmed at the idea of losing control of his radio and other spy paraphernalia. But then, realizing that his overreaction would draw suspicious attention to it unless he explained himself quickly, he improvised. "I may need this for the séance."

The bellhop seemed doubtful, but curious. He stuck out a lip and nodded.

"Alrighty."

The investigator snagged Gladstone's free hand and shook it warmly, arresting his movement. "Catch you after. I believe I'll sneak in through the kitchen," he said, signaling farewell with a touch of his cap.

"This way!" Bradstreet directed, resuming the pull on his elbow.

The first-class dining hall was the grandest room on the ship. Round tables under white tablecloths, adorned with flowers and candles stretched ahead of the two of them beneath a canopy of golden chandeliers. At the room's opposite end was a raised band stage, upon which a clarinetist, trombonists and a base player were performing "Jeepers Creepers" in front of a folding wicker screen. Surrounding each table were well-groomed diners in uniformly posh evening wear and tuxedos, enjoying their parfaits and mingling happily, some rocking their shoulders or tapping their feet to the music. Here and there, the earlier turbulence was memorialized with trimmed white bandages or patterned scarves used as arm slings. Some had visible bruises or scratches.

Conspicuously underdressed in his pedestrian tweed and awkward yellow suitcase, the professor felt like a carpet bagger. Looking around, he envied even the waiters and bellhops, whose costumes at least suited the mise-en-scène. It was inconvenient for a spy to be so exposed, even temporarily. Why had Madam Zosi insisted? Alas, he realized, even if she weren't so charming, she knew too much for him to refuse her.

Gladstone became nervous as he realized that Bradstreet was leading him directly onto the stage and towards the screen. Was he going to be expected to introduce Madam Zosi with no preparation, and not even the promised dessert to weigh down the butterflies in his belly? Stopping beside the screen, the bellhop let go of the professor's arm at last, announcing, "Here he is Madam."

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