What 'Even pirates, before they attack another ship, hoist a black flag.'

Gen Bela Kiraly, Commander, Hungarian National Guard

Chapter 20: A Black Flag

Watson

Sherlock Holmes and I had spent a rather pleasant hour in the deserted billiards lounge by the time straggling men began to enter after the first dinner rush was over and start up games of their own.

Holmes was growing decidedly nervous, I could tell – his grey eyes were darting about every time he tried to make a shot, wondering if anyone were watching his lack of skill. But still he gallantly refused to end the game, knowing how much it meant to me, and I appreciated the gesture and finally took pity on him as the room began to fill and grow noisy with voices of the crowd.

"Come along, old chap, you put up a valiant effort," I said sincerely as Holmes ran a finger round his collar nervously, preparing to shoot.

I took the stick from him, and he relinquished it with alacrity and an audible sigh of relief.

"I have to say I prefer chess, Watson - this is definitely not my métier," he sighed, mopping his brow with his handkerchief.

"Nonsense – you did very well for the first time," I declared, starting to put the cues back into the glossy wood rack on the wall.

I was abruptly bumped out of the way by a figure I recognized. That blasted American newspaperman; they really were, although an energetic race, extremely rude at times in their enthusiasm.

I scowled but said nothing, not wanting to start a row in the middle of all these people – besides, I had already antagonized the man earlier in the week at the purser's. I had no wish to dredge up those still embarrassing memories.

"Oh, 'scuse me," the man muttered, turning round with an impatient frown, an oversized cue stick in his hand, "didn't see you there – well, if it isn't the aspiring writer."

This last word was spoken with a contempt that made me bristle, but I held my peace, putting our cues calmly back on the rack.

To my dismay, however, Sherlock Holmes was not in as much control of his tongue as I.

"Who is your rather ill-mannered acquaintance, Watson?" he snapped with an ire that made me stare – I had rarely heard such venom in his voice before.

"And who the devil are you?"

"My name is Sherlock Holmes, and obviously you are not acquainted with my biographer's chronicles or you would know that," my friend declared, his eyes flashing.

My irritation had faded to amusement at the way Holmes was more angry with the man than I was.

"Sherlock Holmes, huh? Heard of you a few times," the man said, studying my friend, "never cared much for romantic adventure stories, though. No good, the lot of 'em. Never cared for them."

"I see you never cared much for proper manners, either!"

"Holmes, stop it, let's go," I hissed in his ear, tugging on his arm as his face flushed with indignation.

"Yes, why don't you?" the American said, taking possession of the table we had just vacated, "I saw you playing and I gotta say you're without a doubt the worst player I've ever seen, Holmes."

"And you are the worst gentleman, sir!" I snapped – now I was unable to remain passive, "and I will ask you to mind your impudent tongue!"

"What? It's true – you both obviously are clueless when it comes to a real good game of pool," the upstart said insufferably, racking up the balls.

"I would not wager on that, if I were you," I replied hotly, glaring at the smug American.

His ridiculous mustache bristled. "Oh, you're challenging me, eh?"

"I'm telling you to mind your tongue, but if you wish it, then yes, I shall challenge you!" I snapped, my patience completely at an end.

"You Englishmen and your ridiculous sense of honor," the man snorted derisively. Then his mustache bristled again and his eyes flashed with a hidden malicious glee.

"All right, Doctor, I'll take your challenge," he said with a leer, "I certainly hope you are better at pool than you are at writing!"

I glared back at the man for a moment and then stalked back over to pick up the cue I had replaced. Sighting down it, I saw it was slightly warped and selected another.

"Watson," Holmes had followed me over and was speaking in a low voice, "you don't know how to play American pool."

I laughed. "Holmes, I just taught you how to play American pool."

"What?"

"Thurston and I grew weary at the club of playing traditional English billiards, and when an American came through last year as a guest of his, we both learnt the American way of playing, just to break up the monotony. I find it more enjoyable than billiards, and I needed practice – that's why I started you off on it this afternoon."

"I wasn't playing billiards?" he asked in dismay.

"No, you were playing pool," I replied, grinning at his face, "I needed the practice, and you just needed to work on connecting with the cue ball!"

"But can you play well enough to beat a real American?" he asked incredulously, his worried glance passing from me to the smug-looking newspaperman.

"Probably not," I replied, a trifle uneasily, "but I shall definitely try. He's insulted us both now."

"I am inclined to agree with his sentiments regarding our confounded sense of honour," Holmes muttered nervously as the American glanced at me and then made a clean break, sending two striped balls solidly thunking into the corner pockets.

I swallowed hard – the man was obviously no amateur. He knew what he was doing, and this was not going to be easy.

"Well, good luck, my dear fellow," Holmes said warmly, clapping me on the shoulder, "I shall be backing you, you know that."

"Do not place any bets on this, Holmes," I warned him, watching with dismay as the American sank another ball with a fantastic angled shot.

My friend grinned, squeezing my shoulder once more before walking over to a nearby bar stool and perching himself upon it to watch the game.

"By the way, sir, I do not believe we have been properly introduced," I said after he missed his next shot.

"Spencer, Dave Spencer," the man said curtly, applying chalk liberally to his cue.

I studied the table carefully, took a deep breath to calm my tense nerves, and took careful aim.

And sent two balls of my own into corresponding pockets.

The American looked at me with something akin to respect, and Holmes was grinning like a hyena from a few feet away. I felt my nervous tension start to drain as I blocked out the background noise and concentrated on the rules of American pool.

I sank another shot, an easy open straight shot, and found that I was going to have to do some fancy maneuvering to sink the only other ball I had a chance at.

I did some calculating, sighted along the stick, willing my nerves to be perfectly cool, and then shot. The cue ball jumped Spencer's 11 ball and smacked solidly into my 5, sending it into the side pocket and leaving me open for a good shot at my 3.

I sent it in easily and was left with no good shot at all for my remaining two balls. Even using the bridge, I was still unable to send another in – but I made sure to leave Spencer no shot at any of his balls when I did miss.

Or so I thought. The American sent me a baleful but triumphant glare and then lined up his shot.

There was no possible way he could manage that –

But he did, sending the cue ball to jump my 7 and send his 14 neatly into the corner pocket, bouncing off the green felt of the wall to come back and gently nudge his 11 toward the side pocket. The ball teetered for a moment on the edge and then dropped into the pocket.

This maneuver left him a clear shot at his 12, which he sent in easily, leaving him with only his 13 in the centre of the table. I still had two balls on the table.

I glanced up for a moment and saw Holmes standing with a group of men, all watching the game with interest, and the sight made me even more nervous than before. I swallowed hard as Spencer aimed a showy angle shot, planning to play off of my 2.

But I drew a deep breath as he misjudged the distance and sent the ball bounding toward the opposite end of the table, not hitting anything.

This was my chance to run the table, probably the only chance I would get.

I felt rather than saw Holmes's look of encouragement as I carefully and methodically aimed at my 2, which was rather close to the side pocket, and sent the cue ball gently toward it. It tapped the ball into the pocket with a soft crack, tipping it into the pocket almost noiselessly.

This left me only my 7 ball up against the rail, but the 8 ball was blocking the only pocket I had a good shot at.

All this time, about fifteen minutes I judged, Spencer and I had not said a word to each other, concentrating on the game and nothing else. I drew a deep breath as I considered my options, and the American leaned over to speak to me in a tone of deep contempt.

"I suppose you play well for an Englishman, and a writer," he said with palpable condescension, "but you really are terrible compared to the people I am used to playing with. You might as well concede the game and save yourself the embarrassment."

I saw Holmes flush a bright red in anger at the American's words, and the sight gave me the courage to glare at the man and make my choice.

I set my cue down, aiming it determinedly.

"Far left corner pocket," I snapped, indicating which pocket I was going to attempt to send the 8 ball to after hitting my own in. It was a fantastic shot, but I had made such shots before. Could I do it again under pressure?

Spencer made some scoffing remark, reminding me if I missed the shot that I would lose the game, not that I had a good chance to win anyway, etc., etc., but I took a deep breath again and blocked out his annoying blather.

I sighted, gauged the distance and necessary speed, and shot.

My 7 flew down the table, slamming the 8 ball out of the way and toward the opposite end. My 7 went shooting straight into the other corner pocket, and I then turned my attention to the still-traveling 8 ball.

It was bouncing all over with the tremendous force of my shot, as I had meant it to, and it finally slowed near the pocket I named and rolled toward it, gradually losing momentum, until it rested right on the edge…

…and fell neatly into the pocket with a resounding thwock.

I had done it!

If looks could kill, Spencer would have stood trial for my murder – and I thought Sherlock Holmes was going to shout aloud.

I met Spencer's glare with a satisfied smirk – yes, I must confess to being rather proud of myself – and set my cue stick on the table, turning to a near-ecstatic Holmes.

"Well done, Watson!" he cried, his eyes shining with pride as he pounded me on the back.

"You were saying about clueless Englishmen, Mr. Spencer…?" I asked blandly.

The man let loose a string of curses that I was not familiar with – Americans, I never shall understand them – and threw his cue down on the table, stomping off in a huff.

Holmes chortled with undisguised glee, and several of the men he had been standing with were shooting us admiring looks which made me rather self-conscious.

"Let's get out of here, Holmes," I muttered nervously, somewhat embarrassed.

"All right, my dear fellow. Oh, Barker? I believe that's ten pounds you owe me, my dear sir," Holmes said, gesturing to a rueful looking young man in a grey suit and ascot.

The rather foppish youth pulled out a well-stuffed wallet and handed a ten-pound note to my friend with a grimace, and then the two of us made a hasty exit.

"Ten pounds! I told you not to bet on that game!"

"I have implicit faith in you, my dear Watson – I knew you wouldn't let us down," he returned honestly.

"You have more faith in me than I have!" I said, still astounded by the whole turn of events.

He laughed easily and linked his arm through mine as we made our way for a belated dinner.

"That was simply fantastic, Watson – I stand amazed," he said, seemingly more excited about the game than I was, "that cocky upstart never knew what he was up against!"

"Oh, really, Holmes!"

"I mean it, Watson, you were magnificent –"

"Holmes, can't we drop it, for goodness' sake!" I asked as we were seated at a small table, now thoroughly embarrassed by my friend's unusually ardent praise.

"I told you before, Watson, that I cannot agree with those who rank modesty among the virtues," he admonished, shaking his soup spoon at me for emphasis.

"Do not shake your spoon at me!"

"There is no soup on it, Watson!"

"I don't care – people are staring!" I hissed, glancing round us.

"Let them stare. I hope this latest escapade of yours gets all over the ship, your soundly thrashing that scoundrel," Holmes replied emphatically, "the nerve of the man, saying what he did about your stories!"

I spluttered, choking on my port, nearly dropping the glass and hastily mopping up the little mess I had created in my shock.

"I beg your pardon?"

"What? Something wrong with the wine?"

"No, you idiot. Did you just actually defend my writing?!"

Holmes suddenly looked thoughtful, as if trying to remember.

"Well, I suppose I did," he admitted sheepishly, grinning at me as I cautiously took another drink.

I shook my head in mock disbelief.

"Well, critiquing your stories is my exclusive privilege," he said defensively, sipping his own glass and eyeing me for my reaction.

I chuckled. "I do not believe it. This search for Smith has addled your brain, my dear chap."

Holmes snorted, returning my grin just as our food arrived, and we spent a thoroughly relaxing half hour over dinner.

"Watson," my friend asked as we made our way after dinner up to the deck.

"Hmm?"

"Do you think you could get into another game of pool – I could use some reimbursement for these infernal tickets."

I elbowed him sharply, not amused, and he snickered mischievously.

"What are we going to do about Smith, Holmes?" I asked a few minutes later, as we walked round the deck.

"There is something, Watson, something elusive, that has been bothering me about this case," he returned, all his jollity of earlier vanishing, "some idea out there, subtle and intangible, that I should be seeing but I am not."

I nodded. "I have a bad feeling myself that we are missing something."

"Exactly. I think I shall go back to the cabin and smoke for a while," he said thoughtfully, his brows drawn and face pensive, "we cannot afford to miss any details."

I agreed with him.

"I shall stay up here for a while," I said, "I will be sure to stay in a crowd and take no chances alone." He had looked worried when I first suggested this.

"Well, make sure you do," he admonished, "I don't want to have to find another chronicler."

"I doubt you could find anyone else to put up with you," I returned with a smirk.

He laughed.

"Right then. And Watson, don't come down to the cabin by yourself. I shall come back up and get you in say, three hours? That will give me time for several pipes."

"Sounds fine, Holmes," I agreed, rather glad of the precautions for our safety and the fact that I would not have to stay in that tiny stateroom while Holmes filled it with his poisonous atmosphere.

I had actually made several friends thus far on the ship, and I welcomed the chance at a more extensive social life that a ship such as this offered. I would find plenty to do for three hours while Holmes did his impression of a human chimney.

Holmes saw a group of passengers heading down our companionway and moved to walk with them so that he too would not be alone, and I moved closer to the brightly lit portion of the promenade deck where all the couples were dancing or standing by the rail, talking and looking out over the water.

All seemed still and calm and quiet, almost as if Smith and his machinations were just some distant murmur of thunder far away in the night sky. As the balmy sea breeze whipped about me, I looked out at the sunset's gorgeous hues and felt a little peace for the first time in a while.

"Doctor!" a voice suddenly hissed, breaking into my reverie. I turned round warily.

A familiar figure, uniform in slight disarray, came forward from the shadows of a companionway.

"Lachlan!" I said in a loud whisper, meeting him halfway and moving back into the shadows so we would not be seen, "what is it? I thought you came off your watch a few hours ago and would be asleep by now."

"I was, Doctor," he said, and I could barely see in the dim light a look of dread and horror upon his honest face as he spoke, "I was awakened by a lad in the crew's quarters."

"What is wrong?" I asked, an icy dread filling me, not wanting to hear the answer.

"Smith, Doctor," Lachlan stated, his normally strong voice slightly shaken, "he's claimed his first victim, not an hour ago. The man is dead."