Clutch of Constables (19 page)

“Pollock irritates Caley Bard. Miss Rickerby-Carrick irritates everybody. Caley Bard irritates the Hewsons, Pollock, and possibly, Lazenby.

“Pollock and the Hewsons are racially prejudiced against Natouche. Bard and Lazenby are not.

“A preliminary examination of the body in question supports the theory that she was killed by an attack from behind on the carotids.

“Andropulos would have been a passenger in the
Zodiac
if Foljambe hadn’t killed him—by sudden and violent pressure from behind on the carotids.”

Alleyn broke off, stared absently at the diary, waited for a moment and then said: “Some of these items are certainly of the first importance, others may be of none at all. Taken as a whole do you think they point to any one general conclusion?”

“Yes,” Fox said. “I do. I certainly do.”

“What?” Tillottson asked.

“Conspiracy.”

“I agree with you,” said Alleyn. “Between whom?”

“You mean—what’s the gang?”

“Yes.”

“Ah. Now.” Fox dragged his great palm across his mouth. “Why don’t we say it?” he asked.

“Say what? That the real question is not only one of conspiracy but of who’s running the show? And more particularly: is it the Jampot?”

“That’s right. That’s it. Cherchez,” said Mr Fox with his customary care, “le Folichon. Où,” he added, “le Pot à Confiture, which is what they’re beginning to call him in the Sûreté.

“You made your mark, evidently, in Paris.”

“Not so’s you’d notice,” Fox said heavily. “But let it pass. Yes, Mr Alleyn. I reckon it’s the Jampot on this job.”

“Why,” Tillottson asked, “are you so sure, Teddy?”

“Well, take a look at it, Bert. Take a look at the lot Mr Alleyn’s just handed us. Three items point to it, you know, now don’t they?”

Yerse,” Mr Tillottson concurred after a long pause. ”I get you. Yerse.”

Alleyn was bent over the diary. His long forefinger touched the rag of paper that was the remnant of the last entry. He slipped his nail under it and disclosed another and then another torn marginal strip still caught in the binding. “Three pages gone,” he said, “and it’s not unreasonable to suppose they would have told us what she overheard from her dark entry in Tollardwark. Wrenched out in a hurry, and, I suppose, either burnt or thrown overboard. The latter almost certainly. They were wet and pulpy. Torn out whether purposely or accidentally, and into The River with
them
.”

“That’ll be the story,” Fox agreed heavily. “And the inference is — by Lazenby.”

“If Troy’s right. She’s not certain.”

Mr Tillottson who had been in a hard, abstracted stare since his last utterance now said: “So it’s a field of five — six if you count the Skipper and that’d be plain ridiculous. I’ve known Jim Tretheway these five years, decent wee man.”

“He’s not all that wee,” Fox said mildly.

“The Doctor, Mr Bard, Mr Hewson, the Reverend and Pollock. And if you’re right one of them’s the toughest proposition in what they call the international crime world. You wouldn’t credit it, though, would you? Here!” Mr Tillottson said, struck by a new thought. “You wouldn’t entertain the idea of the whole boiling being in cahoots, would you? If so: why? Why go river-cruising if they’re a pack of villains in a great big international racket. Not for kicks you’d think, now, would you?”

“Of the lot that remains on board, excluding the Tretheways,” Alleyn said, “I incline to think there’s only one non-villain. I’ll give you my reasons, such as they are, and I fully admit they wouldn’t take first prize in the inescapable logic stakes. But still. Here they are.”

His colleagues listened in massive silence. Fox sighed heavily when he had finished. “And that,” he said, “followed out, leaves us with only one guess for the identity of the Jampot. Or does it?”

“I think it does. If, if, if and it’s a hell of a big if.”

“I’ll back it,” Fox said. “What’s our next bit of toil?”

“We don’t wait for the report on the p.m. I think, Br’er Fox, we cut in and use our search-warrant. What’s the time? Five past nine. If they’ve gone to bed it’s just too bad. Back to Ramsdyke Lock with us. Did you pick up a bit of nosh, by the way?”

Pickle and beef sandwiches and a couple of half-pints.”

“We’ll sink them on the trip. Hark bloody forrard away.”

-3-

If events do, as some would have us believe, stamp an intangible print upon their surroundings, this phenomenon is not instantaneous. Murder doesn’t scream instantly from the walls of a room that may be drenched in blood. Clean the room up and it is just a room again. If violence of behaviour or of emotion does, in fact, project itself upon its immediate surroundings, like light upon photographic film, the process seems to be cumulative rather than immediate. It may be a long time after the event that people begin to think: this is an unhappy house. Or room. Or place. Or craft.

The saloon in that most pleasant of water-wanderers, the
Zodiac
, wore its usual after-dark aspect. Its cherry-coloured window-curtains were drawn and its lamps were lit. It was cosy. The more so, perhaps, because the river mist known as the Creeper had now shut the craft off from her surroundings.

The six remaining passengers occupied themselves in much the same way as they had done before Hazel Rickerby-Carrick disappeared in the night. The Hewsons, Mr Lazenby and Mr Pollock played Scrabble. Caley Bard read. Dr Natouche, a little removed, as always, put some finishing touches to his map of the The River. Behind the bar, Mrs Tretheway read a magazine. The Skipper was ashore and the boy Tom was in bed.

Troy’s
Zodiac
picture with its vivid impersonations of the passengers was now framed and had replaced its begetter above the bar. There they all were, preposterously masquerading as Heavenly bodies, skipping round Mr Pollock’s impeccable lettering.

The Virgin was gone for good and the Goat, as Troy had thought of herself, was removed to Norminster but there, Alleyn thought, were all the others, mildly employed, with a killer and a single detached person among them.

When Alleyn and Fox arrived in the saloon, the Scrabble players became quieter still. Miss Hewson’s forefinger, pushing a lettered tile into place, stopped and remained, pointed down, like an admonitory digit on a monument. Pollock’s head, bent over the Scrabble-board, was not raised though his eyes were and looked at Alleyn from under his brows, showing rims of white. Lazenby, who had been attending to the score, let his pencil remain in suspended action. Hewson, pipe gripped in teeth, held the head of a match against the box but did not strike it.

For a few seconds this picture was presented like an unheralded still at the cinema; then it animated as if there had been no hitch in its mild progression.

“I’m sorry,” Alleyn said, “that we have to make nuisances of ourselves again but there it is. In police work it’s a case of set a nuisance to catch a nuisance.”

“Well!” Caley Bard ejaculated. “I must say that as reassuring remarks go, I don’t think much of that one. If it was meant to reassure.”

“It was meant as a sort of apology,” Alleyn said, “but I see your point. Please don’t let us disturb anybody. We’ve come to tidy up a loose end of routine and I’m afraid we shall have to ask you all to be very patient and stay out of your cabins until we’ve done so. We won’t be long about it, I hope.”

After a considerable silence Mr Hewson predictably said: “Yeah?” and leant back in his chair with his thumbs in the arm-holes of his waistcoat. He turned his left ear with its hearing aid towards Alleyn. “ ‘Stay out of our cabins,’ ” he quoted with what seemed to be intended as a parody of Alleyn’s voice. “Is that so? Now, would that be a kind of polite indication of a search, Superintendent?

“I’m glad it sounded polite,” Alleyn rejoined cheerfully. “Yes. It would.”

“You got a warrant?” Pollock asked.

“Yes, indeed. Would you like to see it?”

“Of course we don’t want to see it,” Caley Bard wearily interjected. “Don’t be an ass, Pollock.”

Pollock muttered: “I’m within my rights, aren’t I?”

Alleyn said: “Miss Hewson, I’ll start with your cabin, if that suits you, and as soon as I’ve finished, you will be free to use it. At the same time Inspector Fox will take a look at yours, Mr Hewson.”

“A second look,” Mr Hewson sourly amended.

“That’s right,” Alleyn said. “So it is. A formality, you might call it.”

“You might,” Mr Hewson conceded. “I wouldn’t.”

Miss Hewson said: “Gee, Earl, if I hadn’t clean forgotten! Gee, how crazy can you get? Look, Mr Alleyn: look, Superintendent, I got to ‘fess up’ right now, about that problem-picture. There’s been a kind of misunderstanding between Brother and me.
He
calculated I’d sent it off and
I
calculated he had.”

“Just the darnedest thing,” Mr Hewson put in with a savage glance at his sister.

“Certainly is,” she agreed. “And so what do you know? There it is just exactly where it’s been all this time. In the bottom of a grip in my stateroom.”

“Fancy,” said Alleyn. “I shall enjoy taking a second look. Last time I saw it, it was in an otherwise empty case in the deceased’s cabin, which, by the way, I locked.”

A fairly long silence was decorated with a stifled giggle from Caley Bard.

Miss Hewson said breathlessly: “Well, pardon me, again. I guess I’m kind of nervously exhausted. I meant to say the spare cabin.”

Mr Hewson said angrily, “O.K. O.K. So it wasn’t posted. So we acted like it was. Why? I’ll tell you precisely why, Superintendent. This picture’s a work of art. Ask your lady-wife. And this work of art maybe was executed by this guy Constable which would make it a very, very interesting proposition commercially. And we paid out real money, real British money, if that’s not a contradiction in terms, for this work of art and we don’t appreciate the idea of having it removed from our possession by anybody. Repeat: anybody. Period. Cops or whoever. Period. So whadda-we-do?” Mr Hewson asked at large and answered himself with perhaps a slight loss of countenance. “We anticipate,” he said, “the event. We make like this picture’s already on its way.”

“And so I’m sure it would be,” Alleyn said cheerfully, “if it wasn’t for a large and conspicuous constable on duty outside the Ramsdyke Lock post-office.”

Mr Hewson’s face became slightly pink but his gaze which was directed at Alleyn did not shift. His sister coughed with refinement, said: “Pardon me,” and looked terrified.

“You can’t win,” Mr Pollock observed to nobody in particular and added after a moment’s reflection: “It’s disgusting.”

“If we’re not going to keep you up till all hours,” Alleyn said, “we’d better begin. Anybody really want to see the search-warrant, by the way?”

“I certainly do,” Mr Hewson announced. “It may be a very crude notion but I certainly do want that thing.”

“But not at all,” Alleyn rejoined. “Very sensible of you. Here it is.”

Fox displayed the warrant and the Hewsons and Mr Pollock looked upon it with distaste. Mr Lazenby said generally that it was a fair go and he had no complaints. Caley Bard tipped Alleyn one of his cock-eyed winks but offered no comment and Dr Natouche interrupted his work on the map to produce the key of his cabin and lay it on the table. This action seemed to rattle everybody but Caley Bard who merely remarked that his own cabin was unlocked.

“Thank you so much,” Alleyn said. “We do carry one or two of those open-sesame jobs but this will be quicker.” He picked up the key. “Any more?” he asked.

“You know something?” Mr Hewson said. “If you hadn’t gotten those other honest-to-God cops around I’d say you were some kind of phoney laugh with the pay-off line left out.”

“You would?” Alleyn said absently. “Sorry. There’s no joke anywhere that I can see, I promise you that.”

It turned out that the only other locked cabin apart from Natouche’s and the Hewsons’ was Mr Pollock’s. He handed over his key with as bad a grace as he could muster, turned his back on the company and sucked his teeth.

Before he left, Alleyn walked over to the corner table where Dr Natouche still concerned himself with his map of the water-ways. He drew back, rested his dark hands and looked placidly at what he had done. “I am an amateur of maps,” he said, perhaps by way of excuse.

If this was a true example of his work he was right. The chart with its little tentative insets and its meticulous lettering was indeed the work of a devoted amateur. It was so fine and so detailed that it almost needed a lens to examine it. Alleyn followed the line of The River to Longminster. There he saw, predictably, the Minster itself but there, too, was an inn-sign and beside it a thin, gallant and carefully drawn female figure with a dark cropped head.

He looked down at Dr Natouche’s head with its own short-cropped fuzz and at the darkish scalp beneath. The two men did not speak to each other.

Alleyn and Fox embarked on their search.

They found the “Constable” still in place, took possession of it, moved into Miss Hewson’s cabin and methodically emptied the drawers and luggage.

“Funny,” Mr Fox remarked, laying out a rather dreary night-gown with infinite care upon Miss Hewson’s bed. “I always expect American ladies’ lingerie to be more
troublante
than this type of stuff.”

Alleyn stared at him. “I am speechless,” he said.

“Why do you make out they were so anxious we wouldn’t get a look at that picture?”

“You tell me.”

“Well,” Fox said. “I’ve been trying to set up a working theory. Suppose it was all on the level. Suppose this picture was in the cupboard when this Jo Bagg bought the sideboard.”

“Which it wasn’t, if his story’s right.”

“Quite so. Suppose, then, it’d been on the premises and somebody shoved it in the cupboard and the Baggs hadn’t taken any notice of it and suppose the Hewsons just happened to pick it up like they said and pay for it all fair and above board. In that case what’s wrong with letting us have a look at it? They showed it off willingly enough last night, by all accounts. He kind of hinted they were afraid we might confiscate. They may have been looking at British telly exports in the States, of course, and taken some fanciful notion of how we go to work but personally I didn’t think their yarn stood up.”