Dead Man’s Shoes (12 page)

“True, I suppose,” said Appleyard, “though I think you stretch things a bit.”

“Now what about the ship's company? You didn't take anyone on in Tangier, did you?”

“Certainly not. There isn't a man who has been with us for less than six trips, and most of them much more.”

“Let's count them out, then, for lack of any possible motive. It was only if anyone had been signed on after it was known that Larkin was travelling. So for all practical purposes our suspects are these: the Second Officer Peter Kutz, the Steward Gunner and the passengers Gerard Prosper, Gerald Butt, Ronald Ferry and Kate Roper.”

“If it
was
murder,” said Captain Bidlake discontentedly. “I can't see why you can't be satisfied with suicide.”

“I probably shall be in the end, but let's run over the loose ends of possibility. There is, of course, one person who could solve the thing at once, who knows exactly what happened.”

Bidlake and Appleyard both turned to him with interest.

“I mean, whoever it was who shouted ‘Man overboard'. If we could discover his or her identity we should be home. Unfortunately we don't even know if it was a man or a woman.”

“I heard it,” said Appleyard. “I've always believed it was a woman. Mrs Roper, in other words.”

“Yet young Bryce thought it wasn't. ‘Like a man screaming,' he said. I say, Deene, you don't think it could possibly have been the fellow himself in a panic as he fell?” Bidlake asked.

“Hardly. He wouldn't shout those words at all.”

“No. I suppose not. It's strange,” Appleyard went on, “but I disliked and distrusted this man Larkin from the first moment I saw him, long before I knew he was suspected of murder. Small hands and small feet. Disproportionately so. My father always used to say—never trust a man with small feet.”

“Did anyone come to see him off in Tangier?” asked Carolus.

“No. But a man came to meet him in London, though. Apart from the police, I mean. This was a man we knew, Lance Willick, the murdered man's nephew. He travelled with us about a year ago and came on board in London to find Larkin. Of course he soon heard what had happened.”

“That's interesting. He really was a friend of Larkin's, then?”

“Must have been at one time. I asked him if he suspected Larkin of his uncle's murder and he said that at first he hadn't, but it began to look like it.”

“What sort of man?”

“Very pleasant and unassuming. The kind of passenger we like.”

“I'm going to meet him in Tangier. I have very strong hopes that when I've seen him I can clear this up. There's so much he can tell me.”

“Good. One last drink before lunch? I think we might. I'm making them small. Is there anything else we can tell you, Mr Deene?”

“Yes. In Larkin's conversation was there anything about his past? Nobody seems to know anything of him at Barton Abbess.”

“Practically nothing. He was too busy being offensive to talk about much else. I only remember two things he said about himself. He had belonged to the British Fascists before the war and also he had been many years in Calcutta.”

“Sure it was Calcutta?”

“Quite sure.”

“Gregory Willick came from there.”

“Then it all fits in.”

“I wish it did. Where was he during the war?”

“Ah, not a word about that. There was a complete blank between Fascist meetings in 1939 and his arrival in Tangier five years ago. So far as his conversation went, I mean.”

“Tell me,” said Carolus, “why does the Third Officer never come into this? I haven't heard him mentioned. Yet there must be a Third Officer.”

The Captain and Appleyard both smiled.

“There is,” said Bidlake. “Mr Booth. He's a first-rate seaman and a really good chap, but a bit of a rough diamond. He begged me, after his first trip, to excuse him from having his meals in the saloon, and I agreed because he was quite wretched there. You can meet him if you like, but he's no more in the picture than one of the crew. I don't think he ever met Larkin.”

“I think perhaps I'll go and have a chat with him sometime, but tell me a little about Kutz.”

“No one can do that. No one really knows much about him. I know he's practically kept going by his hatred of Germans and Russians. He wants to take French citizenship. He appears to be wildly Francophil. But these things don't tell you much about the man himself. You'll have to talk to him and see what impression you get.”

“I'm relieved to see,” said Appleyard, “that we seem to have a pretty uninteresting lot of passengers on board now. No potential murderers this time. They all look rather alike.”

“Yes,” said Carolus, “except that tall chap who didn't appear the first day. Maltby is his name?”

“Yes. I understand he's going out to Tangier to start a business.”

“Oh. I notice he's armed,” Carolus said. “What? On board? You mean he carries some arm about with him?”

“Yes. A small revolver. Silly habit.”

“There's something rather odd about him altogether. Gunner said he was on deck last night till the small hours. Said he couldn't sleep.”

Carolus smiled.

“I shouldn't worry,” he said. “You're bound to ‘see things' after your experience last trip. He's probably quite an ordinary man.”

They went down to lunch, and Carolus discovered that Rupert Priggley had already won nearly two pounds at Canasta. The conversation grew a little more animated than yesterday, for the fine weather and smooth sea seemed to be bringing the passengers round to the normal cheerfulness of a sea voyage and they were getting to know one another. The man called Maltby remained rather aloof, but the lady who didn't think it very nice seemed in much better spirits in spite of her losses at Canasta.

That evening after dinner Carolus had a chance of talking to the apprentice Dickie Bryce. He realized that it would be difficult to get the truth because by now the boy scarcely knew what he did see, but going about it very quietly and calmly he tried to do what Captain Bidlake and the police had failed to do.

“You see, Dickie,” he explained, “you seem to have the impression that the shout came before the man reached the water.”

“Yes.”

“In that case you must have seen him strike the water, or how would you come to think that the shout came first?”

“I don't think I saw him strike the water. But I see what you mean. I must have thought I did. It's so difficult, Mr Deene. It was dark. I heard a shout, looked down and for one second in a rough sea saw a man's shape in the water.”

“Do you remember during that second whether he was face upwards or downwards?”

“Neither, really. I think I saw his boots.”

“His boots? You mean it was as though he had dived and was just going down head first?”

“I think so. I can't be sure. But boots are there somewhere. He was gone in a second. You can imagine in a rough sea!”

“You had no idea who it was, of course?”

“Not till everyone knew. I'm sure I saw no face.”

“Did you have any private ideas about who it might be?”

Dickie Bryce looked uncomfortable.

“Just between you and me,” said Carolus.

“Well, I
did
think perhaps it might be Mr Kutz.”

“Why?”

“He's such a funny chap. You never know with him. He never talks to anyone. You know he was in a concentration camp, don't you?”

“Yes.”

“I mean, after that … well, I did just wonder if it was him.”

This gave Carolus an idea and he decided to seize his first chance of conversation with Kutz—not of course to reveal what Bryce had suggested, but because he felt that in spite of all the Second Mate's reserve something might yet be learned from him.

“Did you know Larkin by sight?” he asked Bryce now.

“Oh yes, we get to know all the passengers by sight. Besides …”

Dickie Bryce looked very uncomfortable.

“Well?”

“I got into rather a row with the Skipper over this passenger.”

“How?”

“He asked me into his cabin for a drink.”

“But he didn't drink. He was a strict teetotaller.”

“Not that night. He was well away. We're not supposed to go in the passengers' cabins. I don't know why I did. I didn't like the fellow.”

“What happened about it?”

Bryce hesitated.

“Nothing,” he said at last. “Somebody must have told the Skipper, because he had me up on the bridge next day and gave me hell.”

“Thanks for all you've told me. It may be more helpful than you think.”

Carolus was restless that evening, almost regretting that he had chosen this slow way to reach Tangier. He still believed that Lance Willick was at the core of the whole thing and until he saw him he was unlikely to do anything but flounder. He had learnt so little of any value on the
Saragossa
and seemed unlikely to learn more.

He went to his cabin and tried to sleep, but found it impossible. He had never been over-self-confident, and tonight he felt unsure of himself. Here he was after all this questioning of people, all this careful thought and observation, without knowing who had killed Gregory Willick or whether Larkin's death had been suicide or murder. Still less had he any idea in the latter case who could have been guilty.

The solution here, he believed, would not come piece by piece, slowly making sense of little things, but in one moment of revelation. It was one of those cases where there was some secret key to the whole thing. Perhaps when he talked to Lance Willick he would find it in his hands.

He could not sleep and decided to dress and go out on deck. The lights in the saloon were out now and the little deck-space was dim and breezy. He leant over the rail and looked down at the gently swaying surface of the water.

Presently he was aware that someone was on the deck behind him. He heard nothing and saw no shadow, but felt a presence there. Suddenly there came into his mind Mrs Roper's words—‘Be a bit careful. Keep off the deck at night.'

Carolus stood quite still, his hands gripping the rail. It was really as though his heightened senses gave him eyes in
the back of his head, for he felt the presence behind him approach and loom over him. Then in his ear, “This is just where it must have happened,” said a deep voice.

If the voice's owner expected Carolus to be startled, he must have been disappointed. Carolus did not even turn to see who had spoken, for he knew it was the tall passenger Maltby.

“Yes, just about here,” he replied cheerfully and continued to gaze down into the water.

“Formed any theory about it?” asked Maltby in his bass voice.

“Not really. Have you?”

“Theory? No. I don't deal in theories.”

“What do you deal in, Mr Maltby?”

“Whatever I think is wanted. It depends on what a place needs.”

“You move very silently.”

“Yes.”

“One would think you had rubber soles.”

“I have.”

There was a long silence.

“Did you know Larkin?” asked Carolus.

“No. I knew no one in either case.”

“Will you meet Lance Willick while you're in Tangier?”

“Perhaps, if it is necessary for business reasons.”

“Why, I wonder, are you not more frank about your identity, Mr Maltby? Why all this secrecy? You might just as well have told Captain Bidlake what was your interest in the case.”

“I don't know why you should assume I have one. I'm going to start a business in Tangier. Probably buy a hotel.”

“I wish you every good fortune. Do you know the place well?”

“Never been there in my life.”

“Then it must be newspaper accounts of it which make you think you need to be armed. You really shouldn't take
them too seriously. They're running Tangier now as a city of glittering vice. It used to be Buenos Aires. Both are perfectly respectable ports where many pleasant people live quite ordinary lives.”

“What makes you say I'm armed?”

“Oh don't be naïve, Mr Maltby. I'm not wholly unobservant.”

“But aren't you, don't you think, a little incautious? Entering something in which you may not be at all welcome? In a place where few questions are asked?”

“Nicely put. Don't concern yourself for me, Mr Maltby. I appreciate your consideration, but I assure you that I can look after myself quite well enough for this little matter.”

“Things are not always what they seem.”

“But a pistol is always a pistol and rubber soles remain rubber soles. Good night.”

N
EXT MORNING
Carolus waited until the steward was cleaning his cabin, then went in.

“Look, Gunner, I'm making a private investigation of the deaths of Gregory Willick and Larkin. Mind if I ask you a few questions?”

“What's the Captain say, Mr Deene? See, we were told not to spout about it when we were home.”

“Why not go and ask the Captain or Mr Appleyard if it's all right for you to tell me what you know?”

“If you don't mind, Mr Deene.”

He was back in a few minutes with a grin.

“Mr Appleyard says I can tell you anything except what happened to him ashore in Cadiz one night. What
can
I tell you?”

“First of all about Mrs Roper. She's an old friend of mine and I've seen her in London.”

“She's a dam' good sort,” said Gunner. “She wouldn't get anyone into trouble. See, on the night when this Larkin went overboard she was knocking back sandwiches and Guinness with me in the galley. She often used to feel peckish late at night—well, she's a big woman. I was telling her about my sister's kids, who are the same age as mine.”

Gunner dived into his pocket and with great swiftness produced two of a huge packet of snapshots.