Fatal Venture (15 page)

He had been hurrying to the police partly to do his obvious duty, and partly also to escape a threatened danger. Now he wondered if he was not about to incur an infinitely more hideous peril. Would the police believe his story?

There were, indeed, some disquietingly good reasons why they should not. For one thing he was believed to hate Stott. On various occasions Stott had been extremely offensive to him in the presence of others, and hatred would not be unnatural. Indeed, he had been overheard expressing something very like it. Only recently he had been abusing the man to Bristow, when that reptile Pointer, the steward, had overheard. Morrison imagined with what secret joy Pointer would tell that story at the inquest, and he could not but see how badly it would look. And Bristow would have to admit its truth. He certainly had been foolish.

His story would also sound anything but convincing. What an extraordinary coincidence it was, it would be said, that he should just be passing the spinney at the precise moment that Stott screamed! The coincidence had happened, but who would believe it? The story, moreover, was suspicious. It would be precisely what a guilty man would tell. He would realise that, having been beside the body, he might have left some trace of his presence: a footprint, some small object dropped. The story would explain this innocently, hence its adoption.

Another point. Could anything be made out of his friendship for Margot? The proposed lunch and excursion to the Causeway would come out, and he was sure his talks with her aboard the
Hellénique
had been witnessed. Could it be assumed that old Stott had heard about the affair and had warned him off? Of course there would be no proof of this, yet the police might assume something of the kind to strengthen their case.

The more Morrison thought over his situation, the more uneasy he grew. Would he be wise to report what he had seen? Would it not be safer to walk on to Portrush and go aboard the ship as if nothing had happened? If he did so, no one could disprove his statement. If he slipped out of the spinney unobserved, no one could know that he had ever been in it.

Then suddenly he felt the first beginnings of real panic. Suppose he returned to the ship and it was discovered that he
had
left a trace of his presence. If so, he could scarcely escape conviction. That he had lied about the affair would prejudice any jury. No, better to go at once to the police than risk that.

But the original objection to that course remained. Morrison waited in a fever of indecision. One thing, however, was certain. Whatever he did subsequently, he must get out of this damned wood immediately. The murderer couldn’t be far away. As he stood thinking, he felt like a man being stalked by a tiger.

Suddenly he knew that he could not tell the police. It would be too dangerous. Circumstances had woven a net round him, and he could not prove his innocence.

Then the possible footprint?

He set his jaw. There was only one thing to be done. He must retrace his steps and examine every foot of the way he had walked. Only so could he have an easy mind.

It took all of his not very obtrusive courage to do it. As he walked, he kept glancing to right and left, as if behind some of these closely pressing shrubs a sandbag might be raised in waiting. All sorts of strange sounds leapt to his excited ears, little rustlings and cracklings, suggesting stealthy movements relentlessly following him up.

He did not, however, find any footprints – his own or any other person’s. Most of the ground was covered with a poor grass, but there were many patches of sandy earth where such should show. Fearfully, he hoped his search was adequate.

At length for the second time he reached the body. No, there were no traces here either. And yet, what was that? Just as he was about to turn away he saw a definite footprint.

Its discovery gave him a shock. If he had missed this at first glance, might he not have missed others? He fervently hoped not, but he felt he simply
could not
go over his route again.

The print showed a smooth sole, and as he wore rubber soles with a pattern, it could not be his. He need therefore do nothing about it. He was just turning away when his eyes caught an irregularity in the centre, and he stooped to examine it.

Some pieces of thread stuck out of the smooth earth. He felt he should let them alone and get away, and yet some urge came over him and he seized them and pulled. There was a slight resistance, and they came away, thawing after them a button.

Morrison gasped as he examined that button. It was one of those round ones covered with plaited leather which are often worn on tweed sports coats. And like a flash he remembered where he had seen just such another: hanging by a loose thread. It was on the sleeve of Percy Luff’s coat!

Morrison had been dismayed when he found the body of Stott, but now as he stood dangling the little leather-covered ball he was filled with absolute horror. Percy Luff! Margot’s step-brother guilty of murder! It couldn’t be!

Yet if this button had really come from the man’s coat-sleeve, what other conclusion was possible? Had Luff been there for an innocent purpose, Morrison would have seen him. He, Morrison, must have reached the body within three or four minutes of the murder, and he had called “Anyone there?” close to the place quite two minutes earlier, where he passed it on his way across the basin. It was inconceivable that Luff could have been out of earshot. And he had not answered. Why not? Could there be any explanation but the one?

And yet might there not be another? Might Luff not have come on the scene while the tragedy was actually in progress, have seen the murderer and have given instant chase? If so, might he not have been too far off or too much engaged to hear Morrison’s call, even two minutes after the crime?

Morrison tried to comfort himself with this view, but with poor success. Horror at what might come to concern Margot remained his chief emotion.

The discovery, however, solved his most pressing problem. If there were any chance of Luff being guilty, the police must be told nothing. As Morrison had already seen, the sooner they got on the job, the greater the likelihood that success would crown their efforts. In this case they must not succeed. There must be no chance of Margot’s step-brother being brought to justice.

It followed that the button must be removed. But Morrison could not bring himself to destroy it. If by any evil chance his own visit to the hollow were discovered, self-defence might require its production. He therefore slipped it into his pocket, intending to hide it in some safe place on the ship.

He looked sharply round to see that no other traces remained near the body. Then he returned to the road and, after prospecting carefully, managed to slip across it, as he believed, entirely unobserved. He avoided treading on the sandy patch where Stott had left his footprints, working gradually down to the shore. There he continued on for the two remaining miles to Portrush, walking above high-water level, where the sand was running and would leave no clear footprints.

His horror grew as he thought of the motive Luff might have had for the deed, or which at least might be imputed to him. He was in the direct line of succession. Wyndham Stott was to get John’s money, and Elmina would see that her son was not overlooked. Luff had been gambling heavily since he came on board, and might very well be near the end of his resources, and for current needs Wyndham would be more squeezable than John. Further, old Stott had on occasion a very rough tongue. He might well have spoken offensively to Luff, and equally well this might have been overheard. A strong case for motive could certainly be made, and more than ever therefore that finding of the button must be kept secret.

How could he, Morrison wondered, meet the people on the ship that evening and not give himself away? And how should he account for his afternoon if he were asked to do so?
When
he was asked to do so, he corrected himself, for he most certainly would be.

The truth, he thought, would be his only hope: the truth, that is, with the one significant omission. Probably he had been seen during his walk: very well, admit the walk. Now he was sorry he had not trodden on the sandy patch after leaving the road. If the matter were investigated early, the absence of his footprints might be commented on. Then he thought that no such early investigation would take place. Many hours must elapse before the discovery of the body.

By the time he reached the temporary boat-slip, he had himself well in hand, and he did not think his manner could arouse suspicion. There were few people returning in the boat, for it was early. The
Hellenique,
indeed, had just come inshore. As good luck would have it, he sat beside Carrothers, the Galashiels stockbroker, whom he knew but slightly, and who therefore couldn’t so well judge abnormality in his manner. Once on board he escaped to his cabin and fortified himself with a double whisky before resuming his ordinary routine.

He found it easier to get along than he had anticipated. The complete normality of everyone else helped him, and the fact that his absence had left a good deal of work to be done made it natural that he should spend the evening in his office.

All the same, he had some difficult moments. The first was his meeting with Margot. He would like to have postponed this until old Stott was missed, as in the resultant general excitement his own would be less noticeable. But he thought that politeness required it to take place as early as possible.

He therefore kept a look out for approaching boats. Soon Margot appeared, he was thankful to see, without her father.

“Frightfully sorry you couldn’t make it,” he greeted her. “I’m hoping for better luck next time.”

“Yes,” she answered, and her manner indicated that she really meant it, “I was sorry, too. But I couldn’t help myself. I just had to meet those people at Castlerock.”

One other person Morrison watched for, though he knew he would be wiser to go back to his office and stay there. But he felt that he must see if that button was still on Luff’s sleeve. While not certain, it was likely that Luff had worn that coat that day.

The second boat after Margot’s brought the young man, and a glance showed Morrison that he was wearing the coat. It was easy to get behind him as he walked down the alleyway. Then once again Morrison felt a little sick. The button was missing.

There was, of course, no actual proof that his find had come off this particular sleeve, but Morrison found the doubt too slight to afford him much comfort. Luff, and Margot’s peace of mind, were in danger.

He delayed going down for dinner till late and was glad to find on arrival that all at his table had gone except one man. This luckily was a short-sighted, self-centred individual, and Morrison was sure he would not notice any agitation in his manner.

He was just finishing dinner when one of the Captain’s boys approached him, “Captain Hard wick’s compliments, sir, and he would like to see you in his cabin.”

It was beginning!

Hardwick was seated at his desk, and Bristow and Grant, the purser, were on a settee facing him.

“Sit down, Mr Morrison,” Hardwick said shortly, pointing to a chair. “Mr Stott has not come aboard and apparently has sent no message. I want to know if he said anything to you about his movements.”

Morrison shook his head. “No, sir,” he answered in what he hoped was a normal voice. “Nothing at all.”

“And you don’t know his plans?”

“No, sir. I didn’t even know he was going ashore.”

Hardwick nodded. “All right, thank you. That’s all.” It was now getting on towards nine o’clock and the ship was still at anchor. Unless a move was soon made, either the law would be broken or the devotees of roulette would remain shut out of their paradise. As Morrison returned to his office, he would have given a month’s salary to know what was being said in the Captain’s cabin.

A decision had evidently been quickly reached, however, for he had not been working for more than a few seconds when the murmur of the engines came slow and muffled through the ship.

Next morning Morrison was early on deck, greeting as many of the ship’s company as he could find and noting their demeanour. None showed the slightest excitement, and it was evident that the death of Stott was still unknown. Now, so amazingly do circumstances alter cases, he did something which, twenty-four hours earlier, would have been utterly inconceivable – he avoided Margot. Passing down the promenade deck he saw her appear round the end of a deckhouse, and instantly had business in the vacant cabin of some complete stranger.

About nine he was summoned again to Captain Hardwick’s cabin, just as the first shore boats were getting off. They were lying in Lough Swilly and there were excursions to Derry, and certain districts of Co. Donegal. This time the Captain was alone.

“We’ve had no news from Mr Stott,” he began. “I left a quartermaster ashore on the landing-stage at Portrush to wait for him. I’ve just rang him up and he tells me he was there all night, but saw no one.”

Captain Hardwick absently kneaded the lobe of his left ear between his finger and thumb, a habit he had when puzzled.

“It is so unlike Mr Stott not to advise me of his whereabouts that I have decided to inform the police. But I don’t want to do it by telephone. I want you to go and see the chief officer at Portrush, or wherever he lives, and impress on him that the affair must be handled with discretion. You will realise that Mr Stott would be annoyed if there was unnecessary publicity, apart from the damage it would do the ship.”

Morrison received the commission with mixed feelings. The idea of discussing the affair with the police gave him cold shivers. It would be so fatally easy to make a slip; to know just a little too much. If the police were to say after the interview, “How could he have told that?” it might be the end for him.

On the other hand, it might give him what he wanted more than anything else in the world; first-hand information as to what was being done and how much the police had learnt. It simply meant that he must keep his wits about him, and school himself to appear only moderately interested.