Fatal Venture (16 page)

“I understand, sir,” he returned; “but the police will certainly ask me what was known of his movements aboard, and I’m not in a position to tell them.”

Captain Hardwick passed over a couple of typed sheets. “I appreciate that,” he returned. “I’ve got the available information here, with all the photographs of Mr Stott that we could find. You may explain that I’ve not made a general enquiry. I’ve only questioned a few people to whom he might have spoken – like yourself. If Mr Stott has not turned up by the time you reach Portrush, I want you to discuss that point – the making of enquiries aboard. Legally, I can do it, and I don’t know who else can. I don’t want the job, as it’s outside my line and it requires an expert. And don’t forget to mention that this is a French ship.”

Morrison thought over that last remark as the launch took him and some forty other travellers ashore to the wharf at Buncrana. Could British police function aboard a French ship? Would French police interest themselves about a tragedy in Northern Ireland? It looked as if some interesting legal questions might soon arise. But, whatever was done, he feared there would be no chance of the enquiry falling between two stools. Some authority would be out to bring the murderer to justice.

He took a bus into Derry, arriving in time to catch the midday train to Portrush. Again the weather was good, and in spite of his perturbation he could not but admire the views as they ran along the bank of the River Foyle. Then, when they turned inland, over the flat lands of the Eglinton Intakes, he took out the papers Captain Hardwick had given him.

They contained but little helpful information. It appeared that Stott had gone ashore on the previous morning, taking his camera. He had then hired a local boat and been rowed over to the biggest of the Skerries, the islands lying a couple of miles out to sea. He had spent some time wandering about, returning to the Northern Counties Hotel about one o’clock. There he had lunched with Carrothers and one or two other passengers, not by arrangement, but through meeting them accidentally in the lounge. He had told them of his excursion, saying he had been looking for a ruin of which he had been told, but which he had not found. He was going, he explained, in search of another ruin in the afternoon, and they wished him better luck.

After lunch they separated, Carrothers and his friends going for a drive. This was corroborated by the Wyndham Stott party, who had also lunched in the hotel. When they left, John Stott was sitting in the lounge, reading the paper. He nodded and exchanged a few remarks as they passed. All who saw him agreed that his manner and appearance were completely normal. He was last seen by the Second Officer, who had leave ashore, walking past the Ladies’ Bathing Place in the direction of the East Strand.

This information was obtained in the first instance from Wyndham Stott, who was the first person Hardwick approached. He had put the Captain on to Carrothers, whom he had seen with John at lunch.

It seemed, then, to Morrison that his idea had been correct: that Stott had gone ashore to photograph some ruin in the wooded saucer. If so, someone else had known where he was going. Luff had known and had denied it, unless the evidence of the button was wholly misleading. And if Luff were not the murderer, then someone else had known it also. Whom, he wondered, had old Stott told?

Then Morrison saw that to reason in this way was madness. All he knew was that old Stott had not returned to the ship on the previous night and that Captain Hardwick had sent him to report to the police. To fill his mind with the pros and cons of the case meant a terrible danger of saying too much in the coming interview.

At Portrush he began by seeing the quartermaster who had been left to look out for Stott, only to learn the not surprising fact that no further trace of the man had been seen. He must therefore carry on his mission. He thought lovingly of a double whisky before adventuring himself in the lions’ den, but he realised that if by chance he became suspected, the fact that he had done so might increase that suspicion. Rallying his courage, he therefore went to the police station, or barracks, as it is called in Ireland.

“I want to see the chief officer, please,” he said, handing over his card to the saturnine-looking constable who came forward.

“The DI’s here this morning by chance,” the man returned gloomily. “Would it be him or the sergeant you were wanting?”

This was a poser to Morrison, who had no idea what a DI was. “Whichever is the superior officer,” he explained.

The constable looked scandalised. Then a crafty look appeared in his eyes. “You would be English maybe?” he asked, and when Morrison admitted it, his expression relaxed as if he were granting him a fool’s pardon. “Then it’ll be the DI,” he concluded. “That’s the District Inspector from Ballymoney. He’s over the whole area. The sergeant’s only over Portrush.”

“Then the DI, if you please.”

The man hesitated as if he were considering asking Morrison his business, then, thinking better of it, he vanished through an internal door. There was a muttering of voices, ending with the words, “Show him in.”

“He’ll see you now,” announced the constable, reappearing.

A large, good-humoured looking officer with three chevrons on his sleeve followed the constable from the room. He glanced shrewdly at Morrison and wished him an agreeable good morning. Morrison passed in and the door closed behind him.

He found himself in a small but efficient-looking office facing a tall man with a dark, intelligent face and a strong jaw. He was dressed in tweeds which had seen better days, and his cap, reposing on a side table beside a bag of golf clubs, was also well worn. Yet at his first word Morrison realised he was a man of education and breeding. Instinctively also he felt he was efficient and tenacious, and anything but a fool. His panic, which he thought he had overcome, surged back, but with all his strength of mind he pulled himself together.

The DI half rose in his seat as he waved his visitor to a chair. “Mr Harry Morrison,” he read from the card, then swung round with a faint smile. “And what can I do for you, Mr Morrison?”

“I’m transport officer in the
Hellénique,
as you see from my card,” Morrison answered, “and I’ve been sent by her Captain to report that one of the passengers came ashore yesterday morning here at Portrush and has not returned to the ship. It was a Mr John Stott,” and he went on to describe the man’s position on board, passing over the photographs and statements. “In one sense,” he continued, considering his words carefully, “Captain Hardwick has no reason to fear that anything may have happened to him. It is merely the fact that he didn’t come aboard and didn’t send a message, and that such a thing never occurred before. Mr Stott has changed his arrangements previously, but he always let us know.”

“But if the Captain has reported the matter to us, he must think it serious. What exactly does he want us to do?”

“He wanted really to get your advice. If, from what I have told you, you think enquiries should be made, then he would be grateful if you would make them. On the other hand, if you advise waiting a little longer, he will be satisfied to do so. But he hoped in any case that as far as possible you would avoid publicity.”

The DI looked at him doubtfully. “We can’t make enquiries as to the whereabouts of a missing man without some publicity,” he pointed out.

“Of course. Captain Hardwick realises that. It was only to ask you to keep the affair as quiet as was reasonably possible.”

The other nodded. “Well, wait till I read these statements. Smoke if you want to.”

Hoping it would steady his nerves, Morrison lit a cigarette, while he stole glimpses of the dark, powerful face with its intent expression. The DI read everything through twice, then he fixed his eyes on Morrison’s. “Now I’d like to know what’s not in these statements,” he said shortly. “What’s your own idea as to what has happened, and what’s the Captain’s?”

Morrison gaped, then answered: “I don’t know. I have no idea myself and Captain Hardwick expressed no opinion.”

“What I want to get at is whether he has any reason to suspect foul play?”

Again Morrison hesitated. It would be unwise to be too glib. “As far as I know, he has none. I personally imagine that Mr Stott stayed ashore deliberately and sent us a message which miscarried. But, of course, I’ve no evidence for that.”

“What sort of a man was this Stott? Might he have got drunk?”

“I’ve never known him to take too much, but, again, I can’t say.”

“I’m to take it then that, for all you or the Captain know to the contrary, he might be lying drunk somewhere, or have had a fall when he was looking for his ruin? If it was Dunluce he went to photograph and he fell down the cliff, he might well be dead. We’ll have a look round and make a few enquiries.”

“Thank you: that was what Captain Hardwick hoped you’d do.”

“We’ll do what we can. But if there should be more in it than meets the eye, I imagine the solution would lie on board. Someone would then have to make more enquiries.”

“That’s another point I was to discuss with you. Captain Hardwick wasn’t very sure about procedure. You see, the ship is a French ship registered in Havre and licensed by the French Marine Department. He didn’t know who would have the right to ask questions on board.”

The DI stroked his chin. “I’m sure I don’t either,” he returned, “at least offhand. A new question to me altogether. The Captain, I take it, would have power to ask any questions he liked.”

“Yes, he said so. But he also said such an enquiry was out of his line and should be held by an expert.”

The DI remained silent for some moments, evidently thinking deeply. “Is there any reason for trying to keep this disappearance secret on board?” he then asked. “I doubt if you’ll be able to in any case. These things get out, you know.”

“I know they do,” Morrison agreed. “I expect it’s known already. The Captain’s idea was merely not to make a fuss too early, which would have annoyed Mr Stott if he was all right.”

“Well, I suggest that if you hear nothing today, your Captain should post a notice saying Mr Stott has not advised him of his whereabouts and asking anyone who may have known his plans to communicate with him.”

“I’ll tell him; and thank you for the hint.”

“Very good. Then we’ll look into it at this end. How can we communicate with you?”

“You can telephone at any time. We have continuous wireless connection with the shore.”

“That’s great. Then why, if I may ask the question, didn’t you ring us up in the first instance?”

“Three reasons. The Captain thought he might have heard from Mr Stott by midday, and that till then he needn’t trouble you. Secondly, we couldn’t telephone the photographs. And, thirdly, generally speaking, he thought an interview would be more satisfactory than the phone.”

“I agree with him there.” The DI got up, again transfixing Morrison with his keen, shrewd glance. During this quiet conversation Morrison’s panic had largely subsided, but that look brought it back. However, the fact that he was also getting up helped him to hide it, and he did not think the other noticed anything amiss.

“Thank you very much,” he said, he believed quite normally. “It’s very good of you. I’ll tell Captain Hardwick what you have said.”

A moment later he was once more in the open air, and certain that so far he was entirely unsuspected.

Seated in the train on his way back to Derry, a new idea flashed into Morrison’s mind. Malthus and Mason!

A great relief surged through him as he realised that here in all probability was the explanation of the affair, and that Luff might not be guilty after all. If so, Margot had nothing to fear from the discovery of the truth; indeed, rather the contrary, as legatees in a murder mystery can seldom entirely escape suspicion.

What had Malthus and Mason come aboard for? Was it merely to gamble or have an unusual cruise, or was it for a more sinister purpose? Had their enmity against Stott been a running sore which could only be healed through action? If so, the affair was explained. If not, their presence on board at just this time was more than a strange coincidence.

Morrison could not understand why he had not thought of all this before. Then he saw that his mind had been too much filled, first, with his own peril and, second, with Luff’s – or rather Margot’s, for he didn’t care two hoots what happened to Luff. He had been obsessed with the button, as if there were not millions of buttons of that type in the world. It was a warning to him against jumping to conclusions.

He wondered if the idea had occurred to Hardwick? It now seemed so obvious that it was impossible to doubt it. Hardwick had had no personal emotions to cloud his judgment.

But suppose Hardwick had not thought of it? Would it be his duty to suggest it?

Then Morrison saw that he was forgetting – and it gave him a shock that he could have done so – that Hardwick didn’t know that Stott was dead. Only himself and the murderer knew that. To have mentioned his idea would have been to have signed his own death warrant. His oversight brought out a cold sweat of fear.

When he reached the ship he found that news of the disappearance had leaked out. He had not left the deck before he was buttonholed by the inquisitive Mr Forrester.

“What’s all this mystery about old man Stott?” he began, carefully blocking Morrison’s path. He winked and Morrison became aware that a joke was about to be perpetrated. “We hear he’s run away with a barmaid.”

“That’s news to me,” Morrison returned solemnly, “and I’m interested to hear it. Have you heard who the barmaid is?”

“I hoped you could tell me that.”

“No. I’ve been ashore all day and I’ve not heard anything. What else is being said?”

Forrester grew serious. “That he went ashore yesterday afternoon and hasn’t turned up since, and that foul play is feared.”

Morrison shook his head. “That’s news to me also,” he declared. “It’s true he went ashore yesterday afternoon and hadn’t returned when I left this morning, but the foul-play touch seems a rather gratuitous addition. I’ve not heard it mentioned.”