Fatal Venture (17 page)

“Then what’s your own theory?”

Morrison shrugged. “Goodness only knows,” he answered as lightly as he could. “Met a friend probably, and stayed over with him. Felt unwell and went to an hotel. Got drunk possibly. I don’t know. Whatever he did, his message to the ship went adrift.”

“You won’t talk?” Forrester returned. “Oh well, I could hardly expect you to.”

“I won’t put out tales that I believe to be false, if that’s what you mean,” Morrison retorted, robbing the words of offence with a smile, “though I grant you they would be more interesting.”

Forrester made a pretence of sighing. “Oh, well, if you won’t, you won’t. Had an interesting day?”

“So so. Local transport business, you know.”

Morrison was pleased with himself as he nodded and passed on. He had been afraid of the inevitable discussions which the affair would cause, and now, after sustaining the first, he felt reassured. He had borne himself better than he could have hoped. No one could possibly have suspected that he knew more than he pretended.

Captain Hardwick made no comment when he heard the DI’s advice, but later on Morrison saw the suggested notice posted in the ship. It increased the gossip and he was stopped on several occasions by curious passengers. This general belief that he knew something of the affair would have startled him had it not been that he found everyone in uniform was being similarly pestered.

The first real test of his self-control came when he met Margot on the promenade deck after dinner. She was alone and stopped.

“I’m so sorry,” he began, “that you should have this annoyance and worry. I’m afraid it won’t improve your holiday.”

“My holiday!” she returned sadly. “This has been no holiday for me. I hated coming, and except for meeting new friends and so on, I’ve hated being on board. I begged my father to go on an ordinary cruise to the Mediterranean, but he couldn’t resist the tables. Then he suggested coming alone, but I wouldn’t agree to that. I thought I could at least be a brake on him – with what success you know. Then this news about Uncle John! No, it hasn’t been a holiday for me.”

Morrison had never heard her speaking so bitterly. She was usually so cheerful, giving the impression that she hadn’t a care in the world. Now she seemed really upset. A warm flood of feeling towards her rose in his heart.

“I didn’t know,” he said hesitatingly. “I’d give anything to be able to help.”

She glanced at him gratefully. “You have helped me already,” she returned, “and it’s a shame for me to grouse. I suppose there are thousands of girls in England who would give their ears to be able to do a trip like this. Tell me about Uncle John. What do you think has happened to him?”

This was the hardest question Morrison had yet had to answer. He could lie without difficulty to the police and to his fellow travellers. He could even lie on occasion to his Captain. But to Margot he felt he couldn’t lie. And yet it had to be done. Not that he couldn’t trust her with his secret. He would without hesitation trust her with his life. But if after all Luff should prove to be guilty, to tell her would probably make her feel an accessory after the fact, if, indeed, she would not actually become one. Apart from himself altogether, he could not risk that.

Therefore he replied as coolly as he was able. “Not necessarily anything very dreadful, I feel sure,” he declared. “I imagine he has acted in some quite normal way, gone home with a friend or something of that sort. I presume he sent a message to the captain, and the whole trouble has arisen because that message has miscarried.”

“That’s a comforting thought. It’s not that I’m fond of Uncle John. I dislike him intensely; indeed, at times I almost hate him. So does Father, except that I think he hates him all the time. But, all the same, it would be dreadful if anything had happened to him.”

“There’s no reason to suppose anything of the sort. We may hear something from him at any moment.”

“And that in spite of seeing the police about it? Captain Hardwick told Father you were going.”

“Oh, yes,” Morrison admitted. “That was Captain Hardwick’s obvious duty. If anything
had
happened and he had taken no steps, he would have been held to blame. But that doesn’t say that he believes anything is wrong.”

“That’s comforting again. I thought his informing the police was a sign that he feared the worst.”

“Not a bit of it: just an obvious routine precaution.”

“Well, I wish we could hear. The talk through the ship is horrible.”

She seemed in no hurry to move, and they stood together watching the rugged shores of Lough Swilly passing along on either hand. The Lough is a very deep gash into the land, an estuary, only that no large river flows into it, and the
Hellénique
was moving at nearly full speed to get outside the three-mile limit before 9 p.m. The evening was calm and peaceful, but beginning to get slightly chilly, even in the shelter of the music room.

“If anything
has
happened to Uncle John,” Margot went on presently, “what will they do? I mean, will there be enquiries on board and all that?”

“I really can’t tell you,” he answered with truth. “One thing that might become important is that this is a French ship.”

“Oh, but she isn’t,” she retorted. “The entire crew is English. There’s nothing French about her except her name.”

“No, she’s French through and through – legally. She belongs to a French company and carries a French certificate and sails under the French flag.”

“She belongs to Uncle John.”

“No doubt that’s the actual fact, but he holds her through a French company – his own representatives, of course, but still French.”

“Well, suppose she is technically. What difference will it make?”

“Just that if she were English, English police could come aboard and make enquiries. As it is, I question if they can. I really don’t know what the position is.”

As Margot was about to reply, Major Stott appeared round the corner of the music room. She called him over.

“Mr Morrison has raised an interesting point, Daddy. We were talking about Uncle John and Mr Morrison’s visit to the police today. He says that this is a French ship, and that if – if enquiries should have to be made, that might make a lot of difficulty. Tell him, Mr Morrison.”

Morrison did so as far as he was able. Wyndham Stott seemed interested. “I knew she was technically French,” he observed, “but I thought that was only to get over the legal difficulty of the gaming.”

“That’s true, sir,” Morrison agreed; “but all the other results of being a French ship follow.”

Wyndham nodded, as he drew slowly at his cigar. Then as if by an afterthought, he produced his case. “Have one?” he invited. “I don’t know if you like cigars, but they’re very mild.”

Morrison didn’t particularly want it, but he thought it politic to accept. There was silence for a few seconds, then Wyndham changed the subject. “Fine old ship this,” he declared, “and unexpected to find her ending her life in this way. I knew her well in her best days. I went to the States in her on her second trip, and I’ve crossed in her, I suppose” – he paused – “five times altogether.”

“You know the States well, sir?”

Wyndham knew the States, and talked interestingly of his travels. When a little later Morrison parted from them, he was well pleased with this interview also. It had been a much more trying one for him than that with Forrester, and he had carried it off equally well. No other encounter would be as difficult, unless actual suspicion arose and he were interrogated by the police. And every hour that passed made that less likely.

His troubles for the evening, however, were not yet over. He had scarcely parted from the Stotts when he met Bristow.

“I was looking for you,” the latter said with some eagerness. “Come to my cabin.”

Bristow’s sitting room was large and its furnishing was the last word in luxury and “art”. Morrison sank back in a well-padded armchair and helped himself to the whisky to which the other pointed.

“What happened about the police?” Bristow asked, pouring out a larger allowance of the spirit than Morrison had yet seen him take. “I didn’t know you were back till I saw you just now.”

“Nothing very much happened,” Morrison returned, going on to give a more or less detailed report. “The officer in charge – a DI they call him – looks no fool,” he ended up. “If anyone can clear the thing up, I bet he’s the man.”

“I’ve heard they’re good, these Northern Ireland police,” Bristow commented. “He didn’t throw out any hints?”

“None, except for recommending the notice the Old Man has put up.”

“Then he thinks it’s serious.”

“I imagined so. But he was a cautious gentleman: he wasn’t giving anything away.” “Hardwick thinks it’s serious.”

“I imagined that, too, else he would scarcely have put up the notice.”

Bristow moved uneasily in his chair. “What do you think yourself, Morrison? After all, you’ve known Stott longer than any of us. Would he have gone off like that and not let any of us know – unless he couldn’t help himself?”

If Morrison had not been so afraid of saying the wrong thing, he would have seized this opportunity to get some of his own back. “I’ve known him longer than you,” he admitted, “but you’ve seen much more of him than I. I should have thought he’d have let us know. What’s your own view?”

“It’s because I feel certain of it that I am so uneasy. I feel absolutely convinced that if he hasn’t phoned out, it’s because he can’t; in other words, because he’s ill or dead.” Bristow seemed quite concerned.

“I agree with you,” Morrison admitted. “But, you know, I couldn’t rise to any particular sorrow if he were. I don’t like and never did like the man, and I don’t see what matter it would make if he were dead.”

Bristow looked shocked. “No matter?” he exclaimed. “What are you thinking about, Morrison? You’re surely not forgetting that he’s carrying this entire outfit on his shoulders. Only for Stott your job and mine might go phut. Don’t you know that?”

“But the outfit’s paying, even if it hasn’t paid well enough for me to get my ten percent. For the matter of that, it’s not paying you your forty-five either. You’ve been grousing enough about it, too,”

Bristow made a gesture of impatience. “Yes, I know,” he said irritably. “I agree it’s paying for the moment, but if we got a bad spell Stott would carry it. If Stott has pegged out, and we get a bad spell, we’ll go down: there’s no margin nor reserve to carry us on. No, if anything’s happened to Stott, it may be a damned serious thing for us.”

Morrison had not thought of this. He didn’t, as a matter of fact, believe there was much in it, for Stott’s money would go to Wyndham, and of all people Wyndham was less likely than any other to close the venture down. Moreover, the exchange of ownership might well be to the good. With Wyndham in charge, everyone would probably have a better time. He would be straight for one thing, and Morrison had grave doubts of old Stott’s probity. Bristow, however, did not agree.

“Wyndham would mean well,” he admitted. “He’s decent enough in his way, and I dare say straight. But he’s no businessman. If he began trying to manage this thing he’d let it down. I agree old Stott’s a swine, but, all the same, I’d rather work with him. He’ll make the thing pay or carry it.”

“I imagine Wyndham wouldn’t try to manage it,” Morrison suggested. “He’d probably hand it over to you, or perhaps to you and Hardwick. He’d be too busy amusing himself at the tables.”

Bristow grunted. “Another thing he might do would be to close the thing down. That daughter of his hates his playing, and if she had any say in things she’d make him do it. Morality stunt, you know.”

At this Morrison saw red. For calling Margot “that daughter of his,” and suggesting that her action under any conceivable circumstance could be otherwise than perfect, he could for the moment have killed Bristow. He did not answer while he struggled to get himself in hand. Then his fury passed, and he was able to reply normally.

He was interested to see how friendly and confidential the fear of disaster had made Bristow. He was now speaking as to an equal, with the same attractive and deferential manner which he had shown in the Calais express when the venture was only his unattained and apparently unobtainable dream. His superiority had vanished. He seemed indeed anxious to lean on Morrison, and received his optimistic replies with apparent satisfaction.

Next day they felt the slow, easy sweep of an Atlantic swell, their nearest land westwards being Labrador. Early they were cruising along the rugged weatherbeaten coast of Donegal, past Melmore Head and Horn Head, round the grim-looking island of Tory, and down past Bloody Foreland, Gola, Owey and Aran. That day the shore excursion was from Burton Port to Killybegs, through Glenties and Ardara. Morrison had heard it was not a very interesting drive, and for once he watched the party start without wishing to join it. He enjoyed the open sea and the easy roll of the ship, and was glad to be on board.

Then when they had passed Rathlin O’Birne Island and were off the terrific cliffs of Slieve League there was news. John Stott’s body had been found.

Morrison heard it from Bristow. He happened to be on deck after tea and noticed him leave the Captain’s cabin. Bristow saw him and came over. He looked a good deal upset.

“Stott’s dead,” he said shortly. “Murdered!”

Morrison had no need to simulate distress. The news horrified him. He had never imagined that the body would be found so quickly and instantly he realised his own danger. His trail was far too fresh. Whatever had led the DI and his followers to that sinister saucer might well have told them that he had been on the scene at the time of the crime.

“Good God!” he muttered. “Murdered!” He strove to keep calm. “Then you and the Captain were right.”

Bristow nodded gloomily. “I was afraid of it from the first.”

“Where was he found?” Morrison went on presently. “I don’t know. Hardwick didn’t show me the message.” “No details?”

“No: just that the body had been found and that foul play was evident.”

“Evident, not suspected?” “No. They seemed sure of it.”