Fatal Venture (20 page)

During the couple of days following Stott’s disappearance, French did his best to find out details of what happened, but without success. On the first day no particular interest was shown in the affair. But on the second morning rumours began to circulate, increasing to a veritable flood by evening. Stott had gone off with a barmaid. He was lying drunk and incapable at the house of a friend. His wealth was a myth and he had been guilty of fraud and had fled the country. He had been crossed in love and had committed suicide. And then, at last, he had been murdered.

In the extraordinary way that rumours approximate to the truth, this last was repeated more and more generally until it ousted the others and held the field. Why or how he had been murdered was not suggested, but the smoking room had made up its mind as to the fact.

On the third day the flying boat brought a letter for French. It was in the square envelope of the private correspondent, and was addressed to the ship’s London agents in a lady’s old-fashioned and somewhat spidery hand: the hand French’s aunt would have written, had he possessed one. But within he found no suggestion of aunts. It read:

More than a little thrill titillated French’s nerves as he read this epistle. He could almost hear the ribald laughter of the writer as he read it to his colleagues. 14, Guye’s Lane, was the address of Robert Lindsay, Sir Mortimer Ellison’s private secretary. Here in the AC’s own inimitable way were his instructions. Sir Mortimer was sure that the Northerns in Portrush – the Portrush contingent of the police of Northern Ireland, or Royal Ulster Constabulary – would like to meet French, and he hoped that he would call on them. Clearly, they had applied to the Yard for help in the Stott affair, and this was the result. Fine! It was what he, French, had wanted, but had not dared to hope for.

He re-read the letter. At first sight, its form seemed childish and melodramatic, but it was not really so. If by any chance his true role on board were suspected, his correspondence might be tampered with. It would not do for an official letter from the Yard to fall into the hands of the people who were running the ship. But this epistle looked harmless enough and without the clue of the name and address would pass as the letter of an elderly lady. Well, here were orders. He wondered how he could best carry them out.

Taking out his maps, he looked once again at their position. They were now off Inishmurray Island in Donegal Bay. That morning a party had gone ashore at Bundoran and were motoring through the Lough Gill and Sligo districts to Killala, where they would come aboard in the evening. There was a railway from Ballina which could be reached by bus from Killala, but a timetable showed him that the journey to Portrush was long and involved many changes. If he could catch the night mail at Ballina, it might be better to go to Dublin and then north.

He had just decided on this plan when he was called to the telephone. A man’s voice was speaking.

“That Mr John Forrester? I’m Northern. Miss Lindsay told me you were on the
Hellénique
and that she had written to you about me. I happen to be coming aboard tonight for a short cruise, so I hope we’ll meet.”

This was not at all what French wanted. If he were to help in the case he should prefer to see everything for himself: the body, where it was found, any traces which might have been near it. He supposed he was only wanted to do the enquiries aboard, which in all probability would be neither so easy nor so profitable as those ashore.

That evening he watched the boats returning to the ship and noted that a stranger was with the party: a tall, bronzed man in grey tweeds, with a military carriage and a strong intelligent face: obviously “Northern.” The newcomer did not, however, ask for French, but vanished in the wake of a steward.

Some half an hour later French’s summons came – from a somewhat unexpected source. “The Captain’s compliments, sir, and if you are not engaged, could you step up to his cabin?”

When French entered Hardwick and the stranger were seated together. They rose and Hardwick smiled at him. “This is District Inspector Nugent of the Royal Ulster Constabulary,” he said, going on in a rather dry tone, “Mr Forrester, or should I say Chief Inspector French of New Scotland Yard?”

French was amazed. He looked questioningly from one to the other.

“You mustn’t blame me,” Nugent said quickly. “I didn’t tell him.”

“No,” Hardwick smiled again. “No one has been indiscreet. As a matter of fact, my First Officer recognised you – only yesterday. He was a friend of Captain Hassell’s of the
Jane Vosper,
and he and Hassell happened to be at home at the time of the trial which arose out of that case, when – what were their names? – Cruttenden and Henty were sentenced to death.”

“Cruttenden and Hislop,” French said heavily. “Henty got fourteen years.”

“Ah, of course. Well, the First Officer was interested and attended the case with Hassell. He saw you there. When you came on board he thought your face was familiar, but it was only yesterday that he remembered where he had seen you. You need not be alarmed, however; he has not mentioned it to anyone else.”

French’s annoyance was profound, but he crushed it down. “Well, sir,” he said as evenly as he could, “you’ve got my name.”

Captain Hardwick hesitated. “That is true,” he said presently, “but except that I’m always glad to meet a distinguished man, I’m not interested. I have no official knowledge of why you should be here under another name than your own, and with regard to the ship, I am concerned only in her navigation. But I am interested” – his face changed and grew more purposeful and eager – “in bringing to justice whoever killed John Stott, and if you, Chief Inspector, can give us the benefit of your help, we shall both be grateful. Isn’t that it, Mr Nugent?”

The tall man nodded. “That’s it. Captain,” he answered in a pleasant, cultured voice. “You have, so to speak, said it.”

“We’d better put our cards on the table, I think,” Hardwick went on. “Apart from Mr Stott being my owner and the director of this cruise, we can’t afford to have an unsolved murder mystery connected with the ship. At best – by which I mean if the murderer is quickly discovered, tried an executed – the affair will injure us seriously. It will keep a lot of people away who might have otherwise come. But an unsolved crime would kill us. People mightn’t exactly fear that it would be their turn next, but they would decide to run no risks of getting mixed up in that sort of thing. Therefore I and all in charge on board will do everything in our power to get it cleared up: which means, I take it, helping you two gentlemen in every possible way.”

“Speaking for myself,” Nugent declared, “that is entirely satisfactory. You’ve put your cards on the table, and I’d better be doing the same.” He turned to French. “This case, you know. Chief Inspector, is very unusual: in fact, I never came across anything like it before. The trouble is the nationality of the ship. In my official capacity, I’m informed that I haven’t any right aboard, except when she is actually in British territorial waters. I take it you’re in the same boat, so to speak, but you’ll know that. Now we’ve had a murder on British soil – in Northern Ireland territory. The clues to the murderer are more than likely to be found on board and nowhere else. We can, so I’m told, hold an enquiry on board by keeping the ship in British territorial waters, but we’re not wanting to alter the itinerary of the ship, nor to do anything that the French Government would object to. So that our enquiries present some difficulty.”

“I am aware of that,” French agreed dryly.

The others smiled and Nugent went on. “For various reasons” – he looked at Hardwick with a twinkle in his eye – “I assumed that the question of police interference with this ship had been gone into by Scotland Yard. As you know, we don’t consult the Yard on Northern Ireland cases, but we did consult them on the question of procedure on this French ship. They replied confirming our view of our rights, and added that you, Chief Inspector, were on board and that you might have information helpful to us. They authorised me to approach you and ask for your help.”

French nodded. “I had a letter of instruction to put myself at your disposal if called on.”

Nugent was obviously pleased. “Now, that’s very decent of both you and your people. Thank you very much. I needn’t say I’ll gratefully accept any help you can give me.”

This seemed nebulous and French wondered what he was being let in for. “What do you wish me to do?” he asked.

“The enquiries on board. Chief Inspector. You know the ship and the people. I don’t. I mean, of course, to do everything ashore, but the work aboard” – he shrugged – “well, it wouldn’t be easy for me to do anything about it.”

“You mean,” interposed Captain Hardwick with a dry smile, “that you want to unload your dirty work on someone else?”

The DI nodded emphatically. “That’s the idea. Captain. Again, you’ve said it. I see you know the ropes.”

French thought with some pleasure that he was going to get on well with these two. “My job, sirs,” he said sententiously, “is to do other people’s dirty work, usually with abuse instead of thanks; though that’s not a hint for you.”

“It’s worth bearing in mind all the same,” Hardwick retorted. “Very well, gentlemen, we seem to have cleared up the position. Suppose you two get together now and have a full and frank discussion, as the politicians say. I will be at your disposal when I’m wanted, and I needn’t say I will do anything I can to help. What are your plans, Mr Nugent? You’re coming along with us tonight, because we’re already well out from the coast. When do you wish to go ashore again?”

“Where could I get ashore in the morning?”

“Tomorrow there’s an excursion ashore at Mallaranny for Westport and the Killaries, returning to the ship from Clifden in the evening. You could go ashore at either of those places.”

“Thank you, Mallaranny’ll do well.”

“Come to my cabin and we’ll have a chat before dinner,” French suggested, leading the way.

He did not know what to think of this new development. It was almost as if his original case had been taken from him and that of Stott’s murder substituted. Whether or not, it looked as if his original case was doomed to failure, since his identity was known and, he felt sure, his purpose aboard suspected. It had always been unlikely that the ship would have gone inside the thee-mile limit with her gaming rooms open, but now this was quite out of the question. The same might be said about other breaches of the law. As long as he was on board, they simply would not occur.

But this was not the time to think such matters out. Arrived at his cabin, he produced cigarettes, and rang for drinks. Then when his guest was entertained, their conference began. There was a good hour till dinner, and in an hour much can be done.

“I’d better begin by telling you of Morrison’s visit,” said Nugent. “He turned up at the police barracks at Portrush about lunchtime on Wednesday, two days ago. He told us about the cruise and so on, much of which we knew, then said that John Stott, the owner of the ship, had gone ashore on the previous afternoon and that nothing had been heard of him since. This was unlike Stott, and his Captain had become anxious and had sent him to report to us.”

The DI then repeated Morrison’s story, continuing: “After the interview I started to register my impressions, and the first was about Morrison himself. There was no doubt the fella was nervous. And there was no doubt he was glad to get the visit over. I couldn’t see why, but I just noted the point.”

“Many people, as you know, are nervous about paying a visit to the police.”

“I know they are. But this seemed something more than that. I got the length of wondering whether he knew more than he was saying. Maybe I shouldn’t mention this, for there’s no what you might call actual evidence for it, but I want to tell you everything I can.”

“It’s a valuable hint,” French said politely. “Those sort of impressions are sometimes wrong, but not often.”

“I asked him the usual questions; got a description of Stott, and so on. Morrison had brought one or two photographs, so that was right enough. I issued a Missing Person sheet and then began enquiries in the usual way. I sent men round the hotels and boarding houses, to the Golf Club, the railway station, the various buses, the garages and so on. But I didn’t get anything.

“Then I thought of the man’s photographic hobby. If he was interested in old buildings, Dunluce Castle was the place he would naturally go. Besides, he had been seen heading towards the East Strand, which is on the way. There were other old ruins here and there. I sent men to them all, with instructions to examine the ruins and ask in houses nearby if anyone like Stott had been seen.”

“Good work,” French commented.

“Aw, now.” Nugent shook his head. “There was one thing that stood to me, and that was the lateness of the season. If I’d had to work, we’ll say in August, I likely wouldn’t have got anything with the crowds. But now there are only a few people about, so a stranger is noticed. Well, we tried all the ruins, but the man who went to Dunluce struck it lucky.”

“You deserved it.”

The DI laughed. “We usually get our deserts, don’t we?” he ventured. “But, whether or not, we got something useful. When the constable made his enquiries at a house close by he found a boy of about twelve who’d seen Stott. I’d better show you on a map.”

Nugent unrolled a six-inch Ordnance map and pointed as he spoke.

“Here is the Portrush-Bushmills road, and here is the East Strand. Portrush is here, just off the map. Here, about two miles from Portrush, is a rough footpath, a track only, leading up from the end of the East Strand to the road. Just opposite where this path comes up there’s a strange saucer like depression called McArtt’s Hollow. Because of the shelter its rim gives, it’s overgrown with scrubby bushes and small trees, the only trees along the coast hereabouts. Here, by the way, is Dunluce Castle, further along the road from Portrush.”