Fatal Venture (26 page)

“I went ashore with the others and was met at the boat-slip by a couple of friends from the Golf Club: people I had known in London, but who were then staying at Portrush. I wanted some films, and after getting the camera charged, we had a round of golf. We lunched at the Club House and after lunch developed an argument on driving. I had my camera and I took a couple of snaps of one or two of the men in the middle of their swing. I could not play myself in the afternoon, as Mr Stott had asked me to take some photographs of a ruin a mile or more out of the town. So I walked with my party for a few holes of the round, as far as our ways were parallel, then I left them, went to the ruin, took my photographs, and returned to the Club House. They were at tea when I arrived and I joined them. They were still arguing about the driving and after tea I took one or two more snaps of swings. There wasn’t time to begin another round, so after the photographing we went down to the boats and I came aboard.”

“That’s very clear, Mr Bristow. Could you say at what hours you left your party and returned to it?”

Bristow smiled a little grimly. “I can’t answer that exactly,” he returned, “but I can approximately. We had lunch at one-thirty, and it lasted for about an hour. Then we sat over coffee for perhaps half an hour more. We started play about three, as near as I can estimate. It would take, I suppose, forty minutes to reach the hole at which I left them, so that must have been somewhere about three-forty or forty-five. It was almost exactly five when I got back: they were halfway through tea.”

Once again French experienced that little wave of annoyance. It looked as if Bristow was entirely correct when he said he hadn’t a satisfactory alibi. An absence during the hours stated would undoubtedly have enabled him to visit the Hollow. Moreover, he could have been there at the estimated hour of the murder. Was there to be no certainty about anyone in this exasperating case?

“Just show me those places on the map,” said French, unrolling his 6-inch Ordnance.

“There,” Bristow pointed, “is the Club House, and somewhere about there the hole at which I left the party. Up here” – he searched for a few moments, then his pencil halted – “that’s the ruin I photographed.”

“Quite.” French scaled the distances. “I make it a mile from where you left your party to the ruin, and a mile and a half or more from the ruin back to the Club House: say, two and a half miles altogether. How long would it have taken you to walk that, Mr Bristow?”

“About three-quarters of an hour, I expect. It was across the fields and there were some fences to be climbed.”

“Three-quarters of an hour, and you had about an hour and a quarter altogether. What about the other half-hour?”

“Oh well, I spent at least that taking the photographs; I should have said even longer. You can’t go to a place like that and simply let fly at once, you understand. You have to consider a number of points: what exactly you want to show, how many pictures will do it, where you should stand to include the required details and to get the best light. You’ll find, if you try it yourself, half an hour isn’t any too long for a job of the kind.”

French smiled. “I’m not questioning it. How many views did you take?”

“Of the ruin? I took five. One roughly from north, south, east and west, and a detail of what looked like rudimentary carving.”

“Can I see the photographs?”

“As a matter of fact, I haven’t developed them. Stott, of course, is no longer in a position to demand his, and in the hurry and upset caused by his death I let the matter slide. But I’ll develop them for you with pleasure.”

“Perhaps you wouldn’t mind my photographer doing them? He’s a very good man.”

Bristow seemed surprised at the request. “Of course,” he answered, “I’ve no objection whatever. Save me the trouble. But I confess I don’t get your idea.”

“Well, to put it bluntly, has it not occurred to you that if you were photographing this ruin at quarter past four, you could not have been at McArtt’s Hollow murdering Mr Stott?”

“I realise that all right, and if you think the photographs will establish it, I’m not likely to dispute your decision. Morrison and I discussed the point, and he was satisfied that they would.”

“But you don’t think so?”

“You’re no fool, Chief Inspector, so there’s no use pretending to you. My spool of film will prove that the photographs were taken. Unhappily, they won’t prove I took them.”

“You mean that you could have lent your camera to someone else during that hour and a quarter?”

Bristow hesitated. “As a matter of fact, I don’t think I could. But you’ll think it.”

“Well,” French decided, “let me have the undeveloped spool, at all events. I suppose, Mr Bristow, since you did not murder Mr Stott, you’ve no idea who might have done so? Any theory would be gratefully received and kept confidential.”

But Bristow was not to be drawn, and after a few more questions French left him.

Though the photography made a kind of alibi for Bristow, French was not interested in it. So far as he could see, the matter of motive settled Bristow’s case. Bristow had no motive for killing Stott, but he had a very strong one for keeping him alive. If Stott were to die, the whole continuance of the gambling cruise was jeopardised. If, as seemed likely, the venture would pass to Wyndham, no one could say what would happen to it. Wyndham might be a pleasanter character than John, but he was no businessman. He would almost certainly let the affair down. And if so, neither Bristow nor anyone else in it, so far as French knew, had the cash to set it going again. John Stott’s rule undoubtedly meant security for all concerned.

His thoughts turned to Morrison. Because of the footprint, Morrison was his first suspect. But were not Morrison and Bristow in the same boat with regard to motive? If Bristow had everything to lose by Stott’s death, was this not true of Morrison also?

At once French saw that he was wrong. Morrison’s position and Bristow’s were as different as day and night. For Bristow John Stott’s death meant insecurity; for Morrison, if he could pull off marriage with Margot, it meant the approach of a fortune. And everything that French had heard tended to the belief that he would pull it off. Morrison, if he were sufficiently callous, certainly had an ample motive for the crime.

All the same, Morrison scarcely seemed to be of the stuff of which murderers were made. He was a very ordinary young man, unlikely, French would have said, to adopt drastic measures even were his situation desperate, which it certainly was not. However, bitter experience had taught French that appearances were the last foundation on which to build a theory. It was with an open mind, therefore, that he presently called at the young man’s cabin.

“Now, Mr Morrison,” he began cheerily, “it’s your turn, if you please. I’ve had statements from Mr Malthus and Mr Mason and the family, and Mr Bristow has just given me his. Will you please tell me what you did while ashore on the day we were at Portrush?”

It was evident that Morrison was acutely nervous; much more nervous than could be accounted for by mere interrogation by the police. French watched him surreptitiously.

“I had an appointment before lunch with the manager of the Causeway Hotel, and to fill up the time while waiting for it I had a look at Dunluce and the Causeway. I lunched at the Causeway Hotel.”

“Yes? And then?”

On the whole Morrison told his tale well. Lunch over, he had found himself somewhat at a loose end. He had, however, wanted exercise and had walked the eight miles into Portrush, where he had caught one of the earlier boats to the ship.

“A negative lie,” thought French. “He’s trying to keep Margot’s name out of it. He unrolled his map.”

“Point out your route on this,” he directed. “It doesn’t show the Causeway, but here’s the road from it to Portrush.”

Morrison did as he was asked, indicating the path to the shore up which Stott had passed.

“Now I want the times of all that fixed up,” French demanded, and after working it out, he continued: “Then you must have passed this place here, marked McArtt’s Hollow, at about quarter past four?”

Morrison could scarcely speak. He nodded shortly. “Why does that upset you, Mr Morrison?” went on French, keeping his eyes on his victim.

Morrison made a gesture of impatience. “Well, you might know that,” he retorted. “We understand that Mr Stott was supposed to have been killed there some time in the afternoon, and I’m not such a fool as to miss the direction of your questions.”

“If you think my questions objectionable, Mr Morrison, you have only yourself to thank for it,” French said harshly. “Why can’t you be open with me and tell me the truth?”

Morrison’s jaw dropped. “But that is the truth,” he stammered.

“Half the truth perhaps,” French went on inexorably. “Did you go into the Hollow as you passed?”

For a moment Morrison could not reply. Then feebly he shook his head. “No,” he returned. “Why should I?”

His manner showed that he was lying. French was satisfied that he was normally honest, and normally honest people make bad liars.

“We’ll see about that in a moment,” French went on. “Now tell me, did you receive a telephone message at the hotel?”

Morrison hesitated as if thinking over his reply. Then with a helpless gesture he answered, “Yes.”

“Then why did you not mention it?”

“It had nothing to do with my movements, which were what you wanted.”

French sympathised with his effort to keep Margot’s name out of it and accepted this.

“Very well,” he agreed. “But you’ve mentioned it now. Who rang you up?” Then as Morrison still remained silent, he went on: “I know all about it, as well as about some other things you haven’t mentioned. You can’t keep Miss Stott’s name out of it, so you needn’t try.”

Morrison’s nervousness passed for the moment and he spoke earnestly. “But why not. Chief Inspector? Miss Stott had no connection with the affair. Why should she be dragged in?”

For the first time during the interview French admired the young man. “I don’t say she’ll be dragged in,” he returned more pleasantly. “What I want is a truthful account of your own movements.”

“Very well,” Morrison agreed, as if giving up the struggle. “She had promised to come out to the Causeway in the afternoon and she rang up to say she was prevented.”

“What exactly were your plans?”

“To walk together round the Causeway and Heads and to return to Portrush in time for the last boat.”

This answer frankly puzzled French. He had no doubt it was true, not only from the man’s changed manner, but because it had been practically confirmed by Margot. But if it were true, Morrison would not have passed the Hollow at the time of Stott’s death. He would not have been able, except in the presence of Margot and the driver of their vehicle, to visit the Hollow at all. More significant still, he could not then have had an appointment with Stott.

French wondered where this was leading him. If Morrison had had no appointment with Stott, could he have murdered him? His meeting Stott – if he did meet him – would have been an accident, and it was most unlikely that a quarrel involving murder could have arisen so suddenly. Indeed, there had not been a quarrel. Had such obtained, the ground would have been trampled up and traces would have shown on the body.

It looked as if Morrison were innocent: and yet what about the shoes?

“Tell me, Mr Morrison,” French said suddenly, “why did you get rid of the shoes you wore that afternoon?”

Morrison stared speechlessly and his face slowly whitened till French thought he was going to faint. But French did not withdraw. “I want to know that,” he said impressively, and, deciding on a bluff, added: “And I also want to know what you did with Percy Luff’s button.”

It was a knockout blow. Morrison gave a groan and sank his head in his hands. French said nothing. Silence would increase the effect.

At last Morrison looked up. “I see you know everything, Chief Inspector,” he said in shaky tones, “so I must tell you the truth. I was in the Hollow and I did pick up the button. But I didn’t murder Mr Stott. I swear that.”

“I’m not saying you did,” said French. “All I want is the truth.”

“You shall have it”; and he told exactly what had happened. “You must see why I wanted to hide it,” he went on piteously. “I was afraid that if I told you you’d suspect me. And now probably you do suspect me, and I can’t do anything about it. I can’t prove my innocence.”

For some moments there was silence, then French asked for the button. Morrison took it from a drawer and handed it over. Fortunately there was some thread attached to it, enough to settle the question of whether or not it had come from Luff’s coat.

To say that French was satisfied as to Morrison’s innocence was putting it too strongly, but he was disposed to believe the story and that for three reasons. First, there was the point he had already considered, that it was by accident that Morrison reached the Hollow when he did. Second, there was his manner, now completely different and French believed that of a truthful man. Third, had Morrison been the murderer, it was not easy to account for the position of the footprint. It would surely have been leading towards or away from the body, but it was not. It indicated a direction passing well away from where the remains were lying. But the position was exactly in accordance with Morrison’s statement.

Now he saw, so is the wish father to the thought in even the most logical of us, that the motive he had been attributing to Morrison was really not so satisfactory as he had imagined. He doubted if a man of Morrison’s apparent character could have murdered a relative of the girl he hoped to marry, so that she would eventually obtain money of which he would have the use. Morrison, he thought, was of too good a type for this, and in any case he was strongly of opinion that he had not the nerve.

It looked more and more like as if Luff was his man. However, he reminded himself that he must avoid leaping to conclusions. A good many points required further investigation before he could reach a decision.

The first was that of the letter Luff said he had received from Mrs Mercer. French took it from the desk in his cabin and examined it with a lens.