by Ngaio Marsh
The passengers shifted their feet.
By a tortuous process something like a coherent story began to emerge. Alleyn thought he recognised the symptoms. The ton-ups had been adventurous figures to young Tom. They had a buccaneering air about them. They were cool. They were with it. They had flattered him. Troy had noticed when the Zodiac sailed, something furtive in their exchange of signals. Alleyn asked Tom abruptly what his parents thought of the acquaintanceship. He flushed scarlet and muttered indistinguishably. They had, it seemed, not approved. The Skipper’s attitude to ton-ups was evidently regrettably square. Alleyn gathered that he had asked Tom if he hadn’t got something better to do than hang round the moorings with a couple of freaks.
“Did they ever ask you to talk about any of the passengers?”
Tom was silent,
“This is important, Tom,” Alleyn said. “You know what’s happened, don’t you? You know why we’re here?”
He nodded.
“You wouldn’t want to see someone wrongfully accused, would you?”
He shook his head.
“Did they talk about any of the passengers?”
Tom’s dark eyes slewed round until they looked at Dr Natouche and then at the floor.
“Did they talk about Dr Natouche?”
He nodded again.
“What did they say?”
“They They said to—give him a message.”
“What message? Come along. As far as you can remember it, in their own words: what message?”
Tom, looking as if he was about to cry, blurted out. “They said to tell him from them he could—”
“Could what?”
A stream of obscenity quoted in the broken voice of an adolescent boy, jetted into the quiet decency of the little saloon.
“You asked,” Tom said miserably. “You asked. I can’t help it. It’s what they said. They don’t like—they don’t like—” He jerked his head at Natouche.
“Very well,” Alleyn said. “We’ll leave it at that.” He turned to Natouche. “I take it,” he said, “the message was not delivered?”
“No.”
“I should bloody well hope not,” said Caley Bard.
“Did they talk about any of the other passengers?” Alleyn pursued.
At Norminster they had asked, it appeared, about Troy. Only, Tom said, twisting himself about in a quite astonishing manner, only who she was and when she booked her passage.
“Did you know the answer?”
He knew she’d booked a cancellation that morning. He didn’t know then—Here Tom boggled and shuffled and was finally induced to say he didn’t know until later that she was the celebrated painter or who her husband was.
“And Miss Rickerby-Carrick — did they talk about her?”
Only, Tom mumbled, to say she was some balmy old tart.
“When did you last see them?”
This provoked another unhappy reaction. The dark, uncertain face whitened, the lips opened and moved but no sound came from them. Tom looked as if for tuppence he’d bolt.
Caley said: “This is getting a bit tough, Alleyn, isn’t it?” and Pollock at once began to talk about police methods. “This is nothing,” he said. “Nothing to what goes on in the cells. Don’t you answer ’im, kid. Don’t give ’im the satisfaction. They can’t make you. Don’t put yourself in wrong.”
Tom turned aside, ducked his head into the crook of his arms and gave way to ungainly tears. There were sounds of indignation from the passengers.
The Skipper had returned. His voice could be heard on deck and in a moment he came nimbly down the companionway followed by the Sergeant from Tollardwark.
The Skipper looked at his son. “What’s all this?” he asked.
Tom raised a tear-blubbered face, tried to say something and incontinently bolted to the lower deck.
Alleyn said: “I’ll have a word with you about this in a moment, Skipper,” and turned to the Sergeant.
“What is it?”
“Message from the Super at Toll’ark, sir.” He looked at the assembly and produced a note which he handed to Alleyn.
“Motor-bike couple picked up near Pontefract. Bringing them to Tollardwark at once. With article of jewellery.”
Chapter 9 – The Creeper
“I pause here,” Alleyn said, “to draw your attention to a matter of technique.
“You’ll have noticed that at this point I questioned the passengers in a group instead of following the more orthodox line of seeing them separately, taking notes and getting a signed statement. This was admittedly a risky thing to do and I didn’t take that risk without hesitation. You see, by now we were sure we had a case of conspiracy on our hands and I felt that, interviewed separately, they would have time to concoct some kind of consistent tarradiddle whereas, if we caught them all together and on the hop, they would have to improvise and in doing so might give themselves away. We felt certain they were under orders from Foljambe and that Foljambe was one of them, and Fox and I had a pretty good notion which. You will, I dare say, have a pretty good notion yourselves.”
Carmichael, in the second row, showed signs of becoming active.
“I won’t, however,” Alleyn said, “ask what they are. We’re not playing a guessing game, or are we? Well—never mind. I’ll press on.
“In due course, we came, as you will hear, to a point in the investigation where we could draw only one conclusion. The ‘alibis’, to call them so, for the earlier case would be established in that suspects of given names would be proved to be in given places at given times. The only conclusion, as I hope you will see as the case develops, could be that one of these suspects was operating under what might be called the double identity lay. This is, in fact, what Foljambe was doing. He had adopted, for purposes of the cruise, the identity of another and a living person whom he knew to be out of England. This meant that in the event of an inquiry the police would check this person’s background, see that it was impeccable, look up his address, find that he was away, make further inquiries and discover he could not possibly be fitted into the Foljambe file. And so turn elsewhere for a culprit. It is an extremely risky but not unusual gimmick and is only effective for a short time but the Jampot is a tip-and-run expert and had decided to give it a go. Bear this in mind as we go on.
“We come now to the point when the investigation went grievously, indeed tragically, wrong and it went wrong because a police officer neglected a fundamental rule. Police officers, like the rest of mankind, are vulnerable creatures and like the rest of mankind they sometimes slip up. In this case a simple, basic rule of procedure was ignored. The chap who ignored it was a middle-aged provincial P.C., not all that familiar with the type of job in hand and not as alert as he needed to be. He had his dim moment and the result was a death that could have been avoided. I don’t mind telling you it still, as people say, haunts me. There’s one such case at least in the lives of most investigating officers and sooner or later every man jack of you is liable to encounter it. Ours is a job, let’s face it, for which one has to grow an extra skin. In some of us, under constant irritation this becomes a rhinoceros hide. We are not a starry-eyed lot. But at the risk of getting right off the track — a most undesirable proceeding — I would like to say this. You won’t be any the worse at your job if you can keep your humanity. If you lose it altogether you’ll be, in my opinion, better out of the Force because with it you’ll have lost your sense of values and that’s a dire thing to befall any policeman.
“Sorry. I’ll push on. Following the signal about the motor-bike pair, Mr Fox and I returned in the Yard car to Tollardwark. But first of all I talked to the Skipper—”
-1-
“Now get this straight,” Alleyn said. “I’m not suggesting the boy’s implicated in any way whatever. I am suggesting that they’ve appealed to his imagination and to the instinct for rebellion that rumbles in any normal chap of Tom’s age. Now, after what’s happened, he’s scared. He knows something but he won
’t talk. I’m not going to sit him down and grill him. I don’t want to and I haven’t time. If you can get him to tell you whether he saw or spoke to or knows anything about, this precious pair after he saw them on the bridge here at Ramsdyke on Monday afternoon: well, it may help us and it may not. We’ve caught them in possession of a valuable jewel which when last seen was slung round Miss Rickerby-Carrick’s neck. That’s the picture, Skipper, and as far as Tom’s concerned it’s over to you.”
“I told him. I told him to keep clear of that lot. If I thought it’d do any good I’d belt him.”
“Would you? He’s left school, hasn’t he? What does he do week in week out? Norminster to Longminster and back with a trick at the wheel if he’s in luck on the straight reaches? What did you do at his age, Skipper?”
“Me?” The Skipper shot a look at Alleyn. “I shipped cabin boy aboard a Singapore tramp. All right, I get the point. I’ll talk to him.”
Alleyn walked to the starboard side and looked at The River.
It almost seemed as if the field of detergent foam that had closed over Hazel Rickerby-Carrick had supernaturally climbed the weir, invested the upper reaches and closed in upon the Zodiac. “Is this what you call the Creeper?” Alleyn said.
“That’s right. You get her at this time of year. Very low-lying country from Norminster to Crossdyke.”
“Thick,” Fox said. “Fog, more like.”
“And will be more so before dawn. She’s making.”
“We’ll push on,” Alleyn said. “You know the drill, don’t you, Skipper? As soon as they’re all in bed put your craft in the lock and empty the lock. Give them a bit of time to settle. Watch for their lights to go out. It’s twenty to eleven. You won’t have long to wait.”
“It is O.K. with the Authority, isn’t it? I wouldn’t want—”
“Perfectly. It’s all fixed.”
“A man could scramble out of it, you know.”
“Yes, but only with a certain amount of trouble. It wouldn’t be so simple in this fog, whereas at her moorings it would be extremely easy to jump or, if necessary, swim. It’ll confine the escape area, in effect. You’ll be relieved as soon as possible after first light. We’re very much in your debt over this, Skipper. Thank you for helping. Good night.”
With Fox and the constable he went ashore. The Skipper removed the gangplank.
“Good night, then,” said the Skipper softly.
The Creeper had already begun to move about the tow-path and condense on a green hedge near the lockhouse. It was threading gently into the trees and making wraiths of those that could be seen. The night smelt dank. Small sounds were exaggerated and everything was damp to the touch.
“Damn,” Alleyn whispered. “We don’t want this. Where’s that chap—oh, there you are.”
The considerable bulk of Tillottson’s P.C. on duty, loomed out of a drift of mist.
“Sir,” said the shape.
“You know what you’ve got to do, don’t you? Nobody to leave the Zodiac.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where’s your nearest support?”
“T’other bank, sir.”
“And then?”
This side, up beyond Wapentake Pot at th’ crossroads. T’other side, sir, above pub at main road crossing.”
“Yes. Well, you’d better keep well down by the craft, with this mist rising. The Skipper’s putting her in the lock before long. If there’s an attempt you should be able to spot it. If anyone tries to come ashore, order them back and if they try to bolt, get them.”
“Sir.”
“Watch it, now.”
“Sir.”
“A dull-sounding chap,” Alleyn muttered.
They climbed up to the road and crossed the main bridge below the lock to the left bank. The formless voice of the weir obliterated other sounds. Blown flecks of detergent mingled with the rising mist.
“We’ll have a bloody tiresome drive back to Toll’ark, if this is the form. Where’s that car? And where—oh—here you are.”
Thompson and Bailey loomed up. They’d completed their job along the riverside and were told to come back to Tollardwark. The London police car gave a discreet hoot and turned on its fog lamps. They piled into it. Alleyn called up Tollardwark on the sound system and spoke to Tillottson. ”
“They won’t talk,” Tillottson said. “Not a peep out of them.”
“We’re on our way. I hope. Over and out.”
The local man gave them a lead on his motor-bike. When they reached the crest of the hill they found the mist had not risen to that level. The man at the crossroads flashed his torch, they turned into the main road and in eight minutes arrived once again at Tollardwark.
In the office where Troy had first encountered Mr Tillottson, he sat behind his desk with a telephone receiver at his ear and a note pad under his hand. He repeated everything that was said to him, partly, it seemed for accuracy’s sake and partly for Alleyn’s information.
“Ta,” he said and signalled to Alleyn, “Yes, ta. Mind repeating that? Description tallies with that of ‘Dinky Dickson’, con man 1964. Sus. drug contact Kings Cross, Sydney. Place of origin unknown but claims to be Australian. Believed to be—Here! What’s that? Oh! Oh, I get you! Unfrocked clergyman. Australian police got nothing on him since May ’67 when heavy sus. drug racket but no hard proof. Very plausible type. Ta. And the US lot? Two hundred and seven left-ear-deficients on FBI records. No Hewsons. Might be Deafy Ed Moran, big-time fix, heroin, Chicago, undercover picture-dealing. Expatriated Briton but speaks with strong US accent. Sister works with him; homely, middle-aged, usually known as Sis. No convictions since 1960 but heavy sus., Foljambe—here, wait a sec. This is important — heavy sus., Foljambe-accomplice. Message ends. Ta. What about Pollock, then? Anything come through? Pardon?”
Mr Tillottson’s pen hovered anxiously. “Pardon?” he repeated. “Oh. Wait a wee, till I get it down. One time commercial artist. No present known occupation but owns property, is in the money and living well. Nothing in Records? O.K? And the other two? Natouche and Bard? Nothing. What’s that? Yes, we’ve got that stuff about his practice in Liverpool. What? Laurenson and Busby, London? Tutorial Service? Spends his vacations chasing butterflies. Known to who? British Lepi — Oh. Given his name to what? Spell it out. L.A.P.A.Z.B.A.R.D.I.I. What’s that when it’s at home? A butterfly? Ta. Yes. Yes. Mr Alleyn’s come in. I’ll tell him, then. Thanks.”
Alleyn said: “Don’t hang up. Let me have a word.” He took the receiver. “Alleyn here,” he said. “Look, I heard all that but I’d like men to call immediately at all the addresses. Yes. Liverpool, too. Yes, I know. Yes, but nevertheless—right. And ring us back, will you? Yes.”
He hung up. “Well, Bert,” he said, “what have you got in your back parlour? Let’s take a look, shall we?”
“Better see this first, hadn’t you?”
Tillottson unlocked a wall safe and from it took an object like a miniature pudding tied up in chamois leather and attached to a cord. “I haven’t opened it, ” he said.
Alleyn opened it, cautiously. “Good God!” he said.
There it lay, on a police officer’s desk in an English market town: an exotic if ever there was one: a turquoise enamel ovoid, starred with diamonds and girt with twelve minuscule figures decked out in emeralds and rubies and pearls, all dancing in order round their jewelled firmament. Aries, Taurus, Gemini—. “The old gang,” Alleyn said. “It’s an Easter egg by Fabergé, Fox, and the gift of an Emperor. And now—what a descent!—we’ve got to try it for dabs.” He looked at Thompson and Bailey. “Job for you,” he said.
“Do you mean to say she charged about the place with this thing hung round her neck!” Fox exclaimed. “It must be worth a fortune. And it’s uncommonly pretty,” he added. “Uncommonly so.”
“That, unless we’re on the wrong track altogether, is what the Jampot thought. Go ahead, you two. Dabs and pictures.”
They were about to leave the room when the telep
hone rang. Tillottson answered it. “You’d better report to Mr Alleyn,” he said. “Hold on.” He held out the receiver. “p.m. result,” he said.
Alleyn listened. “Thank you,” he said. “What we expected.” He hung up. “She didn’t drown, Fox. Pressure on the carotids and vagus nerve. The mixture as before and straight from the Jampot. All right, Bert. Show us your captives.”
They were in the little charge-room, lounging back on a couple of office chairs and chewing gum. They were as Natouche had described them and their behaviour was completely predictable: the quarter sneer, the drooped eyelid, the hunched shoulder and the perpetual complacent chew. The girl, Alleyn thought, looking at her hands, was frightened: the man hid his hands in his pockets and betrayed nothing but his own insolence.
“They’ve been charged,” Tillottson said, “with theft. They won’t make a statement.”
Alleyn said to the young man: “I’m going to put questions to you. You’ve been taken into custody and found to be in possession of a jewel belonging to a lady into whose death we are inquiring. Driving licence?” He looked at Tillottson who slightly nodded. The young man, sketching boredom and impertinence in equal parts, raised his eyebrows, dipped his fingers into a pocket and threw a licence on the table. He opened his mouth, accelerated his chewing and resumed his former pose.
The licence was made out in the name of Albert Bernard Smith and seemed to be in order. It gave an address in Soho. “This will be checked. The night before last,” Alleyn said, “you were on the tow-path at Crossdyke alongside the Zodiac wearing those boots. You had parked your bicycle under a hedge on the left-hand side of the road above the lock. Later that night you were here at Ramsdyke. You arrived here, with a passenger. Not:” he looked at the girl, “this lady. You carried your passenger—a dead weight—” For two seconds the slightly prognathic jaw noticed by Dr Natouche, stopped champing. The girl suddenly re-crossed her legs.
“—a dead weight,” Alleyn repeated, “down to the weir. Her pyjamas caught on a briar. You did what you’d been instructed to do and then picked up your present companion and made off for Carlisle where you arrived yesterday in time to send a telegram to the Skipper of the Zodiac. It was signed Hay Rickerby-Carrick which is not much like Albert Bernard Smith. Having executed this commission you turned south and were picked up by the police at Pontefract.”