Marazan

by Nevil Shute

  For a moment the impudence of it staggered me. He had warned me before that my statement was to be noted and filed, as though that were not sufficiently obvious. The sergeant sat gaping at me, waiting for my reply. It was like some miserable farce. I realised then to the full the gulf that lay between these fellows and myself. To them ‘the deceased, Denis Compton’, was a case, and nothing more.

  ‘My barrister will tell you that in court,’ I said.

  The sergeant wrote it down.

  ‘You can give us a great deal of assistance by telling us now,’ he said.

  ‘I dare say,’ I answered. ‘I should prefer to see my solicitor first. I should like to write a note to him at once, please.’

  ‘Time enough for that,’ he said. ‘Now, I want you to tell me when the deceased first came on board your yacht.’

  I looked at my watch; it was nearly five o’clock. ‘My solicitor’s office closes at six,’ I said. ‘I want to write a note to him and have it delivered by hand at once.’

  I turned to the sergeant. ‘Please write that down.’

  ‘That’s enough of that,’ said the inspector.

  I moved towards the table. ‘I should like to write that note.’

  He hesitated and finally agreed, as a special concession.

  ‘May I see the warrant upon which I was arrested?’ I said, pen in hand. ‘I haven’t seen it yet.’

  After a little consultation they showed it to me. It seemed that I had forgotten to sign the clearance certificate at the aerodrome, that I hadn’t written up the machine log-book for several days, and that I hadn’t apologised to the farmer for digging a hole in his field with my aeroplane. In addition, I had failed to appear before the Finchley Police Court to answer for these offences. I must say they had been pretty quick about it all.

  I wrote Burgess a short note telling him that I was in trouble and asking him to come and see me, and gave it to the inspector, who sent it off by hand.

  I got up from the table. ‘Right you are,’ I said. ‘Now I’m ready to answer any questions arising out of this warrant.’

  The inspector coughed. ‘I want you to tell me when you first met the deceased, Denis Compton,’ he said.

  I lost my temper completely then.

  ‘See here,’ I said. ‘I’ve answered that question already. My counsel will tell the court all about that when the time comes. As for me, I’m not going to make a statement of any sort now—not one ruddy word. I don’t know under what authority you’re making this examination. It seems to me that it ought to be made before a magistrate. In any case, it’s time I came before a magistrate. I’ve been in custody now for thirty-six hours. I believe there’s an Act called Habeas Corpus that has a word or two to say on that subject. I’m not going to make a statement now, but I’ll see my solicitor as soon as he comes.’

  Burgess arrived soon afterwards; they left him alone with me in my room and I told him everything. Burgess was the one link with respectability that I had at that time; he first dawned on my horizon when I came out of prison. He was a cousin of my father; I may say at once that he’s the only one of my relations that I’ve ever been glad to meet. I wasn’t long out of prison when he wrote me a pleasant little note asking me to dine with him; I went, and found him a widower, a cheerful old lad of about sixty with a shrewd judgment for alcohol. He expressed himself mildly surprised that I should have allowed myself to go to prison for being drunk in charge of a motor-car. I suppose I was bitter about it; I remember saying that it didn’t seem to matter very much whether I went or not. At all events, there and then he constituted himself my solicitor; rather than appear discourteous I let him have his way. Later I found out that he was the head of one of the most conservative firms in London. The first thing he did was to put on one of his bright lads to unravel my affairs for me. They needed it.

  I set to and told him everything from the beginning, down to the time when I arrived in Scotland Yard. I’ve often wondered what he thought of it. It wasn’t quite in his usual line, for one thing. His line was litigation, land purchase, wills, death duties—the usual stock-in-trade of a respectable solicitor. I was keenly aware of this while I was telling my story; I could feel that it was rather rotten of me to drag the old man into a criminal affair of this sort. Yet he was pretty well on the spot when he came to advise me. In the very short time before he came to me he had found out that I was to be brought up to answer the aeroplane charges the next morning; he promised to send one of his bright boys to represent me. He told me that all I had to do was to sit tight and say nothing for the moment; his bright boy would get me bail. He said he would find the surety himself. As for making a statement, I should have to do that some time, but I could take my time over it. In the meantime he would find out by means of some legal backstairs intelligence department exactly what was expected of me.

  Finally, he surprised me vastly by saying that no court would dare to give me anything but a nominal sentence for helping Compton to get away. He seemed to consider it rather a creditable effort—not bad, I thought, for a lawyer of his generation.

  He went away, and they brought me dinner, of a sort. I had nothing to do after dinner; I sat and smoked and read the morning paper that they had given me, till it was about ten o’clock. Then there was a bit of a bustle in the corridor outside my door, and a sergeant came in and told me to follow him.

  I discovered that I was to see Sir David Carter.

  They led me down a series of corridors and up a flight of stairs. They halted me there before an office door while one of the sergeants tapped respectfully and went inside. I was left to cool my heels for a little. I remember thinking that Sir David Carter was a tolerably late worker, and I remember the satisfaction of feeling that at last I was to be taken before the man who counted for something in the Yard.

  I was shown into the office after a few minutes—a very different sort of place from the office in which they had examined me that afternoon. The sergeant who had shown me in backed out quietly, and I was left in the office with the two strangers.

  One of them was sitting behind a desk facing the door. He was a grave, white-haired man, not very old; I shouldn’t say that he was more than fifty, though he was quite white. When he spoke, he spoke very quietly, but I knew at once that he wasn’t a man that one could play monkey tricks with. I got to know him quite well before I was through, but I never revised my opinion of Sir David Carter.

  He bowed to me as I entered the room.

  ‘Good evening, Captain Stenning,’ he remarked. ‘I am sorry that it has been necessary to disturb you at this late hour. My justification must be that I am, as you observe, working myself. As is Major Norman, Captain Stenning.’ He motioned me to a chair. ‘Will you sit down, Captain Stenning?’

  I bowed to the man who was standing by the mantelpiece. He was a man of about my own age, and with one of the keenest expressions I had ever seen on a man. I began to sort out my ideas a bit. I had thought up till then that Scotland Yard was run entirely by a collection of superannuated police constables. It seemed that I was wrong.

  I sat down in the easy-chair by the desk. I noticed with some amusement that they had put me in a strong light.

  Sir David didn’t waste any time on preamble. ‘Now, Captain Stenning,’ he said, ‘I have asked you to come here because I want you to tell us what you know about the circumstances in which you were arrested. There is one point that I should like to make clear before you begin. That is that any statement that you may care to make to us is in no sense official. There is nobody taking down what you are saying—there is nobody within hearing but Major Norman and myself. I cannot say that nothing you may say will be used as evidence against you. I cannot say that, till I hear what your story is. At the same time, I cannot see at the moment any valid reason for bringing any charge against you other than the one upon which you were arrested—and which, I think, can be disposed of without any great difficulty.’

  He paused for a moment. ‘Our positio
n simply is this. A murder has been committed, a murder at which you were present, the consequences of which, I am told, you did your utmost to avert. I should be failing in my duty to the State if I were to neglect any opportunity of bringing the murderer to stand his trial. It is for that reason, Captain Stenning, that I want you to tell me what you know about this matter.’

  He stopped, and I took my time before replying. He put me in rather an awkward position. I had taken it for granted that, if any action were to be taken in the matter, I should be charged in open court with having assisted in the escape of a convict from custody. In those circumstances I should have allowed myself to be guided entirely by Burgess. Now the circumstances were very different. Apparently they didn’t want to bring me into court; they wanted me to tell them all about it on my own. Well, I was willing enough to do that so long as I could avoid telling them about Joan. I didn’t know how much they knew about her; I only knew that I wanted to keep her out of it as much as possible. After all, the part that she had played wasn’t important.

  I played for time. ‘I know very little about the true facts of this murder,’ I said.

  They didn’t speak, didn’t hurry me, but let me take my time. Sir David sat quietly leaning back in his chair, his hands clasped before him on the desk, meditatively staring at the ceiling. I was suddenly aware that my remark had been fatuous. I certainly knew more of the facts than they did, and it was up to me to tell them. There was no need, however, to lay stress on Joan.

  ‘I suppose you know that I helped Compton to get away,’ I said slowly. ‘I should do that again, of course. I was under an obligation to him.’

  ‘In point of fact,’ said Sir David Carter, without stirring or taking his eyes from the ceiling, ‘he saved your life.’

  ‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘After that, you would hardly expect me to give him up?’

  ‘In law,’ said Sir David imperturbably, ‘I should certainly expect you to do so.’

  He reached across his desk, picked up a paper with a few pencilled notes on it, and turned to me.

  ‘I understand that after the accident to your aeroplane, Captain Stenning, you visited the house called Six Firs at the instigation of Compton. There you had an interview with Miss Joan Stevenson, who refused to believe that her cousin was at large in the woods and regarded you as an impostor. In some way you managed to convince her that your story was true, with the result that you visited the house with Compton late that night, where he obtained food and clothes. I understand that you then attempted—unsuccessfully—to persuade him to return to prison. You then decided to set off to lay a false trail in the hope of engaging the attention of the police for a few days while Compton made good his escape; in this you were assisted by Miss Stevenson, who visited Salcombe under the name of Miss Fellowes to prepare the yacht for you. You put to sea upon Saturday the 9th, from Salcombe. Perhaps you would take up the story from that point.’

  It took me a minute or two to recover from this.

  ‘There’s one thing I should like to add to that,’ I said at last. ‘Mr. Stevenson, Miss Stevenson’s father, had nothing to do with it at all, so far as I know. I don’t know what happened after I left. But while I was there the matter was entirely between Miss Stevenson, Compton, and myself. Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Stevenson knew of what was going on.’

  He nodded. ‘That has already been made clear to us.’

  I wondered who had made it clear, but refrained from asking. Whoever it was seemed to have told them all about Joan; there was now no reason for me to keep anything back. I started in and told them all I knew, from the time I left Salcombe till Compton was killed. They heard me without interruption and practically without any sign. I only caught one quick interchange of glances, when first I mentioned Mattani. It took me some time to finish my yarn, because I wanted to tell them everything, but at last I was through.

  I stopped talking, and for a long time nobody said a word. Sir David sat leaning back in his chair, quite motionless, staring at the ceiling.

  At last he spoke. ‘That account tallies very closely with the one given to us this morning by Miss Stevenson,’ he observed.

  I was relieved. ‘You have seen Miss Stevenson, then?’ I said.

  He glanced at me curiously. ‘Miss Stevenson came to me this morning,’ he said. ‘She wished to make your position in this matter quite clear, Captain Stenning. Perhaps I may be forgiven for expressing the opinion that she came more in your interests than in the interests of justice.’

  I couldn’t think of anything to say to that, and didn’t have much time to wonder exactly what he meant. Sir David nodded slightly to the man that he had called Norman, who took up the tale and proceeded to cross-examine me pretty thoroughly on the details of my story. He made me go over the account of Mattani that Compton had given to me; I searched my memory for details that I had already half forgotten in the stress of subsequent events. He was very anxious to find out in what way the stuff reached England, but I could give him very little information there. I told him about the rag and pliers that I had found on the beach, which seemed to point to transhipment to a smaller motor-boat. It was a theory that didn’t bear close examination, but it was all we could think of at the moment.

  He finished his questions at last. I plucked up my courage then, and asked one on my own account.

  ‘I suppose you will want me to give evidence in court,’ I remarked. ‘Shall I be needed at the inquest?’

  I saw Norman glance towards his chief, who sat motionless in his chair, staring straight ahead of him.

  ‘The inquest will be adjourned,’ said Sir David.

  I felt that I was treading on thin ice, but I persisted. ‘I see,’ I said. ‘I suppose you’ll want me to give evidence some time, though? I take it that you are putting forward a case against Mattani?’

  ‘That is a matter that will have to be considered rather carefully,’ said Norman, with an air of polite finality.

  I was silent. The room became very still; there were none of those sounds in the building to which one is accustomed. The absence of voices, of the sound of passing feet, and of the rumble of traffic seemed to leave a noticeable blank. I glanced at the clock, and was surprised to see that it was half-past eleven. I was beginning to wonder irrelevantly for how long the sitting was to continue, when I was roused by Sir David.

  ‘Captain Stenning,’ he said. I turned towards him. ‘I imagine that you must be feeling very curious about this unfortunate matter. So much is natural. I trust that when you leave this building you will not allow your curiosity to run away with you. I must ask you to be discreet.’

  ‘I can hold my tongue, if that’s what you mean,’ I said.

  He inclined his head gravely. ‘Exactly. We expect you to hold your tongue. On our part, however, I feel that we are under some obligation to you for the part you have played in this affair. We should show a poor sense of that obligation if we were to conceal facts that may be of some importance to you. I think I need hardly dwell upon the fact, Captain Stenning, that I think that you may be in some danger for the present. I am sure that your experience of the world will tell you so much.’

  I nodded. That was one of the conclusions that I had come to already; that Mattani, wherever he might be, would be feeling a little peeved with me. It was surprising that he had not made a greater effort to prevent me from giving evidence. I put that down to this: that when his men visited Marazan they had no orders regarding anyone but Compton. They must have expected to find him alone; it was probably beyond their calculations that he should have confided in anybody. They must have realised the position as soon as they found us together on the yacht; I have very little doubt that then they realised the importance of preventing my escape. The arrival of the police, however, had upset their plans; they had to stake everything on the chance of two good shots when the opportunity came. One had gone home, but mine had missed. It was certainly on the cards that they might try again.

  ‘I can see that,’ I s
aid reflectively. ‘I should think the best thing I can do is to make out a written statement, isn’t it? You’ll want that later, whether I’m in a condition to give evidence or not.’

  He smiled. ‘I should not put it quite like that, myself,’ he said. ‘However, I am inclined to think that there may be trouble, Captain Stenning. Briefly, I should anticipate an attempt to induce you to go to Italy, either with your own consent or without. I doubt if you are in any serious personal danger. I doubt if Baron Mattani would attempt another murder at this time; indeed, I should say that the murder of Compton was not entirely premeditated. However, I have no doubt that Mattani will be anxious to find out how much you know, how much you have been able to tell us. For this reason, I think he will be anxious to get hold of you.’

  I did my best to look pleasant. ‘That sounds jolly,’ I said weakly. ‘How long do you reckon this is going on for? I take it that you will be bringing him to trial before so very long.’

  He didn’t answer for a moment, but then he said:

  ‘That is a very difficult matter.’

  I didn’t follow him. ‘Is it?’ I inquired. ‘Surely there’s enough evidence for him to stand his trial on?’

  He shook his head. ‘I think that very doubtful,’ he replied. ‘You must remember, Captain Stenning, there is nothing to identify the launch that you saw with Baron Mattani—except your evidence. That makes a thin case, a case that needs further backing before it is brought into court. But even if the evidence were perfect, the difficulties would still be great.’

  Norman nodded in corroboration. ‘The Americans have been trying to get him for a year,’ he remarked.

  That startled me. ‘What for?’ I asked.

  ‘The charge that they have been proceeding upon,’ said Sir David, ‘is one of wounding with intent to kill. There is very little doubt, I think, that other charges would be preferred against him if he were to arrive in America in custody. Unfortunately, that appears to be a most improbable event.’