In At The Death

by Francis Duncan

  ‘I’d be glad if you’d come in,’ he said, and when the other hesitated a slight edge crept into his tone. ‘I am a police officer. There are one or two enquiries I’d like to make.’

  ‘Police?’ The expression on the thick-set man’s face was one of mingled alarm and watchfulness. He backed away. ‘It’s nothing to do with me. I don’t know anything about it.’

  ‘Nobody,’ Boyce remarked, ‘has said that you do.’

  By now Inspector Parkin had taken a step or two along the path. As though he would have liked to make a break for it but realized that it would be folly to do so, the thick-set man came through the gate.

  ‘What’s it all for?’ he said sullenly. ‘You’ve got nothing on me.’

  ‘I’m investigating a serious crime,’ Boyce went on. ‘You aren’t compelled to answer any questions, but naturally I shall draw my own conclusions from any refusal you may make.’

  The man’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘So it’s like that, eh? All right. I’m in the clear. What d’you want to know?’

  ‘Are you one of Doctor Graham Hardene’s patients?’

  ‘A patient?’ The other’s lips curled. ‘Not me.’

  ‘Then why were you coming to see him?’

  ‘Anything wrong in it?’

  There was truculence in his tone and the Yard man’s own voice hardened.

  ‘That remains to be seen. Why did you come here?’

  ‘They told me about him down at the Mission. I thought I’d try my luck with him.’

  ‘The Mission?’

  Boyce glanced at Parkin as he echoed the word and the inspector nodded.

  ‘There’s a Seamen’s Mission in King Street, just off the docks.’

  ‘That the place you mean?’ Boyce said.

  ‘That’s right.’ The thick-set man was looking more sure of himself. ‘They said this Doctor Hardene was the sort who’d give guys like us a hand sometimes.’

  ‘I see. What’s your name?’

  ‘Fenn,’ the other said, and hesitated. ‘George Fenn. I can prove it,’ he added.

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ Boyce returned drily. ‘What’s your ship?’

  ‘The Altiberg. In from Halifax. I signed off her yesterday.’

  ‘Trouble on board?’

  ‘No. Just had all I want of looking at salt water. I’m after a shore job.’

  ‘Ever been in Bridgton before?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What made you pick this particular port?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ Fenn said. ‘The ship’s owners did. I was in Halifax looking for a ship. The Altiberg didn’t have a full crew and she was coming the right way. That’s all there is to it. Here.’ Fenn thrust a hand into his hip pocket and brought out a soiled-looking wallet containing a number of papers. ‘Better take a look at these, hadn’t you? Maybe you’ll believe what I’m saying then.’

  Boyce took the wallet without comment and glanced quickly through its contents.

  ‘Seems all right,’ he said, as he handed it back. ‘So you’re fed up with the sea and want a billet on dry land. What about the Employment Exchange?’

  ‘Just come from there,’ Fenn said. ‘Check on it if you want to. I should worry.’

  ‘Couldn’t they fix you up?’

  ‘They’ll get in touch with me,’ the man returned, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. ‘In due course, when they’ve cut through all the red tape.’

  ‘So in the meantime you thought you’d try Doctor Hardene?’

  ‘That’s about it.’

  ‘What made you change your mind just now?’

  Fenn looked straight at Boyce for a challenging moment or so and then his glance went beyond the Yard man to rest upon Parkin and Tremaine.

  ‘Maybe I thought there was too much company. It was this guy Doctor Hardene I was aiming to see.’

  ‘I’m afraid,’ Boyce said, ‘it won’t be possible for you to see him.’

  ‘You mean you’ve already put him inside?’ Fenn made an indeterminate sound that might have indicated anything from shocked disapproval to casual interest. ‘Why? What’s he been up to?’

  An odd note of eagerness crept into his voice with the questions. Boyce studied him thoughtfully.

  ‘It won’t be possible for you to see the doctor,’ he said, his eyes on the other’s face, ‘because he’s been murdered.’

  Fenn’s jaw tightened. Over Boyce’s shoulder the watching Tremaine saw the startled expression in the man’s face; it came unwillingly, as though he was struggling against it, and was replaced almost immediately by a blank stare.

  ‘Murdered, eh?’ Fenn said at last, with too much disinterest. ‘I reckon in that case it’s just as well I’ve only just got here.’

  ‘You might put it like that,’ Boyce remarked.

  Fenn had the air of a man who desperately wanted to ask questions but was afraid that if he did so he would give himself away. He stared up the short path leading to the house, his eyes probing the front of the building as though he thought he might draw knowledge from the grey stones and the curtained windows.

  ‘I might want to get in touch with you,’ Boyce said quietly. ‘Just a matter of routine,’ he added, as Fenn’s head went up at his words and the other’s gaze swung back from the house.

  The Yard man exchanged the merest of glances with Parkin. Without a comment the inspector turned away and went back up the steps.

  Fenn was obviously disconcerted.

  ‘What’s it got to do with me?’ he queried resentfully. ‘I’ve never even seen this guy Hardene.’

  ‘I said it was routine,’ Boyce told him, mildly. ‘If you’ve never set eyes on him you haven’t anything to worry about. I suppose,’ he added, ‘you’ve no objection to telling me where you were last night?’

  ‘Why should I have? I was down at the Mission—playing billiards.’

  ‘Where did you sleep?’

  ‘At the hostel. It’s right next to the Mission.’ Fenn’s eyes narrowed. ‘Was it last night he was killed?’

  ‘I didn’t say so,’ Boyce returned levelly.

  He asked several more questions but they seemed to be without special significance. They were merely enquiries about the dates and times of the Altiberg’s sailing from Halifax and her arrival at Bridgton. Fenn’s answers, although grudging, appeared frank enough, and Boyce did not attempt to press him.

  Inspector Parkin came out of the house once more. Boyce glanced back at him and then nodded to Fenn in dismissal.

  ‘All right, that’ll be all for now.’

  Despite his initial show of resentment at being detained and questioned, the thick-set seaman seemed oddly reluctant to go.

  ‘Bit high-handed, aren’t you?’ he said complainingly. ‘You’ve been asking me plenty but you’ve been doing mighty little towards telling me what it’s all about.’

  ‘It’ll be in the local papers,’ Boyce said, and gestured significantly towards the gate.

  Fenn hesitated a moment or two longer, then, realizing that it would be useless to delay any longer, turned on his heel. They watched him go out to the pavement, closing the gate hard behind him without a backward glance.

  Parkin came along the path.

  ‘Lucky,’ he said. ‘One of our patrol cars was only a few streets away with a plain-clothes man in it. They’ll tail him all right. I thought he might have caught sight of our chaps here and might have got wise to it if we’d put one of them on to him.’

  ‘Good man,’ Boyce said. ‘That fellow’s no fool.’ He turned to Tremaine. ‘What did you make of him?’

  ‘I’m wondering,’ Tremaine said slowly, ‘just how fortunate he is.’

  Jonathan Boyce’s bushy eyebrows went up.

  ‘Fortunate?’

  ‘I’m thinking,’ Tremaine said, ‘of the newspaper cuttings we found in Hardene’s desk. Especially of the cuttings about the seaman whose body was found on the downs. I’m wondering whether he came to see Doctor Hardene, too.’ He saw the expressions o
n the faces of his companions and coughed apologetically. ‘I know it’s rather a leap in the dark,’ he added, ‘but it might be useful to read up all the reports on the case. His name was Marton, wasn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Parkin said. He was frowning, as though he was struggling to recall some elusive fact from his memory. ‘I’ve a feeling,’ he went on slowly, ‘that there was some mention of Hardene at the time. I’ll get the file looked up.’

  Boyce stroked his chin thoughtfully.

  ‘I’m willing to lay good money that Fenn knows a lot more about Hardene than he admitted. The question is, did the people at the Seamen’s Mission give him Hardene’s name as that of someone in the city who took an interest in seamen with hard-luck stories to tell, or did Fenn mention Hardene’s name first in order to find out his address?’

  ‘I daresay,’ Tremaine observed, ‘that either Miss Royman or Mrs. Colver will be able to tell us whether Hardene was in the habit of helping lame dogs and whether he had a particular interest in seamen.’

  ‘You’re biting at something,’ Boyce said. ‘Just what’s on your mind?’

  ‘Doctor Hardene was obviously interested in some way in the seaman called Patrick Marton,’ Tremaine said diffidently, ‘otherwise he wouldn’t have taken the trouble to keep all those cuttings. Marton was shot. And when Doctor Hardene went out to keep his mysterious appointment last night he carried a revolver in his little black bag. I’m wondering whether the bullet that killed Marton could have fitted that particular gun.’

  ‘If it could,’ Parkin said, ‘it couldn’t have fitted any other gun. Unless the ballistics people have been wrong for years.’

  Jonathan Boyce thrust his thick hands deep into his pockets.

  ‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘Yes. I see what you mean.’

  6

  THE ALIBI SEEMS COMPLETE

  JEROME MASTERS WAS quite evidently a prosperous man. The original nineteenth-century Druidleigh had been extended in more recent days to take in the shoulder of land on the far side of the downs that lay in seclusion against the river gorge and from which there was a magnificent view of the sea some five or six miles distant. To live in this airy and tree-spaced retreat was to display the hallmark of success in Bridgton, and the house Masters had employed his own men to build for him was one of the most imposing residences in the area.

  ‘If there’s money in muck,’ Boyce observed, as he clambered from the police car and stood staring up at the big house rising above them beyond the well-kept, sloping lawns, ‘there certainly seems to be plenty in bricks and mortar.’

  ‘The city’s been expanding for years,’ Parkin explained, following him to the entrance gate, ‘and Masters has been expanding with it. At one time it was pretty much a one-man show, but a couple of years or so ago he turned his business into a limited company and since then he’s been giving a lot of his time to politics.’

  ‘Popular type?’

  ‘So so.’ Parkin shrugged. ‘He’s self-made and a bit—rugged.’

  ‘I see,’ Boyce said, and grinned. ‘Some like what they call a blunt independence and others think he’s too much of a good thing and needs taking down a peg or two.’

  Parkin made no reply but his silence was eloquent enough.

  Standing in the drive was a new car of expensive make.

  ‘Very nice,’ the Yard man observed. ‘What a fool I was to want to be a policeman!’

  Masters was at home and expecting them—a telephone call had seen to that. Tremaine saw a heavily built man, thick in the neck and beginning to display what threatened to be an unhealthy corpulence. There was a certain coarse arrogance about him. Not, he decided instinctively, a particularly nice individual, although he apparently possessed the qualities that bring success.

  The room into which they had been shown overlooked the lawns. It was furnished austerely as a study, but the desk was bare of papers and the books on the shelves along the wall behind it did not look as though anyone moved them except to dust them.

  Masters rose from the padded swivel chair in which he had been sitting with a newspaper in his hand and glanced questioningly at Parkin.

  ‘Well, Inspector? Your call came at a damned inconvenient time. I’m a busy man.’

  His tone made it clear that he regarded himself as a man who did not receive orders but gave them to other people. If Parkin noticed the hint of threat that was also there he did not show it either in his face or in his manner.

  ‘I assure you, sir, I wouldn’t have troubled you if the matter hadn’t been important.’

  ‘All right,’ Masters said, with grumbling resignation. ‘Let’s have it then. Beats me why you couldn’t have dealt with the business when you rang up instead of making a personal visit out of it.’

  He looked at Parkin’s companions and waited—significantly.

  ‘This gentleman is Mr. Tremaine,’ Parkin said. ‘And this is Chief Inspector Boyce, of Scotland Yard.’

  ‘Scotland Yard?’

  Masters lost some of his overbearing manner, and Boyce smiled secretly. It was odd how mention of the Yard could take the bluster out of even the most truculent of people. He had observed the phenomenon before.

  Maybe, though, it wasn’t so odd. Not when you came to think of some of the cases the Yard had broken.

  ‘Sorry to be a nuisance to you, sir,’ he put in. ‘But the Chief Constable called us in and I was sent down to work with your local men. You’ll appreciate, I’m sure, that it means I have to make certain enquiries.’

  ‘Enquiries? What enquiries?’

  Masters spoke sharply, but it was not with the sharpness of his former careless arrogance. He was not quite so sure of himself. In fact, Tremaine concluded, watching him curiously, he was distinctly rattled.

  Jonathan Boyce saw it, too.

  ‘Before I deal with that, sir, might I ask whether you are in a position to tell me what your movements were last night?’

  Masters glared, opened his mouth, seemed about to say something, and then closed it again, with a subtle change in his expression.

  ‘I realize that this may seem a little unusual, sir,’ Boyce said gently, ‘and of course I have no authority to compel you to answer any questions. I’m assuming that a gentleman of your—prominence—would naturally have no objection to giving the police all possible help.’

  ‘I don’t know what the devil this is all about,’ Masters burst out angrily, ‘but it seems damned irregular to me. If you’re accusing me of something, why don’t you come right out and say so?’

  ‘Come, sir,’ Boyce said, ‘you know better than that. If I’d made up my mind that you were responsible for any criminal act it would be my duty to give you the official caution before asking you any questions. No, this is just a routine call to help me get one or two things straightened out in my mind. I’m not saying I won’t be compelled to take notice of what I might describe as any—unwillingness to help matters on, but at the moment I haven’t any fixed opinions.’

  ‘You’d better sit down,’ Masters said.

  He seemed to have recovered a little. He seemed, too, to be realizing that so far he had not shown himself in a very favourable light, and was anxious to re-establish himself.

  ‘Now,’ he said, with an attempt at bluffness, when they had taken chairs, ‘let’s get to the point, Chief Inspector. What is it you want to see me about? Somebody been laying complaints about me? Plenty of people ready to tell tales about a man in my position. You know how it is.’

  ‘Yes, I know how it is,’ Boyce agreed. ‘About last night, sir?’ he added, with a slight but significant raising of his voice.

  A shadow of irritation crossed the other’s face but he managed to suppress it quickly.

  ‘Oh yes, of course. I dined at my club. Had some business to attend to in the city and didn’t come home as a matter of fact. After dinner I just stayed around for a while and then drove back here.’

  ‘I see, sir.’ Boyce made a brief note. ‘About what tim
e would that have been?’

  ‘Time? Well, I couldn’t say exactly. Didn’t expect to be cross-examined about it. Round about eleven, I suppose.’

  ‘D’you mind giving me the name of your club, sir?’

  ‘Not much use to mind, is it? You’ll find out soon enough.’

  ‘Quite so, sir, but it makes matters that much easier and there’s no sense in asking for unnecessary work.’

  ‘It’s the Venturers’. In Exchange Street. That’s down in the city. Parkin will confirm it for you.’

  ‘The Venturers’ Club,’ Boyce said, imperturbably, adding another note. ‘Thank you, sir. No doubt you go there pretty often?’

  ‘Most of the people who count in the city are members. It’s a good place to get hold of anybody you want to see or to find out what’s going on.’

  Masters shrugged heavy shoulders, as though relieved at having got rid of a burden.

  ‘Well, there you are. I think I’ve been frank with you, Chief Inspector. Now suppose you’re frank with me and say why you want to know all this.’

  ‘I’ll do that right enough, sir. It was never my intention to go away without speaking of it. I’ve reason to believe that you’re acquainted with a Doctor Graham Hardene. Is that correct, sir?’

  The other’s eyes narrowed. Involuntarily his hands clenched.

  ‘That infernal busybody! Yes, I know him all right, and he’s going to know me a good deal better before he’s much older.’

  ‘I doubt it, sir,’ Boyce returned coolly. ‘You see, that’s why I’m here. He’s dead.’

  ‘Dead?’ Masters looked taken aback. ‘But . . . I thought——’ He broke off. His glance rested in sudden dismay upon the Yard man’s impassive face. ‘What has Hardene’s death to do with your being here?’

  ‘Everything, in a manner of speaking, sir. Doctor Hardene was murdered.’

  ‘Murdered!’ The word came out in a gasp. Masters sank back in his chair. His big but flabby body seemed suddenly to have been deflated. ‘I—I didn’t know,’ he managed to get out. ‘There wasn’t anything about it in the papers.’

  ‘There wouldn’t be—yet. It happened late last night. It seems that the doctor may have been tricked into leaving his house by a telephone call purporting to come from a patient who needed him in a hurry. He was found by a constable on patrol lying in the hall of an empty house facing the downs. His head had been beaten in. I’m afraid it’s rather an ugly business.’