At Portrush he began by seeing the quartermaster who had been left to look out for Stott, only to learn the not surprising fact that no further trace of the man had been seen. He must therefore carry on his mission. He thought lovingly of a double whisky before adventuring himself in the lions’ den, but he realised that if by chance he became suspected, the fact that he had done so might increase that suspicion. Rallying his courage, he therefore went to the police station, or barracks, as it is called in Ireland.
“I want to see the chief officer, please,” he said, handing over his card to the saturnine-looking constable who came forward.
“The DI’s here this morning by chance,” the man returned gloomily. “Would it be him or the sergeant you were wanting?”
This was a poser to Morrison, who had no idea what a DI was. “Whichever is the superior officer,” he explained.
The constable looked scandalised. Then a crafty look appeared in his eyes. “You would be English maybe?” he asked, and when Morrison admitted it, his expression relaxed as if he were granting him a fool’s pardon. “Then it’ll be the DI,” he concluded. “That’s the District Inspector from Ballymoney. He’s over the whole area. The sergeant’s only over Portrush.”
“Then the DI, if you please.”
The man hesitated as if he were considering asking Morrison his business, then, thinking better of it, he vanished through an internal door. There was a muttering of voices, ending with the words, “Show him in.”
“He’ll see you now,” announced the constable, reappearing.
A large, good-humoured looking officer with three chevrons on his sleeve followed the constable from the room. He glanced shrewdly at Morrison and wished him an agreeable good morning. Morrison passed in and the door closed behind him.
He found himself in a small but efficient-looking office facing a tall man with a dark, intelligent face and a strong jaw. He was dressed in tweeds which had seen better days, and his cap, reposing on a side table beside a bag of golf clubs, was also well worn. Yet at his first word Morrison realised he was a man of education and breeding. Instinctively also he felt he was efficient and tenacious, and anything but a fool. His panic, which he thought he had overcome, surged back, but with all his strength of mind he pulled himself together.
The DI half rose in his seat as he waved his visitor to a chair. “Mr Harry Morrison,” he read from the card, then swung round with a faint smile. “And what can I do for you, Mr Morrison?”
“I’m transport officer in the Hellénique, as you see from my card,” Morrison answered, “and I’ve been sent by her Captain to report that one of the passengers came ashore yesterday morning here at Portrush and has not returned to the ship. It was a Mr John Stott,” and he went on to describe the man’s position on board, passing over the photographs and statements. “In one sense,” he continued, considering his words carefully, “Captain Hardwick has no reason to fear that anything may have happened to him. It is merely the fact that he didn’t come aboard and didn’t send a message, and that such a thing never occurred before. Mr Stott has changed his arrangements previously, but he always let us know.”
“But if the Captain has reported the matter to us, he must think it serious. What exactly does he want us to do?”
“He wanted really to get your advice. If, from what I have told you, you think enquiries should be made, then he would be grateful if you would make them. On the other hand, if you advise waiting a little longer, he will be satisfied to do so. But he hoped in any case that as far as possible you would avoid publicity.”
The DI looked at him doubtfully. “We can’t make enquiries as to the whereabouts of a missing man without some publicity,” he pointed out.
“Of course. Captain Hardwick realises that. It was only to ask you to keep the affair as quiet as was reasonably possible.”
The other nodded. “Well, wait till I read these statements. Smoke if you want to.”
Hoping it would steady his nerves, Morrison lit a cigarette, while he stole glimpses of the dark, powerful face with its intent expression. The DI read everything through twice, then he fixed his eyes on Morrison’s. “Now I’d like to know what’s not in these statements,” he said shortly. “What’s your own idea as to what has happened, and what’s the Captain’s?”
Morrison gaped, then answered: “I don’t know. I have no idea myself and Captain Hardwick expressed no opinion.”
“What I want to get at is whether he has any reason to suspect foul play?”
Again Morrison hesitated. It would be unwise to be too glib. “As far as I know, he has none. I personally imagine that Mr Stott stayed ashore deliberately and sent us a message which miscarried. But, of course, I’ve no evidence for that.”
“What sort of a man was this Stott? Might he have got drunk?”
“I’ve never known him to take too much, but, again, I can’t say.”
“I’m to take it then that, for all you or the Captain know to the contrary, he might be lying drunk somewhere, or have had a fall when he was looking for his ruin? If it was Dunluce he went to photograph and he fell down the cliff, he might well be dead. We’ll have a look round and make a few enquiries.”
“Thank you: that was what Captain Hardwick hoped you’d do.”
“We’ll do what we can. But if there should be more in it than meets the eye, I imagine the solution would lie on board. Someone would then have to make more enquiries.”
“That’s another point I was to discuss with you. Captain Hardwick wasn’t very sure about procedure. You see, the ship is a French ship registered in Havre and licensed by the French Marine Department. He didn’t know who would have the right to ask questions on board.”
The DI stroked his chin. “I’m sure I don’t either,” he returned, “at least offhand. A new question to me altogether. The Captain, I take it, would have power to ask any questions he liked.”
“Yes, he said so. But he also said such an enquiry was out of his line and should be held by an expert.”
The DI remained silent for some moments, evidently thinking deeply. “Is there any reason for trying to keep this disappearance secret on board?” he then asked. “I doubt if you’ll be able to in any case. These things get out, you know.”
“I know they do,” Morrison agreed. “I expect it’s known already. The Captain’s idea was merely not to make a fuss too early, which would have annoyed Mr Stott if he was all right.”
“Well, I suggest that if you hear nothing today, your Captain should post a notice saying Mr Stott has not advised him of his whereabouts and asking anyone who may have known his plans to communicate with him.”
“I’ll tell him; and thank you for the hint.”
“Very good. Then we’ll look into it at this end. How can we communicate with you?”
“You can telephone at any time. We have continuous wireless connection with the shore.”
“That’s great. Then why, if I may ask the question, didn’t you ring us up in the first instance?”
“Three reasons. The Captain thought he might have heard from Mr Stott by midday, and that till then he needn’t trouble you. Secondly, we couldn’t telephone the photographs. And, thirdly, generally speaking, he thought an interview would be more satisfactory than the phone.”
“I agree with him there.” The DI got up, again transfixing Morrison with his keen, shrewd glance. During this quiet conversation Morrison’s panic had largely subsided, but that look brought it back. However, the fact that he was also getting up helped him to hide it, and he did not think the other noticed anything amiss.
“Thank you very much,” he said, he believed quite normally. “It’s very good of you. I’ll tell Captain Hardwick what you have said.”
A moment later he was once more in the open air, and certain that so far he was entirely unsuspected.
11
FAT IN THE FIRE
Seated in the train on his way back to Derry, a new idea flashed into Morrison’s mind. Malt
hus and Mason!
A great relief surged through him as he realised that here in all probability was the explanation of the affair, and that Luff might not be guilty after all. If so, Margot had nothing to fear from the discovery of the truth; indeed, rather the contrary, as legatees in a murder mystery can seldom entirely escape suspicion.
What had Malthus and Mason come aboard for? Was it merely to gamble or have an unusual cruise, or was it for a more sinister purpose? Had their enmity against Stott been a running sore which could only be healed through action? If so, the affair was explained. If not, their presence on board at just this time was more than a strange coincidence.
Morrison could not understand why he had not thought of all this before. Then he saw that his mind had been too much filled, first, with his own peril and, second, with Luff’s – or rather Margot’s, for he didn’t care two hoots what happened to Luff. He had been obsessed with the button, as if there were not millions of buttons of that type in the world. It was a warning to him against jumping to conclusions.
He wondered if the idea had occurred to Hardwick? It now seemed so obvious that it was impossible to doubt it. Hardwick had had no personal emotions to cloud his judgment.
But suppose Hardwick had not thought of it? Would it be his duty to suggest it?
Then Morrison saw that he was forgetting – and it gave him a shock that he could have done so – that Hardwick didn’t know that Stott was dead. Only himself and the murderer knew that. To have mentioned his idea would have been to have signed his own death warrant. His oversight brought out a cold sweat of fear.
When he reached the ship he found that news of the disappearance had leaked out. He had not left the deck before he was buttonholed by the inquisitive Mr Forrester.
“What’s all this mystery about old man Stott?” he began, carefully blocking Morrison’s path. He winked and Morrison became aware that a joke was about to be perpetrated. “We hear he’s run away with a barmaid.”
“That’s news to me,” Morrison returned solemnly, “and I’m interested to hear it. Have you heard who the barmaid is?”
“I hoped you could tell me that.”
“No. I’ve been ashore all day and I’ve not heard anything. What else is being said?”
Forrester grew serious. “That he went ashore yesterday afternoon and hasn’t turned up since, and that foul play is feared.”
Morrison shook his head. “That’s news to me also,” he declared. “It’s true he went ashore yesterday afternoon and hadn’t returned when I left this morning, but the foul-play touch seems a rather gratuitous addition. I’ve not heard it mentioned.”
“Then what’s your own theory?”
Morrison shrugged. “Goodness only knows,” he answered as lightly as he could. “Met a friend probably, and stayed over with him. Felt unwell and went to an hotel. Got drunk possibly. I don’t know. Whatever he did, his message to the ship went adrift.”
“You won’t talk?” Forrester returned. “Oh well, I could hardly expect you to.”
“I won’t put out tales that I believe to be false, if that’s what you mean,” Morrison retorted, robbing the words of offence with a smile, “though I grant you they would be more interesting.”
Forrester made a pretence of sighing. “Oh, well, if you won’t, you won’t. Had an interesting day?”
“So so. Local transport business, you know.”
Morrison was pleased with himself as he nodded and passed on. He had been afraid of the inevitable discussions which the affair would cause, and now, after sustaining the first, he felt reassured. He had borne himself better than he could have hoped. No one could possibly have suspected that he knew more than he pretended.
Captain Hardwick made no comment when he heard the DI’s advice, but later on Morrison saw the suggested notice posted in the ship. It increased the gossip and he was stopped on several occasions by curious passengers. This general belief that he knew something of the affair would have startled him had it not been that he found everyone in uniform was being similarly pestered.
The first real test of his self-control came when he met Margot on the promenade deck after dinner. She was alone and stopped.
“I’m so sorry,” he began, “that you should have this annoyance and worry. I’m afraid it won’t improve your holiday.”
“My holiday!” she returned sadly. “This has been no holiday for me. I hated coming, and except for meeting new friends and so on, I’ve hated being on board. I begged my father to go on an ordinary cruise to the Mediterranean, but he couldn’t resist the tables. Then he suggested coming alone, but I wouldn’t agree to that. I thought I could at least be a brake on him – with what success you know. Then this news about Uncle John! No, it hasn’t been a holiday for me.”
Morrison had never heard her speaking so bitterly. She was usually so cheerful, giving the impression that she hadn’t a care in the world. Now she seemed really upset. A warm flood of feeling towards her rose in his heart.
“I didn’t know,” he said hesitatingly. “I’d give anything to be able to help.”
She glanced at him gratefully. “You have helped me already,” she returned, “and it’s a shame for me to grouse. I suppose there are thousands of girls in England who would give their ears to be able to do a trip like this. Tell me about Uncle John. What do you think has happened to him?”
This was the hardest question Morrison had yet had to answer. He could lie without difficulty to the police and to his fellow travellers. He could even lie on occasion to his Captain. But to Margot he felt he couldn’t lie. And yet it had to be done. Not that he couldn’t trust her with his secret. He would without hesitation trust her with his life. But if after all Luff should prove to be guilty, to tell her would probably make her feel an accessory after the fact, if, indeed, she would not actually become one. Apart from himself altogether, he could not risk that.
Therefore he replied as coolly as he was able. “Not necessarily anything very dreadful, I feel sure,” he declared. “I imagine he has acted in some quite normal way, gone home with a friend or something of that sort. I presume he sent a message to the captain, and the whole trouble has arisen because that message has miscarried.”
“That’s a comforting thought. It’s not that I’m fond of Uncle John. I dislike him intensely; indeed, at times I almost hate him. So does Father, except that I think he hates him all the time. But, all the same, it would be dreadful if anything had happened to him.”
“There’s no reason to suppose anything of the sort. We may hear something from him at any moment.”
“And that in spite of seeing the police about it? Captain Hardwick told Father you were going.”
“Oh, yes,” Morrison admitted. “That was Captain Hardwick’s obvious duty. If anything had happened and he had taken no steps, he would have been held to blame. But that doesn’t say that he believes anything is wrong.”
“That’s comforting again. I thought his informing the police was a sign that he feared the worst.”
“Not a bit of it: just an obvious routine precaution.”
“Well, I wish we could hear. The talk through the ship is horrible.”
She seemed in no hurry to move, and they stood together watching the rugged shores of Lough Swilly passing along on either hand. The Lough is a very deep gash into the land, an estuary, only that no large river flows into it, and the Hellénique was moving at nearly full speed to get outside the three-mile limit before 9 p.m. The evening was calm and peaceful, but beginning to get slightly chilly, even in the shelter of the music room.
“If anything has happened to Uncle John,” Margot went on presently, “what will they do? I mean, will there be enquiries on board and all that?”
“I really can’t tell you,” he answered with truth. “One thing that might become important is that this is a French ship.”
“Oh, but she isn’t,” she retorted. “The entire crew is English. There’s nothing French about her except her name.
”
“No, she’s French through and through – legally. She belongs to a French company and carries a French certificate and sails under the French flag.”
“She belongs to Uncle John.”
“No doubt that’s the actual fact, but he holds her through a French company – his own representatives, of course, but still French.”
“Well, suppose she is technically. What difference will it make?”
“Just that if she were English, English police could come aboard and make enquiries. As it is, I question if they can. I really don’t know what the position is.”
As Margot was about to reply, Major Stott appeared round the corner of the music room. She called him over.
“Mr Morrison has raised an interesting point, Daddy. We were talking about Uncle John and Mr Morrison’s visit to the police today. He says that this is a French ship, and that if – if enquiries should have to be made, that might make a lot of difficulty. Tell him, Mr Morrison.”
Morrison did so as far as he was able. Wyndham Stott seemed interested. “I knew she was technically French,” he observed, “but I thought that was only to get over the legal difficulty of the gaming.”
“That’s true, sir,” Morrison agreed; “but all the other results of being a French ship follow.”
Wyndham nodded, as he drew slowly at his cigar. Then as if by an afterthought, he produced his case. “Have one?” he invited. “I don’t know if you like cigars, but they’re very mild.”
Morrison didn’t particularly want it, but he thought it politic to accept. There was silence for a few seconds, then Wyndham changed the subject. “Fine old ship this,” he declared, “and unexpected to find her ending her life in this way. I knew her well in her best days. I went to the States in her on her second trip, and I’ve crossed in her, I suppose” – he paused – “five times altogether.”
“You know the States well, sir?”
Wyndham knew the States, and talked interestingly of his travels. When a little later Morrison parted from them, he was well pleased with this interview also. It had been a much more trying one for him than that with Forrester, and he had carried it off equally well. No other encounter would be as difficult, unless actual suspicion arose and he were interrogated by the police. And every hour that passed made that less likely.
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