Fatal Venture

by Freeman Wills Crofts

  His troubles for the evening, however, were not yet over. He had scarcely parted from the Stotts when he met Bristow.

  “I was looking for you,” the latter said with some eagerness. “Come to my cabin.”

  Bristow’s sitting room was large and its furnishing was the last word in luxury and “art”. Morrison sank back in a well-padded armchair and helped himself to the whisky to which the other pointed.

  “What happened about the police?” Bristow asked, pouring out a larger allowance of the spirit than Morrison had yet seen him take. “I didn’t know you were back till I saw you just now.”

  “Nothing very much happened,” Morrison returned, going on to give a more or less detailed report. “The officer in charge – a DI they call him – looks no fool,” he ended up. “If anyone can clear the thing up, I bet he’s the man.”

  “I’ve heard they’re good, these Northern Ireland police,” Bristow commented. “He didn’t throw out any hints?”

  “None, except for recommending the notice the Old Man has put up.”

  “Then he thinks it’s serious.”

  “I imagined so. But he was a cautious gentleman: he wasn’t giving anything away.” “Hardwick thinks it’s serious.”

  “I imagined that, too, else he would scarcely have put up the notice.”

  Bristow moved uneasily in his chair. “What do you think yourself, Morrison? After all, you’ve known Stott longer than any of us. Would he have gone off like that and not let any of us know – unless he couldn’t help himself?”

  If Morrison had not been so afraid of saying the wrong thing, he would have seized this opportunity to get some of his own back. “I’ve known him longer than you,” he admitted, “but you’ve seen much more of him than I. I should have thought he’d have let us know. What’s your own view?”

  “It’s because I feel certain of it that I am so uneasy. I feel absolutely convinced that if he hasn’t phoned out, it’s because he can’t; in other words, because he’s ill or dead.” Bristow seemed quite concerned.

  “I agree with you,” Morrison admitted. “But, you know, I couldn’t rise to any particular sorrow if he were. I don’t like and never did like the man, and I don’t see what matter it would make if he were dead.”

  Bristow looked shocked. “No matter?” he exclaimed. “What are you thinking about, Morrison? You’re surely not forgetting that he’s carrying this entire outfit on his shoulders. Only for Stott your job and mine might go phut. Don’t you know that?”

  “But the outfit’s paying, even if it hasn’t paid well enough for me to get my ten percent. For the matter of that, it’s not paying you your forty-five either. You’ve been grousing enough about it, too,”

  Bristow made a gesture of impatience. “Yes, I know,” he said irritably. “I agree it’s paying for the moment, but if we got a bad spell Stott would carry it. If Stott has pegged out, and we get a bad spell, we’ll go down: there’s no margin nor reserve to carry us on. No, if anything’s happened to Stott, it may be a damned serious thing for us.”

  Morrison had not thought of this. He didn’t, as a matter of fact, believe there was much in it, for Stott’s money would go to Wyndham, and of all people Wyndham was less likely than any other to close the venture down. Moreover, the exchange of ownership might well be to the good. With Wyndham in charge, everyone would probably have a better time. He would be straight for one thing, and Morrison had grave doubts of old Stott’s probity. Bristow, however, did not agree.

  “Wyndham would mean well,” he admitted. “He’s decent enough in his way, and I dare say straight. But he’s no businessman. If he began trying to manage this thing he’d let it down. I agree old Stott’s a swine, but, all the same, I’d rather work with him. He’ll make the thing pay or carry it.”

  “I imagine Wyndham wouldn’t try to manage it,” Morrison suggested. “He’d probably hand it over to you, or perhaps to you and Hardwick. He’d be too busy amusing himself at the tables.”

  Bristow grunted. “Another thing he might do would be to close the thing down. That daughter of his hates his playing, and if she had any say in things she’d make him do it. Morality stunt, you know.”

  At this Morrison saw red. For calling Margot “that daughter of his,” and suggesting that her action under any conceivable circumstance could be otherwise than perfect, he could for the moment have killed Bristow. He did not answer while he struggled to get himself in hand. Then his fury passed, and he was able to reply normally.

  He was interested to see how friendly and confidential the fear of disaster had made Bristow. He was now speaking as to an equal, with the same attractive and deferential manner which he had shown in the Calais express when the venture was only his unattained and apparently unobtainable dream. His superiority had vanished. He seemed indeed anxious to lean on Morrison, and received his optimistic replies with apparent satisfaction.

  Next day they felt the slow, easy sweep of an Atlantic swell, their nearest land westwards being Labrador. Early they were cruising along the rugged weatherbeaten coast of Donegal, past Melmore Head and Horn Head, round the grim-looking island of Tory, and down past Bloody Foreland, Gola, Owey and Aran. That day the shore excursion was from Burton Port to Killybegs, through Glenties and Ardara. Morrison had heard it was not a very interesting drive, and for once he watched the party start without wishing to join it. He enjoyed the open sea and the easy roll of the ship, and was glad to be on board.

  Then when they had passed Rathlin O’Birne Island and were off the terrific cliffs of Slieve League there was news. John Stott’s body had been found.

  Morrison heard it from Bristow. He happened to be on deck after tea and noticed him leave the Captain’s cabin. Bristow saw him and came over. He looked a good deal upset.

  “Stott’s dead,” he said shortly. “Murdered!”

  Morrison had no need to simulate distress. The news horrified him. He had never imagined that the body would be found so quickly and instantly he realised his own danger. His trail was far too fresh. Whatever had led the DI and his followers to that sinister saucer might well have told them that he had been on the scene at the time of the crime.

  “Good God!” he muttered. “Murdered!” He strove to keep calm. “Then you and the Captain were right.”

  Bristow nodded gloomily. “I was afraid of it from the first.”

  “Where was he found?” Morrison went on presently. “I don’t know. Hardwick didn’t show me the message.” “No details?”

  “No: just that the body had been found and that foul play was evident.”

  “Evident, not suspected?” “No. They seemed sure of it.”

  Panic was rising in waves in Morrison’s mind, but he fought it down. “Good God!” he said again; then after a few minutes he added: “What do you think they’ll do?”

  “Do? What about?”

  “I mean about an enquiry. There’s bound to be one, I presume?”

  Bristow looked at him in surprise. “Bound to be an enquiry?” he repeated. “Of course there’s bound to be an enquiry. What in Hades do you mean?”

  “Well, how can they hold it?” and Morrison put the point about the Hellénique’s French ownership.

  “Oh, that?” Bristow answered. “I don’t know how they’ll do it, but you may take it from me it’ll be done. And if your description of this DI is correct, it’ll be a pretty searching one at that.”

  “I don’t see how they’ll manage it, all the same. Apparently the Captain’s the only person who has the power to hold it, and he doesn’t want to.”

  Bristow seemed a good deal upset. “It may make a lot of difference to us,” he said slowly, after a pause, “how and where it’s held. I can tell you I don’t feel too happy about it. I’ve said a lot against Stott that I shouldn’t have. And, for the matter of that, so have you.”

  “I know,” Morrison returned, “and I wish I hadn’t. But I don’t see that it really matters.”

  “Oh, don’t you? Can you a
ccount for all your time ashore? Because I can’t.”

  Morrison did an admirable imitation of a man staring in surprise. “Bless my soul, Bristow,” he exclaimed, “what do you mean? You’re surely not suggesting that we could be suspected?”

  Bristow made a gesture of impatience. “Of course I’m suggesting it,” he retorted irritably. “Can’t you see it for yourself?”

  Morrison tried to look baffled. “Well, I can’t,” he replied. “Why should we? You’ve only just pointed out yourself that we stand to lose by his death.”

  “I know I have, and it’s true. But look at it from the police point of view. Our possible loss is hypothetical, but our grousing at the man was actual and concrete. A lot of people will tell the police that they heard us cursing him.”

  Morrison could not help feeling relief at the thought that Bristow was as nervous as he himself, though he probably had less reason for it.

  “How much of your time ashore can you not account for?” he asked.

  Bristow looked at him curiously. “An hour at least,” he returned. “I was with that golfing crowd all day except when I went off by myself to get those blessed photographs.”

  Morrison was on the point of asking where he had taken the photographs, then he saw just in time that this again was the sort of remark that he should avoid. The location of the photographs could only be of importance if one knew that of the murder. If Bristow said he was in the opposite direction to that of the crime, it would be so easy to reply: “Then you’re all right.” And a remark of that kind, once made, could be neither withdrawn nor explained.

  Then he saw that to ignore the point might seem equally suspicious. “I wish we knew where they found Stott,” he therefore went on, “I was at the Causeway till getting on to three, and then I walked back to Portrush. It’s a couple of hours’ walk or more, and I got the boat that left at five. So I think I’m fairly all right. Where did you take your photos?”

  “On that sloping hill at the back of the town – Ballywillan it’s called, I believe. But I might have gone anywhere if I had hurried.”

  “But you took the photographs? How many?”

  “Five, as a matter of fact. But what has that to do with it?”

  “Simply that if you were taking photos at Ballywillan you couldn’t have been anywhere else. Won’t the photos prove you were there?”

  Bristow hesitated, then brightened up slightly. “Confirmatory evidence of my statement, yes,” he admitted. “It might or it might not be helpful. It depends, as you say, where Stott was found.”

  Morrison was pleased with the conversation, which he thought he was carrying on very naturally. “Can’t you find that out?” he persisted. “If we knew, it might relieve both our minds.”

  “We’ll hear it soon enough,” Bristow returned, relaxing into gloom.

  Morrison thought that the propitious moment had at last arrived. “Tell me,” he said in a lower tone, “have you thought about Malthus and Mason?”

  Bristow looked at him sharply. “The first thing that occurred to me when I heard the news,” he returned. “They were ashore, I know, for they came back in my boat.”

  “You don’t know how they spent the day?”

  Bristow shook his head. “I didn’t see them. I’m sure they weren’t on the links.”

  “Do you think,” Morrison said hesitatingly, “the police ought to be told about that business?”

  “I do think so. But it’s not our job. Hardwick will be running the thing and he knows all about it.”

  “Does he?” Morrison’s tone suggested doubt.

  “Yes. I was present when he and Stott discussed it. That was when we knew those two were corning aboard. Stott wondered if they were out for trouble and warned Hardwick to be prepared.”

  Morrison left the cabin with an anxious mind. Obviously all he could do was to sit tight and say nothing, at least so far as the police were concerned. But about Margot he was not so sure. He felt he ought to express at least conventional regret at old Stott’s fate, but he did not wish to go to her cabin. Finally he compromised by ringing her up.

  She seemed but little affected by the news, and that more for the publicity it would bring than for the loss of her great-uncle. To avoid the condolences of the passengers she was for that evening keeping her room, but she would be glad to see him next morning if he would call round.

  The message cheered him immensely, but it did not banish the increasingly heavy load of fear and foreboding he was beginning to carry.

  That night there was a fresh notice on the board.

  I deeply regret to state that news has been received from Portrush that Mr John Stott has been found dead under circumstances pointing to foul play. An enquiry into his death has therefore become necessary, and I hereby invite anyone on board who may be able to throw any light on his movements or intentions ashore to report to me.

  H J HARDWICK,

  Commander.

  PART 2

  Through the Eyes

  of French

  12

  HIGH POLITICS

  One of the attributes of the great of the earth is that weighty consequences may follow from their lightest actions. This was exemplified in the case of the murder of John Stott.

  It happened that some three weeks before that tragic event, the envoy of a powerful mid-European country was visiting the British Prime Minister. “Conversations” had taken place between them, with satisfactory results to both. The Press in each country was loud in approval of the results of the negotiations and the meeting was coming to an end in a well-organised blaze of glory.

  On the last evening there was a banquet to mark the happy consummation of the visit, and his natural enthusiasm for good work well done caused the foreign envoy to supplement the official toasts with a large number to various eminent personages in his immediate vicinity. The result was that, while remaining entirely sober and decorous, his appreciation of what was humorous was slightly broadened. It was as a joke, harmless and well meant, that when the talk touched on the Hellénique, he turned to the Prime Minister and remarked: “We’re grateful to you, over our way, for your efforts to stop the gambling. You’ve given us a classic phrase. When anyone wants rapid and drastic action he says: ‘Look slippy or the British will have cleaned up the Hellénique before you’re through’.” A few more toasts and he would have nudged the PM in the ribs, but, happily for diplomatic relations between the countries, the banquet came to an end before this climax was reached.

  Though he took the sally as it was meant, as humour of the highest type, the Prime Minister was displeased. It was not the first time he had been twitted with his Government’s failure to stop gambling in what was virtually, if not legally, Great Britain. Personally, he didn’t care two hoots whether gaming went on or whether it didn’t, while the Home Secretary, whose job the affair really was, held that the ship was a blessing in disguise: that it provided a useful safety valve for undesirable energy and kept money in the country which might otherwise have gone abroad.

  But the Home Secretary had not developed this opinion until his efforts to stop the proceedings had failed. At first he had considered the venture an outrage – a positive insult to himself and his department. In a lordly manner, he had directed that action be taken against its instigators. And he had been coldly displeased when his advisers had advised that nothing could be done: that Stott and company had managed to outwit the majesty of the English Law.

  Then there had come the popular outcry, the barrage of letters to the Press, the questions in Parliament, and his cold displeasure had given place, first, to impotent fury and, when that proved unavailing, to the cynical approval of the venture already mentioned. But though he successfully concealed it, his amour propre had been wounded, and he would have been glad to wreak his vengeance on the transgressors, had he only known how.

  To a lesser degree, the Prime Minister shared his feelings, and it thus happened that on the day following the banquet he heard from
his chief full details of the envoy’s taunt.

  “You’ll have to do something, ffoulkes,” the PM ended up, in an exasperated tone. “We can’t have every Tom, Dick and Harry throwing the damned thing in our teeth.”

  Whether the classification of the distinguished foreigner as a Tom, a Dick or a Harry would have led to a war had it become known was an interesting though immaterial point. The two Ministers were talking in camera.

  “But it’s been running for a year and more,” the Home Secretary pointed out aggrievedly, as if offering a complete justification.

  “A year too long,” grunted the PM unsympathetically. “See what you can do about it,” and with finality he changed the subject.

  The matter thus once again became a personal one to the Home Secretary. Later that day he sent for the files of the case and reread his expert’s opinions. From these he only grew more firmly convinced than ever that Stott had indeed outwitted them. Nor could he see any possibility of getting beneath the man’s defences.

  But Sir Marmaduke ffoulkes had not reached his present altitude through admitting defeat. He had previously dropped the matter because a solution of its problem had not been apparent. Now it was different. His personal prestige was at stake. After what the foreign envoy and the PM had said, he could no longer afford to be beaten.

  In his younger and less palmy days, the Home Secretary had been a barrister, and in court he had learnt that circuitous means often succeed where the direct method has failed. Now he recalled his training. If Stott could not be got at through his methods, might he not through some failure to carry them out?

  To the Home Secretary it seemed the only possibility: worth trying at all events. Later that afternoon he moved the affair a step further on.