Fatal Venture

by Freeman Wills Crofts

  It happened that there was penal reform conference at the Home Office at which, representing Scotland Yard, was Sir Mortimer Ellison, one of the Assistant Commissioners. After the proceedings were over, the Home Secretary asked him to wait.

  “This blessed Hellénique gambling business has cropped up again,” he told him. “The PM has been getting his leg pulled about it, and he is not pleased.”

  “We went into that, sir, as you know,” Sir Mortimer answered. “We were advised we could do nothing.”

  “I’m aware of that,” the Home Secretary returned a trifle dryly. “I agree; provided those people carry out their scheme to the letter.”

  Sir Mortimer glanced at him keenly. “You mean – “ he was beginning when the other interrupted him.

  “The thing has been running for over a year without any apparent interest from the authorities. It would only be natural if they were to grow a little careless. One slip, and we might get them.”

  “You mean they might, for example, come into a British port with their gambling rooms open?”

  “Scarcely that, I fancy. But they might come inside the three-mile limit.”

  “I don’t know that I quite follow you there,” Sir Mortimer returned. “I take it your idea in raising the question is that I should arrange for the boat to be kept under observation?”

  “Of course.”

  “I should do that by putting one or more officers on board as passengers. You meant that, sir, didn’t you?”

  “That would be your pigeon, but it’s what I had in mind.”

  “Well the point that occurs to me is that none of my fellows would be in a position to say whether the ship was inside or outside the limit. That would require sea knowledge and charts and possibly instruments.”

  The Home Secretary paused. “I could send a navigator from the Navy to assist your man, if that would help,” he suggested. “But I don’t confine it to observing the three-mile limit. I rather thought of having a general watch kept in the hope that they may do something that will let us prosecute.”

  Sir Mortimer Ellison agreed without enthusiasm. He had already given a good deal of thought to the problem, and he did not believe that the Home Secretary’s suggestion would produce results. However, too lavish an application of cold water to the suggestions of one’s superiors was untactful.

  “There is one instance in which even a man without nautical knowledge might obtain conclusive evidence,” he therefore went on, “and that is if, with the rooms open, they went between two pieces of land less than six miles apart. They’re always coasting round islands. Suppose an island lay five miles from the mainland and they went between. We’d get them then all right.”

  “I’m afraid they’d never do that.”

  “Well, there’s what you said about their becoming careless. I suggest I put a man aboard her for a week or two. We could perhaps be guided about the naval officer by his reports.”

  The suggestion was favourably received. Sir Mortimer was told to do what he could with his own men for a fortnight, when the question of further action would be considered. Pleased to have shelved the necessity for immediate decision, the two men parted amicably.

  When, an hour later. Chief Inspector Joseph French was summoned to Sir Mortimer’s room and given the job, he had little idea that for it he had to thank the expansiveness of a foreign diplomat who allowed himself to drink more toasts than were good for him.

  “This will be a new experience for you, won’t it, French?” the AC went on. “You’ll have to do an impersonation. Have you ever been anyone but yourself?”

  “Never, sir,” French smiled.

  “The trouble’s on your own head. If you will ape a cheap notoriety and allow that friend of yours to write his wretched books, you can’t expect to get off scot-free. Whom will you go as?”

  French, still grinning, thought for a moment. “John Forrester, sir,” he said at last, “from near Tonbridge. A hopgrower.”

  Sir Mortimer looked dubious. “But do you know anything about hop-growing?” he asked doubtfully.

  “I used to stay with hop-growers when I was a boy, sir.”

  “And, trusting to the English love of being in the forefront of scientific progress, you assume methods have not altered since then. Well, I expect you’re right there. But you don’t look the part, you know.”

  “No, sir?”

  “No – definitely. And besides, the Tonbridge area is too small. Suppose you have someone on board from Tonbridge.”

  “Near Tonbridge, sir. Too far away to be known by anyone in the town.”

  The AC shrugged. “Well, well, I see you’ve made up your mind. Do what you like. It’s your funeral. What about taking your wife?”

  French hesitated.

  “Add to the hop-growing illusion,” the AC prompted.

  “I’d love it, sir, but I’m afraid she wouldn’t go.”

  “Well, your daughter or sister, or, if you can do it without involving the Yard in a scandal, some woman friend. Are you normally henpecked?”

  French laughed outright. “An embarrassing question, sir,” he declared.

  “It shouldn’t be,” Sir Mortimer retorted. “1 suggest you take your wife and be very much married. That would dissipate any strong, silent, Scotland Yard stuff that might be put up.”

  French grew serious. “It would be expensive, sir, if we both went, and took excursions, and so on. Would that be all right?”

  “And you’d want a spot of gambling, too, I suppose? Well, I don’t want you to bankrupt the Home Office, but there’s no reason why they shouldn’t pay for their amusements.”

  “I’ll try and get my wife to go, sir,” French decided, and after some discussion as to what exactly he was to look for, the interview came to an end.

  French felt as if he was walking on air as he returned to his room. He could scarcely preserve his accustomed professional dignity. For some time he had been working on unpleasant cases: tedious, wearisome, sordid, and without any intellectual interest. They had taken him either to slums, or to areas which were rapidly becoming slums: a world of grimy bricks and mortar, of smells and insects and unwashed humanity. He was sick of the work and of his less fortunate fellow citizens, and longed for a breath of clean, fresh air and the green of the country. For the blue of the sea he had not longed: it had seemed too utterly beyond his dreams. But there was always a chance of an application from some county force, and he had hoped for luck had one come in.

  And now, suddenly and unexpectedly, he was to have the holiday which, of all holidays, he would most enjoy: a fortnight – and perhaps longer – on the super luxury cruising liner. Hellénique! For fourteen days – or perhaps more – he would be at sea, surrounded by clean air and clean sunshine! He would have shore excursions to the best bits of the British Isles, a luxurious cabin, excellent food and, so far as he could see, little or nothing to do. He would see for himself the most talked-of ship in the world: a mystery ship about which all kinds of secrets were whispered and thrilling tales told. Even now, after all the AC had said, he could scarcely believe it!

  His thoughts turned towards his wife. What a chance for Em! Often they had discussed cruising together, but somehow their plans had never materialised. Now, if Em would only go, they might have the time of their lives.

  But when he had told Sir Mortimer that he did not think she would, he was giving his real opinion. While she was an intelligent and, well-educated woman, she had a complex about what she called “grand people”. He knew that but for this feeling she could hold her own in any ordinary company, but it made her awkward and tongue-tied, and allowed those with aggressive tendencies to assume a superiority which they did not possess. He wished he could get her to agree, as he thought the experience would break her fear.

  He felt that if he were to ask her to share his glorious holiday, she would turn the scheme down. He therefore tried another approach. He did not refer to the plan till they were halfway through supper, then beg
an by saying rather dolefully that Sir Mortimer Ellison had let him in for an awkward job, and had advised him to get her help with it. He enlarged on it to the point of verbosity. It was, of course, a lot to ask and he wouldn’t press her if she disliked the idea, but as a matter of fact it was rather important, as his future might largely depend on how he handled the affair. And so on.

  “What is it?” she asked suspiciously, when his prologue at length came to an end.

  “It’s that gambling ship, the Hellénique, It seems the PM himself has ordered an investigation. See if we can catch ’em out anywhere. The whole Yard’s buzzing, but I’ve been given the chance.”

  “And what are you to do?”

  “Go as a passenger, for a fortnight. That’s what the AC wants you for. If I go with my wife, I’m less of a suspect. See the idea?”

  She did. “Oh, Joe,” she exclaimed, “I couldn’t go there. Among all those grand people. I couldn’t really.”

  He registered effective disappointment. “I hoped you would, Em. As I say, I know it’s a lot to ask, but it’s an honour to be chosen for this Prime Minister’s job, and it would be a big thing if I could pull it off. Sure you wouldn’t try it, at least for a day or two? If you didn’t like it, you could go home.”

  She hesitated, and he went on to describe the luxury of the cabins, and the fact that she could sit in hers as much as she liked. In the end, it was the private bathroom that did it. She had never had a bedroom with a private bathroom, and she couldn’t resist the experience. Curiously, she had no objection to being Mrs Forrester, which he thought would have proved an insuperable difficulty.

  Next day Mr Forrester called at the head office of the Boscombe Travel Agency to make enquiries about the Hellénique cruise. There he was supplied with the wrong folders by a slightly condescending young product of our higher education, who, when his error was pointed out, seemed to regard his client as an unreasonable purist who might be troublesome were he less negligible. A couple of days later Mr Forrester telephoned reserving accommodation from the following Wednesday.

  That Wednesday was the day on which the Hellénique was cruising off the Orkneys, the day on which Wyndham Stott and Margot also went on board. As has already been mentioned, the two couples not only travelled by the same plane, but occupied adjoining seats. That they quickly became on friendly terms was due to Margot’s good fellowship and kindly feeling.

  French had travelled by air on various occasions, but it was his wife’s first flight and she was scared stiff by the novelty. Valiantly she tried to hide her feelings, but Margot instantly saw through her pretences. Some travellers would have smiled and affected a pitying superiority: not so Margot. She felt that a few friendly, commonplace words would help her companion, and she was not slow to speak them. Mrs French instinctively recognised the kindly intention and responded to such an extent that before they reached the ship they were firm friends. And as their womenkind chatted, so did French and Wyndham Stott.

  In spite of her fears, however, Mrs French enjoyed every minute of the trip, as indeed did they all. The weather was perfect, fine and sunny and warm. The air was steady and without pockets, and the plane moved smoothly along on an even keel without those sudden drops and rises which are so disconcerting to the inexperienced traveller. Visibility was first class, and the country beneath them showed clear and sharp like a magnificently executed relief map. A country it was, too, of extraordinary variety and interest. From their start over the rich, prosperous and well-wooded landscape of Hampshire, to their finish over the wild and bleak Orkney Islands, there was scarcely a dull mile. At last, in surroundings with a beauty all their own, they came in sight of the monster ship, circled slowly down and made a gentle landing close beside her.

  Their cabin really did come up to Mrs French’s rosiest anticipations. It was an outside one on B Deck, and, in addition to the well-sprung twin beds – not bunks, as she had half expected – there were a couple of luxurious armchairs placed in admirable daylight. Directly she saw these, her courage rose. If she didn’t like the public rooms, she could be comfortable here with her knitting and books. About the bathroom she had no words to express an opinion.

  “Come and let’s have a stroll on deck,” said French.

  He had made no sartorial concessions to the sea save to add rubber-soled shoes to rather dilapidated plus fours and a sports jacket of Harris tweed. His wife had been horrified, suggesting a yachting outfit of blue and white. But she had taken his advice as to her own get-up and now was delighted to find most of the others on deck in a similar rig.

  French was a good mixer, and he soon drew in beside another couple who were standing at the rail looking at the slowly passing coast. A chance remark to the other man, and lo! in five minutes they were deep in a discussion on cruising in the Western Mediterranean. The man’s wife turned with a friendly smile to Mrs French, and thereby dealt the latter’s inferiority complex a blow from which it never fully recovered. By lunchtime French was delighted to see that his Em was feeling at home and enjoying herself.

  He himself was revelling in everything: the freedom, the freshness, the sea and air and sky and view, the comfort and the pleasant companionship. All the same, beneath all this superficial pleasure, he was feeling as worried as ever he had done in his life. This job that he had been given! He did not see how on earth he was to carry it out. It would not do to put his superiors to the expense of such a trip and do nothing to earn it.

  His difficulty was that his search was for something ill-defined. He was to find out if these people were breaking the British law, and he believed it unlikely that they were, at least to the extent which would enable the gambling to be stopped.

  With deep misgivings, he told himself that all he could do would be to keep his eyes and ears open. He had provided himself with charts of the coast, folded so that they could be placed in a novel and consulted without causing comment. He began by dotting in as best he could the ship’s position, and he determined to keep this record up-to-date, marking on the points at which the gaming rooms were opened and closed.

  Next he laid himself out to meet and chat to everyone he could, including the ship’s officers. He must know, he told himself, all the gossip of the ship; all those tales of mystery and imagination which are generated more particularly in the smoking room, though by no means confined to that area. Not that these were usually of value. Still, it sometimes did happen that where there was smoke there was fire.

  The matter of the supply of drink was also important. Inside the three-mile limit, British licensing laws ran, and a conviction under them might be valuable.

  But he had to admit that in none of these directions did there seem any hope of obtaining what he wanted. Rather despondently, he moved about, trying to pick up the gossip of the ship.

  During the next few days his gloomy anticipations proved only too well founded. The more he learnt about the conduct of the ship, the more eminently law-abiding it appeared to be. The opening and closing of the gaming rooms was always carried out so well outside the three-mile limit that, even with his rough methods of fixing their position, there was never doubt that the law was being kept. With drinks it was the same, and, though all kinds of spicy tales were whispered, none were of any use for his purpose.

  By the time the ship touched at Portrush, however, he had made a certain kind of progress. He had met practically everyone of importance on board, including Captain Hardwick and his officers. He had been over almost all the ship, engine room, bridge, kitchens, fo’c’sle, pantries. He had made a reputation as a quiet, decent, harmless chap – though rather inquisitive – who was pleasant enough, if not very likely to set rivers on fire.

  But towards the purpose for which the trip had been undertaken he had achieved absolutely nothing. He was greatly worried, and was beginning to believe he had been given an impossible task.

  Only in one matter was he profoundly satisfied. His wife had been a success. Her innate good fellowship and unpr
etentiousness had been appreciated, and she was enjoying a mild popularity.

  Then occurred the disappearance of John Stott.

  French had talked to John as well as to the other Stotts, and had discovered their relationships. He had also met Morrison on various occasions, and he shrewdly suspected his feelings towards Margot. All six would have been surprised if they could have seen the amount of information about themselves which was written up in French’s loose-leaf book – a page to each person.

  Directly French heard of the disappearance, he wondered if indirectly it might help him. His long experience of matters criminal made him suspect that this was no accident or careless failure to make known a change of plans. If a crime had been committed, its reactions might to some extent upset the routine of the ship, and some relaxation of precautions to keep the gambling within the law might not impossibly take place. It behooved him to miss nothing that was going on.

  French settled down to his work with a fresh ardour.

  13

  THE ACTIVITIES OF NUGENT

  During the couple of days following Stott’s disappearance, French did his best to find out details of what happened, but without success. On the first day no particular interest was shown in the affair. But on the second morning rumours began to circulate, increasing to a veritable flood by evening. Stott had gone off with a barmaid. He was lying drunk and incapable at the house of a friend. His wealth was a myth and he had been guilty of fraud and had fled the country. He had been crossed in love and had committed suicide. And then, at last, he had been murdered.

  In the extraordinary way that rumours approximate to the truth, this last was repeated more and more generally until it ousted the others and held the field. Why or how he had been murdered was not suggested, but the smoking room had made up its mind as to the fact.

  On the third day the flying boat brought a letter for French. It was in the square envelope of the private correspondent, and was addressed to the ship’s London agents in a lady’s old-fashioned and somewhat spidery hand: the hand French’s aunt would have written, had he possessed one. But within he found no suggestion of aunts. It read: