Fatal Venture

by Freeman Wills Crofts

  Once ashore French drifted away from the party, and as soon as the others were out of sight, he returned on board. Presently he strolled to the shop and began to chat to the pretty attendant. She would, he thought, have been even prettier had her face been less white, her hair less golden and her lips less red, but this evidently was not her opinion, and she regrettably had the final say. She seemed a good sort of girl and he enjoyed talking to her.

  “I’ve lost,” he said, when the time of day had been leisurely passed, “one of those leather-covered buttons off my sports coat, and I understand you’ve got the very thing. Can you give me one the same as Mr Luff got from you two or three days ago? Or is it asking you too much to remember that?”

  It worked better than he could have hoped. “No,” she answered, opening a drawer, “I remember quite well. As a matter of fact, I’ve had a dozen of these buttons ever since the cruise started and Mr Luff was the first person who bought one.” She handed out a button. “This is what you want?”

  “That’s it,” French returned; “exactly right. Funny how these things happen. You’ve not made a sale for a year and a half and now in – what, three days? – you get rid of two.”

  “Three days, yes. It was on Tuesday evening that Mr Luff came round.”

  “You’ll sell another inside the week,” French assured her solemnly. “Things always run in threes.”

  “Go on,” she returned; “a man like you stuffing me up with nonsense of that kind.”

  They chatted of superstitions and he gave her instances he had known of mishaps coming in threes, while she ridiculed his seriousness. Presently, clutching his button, he passed on.

  So Percy Luff had bought the button on the evening of the Portrush call! This certainly was progress, and positive progress at that.

  Negative progress French also made that day while the ship slowly passed the Aran Islands in the mouth of Galway Bay: namely, the discovery that neither Captain Hardwick nor the Chief Engineer had gone ashore at Portrush. While, therefore. Luff’s name remained underlined on his list of suspects, Hardwick’s and Mackintosh’s were deleted.

  His thoughts reverted to the button. Someone had picked it up and he had at first assumed that this had been the man who had lost it. Now he was not so sure. If Luff had picked it up, why had he not replaced it on his sleeve instead of buying a new one? Was it damaged from being tramped into the ground? French thought this unlikely. Then had two people been present and had the other one retrieved it?

  French did not know, but it occurred to him that it might be well to obtain another button from Luff’s coat, so that if the first should later be found, they might be compared.

  Accordingly that evening after dinner, when the stewards had finished with the cabins and had vanished to their own place, he went in search of Luff. He found him seated at the tables and decided that the moment was propitious for his venture. Carrying a hat and light overcoat as if going for a stroll on deck, he went to Luff’s cabin, easily discoverable from the sailing list and plan of the ship, and, after a quick glance round, he entered. In ten seconds he had found the jacket and wrapped it in his overcoat, and in another thirty he was back in his own cabin. There Mrs French was waiting, and soon the corresponding button from the other sleeve lay on his table, together with a lot of the thread which had been used to sew it on. Five minutes later the new button French had bought was in its place, and he was starting back with the coat. He replaced it unseen and continued on his way to the deck.

  Next morning there came a parcel from District Inspector Nugent, apparently sent from Dublin, containing a rather well-worn pair of men’s rubber-soled, tan shoes.

  Another package from the police at Portrush contained photographs of the footprint and of the hole from which the button had been pulled. There were two of the latter, one showing the hole as it had been found, and the other the bottom portion with the broken sides removed. This latter formed a mould of half the button, and on comparing it with his trophy from Luff’s coat, French was satisfied that it had been made by a button of similar type.

  The photograph of the footprint next claimed his attention. A glance showed it had been made by a man’s shoe, rubber-soled, of medium size. Probably it belonged to a man of medium height and build, though, of course, this was not certain. At first sight he could find nothing distinctive about the trace, which might separate that particular shoe from the thousands of others of identical pattern.

  With rubber soles, however, wear was the thing to look for, and closer examination brought out an important fact. The inner side of the shoe was more deeply worn than the outside, as was the rear end of both sole and heel compared with the forward position.

  French knew that this was unusual. Most people wear away their shoes on the outer sides and at the front. He remembered having read that examination of the boots of soldiers had showed that 98 percent were worn in this way, only 2 percent being as in Nugent’s photograph. Of course, the soldiers’ marching walk might have affected the result. However, the point was suggestive.

  The next thing was obviously to examine the shoes of his men suspects. On this day the shore excursion was from Dingle to Tralee, Cahirsiveen and Valencia, and it happened that all the remaining suspects had taken it. French had stayed on the ship and, watching his chance, he slipped into each cabin in turn.

  In each his procedure was the same. He quickly reversed the most worn shoe he could find, laid a two-inch rule across the instep, and with a powerful torch took a photograph of the sole. His luck held and he got back to his own cabin unseen.

  But though he had persisted with the photograph in each case, observation alone had given him both a surprise and a thrill. Luff obviously had not made the print; his foot was too long and too narrow. Nor had Wyndham Stott; his was too short and too broad. Nor had Bristow; his was too large. But Morrison’s seemed exactly the size, and, moreover, Morrison’s shoes were more worn on the inside, just as in the photograph. Immediately French made a rapid search of the cabin, and saw that the original shoe of the photograph was not there. Morrison might, of course, be wearing it; but then he might not.

  French wondered if Morrison could be his man, and thought he might make a further test. A little observation indicated the steward who attended to Morrison’s cabin and he called him over.

  “Can you help me in a small matter?” he began. “I’m asking everyone if he has lost a pair of shoes. An extra pair was left in my cabin by mistake and they should go back to their owner.”

  “Yes, sir,” the man answered, to French’s delight. “Mr Morrison lost a pair last Tuesday. I asked him about them and he said for me to make enquiries.”

  “What were they like? Tan shoes with rubber soles?”

  “Yes, sir; that’s them right enough.”

  “Then come along to my cabin and see if these are they.”

  French carried out the little farce to the end. He showed the steward the shoes he had obtained from Nugent, was suitably surprised to learn that they were not Morrison’s, told the man to let him know if he heard of any others which were missing, and let him go with a word of thanks.

  French was really surprised at this development. It looked as if not one, but two of his suspects had been in the Hollow. Had Morrison and Percy Luff conspired together to kill Stott? Or was one only the murderer, the other having come on the ground through some accident? To find this out must be his next step.

  While satisfied with his progress, French realised that he was only at the beginning of his enquiry. He now had an indication of what must have happened and a pointer in the direction in which his researches must continue. Not much in a way, and yet for the third day of the enquiry not too bad.

  He moved a deckchair into a sheltered position behind a boat, and settled down to think out his next step.

  15

  FAMILY TALES

  The more French thought over his new case, the more satisfied he became that he had learnt all that secret investigation
could tell him. Up till now the method had proved valuable, but he could not hide his identity forever, and he thought the time had come to reveal it.

  He therefore sought out Captain Hardwick and put his views before him. “If you, as an interested party,” he suggested, handing over a paper, “would call together the people on this list and introduce me and suggest that they help me, it would be useful. Apart from easing my approach to them, I might learn something from watching their expressions during your announcement.”

  Hardwick raised his eyebrows as he read the names. “Bless my soul!” he exclaimed with something like indignation. “You’re surely not going to accuse Mrs or Miss Stott of the murder?”

  “1 didn’t say I accused any of these,” French returned mildly. “I want their testimony as to where they were when it was taking place. They may make alibis for other people,” he added, as the Captain continued to frown.

  “Oh, very well,” Hardwick said at last. “It’s your pigeon. I’ll do what you want.”

  As various persons were leaving the dining-saloon that evening, stewards confidentially offered them the Captain’s compliments with a request that they would give him the benefit of their company in his cabin at 9 p.m.

  Hardwick’s cabin was a large room as captains’ cabins go, but it was taxed to its utmost at the meeting. Hardwick was at his desk, with French at his right hand. Ranged on the remaining four chairs and the settee were Elmina, Margot, Wyndham, Percy Luff, Malthus and Mason, while Bristow and Morrison stood beside the door.

  Hardwick was official in his manner and rather curt in his remarks. He briefly thanked those present for attending and expressed regret that he had had to trouble them. They would see, however, that their summons was not without cause.

  “I asked you to come,” he went on, “in connection with the death of the late Mr Stott. All of you are concerned in the matter either as relatives or as former or present business associates. You are aware that foul play is suspected, and an enquiry has therefore been ordered.”

  Malthus’ brow darkened. “I’ve never been associated with the deceased gentleman,” he interrupted. “I don’t know why you should have included me.”

  “Nor I,” added Mason. “In fact, I had never even seen him till we came on board.”

  “In that case, some mistake has probably been made,” Hardwick returned smoothly. “Perhaps you’ll kindly speak to our friend here about it. I was just about to introduce him. You have known him as Mr Forrester, but that’s not his name. He adopted it to avoid publicity, if I may so put it” – Hardwick’s voice was dry – “so that on his holiday he might have a real change and avoid conversations on professional matters. He has not succeeded in this, for his headquarters officials have just asked him to undertake this enquiry. Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce Chief Detective Inspector French of Scotland Yard.”

  A good deal of surprise, considerable interest and some indignation showed on the faces of the little audience, but before anyone could speak, French got up and bowed.

  “As Captain Hardwick has told you,” he said, “I have been instructed to make an enquiry into this unhappy affair. I was chosen to do it owing to the fact that I happened already to be on board, and therefore could get to work sooner than if a man were sent from London. I offer you unreservedly my apologies for masquerading under another name, the reason for which the Captain has explained and which I hope you will all appreciate.”

  French looked around, but the indignant looks persisted. No one spoke, and with a shrug he continued.

  “Those of you, ladies and gentlemen, who were either relatives of the deceased or business associates, will be as anxious as I am that the affair be cleared up quickly, and for that reason I confidently ask your help. I want to ask you questions about the deceased, and about everyone’s whereabouts on the afternoon of his death. This does not indicate suspicion of you, but is simply following the routine laid down for us officers, and I have no choice but to carry it out. I hope, therefore, you’ll all give me as much information as you can.”

  “And where do we come in?” Malthus demanded harshly.

  “I’ll tell you, sir, in a moment, if you and Mr Mason will be good enough to wait with the others.”

  For a moment he paused, and this time Wyndham Stott spoke.

  “I think we all recognise that an enquiry is inevitable, and we are anxious to help with it. But, to be candid, Chief Inspector, I think you have prejudiced your personal popularity by coming among us under a name other than your own.”

  “Thank you, Mr Stott,” French answered, “I’m grateful for your promise, and, as for the name, I’ve already apologised. Now I must put my cards on the table, as I do not want any of you to say you were questioned under false pretences.”

  He looked searchingly around, then continued:

  “Owing to this being a French ship, I have no locus standi aboard except when we’re in British territorial waters, which are roughly inside three miles from any part of the shore. Therefore, with our present itinerary, I can only question you with the authority of the law behind me, between the hours of, say, eight to nine a.m., and five to seven p.m. During these hours you will probably be busy, and I don’t want to inconvenience you. What I ask is that you voluntarily agree to being questioned at other times suitable to yourselves, in order to avoid my using those inconvenient hours, or having to get the ship’s itinerary changed. Will you do that?”

  There was some muttering amongst the eight visitors, then Percy Luff spoke up. His tone was always slightly offensive, but now it was much more so than usual, and French thought he had had too much drink.

  “That sounds all very nice and very fair, but how do we know that still you’re not bluffing us? What authority have you to question us inside the three-mile limit?”

  French kept his temper. “Perhaps it’s as well that you should have raised that point,” he returned. “I shall show you my authority.” He took his card from his pocket and passed it round. “The Captain will tell you that the area inside the three-mile limit is the legal equivalent of British soil. And on British soil you probably know that the law empowers a police officer to question civilians, and if he is not satisfied with their answers, to take them to a police station and detain them there for further interrogation.”

  “That’s all very well,” Luff answered, his tone still offensive, “but you’ve no power to ask us anything at all except in the presence of our solicitors, and I for one am not going to answer any questions without mine.”

  Elmina Stott’s shrewd eyes showed approval, but Wyndham made a gesture of impatience.

  “I disagree with you in toto,” he declared, looking with disgust at his stepson. “We’re all anxious to get this affair cleared up and we should all help the Chief Inspector as he suggests. I’m going to for one, and so should you – unless you’ve something to hide.”

  “I’d like to know what you mean by that,” Mrs Stott said tartly. “Are you accusing my son of committing a murder?”

  “I’m accusing him of nothing, as you know very well,” Wyndham returned; “but I repeat that if he refuses to answer the Chief Inspector’s questions, it will look as if he had something to hide.”

  “Thank you for the suggestion,” Percy retorted angrily. “I’ll manage my own affairs without your help. I won’t answer without my solicitor, because I know what these police are like when they’re out for a conviction. He’ll find my name’s in the will and heaven knows how he’ll twist the facts against me.”

  “You might have saved yourself, Mr Luff, from making that entirely false insinuation,” French put in quietly. The little interchange, though embarrassing, had not been without its value. From the appearance and manner of the participants, as well as from their words, he had obtained a glimpse of their characters. Wyndham he had already seen something of and he believed him to be both straight and kindly, while his daughter, Margot, who was looking heartily ashamed of the whole affair, he held to b
e of the salt of the earth. But Elmina Stott was a shrew: her every intonation proclaimed it, and Luff was undoubtedly a bad egg.

  “Well” he continued, “that’s satisfactory. All but Mr Luff are going to help me and I’m grateful to you. You, Mr Luff, will be subpoenaed to attend the Coroner’s Court at Portrush and will be arrested if you don’t turn up. You can have your solicitor there and there you’ll be questioned in public instead of here in private.” He paused for a moment. “That’s all our business, and thank you very much. I shall ask for statements from you – except Mr Luff – as may be convenient.”

  “I shall have to know more about it before answering questions,” put in Malthus, while Mason nodded approvingly. “On general grounds, I agree with Mr Luff.”

  “Mr Luff’s remark about his solicitor is perfectly correct,” French returned; “and as for telling you more about the affair, I have every intention of doing so directly. That’s all, thank you. Captain.”

  Hardwick briefly added his thanks for their attendance and the party filed out, all but Percy Luff seeming relieved. Luff indeed looked almost murderous, though French believed he was now sorry for the stand he had taken, and unless he really had something to hide, would presently change his mind. It was with this object that French had made his bluff.

  He moved off with Malthus and Mason. “I’d like to have my chat with you first, Mr Malthus, and then afterwards with Mr Mason,” he went on, as Mason kept closely with them. “It’s our routine, laid down for us by authority.”

  Rather unwillingly. Mason gave way and French followed Malthus to the latter’s cabin.

  “Now to give you the explanations you require, sir,” French went on briskly. “Our instructions are that in the investigation of a suspected crime, the movements of everyone who might possibly be involved, must be gone into. This does not mean that we suspect these people. It’s a matter of routine. For example, I don’t suspect Mr Stott, still less Mrs or Miss Stott, but they benefit under the will, and I must therefore find out where they were at the time of the crime. I don’t suspect Mr Bristow or Mr Morrison, but both have been heard inveighing against the deceased, so that brought them on to my list. I don’t suspect you or Mr Mason, but owing to that business at the time of the purchase of the ship, you might have had a serious grudge against him. Hence this interview.”