“That’s all right. But I warn you I shall require you to sign a statement that you gave me your information of your own free will and without any compulsion on my part.”
“All right. Haven’t I told you I’m willing?”
“Fine,” said French. “Let’s meet in your cabin after lunch and get it over.”
Delighted to find he was not to be held up here either, he went for his breather.
16
RETORT TO NUGENT
Luff’s statement, when French presently obtained it, confirmed those of the other members of his family as to the period up to the end of the lunch on the fateful Tuesday, except that his comments about the Atkinsons were not so parliamentary. The party had broken up outside the Northern Counties Hotel and he had gone for a short stroll on Ramore Head.
A question brought out the reason: it was not for the sake of the scenery, but to let the others get away. He had then returned to the town and taken a bus to Coleraine, some five miles distant. There he had hung about till 4.0 p.m., at which hour he was to meet his friend from the ship. But she hadn’t turned up. He had waited about for over an hour, then had returned to Portrush and had taken a boat aboard, leaving the shore about a quarter to six.
This was exactly the kind of tale French would have expected to hear, were Percy Luff guilty. Here was the incipient alibi, which would be strengthened later, but which would eventually turn out incapable of verification. However, he could but continue his questions.
He suspected the lady – if she existed at all – to be Mrs Mercer, a flamboyant dame with a penchant for loud dresses, whiskies and sodas and smoking-room stories. He had seen the two together on many occasions and the bar considered that a promising flirtation was in progress. A little bluff might settle the point.
“That’s all right, Mr Luff,” he responded easily. “Now if you don’t mind, just a little more detail. Where in Coleraine were you to meet Mrs Mercer?”
Luff seemed taken aback. “Damn it all, Chief Inspector, I mentioned no names,” he said huffily.
“I know,” French returned sweetly, “but it’s easy to visualise happenings if you know the actors. It was Mrs Mercer, of course?”
“I think this is a dirty trick. I particularly wanted to keep her name out of it.”
“Yes, but you can’t. However, it’s most unlikely that it’ll go any further. Where were you to meet?”
Luff glowered at him, but finally answered, “We were to have tea in a small shop in New Row.”
French nodded. “Discretion? I understand. Where did you have tea yourself?”
“I didn’t have any. I walked about waiting for her and then, when I finally gave her up, it was too late for tea.”
“Quite so. Now, Mr Luff, when was this meeting arranged?”
Luff seemed more and more unwilling to proceed. “Damn it all,” he repeated, “what has that got to do with the murder?”
“Nothing that I know of,” French returned, “but a lot to do with your alibi.”
Luff gave him a look of positive hatred. “She wrote to me that morning,” he said unwillingly.
“Oh,” French gave a nod of understanding. “Got the letter?”
“Yes, damn it. But I don’t suppose even you want to see it.”
“Oh, but I do,” French assured him brightly. “I’m not suggesting that I doubt your alibi, but we have to test such matters, and once it is established I need give you no further trouble.”
Unwillingly Luff took a paper from his pocket and handed it over.
The note was written on Hellénique paper, and was a model of propriety:
DEAR MR LUFF, it read
I am going to Coleraine this afternoon to see an old family retainer and hope to have tea at the Corona in New Row at four o’clock. If you happen to be in the neighbourhood, I should like to show you the strange epitaph to my ancestor in the churchyard, which I told you of. It is really worth seeing, and if you would bring your camera, perhaps you would take a photo of it for me?
Yours sincerely,
EDITH MERCER.
“Had she told you of an epitaph in the churchyard?” French asked.
“No,” Luff muttered with another look of hatred.
French smiled easily. “Well, that’s all right and quite normal. It was just to give you the opportunity to meet her if you wanted to. Nothing to criticise in that. Did she hand you the note?”
“No, a steward brought it to my cabin.”
“Did he say where he got it?”
“Yes. He had found it on the floor of the alleyway outside my cabin.”
French looked interested, but he made no remark except a non-committal, “I understand.” He paused for a moment, then went on: “Had you any conversation with Mrs Mercer about the letter?”
“Not then.”
“Not when?”
“Not that morning.”
“You mean that you didn’t see her on the subject before the hour of the meeting?” “That’s what I mean.”
“Then when did you see her? Come on, Mr Luff, do let me have these details without my having to drag them out of you. Don’t you know your statement is useless without them?”
Luff seemed to resign himself to the inevitable. “I spoke to her next time I saw her: that was after dinner that night.”
“Yes?” French’s tone was impatient. “What did she say?”
“I asked her why she had not turned up and she simply stared at me. Then I asked her about her letter and she denied having written it.”
“Oh,” said French. The alibi was developing on conventional lines. “Knew nothing about it, did she?”
“Nothing. It must have been a forgery. But who could have done such a thing, and why? We thought it was an imbecile joke by some of those swine on board, but we couldn’t think of which one.”
“Well,” suggested French, “it’s not so difficult to imagine an explanation. The murderer of Mr Stott might have wanted to fit you up with an afternoon without an alibi. You’re a beneficiary under the will, aren’t you?”
Luff seemed shocked. “Damn it all, I never thought of that.”
French suddenly dropped his rather aloof manner and spoke seriously. “That’s the reason, Mr Luff, as you can see for yourself, why your alibi is so important to me. If someone forged that letter, it was probably the murderer. That letter may be the most valuable clue I have yet got. You can see that for your own sake you must give me all the help in your power.”
Luff was evidently much shaken. “But I’m doing so,” he protested.
“I’m sure you are,” French agreed heartily. “Now just another question and I have done. I noticed a new button on the left sleeve of your sports coat. Where did you lose the old one?”
Though French watched the young man keenly as he spoke, he could not be certain as to his reaction. That he was frightened by the question was obvious, but it was not clear whether this was due to guilty terror or to a vague fear that French must know damaging facts which he had not revealed.
“I don’t know where I lost it,” he answered, and a more complete contrast to the former young man of bounce and brag could scarcely be imagined.
“Then when did you discover the loss?”
Luff hesitated, either thinking or pretending to think. “It was that evening,” he replied almost in a flood of words, “coming back in the boat. I remember now. I leant my arm on the gunwale and saw the button was gone. It was my own fault. I had noticed it loose, and I should have had it tightened on. But I thought it was all right for a day or two. Why do you ask?” He was almost breathless.
“I saw that it had been replaced. Those sort of things help sometimes, but apparently in this case, it’s not going to. Well, Mr Luff, that’s all at last. I’m greatly obliged to you for your statement and I’m sorry to have kept you so long.”
As he left the cabin French swore inwardly. Luff was his chief suspect and here, as in the case of Wyndham, he had not reached certainty. Th
e letter, he took it, would prove to be a forgery all right and written in all probability by the murderer, but that got him very little further. Had Luff written it himself and dropped it outside his cabin, or had someone else done so? Perhaps examination of the letter would throw some light on this point, but the facts he had learnt so far certainly didn’t.
Well, that could all be gone into later. The thing now was to get these blessed interrogations over. Bristow’s was the next name on his list, and after ringing him up, he went to his cabin.
He did not hope for much from Bristow, as his grounds for suspicion of the man were of the slightest: merely that he had been overheard to express contempt and detestation for Stott. But he intended to examine him carefully, so as to prevent Morrison from realising that he was the real suspect. If they discussed the affair afterwards, as they certainly would, they must find that they had been treated alike.
“You’re entitled, as you probably know, Mr Bristow,” French began, when they were seated, “to refuse to reply to my questions except in the presence of your solicitor, I take it you don’t wish to stand on your rights in the matter?”
“Thank you, but I do very decidedly,” Bristow returned. “I’m a solicitor myself and I know very well what you can ask and what you can’t. I’ll look after myself.”
“Quite satisfactory to me,” French assured him. He had come across Bristow very little in his Forrester impersonation, though he had spoken to him once or twice. Now he saw that, were he guilty, the man would prove a hard nut to deal with. He had undoubted ability and strength of character and his solicitor’s training would keep his answers discreet and innocuous.
French first obtained a brief history of the start of the cruise, learning that the original idea was Bristow’s, that at first he could interest no one with money, that in despair he confided in Morrison, that Morrison introduced him to Stott, and that Stott proved to be the man for whom he was looking. Then how he had fixed up an agreement with Stott for the division of profits, how Stott bought the Hellénique through the French Company, refitted her, and developed the flying boat service. So far as French could see, Bristow told him all he wanted to know directly and without evasion.
“Now, that agreement you had with Mr Stott,” French went on, remembering the letter from Bristow he had found among Stott’s papers, complaining that he had not been paid his share of the profits, “was it carried out?”
“Absolutely,” Bristow returned. “I admit that Mr Stott had not paid my percentage profits, but when I wrote reminding him about it, he said that when he had met one or two outstanding items, which would affect the amount due to me, he would settle.”
“And you had no doubt that he would do so?”
Bristow smiled rather unpleasantly. “None,” he answered grimly. “There could be none. I had drawn up our agreement myself and if he had refused to pay I could have taken him into court and recovered the money. He knew that as well as I did, though I’m not suggesting the knowledge was needed to make him pay.”
“Very well, Mr Bristow. Now can you tell me anything about personal relations on the ship? How did you all get on?”
Bristow’s reply was typical. He considered that they got on as well or as badly as any ordinary crowd of people would do under similar circumstances. There were on occasion misunderstandings and bickerings, but nothing was seriously amiss. Taking them by and large, the men aboard were a very decent crowd, and so far as he, Bristow, was concerned, he got on well with them all.
“But you didn’t like the deceased?”
“No,” said Bristow, “I didn’t. Nor did anyone else, if it comes to that. But I found him all right to work with. He had an unpleasant, domineering manner which put people’s backs up. But I don’t think he meant to be offensive.”
“Then just one other routine question, which I put to everyone. Will you please account for your time ashore on the day of Mr Stott’s death?”
For the first time Bristow seemed less self-assured. But he replied as directly as before. “There,” he said, “I’m afraid you have me. I haven’t a satisfactory alibi, if that’s what you want. Morrison and I were talking about it when we heard you wanted to question us, and neither of us have.”
“Too good an alibi often creates suspicion, Mr Bristow, as I expect you know. Never mind about proof; just tell me what you did, and put in plenty of detail.”
“I went ashore with the others and was met at the boat-slip by a couple of friends from the Golf Club: people I had known in London, but who were then staying at Portrush. I wanted some films, and after getting the camera charged, we had a round of golf. We lunched at the Club House and after lunch developed an argument on driving. I had my camera and I took a couple of snaps of one or two of the men in the middle of their swing. I could not play myself in the afternoon, as Mr Stott had asked me to take some photographs of a ruin a mile or more out of the town. So I walked with my party for a few holes of the round, as far as our ways were parallel, then I left them, went to the ruin, took my photographs, and returned to the Club House. They were at tea when I arrived and I joined them. They were still arguing about the driving and after tea I took one or two more snaps of swings. There wasn’t time to begin another round, so after the photographing we went down to the boats and I came aboard.”
“That’s very clear, Mr Bristow. Could you say at what hours you left your party and returned to it?”
Bristow smiled a little grimly. “I can’t answer that exactly,” he returned, “but I can approximately. We had lunch at one-thirty, and it lasted for about an hour. Then we sat over coffee for perhaps half an hour more. We started play about three, as near as I can estimate. It would take, I suppose, forty minutes to reach the hole at which I left them, so that must have been somewhere about three-forty or forty-five. It was almost exactly five when I got back: they were halfway through tea.”
Once again French experienced that little wave of annoyance. It looked as if Bristow was entirely correct when he said he hadn’t a satisfactory alibi. An absence during the hours stated would undoubtedly have enabled him to visit the Hollow. Moreover, he could have been there at the estimated hour of the murder. Was there to be no certainty about anyone in this exasperating case?
“Just show me those places on the map,” said French, unrolling his 6-inch Ordnance.
“There,” Bristow pointed, “is the Club House, and somewhere about there the hole at which I left the party. Up here” – he searched for a few moments, then his pencil halted – “that’s the ruin I photographed.”
“Quite.” French scaled the distances. “I make it a mile from where you left your party to the ruin, and a mile and a half or more from the ruin back to the Club House: say, two and a half miles altogether. How long would it have taken you to walk that, Mr Bristow?”
“About three-quarters of an hour, I expect. It was across the fields and there were some fences to be climbed.”
“Three-quarters of an hour, and you had about an hour and a quarter altogether. What about the other half-hour?”
“Oh well, I spent at least that taking the photographs; I should have said even longer. You can’t go to a place like that and simply let fly at once, you understand. You have to consider a number of points: what exactly you want to show, how many pictures will do it, where you should stand to include the required details and to get the best light. You’ll find, if you try it yourself, half an hour isn’t any too long for a job of the kind.”
French smiled. “I’m not questioning it. How many views did you take?”
“Of the ruin? I took five. One roughly from north, south, east and west, and a detail of what looked like rudimentary carving.”
“Can I see the photographs?”
“As a matter of fact, I haven’t developed them. Stott, of course, is no longer in a position to demand his, and in the hurry and upset caused by his death I let the matter slide. But I’ll develop them for you with pleasure.”
“Perhaps you
wouldn’t mind my photographer doing them? He’s a very good man.”
Bristow seemed surprised at the request. “Of course,” he answered, “I’ve no objection whatever. Save me the trouble. But I confess I don’t get your idea.”
“Well, to put it bluntly, has it not occurred to you that if you were photographing this ruin at quarter past four, you could not have been at McArtt’s Hollow murdering Mr Stott?”
“I realise that all right, and if you think the photographs will establish it, I’m not likely to dispute your decision. Morrison and I discussed the point, and he was satisfied that they would.”
“But you don’t think so?”
“You’re no fool, Chief Inspector, so there’s no use pretending to you. My spool of film will prove that the photographs were taken. Unhappily, they won’t prove I took them.”
“You mean that you could have lent your camera to someone else during that hour and a quarter?”
Bristow hesitated. “As a matter of fact, I don’t think I could. But you’ll think it.”
“Well,” French decided, “let me have the undeveloped spool, at all events. I suppose, Mr Bristow, since you did not murder Mr Stott, you’ve no idea who might have done so? Any theory would be gratefully received and kept confidential.”
But Bristow was not to be drawn, and after a few more questions French left him.
Though the photography made a kind of alibi for Bristow, French was not interested in it. So far as he could see, the matter of motive settled Bristow’s case. Bristow had no motive for killing Stott, but he had a very strong one for keeping him alive. If Stott were to die, the whole continuance of the gambling cruise was jeopardised. If, as seemed likely, the venture would pass to Wyndham, no one could say what would happen to it. Wyndham might be a pleasanter character than John, but he was no businessman. He would almost certainly let the affair down. And if so, neither Bristow nor anyone else in it, so far as French knew, had the cash to set it going again. John Stott’s rule undoubtedly meant security for all concerned.
Fatal Venture Page 20