by Conrad Allen
“I demand to be let out of here!”
“You’re not in a position to make demands, Mr. Heritage.”
“I’m not an animal that has to be caged.”
“You’re a murder suspect who has to be held in custody,” said Redfern.
“What was wrong with my cabin? I was securely locked in there.”
“We chose to move you.”
“Why?” asked Heritage.
“That’s our business.”
A couple of hours’ sleep had revived the inspector but there was still a dull ache at the back of his head. Ignoring the discomfort, he had first checked on his female suspect in the adjoining cabin then made his way to the cells. His wrists and ankles still tingled from his ordeal. The bandage around his head felt too tight.
Heritage tried to adopt a more reasonable approach.
“I’m not going to try to escape, Inspector,” he said, “I promise you that.”
“Where you would go?”
“Exactly. So why am being treated like this?”
“We make the decisions, Mr. Heritage, you simply abide by them.”
“This is Sergeant Mulcaster’s idea, isn’t it?”
“Not at all.”
“Left to him, I’d have a ball and chain as well. By the way,” he said, “where is he? The sergeant usually comes in with my breakfast but the steward brought it today.”
Redfern kept a straight face. “The sergeant is busy.”
“You haven’t let him question Miss Peterson alone, have you?” Heritage said in alarm. “You promised you wouldn’t let him do that, Inspector. We both know how rough he can be. It would be a cruelty to her.”
“I’m more concerned with the cruelty shown to your wife, Mr. Heritage.”
“There was none.”
“The coroner disagrees.”
“Look,” said Heritage, trying to control his rising temper, “let me go back to my cabin. I won’t be any trouble to you.”
“But you will be. You’ll persist in telling lies.”
“They’re not lies.”
“I’m fed up with listening to them.”
“You can’t just leave me here like this.”
“A night or two in here might jog your memory.”
“There’s nothing wrong with it, Inspector.”
“I think that there is,” said Redfern calmly. “Tell me the truth and I’ll consider moving you out of here. If you stick to the same story, you remain here.”
“That’s unjust!”
Redfern was appalled. “You dare to talk of justice?”
“All right,” said Heritage, shrinking back, “I admit it was wrong to desert my wife like that. It was equally wrong to leave Stephen, my partner at the pharmacy, in the lurch. But I had no choice in the matter.”
“Of course not. You had to cover your tracks.”
“The pharmacy will survive without me.”
“It’s a pity that Mrs. Heritage didn’t,” said the Inspector. “As for your partner, Stephen Duckham, he was very hurt when he realized that you’d flown the coop and taken a lot of money out of the business account without even consulting him.”
“I meant to pay it back in time.”
“That’s what they all say. You also cleared out your own bank account.”
“We needed cash to set ourselves up in Ireland.”
“You obviously didn’t have to leave anything for your wife.”
“Winifred had a small private income of her own.”
“Then you slipped up badly,” said Redfern. “When you killed her, you could have had access to her money as well. Why not take that?”
Heritage gave up. “Nothing that I say will convince you, will it?”
“Probably not. The one thing to your credit is that you confessed to having taken money from the business account that was not available for your personal use. In short, you robbed your partner behind his back. It’s a lesser charge you’ll have to face when we get back to England. That alone would merit a prison sentence.”
“For me, perhaps, but not for Miss Peterson.”
“Only a court can determine that.”
“She wasn’t involved in the deception.”
“You’ll have a hard job persuading a jury of that,” warned the inspector. “Since she worked at the pharmacy as your assistant, Miss Peterson must have known about the financial side of the business. It may even have been her idea that you grabbed the money and made a run for it.”
“No, Inspector!”
“Like you, she pulled the wool over Mr. Duckham’s eyes. He was expecting her to turn up at the shop on Monday. Clever, that,” said Redfern. “Making sure that you didn’t give the game away by both of you telling him that you were taking a few days off. Imagine how your partner felt when he learned the pair of you had sailed to Ireland. Mr. Duckham had no idea there was any romantic entanglement.”
“We were very discreet.”
“Murdering your wife was not exactly an act of discretion, sir.”
Heritage bit back a reply. He could see he was getting nowhere. Though he could never bring himself to like the man, he had come to have a grudging respect for Inspector Redfern. The detective was decent and straightforward. It was his companion who posed the problems. Heritage became thoughtful.
“What happened to your head, Inspector?” he asked.
“I told you. I had a slight accident.”
“It looks as if it was more serious than that.”
“Forget about me. You have enough worries of your own.”
“You’re such a careful man by nature,” noted Heritage. “Except when you play chess, that is. You don’t keep your wits about you then. But as a rule, I suspect you’re the sort of person who never has accidents.”
“Well, I did on this occasion.”
“Was someone else involved?”
“That’s nothing to do with you.”
“It wouldn’t be Sergeant Mulcaster, by any chance?”
“Good-bye,” said Redfern, abruptly terminating the interview.
“Or maybe there’s some other explanation,” the prisoner speculated. “I thought it was odd when he didn’t bring in my breakfast this morning. Then you came in with that bandage around your head.”
“I’ll look in on you later.”
Heritage was suspicious. “Where exactly is Sergeant Mulcaster?”
“Perhaps you’ll have come to your senses by then.”
“What are you trying to hide, Inspector?”
Redfern shut the door firmly in his face.
It took Daniel Webb a long time to work out where he had slept the previous night.
“Are you sure it was here?” asked Dillman.
“It could have been.”
“That’s not good enough, Mr. Webb. You have to be certain.”
“It was dark.”
When he and Dillman first went out on the main deck, Webb was convinced that he had been on the starboard side of the ship when he witnessed the two men. It was only after a wasted quarter of an hour that he remembered he must have been on the port side. They began their search afresh. Dillman remained patient. The old man had brought them what might prove to be vital information about the disappearance of Sergeant Mulcaster. Irritating as he was, Daniel Webb had to be humored.
“It might have been here,” Webb decided, pointing a gnarled finger. He changed his mind instantly. “Or perhaps it was a bit farther along.”
“Which door did you come out of?”
“I thought it was the one we used ourselves.”
“That was on the wrong side of the ship,” Dillman reminded him. “We’ve just passed the exit directly opposite on this side and you ignored it. Why was that?”
“The rope, Mr. Dillman. There was no rope.”
“This is the first I’ve heard of any rope.”
“That’s what I sat down on. A coil of rope.”
“Why didn’t you say so?”
“I’ve o
nly just remembered.”
“That gives us something to look for,” said Dillman. “A coil of rope near one of the exits. When those men came through the door, they wouldn’t have strolled along the deck together. They’d have gone straight to the rail.”
“That’s what happened.”
“Where?”
“Let’s find out.”
They walked toward the prow of the ship until they reached the next door that gave access to the cabin area. Immediately beyond it, tucked a little way back, was a coil of thick rope. A smile of recognition spread over Webb’s face.
“That’s it, Mr. Dillman.”
“You must have been uncomfortable if you slept on that.”
“I was too drunk to care.”
“And you’re quite definite?”
Webb was decisive. “Yes.” He scratched his head. “At least, I think so.”
“Let’s assume that you’re right,” said Dillman, moving to sit on the coil of rope. “Yes, you’d have had a good view from here of anyone coming through that door. If they went straight to the rail,” he went on, getting up to cross to the bulwark, “they’d have ended up about here.”
“A bit to the left,” recalled Webb. “I could see them from an angle.”
Dillman shifted his position. “About here?”
“Even farther over.”
“Here, then?”
Dillman moved across to the designated area and earned a nod of approval. He crouched down to examine the deck. Steady rain had blown in for hours to clean the deck and obliterate any sign of blood, but it had not washed away a small, sodden object that Dillman picked up carefully between a finger and thumb.
“What is it?” asked Webb.
“Exactly what I was hoping to find.”
He showed the abandoned cigarette to the old man.
Genevieve Masefield had some difficulty freeing herself from the attentions of Isadora Singleton without wounding the girl’s feelings. Hoping to get back to her duties, she was met with a further delay. As she was leaving the first-class lounge, two men were coming toward it. When he saw her, the younger of them raised a hand. Stanley Chase gave her a warm greeting and introduced Frank Openshaw to her. The Yorkshireman’s eyes lit up when he heard her name.
“Genevieve Masefield, eh?” he said. “You were mentioned in dispatches.”
“Was I?” replied Genevieve. “By whom?”
“A charming young lady called Isadora Singleton. You might call her a belle from Boston. Never stopped singing your praises.”
“I shouldn’t pay too much attention to her, Mr. Openshaw.”
“But I do, I do.”
“Isadora tends to exaggerate.”
“I disagree,” said Openshaw. “If anything, she did the opposite. According to her, you’re one of the most attractive ladies on the ship. I’d say that was being a trifle unfair to you. What do you think, Mr. Chase?”
“Miss Masefield already knows my opinion,” Chase said gallantly. “I don’t believe that there’s anyone on the Caronia to compare with her.”
“There you are, my dear. That’s the opinion of a connoisseur. Mr. Chase is an antiques dealer. He has an eye for quality.”
Genevieve smiled. “I hope that he doesn’t plan to sell me in his shop.”
“It would be impossible to put a price on you,” Chase said courteously. “Do you know, I’ve been so lucky on this voyage. First of all, I meet you, Miss Masefield. Then, today, I had the good fortune to sit opposite Mr. Openshaw and his wife. It was a meeting of true minds.”
Openshaw chuckled. “What he means is that we’re both interested in money.”
“Making it or giving it away?” she asked.
“Both, in my case.”
Chase was circumspect. “I’m no philanthropist, I’m afraid.”
“It’s not philanthropy, my friend,” said Openshaw. “It’s a form of advertisement. You have the satisfaction of helping those less fortunate than yourself, and the knowledge that you’ll get beneficial publicity. Look what happened to the Openshaw Trust, for example. It provides accommodation for homeless people but it also broadcasts my name to the thousands who pass the building every day. Philanthropy is an investment.”
“That’s rather a cynical way of putting it, isn’t it?” said Genevieve.
“I’m simply being honest.”
“ ‘Frank by name and frank by nature,’ ” said Chase, quoting his friend’s motto.
“That’s me,” Openshaw agreed with a chuckle. “But I’m so glad I finally met you, Miss Masefield. Isadora seemed bereft without you when she and her parents joined us for drinks yesterday evening.”
“I’m surprised you remember either of our names,” said Genevieve. “I hear that there were dozens of people invited.”
“You’ll be among them next time, and so will Mr. Chase,” said Openshaw, turning to his companion. “But you’ve just put your finger on one of my secret weapons. I never forget a name. It’s a gift that always impresses people. I may not see them for twenty years but I can always put a name to a face when I meet it again.”
“That’s a useful asset in business,” noted Chase.
“Aye, it’s a form of flattery.”
Genevieve smiled. “I don’t think I’ll ever be in danger of forgetting your name, Mr. Openshaw. You’re such a memorable person.”
“I try to be, Miss Masefield. I sell myself, you see.”
“We all do that to some degree or other,” argued Chase. “Put it this way. I don’t think I’d shift many antiques if I dressed in a cloth cap and a pair of dungarees.”
“Now that’s how I started my career,” said Openshaw.
“You told me,” Genevieve said politely. “I’ll get out of the way so that you can astound Mr. Chase in the same way.”
“Oh, he’s already done that,” explained Chase.
“Now I move on to the next stage,” said Openshaw, slipping an arm around the other man’s shoulders. “Having softened him up with the story of my life, I’m going to see if he’d like to invest in one of my companies.”
The two men went off together. They hardly seemed kindred spirits, but Genevieve had seen less likely partnerships on board. Stanley Chase was an educated man with refined tastes. He might be expected to steer clear of such an unashamed vulgarian as Frank Openshaw. The same could be said of the Singletons yet they had been won over by the promise of an introduction to representatives of the British aristocracy. Such a promise would be unlikely to lure Chase. As she strolled toward the purser’s office, Genevieve wondered what it was that had interested the quiet antiques dealer in the gregarious financier.
Inspector Redfern examined the cigarette butt with great solemnity. He gave a nod.
“Are you sure?” asked Dillman.
“This is the brand that he smoked.”
“It could have been dropped by someone else.”
“How many people on the main deck last night were smoking an expensive Balkan cigarette?” said Redfern, putting the butt in the ashtray on the table. “It was Ronnie’s one indulgence. No wife and children to support, you see. He could afford it. I’m a pipe man myself. Ronnie—Sergeant Mulcaster—swore by these.”
“Then I’m afraid that he’s smoked his last one.”
“Where did you find it?”
Dillman had called at the inspector’s cabin to report the find. He had hoped the cigarette might be a brand that Mulcaster never touched, but it was not the case. He gave Redfern a concise account of how he came to pick up the discarded butt. For the sake of brevity, he omitted details of the early blundering efforts of Daniel Webb to locate the spot where he had witnessed the murder.
“Where is this fellow now, Mr. Dillman?” asked Redfern.
“He’s gone back to his cabin.”
“I’d like to speak to him myself.”
“You’ll have to wait before you can do that.”
“Why?”
“Mr. Webb was not alone when he
went back to his bunk.”
Redfern was shocked. “He’s taken a woman there at his age?”
“Not a woman,” said Dillman. “A bottle of whisky. I promised to buy it for him if he gave us crucial evidence—and he certainly did that. We can forget about him for the rest of the day. He’ll be drunk already.”
“Is that all we have? The word of an old soak?”
“It’s given us our one definite clue, Inspector.”
“Yes,” sighed the other, looking at the cigarette butt. “Poor Ronnie!”
“My guess is that it dropped from his lips when he was hit from behind. I know that he enjoyed a smoke,” said Dillman. “I bumped into him on the main deck myself on our first night at sea. He barely took the cigarette out of his mouth.”
“He got through twenty a day. You can imagine how many packets we brought with us. We were lucky not to be arrested for tobacco smuggling.”
“There is one consolation, Inspector.”
“Is there?”
“I don’t think he’d have suffered for long. According to Mr. Webb, the attacker knocked him out with a series of savage blows. It took much less than a minute. After he hit the water, Sergeant Mulcaster probably never even regained consciousness.”
“I don’t find much consolation in that, Mr. Dillman. The stark fact is—if our supposition is correct—that a serving detective was bludgeoned to death before being tossed over the side of the ship. We don’t even have a body as visible proof of the crime.”
“We have Daniel Webb.”
“It’s not the same. We’re severely handicapped.”
“No body, no case.”
“Oh, we have a case,” said Redfern, “but it’s been made that much more difficult. I’ve already got two murder suspects in custody. I never thought I’d be investigating the killing of my sergeant as well.”
“Count on me for whatever help you need.”
“Thanks. This time, I won’t be too churlish to accept.”
“Do you have any theories?”
“None, Mr. Dillman. I’m trying to get used to the idea that Ronnie is dead.” He walked around the cabin. “He was such a presence here. Full of life.”