“Didn’t like the smell?”
“Filthy.”
“But you recognised it?” The sergeant nodded. “What’s your opinion?”
“Same as yours, sir. Sort of a—underground workshop, eh?”
“With some of the original contents removed.”
“That’s right.”
“What I’d like to find,” said Kendall, “is whatever fitted on to that tubing.”
“Maybe he wouldn’t leave it around,” replied the sergeant.
“He? Who?”
“X,” smiled the sergeant. “That’s me, ain’t it?”
Kendall smiled back.
“I think you’re right. X wouldn’t leave it around. He’s probably left more around than he meant, as it is—but you can’t think of everything when your first thought is your own skin. I’ve phoned up the doctor, and I’ve suggested that he gets in touch with your local Decontamination Squad. He’s coming along with the foreman to have a look at our funk-hole. Also, the cats. But, of course, Saunders already knew death was due to some form of gas, only he doesn’t know what form. I’ve a notion the form is going to be more important than he seems to think himself. I’ve suggested the Home Office as a further reference. You might keep ’em up to that if they get in a tangle and I’m not around.”
The sergeant reacted pleasantly to the subtle flattery. He’d keep ’em up to it!
“But aren’t you going to be around?” he asked.
“I’m off to Boulogne at 3.30,” Kendall reminded him, “and I’ve a lot to do before that.”
“Did you get on to Boulogne just now, sir?”
“Yes.”
“Fix it up?”
“That’s all O.K.”
The next question came after a moment’s hesitation.
“Have you thought about the Yard, sir?”
“I see you have.”
“Well, yes, sir,” admitted the sergeant. “Seven’s a bit of a handful—”
“And too many cooks spoil the broth,” interposed Kendall. “Don’t you think you and I and Black and Saunders can handle this?” He smiled. “Make your mind easy about that, Wade. I’m in touch with the Yard—so’s the Chief—that was another of my phone calls—and they’ll send someone along the moment we need ’em. We may need ’em if I’m detained in Boulogne, though Black’s a good man. He doesn’t play the violin, either, or quote Shakespeare. By the way, what’s your instrument?”
“Eh?”
“All the best people have a hobby, sergeant.”
“Oh! I get you. Darts.”
“Capital. Now, then. Listen. I’ve a job for you. Black’s got his hands full, and anyway, as you’re the local man, this is up your street. I want the complete history of John Fenner. All you know about him and all you can find out. His habits; his character; his work; his movements; how long he’s been living in Benwick; when he came here; if he wasn’t born here, where did he come from? Never mind if some of it’s repetition. Write the whole damn’ thing out from A to Z, and pack in all the details you can. You can even mention his tooth-paste, if you like. But what I’d rather you mentioned than anything else,” he added, “is how Fenner left Benwick yesterday, since he doesn’t seem to have gone by train, and the absence of a garage suggests he hasn’t a car.”
“That’s right, there’s no garage here,” nodded the sergeant. “But there’s a shed, and his bicycle’s gone.”
Kendall stared at him.
“There are moments,” he said, “when you come out with the most interesting remarks.”
“Well, sir, didn’t you notice the bicycle was gone?” asked the sergeant.
“How could I have noticed it was gone,” answered Kendall, “when I didn’t know it had ever been there?”
“Ah, I get you.”
“So Fenner rides a bicycle?”
“I seen him on it often.”
“Lately?”
“Couple of days ago.”
“What kind?”
“Hercules.”
“How do you know?”
“Eh?”
“What made you notice it? Have you had anything to do with it? Do you notice the make of every bicycle you see? If so, you shouldn’t be a sergeant in Benwick. You should be one of the Big Five.”
“Ah, I get you. Well, see, he come in the bicycle shop last Thursday, when I happen to be there.”
“Rather an attractive girl in the bicycle shop, isn’t there?”
“Eh?”
“Do you mind saying ‘Eh?’ a little less often, Wade?”
“Well, I don’t suppose he went in to see her.”
“That wasn’t precisely my thought,” answered Kendall dryly, as he got up. “Come along, we’ll look at that shed where there was once a bicycle.” As they left the house he went on: “What did he go in the bicycle shop for?”
“To have a puncture mended.”
“And was it mended?”
“Eh? I mean, what?”
“I asked you, sergeant, whether the puncture was mended.”
“I know you did, sir,” the sergeant fought back. “But, even if I was one o’ the Big Five, how’d I know that?”
“Meaning you don’t know that?”
“No.”
“So the reason the bicycle isn’t in the shed may be because it is still at the shop?”
Wade looked crestfallen, but he wasn’t quite beaten yet.
“What I do wrong, sir,” he said, “is to mention things. I get you.”
Sarcasm was met by sarcasm.
“If you got me as often as you think you do, I should be in a permanent state of capture,” answered Kendall. They were emerging from the narrow path by the side of the house on to the back lawn. “Your trouble isn’t that you fail to mention things, Wade, but that you mention them too late, and then incompletely. I have no doubt that, three years after your death, you will send somebody the information. Listen—and with your mind this time, not your mouth. A bicycle is missing from a shed. It may be vital. Yet you only refer to it as a comment on a casual remark of my own. You don’t come to me and say, ‘Bicycle missing from shed, sir—Fenner’s.’ And even then, when the information is forced out of you by accident, you make no attempt to give it its proper value. Again it has to be forced out of you that the bicycle may be missing from the shed because it is at a cycle shop. This is what you should have reported to me, Wade, without any prompting: ‘Bicycle missing from shed, sir—Fenner’s. Two days ago he took it to have a puncture mended, so it may be at the shop; but it ought to be back by now. It’s a Hercules. Model C. Rubber pedals, roller lever brakes front and rear, spring seat, black enamel without lining—speaking now of the finish, sir, not the seat—and Dunlop Sports tyres. The reason I mention the tyres, sir, is because p’r’aps we can trace ’em from the shed. Oh, and by the way, sir, that’s a damn’ smart little filly serving in the shop, isn’t she?’”
“Yes, she is,” answered Wade, giving up.
The shed was at the side of the back lawn, halfway across. Kendall lifted his eyes from the ground as they reached the rotting door and shoved it open. He glanced round swiftly, noted the wooden shelf and few oddments around, and inquired:
“How do you know he kept his bicycle here?”
“I don’t,” replied the sergeant guardedly. “But where else would he keep it?”
“That’s good enough,” said Kendall, “when you add the oil-mark on the floor and that small spanner.”
“Where’s the lamp the oil came from?” asked the sergeant.
“Probably on the bicycle,” suggested Kendall. “But why an oil-lamp, when an electric one is so much more convenient?”
“Well, there you are. But he uses an oil lamp.”
“Oh, you know that?”
“I heard him telling
her to fill it.”
“She seems to have over-filled it.”
They left the shed, and Kendall studied the ground. A narrow, worn strip stretched to the wood and turned along it just before reaching the trees. Before the turn the ground was hard; after, it became softer, with patches of mud and sand. “Dunlop, his mark,” murmured Kendall. “Come along, Wade! This mark’s been made since last Thursday.”
“You mean that rain on Thursday night?”
“Yes. The mud might have held it, but the sand wouldn’t. I believe we’re getting somewhere.”
They followed the tyre marks. The marks continued outside the little wood till the trees ended, then ran across an indeterminate space to the bank of the creek, reaching it at a spot considerably farther from the mouth than the landing-stage. They continued along the bank.
After about fifty yards, a gap in a low hedge led to a lane. The gap was at a corner. One way still clung to the river bank, the other went inland. The tyre marks remained faithful to the river.
“Where does the other way go?” asked Kendall. “To the road that leads to the front of the house?”
“That’s right,” answered Wade.
“Bring the car round. Quick as you know how. I’ll wait for you here.”
The sergeant nodded and trotted off. He was quite ready to give his brain ten minutes’ rest. Kendall watched his portly back till it vanished round a curve, then turned and looked down at the water.
At first the detective’s eyes were moody. He was not thinking of the water, but of the track along the lane beside it. He wanted to follow the track until he had unearthed the bicycle that had made it, and it was because he believed the track would prove a long one that he had sent for the car. But all at once he forgot the track, and his eyes paid attention to the water. A small motor-boat had chugged round a bend from the direction of the creek mouth.
The motor-boat by itself would not have interested Kendall. Motor-boats were as natural to a river as ploughs to a farm. It was on the ancient craft behind that his eyes became glued—an old boat with an old mast, decrepit with service, and giving the impression that it was being towed home to die, saving that it had obviously never been born on the Essex coast. If the head of the procession was indigenous, the tail was exotic.
“Looks as old as that cricket ball,” thought Kendall. “Why the devil am I comparing it with the cricket ball?”
And then a strange thing happened, although it merely happened in Kendall’s mind. The towed boat was empty, yet he saw seven people in it—seven people moving towards their death in a boat already dead…
“Hey!” he shouted to the man in the motor-boat—an old salt smoking a pipe.
The old salt took the pipe out of his mouth.
“Can you draw in?” called the detective. “I want to speak to you.”
“Wh’about?” bawled the old salt.
“That Noah’s Ark you’re towing,” replied Kendall. “Where did you pick it up?”
The old salt waved to a spot a little way along the bank and altered his course towards it. Kendall made for the spot, scrambling down to water level just as the boat drew up.
“Where did you find that ocean liner?” he repeated.
“’Oo?” blinked the old salt.
“That boat. Did you fish it up on a hook?”
“Oh! Noa! She wer’ floatin’ by ’ersel’, so I’ve brought ’er along.”
“Derelict, eh?”
“Noa! She wer’ floatin’ by ’ersel’, so I’ve brought ’er along.”
“So I gather. May I step aboard and have a look at her?”
“Be she your’n?”
“No, but I may be able to tell you something about her. Where did you spot her?”
“South o’ Maplin Spit. Nigh West Mouse.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know your map. Where are those places?”
“West Swin, off Maplin Sands.”
Kendall swore under his breath.
“Your name’s James Jessop, isn’t it?” he asked.
“Ay, ev’ryone knows Jessop,” answered the old salt.
“Well, Jessop, a few people know Detective-Inspector Kendall, so kindly attend to him. Stop being local and speak common, everyday English. How far were you from the coast when you saw this boat?”
“She wer’ floatin’ be ’ersel’—”
“And you brought her along. How many miles did you bring her?”
“Oh, I see. Well, sir, might be fower.”
“Four miles. Could she have floated those four miles from the mouth of this river?”
“I never thought o’ that.”
“No, Jessop, I’m thinking of it. Could she? You know the tides?”
“I doen’t see why not.”
“If, say, she’d been in the river mouth some time—yesterday afternoon or evening?”
“I doen’t see why not.”
“Winds and tides right for it?”
“Ay, it could be. But there wu’n’t much wind till mist cleared.”
“And could this be, Jessop? You see that mooring rope?”
“Ay, what there be of it.”
“Exactly. Perhaps not long ago there was more of it. Perhaps it was tied to a post nearer the mouth of this river. The rope that remains is old and rotted—and frayed. I see you’re not depending on it!”
“’Oo would, in senses?”
“You’ve hit the nail again, Jessop! Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings… As you say, who would, in their senses? Yes, but tell me this, Jessop. Would you be in your senses if you were about to commit suicide?”
“Eh?”
“Still, I’m not banking on that. What I’m banking on is another kind of agitation—and at this moment I’m damned if I know what that is any more than you do!”
The old salt scratched his head.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but be you out o’ your senses?”
“You didn’t hit the nail quite so well that time,” smiled Kendall. “Still, I don’t blame you. Now we won’t talk for a bit. I want to examine this old tub.”
“But I got to report it,” said Jessop.
“You’re reporting it to me,” returned Kendall. “I’m the police.”
While the old man re-lit his pipe and watched him, the detective explored the towed boat thoroughly. It had oars and a sail. The sail was in tatters. It was amply provided with lockers. In one he found half a biscuit. A dog in full strength might have managed it. In another he found fishing tackle. In another, a number of empty bottles, a big water-cask and a small piece of pasteboard. The piece of pasteboard had slipped down a crack, and he had to dig it out.
He examined it minutely. Particularly one side. It seemed to have been through every kind of experience, like the boat itself and the old cricket ball. Kendall could never get that cricket ball out of his mind. It had been drowned, palpably, several times. As he slipped it in his pocket his eyes were grim.
He made one more important discovery, the fruit of an obvious search. Faintly against the rubbed outside of the boat were the letters:
F RND LE
He was staring at the letters, and at the empty spaces after the first and the fourth, when a car loomed above him on the bank, and Sergeant Wade’s voice descended:
“Thought I’d lost you, sir. What have we got here?”
“The boat seven people arrived at Benwick in,” answered Kendall.
“What!” cried the sergeant.
“The name of the boat is probably Ferndale,” continued Kendall, “and it doesn’t look to me like an English boat, though the name’s English enough. I should say it’s off some ship. It’s designed to carry plenty of provisions, and there’s a water-cask. Still, of course… Well, what do you say?”
“Same as you, sir,” replied the
sergeant, staring at the boat. “Been through a bit, eh?”
“I imagine, Wade,” said the inspector, “that when we’ve traced the full story of this boat—if we ever do—we’ll find it’s been through some bit!” He turned to Jessop. “Carry on. Report this, and say I’ve had a look at it. See that Inspector Black knows. Do you know Inspector Black?”
“Millingham,” answered Jessop. “My father live at Millingham. ’Ad ’im up t’other daye fer speedin’. I know Inspector Black.”
“Fine. Then now’s your chance to return good for evil. Give him this message from me. Tell him I think this boat you’ve picked up is off a ship. Tell him to consult the files. Are you understanding me?”
“Whoy not?”
“Good. Tell him to consult the files, and to see whether he can trace any ship named the Ferndale that’s been wrecked recently. Got that?”
“Ay.”
“Repeat it.”
“Whoy?”
“Because you’re in for a ten-shilling note if you repeat it correctly.”
Jessop’s eyes grew big. He swallowed, thought, swallowed again, thought again, and said:
“Inspector Black, o’ Millingham. Report this ’ere, an’ see ’e gets report. See ’e knows you think she come off a ship. No. See ’e knows you bin ower the boat. Then see ’e knows you think she’s off a ship. See ’e knows—no—tell ’im to—find out—if any ship Ferndale’s bin wrecked recent. And see ’e does it.”
“Good enough!” laughed Kendall. “Here’s your ten shillings, and now get on with it!” He stepped out of the boat and ascended to the car. “And now we’ll get on with it, too, sergeant.”
“Do I get ten shillings?” murmured the sergeant as the car began to move.
Chapter XVIII
The Trail Ends
While Kendall drove he talked, and while he talked he never took his eyes off the road ahead of him, decreasing the pace when the track he was following became faint or lost, and increasing again when the marks beckoned definitely.
“I’m still in the dark as to where we’re getting, Wade,” he said, “but we’re certainly getting the hell of a way.”
“Where was that boat found?” asked Wade.
Seven Dead Page 13