Death in the Middle Watch

by Bruce, Leo

  “Really?”

  “The truth, of course, is known. The man was carried on board by two of his shipmates …”

  Carolus looked up, uneasily.

  “At what time?” he asked.

  “About six o’clock in the evening, it seems. He was in a disgraceful state of inebriation. One lady, a Mrs Popple, actually witnessed the incident. The man was taken to his bunk and is probably even now sleeping off the effects of his drunkenness. Yet a variety of quite different stories have circulated.”

  “That’s always the case,” said Carolus. “I shouldn’t worry about it.”

  “You don’t think there’s any connection then, between the deckhand and the matter you are investigating?”

  “Not the slightest. Have you got a ticket for the sweepstake on the day’s run? If not, let’s go and get one.”

  So Carolus marched Mr Gorringer away. But he continued to feel uneasy. It was possible, be supposed, that Leacock had come aboard in the early evening either with the aid of his mates or alone. If so, he had gone ashore again. But the stories about him were just a little too varied and too sensational. Carolus wondered whether they had been circulated deliberately. On the whole, he felt it wiser to show no further interest in the matter.

  But that was not so easy when several of his fellow passengers seemed determined that he should hear more, Mr Medlow, for instance. He had actually seen what happened, he told Carolus.

  “I was strolling up the boulevard,” he said. “Very pleasant too. Trees, you know, and flower stalls. When out comes that fellow Leacock dressed in civvies …”

  “Out from where?”

  “A bar, from the look of him, followed by a matelot from the Rothesay that’s in the harbour.”

  “And then?”

  “Then the scrap started. You’ve never seen anything like it. Fight? More like bloody murder.”

  “But it wasn’t?”

  “It might have been. It took three cops to drag away this Leacock and two to get hold of the other man. But they got them both in the bogy waggon and away they went.”

  Mr Medlow waved his arm to indicate the departure.

  “Well, well,” said Carolus. “You did have a time ashore, Mr Medlow. You didn’t see Leacock again?”

  “Again? If you knew as much about these foreign ports as I do you wouldn’t ask that question. We shan’t see the poor fellow again for years, very likely. Once they get someone inside here they mean it.”

  “At what time did you see the fight?”

  “About six, I should think. And what a fight! Never seen anything like it!”

  “You didn’t think of interfering?”

  “Are you out of your mind?” asked Medlow.

  “I’m not,” said Carolus with insulting emphasis. “It surprises me that you were alone in seeing this combat. Didn’t it attract a lot of attention?”

  “You evidently don’t know these countries. Two sailors having a fight? Nothing! Happens every day. They wouldn’t turn round to give a second glance at it. Someone else from the ship did see it, though. He was standing quite near me when it happened. That fellow Runwell. Doctor Runwell, I suppose I should say. He saw it all right, though he swears he didn’t.”

  “Did you ask him?”

  “Just mentioned it casually that I’d seen him watching. He flatly denied it. Said he was never in the main boulevard. Bloody liar. I saw him, I tell you.”

  “As clearly as you saw Leacock?”

  “That’s it. Of course it will go into my report.”

  “Of course.”

  “Mustn’t leave that out. Important piece of information.”

  “For MI5?” queried Carolus.

  Medlow gave him an angry stare and after a few minutes walked away.

  On the following morning they docked at Famagusta and Carolus decided not to go ashore. He knew the place with its British holidaymakers and the residents who talked about the good times in Cyprus in the past, by which they apparently meant the times when the Cypriots were so poor that they depended on their patronage. The shops were like those of Gibraltar but even more expensive and the “native population,” as he had heard them called, were just as unmannerly as the Cypriot waiters who had somehow managed to invade London during the last war.

  Apparently the Sticks were of the same mind when they returned to the ship.

  “Farmer Gooster!” said Mrs Stick. “Not much farmer about that place, I can tell you. All you could buy was oranges and lemons and I’ve had enough of those on the ship. But what was that Mr Porteous doing, I’d like to know? Running about all over the place. You’d have been sure he would get run over the way he walked across the road. I thought he was the head of this cruise business.”

  “He is.”

  “Well, all I can say is, it didn’t look much like it the way he was carrying on. Oh, well, we shall soon be home now, won’t we? Stick says he won’t be sorry, either. He misses the Company in the local, you see. He’s used to that.”

  Thirteen

  CAROLUS RARELY HAD TO stay in London. When he did, he put up at Freeman’s, a small, private and comfortable hotel, whose sole recommendation seemed to be something out-of-date which the proprietors called good service. The rooms were not very large and had been furnished about the time when Oscar Wilde used to stay there with dubious companions, called by the staff “young gentlemen” when they were addressing Oscar, and “those horrible little renters” when speaking among themselves. The hotel, however, was clean and the men and women who worked there seemed to be “on stage” all the time, playing the parts of those who worked in London hotels in late Victorian times.

  It suited Carolus, who wanted no diversion at that time and did not mean to be disturbed by phone calls or visits. It was not that he wanted to think, for he had done all the thinking necessary before his cruise had ended. He wanted to decide how he should wind up the whole affair of the Summer Queen.

  On his second day home, he telephoned Porteous.

  “Would you turn up in your books to find out from what address Mrs Darwin wrote to book her last cruise?”

  “Certainly, old man,” said Porteous. “Certainly,” and after a time he came back with 47 The Glebe. “That’s that huge block of flats near the British Museum. Enormous place. You can’t …”

  “And Darwin? Did he use the same address?”

  “We don’t seem to have an address for Darwin,” said Porteous. “I expect it’s the same. After all they were married, weren’t they?”

  “They weren’t when Darwin came on the cruise last year. See where he wrote from then, would you?”

  “What’s all this sudden interest in Darwin?” asked Porteous.

  “I think he may be able to help me with my enquiries,” replied Carolus, like a policeman answering an importunate newspaper reporter.

  “Well, here it is anyway,” said Porteous, “though I don’t suppose they’ve ever heard of Darwin there now. Things and people change so quickly in London. He wrote from 341 Dover Street.”

  “Thanks. You’ve no other address for him?”

  “Why should we have?”

  “Then tell me the address of Miss Rita Latour.”

  “I hope you’re not going to bother all these people with a lot of questions?” said Porteous anxiously. “We get cruisers coming back again year after year and they won’t like it if they think someone’s going to question them after a holiday.”

  “Just give me the girl’s address, will you?” asked Carolus again.

  “She lives in Bromley,” said Porteous.

  “Address?”

  “17a Blackheath Terrace, or at least that’s where she was a month or two ago. You never know with that sort. They shift about so much.”

  “What sort?”

  “I don’t need to tell you. Anything else you want to know?”

  “Not just at the moment. I’ll let you know if anything more turns up.”

  “You haven’t given up the chase?” Porteou
s asked facetiously.

  “It’s a good thing for you I haven’t,” said Carolus and put down the receiver.

  He went first to Darwin’s previous address in Dover Street. Number 341 consisted of a tall building given to so-called Service Flats, an anachronistic term if ever there was one. He went up in a creaking lift, thinking that it could only be a matter of time before the whole building was pulled down to make way for the inevitable block of offices.

  He asked at a desk in the hall for Darwin. The name seemed to surprise a white-haired man with a sharply defined obtruding paunch.

  “Mr Darwin?” he said. “We haven’t seen Mr Darwin for nearly a year when he left here to get married. He keeps his flat on just the same, but he never comes back to it. You’d think he’d have to fetch something from there once in a while, wouldn’t you?”

  “No,” said Carolus. “But I have a feeling you may be seeing him soon. I’m very anxious to see him and I’d be most grateful”—Carolus emphasized this with a £5 note—“if you would let me know when he comes. Here’s my telephone number.”

  “We don’t like doing that sort of thing,” said the old gentleman. “But I daresay it can be managed. I take it you don’t wish me to mention to Mr Darwin, if he comes, that you were enquiring for him?”

  “Best not,” said Carolus. “He won’t want to be disturbed.”

  “No. I see. I’ll telephone you from here then, sir. That’s if Mr Darwin comes.”

  “Good. Fine. See you,” said Carolus briefly and went out into Dover Street.

  Then grabbing a taxi, he drove to The Glebe, that architectural horror, the proximity of which to their nesting place had so much disturbed the readers in the British Museum. Here, having walked round the block to find the entrance for Flat Number 47, he was greeted cheerfully by a uniformed hall porter.

  “Mr Darwin? Yes sir. He’s in residence, but I don’t know if he’s at home just now. I’ll telephone if you like, or you can go up and ring the bell.”

  “I’ll go up,” said Carolus.

  “Very well, sir. Sad about Mrs Darwin, wasn’t it? Very nice person. Always very thoughtful. Oh, thank you, sir. I’ll call the lift.”

  “You don’t know whether Mr Darwin’s alone, do you?” asked Carolus.

  The hall porter did not seem to like this.

  “Mr Darwin is always alone,” he said. “Ever since Mrs Darwin was brought home to be buried.”

  “I see. He hasn’t a young lady with him?”

  “Certainly not, sir. And if he had I shouldn’t know about it. He wouldn’t come in by this entrance. Not just after his wife had died,” said the hall porter stiffly.

  Carolus made for the lift, But outside the door of Number 47, he heard the sound of a pop record being played loudly from within. He waited till there was a pause, then knocked. “Rita,” he heard Darwin’s voice calling, “see who it is, my pet.”

  After a short pause, Rita came to the door in what used to be called a peignoir but which surely has a more businesslike and expressive name to be used with ‘bra,’ ‘panties’ and other terms in twentieth century terminology.

  “Hullo,” she said, blowing a puff of cigarette smoke in Carolus’s face. “D’you want to see Guy? He’s under the shower at the moment, but if you come in, I’ll tell him you’re here.”

  She led the way into a room littered with modern machinery, a television set, hi-fi pick-up, electric heater, typewriter, tape-recorder, radio and cocktail cabinet. Carolus looked about him.

  “I shouldn’t think you need to go out at all when you’ve got all this to play with,” be said.

  “We don’t, much.”

  “Nice for you.”

  “Think so? I bought most of it. Guy hasn’t much idea. Have a drink?”

  Carolus thanked her and was enjoying a whisky and soda when Guy Darwin came in, fully dressed and smelling of after-shave lotion.

  “Hullo. What do you want?” he asked with quite an amiable smile.

  “Oh, just a few questions,” said Carolus. “I’m sorry if I intruded.”

  “You could have phoned.”

  “So I could. May I have a look at your passport?” asked Carolus coolly.

  “What’s all this about?” asked Darwin.

  “Murder,” said Carolus. “Of course you can refuse to show me your passport if you want. I’m just a private individual.”

  “And a damned inquisitive one. I see no reason why I should show you my passport. But you can look at it if you like. There’s nothing phony about it.”

  Darwin went to a bureau.

  “The one in your own name,” Carolus mentioned.

  “Of course. What d’you mean? D’you think I’ve got two passports?”

  “Yes,” said Carolus.

  “What’s the matter with you? Playing detectives, or what? Look at that and then get out.”

  “Thank you,” said Carolus after a look through the passport, but making no move to leave his chair.

  “I guessed I should find Miss Latour here. What have you done with poor Mr Gavin Ritchie, Miss Latour?”

  “Oh, he was nothing,” said Rita.

  “How expressive you are. I was surprised you had time for him at all. So much cabling to do. You must be glad to be home again.”

  “I am,” said Rita. “Guy and I are going to be married, you know.”

  “Congratulations to you both,” said Carolus. “Though I suppose you’ll have to wait for a bit. For what they call a decent interval, won’t you? I hope you’ll ask me to the wedding. After all, I’ve watched it all happen, haven’t I?”

  Darwin seemed suddenly to have lost his temper.

  “Get out!” he shouted to Carolus. “You snooping bastard. Get out and don’t come round here again.”

  “No. I won’t,” promised Carolus. “I take it you’ll be leaving here, won’t you? Not your sort of flat at all. I suggest Ibiza. Or Crete.”

  “Who the hell cares what you suggest?” shouted Darwin. “I’m going to throw you out in a minute.”

  “When will you move?” Carolus asked.

  Rita, giving a fair imitation of the proverbial dumb blonde, asked, “Are we moving, Guy?”

  Carolus stood up in a leisurely way.

  “Yes, my dear,” he said to Rita. “Quite soon. Too many associations round here. But I’m sure we’ll meet again somewhere. Funny if we were all together, and Leacock, wouldn’t it be?”

  “Leacock’s dead,” said Darwin.

  “Yes. I’m afraid he is,” said Carolus and, without waiting for any more remarks from either of them, asked, “How did you know?”

  Darwin was ready for that one, anyway.

  “Read it in the papers,” he said. “Quite a story. Who killed the man? He was a rowdy and a bit of a nuisance, but I can’t think how he got himself killed.”

  “In a brothel,” said Carolus. “Fighting over a woman.”

  “But fighting with whom?”

  “That’s what I’m going to find out. Have you any suggestions?”

  “I? Don’t be funny. I left the ship at Gib. Or don’t you remember?

  “So you did,” said Carolus. “These cruises are so confusing. Thank you for answering my questions.”

  “But you haven’t put any questions!”

  “Thanks all the same,” said Carolus. “Be seeing you, no doubt.”

  Carolus returned to his hotel.

  He found an afternoon tea session in full swing in the lounge. Perhaps swing was hardly the word, but teas with sandwiches and cakes were being handed round by waiters in uniform, chiefly, he supposed, for the benefit of American visitors who had heard about this incredible English custom. And no sooner had he sat down than he was approached by the very person most appropriate for it—Mrs Grahame-Willows.

  “You see I’ve discovered your retreat,” she said rather archly.

  “Yes. Do join me.”

  Mrs Grahame-Willows consented.

  “As a matter of fact, I asked Mr Porteous wher
e I could find you.”

  “But he didn’t know!” said Carolus in genuine amazement.

  “Oh, yes he did,” said “the lady at the table where we sit.”

  “I can’t think how,” said Carolus. “I told no one where I was going.”

  Mrs Grahame-Willows smiled.

  “Not even Mr Gorringer?” she asked.

  Carolus suddenly remembered that he had on other occasions mentioned to the headmaster that he sometimes stayed at Freeman’s. Evidently this had been enough.

  “You see, I knew you were interested in the movements of those on board,” said Mrs Grahame-Willows. “And since I noticed a rather extraordinary thing when we landed, I made a note of it to tell you.”

  “Yes. What was that?”

  “The blonde young woman whose name—or at least the name she gave—was Rita Latour, left the ship alone.”

  “You surprise me.”

  “Ah, but who do you think was waiting for her on the docks?”

  Carolus managed to resist the temptation to say Chairman Mao or Dr Johnson and vacantly shook his head.

  “You’ll never guess,” said Mrs Grahame-Willows. “It was that man Darwin. The one whose wife died before we reached Lisbon.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “I managed to overhear just a snippet of their conversation,” said Mrs Grahame-Willows. “They kissed, and the man said, ‘Thank God you’ve come, darling’.”

  “Did you hear what the girl said?”

  “Yes. She asked something about cables. Had he received all her cables, or something like that. He replied, ‘Yes. Clever girl.’ Then they walked away.”

  “How disappointing for you.”

  “Not really. I’d heard enough. Of course she was reassuring him about Gavin Ritchie, the young man who was rather friendly with her when we got to Tunis.”

  “Of course! And what do you suppose he was telling her? Or don’t you think he sent her any cables?”

  “If it was what I think it was, he was probably telling her how he had buried his poor wife,” said Mrs Grahame-Willows.

  “Quite likely,” agreed Carolus, and, excusing himself, he left her in the surroundings that suited her so well and made for his bedroom.