The Pleasure Cruise Mystery (19 page)

“I know what you're going to tell me, Julio,” said Vereker quietly.

“But how can you, sir?” asked Julio, bewildered.

“It would take too long to explain, but you were going to say that Mr. Dias had suddenly left the hotel with his baggage.”

“That is so. He told you?”

“No. I guessed it, Julio. Do you know where he has gone?”

“He hired a car and told the driver to drive like hell—depressa—depressa—to Lisbon.”

“Thanks, Julio. I'm hungry. Give me something to eat in the dining-room, and I'll have a bottle of Bucellas with it. Then I'm going to turn in.”

I

Vereker rose early next morning, breakfasted on the usual rolls, butter, honey and coffee supplied by the Hotel da Pena and took the electric train from Estoril into Cais do Sodre, Lisbon. From the station he walked into the town and called on his friend Mascarenhas, of the Portuguese police. Mascarenhas greeted him with the dignified geniality of his race and soon they were busy talking “shop”. Vereker related to him in detail the story of Mrs. Mesado's death, and of how he had managed that her body should not be buried at sea. Something in this narration amused Mascarenhas to such an extent that several minutes elapsed before he could control his laughter and listen to the rest of Vereker's story. Alert to the significance of every incident, the Portuguese at once formulated his own theory and explained his deductions step by step with vivacious gesticulation. It was not in accord with Vereker's own solution of the mystery, but such an ingenious conjecture that he clapped his friend heartily on the back, a gesture which the Portuguese accepted as appreciatively English but destructive of his own lofty dignity as a police official.

“You ought to have collected some fingerprints as further corroboration,” he said at length.

“It wasn't purely friendship that brought me to see you, Mascarenhas,” remarked Vereker, smiling. “I have here some photographs bearing the prints of Renée Gautier's fingers, a comb which was used by Mrs. Mesado and two other photographs bearing the imprints of the dead woman's fingers.”

“I see you work as thoroughly as ever, Vereker. You want me to develop them and give you photo-micrographs of the impressions?”

“Exactly.”

“You shall have them this evening if you will call again,” said Mascarenhas, “and after that we will dine together and continue our talk.”

Thanking him for his courtesy, Vereker took his leave and called at the Blue Star offices in the Travesso do Corpo Santo, where he learned that the “Avila Star” was leaving for London on the following day. This was gratifying news, because he felt that any further stay in Lisbon would be unproductive from his own point of view. To kill time he visited the sub-tropical garden for which Lisbon is famous, searched for and found the monument to Chiado, the drunken bohemian monk, lunched at the Hotel de l'Europe and drank coffee and a Portuguese liqueur at a coffee house memorialising Bocaze, a native poet. In the evening he called on Mascarenhas, whom he found in a state of considerable excitement about the photo-micrographs obtained from the articles he had left with him in the morning. Handing one of them to Vereker, he exclaimed:

“Now this is an extraordinary find, Vereker. You see this finger-print? It was obtained from one of the photographs of the Palacio del Congreso in Buenos Aires.”

“Yes, I managed to get that photograph through a friend from Miss Renée Gautier, Mrs. Mesado's maid.”

“Yes, yes, we have Miss Gautier's finger-prints on another photo, but this one belongs to a man known to us. We have applied the test of counting the sweat pores on a given area—you know the System?”

“Yes; discovered by Doctor Locard of the police lab at Lyons.”

“Good. Well, that print belongs to a man called Cardozo. He is a most expert jewel thief, or rather he has been the principal in some daring jewel robberies. His system consists of making love to ladies' maids who are the servants of wealthy mistresses. He is a very handsome man and generally manages to engage the affections of his dupes. Then he gradually unfolds his plan of marrying the dupe if she will relieve her mistress of some valuable article of jewellery, on the sale of which they can live happily ever afterwards. It is an idyllic story, and he is a most persuasive conversationalist. He is, moreover, a reckless man at times and does not hesitate to kill. We suspect him of being the culprit in a murder on the Riviera last year. A wealthy American woman was shot in her villa at Nice, but the mystery was never solved. It was thought that the woman's maid knew something about the business, but she would divulge nothing, for she was doubtless in love with Cardozo if our suspicions had any foundation in truth.”

“He never marries the dupe?” asked Vereker, deeply interested.

“It would be unreasonable to expect him to do so,” said Mascarenhas, with such gravity that Vereker was obliged to smile.

“I think I know your man,” said Vereker.

“Where is he?” asked the police officer eagerly.

“In Lisbon if I'm not mistaken. Of course he has changed his name?”

“Several times. The last time we heard of him he was in Buenos Aires, but he slipped the authorities there and we haven't heard of him since.”

“I saw him and spoke to him last night in the Hotel da Pena, in Estoril.”

“Is he there now?” asked Mascarenhas, rising and seizing a telephone on his table.

“No, he left hurriedly last night,” replied Vereker, and gave the officer a detailed account of his adventure of the previous evening with Miguel Dias.

“He seems fond of the name of Miguel Dias, because that's the name he assumed when he brought off a coup in Madrid two years ago.”

“Well, he has managed to bring off another coup under the same name on board the Green Star liner ‘Mars'. The procedure was the same. He made love to Renée Gautier, Mrs. Mesado's maid, and managed to secure possession of the very valuable necklace of cinnamon and white diamonds which I saw last night, and which I've told you about. He has promised to meet her at Barcelona and take her to Paris, where they are to be married.”

“The old story once more. He will not be there, but if he is in Lisbon we shall have a good search for him. I feel sure I know his confederate. He's a notoriously clever fence. There's just a chance we can get back the necklace without making any arrests.”

Mascarenhas disappeared from his room to give instructions to his subordinates to keep a sharp look out for Cardozo, and then returned.

“Now we can dine without troubling ourselves further about our friend,” he said, and together the two men left the building and repaired to a restaurant which Mascarenhas always patronised. They continued their criminological reminiscences throughout their meal, and when the time came to part Mascarenhas suddenly remembered the subject of the photo-micrograph that he had developed and printed for Vereker.

“I nearly forgot to tell you, Vereker. The fingerprints found on Mrs. Mesado's comb are not the same as those on the photographs you pressed against the dead woman's fingers. Somebody else must have used that comb.”

“Not her maid, I hope?”

“No. Renée Gautier's prints are quite different. It must have been some other lady. You say her sister, Mrs. Colvin, was travelling with her?”

“Yes.”

“Ah, she may have been the last person to use the comb.”

“I don't think that's likely,” said Vereker with suppressed excitement, “though of course it's possible.”

“Or the stewardess, if her hair became disarranged while she was tidying up the lady's cabin.”

“That too is feasible. In any case it's very interesting,” continued Vereker, and after taking leave of his friend his thoughts reverted to the subject. “It's more than interesting,” he soliloquised, “it's simply apocalyptic!”

Taking the train at Cais do Sodre, he travelled back to Estoril in a highly self-satisfied humour.

Next morning, just after Vereker had breakfasted and was smoking a cigarette in the lounge, Julio came and informed him that he was wanted on the telephone.

“Who is it, Julio?” asked Vereker.

“He would not give his name, senhor,” replied the manager.

Wondering who his caller might be, Vereker disappeared into the telephone box in the entrance vestibule and picked up the instrument.

“Ah, you, Mascarenhas! Any news?”

“Come along to the Plaz do Pillhourino at once. I have something important to tell you.”

Vereker at once ordered a car and had his bag brought down from his bedroom. Having settled his account and said good-bye to Julio Roca, he told the chauffeur to proceed straight to Lisbon. After depositing his luggage on the “Avila Star”, which lay at Alcantara-Mar and was due to sail in the afternoon, he was driven to the Plaz do Pillhourino. He waited there for some minutes and then espied Mascarenhas near the strange monolith in the middle of the spacious square. At the same moment Mascarenhas saw him. They met and at once turned into a wine shop and seated themselves at a small table where they could talk without being overheard by the other occupants.

“We have managed it,” said Mascarenhas after sipping his wine and lighting a cigarette.

“You have got Dias?”

“Oh, no, not Dias. He has completely vanished. We have hunted Lisbon for him and found no trace of the devil, but we have laid hands on Ribeiro, his confederate.”

“That was quick work. Any news of the necklace?”

“It will be returned to the Colvins if no further questions are asked. Do you think they'll agree to that?”

“I'm certain of it.”

“Otherwise we may never see it again. If Ribeiro suffers they will certainly lose the necklace. We must compromise sometimes if we wish to achieve satisfactory results. It's illogical to exact the penalty of the law if that course entails the defeat of one's aims, and it's our aim to restore the stolen property.”

“I can tell them that the necklace will be returned?”

“Certainly. Where are the Colvins staying in Lisbon?”

“At Carcano's Hotel.”

“It will be there at midday. I can guarantee that!”

“Excellent, Mascarenhas. I am going to see the Colvins before I sail this afternoon. I presume the person returning it won't object to a small reward?”

“It is usual in such cases.”

“Very good. I'll see that £100 is sent on to you, and you can arrange for its disposal to the person or persons concerned.”

Having finished their wine and arranged to meet in London later in the year, the two men parted, and Vereker at once took a taxi to Carcano's Hotel. He found Colvin seated in the lounge smoking and trying to gather the news from a Portuguese newspaper. Mrs. Colvin had gone out to do some shopping and would not return till lunch. On Vereker's entry he rose and, in spite of his effort to appear delighted, an uneasy look stole into his eyes and his brow contracted unpleasantly.

“This is unexpected, Vereker,” he said as he extended his hand. “I thought you had gone on with the ‘Mars'.”

“I changed my mind at the last moment, Colvin,” replied Vereker, “and decided to spend a day or two in Lisbon.”

“Important business?”

“Well, it concerned your lost necklace of cinnamon and white diamonds.”

The statement made Colvin start visibly.

“Good Lord!” he exclaimed, “we had given that up as lost for good.”

“I hadn't. It will be returned to you at midday today. I pledged myself that no questions would be asked and no legal action taken in the matter.”

“As long as we get the necklace back we shall certainly not bother to take any proceedings,” agreed Colvin with a surprising lack of interest.

“That's satisfactory. I felt that a small reward would not be out of place, and arranged that £100 should be sent to a police friend of mine to be handed over to the person responsible for the restitution. I hope that I wasn't extravagant considering the value of the jewellery.”

“I'll write you out a cheque at once,” said Colvin and, producing a cheque book, wrote a cheque for the amount and handed it to Vereker. After heartily thanking Vereker for the trouble he had taken on his behalf he asked casually: “And when are you returning to England?”

“This afternoon, by the ‘Avila Star'; and you?”

“Constance and I are going on to Madrid in a few days' time, and after a week, or perhaps two, we shall get back as quickly as possible.”

“To Firle House, Jevington?”

“Yes, for a while. I'm afraid we shan't be able to keep Firle House up. Beryl had already put it on the market before leaving England. It's a big place and will probably remain unsold for some time.”

“I know the place well and should like to have a look over it before you part with it. On my return I'm going to make Jevington my headquarters for a painting holiday. The downs in the vicinity are a favourite subject of mine.”

“Please put up at Firle House, Vereker. I'll write and give Dobbs and his wife, Beryl's butler and housekeeper, who have been left in charge of the place, instructions to do everything to make you comfortable. We'll join you there later if you are still in residence.”

Vereker accepted the invitation readily, for it was part of his plan to secure an entrée to Firle House as soon as possible, either through the proper channels or by subterfuge. Having achieved his object with unexpected ease, and seeing that Colvin was in an expansive mood, due possibly to his recent escape from money troubles, he suddenly decided on a bold move. All along in his investigations he had been anxious to discover the identity of the mysterious Maureen whose name had been used in connection with the necklace of cinnamon and white diamonds. Every attempt he had made towards that end had either been deliberately foiled or had ended in failure. He pulled out his watch and glanced at it. He felt that the identity of Maureen was one of the key-pieces to the solution of the Mesado mystery.