The Pleasure Cruise Mystery (26 page)

“Numbers two and three are finger-prints which I took from the dead woman's hands. Number four is one secured from a celluloid comb used by Mrs. Mesado. Naturally I expected it to tally with one of the prints of the dead woman's fingers. You'll observe they are utterly different. It's quite possible that the finger-prints on the celluloid comb are not Mrs. Mesado's. I didn't overlook that contingency, but it's no use hunting for trouble, and I think we can safely assume for our purposes that the impressions were left by Mrs. Mesado. The discovery that there was a discrepancy was illuminating. Number four is Renée Gautier's hall-mark.”

“But the principal question in this business, Mr. Vereker, is, who killed Maureen O'Connor?”

“We've come to that vital stage in our board meeting at last, Heather. But even now I feel that the moment hasn't arrived for me to answer the question with any degree of certainty. I want you to let me have the photo-micrographs of the fingerprints on the refrigerator door and the result of the blood test as soon as possible. Now I'll ask you to come up to my room, where I have some more bits of evidence that may prove important.”

The two men went upstairs, and after showing Heather Maureen's blood-stained evening gown, her tweed costume and shoes, Vereker asked him what he thought of them.

“They fairly give the show away!” exclaimed Heather. “Miss Marchant said that these were all the wearing apparel and shoes Maureen took with her for the week-end. If she disappeared from this house she disappeared in her naked pelt and bare feet.”

“Just so, Heather. I think we can assume that her body was stripped of clothes and shoes and packed in Mrs. Mesado's Saratoga.”

“Good. Anything else?”

Vereker drew from his pocket Mrs. Mesado's letter of invitation to Maureen and, crossing to the chest of drawers, extracted the jewel box containing the cinnamon and white diamond necklace.

“Lord above, another necklace!” exclaimed Heather after reading the letter. “Enough necklaces in this case to hang a regiment of mutineers.”

“Are the stones genuine, Heather? I'm not an expert.”

“They are, and worth a chief inspector's ransom.”

“Well I'm hanged!” said Vereker with astonishment. “Either there are two similar necklaces of genuine stones or the one which Gautier stole from Maureen's body is a paste one.”

“I'll bet my last bob the latter necklace was a very good paste one,” remarked Heather, “and that's why our friend Cardozo was so easily persuaded by the Portuguese police to return it to the Colvins in Lisbon. What's your next move, Mr. Vereker?”

“In the first place, Heather, you might take this seal from Mrs. Mesado's letter and give me a photo-micrograph of the thumb-print on the sealing wax. It ought to tally with the one I've got from her celluloid comb.”

“You're improving wonderfully, Mr. Vereker,” said the inspector and, tearing the seal off the envelope, placed it carefully in an empty matchbox and stowed it away in his pocket.

“I shall stay here until the Colvins return. I want to see Richard Colvin badly. In the meantime I'm waiting on you, Heather.”

“I must return to town immediately. I'll come back with the photo-micrographs of the fingerprints on the refrigerator and on the sealing wax and let you know the result of the precipitin test. That ought to enable you to put the last turn on your screw, and you'll then have to act. Ring me up at any time if you want assistance. You may, for you're nearing the danger line. It'll cost you something of course...”

“More beer, I presume,” interrupted Vereker; “and, by the way, Cardozo or Dias is in England. Miss Marchant got a telephone message through to me last night warning me he had called at Sussex Gardens.”

“Good. We'll keep him under observation if we can trace his whereabouts. Got a gun handy, I hope.”

“Yes; it's not often I carry one, but I'm taking no chances.”

“Don't hesitate to use it. I don't want to lose a talented pupil. In the interval of waiting to hear from me you might just jot down in your notebook all that the Sussex Downs have got to say about beauty and all that. Good day.”

Shortly after Inspector Heather's departure the afternoon turned wet and chilly, and Vereker spent it in an easy chair in the library before a roaring fire. He had taken down John Langdon Davies'
Man and His Universe
from one of the shelves and, absorbed in that book, soon forgot all about the Pleasure Cruise Mystery. Soon, however, he came across the passage: “So, too, with our attitude towards the criminal. Evolution encouraged the idea that he was one of Nature's failures, doomed to extinction and artificially kept alive to the great danger of the human future; that the main problem with regard to him is how to protect the community from his depredations. Relativity lays the emphasis on the cause of his conduct being his environment. Given all the factors of the case he had to act as he did, and whether or not society has to be protected from him, nevertheless it must treat him with consideration due to his having acted on compulsion.” The passage and its context awakened in him a train of reflection bearing on his own attitude to the criminal, and he was obliged to admit that his interest in criminal investigation, though it possibly had its birth in some vague traditional idea of protecting the community, had long since lost tangible connection with social morality as a motive. He even doubted whether Heather was now actuated by such a motive, and Heather was a paid servant of the community, paid for its protection. No, his own attitude to criminal investigation had arisen out of his artistic impulses apart from an innate bent for ratiocination; of his love of culture, and he smiled with keen appreciation when he remembered a phrase used by one of Aldous Huxley's characters on the subject of culture: That's the definition of culture, knowing and thinking about things that have absolutely nothing to do with us. Absorbed in his thoughts, he sat smoking until the dinner gong sounded. He ate sparingly, drank some of the best claret he had ever drunk and about ten o'clock decided to go to bed.

Though gifted with artistic imagination, Vereker was peculiarly practical in his outlook on life and seldom surrendered to any fears of the unknown. Yet on retiring that night he became peculiarly sensitive to the atmosphere of his room, to the dismal sound of the wind driving the cold rain in gusts against the window panes, to the silence and gloom of the large almost untenanted mansion. The very presence in a near-by wardrobe of a dead woman's blood-stained evening gown, of her dress shoes and morning suit, affected him with a force he had never felt before. Had these ordinary articles any tangible connection with the human spirit that had so recently left its material body? He strove to reason away these imaginings, but his perusal of Langdon Davies' book had loosened his mind from its practical and mechanical attitude to life. His thoughts began to wander into the vague and hesitating outlook that even modern science has adopted towards the mystery of the universe and man's existence. Our knowledge seemed to him so superficial and in a desperate state of flux; it was proving a poor bulwark against inherent superstition and that dread of the unknown which lies at the core of the human soul. Gradually he fell into a disturbed sleep and unpleasant dreaming, from which he was suddenly wakened by the light creaking of his bedroom door on its hinges. Having left his window partially open, he was certain that he had closed his door firmly before getting into bed in order to prevent its being swung to and fro on a gusty cross-current of air. The realisation of this fact roused him to immediate and alert wakefulness. He lay still, listening intently, and, raising his head, tried to pierce the gloom with his eyes. The night, however, was intensely dark and he could discern nothing. At that moment a spot of light suddenly appeared on the wall beyond the foot of his bed and flitted jerkily about the room like a large luminous moth. For some seconds he experienced a sharp insurgence of fear; his brain was still moving nervously in a world of phantoms, vague, monstrous, terror-instilling. Pulling himself together with an effort of will, he soon realised that this eerie, dancing spot was the circular disc of illumination cast by a tiny electric pocket torch, and in the faint light issuing from the ray he clearly descried the outline of a man's body. Recovering from his surprise he slipped his hand under his pillow and, gripping his automatic Colt, pushed down the safety catch. For a few breathless seconds he waited, and saw the intruder move swiftly and noiselessly over to the chest of drawers, the right-hand top drawer of which contained the valuable necklace of cinnamon and white diamonds. Some moments of silence followed, and then he heard the almost noiseless turning of a key in a lock. At that instant he pushed the electric light switch above him through its pendant knob and, sitting up, covered the intruder with his weapon.

“Hands up!” he shouted, and without a moment's hesitation the figure obeyed. “Keep them up, Dias,” said Vereker firmly, “or I'll fire!”

“All right,” replied Dias, and the look of alarm and anger which had held his features slipped into a sheepish grin. Vereker noted the change and realised that the man, whatever his other characteristics might be, possessed a sense of humour. Springing from his bed and thrusting his feet into his slippers, all the while keeping Dias covered with his automatic, Vereker approached him.

“Any weapons on you?” he asked.

“I never carry them in England; it doesn't pay,” replied Dias coolly.

His words were convincing, but Vereker was not taking anything for granted and, pressing the muzzle of the Colt against Dias, swiftly searched him with his free hand. Satisfied that he had told the truth he stepped backward and faced him.

“You've come for the diamond necklace that Maureen O'Connor left in that drawer?” he asked.

“You've guessed right the first time. That's why I'm here.”

“The one Renée Gautier stole for you from the dead woman's body was paste, I suppose?”

“It was a dud,” replied Dias, and in spite of himself his face declared his astonishment as to the extent of Vereker's knowledge.

“Was it returned to the Colvins?”

“Yes, but they saw that it wasn't genuine, and the Portuguese police refused to pay Ribeiro the reward for its return. The police are always inconsiderate even when you help them.”

“You knew it wasn't genuine as soon as you saw it?”

“Oh, yes. I know a good deal about precious stones.”

“Well, I'm rather sorry I've robbed you of your prize, but that's neither here nor there. I'm not in the least concerned with the necklace, Dias, but with the person or persons who murdered Maureen O'Connor. Do you know anything about the latter business?”

“I had nothing to do with it,” replied Dias immediately.

“You know who did it?” asked Vereker.

“It was none of my business.”

“Possibly not, but I'm going to make you a fair proposal. You know a good deal about the matter which in other circumstances you'd keep to yourself. Any information you can give me will be useful. Now I've caught you red-handed in a burglary. If I press that bell beside you the butler will come to my assistance and we can hand you over to the police. You wouldn't like that. I think Scotland Yard know something about you, and Mascarenhas, the chief of the Lisbon police, would certainly like to lay hands on a gentleman called Cardozo. If you'll tell me all you know about the murder of Maureen O'Connor I'll let you go free from here. I'll give you two days' start before I say anything to Scotland Yard about you. Is that a fair deal?”

“Why do you want to tell Scotland Yard about me? I'm not wanted by the police of this country.”

“Perhaps not, but there are international courtesies which must be observed. I may not mention the matter at all to them, but I can't definitely promise anything more than two days' start. Are you going to accept the offer?” asked Vereker, and advanced towards the electric bell-push.

“Very well. Must I keep my arms up? It's getting painful.”

“Give me your word of honour that you won't try on any nonsense.”

“I promise by the mother of God.”

“Good. Take a seat,” said Vereker and pointed to a low Minty chair from which it would be difficult to rise quickly without the disadvantage of a warning indication.

Dias lowered his arms and sat down. Vereker drew an ordinary chair facing him and pulled over a small table on which stood a decanter of whisky and glasses to the left, but clear of his unexpected guest. He poured out the drinks with his left hand and passed one to Dias.

“Thanks, I need one badly,” replied Dias and drank his liquor at a draught.

Confident that his visitor was going to accept the situation without any attempt at violence or a dash for freedom, Vereker slipped his Colt into the pocket of his pyjama jacket and sat down.

“To begin with, Dias, I'm going to tell you all I've learned about your relations with the late Maureen O'Connor,” said Vereker, and for some time was occupied with a brief but fairly comprehensive outline of that knowledge. Dias sat and listened to the story without interruption, and at its close remarked: “A fairly accurate statement. I must correct you on one point. I was in love with the lady. She was not merely a convenience.”

“I'll grant you the point if it's any satisfaction to your sense of honour. Are you now in love with Renée Gautier?”

“Oh, no, quite a different matter. Renée and I are useful to one another. Ours is purely a business arrangement.”

“You're going to marry her, I believe?”

“Not at all. Marriage is a convenient pawn when you have business dealings with a woman. I'm sometimes obliged to make use of it.”

“You're not going to meet her at Barcelona?”

“I had no intention of doing so, but I had to keep the young lady in a good humour. It was absolutely necessary in the circumstances.”