The Pleasure Cruise Mystery

by Robin Forsythe

  “I shall leave in a few minutes, Colvin,” he remarked, “and in less than half an hour you ought to be in possession of Maureen’s necklace.”

  With these words he looked straight into Colvin’s face. The latter promptly lowered his eyes, and a greyish pallor swiftly tinged his cheeks. He was about to speak, hesitated and then coughed uneasily.

  “Your methods achieve remarkable results, Vereker,” he stammered at length and passed a trembling hand across his brow. An unpleasant pause ensued, and Vereker came to the conclusion that the truth about Maureen was once more about to slip from him by a studied evasion on Colvin’s part. That element of combativeness in him which never admitted defeat in a difficult task steeled him to a direct inquiry. He was rather dubious about the wisdom of such a line of action, but at the moment he could think of no other plan. Afterwards too he was obliged to admit that he had allowed himself to be nettled into an indiscreet boldness.

  “By the way, who is Maureen, Colvin?” he asked bluntly, and to cover the seeming impertinence of his inquiry added: “Miss Gautier referred to the cinnamon and white diamond necklace as Maureen’s when I happened to speak to her about it.”

  “Oh, you questioned Gautier?” asked Colvin, with a look of surprise and some annoyance.

  “Not directly. I happened to enter into conversation with her on board the ‘Mars’ and the subject cropped up. I can’t for the life of me recollect what led up to it, but you needn’t worry on that score; I was discretion itself. I was fairly confident she had something to do with the loss of that necklace and I had to ‘gang warily’.”

  “Had she a hand in the pie?” asked Colvin eagerly.

  “We’ll call it a finger, but she was not altogether to blame. She was acting under the influence of Miguel Dias.”

  “Good heavens! Constance always said he was a crook.”

  “Your wife has a shrewd insight into character. He is a crook. But to return to our subject, if I’m not being impertinent, who is Maureen?”

  By this time Colvin had recovered from his discomposure, and the digression had given him time to think.

  “Oh, Maureen!” he exclaimed, smiling. “Funny you should mention that. Maureen O’Connor was the name Beryl assumed when she was on the stage before she was married to Guillermo Mesado. We sometimes called her Maureen to the last.”

  During this explanation Colvin busied himself lighting a cigarette, and his eyes carefully avoided Vereker’s cold scrutiny. There was something in the tone of his voice and a studied precision in his action which convinced Vereker that he was not telling the truth. Feeling that it was useless to pursue the subject further, perhaps even imprudent, for his inquisitiveness might rouse the man’s suspicion, Vereker turned the conversation deftly by asking in a casual tone:

  “Miss Gautier will return to Firle House at the end of the cruise, I suppose, Colvin?”

  “Oh, yes, for a time, anyway. Constance doesn’t like her, but we haven’t had time to settle anything definitely about the girl’s future.”

  “Her present intention is to meet Dias at Barcelona and travel with him to Paris, where they are going to be married,” said Vereker.

  “Oh, is that so? First we’ve heard of it. Still, that would suit us admirably,” remarked Colvin readily, but the statement gave him pause. After a moment’s reflection he added, almost in soliloquy, “Yes, that would suit us admirably. We shall have no further need of her services.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it if I were you,” continued Vereker. “I’m pretty sure Dias hasn’t the slightest intention of marrying Gautier, and I doubt whether he’ll turn up at Barcelona. In the circumstances she may think it prudent to return to Jevington and keep her little love tragedy a secret.”

  “I’m glad you’ve put us on our guard,” said Colvin. “We shall be prepared to discuss business from a proper angle when she arrives.”

  After a few minutes’ further conversation, which turned on general topics, Vereker took his leave of Colvin and promised him that if very urgent matters did not prevent him he would accept his invitation to Firle House and be there when he and his wife returned from their holiday in Spain.

  Having lunched at the Hotel de L’ Europe, Vereker took a taxi down to Alcantara-Mar and went on board the “Avila Star.” He had journeyed on a previous occasion to Buenos Aires on this comfortable vessel, and felt very much at home on it. By a piece of good fortune he managed to secure his old cabin on D deck and, having settled in, produced his case book and set down all the salient features of the Pleasure Cruise Mystery that he had collected up to date. In doing so he was following one of his invariable customs. A detailed account written in code seemed to clarify his point of view and helped to put events in proper perspective. Incidents which appeared too significant during the stress and excitement following their occurrence fell into their proper place, and seemingly unimportant data adjusted themselves until they acquired their true values and disclosed themselves as vital to a successful issue of his undertaking.

  Chapter Eleven

  On his return to his flat in Fenton Street, Vereker rang up Inspector Heather.

  “Has Tankerton done that little job for me, Heather?” he asked.

  “Yes, I have his report with me, Mr. Vereker. Are you in a hurry for it?”

  “I’d like it as soon as possible. Bring it round like a good fellow.”

  “Tomorrow I’ll be with you. I’m busy at the moment about a young London lady who’s missing, and we don’t know where to find her. Possibly a lot of trouble for nothing. Still it’s all in a day’s work. You know I don’t drink wine or whisky.”

  “What’s that got to do with missing ladies or Tankerton’s report?”

  “I’m coming round to you with Tankerton’s report tomorrow evening. D’you take me? A nine-gallon cask of Burton won’t be out of place. Reports are dry things and missing ladies give me the hump, so I’m not being unreasonable. Did you enjoy the trip?”

  “Found it dull at first, and then I ran head on into a mystery. One of the most puzzling I’ve struck so far. At the moment I can’t get the hang of things.”

  “Never mind, I’ll help you out,” laughed the inspector; “in the right way. What’s it all about?”

  “A murder, Heather.”

  “Dear, dear, I wonder you don’t stick to your painting. Painting’s a smelly kind of job, but it doesn’t harm anyone. Has the murder anything to do with the Diss family, whose history seems to interest you?”

  “You’ll hear all the details tomorrow. As for the cask of Burton I’m not so sure. It’s an occasion for some deep thinking, Heather.”

  “Then I’m your man for the occasion, Mr. Vereker. You said deep drinking, didn’t you?”

  “No. Deep thinking.”

  “Still I always hold that four pints clear the head remarkable. After that one gets a bit too brilliant for ordinary detective work and feels like a commissioner or a chief constable. Tomorrow evening for certain at eight o’clock.”

  “Make it seven and we’ll have a meal together.”

  “Better and better. Good-bye.”

  Next evening the inspector called sharp at seven o’clock, and the two men repaired to their old haunt, Jacques’ Restaurant, in Soho. During dinner Vereker related the story of his strange adventure on board the “Mars”, giving every detail of his discoveries in connection with the mystery of Mrs. Mesado’s death and allowing Heather to draw his own conclusions. The two men, when working on former occasions as friendly rivals or in close cooperation, had found this method of discussing a case very useful, for Heather looked at a problem with the matter-of-fact and experienced eye of the hardened police officer, while Vereker approached it from the imaginative and more elastic standpoint of an enthusiastic amateur. After dinner they returned to Vereker’s flat and made themselves comfortable before a cheery fire over their pipes and coffee. Albert, who had been Vereker’s batman during the war and was now his trusted factotum, was responsible for the coffe
e. Having brought in the steaming pot with the necessary equipage, he invariably waited for his master’s opinion of the brew.

  “Albert, you’ve surpassed yourself,” said Vereker, “and I’m sure Inspector Heather will agree with me.”

  “Best cup of coffee I’ve ever tasted,” agreed Heather generously. “Learned the trick when you were in France, Albert?”

  “That’s so, sir,” replied Albert gloomily, for he was never known to smile, “from Mademoiselle from Armentieres.”

  Satisfied with the verdict, Albert “dismissed” and left the room as if he were the principal mourner at a funeral.

  “Now you’ve got the chief facts of the case, Heather, clearly and succinctly,” said Vereker. “You can see that I was hampered by the environment. I couldn’t wander at will into other people’s cabins. The captain and the doctor were naturally in a difficult position and somewhat aloof. They adopted an ultra diplomatic attitude which tied my hands, or rather my tongue. I didn’t envy them their position; it was a singularly difficult one. Ricardo was invaluable in digging out vital information and I couldn’t have done without him. What do you make of it?”

  The inspector, who had listened to the story with rapt attention, sat puffing at his pipe in silence for some minutes.

  “Rum business. At first glance looks like a brilliant idea very badly bungled,” he commented, raising his shaggy eyebrows and giving his pointed moustache a ruminative twist between his right forefinger and thumb. Then he looked shrewdly at Vereker.

  “The lady was actually dead when you joined Ricardo after his discovery of the body on D deck?” he asked.

  “That’s a vital question, Heather. Neither Ricardo nor I could detect any sign of life, but as you know it’s a difficult and delicate job to make certain of such a fact when you’ve neither the time nor the opportunity to do so.

  “It’s easy to make a mistake,” agreed Heather. “You’re of the opinion that she was dead?”

  “Yes. And the doctor said rigor mortis set in some time after we had carried the lady down to her cabin.”

  The inspector grunted and his brow furrowed in thought. “I wonder if his statement was correct,” he remarked.

  “I think we can take that for granted. Macpherson was not unfriendly, and I should say he had the Scots characteristics of thoroughness and accuracy. I have an inkling of what’s in your mind, Heather, and it seems to be working on similar lines to my own. I asked him if the flaccid state of the body when we found it was secondary, and he simply scouted my suggestion.”

  “Knocks my theory a bit askew, Mr. Vereker, but I’ll give the problem a good examination before I make any definite statement as to my conclusions. Rigor mortis is a tricky sort of thing when you come to reckon on it in conjunction with a question of time.”

  “I agree,” commented Vereker, and a smile of amusement spread over his features. “I’ve been boggling over that point ever since the game began and I haven’t settled it yet.”

  “We’ll leave it for the moment,” continued Heather, “and look at Tankerton’s report. Before doing so, what d’you make of the necklace being thrown in at your window?”

  “I’m certain Mrs. Mesado hurled that necklace into my cabin. In her state of mind, which we can assume was not too clear, she mistook the window of my cabin for her own, which was next to it.”

  “Good. I had come to the same conclusion,” said Heather and drew from his pocket Tankerton’s report of his discoveries with regard to the history of the Diss family of Fakenham, in Norfolk. He tapped the paper with his forefinger before handing it to Vereker. “I’ll give you the gist of this now and you can digest it properly later. You will learn from it that the Diss family is an old and honourable one and has been held in high esteem in Norfolk for some two hundred years. They were farmers, and proud of it. Later on they moved upward in the social scale, if that’s possible, and were considered country gentry. This arose out of a family knack of managing money and hanging on to it with their toe-nails. They bought up property, made good investments and became landlords instead of tenants. Their lads went into the army, navy, law and the Church. From the fighting Disses came Colonel Diss, the father of Beryl, Constance and Amy Diss, with whom you are particularly concerned. Comely girls according to all accounts and all well hunted by the males for miles around. But a family, Mr. Vereker, always reminds me of a wave at sea; it’s born, hangs together, pushes forward in a solid mass, gathers speed and then there comes a point when it loses cohesion and breaks into spume. With the Diss girls the family began to get light and sprightly. Beryl, the sparkiest of the lot, ran away from home and went on the stage. This was a shock to the outlook of the family. Not long ago, even in my young days, the stage was a sort of ante-room to hell in most proper people’s opinions. Even when she got on and made a bit of a name as a dancer, she wasn’t accepted by the family, especially the section that fished for bread from a pulpit. The family atmosphere improved when she went to Buenos Aires on a world tour and was married to Mesado, the meat millionaire. Even a social outlook can’t stand up for six rounds and beat a moneybag; it’s not human. The family had begun to forgive Beryl her sins when Constance secretly married Colvin, a bailiff on a neighbouring estate, who drank hard and needed reforming. Constance was born to save sinners and has had her work cut out keeping Colvin from the wrath of the Lord. This was another blow to the ageing parents, whose fortunes were beginning to wilt a bit under the colonel’s notion of his own importance as a soldier and a gentleman. Then came the final disaster. Amy, the youngest, fell in love with one of their grooms and, to the horror of her parents, thought she’d perpetuate her lover’s likeness by getting into what is politely called ‘a certain condition.’ She was promptly kicked out of the house, and disappeared with the groom. They went to London. The groom later joined a racing stable and, learning from horses how to run, ran away and left young Amy to look after herself. Being extravagant in her tastes and a very beautiful young woman, she quickly saw the commercial value of her charms and became the mistress of a young blood who had little use for the marriage tie in his relations with the fair sex. He was the first of a series of his kind who found the beautiful Amy a great comfort in hours of need. Tankerton followed up Amy as far as her fourth experiment in the companionate business and then lost all trace of her. She had changed her name several times of course and was living on the last occasion under the name of Maureen O’Connor.”

  “Great Scott! The very woman I’ve been looking for!” exclaimed Vereker, jumping from his easy chair and bringing his hand down on the table with a crash.

  “I didn’t think you were that soft, Mr. Vereker,” said the inspector, with a sly twinkle in his eye.

  “No, no, Heather! She’s the woman in the case!” stammered Vereker in his eagerness.

  “So I gathered from your yarn this evening. She was living about a year ago at Percy Street, near Victoria Station. She must have come down a bit in the world. You’ll understand my meaning. Rum how a big railway station has a subtle connection with the oldest trade in the female world, but sellable stuff must find a market. Fish go to Billingsgate; meat to Smithfield, and so on. Terrible but true!”

  “Well I’m damned!” interrupted Vereker. “I must get a move on and start the hunt from Percy Street. This is getting exciting, Heather.”

  “Wait a jiff, Mr. Vereker. My best bit of news I’ve kept to the last. Miss Maureen O’Connor has just been reported to the police as missing from a flat in Sussex Gardens. I found she had a very sumptuous place there. Her stock had evidently boomed of late and, apart from possessing a considerable bank balance, a nice car and a staff of servants, she left a considerable amount of jewellery in her flat. Her maid says that for some time she has been very excitable and queer in her actions. One day she said she was going into the country for a rest and, packing her bag, set out alone. From that moment she vanished and hasn’t been heard of since. The maid reported the matter to the local police, and now the affair
is in our hands. We’ve been trying to trace her whereabouts. So far we’ve been unsuccessful. Now, Mr. Vereker, I’ve given you a start and you’ve got to put a jerk into it. Get busy!”

  “Heather, this is great. The annoying bits of my puzzle are beginning to tumble into position.”

  “I had an idea I’d gathered the vital pieces together and put them into your hands. What are you going to do next?”

  “I’m going to start on a painting holiday tomorrow, Heather. Colvin has put Firle House, his place in Sussex, at my disposal. I intend to make myself comfortable there until he returns. Those Sussex Downs are the very devil to paint. Serene, imperturbably serene, they whisper to you of the slowly unfolding destiny of man, of his past, his fretful, uncertain, tentative struggle against the stubborn resistance of Nature—of themselves in fact. It’s only a murmurous whisper, hardly audible when a soft sou’wester sweeps and sighs in summer over their suavely rounded backs. I’ve heard that voice; its calm, persuasive tones give me strength and courage in moments of despair. I begin to experience some of their philosophical indifference to the nervous agitation of modern life. What do money and love and fame and wars matter? You’ve only to see a Baby Austin climbing one of their slopes to gather their attitude to the cosmos. All that’s left to us is beauty, and beauty is all… beauty is…”

  “Did you get that nine gallon of Burton in as I instructed you, Mr. Vereker?” asked Heather after coughing noisily.

  “Yes. Albert has been taking care of it. He says it’s in nice condition now.”

  “Albert’ll be in a nice condition if we leave him alone with it much longer. I’ll sample it before I go.”

  Heather rose from his chair, pressed the electric bell at his side and a few minutes later Albert appeared with a tray on which were a foaming quart jug and two pewter tankards.