“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.”
Chapter Fourteen
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 defi
nitely 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.”
“You knew that Maureen O’Connor had been murdered?”
“Hearsay only. It came as a great shock to me, and I had determined to avenge her death.”
“Like a gallant lover,” remarked Vereker. “Now we come to the point of how you knew and who told you.”
“I’ll tell you the truth about the whole matter. As you’ve guessed, there was a guilty liaison between Maureen and Guillermo Mesado. Mesado had stolen my lover, so I was going to make him pay for the pleasure. Renée is an old friend of mine and we always confided in one another, but like a woman she doesn’t know the value of silence and when it pays to talk. She became Mrs. Mesado’s confidante and was genuinely fond of her mistress. In an outburst of frankness she must have told Mrs. Mesado all about her husband’s relations with his sister-in-law. Women do such things. They cannot help themselves. There was a violent quarrel and Guillermo left his wife and returned to the Argentine. Mrs. Mesado then determined to make sure that the story was true and invited Maureen to this place, Firle House, for the weekend. She found out that Renée had told the truth, and at once related the whole story to her sister, Constance Colvin, and to Constance’s husband. The latter is a vicious drunkard. One can admire a clever criminal, but a drunkard is contemptible. One can only spit on him and pass him by. Colvin knew that Guillermo’s departure meant the loss of a good living for him. Guillermo paid him handsomely for the little and pleasant work he did for him. He has a violent temper, and being a weak man he can’t control it. Infuriated at the loss of his income the poor wretch could think of nothing better than wreaking his hatred on the cause of it, so he murdered Maureen O’Connor.”
“You heard this from Renée Gautier?” asked Vereker, unable to conceal astonishment at the information.
“Yes; she ought to know. She was in the house when it was done.”
“It’s difficult to believe, but how did he do it?”
“Unknown to Constance and Beryl, he was showing Maureen over the house after dinner. He took her down to the refrigerator to explain the working of it, ushered her in and banged the door. She was dressed in an evening gown and died of exposure to the intense cold during the night. It was a clever idea. I give him credit for some wit.”
“This was on Sunday night?” asked Vereker.
“I forget whether it was Saturday or Sunday. It matters little.”
“How did Beryl and Constance find out about it?”
“After locking Maureen in the refrigerator Colvin went upstairs and asked where Maureen had got to. His manner was innocent and disarming. They didn’t know, but thought she had retired to her room. After a considerable lapse of time Colvin, expressing anxiety about the lady, asked his wife to go and see what Maureen was doing. Naturally she was not to be found, and there and then they searched the house, but never dreamed of looking in the refrigerator. Finally they came to the conclusion that she had found the family atmosphere uncongenial and had gone home. Towards morning Colvin pretended to remember that they had overlooked the refrigerator and roused his wife, for they had retired after their first unsuccessful search. They got up, wakened Beryl and together they went down to the cold storage chamber. Arriving there they found to their surprise that Renée Gautier had also remembered the refrigerator. She had slipped on a dressing-gown and gone down to investigate on her own. On opening the refrigerator door Renée had found Maureen almost unconscious. She dragged her out and gave her hot tea to revive her. She recovered sufficiently to tell Renée that Colvin had intentionally locked her in. With these words she succumbed. When the three others came on the scene Renée in an angry outburst accused Colvin of murdering his sister-in-law. Faced with the accusation, Colvin admitted he had locked her up in the chamber, but only with the intention of punishing her. Thereupon there was a hasty conference between the parties, and the three relatives tried to nobble Renée into joining them in a story that it was an accident. Renée refused to have anything to do with the conspiracy, but agreed to hold her tongue about the business unless she were directly questioned by the police or at an inquest. Further than that she absolutely refused to go.”
“She didn’t wish to be accessory to a murder,” remarked Vereker.
“No. Renée has a lot of French caution; she’s very hard-headed.”
“What happened next?”
“After some discussion they concluded that the safest thing to do was to dispose of the body secretly, so they decided to take it with them on Monday morning on their pleasure cruise and get rid of it at sea.”
“Whose bright idea was that?” asked Vereker.
“I believe it was Colvin’s, but I’m not sure.”
“This was not prearranged?”
“Apparently not, but if there was a separate conspiracy among the relatives, Renée was ignorant of it. There may have been, for after all Maureen was the black sheep of the family and they were all sick to death of her.”
“But what was Maureen going to do on Monday morning if the accident, shall we say, had not occurred?”
“They had told her that they would take her up to London by car, leave her and proceed to Tilbury.”
“How did they all travel that morning?”
“Colvin and his wife went up by an early train. Renée and Mrs. Mesado and the luggage, which was considerable and included the body, went up by a car hired in Eastbourne. They had got rid of their chauffeur with the other servants the previous week.”
“So that’s the story as you heard it. Have you told Colvin that you know about his share in this business?”
“No, it’s no affair of mine. I never talk unless it’s profitable to talk.”
“It may be profitable to talk later?” asked Vereker pertinently.
“No, I hardly think so. Things are getting too warm for me on this side of the Atlantic and I shall try my luck in America next. It seems to be the only place where
fortunes can be made rapidly if one has a little courage, some brains and not too much sentiment.”
“I think that’s all I want to know, Mr. Dias,” said Vereker, rising from his chair to signify that the interview was at an end. “Which way did you enter the house?”
“By one of the drawing-room windows.”
“Did you cut a pane?”
“It wasn’t necessary; there is one with a faulty catch which responds easily to a little manipulation.”
“Perhaps I’d better see you off the premises in case the butler wakes up and fills you with shot. He always keeps a loaded twelve-bore beside his bed when the house is empty.”
“It would be better. Our conversation has probably roused him, and I don’t like to run unnecessary risks. I leave that to fools.”
“Before you go I’ll just have a look in that drawer to see that Maureen’s diamond necklace is still there,” remarked Vereker as he quickly crossed the room to the chest.
“A wise precaution,” smiled Dias good-humouredly. “I was rather surprised you didn’t look before.”
“I heard you turn the key to open the drawer when I switched on the light, and was pretty certain you hadn’t time to extract the jewel-case,” replied Vereker.
“Hearing is a very faulty sense. I never trust it too implicitly. I may have been locking the drawer instead of opening it. Still on this occasion you are right, but as a detective you ought to make sure.”
“I see it’s here,” replied Vereker as he opened the jewel-case and, finding the necklace, returned it to its place in the drawer.
“Shall I lead the way?” asked Dias when he saw that Vereker was ready.
“Naturally,” replied Vereker with a sardonic smile and followed Dias down to the drawing-room, where he slipped silently out of an open window and, making his way rapidly across the lawn, vanished into the dusk.
Firmly closing and wedging the drawing-room window, Vereker returned to his bedroom. He once more locked the drawer containing Maureen’s necklace, got into bed and tried to sleep. His mind, however, was not in a sufficiently quiescent state for sleep. He lay awake far into the night pondering over the details of Dias’s story. They were circumstantial enough to be plausible, but they conflicted with Vereker’s theory of the crime, and the more he thought about them the less credible did they appear. Look at the matter in whatever light he might, he could not visualise Richard Colvin as the murderer of Maureen O’Connor. In his own mind he was now fairly certain who the culprit was, but before being positive he would see Heather again and hear the result of his work on the fingerprints and bloodstains in the refrigerating chamber. On the assumption that Dias’s story was a fabrication he strove to find a motive for it, but at length, utterly weary of the task, gave it up and fell sound asleep.
The Pleasure Cruise Mystery Page 21
