Operation Piracy

by Paul Somers

  After that, he gave us some general facts. Scott, he said, had been shot in the side of the head, above the left ear, and must have died instantly. Altogether, six shots had been fired through the door, all in slightly different directions. Four of the bullets had embedded themselves in the cabin wall opposite the door and one, untraced, was presumed to have gone out through the open port. A local man raised the point about why he should have been shot at all, and Anstey admitted he couldn’t offer any satisfactory explanation at that stage. Someone asked him if there’d been anything about the state of Scott’s door to suggest that the secretary might have been on the point of breaking out, but Anstey said no, the door and the latch had been quite intact. He showed us the wedges that had been used to jam the doors—small, carefully-shaped slivers of iron, chisel-sharp at one end. They’d probably been cut, he said, from bits of old scrap, and he doubted if they’d be much use as clues. They’d been checked for fingerprints, but had been handled by too many people before the police arrived to be of any help in that respect. The gags had been carefully examined, but they might have been torn from any one of a million household sheets. A full description of the stolen jewels had been circulated in the usual way, though it was hardly likely the raiders would try to dispose of them while they were still hot. The jewel case, Anstey said, in answer to a question, was of small attaché-case size, with a lizard skin finish.

  I left it to Lawson to raise the question of Scott having a gun. He didn’t mention it in front of the others, but button-holed Anstey afterwards. The superintendent read the newspaper clipping and listened carefully to Lawson’s ideas. Then he slowly shook his head.

  “There was no gun in Scott’s cabin, or among his effects,” he said. “We made a routine check on all his things, and we’d certainly have found it.”

  “I see,” Lawson said. “All the same, Superintendent, if the raiders knew about this bodyguard stuff they might have thought he had a gun, mightn’t they? They could still have shot him up as a precaution.”

  “That’s possible,” Anstey agreed.

  Lawson looked pleased. At least he’d got a good talking point for his story.

  We left the station and walked across to the harbour. The weather was still wonderfully fine, and there seemed to be even more boats in the anchorage than there had been the previous day. The newspaper stories had brought a fresh wave of sightseers to the Prince of Wales Pier, and the pleasure boats were doing good business making a discreet circuit of Attwood’s yacht before setting off for Truro and St. Mawes and the Helfore river. The Customs Quay was again comparatively quiet. There wasn’t much water in the basin, but I managed to drag my dinghy out with Lawson’s help and we rowed over to Wanderer and tied up to the raft of boats. The police had evidently finished their work aboard her, for there was no guard. Most of the reporters had already arrived, and Attwood appeared to be holding a sort of Open Day. Quite apart from his odd propensity for treating all newspapermen as his friends, he too, of course, needed our help badly. He was in the saloon with his dapper friend Rankin, deep in conversation with two men from the Sentinel. Charmian Attwood and Mrs. Rankin had come up for air, and were sitting under an awning on the after-deck, with a bevy of reporters round them. We were just in time to hear the story of the cabin raid all over again, and get Charmian’s personal reactions. Strain and fatigue had taken some of the bloom off her, but I could still see she was a beauty. She had lovely facial bones, and glossy waving black hair and the most gorgeous big grey eyes. It was easy to understand why Attwood doted on her. By contrast, Rankin’s wife looked insipid. She was pretty in a mousey sort of way, and very well-groomed, but she had a small thin mouth that I didn’t care for. As a personality, she was completely eclipsed by Charmian, who of course was getting most of the attention and whose famous vitality kept breaking through in spite of her obvious depression over the tragedy.

  Actually, there wasn’t much to be picked up there except the fragrant scent of Chanel Number Five and presently Lawson nudged me and suggested we should go and talk to Attwood, who by now was free. Lawson produced his newspaper clipping again and asked Attwood if Scott had ever had a gun and if so whether the fact had been known by many people. Attwood was interested, and said Scott had had a gun a year or two back, though he certainly hadn’t paraded the fact. He didn’t know what had happened to it—probably Scott had just stopped taking it around as there hadn’t really been any need of it. Still, in the absence of any better explanation of the shooting, he seemed to think Lawson might have got on to something with his theory of a precaution. We were still discussing the matter when more reporters arrived, and then we quickly dropped the subject and drifted away.

  I couldn’t see anything of Harris, but Quigley was showing small parties over the cabins and presently we joined one of them and went below. Quigley had quite recovered from the effects of the raid, and with his cheerful, willing manner he made the perfect guide. First, on the port side, came Attwood’s stateroom, with a cracked door panel where he’d swung the chair against it. Next came his wife’s, almost identical. We were allowed to stick our heads in, and Quigley pointed out, with a slightly cynical grin, the place where a hundred thousand pounds worth of jewels had rested on the dressing-table. Beyond, the Rankins had their double cabin. Opposite them, on the starboard side, was another double cabin which hadn’t been occupied; then a luxuriously-fitted bathroom; and finally Scott’s cabin, directly facing Attwood’s. It had been carefully cleaned up that morning, but there were still faint stains of blood on the floor that Quigley said he hadn’t been able to get out. We examined the six bullet holes in the upper panel of the door, but they didn’t tell us anything that we didn’t know already. The panel was fairly thin but the door itself—like all of them—was very substantial and, as Anstey had said, showed no sign whatever of having been on the point of giving way.

  We inspected the marks of the wedges in the three doors and Quigley showed us how they’d worked. They’d been driven in between the doors and the frames, just above the handles, with the result that the latches had been forced hard against their metal sockets, and though the doors all opened inwards it had been impossible to turn the handles from the inside. It was all very simple, but not something that could have been thought up by anyone unfamiliar with the doors. Quigley thought that driving in each wedge would only have needed one strong, well-directed blow, so that the three doors could easily have been jammed by two men before any of the occupants could reach the corridor.

  I left Lawson talking to Quigley, and went back on deck to look for Captain Harris. This time I spotted him at once—he’d been buttonholed by Mollie up in the bows and she appeared to be doing quite a line with him. I didn’t want to give her the impression I was trying to muscle in on her inquiries, so I hung back for a bit. Presently I saw her smile and nod good-bye to him, and as she departed along the other side of the ship I moved in. Harris was gazing out over the rail—he looked, I thought, like a man who’d be very thankful when he could put to sea again. As I approached he took a cigarette packet from his pocket, glanced inside it, tossed it overboard with an irritable gesture, and began to feel around for another pack. It seemed a good opportunity to start off on the right foot with him. I said, “Have one of mine, Mr. Harris.”

  He hesitated, then said “Thanks”, and took one. I told him who I was, and said I imagined he must be getting pretty fed up with newspapermen by now. He looked a bit grim and said it certainly wasn’t his line of country but he’d had instructions to give all the help he could, and that was that.

  I said, “Well, there’s one point I’d particularly like your view on. A thing that sticks out a mile in this buisness is that the raiders knew almost everything there was to know about Wanderer. They knew how to shut off the forecastle, they knew the best way of jamming the doors, they even knew the exact lay-out of the cabins. Not to mention that there was a length of rope lying handy in the wheelhouse.”

  He nodded at once—the ap
proach obviously wasn’t new to him. “I don’t know that the rope’s very important,” he said, “there’s usually rope lying around in a yacht. And of course up to a point it’s easy enough for anyone who’s interested to find out a good deal about a ship like this. There was an article about her in the Yachting Journal early in the summer, with specifications, plans of the lay-out, interior photographs with a good view of the cabin doors—almost everything … But not quite everything,” he added.

  “I don’t suppose it said which cabin Mrs. Attwood occupied, did it?”

  “I don’t remember exactly, but I shouldn’t think so—and it certainly couldn’t have said which double cabin was going to be unoccupied on this trip. The raiders didn’t even bother to jam that one.”

  “In fact,” I said, “their information was right up to date.”

  “It looks like it.”

  “And surely there’s another thing that points the same way,” I said. “Could they have relied on intercepting the ship without knowing your course?”

  “Relied?” He shook his head slowly. “I wouldn’t say so. Mind you, it’s been in the papers that we were going to the Med., and to get there from here you have to clear the Manacles and then set course to round Ushant. Anyone who could read a chart would know that. So they might have taken a chance …” He broke off. “All the same, it’s not very likely. Some boats might pass close to Ushant, some might stand well off. And forty miles out from here, the difference in position would be quite a bit … No, I reckon you’re right—I think they must have had a pretty good idea of our course.”

  “And wouldn’t they have needed to know your sailing time and speed, too,” I said, “to make an interception likely?”

  He pondered. “Well, if they’d known we were planning to sail some time that evening, I suppose they could have hung about on the course until we showed up—but they’d have had to be pretty sure about their drift and leeway and the chances are they’d scarcely have known where they were after a while …” He shook his head again. “I certainly wouldn’t have banked on an interception that way if I’d been them.”

  “Do you think there’s any possibility they could have followed you out of here, and passed you, and taken up position ahead?”

  “If they’d done that, I’d have seen them.”

  “Suppose they doused their lights?”

  “It was still daylight when we sailed. They’d have had to wait for an hour or more before it was really dark—and by then they wouldn’t have had a hope of catching us. That cruiser may have been fast, in fact she must have been to cover the ground she did, but she hadn’t the lines of a speedboat—and we were doing twelve knots ourselves, don’t forget … Still, if you feel like checking on sailings there’d be no harm in having a word with the coastguard look-out. He’ll know.”

  “Where will I find him?”

  “Up on the hill above St. Mawes.”

  “I think I’d better see him,” I said, and made a mental note. “What it really boils down to, then, is that in your view the raiders must have had some up-to-date information about the ship, like the disposition of the cabins, and, in all probability, knew the course and speed and sailing time as well?”

  Harris hesitated, but only for a second. “That’s about the size of it—though it absolutely beats me how they could have done.”

  I said, “When was Wanderer’s course and sailing time fixed?”

  “Well, that’s just it—it wasn’t fixed till quite late. Sailing time was decided on when Mr. and Mrs. Rankin arrived—that was about teatime. Mr. Attwood had a talk with me, the way he always does, and said what about sailing at nine o’clock, and I said that was all right. Then about six I went up into the wheelhouse and laid off the course on the chart, jotted down a note about sailing time and speed, made the usual calculations about tidal drift and leeway, and worked out the course to steer.”

  “I suppose anyone on board could have seen these workings-out—the chart, the notes, and so on?”

  “Well, yes … I don’t suppose Bob Crisp did, he was too busy, and so was Wilson, but there was no rule against it. The ladies weren’t very interested, but Quigley knew, of course, and Mr. Scott—he always followed everything very closely—and Mr. Attwood had a couple of guests aboard that he and Mr. Rankin took up to the wheelhouse around seven …”

  “Extra guests, you mean?”

  “Yes, he had a couple of chaps in for a drink—friends of his off a yacht called Spindrift that happened to be lying here.”

  “I see.” I looked round the anchorage. “Can you point her out?”

  “She’s not here now—she sailed that same evening, an hour before we did. They said they were going to spend some time at St. Mawes.” He gave me a twisted smile. “They didn’t exactly look like pirates.”

  “Who does?” I said.

  “Oh, I’ve seen plenty of chaps that did!”

  I laughed. “What about strangers slipping aboard—intruders? Any possibility of that?”

  “Not with all of us here—not a chance.”

  “Well,” I said, “the information got around somehow, didn’t it? Maybe someone had a last drink ashore before Wanderer sailed and spilled the beans without realising it. Do you happen to remember if anyone went ashore?”

  “The two visitors did—they went in their own dinghy. They had some business in the town before they sailed.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “No, I don’t think so …” He broke off. “Wait a minute, though—Mr. Scott went off just before eight to post a letter.”

  “Did he?” I said thoughtfully

  Chapter Five

  There didn’t seem to be much more. I could usefully ask Harris at the moment, so I thanked him and went in search of Lawson. I found him by the port deck rail, deep in conversation with young Bob Crisp. I interrupted him to say I was going off on a couple of small jobs that would probably take me till lunchtime, and asked him if he could get someone else to ferry him ashore. He said, “Okay, old boy,” with a slightly preoccupied nod, and I went on down the gangway to my dinghy.

  As I rowed past Wanderer’s stern, still pondering about the way that vital last-minute tip-off had been conveyed to theraiders, a new possibility suddenly occurred to me. The ketch Morna, which had been tied up only a few yards from Wanderer, was no longer there, and as I regarded the empty space it struck me that her owner would have been uniquely placed to receive information from anyone aboard Attwood’s yacht. The two ships had certainly been within quiet-talking range, and a short message could easily have been passed by word of mouth from the stern of one to the bows of the other without attracting any attention. Morna herself, of course, didn’t answer in the least to the description of the raiding cruiser, and apart from proximity I’d no grounds at all for suspicion, but it still seemed worth while to try and find out a bit more about her. I rowed on to Curlew to see if they could tell me anything. The plump man was on his way to the shore with a load of ship’s rubbish for the waste basket, but John Thornton was in the cockpit, stripped to the waist and peeling potatoes. He greeted me with a grin and said, “So I didn’t get my name in the paper after all?” I explained that there’d been a spate of information after I’d left him, and he said he quite understood. He was keen to hear the latest developments in the Wanderer story, and I told him what I knew. Then I asked him about Morna. He said she belonged to an elderly man who was cruising with his wife and two boys, and that she’d sailed that morning around nine. He didn’t know where to, but I’d already lost interest. The raid on Wanderer had certainly not been the work of a family man.

  I continued on my way to the Quay, tied up the dinghy, and collected the Riley. I studied the map for a moment, and then set off for St. Mawes. By water it was only a mile away across the Carrick Roads, directly opposite Falmouth; by land it was the best part of twenty miles, with a ferry to cross. Still, I thought I might need the car when I got there, so I took the longer route. I got directions for the
coastguard look-out before I reached St. Mawes itself, and drove straight up there. The man on duty confirmed what Harris had said—it seemed that the police themselves had raised the question whether Wanderer had been shadowed out to sea, so he had the answer off pat. No boat had left Falmouth waters on the night of Wanderer’s departure in time to have any hope of catching her.

  I thanked him, and went on down the hill, and parked the Riley by the harbour wall at St. Mawes. It was a picturesque little place, with colour-washed cottages lining blue water and several luxury hotels and a lot of well-to-do people messing about in boats with enormous enthusiasm. I quickly sought out the Harbour Master’s office and asked a man there if he knew a yacht called Spindrift and if she was still around. He said she was, and pointed her out to me at once—a handsome white cutter, of fifteen tons or so, riding to her anchor a few hundred yards out in the estuary. She’d come in, he said, two nights before at about nine o’clock, and had been there ever since. I asked him if the occupants had come ashore on the evening of their arrival, and he said they had—they’d inquired about taking water aboard, and afterwards they’d gone into the Crown for a drink. I borrowed his glasses and had a look at the yacht, and saw that her dinghy was tied up alongside. Someone was evidently aboard.

  I’d just left the office when there was a squeal of tyres and a familiar sage-and-cream car pulled up sharply beside the Riley. Mollie looked out and waved.

  I walked across to her, trying not to appear in a hurry. “Hallo,” I said. “Following me again, eh?”

  “I’m doing nothing of the sort,” she said indignantly. “Who talked to Harris first, anyway?”