“Suspect anything? Why the hell should he? I put him off all right—told him that the fellow I met in London was someone I was interested in as a model and that he couldn’t possibly be playing in a concert party down here. He thinks he’s made a mistake over a chance resemblance. But there’s no need to stick our necks out. I’ll meet you in Wadestow. I’ll be going over to the races. You can tell me then what you want.”
Mordecai Tremaine, pressed against a limpet-covered rock, was trying desperately not to breathe more often than was essential to keep the life in his body.
Carthallow and his companion had moved from their original positions; that was why he had heard their voices more clearly. They were apparently about to part company. Which meant that this was the crisis. Upon which way each of them decided to go would depend whether or not he was discovered. And if he was discovered . . .
He was aware of a distinctly uncomfortable feeling. He had suddenly realized how lonely the beach was and how well the rocks would screen any scene of violence that might be enacted.
He did not dare look to see what was taking place. All he could do was to crouch and hope.
It was an unnerving experience whilst it lasted but the fates had decided to be kind to him. When at length he looked about him he saw that Carthallow had gone up the beach in the direction of his house and that Westfield was walking rapidly towards Falporth. Evidently they had not suspected his presence.
Nevertheless he waited until there was no further sign of either of them before he moved from the comforting obscurity of the rocks. He thought that he would prefer to be late for breakfast rather than encounter Adrian Carthallow or the shabby man.
Going back over the sands—he had decided against the cliff path now—he tried to analyse his feelings. After all, Carthallow might have had a perfectly legitimate reason for seeing Westfield at a secluded spot where there would be little prospect of being observed, and he might have had an equally legitimate reason for concealing the fact that he was acquainted with the man.
‘Well, he might,’ thought Mordecai Tremaine dubiously. But it was not a theory to which he felt inclined to attach much importance.
By hurrying he managed to get indoors just as breakfast was being served. Providentially it was a little later than usual.
“Anything doing today, Mordecai?” asked Jonathan Boyce.
The Yard man was looking tanned and fit—much too healthy, as he admitted, to be able to spin out his convalescence much further.
“I think I’ll join you in the garden, Jonathan,” Mordecai Tremaine returned.
He was hoping that Charles Penross would pay them a call, and he was not disappointed, for at eleven o’clock the inspector appeared at the gate.
“Lucky devils,” he said boomingly, as he saw them taking their ease in two deck-chairs on the lawn, coffee cups at their side. “It’s too hot to go around looking for people who park their cars on the wrong side of the street.”
“I take it,” Boyce returned, “that that remark means that business is slack?”
“Happily so,” said Penross. “The crime graph is pointing nicely downwards.”
“You’re in time for coffee, anyway,” said Kate Tyning, who had come out into the garden at that moment. “Sit down, Charles, and I’ll fetch you a cup.”
When the inspector was comfortably settled in a nearby chair Mordecai Tremaine seized his opportunity.
“If there isn’t much doing,” he said, “I wonder whether you’d make a few enquiries for me? I’m rather interested in one of the people in the Follies show we saw the other night. He’s the impressionist.”
“Westfield, d’you mean?” queried Penross. “Morton Westfield? Fellow with a funny-shaped head?”
“Yes,” Mordecai Tremaine said, with unguarded eagerness. “Do you know anything about him?”
The inspector gave him a look of curiosity.
“Only that he’s a member of the company,” he said. “Why? Should I know anything about him?”
“I couldn’t say,” replied Tremaine hastily. “It’s just that he looks familiar to me. I’ve a feeling that I’ve seen him before although not under that name.”
“That’s quite possible,” said Penross. “These theatrical people often use a stage name.”
Tremaine felt that the conversation was not going in the required direction.
“That wasn’t quite what I meant,” he said. “I’m sure I’ve met him somewhere but I can’t place him.”
“Why don’t you go down to the Pavilion and ask him?” said the inspector practically.
Jonathan Boyce had been listening to the conversation with a secret smile of understanding.
“You’ll have to come clean, Mordecai. Tell Charles what you want and maybe he’ll oblige.”
Mordecai Tremaine adjusted his pince-nez a little nervously.
“I want to know all about Morton Westfield. I want to know his real name, where he lives and what he does when he isn’t with the Falporth Follies concert party.”
Inspector Penross sipped his coffee reflectively.
“Why?” he said.
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that. I may be completely wrong and I don’t want to involve you in difficulties.”
Penross looked from Jonathan Boyce to Mordecai Tremaine and back to Boyce again. The Yard man nodded. Penross said:
“You’re quite serious about this?”
“Quite.”
Penross drained his coffee with relish, replaced the cup upon the tray and rose to his feet.
“I dare say we can find out the answers for you. May take a little time, of course. We’ll have to be discreet about it.”
“I understand,” said Mordecai Tremaine gratefully.
He strolled along the beach towards Paradise that afternoon with the feeling that he had crossed his personal Rubicon. He had taken a definite step towards elucidating the mystery that appeared to involve Adrian Carthallow, and whether it led to climax or to anticlimax there could be no going back. He had seen enough of Charles Penross to know that beneath the inspector’s friendly exterior there was a steely devotion to his job that would not permit him to abandon any line of enquiry until he had found the solution to each and every one of the problems it raised.
He had taken a book with him with the intention of spending a quiet afternoon on the beach, but he did not read a single page. Steele, Haldean and Roberta Fairham were already there when he arrived, and not long afterwards Helen and Adrian Carthallow came down with Hilda Eveland.
Mordecai Tremaine sat in a deck-chair and felt like a sultan surrounded by his slaves as he looked down upon the brown bodies sprawled upon wraps and towels all around him.
The conversation dealt mainly with the two-day race meeting due to take place at Wadestow towards the end of the week. Most of them seemed to be planning to attend it. Lewis Haldean said:
“Are you going over, Mordecai?”
Tremaine nodded.
“Yes. I like the atmosphere of a racetrack.”
“Don’t tell me,” said Hilda Eveland with a smile, “that you can even sentimentalize over a bookie!”
“Not quite that,” he told her. “But I like the excitement, and the crowds and all the colour of it.”
Roberta Fairham, in a two-piece bathing costume that was unwisely daring for her slim figure, was lying next to Adrian Carthallow.
“How’s the portrait going, Adrian?” she asked.
Carthallow raised himself on his elbow and surveyed her reflectively.
“Nice of you to take an interest, Roberta,” he said. “It’s coming along well. Helen’s the perfect model.”
“I’m glad,” she said.
But her face was sullen. It was as though she had not been able to prevent herself from putting the question, and yet, paradoxically, could not bear to talk about the portrait.
Adrian Carthallow climbed to his feet. In a swimming costume his corpulence was emphasized. With his thinning hair ruffled b
y the breeze he looked a good deal older; Tremaine thought he seemed worried and anxious.
“Who’s coming in?” he said.
“I’m ready,” Roberta Fairham said quickly.
Helen Carthallow gave her a sudden glance. Elton Steele said:
“Are you coming, Helen?”
There was a general stirring. Lewis Haldean got up with an air of reluctance.
“Et tu, Brute?” he said dramatically to Carthallow, and the artist laughed.
“You’re a lazy devil, Lewis.”
“Count me out,” said Hilda Eveland comfortably. “I’ll stay here with Mordecai and watch the rest of you working.”
The little party went off down the beach. The tide was coming in fast now and the long lines of surf were creaming in with an inviting steadiness. Carthallow had brought several surf boards from the house and Tremaine watched them as they waded into the water, the boards held high above their heads to prevent a premature wave from catching them and sending them sprawling.
Haldean was the first to go under. Tremaine saw him as he caught a rolling wave just as it began to break and followed it down to the beach in a flurry of foaming water. He rode his board with the ease born of experience, making the most of the buoyant drive behind the surf.
It seemed that Carthallow had not acquired the right technique. His timing was faulty, so that he either plunged too soon or too late and instead of riding in to the sands was left floundering some yards out. Nevertheless he was undoubtedly enjoying himself. Mordecai Tremaine wished that he was a few years younger and that he, too, could join in the sport.
Almost facing the spot where he was seated two lines of surf converged. Due to some trick of the beach or the current they raced one upon the other and intermingled before flooding furiously over the sands. He imagined himself meeting the inspiring challenge of those tumbling waves and sighed regretfully.
Rather to his surprise Roberta Fairham was an expert at using a surf board. Time after time he saw her come racing in level with Lewis Haldean, and after a while she took Carthallow’s board and waded out with him, evidently trying to impart the secret to him.
Hilda Eveland said, suddenly:
“It looks as though Roberta’s wishing Lester were on the scene to look after Helen and leave her a free hand with Adrian. Surf riding is her strong point.”
Mordecai Tremaine looked down at her.
“I was wondering what had happened to Mr. Imleyson.”
“He’s had a row with Adrian,” she told him. “Officially he’s out on business this afternoon—calling on some of the local farmers—but the real reason probably is that he thinks it would be wiser to keep away for a while until things have settled down again.”
“Why did they quarrel?”
“The obvious reason. Helen. I don’t know what precise spark it was that sent up the powder barrel, but Adrian’s been edgy lately. He hasn’t been able to play Machiavelli quite so easily. According to Elton he went for Lester hot-headed. And, of course, Lester didn’t just stand there and take it.”
“Mr. Steele was there at the time?”
“Apparently. The fact that he had an audience wouldn’t stop Adrian. It would probably encourage him to go further.”
They became silent again. Mordecai Tremaine looked out to where the sun was playing on the ceaseless lines of water flooding upon the beach with the dark figures moving through the spray. Inevitably he began to nod.
He did not see exactly what took place. He heard Hilda Eveland give a startled exclamation and saw her raise herself on her arm. He caught a brief glimpse of a scene of spray and confusion and then he saw the surf boards discarded on the sands and the cluster of people at the water’s edge.
“What is it?” he said. “What happened?”
“It’s Helen,” Hilda told him. “She’s hurt.”
“An accident?” he said, peering.
“Perhaps.” There was a strange note in Hilda Eveland’s voice. Her plump, good-humoured face was unsmiling. “Helen was coming in on her board when Roberta suddenly shot out of that cross wave and crashed into her. Fortunately Elton saw what was happening and managed to deflect her enough to break the full force of it, otherwise it might have been more serious. Those boards can give you a nasty blow.”
Helen Carthallow came slowly up the beach between her husband and Elton Steele. She was holding her left arm and she was limping. When she drew level with him Tremaine saw that there was a long, ugly weal on her thigh and that blood was oozing from it.
Gently Steele took the arm she was holding. It, too, was cruelly marked; the board had evidently scraped along her left side.
Roberta Fairham was hovering in the background, a look of contrition on her face.
“I’m terribly sorry, Helen. I didn’t see you until it was too late. I wouldn’t have come in so fast if I’d known you were there.”
Helen Carthallow tried to smile. Her face was drawn and she was obviously in pain. With her hair scooped away under her bathing cap and with her make-up toned down by the salt water she had lost her overbright, sophisticated air. She looked rather like a lonely and frightened little girl who was in need of protection. Mordecai Tremaine felt his sentimental heart move in compassion.
“It’s all right,” she said. “It wasn’t your fault, Roberta. I should have been keeping a more careful look-out. Anyway, there’s no real damage. My arm’s a bit numb but there’s nothing broken.”
“We’ll get you up to the house and make sure about it,” said Elton Steele.
His voice was incisive. He seemed to have taken charge of the proceedings and Carthallow did not attempt to oppose him.
Mordecai Tremaine glanced at Roberta Fairham. He had detected the false note in her voice and he thought that in her pale eyes he could see mingled triumph and chagrin. He remembered what Hilda Eveland had told him about not underestimating her. Had it been an accident? Or had it been an accident only in so far as Elton Steele had deflected that dangerously flying surf board?
Steele had been examining Helen Carthallow’s arm. He stirred and his eyes rested briefly upon the woman who stood behind her. It was only the merest of glances but Mordecai Tremaine saw the look upon the big man’s face and suddenly he was very glad that he was not Roberta Fairham.
16
THE LONG MAIN street of Falporth was filled with holiday-makers taking their ease, and with energetically foraging landladies. Tradesmen’s vans, cars and motor coaches jammed its narrowest parts. The ubiquitous photographers were busily snapping every potential customer unwary enough to stare enquiringly at their poised cameras.
It was a scene that appealed to Mordecai Tremaine. He revelled in its colour and movement. Jonathan Boyce, who was with him, had been amused at his schoolboy zest.
They were retracing their steps towards the house, for they had been given instructions to be back for an early lunch. Afterwards Arthur Tyning was to drive them into Wadestow in time for the first race, which was to be run at two o’clock.
Earlier in the morning Tremaine had called at Paradise to enquire after Helen Carthallow and had found her on the point of starting out for Wadestow with her husband. Her arm, she had said, was still a little stiff but otherwise she had suffered no ill-effects.
Her manner had inclined towards coolness. Mordecai Tremaine had not known whether it had been due to any particular antipathy towards himself—he was reasonably certain that she knew he had seen her with Lester Imleyson on the sand dunes near Pencran—or whether it had been because she was not as fully recovered as she had stated.
Adrian Carthallow had been his usual boisterous self. The lines of worry in his face had not been quite so noticeable.
“Dare say we’ll see you over there, Tremaine!” he had called, and had driven off with a wave of the hand.
Jonathan Boyce stopped to gaze into the window of a bookshop. Tremaine waited with him and as he was about to go on again a man came out of the entrance with a newspaper under his arm and
he had to step to one side to avoid him. As he did so he saw the other full face for an instant.
He was a grey-haired man, with lined but strong features. His shoulders were squared and he carried himself erect. He had the look of a man who was used both to giving orders and to having them obeyed.
Mordecai Tremaine was a few yards down the street when recognition came to him. He gave an involuntary exclamation.
Jonathan Boyce said:
“Anything wrong?”
“No—nothing wrong. At least, I hope not. I’ve just seen someone I once met by chance. His name’s Neale—Colonel Neale.”
Jonathan Boyce had an excellent memory. It was only a moment or two before he said:
“Wasn’t it a Colonel Neale who was involved in an argument with your friend Carthallow over a portrait of his daughter?”
Mordecai Tremaine nodded.
“Yes. I wonder what he’s doing in Falporth? Of course, he could be down here on holiday.”
His voice tailed away. He looked back but the grey-haired man had been absorbed by the crowd. Unless he went in deliberate pursuit of him it was unlikely that he would see him again.
For an instant or two he even hesitated as to whether he should turn about and try and catch the Colonel. The disturbing influence of that scene in Adrian Carthallow’s house in London when the grey-haired man had burst in upon the artist had never quite gone. He had often recalled Carthallow’s face as he had stood there with the blood trickling from the corner of his lips. And he had recalled Neale’s face, too. The face of a man who would not rest until he had exacted full retribution.
Several times he had found himself wondering why the affair seemed to have died a natural death; why he had heard no more of Neale’s attempt to force Carthallow to pay for what, rightly or wrongly, he considered the artist had done.
And now Colonel Neale was in Falporth.
But he did not, in the end, go after the other. After all, what was there he could say?
“Excuse me, Colonel, but I saw you at Adrian Carthallow’s house the night you hit him in the face. I hope you haven’t come to Falporth in order to cause trouble. It won’t do any real good, you know.”
So Pretty a Problem Page 17
