20-Inspector's Holiday

by Lockridge, Richard

  “It would be most unfortunate,” di Scarlotti said. “It—it would reflect on the line, Inspector. And on me, as captain of the Italia. As responsible for her safety. And the safety of those in her. He was an important man, Inspector.”

  “Also,” Heimrich said, “he was a light man. For his height. Lady Grimes said ten stone last night. A hundred and forty pounds. Very little weight for his height.”

  “And,” di Scarlotti said, “he was not a young man, Inspector.”

  “Appeared to be fit enough,” Heimrich said. “But—no, not young. The ship rolled somewhat during the night?”

  “A little. The stabilizers are most effective. But, a little.”

  “A strong person,” Heimrich said, “standing behind Grimes, say. Taking advantage of the ship’s movement? That’s what you’re afraid of?”

  “What has been in my mind,” di Scarlotti said. “Most uneasily in my mind, Inspector.”

  “Why?”

  Di Scarlotti looked at him a little blankly. He repeated the word “why.”

  “Sir Ronald was, I assume, on a list of passengers due special attention,” Heimrich said. “As my wife and I apparently were. The point is, had you known Sir Ronald before last night, Captain? Have any special reason to think somebody might—well, have pushed him over the side?”

  “I did not know him. I had been—told about him. There was a memo. A man with a distinguished career in the British foreign service. And a baronet. The eighth baronet, I think. Perhaps the seventh. And—”

  “Yes,” Heimrich said. “And I suppose you got a memo about me, Captain. That catching murderers is my trade? Did the memo also say that I’m on leave, Captain? That my wife has been ill? That we are on holiday? And, of course, that I have no authority on your ship?”

  “I did not know about your wife, Inspector. I am most sorry. That you are a celebrated detective. Yes. I was informed of that.”

  “And,” Heimrich said, “decided I was handy.” There was no use arguing about the word “celebrated.”

  The comandante of S.S. Italia smiled faintly.

  “That you are experienced in such matters,” di Scarlotti said. “That you might give us the benefit of your experience. As for authority, Inspector, the master of a ship at sea has considerable—latitude.”

  Heimrich drank from his coffee cup. Di Scarlotti pushed a pack of cigarettes—American cigarettes—within reach, and Heimrich shook a cigarette out of it. He accepted a light from di Scarlotti. But then he shook his head.

  “There’s a man aboard who could be of much more help,” he said. “He’s also a police officer. A detective inspector. British. Scotland Yard, for all I know. And, he knows—knew may be the word—Sir Ronald. They had some contact in London a while back. Sir Ronald mentioned it. No details. Last night they were having drinks together in the observation lounge. If what you’re afraid of is true, he’s your man, Captain. Albert Hunt, his name is. Detective Inspector. Not on your briefing list, apparently.”

  “No,” di Scarlotti said. “I had not heard of him. He knew Sir Ronald, you say?”

  “Well enough so that the Grimeses called him ‘Bert,’” Heimrich said. “That they had drinks together. And—seemed to have a good deal to say to each other.”

  “That was last night, you say?”

  “Last night. Oh—no later than half past ten. In the observation lounge.”

  Di Scarlotti said, “Ah.” He got up and crossed the room to a desk and picked up a telephone. He said, “Purser, please.” Almost at once he said, “Morning.” Then he continued in Italian. The name “Hunt” stuck out of the Italian.

  He put the telephone back in its cradle.

  “Cabin One-oh-eight,” he said. “Not far from your own, Inspector. He will be asked to join us.”

  The “us” stuck out a little. Heimrich pushed back his chair.

  “If you will wait, Inspector?” di Scarlotti said. “I would appreciate it if you would wait. You have met Inspector Hunt?”

  “Introduced to him,” Heimrich said. “No real—”

  He did not finish. There was nothing tangible. But Hunt had looked across rooms at him; had once or twice moved as if he thought of crossing rooms to speak to a man in the same line of work. It was no more than that, of course. Still—

  Heimrich sat down again. He said, “When did you hear that Sir Ronald was missing, Captain?”

  “Quite early this morning,” di Scarlotti said. “Lady Grimes discovered he was not in his cabin. And that his bed had not been slept in. She was—disturbed. The steward and the stewardess, they had not seen Sir Ronald. So—” He spread his hands. “So we began the search,” he said.

  “The Grimeses had separate cabins? You said ‘his’ cabin.”

  “Cabins Sixteen and Eighteen,” di Scarlotti said. “A suite. Connecting cabins, of course. On the ponte lance, Inspector. The boat deck.”

  “The open promenade,” Heimrich said. “The one with the rail around it?”

  “Yes. The rail is most substantial, Inspector. And quite high.”

  “Lady Grimes hadn’t waited up for her husband?” Heimrich said. “Just assumed he had gone to his cabin and gone to bed? Or had she seen him earlier when he came in?”

  “Apparently not,” di Scarlotti said. “She had, she says, been playing bridge until quite late. After midnight, she thinks—”

  Sir Ronald and Lady Grimes had, after dinner, gone up to the ballroom. “There was horse racing. Afterward, dancing.” Miss Emily Farrell and Mrs. Powers had joined them for a drink. Bridge had been arranged—Lady Grimes, Miss Farrell, Mrs. Powers and a Mrs. Peterson. (Mrs. Peterson, Heimrich gathered, had not been listed as a V.I.P. on the captain’s memo.) Mrs. Peterson was a little late in joining the others. When she came the women went to the card room. Sir Ronald remained at the table. He—

  “I know,” Heimrich said. “We saw them. Finished his drink and went out. Alone, but I think Inspector Hunt went out at about the same time.”

  “You were there?” di Scarlotti said.

  “For a time,” Heimrich said. “Our horses were more or less left at the starting gate. It must have been—oh, a little after ten when Lady Grimes and her friends went out. My wife and I happened to go past the card room later on and looked in. They were playing bridge. And Sir Ronald and Hunt were at a table in the observation lounge, and a steward was taking their drink orders. You go past the card room to get to the observation lounge, as I remember. Can, anyway. Lady Grimes didn’t see her husband then? I mean when he and Hunt—together or one at a time—went into the lounge?”

  “Not after she left him in the ballroom,” di Scarlotti said. “They may have gone in through the port passageway, of course.”

  It was taking Detective Inspector Hunt a time, Heimrich thought. A late riser, perhaps. In the middle of breakfast. Or, naturally, taking a turn around the deck. And since it would be Hunt who would cooperate with Italia’s security force, if anybody did—

  But Inspector Heimrich did not again push back his chair.

  “Some time after midnight,” Heimrich said, “they finished bridge. Lady Grimes went back to the cabins. On the same deck. But through the ship, I suppose? I mean, she didn’t go out on the deck?”

  “The cabins do not open from the outer deck, Inspector. From a passageway.”

  “Went into her own cabin. Which one was it, Captain?”

  “Eighteen, I believe. It is the larger of the two.”

  “The door to her husband’s cabin was closed? At least, I assume it was. She’d have looked in otherwise and seen he wasn’t there.”

  “I do not know, Inspector. Probably you are right. But—Lady Grimes is much disturbed, you will understand. A stewardess is with her. And a doctor. It is not the time to—to press her for such details.”

  And I’m not the one to do the pressing, Heimrich thought. Up to Hunt, if he wants to take it on. Or one of the ship’s security men. Time Hunt got along. When he did, he would have to go over the same gro
und Heimrich himself was going over—going over to no purpose, naturally, since if it was a case it would be Hunt’s case. But curiosity about murder, if all of this was actually about murder, is habit-forming.

  “Cabins Sixteen and Eighteen form a suite, you say,” Heimrich said. “I take it there is a connecting door?”

  “Yes. Certainly.”

  “Lady Grimes happen to say whether it was open when she went into her cabin?”

  “She is much disturbed. As is natural, of course. We—we have tried to intrude as little as possible. I do not know if she has been asked about the door between the cabins.”

  “Probably closed,” Heimrich said. “Otherwise she’d have—oh, called through or something, naturally. Or looked in to say good night.”

  “It was quite late,” di Scarlotti said. “She assumed he had gone to bed and was asleep. She had summoned her steward to order breakfast. Had ordered for both of them. When the steward and stewardess brought the breakfasts, the door between the rooms was closed. Lady Grimes knocked on it, and there was no answer. She called through—the steward and stewardess were arranging the trays at the time. She opened the door, finally. The room was empty. The bed was undisturbed. She—she asked the steward to see whether Sir Ronald was in his bathroom. He was not, of course.”

  Heimrich wondered what terms Sir Ronald and Lady Grimes were on—or had been on. Seeing them together, he had thought them close, quickly responsive to each other. But an outsider cannot tell. And I am an outsider to all this, Heimrich thought. It is no affair of mine. And where the hell is Detective Inspector Albert Hunt?

  “Have your men finished searching the ship, Captain?” Heimrich asked. “It is quite a large ship. You’ve been at it since—?”

  “A little after eight,” di Scarlotti said. “Yes, my men are still looking, of course. There are many places he might be, I suppose. Not places one would expect him to be, but—”

  Di Scarlotti shrugged his shoulders and spread his hands. He had expressive shoulders and expressive hands.

  Heimrich looked at his watch. It was a quarter of eleven. More than two hours they had been looking. And they would know where to look. He said, “The crew’s quarters, of course?” and di Scarlotti said, “Yes.” He added, “Everywhere, Inspector.”

  “The public rooms, naturally. Other cabins?”

  “Passengers are being asked, Inspector. We cannot, as you would put it, simply barge in.”

  Heimrich nodded his head in understanding. He looked at his watch again and again wondered what the hell was holding Hunt to what was, by now, an obvious dawdle. They would be serving consommé on the promenade deck at any moment. Susan would be wondering what was keeping him. She would, he thought, be making up stories to fit the situation. And she would begin to worry. He did not want her to worry. And there was no real reason for his staying here, asking questions Hunt, if Hunt decided to help the ship’s captain, would have to ask over again.

  Heimrich said, “We-ll,” and pushed his chair back again from the table, and somebody knocked at the door. At last Detective Inspector Albert Hunt, answering a plea for—

  The steward appeared out of an adjoining room of the captain’s quarters. He opened the door.

  It was not Detective Inspector Hunt standing outside the door. It was the young officer who had guided Heimrich to the captain’s sitting room. The man behind him was not Hunt either. The man behind him was Guido—Guido the steward, grave and unhappy.

  “Sir,” the young officer said, “I am afraid something—that something has happened to Signor Hunt.”

  Di Scarlotti looked at the officer. He said, “Happened to him?”

  “Sir,” the officer said. “I am afraid—it appears that Signor Hunt is dead, Comandante. Guido here—tell him, Guido.”

  “Come inside and close the door,” di Scarlotti said. They came inside and Guido closed the door after them.

  “The purser called Signor Hunt on the telephone,” the officer said. “He did not answer. I went to deliver your message, sir. But Guido—tell him, Guido.”

  “At eight he usually rang for us,” Guido said. “For me, sir. To bring breakfast. Each morning, but not this morning. We do not disturb the passengers until they are ready, sir. But I had been in the passageway. He had not gone below for breakfast. I would have seen him.”

  Di Scarlotti spoke rapidly in Italian. Guido started to answer in Italian.

  “In English, man,” di Scarlotti said. “So that the inspector can understand you.”

  “I heard his telephone ringing, sir,” Guido said. “It kept on ringing. But I was certain he was in his cabin, sir. So—”

  So Guido knocked on the door of Hunt’s cabin, and when nothing had come of that had opened the door and said, “Good morning, signor. Did you ring for me, signor?”

  There had been no answer, and the steward had gone on into the cabin.

  Hunt was in his bed. He was not lying comfortably in his bed. He was twisted in it, and one foot was on the floor. And he was clothed, except that the collar of his soft dress shirt was open, and his black tie was on the deck beside the bed.

  Guido said, “Signor? Signor!” and had realized there was no good in that and had put a hand on Hunt’s forehead. But by then he had seen enough for that to be unnecessary.

  “He was cold, sir,” Guido said. “There were marks on his throat. I was on the telephone, calling for the doctor, when the signor came.”

  Guido’s hands identified the signor as the young officer.

  A doctor had come up from the infermeria on A deck. He had come quickly, but there had been no use in hurrying.

  Detective Inspector Albert Hunt had been dead for at least six hours. He had been strangled—manually strangled, from the appearance of his throat. It appeared that he had struggled, but only briefly. Pressure on the carotid artery, the doctor thought. Such pressure can end life quickly.

  “The body is still there?” Heimrich asked, and his voice was, suddenly, a policeman’s voice.

  The young officer looked surprised. He said, “But no, Signor Inspector. Signor Hunt was dead, Inspector. His body was taken to the infermeria. For further examination, the doctor said.”

  Inspector M. L. Heimrich, New York State Police, said, “Damn!” He said, “Photographed?”

  The young officer said, “Signor Inspector?”

  “The body,” Heimrich said. “Did anybody take pictures of it? Before it was moved?”

  The officer looked at Guido, and both of them shook their heads.

  “But no, Signor Inspector,” the officer said. “He was not—it was not a thing to be looked at. His face—it was not a face one would want a picture of.”

  Heimrich thought Damn! again, but there was no point in saying it.

  “You want more, Inspector?” Comandante di Scarlotti said.

  Heimrich wanted a good deal more. There was no point in saying that, either.

  “I’ll look at the body later,” he said. “After they have examined it.”

  And he knew that he had committed himself. But Hunt had been a policeman, too. People cannot be allowed to get away with killing policemen.

  The young officer said, “Sir?” to the ship’s master.

  “Yes,” di Scarlotti said. “You may go. If the inspector wishes to question you further he will—?” He looked at Heimrich, who said, “Yes. Nothing more for now.”

  The young officer and Guido went out of the captain’s quarters. Di Scarlotti said, “Inspector Heimrich?”

  “Yes,” Heimrich said. “What I can do, naturally.”

  “I am—I shall be most grateful,” di Scarlotti said. “It is fortunate that you are aboard, Inspector.”

  Heimrich said, “Hmmm.” He said, “I’m afraid your men won’t find Sir Ronald, Captain. Have them go on looking, of course. But I don’t think they’ll find him. I think Inspector Hunt saw him killed, don’t you, Captain? Or could guess who killed him?”

  6

  “We’re on holid
ay,” Susan said when he told her. But there was resignation in her voice, not resentment. Then she said, “I liked Sir Ronald. And poor Ellen Grimes. They—I think they were very close, Merton.”

  “I think so,” Merton Heimrich said. “And Hunt was a cop, of course. It—well, that makes a difference. I’m hooked, Susan. It’s a damn nuisance, but I’m hooked.”

  He had sat down in the chair next Susan’s on the promenade deck. He started to get up.

  “And it was being such a lovely holiday,” Susan said.

  He leaned down and kissed her. It didn’t matter a damn that there were other people around.

  “We’ll save what we can of it,” Heimrich said. “Anyway, I won’t have to be off at the other end of somewhere when dinner’s ready.”

  Susan agreed that there was that. Heimrich looked at his watch. It was eleven-thirty.

  “The veranda belvedere in about an hour?” he said, and she said, “Yes, dear. And I’ll tell Mario what we want, so you’ll be on time.”

  Heimrich went through a door and down a passageway. He knocked on the door of Cabin 18, which was amidships. A stewardess opened it and said, “Signor?”

  Heimrich said his name. He said he would like to see Lady Grimes for a few minutes.

  “I do not know,” the stewardess said. “The signora is resting. She is not well, the poor lady. I do not think—”

  Lady Ellen Grimes spoke from within the room. She said, “Ask Inspector Heimrich to come in, please.”

  The cabin was considerably larger than Cabin 82. It was large enough for a sofa under one of the windows with a small table in front of it, and two chairs opposite the sofa. The bed was farther along in a line with the sofa, under the other window. Lady Grimes was sitting on the sofa. She was dressed in a suit, as if to go somewhere. Her face was drawn. She looked up quickly when Heimrich went into the room, but she did not see in his face what, clearly, she had hoped to see.

  “They haven’t,” she said, and her voice, which had had gaiety in it the evening before, was dulled.

  “No,” Heimrich said. “I’m sorry, Lady Grimes. They’re—they’re still searching the ship. Feel up to talking to me? The captain’s asked me to lend a hand.”