“Because they think—you all think—Ronald’s dead. Isn’t that it, Inspector?”
“We don’t know,” Heimrich said and sat down in one of the chairs facing Ellen Grimes. “They are still searching the ship. He may—is his health good, Lady Grimes?”
“You think a—a heart attack? Something like that? And that he may have—fallen down somewhere. May be lying somewhere unconscious?”
“There’s always a chance of that,” Heimrich said.
“No,” she said. “At least, so far as I know he was well. He had no—no real difficulties with his health.” She looked at Heimrich very intently. She said, “He’s dead, isn’t he, Inspector?”
“We don’t—”
“Isn’t he?”
There was really nothing for it.
“I’m afraid so,” Heimrich said. “You see, something else has happened. Something about which there isn’t any doubt, I’m sorry to say. You knew Inspector Hunt, Lady Grimes? You and Sir Ronald knew him?”
“Ronald did. I—oh, I’d met him. There was something, a long time ago I think, in London, that he and my husband did something about. Did it together. I don’t know anything more about it. He is—I think what they call ‘Special Branch.’ Hush-hush things, I think. Why do you ask about him, Inspector? When my husband—”
Suddenly she put her hands up and hid her face behind them. She merely waited then, her face hidden.
“Inspector Hunt has been killed, Lady Grimes. Because—I’m afraid because he knew something about Sir Ronald’s disappearance. Somebody got into his cabin some time last night and strangled him.” He paused. “The captain—Comandante di Scarlotti—has asked me to help. Because I’m a policeman.”
She took her hands down. She said, “But he seemed to be—oh, I don’t know—such a harmless little man.”
“Not to somebody,” Heimrich said. “He may—well, have seen something.”
“What you mean is, somebody killing Ronald. That’s what you mean, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know. Yes, it could have been.”
“How? I mean, you think somebody killed my husband. I can see that. How?”
“I don’t know. It’s possible—well, it’s possible he was pushed over the side. Perhaps—oh, knocked unconscious first. I’m only guessing.”
She covered her face again. Heimrich could see the shudder which ran through her slim body. She took her hands down. She said, “If somebody did—did such a dreadful thing—you’ll find him, won’t you? You will, won’t you?”
“Try,” Heimrich said. “I know it’s hard to talk about it, Lady Grimes. But will you tell me something about your husband. And about last night?”
“He was a good man. A—a dear man. Dear to me—very dear to me. He was retired, you know. They have to retire early in his service. He was only sixty. We—we were going to live in the manor house and grow flowers.” She broke off. “And grow flowers,” she repeated. “What can I tell you about last night, Inspector?”
“When you saw him last. What happened. Where you were.”
She said, “Of course,” and her voice, which had been shaken before, was steady. She told him. It was what she had told before and had been relayed to Heimrich by the ship’s captain. Yes, the door into his cabin from the passageway had been closed. Yes, the door from her cabin to his had been closed. She had not seen Ronald and Detective Inspector Hunt walk past the card room toward the observation lounge. Or away from it. She had been sitting with her back to the door. Sometimes Sir Ronald had wanted to go to bed early. When he did, he closed the door to his room. “It was the same when we lived in Washington.” It did not mean anything except that he wanted to sleep. Last night she had assumed that he had gone to bed early. “He never cared much for bridge. He had to play sometimes, of course. And he was a good player. But he didn’t really—”
She stopped suddenly. She said, “I’m not usually like this. Don’t twitter like this. It doesn’t matter whether he liked to play bridge, does it?”
“Somebody may have known that,” Heimrich said. “That he wouldn’t be playing cards. Did he walk on the deck much, Lady Grimes? The open deck?”
“The Englishman keeping fit? No. He wasn’t like that. People like that amused him.”
“Tell me more about him. I—you’ll see I have to ask these things, Lady Grimes.”
“He was the eighth baronet. He had been in the foreign service for years. Years before I met him. Most of the time since we’ve been married he’s been at the U.N. Or, recently, at the Embassy. We’ve been in Washington—oh, it must be five years. He was—the commercial attaché. Something like that. He said he was, really, a glorified salesman. For our products in the States. It was his way of putting it.”
“You’ve been married how long, Lady Grimes?”
“Eight years. Yes, I’m much younger than he—he was. More than twenty years younger. Were you going to ask that?”
“No. Oh, anything you want to tell me, Lady Grimes.”
“It wasn’t because I wanted to be Lady Grimes,” she said. “It wasn’t anything like that. Did you think it was something like that?”
“No.”
“He was older, yes. And there is a lot of money. We got married because we loved each other.”
Her body was shaking again. She was losing control, a little, of her body and of her words.
“My people are county,” she said. “It doesn’t mean anything. I know that. But—but—”
He waited and could see her steady.
“I’m being absurd,” she said. “This has nothing to do with anything. Probably you don’t even know what I mean by county.
“Yes,” Heimrich said. “I know what you mean.” Suddenly he smiled. “In a way,” he said, “not precisely the English way, my wife’s county too. Her people lived in the same place for a good many generations. In the same house. I’m—well, I’m just what we call a farm boy.”
Not a cop asking questions. An acquaintance filling in a background. Oh, a cop asking questions. Seeking relaxation in the one questioned. Perhaps it was working. She wasn’t shaking any more. She was still in shock. Probably she’d be in shock for a long time.
“Ronald was married before I knew him,” she said. “His first wife died. They had a son. He’ll be the ninth baronet. Is—is he now, Inspector? Is he already the ninth baronet? Sir Michael Grimes, Bart.?”
Heimrich closed his eyes and waited.
“Leftenant Sir Michael Grimes, Bart.,” she said. “He’s a fine boy, Inspector. He went to Sandhurst. All the Grimeses did. Except Ronald. He went to Oxford and then into the foreign service and—”
And her hands went up again to hide her strained face. But it was, he thought, doing her good to talk. At least, it wasn’t doing her harm to talk.
“My wife was married before,” Heimrich said. “To a man who was killed in Korea. They had a son—my son now in all that matters. His name is Michael too, Lady Grimes. Michael Faye his name is. He’s a fine boy too.”
“It’s strange,” she said. “Strange the way things happen, isn’t it?”
It was not clear what was strange. Perhaps that they both had stepsons named Michael. Which was not really especially strange.
“Should I send him a wireless, Inspector? He’s stationed at Gib just now. Tell him—tell him he’s Sir Michael Grimes, ninth baronet?”
“We’re not certain of that,” Heimrich said. “But—yes, I suppose you’ll want to tell him something. Is there—are there others to tell?”
“My people,” she said. “There aren’t any more Grimeses except Michael. No close ones, anyway. And—I suppose the Foreign Office?”
“I’ll take care of that,” Heimrich said. “Or, Comandante di Scarlotti will.”
“There’s Ian,” she said. “Major Whitney. He’s a military attaché at the Embassy in Washington. On leave. He—he could—could send a report through.”
Heimrich shook his head.
“I’d rather,” h
e said, “that as few people as possible know what’s happened. What we’re afraid has happened. Until—well, until we’re more certain what has happened.”
“Will we ever be?”
It was a point, certainly. It was unlikely they would ever find a body to make it a certainty.
“Yes,” Heimrich said. “We’ll find out what happened.”
“You don’t know that, do you?”
“No. But, we usually do.”
“You mean, you usually do. I’ve—haven’t I read about you, Inspector? In the newspapers.”
“Possibly,” Heimrich said. He stood up. He said, “I won’t bother you any more just now, Lady Grimes. Have the stewardess bring you something. Tea or something.”
“Or,” she said, “a stiff whisky and soda. So I can—pull myself together.”
“You’re staying together very well,” Heimrich told her. “You’re doing fine. Amazingly fine.”
She shook her head. She said, “Dreadfully. I’m—I’m breaking apart inside. You know that. You’ve seen that, haven’t you?”
“You’re in shock,” he said. “There—probably there ought to be somebody with you, Lady Grimes.”
“The stewardess will stay. She’s—she’s a very helpful person. She’ll get me a good stiff drink.”
Heimrich said, “Fine,” and started down the passageway toward the door. He turned and came back.
“Last night,” he said. “You and Sir Ronald were a little late at the comandante’s cocktail party. He said something about a telephone call that had held you up. Can you tell me anything about that, Lady Grimes?”
She shook her head.
“To somebody on the ship? Or ship-to-shore?”
She shook her head again. But then she said, “He went up to the wireless room. It’s on the sun deck. I went up with him. There’s a little waiting room. Then we came down to the captain’s party. But I don’t know whom he called.”
It probably didn’t have anything to do with anything, he told her.
He went forward to the veranda belvedere. Susan was waiting on one of the little sofas. There were drinks on the table in front of her, but neither drink had been touched. When he lifted his, the glass was cold to his fingers. She raised her eyebrows. He shrugged his shoulders. Then he shook his head.
There were a good many people in the lounge. The four businessmen—the refugees from a convention—were smoking cigars and drinking apéritifs and talking loudly in French. They had, Heimrich thought, had time for several apéritifs. Major Ian Whitney was at a table alone, with a tall glass in front of him. Then Mrs. Raymond Powers came into the room. She looks, Susan thought, as if she’s just been to the hairdresser. I’ll try to set an appointment this afternoon. It won’t be the way it was yesterday. We won’t sit on the deck together and go down to our cabin and have naps together. The holiday is broken. No, not broken. The holiday is dented.
Mrs. Powers hesitated just inside the lounge and looked around it. Still, Susan thought, she’s looking for her party. But then Major Whitney stood up at his table and saluted across the room, and Lucinda Powers went to his table, moving with graceful assurance on the slightly uneasy deck. Whitney pulled a chair out for her and beckoned to Mario. Lucinda Powers and the major smiled at each other.
But I had a feeling, Susan thought, that they didn’t like each other—that, at the captain’s party, she didn’t really like any of us. I make up stories about people, and the stories fall apart. They smile and talk as if they don’t know anything has happened. She turned to Merton, who had closed his eyes. But he felt her look and opened them. She said, “You saw Lady Grimes?”
“Yes. She’s—it’s being very hard on her. And will get harder before it gets easier. She loved him. I think. Perhaps very much.”
“It is—past tense?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“And—it’s been pushed onto you? But that is a foolish thing to say, isn’t it? ‘Pushed,’ I mean.”
“It’s my trade,” Heimrich said. “And Hunt was a cop, dear. You don’t want people killing cops, do you?”
“I don’t want anybody killing anybody,” Susan said. “And, yes, I know you have to find out about it. It’s a need built into you. Even on holiday.”
“I’m sorry,” Heimrich said.
She smiled at him. She said, “Oh, I wouldn’t have you any other way. Ill try to get an appointment to have my hair done after lunch. And if he’s busy—I think there’s only one—I’ll sit on the deck. Or write letters. Or read a book. I’ll be all right. And I won’t go near the ship’s railings. Mrs. Powers seems to have found her party.”
“I noticed.”
“Do they know about Sir Ronald? About poor Mr. Hunt?”
“I don’t know, Susan. I asked Lady Grimes not to talk about it. Not yet, anyway. Oh, it will spread through the ship, naturally. Is spreading now, probably. The Grimeses have been coming here for a drink before lunch. Mario will notice when they don’t come. Their waiter will notice at lunch. Their stewardess already knows. Guido found Hunt’s body. It won’t be in the ship’s newspaper tomorrow. It won’t be announced on the public-address system. It’ll get around.”
Emily Farrell and a woman in a pink suit came into the lounge together. “The fourth at bridge,” Susan said. “She does like pink, doesn’t she?”
Mario took Miss Farrell and last night’s fourth at bridge to a sofa across the dance floor, and they sat facing the Heimrichs. Miss Farrell looked across at them and stood up and seemed about to cross the floor. But she merely shook her head, sadly, and sat down again.
“It’s getting around,” Susan said.
The chimes sounded. They finished their drinks and went down to lunch.
When they came out of the dining salon after lunch, an erect young officer, the same officer who had acted as messenger before, came up to them. He said, “Signor Inspector.”
“I’ll go see about an appointment,” Susan said, and went toward an elevator.
Heimrich watched her as she walked across the foyer. She’s got her sea legs, he thought. She’s really fine, now. Damn murder to hell. He turned back to the young officer.
“The comandante’s compliments,” the officer said. He spoke very precisely, as a man does who has learned very well a language not his own. “He would appreciate it if you would come to his quarters, Inspector. At your convenience.”
Which might mean, Heimrich thought, that di Scarlotti’s security force had found Sir Ronald Grimes. Or that somebody had come forward to confess strangling Detective Inspector Hunt. Which would, of course, mean neither of those things. Di Scarlotti wanted to be kept abreast. Which would be easy enough because Heimrich was not going anywhere.
“If the signor inspector wishes—”
“I know my way,” Heimrich said, and went up to the lido deck and forward through a narrow passageway to a door he was getting to know. A steward opened to his knocking. Comandante di Scarlotti got up from the table and put his coffee cup in its saucer. He said, “Coffee for the inspector,” and the steward said, “Sir,” and went into the other room. Heimrich sat down and accepted a cigarette and, when it came, coffee. He said, “You haven’t found Sir Ronald, I take it?”
“No, Inspector,” di Scarlotti said. “I regret. We have found nothing. It is—it has become almost certain he is not in the ship. You have seen Lady Grimes?”
“What she told you,” Heimrich said. “Or the staff captain. Or whoever talked to her earlier. Nothing beyond that. Oh, that Sir Ronald has a son. By a previous marriage. Who is now, she’s afraid, and I’m afraid, the ninth baronet. She is very much broken up, naturally. She does not know to whom her husband made a telephone call last evening.”
Di Scarlotti said, “A telephone call, Inspector?”
“When he came here last evening,” Heimrich said. “To your party. He was sorry he was late. A telephone call had delayed him.”
“I did not remember,” di Scarlotti said. “From someone aboard
Italia? In his cabin?”
“They went up to the wireless room, Lady Grimes says. She waited while he made a call. Or, conceivably, received one. There will be a record, Captain?”
“Most certainly.”
“Probably has nothing to do with his disappearing,” Heimrich said. “May have been calling anybody. His broker. His estate manager in England to ask how the roses are coming along. The British Embassy in Washington. We’ll ask. And I suppose the Embassy should be notified.”
“I will have a message sent. When we are certain. There is still a chance—” He broke off and shook his head and lighted a cigarette. “There is no chance,” he said. “Sir Ronald went overboard. The head office—the office will be most disturbed, Inspector. A distinguished man trusts himself to my ship. He disappears. A police official is killed. It is most disturbing, Inspector. And it is my responsibility, of course.”
“Not very directly,” Heimrich said. “You can’t be—”
He stopped because Comandante di Scarlotti was shaking his head and shaking it sadly.
“You do not understand,” di Scarlotti said. “Whatever happens aboard Italia, or to Italia, is my responsibility, Inspector. Things are so in my service. Years ago, Inspector, one of your naval vessels went aground in—I think it was in Chesapeake Bay. The captain of the ship did not have the con, of course. He had not plotted the course. His navigator had done that. But the captain was relieved of command, Inspector. And, he did not make admiral. It is so at sea, Inspector. Now, while we are drinking coffee, if Italia—oh, hits something, goes aground somewhere—it will be my responsibility. Although she is in most capable hands.”
“And,” Heimrich said, “in mid-Atlantic somewhere. With nothing to hit. With nothing to run into.”
“An example only,” di Scarlotti said. “When we go into harbor I shall be on the bridge. Particularly when we go into the harbor at Málaga. I do not like the harbor at Málaga.”
Heimrich waited for some seconds. He drank more coffee. He accepted another cigarette. He said, “Your security people, Captain? They’ve come up with anything?”
20-Inspector's Holiday Page 8
