20-Inspector's Holiday

by Lockridge, Richard

  “His English isn’t in the least. So if—”

  “All right,” Mason said. “Sorry, Inspector. Sort of thing that’s a bit rubbed into us, y’know.”

  “Do you know whether Sir Ronald had much contact with a man named Raymond Powers? Industrialist of some sort. He—”

  “I know who he is,” Mason said. “Was, rather. Popped off a while back. Captain-of-industry type.” The words echoed faintly in Heimrich’s mind. “‘Powers Industries, Incorporated,’ I think it was. Manufactures heavy machinery, way I understand it. Machine tools. Probably has a hand in a dozen other things. Baby powder, for all I know. Diversification, they call it here.”

  “I know,” Heimrich said. “I live there, Sir Robert. Would Powers and Sir Ronald have had contact? Consulted about—oh, exports and imports. That sort of thing?”

  “Might have,” Mason said. “Come to think of it, I think they did. Yes. Ran into Ronny and Ellen someplace. Restaurant, probably. They were with the Powerses, the Grimeses were. Listen, this is tough on Ellen. Lady Grimes.”

  “Very,” Heimrich said. “You and Lady—I take it there is a Lady Mason?”

  “Yes, Inspector. There is indeed. Were we introduced to Mr. and Mrs. Powers? Yes. Didn’t linger. We were going on somewhere.”

  There was a momentary pause.

  “Why do you ask about Mr. and Mrs. Powers, Inspector? Do they come into it?”

  “Not that I know of,” Heimrich said. “Only thing is, Mrs. Powers is on board. I gather she knew Sir Ronald in Washington. Just—call it confirming. The way you confirmed Charley Forniss.”

  “Black hair with a white streak in it. Very artful white streak. Good figure. In her forties, at a guess.”

  “Yes,” Heimrich said.

  “Confirmed,” Sir Robert said. “Same woman Betty and I were introduced to. Hard thing to forget, that white streak.”

  “When did Mr. Powers die, do you happen to know?”

  “Good Lord, Inspector. I didn’t know the fella. Oh—year ago, more or less. Good bit about in the press. Self-made and all that sort of thing. Sort of chap we make Lord somebody, apparently. Starts in a foundry. Ends up with millions. Labor peer, probably.”

  “Anything odd about his death, that you remember?”

  “Heart attack, I think. Wait a minute. He was walking along the street. Couple of blocks from the Embassy, actually. From half a dozen embassies, come to that. Tend to cluster, y’know. Walking along and just dropped dead. Happens, y’know. Happened to your Adlai Stevenson pretty much the same way. Good man, Stevenson. Ran into him a few times. He—wait a minute.”

  Heimrich waited, but not for a minute.

  “Getting back to Powers,” Sir Robert said. “Remember now. According to the newspapers, Powers had been here—at the Embassy—just before he popped off. Conferring with an Embassy official. That’s the way it was put.”

  “Sir Ronald Grimes?”

  “Could have been, I expect. Could be checked back on, probably. Take a bit of doing, I’d think. Not get you anywhere, would it? What I mean is, Ronny didn’t feed him poison in a drink, y’know. The old ticker just stopped. Post mortem and all that sort of thing.”

  “No need to check on that,” Heimrich said. “Not that I can see, anyway. Sir Robert, there’s another man who seems to be connected with your Embassy aboard the Italia. Not with Sir Ronald, but knew him. A man named Whitney. Major Ian Whitney.”

  “A military attaché,” Mason said. “We’ve got them by dozens, y’know. All services. Keeping an eye on what you Yanks are up to. Yes, I know Whitney. Slightly. Only been here a couple of years. Got thrown out of one of the Iron Curtain countries, I think. Doesn’t mean anything. We throw theirs out; they throw ours out. We catch theirs and trade them for ones they’ve caught of ours. Matter of routine, it’s pretty much got to be.”

  “Charges against the major? In wherever he was stationed?”

  “Poland, as I recall it. No. Just persona non grata. So we picked one of theirs. Comparable rank and that sort of thing, and non-grataed him. All in the family, in a way of speaking. Sort of thing that’s been going on for hundreds of years, actually. Come down to it, Inspector, foreign offices are foreign offices and always have been. If you mean, was Whitney spying, I’d doubt it. Not the type, I’d think. Proper career officer, y’know. Not Sandhurst, I think. Oxford. Could be Cambridge, of course. Not a cloak-and-dagger sort, Whitney isn’t. Be retired a colonel, shouldn’t wonder. Live in the midlands and grow vegetable marrows and be a member of the hunt and—”

  Very abruptly, Robert Mason stopped speaking. He was silent for some seconds, and when he spoke again, his voice was different. It had been light and casual as he talked of Powers and Major Ian Whitney. Now it was slow. There was almost a catch in it.

  “Damn it all,” Robert Mason said, “Ronny was a friend of mine. Going back to this big place of his in the country and grow roses. Or, he always said, cabbages. What I mean is, damn it all. You’re sure he’s not on the ship somewhere?”

  “Pretty sure,” Heimrich said.

  “Good chap,” Sir Robert said. “Damn good chap.”

  “Do you know, Sir Robert, why he decided to go back home by ship? And by a rather roundabout way, come to that?”

  “No. Oh, for the rest, I’d think. And—well, there wasn’t any hurry, y’know. He was through with hurrying. And—well, it’s pretty wet and cold in England this time of year. Spring here in Washington, you know. Been stationed here a long time, Ronny had. Taking the climate change in easy stages, shouldn’t wonder. Stay a while in Italy, perhaps. Wait for spring to move north, y’know.”

  “Probably the reason,” Heimrich said. “Does this mean anything to you, Sir Robert?”

  He quoted digits; the digits of the telephone number of Continental Forwarding, Limited.

  And there was, for rather a long time, no answer. When Robert Mason answered, it was with one word, and the word spoken in a different tone. Sir Robert’s voice was hard, demanding. But all he said was, “Why?”

  “Grimes called it from the ship yesterday evening. He talked, according to the record, for five minutes or more. I called it myself today. I was told that it was something called ‘Continental Forwarding, Limited.’ And that Sir Ronald could not have called that number at the time he did because the office was closed and he would not have been answered. The number mean anything to you, Sir Robert? Or ‘Continental Forwarding’?”

  “Not a thing.”

  The voice remained hard. Now it was final.

  “Does the name Detective Inspector Albert Hunt mean anything to you? British, he was.”

  “Not a thing,” Robert Mason said again. “Supposed to?”

  “I don’t know,” Heimrich said. “He was on the ship too, Sir Robert. And sometime last night he was strangled in his cabin.”

  “The hell—”

  And then abrupt silence.

  “Afraid I never heard of this man Hunt,” Sir Robert Mason said. “Policeman, I gather?”

  “Yes. Lady Grimes thinks he was what you call Special Branch. Still doesn’t ring a bell, Sir Robert?”

  “Not a bell. Isn’t a call of this length running you into money, Inspector?”

  “Not me,” Heimrich said. “The Italian Line. But good of you to give me so much of your time, Sir Robert.”

  “Nothing of it,” Robert Mason said in his office in Washington. “Remember me to Charley Forniss, will you?”

  And then Mason hung up.

  8

  Heimrich went out of the telephone booth and started to go out of the wireless room. But, instead, he sat down on one of the waiting-room sofas and closed his eyes. At his desk, the wireless man looked at him, but the wireless man was not looked at.

  Sir Robert Mason, who had been cordial, who had even been chatty, had suddenly frozen. A London telephone number and a name had frozen him. Mason had never heard of the number, and that Heimrich found he did not believe. Mason had never heard of Detective Inspect
or Albert Hunt. That might well be true. Hunt had been, Heimrich thought, a man who might well remain as unheard-of as he had been so nearly invisible. It was entirely possible that he had preferred to be unknown and markedly inconspicuous. The preference might well have been professional.

  What was the name of that chief inspector at Scotland Yard I met three or four years ago? When I flew to London to have a look at a man and, if he turned out to be the right man, to bring him back? He did turn out to be the right man, and I did bring him back and—Walling. That was the chief inspector’s name. Cooperative sort of person, as chief inspectors go. Won’t remember me, of course. A State Police captain flying over to pick up a man wanted on a murder charge. We did have a couple in a pub. I had to explain to the barmaid how to make a martini. She didn’t learn very rapidly or, as it turned out, very well. Walling helped me explain. But he won’t remember. And, whether he remembers or not, he probably won’t talk. He’ll probably freeze up, the way Mason froze up. Still—

  He got up and went over to the desk, and the wireless man said, “Signor?”

  “The metropolitan police in London,” Heimrich said. “See if you can get them for me.”

  “That would be Scotland Yard, Inspector?” It would be Scotland Yard. It also would be charged to the ship. “Signor. If you will—”

  Heimrich went back and waited on the sofa near Booth One.

  Scotland Yard had been a major disappointment those three or four years ago. He knew that New Scotland Yard had moved out of its ancient quarters on the Thames, which he had read about but never seen—in which police officers sat in offices and looked out over the river and were brought tea while they solved crimes. But he had not been prepared for the newer Scotland Yard—for a starkly rectangular building which might have been moved over to London from Park Avenue; which was fully air-conditioned and brightly lighted and completely without character. He had been offered a tour of the “black museum,” which had been moved over from the old building, but he had declined. He knew what instruments people used to kill other people and what people looked like after they had been killed. And he knew enough of other instruments used for other purposes on human bodies.

  But he had not been a tourist. He had been a policeman on a job and—

  The bell rang in the booth, and Heimrich went into it and was told that they were through, signor, and heard, “Metropolitan police, Detective Constable Smothers.” At least it sounded like “Smothers”—“Smothers” with static in it. Heimrich said he would like to speak to Chief Inspector Walling and, being asked, said who was calling. He spelled his name. He waited the one moment stipulated, and a man said, “Chief Inspector Walling’s office.”

  Heimrich would like to speak to the chief inspector. He said who would like to speak to the chief inspector and spelled his name again. He waited the stipulated moment. A gruff voice said, “Walling here.”

  “You won’t remember me,” Heimrich said. “Three-four years ago. You people caught a man for the State of New York, and I—”

  “I remember you,” Walling said. “Had a hell of a time getting a cocktail the way you wanted it. Had to give you a hand up myself, as I remember it. You were a captain then. Gone up a notch, apparently. What can I do for you, Heimrich?”

  “I’m calling from an Italian liner in mid-Atlantic,” Heimrich said. “About one of your men. Man named Hunt. Detective Inspector Albert Hunt.”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s been killed. Strangled in his cabin on the S.S. Italia. And another man has disappeared from the ship.”

  Walling said, “Hmmm,” with a rising inflection.

  “Hunt’s your man,” Heimrich said. “I thought your department would want to know what’s happened to him. And the man missing is Sir Ronald Grimes.”

  “Heard of Grimes. He’ll be a loss to his service. You’re saying he is a loss, I take it?”

  “He appears to be.”

  “Signal to the Foreign Office about him, I’d think.”

  “The Italia’s captain will send a message,” Heimrich said. “When they’ve finished searching the ship. About Hunt?”

  “Heimrich, we’ve got a lot of detective inspectors. You said ‘Albert Hunt’?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t know that I—wait a minute. Rather small man? Easy man to overlook?”

  “That’s the man, Chief Inspector.”

  “Seems to me he’s not here. That is, he’s Special Branch. Kind of man who would be. All very hush-hush in Special Branch, y’know.”

  “You’ve no idea what he was doing on the ship? I mean, pleasure cruise or job?”

  “No. Not one of my men. I told you that, didn’t I?”

  “Yes. Can you put me on to somebody who might know? The captain of the ship’s asked me to lend a hand.”

  “Just happened to be around? You, I mean?”

  “Just happened to be around. On leave.”

  “Pity. For you, I mean. Your wife’s with you? I mean, seem to remember you’ve got a wife.”

  “I have. She’s with me. This does break in on things.”

  “Hammond’s the man,” Chief Inspector Walling said. “If Hunt was on a job, Hammond will know what it was. Chief Inspector Hammond. Point is, if Hunt was on a job, Hammond won’t tell you what it was.”

  “All the same. Can you have me switched to Chief Inspector Hammond? And—oh, vouch for me? So I’m not a strange voice out of nowhere?”

  “Waste of your time, probably. Very hush-hush. But it is your time, isn’t it? Hold on a minute.” Heimrich held. He heard jumbled voices. Then, again, he heard Walling’s gruff voice. “Getting him on,” Walling said. “By the way—that cocktail you had so much trouble getting. Good when you got it?”

  “Not very.”

  “Low-proof gin, that’s what it is,” Walling said. “Everything worth drinking goes to the States. Here he is, Hammond.”

  Another voice—a sharper voice—said, “Inspector Heimrich? What’s this about Hunt? Hammond here.”

  “Hunt’s been killed,” Heimrich said. “Strangled in his cabin on a ship named Italia. I’m trying to find out who killed him. I happen to be aboard the Italia.”

  “Police inspector, Walling says you are. Just happen to be aboard?”

  You have to answer the same question a good many times. Heimrich told Chief Inspector Hammond that he had just happened to be aboard and that he had been asked by the ship’s captain to help out. To this Hammond said, “Hmmm.” Then he said, “State or federal?” It was Heimrich’s turn to say, “Hmmm?”

  “What kind of a policeman?” Hammond said. “City? State? Federal?” His sharp voice was patient—noticeably patient.

  “New York State Police,” Heimrich said, his own voice patient. “Bureau of Criminal Investigation. Troop K, Hawthorne Barracks. Which is in—”

  “All right, man,” Hammond said. “All right.”

  “About Detective Inspector Hunt,” Heimrich said. “Who was strangled in his cabin. He was with the Special Branch?”

  Hammond apparently gave that consideration. After a pause, he said, “He was. Yes.”

  “Your Special Branch,” Heimrich said. “I understand it’s interested in—call it international matters. As they concern your national security.”

  Hammond said, “Do you, Inspector?”

  Heimrich waited.

  “We’re concerned with various matters,” Hammond said.

  It was evident from his tone that the various matters were not a concern of a New York State policeman, inspector or not.

  “Hunt,” Heimrich said. “He was taking a sea voyage. For his health? Or on business?”

  “Far’s I know,” Hammond said, “Bert Hunt was healthy. Not young. Not a big man. Just over our minimum, come to that. But healthy enough.”

  “On leave?”

  “Have to consult the records on that one.”

  The tone did not imply that consultation of the records was on the immediate agenda.r />
  “I met Hunt only once,” Heimrich said. “Sir Ronald Grimes introduced him. Hunt said something about a man in New York he—I think he said, ‘we wanted a word with.’ So I assumed he was on a job.”

  “Did you?”

  “Chief Inspector, Hunt was one of your men. He’s been killed. I think while on duty. Don’t you give a damn? Our force, we don’t like our men being killed.”

  “Yes,” Hammond said, “we give a damn, Heimrich.”

  “Sir Ronald Grimes,” Heimrich said. “In your diplomatic service. Knew Hunt, apparently. Sir Ronald’s disappeared.”

  “So Walling told me before you came on,” Hammond said. “Loss to his service.” Hammond paused. “To the country, come to that,” he added. There was a slight modification in the sharpness of his voice.

  “Sir Ronald’s disappearance from the ship,” Heimrich said. “Probably went overboard. Hunt’s murder. There’s obviously a connection, wouldn’t you say?”

  “You’re there,” Hammond said. “I’m not.”

  “Sir Ronald and Hunt were having drinks together,” Heimrich said. “Shortly before Hunt was killed. Before Sir Ronald disappeared.”

  “Interesting.”

  “But not interesting enough to persuade you to tell me what Hunt was doing on the ship?”

  “Sorry. No.”

  “But you know.”

  Hammond did not answer that.

  “You’re very hush-hush, aren’t you? As Walling said you’d be.”

  “You can call it that, Heimrich. Some things are—classified.”

  “You’re not being helpful, are you? For all Hunt’s having been one of your men.”

  “Put that way, no, I suppose I’m not. Sorry and all that.”

  There was another slight change in Chief Inspector Hammond’s voice—enough of a change to make Heimrich think that perhaps Hammond was sorry.

  Heimrich said, “Nice to know. Good-by, Chief Inspector.” There was a stone wall around it, Heimrich thought in the waiting room of the Italia’s wireless station. It was a wall of official stones. And I, he thought, am not really under any obligation to pull those stones apart. I’m a policeman, but one far out of his jurisdiction and one on leave. This is eating into our holiday, and Susan needs her holiday. I can chuck it. I can tell Comandante di Scarlotti that it’s none of my business; tell him it’s all up to his security force. (Which hasn’t sense enough to take pictures of the body of a murdered man before they move the body.)