And if they were? … French suddenly found a vista opening before him, a vista both suggestive and sinister …
But there was no time to consider it now. He must collect all the information he could. Later he could try piecing it together.
French gave the men an offhand greeting. Obviously he also was neither eager nor particularly interested in the affair. But if the men had really anything to tell him, well, talking was dry work and was there no place where they could get a drop of something to help the tale? It seemed there was, and not far away. The group adjourned in a body.
It would not be correct to say that the whisky which each man asked for loosened his tongue, but it did produce occasional monosyllabic replies to French’s questions. However, by dint of a laborious interrogation, mostly veiled, and a second treat all round, a considerable amount of information was obtained. Whether it was all that was available, French did not know, but it was all he could get.
It seemed that between 9.30 and 10.00 o’clock on Thursday, 3rd October, a motor launch had come into the harbour. Portpatrick is one of those blest places which have neither a harbour master nor dues, each visiting mariner anchoring where it seems right in his own eyes. The spot which had seemed right in the eyes of the master of this launch was just inside the inner basin, and there he had dropped his anchor.
The master—the longshoremen did not know whether or not he was the owner—was a short, pleasant-looking man of middle age. There was another man on board whom, however, they had not seen, as he kept below. But they had heard his replies to the short man.
A few minutes after the launch had anchored a motor had appeared, a new brownish-yellow Morris six. From this car had descended two men, both tall and well-built, in fact one was almost a Hercules. He was dark, but his companion’s hair was of a particularly bright shade of red. The two men had walked across to the basin, and seeing the launch, had hailed it. The short man had pointed to a boat which was tied to the steps and they had called for a volunteer to put them aboard. The boat was the property of one of the longshoremen and he had rowed them across.
French asked if they had said anything while in the boat.
It had seemed hard enough to extract mere facts from the circle, but this proved child’s play compared to the difficulty of getting a report of the conversation. However M’Clung managed it at last.
While being rowed the few yards to the launch the two newcomers had discussed the question of which of them should take the car back—they didn’t say to where. Then the short man had greeted them, saying that they were in good time as that he himself had only just arrived. One of the others had next asked where old Viccy was and the short man had said, ‘Casualty. Fell down the companion steps and crocked up his knee.’ Hercules had asked if the victim of this disaster was aboard, to which the other had replied that he was, and that he couldn’t get out of his bunk. Hercules had then gone below and the boatman had heard greetings and the beginning of a conversation, until the short man had told him he was going ashore in half an hour and to come back for him.
When the half hour was up he, the boatman, had returned and he then rowed both Hercules and the short man ashore. The two had immediately driven off. A couple of hours later Hercules had returned alone and had gone aboard. But it was not till dark—between seven and eight—that the short man had turned up. He also had immediately gone aboard. That was the last occasion on which there had been any communication between launch and shore.
‘Did the launch go out that night?’ French asked.
About midnight, the men said. It was a calm night and all had heard her, while a couple of them had seen her creeping out past the lighthouse.
‘Did you happen to notice her name?’ French asked.
They had. She was the Sea Hawk and was registered in Barrow. She was about fifty feet long, well decked over, with plenty of freeboard, and looked a good sea boat. But she was old and from the sound of her motor it was old too.
‘I think that about does us in Portpatrick,’ French observed as they left the little harbour. He swung round suddenly on his companion.
‘I say, M’Clung, what in the blessed earth were you and I thinking about not to spot that Coates belonged to Victor Magill’s party? Bar myself, I think you’re the biggest fool in Scotland!’
M’Clung could only murmur helplessly. He should have thought of it, but—he just didn’t.
‘There’s not much excuse for either of us. When do we get a train out of this darned place?’
‘In fifteen minutes.’ M’Clung had spent the few moments of their wait at Stranraer in studying the time-table.
‘Good. That’ll just give us time to go to the post office. I want to send a wire.’
His message ran:
‘To Victor Magill, Lurigan, Larne, Co. Antrim.
‘Please wire your present address. Am anxious to see you. Reply King’s Arms Hotel, Stranraer. French.’
Conversation waned between the two men as they travelled to Stranraer and again as they strolled about the town or sat in the lounge of the hotel. French’s mind was full of the suggestive information he had obtained and M’Clung, seeing his companion’s preoccupation, tactfully kept his own counsel.
The double connection between Sir John Magill and the launch party puzzled French completely. That Victor Magill happened to be on a trip along the Scottish coast at the time of his uncle’s death had, if stated alone, no significance whatever. That Joss should be on his way to join a yachting party when he travelled with Sir John also had no significance, even considering the peculiar episode of the adjacent sleeping berths and the false name. But when it turned out that Victor and Joss were members of the same party, that is, that there was a connection between Sir John and the cruise, firstly, through Victor and secondly, through Joss, the relative significance of these facts was profoundly altered.
Was it possible, French wondered, that there could really be any connection between the linen magnate’s death and the yachting trip? It seemed an utterly farfetched idea, and yet …
French considered once again Sir John’s extraordinary actions on the day of his death and the more he did so, the more he felt that any explanation which covered the facts must be extraordinary too. He need not therefore refrain from accepting theories because they were either far-fetched or peculiar. He need not rule out a connection between the murder and Victor’s cruise simply because such a connection seetned absurd.
So far, so good. Assuming that there might have been a connection, what could it consist of?
Not that Sir John could have been murdered by the launch party; they were at Portpatrick at the time of the crime. Of alibis French was usually sceptical, but this was one which admitted of no doubt whatever. It was true that one member of the party, Victor, had not actually been seen at Portpatrick, though he had been heard. While French had no doubt that Victor was there, he took a mental note to make further inquiries into the matter.
But if Sir John had not been actually murdered by the party, were its members not out of the picture? Could any of them be even remotely involved? French thought and thought and thought, and at length found himself forced to the conclusion that they could not. None of the four could have helped to bring about the old man’s death. Except that Joss had acted in a somewhat mysterious way, there was nothing sinister about the cruise. French turned to his companion.
‘What do you make of it, M’Clung?’
The sergeant took his pipe out of his mouth and gave it a little wave.
‘Nothing, Mr French,’ he answered decisively. ‘I think I see what’s been in your mind; that there may be a connection between this launch trip and Sir John’s death. Is that not it, sir?’
French nodded.
‘Well, I thought maybe there was at first, but I don’t think so now. Joss was up to something right enough, but Joss was at Portpatrick when the murder was committed so he couldn’t have done it. And there was nothing to connect Victor with it at a
ll. Besides he was at Portpatrick too. I don’t believe we’ll get anything out of the cruise.’
‘If,’ said French slowly, ‘you see a man coming out of a bar, you have no evidence that he has been drinking. If a man wipes his mouth when passing you on the road, it means nothing.’ M’Clung grinned, but French continued unmoved. ‘But if you see a man coming out of a bar and wiping his mouth; you see? It’s not exactly an original example, but it’s a good one for all that. Now there’s what’s bothering me. It’s the cumulative effect of both Victor and Joss being connected with Sir John and with the cruise, added to Joss’s little games on the journey down. I agree with you that I can’t get a connection between the trip and the murder, but I just don’t feel altogether happy about it. Do you?’
M’Clung felt happy, enough. He was sure they would ‘get nothing out of’ the cruise. But he thought they should have an explanation from Joss before dropping the matter.
‘Well naturally,’ said French. ‘What do you think I wired to Victor for?’
‘Here’s the answer anyway,’ M’Clung returned, as a telegraph boy opportunely appeared at the door.
There were two wires, both for French. The first read:
‘Victor returned to 116B St John’s Wood Road. Malcolm Magill.’
The second:
‘Glad if you could let M’Clung return as soon as possible. Rainey.’
French grunted.
‘Ring up and get a couple of berths reserved for us tonight,’ he directed; ‘mine on the train to town and yours on the steamer for Larne. Then we’ll go and amuse ourselves at this Earl of Stair’s place. No reason why we shouldn’t improve what’s left of our minds. Goodness knows they need it.’
11
London
That night French travelled up to London and next morning made his way out to St John’s Wood Road. Victor was just about to start for his office, but he turned back with his visitor.
‘Sorry to give you all this trouble,’ French apologised, ‘but I’ll only keep you a moment. In fact I really only want to ask one question. You remember telling me of the friend who travelled by rail from London to Stranraer to join your launch party at Portpatrick. We agreed he must have travelled in the same train as Sir John and I should like to see him about the journey. There’s just a chance that he may have seen or heard something of the old gentleman which might help me. I want you please to give me his address. His name you mentioned. It was Joss, I think?’
‘Joss, yes,’ Victor returned, ‘Charles Joss. He’s in the same line of business as myself. He’s one of the travelling representatives of Sirius Motors, Ltd., you know, their London office is in the Haymarket. You’ll find him there. He’s a good fellow, Joss, but up till now he’s had rather rough luck.’
‘How was that?’ French asked sympathetically.
Victor shrugged.
‘A bad bringing up, I’m afraid. His father wasn’t all that might have been desired, and Joss himself had some trouble and left his job and went to the States. There I believe he made good and in 1914 he came home and enlisted. He was invalided out, I’m not sure exactly when, in ’17, I think. Then he put in his bad time. He couldn’t get a job, not for ages, and until actual want was staring him in the face. At last he met a man whom he had served with in France, and this chap was able to put in a word for him which got him his present job. He’s doing all right now.’
‘I’ll go and have a word with him.’
‘Well, you’ll get him at that address, or if he isn’t there they’ll put you on his track. But you won’t get much from him, I’m afraid.’
‘Possibly not, but why do you say so?’
‘Because he didn’t know my uncle.’
‘It doesn’t sound promising,’ French admitted. ‘However in our business we have to make a lot of long shots that don’t get anywhere. Just once in a while one of them does, and that makes it worth it.’
‘I suppose so,’ Victor agreed. ‘Anything else I can do for you, inspector?’
‘Why, no,’ said French. ‘I don’t think there is.’ He paused, then turned the conversation to the motor launch cruise.
‘You went to Stranraer while your launch was lying at Portpatrick, I think you told me?’ he said presently. ‘It’s not a bad little town.’
Victor glanced at him curiously.
‘I don’t think I could have told you that, Inspector,’ he returned. ‘If I did, I unwittingly misled you. It was Mallace who went to Stranraer. Mallace is agent for the Lowe oil engines and on this trip he was combining business and pleasure. As a matter of fact,’ Victor smiled slightly, ‘I not only didn’t go to Stranraer, but I didn’t even see Portpatrick, though we lay there all that day.’
French was suitably interested.
‘It was my knee,’ Victor explained. ‘I fell down the companion steps. It was early on that Thursday morning when we were about halfway between Barrow and Portpatrick. I was carrying some cocoa up to Mallace when the launch gave a lurch and in trying to save the cocoa I lost my balance. The sharp edge of a step caught my knee just on the inside, you know.’ He rubbed the stricken member. ‘It hurt to put it under me, so I stayed in my bunk. Mallace wanted me to get a doctor at Portpatrick, but like a fool I wouldn’t agree. I thought it was nothing, you understand. But when we got to Campbeltown next morning it was a good deal swollen, and I had a doctor there, a Dr MacGregor, a very decent chap as it turned out. Teer went up the town for him and brought him aboard. He said there was no real harm done and, that if I lay up as much as possible, there was no reason why I shouldn’t go on with the cruise. But I was lame for several days, in fact it catches me sometimes still.’
‘Hard lines that, Mr Magill. It must have pretty well spoilt your holiday. I noticed you were lame when I saw you in Belfast.’
‘I got off well,’ Victor declared. ‘I’ve known a hurt like that lasting for three months.’
For some time they continued talking cruises. Victor was responsive, even friendly, and chatted about the party’s adventures without reserve. His manner was that of a truthful man, and French felt he might safely accept his statement. At the same time he took a note to get early in touch with Dr MacGregor, so that Victor’s disablement might be established beyond question.
French made a move to go, but Victor seemed to enjoy talking and he therefore sank back in his chair and took another cigarette from the box Magill held out.
‘I suppose,’ said Victor presently, ‘you don’t know of a job that would suit either Myles or Nutting? My cousin is going to sell the house in Knightsbridge and those two will have to go. Nutting, of course, is a young man, but it’s hard lines on Myles.’
French was sorry. He knew of nothing, but he thought in these days any kind of domestic servant should be able to command his own figure. ‘Mr Breene would have more trouble than Myles in getting fixed up, I should have thought,’ he added.
‘Breene!’ Victor returned, to French’s amazement, in accents of scorn and dislike. ‘Breene out of a job! You don’t know the man, Inspector, or you wouldn’t have said that. Didn’t you know? He’s going—’ He stopped suddenly, then shrugged his shoulders. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned it, but it’ll be common property before long and till then you can keep quiet about it. He’s going to marry my cousin, my elder cousin that’s selling the house. How the old man would turn in his grave if he knew!’
‘But I thought Sir John liked Mr Breene?’
‘As a secretary, yes. As a son-in-law—he would have thrown him out of his house if such a thing had been suggested. But there, I shouldn’t have talked. Forgot it, Inspector, but remember those other two men if you hear of any vacancies.’
French absently promised and excused himself. He was interested in the little revelation of character which had been made. Breene, he would have sworn, was a clever, forceful, determined man who would see that he got his own way in the minor affairs of life. But at the time he had not seen any indications of a desire to do so
at the expense of others. Now as a result of Victor’s story he believed he had been mistaken. There seemed to be a sort of ruthlessness in the man’s strength.
As he sat in a No. 53 bus French took himself very seriously to task over missing this trait. He had always prided himself on his character reading. Here was a case where he believed he had made a slip. He took a mental note in future to pay even more careful attention to this side of his business.
In a dream he watched the kaleidoscope of the streets. And then another side of Victor’s statement occurred to him. It did not seem very important at first, but the more he thought of it, the more impressed with it he became. Indeed he grew positively excited as he considered the vistas which appeared to be opening out in front of him. Was it possible that at last he had reached his solution?
If it were true that Breene had wished to marry Miss Magill and that Sir John would have opposed the match, were there not here all the elements that he required to complete his case? On many previous occasions French had wondered whether Breene might not know more than he had said. But French had always dismissed the idea on two grounds, absence of motive and Breene’s alibi for the evening. Now here was a motive strong enough to account for any crime. Alibis, moreover, were notoriously misleading …
He returned to the Yard, sat down at his desk and proceeded to put his ideas on paper. ‘Herbert Breene,’ he wrote at the top of a clean sheet, then under that ‘Character.’
Carefully he analysed the man’s character, so far as he knew it, ending at ‘Conclusion’ with the words: ‘This man has the qualities necessary for undertaking and carrying through a daring crime.’
His next heading was ‘Motive,’ and under this he summarised what he had just been considering. Breene, the confidential secretary, might well have seen Sir John’s will. Under this will Miss Magill was an heiress to the extent of £50,000, plus the house in Knightsbridge, worth more than a few thousands more. Therefore marriage with her would be extraordinarily profitable. Unfortunately her father’s objection would be a fatal bar to such connubial happiness. Not that parental opposition as such would have mattered two straws. Its importance lay in the fact that it might have a cash basis. If Sir John had really objected to Breene as a son-in-law, he could have cut his daughter out of his will. His lamented decease therefore would have meant (a) that Breene could pay his court without the threat of a disastrous change in the will, and (b) that the will would become operative, the future Mrs Breene actually obtaining the cash. Under ‘Conclusion’ in this heading French therefore wrote: ‘This man has an adequate motive for the crime.’
Inspector French: Sir John Magill's Last Journey Page 12
