Black Ship

by Carola Dunn

  Customs had confiscated Lambert’s gun, to that young idiot’s disgust. Lambert had disappeared. Castellano’s gun had disappeared. Had Alec completely misread Lambert’s character?

  He shook his head. Lambert was a young idiot, but no cold-blooded killer. Which left the Jessups.

  Oxford Street, left into New Bond Street, and then Ross pulled alongside the kerb just beyond Jessup & Sons, Purveyors of Fine Wines and Spirits. The fashionable shops were still open, though most of their clientele would be people of leisure, able to shop earlier in the day. The biting wind whistling down the street was icy enough to deter pedestrians, and passersby were few.

  The nearest plate-glass shop window, next door to the Jessups’, displayed five skeletally thin celluloid mannequins elegantly posed in jewel-toned, elaborately beaded silk with jagged hemlines. They looked to Alec as if sharks had been at them. Not for the first time, he thanked heaven that Daisy didn’t care two hoots about the latest modes.

  In the Jessups’ window stood a rustic pergola with artificial vines climbing it. The bunches of purple grapes peeping coyly from among the vine leaves looked like trimmings for an Edwardian hat. Under the pergola stood an equally rustic wooden table and three chairs, and on the table were three wineglasses and two bottles. It was a most inviting scene, though probably the bottles were empty, with the corks forced back in. A shop window was not exactly an ideal storage place for wine, and Alec felt sure the Jessups’ vintage wines were stored under ideal conditions.

  He wondered what their markup was. Pretty hefty, certainly. New Bond Street leases must cost a fortune, and the sort of people who shopped there didn’t cavil at high prices. Pity it was quite impossible to accept Jessup’s offer of wholesale prices, especially now he was investigating the family for murder!

  Still, since inheriting his great-uncle’s fortune, he could afford a bottle of good wine now and then. The difficulty was finding time to sit down and enjoy it.

  “There’s Piper, sir,” said Ross, nodding towards a 125 bus just coming to a halt nearby.

  Ernie Piper swung down and came hurrying over to them. “Hope I’m not late, Chief. I was in the City.”

  “Did you notify the City force? You know how touchy they are.”

  “Had a word with a mate of mine. All I did was ask a few questions. It’s not like I was looking to arrest someone on their patch. They’ll prob’ly never know, and if they find out, he’ll cover for me.”

  “I hope so. Right, you’re going to be doing the search.”

  “Single-handed!”

  “I want you to start with their papers.”

  Piper was extraordinarily good at noting and remembering details and picking up discrepancies, though it wouldn’t do to tell him so too often. Alec was guiltily aware that he didn’t give the young detective as much credit in that line as he deserved, because he didn’t want to lose him to Fraud. He justified himself with the certainty that Ernie would hate working in Fraud.

  He made sure Ernie knew what he was looking for, adding, “Of course, if you happen to notice a gun among the files, you can abandon them temporarily to let me know. Discreetly.”

  “You think they’d be that careless, Chief? Knowing we’re coming?”

  “They don’t know about the search warrant. If you’re still at it when we’re finished asking questions, we’ll lend a hand.”

  Alec saw a sarcastic “Cor, ta, Chief!” on Piper’s lips. He’d say it aloud if Ross were not there, but Ross, though they had often worked together, was not one of Alec’s usual team.

  The glass shop door displayed a CLOSED sign, but it opened to Alec’s push. The clock on the tower of St. George’s, Hanover Square, struck the half hour as the three detectives stepped over the threshold. Alec noted an inner security door, standing open.

  It was immediately obvious that this was no ordinary off-licence. The floor was paved with flagstones. The long narrow room had brick arches along each wall, framing trompe l’oeil vistas of more arches and rack after rack of bottles, row after row of wine tuns stretching into the illusory distance. A few real racks of bottles added to the illusion.

  “Blimey!” said Piper. “Reminds you of that mirror room at the house, don’t it, Chief?”

  “Mr. Jessup certainly has an exotic taste in interior decor.” Alec could imagine the younger Jessups at once embarrassed and proud of their father’s exuberant imagination.

  Spaced along the walls were several desks disguised as rustic tables, like the one in the window, each with a bottle and a couple of glasses. No one was there, but opening the door must have rung a bell in the back premises. Beneath a pergola against the rear wall, the twin of the one in the window, a door opened. Mr. Jessup came through, and with him his long-absent younger son.

  Patrick was taller than his father, and very much slimmer, his leanness not willowy, but fit and athletic. He looked as Irish as his name, with black hair, blue eyes, and a scatter of freckles. He had not, however, inherited his mother’s acting talent: His face was troubled and wary.

  So was his father’s, the expression sitting uneasily on Jessup’s genial features.

  “Thank you for agreeing to see me here,” said Alec. “I’m sorry you had to close early. Your wife—”

  “Moira rang up to explain. It’s we who should thank you. The Bennetts …” He grimaced. “Let me introduce my son Patrick. Our next-door neighbour, Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher.”

  “How do you do, sir?” Patrick didn’t hold out his hand, relieving Alec of the eternal quandary of whether shaking hands with a suspect was appropriate.

  “I’m sorry to make your acquaintance in such circumstances.”

  “Believe me, so am I. It’s not exactly the homecoming I was looking forward to.”

  “These are my assistants, DCs Piper and Ross. Mr. Jessup, I’d like to have a word with you first. Is there somewhere we can go—”

  “Can’t you ‘have a word’ with both of us at once, and save time?” Jessup asked, the first sign of annoyance or impatience he had shown.

  “I’d prefer to see you one at a time,” Alec said firmly.

  “Oh, very well. We’ll go upstairs. We each have an office up there. Patrick, lock the street door before you come up. This way.”

  He led the way through the door at the back. It opened into a room furnished like a gentleman’s den, with comfortable leather chairs and an antique writing table, but with wine racks where one might expect bookcases. On the desk, the usual blotter and a brass inkstand were supplemented with a tantalus and a tray of gleaming glasses of various shapes and sizes. On the right-hand wall hung a Cézanne still life featuring a bottle, a glass, and a bunch of grapes. Straight ahead, a solid-looking door with bar and bolt as well as a lock probably led to a yard or alley. The left wall had stairs going up and a door that, no doubt, opened on steps down to the cellar.

  This must be where favoured customers were invited to consult the Jessups about the replenishment of their cellars, or the provision of drinks for wedding breakfasts and other parties.

  “This will do very well,” Alec said, stepping behind the desk, to Mr. Jessup’s obvious displeasure. He turned to Patrick. “Would you be so kind as to take DC Piper up to the offices? Do you have keys to any locked desks, cabinets, or cupboards?”

  “Yes, but …” The young man looked to his father.

  “And the safe?” Alec cut in before Jessup could respond. “I assume you have a safe?”

  “What the deuce is this?” Jessup demanded. “What business do you have going through our papers? This is a private partnership!”

  “Have you something to hide?”

  “Of course not, but—”

  “Then I may assure you that anything DC Piper may see will remain entirely confidential. Your son may stay with him and make sure everything not pertaining to our enquiries is left just as it was found. Until he comes down to see me, at which point you can go up.”

  “Oh, very well!” Exasperation change
d to gloom as Jessup added to Patrick, “Your mother’s already told Mr. Fletcher about our sales to America.”

  “Which, as you need not remind me,” Alec said tartly, “are not against English law.” In one way, it was a relief not to have to serve the warrant. It would undoubtedly have engendered ill feeling—more ill feeling. On the other hand, Jessup’s acquiescence to the search after a brief and natural protest suggested they would find nothing useful here.

  Alec nodded to Piper, who preceded Patrick up the stairs.

  Alec sat down behind the desk. Jessup hesitated, then reluctantly subsided into one of the armchairs facing him. Ross had unobtrusively brought in a straight chair from the main shop. He set it near the door, behind Jessup, where he could take notes without being observed.

  “Tell me about Castellano,” Alec invited.

  “Castellano? That’s the man you say has been murdered?”

  “Mrs. Jessup didn’t tell you his name?”

  “She didn’t catch it when you mentioned it to her. She told me she recognised the photograph you showed her as an American who came to the house and was extremely unpleasant to her. He didn’t give his name at that time, or subsequently.”

  “He returned, then. To the house, or here?”

  “To the house. In view of his rudeness, I had given orders that he was not to be admitted. If he wanted to do business with the firm, he went the wrong way about it. Had he been an emissary of my American customer, I’d have been notified in advance of his intention to visit us. As it was, I did not meet him, nor had I any intention of doing so.”

  “Tell me about your transactions with America, and why you sent your son there.”

  “There’s really nothing in it. The firm has been dealing for many years with a chap in Boston, the owner of a drinking establishment. Not our usual sort of customer, admittedly, but we simply continued the relationship with his son. The fact that it’s now against the laws of his country is his lookout. I see no harm in supplying superior products to the wealthy elite of America when their alternative, I gather, is what they call ‘moonshine.’ I’m sure you’re aware that improperly distilled alcohol can be deadly.”

  “Yes, indeed. I can see that, regarded in the proper light, you’re a public benefactor,” Alec said with only the merest hint of irony.

  Unexpectedly, Jessup grinned. “That’s a good line. I must remember it.”

  “You’re welcome to it. So, everything was running along smoothly, I take it. Why Patrick’s travels?”

  “Everything ran smoothly because the American government wasn’t putting enough money into enforcement. It stands to reason, as half of them probably enjoy a good whisky as much as anyone. Then last year, President Coolidge talked them into voting more money for the Prohibition people and more ships for the Coast Guard. Perhaps you’ve heard of the Anglo-American Liquor Treaty?”

  “Yes.”

  “That made things more difficult, too, especially as they’ll impound British ships outside the new twelve-mile limit. Even before the change, when it was three miles, they took the Tomoka five miles offshore. Well, to cut a long story short, they started intercepting our ship-to-shore messages. I approached a certain brilliant cryptographer of my acquaintance—being very familiar with certain parts of the Continent, I was able to be of some assistance to our government during the War—and he provided me with a suitable code—”

  “Not Dr. Popkin, by any chance?”

  Jessup looked at him suspiciously. “What my friend did was not against the law, even in America, I believe.”

  “No, no, it’s just that I’ve had cause in the past to ask for his help.”

  “As a matter of fact, it was Dr. Popkin. He gave me what I needed. My customer didn’t want the information sent in the post, for fear of its being intercepted. My son, having missed the War, was eager for adventure. Et voilà.”

  “Patrick went ashore in America to deliver the code in person?”

  “Since that was the point of the whole exercise … He met an agent of our customer, not the man himself. He’s a banker with political ambitions and steers clear of personal involvement.”

  “Will you give me his name?”

  “I will not.”

  Alec nodded. “Or that of his agent?”

  “No. In any case, Patrick is fairly sure all the names he was given while in America were aliases, so they would be useless to you.”

  For the moment, Alec let the question lie. He doubted the principal’s name would be helpful, but any others, real or aliases, though meaningless to him, would be worth trying on the New York police.

  “I assume the business is profitable.”

  “Very. Enough to risk losing a cargo now and then, though we’ve been lucky in that respect.”

  “Yet you were not interested in hearing whatever business proposition Castellano had to set before you,” Alec said sceptically.

  Jessup was clearly perturbed by the return to the subject of the murder, but he quickly recovered. “After his behaviour to Moira, it was out of the question. But if you want a more businesslike reason, we are a small family firm. Taking on more American business would seriously stretch our resources.”

  “I’d have thought with such an unpleasant character hanging about, you’d at least want to know what he was after. You could have arranged to meet him in the garden, so that there was no chance of his encountering your wife again.”

  “I dare say I could have. I didn’t.”

  “Or perhaps you sent Aidan in your place.”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Why did Aidan leave so suddenly last night?”

  Shaken, Jessup said, “He … It wasn’t sudden. He’d been planning the trip for some time. He always goes about this time of year.”

  “And it was so urgent, he left within an hour of his brother’s return?”

  “He … I don’t know. I wasn’t watching the clock.”

  Alec let a moment’s silence point out the irrelevance of this statement. Then he snapped out, “Where did he go?”

  “North!” Jessup took out a silk handkerchief and wiped his forehead. “To see customers in the North.”

  “Which city? Where did he take the train to?”

  “What does it matter? He wasn’t going to stay there. He has to travel all over the place.”

  “Which city?”

  “I don’t know. York, I think. I’m not sure.”

  Anywhere but York, then, Alec thought. He had been hoping he wouldn’t have to arrest any of his next-door neighbours, but if he didn’t, after this interrogation, he’d never be able to face them again. Momentarily, his mind wandered. How long did he have to live in his great-uncle Walsall’s house to satisfy the terms of the will? He couldn’t remember Pearson specifying a term.

  Alarmed by his silence, Jessup said, “Perhaps it was Newcastle.”

  Alec wondered whether, if he maintained a ominous silence, Jessup would gradually run through all the major northern cities he could think of except Aidan’s destination. It wouldn’t do to underestimate him, though. He wasn’t so rattled that he wouldn’t catch on quickly and throw the actual place into the list.

  “Give me the names of customers he has to visit.”

  “Aidan took the records of their names and addresses with him.”

  “Mr. Jessup, I find it quite impossible to believe that you don’t remember the names, at least, of customers sufficiently valuable to warrant one of the firm’s principals travelling hundreds of miles to call on them at their homes.”

  “That’s Aidan’s side of the business. I deal mostly with our suppliers. I dare say I can remember one or two names if I put my mind to it.”

  “Please do so.”

  He came up with four surnames, all of such banality that they probably encompassed several thousand families in the northern counties alone. Besides the Dalton already mentioned by Mrs. Jessup, there were a Fisher, a Richardson, and a Parsons. Alec thought he was telling the truth, if
not the whole truth, but it wasn’t much help. He could only hope Ernie Piper’s search of the files would be more fruitful.

  “Why are you so anxious to keep Aidan’s whereabouts from me?”

  “I’m not!” Jessup blustered defensively. “Why should I?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know. Anyone would think you didn’t care whether we caught a vicious murderer who killed as close to your home and family as to mine.”

  “Aidan is not a vicious murderer!”

  “In that case, he may have vital information that will lead us to the right man—if we get it in time.”

  “I don’t know where he is.”

  “All right, you don’t know where he is. Let’s see if he mentioned where he was going to his brother as they passed in the doorway. Ross, escort Mr. Jessup upstairs, please, and bring Mr. Patrick down.”

  TWENTY

  Ten minutes after Tom Tring and DC Ardmore left the house, Elsie came into the office and told Daisy that Mrs. Jessup was asking for her, “and in such a state she is, madam, she don’t seem to know whether she’s coming or going. She’s waiting in the hall…. I wasn’t sure … considering …”

  “Oh dear! I’ll come right away. Show her into the sitting room, please, Elsie. You’d better bring in the sherry. And brandy, perhaps.”

  She rolled the paper out of the typewriter. It was a nuisance stopping in the middle of a page. Either one left the paper in and afterwards it curled up and never quite flattened or one took it out and could never put it back in exactly the right spot. Fortunately, this wasn’t part of an article, just her notes on Alec’s investigation, so there were no messy carbons to cope with and it didn’t matter if the lines didn’t match up properly.

  Before she went to join her unexpected visitor, she powdered her nose. Mrs. Jessup was always so immaculately made up.

  Considering …? she thought as she crossed the passage to the sitting room. What exactly had Elsie meant by that? Had her sister told her the Jessups were under siege, or were the abominable Bennetts already at work with the rumour mill? Their binoculars had probably been trained on the Fletcher and Jessup front doors for hours. Daisy wondered whether Miss Bennett had come home by now, and whether they had decided on their story.