The False Inspector Dew

by Peter Lovesey

  'Never felt safe,' shouted Jack. 'Leave me alone, for God's sake.'

  It was clear that nothing short of physical force would get him below. He was a very frightened man.

  Walter was starting to turn away, with one hand still on the rail when he was suddenly thrust back with astonishing force as if someone had kicked him viciously in the chest. He crashed helplessly against Jack's legs, almost upending him as well.

  'What was that?' demanded Jack.

  Walter just groaned. He seemed stunned.

  'Are you all right, Inspector?'

  'My shoulder.' Walter's right hand covered his left shoulder. He made no attempt to rise. He said, 'The pain!'

  Jack crouched beside him. 'Let me see. You must have dislocated it, falling like that. Let me help you up.' He tried to support Walter, but he was a large man, difficult to move. 'Put your hand over my shoulder.'

  Walter lifted his hand feebly. Jack succeeded in getting him into a sitting position.

  'Whatever happened?'

  Walter groaned again, i think I'm going to pass out.'

  'Is this some kind of trick?'

  It was not. Walter's body went limp in Jack's arms. 'Damn you!' said Jack.

  He got up to go for help. At the door to the stairway leading to the embarkation hall and the purser's office was a ship's light. As he put out his hand to open the door he saw that his fingers were stained with blood.

  16

  When Alma opened her eyes there was sunlight on the ceiling. It was streaming through the porthole with piercing intensity. Her head ached. She turned to face the wall and saw the empty champagne bottle and the two glasses on the bedside cupboard. She closed her eyes again, pressing them hard as if to squeeze out the image. She turned over and buried her face in the pillow. But she knew that when she opened her eyes again the bottle and the glasses would still be there. Scattered across the floor would be the stark reminders of the hour after midnight, the remnants of fancy dress — velvet cloak, white head-dress made from a teatowel, white blouse with a paper red cross pinned on the front, grey skirt, black lisle stockings and lace-up shoes. She could not escape the evidence that she had done the thing that even the most passionate and romantic heroines forswore until it was sanctified and licensed. She had admitted one of the opposite sex to her room and to her bed. She had broken faith with Ethel M. Dell. And God. And Walter.

  Walter. What she had done was unforgivable. She had promised herself to him and given herself to Johnny.

  Worse, she knew now that she loved Johnny, that what she had felt for Walter had amounted only to — what was the word used so often and so tellingly in The Way of an Eagle! — infatuation. Whatever had been in her heart for Walter had gone for ever, supplanted by her overwhelming love for Johnny, that gentle, irresistible man who had taken her in his arms and told her she was the loveliest creature on God's earth. Walter had never spoken words like that. He had never whispered to her that she inflamed him with her eyes and that her skin was smoother and more white than purest porcelain.

  The act of love had not been the ordeal she had imagined and expected. The initial moments of discomfort had been more than compensated by sensations that had surprised and gratified her. She had said nothing to Johnny about her inexperience, yet he had understood and been pleased and helped her tenderly over the threshold of pain into sheer joy.

  But she felt an obligation to Walter that was inescapable. He had listened to her, plotted with her and been persuaded by her. Because of her he had put himself in jeopardy. He had murdered Lydia. He would not have done it without Alma's prompting. Except for her, he would still be in England and Lydia would be alive and sailing to America. Her loyalty had to be with Walter, even if her love was with Johnny. She was weeping into the pillow.

  There was a knock on the door. The steward! He had brought the morning tea.

  'Wait a moment, please.' She sprang out of bed and put the bottle and the glasses in the wardrobe and scooped up the clothes and flung them in as well. She snatched out one of Lydia's negligees and wrapped it round her shoulders, slammed the wardrobe shut and got back into bed. 'You may come in now.'

  'Lovely morning, madam. Is it your birthday?' He was a very young steward, certainly not twenty, perfectly efficient and friendly without too much familiarity as a rule.

  'No, it isn't. Why do you ask?'

  'Card for you, ma'am.' He placed the tray on the bedside cupboard where the champagne bottle had been. A square envelope that obviously contained a greetings card was propped against the milkjug. 'Did you sleep through it, then?'

  'I beg your pardon,' said Alma.

  'The storm, ma'am. Some passengers didn't get to sleep at all. There won't be many for breakfast.'

  'I suppose not.'

  'What I say, madam, is that if it was just the weather that was laying them low we wouldn't have much to worry about.'

  'What do you mean, exactly?'

  'Another passenger copped it last night. It was that Inspector Dew from Scotland Yard.'

  'No! What happened?'

  'He was shot, ma'am. He went up on deck and someone took a shot at him.'

  'Oh, my God! Is he…'

  'I couldn't say, ma'am. We was told to keep our mouths shut. Will that be all?'

  'Yes.' Alma was shaking. She sank back on the pillow. Walter shot? Dead? It was beyond belief.

  She sat in a state of shock for more than a minute. Who would want to kill Walter, and why? She was very afraid. But she would have to get up and find out for certain what had happened.

  Without thinking much about it, she reached for the teatray and picked up the envelope and opened it. The card inside had been drawn by hand. It showed two hearts linked by an arrow. She opened it and read the message inside. It comprised two lines of an old song:

  Because God made thee mine,

  And I am yours.

  J

  Alma said aloud, 'Oh, Johnny, Johnny, Johnny.'

  She did not drink the tea. She did not take her morning bath. She put on her clothes and went straight to Walter's stateroom and knocked on the door.

  A nurse, a genuine nurse, opened it and looked disdainfully at Alma. 'Yes?'

  'I heard that the Inspector has been shot.'

  'That's right.'

  'I am a friend, a personal friend. Tell me please, is he badly hurt?'

  'It's not for me to say.'

  'Please — is he in danger?' As she asked the question, her voice expressed the real concern she felt, but even as she was speaking, some dissident section of her brain anticipated Walter's death and freed her from her obligation to him. She would be free to marry Johnny.

  'He is not in danger,' said the nurse.

  A voice inside the room, not Walter's, said, 'Who is it, nurse?'

  The nurse asked Alma, 'What is your name?'

  She hesitated. Without knowing Walter's state of consciousness, she dared not say that she was Lydia. He had probably been given morphia. To be told that Lydia was at his door might shock him into some calamitous response.

  'If you won't tell me your name, how can I give him a message?'

  'There is no message,' said Alma. She turned and almost ran towards the door at the end of the passageway.

  The nurse clicked her tongue, closed the door and rejoined the master-at-arms beside Walter's bed. Mr Saxon was triumphant. From his exuberance it appeared that he was unconcerned at Walter's plight. He was as cock-a-hoop as if he had fired the shot himself. 'Take your time recovering,' he said. 'Your responsibilities are over now, Inspector. It's a glorious day outside, and you're entitled to enjoy it.'

  'What do you mean?' asked Walter, ready to take issue.

  'Quite simply that there's nothing more for you to do when you've given me your statement. Gordon is under arrest. He hasn't written his confession yet, but he will.'

  'Gordon? Jack Gordon?'

  Mr Saxon smiled, if you hadn't released the blighter in the first place, you wouldn't be nursing a sore sh
oulder. How does it feel?'

  Walter tried lifting his head off the pillow. He winced and fell back.

  'Painful, by the look of it,' said Mr Saxon.

  'Jack Gordon didn't shoot me,' said Walter.

  Mr Saxon turned to the nurse. 'What did the doctor give this man?'

  'I had my back to him,' said Walter. 'The bullet hit me in the front.'

  'I don't suppose you remember much,' said Mr Saxon, it's all a blur.'

  'I remember clearly. I turned away from him and I was hit from in front. I fell back against him. I was shot by someone else.'

  'I doubt it.'

  'What happened after I was hit?'

  'Gordon dragged you to the stairs and shouted for help. He's no fool, Inspector.'

  'Did you search him? Was he carrying a gun?'

  'I expect he dropped it overboard.'

  'The man is innocent,' said Walter. With the help of his good arm he propped himself up. 'Where is he now? I want to speak to him.'

  'I'm afraid that won't be possible,' said the nurse. 'You're to remain in bed for the rest of the day. You heard the doctor's orders, sir.'

  'The doctor told me this is only a flesh wound.'

  'He gave you something to suppress the pain. You wouldn't be very steady on your feet.'

  'I'll see Gordon here, then.'

  'He's under arrest,' repeated Mr Saxon.

  'Good,' said Walter. 'You must know where to find him.'

  17

  Alma spent a long time looking for Johnny. He was not in his deckchair, or taking his usual turn round the promenade deck or his usual double scotch in the smoking room. She found him at last on the fantail, the aftermost stretch of deck on the ship. He was leaning on the rail studying the smooth centre of the wake. He turned and took her hand.

  He said, 'New York tomorrow.'

  'Don't look so glum,' said Alma. 'You'll make me sad, too.'

  'What will you do in America — something in the theatre?'

  'No. That's finished. I'm not certain what will happen.'

  'There's someone going to meet you 1 expect,' said Johnny.

  'Well, not exactly.'

  'But you won't be alone in America?'

  'I hope not.'

  'There is someone else,' said Johnny, 'isn't there?'

  Alma stared at the foam churning from the turbines, i think you know the answer to that already. Johnny, when you left me after the fancy dress parade last night, you said you were going to get changed.'

  'Why, yes, my dear. That's exactly what I did.'

  'You didn't go up on deck?'

  Johnny frowned. 'No. Why should I have done? You don't think I had something to do with Inspector Dew getting shot? Why on earth should I?' His eyes widened. 'Good Lord — he's not your friend, is he?'

  'Please don't ask me any more,' said Alma. 'I was only thinking of you.'

  'That does rather put the damper on my plans. I was leading up to asking you to make a decent man of me, so to speak. I'm not quite so old as I appear.'

  Alma felt the blood rising in her cheeks. 'I don't think you're old.'

  'It's the sort of life I've led,' said Johnny. 'Never taken care of myself.' He laughed. 'Bit of a nerve, wanting to take care of you. And I know that selling motor cars isn't exactly like the Civil Service or the Stock Exchange, but it is a job with prospects.'

  Alma returned a smile, is this a proposal of marriage?'

  Johnny kissed her softly on the cheek. 'Lydia, it is.'

  At the mention of that name, she closed her eyes. How could she marry Johnny when he did not even know her proper name?

  'What's the matter?' Johnny asked.

  'I can't…' She felt her mouth go dry. 'I can't give you an answer yet. I want to say yes, but… but I must speak to somebody else. Oh, Johnny.' She rested her head against his shoulder. She was starting to cry.

  18

  Walter was sitting up in bed when Mr Saxon returned with Jack Gordon. The nurse had left. Jack fairly bristled with resentment as the master-at-arms pointed towards a chair.

  'There's no need for you to stay, Mr Saxon,' Walter generously suggested. 'The room-search for the gun must be under way by now.'

  'It's imperative that I remain,' said Mr Saxon with the air of a man who knew far more than he cared to say.

  'Mr Gordon isn't going to attack me,' said Walter.

  The master-at-arms drew in a long, eloquent breath.

  'If you insist,' said Walter, 'you can take notes of what we say.' He took his notebook from under his pillow and held it out for Mr Saxon.

  'I have my own,' said Mr Saxon haughtily.

  'Just as you prefer.' Walter turned to Jack. 'Mr Gordon, I want to thank you for taking care of me last night. From what I hear, you haven't been treated with much gratitude. Did you get that, Mr Saxon, or am I going too fast?'

  Mr Saxon did not look up from his notebook.

  Walter continued, i was hoping for some help and it seems to me that you're the man most likely to give it.'

  Jack looked dubious. 'I've told you everything I can.'

  'Everything I asked you,' said Walter. 'Questions and answers don't always produce the information one requires. You and I both want to find the murderer of your wife. Time is getting short. After we dock tomorrow, the chance of catching him is practically nil. So I thought if the two of us could put our heads together, we might get some fresh ideas. Suppose we start by looking at the facts we have. You and your wife booked a passage on the Mauretania with the intention of making a lot of money playing cards with the American, Paul Westerfield.'

  'I told you that already.'

  'Of course,' Walter went on as if Jack's impatience had passed him by. 'You know, the thing that interests me is why you should have chosen this particular crossing and that particular passenger. I wonder whether it has any bearing on the mystery.'

  'I shouldn't think so,' answered Jack. 'We chose the Mauretania because we hadn't worked on her before. We weren't known to the captain or the purser.'

  'Your first trip on the Mauretania. I understand,' said Walter.

  'And Westerfield was the obvious mark. A millionaire's son, sociable, a graduate in maths. I don't know what you're thinking, Inspector, but I can tell you for sure that Paul Westerfield didn't suspect us. He and the girl were perfect pigeons.'

  On the other side of the room, Mr Saxon was grinding his teeth.

  Jack continued, 'I suppose you're going to ask me if I can think of anyone else with a grudge against us.'

  'It was on the tip of my tongue,' said Walter.

  'Inspector, I've been through the ship since Sunday

  'Inspector, I've been through the ship since Sunday looking at people's faces, searching for anyone I know. I'm convinced that there isn't a man or woman on board who has played cards with me before. If you want my opinion, Kate was killed by some maniac who might as well have strangled any other woman.'

  'The same maniac who shot me?'

  It was a simple question, but Jack took it as a criticism of his theory. 'That's a point I hadn't thought of. Is it usual for a strangler of women to take up shooting as well?' He got no answer from Walter, so he went on, 'And how can I possibly describe last night as a similar crime? Whoever fired that shot picked his victim, didn't he? The question is why did he do it.'

  'I've been thinking about that,' said Walter, i can only presume that he thought I was getting too close to the truth.'

  Jack screwed up his face in disbelief, i beg your pardon.'

  Walter glanced at Mr Saxon. He looked just as unconvinced.

  'Well, he must have had some reason to shoot me.'

  There was a moment's silence before Jack said, 'I don't wish to give offence, but I don't think you were the target. I think he was aiming at me.'

  'You?' Walter's eyes opened wider. He looked slightly chagrined.

  Jack nodded, i don't know how much you remember, Inspector. You turned away from me and caught it in the shoulder.'

  'I
'm aware of that,' said Walter, putting his hand to his wound.

  'If you hadn't moved, it would have caught me. You fell back against me.'

  'Oh.'

  'It is more likely, isn't it?' Jack persisted. 'First Kate, and then me. Someone is out to kill me.'

  Walter pondered this interpretation. 'If that really is the case, Mr Saxon probably saved your life by putting you under guard.'

  From the scowl that Mr Saxon gave, this was a credit he would rather have done without.

  Jack continued conveniently putting words into Walter's mouth. 'I expect you're going to say that this isn't the work of a maniac after all. I'm compelled to admit that you're right. It must be someone with a grudge against Kate and me, but who?'

  'Who, indeed.'

  Jack rubbed his chin.

  Walter fiddled with the tassels on his bedspread.

  Mr Saxon sighed intolerantly.

  Jack clicked his fingers. 'Paul Westerfield. It all comes back to him. I must have been mistaken about him. He was sharper than I ever gave him credit for. What do you think, Inspector? Could he have realised we were trying to rook him?'

  'You're the best judge of that,' said Walter with his flair for the neutral observation.

  'Even so, murder is a very extreme reaction,' Jack went on. 'He must be unbalanced to take it so personally. He didn't say anything at the time, but I suppose if he harboured his resentment … He gives the impression of being sane, but there's something about him … Inspector, I think you should make inquiries into Paul Westerfield. You could find out where he was last night when you were shot.'

  'There you are,' said Walter with satisfaction. 'I was sure I could rely on you to help.'

  'You believe me?'

  'I shall do exactly as you say.'

  'Am I free to go, then?'

  'I don't think we should detain you. What do you say, Mr Saxon?'

  The grunt emitted by the master-at-arms could have meant anything, but it sounded less magnanimous than Walter.

  'In that case…' said Jack. He got up to leave.

  'There is one other thing,' said Walter.

  'Yes?'

  'Would you ask the doctor to call and see me. I think I'm ready to get up.'