Lestrade and the Deadly Game

by M. J. Trow

  ‘I am Superintendent Lestrade of Scotland Yard,’ he introduced himself. ‘Are you Philip Hunloke?’

  ‘Captain Philip Hunloke, yes.’ The man was quite prepared to stand on his dignity. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘You can tell me about the prunes,’ Lestrade said.

  Hunloke paused in the drying of his hands. ‘Prunes?’ he repeated blankly.

  ‘The prunes, to be specific, that you gave to William Hemingway at the start of the eight-metre race.’

  ‘What about them?’ Hunloke continued to dry.

  ‘You tell me,’ Lestrade persisted.

  ‘Don’t fence with me, Lestrade,’ Hunloke snapped, looking his man up and down. ‘I suspect you haven’t the intellect for it. A dear friend of mine died yesterday. We’re none of us in the mood for this little bash. Now, get to the point.’

  ‘Very well.’ Lestrade straightened. ‘The point, Captain Hunloke, is that I believe those prunes were the cause of Mr Hemingway’s death.’

  ‘What? Stuff and nonsense,’ Hunloke blustered. ‘Most they can do is purge a fellow. They may taste fatal, but they can’t kill.’

  ‘They can if they’re heavily laced with digitalis.’

  ‘What?’

  A little old sailor in a goatee came into the Gentlemen’s Smoke Room at that moment. He sensed the odd atmosphere and thought it best to leave.

  ‘Digitalis,’ Lestrade repeated when he’d gone. ‘The essence of the foxglove. A noble, graceful plant with purple spotted flowers . . .’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Hunloke was angry, with himself more than Lestrade. ‘Spare me the botany lecture.’ He caught sight of his own face in the mirror. It had turned an ashy grey. ‘My God,’ he said, ‘that means . . .’

  ‘Yes?’ Lestrade’s eyes narrowed as he sniffed the scent.

  ‘Actually,’ Hunloke turned to him, ‘I didn’t give poor Willie those prunes. Or rather, I did, but I was merely passing them on on behalf of someone else.’

  ‘Oh?’ Lestrade raised an eyebrow. ‘Who?’

  ‘Nordahl Őverland, the captain of the Fram.’

  Lestrade frowned. ‘That’s the Norwegian ship?’

  ‘Yacht,’ Hunloke corrected him.

  ‘Why should Captain Őverland want to give Hemingway prunes?’

  ‘Willie’s predilection for prunes was well known in yachting circles, Superintendent. And it is the done thing for crews to exchange little gifts before the start of a race. I’ve a wardrobe full of cravats.’

  ‘Why didn’t he give him the prunes direct?’

  ‘Willie was late that first morning. The Fram was getting under way and I offered to pass them on to him. God, if only I’d known.’

  ‘Don’t reproach yourself, Captain. If there’s any reproaching to be done, I’ll do it. Outside. I take it Captain Őverland is here?’

  ‘What?’ Hunloke was miles away in his mind, riding the Solent with Willie Hemingway dying in his arms. ‘Er . . . yes. Yes, he is.’

  ‘Would you be so kind as to point him out to me?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘One thing more.’ Lestrade stopped his man at the door. ‘These prunes, were they in a tin or a bag?’

  ‘A bag,’ said Hunloke.

  He led the way into the hall, lit with the myriad sparkle of the chandeliers. The band, specially sent down by Harrods, was in full quadrille and a marked improvement over Miss Lambert and the Rookley Palm Court who had rather dubiously entertained the group that afternoon. The Duchess of Westminster was magnificent in her ball gown studded with orders and decorations, though none worn more proudly than the silver Olympic medal around her white throat.

  ‘There,’ muttered Hunloke. ‘The chap with the monocle. That’s Őverland.’

  Lestrade took in a dapper little fellow rather of his own stamp but with a hauteur born of the fjords and Oslo University. He was surrounded by a group of sailors built like Dreadnoughts, with fiery red hair and bristling beards. He stepped forward into an International Incident, but as he did so, a hand touched his sleeve.

  ‘Miss Adams.’ His jaw dropped.

  ‘Mr Lestrade,’ she said, ‘what are you doing here?’

  The American newspaperwoman now looked anything but. Gone was the black velvet jacket and the short bob. Her dark hair cascaded over her shoulder and only the shine in her eyes dazzled more than the glitter of her gown.

  ‘I may well ask the same of you,’ he said.

  ‘Ah, but I asked first,’ she laughed.

  ‘I am on duty, madam,’ he said.

  ‘So I see.’ She took in the grotesquely inappropriate suit. ‘And so am I. The Washington Post, like Time and Tide, waits for no man. I’ve been here for two days covering the race.’

  ‘So you know about the death of Mr Hemingway?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. Tragic. I . . .’ and the brightness left her. ‘Is that why you’re here?’

  He nodded.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I thought it was a heart attack.’

  ‘It may have been,’ said Lestrade, ‘in the end. It’s what led to that heart attack that I am interested in.’

  ‘Lestrade.’ He felt Hunloke at his elbow. ‘I want to see Willie’s murderer brought to book. This is no time for chit-chat.’

  ‘Murderer?’ Marylou said rather too loudly and the eyebrow of Princess Beatrice lifted a fraction as she quadrilled past her at the gallop.

  ‘Now, we don’t know this for a fact.’ Lestrade sensed the ground shifting beneath him. ‘I’d be grateful, Captain, if you’d let me deal with this. Perhaps you could ask Miss Adams here to dance.’

  ‘Very well,’ he said, grim-faced. ‘Forgive me, madam, I am not normally so short on chivalry. These are trying times.’

  ‘They are indeed.’ She took his hand. ‘I too have lost a friend, Captain Hunloke. No less dear to me than Mr Hemingway was to you,’ and they vanished into the rush of the dancing.

  Lestrade tried to squeeze round a column, but was caught up by a rushing foursome and whirled around the room by a very large lady wearing a lasso of pearls that beat him around the nose. As he broke free of her, he was battered from behind and emerged with a florid-faced gentleman whose collar was up around his ears and who apologized profusely for his appalling misconduct, assuring Lestrade that he was happily married and had dozens of children. It was several minutes, therefore, before the Yard man stood before the knot of Norwegians.

  ‘Captain?’ he said.

  ‘Yah!’ they all chorused.

  ‘Captain . . . Őverland?’ He narrowed the field down.

  ‘I am Őverland,’ the monocled man said.

  ‘I am Superintendent Lestrade of Scotland Yard.’

  One of the other captains whispered in Őverland’s ear. ‘Ah, police,’ Őverland said.

  ‘Yes,’ Lestrade said. ‘I would like to ask you a few questions concerning the death of Mr William Hemingway.’

  ‘Vat?’ The Norwegians crowded round, shielding their captain. ‘Vat do you mean?’

  ‘I have reason to believe that Mr Hemingway was poisoned.’

  It was one of those unfortunate moments in life when the music had to stop. The polite applause died away and Lestrade’s sentence hung like lead on the evening.

  ‘Is zere a problem?’ A French sailor hove into view with his own crew at his back.

  ‘Ve can take care off ourselves,’ said Őverland.

  ‘Of course,’ said the French captain. ‘Capitaine Bompard.’ He bowed to Lestrade. ‘But you are such a new country. I merely thought . . .’

  ‘Pah!’ roared one of the Norwegians. ‘Frenchmen never think.’

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ another Frenchman intervened. ‘I must beg to differ.’

  ‘Please.’ Lestrade held up his hand, aware of the silent crowd at his back. ‘This matter does not concern the French.’

  ‘French!’ the Frenchman spluttered. ‘Begging your pardon zis time, monsieur. I am Emile Geraud and I am Belgian. How dare you accuse
me of being French.’

  ‘What is wrong with being French?’ Bompard rounded on his man.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Lestrade shouted, ‘I would like to talk to you alone, Captain Őverland,’ and he gestured towards the Gentlemen’s Smoke Room.

  ‘Impossible,’ the Norwegian said. ‘Anything you wish to say to me you can say through de correct diplomatic channels.’

  ‘Having trouble, Őverland?’ Another captain arrived in the colours of the Swedish Navy. He clicked his heels to Lestrade. ‘Olef Waldemar,’ he said. ‘At your service.’

  ‘Vat do you know about service?’ Őverland snapped.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Princess Beatrice, sufficiently cosmopolitan to control matters such as these, stepped forward, only to be sent reeling by an accidental right hook from one of the Norwegian crew. Bompard levelled the man with a single blow and Waldemar’s boot crunched into the Frenchman’s back. Before Lestrade had a chance to move out of the way, he was poleaxed by a huge Norwegian who began roaring defiance like a Berserker. The whole room was in uproar. Princess Beatrice, nursing a thick lip, began ushering the ladies out, despite efforts by the Duchess and the newspaperwoman to remain. The band struck up the Gay Gordons for want of any requests and did the best they could. Harrods, even on a Saturday, was never like this.

  One chandelier crashed to the ground. Bodies rolled and tumbled this way and that. Fists flew and teeth cracked, while the air was riven with the most appalling language in at least five different tongues. Passers-by on the road outside tutted and nodded together as the windows went. What rowdy people these sailors were. And worse was to come. Next week they’d all move up the road to Cowes.

  In the end, it was good old Sub Inspector Bush who saved the night. His blue-coated bobbies hustled into the hall in a body, to add to the many bodies threshing this way and that.

  And the ‘Now come along there sirs’ were interspersed with the thud of truncheons and the click of handcuffs as the room was restored to order.

  Lestrade had missed most of the fun. He had been hauled out unconscious from under a table, his pea jacket liberally spread with one of the more delicious dips by courtesy of Mr H. G. Nutt of the Pier Hotel, and the bandmaster’s baton had been carefully removed from his right nostril. Apart from that and the mild concussion manifested by the purple lump on his forehead, he was fine. Finer anyway for coming to under the gentle ministrations of Marylou Adams.

  ‘Aaarggh!’ He sat bolt upright, dislodging the ice pack from his head.

  ‘Steady, Mr Lestrade,’ she said, plumping his pillows.

  It was something of a cliché but Lestrade said it anyway. ‘Where am I?’

  ‘Room Thirteen, Yelf’s Hotel, Ryde. I hope you’re not superstitious, Mr Lestrade?’ She smiled at him.

  ‘Of course not,’ and his fingers strayed to the wood of the bedside table. ‘How long have I been here?’

  ‘A few hours,’ she said. ‘Do you feel able to stand the light? I’ll open the drapes.’

  ‘Just the curtains, please,’ he said.

  She let the light flood in. ‘You had us all worried.’

  He suddenly froze and peered downwards. He was sitting there in his pink combinations, lightweight, summer, for the use of.

  ‘Don’t concern yourself,’ she laughed. ‘Mine host got you into bed with the help of Sub Inspector Bush. And the best news,’ she sat by him on the coverlet, ‘is that Mrs Bush is sending over a plate of her delicious shepherd’s pie all the way from Shanklin.’

  ‘Oh good,’ Lestrade grimaced, but the effort was too much and he fell back. ‘I don’t want to sound an Old English stick-in-the-mud,’ he said, ‘but aren’t you worried about your reputation, being alone in a man’s room?’

  ‘In a policeman’s room,’ she scolded him. ‘But no. Despite the rather cranky little smoking laws in New York, I am an emancipated woman. Or shouldn’t I mention that phrase to an Englishman?’

  He smiled. ‘I’m very glad you’re here,’ he said.

  ‘So am I.’ Her smile faded. ‘Because you need help,’ and she crossed to a bedside cabinet. ‘Brandy?’

  ‘What time is it?’ he asked.

  She looked out of the window at the clock opposite. ‘It’s nearly half-past ten.’

  ‘Ah, off duty,’ he sighed. ‘Yes please.’

  ‘Tell me, Mr Lestrade.’ She poured him a stiff one. ‘Have you ever tried bourbon?’

  ‘I thought that was a town in South Africa,’ he confessed.

  She laughed that merry, tinkling sound he liked.

  ‘Well.’ She sipped her own glass and sat beside him again. ‘What have we got?’

  ‘We?’ She sounded for all the world like Walter Dew. He looked at her bright, laughing eyes, the little freckles across her upturned nose, the petite figure and the firm breasts under her pelisse. Not at all like Walter Dew really. Walter never wore pelisses; they did nothing for him.

  ‘Mr Lestrade.’ She spoke seriously, a hard, almost ruthless edge to her voice. ‘Let’s understand one another. I am, first and foremost, a newspaperman. I may, to quote your own late, dear Queen – God Bless Her – have the body of a weak and feeble woman, but under here,’ she tapped the folds of her bodice, ‘is pure newspaper.’

  Lestrade nodded. That must have been the rustling sound he heard.

  ‘A man very dear to me was murdered recently. As you know, I want his murderer found. And my whole training – the training I received from Hans-Rudiger – has led me to pursue matters to their logical conclusion. Whatever the danger. Whatever the cost. You are the law here in England and I’d prefer to work with you. But if I cannot, then rest assured, I will work alone.’

  ‘I see,’ he said. ‘But I am not at liberty to . . .’

  ‘But Hans-Rudiger’s killer is at liberty, Mr Lestrade. And that is a situation which is intolerable. Now, do we work together or separately?’

  Lestrade looked at the frail-looking girl in front of him, the eyes burning fiercely, the lips and jaw set firm. All his training, from the knee of Adolphus Williamson through Howard Vincent, Monro and McNaghten, had told him to work alone. Trust no one. Never, never divulge, least of all to the Pressman.

  ‘Together, then,’ he said.

  For a moment, there was stillness between them. Silence captured in a look.

  ‘Together,’ she said. ‘First of all, about last night . . .’

  He felt his head throb anew. ‘Don’t remind me. One little point we’ve both overlooked is that once news of that reaches Mr Edward Henry at the Yard, I may be out of a job anyway.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ she said. ‘No one is pressing any charges against anybody. The Duchess of Westminster has offered to pay for all the damages and the Olympic officials have managed to get all parties to shake hands. Except for Captain Bompard, of the French team, whose hands are broken . . .’

  ‘Both of them?’ Lestrade asked, sensing carelessness when he heard it.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘The surgeons at the County Hospital say he will be able to play the piano again.’

  ‘Oh, good.’

  ‘But the most interesting news,’ she poured him another brandy, ‘is that Captain Őverland was given those prunes by somebody else.’

  He sat upright. ‘How do you know that?’ he asked.

  ‘I am a newspaperman, remember?’ she told him. ‘It’s my business to know. The information about the prunes I got from Captain Hunloke. He feels dreadful about his part in the wretched business. As for Captain Őverland, before I came here, I spent a rather unpleasant hour bobbing about on his yacht in Cowes Harbour. He feels equally dreadful – though his broken collarbone didn’t help. He says that although he made the gesture of the prunes, he actually got them from someone else.’

  ‘Who?’ Lestrade asked.

  ‘That’s just it,’ she sighed. ‘He can’t remember. There were so many people at the start of the race, newsmen, photographers, tourists, all crowding round, back-slapping and so on. It could have bee
n anybody. It doesn’t help, does it?’

  ‘Well, at least I don’t have to risk a war with Norway by arresting him,’ Lestrade observed. ‘If what he tells you is true, of course.’

  ‘I’ve met some pretty accomplished liars in my time,’ she said. ‘If Őverland is one of them, he’s very good.’

  ‘If he is very good,’ Lestrade gingerly removed the ice pack, ‘if he doctored the prunes himself, what would be his motive?’

  ‘Professional jealousy,’ she said. ‘Perhaps Hemingway was a better sailor than he was.’

  ‘Perhaps so,’ said Lestrade. ‘But why Hemingway only? After all, the Fram came third in the race. Which means that Őverland was beaten by two British ships.’

  ‘Yachts,’ she corrected him.

  ‘Why not kill Blair Cochrane, who won? Or the Duchess, who came second?’

  ‘They didn’t like prunes?’ she suggested.

  ‘There are other ways,’ he said. ‘No, it doesn’t make sense. Unless there is some other link between Hemingway and Őverland that we don’t know about.’

  ‘I can check that,’ she told him. ‘But I have to get back to Fleet Street. I’m sure Richard Grant of the Mail would help.’

  ‘I can check it too, as you say,’ he told her. ‘But I’d have to get back to the Yard. I’m equally sure Superintendent Quinn of the Special Branch wouldn’t help. But that’s neither here nor there.’

  ‘But what if Őverland’s telling the truth?’

  Lestrade sucked his teeth, suddenly aware that his nose was painful and swollen. ‘Then we’ve lost our man,’ he said. ‘He was milling in that crowd on the pier at the start of the race and we’ve lost him. Were you here then?’

  ‘No. I told you. I’ve only been here three days. I missed the first day entirely. I was with the British Ladies’ Team at the White City. There is, of course, another possibility that we haven’t discussed.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘That we’re not looking for the murderer of one man, but of two.’