The Floating Admiral (Detection Club)

by Christie, Agatha; Detection Club, by Members of the

  27. And now, why the newspaper in the pocket? If the Admiral had really intended a train journey, and had gone into the house to get his coat with that in view, was it not humanly certain that his eye would have fallen on the newspaper close by, and that he would have crammed the familiar copy in his great-coat there and then? The train-service from Whynmouth to London is not distinguished for speed, and most residents arm themselves with some kind of literature before they set out on it. But this the Admiral had not done; the second copy found in the hall the morning after the murder was the genuine article, for it was marked “Admiral Pennystone,” with one of Mr. Tolwhistle’s characteristic mis-spellings. Where did the unmarked copy come from? The shops and the bookstalls at Whynmouth were all shut by nine; and there were no longer any street vendors—Whynmouth is a sleepy place, and the last optimist who had tried peddling alleged “late editions” had gone out of business some months earlier. The Admiral had not gone into the Lord Marshall; could not, then, have picked up a copy there and walked off with it. If he was really in possession of it while still alive, it followed that he must have called somewhere else that night. Sir Wilfrid Denny’s house suggested itself as a possibility. If, on the other hand, the paper had been thrust into the pocket after his death by the man who murdered him, that could only have been done with the intention of falsifying the evidence. Falsifying it how? In point of time, by suggesting that the murder took place, say, after nine instead of having taken place before nine? But that would bring the real time to an impossibly early hour. In point of place, then; the murder really happened in some place at a distance from Whynmouth; and the murderer, by thrusting the Gazette into the dead man’s pocket, had tried to create the impression that the murder took place at Whynmouth, or at least while the victim was on his way back from there. Read so, this piece of evidence chimed in with the conclusion which had already suggested itself—that the murderer wanted it to be thought, falsely, that the Admiral was in Whynmouth that evening. If you accepted this argument, a further consideration arose. The murderer was somebody who did not know Whynmouth, or whose knowledge of it was not up-to-date. A resident—the elusive Sir Wilfrid, for example—would not have made the mistake of imagining that the Gazette was still on sale at eleven o’clock in the evening.

  28. Of what nature were the documents marked “X”? That they were secret, that they were valuable, went without saying. What was much more remarkable, if you came to think of it, was that any reference to “X” should have been given among the files at all. The Admiral himself, though he was one of the few admirals who had not publicly attested his indebtedness to any system of memory-training, was clearly not absent-minded beyond the average of humanity; why then should he need a reference to remind him where these all-important documents were kept? Yet, if the references were not for the Admiral’s own benefit, who else could profit by them? In the event of his desk being broken open, would it not have been safer to leave the very existence of “X,” as well as its whereabouts, a secret? It looked almost as if the Admiral had expected the fate which ultimately came upon him—after all, there was that loaded revolver in the desk—expected that a police officer sooner or later would rummage in his desk, and would need a pointer to inform him that secret papers were concealed somewhere. It would appear that Sir Wilfrid was somewhat involved, also the nephew, Walter. It seemed probable that the background was Chinese. Was it blackmail? If so, Sir Wilfrid must surely be the victim of it, not Walter; you cannot threaten with exposure a man who has disappeared from human ken.

  29. Were they destroyed, or stolen? And by whom? It was just possible that Penistone at some time had got rid of documents which would be damaging to himself or to someone he cared for. It was more natural to assume that the murderer was also a thief. But—here was an important point—the person who stole those papers must, almost necessarily, have been an inmate of the house; the desk had shown no traces of being rifled, there were no marks of violence about the secret drawer. If, then, the villain of last night had removed those papers, he had known exactly where to look for them, and had wasted no time over it.

  Whew! There was a fresh section of the evidence concluded; that finished the clues which dated from last night. Rudge’s left foot had gone to sleep, and he tramped his room for a bit, trying to map out what remained of his task. Yes, he must analyse the behaviour of the various people, against whom suspicion might conceivably lie, since the actual discovery of the corpse. The most noticeable feature, undoubtedly, was what you might call the drain of the rural population—the general dash for London. Very well, then:

  30. Why did Elma Fitzgerald hurry up to London? The conclusion seemed inevitable that her flight was consequent upon the news of the murder. She was not fond of early rising, and her early rising that morning had been Rudge’s own fault. The Whynmouth line assumes, like most railways, that you do not want to travel up to the metropolis much after ten o’clock; after that hour, the speed of the trains sagged noticeably, and day tickets were no longer available. Consequently, if you were going up to London you prepared for an early start. Elma had made an early start, but she had not prepared for it. She had not fled to meet Holland; for she knew, unless his overnight message had remained undelivered, that he was in Whynmouth. She had not been to see Mr. Dakers—though, of course, Holland’s pursuit might have interrupted that plan. Better wait to hear what she will say to-morrow.

  31. Why did Holland ditto? This was plainer sailing. Innocent or guilty, and whether he believed her to be innocent or guilty, he would naturally want to see Elma and to discuss the situation. But, assuming that Holland was himself innocent, it looked as if he must have believed Elma guilty. Otherwise, he might at least have waited to tell a true story to the police.

  32. Why did Sir Wilfrid ditto? It was to be observed that Sir Wilfrid, if his movements had been correctly reported, was in the van of the movement. He had gone up to London “by the first train,” and that ran, when was it? Soon after seven … anyhow, long before Elma was out of bed. Not before the body was discovered, but surely before the rumour of its discovery was likely to have reached him. Either, then, the “call” which summoned him had been accompanied by news of the tragedy—and that meant Neddy Ware or the Vicar or Rundel Croft as its source; or else he went up to London ignorant that the murder had been committed … or at least ignorant that it had been discovered. Well, well, it might be an accident after all; at least he must hear what the man had to say. But what a curious influence Penistone must have had, that his death seemed to scatter his acquaintances in alarm, instead of rallying them in sympathy!

  33. Why did the Vicar ditto? Once again, mere coincidence was possible; Mount might, quite possibly, have gone up to chat to an archdeacon about dilapidations. But it seemed more natural to connect his behaviour, too, with the general upset. Now, what precise development in the story had led to the Vicar’s Hegira? The corpse had been discovered, and he remained calm—comparatively calm. The disappearance of Elma and Holland left him still unmoved. What new factor could have arisen in the situation? It looked very much as if the Vicar had made some discovery on his own, a discovery which he had not seen fit to communicate.

  34. Was the Vicar telling all he knew? Curious how people differed under cross-examination. Elma Fitzgerald had a natural pose of hostility; she so obviously resented being asked any questions about anything, that it was difficult to know whether she was embarrassed at being asked these questions about this. Holland’s contemptuous joviality was no doubt a permanent mood with him; it made him a difficult subject for interrogation, because you never knew quite what allowances to make for his fun. But Mr. Mount, now, he was evidently a man anxious, as a matter of conscience, to tell the truth. But there was a hesitation in his manner which seemed to suggest that he was not quite sure which part of the truth to tell; not quite sure how he ought to answer one question, for fear the next should trench on ground where he was determined not to tread. He was scrupulous about telling t
he truth; and the scrupulous in this world are apt to be more of a nuisance than the unscrupulous.

  35. Why did the Vicar water his garden? It might, of course, be nothing more than a horticultural gaffe. But, if you were prepared to make a long shot, and suppose that the Vicar came into it somehow, you naturally asked, was he trying to hide traces? Indulge the fancy, and where did that lead? Not his own traces, surely; for he would be conscious of having left them, and would have had the elementary common sense to obliterate them earlier in the day, to obliterate them at some time when the police were unlikely to be about. The same consideration applied, though with slightly less force, if you thought of them as the traces of somebody of whose presence he had been conscious at the time when they were made. And yet he must surely have had some idea whose they were and how they came there, or his meticulous sense of justice would have induced him to point them out to the police. A long shot, but it needed thinking over.

  36. Why was the Admiral’s pipe left in the Vicar’s study? Probably because the Admiral forgot it and left it there. He had been in a hurry, it seemed, when he left; and the most punctilious of admirals will have these lapses occasionally. And he was, as Holland had pointed out, a man of many pipes. But Rudge’s brain was by now worked up into the state in which it could see significance in everything; and even this pipe—there was the bare possibility that the Admiral had left it there on purpose, in order to have an excuse for going back to the Vicarage (but apparently never went); or that the Vicar himself had found it in some place where it seemed all too likely to tell a story, and had for safety removed it elsewhere. Rudge, perhaps with a theologian’s unconscious animus, was already thinking of Mr. Mount as the sort of man who would not tell a direct lie, but would be quite willing to let you deceive yourself (“lead you up the garden” was his own less technical phrase).

  37. Why were Holland and Elma in such a hurry to get married? That the licence had already been procured before the murder took place, seemed evident. But this in itself need not suggest foreknowledge of the murder; Holland’s own account—that Elma had encouraged him by her letter to expect the Admiral’s consent, and that he had taken out the licence on the strength of that hope—seemed sound enough as it stood. You could understand why there should be haste in their proceedings while the Admiral was still alive, and had given his reluctant consent. Who knew when he might change his mind? But, once he was dead, that motive ceased to operate; you would have thought it common decency to wait a little, and according to Dakers it would have been common prudence too. There must be some reason, but what reason? Rudge admitted that at this point the case defied him.

  38. Why did Holland conceal, at first, his alleged midnight interview? His own excuse, that he had concealed the whole story of his midnight journey simply to avoid embarrassing questions when he was in a hurry, seemed strangely inadequate. On the assumption that his first story was true, and his second false, why should he cast doubt on his own veracity by this curious volte-face? On the contrary assumption, why did he not stick to his lie when once he had told it? Having the typewritten consent in his pocket, he could just as easily pretend it had been given to Elma early on the previous evening, before the dinner-party; what motive was there for insisting so strongly that it had only been drafted at midnight? It looked as if some piece of evidence must have cropped up during the day which would make Holland’s statement that he had slept soundly at the Lord Marshall inconsistent with the genuineness of the typewritten consent. What could that evidence be? Rudge tortured his imagination vainly over the problem.

  39. Why was the typewritten consent typewritten? There was no typewriter in the Admiral’s room; the documents in the files which were not holograph had plainly been copied out by a professional. Moreover, the amateur, to whom it is a matter of labour to fit his sheet straight into the machine, does not have recourse to his typewriter unless he has a document of some length, say four or five lines, to deal with. Improbable, then … unless the document was a forgery (a signature being much easier to forge, by mere imitation, than a whole line of writing). Or possibly the “consent” might have been extracted by some threats or violence, in which case it was likely enough that the criminal should have expedited matters by supplying a ready-made formula. Mem.—Ask Mrs. Holland where and by whom she thinks the type-writing was done.

  And so, having got his ideas down on paper, Rudge went off to bed, comforting himself with the old, superstitious hope we all have sometimes, that he would wake up with an inspiration. But the night did not bring counsel. He did, indeed, dream that he saw the actual crime being committed. But as, in his dream, the author of the murder was Mrs. Davis, the victim Mr. Dakers, the weapon a rolled-up newspaper, and the scene of the whole incident the Charing Cross Hotel, he wisely concluded that oneiromancy has its fallible moments.

  CHAPTER IX

  By Freeman Wills Crofts

  THE VISITOR IN THE NIGHT

  INSPECTOR RUDGE woke next morning with a vaguely troubled mind. He had a subconscious impression that this was no ordinary day and that important duties were awaiting him. Then he remembered. His big chance had come! He sprang out of bed.

  During breakfast he laid his plans for the day. First there was a conference with his chiefs. Superintendent Hawkesworth had been on leave when the murder took place, and though Rudge had wired for him directly he had heard of it, he was not expected back till early that morning. The Chief Constable, Major Twyfitt, had also been away, but he had returned last evening, and he also would want to hear the news. Then there was the interview with the coroner about the inquest, after which Rudge supposed he would be at liberty to take up one or more of the lines of investigation he had thought out on the previous evening.

  He was a good deal worried that he had not yet been able to arrange for an adequate identification of the remains. Rudge did not himself doubt that the dead man was the Admiral, but this had not been proved, and it was his job to prove it. This question of identity would be the first to be raised by the Super, and it would probably be the only one in which at this stage the coroner would be interested.

  Rudge walked round to the Lord Marshall on the chance that Dakers might be about. Dakers should be his man for the identification. By a chance which Rudge took as a good omen for the day, it happened that as he entered the porch he met Dakers coming out.

  “Good morning, sir,” Rudge said genially. “This is a bit of luck for me. I was just wondering if I could see you.”

  Dakers was polite, but not genial. He showed no enthusiasm for the meeting. “What is it?” he asked shortly.

  “The identification of the remains, sir. May I ask how long you knew the Admiral?”

  “How long?” the solicitor repeated slowly. “Let’s see. Twenty-one—two—about twenty-two years; possibly twenty-three.”

  “Good enough, sir. And during that period you’ve seen him, I presume, at intervals?”

  “Yes, at irregular intervals, I have.”

  “Then, sir, I should be obliged if when convenient you would run out with me to Lingham, where the body is lying, and see if you can formally identify it.”

  “I should like to have my breakfast first.”

  “I said, sir, when convenient. Would ten o’clock suit?”

  Dakers agreed and Rudge went on: “There’s another thing I’d like to ask you about while I have the opportunity, and that is the late Admiral’s consent to his niece’s wedding. Do you happen to have it in your possession?”

  “You mean the typewritten statement?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Dakers considered. “How do you come to be interested in that?” he asked.

  “In the same way, sir, that I expect you’re interested in it,” Rudge returned promptly. “We both, I take it, want to be sure that it was really given by the Admiral.”

  “You mean,” said Dakers frigidly, “that Mrs. Holland is either a liar or a forger or both?”

  “No, sir,” Rudge answered impertur
bably. “Mrs. Holland didn’t say she got it from the Admiral. Mr. Holland said that. My question is really in Mrs. Holland’s own interest. I take it that that document will have to be proved before she can inherit, and I was going to suggest that the sooner its authenticity is established, the better.”

  Dakers became if possible even more frigid.

  “Thank you, Inspector, but I shall endeavour to look after my client’s interests without the help of the police.”

  Rudge shrugged. “As you will, sir. But you must realise that the police will have to examine that document, and I was merely suggesting that if you could see your way to work with us in the matter it would save time and trouble. But of course it’s as you like. Till ten o’clock then, sir.”

  Superintendent Hawkesworth was waiting for Rudge at the station, and within a few minutes Chief Constable Twyfitt arrived. Rudge at once gave a detailed account of what had happened and what he had done, with the steps he next proposed to take. The two men heard him without interruption, Hawkesworth scribbling copious notes.