Half-Mast Murder

by Milward Kennedy

The whiskers were unmistakable, and, sure enough, their owner, whose appearance was worthy of an advertisement for a popular tobacco, was at the moment packing a rowing boat with two nursemaids and five small children ; the crew consisted of a lad who bore an immature resemblance to Whiskers, and who clearly knew the tricks of his trade. For one of the nurses had been inveigled into taking the oars.

  “Nice day for a row, gents,” said Whiskers. “Just a moment till I’ve seen this boatload off, and I’ll fix you up.” And with an elaborate effort, he pushed off the boat and complimented the nurse on her very ineffectual attempt to aid its progress with the oars.

  “You’re Mr. Tom Cluse ?” asked Guest.

  “Yes, gents. Tom Cluse, that’s me. And I hope——”

  “You’re the man who hired out a motor-boat the other day to young Mr. Paley ?”

  “Eh?” Mr. Cluse’s face fell. “Are you the police again ?”

  And on learning that they were and that there was no prospect of their hiring a boat, Mr. Cluse almost forgot that even resignation should look Christian.

  The Superintendent explained that he would not keep Mr. Cluse for more than a couple of minutes, and then proceeded to put him through a swift and searching examination as to his recollection of Mr. Julian Paley’s movements. Fortunately Mr. Cluse was a believer in the rights of property. He had been slightly reluctant to hire out the boat, without an attendant, and consequently, when finally he had agreed, he had kept a sharp eye on it to make sure that the hirer’s claim to be able to manage it was not exaggerated.

  Mr. Paley had hired the boat at 2.20 p.m. or may be a little later, Mr. Cluse admitted ; but only a very little later. Whiskers were not, it seemed, inconsistent with a desire to make a little on a misreadi ng of the watch, so the entry in what he smirkingly called the “log” might be “a shade out.” Anyway, Mr. Paley started off, say at 2.25, and he ran her along the shore a bit and came back, and shouted out that he was quite all right. Fact, he and Tom Cluse had a bit of a chat, and then he went off, all of a sudden, so that Cluse wondered if he’d meant to. But he followed him with his eye and all seemed well. He went straight off to the point there—yes, where’the house is they call Cliff’s End.

  “You can see the flagstaff on the summer-house from here, I notice,” Guest remarked.

  “And the flag half-mast,” said Mr. Cluse, as if he enjoyed the sight.

  “When did they run it down ?” asked Guest, in a casual tone.

  “Ah, funny you should ask that,” said the other. “I could have sworn it was that day you’ve been asking me about, and, what’s more, I’d have sworn it was at masthead till the moment the young gent started off so sudden. As if he’d seen it himself like.”

  He could not be more difinite ; and Guest recollected that there was a third potential witness for this point. After that Cluse had vaguely noticed the boat slip round the cliff, but that was all. The gentleman had brought it back at a quarter to five.

  “And when he came back, there had been no harm done to the boat ?”

  “Oh, no. Bless you, no. No complaint, I hadn’t.” The old longshoreman smiled so beamingly that Guest said :

  “You mean, he had a complaint? Dirtied his clothes or what ?”

  Oh, no, he hadn’t meant anything like that. Just that the gentleman had been very generous—tipped his lad, and all. Oh, no, the gent had no complaint, a careful one about his clothes too—used a pair of gloves to start the engine up.

  This woke Guest up pretty sharply, and he satisfied himself that it was indeed a fact that Julian Paley had worn a pair of old gloves. Finally he made absolutely certain that Cluse had no manner of doubt as to the identity of the man who had hired the boat, thanked him, and departed.

  The Chief Constable realised that the Superintendent was pleased with a discovery, and equally unwilling to discuss or explain its value. Evidently he was sore about the Major’s failure to resist Scotland Yard to the last ditch. All he could vouchsafe was that the man who interviewed Cluse before didn’t know his job.

  “Bit of a character, that old· salt,” the Major ventured by way of conversation, as they walked rapidly back towards the club.

  “Him ! Bah ! Pious fraud, that’s what he is,” Guest answered scornfully. “Never been to sea—never been out of sight of land. Whiskers—and carrying round the plate in church—that’s the way he attracts his custom. Wonder what he’ll say about the police coming to interview him.”

  The Major felt that he had not chosen a comfortable topic, and the rest of the walk was effected in silence.

  CHAPTER XXI

  AUGURS AN ARREST

  The Superintendent stalked majestically into the police station, and the Chief Constable followed him quite humbly ; an acute observer might have noticed, however, that the business was affording him plenty of subdued entertainment.

  “Is Bowman, here ?” Guest demanded of the Detective-Sergeant who was in his outer office.

  “Yes, Super.”

  “Right. Have him in. And a note to be made.”

  “Who’s this ?” enquired Major Dillon, whilst they were awaiting the arrivals.

  “Someone from the hotel, sir,” he replied stiffly. “Ah, here he is.”

  A somewhat anæmic specimen was shown in ; his upper half was clad in a rather nondescript coat, he carried a soft felt hat of battered appearance, but his legs were cased in elegant dark green trousers, with a natty gold stripe. He blinked narrowly at the Superintendent, yet with a cunning air. He had something of the air of an owl, discovered by daylight in the partial disguise of a hen. Major Dillon wondered what sort of life the man led ; Guest’s first question enlightened him.

  “You’re night porter at the Grand Hotel ?”

  “Yes, sir, that’s right.”

  The Chief Constable wondered whether it wasn’t as bad a job as being a night baker, but feared he would irritate the Superintendent afresh if he put the question. So Guest proceeded, undisturbed by irrelevances from his superior, to recall to the man’s mind the evening on which the mysterious Dr. Cummings appeared, complete with sling, bandage, beard, and spectacles. He remembered the occasion perfectly, and his account agreed with what Guest already knew as to the time of the stranger’s arrival, his utter disappearance some time that night, and so on.

  “’Course I was expecting him, sir,” he remarked, “he having booked a room be ’phone, which was made a note of be the office for me.”

  He was quite clear as to what had happened. He had first invited the new-comer to register, and then had in fact done the writing himself—all but the signature. The doctor had done his best to sign, despite his injured hand. He asserted that it was more regular, and the night porter had cordially agreed with him.

  Then he had taken the key and enquired whether there was any luggage. But apparently this was to arrive next day—and the information was given so confidently and so naturally that no uneasiness was produced by it. Dr. Cummings had insisted on carrying in his own hand the smallish case which he had with him, so the porter could only testify that it looked heavy for its size, by the way he carried it. The two men went up by lift to the room. The doctor promptly dismissed the porter, bidding him a cordial good night. The porter’s last glimpse showed him the doctor about to take off his overcoat, which he wore outside his injured arm—or hand.

  “He’d got his hat off ?” Guest asked.

  “No, sir. That he hadn’t. Now I comes to think of it, that was what looked a bit queer like, to me.”

  The Superintendent, however, did not seem surprised. He nodded as if he expected to hear it.

  “And then ?” he asked.

  Then the porter walked down to his post in the hall. He had one or two small jobs to do—putting papers straight and so on. He had only been there a few minutes when a gentleman staying in the hotel—a Mr. Paley, he’d since learnt it was (Guest detected a pained note ; the “doctored” whisky had clearly given the night porter a certain amount of trouble), had asked
for a whiskey and soda to be taken up to his room. Mr. Paley went up ; and the porter followed with the drink as soon as he could.

  “And I’ll swear to it, sir, anywheres. The whiskey come out of the bottle, kept regular, and the soda was one of me night’s stock. It couldn’t possibly have bin doped like.”

  “I haven’t a doubt you’re right,” the Superintendent said reassuringly. “But now here’s the question I want cleared up. First of all—did Mr. Paley, so far as you know, leave his room after you’d taken up that drink ?”

  The man considered this carefully.

  “Yes, sir, he did. I knocked at the door. He opened it in ’is shirt-sleeves and I put down the tray. Said good night and ’ooked it. I had got to the top of the stairs when the gennelman came after me, calling out, but quiet like, if you know what I mean, sir.”

  “You mean, he wanted to attract your notice without disturbing everyone in the hotel ?”

  “That’s right, sir. That ’its the nail on the ’ead.”

  “What did he want ?”

  “Tell me when ’e was to be called next day.”

  “I see. Then he wasn’t long out of his room ?”

  “Not above a couple of minutes.”

  “H’m,” Guest reflected. “Does he always give instructions when he’s to be called ?”

  The man reflected in his turn.

  “No, sir. I don’t know as ’e does. So I suppose ’e’s called the same time each morning now.”

  Guest saw that this was a blind alley.

  “Now my next question,” he said. “It’s this. What colour was Dr. Cummings’ coat ? Dark or light grey ?”

  “Dark, sir,” was the reply, given with complete confidence.

  “And this Dr. Cummings spoke in a squeaky sort of voice. Almost as if he was disguising his voice ?”

  “Why, yes, sir. Now you mention it—it did sound as if ’e was stickin’ it on like. Unnatural I’d call it.”

  “Good ! And here’s the third question. Did anyone but you, so far as you know, set eyes on this Dr. Cummings ?”

  “No, sir. Not as far as I knows.”

  “H’m. Well, you didn’t notice this Mr. Paley come out of the writing-room into the hall, while you were talking to the doctor, and then back into the writing-room again?”

  “No, sir, I didn’t. But mind you, ’e might ’ave done while I was writing up the register for the other gent.”

  “Quite so. And you didn’t notice whether Mr. Paley was in the writing-room when you passed the door on your way to the lift ?”

  “No, sir.” The porter shook his head. “But of course I was seein’ to the other gent then too.”

  “Of course. Ah, that reminds me. I suppose that, for all you know, Mr. Paley was upstairs when you and this doctor went up ? He could have come down by the stairs, couldn’t he, while you were seeing to the papers and so on, and slipped into the writing-room by the door close to the lift—the service door, I suppose you’d call it—and then come out and ordered his drink as if he’d been in the writing-room all the time.”

  “Yes, I suppose ’e could,” said the porter slowly. “Though it seems a queer way to come, like.”

  This ended the interrogation. Guest thanked the man warmly for his help, and this evidently pleased and comforted him. The Superintendent conjectured that Mr. Judson, the manager, had tried to blame the night porter for the misadventure of the doctor, the young man, and the doped whiskey.

  When he had departed (the Chief Constable’s curiosity still unsatisfied), Guest turned with an air of triumph to his chief.

  “And now,” he said, “there’s only one last question. And you’re the person to answer it, sir.”

  “I ! Good heavens, I’m confused enough as it is.”

  “It’s what you said you’d look into. The identity of the armament man who wrote those letters—if they ever existed. As I think they did.”

  “Oh, that. Well, I’m afraid I can’t say yet.” He was very apologetic.

  Guest spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I suppose you referred that to London, sir. And then you say if I don’t go quicker you’ll call in the Yard. Why, that’s the thing to clinch it.”

  “Well, I’ll ring up, if you like,” the Major volunteered. “But I wish you wouldn’t go on suggesting that I want to call in Scotland Yard.”

  “Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean that,” the Superintendent said, with manifest untruth. But he took him at his word, and a trunk call was put through.

  The Superintendent then retired to the outer office and telephoned on his own account. He spoke to Mrs. Arkwright and learnt the name of the firm which employed Julian Paley.

  Returning cautiously to his own room, he found the Major still engaged in conversation, of a rather one-sided character. He was listening, and making an occasional note. Finally he expressed warm thanks to the person at the other end of the line and hung up the receiver.

  “Sir George Rochdale,” he said laconically to Guest. The latter’s face fell.

  “Hell !” he said. “That doesn’t fit. That’s the name of the firm, isn’t it ? I hoped it was someone to do with Berwick’s.”

  The Chief Constable shrugged his shoulders.

  “Sorry,” he said sardonically. “Still, I expect they’re all pretty closely connected, you know,” he added, and the Superintendent brightened again.

  He sat down and thought hard. Then he slapped the desk, not too violently, with his open palm.

  “Good enough,” he said. “Now, sir, if you’re satisfied to proceed on what is to some extent only circumstantial evidence, I’m ready.”

  “What, to make an arrest ?”

  “Yes, sir. Julian Paley.”

  The Chief Constable looked at him steadily.

  “Yes,” he said, “I think I see. But you’d better just outline your case. I don’t know how this afternoon’s discoveries fit in—I suppose they strengthen your case ?”

  “Yes, sir, they do. But here’s the case—I’ll try to put it shortly.”

  He cleared his throat, extracted his notebook, glanced out of the window, and began.

  “I reckon it wasn’t premeditated. But it’s just possible—however, I’ll come to that later on. Here’s just what happened. This young Paley—Julian, I’ll call him—came down here to get those letters. He and his uncle quarrelled, more or less. He’s in an armament firm—probably thinks, like most of us, that a big navy is the best guarantee of peace——”

  “As in 1914,” murmured the heretical Major, but the Superintendent did not deign to take up the challenge.

  “On the other hand, the Professor is all for disarmament. Thinks the armament people work for war. Oh, yes, that was what he believed. I’ve got his notes from his new book, and there’s what Sir Guy Rogers told me too. He talks a bit, does Sir Guy, eh ? Julian lets his sister know he’s coming down. There’s a difficulty about their meeting—she doesn’t want to get across her rich uncle, and her brother isn’t exactly popular. So I expect he sends her word somehow that he’s got a scheme. She’s to give her uncle a safe and mild sleeping-draught—absolutely safe. Of course, she assumes it is, yes, and so it was in itself. She pops it in the lemonade. They’ve fixed the day, and they know pretty well the time. And Julian knows how long it will take the sleeping-draught to work and how long it will last when it has taken effect. The girl is to signal as soon as she has got the Professor to drink it. Julian’s waiting about in his motor-boat. And it all goes off according to plan. She signals with that damned flag. It wasn’t a sign that the Professor was dead, but just that he’d be asleep in ten minutes.

  “Round comes Julian in his motor-boat, his hands all in gloves, nice and tidy, and with such a good excuse. And in his pocket is the key to that door on the steps which lead from the sea to the garden at Cliff’s End, just beside the summer-house.

  “The girl strolls about the garden, then slips down to meet her brother. I expect she minds the boat while he runs up to the summer
-house——”

  “Hold hard,” the Chief Constable interrupted. “I thought the idea was that he’d come to see his sister. I don’t see why they had to drug the Professor ; still less why, as soon as he gets there, the nephew leaves his sister to mind the boat and goes ‘ up the steps. I mean, wouldn’t the girl have objected ?”

  “Quite so, sir. Yes, I see,” Guest admitted after a moment’s thought. “Well, maybe the girl was right in it. I hope not—but it’s possible. I mean, she may have agreed to help Julian to steal the letters. Or perhaps he gave her a false account of them. You see why I say it’s not absolutely a complete case. However, let me go on.”

  “Right,” said the Chief Constable.

  “We’ll say then that she knows he’s going to get something from the summer-house, and has helped him by giving the Professor the dope. It doesn’t matter whether she knows what he wants to steal. Up he goes, while she stays down.”

  “He finds the Professor sound asleep—or so it seems. He gets the keys out of the Professor’s pocket. Perhaps it’s a job to do that, perhaps it flusters him. Still, he does it, and he gets the safe open, and finds the papers. Never thinks his gloved hands will leave a trace. No more they wouldn’t, if he hadn’t got them oily, messing about with that motor-boat. And he doesn’t notice that he got his feet—or a foot—wet, jumping out of the boat, I should say. But he has, and carries in a bit of mud with him. Picked it up by the door of the summer-house. And probably we’d have found his traces if the whole household hadn’t gone rampaging round the summer-house a couple of hours later, trying to look in or get in. But that’s by the way.

  “He’s got the keys out, the safe open, and the letters in his pocket. And then—the Professor begins to wake up. Maybe the sleeping-draught didn’t work quite right, or perhaps the extraction of the keys roused him a bit. Anyway, he begins to come to, and Julian snatched up the knife and—pouf ! Before he knows what’s happened he’s killed his uncle. Or maybe he meant to—but that I’ll come to later.”

  He paused for a moment; the Chief Constable was listening with unfeigned interest, and seemed to be very much impressed by the narrative.