XI. The Evidence of the Fisherman

CHAPTER XI

THE EVIDENCE OF THE

FISHERMAN

There’s a fellow

With twisting root-like hair up to his eyes,

And they are streaked with red and starting out

Under their bristling brows; his crooked tusks

Part, like a hungry wolf’s, his cursing mouth;

His head is frontless, and a swinish mane

Grows o’er his shoulders: brown and warty hands,

Like roots, with pointed nails—

He is the man.’

Fragment

MONDAY, 22 JUNE

WIMSEY HAD NOT VERY long to wait before hearing the latest development. He had returned to the Bellevue for lunch, and was having a preliminary refresher in the bar, when he felt a smart tap on his shoulder.

‘Lord, Inspector! How you startled me! All right, it’s a fair cop. What’s it for this time?’

‘I just dropped along to tell you the latest, my lord. I thought you’d like to hear it. It’s given us something to think about, I don’t mind telling you.’

‘Has it? You look quite agitated. I expect you’re out of practice. It is exhausting when you’re not used to it. Have one?’

‘Thank you, my lord. I don’t mind if I do. Now, look here—you remember about our young friend’s banking account and the three hundred pounds?’

‘Sure thing.’

‘Well’—the Inspector dropped his voice to a hoarse whisper—‘we’ve found out what he did with it.’

Wimsey registered expectation, but this was not enough. Inspector Umpelty evidently felt that he had got hold of a really choice morsel, and was not going to let it go without full dramatic honours.

‘I’ll buy it, Inspector. What did he do with it?’

‘Guess, my lord. You can have three guesses, and I bet you anything you like you don’t hit on it. Not in twenty guesses.’

‘Then I mustn’t waste your valuable time. Go on. Have a heart. Don’t keep me in such ghastly suspense. What did he do with it?’

‘He went,’ said the Inspector, ludicrously, ‘and turned it into gold.’

‘Into WHAT?’

Three hundred golden sovereigns—that’s what he turned it into. Three hundred round, golden jimmy o’ goblins.’

Wimsey stared blankly at him.

‘Three hundred—oh, look here, Inspector, a shock like this is more than frail flesh and blood can stand. There isn’t so much gold in the country. I haven’t seen more than ten gold sovereigns together since I fought at my grandpapa’s side at the Battle of Waterloo. Gold! How did he get it? How did he wangle it? They don’t hand it out to you at the banks nowadays. Did he rob the Mint?’

‘No, he didn’t. He changed notes for it quite honestly. But it’s a queer tale for all that. I’ll tell you how it was, and how we come to know of it. You may remember that there was a photograph of Alexis published in the newspapers last week?’

‘Yes, enlarged from that hotel group they took at the Gala Night last Christmas. I saw it.’

‘That’s right. Only one we could find; Alexis didn’t leave anything about. Well, yesterday we had a quaint old bird calling at the Station— Gladstone sort of collar, whiskery bits, four-in-hand tie, cotton gloves, square-crowned bowler, big green gamp—all complete. Said he lived up Princemoor way. He pulls a newspaper out of his pocket and points to the photograph. “I hear you want information about this poor young man,” he pipes up. “Yes, we do,” says the Super, “you know anything about it, Dad?”

“Nothing at all about his death,” says the old boy, “but I had a very curious little transaction with him three weeks ago,” he says, “and I thought you perhaps ought to know about it,” he says. “Quite right, Dad,” says the Super. “Go ahead.” So he went ahead and told us all about it.

‘It seems it was like this. You may remember seeing a while ago—not more than a month or so back—a bit in the papers about a queer old girl who lived all alone in a house in Seahampton with no companion except about a hundred cats. A Miss Ann Bennett—but the name don’t matter. Well, one day the usual thing happens. Blinds left down, no smoke from kitchen chimney, milk not taken in, cats yowling fit to break your heart. Constable goes in with a ladder and finds the old lady dead in her bed. Inquest verdict is “death from natural causes,” which mean old age and semi-starvation with neglected pneumonia on top of it. And of course plenty of money in the house, including four hundred gold sovereigns in the mattress. It’s always happening.’

Wimsey nodded.

‘Yes. Well, then, the long-lost next-of-kin turns up and who should it be but this old chap from Princemoor, Abel Bennett. There’s a will found, leaving everything to him, and begging him to look after the poor pussies. He’s the executor, and he steps in and takes charge. Very good. On the day after the inquest, along comes our young friend Paul Alexis—name correctly given and person identified by the photograph. He tells old Bennett a rambling kind of story about wanting gold sovereigns for some purpose or other. Something about wanting to buy a diamond from a foreign rajah who didn’t understand bank-notes—some bosh of that kind.’

‘He got that out of a book, I expect,’ said Wimsey. ‘I’ve seen something like it somewhere.’

‘Very likely. Old Bennett, who seems to have had more wits than his sister, didn’t swallow the tale altogether, because, as he said, the young fellow didn’t look to him like a person who would be buying diamonds off rajahs, but after all it’s not criminal to want gold, and it was none of his business what it was wanted for. He put up a few objections, and Alexis offered him three hundred pounds in Bank of England notes, plus a twenty-pound bonus, in exchange for three hundred sovereigns. Old Abel wasn’t adverse to a buckshee twenty quid and was willing to hand over, on condition he might have the notes vetted for him at a Seahampton bank. Alexis was agreeable and pulled out the notes then and there. To cut a long story short, they went to the Seahampton branch of the London & Westminster and got the O.K. on the notes, after which Bennett handed over the gold and Alexis took it away in a leather hand-bag. And that’s all there is to it. But we’ve checked up the dates with the bank-people, and it’s quite clear that Alexis drew his money out here for the purpose of changing it into gold as soon as ever he saw the account of Ann Bennett’s death in the papers. But why he wanted it or what he did with it, I can’t tell you, no more than the Man in the Moon.’

‘Well,’ said Wimsey, ‘I always knew there were one or two oddities about this case, but I don’t mind admitting that this beats me. Why on earth should anybody want to clutter himself up with all that gold? I suppose we can dismiss the story of the Rajah’s Diamond. A £300 diamond is nothing very out of the way, and if you wanted one you could buy it in Bond street, without paying in gold or dragging in Indian potentates.’

‘That’s a fact. Besides, where are you going to find a rajah who doesn’t understand Bank of England notes? These fellers aren’t savages, not by any means. Why, lots of them have been to Oxford.’

Wimsey made suitable acknowledgement of this tribute to his own university.

‘The only explanation that suggests itself to me,’ he said, ‘is that Alexis was contemplating a flitting to some place where Bank of England notes wouldn’t pass current. But I hardly know where that could be at this time of day. Central Asia?’

‘It may not be that, my lord. From the way he burnt everything before he left, it looks as though he didn’t mean to leave any trace of where he was going. Now, you can’t very well lose a Bank of England note. The numbers are bound to turn up somewhere or other, if you wait long enough. Currency notes are safe, but it is quite possible that you might have difficulty in exchanging them in foreign parts, once you were off the beaten track. It’s my opinion Alexis meant to get away, and he took the gold because it was the only form of money that will pass everywhere and tell no tale. He probably wouldn’t be asked about it at the Customs, and if he was, they would be very unlikely to search him.’

‘True. I think you’re right, Inspector. But, I say, you realise this knocks the suicide theory on the head all right?’

‘It’s beginning to look like it, my lord,’ admitted Mr Umpelty, handsomely. ‘Unless, of course, the stuff was paid out to some party in this country. For instance, suppose Alexis was being blackmailed by someone who wanted to skip. That party might be wanting gold for the very reasons we’ve been talking about, and he might get Alexis to do the job of getting it for him, so that he shouldn’t appear in it himself. Alexis pays up, and goes off the deep end and cuts his throat.’

‘You’re very ingenious,’ said Wimsey. ‘But I still believe I’m right, though if it is a case of murder, it’s been so neatly worked out that there doesn’t seem to be much of a loophole in it. Unless it’s the razor. Look here, Inspector, I’ve got an idea about that razor, if you’ll let me carry it out. Our one hope is to tempt the murderer, if there is one, into making a mistake by trying to be too clever.’

He pushed the glasses aside and whispered into the Inspector’s ear.

‘There’s something in that,’ said Inspector Umpelty. ‘I don’t see why it shouldn’t be tried. It may clinch the matter straight off, one way or another. You’d better ask the Super, but if he’s got no objection, I’d say, go ahead. Why not come round and put it to him straight away?’

On arriving at the police-station, Wimsey and the Inspector found the Superintendent engaged with a crabbed old gentleman in a fisherman’s jersey and boots, who appeared to be suffering under a sense of grievance.

‘Can’t a man take ’is own boat out when he likes and where he likes? Sea’s free to all, ain’t it?’

‘Of course it is, Pollock. But if you were up to no mischief, why take that tone about it? You aren’t denying you were there at the same time, are you? Freddy Baines swears he saw you.’

‘Them Bainses!’ grumbled Mr Pollock. ‘A nasty, peerin’, pryin’ lot. What’s it got to do with them where I was?’

‘Well, you admit it anyhow. What time did you get to the Flat-Iron?’

‘Per’aps Freddy Baines can tell you that, too. ’E zeems to be bloody free with his information.’

‘Never mind that What time do you say it was?’

‘That ain’t no business of yours. Perlice ’ere, perlice there—there ain’t no freedom in this blasted country. ’Ave I or ’ave I not the right to go where I like? Answer me that.’

‘Look here, Pollock. All we want from you is some information. If you’ve got nothing to hide, why not answer a plain question?’

‘Well, what is the question? Were I off the Flat-Iron on Thursday? Yes, I were. Wot about it?’

‘You came along from your own place, I suppose?’

‘Well, I did, if you want to know. Where’s the ’arm in that?’

‘None whatever. What time did you set out?’

‘About one o’clock. Maybe more; maybe less. Round about the slack.’

‘And you got to the Flat-Iron about two.’

‘Well, and where’s the ’arm in that?’

‘Did you see anybody on the shore at that time?’

‘Yus, I did.’

‘You did?’

‘Yus. I’ve got eyes in me ’ed, ’aven’t I?’

‘Yes. And you may as well have a civil tongue in your head. Where did you see this person?’

‘On the shore by the Flat-Iron—round about two o’clock.’

‘Were you close enough in to see who it was?’

‘No, I weren’t. Not to come into your bleedin’ court and swear to a pimple, I wasn’t; and you can put that in your pipe, Mr Cocky Superintendent, and smoke it.’

‘Well, what did you see?’

‘I zee a vule of a woman, caperin’ about on the beach, goin’ on as if she was loony. She runs a bit an’ stops a bit, an’ pokes in the sand and then runs on a bit. That’s what I zee.’

‘I must tell Miss Vane that,’ said Wimsey to the Inspector. ‘It will appeal to her sense of humour.’

‘Oh, you saw a woman, did you? Did you see what she did after that?”

‘She runs up to the Flat-Iron an’ starts messin’ about there.’

‘Was there anybody else on the Flat-Iron?’

‘There was a chap lyin’ down. At least, it looked so.’

‘And then?’

‘Then she starts a-yowlin’ an’ wavin’ her arms.’

‘Well?’

‘Well, what? I didn’t take no notice. I never takes no notice of vemayles.’

‘Now, Pollock, did you see anybody else at all on the shore that morning?’

‘Not a zoul.’

‘Were you within sight of shore all the time?’

‘Yes, I were.’

‘And you saw nobody except this woman and the man lying down?’

‘Ain’t I tellin’ you? I zee nobody.’

‘About this man on the Flat-Iron? Was he lying down when you first saw him?’

‘Yes, he were.’

‘And when did you first see him?’

‘Soon as I come in zight of un, I zee un.’

‘When was that?’

‘’Ow can I tell to a minute. Might be a quarter to two, might be ten minutes to. I wasn’t takin’ perticklers for the perlice. I were attendin’ to my own business, same as I wish other folks would.’

‘What business?’

‘Zailin’ the bloody boat. That’s my business.’

‘At any rate, you saw the man some time before you saw the woman, and he was then lying on the rock. Was he dead, do you think, when you first saw him?’

‘’Ow wur I to know if ’e wur dead or alive? ’E didn’t kiss ’is ’and to me. And if ’e ’ad, I shouldn’t a’ seen un, d’ye zee? I wur too far out.’

‘But you said you were within sight of shore the whole time.’

‘Zo I wur. But shore’s a big thing. A man couldn’t very well miss it. But that’s not to zay I could zee every vule on it playin’ at kiss-me-’and.’

‘I see. Were you right out on the Grinders, then?’

‘Wot’s it matter where I wur? I weren’t speckylatin’ about corpses, nor yet what vemayles was after with their young men. I’ve got zummat more to do than zit about watchin’ bathin’ parties.’

‘What had you to do?’

‘That’s my business.’

‘Well, whatever your business was, it was out in the deep water off the Grinders?’

Mr Pollock was obstinately silent

‘Was anybody with you in the boat?’

“No, there weren’t.’

‘Then what was that grandson of yours doing?’

‘Oh, him? He was with me. I thought you meant was there somebody else, that didn’t ought to have been there.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

Nothing, only perlicemen is a pack of vules, mostly.’

‘Where is your grandson?’

‘Over to Cork. Went last Zatterday, he did.’

‘Cork, eh? Smuggling goods into Ireland?’

Mr Pollock spat profusely.

‘’Course not. Business. My business.’

‘Your business seems to be rather mysterious, Pollock. You’d better be careful. We’ll want to see that young man when he gets back. Anyway, you say that when the young lady saw you, you had come in, and were putting out again.’

‘Why not?’

‘What did you come in for?’

‘That’s my business, ain’t it?’

The Superintendent gave it up.

‘At any rate, are you in a position to say whether you saw anybody walking along the shore between your cottage and the Flat-Iron?’

‘Yes, I am. I zee nobody. Not up to quarter to two, anyway. After that, I couldn’t swear one way nor t’other, ’avin’ my own business to mind, like I zaid.’

‘Did you see any other boat in the neighbourhood?’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘Very well. If your memory should improve in the next few days, you’d better let us know.’

Mr Pollock muttered something uncomplimentary, and removed himself.

‘Not an agreeable old gentleman,’ said Wimsey.

‘An old scoundrel,’ said Superintendent Glaisher. ‘And the worst of it is, you can’t believe a word he says. I’d like to know what he was really up to.’

‘Murdering Paul Alexis, perhaps?’ suggested the Inspector.

‘Or conveying the murderer to the scene of the crime for a consideration,’ added Wimsey. ‘That’s more likely, really. What motive should he have for murdering Alexis?’

‘There’s the three hundred pounds, my lord. We mustn’t forget that. I know I said it was suicide, and I still think so, but we’ve got a much better motive for a murder than we had before.’

‘Always supposing Pollock knew about the £300. But how should he?’

‘See here,’ said the Superintendent. ‘Suppose Alexis was wanting to leave England.’

‘That’s what I say,’ interjected Umpelty.

‘And suppose he had hired Pollock to meet him somewhere off-shore with his boat and take him across to a yacht or something. And suppose, in paying Pollock, he’d happened to show him the rest of the money. Couldn’t Pollock have put him ashore and cut his throat for him and made away with the gold?’

‘But why?’ objected Umpelty. “Why put him ashore? Wouldn’t it have been easier to cut his throat aboard the boat and drop the body into the sea?’

‘No, it wouldn’t,’ said Wimsey, eagerly. ‘Ever seen ’em stick a pig, Inspector? Ever reckoned how much blood there was to the job? If Pollock had cut Alexis’ throat on board, it would take a devil of a lot of swabbing to get the boat properly clean again.’

‘That’s quite true,’ said the Superintendent. ‘But in any case, how about Pollock’s clothes? I’m afraid we haven’t got evidence enough to get a warrant and search his place for bloodstains.’

‘You could wash ’em off oil-skins pretty easily, too,’ remarked Wimsey.

The two policemen acquiesced gloomily.

‘And if you stood behind your man and cut his throat that way, you’d stand a reasonable chance of not getting so very heavily splashed. It’s my belief the man was killed in the place where he was found, murder or no murder. And if you don’t mind, Superintendent, I’ve got a little suggestion which might work and tell us definitely whether it really was murder or suicide.’

He again outlined the suggestion, and the Superintendent nodded.

‘I see no objection whatever, my lord. Something might quite well come of it. In fact,’ said Mr Glaisher, ‘something of the same kind had passed through my own mind, as you might say. But I don’t mind it’s appearing to come from your lordship. Not at all.’

Wimsey grinned and went in search of Salcombe Hardy, the Morning Star reporter, whom he found, as he expected, taking refreshment in the hotel bar. Most of the pressmen had withdrawn by this time, but Hardy, with a touching faith in Lord Peter, had clung to his post.

‘Though you’re treating me damn badly, old man,’ he said, raising his mournful violet eyes to Wimsey’s grey ones, ‘I know you must have something up your sleeve, or you wouldn’t be hanging round the scene of the crime like this. Unless it’s the girl. For God’s sake, Wimsey, say it isn’t the girl. You wouldn’t play such a shabby trick on a poor, hardworking journalist. Or, look here! If there’s nothing else doing, give me a story about the girl. Anything’ll do, so long as it’s a story. “Romantic Engagement of Peer’s Son”—that’d be better than nothing. But I must have a story.’

‘Pull yourself together, Sally,’ said his lordship, ‘and keep your inky paws off my private affairs. Come right away out of this haunt of vice and sit down quietly in a corner of the lounge and I’ll give you a nice, pretty story all to yourself.’

‘That’s right,’ said Mr Hardy, in a burst of emotion. ‘That’s what I expected from a dear old friend. Never let down a pal, even if he’s only a poor bloody journalist. Noblesse oblige. That’s what I said to those other blighters. “I’m sticking to old Peter,” I said, “Peter’s the man for my money. He won’t see a hardworking man lose a job for want of a good news story.” But these new men—they’ve no push, no guts. Fleet Street’s going to the dogs, curse it. There’s nobody left now of the old gang except me. I know where the news is, and I know how to get it. I said to myself, You hang on to old Peter, I said, and one of these days he’ll give you a story.’

‘Splendid fellow!’ said Wimsey. ‘May we ne’er lack a friend or a story to give him. Are you reasonably sober, Sally?’

‘Sober?’ exclaimed the journalist indignantly. ‘J’ever know a pressman who wasn’t sober when somebody had a story to give him? I may not be a blasted pussyfoot, but my legs are always steady enough to go after a story, and what more could anybody want?’

Wimsey pushed his friend gently into position before a table in the lounge.

‘Here you are, then,’ he said. You take this stuff down and see that it gets a good show in your beastly rag. You can put in trimmings to suit yourself.’

Hardy glanced up sharply.

‘Oh!’ said he. ‘Ulterior motive, eh? Not all pure friendship. Patriotism is not enough. Oh, well! as long as it’s exclusive and news, the motive is imma—imma—damn the word—immaterial.’

‘Quite,’ said Wimsey. ‘Now then, take this down. “The mystery surrounding the horrible tragedy at the Flat-Iron deepens steadily with every effort made to solve it. Far from being a simple case of suicide, as at first seemed probable, the horrible death—”’

‘All right,’ interjected Hardy. ‘I can do that part on my head. What I want is the story.’

‘Yes; but work up the mystery part of it. Go on, now: “Lord Peter Wimsey, the celebrated amateur of crime-detection, interviewed by our special correspondent in his pleasant sitting-room at the Hotel Bellevue—”’

‘Is the sitting-room important?’

‘The address is. I want them to know where to find me.’

‘Right you are. Go ahead.’

‘—“at the Hotel Bellevue, Wilvercombe, said that while the police still held strongly to the suicide theory, he himself was by no means satisfied. The point that particularly troubled him was that, whereas the deceased wore a full beard and had never been known to shave, the crime was committed—”’

‘Crime?’

‘Suicide is a crime.’

‘So it is. Well?’

‘—“committed with an ordinary cut-throat razor, which shows signs of considerable previous hard wear.” Rub that in well, Sally. “The history of this razor has been traced up to a point—”’

‘Who traced it?’

‘I did.’

‘Can I say that?’

‘If you like.’

‘That makes it better. “Lord Peter Wimsey explained, with his characteristically modest smile, that he had himself been at pains to trace the previous history of the razor, a search which led him—” Where did it lead you, Wimsey?’

‘I don’t want to tell ’em that. Say that the search covered many hundred miles.’

‘All right. I can make that sound very important. Anything else?’

‘Yes. This is the important bit. Get ’em to put it in black lettering—you know.’

‘Not my business. Sub-editor. But I’ll try. Carry on. “Leaning over the table and emphasising the point with an eloquent gesture of his artistic hands, Lord Peter said—”’

‘“The trail,”’ dictated Wimsey, ‘“breaks off at the crucial point. How did the razor get into the hands of Paul Alexis? If once I could be satisfied of that, the answer might at once set at rest all my doubt. If Paul Alexis can be proved to have bought the razor, I shall consider the suicide theory to have been proved up to the hilt. But until that missing link in the chain of evidence is reconstructed, I shall hold that Paul Alexis was foully and brutally murdered, and I shall spare no efforts to bring the murderer to the judgement he has so richly deserved.” How’s that, Sally?’

‘Not too bad. I can work that up into something. I shall add, of course, that you, knowing the enormous circulation of the Morning Star, are relying on the wide publicity it will give to this statement to etcetera, etcetera. I might even get them to offer a reward.’

‘Why not? Anyway, pitch it to ’em hot and strong, Sally.’

‘I will—for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer. Between you and me, would you be satisfied that it was suicide if the reward was claimed?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Wimsey. ‘Probably not. In fact, I am never satisfied.’