“There was no question of cash payment,” the man replied, rather perfunctorily. “Street is an egotist, of course, and conceited. Such people do not tolerate obstacles, in my experience.”
“Your prison experience? You met some homicides there?”
Ivor grinned like a dog. “I thought our chat was taking a friendlier tone. My mistake.”
“Has it occurred to you that, if Street is a desperate character who won’t tolerate obstacles, he’s a dangerous one to blackmail?”
“I’ve no doubt he would be,” Ivor equably replied. “But, as I’ve told you, I did not blackmail him.”
“What is your version of the talk you had with him yesterday afternoon?”
Bentinck-Jones related it, in a leisurely way. The gist of it was that he had told Street what he had seen, and that he would feel it his duty to inform Faith Trubody’s father, unless Street undertook to lay off the girl.
Shortly after this, Nikki appeared at the cabin door, looking crestfallen. He shook his head at Nigel, who at once said,
“I think this gentleman has some film he would like developed. Is there someone on the ship who can do it for him?”
“Sure, sure.”
“Your camera, please.” Nigel stretched his hand towards Bentinck-Jones, who rose to his feet, exclaiming, “What the hell is all this? I absolutely refuse——”
“Take it from him, Nikki.”
Nikki placed his hand on Ivor’s head, pushed hard down so that he folded on the bed like a concertina, and whipped the camera off him. There was a roll of film inside it.
“I forgot to tell you,” said Nigel, when Nikki had left, “that Jeremy Street mentioned you’d been taking photographs.”
Bentinck-Jones gave him one poisoned-dart look. “I shall complain to the Captain, the owners! This is outrageous!”
“I know. Robbery on the high seas. Talking of which, what did Primrose Chalmers write at the end of that notebook you pinched off her body?”
Ivor’s eyes swivelled about the cabin. He puffed himself out, but the tone of outrage was wearing thin. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“The rest of her notebook was written in ink, which ran and became indecipherable through exposure to sea-water in the swimming-pool. But Mr Chalmers tells me that her last entry was made in pencil. You could read this. You did read it, before throwing the notebook overboard. What did she say?”
“I never touched any bloody notebook!” The man’s voice had taken on a jailbird’s whine.
“That’s unlucky for you. If you’d been able to give me this information, it might have made things easier for you. As it is, with that photograph you took . . .”
Nigel was bluffing all round. The negative might not be in the camera: perhaps it did not even exist—Bentinck-Jones himself could have been bluffing when he told Street he had photographed him and Faith.
“What is your proposition?” asked Ivor.
“Under certain circumstances, Jeremy Street might be persuaded to keep his mouth shut.”
“Don’t make me laugh! Of course he will. He can’t afford to have a scandal—not where Mr Trubody is concerned.”
“Hadn’t you thought,” asked Nigel affably, “of blackmailing Trubody himself? All that dough. And his daughter’s reputation.”
Bentinck-Jones shrugged his shoulders. “I asked you what’s your proposition?”
“Very well, you lay off Street and I’ll lay off you; but I must know what was in Primrose’s notebook.”
“That’s a most immoral idea—compounding a felony, eh?” The fat little man chuckled. “And if I won’t play?”
“I hand you over to the Greek police and pass on my information about you to Scotland Yard, whether Street agrees or not.”
“Nothing doing,” said Ivor with a sneer.
“I thought not. You’re forgetting this is a murder investigation. I have a witness who saw you going out on deck behind Primrose, just before she was murdered.”
“You’re bluffing.”
“I’ll ask her to repeat her statement to your face.” Nigel moved towards the door.
“Wait a minute, wait a minute! I swear I had nothing to do with the child’s death.”
“And then, after her body had been discovered, you were seen taking an unhealthy interest in it. You stole her notebook because you were afraid it contained damning evidence about your blackmailing activities.”
“This is absolutely preposterous!”
“The police in Athens won’t take that view. Good morning.”
Bentinck-Jones was rattled at last. “If I tell you what she wrote—but it doesn’t mean anything,” he almost wailed.
“That’s for me to judge.”
“You’ll guarantee the—the other matter will go no further?”
“I’m giving no guarantees,” said Nigel harshly. “I’m interested in the case against you as a murderer, not a blackmailer. If you are innocent, you’d better co-operate. If you don’t co-operate, the police will take you to pieces. They can be quite rough, you know.”
Bentinck-Jones’s effrontery was all gone. Nigel had found his weak spot at last: the man was a physical coward. This accounted for the devious, insinuating approach he made to his prospective victims.
“It doesn’t make sense—what she wrote,” Ivor was muttering. “I can’t remember the exact words, but it was something like this:—‘A. is a liar. She said she couldn’t swim, but she can—at least, I’m almost certain she can. Because B. always wore a yellow bathing-cap, and the one I saw didn’t. I couldn’t see properly, I was too far away and there were rocks in between. But she swam out to fetch the wicker case, which was floating away. I thought it was a seal at first, but of course there aren’t seals in Greece. I saw the case, and then the arm reaching for it out of the sea, and the black head. Then she disappeared back under the rocks. Why did she never bathe when other people were there? Perhaps she has a deformity.’ Am I going too fast?”
Nigel was taking it down on a sheet of paper.
“No. Carry on.”
“There was a bit about how she hated A. and would love to show her up. The whole thing was childish. Then she’d written, ‘I suppose it could have been B., or some third person, even—but there were only the two when we went by. How can I prove it? A. is a foul bitchy hypocrite. She insulted me. I shall make a plan and bide my time and have my revenge.’”
Bentinck-Jones smiled tentatively. “Quite a vindictive infant.”
“Is that all?”
“The notebook stopped there.”
“Are you sure you’ve remembered everything? Think.”
“Yes,” said Ivor after a pause. “That’s everything she wrote. And much good may it do you,” he added with a spurt of viciousness.
“Where were you yesterday, after your conversation with Street?”
“Drinking. On the quayside.”
“Till you returned to the ship?”
“Yes.”
“Near the jetty?”
“Yes.”
“Waiting for Miss Ambrose? What time did she turn up?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’d made no appointment to meet Miss Ambrose there?”
“Why the hell should I?” said Ivor shakily. “I never set eyes on the woman the whole afternoon.”
“What time did you go back to the ship?”
“Oh, about 5.30, I think.”
“You were alone all the time?”
“Yes, but——”
“See any of our friends earlier on?”
“Street came ashore again, by himself, and walked off—which way would it be?—out of the town westwards.”
“Was Nikki about?”
“A vindictive look came into Bentinck-Jones’s face. “He was. In a manner of speaking.”
“What manner of speaking?”
“He pretended not to be. I saw him slinking out of an alley, just beyond that customs-house place or wha
tever it is. I shouted to him. He edged back out of sight. Later, I asked him what he’d been up to. He denied having been there at all—said I must have been mistaken. You’d do well to keep your eye on him,” Ivor concluded, “he’s a slippery customer.”
“What time was it when you saw this alley-slinking act?”
“Oh, about half an hour before I returned to the ship. Five o’clock, say.”
At this point, the subject of their conversation entered and told Nigel there were two passengers outside who urgently wished to speak to him.
“Send them in. That’s all, Bentinck-Jones. For the present.”
XI
The older of the two women had a sweet, vague, apologetic look. The younger, Nigel surmised, had thrust her into the present interview.
“My aunt has some information for you. Oh, I’m Jane Arthurs, and this is my aunt Emily.”
“I’m afraid,” said the elder lady, “we are quite unjustifiably trespassing on your time. Shortsightedness, as I keep telling my dear niece, really does rather disqualify me as an eye-witness.”
“An eye-witness?” Nikki almost yelped. “You saw the crime, lady?”
“Oh dear no: nothing so—er—helpful as that. I must apologise, Mr Strangeways, for intruding upon——”
“Please, Aunt Emily. Mr Strangeways asked for this information.”
“But it is so very tenuous,” fluttered the older woman, her eyes groping towards Nigel across the few feet that separated them.
After a good deal more of this, Nigel brought her to the point. She had been ascending the staircase that led up from the main-deck cabins to the forward saloon, at about 9.15 last night, when a woman passed her, going down. She thought now that this woman was Miss Ambrose. Yes, it could have been just before 9.15. No, she had only caught a glimpse of the woman out of the corner of her eye, and could not affirm with any conviction that it had been Miss Ambrose. The woman had run past, in a hurry. She could not vouch for it, but had an impression that the woman was wearing a rug over her head and shoulders.
Emily Arthurs’s reluctance to come forward was very understandable. As Nikki said, when the two ladies retired,
“Where does that get you? The dame’s half blind.”
“The rug is instructive—or would be, if it was true. Still, I agree, we can’t rely on her evidence. Actually, at the moment, I’m less interested in Miss Ambrose’s movements than in yours.”
“Mine? But I’ve told you——”
“Your movements yesterday afternoon. Miss Massinger and I saw you creeping off past the customs house, in a highly furtive and suspicious manner. You denied that it was you we saw. Later, about 5 p.m., Bentinck-Jones saw you creeping back. You told him, too, that he was mistaken. What were you up to?”
Nikki’s eyes hardened. He opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again.
“I suggest,” pursued Nigel, “that you had an assignation with Mrs Blaydon at the little cove. You also, to be sure that Melissa would be alone, told Ianthe you wanted a private talk with her at such and such an hour in the afternoon. You didn’t intend to keep the later appointment, of course.”
Nikki was staring at him, between incredulity and horror.
“On the way to the cove, you unfortunately ran into Miss Ambrose, and what happened then compelled you to kill her.”
“Say! This is haywire! Mr Strangeways, you feeling all right?”
“Mr Bentinck-Jones said he saw you ‘slinking out of an alley’. His choice of words was suggestive. Slinking, alley, alley-cat, slinking alley-cat, tom-cat. What woman had you been with? Mrs Blaydon? or Miss Ambrose?”
“Neither of them.”
“But you’d been with a woman?”
“I’m not talking.”
“Maybe the Athens police will lubricate your talking-apparatus.”
“I am a Greek, a brave man. I am not to be intimidated by thugs.” Nikki gave Nigel a look of stern integrity. “If I tell you, you will promise to let it go no further?”
“I’m not making any promises. But if it has no connection with these murders——”
“O.K. then.” Nikki beamed, in one of his mercurial changes of mood. “I was laying Aphrodite.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“She is the most beautiful girl in the Aegean. Oh boy, what a torso!” Nikki sketched an opulent figure in thin air, and proceeded to an intimate catalogue of the lady’s charms.
“But why on earth didn’t you tell me this before?”
“Aphrodite’s husband is a sponge-fisher. He is away from Kalymnos during the summer. He is a strong man—stronger even than I. He has already destroyed two men he suspected of the smooch with Aphrodite. That is why she and I meet in a friend’s house, and I must be stealthy coming and going. There is much gossip on the island—they are idle worthless people—you know? And if it came to the ears of this Ajax——”
“Ajax?”
—“he is Aphrodite’s husband—he would track me down and rip out my intestines and devour them before my eyes.”
“How very disagreeable for you both. Would this Aphrodite confirm your statement, if necessary?”
“Would she fuse a bomb and take it to bed with her! No, sir. She is too afraid of Ajax. He bashes her if the dinner is late. He would grind her to powder.”
“I see. Well, you spent the whole afternoon with this divine creature?”
“Sure thing.”
“But you still had something in reserve, so to speak, for Mrs Blaydon?”
“With women,” announced Nikki, “I have the inexhaustible powers of Zeus the Thunderer.”
“And you still claim that Mrs Blaydon made an assignation with you for 9.15 last night, though the lecture would be over at 9.30—and her sister might be expected to return to the cabin?”
“A quarter of an hour, an hour, five hours—what does it matter?” said Nikki, in his grandest manner. “The music of love has many tempi. I will not say the ravishing Melissa made an assignation—not in so many words. But she whispered to me, yesterday morning, that she would see me before the dance, she would be waiting for me. Her eyes told me the rest.”
“Including the exact time she expected you?”
“I should have gone to her cabin earlier, but I was detained.”
Nigel did not think anything more could be extracted from the incorrigible Nikki, so he asked him to fetch Peter Trubody. Nigel had been sure, for some time now, that he knew the identity of the murderer and a good deal about the circumstances of the two crimes: there was only one pattern into which the pieces would all fit. Nothing he had been told during his recent interviews disrupted this pattern. There remained Peter Trubody. Nigel felt a marked reluctance to come to grips with the young man: he had a feeling that Peter’s evidence would be crucial, and a vague fear that it might explode his whole theory of the crimes; also, he found Peter a tiresome person to deal with—half boy, half man, he combined the adult male’s closed-circuit mind with the irresponsibility and unpredictability of childhood.
Sighing wearily, for he was very tired by now, Nigel went out on deck to let the sea-breeze refresh him. The coastline of the mainland was just visible, far ahead. In two hours’ time, or three, the Menelaos would be docking. It would be a feat to have solved the mystery and handed over the murderer within the space of fourteen hours: but Nigel felt no gratification at the idea.
The salt wind buzzed in his ears. Tappings and cracklings from the wireless officer’s room reminded him that all depended upon the message from Kalymnos awaited there. Smoke was uncoiling fatly from the single funnel and streaming backwards over the ship’s white wake. The sun, almost at meridian, hurt the eye as its light ricocheted off the dancing waves and the brass fittings on the bridge-deck.
Peter Trubody’s head came into view, as he climbed the ladder from the boat deck, Nikki behind him.
XII
“Do you smoke?”
“Thanks. I’m not in training.” The boy’s hand shook as he li
t the cigarette Nigel offered.
“I’ve got about as far as I can with this investigation. It’s just a matter now of fitting in a few odd pieces.”
“You mean, you’re going to have someone arrested?”
“I suppose so.”
“For killing that—that vile woman?”
“A child was killed too.”
“Oh, I know. I’m not condoning it.”
A spasm of irritation shook Nigel. Who the hell was this callow, pompous youth to condone or not to condone?
“You wanted Miss Ambrose dead. You think you’ve got what you wanted. All right. Why go on being vindictive about her?”
“Did you ask me up here to deliver a moral discourse?”
“No. I asked you because I must know what it was you saw on Kalymnos which gave you such a shock.”
“And I’ve already told you, it’s nothing to do with the case.”
“Peter, who are you protecting? Faith?”
“Faith! Good Lord, no!” The boy had said it too quickly and as if aware of having given something away, went on with a show of anger, “And I’ll trouble you to keep my sister’s name out of this.”
Nigel sighed. “I’m trying to treat you as a reasonable human being. But if you will talk like the clean-limbed young misunderstood hero in an Edwardian melodrama, we shall get nowhere.”
Peter Trubody flushed. He was still sensitive to ridicule.
“Two people,” Nigel went on, “have told me that you appeared to be in a bad way yesterday afternoon. Mr Chalmers, and Mrs Blaydon—if you’ll allow me to mention her name.”
Peter again flushed angrily; then, becoming aware of the friendly smile with which Nigel had accompanied those last eight words, attempted a smile himself. Nigel said,
“I don’t have to be a mind-reader to know about your feelings for Melissa—she’s much better, by the way: I saw her just now—or to guess that it is she you are trying to protect. I admire you for it, but I think you’re going the wrong way about it.”
“Perhaps I’m the best judge of that.” Peter Trubody had not got the stiffness out of his voice yet.
“Oh dear me no, you aren’t. A man in love is the last person to be able to see straight.”