Death of an author, p.14
Death of an Author, page 14
Bond flushed. “Yes, sir. I have been floundering from the beginning, trying to get a definite bearing, and then losing myself again. I realise you’ve got the laugh of me, but I can still make out a case, though it’s not a very shipshape one. I started as you say, with the possibility in my mind that Miss Clarke herself was Lestrange, and that the whole story she told was a put up yarn to serve her own ends. The main difference in the outlook now is that we have found a corpse, and we know that it’s a case of murder we’re investigating. I still maintain that there is no proof that the corpse ever lived in Temple Grove, and that there is quite a possibility that Miss Clarke could have posted herself that packet of notes, and could have written this letter here.”
“And Mrs. Fife?”
“She is either an accessory or principal. One woman alone couldn’t have moved that body, but two could have managed it all right.”
Bond studied Warner’s face ruefully, but the Chief Inspector merely said:
“Go on. You’ve got some more ideas to come,” and Bond plunged on.
“We don’t know where the dead man was killed. Assume for argument’s sake that the shooting was at Temple Grove, on Saturday, or even on Friday. His body could have been driven to Kirkham on Saturday itself. We’ve no corroborative evidence that Miss Clarke was in London on Saturday. We only know that she was observed on Sunday about eleven a.m. That would have given her time to get to Kirkham by Saturday evening, help move the corpse after dark and then get home again by Sunday morning and slip in unobserved.”
Warner shook his head. “It won’t quite do. The cottage wasn’t burned until after the Sunday—probably not until after Eleanor Clarke came to see you… Not that I’m denying that your argument might hold water in a slightly altered guise. The devil of it is that this confounded letter leaves us all at sea. It’s difficult to believe that there’s any truth in it, only we’re brought smack up against it by the fact that the writer knows certain points which no one unconnected with the case could know. I think the best thing I can do is to tell you the line I’ve been following myself, and then we’ll see if we can read some sense into the whole riddle.”
Chapter XI
“The line” which Warner had been following was in the direction of Michael Ashe. Since his “hunch” about the taxi driver had proved correct (so the Chief Inspector argued) it seemed definitely worth while to make an effort at interviewing Ashe, if only to see if he could be induced to part with information concerning Lestrange. Since the publishers could give him no information as to the novelist’s whereabouts, Warner went to his club,—the Addison, in John Street. This club he discovered had been founded by a coterie of essayists shortly before the war, but it had entirely altered its character of recent years. The members of the Addison (it was only a small club) were now recruited among writers of travel books, explorers, wanderers, geographers and—as Warner guessed—a certain number of adventurers, whose originality and versatility commended themselves to the club committee. It was not enough to be a writer if you wished to join the Addison, you must also have been a traveller, a war correspondent, a secret service man or a sailor.
When Warner approached the club secretary, a man named Mason,—with a request for information concerning the whereabouts of Michael Ashe, he was met with a laugh.
“Ashe? I’m afraid I can’t tell you. He’s one of those chaps who plays a lone hand. I saw him last about ten days ago, when he gave up his room,—he’d been staying here for a few days. I believe he was going to Majorca, but I can’t be certain.”
“Will a letter be forwarded?” enquired Warner, and the other shrugged his shoulders.
“It’ll be forwarded to his bank,” he replied. Seeing that he was not going to get any further on these lines Warner produced his official card, and Mason stared at it with raised eyebrows. “Very interesting,” he said, “but as I have told you all that I know, I’m afraid I can’t do any more.”
Warner settled himself more firmly in his chair, and smiled pleasantly at the other.
“I want to get hold of Ashe, because I think he can give me some important information,” he rejoined.
“Quite,” said the other blandly. “Quite.”
“I’ve no doubt you’ll be able to help me more than you realise,” went on Warner. “For instance you can tell me if Ashe used this club as his pied-à-terre. After all, everybody—no matter how much they travel,—has got to have some place where they keep their permanent possessions. Even the least acquisitive are liable to have belongings which they don’t want to trail round the world with them.”
Seeing the expression on the other man’s face, Warner added, “I mean of course inanimate belongings,—trunks, books, and so on.”
Mason allowed himself a chuckle. “Quite. You want to know if Ashe used this place as a depository. He certainly did not. When he stayed here he only brought a couple of grips, and took them away again when he left. As to whether he kept up any sort of permanent establishment, I can’t tell you. Ashe isn’t forthcoming, you know.”
“So I have been told,” said Warner. “Who put him up for membership here?”
“Old Gresson,—Philip Gresson, you know, the man who writes all that stuff about the Peruvian civilisations. I believe he met Ashe in South America, sitting under a juniper tree in the wilderness, or something like that.”
“How long has Ashe been a member?”
“Two years. Most of the time he’s been abroad, but he’s been in London, on and off, for the last six months.”
“Is Mr. Gresson in London?”
“Lord, no! He went back to Peru eighteen months ago, and no one has heard of him since. We’ve almost given him up.”
Leaning back in his chair Mason studied Warner thoughtfully. “Not being very helpful, am I? Quite honestly, if my life depended on it, I couldn’t give you any information about Ashe. He’s as close as an oyster.”
“Do you like him?” asked Warner, suddenly, and the other gave him a short laugh.
“No, I don’t. He’s as conceited as Lucifer and as obstinate as a mule, and he’ll argue black’s white without any evidence but his own blasted opinion… How’s the Lestrange case going?”
“So so,” replied Warner in his placid way. “Why?”
Mason shrugged his shoulders. “Scotland Yard is busy looking for one celebrated author, about whose origin and private life nobody knows anything; then Scotland Yard comes and calls here and asks questions about Michael Ashe,—another well-known writer about whose origin and private life nobody knows anything… I can’t tell you where Ashe is now, but I can tell you that he’s been trying to find out who Vivian Lestrange is. It’s my business to know a bit about writers in general, and Ashe tried to pump me about Lestrange.”
“What do you know about Lestrange?” enquired Warner.
“Nothing. Nobody knows him,—but I was a bit tired of Ashe and his God almighty manner, and I just dropped a hint in his hearing that I knew Lestrange. Ashe promptly asked me to dine with him at the Savoy, and did his best to make me drunk… You’d hardly credit it, but I could drink Ashe blind and still be sober myself, so he wasted his money. It annoyed him, so he tried to make trouble between me and the committee here.”
“Well that’s extremely interesting,” said Warner. “It’s obviously of no use for me to ask you to dine in the hope that you’ll tell me all about Vivian Lestrange, or even Michael Ashe…”
“No. I’m afraid it’s not,” said Mason. “Look here. I’ve got my job to consider, and I’ve already said a spot more than discretion permits. When I told you that I didn’t know anything about Michael Ashe, I was telling you the exact truth, but other people might know a bit more. Will you guarantee to me that this conversation is confidential? I don’t want to be put into the witness-box and cross-examined as to what I’ve said about members of the Addison.”
“You’re not likely to be,” replied Warner. “I can promise you that anything you tell me, which will enable me to get into touch with Ashe, will not be repeated. I’ll see that you’re not brought into it.”
“Good. The only thing I can tell you is this. Ashe was yarning here one day with a fellow named Staunton. The latter is a retired Admiral who was in the China Squadron for years. From what I overheard of the conversation, Staunton thought he’d seen Ashe before,—some question of a Court of Enquiry, I believe—and Ashe was a bit over emphatic in telling Staunton he was mistaken.”
“Where’s Staunton to be found? In Peru?”
Mason laughed. “No. He comes into lunch here at one o’clock every day as regular as clockwork. You can catch him all right. The point is that you mustn’t tell him that I repeated what I’d overheard of a private conversation between members. He’s a punctilious old bird.”
Warner nodded. “I see. I expect I can find a way of avoiding that difficulty. Since Admiral Staunton is a member here, I take it he is a writer?”
“Quite correct. He’s written some volumes of reminiscences, one about the Boxer Rebellion in 1900,—Staunton was a snotty on Beatty’s ship, the Barfleur,—and several books dealing with cruises in the Malay Archipelago. A Sailor in the Philippines and From Bangkok to Singapore are his best known.”
“Very useful of him,” said Warner, “because Ashe has written about the same part of the world—you remember Allen of the Andamans?”
“Yes, like his damned cheek,” said Mason. “Ashe thinks he’s a second Conrad, and actually challenges the comparison by writing about the Malays. He’s not fit to weed Conrad’s grave.”
“Maybe,” said Warner, “but Ashe is a damned fine writer and comparisons are ‘oderous.’ Now have you got any of Staunton’s books anywhere in this place?”
“Yes. In the library. He always gives us a presentation copy. More than Ashe does.”
“Well, take me up to the library, there’s a good chap,” said Warner, “and when Staunton comes in, tell him I want to see him.”
“Chief Inspector, or plain Mister?” demanded Mason.
“Chief Inspector. Give him my card—or tell the porter to do so,” replied Warner, “and many thanks for all your help.”
“Not at all. Do you really think Ashe knows anything about Lestrange?”
“The Lord knows,” replied Warner. “Since you’ve told me that Ashe was interested in Lestrange, my desire to meet him is doubled. Nice place you’ve got here. Those Adam chaps were damn fine architects.”
Mason, leading the way to the library of the club, took Warner’s cue and talked intelligently of mouldings and ceilings, panelling and proportion as they went up the fine wide staircase.
It was nearly half an hour later that a page-boy told Warner that Admiral Staunton was in the smoking-room, and the Chief Inspector led thither found himself face to face with a square-shouldered, grey-haired man, whose aspect managed to combine an effect of energy, aggressiveness, intense propriety, and childlike simplicity. Warner, glancing round, was relieved to see that the room in which they stood was a small annexe to the smoking-room proper, and that there was no one present but themselves. Staunton held Warner’s card in his hand, and looked at its owner with some suspicion.
“I like to know where I stand, sir,” he barked. “Is this an official visit?”
“Inasmuch as I am on duty, it is, sir,” replied Warner. “I admit that some apology is called for, because it is quite probable that I am troubling you needlessly, but I am here in the hope that you can give my department assistance in the way of information.”
This carefully considered speech was favourably received.
“Very glad to help you if it is in my power. Regard the police very favourably, very favourably indeed. Very competent body of men, very civil and obliging. What’s it all about? Sit down, Chief Inspector, sit down.”
“It is an entirely confidential matter, sir. I have been trying to get into touch with a man who seems to be in the habit of going away and leaving no address. Now it happens that this man has written a good deal about the Malay Archipelago, the Gulf of Siam and the China Sea. I knew of you as an authority concerning these parts, and when I discovered that you and the man I am trying to communicate with were members of the same club, I took it on myself to ask you for this interview.”
“Hump! You’re after Michael Ashe?”
The abruptness of the retort made Warner smile inwardly.
“Not in the usual sense, sir. I only want to get into touch with him to ask him for information.”
“Hump! Well, you started by saying this conversation was to be regarded as confidential. I take it that’s binding on both parties. I’ve no desire to be had up for slander.”
“You need not concern yourself there, sir,” replied Warner. “What you say to me will go no farther.”
“Glad to hear it. What I say is that Ashe may be a damned scoundrel. I can’t give you chapter and verse, but I suspect it. When a man’s got nothing better than suspicion to go on, he should have the nous to keep quiet,—but when it comes to a police enquiry, damn it, he’s justified in saying what he thinks—always understood that it’s surmise, and not facts he’s stating.”
“Yes. I see that point, sir,” agreed Warner. “If you can give me any information at all about Ashe, I shall be very glad to hear it. I’m in a bit of a quandary, because I may have got a bee in my bonnet over him, and I’m quite prepared to discover he’s not the man I want at all.”
“Hump! What do you know about him?”
“Nothing at all, except that during the last two years he has been well to the fore as a writer, and it appears that he knows his subject.”
“Yes, you’re right there. Ashe knows what he is writing about, and nobody’s better qualified to criticise him than I am. Well, here’s my story. In 1924, I was retired, axed, to put it shortly, and I was returning to England from Hong Kong after twenty-five years’ service in the China Squadron. If you’ve read Ashe’s books—and mine,—you know what a typhoon means. Between Hong Kong and Singapore we went considerably out of our course to avoid the path of a hurricane which swept across the eastern side of the China Sea. I won’t bother you with our exact bearings, but to put it in plain language we were mid-way between the coast of Annam and the Philippine Islands—latitude about 15' north, longitude 115' east, to give you a rough idea. Weather had cleared, barometer rising, wind very slight, and a smooth sea. At mid-day we sighted a small vessel to starboard. Now we were best part of a hundred miles off the ordinary trade route, and the sight of a small open boat in these waters only meant one thing. We altered our course and hove to, and then lowered a boat to investigate. There were five men in the boat we’d sighted, and the only one who appeared to be alive was a big fellow sitting by the tiller—holding on to it, though he was a long way past steering. He was a white man, and there was another lying across the thwarts. The others were Lascars, of whom one was still alive, but went raving mad when he recovered consciousness. Well, when the white fellow became capable of answering questions, this was his story. He’d been one of the crew of the S.S. Flores, bound from Manila to Singapore with a cargo of hemp. The Flores had run into the typhoon and made heavy weather of it, then when they thought they’d got through the worst of it, their propeller shaft snapped. That convey anything to you?”
Warner grinned. “I can use my imagination, sir. Isn’t it a fact that in a typhoon, the correct procedure is to run with the wind?”
“Run with the wind on the starboard quarter,” barked Staunton. “In this case the wind had veered and the storm had begun to move eastward. They couldn’t heave to, and they’d had a heavy bucketing. The vessel, being disabled, shipped seas all over her, and eventually the master gave orders to lower the boats. How that boat we picked up ever lived in such a sea it’s not for me to say,—but there she was, with the first mate, one white sailorman, and half a dozen Lascars. When they had a chance to think about it, they discovered that their water casks weren’t filled. To cut a long story short, they’d been four days without water. The mate had had a crack on the head when the boat was lowered, and the sun had done the rest. Two of the Lascars tried drinking sea water and went crazy. Jumped overboard,—so he said. Maybe. The white sailor had joined the Flores at Manila; his name was Thomas Brown.”
“Good Lord!” exclaimed Warner, and then he apologised for his interruption.
“You can take it from me it was a funny story. In fact, a damned funny story,” growled Staunton. “It wasn’t my business,—I wasn’t holding a court of enquiry; that came later at Singapore where we landed Brown, but I wasn’t satisfied with any of it. That chap Brown was too stupid: he didn’t know anything about anything. The ship’s course wasn’t his business. He was only working his way back to Singapore, and when they’d taken to the boats, he helped the mate get their boat clear of the Flores. They didn’t want to be broken up crashing against the ship’s side. When they abandoned her, the Flores was sinking by the stern; two other boats had been launched and the Captain was in the last of them, but they lost sight of one another in the storm.
“Well, I suppose the court of enquiry had to make the best of it. None of the other boats were picked up and Brown was the only witness they’d got. It’s no use expecting a seaman to tell you why the Captain did this or that or the other, or exactly the position of the vessel at a given time. No. But I give you my word, sir, there was dirty work somewhere.”
Suddenly he studied Warner’s face and then gave a little chuckle.
“And what’s all this to do with you? A vessel called the Flores, registered under the Siamese flag, is disabled by a typhoon in the China Sea and goes to the bottom, a total loss, and only one man is left alive to tell what happened to her. I’m babbling, eh? Maybe. That man who survived did well for himself. He goes by the name of Michael Ashe nowadays.”
“Well, I’m damned!” said Warner, and the other nodded sympathetically.
“You may well be. How do you think I knew him again? The man I knew was bearded, worn to the bone and scorched like a brick; dressed in oddments our crew had given him after he was picked up. I went to talk to him,—not officially, mind you, I was a passenger on that trip—but because I was interested. One of the things I noticed was that he’d the hell of a long scar right up his left forearm, from wrist to elbow. It happened that Ashe was yarning in here one day, talking about wrestling, and he and another fellow took off their coats to demonstrate some trick or other. Ashe tore his shirt-sleeve while they were wrestling and it was stripped off his arm. When I saw that scar again, I knew why something about him had seemed familiar to me,—though I hadn’t been able to place him. Then I knew. I’d last seen him on the Oranga. He was Thomas Brown.”
