David Dickinson - Death of a Pilgrim

‘Depends on how bad you think all these financial misdemeanours are, I suppose,’ said Johnny Fitzgerald, rummaging around in his bag. ‘You know I could never understand anything about money – the financial pages leave me in such a daze that my wits can only be restored by a glass or two of something.’ Johnny handed the book over to Powerscourt who noticed that Johnny had wrapped the cover in plain brown paper so that nobody would know what he was reading.

A glance inside told him that the author was a Robert Preston, one-time reporter with the Wall Street Journal .

‘Well,’ he smiled at his wife and his friend, ‘let’s hope we find some answers in here. Wouldn’t it be odd if the solution to these murders came all the way from Bath.’

The pilgrim train was now six carriages long, four for the pilgrims and two extra for the Powerscourts laid on by the Inspector. Leger had called at the hotel soon after Johnny’s arrival to tell them they would be leaving at eleven o’clock.

‘I’ve done all the paperwork,’ he said wearily to Powerscourt, ‘I’ve filled in all the forms. I’ve arranged for the funeral. I had a frightful time with the local police and the Mayor and everybody, mind you. They kept saying these wretched pilgrims should be held here in Moissac, pending further investigations. I asked them how many more dead bodies they wanted on their doorstep. Then they said I couldn’t take the suspects out of the area. I asked if they wanted hordes of newspapermen crowding round their damned cloisters – said I was going to make an appeal via the gentlemen of the press for information from the public that might lead to an arrest. I even, God help me, talked about a reward.’

‘Would you have done that, Inspector?’ asked Powerscourt.

‘Certainly not,’ said the Inspector with a grin. ‘I’m hardly likely to want to advertise our failure to find the murderer. But they weren’t to know that. We’ll conduct the interviews as we go along. If the pilgrims won’t talk to me or to you, Powerscourt, I’m going to tell them they may never get out of France. They could be locked up in a cell for years while the case is investigated. As it is, I’ve talked to the railway authorities. They’ve put a newer and faster engine on the train. The quicker the pilgrims are out of the country the happier I shall be.’

Failure. Our failure. Failure. My failure. Powerscourt wondered if this would be his last case, the shame and ignominy of failure finishing off his reputation for good. His mood was not improved by a summons to see Michael Delaney who seemed to have appropriated one of the extra carriages as his own. The train was now moving towards the south at considerable speed. Johnny Fitzgerald was looking at the birds out of the window, swearing quietly when their speed prevented him from making a proper identification.

Delaney seemed to have obtained a fresh supply of cigars. The great fat one he was smoking now was of a type Powerscourt had not seen him smoke before. He seemed to be in a filthy mood. Powerscourt wondered if his famous temper, admirably held in check until now, was about to explode.

‘Ah, Powerscourt,’ he said, sounding rather like a headmaster Powerscourt had once known, ‘sit down.’ He took another mighty puff on his cigar. ‘In my line of business, Powerscourt, we have to keep an eye on the managers we put in. Are they doing their job properly? Are they fiddling the books? Are they succeeding in bringing in loads of profit for the firm, that sort of thing. Are you with me up to this point?’

Powerscourt said yes, he thought he could manage it so far, thank you.

‘One of the hardest jobs our managers have to perform in the unforgiving world of commerce is to turn around companies that are failing, losing money, losing me money. Let me tell you a story, Powerscourt. Let’s suppose I’ve just bought a little railroad company in upstate New York. It’s not doing well, but there is a lot of potential. In goes the manager, who comes with very high recommendations and references, the best in the business and so on. And he fails. The company is not turned round. It continues to go down the pan. And what do I do? In my innocence I believe that it is not his fault, that he deserves another chance. So I send him to save another company, a ferry business operating out of Long Island Sound that should be making money hand over fist. Again he fails. The citizens of Long Island Sound are not crowding on to his ferries, they’re travelling on the other bastard’s boats. So what do I do? Like a fool, I keep the man on. This time I send him to a printing works that should be flush with dollars with people buying more newspapers and so forth. But no. For the third time the man fails. The order books of the printing works are no better than they were when he came, they are worse. Three times now this man has failed me, he’s failed himself, he’s failed to fulfil his part of the American dream that all businessmen are free to make as much money as they can. I give him one last chance. Another train company. Maybe he was unlucky the first time. Maybe this time all that praise for his abilities will come good. Maybe or maybe not. The fool fails again. So what do you think I should do with him, Powerscourt? You know all about people with superb references and recommendations, after all.’

‘I think that’s entirely a matter for you, Mr Delaney.’ Powerscourt thought he knew what was coming. Under normal circumstances it might be possible to move away from such sulphurous encounters. On a train there was no escape.

‘Quite so, Powerscourt. Now let us suppose we have a different sort of problem. Let us suppose a rich American decides to sponsor a pilgrimage to Europe as a thank-you to God for the saving of his son’s life. God does you a good turn, you do God a good turn back. And let us suppose there is a suspicious death, almost certainly a murder. The French police appear to be hopeless. You launch a search for the finest investigator in France and England who is fluent in both languages. You hire the fellow, perfectly charming, lovely English manners, delightful wife, and with no more clue about finding the killer than the man on the moon. Does he find the murderer of the first victim? He does not.’

Delaney’s voice was rising.

‘Does he find the killer of the second victim? No, he does not.’

Delaney was shouting now. He banged his great fist on the table in front of him. His cigar had been abandoned in his wrath.

‘Does he find the murderer of the third victim? Of course not!’

Another thump on the table. Powerscourt thought the engine driver and his assistant at the front of the train must be able to hear every word by now. Thank God they wouldn’t understand any of it.

‘Three bodies now, laid out on cold slabs in the French morgues,’ Delaney ranted on, hardly able to control himself, ‘so does the great detective fare any better with the next one? You’d think it should be easy by now with the number of suspects dropping by the day, wouldn’t you? Does he catch the killer of victim number four? No, he does not. I might have been better off employing nobody at all.’

A final thump on the table. Powerscourt said nothing. He wondered if it was going to come to blows. Delaney was a couple of inches taller and a great deal heavier. He looked as if he might pack a fearful punch. But he stayed on his bench. It looked as if the anger was ebbing from him. He picked up his cigar again.

‘Five days more. That’s all. If you haven’t caught the man by then, you’re off this train and out of my sight. And I’ll spend whatever it takes to blacken your reputation in the newspapers back there in England. I’ve done it in New York, I’m sure I can do it in London. Now get out and get on with it before I shout any more.’