Ngaio Marsh - Clutch of Constables

The Skipper had returned. His voice could be heard on deck and in a moment he came nimbly down the companionway followed by the Sergeant from Tollardwark.

The Skipper looked at his son. “What’s all this?” he asked.

Tom raised a tear-blubbered face, tried to say something and incontinently bolted to the lower deck.

Alleyn said: “I’ll have a word with you about this in a moment, Skipper,” and turned to the Sergeant.

“What is it?”

“Message from the Super at Toll’ark, sir.” He looked at the assembly and produced a note which he handed to Alleyn.

“Motor-bike couple picked up near Pontefract. Bringing them to Tollardwark at once. With article of jewellery.”

“I pause here,” Alleyn said, “to draw your attention to a matter of technique.

“You’ll have noticed that at this point I questioned the passengers in a group instead of following the more orthodox line of seeing them separately, taking notes and getting a signed statement. This was admittedly a risky thing to do and I didn’t take that risk without hesitation. You see, by now we were sure we had a case of conspiracy on our hands and I felt that, interviewed separately, they would have time to concoct some kind of consistent tarradiddle whereas, if we caught them all together and on the hop, they would have to improvise and in doing so might give themselves away. We felt certain they were under orders from Foljambe and that Foljambe was one of them, and Fox and I had a pretty good notion which. You will, I dare say, have a pretty good notion yourselves.”

Carmichael, in the second row, showed signs of becoming active.

“I won’t, however,” Alleyn said, “ask what they are. We’re not playing a guessing game, or are we? Well—never mind. I’ll press on.

“In due course, we came, as you will hear, to a point in the investigation where we could draw only one conclusion. The ‘alibis’, to call them so, for the earlier case would be established in that suspects of given names would be proved to be in given places at given times. The only conclusion, as I hope you will see as the case develops, could be that one of these suspects was operating under what might be called the double identity lay. This is, in fact, what Foljambe was doing. He had adopted, for purposes of the cruise, the identity of another and a living person whom he knew to be out of England. This meant that in the event of an inquiry the police would check this person’s background, see that it was impeccable, look up his address, find that he was away, make further inquiries and discover he could not possibly be fitted into the Foljambe file. And so turn elsewhere for a culprit. It is an extremely risky but not unusual gimmick and is only effective for a short time but the Jampot is a tip-and-run expert and had decided to give it a go. Bear this in mind as we go on.

“We come now to the point when the investigation went grievously, indeed tragically, wrong and it went wrong because a police officer neglected a fundamental rule. Police officers, like the rest of mankind, are vulnerable creatures and like the rest of mankind they sometimes slip up. In this case a simple, basic rule of procedure was ignored. The chap who ignored it was a middle-aged provincial P.C., not all that familiar with the type of job in hand and not as alert as he needed to be. He had his dim moment and the result was a death that could have been avoided. I don’t mind telling you it still, as people say, haunts me. There’s one such case at least in the lives of most investigating officers and sooner or later every man jack of you is liable to encounter it. Ours is a job, let’s face it, for which one has to grow an extra skin. In some of us, under constant irritation this becomes a rhinoceros hide. We are not a starry-eyed lot. But at the risk of getting right off the track — a most undesirable proceeding — I would like to say this. You won’t be any the worse at your job if you can keep your humanity. If you lose it altogether you’ll be, in my opinion, better out of the Force because with it you’ll have lost your sense of values and that’s a dire thing to befall any policeman.

“Sorry. I’ll push on. Following the signal about the motor-bike pair, Mr Fox and I returned in the Yard car to Tollardwark. But first of all I talked to the Skipper—”

-1-

“Now get this straight,” Alleyn said. “I’m not suggesting the boy’s implicated in any way whatever. I am suggesting that they’ve appealed to his imagination and to the instinct for rebellion that rumbles in any normal chap of Tom’s age. Now, after what’s happened, he’s scared. He knows something but he won’t talk. I’m not going to sit him down and grill him. I don’t want to and I haven’t time. If you can get him to tell you whether he saw or spoke to or knows anything about, this precious pair after he saw them on the bridge here at Ramsdyke on Monday afternoon: well, it may help us and it may not. We’ve caught them in possession of a valuable jewel which when last seen was slung round Miss Rickerby-Carrick’s neck. That’s the picture, Skipper, and as far as Tom’s concerned it’s over to you.”

“I told him. I told him to keep clear of that lot. If I thought it’d do any good I’d belt him.”

“Would you? He’s left school, hasn’t he? What does he do week in week out? Norminster to Longminster and back with a trick at the wheel if he’s in luck on the straight reaches? What did you do at his age, Skipper?”

“Me?” The Skipper shot a look at Alleyn. “I shipped cabin boy aboard a Singapore tramp. All right, I get the point. I’ll talk to him.”

Alleyn walked to the starboard side and looked at The River.

It almost seemed as if the field of detergent foam that had closed over Hazel Rickerby-Carrick had supernaturally climbed the weir, invested the upper reaches and closed in upon the Zodiac . “Is this what you call the Creeper?” Alleyn said.

“That’s right. You get her at this time of year. Very low-lying country from Norminster to Crossdyke.”

“Thick,” Fox said. “Fog, more like.”

“And will be more so before dawn. She’s making.”

“We’ll push on,” Alleyn said. “You know the drill, don’t you, Skipper? As soon as they’re all in bed put your craft in the lock and empty the lock. Give them a bit of time to settle. Watch for their lights to go out. It’s twenty to eleven. You won’t have long to wait.”

“It is O.K. with the Authority, isn’t it? I wouldn’t want—”

“Perfectly. It’s all fixed.”

“A man could scramble out of it, you know.”

“Yes, but only with a certain amount of trouble. It wouldn’t be so simple in this fog, whereas at her moorings it would be extremely easy to jump or, if necessary, swim. It’ll confine the escape area, in effect. You’ll be relieved as soon as possible after first light. We’re very much in your debt over this, Skipper. Thank you for helping. Good night.”

With Fox and the constable he went ashore. The Skipper removed the gangplank.

“Good night, then,” said the Skipper softly.

The Creeper had already begun to move about the tow-path and condense on a green hedge near the lockhouse. It was threading gently into the trees and making wraiths of those that could be seen. The night smelt dank. Small sounds were exaggerated and everything was damp to the touch.

“Damn,” Alleyn whispered. “We don’t want this. Where’s that chap—oh, there you are.”

The considerable bulk of Tillottson’s P.C. on duty, loomed out of a drift of mist.

“Sir,” said the shape.