10

Admission

 

“No, I’ve no idea where Marcus Barring is,” Lancelot Smith declared. He sat in Roger’s office, an hour after the telephone call, looking as heavy and gross-featured as he had the previous night, and tired as if he had not slept. “I did not know for certain that they were the Barrings. The Captain of the Kookaburra had no idea, either. Both men left the ship at Southampton, and one of the crew said he thought they were two of the Barring brothers. I didn’t know, Superintendent.”

Roger was stony-eyed.

“Was the taller brother accused of theft?”

“No. He was ship’s carpenter and handyman, not an officer. He told the first officer that he was leaving the ship as a protest because of the charges of theft made against his brother.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about the loss of the Koala?” Roger demanded.

“I wondered if I should. I did indeed. But I wavered between loyalty to my employers and—and my duty to the police. I did not wish to revive the old stories, the old scandals. The Barrings always believed their company had been ruined by the Blue Flag Line, and—but it is a long, long story. I know only a little of it. I sent a long cable to my owners in Sydney last night asking permission to give you all details. I expect a reply today. Even so I cannot see that I have done any harm, Mr West.”

“I hope you haven’t,” Roger said bleakly. “Have you the Donelli’s address?”

“Yes.” Smith took a slip of paper from his pocket.

“Thanks. I’ll do all I can to protect them,” Roger promised. “I don’t yet know what I can do about the Parrishes. Is there anything else you can tell me about Samuel Hackett?”

“I only wish there were,” Smith said.

 

Old Sam Hackett seemed to be having the time of his life in Paris. A man was only as old as his hopes, and Paris gave him a lot to hope for. The few acquaintances he had made, the staff at the little hotel near the Madeleine where he was staying, and the quite attractive ‘girl’ in her middle thirties who had a soft spot for the old man who was so delighted she was ready to share her divan with him, all felt sure that he had entered a new lease of life.

 

Lancelot Smith had been gone for an hour. Roger had read through all the reports. Limm had gone to a theatre the previous night, by himself, and gone to his hotel, also by himself. A general call had gone out to all Divisions, Home Counties forces, and all ports and airports for a man answering Solomon Barring’s description; no photograph of Barring was available.

Roger went along to see his chief, Commander Hardy, a man whom he had known for many years, who had risen from the ranks, and who was still not always easy in the seat of authority. It was seldom possible to be absolutely sure whether he would approve or disapprove of any action taken. Spread over his desk were the morning newspapers, with The Globe prominent among them.

“Good morning,” Roger said.

Hardy grunted.

“Morning. Any further developments on this digitalis job?”

“Nothing good or worth worrying you about.”

“It all worries me,” Hardy said. “The New South Wales people seem to think it might be connected with the loss of a ship two years ago. Can you see any connection between a ship which foundered in the Pacific Ocean and a madman running around killing people in London?”

“Madman?” Roger echoed.

“That’s what he looks like to me. Very bad thing that Jessup – alias Barring – killed himself. Can’t blame you for that but someone will try to sooner or later. Worried about the other passengers?”

“Very.”

“So am I,” said Hardy. “Especially those in this country. Drop anything else you’re doing and concentrate on this, Handsome. You have carte blanche.”

He gave a wintry smile.

“Not too many heroics, though. If I had to choose between having you alive or these other people alive I’d settle for you.”

He nodded dismissal. Roger, who hadn’t sat down, felt curiously deflated; Hardy in some moods had that effect. Hardy’s telephone rang, and Roger went out. By the time he was back in his office, he was feeling more satisfied. He had a free hand and could concentrate on the Kookaburra case; only now did he realise how much he wanted to do that. The feeling of disquiet which had been in his mind from the beginning of the case was as strong as ever. It was not only because one of the Barrings was loose in London, likely to kill again; it was something he could not quite grasp, a feeling that there was a hidden factor which he should be able to see but could not.

Kebble was talking on the telephone. Roger picked up a new note from his own desk, it read:

 

Doreen M came round at 11.45am.

 

He picked up his own telephone, and called the Yard’s chief liaison with Interpol.

“Yep?” The other Superintendent liked talking in monosyllables.

“Jay, I want to find an elderly Australian, named Hackett, who is somewhere in Europe having a good time. He was on the Kookaburra, and—”

“Wondered when you’d want some help on that,” the other interrupted. “Any idea where the old geezer is?”

“I’ll send a note of all I’ve got. And there’s a Mr and Mrs Donelli . . .” Roger gave a brief description of the Donellis, and went on, “Try to persuade the Naples police that this is serious, will you?”

“They won’t take much convincing.”

“Thanks.” Roger rang off, to find Kebble off his telephone and making notes. “Got all that?”

Kebble, scribbling, nodded.

“Give Interpol everything we’ve got,” Roger said. “I’m going to see the Morrison girl.”

Hardy had in fact done him good. He felt fit and more confident as he ran down the Yard’s steps, and across to his car. The presentiment was forgotten. A CID woman was by Doreen’s bedside, and would take notes; he could drive himself. The sun warmed him. Blessedly, there was no interference from the Yard by radio. He found a parking space almost opposite the nursing home where the girl had been taken; it was one used a great deal by the Yard, and the atmosphere was conducive to interviews with witnesses. He wondered how much Doreen knew or would tell him, then realised belatedly that he would probably have to break the news of her sister’s death. He saw a man coming down the four steps which led from the front door.

It was Benjamin Limm, the first man to identify Denise Morrison. He was glowering, and did not recognise Roger at first.

“Good morning,” Roger said.

Limm started back, and recognition dawned. He stopped squarely in front of Roger, as if spoiling for a fight.

“You’ve no right to keep Miss Morrison here against her will.”

“How did you know where to find her?” Roger demanded.

“I asked The Globe. They gave me a hell of a lot of trouble. Bloody pommies,” Limm went on raspingly. “She wants to get out of this goddammed country, the quicker the better. And if you try to stop her I’ll see the High Commissioner. If necessary I’ll fly home and see the Prime Minister.”

“Take it easy,” Roger said. “No one wants to keep anyone here against his will. Have you seen her?”

“Yes.”

“How did you get in?”

“I said I was a relation, and they let me in. She looks awful. All she wants to do is get out of this country—”

“Yes, you said that before,” Roger interrupted. “It might have been as well if you and the others had not come in the first place, there’s no profit in the export of murder.” That stopped Limm in full flood. “I’m going to see her. If you’re in a better mood when I come out we might talk. Like to sit and wait in my car?”

Limm, still nonplussed, asked, “How long will you be?”

“Half an hour or so.”

“I’ll come back.”

“Limm,” Roger said, “did you know the ship’s carpenter on the Kookaburra, a man who called himself Marcus Jessup?”

Limm caught his breath. “What about him?”

“He may be after your life,” Roger said. “Keep your eye open for him.”

He left Limm standing. A man across the road raised a newspaper; he was the Yard man watching Limm, there was little danger. Roger went up to the front door. A young girl opened it, an elderly woman came to escort him up to Doreen Morrison’s room. Even halfway up the stairs the sound of shouting, with an unmistakable note of hysteria, was audible.

“She was very excitable soon after she woke,” the Sister said. “And the visit from her cousin made her much worse.”

“Does she know about her sister?” Roger asked.

“Yes – he told her.”

“Oh, did he,” Roger said heavily. “No wonder she was worse.”

The Sister opened the door of a room on the right. It was small and rather gloomy, with light coming only from one small window set high in the wall. A nurse was holding Doreen’s hands; the CID woman was standing in a corner, looking on. Her expression seemed to say, ‘Leave her to me, I’ll knock the nonsense out of her.’

Roger’s impression of the girl was very different from what he had expected. The hysteria had put glowing red into Doreen’s cheeks, and made her blue eyes spark and glitter. She looked quite lovely.

“I don’t want to stay here. I want to go back home. I don’t care what you say. I hate it here!”

She leaned forward and glared at Roger.

“Perhaps you can make them see sense!” she cried.

“Perhaps you’ll see some sense yourself when you know that this man saved your life last night – and saved it twice.” The CID woman looked and spoke like a severe headmistress. “Why he should risk his own to save yours God only knows. I don’t.”

Doreen Morrison stopped glaring, stopped trying to free herself from the nurse’s restraining hands. She sat quite upright, still very lovely even though the colour faded from her cheeks and the fire in her eyes slowly died.

Roger smiled gently.

“Hallo, Miss Morrison. I’m glad to see you looking better.” He moved forward and shook hands; and when he went on his voice was pitched very low. “And I am desperately sorry about your sister.

Doreen’s eyes filled with tears. She sat there, clutching Roger’s right hand, gulping, trying to fight back a gust of crying. But she could not. She leaned forward against Roger, sobbing desperately, piteously. No one seemed to move, although the paroxysm seemed to last for a long time.

At last, the tears slackened. Soon, she eased her body away from Roger’s, and looked round as if for a handkerchief. The nurse had a towel handy. Doreen dabbed her swollen, reddened eyes, sniffed, tried to speak, failed, and tried again.

“I do want to go home,” she said miserably. “I can’t stand it in England without Denise. I really can’t. Help me, please help me.”

Very quietly, Roger said, “When you’ve told us everything you can and given us the help we need, you can go home. That’s a promise.”

It took some time for the import of what he said to register. Then radiance lighted up those reddened eyes, before they filled with tears again.

Soon, she asked, “How long must I stay here?”

“Not very long.”

“A day? A week? A month?”

“Less than a week, if all goes well,” Roger said. “I’m going to ask you just one question, then I’ve work to do while you tell the detective sergeant here all you can.”

She nodded.

“What’s the question?” she asked.

“How well do you know Ben Limm?”

“Not—not really well. He was on the Kookaburra. Denise—Denise liked him a lot.”

“Did he like her?”

“I—I think so. I think he liked us both.”

“Have you met him since you left the ship?”

“We had lunch the first day ashore, that’s all,” Doreen answered.

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure.”

“Did your sister meet him in London?”

“Only at that lunch. She would have told me. I—” Doreen broke off and put her hands up in front of her face, as if to fend off some physical thing. “She might have met him after she went away. I don’t know. She was away so long.”

“Did you ever know a man named Brown – a friend of Denise?”

“No,” Doreen said. “No, I didn’t.”

There was new tension in her as she leaned forward again.

“Why—why did you ask me about Ben? He’s got nothing to do with this – he can’t have.”

That was the moment when Roger realised that the girl was in love with Benjamin Limm.