in the wound and I’m fairly confident they’ll match the paint on the boat’s
deckhead. I’d say the explosion blasted him against the cabin roof and knocked him
out, then the displaced water rushed back into the boat and washed him into the forward
end, where he drowned. There wasn’t a hell of a lot of water in the lungs so it’s
possible he was already in the process of dying from the whack on his head before he
drowned.”
“You haven’t, uh, chopped him up much, have you? We’ve been unable to
locate a bona fide relative so I’ve brought his girlfriend. She’s a tad emotional.”
“I guess she would be. His face is OK, anyway. We’ve removed most of the
debris embedded in the skin and he looks quite presentable, so long as you don’t pull
the sheet too far down. Get below the neck and it could be tricky.”
There followed a few ghoulish pathology jokes with which Ravenelli was in the
habit of trying to nauseate his visitors, then Devoran gathered up Susi and took her to
the mortuary. Slade was still on the slab; clearly the pathologist had only finished his
work an hour or so back. An attendant drew back the white sheet covering body,
drawing it as far as the chin.
Susi’s head was averted. “I don’t see why I have to do this. I’ve never seen a
dead body before. I think I might faint.”
“He looks in pretty good shape,” the attendant assured her. “Just like he was
asleep.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 94
“Come on, Susi,” Devoran said encouragingly. “Now we’ve got here. It won’t
take a second.”
She took a deep breath, turned around and gazed at the gray face. Her expression
of distaste didn’t change. “It’s him,” she said flatly. “Now let’s get the hell out of
this dump.”
Devoran dropped her off at Miss Drost’s and drove home. The house was
cold and cheerless. He turned up the heat, lit the propane-powered imitation wood
stove, poured himself a stiff scotch, removed a pile of science-fiction magazines from his
chair and sat down. It would have been nice if Bill had been there to greet him with a
hot meal but maybe that was too much to have hoped for.
The young fellow arrived half an hour later, tossing a rucksack onto the floor
and slumping into the chair opposite. “What’s for supper, Dad?”
“It was your turn. Where were you?”
“Pursuing inquiries. Susi still at Miss Drost’s?”
“I dropped her off there a while back.”
“How can she stay there without money, huh? We agreed to bankroll her for
just one night, didn’t we? You didn’t give her any more money, did you? It’s the kind
of thing you’d do.”
“Of course I didn’t!”
“Then she’s slid back into prostitution, that’s what’s happened.”
Devoran felt himself flush. “She was never in prostitution! She worked at a fat
farm, for God’s sake!”
“Language, Dad.” Bill regarded him critically. “You look kind of exhausted and
defeated. How goes the investigation?”
He hesitated. He always had mixed feelings about involving Bill in his work.
But since this particular job was close to home, it was natural for the lad to be interested.
And surely he should encourage that interest; before too long Bill would be considering
a career himself, with luck. And there was nothing wrong with the RCMP as a
career.
“Listen, whatever I tell you stays within these four walls, right?”
“My lips are sealed.”
Devoran brought him up to date, concluding, “There’s a couple of men who’ve
been hanging around the marina this last few months. There’s the thickset fellow in the
bomber jacket — your Gran thinks he’s a Czech — and the little rat-faced guy Ferris,
looks like a jockey. You’re always hanging around the marina yourself. Know the two
I mean?”
“Sure.”
“Notice anything about them? Did they seem interested in Slade?”
“Dunno.” Bill thought about it. “They just stroll around, looking at the boats.
Plenty of people do that.”
“The Czech’s been seen quarreling with Slade.”
“Well, bugger me!”
“I wish you wouldn’t use language like that in the house, Bill.”
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 95
“It was a Canadian colloquialism. We must safeguard our native culture.
Shush!” Bill put his finger to his lips, rose to his feet and tiptoed to the door. He
paused, then jerked it open.
Mrs. Rooke-Challenger entered. “Glad to see you have your wits about you,
young Wilberforce! You need to step up security in this house, Devoran. I could have
been anybody.”
“What brings you here, Mother-in-law?” he asked resignedly.
“It’s time for a debriefing. No, there’s no need for you to tell me of your lack
of progress in this case. I happened to overhear your conversation with young Wilberforce.”
“How long were you listening outside, for heaven’s sake?”
“Long enough.” Her sharp gaze flitted around. “But first, I wish to lodge a protest.
I refer to your irresponsibility in housing the prime suspect in a murder inquiry with
a defenseless old lady in this village. The cells in Peterville would have been more suitable,
I’d have said.”
“Miss Sutcliffe is not a suspect.”
“Then you are sadly lacking in imagination, Devoran. I trust you will make alternative
arrangements for the hussy. Be that as it may, I have come to make my report.”
“Really, Mother-in-law, it’s very good of you, I’m sure. But you’re not a
member of the official investigation team. I wasn’t expecting a report.”
The old trout settled herself into a chair and took a notebook from her capacious
leather bag. “Today I made a preliminary investigation at the Public Library. I
have reason to suspect May Vinge, the so-called librarian and chairwoman of two
nebulous organizations rejoicing in the names of A: the James Spooner Appreciation
Society and B: the Noss Cove Arts Council.”
Devoran felt himself heating up. Had the dreadful old hag actually interrogated
the redoubtable May Vinge on his behalf? If word of this reached Jim Lockhart there’d
be hell to pay. “Suspect her of what, for God’s sake?”
“Did she cave in over exhibiting Pulled Down, Gran?” asked Bill.
“I set aside the personal matter of my painting in the public interests of probing
her weaknesses. ”
“And did she have any?” asked Bill.
“As do we all, even including myself. And we seek to conceal them. It’s human
nature. So, in my interrogation of Vinge I placed special emphasis on areas where
concealment was apparent to the trained eye. And there are two such areas. One: her
obvious reluctance to allow people access to the clandestine proceedings of the James
Spooner Society, and Two: her attempt to restrict the Art Exhibition to the work of a
chosen few. These are grounds for suspicion, Devoran. Grounds for suspicion!”
“What’s this about your painting?” he asked, seeking to change the subject. “I
didn’t know you painted.”
“You should see it, Dad! It’s great.”
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 96
“I believe I have some small talent, although I am no Sir Winston Churchill. But
all that is beside the point. What do you propose to do about the Vinge woman,
Devoran?”
“Do?”
“Are you intending to include her in your inquiries or must I do everything myself?”
“I have no reason to suspect her.” He felt suddenly exhausted, as he often did
in his mother-in-law’s company. Did she see him as a weapon with which to wreak
vengeance on Mrs. Vinge for an imagined slight? The whole thing was ridiculous.
“Whoever sabotaged the Ocean Dream, if sabotage it was, must have had a working
knowledge of boats. And a means of access to the marina at night, otherwise they’d
have been seen. That doesn’t sound like a librarian to me.”
The light of triumph gleamed in her fierce old eyes. “Not your average librarian
perhaps. But it sounds exactly like our Noss Cove librarian. I put it to you, Devoran,
that not only does Vinge have an excellent knowledge of boats, but she also has a
means of access to the marina at night.”
“The place is all locked up at night. I can’t see her climbing the wire fence.”
“She would use her key, obviously.”
“Her key?”
“If you’d taken the trouble to examine the interior of the marina office thoroughly
you’d have seen a chart on the wall. It shows the dock fingers and the names of
the people who have rented those fingers. Vinge is one such name. She has a boat
named Sappho moored at dock number B8. Therefore she has a key to the marina,
and she fulfills both your requirements for a suspect in the murder of Lionel Slade!”
Not for the first time, he felt himself bested by the old horror. “But what about
motive?”
“As yet we have no motive. So in that respect it could be anyone. I’m pointing
out a person with opportunity.”
“Just because you have a grudge against the woman—” he began riskily.
“I fancy you’re not too enthusiastic about her yourself. I heard about the fiasco
at that lecture of yours. The knee in the groin, Devoran! You can’t have forgotten
that.” She lowered her voice to an impressive murmur. “If we work together on this,
we can nail that woman to the wall!”
“Really, Mother-in-law, we must keep an open mind.”
“And I’ll tell you another thing. I borrowed a novel by James Spooner from the
library this afternoon and took the trouble to glance through it before coming here. And
I can assure you it is the most unmitigated drivel. There is absolutely no way one could
find four intelligent women alive who could truthfully claim an interest in such rubbish.
You take my meaning.”
“The Society’s really a front for a bridge club?”
She darted him a suspicious glare. “No. But it’s a front for something. I have
not yet made the connection between the Society and the brutal murder of Lionel Slade,
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 97
although I find May Vinge’s possession of a marina key very suggestive. Be that as it
may, the Society will bear watching. And I propose to watch it, mark my words! I
shall attend their next meeting.”
Devoran was conscious of a weight lifting off his shoulders. If the old fool intended
to waste her time with the James Spooner Appreciation Society — provided
she didn’t fall foul of the slander laws — she would be out from under his feet.
It was a fortunate circumstance.
WEDNESDAY MORNING: THE WRECK OF THE OCEAN DREAM
The following morning Devoran established a temporary incident room in the community
hall. Homicide — if it was homicide — was a rare event in this neck of the woods and
the Detachment spared no effort in installing furniture, phones and personnel. Lockhart
tore himself away from his comfortable office and paid them a visit, glancing around the
busy room with a modicum of approval.
“So what are they all doing, exactly?” he said after a moment.
“Checking up on the registrations of the cars in the marina car park. Running
checks on the people who were at the scene. Trying to locate Slade’s next of kin.
Tracing Slade’s recent phone calls. Organizing house-to-house inquiries among nearby
residents. Transcribing statements. All that stuff.”
Lockhart’s eyes gleamed with what Devoran took to be unshed tears of nostalgia.
“It’s been a few years since we had a murder out here. A proper murder, I mean.
Not one of your goddamned domestics. Good to see you’re on the ball, Eric. How are
the Ident guys doing?”
“I’m on my way to see them right now. Care to come along?”
Devoran’s boss was a slow walker — more of a waddler, really — so it was
some minutes before they reached the marina. A portable lockup shed had been installed
on the dock, containing everything moveable from the interior of the Ocean
Dream laid out on shelves. Officers were poking about among this stuff while others
examined the interior of the boat. Susi was nearby watching. Most of what they found
was unidentifiable: bits of boat equipment that needed an expert opinion. Anyway,
wondered Devoran, what were they expecting to find, really? A driver’s license left
behind by the saboteur? Some hope. Basically they were just going through the motions.
Susi approached tentatively, eyeing the rotund Lockhart. Devoran introduced
them. “Terribly sorry,” muttered Lockhart. “We’ll nail the bastard, don’t you worry.”
She said quietly, “It’s a bit too late for that now.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, it’s done, isn’t it? Done and done with. You can’t bring Li back. I just
want to find my box and get on with my life.”
“Box?” asked Lockhart.
Devoran explained.
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 98
“Yes, but don’t you feel the need for some kind of… revenge?” Lockhart
asked her curiously.
“For Lionel? I don’t know. There were things about Lionel I wasn’t too sure
of, by the end.”
Devoran found this difficult to understand. He’d always been sure of Veronica.
“How could you sail away into the Pacific with a guy you weren’t sure of?” he asked.
“At first I guess I was carried away with the idea of the freedom of the open
ocean; wind and waves and red sunsets and all that stuff. I was living on the boat by
myself in Victoria for a time last winter while Lionel was still living in town, and it was
almost as though it belonged to me. All I had to do was cast off, and I could be gone.
Then he moved aboard, and later we came here, and it was all getting a bit… domestic.
And there were little things about him that made me think.”
Lockhart’s ears pricked up. “Like what?”
“Oh…. I had to lie for him a couple of times back in Victoria. People would
come looking for him and I had to tell them he was in Kamloops or wherever, so they
wouldn’t come back in a hurry. Then sometimes I’d hear him ask people around the
marina if such-and-such a client had been looking for him.”
“And had they?”
“He didn’t have any clients by then; he told me he’d retired and passed them on
to someone else. So what he really meant was: is the coast clear? The last thing he
wanted, I reckoned, was anyone looking for him. That kind of thing. I suppose it happens
all the time in business, but I didn’t like it.”
“The people you lied to. Did they ever tell you why they wanted to see him?”
Devoran asked. “I mean, were they angry or something?”
“Not really. More concerned, I’d say. It only happened a couple of times.”
Devoran thought about it. Had Slade been on the run? It might be worthwhile
paying a visit to Victoria and asking a few questions. In fact it was imperative. The
solution to the murder lies in the character of the victim. Bill had said that once, in
portentous tones; he’d read it in some book. Maybe he’d take a run down to Victoria
tomorrow. Or better still, send Dobbin. She was much better at routine inquiries than
he was. If he went to Victoria, he’d get bored in no time flat and hole up in some pub,
thinking instead of doing.
There was a good chance anyone looking for Slade in Victoria would have left
their name and address at a marina office there. Provided they were on the level, or
course.
“Anyway,” he said, “You need the box with all your stuff. If we find the killer,
chances are we’ll find the box.”
“Maybe, maybe not.” An odd tone in her voice made him turn and look at her.
Her head was bowed.
“Listen, Susi, do you know something you’re not telling me? If you do, then out
with it, huh? It’s an offense to withhold information, you know that.”
Was she crying? Her head was turned half away. A feeling of helplessness
came over him. He wasn’t good at dealing with tears. Should he put his arm around
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 99
her in an avuncular gesture of sympathy? Or would that take him down some kind of
slippery slope? And Lockhart was there, no doubt alert to any impropriety. Good
grief, what a dilemma!
“Good morning.”
Thank God, it was Dobbin. She approached almost tentatively, avoiding his
eye. She looked a little hung over. He noticed Lockhart regarding her oddly, almost
speculatively.
The Inspector said, “Morning, Constable. Looks like you have everything under
control here, Eric. I’ll be getting back to Headquarters.” He waddled off toward
the marina entrance.
“Good to see him on his way,” Devoran observed, relieved. He wondered why
his boss had come in the first place. He’d shown very little interest in the progress of
the investigation. Was it because he had complete confidence? Probably not. There
was something else on Lockhart’s mind; maybe higher RCMP politics. “How did it go
with Ferris yesterday?” he asked Dobbin.
She seemed a bit hesitant. “Not bad. I wrote it all up last night. I think he’s
probably in the clear. He’s sticking strongly to the line about looking for a boat.”
“He doesn’t look like a sailor to me.”
“What do you expect a sailor to look like?” she asked rather curtly.
Clearly Dobbin’s fuse was short this morning. “More outdoorsy. Better set
up,” he answered lightly. “Calluses on his hands. Lines around the eyes from squinting
into the setting sun. White beard. That kind of thing. He wasn’t even wearing one of
those Greek fisherman’s caps.”
She sniffed. “Well, anyway, it’s all in my report.” She glanced at Susi. “Uh,
can I have a word with you in private, Sergeant?”
Devoran nodded to Susi and she walked away with obvious reluctance. “So,
Marsha. What is it?”
She said, “Ferris told me Royboy the hippie was on Slade’s boat on Saturday.”
“Doing what?”
“Odd jobs, apparently. A bit of electrical work. It seems Royboy’s the local
expert in such matters.”
“Slade hired him? With valuables on the boat?”
“I guess you have to trust somebody, when there are jobs you can’t do yourself.
And I expect Slade’s strongbox was well hidden away. Anyway, Slade knew
where to find Royboy if there was any funny business. The hippies couldn’t get far in
the boat of theirs.”
“I guess not,” said Devoran doubtfully. “Myself, I’d have stuck around if that
guy had been on my boat. He doesn’t strike me as the most solid of citizens.”
“Perhaps you’re a tad prejudiced by his lifestyle,” Dobbin said coldly.
He stared at her. “What’s got into you this morning, Marsha?”
“Uh, sorry. Bad night. So how are things going here?”
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 10
“We’ve found nothing. The men have been through all this stuff and Susi’s cast
an expert eye over it. Nothing of interest. I don’t see how there could be, really. I
don’t know what we’re looking for, apart from Susi’s box.”
“Let’s leave all this junk to the experts,” said Dobbin. “There’s something I
found out yesterday afternoon and I need to run it past you.”
She led him around the outside of the hull, near the stern. The morning was
warming up and the light mist had dispersed. Devoran relaxed. Just for a moment he
didn’t have any responsibilities. Dobbin was going to do the talking, which was fine by
him. He stretched luxuriously, watching a distant fishboat emerge from the Utley and
head for the open sea. This was much better than being stuck at the station in Peterville.
“Let’s talk about the second incident,” said Dobbin. “The time Susi woke up
and found the boat filling with water. It’s still a mystery. We thought somebody had
turned the sea-cock on but we couldn’t see how. Well, I think I know the answer.”
“I’m glad somebody does.”
“Here’s what we do know. Slade had been working on the boat together with
one or two of the marina staff. They’d been doing a big job on the engine and Slade
needed help; engines were not his particular field of expertise. In the course of the
work Slade disconnected the hose to one of the sea cocks. To do this, he’d have shut
the sea cock off, otherwise water would have come gushing in. He didn’t finish the job
because he’d found the hose needed replacing. But the sea cock was shut, so he
thought everything was safe. Susi arrived back unexpectedly. All was well, all evening.
They both went to bed. And during the night, water came pouring in.”
“That’s the way Susi tells it.”
“Now look at this.”
The hull was white above the waterline; below the waterline it had been painted
with a red anti-foul paint. The paint was already covered with a thin film of brownish
algae. The smooth curve of the underside was interrupted here and there by holes, each
less than two inches in diameter: the through-hull fittings. “Each of these holes has a sea
cock on the other side,” Dobbin explained for Devoran’s benefit. “And there are rubber
grommets where the sea cocks pass though the hull.” She indicated one; a rubber
washer about three inches in diameter. “Poke your finger in and run it round the inside
of the hole, Eric.”
“I don’t fancy it.”
“It’s all right. This one isn’t the head. It comes from the washbasin.”
“All the same….” Tentatively, he did as he was asked. As he expected, the
inside of the rubber grommet felt unpleasantly slimy. “So?”
“That’s your average through-hull fitting. Now take a look at this one.”
The grommet she indicated looked different. There was no slime inside the
hole; outside, the rubber was scored and chipped.
“Someone’s been messing with it,” he guessed.
“Right,” said Dobbin. “Now remember, Slade and a couple of men were working
on the engine cooling system. Slade needed a new length of hose to attach to this
sea cock; the old hose was perished. They hadn’t got the right type at the chandler’s
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 10
here so they sent for some from Victoria. Meanwhile the boat was sitting in the water
all safe and sound with the sea cock closed. People were coming and going, working
on the engine.
“During this period, which could have been almost any time on the Saturday
when the boat was being worked on, I reckon somebody reached underwater and
pushed a plug of some kind into that hole. A tapered wooden peg would do it. The
hole’s only a foot or so below the waterline. So now the hole is sealed on both sides;
the peg outside and the closed sea cock inside.
“Our mystery person’s next action is to slip into the engine room, just one of
several people coming and going. He turns on the sea cock. The water doesn’t come
in because of the peg. Then he goes home and waits for darkness. He returns in the
small hours when Susi and Slade are asleep aboard, lies down on the dock, reaches
underwater and removes the peg, and the water begins to pour into the boat. He goes
home to bed, mission accomplished.” She smiled at Devoran proudly. “That explains
why there’s no slime inside this fitting, and it explains how the water got into the boat.
What do you think of that?”
“Jesus,” he muttered, imagining himself trapped in a flooding cabin. “It fits.”
“So we have three possible murder attempts,” resumed Dobbin. “Or at the very
least, sabotage attempts. Each taking place at the weekend. What does that tell us?
Quite possibly we’re looking for a man who regularly works a five-day week.”
“Or the weekend thing could be a coincidence. It still could be a local resident
doing all this.” Now he was seeing himself standing, head back, breathing the last few
inches of air under the cabin roof as the waters rose around him. Screaming. Battering
at the woodwork. He tried to tell himself it was low tide and the boat wouldn’t sink
completely. But he wouldn’t have known at the time, would he? It was a suitable
nightmare to dwell on.
LATER WEDNESDAY MORNING: CONFRONTING THE JACKAL
Bill was on his way to catch the noon bus when a red Ford Fiesta slid to a jolting stop a
few yards away.
“Psst!”
He hurried to the driver’s window where the elderly driver was in the process
of uttering another Psst. “Yes, Gran?”
“Jump in, Wilberforce my lad! There’s not a moment to lose!”
It could be dangerous in the car with the old girl when there was not a moment
to lose. “Uh, I’m off to school, Gran. Dad’s getting a bit sensitive about truancy, as he
calls it. I’ve already missed the morning classes.”
“You’re not making sense, Wilberforce! This is a matter of life and death!”
Impressed, he climbed in, the old lady let in the clutch and the car bounded forward.
The ride that followed was best not committed to memory. He didn’t want to
risk distracting her, but after a while felt obliged to ask, “Where are we going, Gran?”
“Peterville,” she snapped, wrestling the car around a bend.
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 10
“Why?”
“You are probably not aware that the woman who calls herself Susi Sutcliffe is
at this moment somewhere ahead of us, making her getaway with whatever cash your
father has foolishly lent her. Together, no doubt, with any of Thelma’s valuables she’s
been able to lay her hands on.”
“Good grief, Gran, how did you find that out?”
“I questioned Constable Dobbin whom I came across preparing for a journey
to Victoria. She told me she had been obliged to allow the suspect access to her car,
against her better judgment, I think. I advised the constable to follow the suspect and
ensure that she went no further than Peterville, her stated objective. I could do no
more.”
“I thought it was Mrs. Vinge you suspected.”
“I suspect one and all, as I’ve told you before.”
“Does Dad know Susi’s on the lam?”
“I am convinced from the constable’s manner that your father connived at her
departure.” Time passed excitingly. “Aha! Here we are. We’ll park here.” She
swerved abruptly into the curb and switched off.
“It says No Parking, Gran.”
“For the guidance of fools who can’t think for themselves. Come on, now!
Follow me!”
The old girl could show a surprising turn of speed when she wanted to, Bill
thought. In no time they reached the square in the town center and she paused, head
questing this way and that like an African hunting dog scenting a wildebeest. Then she
was away again, plunging down a narrow alley, her cane beating a rapid tattoo on the
sidewalk, brushing pedestrians aside like dead leaves.
“The Bay!” she shouted over her shoulder.
Bill remained discreetly in her wake, prepared to disassociate himself if she
knocked anyone over. She was small but she was squat, with a low center of gravity,
an air of vicious determination, and a tendency to raise her cane threateningly if anyone
hindered her progress. This was an object lesson in getting from A to B, he felt. Dad
could take a few tips from the old girl.
“Whoa!” she shouted over her shoulder, stopping so suddenly that he almost
ran into her back. They’d reached the older streets dominated by the Bay. As he
swerved and his impetus carried him past her, she seized his arm in a viselike grip and
drew him into a doorway. “As I suspected,” she hissed. “Look at that, young Wilberforce!”
Her gnarled old finger indicated a couple on the far side of the street, visible
from the shoulders up above a row of parked cars.
“The Sutcliffe woman,” she remarked grimly, “and the unknown man in the blue
bomber jacket, possibly Czech. Two prime suspects plotting together. No, I take that
back. Crooks falling out. The plot thickens!”
Susi was leaning forward, her face close to the man’s, her expression intense as
she spoke. They were too far away to hear the words; but Gran was right. They were
not best friends at that moment.
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 10
Дата добавления: 2015-10-21; просмотров: 32 | Нарушение авторских прав
| <== предыдущая лекция | | | следующая лекция ==> |