Part 16 (1/2)
”Roberts himself. Came lounging into my office this morning and had the nerve to tell me, in front of Jenkins and Miss Clarke, that I was making a great mistake to press Kane, and that he'd like me to know he'd told him not to let himself be hustled. Darned cheek, I call it.”
”He said that, did he?” Joe stared up at his son frowningly. ”Roberts thinks Silas was murdered, Paul.”
”He thinks too much. What's it got to do with him, anyway? Anyone would think he was investigating the crime instead of that beefy superintendent.”
Joe said, moistening his lips, ”I suppose he's interested. He was first on the scene, wasn't he?”
He hesitated, and moved a fork on the table, and studied it. ”I wonder whether he saw anything-anything that might give him an inkling--”
”Of course not!”
”How do you know?” Joe said, glancing up momentarily.
”Good Lord, if he'd seen anything, he'd have told the police! What would be the point of keeping it back?”
”I don't know. He's a queer chap. Never can make him out, quite.”
”Well, I wish he'd stop poking his long nose into what doesn't concern him!” said Paul sharply.
”I'm all for doing a deal with his firm, but I'm about fed up with having him cropping up at every turn! I suppose you mean he thinks I killed Clement. He can think what he likes, but I can tell you this much! It'll take a cleverer man than Friend Roberts to bring Clement's death home to me!”
”Gently, gently!” Joe said, looking round apprehensively. ”Don't forget you're in a public restaurant, my boy!”
”I don't forget it, and I don't care who hears what I say!” retorted Paul.
Joe rose and picked up his hat. ”You've let this appalling affair get on your nerves. Much wiser to say as little as possible. Are you coming straight back to the office?”
”No, I'm going down to the harbour to see Fenwick about that last consignment,” snapped Paul.
”Oh yes! Quite right, my boy: a breath of fresh air will do you good. Blow away the cobwebs, eh?”
Paul deigned no reply to this but walked out of the restaurant to where he had parked his car and, getting into it, drove off in the direction of the old town.
He found his quarry in conversation with a couple of old salts at the end of the stone jetty. Some fis.h.i.+ng smacks, with sails furled, lay at anchor in the harbour, with kittiwakes and herring gulls wheeling and circling above them; and a quant.i.ty of lobster pots decorated the jetty. A small tramp steamer and some rowing- and motor-boats, dipping and rising with the slight swell, were the only other craft visible.
Paul Mansell, concluding his business with Mr. Thomas Fenwick, lingered for a few moments, watching a kittiwake swoop down to the water and rise again. A drawling voice spoke at his elbow.
”A fine day, Mansell.”
Paul turned, a spasm of annoyance contracting his features. ”Oh-good afternoon! I didn't see you.”
”I often take a stroll down this way,” said Oscar Roberts, leaning his elbows on the low stone wall before them and gazing out across the wide bay. ”Kind of peaceful. Say, you don't have much s.h.i.+pping here, do you?”
”No, very little nowadays. You won't find much use for those things,” replied Paul, indicating with a faintly contemptuous smile the field gla.s.ses which hung round Roberts' neck.
”You never know,” said Roberts. ”I get a kick out of watching the gulls. Wonderful things, aren't they? Ever watched them through gla.s.ses?”
”No, I can't say I have. Not much in my line.” He paused and added with an attempt at cordiality: ”About that deal, Roberts; I've just been having a talk with my father. He is confident he can handle Kane.”
Roberts had raised his field gla.s.ses and focussed them on the opposite headland, some two miles across the bay. ”If you'll pardon me, I wouldn't advise you to handle Mr. James Kane too much. I've a notion it won't pay.”
Paul's face darkened. ”What do you mean by that?” he demanded.
Roberts still kept his gla.s.ses trained on the opposite headland. ”Oh, just one of my hunches!” he said amiably. ”I'd leave that young man alone, if I were you.”
His gla.s.ses raked the white cliff gleaming on the other side of the bay. ”Seems extraordinary what you can pick out with these things, doesn't it? I can see the whole line of the cliff path over yonder, and the very spot where old Mr. Kane went over the edge.” He lowered the gla.s.ses and turned to Paul. ”Like to take a look?”
”No!” Paul said angrily.
Oscar Roberts regarded him with a faint smile. ”Say, is anything wrong? You sound kind of put out.”
Paul met his look and held it. ”Not in the least. What should be wrong?”
He took the gla.s.ses which Robert was still holding out to him and focussed them on the headland. ”Yes, a very fine pair,” he said in his normal voice. ”I see Kane's speedboat's tied up to the landing stage under the cliff. Do you know if he's entering for the race next week?”
”So I believe,” answered Roberts. ”Why?”
”Oh, no reason! Seems a bit callous, considering everything. Hullo, someone's going out in the boat!”
”That'll be Kane himself, trying her out, I fancy. We'll have a look at his form.”
”I'm afraid I've got something better to do than waste my time watching Kane handle a speedboat,” replied Paul, giving back the gla.s.ses.
Roberts took the gla.s.ses and looked through them. He said suddenly: ”That's not Kane! That's the boy!”
Paul Mansell was preparing to walk away, but he stopped. ”Timothy? I say, isn't that a bit dangerous?”
”I'll say it is! The durned little fool!”
Paul said uneasily: ”You know the current's very strong here. I don't believe that kid's got any right to take Kane's boat out. Do you think we ought to do something? I mean--”
”Sure I think we ought!” Roberts said briskly. ”Can you drive one of these things?” He pointed at a small motorboat tied up alongside the jetty.
”Well, no, I can't say I ever have, but I dare say--”
”Hold these gla.s.ses, then. Guess I can manage,” Roberts said, and, thrusting the gla.s.ses into Paul's hands, ran towards the boat, and lowered himself into it. After a quick inspection he lifted his head and shouted: ”By the Lord's mercy she's full up!” and cast off.
Paul saw him thread his way between the fis.h.i.+ng-smacks to the mouth of the harbour and went back to watch the speedboat's progress.
Timothy was heading across the bay towards the harbour, steadily gaining speed. Through the gla.s.ses Paul could see the froth of foam about the Seamew's lifting bows and just the top of Timothy's head as he crouched over the wheel. The roar of the engine sounded across the water; Paul guessed Timothy to have opened the throttle to the full and bit his lip.
Nearer at hand Roberts' borrowed motorboat chugged to meet the Seamew.
Mr. Fenwick came along the jetty and said: ”What's up, Mr. Mansell? Who's that gone off with Bob Aiken's boat?”
”It's that blasted kid from Cliff House, monkeying about with Mr. Jim Kane's Seamew! ” Paul replied. ”He'll capsize her for a certainty!”
Mr. Fenwick smiled indulgently. ”What, Mr. Timothy? He's all right, Mr. Mansell. He won't do no harm. He's more like a fish than a boy, he is.”
”He's got no right to be in that boat. Anything might happen!”