Marazan (17 page)

‘Good evening, Captain Stenning,’ he remarked. ‘I am sorry that it has been necessary to disturb you at this late hour. My justification must be that I am, as you observe, working myself. As is Major Norman, Captain Stenning.’ He motioned me to a chair. ‘Will you sit down, Captain Stenning?’

I bowed to the man who was standing by the mantelpiece. He was a man of about my own age, and with one of the keenest expressions I had ever seen on a man. I began to sort out my ideas a bit. I had thought up till then that Scotland Yard was run entirely by a collection of superannuated police constables. It seemed that I was wrong.

I sat down in the easy-chair by the desk. I noticed with some amusement that they had put me in a strong light.

Sir David didn’t waste any time on preamble. ‘Now, Captain Stenning,’ he said, ‘I have asked you to come here because I want you to tell us what you know about the circumstances in which you were arrested. There is one point that I should like to make clear before you begin. That is that any statement that you may care to make to us is in no sense official. There is nobody taking down what you are saying—there is nobody within hearing but Major Norman and myself. I cannot say that nothing you may say will be used as evidence against you. I cannot say that, till I hear what your story is. At the same time, I cannot see at the moment any valid reason for bringing any charge against you other than the one upon which you were arrested—and which, I think, can be disposed of without any great difficulty.’

He paused for a moment. ‘Our position simply is this. A murder has been committed, a murder at which you were present, the consequences of which, I am told, you did your utmost to avert. I should be failing in my duty to the State if I were to neglect any opportunity of bringing the murderer to stand his trial. It is for that reason, Captain Stenning, that I want you to tell me what you know about this matter.’

He stopped, and I took my time before replying. He put me in rather an awkward position. I had taken it for granted that, if any action were to be taken in the matter, I should be charged in open court with having assisted in the escape of a convict from custody. In those circumstances I should have allowed myself to be guided entirely by Burgess. Now the circumstances were very different. Apparently they didn’t want to
bring me into court; they wanted me to tell them all about it on my own. Well, I was willing enough to do that so long as I could avoid telling them about Joan. I didn’t know how much they knew about her; I only knew that I wanted to keep her out of it as much as possible. After all, the part that she had played wasn’t important.

I played for time. ‘I know very little about the true facts of this murder,’ I said.

They didn’t speak, didn’t hurry me, but let me take my time. Sir David sat quietly leaning back in his chair, his hands clasped before him on the desk, meditatively staring at the ceiling. I was suddenly aware that my remark had been fatuous. I certainly knew more of the facts than they did, and it was up to me to tell them. There was no need, however, to lay stress on Joan.

‘I suppose you know that I helped Compton to get away,’ I said slowly. ‘I should do that again, of course. I was under an obligation to him.’

‘In point of fact,’ said Sir David Carter, without stirring or taking his eyes from the ceiling, ‘he saved your life.’

‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘After that, you would hardly expect me to give him up?’

‘In law,’ said Sir David imperturbably, ‘I should certainly expect you to do so.’

He reached across his desk, picked up a paper with a few pencilled notes on it, and turned to me.

‘I understand that after the accident to your aeroplane, Captain Stenning, you visited the house called Six Firs at the instigation of Compton. There you had an interview with Miss Joan Stevenson, who refused to believe that her cousin was at large in the woods and regarded you as an impostor. In some way you managed to convince her that your story was true, with the result that
you visited the house with Compton late that night, where he obtained food and clothes. I understand that you then attempted—unsuccessfully—to persuade him to return to prison. You then decided to set off to lay a false trail in the hope of engaging the attention of the police for a few days while Compton made good his escape; in this you were assisted by Miss Stevenson, who visited Salcombe under the name of Miss Fellowes to prepare the yacht for you. You put to sea upon Saturday the 9th, from Salcombe. Perhaps you would take up the story from that point.’

It took me a minute or two to recover from this.

‘There’s one thing I should like to add to that,’ I said at last. ‘Mr. Stevenson, Miss Stevenson’s father, had nothing to do with it at all, so far as I know. I don’t know what happened after I left. But while I was there the matter was entirely between Miss Stevenson, Compton, and myself. Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Stevenson knew of what was going on.’

He nodded. ‘That has already been made clear to us.’

I wondered who had made it clear, but refrained from asking. Whoever it was seemed to have told them all about Joan; there was now no reason for me to keep anything back. I started in and told them all I knew, from the time I left Salcombe till Compton was killed. They heard me without interruption and practically without any sign. I only caught one quick interchange of glances, when first I mentioned Mattani. It took me some time to finish my yarn, because I wanted to tell them everything, but at last I was through.

I stopped talking, and for a long time nobody said a word. Sir David sat leaning back in his chair, quite motionless, staring at the ceiling.

At last he spoke. ‘That account tallies very closely
with the one given to us this morning by Miss Stevenson,’ he observed.

I was relieved. ‘You have seen Miss Stevenson, then?’ I said.

He glanced at me curiously. ‘Miss Stevenson came to me this morning,’ he said. ‘She wished to make your position in this matter quite clear, Captain Stenning. Perhaps I may be forgiven for expressing the opinion that she came more in your interests than in the interests of justice.’

I couldn’t think of anything to say to that, and didn’t have much time to wonder exactly what he meant. Sir David nodded slightly to the man that he had called Norman, who took up the tale and proceeded to cross-examine me pretty thoroughly on the details of my story. He made me go over the account of Mattani that Compton had given to me; I searched my memory for details that I had already half forgotten in the stress of subsequent events. He was very anxious to find out in what way the stuff reached England, but I could give him very little information there. I told him about the rag and pliers that I had found on the beach, which seemed to point to transhipment to a smaller motor-boat. It was a theory that didn’t bear close examination, but it was all we could think of at the moment.

He finished his questions at last. I plucked up my courage then, and asked one on my own account.

‘I suppose you will want me to give evidence in court,’ I remarked. ‘Shall I be needed at the inquest?’

I saw Norman glance towards his chief, who sat motionless in his chair, staring straight ahead of him.

‘The inquest will be adjourned,’ said Sir David.

I felt that I was treading on thin ice, but I persisted. ‘I see,’ I said. ‘I suppose you’ll want me to give evidence
some time, though? I take it that you are putting forward a case against Mattani?’

‘That is a matter that will have to be considered rather carefully,’ said Norman, with an air of polite finality.

I was silent. The room became very still; there were none of those sounds in the building to which one is accustomed. The absence of voices, of the sound of passing feet, and of the rumble of traffic seemed to leave a noticeable blank. I glanced at the clock, and was surprised to see that it was half-past eleven. I was beginning to wonder irrelevantly for how long the sitting was to continue, when I was roused by Sir David.

‘Captain Stenning,’ he said. I turned towards him. ‘I imagine that you must be feeling very curious about this unfortunate matter. So much is natural. I trust that when you leave this building you will not allow your curiosity to run away with you. I must ask you to be discreet.’

‘I can hold my tongue, if that’s what you mean,’ I said.

He inclined his head gravely. ‘Exactly. We expect you to hold your tongue. On our part, however, I feel that we are under some obligation to you for the part you have played in this affair. We should show a poor sense of that obligation if we were to conceal facts that may be of some importance to you. I think I need hardly dwell upon the fact, Captain Stenning, that I think that you may be in some danger for the present. I am sure that your experience of the world will tell you so much.’

I nodded. That was one of the conclusions that I had come to already; that Mattani, wherever he might be, would be feeling a little peeved with me. It was surprising that he had not made a greater effort to prevent
me from giving evidence. I put that down to this: that when his men visited Marazan they had no orders regarding anyone but Compton. They must have expected to find him alone; it was probably beyond their calculations that he should have confided in anybody. They must have realised the position as soon as they found us together on the yacht; I have very little doubt that then they realised the importance of preventing my escape. The arrival of the police, however, had upset their plans; they had to stake everything on the chance of two good shots when the opportunity came. One had gone home, but mine had missed. It was certainly on the cards that they might try again.

‘I can see that,’ I said reflectively. ‘I should think the best thing I can do is to make out a written statement, isn’t it? You’ll want that later, whether I’m in a condition to give evidence or not.’

He smiled. ‘I should not put it quite like that, myself,’ he said. ‘However, I am inclined to think that there may be trouble, Captain Stenning. Briefly, I should anticipate an attempt to induce you to go to Italy, either with your own consent or without. I doubt if you are in any serious personal danger. I doubt if Baron Mattani would attempt another murder at this time; indeed, I should say that the murder of Compton was not entirely premeditated. However, I have no doubt that Mattani will be anxious to find out how much you know, how much you have been able to tell us. For this reason, I think he will be anxious to get hold of you.’

I did my best to look pleasant. ‘That sounds jolly,’ I said weakly. ‘How long do you reckon this is going on for? I take it that you will be bringing him to trial before so very long.’

He didn’t answer for a moment, but then he said:

‘That is a very difficult matter.’

I didn’t follow him. ‘Is it?’ I inquired. ‘Surely there’s enough evidence for him to stand his trial on?’

He shook his head. ‘I think that very doubtful,’ he replied. ‘You must remember, Captain Stenning, there is nothing to identify the launch that you saw with Baron Mattani—except your evidence. That makes a thin case, a case that needs further backing before it is brought into court. But even if the evidence were perfect, the difficulties would still be great.’

Norman nodded in corroboration. ‘The Americans have been trying to get him for a year,’ he remarked.

That startled me. ‘What for?’ I asked.

‘The charge that they have been proceeding upon,’ said Sir David, ‘is one of wounding with intent to kill. There is very little doubt, I think, that other charges would be preferred against him if he were to arrive in America in custody. Unfortunately, that appears to be a most improbable event.’

‘Good God!’ I said bluntly. ‘Do you mean he can’t be extradited?’

‘The difficulties are very great,’ said Sir David quietly.

I began to realise then the significance of what Compton had told me in the
Irene
. He had said that Mattani was useful to Il Duce. He was a Ras, and I knew enough of Italy to know that one doesn’t trifle with a Ras. He was editor of one of the Fascisti papers. I knew something of Fascismo through flying through the country, and through reading the
Corriere
. I could see that the difficulties of extraditing Mattani were likely enough to be—well, very great.

‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ I muttered.

Sir David eyed me keenly. ‘A charge of murder against Baron Mattani is a new thing,’ he said quietly. ‘The chain of evidence is not complete—at present. The
charge of smuggling drugs into this country is also a new one.’

He paused. ‘I can assure you, Captain Stenning, that if either of these charges can be upheld we shall see that he appears in England to stand his trial. In the meantime, I am sure you will be … discreet.’

They sent me back to my room and I went to bed, a little over-awed. Next day Burgess sent his bright boy along directly after breakfast, and I was driven out to Finchley in a taxi to answer my summons on the aeroplane charges. Morris was there on behalf of the firm; I managed to get in a word or two with him before the case came on. He was pretty terse about it all. The proceedings were purely formal. Burgess’s bright boy stood up and explained that owing to my absence from land on a yachting tour I had not been served with the summons, and hinted gently at the illegality of issuing a warrant for my arrest in the circumstances. He had too much sense to dwell upon this point, but he so worried the court with his veiled allusions that they fined me two pounds and sent me away with a flea in my ear.

Immediately the case was over the inspector who had brought me out asked me to return with him to the Yard. I had only time for a word or two with Morris, but promised to turn up and give an account of myself during the afternoon. At the Yard I was shown into Sir David’s office, who asked me to dictate a statement of the whole business. This took a considerable time, and it wasn’t till three o’clock that I walked out of the place a free man—and fair game for Mattani.

The thought depressed me. A month before I wouldn’t have cared two hoots about the chance of being shot at from round a corner; I should probably have welcomed such a diversion from the monotony of
my daily round. But now—it was different. Compton’s death had shaken me badly. One talks glibly of battle, murder, and sudden death; one takes the risk of all three with very little hesitation. But when one sees the results, it makes a difference.