The Twenty-Third Man Read online

  ‘Attwood?’

  ‘A boy at home. Before we went to live on Santa Catalina, you know.’

  ‘And Attwood thought you a coward?’

  ‘Well, he didn’t really, of course, but he was always trying to get under my skin. Just because he went to school and I didn’t – not that I didn’t want to, mind you! – he thought he could say what he liked. So when Emden caught up with me after I’d ducked him in the bay and gave me a hiding – he punches, you know – I mean, he did – I didn’t let on. So my father didn’t know. So he didn’t kill Emden. So Q.E.D.’

  ‘I see. And your mother?’

  ‘My mother? Oh, no, really! You can’t imagine her sneaking up behind a man and sticking a knife in his back, can you?’

  ‘No, I cannot. Tell me, Clement – boys know this sort of thing – how easy is it to obtain possession of one of those knives the islanders use? Can one buy them?’

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen any for sale, but I’m mostly on the beach. I don’t get pocket-money, you see, so there’s nothing for me to buy. My parents get me most things I ask for, though. Anyway, I’ll find out from my friends and let you know.’

  ‘Why don’t we give Clement pocket-money?’ asked Theodora Drashleigh, surprised but not offended by the question. ‘For two reasons. On Santa Catalina Island, which is our home, there is nothing to buy. Everything we need, except some of our food, is sent to us from London. Here, we do not wish to encourage Clement to go into the town. It is as simple as that.’

  ‘Do you know that Emden struck Clement?’

  ‘Struck him?’

  ‘Punched him.’

  ‘Good gracious, no!’ There was a pause. ‘What had Clement done?’

  ‘Ducked him.’

  ‘Clement is a very good swimmer.’

  ‘People object to being ducked, even by very good swimmers.’

  ‘Yes; Clement is high-spirited. Boys will be boys.’

  ‘An euphemism, surely, for “boys will be pests”. But that is of no importance at the moment. What kind of souvenirs can be purchased here?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Mrs Drashleigh, with unexpected shrewdness, ‘don’t tell me! I know what you’re after! Native knives!’

  ‘Exactly. Do you possess one?’

  ‘No, but Pentland does.’

  ‘Does?’

  ‘Oh, yes, that’s the point. You must not think me lacking in intelligence. He still does, so, you see, his was not the knife you found buried in Mr Emden’s body. Oh, but he might have possessed two such knives, so my argument has no point. Have you spoken to Mrs Angel? If Emden struck Clement, which would be our motive for murder, hers would be that wretched bird.’

  ‘Bird?’ said Mrs Angel, in reply to Dame Beatrice. ‘Oh, you mean Talkie. But I told you about that.’

  ‘I did not realize that Talkie was a bird. Were you fond of it?’

  ‘You must not imagine that I killed that dreadful man, Talkie or no Talkie,’ said Mrs Angel earnestly. ‘But, of course, I was fond of it! Talkie was a rare specimen, a black oyster-catcher. I spotted him on the beach at Puerto del Sol. We became great friends. He was a charming fellow, greedy, impudent, and cunning. Then that beast killed him. I was livid with rage. But I did not know it had happened at the time when it did happen, otherwise you could have condemned me at once. I would kill anyone who injured a bird. After all, we are descended from birds, are we not?’

  ‘And from reptiles,’ said Dame Beatrice, contriving to look like an alligator and at the same time contorting her mouth into a bird-like beak. ‘Now, who else had a motive for compassing the death of the brute-apparent, I wonder?’

  ‘That horrid child Drashleigh,’ said Mrs Angel, investing the words with venom.

  ‘Yes. I know he had had a misunderstanding with Mr Emden, and got the worst of an encounter with him.’

  ‘Misunderstanding, indeed! He snooped on Emden, and Emden did not present a pretty picture! I believe the frightful boy blackmailed him!’

  ‘I understood that Emden struck the boy for ducking him when they were swimming together in the bay.’

  ‘I know nothing about that. It would have frightened Emden. He could not swim. The beach shelves steeply. In two strides one is in thirty feet of water.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Dame Beatrice. She sought out Clement, and found him prodding the earth in the hotel garden. He did not look up, although he must have heard her footsteps on the path. She seated herself on a bench beneath a tree and eyed the back of his head. Clement soon gave way in the war of nerves.

  ‘Oh, hallo,’ he said. ‘I say, it’s hot. It’s hotter here than on Santa Catalina Island. Can I fetch you an ice or a cushion or something?’

  ‘No, thank you, Clement. You need not trouble to find out whether I can purchase an island knife, either. I have information that your father possesses one.’

  ‘My father?’ He swung round, still in a squatting position, and looked up at her. ‘Does he? I didn’t know that. Wonder whether he’d buy one for me?’

  ‘I should think it extremely unlikely.’

  ‘Well, there’s one thing,’ said Clement, defiantly. ‘If my father’s got one, it can’t be his knife that was sticking out of rotten old Emden’s back.’

  ‘How do you deduce that the knife was sticking out of Mr Emden’s back? You mentioned it once before, I noticed.’

  ‘Well, wasn’t it? “Stabbed in the back.” It’s almost a proverb or something. I mean, you’d have a job to stab a man in the chest if he saw you coming. If anybody came at me, to stab me in the chest, I should pick up a chair. He’d look pretty silly stabbing the seat of a chair!’

  ‘Clement,’ said Dame Beatrice with unwonted severity in her tone, ‘kindly seat yourself beside me on this bench. We must have no secrets from one another. That is to say, you must have no secrets from me. Answer my questions truthfully.’

  ‘I’m not going to sit on any benches,’ said Clement. ‘And I’m not a liar.’

  ‘Oh, yes, you are – both the one and the other.’ Before he realized what was happening, she had taken his wrist in fingers which seemed to the boy to be made of steel, and had jerked him to his feet. He gave a yell of anger, but the next moment he was seated beside her and was rubbing his wrist. ‘Now’, she went on, ‘for the questions, and don’t imagine that I shall let you go until you have answered them to my satisfaction.’

  ‘Suppose I can’t?’ He spoke sullenly, and without looking at her.

  ‘You will be able to. First, since you get no pocket-money, why were you able to hire mules for yourself and Chiquito to make the journey to the cave of the dead kings? Quickly, now.’

  ‘I – I had some money then.’

  ‘Stolen?’

  ‘I – you can’t steal off your parents! Anyway, they shouldn’t keep me so short.’

  ‘The money came from Mr Emden.’

  ‘It didn’t! I took it off my father’s dressing-table. There’s always loose change he takes out of his trousers’ pockets at night. I sneaked in, first thing in the morning. He was asleep, so I helped myself. Why shouldn’t I?’

  ‘Your morals are no business of mine. I shall get your father to confirm your story, of course.’

  ‘All right, then! The money did come from Emden. It was hush-money.’

  ‘What were you to keep secret?’

  ‘Shan’t tell you. It’s no business of yours!’

  ‘You knew your father possessed an island knife, didn’t you?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘When did you – shall we say – borrow it?’

  ‘It wasn’t me who killed the old swine!’

  ‘That, at least, is the truth. No boy of your age would have had the strength to drive a knife in as far as that was driven in.’

  ‘Oh, wouldn’t he!’ said Clement, annoyed. ‘Just you feel that!’ He flexed his biceps.

  ‘Buen Dios!’ said Dame Beatrice, prodding the slight bulge on his upper arm. ‘And now tell me whether you ha
d not examined the bodies in the cave when you told us that they totalled twenty-four.’

  ‘Oh, you win!’ said Clement disgustedly. ‘That was when I spotted that one of them had a knife in his back.’

  ‘We make progress. Look here, Clement: do you realize that until you tell everything you know you may be in very great danger? While you keep back information you are, perhaps, the only menace to the killer. Once all is known, you will be of no more interest to him than anyone else. Use your intelligence, child.’

  ‘I’ll – I’ll think about it,’ said Clement. ‘May I go now?’

  ‘Of course.’ She watched him walk towards the terrace, kicking a stone before him, his hands in his pockets and his lips pursed (she guessed) in a whistle of indecision. She remained where she was. Clement reached the terrace, gave the stone a particularly vicious kick, and turned back

  ‘It’s only this,’ he said. ‘That knife in Mr Emden’s back belongs to Mr Peterhouse.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I was with him when he bought it. It had a nick in the handle that you couldn’t mistake. Did you notice it when you saw the body?’

  ‘Yes, I did. What did it remind you of? – the shape of this nick, I mean.’

  ‘It’s like a crescent moon.’

  ‘Yes, I noticed it particularly.’

  ‘Does Mr Peterhouse know you noticed it?’

  ‘No, but he is going to be told. Anything more?’

  ‘No.’

  He began to turn away, and then swung round again. You understand why I told you I didn’t know whether you could buy an island knife, don’t you?’ This time he walked, whistling cheerfully, to the terrace and leapt up the steps.

  ‘Our young friend’, said Mr Peterhouse, appearing from behind a bush, ‘seems to have removed a weight from his conscience, doesn’t he?’

  ‘This time, the weight was on his mind. He has transferred the burden to me. I, on my part, propose to pass it on to you. When did you lose your island knife?’

  ‘What do you mean? I hope you’re not telling me that my knife was found in Emden’s back!’

  ‘That is what I am telling you.’

  ‘But it’s impossible!’

  ‘Why?’ But she felt she knew the answer.

  ‘Why? Because, dear lady, my island knife is still in my possession. I can show it you if you wish.’

  ‘I should very much like to see it.’

  ‘I’ll get it at once.’

  When he brought it, Dame Beatrice saw what she had expected to see. On the black hilt of the knife was a whitish nick the shape of a crescent moon.

  ‘You have been framed,’ she said, giving him a frightful leer. ‘Or, rather, there was an attempt to create an illusion that you are a murderer. And, of course,’ she added thoughtfully, ‘it could be so.’

  ‘What could be so? You don’t really think …?’

  ‘What don’t I really think?’

  ‘That I would do such a dastardly thing as to kill Emden and then fake a new knife to look like the old one.’

  ‘And why don’t you think I might think that?’

  ‘For one thing, you would not be safe if I really were the murderer. There are no witnesses to this conversation.’

  ‘That’s where you are quite wrong,’ said Clun, stepping from behind the bush which previously had sheltered Peterhouse himself. ‘I’ve heard every word. And I’m inclined to think, you know, my dear sir, that Dame Beatrice has got something there. It must have been the easiest thing in the world to nick that second knife and pass it off as the original one.’

  ‘I have more brains than that, you young ass. And don’t call me your dear sir, you wretched little gaol-bird!’

  ‘Here, steady on! Don’t kick a man when he’s down.’

  ‘But that is by far the most sensible time to kick him,’ said Dame Beatrice. ‘Ask Mrs Lockerby’s brother. He will tell you.’

  She walked away, leaving the two men scowling at one another. Clun capitulated.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to rile you. What’s your theory about the murder? The D.B.E. has got it into her head that it’s one of us, you know, but personally I plump for one of the dagoes. Seems far more likely to me, especially as I hear, on reliable authority – i.e. the chambermaid on my corridor – that Emden was inclined to spree about with the local ladies. No Spaniard, however mixed his blood, is going to stand for that.’

  ‘I am inclined to agree with you, Clun. I accept your apology, although I don’t think your joke was in the best of taste. I don’t see why you and I (who must, I imagine, be suspected, as Dame Beatrice has this bee in her bonnet about the English tourists) should not exercise our wits to find the killer. What do you say?’

  ‘Nerts!’ said Clun forcibly. ‘Don’t be a silly old josser. I’m not sticking my neck out. I don’t want an island knife, chipped hilt or not, in my back, I can assure you, and that’s what’s likely to happen if inexperienced amateur sleuths, among whom I count myself, begin trying to identify murderers.’

  ‘I am not an old josser,’ protested Mr Peterhouse. ‘All the same, I see your point of view.’

  ‘Quite, quite. After all, what’s one D.B.E., more or less, compared with our valuable selves? Let Dame Beatrice do the detecting.’

  Dame Beatrice had guessed the turn the conversation would take when she left the two men. She went into the lounge and saw Mrs Angel seated at one of the small writing tables. She took the nearest armchair and fixed her sharp black eyes on the back of the scribe’s neck.

  Mrs Angel, flicked over the pages she had written, read them through, folded them, and placed them in an envelope which was already addressed. Dame Beatrice noticed that she had not used the hotel note-paper but some thin airmail sheets which she tore from a large-sized writing-pad. Having stamped her correspondence, she put it into her handbag.

  ‘A very interesting continent, South America,’ said Dame Beatrice, as Mrs Angel stood up.

  ‘South America?’ Mrs Angel blinked at her. ‘I’ve been writing letters without using my spectacles. I shan’t be able to see a thing for the next twenty minutes. Yes, I suppose it is. They have some most wonderful birds which I should very much like to see in their wild state.’

  ‘The giant condor of the Andes?’

  ‘Well, yes. I was thinking more of the brilliant-plum-aged birds of the tropical forests. The condors – well, one might not be in the best position to appreciate how interesting they are.’

  ‘That is very true. It must be a grisly experience to realize that rapacious birds are waiting for one to die.’

  Mrs Angel gave her a very direct glance.

  ‘Are you going to sit here for a bit?’ she inquired. ‘I had thought of doing so.’

  ‘Good. One or two things we’d better straighten out. I take it you don’t make much progress in your search for Emden’s murderer.’

  ‘It depends upon what you mean by progress.’

  ‘I see. Close as an oyster, eh? Are you really any nearer a solution?’

  ‘People will pop up from behind bushes when I am in the garden, you know. It makes an investigation of murder very difficult. It is so confusing to discover that the Owl has overheard one’s conversation with the Pussycat, and the Fly one’s remarks to the Spider, not to speak of the Owl’s having taken in what one said to the Fly.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Mrs Angel looked as puzzled as she sounded. ‘I know you’re a very clever woman, and if what you say is overheard, then I take it that you mean it to be so. What are you after? To get some of these people mad at one another in the hope that one of them will shout out something indiscreet and provide the clue you’re looking for?’

  ‘That could happen, of course, but, if it did, it would be a by-product, so to speak, of my intentions. No; I am working on a question of motive.’

  ‘But there are enough motives among our little colony to crowd a raft,’ said the fresh, young voice of the American
girl. ‘I could give you most of them myself.’

  ‘You eat fried chicken,’ said Mrs Angel. She got up and walked out, throwing ‘Disgusting!’ over her shoulder.

  ‘Well!’ said the girl. ‘What eats her? It’s all my fault, I guess. If Pop has said once I shouldn’t horn in on matters that are none of my business, he’s said it two million times. If I had a dollar for every time I’ve had my ears slapped down for just that one little thing, I would be the proud possessor of two Grand right now. I’m terribly, terribly sorry, truly, if I crossed your line.’

  ‘It appeared to me that Mrs Angel welcomed an excuse to leave me. What are these motives for murder of which you speak with such confidence?’

  ‘I guess you will have chiselled them out of folks by now, but here goes: Pop Peterhouse and his precious orchids …’

  ‘One moment!’ Dame Beatrice fished out a small notebook. ‘Mr Peterhouse and his orchids. This may or may not be new to me, but as I desire no Beatrice (except myself) who, like a lapwing, runs close to the ground to hear our conference, I propose that we adjourn to some secluded spot. I perceive that you are carrying a towel. That, surely, indicates a desire to bathe. Are you a swimmer? Could you bathe from a boat on the bay?’

  ‘Surely. That’s a swell idea.’

  ‘I doubt it. The tides are slight. We will go to Villa Tendresa by car, and hire the boat there. Is there anyone you would care to have go with us?’

  ‘No, no. Give me five little minutes, and I’ll be right back.’

  ‘Meet me in the Plaza de Toreadores, then. It is the easiest place from which to hire a car. One has a choice there, and can attempt to avoid those vehicles whose coachwork is held together by string.’

  It was a delightful day. The sunshine, even in the Plaza de Toreadores, which was at sea-level, was tempered by a breeze. Dame Beatrice chose her vehicle and astonished the driver by preferring to stand in the sun while she waited, instead of sitting in the car or remaining in the shade of one of the dusty trees which cloistered all four sides of the Plaza. Bits of paper blew about and a lounging group of youths made remarks in the island Spanish. There was not a girl to be seen at that time of day until the young American turned up to be greeted by Latin wolf-whistles and scandalous invitations.