The Floating Admiral

The Inspector’s eyebrows lifted, and he opened his mouth as if to argue the point but, changing his mind, licked his pencil and wrote down, audibly:

“No permanent address.”

After a moment’s thought he continued:

“Occupation?”

“I’m a trader.”

Rudge looked slightly puzzled.

“Commercial traveller, sir?”

“Good God, no! I trade in raw materials—rubber, jute, ivory—that sort of thing.”

“In London, sir?”

Holland writhed with impatience.

“They don’t grow in London, man. I’m in England now, fixing up markets.”

“Ah!” The Inspector felt as if he were getting nearer the bone. “Then will you tell me, sir, in what part of the world you get your raw material for the London market?”

“I didn’t say the London market. I said I was in London to fix up markets—London’s only a centre, the markets may be in any part of the world.”

The policeman’s irritatingly stupid questions were drawing more information out of Arthur Holland than he had intended to give.

“Quite, sir; but you haven’t answered my question. In what part of the world do you yourself get the material for which you are trying to find a market?”

“Oh, wherever I think the going’s good at the moment,” replied Holland airily. “Burma, Kenya, S.A., India—I move about.”

Holland hesitated.

“It won’t be very difficult for me to find out, sir,” said Rudge quietly. “Better for you to tell me.”

The reply came slowly—almost unwillingly:

“China.”

“I see, sir. And no particular or permanent address in China?”

“No.”

Inspector Rudge whisked over a page and started afresh.

“Now about last night, sir. Were you at the Lord Marshall last night?”

“Yes, I was.”

“You arrived at … ?”

“I got to Whynmouth just before nine.”

“Ah; by the express?”

“Yes.”

“From London?”

“Yes.”

“And you spent the evening … where?”

“In Whynmouth.”

“You didn’t come out here to see your young lady?”

“I knew she was dining out. I stayed in Whynmouth.”

“Very patient of you, sir. You remained in the hotel?”

“I had a stroll by the sea after dinner. I went to bed early.”

“Perhaps there would be someone who would be able to confirm what you say about your movements, sir?”

The Inspector’s voice was casual—too casual. Holland’s eyes narrowed.

“Are you suspecting me of killing the Admiral?” he asked harshly.

“Oh, dear, no; oh, dear, no. Why, I didn’t even know of your existence till an hour or so ago. Funny, isn’t it? No; that’s just routine. We like to know—and if possible to confirm—the whereabouts of everyone in any way connected with the deceased at the time of the crime. I just thought it possible you might know of someone who could confirm your statement.”

“How can anyone prove whether I was in bed or not? I happen to make a practice of sleeping alone. Funny, isn’t it?” quoted Holland with a sneer.

“Ah, then you know the crime was committed after you went to bed?”

Holland stared.

“How the devil should I? I’ve only just heard of it.”

“Quite, sir; quite. Like me only just hearing of you. Now about Miss Fitzgerald. Have you any idea where she’s gone?”

“Not the slightest.”

“But when you were dashing off to find her just now, you must have had some idea of where to look.”

“She might have gone to London.”

“And you might be able to find her in London?”