The Floating Admiral - Agatha Christie [107]
Major Twyfitt sprang forward in consternation, as did the Superintendent. It is a bad thing for the police when a prisoner succeeds in committing suicide under their noses.
Rudge, however, got there first. “Well,” he said, “we’ll put you in safety for that ten minutes anyhow. Will you come with me, please?” Taking the other by the arm he led him from the room.
When he returned the Superintendent was telephoning frantically for a doctor, who was out. “Put him in a cell,” he said briefly. “Don’t worry, sir. We don’t need a doctor. I knew what he’d got in his left-hand coat pocket. I expected it. So I made up another similar packet, and changed them during that collision. Here’s his.” Rudge produced a small twist of white paper.
“But how did you know what his packet looked like?” asked the Chief Constable.
“I did a bit of spying on Sir Wilfrid last night, sir, through the blinds of his sitting-room. I saw him making it up, and I guessed what it was, and I knew it was his left-hand pocket because he had his hand in it when he came in. Sir Wilfrid’s just swallowed three tablets of bicarbonate of soda; that’s all.”
11
Major Twyfitt dropped back into his chair. Everyone seemed to have forgotten Walter Fitzgerald, who still stood by the mantelpiece in a dejected attitude.
“You knew last night it was Denny?”
“Not to say knew, sir. I’d suspected it for some time, ever since I interviewed him in his rose-garden. He seemed very eager to volunteer that he hardly knew the Admiral at all, and then, for a gentleman who lived right on the river, he seemed to know very little about the tides; I couldn’t quite swallow that. Then there were those rumours about bad blood between him and the Admiral, and what with him having been in Hong Kong at the time I thought he might possibly be mixed up in that business on the wrong side; besides, he was a bit too strong against the Admiral having been an innocent party. And though he remembered that Mr. Fitzgerald was handsome, he couldn’t remember whether he had a beard or not.”
“Then you were pulling our legs this morning, when you told us all your suspicions were directed against—someone else?”
“Sir, I never told you. I didn’t mention any name. I was quite sure in my own mind that it was Denny, but what was the good of saying so? I hadn’t any real evidence. At first I thought of arresting—someone else in Sir Wilfrid’s presence, with the idea that if he had done it he’d say so there and then. But that mightn’t have come off. Then last night, when I saw him making up that packet, I knew for certain it was him; so I thought I’d take a chance and arrest him. If it came off, well and good. If it didn’t …”
“You’d have been broken,” said the Superintendent with severity.
“But it did, sir. I thought somehow it would,” admitted Rudge, “if Sir Wilfrid thought he’d got the contents of that packet safe inside him.”
“Very unofficial, Rudge,” pronounced the Chief Constable. “Most unprofessional. But dam’ smart.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“So now what about Mr. Fitzgerald here? I think we’d like to ask him a few questions.”
“Fire away,” said Walter, turning round. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Thank God it’s all over. It’s been a nightmare, I can tell you. I knew you were after me.”
“Now …” said Superintendent Hawkesworth, and began to put his questions.
Fitzgerald’s tale of the night’s happenings exactly bore out Rudge’s reconstruction, except that he and Mrs. Mount had not returned to London that night. They had driven about forty miles and then turned the car into a wood and slept in it—so far as either of them could sleep. Mrs. Mount, as the days went by, had been more and more vehement that Denny should give himself up, and had even divulged some of the facts to her husband under the seal of confession; he had promised to join her in urging