The Floating Admiral - Agatha Christie [17]
“I’ve come to see Miss Fitzgerald,” Arthur Holland said. “And let me tell you I’m in a hurry, whoever you are. Here, Emery, go and tell Miss Fitzgerald I’m here, and be quick about it, will you?”
“Half a moment, sir,” the Inspector said, while a maidservant came out of one of the rooms opening into the hall, and began to whisper to the butler. “If you’ll excuse me, I want a word or two with you myself, first. Did this man tell you that Admiral Penistone has—?”
“Been killed? Yes,” the young man said. “Is that any reason why I shouldn’t see Miss Fitzgerald? She’ll need someone—”
“Beg pardon, sir.” Emery approached deferentially. “But Miss Fitzgerald’s away.”
“Away!” The exclamation burst from both men simultaneously.
“Yes, sir. She’s just had her bag packed, and driven off in her car, Merton says.” He indicated the maidservant in the hall. “Not ten minutes ago, sir.”
“Whew!” With an internal whistle the Inspector brooded on this new development.
CHAPTER III
By Henry Wade
BRIGHT THOUGHTS ON TIDES
STILL frowning with annoyance at the escape of this important witness, Inspector Rudge turned to his companion.
“If you’ll kindly step into the study, sir,” he said, “there are some questions that I’d like to ask you.”
“They’ll have to wait,” said Holland curtly, turning towards the front door. “I’m going to find Miss Fitzgerald.”
“No, sir!” There was a ring of authority in the Inspector’s voice that brought even the masterful Holland up with a round turn. Rudge was not going to lose two witnesses before he had done with them.
“I must ask you to attend to me first, sir, please. I shall not detain you longer than I can help.”
“With a wry smile, Arthur Holland followed the Inspector into the study and, declining a chair, leant his back against the tall mantelpiece.
“Well, what is it?” he asked. “Fire away.”
Rudge took out his note-book and made a show of preparing to take down vital information. He had often found this effective with recalcitrant witnesses.
“Your full name, sir, please?”
“Arthur Holland.”
“Age?”
“Thirty-three.”
“Address?”
“Lord Marshall Hotel, Whynmouth.”
Rudge looked up.
“That’s not your permanent address, sir?”
“I hope not.”
“Then may I have it, sir, please?”
“I haven’t got one.”
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