The Floating Admiral - Agatha Christie [36]
“Here we are,” he said. “H’m. No address given, I see—just the outline of his career in the service. Gunnery, yes. China Squadron. Seems to have been a bit of a star-turn. Funny that he should have retired so young—I thought the axe was a modern invention. Anyway you ring up the Admiralty. If he’s the right man, they can probably tell you a bit more about him, or suggest how we can find out. Go ahead, Sergeant, get on to the Admiralty.”
Sergeant Appleton took off the receiver. The line was dead; the lamentable Emery obviously had failed to switch the telephone through. The sergeant set off to remedy matters, and took the opportunity to give the butler a piece of his mind.
He returned to find the Inspector seated at the writing-desk, deep in a fresh attempt to translate legal language into common sense. It was not really as difficult as he had fancied, on his previous and hurried inspection of the will. The estate of Admiral Penistone’s brother-in-law apparently was divided equally (apart from one or two small legacies) between Elma Fitzgerald and her brother. Until her brother’s death was established, she and her uncle were trustees for his share, the interest upon which, less a consideration to both of them, was to be put to the capital; on his death, the money went absolutely to her. As for her share, she did not receive the principal until she married, and until then her uncle and Mr. Edwin Dakers, of Dakers and Dakers, were trustees. The only remarkable clause was a provision that if she married without the written approval of her uncle, she retained only a life interest in her share, the money on her death going to a series of charities. The Inspector was rather gratified to find that, as he had suspected, there was no question of the Admiral having been her sole trustee; his recollection of the law was that such a situation was hardly possible. The document of course was a copy; Dakers and Dakers probably would know if it was a copy of a proved will, and it might be necessary, for formal purposes, to inspect the original at Somerset House. The sergeant could talk to Mr. Edwin Dakers. …
But the sergeant did not seem to be getting on with his telephoning, the fact of the matter being that he was far from certain how exactly one “rang up the Admiralty” and for whom one asked when one was in touch with that august department. The local exchange had not been particularly bright either, but was supposed to be making enquiries. The Inspector frowned, and glanced restlessly at the Evening Gazette which he had thrown down on the desk. He must have a careful look through the copy in the dead man’s pocket. The way it was folded might be suggestive, or there might be a marked paragraph. The Admiral would surely not have bought an extra one, knowing that his own would be lying in the hall, unless there had been something of special importance in it. The “news” did not look anything out of the usual: a “London Flat Tragedy” occupied most of the front page, together with an account of fresh trouble in Manchuria (Moscow, as usual, was said to be giving liberal help to the latest unpronounceable War Lord) and a picture of the bridesmaids at a wedding at St. Margaret’s.
The telephone bell rang. The sergeant, still apprehensive, took up the receiver. His expression changed rapidly to one of surprise.
“Who? Yes. Hold on and I’ll fetch—oh, very well. Who? Oh, yes, yes, just wait—” he beckoned frantically to the Inspector, who came quickly across the room.
“Who is it?”
“Miss—yes—I’m listening—Miss Fitzgerald.”
“Give it to me,” the Inspector demanded. “Come on, man.” The sergeant was scribbling illegible notes on the pad before him. At length and rather doubtfully he handed over the instrument. “Miss Fitzgerald? This is Inspector Rudge. I’m glad you’ve rung up. I want to ask you—”
“Sorry,” he heard in Elma Fitzgerald’s flattest tones, “I can’t wait now. I’ve sent you a message. And by the way, I’m not Miss Fitzgerald.”
There was a click as she rang off. The Inspector swore, and joggled the lever furiously up and down.