The Floating Admiral - Agatha Christie [42]
He came out again, drove back, cursing the silly necessity of having to go three miles out of his way on every journey and, returning to Rundel Croft, got out the punt once more. Poling across to the mooring-post, he took his measurements.
From the bottom of the hitch to the end of the rope was eight feet, and, allowing for the rope used in surrounding the post and making the hitches, and for the spare end, you got another three feet. That brought the whole length of rope on the post to eleven feet. Add four feet nine inches, and you got a total of fifteen feet nine inches only. Two feet three inches of rope still remained unaccounted for.
Rudge, clinging affectionately with one arm to the post while he made his measurements, and digging his toes well in to prevent the punt from drifting off and leaving him like a monkey on a stick, shook his head at this. Then he took the cut end of the painter in his hand and considered it attentively. He had been right. This was no clean cut like the other. A sharp knife had been used, but the rope had parted gradually, the strands loosening out under the strain and one final strand having ravelled out beyond the rest.
He was left with his new puzzle. Why should anybody need a bit of rope only a couple of feet long? It could hardly have been used to tie anything up, for the thickness of the rope meant that nearly the whole of this length would be taken up in making the knot. Well—it was one more riddle.
He pushed off from the post and took up the punt-pole once more. That piece of rope ought to be found if possible. But probably it had merely been thrown into the river, and if so, it would have gone out to sea by this time. Or (since the ridiculous Whyn flowed both ways) it might have gone up-stream after the Admiral. That did not seem to be a very promising line of research.
No message of any kind had been received at the house during his absence, and not quite knowing what to do, he wandered into the Admiral’s study. There he found the sergeant, who, after considerable back-chat with the local exchange, had succeeded in getting through to the Admiralty and was trying to explain to a languid voice at the other end what department he wanted and whom he wished to speak to. The Inspector took over the instrument.
“This is the Whynmouth police,” he said, in a peremptory tone calculated to convey that, though the Navy might be the Senior Service, the Law was more important still. “We want information about the career of Admiral Penistone, retired, late of the Chinese Squadron, and now living at Lingham. Will you kindly put me on to the proper person at once. The matter is urgent.”
“Oh!” said the voice. “What do you want to know about him? I could look up his record for you, of course, I—”
“I don’t want that,” said the Inspector. “I want to speak confidentially to somebody in authority—and the quicker the better.”
“Oh!” said the voice again. “Well, I don’t know. You see, everybody’s out at lunch, I think. One o’clock, you know. Look here. I think you’d better ring up again in an hour or two and ask for Extension fifty-five—they’ll probably be able to tell you something there, don’t you know. I’ll send them a chit about it.”
“Thank you.” The Inspector slammed the receiver down and, after allowing the statutory thirty seconds, took it off again.
“Number please,” said the exchange.
“Look here, miss,” said Rudge. “Have you got a London telephone directory? You have. Good. Would you look up the number of Messrs. Dakers and Dakers for me? They’re solicitors in—wait a moment—in Lincoln’s Inn. Yes, I’ll spell that. That’s right, Dakers and Dakers. It’s rather urgent.”
“I’ll r-r-ring you,” said the exchange.