A Grave Waiting. Jill Downie
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—” Bert De Putron’s smile looked somewhat frayed, and his eyes avoided those of the manageress, “I have to take a break, right? So, around midnight I go to use the loo and get the meal left for me, microwave it, and bring it back to eat at the desk. But I’d hear anything, because of the buzzer on the door at night. It sounds through to the kitchen, and I couldn’t miss it, I’m a hundred percent sure.”
“Thank you, Mr. De Putron, that’ll do for now.” Moretti looked at Betty Kerr, who seemed a little more tight-lipped than when they had arrived. “Where are the crew members? In their rooms?”
“Yes. Ms. Letourneau has assured me she will cover the cost, and they had reserved a second night. In case it was needed, she said. But I thought I’d give you my sitting room for the interviews. It’s further away from the other guests, and one of the crew is — difficult.”
“I’ll start with the difficult one. If you could show me your sitting room, DS Falla can fetch Mr. Smith,”
Moretti watched Liz Falla follow Betty Kerr upstairs, and made his way to the door she had indicated. The manageress’s private space was comfortably but impersonally furnished, lacking individual touches such as photographs, suggesting someone who did not expect to stay around long. A few minutes later, he heard the strident approach of the valet, Martin Smith, and Liz Falla’s imperturbably cheerful voice. “Detective Inspector Moretti will explain what has happened, sir.”
“I should bleeding hope so!”
From the sound of the valet’s accent, he was a Londoner. From his appearance when he hove into view, he would have been well able to defend himself in a tight corner, of which there were doubtless many, given his loud mouth. He was short, but built like a Tiger tank, with shoulders almost as broad as he was long, and biceps that strained against the thin cotton of his shirt. He was as unlikely looking a personal valet as Adèle Letourneau was a housekeeper.
“Why the hell are we cooped up like fucking criminals?”
His small eyes bulged out in rage beneath an overhanging brow highlighted by a ridge of scar tissue, trophy of some past fight involving knives, and he moved close to Moretti, his proximity as intimidating as any verbal threat. Moretti bent down until their eyes were level.
“Mr. Smith, your employer has been murdered, and you are here to help us with our enquiries.”
He spoke quietly, but Martin Smith took a step backward as though he had been struck, and his monstrous shoulders slumped.
“Gawd, this is a friggin’ nightmare. When? Where? The pipsqueak in the corridor told us nothing.”
So the gossip was possibly confined to the night watchman. “Sit down, sir. The pipsqueak in the corridor did the right thing. Mr. Masterson was shot in his cabin somewhere around midnight. Where were you at that time?”
“Bloody here, wasn’t I. He should have let me stay on board. I told him, farting around in some fancy hotel was not my idea of a good time, but he wouldn’t have it. So here I was and here I stayed.”
“Did you spend any time with other crew members?”
“Two of them some of the time, but they kept talking to each other and I couldn’t understand what they were saying — they’re German, you know.”
“Yes. So, what did you do? Eat a meal, sit in your room — what?”
“The grub was good, I’ll say that, and the booze was being paid for, so I went heavy on the single malt. Took a fancy to it when I was prizefighting in Glasgow. Then I watched television, Aussie rules football. Love those blokes.” Martin Smith’s eyes misted over.
“The housekeeper and the chef describe you as Mr. Masterson’s personal valet. Is that another way of saying ‘bodyguard,’ Mr. Smith?”
If Moretti had expected the unlikely personal valet to weave and dodge the issue, he was wrong.
“If you mean was I watching his back, the answer is, yes.”
“I see. Do you carry a gun?”
“I did. I had one in Europe, and then —” watching Smith, Moretti was reminded of a two-year-old deprived of his favourite toy “— Mr. Masterson took it from me, just before we made the crossing here. I told him he was doing himself no favour, and I was only messing about.”
“What happened?”
“That ball of lard happened — the chef is who I mean. We had an argy-bargy, I pulled out my piece to scare him, just for a joke. He screamed blue murder, threatened to walk, and Masterson took it. For the time being, he said.”
“What type of weapon was it, and do you know where he put it?”
“In his safe, I suppose, I don’t know. It was a little beauty.” The rasp in the bodyguard’s voice became a caress. “Glock 17. Made in Austria. Very light, because it’s made of plastic, see? Comes to pieces like a dream. Brilliant.”
“Did you have a permit?”
“I didn’t, but I suppose he did. I wouldn’t know, not my problem.” Martin Smith threw himself back in the chair, and its joints groaned in response. “I warned him. ‘Don’t let down your guard,’ I said, ‘just because you’re in the back of beyond, that’s when they get you.’ He just laughed and told me to eff off. And look what’s happened.”
“Did he ever tell you what the threats against him were? Name names?”
“No, never, just told me to look out for anything. He was jumpier in Geneva, when the trip started, and then he eased up, more fool him. In his business, there’s never a moment when you turn your back.”
“His business?”
The expression in the bodyguard’s eyes was now a little less candid. “Wheeling and dealing, that’s all I know.”
“Arms dealing?”
“So I heard, but I wasn’t in on the midnight meetings, like his fancy housekeeper.”
“Ms. Letourneau was present at business meetings?”
“In on everything, that bitch. In and out of the sheets with all and sundry, but she wouldn’t give me the time of day.”
“So she was in and out of the sheets with other crew members?”
“Hell, no! We were dirt beneath her feet, we were.”
Moretti brought the interview to a close. “That’s it for now, Mr. Smith. Since we’re still examining the yacht, you’ll have to stay here for the time being. Let us know if there’s anything you need.”
“Some clean clobber’d be good, and I suppose the krauts’ll need some too.”
“We’ll arrange that.”
As the door closed on Martin Smith, Liz Falla started to laugh.
“Little shit’s right on the money, I’d say. But I know who he reminds me of. Popeye.”
“Same muscle-bound walk, yes, but not so cheerful.”
“Who do you want next, Guv?”
“The two crew members, separately, or, to quote Mr. Smith —” Moretti broke briefly into pseudo-Sondheim “— send in the krauts.”
The two Germans, Hans Ulbricht and Werner Baumgarten, were very different from Martin Smith. Both were post-graduate students who had taken a summer job to help pay for further graduate work. Both were in their late twenties, both came from Hamburg, and had happened to be in Geneva backpacking when they had seen Bernard Masterson’s advertisement. Only one of them, Hans Ulbricht, had previous experience sailing luxury yachts, but they were personable, and their intelligence combined with their physical strength and excellent English had appealed to Bernard Masterson, so he had hired them both. Moretti interviewed the experienced crew member first.