“Mr. Marshall, will you come up here, please?”
The man introduced himself. “I’m Inspector Marples and this is my assistant, Detective Sergeant Atkins.”
While the inspector told him they were looking into the disappearance of Walter Mills, and would like to know why he had Walter Mills’s things, Phillip Marshall could hardly keep from laughing. In fact, it was such a relief that he felt slightly hysterical.
“That’s easily explained,” he said. “Wally went up north to get a job when he left Mrs. Jones’s. He asked me to look after his stuff. Said he’d let me know when he got settled, and I could send it on to him.”
After more questions, the inspector produced the canvas holdall. “And perhaps you could explain these stains, Mr. Marshall?”
“That’s blood. I cut myself — see,” and he rolled up a sleeve to show them.
“You are telling us this is your blood on Walter Mills’s bag, Mr. Marshall?” the inspector asked quietly.
“That’s right. I cut myself working on my boat and it got on the bag,” he said brightly.
“So, you have a boat,” he said softly.
“Yes, it’s at Bunton’s yard, just at the bottom of the street.”
The inspector and the sergeant exchanged looks.
“I think we had better see this boat,” the inspector said.
Down in the yard they stood around looking at Phillip Marshall’s boat while he lit a cigarette and thought what clunks these coppers are.
“It’s just been painted and varnished, sir,” said the sergeant.
“It may seem strange, but I had noticed that, sergeant.”
Sergeant Atkins was bent over, pulling at something. He straightened up with a section of the floorboards in his hand.
“Look at this, sir,” he pointed to some stains faintly visible on the surface of the wood.
“I was wondering about that, sergeant,” said the inspector, “but you failed to notice something very interesting; the wood is unvarnished.”
“You don’t varnish floorboards,” Phillip said.
“I’m not interested in that,” the inspector said sharply. “Can you explain these stains?”
“Blood,” Phillip said impatiently. “I told you I cut myself and it went on the bag and the boards.”
“This wood shows evidence of a determined attempt to get rid of the stains; it’s been scoured, I should say...”
“With bleach,” Phillip cut in.
“Why did you want to get rid of the stains, Mr. Marshall?” the inspector asked quietly.
Phillip gave a laugh. “Why? Because I didn’t want blood all over the boat.”
Inspector Marples stared out over the depressingly misty vista of the Thames. He could see signs of any sort of a case slipping away and was turning to go when he asked casually, “Do you always keep your boat up here?”
“Yes, but I’ve got moorings now and I’ll...” Phillip’s voice trailed off as he realized where it was leading. But Inspector Marples was leaning forward like a long thin bird.
“You were saying, Mr. Marshall, that you have moorings.” He looked over the river at the boats tied up and then at the two float cans some distance out. “Would those be they, Mr. Marshall?” he asked, pointing.
“Yes, but as I said, I haven’t used them yet.”
The inspector gave a shrug as though it were of no importance. But as he turned to Sergeant Atkins, Walter had a feeling he was back on the scent.
“We’ll take the floorboard and the bag, sergeant, and get the lab to run an analysis on them. Keep yourself available. Mr. Marshall. We’ll be back here in the morning.”
As he walked home, Phillip’s first inclination was to take off. But they would soon catch up with him, he decided, and then it would be worse. Also, there was a chance that Inspector Marples might give up on the case, and then he wouldn’t have to disclose that he was Walter Mills. If the worse came to the worst and he had to tell them who he was, then he’d have to pick the moment before things went too far and they found out about Curly’s load at the bottom of the river. If there was one thing that scared him even more than Noreen and everyone at the Black Swan finding out about him, it was what Curly would do if the coppers dragged up that sack full of stuff.
Walter was in the boat yard early next morning and hung around for more than an hour waiting for the sound of footsteps on the wooden stairs leading down from the Embankment, when a river police launch roared in towards the wooden jetty. Inspector Marples and Sergeant Atkins jumped down and the launch turned away upriver.
“I think we’d better find somewhere to talk, Mr. Marshall,” the inspector said. So he led the way to the boathouse, and after he’d shut the door and sat down, the inspector came straight to the point.
“Our lab report shows that the bloodstains on the canvas holdall and the floorboard check out the same as those on the army records of Walter Mills. That was a deliberate attempt on your part, Mr. Marshall, to mislead the police. And your story about being in the merchant navy has checked out as equally false.”
This is it, Phillip thought, as the inspector paused to light a cigarette. There’s no way out of it. I’ll have to tell them.
“You can make it easier for yourself and for us, but especially for yourself, if you’re frank and tell us the truth,” the inspector said, giving him a thin smile. “Maybe it was an accident that killed Walter Mills and you’re afraid to say so. If you’re not frank with us, Mr. Marshall, I must warn you I shall apply for a warrant for your arrest on the evidence available and charge you with the murder of Walter Mills.” Thoroughly satisfied with himself, the inspector sat back. In his experience, if there was anything that scared a man into talking it was the threat of arrest.
Sighing audibly, Phillip reached up and slowly peeled the beard from his face. “I am Walter Mills,” he said quietly.
A profound silence settled on the boathouse. It didn’t last long. Inspector Marples seemed to explode upwards, and for nearly ten minutes remained almost completely incoherent at the thought that he was arresting a man for murdering himself.
When the inspector had calmed down sufficiently, Walter Mills told them why he had done it. He spoke eloquently of his love for Noreen Harper, and he appealed to the inspector’s better nature not to let his little masquerade become generally known, as this would most surely result in the loss of his fiancée. Walter Mills was smiling to himself as he laid it on as thick as he could.
But Inspector Marples had no better nature left; a beautiful case had dissolved from under his very nose. Jumping to his feet, he shouted, “This is the most outrageous example of a public mischief I have ever encountered. And if you think you’re just going to walk out of here free, you’re greatly mistaken,” he roared. “I’m going to charge you with a public mischief, impersonation, and anything and everything I can think of.” He dropped back in his chair, breathless, and stared unbelievingly at the unhappy, chinless face in front of him. “Get out,” he shouted suddenly, “get out or I’ll kill you with my bare hands.”
Walter Mills got to his feet hesitatingly. He had turned towards the door when it burst open as one of the flat-hatted river police charged in.
“We’ve got the body, sir,” he shouted excitedly.
Inspector Marples got slowly to his feet. I must keep calm, he told himself. At all costs, I must keep calm.
“Sergeant,” he said wearily, “this is Walter Mills. Take whatever you’ve got and begone.”
“I didn’t say it was the body of Walter Mills, sir. It’s...” Before he could say any more he was knocked to one side as two more flat-hats pushed in, carrying between them a dripping sack. They dropped it with a thud that shook the boathouse.