corridor until they came to a door marked in gilt lettering: “Colonel Arthur W. Vincent.” Captain Green tapped lightly on the door with his knuckles, a voice on the other side mumbled something that might have been an invitation to enter, and they went in. Green closed the door gently behind them.
“Mr. Fletcher, sir.”
It was a fairly large room with a lot of window space along one side. There were some solid chairs and a solid mahogany desk and a street map of Jamestown hanging on the wall on the right. There were some red-topped pins stuck in the map at various points, which might have been marking the scenes of crimes or trouble spots, or anything else if it came to that.
Colonel Arthur W. Vincent was sitting at the desk with a pen in his hand and a sheaf of papers in front of him. He was a little dried-up strip of a man with skin the colour of cold ashes. He did not look like a high-ranking police officer; he was wearing a rumpled brown cotton suit and he looked more like an office clerk or possibly the proprietor of a fifth-rate used-car saleyard. He had the keen, calculating, slightly shifty eye of a used-car salesman, and Fletcher’s immediate impression was that Colonel Vincent was not a man he would have trusted with half an ounce of boiled sweets—or fourteen grammes if you were using the metric system of weights and measures.
“Ah!” Vincent said; and he gave a smile that revealed some gold fillings in his teeth and looked about as genuine as a bottle of Japanese Scotch whisky. “So you are Mr. Fletcher. Please sit down.” He flipped a couple of bony fingers in the general direction of one of the solid chairs, and Fletcher walked over to it and sat down. Captain Green remained standing.
“I understand,” Vincent said, “that you came to report finding a sunken boat.”
“And five dead men.”
“Yes.” There was a sibilant hiss as Vincent spoke the word, as though he had held on to the final letter as longas possible, reluctant to let it escape. “Five men shot through the head. Is that correct?”
“It is.”
Vincent was playing with the pen, setting it up on end, allowing it to fall almost to the desk, and then catching it just before it could do so. It was rather like a cat playing with a mouse.
“Mr. Fletcher,” he said, “why were you diving out there? In that particular place.”
“I told the captain—”
“And now I should like you to tell me. You don’t mind?”
“Why should I mind?”
“Exactly. Why should you?”
“I was looking for the ship.”
“Oh, the ship. Yes, of course. And you found the ship, and the boat was there also?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you want to find the ship?”
“No particular reason. Just curiosity; nothing more.”
“You had been told about it?”
“Yes, of course. How else would I have known it was there?”
“How else indeed. And who told you?”
“Mr. Thomas.”
“Mr. Thomas, with whom you are lodging?” Colonel Vincent was very correct in his grammar.
“Yes.”
“And it was Mr. Thomas who took you out in his boat?”
“It was.”
“Do you do much skin-diving, Mr. Fletcher?”
“I don’t know what you’d call much. I do a fair amount of it.”
“I understand you are a writer,” Vincent said.
“Well, yes, I am.” Fletcher failed to see the point of all these questions. What possible bearing could such personal details have on the matter of the five dead men in the sunken boat? “But I don’t see—”
“Had the search for the ship anything to do with your writing?”
“No, not really.”
“This book that you told Captain Green you came here to write—what is it about?”
“I don’t know.”
Vincent let the pen fall and trapped it under his right hand as though arresting it in the act. “You don’t know?”
Fletcher was faintly embarrassed. “That is to say, I haven’t actually started on it yet. I’m still casting about for a subject.”
“And how long have you been
“Mr. Fletcher, sir.”
It was a fairly large room with a lot of window space along one side. There were some solid chairs and a solid mahogany desk and a street map of Jamestown hanging on the wall on the right. There were some red-topped pins stuck in the map at various points, which might have been marking the scenes of crimes or trouble spots, or anything else if it came to that.
Colonel Arthur W. Vincent was sitting at the desk with a pen in his hand and a sheaf of papers in front of him. He was a little dried-up strip of a man with skin the colour of cold ashes. He did not look like a high-ranking police officer; he was wearing a rumpled brown cotton suit and he looked more like an office clerk or possibly the proprietor of a fifth-rate used-car saleyard. He had the keen, calculating, slightly shifty eye of a used-car salesman, and Fletcher’s immediate impression was that Colonel Vincent was not a man he would have trusted with half an ounce of boiled sweets—or fourteen grammes if you were using the metric system of weights and measures.
“Ah!” Vincent said; and he gave a smile that revealed some gold fillings in his teeth and looked about as genuine as a bottle of Japanese Scotch whisky. “So you are Mr. Fletcher. Please sit down.” He flipped a couple of bony fingers in the general direction of one of the solid chairs, and Fletcher walked over to it and sat down. Captain Green remained standing.
“I understand,” Vincent said, “that you came to report finding a sunken boat.”
“And five dead men.”
“Yes.” There was a sibilant hiss as Vincent spoke the word, as though he had held on to the final letter as longas possible, reluctant to let it escape. “Five men shot through the head. Is that correct?”
“It is.”
Vincent was playing with the pen, setting it up on end, allowing it to fall almost to the desk, and then catching it just before it could do so. It was rather like a cat playing with a mouse.
“Mr. Fletcher,” he said, “why were you diving out there? In that particular place.”
“I told the captain—”
“And now I should like you to tell me. You don’t mind?”
“Why should I mind?”
“Exactly. Why should you?”
“I was looking for the ship.”
“Oh, the ship. Yes, of course. And you found the ship, and the boat was there also?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you want to find the ship?”
“No particular reason. Just curiosity; nothing more.”
“You had been told about it?”
“Yes, of course. How else would I have known it was there?”
“How else indeed. And who told you?”
“Mr. Thomas.”
“Mr. Thomas, with whom you are lodging?” Colonel Vincent was very correct in his grammar.
“Yes.”
“And it was Mr. Thomas who took you out in his boat?”
“It was.”
“Do you do much skin-diving, Mr. Fletcher?”
“I don’t know what you’d call much. I do a fair amount of it.”
“I understand you are a writer,” Vincent said.
“Well, yes, I am.” Fletcher failed to see the point of all these questions. What possible bearing could such personal details have on the matter of the five dead men in the sunken boat? “But I don’t see—”
“Had the search for the ship anything to do with your writing?”
“No, not really.”
“This book that you told Captain Green you came here to write—what is it about?”
“I don’t know.”
Vincent let the pen fall and trapped it under his right hand as though arresting it in the act. “You don’t know?”
Fletcher was faintly embarrassed. “That is to say, I haven’t actually started on it yet. I’m still casting about for a subject.”
“And how long have you been
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