by J F Straker
‘And you expected Aunt Charlotte to fork out? You must be crazy.’
‘I know. But who else could I try? Mother hasn’t a bean of her own, and Dad — well, you know him. Aunt Charlotte was off on a holiday, there was just a faint chance she might be in a generous mood for once.’ He spread his arms in a gesture of despair. ‘But she never turned up, damn her!’
Desmond studied him with curiosity mixed with contempt.
‘You can hardly blame her for that,’ he said. ‘What did you do then?’
‘Caught the next bus home. What else could I do?’
‘So you knew from the start that Aunt Charlotte never caught that train,’ Desmond said slowly. ‘Why didn’t you mention it to the rest of us?’
‘How the hell could I? You’d have wanted to know how I knew, and I certainly wasn’t going to tell you that.’ Anger and irritation were overcoming prudence. Question had been piled on question, and it seemed that he was getting nowhere — nowhere, at any rate, that he wanted to go. ‘I’ve had about enough of this, Desmond. If you’re not going to help me, then say so. I want to know where I stand.’
In it up to the neck, Desmond thought to himself; that’s where you stand. But Michael in trouble could mean trouble for them all. He was a fool and a menace, but if possible he had to be helped.
‘All right, I’ll back you up,’ he said. ‘But next time I suggest you consult me first.’
Michael began to stammer his thanks. His relief was so great that it acted like a purge. His bowels and his knees felt weak, and he sat down abruptly. The hand that reached for the whisky Desmond offered him was shaking.
But the whisky helped to steady him, and presently he said, ‘What about Bruce? I didn’t mention that you’d picked him up on the way back. Will you?’
‘Not unless they ask me. Why should I?’
‘No.’ Michael took another drink and lit a cigarette. He said slowly, ‘Bruce was at the house around the time Aunt Charlotte was due to leave. He wouldn’t be too keen for the police to know that, would he?’
‘If you are suggesting he killed her think again,’ Desmond said impatiently. He wanted to be rid of Michael. The problem posed by Dulcie’s knowledge of his marriage was still unsolved, and it could not be shelved. ‘What motive would he have had?’
‘I fancy he wants to marry Elizabeth,’ Michael said. ‘Aunt Charlotte would have put a stop to that.’
‘Maybe. Look here, do you mind if we call it a day? It’s late.’
‘Of course.’ As he reached the door Michael hesitated. ‘I still have to find that money by Wednesday,’ he said diffidently. ‘I suppose it’s no use asking you to lend me fifty quid?’
Desmond was shaken by the question. Despite the other’s denial, he had been certain that it was Michael who had attacked Elizabeth that afternoon. It had seemed so obvious. Yet if he had done that — had stolen her key in order to get into the house and force the safe — why did he now need this money? It didn’t make sense.
‘And how do you expect me to lay my hands on that amount of money?’ he demanded, angry because of this new uncertainty. ‘I haven’t got fifty shillings.’
Michael nodded. The answer did not surprise him. ‘I just thought I’d ask,’ he said. ‘I’m getting desperate.’
He turned to go. There was a hang-dog air about him, a lack of spirit, that spoke more eloquently than words of his despondency. Desmond watched him thoughtfully. Then he said, ‘All right, Michael, I’ll scrape it together for you somehow. Not now — tomorrow. But for God’s sake watch your step from now on. Friendship is a beautiful thing, but you’re putting a damned heavy strain on it.’
Michael went, profuse of thanks, a new buoyancy in his step.
The door to Dulcie’s room was locked, but a slit of light showed along the bottom. Desmond knocked softly.
‘What is it?’ came the girl’s voice.
‘It’s me — Desmond,’ he said urgently. ‘I want to talk to you.’
There was a pause. Then she said, as coldly as distance would permit, ‘Well, I don’t want to talk to you. Not tonight.’
‘But this is important, Dulcie. It won’t keep.’
‘It will have to. Good night.’
There was the click of a switch, and the slit of light below the door disappeared. Angrily he rattled the handle.
‘Dulcie, you —’
Footsteps on the stairs reminded him of the proprieties. He hurried down the corridor, not wishing to be found by his father in the vicinity of Dulcie’s room. But it was not his father. It was Inspector Pitt.
‘Good evening, Mr Farrel,’ Pitt said. He looked tired. ‘I was told you had gone to bed, but I’m glad to see they were wrong. Can you spare me a minute?’
‘I suppose so,’ Desmond said, not very graciously. By the time he was through with the Inspector Dulcie would probably be asleep. ‘Come along to my room.’
Pitt followed him. ‘It’s about last Thursday, sir,’ he explained, declining the proffered drink. ‘Mr Michael Lane tells me he was with you that evening.’
‘Part of it,’ Desmond cautiously agreed. ‘I had to go into Tanbury, and picked him up on the way. That would be just after half-past five, I suppose. He was waiting for a bus near his office, about a mile this side of the town, and I happened to see him as I was passing.’
‘And then?’
‘We drove into Tanbury, and separated to do our shopping. I had expected him to come back to Milford with me, but when I met him again shortly after six he said he wasn’t coming. I think he wanted to have a pint or two at the George. So I left him. I had to be here by six-thirty.’
‘And were you?’
‘Near enough,’ Desmond said. He felt no qualms about the result of the interview. Only curiosity. A pity one couldn’t read the other fellow’s thoughts, achieve the satisfaction of knowing how convincing one had sounded.
‘Can you name any of the shops you visited?’ Pitt asked.
‘The official mind at its most suspicious.’ Desmond smiled, taking the sting out of the words. ‘Yes, I can name them all.’ He did so. ‘If you want to check I suggest you try the tobacconist. He’s our wholesaler.’
Pitt thanked him, wrote in his notebook, bade him goodnight, and made to leave.
‘Have I helped in any way?’ Desmond asked.
The Inspector smiled wearily. ‘It depends on your point of view, doesn’t it?’ he said. ‘Good night, sir.’
* * *
One of the documents Pitt had taken from the rifled safe was a copy of Charlotte Lane’s will. In it, as Valerie French had told the Sergeant, Elizabeth Messager was named as the sole beneficiary; but as the will was nearly three years old there was the possibility that it had since been altered or amended. The arrival on Monday morning of Mr Crumley, Charlotte Lane’s lawyer, was therefore welcomed by the police. The certainty that the girl was the only person to have a pecuniary interest in the woman’s death might help — though not, Pitt suspected, very considerably.
Since Elizabeth was still confined to her bed, Pitt and the lawyer came to her room at the hotel. Elizabeth welcomed them warmly; she had lost most of her fear of the Inspector, and was tired of her own society. Her husband had spent what time he could with her, but murder had proved to be thirsty work, and trade was brisk. She had thought that Bruce, who had so often protested his love for her, would be certain to pay her a visit. But although, according to the chambermaid, he had been in the hotel he had not tried to see her — had not even, so far as Elizabeth knew, left a message or asked after her.
But Alan had come. He had called early that morning, bringing with him a large bunch of chrysanthemums and a message of condolence from his father. Remembering what Desmond had said the previous evening, she had regarded him with new interest. But if Alan was in love with her he gave no sign; he was friendly and cheerful, but there was no trace of sentiment. Of the two, Elizabeth was the only one to betray embarrassment. She had no illusions about her looks, but it pi
qued her that that morning she was not looking her best.
He did not stay long, but Elizabeth continued to wonder about him until Mr Crumley swept him out of her mind with his talk of Aunt Charlotte’s will. ‘To my knowledge it is the only one she ever made,’ he said. ‘The copy you have there is quite in order, Inspector.’ He turned to the girl. ‘Do you wish me to read it to you, Miss Messager?’
Elizabeth assured him that she did not. She had no desire to be bored with legal jargon; the substance was all that mattered. ‘How much did Aunt Charlotte leave?’ she asked.
‘The exact figures are not yet available,’ he told her. ‘But I fear it will be less than you have perhaps anticipated.’
‘You mean death duties will take a lot?’
Mr Crumley shook his head sorrowfully. ‘I doubt whether there will be any death duties to pay.’
Pitt was as perplexed as the girl. ‘I understood she was a wealthy woman,’ he said.
‘Wealth is relative, isn’t it?’ the lawyer said. ‘But I fancy ‘was’ is the operative word here, Inspector. After she had disposed of the business Mrs Lane was worth somewhere in the neighbourhood of twenty-five thousand pounds.’
That was four years ago, thought Elizabeth. And Aunt Charlotte was extravagant, she would have made quite a hole in it. Even so, there should be more than enough for her needs. She would be able to travel, to have an income of her own, to be independent of Desmond. That last thought cheered her more than the others.
‘Mrs Lane was extravagant.’ Mr Crumley echoed her thoughts. ‘Recklessly extravagant. If she had been allowed to proceed unchecked there would have been no provision for the future.’ He looked somewhat guiltily at Elizabeth. ‘Fortunately — or perhaps I should now say unfortunately — I was able to persuade her to make that provision.’
‘How?’ Pitt asked bluntly.
‘By buying her an immediate annuity of eight hundred and fifty pounds,’ the lawyer said. ‘It was an uneconomic investment, and one which I was most reluctant to make. But Mrs Lane had no sense of proportion where money was concerned, and it seemed the only solution.’ He looked at the Inspector. ‘Oddly enough, once I had explained to her the provisions and limitations of the investment, she welcomed it. I had expected opposition, but she was almost childishly delighted and amused by it.’ He shook his head. ‘A most difficult and incomprehensible woman.’
‘I’m not very well up in annuities myself,’ Elizabeth said, smiling. ‘But I gather I shall have an income of eight hundred and fifty pounds a year. And there’ll be the house too, won’t there? And whatever Aunt Charlotte had in the bank?’
‘The house is still heavily mortgaged,’ Mr Crumley said apologetically. ‘But and this, I’m afraid, will come as a shock to you, Miss Messager — the annuity ceased with Mrs Lane’s death. You do not benefit in any way from it.’
‘You mean — there’s no money at all?’
‘There is, I believe, about twelve hundred pounds still invested. But that is all —apart from the house.’
Oblivious of what the two men might think, Elizabeth turned her back on them and lay staring sightlessly at the wall. She was filled with self-pity. For years she had endured life with Aunt Charlotte, had suffered her tantrums and her domineering ways, her selfishness and her often obscene affection. And for what? A thousand pounds, and a house she could never afford to live in. True, she had had no thought of reward when she had given her promise to Uncle Edward. But Aunt Charlotte had made promises too — promises, Elizabeth knew now, which her aunt had had no intention of fulfilling.
There were footsteps on the carpet, a murmured goodbye from Mr Crumley. A door closed. But Elizabeth took no heed. She was remembering what the lawyer had said — that Aunt Charlotte had been amused by the provisions and limitations of the annuity. Of course she had been amused! It was in keeping with her warped sense of humour, her cunning, to bind Elizabeth to her with the glittering prospect of future wealth, to fend off would-be husbands with the threat of disinheritance — and to hug to herself the secret knowledge that the prospect was a myth, the threat empty.
Chapter Ten
A Domestic Issue
‘I’m going out, Michael,’ Mr Lane said, shrugging his frail body into an overcoat. ‘Back in about half an hour.’
Michael nodded, concealing his relief. It was half-past four, three hours since Desmond had given him the money; for all that time it had been burning a hole in his pocket. Now was his chance to return it to the safe.
He went through to the outer office with his father, watched him go out into the dusk, heard the car start up and move off from the gravel front. Then, after assuring himself that the clerks were busy and unlikely to disturb him, he returned to the inner office. Closing the door behind him, he went over to the desk, pulled two bulky envelopes from his breast pocket, tore one of them open, and took from it a wad of one-pound notes.
Carefully he counted them; he had had no opportunity to do this before, they were as Desmond had handed them to him. He placed the last note on top of the pile with a sigh of relief. They were all there — fifty of them. Then he slit open the second envelope, revealing a further bundle of notes. These he left in the envelope; he had counted them before, twice over.
He reached into his pocket for the leather case which, fastened by a slender chain to a trouser button, contained his keys. But as he snapped back the catch he gave a grunt of dismay, allowing the case to slip from his hand. He remembered now; the key wasn’t there. His father had borrowed it on the Saturday and had forgotten to return it.
The telephone began to ring. For a moment he did not heed it, but stood frowning at the money on the desk. Then, as he reached for the receiver, a voice behind him said, ‘Quite a tidy little sum you’ve got there, Mr Lane.’
He turned sharply. Inspector Pitt stood by the door, the ginger-haired Sergeant beside him. ‘Hadn’t you better answer that?’ Pitt said, nodding at the receiver.
Michael walked round to the other side of the desk and lifted the receiver. The caller was demanding particulars of a sale; but the file was in the outer office, and he did not want to send for a clerk. He gave what information he could, aware all the time of the bundles of notes on the desk and the inquisitive eyes of the two detectives.
As he replaced the receiver he said, scowling to hide his unease, ‘Do you usually walk into private offices unannounced?’
‘Not usually.’ Pitt strolled across to the desk, picked up the bundle of loose notes, and began riffling them idly. Michael’s uneasiness increased as he watched him; there was something disturbing about the Inspector’s calm assurance. ‘Hard up for a few quid, Inspector?’ he asked, his voice a little too sharp. ‘Sorry I can’t slip you one or two of those. They belong to the firm.’
‘So I imagined, sir.’ Pitt put down the notes and picked up the full envelope, peering into it. ‘Would it be convenient for you to come back to Milford Cross with us now, sir? There are one or two matters we’d like to discuss with you.’
‘It wouldn’t be at all convenient,’ Michael said, his heart beating a shade faster. What the devil was up now? ‘My father is out, and I can’t leave the office until he returns. Either we talk here, or you’ll have to wait.’
Pitt put down the envelope and walked over to the electric fire. ‘That’s all right, sir,’ he said pleasantly. ‘We’ll wait.’
No, thought Michael, that you won’t do. Not if you intend waiting in here. That was something he hadn’t bargained for, and he had been a fool to suggest it. He shuddered, involuntarily conjuring up a vision of his father walking into the office, with the money still on the table and himself under the surveillance of two detectives. That would put the lid on it.
‘My father may be some time,’ he said. ‘But I don’t suppose anything is likely to crop up now that the clerks can’t deal with. I’ll come with you now, Inspector. The Law mustn’t be kept waiting, eh?’
He forced a smile. ‘If you’ll wait outside for a few minut
es I’ll be right with you. I just want to tidy up these papers and put the money in the safe.’
‘Thank you,’ Pitt said. ‘But if you don’t mind we’ll wait in here.’
He did mind, but it would look odd to protest. Nor would it be wise to prevaricate further. His father had said half an hour, but he might well be back before that. He had to get them away quickly.
‘As you wish,’ he said casually, and began to sort the papers. It was the money that presented the difficulty; he could not put it in the safe, and to pocket it would certainly rouse their suspicion. Yet he could not leave it on the desk. Or — why not pretend to leave it there? Go out with them to the car, and then, on the pretext that he had forgotten something, dash back into the office and stuff the notes in his pocket? He was not under arrest; they would not restrain him forcibly.
He put on his overcoat and walked to the door. ‘Ready?’ he said.
Pitt nodded. As he passed the desk he tapped the bundle of notes with the back of his hand. ‘Forgotten this, haven’t you?’ he said.
‘No.’ Damn them! Why did they have to be so bloody officious? What business was it of theirs what he did with the money? ‘I don’t forget that much money, Inspector.’
Sergeant Watkins was examining the envelope containing the rest of the notes. ‘Looks like these have been carried about in a breast pocket,’ he said to no one in particular. ‘They’ve got that bent, creased appearance.’ He handed them to Michael with a sly smile. ‘We have to show off occasionally,’ he apologized. ‘Gives the public confidence.’
Michael almost snatched them from him. He picked up the money from the table and stowed the lot away in his pocket. ‘I’m taking it with me,’ he said curtly, aware of their curiosity. ‘My father has the key to the safe.’
Angry at the way in which fate had contrived to trap him, he followed them out to the car.
They did not talk on the journey to Milford Cross. Michael accepted their silence with relief; it gave him time to think. But thinking, he found, was profitless; he could plan no defence against the unknown.
