Death and a Snapper (The Inspector Felix Mysteries Book 6)

by R. A. Bentley

  They returned to their office.

  'I'd murder a cup of tea,' said Felix, leaning round the door. 'Any chance of a brew, Dolly?'

  'What I'd like to know,' said Yardley, 'is how the Englishman got in with them in the first place?'

  'He was a Marxist while at Oxford, remember,' said Felix. 'After he was reported dead he may have slipped away and joined the Bolshies. That might have been the plan all along.'

  'We're told he was a Marxist,' said Rattigan pedantically.

  'All right, Teddy, I agree we only have it at second-hand. Nor does it mean he still was one when he died. People change, after all. Maybe he didn't like what he saw out there and offered his services to the SIS. A dangerous game but it happens. In fact, it fits rather well when you think about it.'

  Rattigan nodded thoughtfully. 'Well yes, I can see that, I suppose. What are we going to do next?'

  'To tell the truth,' said Felix, 'I don't know. All suggestions gratefully received. Dewsnap's drawn a blank, by the way, which suggests they came in by irregular means – probably on a fishing boat or something – and now they've gone to ground. We've circulated their picture and descriptions, so we'll just have to hope someone spots them. Until they do, we're stumped. We could really do with talking to Grant, and I'm going to push for that. In the meantime we'd best get back to the fraud case for now. It's gone on for long enough, goodness knows.'

  'How about if we each take home a copy of the last words,' said Rattigan. 'Inspiration may strike. Ah! Tea and biccies.'

  'Sir,' said Nash, when the others had gone. 'As there's not much doing at the moment, any chance of a couple of days off? To get married, sir.'

  Felix swung round in astonishment. 'Good heavens, John! What is it, a week?'

  Nash grinned sheepishly. 'Nine days actually, sir. I asked her this morning. I didn't expect her to say yes straight away. Or at all, come to that. We were going to wait awhile but it occurs to me she'd be safer if we were married. Grant's not likely to interfere with her if he knows she's got me for a husband. I'll need to talk to her about it obviously.'

  Felix looked thoughtful. 'You may be right, but you won't be able to work properly if you're worried about her, especially when she's out photographing. I suggest you hold your fire for a week or two and leave her where she is. My parents won't mind; they like her. She'll want that long anyway, to plan the wedding, by which time it's quite likely I'll have talked to Grant. If I can just get him alone I can warn him off. And, of course, congratulations! Are you going to tell the others?'

  Chapter seven

  Arthur Bollington, Head Butler at Coneybrook Hall, entered the kitchen with measured tread. 'There is to be a meeting, Mrs Cooper,' he announced, 'a working luncheon.'

  'For how many, Mr Bollington?' enquired Cook.

  'Twelve, including His Lordship.'

  'That's a lot. What's it about?'

  'I am not at liberty to divulge that information, Mrs Cooper. The subject matter is to remain secret.'

  'Humph! Tell that to the boot boy,' said Mrs Cooper cynically. And what about the menu — is that a secret too?'

  'No, I have it here.'

  Mrs Cooper scanned the page with a practiced eye. 'When's it for?'

  'Monday.'

  'Today is Saturday.'

  'So I believe.'

  'Can't be done. Not in the time.'

  Mr Bollington looked down his nose at her. 'It is not graven in stone, Mrs Cooper. No doubt you may modify the ingredients as necessary.'

  'Well oysters are out for a start.'

  'And what is the meeting about, dear?' said Lady Coneybrook, glancing up from her book.

  His Lordship, The Right Honourable Viscount Coneybrook, Secretary of State for the Home Department, satisfied himself there were no servants in earshot before answering. 'Security, my dear. Those damned Bolshevists.'

  'The ones who shot that man in a nightclub?'

  'It was a restaurant, but yes.'

  'What a pity. Had it been a nightclub you could have closed them down. You'd have enjoyed that.'

  'I should not have enjoyed it. I should have been doing my duty. You would not wish to see immorality flourish.'

  'No dear, I should not wish that. Who is coming to this meeting?'

  'Representatives of MI5, SIS, Special Branch, and New Scotland Yard.'

  'In the persons of?'

  'Smart for MI5, Paige for SIS, Blenkinsop for Special Branch and Timpson for Scotland yard.'

  'That old bore.'

  Lord Coneybrook permitted himself a smile. 'He is a little dry, I'll grant you, but capable. It is unfortunate that he is retiring.'

  'When is he going?'

  'Imminently. Which is a shame, for he has already achieved some success. A trap was set and one of these people captured. Another killed himself.'

  'Killed himself?'

  'Cyanide. They appear to be desperate men.'

  'They must be. There were also women in the party, I believe.'

  'There were woman with them, yes.'

  'According to the newspaper article, a party of policemen attempted to intervene. They were dining at an adjacent table.'

  'Unsuccessfully, yes. Let us hope Smart's people can do better. I am sure I need not stress, my dear, the necessity of keeping the nature of this meeting secret. The servants are not to be informed.'

  Lady Coneybrook sent for her secretary. 'Where am I on Monday, Sophie?'

  'The organ fund committee in the morning, madam, and sewing for Slovenia in the afternoon.'

  'That will not do. I wish to be out all day.'

  'You have Mrs Donaldson on Tuesday. I don't suppose she'll mind my bringing her forward.'

  'Then please arrange it. Tell me, Sophie, do you ever patronise nightclubs?'

  The secretary smiled. 'From time to time, madam.'

  'See any immorality?'

  'Not knowingly, madam. I should imagine the opportunities are somewhat limited, compared with, say, a house party.'

  Her Ladyship nodded. 'That is what I supposed. That will be all, Sophie, thank you.' She turned as the secretary reached the door. 'Not our house parties, surely?'

  'I couldn't possibly comment, madam.'

  They laughed.

  '"It is not graven in stone, Mrs Cooper,"' intoned Sarah Cox, Kitchen maid, strutting solemnly across the boot room.

  Billy Griffin paused in scrubbing the mud off a heel. 'Who said that? Bolly?'

  'Who else?'

  'Silly old git. Got a broomstick up 'is arse, that one. Pull it out and 'e'd collapse in an 'eap, like one of them dolls.'

  Sarah giggled. 'You shouldn't say arse to a lady; it's not nice.'

  'You ain't no lady. Want to hear something?'

  'What?'

  'Giss a kiss and I'll tell you.'

  'Is that like spies and stuff?' said the Third Footman, laying out the cutlery with military precision.

  'They're not just spies,' said the Second Footman. 'They spy on spies and catch 'em. I reckon it's about them Bolshies; the ones in the paper. Evil, they are.'

  'Who told you anyway?'

  'Got it off Edna, didn't I? She heard His Lordship telling Bolly. What was Goodchild doing in here?'

  'Dunno. I told him good morning but he didn't say nothing. Funny bloke. Looks like he's been dead a week.'

  'Probably exhausted, running round after His Lordship.' He stood back and admired their handiwork. 'Looks nice don't it?'

  A lazy Sunday afternoon. Miles Felix with his feet up, reading the newspaper, Connie curled beside him, dozing over a magazine.

  'This is all right, eh? Domestic peace.'

  'Mmm, not even Mrs Fawcett's dog.'

  'Best make the most of it, I suppose. The calm before the storm.'

  'You'll be all right; you can just push off to work.'

  'I'll do my bit, my dear, never fear — crawl home exhausted from a hard day's detecting and give the infant his bottle. In fact, I might remind you that as of this moment I'm the res
ident expert.'

  'Her bottle,' corrected Connie. 'It was Daisy told me, you know, about the feeding and changing.'

  'She did?'

  'That first weekend at your mother's. She told me quite a lot about you.'

  'Little sneak. What else did she say?'

  'Oh, nothing too incriminating.' She yawned sleepily. 'One wonders what they find to do there, John and Clare. They're such typical Londoners.'

  'Lots of long walks, apparently, festooned with cameras.'

  'In this weather? Brrr.'

  'Brrr? This from the woman who seduced me in a snow-girt hut. Marriage has softened you my dear.'

  'I did not seduce you. You lured me there on purpose!'

  'I remember it perfectly. You were practically incandescent with lust.'

  'Well you don't, because the snow had gone by then. It was quite a nice day.' She smiled in recollection. 'It's such a shame they've got the Grant business hanging over them; it must really take the gilt off it. Although I can't believe he'll be a threat once they're married.'

  'That rather depends on what she's got on him. She won't necessarily have told John everything. In fact, I'll bet she hasn't. I'll be happier when I've spoken to the fellow, and not entirely so then.'

  'No sign of a meeting?'

  'Afraid not. I'm pretty sure he's avoiding us.'

  The telephone rang.

  'Oh confound them!' complained Felix. 'I'm sure they can smell the roast. No, don't get up; I'll go.'

  'It might not be work.'

  'Bet it is.' Putting on his carpet slippers he plodded into the hall. 'Yes? . . . Oh, hello sir. To what do I owe the pleasure . . . Ah! So it's happened . . . No not really, only that it's there; though it makes sense, I suppose . . . Yes it is . . . Well, one can't be sure of course . . . Yes, I'll warn them. See you tomorrow, sir.'

  'Trouble at t'mill?'

  'That was Polly. They've found a bomb at Coneybrook Hall. Didn't go off, fortunately.'

  'Where is that?'

  'Surrey. The Home Secretary's private residence. And if those darned Russians aren't responsible I'll eat my hat. He wants us there first thing.'

  'Well at least you'll get your Sunday dinner. I must go and do the veg.'

  *

  'That'll be it,' said Rattigan, pointing ahead. 'There's a constable.'

  'Seen him.'

  They turned in at the gate and made themselves known.

  'Just follow the drive round, sir. You can't miss your way.'

  A great many cars were already standing in front of the Hall, an early Palladian mansion in unappealing grey stone. Superintendent Polly was waiting for them on the steps.

  'I thought I'd best warn you that Ronald Grant is here for MI5. Got a couple of fellows with him.'

  'More senior than we thought, then?'

  'So it would seem. We've got the lot this morning. The A/C's arrived for the meeting, standing in for the new chap, there's Special Branch all over the place, MI5, and the local constabulary of course.'

  'And you, sir.'

  'Oh don't worry, I shan't be here long. I'll introduce you to your local opposite number before I go. Name of Curran.'

  A room had been taken over as an operations centre.

  'You'd best wait outside for me, chaps,' said Felix. 'It's a bit crowded in there.'

  Having paid his respects to Hubert Timpson, the Assistant Commissioner, Felix was introduced to a number of uniformed and plain clothes officers, including Inspector Morrison of Special Branch and Chief Inspector Curran of Surrey Police.

  'This is Mr Joseph Goodchild, Lord Coneybrook's personal secretary,' continued Polly, 'and Mr Grant I believe you've met.'

  'Good morning, Mr Grant,' said Felix, offering a hand. Grant merely nodded.

  The others having moved off, Felix was taken aside by Curran. 'Welcome to the madhouse, old boy. If they plant a bomb in here they'll wipe out half the country's top brass.'

  Felix chuckled. 'Where actually was it?'

  'They call it the committee room. Come on, I'll show you. It's been made safe.'

  'How did they do that?'

  'Stuck it in a bucket of water! Not our lot, I hasten to add. We've put it back empty, for demonstration purposes. Come on; it's through here. Bit of a warren, I'm afraid.'

  'I'll bring my chaps if you don't mind.'

  'Ah yes, you run one of those teams. Does it work?'

  'Very well so far. Two years now.'

  'What's your Super like?'

  'He's all right. I'm not entirely sure why he's here. To underline how seriously we're taking it I suppose. Our A/C is one of the guests, if that's what they're called. I don't suppose he'd take kindly to being blown up.'

  'Don't suppose he would. Had a jolly chat with him earlier. Fun at a party, I should imagine.'

  'You should see his Black Bottom. Which way now?'

  'Left here. This is the central corridor. If you get lost, just come back to it. Look for the Turners.'

  Felix examined with interest a heavily framed canvas. 'The original do you think?'

  'No idea I'm afraid. I assume so. I was quite pleased with myself even to recognise him.'

  'I believe that one's in the Tate, sir,' offered Nash, and the sergeants grinned at each other.

  'They will show you up,' commiserated Curran. 'Here you are. There'll always be a copper here so you can't miss it. Morning, Constable. As you see, there's a sort of anteroom first.'

  Crossing the anteroom – empty, save for a few gilt and velvet chairs – they passed through double doors to discover a room dominated by a conference table some twenty feet long. Further paintings, crystal chandeliers and fancy plasterwork created an atmosphere of opulence, as did a pair of footmen in traditional uniform, setting out glasses.

  'Intimate,' said Felix, gazing about him.

  'You should see the state one. They're having a working lunch, hence the place-settings.'

  'Not tempted to move the venue?'

  'You'd think so, wouldn't you? The argument seems to be that at least it's clean. That's Special Branch, of course. No-one asked us. The bomb was in the table.'

  'Simple as that?' said Rattigan, surprised.

  'They may not have had time to look for anywhere better. Here it is.' He pulled out a central drawer revealing four short lengths of steel water-pipe linked in parallel. The timer and detonator were wired to one of them. 'Primitive but lethal, the army said. The pipes are of continental bore, so they probably brought it with them. Would have wrecked the room, apparently.'

  'They've definitely checked in here this morning?'

  'Special Branch went over it earlier. Then I did it again, together with Grant and Joe Goodchild. All interested parties represented, so to say. Grant's a bit edgy about it. I think he'd prefer to cancel it really. I suppose he knows what these people are capable of. Assuming it's the Russians, of course.'

  Felix forbore to comment. He gestured at the footmen who were now leaving the room. 'Reliable?'

  'Been here years, apparently.'

  'Who found the bomb?'

  'Not sure. Special Branch I think.'

  'We found it,' said Grant, who had entered behind them with Goodchild. 'You're going to have to clear out; they'll be along shortly.'

  'I thought they were going to be late?' said Curran.

  'We put it back a bit to oblige Blenkinsop,' confirmed Mr Goodchild. 'Timpson is with His Lordship and the others have just passed the gate.' He turned to Curran. 'Can you spare a moment, Chief Inspector. I'd like a word if I may.'

  'Off you go, lads, We'll leave them to it.' said Felix, ushering them out ahead of him. The next thing he knew, he was lying on the ground halfway across the anteroom. His hat was some distance away and his left hand was beading with blood. He felt a touch on his shoulder.

  'Miles, are you all right?' It was Rattigan, whose voice seemed to be coming from a long way off.

  'Bit foggy,' said Felix. He looked around at Grant, who like him was struggling dazedly to h
is feet. 'You all right, Grant?'

  'Yes. You?'

  'Seem to be.'

  They were standing in a sea of broken glass, china and other debris, no doubt explaining the lacerations to his hand. He could remember nothing about the explosion and never would. It was as if it hadn't happened.

  Returning to the committee room they found devastation. The heavy doors were hanging off their hinges, part of the ceiling was down and the massive table had been thrown on its side by the blast, miraculously sheltering Goodchild, who, it later transpired, had received only a dislocated shoulder and three broken ribs. Chief Inspector Curran, not so fortunate, lay still.

  'Dead, sir,' said Nash, his face ashen.

  'Poor beggar,' said Yardley. He offered Felix a handkerchief. 'You might want it for your neck, sir. It's streaming blood. Mr Goodchild, may I help?'

  'If I could just sit down somewhere,' said Goodchild, clinging to the table. 'Are you sure about Curran?'

  'Quite sure, sir. He wouldn't have known anything about it.'

  Police and Special Branch officers were converging from all directions, one of whom gestured at the body. 'Is he . . . ?'

  'I'm afraid so, yes.'

  'Heads are going to roll for this,' snarled Grant, and left the room.

  'We've messed up here, good and proper,' said one of the Special Branch men, whom Felix recognised from the operations room. How the devil did they do it?'

  Polly arrived. 'They've set up a dressing station along the corridor. Are you able to walk that far, Goodchild? We'll fetch a stretcher if not. Felix, you go too. There's a doctor coming.'

  'I'm worried about the evidence.'

  'We'll deal with that,' said the Special Branch man.

  'Don't trouble yourself,' said Polly. 'We have our team right here. If you want to help, clear everyone out. Nash, Yardley, let's get started.'

  *

  There was a sharp yip of pain from Joseph Goodchild as the doctor reduced the secretary's shoulder.

  'Should be all right now; though it may not feel that way for a while. I'll just treat these cuts and you're done.'

  'What about my ribs?'