Noonday and Night (Mrs. Bradley)

by Gladys Mitchell

  “But the police do not stop the coaches. In most cases they do not stop the cars either. And why? Because, by the time the thefts are discovered and reported, it is too late. The thieves have got clean away and the coach is staying, so innocently, at a hotel in another county, so nobody gives it a thought that there are stolen antiques on board.”

  “I wonder whether she’s right?” said Laura, handing back the letter. “It sounds a bit too easy to me. Do you think she’s romancing?”

  “That is what I propose to find out.”

  “Do I go with you to Poole?”

  “Yes, I shall need you to take notes. We know already that Vittorio used to take these coach tours. The reason given to us was that he looked out for antiques to sell to Basil Honfleur for his collection of ceramics.”

  “Can’t quarrel with that, can we?”

  “On the face of it, no, except that Honfleur’s collection seemed rather too small to account for these elaborate journeys. Of course it could be that Honfleur was not the only collector on Vittorio’s list of customers. However, we may know more when we hear what Conradda Mendel has to tell us when we visit her.”

  “Considering that there’s already been an attempt on your life, I’m not so keen on this visit. Supposing Conradda is in cahoots with Knight and this letter is a trap?”

  “I shall look to you to protect me.”

  “I might not be able to protect you from a stab in the back. Vittorio was not the only person to be far too handy with a dagger, as witness his own demise, and, if I know anything of the address on Conradda’s letter, Poole harbour might be a nice handy dumping-place for a dead body.”

  “You make my blood run cold.”

  “Not half as much as you make mine curdle in my veins. Look here, how much do we really know about Conradda? Nothing, except that she was a patient of yours. People who need help from a psychiatrist are not always the most trustworthy of friends.”

  “You malign my profession and my clients, and in the same breath, too.”

  “Would you like to make me feel a lot happier?”

  “Your happiness is my chief concern.”

  “Right—although I know that was said tongue in cheek, I want our private dick to go with us to Poole. I don’t like this sudden summons from Conradda. We don’t know for certain that she ever went to America and we do know she had that peculiar link-up with Vittorio.”

  Laura, who had often had a boat out on Poole harbour, knew the neighbourhood well and was not mistaken in her idea that the house at which Conradda was staying would be in the oldest part of the town and near the quay. It was in a narrow street behind the Customs House and could have done with a coat of paint. All the same, the steps had been cleaned and the brass knocker in the shape of the Three Wise Monkeys had been lovingly polished until it glittered in the sunshine.

  The door was opened by a woman wearing a black shawl over a blue overall. She did not ask their names, but invited the visitors in to a linoleum-covered hall which contained a coat-and-umbrella stand and a grandfather clock, and said,

  “I’ll just pop up and see whether she’s awake.” Before she could mount the narrow staircase, however, a voice from the top of it called out:

  “Come right up, Dame Beatrice. I saw your car pull in to the kerb.”

  “It’s a bed-sitter,” said the woman, “so I don’t know about the gentleman without he’s a relation, because likely she’ll be in bed.”

  “Of course he’ll come up with us,” said Laura curtly. Conradda was not in bed. The bed, in fact, was a studio couch and had been converted to its daytime use as a settee. Conradda looked pale and puffy. There was little doubt that she had been ill. She seemed delighted to see Dame Beatrice, who reminded her that she had met Laura at the Stone House when she had been under treatment there. Then she introduced the private detective, not as such, but simply as Richard Ross.

  “Well, ladies,” said Ross, having decided that the apartment contained no nefarious characters, “perhaps I could have a smoke out on the landing.”

  “Oh, please, yes. Take a chair with you and here is an ashtray,” said Conradda, eagerly embracing this suggestion.

  “And please stay close outside the door,” muttered Laura in the detective’s ear, as she ushered out him and his chair. As soon as the door had closed behind him, Dame Beatrice said:

  “We take Ross everywhere since an attempt was made upon my life a few days ago.”

  “An attempt on your life? Oh, but no!” cried Conradda, horrified.

  “No doubt about it at all,” said Laura, “so we take what precautions we can. After all, three men have been stabbed to death and somebody seemed quite determined to lay out Dame B.”

  “Three men?”

  “Yes. The man we knew as Vittorio was the third,” explained Dame Beatrice. “It happened in Scotland in a tiny place just outside Fort William. But we mustn’t tire you with too much talking. Tell us why you sent for me.”

  “Ah, yes, you will be wondering about that. But first—this man Vittorio. Is it known who killed him?”

  “There are two known suspects; the driver Knight tells a strange story about having been assaulted and kidnapped, and then there is a man called Carstairs who has a bungalow very close to the hotel where Knight claims that he was surprised and captured, and it was in this bungalow that Vittorio was stabbed to death.”

  “You think this Knight and this Carstairs are the same person?”

  “It would be such a help, I feel, if they were, but we have seen Knight and from the descriptions we have received of Carstairs from independent and presumably unbiased witnesses it does not seem as though Carstairs and Knight can possibly be the same man.”

  “I see. It is a gang and, of course, they are smugglers. They smuggle stolen antiques from here to Ireland and from Ireland to America.”

  “So we have thought. What do you know about it?”

  “Now that Vittorio is dead, perhaps what I have to tell you is not so important as I thought. Does anyone know you have come here to visit me?”

  “Only the man outside the door.”

  “You see, I do not like all these killings.”

  “Does anybody? Please go on.”

  “This begins with what I told you before. You remember I go to Vittorio’s lodging and see this stuff that I am sure is stolen?”

  “Yes, I remember it clearly.”

  “Well, a month or more goes by and I conduct my business as usual and think no more of what I have seen and then one day this Honfleur, with whom we have dined, comes into my shop very much upset and asks can he speak to me privately on a matter of great importance. Well, of course, I know of the connection between him and Vittorio, how Vittorio finds him good pieces at a nice price, and I think I see how the land lies. Honfleur, I think to myself, is stuck with some stolen pieces which Vittorio obtains for him and now he finds out they are stolen and wants to know what to do. He has paid good money for them, so naturally he does not want to give them up, and yet he knows that, if the police trace them to his house, not only will they be confiscated but he may find himself in big trouble as well for harbouring stolen property.”

  “It was a very intelligent guess on your part,” said Dame Beatrice.

  “Not so intelligent, no, because it is much worse than I think. It is not advice this Honfleur wants, but for me to hide his stolen goods while he thinks what to do.”

  “Of course you refused.”

  “At first, yes, but there is more. He tells me that Vittorio blackmails him. He says that Vittorio wishes him to buy the things I describe to you—all that beautiful stuff of Chinese art, best periods—and tells him that if he do not, Vittorio will rat on him to the police that he has other stolen property in his possession.”

  “And had he?”

  “Oh, yes, of course,” said Conradda, as though the question surprised her. “This Honfleur do not know how much I know about him, but perhaps you remember that, before we leave to go home
, I retire upstairs for usual reasons? Well, I do a quick snoop around up there and I recognise one or two things.”

  “What made you think of doing a quick snoop around?” asked Laura, fascinated by a mentality so alien from and yet so sympathetic to her own.

  “Simple. I am not satisfied by that Welsh dresser.”

  “It looked all right to me.”

  “The dresser, yes. The contents, no. What are we shown? Some good pieces, yes, but on the shelves where everybody may see. Nothing of value in the drawers and cupboards, no good pictures on the walls, nothing but those pretty but silly little carved spoons which Vittorio himself repudiates and which Honfleur let Dame Beatrice have in return for her platters with no haggling, no bargaining, no fun at all.”

  “I don’t see what in this aroused your suspicions,” said Laura. “The English are not very good at that sort of thing. Dame B would think it beneath her dignity to haggle. She would either buy or refuse to buy, and that would be that.”

  “I understand, but I deprecate. Not so is trade carried on. But you talk of my suspicions and you do not approve when I make an excuse to go upstairs and take opportunity to case the joint. Why not?”

  “Oh, please don’t think I’m blaming you, but exactly why did you snoop?”

  “Because if, as we are told by Honfleur, this Vittorio find him nice stuff at a good price, where is the rest of it and why are we not shown? Mind, at that time, I do not know this Vittorio, but my instincts tell me not to trust him. He is—how shall I put it?”

  “‘A greasy bird,’” suggested Laura, quoting.

  “That is very good. A greasy bird. We meet them all the time in my business, you know. Well, of course I have to be quick, but in the bedroom I have time to spot some nice things, many of them on the police list.”

  “Are you sure about that?” asked Dame Beatrice.

  “Oh, quite sure. There are pictures of which I know their homes; ceramics much, much better than some we are shown on the dresser; in a cabinet a collection of snuff-boxes of which, even at a glance, I recognise two or three. Oh, and you remember I said Vittorio’s jade and soapstone does not interest me? But in this Honfleur’s bedroom! Museum pieces! Beautiful! Priceless! And all stolen. I am sure of it. It is a marvellous collection and I wish I dare look further around in other rooms, but there is no time.”

  “And then Vittorio invited you to go with him to see his Chinese collection.”

  “So. Well, of course, when I get back to my hotel I am deep in thought. Why, I ask myself, does this Vittorio invite me? Does he know, after all, that I am expert in ceramics? I cannot answer myself. Maybe it is as he says. He wishes me to interest Dame Beatrice. So I warn Dame Beatrice and then I put it all out of my mind and carry on my business as usual until this Honfleur come to my London shop.”

  “Ah! said Laura. “And here we come to the point!”

  “Oh, no. The point has been made, I think,” said Dame Beatrice. “The point is blackmail, as Conradda has indicated.”

  Conradda spread her hands.

  “This Honfleur comes to my shop in London a second time,” she said, “and asks for another interview in private. I am not at all keen on this. I think perhaps he wishes this time to sell some of his stolen goods to me, and so it is. It turns out that Vittorio puts more pressure on Honfleur to buy the Chinese ceramics. Honfleur says only too pleased if the price is right. He has told Vittorio this many times before, but the price is never right.”

  “So, in the end, Vittorio told Honfleur, I suppose, that if he did not buy the ceramics at Vittorio’s price, he would inform upon Honfleur as a receiver of stolen goods.”

  “That is so, of course, but Honfleur this time simply asks me to buy his collection of jade so he can get enough money to pay Vittorio for the ceramics, which he confesses he knows were stolen.”

  “But you, believing the jade to have been stolen, too, very properly refused any part in the transaction.”

  “Of course, yes. Honfleur goes away very sad, very worried. In no way, he tells me, can he find the money Vittorio asks unless he can sell other things. He offers me snuff-boxes—well, but I have seen one in his room which I know I have seen in a ducal mansion and which has been in the police list, so I say no to the snuff-boxes. Then I say no when he offers me a Picasso, and again no to a pair of gold-inlaid pistols which I have not spotted in his house but which he describes as the work of the gunmaker to King William the Third.”

  “Aha!” exclaimed Laura. Conradda glanced at her, but went on:

  “So, like I am saying, Honfleur goes away sad. Then comes this snake Vittorio and offers me again to buy the china. I say no sale for such important stuff among my clients, so no reason to buy. So he say he will inform on me that I have the Ming and the Sung and the K’ang Hsi pottery and all the rest of it in my basement. Of course I say this is nonsense, but he says that when he tip off the police it will not be nonsense.”

  “He was going to plant it on you?” asked Laura.

  “So. Well, I am alarmed. The police I fear very much because of my life in Nazi Germany. So I pretend to capitulate. I stall. I say I need to find the money and then a buyer. I say maybe I sell my smaller shop. He agrees three months for this, so I sell both my shops and fly to America, and now you bring me good news to tell me he is dead.”

  “But why did you send for me?” asked Dame Beatrice. “I told Honfleur the Chinese stuff was stolen.”

  “To ask you to help me if Vittorio ever find out where I am living now. I was afraid of him, but now—no more!”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  SO DOES BASIL HONFLEUR

  “Well, that was a tale and a half, if you like!” said Laura, when, leaving a greatly comforted Conradda, they were on their way home. “How much of it was moonshine, do you suppose?”

  “We may find that out when we have had another talk with Basil Honfleur.”

  “Yes. If what Conradda says is true, Honfleur certainly had not finished with Vittorio when he told us he had sacked him.”

  “Let us examine her story and see exactly what she has told us.”

  “It hasn’t helped much, has it?”

  “Well, as you point out, if what she said is true, it does not look as though Basil Honfleur has been entirely frank with us.”

  “And you think he’s been in cahoots all the time with Vittorio over this thieving and smuggling racket. In other words, he has never been the innocent party he pretends to be. Even allowing for the fact that he may be going to lose his job when this merger takes place, it hardly seems worth the risk, especially as it put him in Vittorio’s power.”

  “People have different ways of looking at these things. As for Conradda, well, it appeared that she knew nothing of Vittorio’s death.”

  “It’s not important either way, is it?”

  “Not unless she killed him.”

  “Oh, not any red herrings, please!”

  “I apologise. Next, Conradda stated very definitely that she knows a gang of thieves and smugglers have been in operation and that the stolen antiques are sent to Ireland and on to America.”

  “Means the thieves must have clients over there who are willing to buy as soon as the stuff is landed.”

  “Yes, that much is clear. Then she told us that Honfleur visited her—and this is where I find her story difficult to credit—and asked her to hide his stolen property. That, I think, was a lie.”

  “Very hard to swallow, certainly. I thought so at the time she said it.”

  “She has a devious mind. Then she went on to tell us what is much more likely to be the truth.”

  “That Honfleur tried to flog her some of his hot merchandise. The question, I suppose, is whether he knew it was hot when he bought first of all from Vittorio. After that, of course, he was completely trapped and had to carry on. So we tackle Honfleur again and push him hard, I take it.”

  “That depends upon how the interview goes. At any rate it should be an interesting one. Have
you ever wondered why the drivers Noone and Daigh were murdered?”

  “I thought that’s what we’ve been wondering ever since the board of directors called you in to investigate their disappearance. It seems clear enough, I think, that they must have got wind of the thieving and smuggling, kicked up about it, or, at any rate, refused to co-operate, and so had to be liquidated because they knew too much and were honest men. Isn’t that the way you see it? That makes it all the more certain, to my mind, that Knight was implicated, otherwise he’d have been killed as well. Do you think Knight carried out the murders and not Vittorio?”

  “I do not think it was Knight who hit upon the hiding-places for the bodies.”

  “But it was Knight who murdered Vittorio, wasn’t it?”

  “Well, thieves have fallen out before now. What intrigues me is that the scene of operations shifted to Scotland as soon as Knight reported for duty at the end of his so-called sick leave. I am also interested in the fact that his disappearance lasted such a comparatively short time.”

  “What do you deduce from that?”

  “Only that it was unnecessary for him to disappear for a longer period,” said Dame Beatrice, leering aggravatingly at her secretary. “It all begins to fall into place rather nicely,” she added. “And now for Basil Honfleur.”

  “You think he’s Carstairs, don’t you?” said Laura suddenly.

  Dame Beatrice surveyed her with admiration and amusement. “I have never had much doubt about that,” she said.

  “Then—then…” said Laura.

  “Yes, you are right about that, too,” Dame Beatrice assured her, but without mentioning the subject about which Laura had guessed correctly.

  “One thing occurs to me,” said Dame Beatrice when she and Laura and the bodyguard were seated in Honfleur’s office, “and that is the recollection of a sentence in your letter which resulted in Conradda Mendel’s visit to you when you invited us to dinner.”

  “Oh, yes? I don’t remember putting anything of importance in the letter.” He shifted his position in his chair.

  “You do not remember specifying that I should bring with me somebody who had an interest in ceramics?”