“You’re sticking to that idea about a fight and Vittorio getting the worst of it?”
“It is a possibility which ought to be examined.”
“A pretty long shot, surely?”
“Granted.”
“But I’ve always thought Vittorio was attacked as he lay in bed.”
“In his surprisingly large pyjamas and his socks and shoes?”
Laura stared at her employer.
“And the room turned upside-down,” she said slowly, taking in a new idea. “Wrecked, you think, in a fight?”
Dame Beatrice did not answer the question. She said,
“Once I can establish the identity of Vittorio’s killer, it will leave me free to conduct an awkward and embarrassing enquiry which I have known for some time I shall need to make.”
“Sounds like another investigation into the doings of Basil Honfleur.”
“Exactly, and this time without his cooperation and assistance.”
“Dirty work at the cross-roads?”
“I fear so. However, these unpalatable tasks have to be faced. My only respite will be the interval between now and the receipt of information from the forensic branch of the Scottish police.”
“But what gave you the idea that the murderer (I’m still going to call him that) could also have been wounded? Do you think that accounts for the gash on Knight’s neck? How on earth did he manage to stab Vittorio in the back, then?”
“He had probably learnt some tricks during his Commando training. But never mind that. Those pyjamas have always been a puzzle to me. Vittorio was what I believe you would describe as a dressy little man. Those pyjamas were at least three sizes too large for him.”
“So what do you think really happened?”
“I can only surmise. Let us suppose that Vittorio broke into the house, probably by the same means as you did. He knew Carstairs (Honfleur) was not there so he inspected the rooms. Unknown to him, somebody had followed him, somebody for whom he had already made enquiry at the hotel, only to be misinformed of the driver’s name and coach company by the suspicious stripling Wullie.”
“So Knight killed Vittorio, and all that stuff about the two masked men was so much blah!”
“Please remember that my reconstruction is hypothetical. I have suggested one more thing to the police, that they search for Vittorio’s own clothes. If I am right, there should be a tear in the shirt and jacket and both should be bloodstained. I think his killer undressed the body, put on to it the only pyjama trousers available…”
“Those would have been Carstairs’—or, rather, Honfleur’s—as the bungalow belonged to him.”
“I imagine so. Knight did not put Vittorio into the pyjama jacket, possibly because he realised it had not a tear in it…”
“Why didn’t he make one?”
“He may have thought it might come in the wrong place in the fabric.”
“But if they had a fight when both were fully dressed, how did the bloodstains, whichever man they belonged to, get on to the bed?”
“Presumably because part of the fight took place with both men rolling on it. The room was not a large one and the bed occupied more than half of it.”
Dame Beatrice, accompanied by her suite (as Laura put it), called at Basil Honfleur’s office without warning and asked to see him.
“Oh,” said his secretary, “I’m sorry, but he isn’t here. I haven’t heard from him since he left just after you called last time, so I suppose he’s still in Bristol. That’s where he said he was going.”
“Oh, never mind,” said Dame Beatrice. “I expect you can help me. Is Driver Knight back on duty?”
“No, he’s reported sick again. That knock on the head and a nasty gash in his neck have upset him, and no wonder.”
“I suppose you have to keep a record of the drivers’ schedules.”
“Oh, yes, they have to be logged and any comments written against them.”
“Such as their getting murdered, perhaps.”
The girl, taken by surprise, gave a terrified little giggle and then blushed and stammered out:
“Well, I wouldn’t put it like that. I should just put, ‘Killed in the course of duty,’ like as though it had been an accident. It looks better—not so crude.”
“So it does. Are you in sole charge of this office when Mr. Honfleur is away?”
“This time I am.”
“What about those times when he goes off on his travels to inspect hotels or select new ones, or to investigate passengers’ complaints?”
“Oh, well, it doesn’t happen all that often, but I log it sort of unofficially in case anything goes wrong and I have to notify the board.”
“But you are now in sole charge of this office?”
“Well, I suppose you could call it that, although still responsible to Mr. Honfleur and the board, of course.”
“Of course. But this time you are not responsible to anyone but yourself.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I wondered whether perhaps this time Mr. Honfleur did not travel upon the company’s business, but on some private errand of his own.”
Again the girl looked uncomfortable, but she did not giggle. She said,
“It’s a confidential matter and I don’t give away Mr. Honfleur’s business to anybody except the board.”
“Admirable, and, of course, I have no wish to pry. My errand was to ask where I could find Driver Knight.”
“Well, I suppose he’s at home, unless he’s gone into hospital. I haven’t heard, not since he sent in another medical certificate.”
“But you know his address?”
“Oh, yes, I’ve got it somewhere.”
“And you know that I am empowered by your board of directors to look into the extraordinary things which have been happening, two drivers murdered and another viciously attacked—or so he claims.”
“Oh, yes. I’ll find Knight’s address for you. Do you wish me to ring him up and warn him to expect you?”
“Just as you think best, but it is hardly necessary.”
“Very well, then, I won’t bother, although all our drivers are on the ’phone. They have to be.” She went over to a filing cabinet.
“And will you ask Mr. Honfleur to ring me as soon as he gets back? He knows the number,” said Dame Beatrice, when the girl had written out Knight’s address for her.
“I thought you meant to take Honfleur on the hop when he gets back,” said Laura, as they drove to the address Dame Beatrice had been given,
“The police will do that. I do not think Basil Honfleur intends to return to his office.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Certain remarks which you yourself let fall at our last meeting with him.”
“Don’t tell me I let some cat or other out of some bag or other!”
“To an innocent man you would not have done so, but Basil Honfleur is anything but an innocent man.”
“Why, what did I say? Have I gone and put my foot in it?”
“Far from it. If Honfleur has absconded it makes my unpleasant task just a little easier. You asked him, if you remember, whether he wanted the word ‘amenities’ spelt with one m or two.”
“I was only kidding.”
“You surprise me. I would have thought (as I’m sure he did) that you were expressing complete disbelief in his story and considerable contempt for him as a liar. You followed this later by tempting him into a confession that, far from being a free man and a blameless bachelor, he was paying alimony to a discarded wife and was also keeping a mistress. The reasons for his illicit enterprises were thus laid bare. If he was not to keep his employment—and he felt that his prospects were extremely poor once the long-projected merger went through—he had to find another source of income. To be an unemployed bachelor is one thing. To support two homes is another.”
“Wasn’t Honfleur ever a genuine collector of antiques, then?”
“I hardly see how he
could afford to be. I think that, if we were ever to visit his house again, the Welsh dresser and its dishes, including mine, would be gone and, bit by bit, the far more valuable objects which Conradda saw in Honfleur’s bedroom. She managed, I think, to see a hoard which was due to be stored at Saighdearan.”
“So how much of Honfleur’s story is true?”
“It hardly matters. Now for Knight.”
“How shall you tackle him?”
“By telling him what I believe to be the truth and getting him to confirm it and to add such embellishments in his own defence as may seem good to him.”
Knight still wore a bandage round his neck. He did not seem in the least surprised to see them, although he looked a little suspiciously at their private-eye, the burly, ex-policeman escort.
“You were expecting us?” Dame Beatrice blandly enquired.
“They’ve just ’phoned up from the office,” Knight replied, “to say you were on your way. What can I do for you this time?”
“Well, I venture to suggest that you tell me the truth, unless you prefer to have me tell it to you. May we sit down?”
“Sure. How much do you know?”
“Everything except your motive in killing Vittorio.”
“Motive for that?” He still kept a wary eye on the private detective who had taken a modest chair near the door. “I see you’ve got a dick with you.”
“An unofficial one. He is not here to caution you or to inform you that you are not obliged to speak, but that, if you do, what you say will be taken down in writing and may be given in evidence.”
“He isn’t a dick? You could have fooled me!”
“He is an ex-policeman, a retired sergeant. He has no connection with the case of the murdered coach-drivers. An attempt was made upon my life a short time ago, so he is here merely in the capacity of bodyguard to an elderly and enfeebled old lady.”
She leered hideously at Knight, who said nervously,
“Oh, that’s all right, then.”
“Well, now, as my secretary would say, let’s get on with it, shall we?”
“What do you expect me to say?”
“Well, not quite what you said before. Let us forget this colourful story of an attack, a black man, and a kidnapping.”
“There was an attack.” He unwound the bandage on his neck. “Take another look at that, if you don’t believe me.”
“I accept the knife-wound on your neck. Let me replace the bandage. There! You had it from Vittorio, of whom you then got the better and killed.”
“It was in self-defence.”
“I accept that, too. Need you have killed him, though?”
“Well, he killed my two mates, didn’t he?”
“He may have done, but my deductions indicate that, although he was an accessory to those murders, his was not the hand which struck the lethal blows.”
“Who did, then?”
“Never mind that, for the moment. Let me hear your own narrative, please.”
“All right, then, but, once again, how much do you know?”
“Enough to check your veracity. Of that you may be sure.”
“I’ve only your word for it.”
“Quite.”
This agreeable concession appeared to disconcert Knight. To cover this, as well as to hide his not over-clean shirt, he moved across the room, picked up a tweed jacket from the back of a chair, and put it on.
“Stay sitting,” said the ex-police sergeant. Knight returned to his place and looked apprehensively at Dame Beatrice.
“Where do you want me to start?” he asked. “But no taking things down in writing,” he added quickly, “else I’m not talking.”
“Fair enough,” agreed Dame Beatrice. “It will all come out in court, I daresay.”
“In court?”
“Of course. What you have to decide is whether you prefer to be tried for a killing in self-defence or for wilful murder.”
Knight half-rose. The impassive guardian at the door followed suit. Then both men resumed their seats, Knight with a half-inaudible expletive which he quickly smothered.
“It won’t help me if I tell the truth,” he muttered. “You can’t get the better of the cops. It’s like the income tax. They got the whip-hand of you the whole bloody time. All right, I better out with it, but I don’t call it murder, mind you. I done Vittorio because I thought he done my mates. If it wasn’t him, who was it?”
“Mr. Honfleur, alias Carstairs.”
“Him? But he was in my push in the war!”
“Yes, I suppose he was in a Commando unit, as you told me you were. Both of you have turned your knowledge to a use which was never intended by those who trained you.”
“What’s the difference between knifing Jerry sentries and knifing a dirty, thieving, double-crossing, blackmailing little wog?”
“In law and in time of peace the difference is substantial, but let us have your story.”
“Damn it all, why should I?”
Dame Beatrice shrugged her thin shoulders.
“In order to obtain, through me, the best defending counsel in England or Scotland,” she replied, “so stop wasting my time. Tell me, first of all, what you know about the trade in stolen antiques.”
“None of us knew much about that,” said Knight, reassured by what appeared to be a change of subject. “I reckon we all thought some sort of fiddle was going on, but it was no business of ours and everybody fiddles nowadays—you got to—so what?”
“Some sort of fiddle, as you call it, in this case refers to a series of well-organised and very remunerative thefts which the police have been following up for months. The valuables were stolen by the knowledgeable Vittorio and disposed of through the County Motors coach organisation. Unfortunately for themselves, Noone and Daigh became involved (accidentally, I’m sure) then perhaps they refused to co-operate; anyway, they were liquidated, one in Derbyshire, the other in West Wales. Your board of directors called me in to investigate. My secretary and I found the bodies, as you probably know.”
Knight was silent. Dame Beatrice waited, her sharp black eyes on her victim. Laura tried to read the titles of the books and paperbacks in a small glass-fronted bookcase on the wall opposite to where she was sitting. The bodyguard studied an evil-eyed stuffed seagull in a glass case.
“Look,” said Knight at last, “this wog. Do you mean it wasn’t him that done Noone and Daigh? They were stabbed, so it said in the papers, and Eye-ties are reckoned to be handy with a knife.”
“So are Commando troops,” Dame Beatrice reminded him. “The man who broke into my home was carrying a Commando knife. He dropped it in his flight.”
“So who do you reckon that was?”
“I know who it could not have been. It could not have been Vittorio, for he was already dead, and by your hand.”
“No, but he could have stabbed my two mates. He wasn’t dead then.”
“Tell me, Mr. Knight, if you had been on a tour (as driver of it, I mean) and Vittorio had asked you to move your coach while your passengers were sightseeing, would you have obliged him?”
“No, nor a dozen like him.”
“Suppose another coach-driver had made the same request?”
Knight looked dubious. He had a long, melancholy face. This, and the bandage round his neck, gave him the lugubrious expression of a captive bird of prey.
“Well,” he said, “if it was one of our own chaps and he wanted a bit of help I suppose I’d oblige if I could, but it couldn’t be like that, you see, because we never only send the one coach at a time to any particular hotel or place, so the answer’s a lemon.”
“You would not help the driver of another coach company, then?”
“Why should I? They got their own headquarters to ’phone up to if they find theirselves in trouble.”
“Yet it seems certain that Noone and Daigh did move their coaches and, from what you have just told me, they must have been obeying an order or request from somebody they cou
ld scarcely refuse.”
“That ’ud be Mr. Honfleur. None of us wouldn’t do it for nobody else. We’d know it was all right, coming from him, because we’d know he’d take full responsibility.”
“Thank you, Mr. Knight. That is my own theory. Now let me tell you the true story of how you came to kill Vittorio.”
Knight stirred uneasily.
“I don’t know as I want to hear it,” he said. “You seem to have got it all worked out. I done it in fair fight and I’ll stand by what I done.”
“How did you know that Vittorio was in Saighdearan?”
“Mr. Honfleur told me to pick him up there, him and a couple of suitcases. I thought nothing of it, being that most of us had had Vittorio on a tour some time or other, so when I knew my mates had been stabbed I reckoned they’d fell out with him about some of the fiddles as we all guessed was going on. Tales gets swapped around in a depôt and some of ’em, perhaps, don’t lose nothing in the telling. I guess you knows how it is.”
“We may take it for granted.”
“Right. Well, Mr. Honfleur put me on the Skye tour with orders to pick up Vittorio, like I said. He told me Vittorio had a key to the bungalow and I was to meet him there after I brought the coach back from Skye. Well, you know the rest, I reckon, but there wasn’t no murder. I fought fair and he fought dirty and I won. That’s all there was to it. Still, when I knowed he’d croaked I stripped him like as though he’d been surprised by a burglar while he laid in bed, and then I lit out for home.”
“And it took you four days?”
“I hitched lifts and laid up at nights while I cooked up a story to tell Mr. Honfleur, seeing I’d left my coach-party stranded and hadn’t brought back no merchandise.”
“I am still not clear why you suspected Vittorio of being the murderer of your two comrades.”
“He was a wrong ’un, that’s why.”
“An inadequate reason for suspecting him of murder. All the same, there is no doubt that he must have been an accessory after the fact. Well, now, Mr. Knight, may I give you a piece of advice?”
“You said you’d find me a lawyer.”
“That is a promise I shall keep, of course. Meanwhile, you will find it to your advantage in the long run to give yourself up, confess to the fight and the killing, and allow the police to take a sample of your blood. It was your blood on the bedding, was it not?”
Noonday and Night (Mrs. Bradley) Page 18
