‘You mean you’ve no idea where he was between nine and twelve-thirty?’
‘None. He probably spent the time walking and thinking. He had no money with him. None at all—to prevent his buying drink. A regular, self-imposed discipline.’ She sighed. ‘He did try, you see.’
‘Did Spotter tell you Cruba would be at the Duke of York steps around ten-thirty?’
She looked puzzled. ‘No. Did he know that himself?’ Treasure hesitated. ‘I can’t say,’ he replied with semantic accuracy. ‘Did he mention anything about Pierre Cruba, the ex-President’s son?’
‘Nothing.’
He would have sworn her bewilderment was genuine. ‘You said you thought the late phone call was from me.’ She nodded. ‘Clarence woke me early this morning. He was on the point of leaving. He normally brings me tea first thing. We drink a cup together in my room. Today he said he’d already taken breakfast; that the appointment was changed to eight. Then he was gone. I was half asleep still. We had no other conversation. I naturally assumed . . .’
CHAPTER 19
‘EXCUSE ME. I’M HAPPY BROWN. THAT’S MY office. Are you the police? They’re after me. Left a note.’
‘I don’t blame them.’ Treasure smiled at the confident brunette. He walked from the stairs towards where she was standing in the ground-floor corridor. ‘No, I’m not a policeman. I’m a banker. They want to ask if you were here before eight this morning.’
He introduced himself properly and then explained about Miff’s sudden death.
Miss Brown was genuinely shocked. ‘Poor Mr Miff. I hardly knew him but he was here last night. We were working late. Offered him coffee as he was leaving. He’d seen the light under our door and knocked to make sure we weren’t being burgled.’
‘What time did he leave?’
‘When we did—that’s Soo, one of my partners, and me. Let’s see. Between ten and ten-fifteen, I’d guess. Soo will know for sure. She keeps our time sheets for charging clients.’
‘Is she here?’
‘Afraid not. It was raining still. We were lucky. Found a cab just up the street. We offered Mr Miff a lift. He wanted to walk.’ She sighed.
He made a mental note to check times and distances. ‘You weren’t early this morning?’
‘Yes, I was. Seven-thirty. Left again about eight. I had to pick up a huge box of sales manuals—for a client meeting in North London. Had the car outside. I did see someone. Not Mr Miff. Whoever it was he fell over the box. Something I’m always doing.’
‘What?’
‘Leaving things out here in the hall. It’s our door. Slams as soon as you turn your back. I’d forgotten something. Shoved the box down the hall and let myself back in the office. I came out just as this man took an awful flyer at the bottom of the stairs.’ She made a guilty face. ‘That’s where the box was. He hurt himself, too.'
‘You spoke to him? Know who he was?’
‘No to both questions.’
‘Anything distinctive about him?’
‘The blood on his leg.’ She winced. ‘He had his back to me all the time. As he was getting up he bared his leg to look at the damage.’
‘Bad cut?’
‘Nasty, I could see that. I shouted sorry. I was going to help him but he just made for the door. He didn’t look round or anything. He was limping quite a bit.’
‘Which leg was it?’
‘Er . . . the right. You sure you’re not a policeman?’ She smiled. ‘Oh, he did say one word when he fell.’
‘What was it?’
‘I’m not sure I know you well enough. Actually it was “bugger”—but quite softly.’
‘Mmm. Was he tall, short, medium . . . ?’
‘Sort of crouched when I saw him. Probably tallish.'
‘Remember how he was dressed?’
‘Badly, in a long plastic mac with a hood.’
‘Colour of the mac?’
She shrugged. ‘Dark—black or brown. It was against the light from the door.’
‘You weren’t suspicious when he ran off?’
‘No. Of course I should have been. But he wasn’t carrying anything. I mean, he obviously wasn’t pinching typewriters.’ She clapped a hand to her cheek. ‘He was wearing gloves. That’s suspicious, isn’t it, this time of year? Oh Lord, I’m so trusting.’
‘My wife’s the same.’
She looked even more despairing. ‘I thought he was a messenger.’
‘He probably was.’
‘We do get a lot here, and they’re always in a hurry. I was only concerned about his being hurt. You don’t think he had anything to do with Mr Miff?’
‘I shouldn’t think so. Still . . . I’d let the police know you’re back. By the way, Mrs Miff’s upstairs . . . if you want to . . .’ She nodded. ‘Good to have met you. Forgive me. I must dash.’
They parted—he considering, among other things, the coincidence of dark, hooded mackintoshes; she, more singularly, the dearth of unmarried, good-looking bankers.
‘Major Copper and Mr Gold are waiting downstairs. They saw the counting of the money as you instructed.’
He glanced up at her quizzically.
‘Forty-nine thousand, seven hundred and forty,’ she said. ‘It’s been receipted. Miss McSlope, that is, Mrs Miff, has rung twice. She sounded disturbed.’
‘Get her back straight away.
‘I moved your ten-thirty meeting to eleven. It’s nearly that now.’
‘Ask Rigg to take the chair for me.’
‘And your lunch with Mr Crib-Cranton?’
‘I’ve rung him already. It’s cancelled. Moved to Monday. Ritz, one o’clock.’
Miss Gaunt scribbled another note in her book, then flipped back a page. ‘Mr Jonkins confirms the Cruba transfer to the Rudyard Trust is frozen.’ She made a tick with her pencil. ‘Mr Hinterton is not in his office today. You can call him at home up to midday. I’ll get Mrs Miff. Coffee?’ She noted his affirming nod and retreated to her own office outside.
Miss Gaunt was fifty-two years of age, medium height, thin rather than slim, sober in dress and unobtrusive in appearance except for her teeth, which did rather dominate things. Her untinted, greying hair was worn in a bun. She went to Mass every Sunday and Holy Day, had a regular seat at the opera, a brother in Canada, a cat called Aquinas, and her own small flat in Islington: she also embodied the only reason Treasure could ever find for opposing the retirement of female employees at fifty-eight instead of sixty. Her first name was Emily but her boss had never addressed her by it.
‘Mrs Miff. You wanted me?’ He went on scanning the mail while he spoke into the telephone.
‘Mr Treasure. Something serious came to light after you left. I suppose I should have told the authorities but . . .’
‘Please go on.’ There was certainly anguish in the tone. He stopped fingering the letters in front of him.
‘When I took the cover from my typewriter there was a note underneath . . . in the machine.’
‘I see.’ On the instant he had a premonition of what was coming.’
‘It reads, “I stabbed Cruba. Forgive me. Clarence Miff.” ’
‘I’m so sorry. What a terrible thing for you to find. I wonder . . .’ He blamed himself for not thinking to uncover the typewriter—then wondered why the police hadn’t done it. ‘I’m afraid the police ought to be told. Would you like me . . .’
‘Thank you, no. I can see to it. There’s something I wanted to make clear to you first, Mr Treasure.’ She paused. ‘This is not a suicide note.’
‘I’m sorry. You said . . .’
‘You may find this difficult to credit, but my husband couldn’t type.’
‘You mean he . . .’
‘I mean he was never able to master the basic elements of how to operate a typewriter—even a manual one. The machine here is electric. I unplugged it last night because of the storm. Clarence could no more have made it work than fly. It actually frightened him—like most other mechanical contrivances.
Do you understand what I’m saying, Mr Treasure?’
‘Indeed I do, Mrs Miff.’
Thanks to the resourceful Miss Gaunt, Pierre Cruba was located at the Lansdowne Club where he was playing squash. Treasure was able to talk to him on the telephone a few minutes after finishing his conversation with Edna Miff.
Pierre affirmed he was alone. No, he wasn’t playing with Gérard Opac who had been held up. No, he hadn’t actually seen Opac since early morning.
‘He cancelled our game by phone, sir. Fixed me up with another partner here.’
‘He didn’t mention he couldn’t play because he’d hurt himself?’
‘No, sir. It was a business meeting—for Papa, I think. Is Gérard hurt?’
‘I don’t think so. There’s been a misunderstanding—on my part. Sorry to interrupt your game. Oh, and Pierre?’
‘Sir?’
‘Just forget I rang; there’s a good chap.’
Treasure had taken the call in Miss Gaunt’s office. Like Pierre, she wondered why he had gone to so much trouble to check on Opac’s physical well-being. She was equally interested to know why he had tried and failed to make her typewriter work. Time would tell, perhaps: Miss Gaunt was, as always, content with anticipation.
‘If I need a car meantime, I’ll take the Chairman’s and drive it myself. Will you fix it?’ Treasure replied rather absently to his secretary’s only spoken enquiry before returning to his own office. The Rolls was still at Heathrow, and so was Henry Pink. The venerable Lord Gren wood’s hardly used, owner-driven and totally unsuitable Jaguar XJ-S Coupe needed exercising while his lordship was abroad.
Alone, Treasure stared at the mahogany coaching clock on the wall opposite his desk. He needed time, though there was little enough to spare—an hour, perhaps, before the police were round asking relevant questions.
If he was right the scandal he saw erupting would be more than a nine days’ wonder—like the consequent trial. He could soften the impact perhaps if he could do some immediate ferreting of his own—but it had to be now. Also he needed collaborators he could trust implicitly, and most of all he needed to talk with Freddy, safe from interruption.
‘Freddy, I can’t go into detail on the telephone. I’ve told you it’s serious. The Director of—er—that Trust . . .’
‘The Rudyard?’
‘Yes.’ He had been hoping to avoid mentioning names—conscious of the irony that now it was he who was pressing circumspection. ‘He came to a violent end this morning . . . Not an accident and I don’t believe it was suicide.’ He left Freddy to work through the other possibilities. ‘Listen, I think I have the answer to what was bugging us last night . . .No, not as simple as that . . . Please try to understand. I know exactly what’s been happening and I’ve got to see you.’
Freddy was exasperatingly unmoved by the drama in Treasure’s statement. True he had been ‘standing by’, as he put it, but knowing that Cruba was out of danger, the police sure the assailant was a common thief, the kidnap over without publicity and any serious drain on the Cruba finances, he had made up his mind to snatch two days on his boat which Treasure knew was called Refuge— also why it was called Refuge, he had added pointedly.
With three weeks’ leave long overdue and a ten-day conference in Nigeria beginning Thursday, Freddy pleaded his intention was not nearly so irresponsible as it might sound. He was tired, overworked and his Range-Rover had broken down which meant he had to take a train to Essex in an hour. The Director of the Rudyard was hardly his responsibility . . .
Treasure interrupted the diatribe. ‘Freddy, I’ll pick you up outside Moorgate tube in Finsbury Circus in forty minutes. That’s on the Northern Line, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, Mark, but . . .’
‘You can get on at Hampstead, then I’ll drive you to your bloody boat. How’s that? And where in Essex d’you keep it?—I’ll need to work out when I’ll be back.’
That was fine: Freddy was overwhelmed, reeled off essential directions, and promised to be waiting at twelve-fifteen.
Treasure knew the route to Southend. The stretch beyond through Rochford and up to the River Crouch would have to be checked. It sounded like ninety miles there and back—mostly on trunk roads less crowded over lunch-time: praise be, the rain had stopped.
Whatever the outcome, he knew he had to make the effort. He had telephoned François Cruba before asking his secretary to have Copper and Gold brought up. ‘Oh, and I’ll need that car in half an hour,’ he told her. ‘I’m out now till after lunch to everyone—including the police. Especially the police. All right?’
Miss Gaunt added another anticipation to her store.
Benny had never walked on carpet that felt so thick except at the Gaumont State Cinema in Kilbum years ago and that was probably mostly rubber underlay. This was the real thing. Rachel had liked patterned carpet: for himself he always thought self-coloured had more class.
You could see Mr Treasure had taste. Roderick was admiring the pictures: no prints—they were all hand-painted. It was the quiet you noticed most. Even with the doors open noise didn’t seem to carry from room to room: like they saw people talking in the offices along the corridor from the lift—also carpeted—but they didn’t hear them.
Every door along that corridor seemed to have a name and ‘Managing Director’ on it—except Mr Treasure’s. How many Managing Directors could you have? Mr Treasure explained they had three. Merchant Banks had three Managing Directors: so you learned something every day.
Benny wished he had left his raincoat with the secretary like she’d asked: such a lady too. Roderick left his coat, so when they got up to leave Roderick didn’t shower coins about like heavy confetti because he was holding a coat upside down that had a pocket full of coppers. And Mr Treasure had helped fish out the coins from where they seemed buried in the deep green pile which Benny, on his knees, had wished would sprout and swallow him up. He should be so embarrassed: at least it could have been silver coins.
Treasure kept his over-awed visitors less than ten minutes. He did not tell them that but for their bungled intervention he believed the Rudyard Trust would ultimately have been rescued by Edna Miff’s tortuous but legal, inspired and coolly executed plan.
Simply, the banker congratulated the two on retrieving the money, dismissed their concern at the £260 short-fall, reassured them about ex-President Cruba’s attitude to the whole affair, and solemnly promised their first good intentions would not be ignored—nor neglected any more. He added glibly to this little speech that while the intentions would be pursued by more orthodox methods the fine principle involved would be the same.
The Major explained to Benny later that all this had meant they were being let off.
The news of Miff’s death shook both the older men, though Treasure had not allowed them to dwell on it for long. He had been anxious to broach the favour he wanted of them, emphasizing that it was highly confidential, that it concerned the Rudyard Trust, and that the fewer people involved the better, at least for the time being. They had promptly agreed to help and carefully listened to their instructions. Naturally, they would set off right away: as usual, Benny’s cab was just around the corner.
As Treasure was preparing to leave himself Miss Gaunt reported the message from Happy Brown. Mr Miff had left the office last evening at exactly ten past ten.
CHAPTER 20
‘IT’S MUCH TOO POWERFUL A TOY FOR Grenwood,’ said Treasure, as the Jaguar surged passed the lorry that had lumbered out of their way in the fast lane. ‘Hell of a thrust. Unnerving till you’re used to it’—which is probably how poor Miff had felt about throbbing electric typewriters.
‘I still think Miff’s murder eliminates most of the suspects for the Cruba stabbing.’ The banker returned to the subject.
They had passed Romford and were already well on towards Basildon. Freddy had been on time, overdressed for sailing, and dragging an inordinate amount of luggage. He had explained he intended travelling direct from his boat
to Heathrow on Thursday. Then he had recounted the complicated linking of taxis and British Rail and London Underground trains which he confidently believed would transport him efficiently to the airport. He seemed equally assured about the availability of planes by then.
In a way Treasure had been content for his passenger to prattle on about irrelevancies while they made the tortuous drive through the City and the East End. After that it was easier to concentrate.
‘You’re so sure it was murder?’ Freddy sounded doubtful.
‘I’m sure it wasn’t suicide. If it was murder the postmortem should show something. It seemed to me his neck was very badly broken.’
‘More than by a deliberate fall?’
Treasure shrugged. ‘You’d have to be an expert. I imagine a pathologist could tell the different effects of a fall and a damned great shove.’
‘You don’t think he could have thrown himself? I mean dived backwards,’ Freddy persisted. ‘That would be the same as being pushed, surely?’
‘Not if he was hit with something first—by whoever typed the note; the same maniac who got Miff to the office at eight—who stabbed Cruba when he thought the kidnappers would be blamed.’
‘Meaning it had to be someone who knew about the kidnap in the first place.’
‘And who found out later it was a put-up affair by Pierre and two harmless old gents . . .’
‘Who couldn’t be blamed for anything.’
Treasure nodded. ‘Then he had a problem. If he had a motive for killing Cruba and no alibi he needed to shift the blame quickly and permanently to someone else. Death is pretty permanent.’
‘But Miff himself did have a motive, and you said just now all we know about him, his movements last night, what happened this morning, it’s all circumstantial. He was at large last night.’
‘But he didn’t know Cruba’s movements.’
‘We don’t think he knew.’
‘Well, even if he did, he left his office at ten past ten. Cruba was stabbed half a mile away three minutes later—and that’s half a mile as the crow flies.’
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