by George Sims
Buchanan grinned. ‘I like to think that she chose the one she thought would make the better husband, the harder-working, more reliable type, by which I imply a bit of a burke. That’s why I always get in a dig about Bumper. You heard me say about him being a belt-and-braces man. I fool myself. Marjorie simply found him more attractive. She had too much sense of humour to be worrying who was most likely to end up with a satisfactory pension.’
‘She sounds nice.’
‘She was—undoubtedly still is. Nearly as tall as you, and Bumper too for that matter. Laughed a lot. Large blue eyes, black hair, very nice smile. I heard they have two children. I know that Bumper is doing very well. Detective Inspector is about as good a rank as you can hope for at his age.’
‘May I ask why you left the police—the second time round I mean?’
‘Sure. Simple, really. I had an accident in France.’ It amused Buchanan to dismiss the time when he had been shot, with that phrase. The bullet had passed through his side, leaving a clean uncomplicated wound, but there had been serious haemorrhage and he could easily have died without prompt attention. ‘It put me in hospital for a while and it happened because I didn’t do what I had been ordered to do by a superior officer. So they weren’t very pleased. Then there were a few other incidents. I was told that I was not a good team man. It was put to me: “It’s an impersonal business—if you can’t accept that then you’re just not suited.” I resigned.’
‘And since then?’
‘Nothing very much. I spent some months on the island of Samos helping a young couple to build a taverna—laying foundations, general navvying. It was the most satisfying work I’ve ever done, though that may sound strange.’
‘Not at all. But Bee said something about you once being a racing-driver.’
‘For a while. Not a really good one. I knew that I’d never make the grade—very few do. I dropped out. Failure is habit-forming you see.’
‘Fiddle-de-dee! Nonsense! You just haven’t found your niche yet. It’s not all that easy.’
Buchanan assented silently to the last sentence. It was years since a girl had jollied him along and he had often felt that what he basically lacked was someone to make him stick at things. He saw that while he had been talking Katie had practically polished off her plate of curry—she ate as quickly as he usually did, chewing her food naturally without any finicking self-consciousness. He found both her looks and her easy manner attractive; but his last serious affair had ended up badly, with him feeling a cheat and impostor, half in love with a woman who had fooled him with a story about her husband leaving her when in fact he was dying of leukaemia in Guy’s Hospital. This had made him wary about women.
Katie got up, saying, ‘Will you let me choose a sweet for you? You need to be a habitué here to make the best choice and if we don’t grab them soon all the good things will be gone. Okay?’
‘Fine. Anything but yoghurt. I’ve had four months of yoghurt.’
He studied her as she waited in the queue by the counter. She had a slight figure but her arms were shapely and very feminine; he was struck again by how attractive a woman’s arms could be. He also liked the bouncy way she walked, keeping up with his long strides: all her movements implied a lot of vitality, and she had an enthusiastic, vigorous approach to life. While he was brooding, staring at the back of her neck and the delightful tendrils of curly hair, the colour of which he had decided was not carrot but a blend of red and gold, she turned, holding up two dishes, to catch him staring, and grinned.
She came across the room still grinning. ‘You were very wise to leave the afters to me. I was able to reach across the chap in front, bag the last two cherry puddings and smile sweetly. The sort of thing a woman can do, you see. Like pinching a taxi.’
‘Looks good.’
‘Delicious light sponge pudding with black cherries and fresh cream. Can’t be bad! Do I sound like the menu in an American restaurant?’
‘Yes, you do. But I tend to like someone who likes to eat.’
Katie banged into him slightly as she squeezed into the rather awkwardly placed window seat and they looked at each other in silence for a moment before lifting their spoons.
When the puddings were eaten, Katie said, ‘It’s great for Bee you being around. I’ll do anything I can for her but she rather needs a strong shoulder to lean on at the moment. It’s the combination of being terribly upset and mystified. She can’t really think about anything else and of course there’s a tremendous amount to do just now. And she’s got to decide whether to sell the shop or keep it. You know, you can’t get away from the fact that it was a very odd coincidence Sidney Chard going off like that the same day Leo died.’
‘You knew him, this chap Chard?’
‘Yes, quite well. He’d been in the shop fairly often in recent months. Unattractive sort of bloke—middle-aged, balding, with a very aggressive chin, but something about him I admired. He was crippled in the war but it didn’t seem to handicap him at all. Quite fantastic energy. He might get hold of a catalogue in the morning post for a sale in Paris and he’d be off within an hour.’
‘It’s possible then that he did go abroad. Perhaps that girl got it wrong about the passport, maybe it was an out-of-date one, something like that.’
‘He’s been gone a month. Very unlike him. Business was his idea of pleasure, not month-long holidays. Besides, there’s something else. We know an old dealer called Immanuel Klein who was very fond of Leo. Klein is a sort of runner, you know, he buys things in the country and sells them to West End dealers, doesn’t have a shop himself. Well, he’s always disliked Sid, would push off in fact if Chard came into our place. The last few times Klein has been round to see me he’s hinted that something funny was going on between Leo and Sid, some dodgy kind of business.’
‘Do you think that’s possible?’
‘Sid is a bit dodgy—well, sharp, cuts corners shall we say. Not Leo—in fact Leo was too soft really to make much money. He was saved by this flair I told you about. What is definite is that Leo saw a great deal of Sid in the last few months. Became very chummy in fact, used to go round to Sid’s flat just off the Tottenham Court Road. Beatrice says he’d known Sid for twenty years, but this close friendship was a very recent thing.’
‘Okay, I’ll try to visit these Alpha Security people this afternoon. Then I’ll contact Bumper. Anything else I should know? Nothing about this girl Judy Latimer, I suppose?’
‘No, but a bloke I know, Ralph Blencowe, who owns a marine-picture gallery in Homer Street, often goes to a local pub called The Olive Branch at lunch-time. Leo sometimes popped in there for a drink and a sandwich. Ralph said he’d seen this stunning blonde girl with Leo a couple of times. And apparently it was the girl who picked up Leo, not vice versa. Ralph told me that he saw her smiling at Leo, “giving him the come-on” was how he put it, and then start chatting him up. Ralph also said that he was sure he’d seen the same girl walking along with an unusually handsome young chap—mid-twenties, trendily dressed, silver bracelet. He thought they both looked like models.’
‘I’ll give all this to Bumper. He may have it of course, but a description of that young chap could be useful.’
Chapter XIII
The part of Georgian London known as Lincoln’s Inn has not been developed nor much tampered with in recent years. The picturesque main portion with its diapered brickwork and sharply pointed windows is there for all to see; those who look a little harder will discover the less ornate north-east corner, near Chancery Lane, where Robert Taylor’s Stone Buildings face a later block across a long court.
Strolling up Chancery Lane, Ed Buchanan found he had a few minutes to spare before his appointment with Alpha Security and walked through the unprepossessing passage beside No. 76a, which leads to the back of a fine arch set on the diagonal. Holborn was a part of London he knew reasonably well, and he had come through
this knowledge by his habit of turning down little-used alley-ways.
Star Yard, the address given for Alpha Security’s offices, was another such by-way with a bollard set in the passage to make it usable by pedestrians only. Buchanan looked closely at the bollard, wondering whether it had been made from a cannon like those in Upper Thames Street by the side of All Hallows the Less. The Victorian urinal made of cast-iron in elaborate patterns with the royal arms in several panels was worthy of scrutiny too, but a pretty girl was hurrying down the alley and Buchanan did not want to appear like some kind of nut, so he took out the Alpha Security card and studied that instead.
Alpha Security, Bell House (Third Floor), Star Yard, Carey Street, London WC2. The address was engraved in large black letters and looked impressive. It seemed a good idea to locate such a business in an enclave of lawyers, and the firm’s prompt response to his phone-call had made a good impression. The girl who had answered had spoken in a strange accent that was hard to place, and with a quiet voice, but she had been firm about the time to call being ‘4.45 precisely’.
The name Alpha Security in gilt Roman letters took up little space on the black announcement-board in the entrance hall of Bell House. The names on the other floors were more long-winded, being firms of solicitors that went with the candlestick and sealing-wax, Chancery Court atmosphere of the area. The red rubber floor in the hall was polished enough to skate on in socks and smelt pleasantly of lavender.
There were two doors on the third floor, both bearing the firm’s name gilt-lettered in very small italic capitals. One was open and Buchanan walked through it at precisely 4.45 according to his watch and found himself in a small room containing a typist’s chromium desk and stool, and two chromium chairs with blue-green seats. The sea-green motif was also found in the highly polished rubber floor which had an embossed wave-like pattern. There were no pictures on the walls and nothing on the desk apart from a phone. The place had an aseptic atmosphere like that of a dentist’s surgery, and the clean scent of Eau-de-Cologne.
There were two doors leading out of the small office apart from the one Buchanan entered: on doing so he caught a glimpse of a rather intriguing back view, that of a girl with long black hair, whose disappearance exactly coincided with his entry. Through the other one Buchanan heard a deep voice calling out: ‘In here. Please come through.’
Following these instructions Buchanan found himself in a spacious room with large windows, white walls, sea-green carpet, an oak desk and green leather chairs. A man with thick dark brown hair, about six foot tall, was hunched over a putting-iron, preparatory to tapping a golf ball across the carpet to a gap between two boxes of stationery. The man said ‘Just a sec’ and knocked the ball about ten feet straight through the contrived hole, made a little movement of his head implying satisfaction and turned to greet Buchanan. He was dressed in a pale brown shirt and trousers of a thin snuff-coloured tweed with a brown overcheck. His brown loafer shoes had the kind of polish that Buchanan had never obtained. He had a handsome face and a sun-tanned complexion, but his small mouth was held fixed in a prissy expression.
The man put down his putter carefully, glanced at his wrist-watch, and said, ‘You must be Mr Buchanan. Good. How much easier life would be if everybody kept appointments on time like you and me. Do have a seat.’ He went to sit behind the large desk. As he did so his pursed lips relaxed into a smile showing perfect teeth. ‘My name’s Richard Madoc, the director here. How can I help you?’
‘It was good of you to see me at such short notice.’ Buchanan noticed that on the wall behind Madoc’s head there was a large photograph of a shark on the end of a taut line. He handed over the Alpha Security card, on the reverse side of which Leo Selver had written: ‘Appointment for June 15th—2.15 p.m.’ As the card changed hands Buchanan explained: ‘That date was written by a Leo Selver, so it appears he had an appointment here. Do you remember him?’
Madoc’s mouth was pursed again as he shook his head. You must excuse me—I don’t want to appear rude—but how would that concern you? All our clients’ business is of course strictly confidential. Without exception.’
‘Yes, I understand that. But Selver is dead.’
‘Is he, by God!’ Madoc exclaimed, then shot a straight look at Buchanan as if to probe his veracity. ‘Dead? When was this?’
‘About a month ago. The 15th or 16th of August. It was in some of the papers.’ He extracted the newspaper cutting from the letter he had received from Beatrice Selver and passed it across the desk.
Madoc raised his chin and nodded as he placed the cutting on his immaculate blotter. ‘Ah yes. Mid August. Well, that explains it. I was off the Scillies then. Catching some of those awful brutes.’ He pointed over to the large photograph of a shark, then pulled a snapshot from a drawer in the desk. ‘In fact—it was just about then I had an appointment myself—with this very beast.’ He pushed the snapshot across the desk’s shiny surface, carefully touching only one corner. It showed a shark lying on a beach stretched alongside a rowing-boat, which was a graphic way of demonstrating its size. ‘I was exiled on Bryher in a fisherman’s cottage, without television, papers or even a wireless.’ Madoc pushed the newspaper cutting a little further away. ‘An unpleasant business this. Are you a relative?’
‘No, but I’m a friend. I’ve known the Selvers all my life. Mrs Selver found the card. You’ll understand she’s very upset and confused about what happened. And she’s puzzled as to why he should have seen you.’
Madoc nodded judiciously. ‘You’ll appreciate that I had indeed been engaged by Mr Selver and had acted for him, then I could only have divulged such information to the police. In the circumstances, though, I can talk to you. I do remember Selver—he seemed a pleasant chap to me, although our business together was aborted. We had only the one conversation. He asked my advice about something. I suggested that we could possibly help him, but stipulated a fairly stiff fee. Possibly priced myself out of the market. Frankly, we don’t care much for the private-detective side of the business now—we’re much more concerned in advising firms on security.’
‘Can you tell me what he consulted you about?’
‘He simply told me he thought he was being followed. Wanted to know if we could check up on that. He was obviously suffering from tension. Funnily enough, I thought he was in a bad way health-wise. Very taut—pale dry skin—his hands shook.’
‘Did you believe him—about being followed?’
‘Not really. I believed he was worried about something, but followed, no. You see, a whole lot of bods who have come in through that door haven’t told me the truth. Possibly I’m over-sceptical now. But chaps will so often sit down and outline some vague problem while they’re really sizing me up to see if I will tackle something else. One gets to expect it.’
‘You thought that was the case with Selver?’
Madoc hesitated. ‘I certainly got the impression he was holding something back. And that, given time enough, he might divulge the real problem. But I’m not a doctor—only like a doctor in that my time is strictly limited. And it has to be rationed, otherwise…’ Madoc underlined all this by glancing at his wrist-watch. As the last sentence petered out he pursed his lips and there was a sudden hint of boredom in his dark brown eyes.
Buchanan got up, saying, ‘Thanks anyway. I’m grateful. If I hadn’t come to see you, Mrs Selver would have gone on brooding over that card.’
Madoc got up too and walked towards the door, saying, ‘I wish I could have been more helpful. But Mr Selver was here for, oh, I’d say less than fifteen minutes. No money changed hands. We came to no arrangement. Only that he was to phone for another appointment, if he felt so inclined. He didn’t—so that was that. Good-bye, Mr Buchanan.’
‘Good-bye. Thank you.’ Buchanan walked quickly out of the cool faintly scented suite of offices, with a glance at his own watch. He had been allotted exactly fifteen minutes of prec
ious Alpha Security time.
Chapter XIV
As the taxi turned down Welbeck Way Katie Tollard said, ‘Do look!—I love that sign “Artistes’ Entrance”—it’s on the back of Wigmore Hall.’ She declaimed the words ‘Artistes’ Entrance’ again in a plummy voice, then knocked on the glass partition to attract the driver’s attention. ‘It’ll be fine on the corner, it’s very awkward turning round in the mews.’
Buchanan could not help wondering about the circumstances under which she had made previous visits to the mews, and whether there had been anything between her and Leo. He handed the driver a pound note and got out with his case and various bags. Katie was carrying a parcel of sheets and a rush shopping-basket containing several small items which Beatrice had bought for Buchanan during his trip to Holborn.
Buchanan looked round the mews, at the newly painted Victorian gas-lamp, the urns containing geraniums and hydrangeas, and a gleaming Maserati-Citroën SM parked in front of one garage. ‘This is certainly your posh London.’
As they walked to the front door of No. 3a Katie handed over the key and said, ‘Yes. Funny about Leo. You know, you’d have thought he had everything he could want. An attractive wife, a good business, this convenient flat and a super country cottage. Have you been there, to the cottage in Hampshire?’
‘No, the last time I visited Leo and Bee was about ten years ago, when they lived in Northwood.’
‘The cottage at Lasham is small but delightful—seventeenth century, oak beams, brick floors, lattice windows, big fireplace in the living-room. Leo…’
Katie paused as Buchanan opened the door and had not finished what she was saying when they put down their bags in the passage at the top of the stairs.
After a minute Buchanan said, ‘Will you have a drink? I bought some St Vincent rum this morning. Should be good. Shall we try it?’
