A Game of Murder

by Francis Durbridge

  ‘In fact,’ Nat continued in his quiet, emphatic voice, ‘the club professional says he’s pretty certain he saw your father going out on to the course alone.’

  Before Harry could find a suitable comment to this statement, the telephone started to ring.

  ‘If that’s another newspaper—’

  Nat was already moving towards the door, grateful for the excuse to break off this gritty conversation.

  ‘Look. I’ve got to get on. I’ll let you know the moment there’s any developments. Okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ Harry agreed morosely.

  He waited till the door had closed on Nat, kicking himself inwardly for being so brittle. He could not afford to antagonise a good friend like Nat.

  The caller was persistent. Harry resigned himself to answering the steady summons of the telephone.

  A few miles away in a luxurious residence within a stone’s throw of Hampstead Heath a woman was listening to the ringing tone in the earpiece of her mock-antique telephone. She was determined to ring for two full minutes before giving up.

  She was, statistically speaking, in her early fifties, but she had preserved her excellent figure by declining to have children and her facial features by frequent treatments at beauty parlours.

  Her surroundings provided a suitable setting. The drawing-room offered a marked contrast with the Dawson sitting-room. It was at the same time opulent and comfortable. Each item showed the influence of a woman with enough money to indulge her expensive taste.

  While she waited she gazed at her reflection in the mirror behind the telephone. Sybil Conway liked to watch herself while she conversed with the unseen person at the other end of the line.

  ‘Hallo.’

  She glanced down at the pad on the telephone table. ‘Is that 586 2679?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘My name is Conway. Mrs. Conway. There’s an advertisement in our local paper about a poodle—’

  ‘Yes. That’s right.’

  ‘Is the dog yours, Mr. – ah?’

  ‘Dawson. No, it’s my housekeeper’s, but I am responsible for the advertisement. Have you found the poodle, Mrs. Conway?’

  ‘Yes.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘At least I think so.’

  She liked the sound of his voice: It had a kind of masculine harshness about it. She smiled at herself in the mirror. She knew from experience that this device made her own voice more alluring.

  ‘It looks like the one in the paper – only a little dishevelled, I’m afraid. Actually my husband found it last night in the garden.’

  ‘Where are you speaking from, Mrs. Conway?’

  ‘We’re in Hampstead. The house is called “Stillwater”. It’s in Broadway Avenue. Do you kno* Hampstead at all, Mr. Dawson?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘It’s a large house, just on the corner. It stands back from the road. The drive’s on the right-hand side.’

  ‘Will you be in this morning?’

  ‘Yes. We are here all day. You can drop in any time.’ ‘Thank you, Mrs. Conway. It’s very kind of you to have phoned.’

  He replaced the receiver before she did. She hung the instrument up thoughtfully, then let her eyes drop to the open newspaper on the table. It showed the photo of Zero, begging for his biscuit, with his pretty collar round his neck.

  ‘All right, Zero. You’ve kissed me three times now. That’s enough.’

  Harry was restraining the little black poodle on his knee. Zero had still not got over his joy at seeing an old friend and kept making sudden pecks with a very wet nose at Harry’s face. It was hard to control the wriggling bundle of life. The collar which had been round his neck when he’d gone missing was no longer there.

  Mrs. Conway was seated at the other end of the damask-covered settee, her well-shaped legs crossed gracefully. Arnold Conway, though seated, had the advantage of mobility. He was ensconced in a very new and modern wheelchair, which he seemed to enjoy swinging round into different positions. Perhaps to compensate for being a cripple he was meticulously dressed. Harry estimated that he was a little younger than his wife.

  ‘Naturally,’ he was saying, ‘I was very surprised when I saw the animal. He was behind one of the rhododendron bushes, perfectly docile, almost asleep. I thought – well, blow me, how the devil did you get here?’

  Hands on the polished chromium rings which enabled him to control the wheels, he swung his chair round and propelled himself towards the french windows which opened out on to a lawn bordered by shrubs.

  ‘He’s been missing over a week now. We’d given up hope of ever seeing him again.’ Harry held Zero’s head still and made him meet his eyes. ‘Where have you been, Zero? What the devil happened to you?’

  Mrs. Conway intervened. ‘You say he was wearing a collar when he disappeared?’

  ‘Yes, a very nice one. My father gave it to Mrs. Rogers for her birthday.’

  Tor her birthday, not the poodle’s!’

  Mrs. Conway’s laughter was infectious. Harry found himself laughing also.

  Conway had swung his chair round again and moved it down to the settee.

  ‘Some long-haired character picked him up in his car, I expect; then pinched the collar and booted him out.’

  He put out a hand to pet Zero, but the dog growled warningly. Conway laughed the snub off.

  ‘You’ve had a rough time, old chap, but I expect that mistress of yours will make it up to you.’

  ‘That’s then understatement of the year,’ Harry said with feeling. Holding the poodle against his chest he rose from the settee. ‘Mr. Conway, there was a, reward mentioned in the advertisement, five pounds, I think it was—’

  ‘Mr. Dawson, please—’ Mrs. Conway raised a delicate hand in horror at the mention of money.

  ‘Don’t be silly, old man.’ Conway reversed a few yards back. ‘We’re only too happy to have found the little chap.’

  He was heading towards the door as if to usher Harry out, when a sudden thought struck him. He wheeled round, smiling with mischievous pleasure at his idea.

  ‘I suppose you wouldn’t like to give the fiver to charity?’

  ‘Darling!’ protested Sybil Conway mildly.

  ‘Now, don’t be squeamish, old girl. Why do you think they gave me the job? I’m President of the “Hamsters”, Mr. Dawson. Perhaps you’ve heard of us?’

  ‘Er – no. I’m afraid I haven’t.’

  ‘We’re a local society. What the Yanks would call “a bunch of do-gooders”. We help the old age pensioners, look after the poor kids of the district, put on the odd show when we feel like it – in aid of charity, of course. Last year we collected well over eight hundred pounds.’

  Harry put Zero down on the floor. The poodle immediately jumped up on to the cushions beside Mrs. Conway.

  ‘Why, of course. I shall be delighted to give you a donation.’ ‘Thank you, Mr. Dawson.’

  ‘Arnold, you really are a monster!’

  ‘Nonsense, Sybil. Every bob counts these days, you know that.’ Conway winked at Harry. ‘Make the cheque out to Basil Higgs, old man. He’s our secretary. H-I-G-G-S.’

  Mrs. Conway was caressing the ears of Zero, who had snuggled against her thigh. She gestured towards a Sheraton writing table.

  ‘You can use the desk over there, Mr. Dawson.’

  Pulling his cheque book from his pocket, Harry crossed to the table, sat down and felt for his pen.

  ‘I expect you’ll hear from Basil,’ Conway said, making a short tour round the back of the settee. ‘He’s bound to drop you a line.’

  Mrs. Conway laughed again. ‘You’ll hear from him, all right. twice a year.’

  Harry smiled, opened his cheque book and began to write the name of Basil Higgs.

  Liz was alone in the shop and dealing with a customer when she saw Harry come clattering down the spiral staircase that led from the flat above. He was still wearing the overcoat he had gone out in and seemed to be in a great hurry. She dealt with the customer as quickly as s
he could and then went to the office at the back of the shop. Harry was seated at the desk, pulling open drawers and searching through their contents. His manner was very tense and urgent.

  ‘Can I help, Mr. Dawson?’

  Harry did not look up. He found a stack of folders in a bottom drawer and was checking through them. ‘Where’s that folder, Liz?’

  ‘What folder do you mean, Mr.Dawson?’

  ‘Douglas brought it up, yesterday morning. It’s just an ordinary blue folder, but there was a number scribbled on it – a car registration number.’

  ‘A car number?’

  ‘Yes. JKY 384. At least I think that was it. I want to make certain.’

  Liz shook her head, trying to remember where she had seen a blue folder.

  The spiral staircase, which continued on down into the basement, was again resounding to the sound of footsteps. The head of Douglas Croft came into view. He was carrying a stack of boxes which he had collected from the store.

  Harry turned towards him. ‘Douglas. Do you remember that folder which you brought up yesterday with the letters in it? A blue folder?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  Douglas hesitated, struck by the urgency in Harry’s voice. Without a word he handed the stack of boxes to Liz, who took them and went out into the shop. Douglas crossed to a letter tray and lifted it to reveal the blue folder. He handed it to Harry.

  Harry turned it sideways to look at the cover. ‘I knew damn well I was right.’

  He pointed at the letters and figures jotted on the cardboard. ‘This number, Douglas, JKY 384 L. You asked my father about it.’

  ‘Yes. I didn’t know what it was. I thought he’d made a note of it for some reason or other. He said he hadn’t, but I’m sure it’s his handwriting.’

  ‘I saw the number this morning,’ Harry said quietly. It was on a Fiat estate car. I got held up at traffic lights on the Finchley road. This car rushed up beside me on the inside, so close that it almost scraped me. There was a man and a girl in it and they were having the father and mother of a row. The girl was about twenty and rather good-looking. I didn’t see the man’s face till he turned to watch the traffic lights. Then I recognised him as Peter Newton.’

  ‘That’s the chap who drove the golf ball which—’

  ‘Right.’

  Douglas took the folder from Harry’s hand and studied the figures on it.

  ‘Are you sure of this, Harry?’

  ‘Absolutely sure. When the lights changed he let his clutch in with a bang and shot ahead. I was able to see the registration number quite clearly. It was definitely JKY 384 L.’

  Harry stood up and went to the rack which held the London telephone directories. He picked out the volume L-R, laid it on the desk and found the Ns. He ran his finger through half the New-tons listed till he found the initial P.

  Leaning with one elbow on a tall filing cabinet Douglas watched while Harry dialled the number. It was answered almost at once, as if the call was expected.

  ‘589-1872.’

  ‘Peter Newton?’

  A short pause, then, hesitantly: ‘Yes. Who is it?’

  ‘This is Harry Dawson.’

  ‘Oh, Mr. Dawson. I’ve been wondering whether to phone you myself.’

  ‘You have?’

  ‘Yes. To say how dreadfully sorry I am for the tragic—’

  Harry interrupted briskly: ‘I’d like to see you, Newton. When can we meet?’

  ‘Well, I – I’m workng till seven and then I have a dinner date.’

  ‘What time will you be back?’

  ‘About half-past ten, I suppose.’

  ‘I’ll see you then,’ Harry said firmly. He consulted the entry in the telephone book. ‘3 Linton Close, Chelsea?’

  ‘Yes. It’s rather difficult to find, Mr. Dawson. It’s in a mews near Sloane Square.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll find it.’

  ‘Come straight up. I’m on the first foor.’

  ‘Right. Half-past ten.’

  Harry slammed the phone down and looked up at Douglas Croft. The fair-haired young man was watching him thoughtfully. Harry had located the exact whereabouts of Linton Close by looking it up in the police guide to London streets. The car radio gave him a time check at 10.30 just as the dark green Austin 1100 was turning out of Sloane Square into the cul-de-sac which now bore the flattering name of Linton Close. It had at one time been a mews where the gentry of nearby Belgravia stabled their horses and carriages, with quarters overhead for the grooms and ostlers. An imaginative property developer had transformed it into a passable resemblance of an intimate village street, the only difference being the predominance of garage doors at street level.

  The mews was dimly lit by several antique coach lamps outside doorways. He spotted a Fiat estate car parked near the far end of the mews and stopped his own car about twenty yards short of it. He removed the ignition key but did not lock the car. Some resident might want to push it back or forward to gain access to a garage.

  From one of the lighted but curtained windows came the sound of somebody’s hi-fi equipment playing Berlioz. Harry noted the lavish window-boxes and gaily painted doors, his sight gradually attuning itself to the dim lighting. His eyes rested for a moment on the number plate of the Fiat estate car – JKY 384 L.

  The door nearest to the car was painted a glossy purple and a brass figure 3 glinted on its surface. Harry walked towards it, his rubber-soled shoes making no sound on the flat cobblestones. The door was ajar, the interior in pitch darkness.

  An instinct developed during years of police work forbade him to walk straight through a doorway into darkness with the light behind him. Standing at the hinged side he pushed the door open till it swung back against the wall behind. The small hallway was empty, offering no cover where anyone might hide. Ahead a deeply carpeted flight of stairs led upward to a small landing where a subdued orange light glowed faintly. The stairway was inviting and hospitable, encouraging the visitor to feel at home as soon as he entered the street door.

  Harry went up the stairs slowly, feeling the pile of the carpet cushioning his steps. The door of Peter Newton’s flat was on the right at the top. From overhead a recessed ceiling light shed a pool of brightness on the carpet – and incidentally on anyone standing outside the door. The door itself was white, the beading picked out in gold paint. Beside it, inserted in a brass frame, was Peter Newton’s visiting card. Below was a bell push.

  Harry pressed it. Inside the flat a set of chimes sounded discreetly.

  Half a minute passed. Harry wondered whether he was being inspected through the one-way peep-hole he had spotted in the door. If the flat was close carpeted he would not have heard the sound of approaching footsteps.

  He pressed the bell again, this time more insistently. The chimes repeated their refrain three times. Even from out here Harry thought he could detect a faint whiff of perfume.

  There was no knocker. After another twenty seconds he put his finger on the bell and kept it there till the carillon sounded like a summons to some mysterious form of black mass.

  Somewhere outside a car door was closed. Not banged, but firmly closed. Harry looked at his watch. 10.35. He would wait for Peter Newton in the comfort of his own car.

  He was just turning away when from inside the flat came a new sound. The telephone had started to ring. Harry paused, waiting to see if anyone answered it.

  The caller was insistent. The bell continued ringing in the empty flat for a good three minutes before it stopped. As always the effect was one of mystery and vacuum, as all contact with the person at the other end was irrevocably lost.

  Thoughtfully Harry went down the stairs.

  The mews outside was still deserted. He stood at the doorway, staring towards the Fiat. A patch of colour on the ground by the rear passenger door had caught his attention. He walked across to the Fiat, bent down and picked up the scarf. It was a flimsy, colourful piece of nylon organza, the sort of thi
ng that women wear in cars to keep their hair in place.

  Harry put it to his nose. The scent was strong, but he could not be sure that it was the same as he had noticed outside Peter Newton’s flat.

  At that moment the warning signals began to sound in Harry’s brain. He felt the back of his scalp prickling. In the rear of the estate car a rug had been thrown over an oddly-shaped bundle.

  He went round to the tail-gate of the Fiat, got out his handkerchief so that he could operate the handle without blurring any fingerprints that might be on it. It was not locked and swung open easily.

  Harry pulled the rug up gingerly. Underneath was a golf-bag, a trolley and a leather grip containing a change of clothing. With a sense of relief he pulled the rug back into place, covering a set of golfing gear that must have been worth over a hundred pounds.

  He closed the tail-gate and moved round to the door by the passenger’s seat. The window was half lowered. On the seat lay an open packet of cigarettes and an evening newspaper. After a moment’s thought he threw the scarf on to the seat beside them.

  It was nearly 10.40. Newton was damnably unpunctual. As he strolled back to his own car Harry lit one of his rare cigarettes. He was not a chain_ smoker but he carried cigarettes for occasions such as this. A good cigarette killed impatience, made the tedium of waiting more tolerable.

  The seat on the passenger’s side, unencumbered by the steering-wheel and pedals was always a more comfortable place to sit during these vigils, with which he was all too, familiar. He was still looking back at the Fiat when he opened the door of his own car.

  Something heavy leaning against the door forced it open against his hand. The object slumped out, thudding heavily against the lower frame of the door. Looking down Harry found himself staring into the upside-down face of Peter Newton. His mouth was wide open, his eyes staring.

  His body had been shoved across the front seats of the Austin 1100, the doubled up legs jammed against one door, the head against the other. Relieved of the pressure the lifeless body was slowly stretching itself out as the weight of the head and shoulders slithered down on to the cobblestones.

  ‘This girl – the girl you saw with Newton this morning – would you recognise her again?’