The Dirty Duck

by Martha Grimes

  “What about the girl, Penny? She hated both of them.” Wiggins had finally managed to leave the Circus for Shaftesbury Avenue, and was looking for a place to park.

  “No,” said Jury, in a tone that made Wiggins look rather sharply round. “That I can’t believe. She’s only fifteen.”

  Pulling the Ford up on the pavement in a sidestreet near the Salisbury, Wiggins clucked his tongue. “Only fifteen. Never thought I’d hear something like that from you, sir. Getting soft, are you?”

  “Me and Attila the Hun,” said Jury, climbing out of the car. “But that still doesn’t explain the murder of Gwendolyn Bracegirdle.”

  • • •

  “Why do they like turtlenecks so much?” asked Wiggins, once inside the Salisbury, which was jammed as usual at lunchtime. Although its clientele was diversified, it had a long-established reputation as catering for the gayer London crowd.

  Wiggins was right; fifty percent of the crowd seemed to be wearing them. The young man at Valentine Honeycutt’s table certainly was. Honeycutt had wasted no time. When Jury and Wiggins approached, he looked up and withdrew his hand from his friend’s knee. The friend, tight-jeaned, turtlenecked, and sipping his beer, turned eagerly toward the new arrivals. Honeycutt wasn’t quite so eager.

  “Oh, no,” he said with a sigh.

  “The Bad News Bears,” said Jury, not waiting to be asked to have a seat. He smiled at the young man, whose own teeth were whiter than snow and whose dark locks framed his smooth face, one would have said Byronically, except one knew Byron had other ideas. “Sergeant Wiggins, Mr. Honeycutt.”

  Catching on, the young man looked horribly sad, as if he’d hoped for better things at this unlooked-for expansion of their small party. Though he seemed to realize during his first lingering look at Jury’s smile, that he wasn’t Jury’s type.

  “Sorry to interrupt. We’d like a private word with Mr. Honeycutt.”

  Jury suffered a small, whispered conference between the two before the one in the turtleneck moved himself and his glass off. The jeans were decidedly constricting; Jury could almost hear splitting seams.

  Honeycutt was dressed in his usual modish fashion: silky-leather jacket, silk scarf wound round his neck and waterfalling down his back, white cord pants. He only needed racing goggles. “What is it now?” he asked, as if Jury were nothing but a fun-spoiler.

  “Mrs. Farraday. Amelia. I’m sorry to have to tell you, but she’s met with an accident. Fatal.”

  “Oh, God!” he said, pushing himself against the back of the red banquette. Above him, on both sides of the slightly recessed seat, tulip-shaped wall sconces glowed. The Salisbury had one of the handsomest interiors of any London pub. “Where? How?”

  Jury sidestepped that question with one of his own: “Were you at the hotel last night, Mr. Honeycutt?”

  “Until around nine-thirty, ten-ish. Then I went to that little restaurant nearby, Tiddly-Dols.” When he saw that Sergeant Wiggins was writing this down in a notebook, he frowned. “Why?”

  “By yourself?”

  “No, with a friend—look, why these questions?” His brief, nervous laugh was more of a high-pitched giggle. “You make it sound as if I need an alibi, or something. You surely don’t suspect—”

  Wiggins interrupted. “And what time did you leave Tiddly-Dols, sir?”

  Honeycutt wrenched his gaze from Jury’s and said, “Oh, I don’t recall precisely. About eleven . . . But I still don’t see—”

  “Your friend’s name, sir?” asked Wiggins, wetting the tip of his pencil with his tongue. Wiggins feared every ailment known to man except, apparently, lead poisoning.

  Honeycutt opened his mouth and shut it again and returned his gaze to Jury.

  Seeing he was getting into the noncooperative stage, Jury said to Wiggins, “How about getting us something at the hot-foods counter? Piece of shepherd’s pie for me. And a pint of mild-and-bitter.” Wiggins closed his notebook and got up. Jury smiled. “Haven’t eaten yet today. Food’s good here.”

  Honeycutt seemed to relax. After all, anyone about to eat shepherd’s pie would hardly go for the jugular, would he?

  “You still haven’t told me how it happened, Superintendent.”

  “In Berkeley Square last night. Not far from that restaurant, as a matter of fact. About midnight, the police surgeon puts it at.” Jury smiled again.

  The jugular had definitely been gone for. Valentine Honeycutt went several degrees of pale. “You certainly don’t think I—”

  “Oh, I don’t think anything at the moment. But I imagine you can understand that we’d want to account for the movements of the only people in London—as far as we know—who knew her. They’d be the ones on Honeysuckle Tours. Thanks, Wiggins.” The sergeant had set before him a steaming plate of minced beef topped with nicely browned mashed potatoes. He also put Jury’s pint and a half-pint of Guinness on the table. “Aren’t you eating, Wiggins?”

  Wiggins shook his head. “Bit of a stomach upset.” He had extracted a small foil-wrapped package from his coat pocket and proceeded to drop two white tablets into the Guinness.

  Jury had thought his sergeant would never surprise him again, until he heard the fizz. “Alka-Seltzer in stout?”

  “Oh, it’s wonderful for digestion, sir. And Guinness is good for you.” Wiggins reopened his notebook. The velvety foam of his glass erupted with little bubbles.

  “Did you see any of the others on your tour last night? Or did your usual policy of laissez-faire still hold?” asked Jury.

  “I saw some, yes. And if you’re wondering precisely who was where, I suggest the first person you ask is Cholmondeley.” His tone held a note of triumph as if he’d found the goose with the golden egg.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because he was meeting Amelia, that’s why. Later that night.” Honeycutt lit a cigarette.

  “How do you know?”

  “How? Because he told me.”

  Jury put down his fork. “I find that odd. He doesn’t strike me as the sort who would go round confiding things like that to others.”

  “ ‘Confiding,’ no. I don’t expect he thought there was anything of ‘confidence’ in it. He told me very casually, after I asked him if he cared to have a go at one of the casinos with me.” Honeycutt blushed and looked off, smoking delicately. He shrugged. “George simply said he was meeting Amelia.” There was a pause before he added, while studying his perfectly polished nails, “I don’t expect he knew Amelia was about to be murdered.”

  25

  “Why is it that I always seem to be lunching with police?” asked George Cholmondeley, in a not-unfriendly tone, after acknowledging the introduction of Wiggins and waving toward the other chairs at his table.

  “Sorry, Mr. Cholmondeley. The desk clerk at Brown’s told us you were coming here. And it is rather important. I take it you haven’t heard the news about Mrs. Farraday?”

  A glass of wine poised at his lips, still he did not drink. Slowly he lowered it, pushing his plate back at the same time, as if the food no longer interested him. Jury noticed it interested Sergeant Wiggins, though, who was looking at the tournedos Rossini with considerable suspicion. Wiggins distrusted the more elaborate cuisines as he distrusted unfamiliar climates. It amazed Jury that someone with Wiggins’s menu of maledictions still clung tenaciously to a steady diet of plaice, chips, and tinned peas.

  “The news, I imagine, is extremely unpleasant. Or you wouldn’t be here.”

  “Extremely.”

  “What happened?”

  “She’s been found murdered. I understand you told Honeycutt that you had an appointment with her?”

  He allowed Cholmondeley to stall long enough to take out cigarettes, offer them around, light up. “Well, yes, as a matter of fact I did. Except a better way of putting it is that she asked to see me.”

  “Oh? And why was that?”

  “Because she did not seem to understand that the flirtation was over.”

  “And
was she making things difficult for you?”

  “Difficult? You mean, embarrassing?” Cholmondeley laughed, and then apparently realized laughter was hardly appropriate in the circumstances. “Sorry. No, that wouldn’t have happened. I think I see where you’re heading, though.”

  Jury’s face remained blank. “Do you? Then tell me and we’ll both know.”

  Cholmondeley said nothing, only looked from Jury to Wiggins as if perhaps he might find a clue written on the sergeant’s face as to where Cholmondeley most definitely didn’t want to say he’d been the previous night. Wiggins was a brick wall when it came to giveaway expressions, however.

  “You seem to be looking for motives. Mine would be a very slight one, believe me.”

  “Where were you meeting?”

  “Berkeley Square. It’s near the hotel, but not too near.”

  “Not very nice, meeting an unescorted lady in a park late at night.”

  “And who said it was late at night?” Cholmondeley calmly smoked and looked as if he’d scored a point.

  “Merely an assumption. Her husband said she went out for a stroll after dinner. And that was sometime after nine-thirty. Nearly ten, I believe. Was she strolling with you?”

  “No,” said Cholmondeley curtly. “I told you, Amelia didn’t turn up.”

  “Didn’t turn up when, sir?” asked Wiggins, who had put down his notebook in order to unscrew a small vial of pills.

  “Midnight. I know one or two clubs in the vicinity. I told her I’d take her.”

  Wiggins took the pill dry, under his tongue, and resumed his note-taking.

  “That puts you in Berkeley Square around the time she was killed, Mr. Cholmondeley,” said Jury.

  “I never went in to Berkeley Square. I waited at the west entrance, where we were to meet. No, I have no witnesses, so I expect that makes me your prime target.” Cholmondeley leaned across the table. “Only what possible motive could I have for murdering Amelia Farraday?”

  “Perhaps what was mentioned before: she might have been uncomfortably persistent.”

  Cholmondeley’s look was scornful, as if to say Jury should be able to come up with something better than that.

  “Or maybe she knew something that might be even more embarrassing than this commonplace love affair. I’m still wondering why a man like you—a sophisticated and experienced traveler, and an Englishman—would want to join up with a group of Americans on a tour.”

  “I don’t see why that bothers you.”

  “It does. According to your passport, you’ve been to the Continent five times already this year. To Amsterdam.”

  “What’s odd in that? I’ve told you I’m a dealer in precious stones. I have to go on buying trips.”

  “I should think you’d be a bit sick of Amsterdam. This tour stops there for an entire week. And you could hardly be looking for someone to show you round London. Or Stratford, for that matter. You could go there anytime. I should think, if you wanted a holiday, you’d choose the Mediterranean, the Amalfi coast, the Côte d’Azur—something a bit different.”

  “Superintendent, you take your holiday on the Amalfi coast or wherever bloody well suits you. And leave me to take mine.” Cholmondeley stuck his cigar in his mouth and reached toward his hip pocket. Apparently, he thought it was settling-up time.

  “I would do, except I never seem to get a holiday. But when I do I don’t make it a busman’s holiday, like you.”

  Cholmondeley merely shook his head, extracted a very large note from a money clip and dropped it on the table.

  Jury opened his own notebook. “The Amsterdam police have had a few talks with the gentleman you do business with, Paul VanDerness. Mr. VanDerness runs a legitimate shop. Most of the time. But on one or two occasions there’s been some suspicion of black-marketing in diamonds.”

  “I don’t believe it, but even were it true, what’s that to do with me?”

  “I was just thinking, if one is on tour, as opposed to traveling alone, how the luggage is done. Honeycutt would have taken care of that particular drudgery for everyone. Just collected it all in a big heap and plunked it down for customs. A mountain of luggage. The Farradays probably had fifteen cases among them. Seeing as how it’s only a bunch of Americans—and, for the most part, holiday-makers—the customs people might not even inspect it. Or just give it a cursory examination. If I wanted to take out diamonds illegally, I might join up with a tour.”

  Cholmondeley knocked ash from his cigar with the little finger on which winked one of those diamonds in which he dealt, and said, “You’d better be careful, Superintendent. I have nothing more to say, except that my solicitors won’t like this at all.”

  Jury said nothing. He knew that Cholmondeley would not be able to resist his own further defense.

  Pocketing his cigar case, Cholmondeley went on. “So you’ve come up with the ridiculous notion that I told Amelia Farraday I was smuggling diamonds and that she threatened—oh, really, it’s all too absurd.”

  Jury still said nothing.

  “And what about the Bracegirdle woman? And Amelia’s daughter? Was I going about indiscriminately ‘slashing’—as the newspapers love to say—in order to keep them all quiet? Do you imagine they all knew about my alleged black-marketeering? It’s unfortunate for me that Amelia isn’t here to put an end to this nonsense.”

  After a while Jury broke his silence. “It’s more unfortunate for Amelia.”

  • • •

  “Do you really think that, sir?” asked Wiggins, when they were in the car and on their way back to Brown’s Hotel.

  “About the smuggling? I don’t know. Never be able to prove it, I suppose. I took out a search warrant, but the men found nothing at all in his digs. Not that I thought they would. Cholmondeley would have rid himself of whatever contraband he brought over when they got back to London the first time. Or maybe even in Paris—I don’t know. Shook him up a bit, though.”

  “Would it provide enough of a motive?”

  “Frankly, I doubt it. The lack of motive is the worst thing about this case. Where are we without one? It might as well be the Yorkshire Slasher we’re dealing with. Indiscriminate killing. Only we know it isn’t indiscriminate.” They drove in silence for a moment along Piccadilly. “When we get to the hotel, you see Cyclamen Dew and I’ll see the aunt. Haven’t met her, have you?” When Wiggins shook his head, Jury said, “I’ll bet it’d clear your sinuses up in a quick hurry. What was that pill you took back there? It’s a new one.”

  Wiggins seemed pleased that Jury was keeping tabs on Wiggins’s prescriptions. “A bit of high blood pressure. Got a diastolic ten points higher than it ought to be.”

  “Too bad. A pill a day, is it? My cousin’s got high blood pressure.”

  Making the turn up Albemarle Street, Wiggins was only too happy to fill Jury in. It was the first really new illness that the sergeant had managed to contract in several years. Until now, he had had to settle for refining the old. “Doctor says it’s the job, you know. We’re under too much strain, we are, and it can’t help but show. Now, you, well, I don’t think you’re quite so sensitive as me—” When Jury turned his head away quickly to study the glass facade of the Roller showrooms, Wiggins apparently felt he had leveled an unintended smart at his superior, and quickly added: “Not to suggest you’re calloused, or anything like that. I only meant that I, well, I’ve always felt things so much more than most people. It’s bound to have to come out some way, isn’t it? We really sacrifice ourselves to this job, don’t we?”

  Wiggins should have a good time with Cyclamen Dew—a high old martyrdom for both of them.

  “. . . and it’s such a terrible nuisance, having to take pills for something that’s got no symptoms. I mean, when a person’s in such otherwise good health.”

  Jury looked at him in open-mouthed amazement. But Wiggins’s face was perfectly straight. Almost holy.

  26

  When Jury walked into the paneled lounge of Brown’s Hotel,
Lady Violet Dew was pouring something from a small flask into her cup of tea and reading a Hustler.

  She looked up over the rim of the magazine and shoved up her glasses. “I only need them for reading,” she said, slapping the magazine shut. She smiled—as well as she could, given the absence today of both uppers and downers—and looked at Jury appreciatively.

  He had been similarly appraised the day before, when he had collided briefly with Lady Dew as the Honeysuckle Tours coach was readying itself for the jaunt between Stratford and London.

  “Questions again. I heard all about it; the hotel’s all agog; chambermaid’s nearly scared out of her pants. Sex crimes are always the worst, aren’t they? Probably because at bottom that’s what everyone wants. Sit down, sit down.” She patted the cretonne invitingly. “Have a cuppa? I’m buying.”

  Jury did a wonderful imitation of a man completely bushed who was all prepared to relax. He even loosened his tie. “I could use one, that’s for certain.”

  “Bet you don’t get much chance just to relax and have a bit of a natter, do you? Got to get home to the little wife and kiddies, I expect.”

  His smile was quite brilliant in the semidark of the bar. “No wife and no kiddies.”

  She gave him a playful slap on the arm. “Go on. A good-looker like you? Well, if you’re single, all the policewomen must be stark ravers.”

  “Not quite all. I have my bit of fun, of course.”

  She moved a few inches closer. “Ever been to the States? Haven’t seen anything till you’ve seen Hialeah racetrack. Play the ponies?”

  “Why, Lady Dew—”

  “Vi.”

  “Vi. You’ve already invited Mr. Plant.”

  “So what? The three of us could have a right old rave-up, don’t you think we couldn’t.”

  “I’m sure we could. In the meantime, how about answering a few questions?”