by J F Straker
Johnny hesitated. If anyone could tell him more about Paul Dassigne it would be the man’s wife. On the other hand, seeing her home would mess up his evening with Carole. And Carole would probably be suspicious of his motive; girls always were where another woman was involved. Particularly when the other woman was as attractive as Lara Dassigne.
He decided that business must come before pleasure. That the business might also prove pleasurable was incidental.
‘The name’s Johnny,’ he said brightly. ‘And there’s no need for a taxi. My car’s outside. If you don’t mind a bit of a draught I’ll run you home.’
She nodded. ‘I saw it when I came in. To be frank, I’m not really the sports-car type.’ She gave him a dentifrice smile. ‘However, I dare say I can snuggle down, eh? And it’s not far. Near the Duke of York’s. Do you know it?’
‘I know it.’ He picked up the mink. ‘That all right with you, Carole?’
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Fine.’
Her tone told him very definitely that it wasn’t. Well, that was what he had expected. Nonetheless he felt guilty. Which had been her intention, of course.
Her goodbye was curt. She didn’t come with them to the door, and as Johnny opened it he remembered the glass. Better put it in the car now, he thought, just in case. Excusing himself to Lara, he went back to the sitting room. Carole was by the fireplace, and as he reached for the glass he put an arm round her. She twisted away.
‘Cut it out, Carole,’ he protested. ‘No cause to be huffy. I just want to pump her about Paul, and this seems like a good opportunity. It won’t take long. I’ll be back in no time.’
‘You needn’t bother,’ she said. ‘I’m going to bed.’
He forced a grin. ‘Bed’ll suit me fine.’
‘I’m sure it will. Well, make the most of it. By the look of her it’ll suit her too.’
There was no arguing with her in that mood, and he didn’t try. She’ll have cooled off by the time I get back, he told himself. And she’s a sensible girl. She’ll understand.
Lara Dassigne snuggled so low and so close she made driving difficult. The mink was open, and each time he reached for the gear lever his hand touched her thigh. He found himself changing gear more frequently than was strictly necessary. Watch it, Inch, he admonished himself. You’ve got trouble with one married woman. Don’t start anything with another.
‘Coming up for a drink?’ she asked, as they stopped outside the block of flats where she lived.
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Just a quick one.’
The room into which she led him was large, with tall windows now hidden behind tall curtains, and furnished in the modern style: thick, wall-to-wall carpeting, light rectangular furniture on slender legs, psychedelic ornaments, queer-shaped chairs which looked uncomfortable but which, Johnny found, were delightfully restful. All as different from the basement in Eyton Place, he thought, as Lara was from Carole.
She swung open a cocktail cabinet to reveal a colourful and glittering display of bottles and glass. ‘Help yourself to a drink,’ she told him, slipping out of the mink. ‘I shan’t be a minute.’
He didn’t want a drink. He could have done with a beer, but there was no beer in the cabinet. For the sake of appearances he poured himself a small whisky, splashed in a liberal quantity of soda, and started to snoop. The top of the desk was locked, but the drawers were not, and he searched them swiftly, keeping an ear cocked for any sound that might herald the doll’s return. He found nothing of significance in the drawers, and was moving to another piece of furniture when he heard a door close. He grabbed his glass and sank into a chair.
She had changed into a flowered housecoat. It covered more than the dress had done. Johnny regretted the change.
‘Pour me a drink too, will you?’ she said. ‘Whisky. And go easy on the soda. Yours looks as though you drowned it.’ She sat down, crossing her legs and arranging the housecoat to hide most of them. ‘Thanks. Now, tell me about yourself. What do you do for bread?’
It was only then he realized that she was unaware of his profession. He had supposed that Dassigne would have told her of their meeting at the flat. That he had not done so was disconcerting. Had Dassigne considered it too insignificant to mention?
‘I’m ordinary,’ he said. ‘I’d rather hear about you.’
‘You’ve heard about me.’
‘Paul, then. What does he do for bread?’
A small frown creased the smooth perfection of her forehead. ‘You don’t know? I thought you and he were friends.’
Not exactly friends. More like acquaintances. I’ve met him once or twice at the girls’ flat.’
She wasn’t clear herself, she said, about the exact source of Paul’s income. He didn’t keep regular hours, and so far as she knew he had no office or staff. But he seemed to do well enough. He had once described himself as a purchasing agent working on commission.
‘Agent for what?’ Johnny asked.
She shrugged. ‘Anything, I imagine. Anything that’s wanted, provided it’s profitable.’
‘If he hasn’t an office I suppose his clients must visit him here.’
‘I’m away so much I really wouldn’t know. But yes, I suppose they must. Or he visits them.’
‘Sounds a bit chancey,’ Johnny said. ‘Still, it takes all sorts. By the way, I came across a friend of his the other day. Chap named Corby. Aaron Corby.’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’ The almond eyes narrowed to mere slits. ‘What are you after, Johnny? You didn’t run me home just to ask about Paul, did you?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Then why —’ She paused. ‘He hasn’t been muscling in on your love-life, has he?’
He laughed. ‘Good Lord, no!’
‘Well, it happens. All right, then. Let’s start again. What do you do for bread?’
He hesitated. But there was no point in lying. She’d get it from Dassigne on his return.
‘I’m a policeman,’ he said.
‘Oh!’ She put down the glass and leaned back, using one knee as a fulcrum on which to rest the other. A red slipper dangled from the pendant foot. ‘So that’s it! Professional interest, eh? What dastardly crime is Paul supposed to have committed?’
‘None, so far as I know.’
‘Then why the interest?’
‘He — well, he’s mysterious.’ She looked incredulous. ‘He is, you know. I mean, he’s quite well off — you said so yourself — but he doesn’t seem to do anything. I wondered where the money comes from. Don’t you?’
‘I’m just happy that it comes. Tell me does everyone with no visible means of support become a police suspect?’
Not everyone.’
‘Then why pick on Paul?’ She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, Johnny, but Paul’s no criminal. If he were I wouldn’t be talking to you so freely. I dare say he’s brought off a few sharp deals in his time, but he won’t have broken the law. He’s too smart for that.’
‘Bully for Paul.’
‘Don’t be sarcastic. It doesn’t suit you. Now, stop acting the policeman and have another drink.’
‘I’d better not,’ he said. ‘Carole’s expecting me. She’ll wonder what’s happened.’
‘I doubt it,’ she said drily. ‘Personally, I think she’ll have drawn her own conclusions. Women do.’
He thought she was probably right.
She stood close to him at the door. His impression on meeting her had been that she would be easy to make; and although she had done nothing to confirm the impression since, he felt impelled to try. After all, he told himself, the chat had hardly been conductive to dalliance. Maybe she’d been waiting for the appropriate moment. This could be it.
When she held out her hand he took it and drew her to him. She came reluctantly.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I don’t kiss policemen. Not when they’re on duty.’
‘And whe
n they’re not?’
‘It becomes a matter of choice, doesn’t it?’ She released her hand and stood back. ‘Goodnight, Johnny. Look in if you’re passing; I just might be home. But don’t take anything for granted.’
Odd, he thought, as he drove away. Very odd. At Carole’s place he could have sworn she was flashing the green light. Or was it so odd? Maybe she had a sort of built-in compulsion to outgun others of her sex who happened to be around, and had been using him as a stooge. Once they were alone together the need for one-upmanship had gone, so she hadn’t bothered.
It was a deflating thought.
The basement flat was in darkness. He rang once. When there was no reply he didn’t bother to ring again. She’ll be awake, he thought, I haven’t been all that long; she’s just being mulish. She’ll get over it, of course. Still, it’s a shame. If the doll hadn’t intervened it could have been quite an evening.
Back in the Mule he reflected that it could also have been quite an evening had the doll lived up to her earlier promise. But that was a disloyal thought. He broke into ‘Dick a Dum Dum’ in an attempt to dismiss it.
*
‘All right,’ Sherrey said. ‘His dabs are on the handbill. But, like I said, he could have dropped it on his previous visit that evening.’
Johnny shook his head. It was an expression of sorrow for the Boozer’s stubbornness rather than a denial. He had put that point to Carole, and she had dismissed it outright. Jill and Paul had been about to leave when Johnny had phoned to say he couldn’t make it, and they had waited in the hall while she got ready to join them. Her shoes had been under the day-bed. If the handbill had been where she found it later she couldn’t possibly have missed it.
Sherrey ignored the gesture. He said, ‘You had a plausible theory there, Johnny, I grant you that. Not watertight, but well, plausible. Where you’ve gone wrong is in denying facts that don’t fit your theory whereas what any right-minded copper would do is deny the theory. One of the facts you’re denying is that Dassigne was nowhere near Eyton Place when Miss S was murdered. Mr McInnery has four citizens of good repute who are ready to swear to that.’ Sherrey took a deep breath. ‘So let’s leave Miss S to the Murder Squad, shall we, and concentrate on our own particular problem?’
Reluctantly, Johnny agreed that they should. Mindful of Colin Browne’s comment — that if Dassigne hadn’t killed Jill he had paid someone else to do it for him — he had checked with Records on Aaron Corby and Frank Dove, the surly-looking man he had seen with Corby in the Chic Inn; he had got Dove’s name from Fred Potatoes. But neither of the men was known to Records — and where else did he look? Nowhere, of course, if he obeyed instructions. On the other hand there was still the possibility (to Johnny it was a near certainty) that Dassigne had been one of the bank robbers. So if either of those two characters were on Dassigne’s payroll (and Corby certainly was, according to Carole), then either or both could also have been involved in the robbery. He saw that as a legitimate reason for investigating them further. So did the Boozer. He would put it up to Division, the Boozer said.
‘There’s just one more thing, sir,’ Johnny said. ‘That money Miss Summer-bee borrowed. Do you happen to know if it was ever found?’
‘Jesus! You never give up, do you? No, it was not.’ The Boozer was scowling, but his tone did not match the scowl. ‘Presumably nicked by the murderer. And that’s another nail in your theory. If Dassigne robbed a bank of twenty thousand quid, as you seem positive he did (and I’m not saying he didn’t, mind you. I just need convincing), then he’s unlikely to knock off his girl-friend for a mere hundred or so.’ He shook a reproving finger. ‘Make up your mind which way you want it, Johnny. You can’t have your cake, you know.’
‘No, sir.’ Johnny was used to the Boozer’s habit of cutting his metaphors.
‘Right. Well, then. F Division have had a visit from a certain Mr James Probert, who claims to be the drunk who was in the bank prior to the robbery. You’d better get over there and sort him out.’
‘Any form?’ Johnny asked.
‘Apparently not. It seems he was indignant at the bank’s refusal to grant his son a loan — the son’s business is in danger of folding — and an overdose of ale during the lunch hour emboldened him to make a personal protest. Or that’s what he says.’
‘Why didn’t he come forward before?’
‘Search me. Too ashamed, I imagine. But ask him. It’s probably one of the few questions he’ll be able to answer. He won’t know much about the robbery, even if he saw it. Not if he was as drunk as he makes out.’
As he was leaving Johnny said, ‘This’ll do Knickers a bit of good, sir, won’t it? I mean — well, it makes nonsense of the suggestion that he and this Probert were in cahoots.’
‘It won’t do him any harm,’ Sherrey agreed.
*
‘You must think I’m an unsympathetic bastard,’ Paul said. ‘Not having called sooner, I mean. Actually, though, I did. Several times. I also telephoned.’
‘I was away,’ Carole said.
‘Me too. Got back this morning.’ He smoothed the hair over his head with both hands, letting them slide away down his neck. He had beautiful hands. ‘Oh, damn it all, Carole! What does one say in these circumstances? It stands to reason I’m sorry. Jill and I stopped being lovers months ago, but I was still very fond of her. I’ll miss her like hell.’
‘I thought I might see you at the funeral,’ she said.
‘I’d have been there if I’d known. When was it?’
‘This afternoon.’
It had been a gruesome day, and another day away from the office. Jill’s parents had arrived in the morning — she had met them briefly at the inquest on the Friday and she had helped them to pack Jill’s belongings. They were older and more homespun than she had pictured them. More helpless, too; it was she who had done most of the packing, while Mrs Summerbee sat bewailing the tragedy and her husband wandered about the flat looking lost and sad. She had cooked lunch for them and fed them, and had gone with them to the cemetery. The three of them, together with a woman from the model agency and a young photographer, were the only mourners. Colin had told her on the Sunday that he wouldn’t be coming — he just couldn’t face it, he said — but she had expected to see Paul. Surely he could somehow have discovered when and where the funeral was to be held?
The Summerbees had returned with her to the flat to fetch Jill’s suitcases, and had stayed, repeating everything they had said before until she had wanted to scream at them to go. And half an hour after they had eventually gone, Paul had come. She had thought, when the doorbell rang, that it was Johnny. Had she known it was Paul she would not have answered it. Not that she had anything against Paul, apart from his apparent indifference to Jill’s death. Aware of his alibi, she no longer shared Johnny’s belief in his guilt. It was just that she felt too exhausted, too confused, to cope.
‘I gather the police have no idea who killed her,’ Paul said. He took a cigarette from his case and began to search his pockets. ‘I think they suspected me at first. They gave me quite a grilling. Hell! I seem to have mislaid my lighter. Got a match?’
‘Sorry. I don’t smoke. And we’re all-electric.’ She gazed vaguely round the room. Her eye was caught by the bottle on the mantelpiece. ‘There’s the whisky you brought. Would you like a drink? I know I would.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I’ll get some glasses.’
When she returned he was standing by the fireplace, lighting a cigarette. ‘I’ve found a lighter,’ he said. ‘It was behind that rather monstrous green vase. A bit battered, but it works.’
‘Really? Let me see.’ He held it out to her. ‘Oh, dear! That’s Jill’s. I didn’t know it was there.’ She put down the glasses. ‘Well, you’d better hang on to it. But let me have it back some time, and I’ll send it to her parents. I don’t think either of them smokes, but they might like to have it.’
He poured two generous whiskies. ‘My wife tells me sh
e called on you last night. I’m sorry; she shouldn’t have done that. It must have given you quite a shock. You didn’t know I was married, did you?’
‘No. Did Jill?’
‘Perhaps. We never discussed it.’ He was wandering round the room, glass in hand. ‘Lara tells me your policeman friend drove her home and tried to pump her about me. Any idea why?’
The news about Johnny cheered her. She didn’t believe his interest in the blonde Lara had been entirely professional. But at least he hadn’t lied to her.
‘I think you puzzle him,’ she said. Loyalty to Johnny, even though she didn’t share his suspicion of Paul, made her conceal the truth. ‘He can’t pigeonhole you, and that bothers him. But I’m only guessing. I mean, he doesn’t talk shop when we’re together.’
He turned to smile at her. ‘I can’t say I blame him. Are you keeping the flat on? It’s a bit large for one, isn’t it?’
Too large and too depressing, she said. Every moment she was alone there she kept thinking of Jill, recalling what had happened. She’d be out just as soon as she could find somewhere to go.
‘If I hear of anything I’ll let you know.’ He looked at his watch, drained his glass and put it down. ‘Well, I’ll be off. I’ve a train to catch.’
‘You’re going away again?’
‘Just for the night. Look! Are you going to the Chic Inn this evening? I want to leave a message for Corby.’
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I might.’
He nodded. ‘Depends on your policeman, eh? Never mind. I’ll call in on my way.’
After he had gone depression gripped her again. She didn’t want to spend the evening alone in the flat, and she didn’t want to go out because Johnny might ring. After last night he just had to. She had expected him to ring earlier. But perhaps he had forgotten about the funeral, and had supposed her to be at the office.
It was a quarter to eight when Johnny rang. He had been busy, he said; up to the eyeballs. ‘But I’m sorry about last night, love,’ he said. ‘I came back, like I promised, but you’d gone to bed.’
He didn’t sound sufficiently penitent for her to accept his apology outright. And couldn’t he have spared a moment before this in which to phone? ‘You didn’t really expect me to wait up for you, did you?’ she said. She had been wide awake when he returned, and had he been satisfactorily persistent on the doorbell she would probably have answered. But he hadn’t, and she didn’t. ‘I hope you found Mrs Dassigne co-operative?’
