CHAPTER II
A FEW IDEAS
“What was the exact date when Mrs. Morbent left Euston?” I asked.
“The thirteenth of January. A Wednesday.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely,” he said. “For one thing, she made a very peculiar remark. At least, I think now that it was peculiar. About the day being the thirteenth and unlucky.”
“That seems to fix it,” I said, and noted the date down. “Was she superstitious generally?”
“Not more than most,” he said, and shrugged his shoulders.
“Pardon my being so persistent,” I said, “but let me put the question another way. Did the remark strike you as being out of character?”
He frowned for a moment. “At that moment—no,” he said. “When I look back at it now, I think it was.”
“And who were the people who saw her at Euston later?”
“I’d rather not give their names,” he said. “It’s just a bit tricky. I don’t mind telling you that they met her at that club of mine, so there might be complications if there was any official interference.”
I’m afraid I rather stared at that.
“But there isn’t going to be any official interference.”
“There might be later,” he pointed out. “Didn’t we agree on that?”
“We’re talking in circles,” I told him. “If I make any enquiries they’re between you and me. They’re confidential as hell, if you like it put that way. Whatever I discover will never be communicated to the police.”
I pretended then that I wanted something from my trouser pocket and got to my feet. A quick glance in the mirror showed the door about as much ajar as it had been when I last saw it. Then I hauled out my handkerchief and sat down again.
“For instance,” I went on. “If I discovered that you’d murdered the lady, I should simply abandon the case. My duty to you would bar any revelation of that by hint or otherwise to the police. That’s the basis of all confidential professional work.”
He nodded to himself at that but otherwise didn’t turn a hair.
“Right-ho then,” he said. “The two people are the Hon. Harold Lewton-Molde and a Miss Scylla Payton. He’s a weak-chinned specimen, but she’s a tough. He owes me a goodish bit of money, by the way: about the only one who does.”
“But you’ve no reason to doubt his word?”
“In that? No. I’m sure now they actually did see her. By the way, one reason why they might resent questioning is that I rather fancy they’d been away on a very long weekend. You’re a man of the world, and so you gather what I mean.”
“And their addresses?”
“You could always see them at the club,” he said. “I don’t think it’d be square of me to reveal addresses. That sort of rumour getting around wouldn’t do me any good.”
“And the Irish trainer,” I said. “What about him? Is it only his word you have that she never arrived in Ireland?”
“It is only his word,” he said, and then was frowning to himself again. “Do you know, I never thought of that.”
“You mean you don’t trust him?”
“I wouldn’t go as far as that,” he said. “I mean, in anything like what we’re talking about now. In other things I wouldn’t trust him as far as I can throw a tank. But Georgie wouldn’t hear a word against him. She loved all the blarney, even when it hit her pocket afterwards.”
“His name?”
“William O’Clauty, of Gilland Lodge, County Dublin.”
“And now will you be more explicit,” I said when I’d jotted that down. “Why did you yourself mistrust him?”
“I knew he was a twister,” he said. “I like a flutter myself when the information’s good, and coming from O’Clauty, through Georgie, the information ought to have been good. But it never was, except at the wrong times. The annoying thing was that we used to pass tips on to pals, and that didn’t do us a lot of good. When the goddam horses won, the prices were too short. When one popped up at a long price, we didn’t know about it. And the excuses O’Clauty used to produce were pretty feeble, so I thought. The trouble was that she didn’t think so.”
“Getting down to brass tacks again,” I said. “Any reason why he should have murdered her?”
He stared at that.
“No use mincing words,” I said. “It’s one of the things we’ve got to consider.”
“Yes,” he said slowly. “I suppose it is.”
Then he was shaking his head.
“There is a reason, though I doubt if it’s a good one. He’s always hard up; I do know that. All those little trainers live from coup to coup. But one of those two colts of Georgie’s is a damn fine animal. The other’s won a few times, but this other animal—Amber King’s his name—is something out of the ordinary. She turned down an offer of a couple of thousand for him, and that’s good money for a lepper these days. After this is all over he’ll be nearing his prime, and he’s a cert National winner if nothing goes wrong with him. That’ll put him in the ten thousand class. And if anything happens to Georgie, O’Clauty takes the horses. It’s in her will. I told her it was scandalously generous of her, but there you are.”
It was my turn to frown and nod. “An Irishman’s said to consider his soul a pretty poor exchange for a damn good horse,” I said darkly. “If he trained a National winner he’d be made for life. If he owned one, then he wouldn’t swop Gilland Lodge for heaven. But about that will you mentioned. Who gets the bulk of her money? The sister?”
“That’s right,” he said. “I get ten thousand, tax free, and what I’ve had already. I mean those things you saw in that envelope.”
He was giving me a definitely challenging look.
“If you ask me how I know, then I can refer you to Barbara—Mrs. Grays,” he went on. “Georgie never made any secret of what she intended to do with her money. We didn’t worry, because we didn’t want the damn money, at least not enough to think of her as dead. By all the rules, she should outlive both of us.”
I liked the way he put that, and in spite of the believe-it-or-not tone of his statement, I believed him readily enough. In fact, I had a considerable respect for him. His class and those he made his money from were not mine, and usually I avoided them like the devil, but there was no denying the fact that already I had more than a sneaking liking for Worrack.
“No other bequests?” I asked.
“None of any consequence.”
“Well, so much for that,” I said. “And now can you give me a photograph of her?”
He must have anticipated the request for he had a couple ready. They were too large even for my breast pocket, and while he was cutting off the mounts I had a leg stretcher. The door was now definitely more ajar than when I saw it last.
“What do you think of her?” he asked, and there was something I would go so far as to call pathetic about the way he said it and the look on his face.
“A fine-looking woman,” I said. “I like her face. I like the whole look of her. If you’ll forgive my saying so, she looks a damn good sort. One you could trust to the last inch.”
“You’re dead right,” he said, and shook his head again as he dropped into the chair. “Her sister’s a good sort too. One of the best, but rather different from Georgie. I mean, even she would say that. She just worshipped Georgie. We all did.”
It took me a moment or two to find my next question after that.
“I could meet the sister?”
“I’d like you to,” he said. “What about lunch to-day? I could fix it up.”
I said it would suit me very well, and we fixed the rendezvous for Moroni’s, which is just off Coventry Street, at one sharp. Worrack would be there and I was supposed to drop in casually and hail him as a friend, and then would follow the introduction.
“And suppose I say I knew Georgie?” I suggested. “Would that help?”
“Wait a minute,” he said. “I think you’ve got something there. Just let me
think a moment and I’ll see how it’ll work out.”
I made a note or two in my book but I’d finished before he had his scheme ready. It was a bit complicated at first, and then the introduction of a new name didn’t help matters.
“Our talk this morning is off my own bat,” he began. “Barbara Grays mustn’t know a word about it. She’s worried, naturally, but she’s still hoping Georgie will turn up. I’ve got beyond that, which is why I wrote to you. But what I want to do is to invite another man to lunch with us. He’s quite a good sort, and a pal of Barbara’s. A chap named Hamson, who used to be in the Indian police. He’s a pretty fast mover, like all of our particular crowd, and he seems to have plenty of money.”
He had been hesitating a bit and when he came to that stop, things as far as I was concerned were very incomplete.
“And where’s he to fit in?” I asked.
“I hardly like suggesting it,” he said, “but you said something over the ’phone about being understaffed so I thought Hamson, as an old policeman, might lend you a hand. If you mentioned Georgie at lunch, then you might make Hamson prick his ears. He’s been asking where Georgie is. So have other people, and you can’t keep on saying she’s in Ireland. You can’t say it with enough conviction—at least I can’t.”
It seemed a cock-eyed scheme to me, and he must have seen the reluctance on my face.
“I’d like you to do things that way,” he said. “I know you ought to have a free hand, but I’ve got a hunch that Hamson might be a bit of a help.”
Then he was frowning in a rather peculiar way and rubbing that moustache of his.
“I’ll try anything once,” I told him. “Give me some more of the low-down on Georgie so that I can make my yarn convincing.”
Well, we concocted a set of circumstances that looked as if it might meet the case, and we had a five-minute rehearsal. Perhaps I was not too enthusiastic; at any rate something made him open up, and in a perfectly staggering way.
“It’s damn good of you, Travers, doing all this,” he said. “Perhaps there’s something I ought to tell you.” His voice lowered, and he gave a quick glance round like a man who instinctively wonders if he can possibly be overheard.
“Half a million’s a hell of a lot of money, even when death duties come off it,” he said, and then drew back. “Do you get me?”
“You mean—the sister?”
He shrugged his shoulders suggestively. “That’s for you to find out. And it’s where Hamson might help. He’s in her confidence. I know he’s asked her to marry him, but at the moment she can’t make up her mind.”
“I get you,” I said, though in fact everything was far from as clear as it sounded. “But about my name. I mustn’t be Travers. Blunt’s as good a name as any. After all, I’ve been pretty blunt with you.”
Ludovic Blunt then, I was to be. I thought it best to keep to the Christian name in case at any time I should be hailed by an unexpected friend. Then I rose to go, and another glance in the mirror showed that the door was pushed tightly to.
“I suppose it’s silly to ask if you’ve any ideas already?” he was asking me anxiously, as we moved towards the outer door.
“I have one or two,” I said, “but they’re pretty nebulous at the moment. Oh, and by the way, did she have any jewellery with her that afternoon?”
“I don’t think so,” he said. “I mean, I don’t think she had what you might call the regalia.”
“She had a lot?”
“A few thousand pounds’ worth. Nothing gaudy, but everything good, if you know what I mean. You see,” he told me, and as if he was anxious for me to believe it, “she wasn’t the gaudy sort. Whatever she did was always natural.”
I nodded. “But about that particular day? What was she actually wearing?”
He thought for a moment or two. “I know she was wearing that square-cut emerald ring. Brooch—no. Oh, and a wrist-watch. A quiet-looking platinum one, but probably worth well over a hundred these days. And she had her platinum cigarette-case.”
“And the ring? What was that worth?”
“Don’t know,” he said. “Five hundred probably.”
Then he was giving me that challenging look again.
“It’s all right,” I said. “Just routine questions. I don’t think she was murdered for her jewellery.”
He gripped my arm and the look he gave was even more challenging.
“But you do think . . .”
“You’ve got to think of everything,” I said, and shook my head. “At the moment I don’t actually feel sure she’s dead. She might have gone off with a man.”
I saw him stiffen at that. Then he smiled quietly as he shook his head. “If you’re counting on that you’re wasting your time. There wasn’t any man she’d have looked at twice.”
“Except you.”
He gave me a look, then turned his head away.
“Yes,” he said slowly. “Except me. Just as I wouldn’t look twice at any other woman.”
“And yet she didn’t trust you sufficiently to let you know about all that was probably going to happen.”
He swivelled round on me where he stood. I can see him now; his hand on the back of the chair, and in his eyes that deadly cold look that took the charm from his face and made it something ugly and dangerously threatening.
“Just what do you mean by that?”
“Just this,” I said, and shrugged my shoulders. “You asked me if I had any ideas. Here’s one that stands out as big as the Albert Memorial and about as blatantly. Mrs. Morbent knew perfectly well she was never going to Ireland, whatever she told you and her sister. She was nervous at Euston because she was playing a part; deceiving you, if you like. What she did know was that she was going somewhere to see someone about whom nobody had to be told—not even you or her sister. She expected that trip and that meeting to involve danger to herself, and that’s why she remembered the day was the thirteenth, and that’s why, before she left, she sent you that package. Also she left everything open, so that you’d merely rag her if she came safely out of wherever it was that she was going.”
His hand lifted and fell again, and I could see it was shaking.
“Yes,” he said slowly. “I should have seen all that.”
Then the challenge was in his voice again. “Who should she be going to see? And why should it be dangerous?”
I could only shrug my shoulders. “That,” I said quietly, “is what we have to find out. At the moment I can think of only one thing. The one she was seeing was a blackmailer.”
His eyes narrowed again as they met mine. Then the lip curled.
“How could she be blackmailed? Her whole life was as open as—as open as day.”
“So you might have thought,” I said. “You can take a jolt?”
The eyes narrowed again. “Why not? I’ve taken plenty in my time.”
“You said she refused to marry you,” I pointed out to him. “Maybe she wanted to marry you, but she couldn’t. Maybe she’d married again already. This is war-time. All women do queer things that are done in a moment’s excitement and then take a lifetime of living down.”
His head had turned away and he was doing some hard thinking. I was just about to ask him who her bankers were, and if her payments could be checked; and then he spoke first, and I knew there’d be plenty of time for my question when I’d got a better idea of things.
“There may have been blackmail, but not for that,” he said, and nodded to himself. Then as if to put the whole problem aside he was reminding me that we hadn’t discussed my terms.
“Blunt’s my name, and blunt I’ll be,” I told him. “I’m still undecided about taking your case. What I’ll do is work on it for two or three days and then let you know finally according to how things turn out. If I decide to go on, then we’ll discuss terms. If not, then twenty pounds will probably cover everything.”
“Two or three days isn’t very long,” he told me dubiously.
“Lots of t
hings can happen in a shorter time than that,” I said. “I’d like to give you a decision now, but I can’t. Inside me, at the moment, I’ve got nothing but gobbets of undigested information. Also I haven’t met half the people I ought to meet.”
He agreed with me there, and I agreed with him that his natural anxiety couldn’t help wishing for quick results, and with that we parted. I said I knew my way out, but at the head of the stairs he said that if anything went wrong over that lunch at Moroni’s he’d ring me up by a quarter-past twelve at the latest, but otherwise everything would be all right.
I made my way down, at least as far as the half-way landing. There I halted for a moment and cocked my ear upwards. Then I went up again, and with no need to worry about footsteps for the pile of the stair and corridor carpet seemed inches thick. A quick glance each way and I had my ear at the crack of the door. Voices were certainly there but there was never the remotest chance of hearing what they were saying. But I did recognise Worrack’s voice, and then, as another voice was slightly raised, I was surprised to recognise that for a man’s voice too. Then as I was pressing my ear a bit tighter there was the sound of people coming up the stairs, and I moved away like a streak.
It was twenty minutes to twelve when I reached my own flat again, and the first thing I did was to ring ‘Έnquiries’, at Euston. While I was waiting for the call and in the intervals of subsequent conversation, I was looking through a Who’s Who of 1938. There was nothing about anyone of the name of Grays, but Morbent was there, though what I gathered about the missing Georgina Morbent was little more than I already knew. Henry Morbent, so it said, was a South African magnate who married, in 1937, Georgina, second daughter of Colonel Amber of So-and-so. It said also that he was a director of various companies, and that he owned racehorses. As he was thirty years older than his wife, I gathered that she had married him for his money.
The Case of the Running Mouse: A Ludovic Travers Mystery Page 3
