Murder at the Open

by Angus MacVicar

  I put on my waterproof jacket and trousers and went out into the blustery showers. Walking along the tarmac on the right-hand side of the first fairway, I was astonished to see that the roof of the big refreshment marquee had been badly damaged by the gale. Huge slivers of canvas were cracking like whips, and crowds watched as the caterers rescued cases of food and drink from under the part which had collapsed. Police were helping repair men to get the thrashing canvas under control. So were a number of the spectators. Amongst them I noticed Cliff O’Donnel, no doubt glad of a little excitement as an antidote to his sad boredom.

  In the lee of a closed-circuit television tent I came across my son Jock, who was discussing with the golf correspondents of the Scotsman and the Evening Citizen the best way of getting this new sensation across to their respective papers. When one of the main stanchions snapped, they told me, people inside had been trapped and almost killed. Everything was now more or less under control, but a story had to be got ready and their problem was, who should do it? The crime reporters? The feature writers prising copy from the big name pros? Or themselves, who still had to collect detailed information about the actual golf?

  As I should know, being one of them myself, newspaper men are as nervous and temperamental as actors; but somehow they deliver the goods. Brilliant stories set in and around the storm-riven marquee appeared next day on all the front pages, supplementing progress reports in the murder mystery. Who actually wrote them I never found out. Team-work was probably the answer.

  Anyway, Jock had done his part of the job by four o’clock, and in the press tent I was able to get a few coherent words from him about prospects for the Open.

  After his morning round with Lema, Doug Sanders, it seemed, had given an interview. “If a British player can’t win in these conditions,” he said, “they’ll never win. We just don’t have this kind of weather in the States. If it keeps up this Championship is made for the home boys.”

  “U.S. Breeze Up!” was a headline I saw coming — but would it be justified in the light of past experience? I had a look at the latest betting odds, which Jock had got from his office, and regained a sense of proportion. Nicklaus was favourite at 7 to 2, Lema and Charles second favourites at 7 to 1. The first British players on the list were Coles and O’Connor at 20 to 1. I reminded myself that the bookies are never — repeat never — far out in their calculations.

  However, Jock cheered me by saying he’d seen Will do a 71 that morning and that Ronnie Shade had completed his practice with a round of 72.

  I was at home in the atmosphere of the press tent. If the death of Conrad Lingstrom — and Aidan’s preoccupation with it — hadn’t been constantly on my mind I could have spent a long and happy time talking shop and exchanging gossip about golf. But the boys had work to do, so in the end I took my leave and went back to the hotel.

  The cocktail bar opened at five. At about ten past I wandered into it and stood at the counter to order a glass of Islay Mist. The place seemed empty. Only after I’d spoken to the barman did I realise that Bill Ferguson and Gordon Cunningham were seated in a corner, drinking gin.

  What alerted me was the sound of Bill’s voice cutting into the carpeted silence as he put down his glass and stood up. “The accountants are coming tonight — round about seven. I’ll run through the books with them after dinner. So — say ten o’clock in my room, Cunningham. We’ll square things then. I hope for your sake that you’re right and the accountants wrong.”

  “I assure you, Bill”

  “Let’s not discuss it now. But remember this — no matter what the outcome of our conference may be, I’m going through with the merger!”

  “I’ve given you my advice, Bill. If you choose to ignore it”

  “We’ll see. Meanwhile, I’m going out for a breath of air.

  Even cold, damp air is better than this — this bloody awful atmosphere of suspicion.”

  He strode out. I don’t think he noticed me at all.

  I managed to persuade the barman that ice with Islay Mist is a barbarous incongruity and topped my neat whisky with a small amount of water. As I took the first sip I glanced across at Cunningham in the corner. He remained seated in his chair, staring beyond the table at a strip of jazzy wallpaper. His hands were clenched together. They were shaking.

  I took my drink and went across. Sitting down beside him, I said, “Pity the good weather hasn’t held for the Championship, Mr Cunningham.”

  He started. The buttons on his jacket cuffs rattled against the glass top of the table. “I — er — I beg your pardon?” Almost immediately, he added: “Sorry, Mr MacVicar. I was preoccupied — I didn’t see you.”

  I nodded. “The merger. A tricky subject, I gather.”

  He gave me a look, and I was surprised he didn’t ask what the hell business it was of mine. That he restrained himself — and, indeed, did his best to offer an ingratiating reply — was one of the oddest things I’d come across that day.

  “Very tricky,” he murmured. “Very tricky indeed. Mr Ferguson is so headstrong — not at all like his father. He’s young, of course. Won’t take advice.” His voice trailed out.

  “How d’you mean?” I said, attempting to strike deeper into this unexpected vein of ore.

  “I couldn’t possibly explain. Not to a layman!” he snapped, and I accepted the rebuff as fair. Then he lost the spark of anger and hurried on: “Please excuse my bad manners, Mr MacVicar. There are so many imponderables. I have a great admiration for Mr Ferguson. An outstanding business man, with excellent prospects. But his judgment is still suspect, in my opinion at least. This girl — Miss Lingstrom — he is in love with her. It is most unfortunate. He cannot conceive that — that … ” Again his voice faltered.

  “Go on,” I said, encouragingly.

  But he shook his head. “What’s the use!” he muttered, and his tone was so bleak that my curiosity was crushed out by the weight of sympathy I suddenly felt for him.

  “If there’s anything I can do,” I said. “If you’d like me to help”

  “No one can help. No one! In the circumstances one simply tries to help oneself.”

  I was shocked to see a man of his learning and experience in such a condition of tension. It was obvious, however, that in the meantime I could do nothing to relieve it; so with some reluctance I got up and left him there, staring at the wallpaper.

  I found Aidan in the bedroom, writing industriously at the desk under the window.

  “Sorting them out,” he explained. “My thoughts, Angus. They grow in the aroma of this particular tobacco.” As he quoted the ancient advertisement he grinned and flourished a half-smoked cigarette. “Only by writing them down can I properly test their logical content.”

  “I’ve just been talking to a desperate man,” I told him.

  He discarded the whimsy. “Cunningham?” he asked.

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  “I saw him myself half-an-hour ago, pretending to read in the lounge. He looked pretty desperate then.”

  “Do you think he knows something?”

  “I shouldn’t be surprised.”

  “About the murder?”

  “That’s a fish of a different odour. Remember what Bill Ferguson revealed to us in his cups — that there’s a discrepancy in the firm’s books. It’s a cinch that Cunningham knows something about that.”

  I realised he had no intention of sharing those logical thoughts of his and changed tack. “What’s Big Sam doing this afternoon?” I said.

  “Gone to the pictures, I believe.”

  “Gone to the pictures!”

  “Why not? His men know where to find him if anything happens.”

  “But in the circumstances — I mean —”

  “You mean he ought to be working hard at solving the mystery?”

  “Well — ”

  “At the moment there’s not a great deal he can do, personally. At my suggestion, he’s asked the New York police to investigate the John Rich angle
on Lingstrom. Then, as you know, he’s sent the scrap of paper to a handwriting expert in Edinburgh, along with a specimen of Debbie Lingstrom’s writing, and he’s sent the club to the lab in Glasgow. None of the answers is due until tomorrow. So in the meantime — wise man — he goes to the pictures, because it’s wet outside and he hates exercise, anyway.”

  “Now we’re all just waiting — for something to happen?”

  “You could put it like that. This detection business is like a war — hours of boredom interrupted by moments of violent activity.”

  “You cribbed that from Monty.”

  “Who cribbed it from somebody else. So what?”

  “Do you think something will happen?”

  He shrugged. “It’s inevitable. The mental stresses in a murder case are so powerful that in the end something always snaps. The resolution of the murderer, for example — or the resolution of a person who knows or suspects the truth. Like that marquee this afternoon, ripped to pieces by the stress of the gale. Don’t worry, Angus. Our suspects know they are being watched and that everything they say and do is being carefully analysed. As long as we keep up the pressure something will happen all right. The question is when — and how.”

  “It’s a horrible thought. Like blackmailing a man to suicide.”

  “An excellent simile,” he said, with an odd half-smile. “But then,” he added, “everything connected with murder is horrible.”

  “I wish to hell it had never happened here! In St Andrews, of all places. And just before the Championship.”

  He smiled. “What you need, Angus, is a break from morbidity. Like Big Sam. He went to the pictures. But you — you and I will have a slap-up meal, with a bottle of Liebfraumilch and a glass of Drambuie to follow. What about it?”

  “It’s a deal,” I said, feeling better. “Let’s talk golf for a change.”

  “By all means. I’m getting behind-hand with the news.”

  At about half-past ten we were in the cocktail bar, hazily but happily discussing varied subjects like the power-swing of Jack Nicklaus and the symbolism of Bertold Brecht, when the Inspector came in with thunder in his eyes.

  “Enjoy the pictures?” said Aidan, cheerfully.

  “Pictures be damned!” he growled. “Don’t suppose you’ve seen Cunningham?”

  “We haven’t. Why?”

  “He was due to meet Mr Ferguson at ten o’clock. Business conference with the accountants. He didn’t show up. We’ve looked everywhere, but he seems to have vamoosed, vanished!”

  4. Wednesday

  It turned out that the last person who’d talked with Gordon Cunningham was myself. The last person who’d actually seen him was the blonde brunette at the reception desk. She had noticed him leaving the hotel — wearing neither hat nor coat — at about six o’clock in the evening. Her vague supposition was that he’d been going out to buy an evening paper.

  The uniformed and plainclothes policemen on duty at the time had been quite unaware that he’d left the hotel. They’d been concentrating on keeping watch on other members of the Lingstrom party, and in any case his hat and coat still hung in the vestibule, his luggage and other effects remained in his bedroom, and there was no reason at all to suspect he had quietly vanished.

  Nevertheless, Big Sam’s annoyance at yet another police blunder — if blunder it could be called — was frighteningly formidable. Once or twice, during the small hours of the morning as he issued orders and reprimands, I caught his subordinates muttering amongst themselves with rebellion in their eyes.

  But the necessary inquiries were made as thoroughly as possible, considering the time of night. All members of the hotel staff on duty were questioned. So were householders in the area and owners of pubs and garages. So were officials at the railway and bus stations and policeman on traffic duty at the various exits from the town. But no one remembered seeing a man like Cunningham, except an elderly woman with peroxided hair who kept a cafe in Market Street. She had an idea that at about ten o’clock, when the place was jam-packed with customers, she’d served a frightened-looking man at a corner table. He’d worn pince-nez and had asked for beans on toast and a cup of tea.

  No other positive evidence was forthcoming. In view of the fact that Cunningham hadn’t a car of his own, however, the negative evidence of the public transport officials, garage proprietors and point-duty policemen pointed to the fairly firm conclusion that Cunningham was still in St Andrews.

  In the end, Big Sam decided to call it a hard day’s night, though policemen on duty in the streets and surrounding roads were warned to keep a sharp look-out for the fugitive. If he were still missing, further stringent efforts to locate him would begin in the morning.

  So would the Open Championship, I thought wryly. And in the circumstances there probably wouldn’t be much chance of my watching the competitors in action.

  Whilst all this activity was going on, Big Sam talked with Debbie Lingstrom, Erica Garson and Cliff O’Donnel in the upstairs lounge. None of them, it appeared, had spoken to Cunningham that day. None of them had even seen him, which was an odd thing in itself. But the secretary posed a question which shook not only the Inspector but Aidan and me as well.

  “Do you reckon he knew something about the murder?” she asked.

  “Could be,” replied Big Sam, noncommittally.

  “Well, hasn’t it occurred to you that the murderer may be responsible for his disappearance?”

  “Say,” muttered O’Donnel, “I never thought of that!” For a moment or two nobody else spoke.

  Then in his chair near the curtained window, Bill Ferguson said, abruptly, “I’m pretty sure I know why Cunningham’s done a bunk, and it’s got nothing at all to do with the murder.”

  “Quite, Mr Ferguson.” Big Sam re-established his grip of the situation. “Miss Garson is trying to be helpful, and I can assure her that every possibility will be taken into account. I think somebody does have information relevant to the murder — and is therefore in danger — but personally I wouldn’t say it’s Mr Cunningham.”

  Debbie Lingstrom flushed and got quickly to her feet. “Come, Erica,” she said, in a brittle voice. “It’s past midnight. I guess the Inspector will excuse us now.”

  Bill was already at the door, holding it open. As Debbie passed through he looked at her almost pleadingly; but for all the notice she took of him he might have been invisible, and I saw the warmth in his eyes evaporate. Erica Garson said, “Thank you, Mr Ferguson,” and smiled. But he didn’t seem to see or hear her.

  Big Sam shrugged. “No need for you to wait either, Mr O’Donnel, if you want to get to bed.”

  The chauffeur uncoiled himself from his armchair. “Thanks, Inspector. I must say all this has got me beat. But if that little runt of a lawyer had anything to do with the boss’s death — ”

  “If he had,” interrupted the Inspector, “he knows better than anyone that sooner or later the law will catch up with him.”

  O’Donnel paused at the door, as if about to say something else. Then he thought better of it and was gone. Bill shut the door and came back to his chair.

  Aidan was eyeing me. There had been peculiar undercurrents in the conversation, and I was sure he was trying to estimate what I’d made of them. In fact, I’d made nothing of them at all; but to baffle him I did my best to assume an expression of deep wisdom and understanding.

  “Now, Mr Ferguson,” said Big Sam, still brisk and curious at half-past twelve in the morning, “your theory is that Mr Cunningham is trying to escape the country, because of this discrepancy in your firm’s books?”

  Bill’s thoughts were elsewhere, and it was only with difficulty that he struggled out of them. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Will you explain the position exactly?”

  He sighed. “It concerns a Contingency Fund instituted by my father and administered by Cunningham. Employees who were sick or had an accident or who otherwise fell on hard times could apply for a grant
from it. When my father died and I took over, Cunningham led me to understand that the Fund was in good shape. I trusted him — he and his father and grandfather have been associated with Ferguson’s for the past sixty years — and made no effort to check its accounts myself. Now the accountants have discovered that there is no actual capital in the Fund at all and that during the past year Cunningham has been paying a number of small grants out of the General Reserve. He swears the capital was transferred to the General Reserve by my father just before he died, but the accountants can find no record of this and believe that the capital sum in question — which is considerable:about ten thousand pounds — was appropriated by Cunningham himself. I remember about eighteen months ago, hearing rumours that he’d had losses on the Stock Exchange; but these soon blew over, and as he seemed to have no personal financial worries, I assumed they’d been mistaken.”

  “This evening, in your room, you intended to have a showdown?”

  “Yes. My opinion is that Cunningham had no real answer for the accountants and decided to make a bolt for it.”

  “You may be right, Mr Ferguson. My sergeant spoke to his bank manager on the phone — got him out of bed, in fact. He remembers that about a week ago, the day before he came through to St Andrews with you to talk business with Mr Lingstrom, Cunningham withdrew five hundred pounds from his own account — in notes.”

  “He’s probably got them on him now — hoping to bribe someone to help him.”

  “I shouldn’t be surprised,” said Big Sam. He turned to me. “Mr MacVicar,” he went on, “you were the last to speak to him. In the light of Mr Ferguson’s statement, was there anything in what he said to you which now appears significant?”

  I considered. “His manner was unusual — as if he were under considerable strain. I asked him if there was anything I could do — you know, he looked so tense and unhappy I felt sorry for him. Then he said something you may think significant: ‘No one can help! No one. In the circumstances one simply tries to help oneself.’”