by Andrew Garve
‘That’s what’s bothering me,’ I said. ‘I can see everything up to that point. He’d completed his collection and he wanted a safe temporary hiding-place more or less under his eye and I imagine he chose the picture because that was about the one place where light-fingered chambermaids wouldn’t go poking about. He would certainly have intended to take the packet away with him – and then he didn’t. There must have been some damn good reason.’
Jeff screwed up his face in thought. ‘It was wartime, of course – I guess lots of unexpected things happened to people around 1942. Didn’t you tell me something about Mullett having to beat it practically overnight to Kuibishev in the evacuation?’
‘I did, yes – but that was in 1941. And he was the victim, not the murderer.’
‘Sure, I know – I was just illustrating. If he had to rush off, why shouldn’t some other guy have had the same kind of experience?’
That rang a bell at once. ‘Why, of course,’ I exclaimed, ‘there was someone else who left at very short notice – Islwyn Thomas. He was put under arrest for striking a senior officer. I don’t know exactly what happened afterwards, but if he was brought back here under escort he might not have had a chance to collect his haul.’
‘What was he doing at the hotel, anyway?’
‘Oh, just a spillover from the Mission. It did happen from time to time.’
‘Any idea which was his room?’
My moment of excitement passed. ‘Of course, yes – the one he’s in now. He was announcing the fact with great glee the day the delegation arrived.’
‘Oh, he was! Well, maybe he was trying to throw dust in our eyes. Maybe the room he really had was Mullett’s, and he was building up an alibi before he got to work.’
‘It’s possible,’ I agreed. ‘So’s the other thing, though. He’s a shocking sentimentalist.’
‘He’s nuts about that country of his. I’m all for self-determination, but he talks a heck of a lot of drivel. Maybe he ran the stamp racket to raise funds for the Welsh national revolution!’
I grinned. ‘There’d be precedents for that over here. Uncle Joe Stalin started his secular career robbing banks for the Cause.’
‘Sure! Thomas is just the type to have done this job, too. A guy who’d slap his commanding officer wouldn’t hesitate to hit Mullett with a bottle if he was in a tight corner. And he’s active enough to have made that balcony crossing.’
‘I suppose Tanya never dropped a hint that she’d known him before?’
‘Not a word. She may have done.’ His forehead wrinkled in a frown. ‘Funny, I never liked that guy.’
I laughed. ‘Well, we seem to be making a bit of progress, anyway. Now what about the others who were here in 1942? What about Schofield – would he have gone off in a hurry, I wonder?’
‘I reckon he’d have been more likely to get left behind. Besides, those official missions usually work to a comfortable schedule – you can bet he’d have had twelve hours’ notice, at least.’
‘I’d like to know more about what he was doing over here, all the same. If he was a key man on that mission – I’m just thinking aloud, now – I suppose he might have been called home suddenly for consultation in the middle of the talks and… No, it won’t do. He’d have managed to get a few minutes alone with the picture, somehow.’
‘Pity!’ said Jeff. ‘He’s the type that would understand about the values of stamps – keen mind, good at figures, that sort of thing. Familiar with markets. Quite a likely suspect, in some ways.’
‘Do you think so? I’d have said myself that he lived in a much too rarefied intellectual atmosphere to run a private racket like that. As long as he had tobacco for his pipe and some comfortable old clothes and a pile of books, I think he’d always be content. I’ve never seen anyone who seemed to care so little for the fleshpots.’
‘That could be misleading,’ said Jeff. ‘What about those miser fellows who keep millions of bucks in old chests and live like beggars? Maybe it’s just because the Prof has salted so much away that he looks so scruffy. He was certainly handy for the job – right across the corridor from Tanya. Slipping in and out of those rooms would have been less risky for him than for anyone. He’s pretty active, too, in a stringy sort of way – I reckon he could have negotiated the balconies.’
‘Can you see him getting on those confidential terms with Tanya?’
‘As a purely business deal, I guess I can. There’d have been plenty of opportunity, too – I dare say she was attached to that economic mission of his the same way she was attached to Mullett’s crowd. Still, we’ve nothing on him really. What about Bolting? – he was here in 1942. I wonder if he left in a hurry?’
‘He said something on the train coming in about having fractured his skull, skiing. I don’t know what happened to him after that. It would bear looking into.’
‘It sure would, bud. Now he is the sort of guy who might tie a woman round his fingers. It wouldn’t surprise me to know he likes the fleshpots and the flesh.’
I nodded. ‘Both expensive tastes, too.’
‘Oh, he could use the dough, all right. There’s another thing. Any guy who walks around with his head wrapped up in a balaclava needs watching!’
I chuckled. ‘Damn it, the fellow’s got a bad throat.’
‘So what? Maybe he got it playing hide-and-seek on the balcony.’
‘He had it before then. Don’t you remember – he was beginning to get hoarse at the VOKS party.’
‘Okay – he made it worse on the balcony, going out without his coat. Anyway, he’s acting suspiciously. Who wanted the delegation to pack up and leave after the murder? Bolting. Well, if he’d just killed Mullett and recovered the stamps that’s exactly the line he’d have taken. He’d have wanted to beat it from here at top speed and never come back.’
‘So he would if he simply had quinsies and felt like hell and didn’t want to look at any more crèches.’
‘Have it your own way, George. Anyway, there’s as good or as bad a case against him as there is against the other two. What we need, of course, is more information.’
‘Waterhouse will be here soon. Perhaps he’ll be able to fill in some of the gaps.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ said Jeff. ‘This case is just a goddam sieve at the moment.’ He got up and took a turn or two across the room and then he suddenly stopped. ‘Say, if we’re on the right lines and this guy did have to leave in such a hurry that he couldn’t take the stamps with him, wouldn’t he have been working like the devil ever since to get back here? Maybe that gives us a lead?’
I wasn’t quite sure what was in his mind. ‘You mean like Islwyn Thomas parading his Welsh nationalism to attract favourable notice and hook an invitation?’
‘Something like that.’
I pondered. ‘It seems to me they’re all in the same boat there. Bolting, for instance – getting into Parliament and putting the Russian case day in and day out. Even Schofield – he’s been making himself delegation-prone in an academic sort of way. What’s to choose between them? Anyway, I don’t think we can safely draw conclusions from pro-Russian activity. Most of the people who were sent out to Russia during the war were pro – it was their golden age – and when they got home they’d naturally continue on the same lines – even more so, because they’d have special knowledge to exploit.’
‘Still, this guy might have made an extra effort.’
‘He might. On the other hand, he might have written off his haul. Then when a stroke of luck brought him back here he’d naturally look around for the picture, and once he’d found it he wouldn’t be able to rest. It could have happened without planning.’
Jeff nodded. ‘Okay, no lead.’ He looked at me speculatively. ‘There is one other approach, of course. Whoever recovered those stamps must have them with him in his room right now. That’s a teasing thought.’
I smiled. ‘I’m not breaking into any more rooms. Forget it, Jeff – it’s too risky. Mullett’s was accessible, but
the others aren’t, and it’s impossible to get the keys.’
‘I guess you’re right,’ he said reluctantly, ‘but it sure would be a short cut to a solution if we knew where to look.’
At that point Waterhouse arrived. Jeff made some coffee on my electric stove and on the principle that three heads were better than two I again outlined the position as we knew it. The whole business was getting pretty complicated by now, and Waterhouse seemed a little puzzled once or twice. He hadn’t been milling over it the way we had, of course.
‘The key to the whole thing,’ I told him finally, ‘seems to be the answer to this one question – who left Moscow in a tearing hurry? – and that’s where you come in. You’re the man with the memory. Do you happen to remember the precise circumstances in which Thomas, Schofield and Bolting got out?’
Waterhouse took his coffee and settled himself in a comfortable chair. ‘Well, now,’ he said, ‘as far as that flamboyant Welshman is concerned, I don’t know anything, except that he left in disgrace. I hardly think he was under arrest, except in a technical sense, perhaps, and I’m sure he’d have done his own packing.’
I nodded. That, on the whole, was my own feeling.
‘Schofield? – now, let me see, he was on
Watson’s supply mission and – yes, they did go off in a rush. I remember that very well, because I was giving Watson luncheon at the Aragvi, and he had to dash away with his shashlik almost untouched. There was a Catalina flying out by the northern route and they were given about ten minutes to pack. You know how difficult transport was in those early days – people had to take what there was without argument, even V.I.P’s.’
I knew very well. ‘All the same,’ I said, ‘Schofield would surely have managed to grab the stamps, however short the notice? Unless, of course, someone was with him all the time, and that seems unlikely. You don’t happen to remember which room he had, do you?’
‘Hardly, dear boy. I am not the Recording Angel.’
‘Ah, well, let’s leave him. What about Bolting? I gather he had an accident.’
‘That’s right, he did. He was out skiing with a girl and tried a slope that was too steep for him. If I remember correctly, he crashed into a tree.’ Waterhouse gave a sidelong glance at Jeff, who had already opened his mouth to speak. ‘I do not know who the girl was.’
‘Too bad,’ said Jeff, and relaxed.
‘All I can tell you is that he was badly hurt – he wasn’t around at all after that. They took him to hospital here, but he didn’t completely recover – loss of memory, or something – and he was sent home by plane. He must have got over it in the end, of course.’
‘Loss of memory?’ I echoed. ‘Now that is something. Why, he might not have remembered about the stamps until he was back in England. I wonder how complete it was.’
‘I doubt if there’s anyone here now who could tell you – except Russians, of course, and they won’t.’
‘Well, it’s very intriguing. Did you know much about him, Waterhouse, at that time?’
‘Not a great deal. He wasn’t a particularly prominent member of the colony. His accounts job at the Embassy was a very minor one, and he just mixed in with everybody. He’s blossomed out quite a lot – I know I was rather surprised when I heard he’d been elected to Parliament.’
‘How did he manage to get here in the first place?’
‘Oh, I think he was seconded from the Army on account of his Russian. Yes, I remember now, he was in the Desert – he came in from the Middle East.’
Jeff grinned at me. ‘As you said, bud – complete with nylons!’
‘It adds up to this, then,’ I said. ‘The choice seems to lie between Bolting, Schofield and Thomas, with Bolting slightly in the lead. Tranter, Cressey and Mrs Clarke have never been to Russia before, and Manning wasn’t here during the war – so they’re out. Right?’
Waterhouse gave a rather preoccupied nod. I considered the proposition again and there didn’t seem to me to be a way round it. Presently, though, I recalled a remark that he’d made a few days earlier.
‘At that VOKS party,’ I said, ‘you seemed to think that you’d met Tranter before. Could you have done?’
‘I still think so,’ said Waterhouse slowly, ‘but for the life of me I can’t remember where. Perhaps it’ll come back to me.’ He sat frowning for a moment. Then he suddenly looked across at me with an odd expression and put down his cup. ‘I’ve just thought of something else, though – I’m afraid there may be a weakness in your chain of argument, gentlemen. You’ve been assuming that the murderer-to-be must have left suddenly in 1942 because otherwise he’d have been able to take the stamps with him. That isn’t sound, you know. A picture on a wall isn’t a fixture, especially a picture of Uncle Joe. Suppose that a few days before this villain of yours was due to leave, the picture was removed to grace some banquet – perhaps in the hotel, perhaps outside? In those circumstances, your man might very easily have been unable to lay his hands on it.’
I gave an exclamation of disgust. Waterhouse was dead right of course – we’d completely overlooked that possibility. A rather sterile silence followed.
‘Well,’ said Jeff finally, ‘there seems to be no point in wasting any more time over that quick exit business. I guess we ought to have had Waterhouse K.0 in on this earlier. The best thing we can do now is to try and find out who occupied this room of Mullett’s in 1942 – work at it from that end. Somebody might remember.’
I was still thinking about the mobility of the picture, and now another snag occurred to me. ‘That’s all very well, but how do we know that the picture was in that particular room when the fellow was collecting his stamps? In nine years, it may have been switched all over the place. Our man may have had quite a different room. What do you think, Waterhouse?’
‘It’s possible, of course,’ he said. ‘At the same time, I’ve known this hotel for nearly thirty years, and there’ve been remarkably few permanent changes. Once a picture was hung, I’m inclined to think it would remain in situ except in the sort of case I mentioned – a special removal for some function. Even then, I think the chances are that it would be put back in the same place afterwards.’
I nodded. ‘Well, it’s no good speculating any more. I’ll make some inquiries about the history of the picture, and if it seems that it hasn’t been moved about I’ll do as Jeff suggests and try to get a line on who had Mullett’s room during the war. It’s a long shot, but it might come off.’
‘If it turns out to be the Welshman,’ said Jeff, ‘I’ll stand you a bottle of champagne. Now that’s what we need in this case – to catch someone out in a thundering big lie.’
Chapter Sixteen
I spent the rest of the morning chasing chambermaids. I realised that they would probably chatter afterwards about my questions, however concretely I appealed to their discretion, but that couldn’t be helped. We knew enough now to go full speed ahead with all possible lines of inquiry even at the cost of secrecy, and there was no other way of getting the information I wanted.
It was Katya, a maid recently transferred from the fourth to the third floor, who proved most useful. She said she was sure that picture of Stalin had hung in room 435 – Mullett’s room – ever since she could remember, which was from well before the war. When I pressed her, she agreed that she couldn’t really be certain that it hadn’t been removed temporarily for a conference or a banquet, but she insisted that if so it had been restored afterwards to its rightful place. Waterhouse’s view seemed fully confirmed. Each room, apparently, had its allocation of furniture, its special inventory, and I gathered that the necessity of making any changes always rocked the hotel bureaucracy, to its foundations. I remembered the trouble there had sometimes been over moving a chair from a colleague’s room without permission of the management, and the ritual over Pott’s request for the hotel cat, and I could believe what Katya said. For once, I felt thankful for such rigidity. I presented her with a couple of cakes of toilet soap and sh
e was so overcome with gratitude that she bowed until her forehead almost scraped the floor.
What the maids couldn’t tell me was who had occupied Mullett’s room in 1942, and that was now the most vital question of all. One or two of them professed to have vague recollections, particularly when they saw Katya’s soap, but their accounts were so conflicting that it was obvious no reliance could be placed on them. Several of the waiters were equally obliging but equally unhelpful. The information would, of course, be buried somewhere in the hotel archives, but short of breaking and entering the manager’s office, I saw no way of getting hold of it.
I lunched with Jeff and Potts in the restaurant. Beyond indicating that I had made only slight progress I steered away from the topic, for the delegates were within earshot. The indefatigable Potts had been out with them that morning to a factory meeting where a unanimous resolution had been carried condemning the American ‘aggression in Korea’ and where he had made a note that sixty-eight per cent of male workers appeared to shave only every other day. On other matters, he was more usefully informative. It seemed that the delegation’s programme was to be completed that evening; that the following day – Sunday – would be devoted to pooling their findings and drafting a report, and that they would be leaving by air first thing on Monday morning. Bolting, who had been receiving medical attention and was still confined indoors, was expected to be sufficiently recovered by then. We had little more than a day left to come to some conclusion on the case.
After lunch the three of us retired to my room and I brought Potts up-to-date with the latest developments. Soon afterwards Waterhouse joined us again, eager to know the results of my inquiries that morning. We talked for a long while and went over a great deal of old ground, but in the end it became clearer that we were doing no more than mark time. It was all rather melancholy.
Jeff gave us a short pep-talk. ‘I reckon we haven’t done so badly for a bunch of tyros,’ he said. ‘Hell, it’s only a few days ago that we were grilling that guy Gain about his relations with Mullett. We’ve come a heck of a distance since then.’
