The Best of British Crime omnibus

by Andrew Garve

  Third, ruthlessness, to crown a man with a bottle. Bolting perhaps – he’d always impressed me as a man who wouldn’t easily be stopped if he’d set his mind on something. Schofield, Tranter, Thomas – almost all of them were possibles. Even Perdita. You didn’t line up with the Soviet Union these days if you hadn’t some ruthlessness in your system. Not, I would have thought, Cressey.

  Fourth, a heartless realism, a complete indifference to the fate of others. Thomas, I thought would have been too chivalrous, unless a cause had been at stake. But Perdita wouldn’t; basically, she cared only for Perdita. Tranter. Perhaps Schofield.

  Fifth, nerve, physical and moral. The murderer had quite probably climbed across the balconies. He had behaved with swift competence after the murder. He had sat tight since and shown not a glimmer of fear or panic. A tough character, the murderer! Bolting seemed to qualify, in part – the man who made reckless ski runs. Schofield, too, perhaps his nerve was probably inhuman. Islwyn Thomas? – well, courage, yes, but of the hot rather than the cold variety. Tranter, certainly – plenty of nerve there. Perdita, too – she was as cool as any woman I’d met.

  Well, it was interesting, but the method didn’t help much, I decided. Apart from Mrs Clarke, who didn’t seem to me to have the necessary intelligence, and Cressey, who was a dark horse but appeared humane, I could imagine any one of them having the calibre and qualities to make a murderer if the circumstances were right.

  As snatches of their conversation came wafting across to me, I suddenly felt a deep hatred of the whole lot of them. Not because there was someone sitting there who had killed Mullett for personal gain – that wasn’t my special affair. As Perdita had said, I wasn’t a policeman. Not even because Nikolai and Tanya were having to pay the penalty – I’d had my moments of savage anger on their account, but once you started knight-errantry on behalf of these poor devils of Russians, it was a job without end. No, what made my gorge rise was the thought that once again Moscow was going to put a preposterous story across, and get away with it. One more lie was going to be established, and we were all going to have to swallow it even though we knew it was a lie. The delegation would go back to England with its smug fables, and Mullett’s death would be shot and shell for them. The very person who’d killed him, the person with the loot in his pocket, would probably be the most vocal in denouncing the killing as a monstrous political assassination. I’d have done anything to put a spoke in that wheel.

  The real trouble, of course, was the utter impossibility of coming to grips with the delegates individually. A hard shell of political unity covered them all, and they clung together beneath it. I didn’t know them, except in the most superficial way, and I couldn’t know them, for they had no desire to make my closer acquaintance. I could make no contact, have no impact. I hadn’t the right to question them, or even the opportunity to quarrel with them. A little anger might have produced a little truth, but they were self-satisfied and not easily provoked. They would slip away, barely aware of my hostile interest and certainly indifferent to it.

  At that point in my reflections Perdita caught my eye and it seemed as though she must have read my thoughts, for she gave me one of her mocking smiles. It was the last straw I couldn’t leave things as they were. I’d got to force a showdown. I sprang to my feet and walked swiftly to the fourth floor bubbling with anger. Jeff’s door was open and I banged on it and went in. He was mending the handle of one of his suitcases.

  ‘Hallo, George,’ he said, swinging round.

  He stared. ‘My, what’s eating you? Has someone been unkind?’

  ‘Look,’ I said, ‘if we’re going to break this case we’ve got to do it before those people get back to England and disperse. Jeff, I’m going to confront them with the facts we’ve got. I’m going to give them the whole works, and see if they can still smile. That’s what the police would have done in any country, and that’s the only way to jolt them.’

  ‘Now just a minute,’ said Jeff. ‘Cool off, will you. You need a drink.’

  ‘No, thanks. All I need is a flaming row.’

  ‘Look, bud,’ he said, ‘a day or two ago you were urging me to clear out of Russia to save my skin. You’re a swell sort of adviser.’

  ‘You didn’t clear out,’ I said.

  ‘That was different. The danger was pretty vague – this isn’t. One of those guys is a murderer, don’t forget, and he’s not likely to sit tight and do nothing if you stick your neck out.’

  ‘That’s the whole point. There’s just a chance he may give himself away if he’s rattled enough. Anyway, it’s the only hope we’ve got. I’ll be on my guard, don’t worry.’

  He looked at me for a long time and then gave a shrug. ‘Okay, when do we start?’

  ‘We don’t – this is something I’m going to handle alone. I just wanted you to know before I walked into the den.’

  ‘Heck! – I might as well come along too.’

  ‘Much better if you don’t,’ I said. ‘If we’re going to provoke our man into action, things have got to be made simple for him. He’s got to have one person, one target, to concentrate on. If I get into a bad spot I’ll be glad to lean on you, but honestly there’s no point in your sitting in at the conference.’

  He was only half-convinced, but I didn’t give him the opportunity to argue. I went back to my own room and waited until I thought the delegates must be out of the restaurant, and then I rang Bolting.

  Chapter Eighteen

  They were all gathered in his room when I went along there fifteen minutes later, and they had obviously been told what the session was about for there was a Star-Chamber atmosphere about the place. Perdita, gracefully draped over one end of an old-fashioned chaise longue, regarding me with icy hostility. Islwyn Thomas had taken his cue from her and was scowling in sympathy. Joe Cressey was perched very straight on the edge of a hard chair and looked as uncomfortable mentally as physically. Mrs Clarke was beside him, flushed and expectant in a ringside seat. The Professor had settled himself over by the window with a pad on his knee, and shot me a swift, curious glance before returning to his doodling. Tranter and Bolting had placed themselves behind a table like a couple of judges.

  Bolting whispered, ‘Please sit down, Mr Verney.’ He had a scarf wound round his throat and mouth and was almost voiceless. I couldn’t help recalling what Jeff had said in jest – wrapped up like that, he did look a bit sinister. I dropped into the chair that had evidently been left for me. I had brought the trousers along, done up in paper, and I put the parcel down beside me. I felt keyed up and thankful to be facing them at last.

  ‘Mr Tranter will do the talking,’ said Bolting huskily. ‘You’ll forgive me, I know – throat!’ He pointed to the enveloping scarf.

  I nodded, and Tranter took over. ‘Well, here we all are, Mr Verney,’ he said. In contrast to the others, his attitude was quite gentle and benign. ‘We’re rather busy, you know – getting ready to leave – so we’d be glad if you’d come straight to the point. What is this urgent matter in connection with Mr Mullett’s death?’

  I ran an eye rapidly round the watchful company. ‘Only that one of you people killed him.’

  It was meant to be provocative, of course, and that was the way they took it. Tranter’s eyes narrowed and Bolting’s head jerked up and there was a chorus of angry protest. By and large, they looked about as friendly as a cage of cobras. From Perdita came a brisk ‘Ridiculous!’ and from Mrs Clarke an incredulous ‘Well, what a thing to say!’ For six of the seven I’d certainly caused a sensation, and the seventh wasn’t giving anything away.

  Perdita was the first to regain the power of consecutive speech. ‘This is going to be a pure waste of time,’ she said impatiently. ‘It’s been plain for a long while that Mr Verney hates our delegation and would like to make mischief. He’s a thorough reactionary and this is a political move – or else he’s trying to work up a story for his miserable paper. I suggest we report him to the Press Department and leave Mr Ganilov t
o deal with him.’

  ‘You ministering angel!’ I murmured.

  Mrs Clarke scrambled to her feet. ‘Mr Chairman,’ she cried shrilly, ‘I support the motion. We all know poor Mr Mullett was done in by that waiter chap, the same as the papers said. Why, this man’s calling our Russian comrades liars. He’s a fascist, that’s what he is.’

  ‘Just a moment, Mrs Clarke,’ said Tranter gently. ‘We don’t want to turn this into a public meeting.’

  ‘We’ll tell him to take his lying gossip somewhere else.’

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ I put in, ‘that’s exactly what I propose to do. To England. I thought, though, that you might all care to hear the case that one of you will have to answer.’

  ‘Very sporting of you,’ said Thomas disagreeably.

  Just a moment, please!’ Tranter rapped on the table with his knuckles. ‘I must say that this accusation of Mr Verney’s sounds utterly fantastic to me, but I suppose we ought to hear what he has to say. What do you think, Bolting?’

  ‘Obviously,’ said Bolting.

  ‘Very well, Mr Verney. We’re all attention.’

  I sat back and proceeded to unwind my story. There was no barracking – after the first moment or two they all became far too interested. I started with the reasons why Nikolai couldn’t have done the murder, and went on to my discoveries in Mullett’s room, the disappearance of Tanya, the fact that the Russians knew everything and were covering up for someone, and the business of the stamps. I didn’t, of course, mention Liefschitz, and I didn’t discuss the relative claims of the various delegates to the role of chief suspect. I wanted the murderer to work that out for himself. I simply outlined the general case as lucidly and cogently as I could.

  The recital wasn’t without effect. Except for mutterings from Mrs Clarke, who had probably failed to follow me, there was almost complete silence as I concluded.

  Again, it was Perdita who spoke first. ‘Mr Verney couldn’t have made his motives clearer. As I said before, this is a political thing. He hates the Soviet Union, and he’s trying to work up a story – a stunt story – for political ends. As though the Soviet Union would arrest a man they knew to be innocent! If you ask me, the whole thing’s a farrago of nonsense from beginning to end.’

  ‘Very ably presented, though,’ muttered the Professor from the window. ‘You’re a dangerous man, Mr Verney.’

  Tranter seemed at a loss. ‘I must say that I find it all quite incredible. Apart from anything else, it seems to me most unlikely that a collection of postage stamps would be worth all that risk.’

  ‘Oh, they might be, Mr Tranter,’ put in Cressey unexpectedly. He reddened, as baleful eyes were turned upon him. ‘I’m a bit of a philatelist myself, you know. There was a stamp once that changed hands for more than £7,000. Mind you, that’s not common, but it’s nothing for a stamp to fetch twenty or thirty pounds and a large packet would hold thousands.’

  ‘Thank you, Joe,’ I murmured. I’d completely forgotten his interest in stamps but I remembered now his knowledgeable comment when the subject had been mentioned at the VOKS party. He was either very simple, very honest, or very clever, to volunteer information at this stage.

  Tranter’s eyes dwelt speculatively on him, and it was clear that some at least of the delegates were wondering.

  ‘Even if that is true,’ Tranter went on, turning again to me, ‘the accusation seems to me to be extremely vague and unsupported by tangible evidence.’

  ‘It might seem less vague,’ I said, ‘if we were to go round together now and search everyone’s room. Somewhere in this hotel there’s a packet of stamps.’

  There was another outcry at that, and the baying became louder when Cressey said. ‘I don’t mind having my room searched.’

  ‘Well, I do,’ cried Perdita angrily. ‘I wouldn’t think of allowing it.’ She glared at me. ‘What right have you to make all this trouble?’

  ‘In a country where the police side with the criminal,’ I said, ‘I have every right.’

  Schofield looked up again from his doodling. ‘You talk recklessly, Mr Verney. The Soviet authorities are not going to like this, you know.’

  ‘I don’t suppose they’re going to like the evidence, either, Professor. Certainly not the publication of it.’

  Bolting took a sip of water. ‘You couldn’t publish that, my dear fellow,’ he croaked, ‘as you know perfectly well. No newspaper would touch it – not even the sensational sheet for which you work… ’ His voice trailed off again into a painful whisper.

  ‘You haven’t had quite all the story yet,’ I told him. ‘There does happen to be one piece of material evidence.’ I unwrapped my parcel and held up the ancient trousers. ‘The man who built up the stamp collection traded this garment for stamps in 1942. Perhaps one of you gentlemen recognises it?’

  There was a bit of a stir. Perdita turned up her nose in disgust, and Mrs Clarke cackled, but all the men got up and crowded round. And, of course, they all disowned the trousers with varying degrees of emphasis.

  ‘Pity!’ I said. ‘I’m not a detective, of course, and I’m afraid they’re going to give me rather a lot of trouble. But when eventually I go home to England, I shall certainly take them with me and it’s just possible I might be able to find out something about them. For one thing, they’ve been dry-cleaned – there’s a cleaner’s mark here. For another, they’re a rather good quality tweed, and I believe cloth can be traced, with expert help. Then again, they have definite measurements. Finally, it’s always possible that one of the murderer’s friends or acquaintances may recall a suit of this kind. I’ve a couple of contacts at Scotland Yard who might be interested in the case.’

  ‘You damned snooper!’ said Thomas. He’d definitely written me off as an old pal.

  ‘You realise, of course,’ put in Schofield, ‘that – supposing you’re right in your general accusation, which frankly I doubt – the British courts would have no jurisdiction as regards a crime committed in the U. S. S.R?’

  ‘That,’ I said, ‘is a thought with which the murderer is no doubt consoling himself. There’ll be precious little else he’ll be able to comfort himself with. A reputation, if not a head will roll!’

  There was another uneasy silence as I wrapped the trousers up again. ‘We should get further, of course, if I had your co-operation. I suppose those of you who were here in 1942 wouldn’t care to tell me what rooms you occupied in the hotel?’

  I looked at Schofield. I didn’t think he’d answer, but the morale of the party wasn’t quite what it had been, and after a moment he gave a little shrug. ‘If it will help to disabuse your mind of baseless suspicions, I’ll gladly tell you. My room was on the second floor, at the end of a long corridor. Number 284, if I remember rightly.’

  I nodded – I had a rough idea where it was.

  ‘Thank you, Professor.’ I looked at Thomas. ‘And yours, I believe, was the same one that you have now?’

  ‘Oh, go to hell!’ he said. ‘Yes, it was.’

  ‘Since everyone is being so helpful,’ Bolting whispered, ‘mine was on the third floor. Number 370.’

  ‘You were fortunate,’ I said. I knew that room, too – it was a particularly quiet and cosy one looking out on the lane and had been occupied in my time by one of the agency men. ‘And what about you, Mr Tranter?’

  Tranter’s eyes were frosty. ‘What makes you think that I was here in 1942, Mr Verney?’

  ‘You’ve been recognised by someone who saw you then. You’re an old party worker, Tranter, an undercover man. A communist wolf in pacifist clothing. Who do you suppose rang you last night? I’m afraid you had your journey downstairs for nothing. It’ll make a nice little story, won’t it?’

  He must have been expecting it, of course, and he didn’t bother to argue. After all, he was among friends. But he sat very rigid, and he looked very menacing.

  ‘The fact that it is sometimes necessary to be reticent about past events,’ he said slowly, ‘does not mean that on
e is a murderer.’

  I looked around. An amused, malicious smile curved Perdita’s lips and there was a cynical gleam in Schofield’s eye. Cressey alone looked slightly shocked. The revelation had certainly fallen very flat in this audience.

  ‘Ah, well,’ I said, ‘I’ll have to try it on your peace society, Tranter. I’m sure they’ll be interested.’ I got up. ‘By the way, Joe, I suppose you weren’t in Russia in 1942?’

  ‘Eh?’ said Cressey. ‘Why, no, Mr Verney, you know I wasn’t.’

  ‘Okay, I just wondered.’

  Bolting leaned across to Tranter and there was a whispered consultation. Tranter nodded vigorously, and then turned again to me. ’ Well, Mr Verney, I’m afraid you haven’t made much of an impression with your detective story. There’s just a final question I’d like to ask you. Apart from those trousers, which are most unlikely to give you any results, have you a single piece of evidence pointing to any particular person? If not, you must see that you really have no case.’

  I glanced at Perdita. ‘I have one small piece of evidence – in reserve. I’m rather dubious about a statement which was made to me.’ I picked up my parcel. ‘Goodnight – comrades.’

  Thomas’s scowl was the last thing I saw as I closed the door behind me.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I felt pretty cheerful as I turned into Jeff’s room to tell him how things had gone. At least I’d pricked the delegation’s monstrous complacency and got some of the gall out of my system. Jeff listened to the story with obvious satisfaction, though his chubby face became a bit solemn at the end.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I guess you’ve done what you wanted to. How does it feel to be live bait?’

  ‘No pain so far. I don’t suppose anything will come of it.’

  ‘I wouldn’t count on that. One way and another I reckon you’ve caused a lot of anxiety. Desperate men take risks.’