“I usually don’t have a firearm handy,” explained Gibbons. “And the urge passes after a bit.”
Carmichael rose, smiling at them.
“I’ll leave you to it,” he said. “I’ve got a suspect to question.”
“You’ll ring when you’re done, won’t you?” asked Gibbons anxiously.
“I certainly will,” promised Carmichael. “Perhaps I’ll even stop by if I leave the Yard early enough. But I’ll let you know what happens one way or the other.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Gibbons. “I do appreciate it.”
After he had gone, they sat silently for a few minutes, each contemplating all they had learned. At last Gibbons stirred, shifting uncomfortably, and eyed his bed.
“Do you think,” he asked, “you could help me over there? Suddenly I’m quite done in.”
“I’m feeling much the same myself,” admitted Bethancourt, rising to give his friend a hand. “Here we go—you’re feeling better, aren’t you?”
Gibbons merely grunted in reply, having used most of his breath in getting up from the chair.
“I can tell,” went on Bethancourt, “because you’re really doing all the work yourself.”
Gibbons eased himself down onto the bed and sighed.
“I’m a lot better,” he said in a moment. “The doctor says I can go home soon if I keep on this way.”
Bethancourt dropped back into his chair and shook his head.
“It’s incredible,” he said. “And it’s only a week since I was standing here, thinking you were dying. God knows you looked like it.”
Gibbons grinned at him. “I’m not so easy to kill,” he boasted. He shifted against the pillows and then sighed again. “That’s better,” he said. “I hate to be rude, Phillip, but I’m feeling awfully drowsy—I may drop off.”
“Have your nap and don’t worry about me,” said Bethancourt. “I’m going to take myself home, just as soon as I can summon the energy to get up.”
But the energy was apparently lacking, for when Nurse Pipp looked in some ten minutes later, she found both of them fast asleep.
Inspector Davies was waiting for him when Carmichael returned to the Yard.
“We’ve got Rob Coleman in an interview room,” he reported. “O’Leary says you think he was the one who shot Sergeant Gibbons?”
His tone was incredulous, and Carmichael didn’t blame him.
“The sergeant and his friend,” he said, “have been doing some detective work of their own, and it’s proved damned useful. Here, let me just give you a quick explanation before I tackle Coleman. Where have you put Mrs. Coleman, by the way?”
“She wasn’t there,” answered Davies. “In fact, Coleman didn’t seem to know where she was—he claimed she had left him last night. I had a discreet look around, and a good portion of the closet in the bedroom has been cleared out, so maybe he means it.”
“Dear God,” said Carmichael. “Every time I turn around in this damn case, something else crops up. Well, see if you can track her down while I’m talking to Coleman. Let’s get a cup of coffee while I go over what we’ve found out with you.”
But by the end of Monday, no sign of Lia Coleman had been found.
Epilogue
It was raining again on Hampstead Heath, a steady winter drizzle.
“How on earth,” asked James, “do you cope with all that wet fur?”
Bethancourt sighed. “I have towels in the car boot,” he said. “Lots of them.”
James shuddered. In another moment he asked, “Do you think they’ve had enough? Because, to be frank, I certainly have.”
“So have I,” agreed Bethancourt. “It’s getting too dark to see, anyway.”
They called the dogs back, and turned in the direction of the pub where they could shed their wet overcoats and warm themselves with some very fine single malt whisky. On a chilly Tuesday evening, they had the place almost to themselves, which was fortunate as there was a distinct odor of wet dog coming from their vicinity.
“Ah,” said Bethancourt, leaning back and lighting a cigarette. “That’s very much better, I must say.”
“Indeed,” said James, raising his glass.
They sat in contented silence for a moment.
“I’ve been doing a bit of research,” said James. “Vivian’s about to murder me for spending time on it when I should be working.” He grinned, and Bethancourt chuckled. “Once you know,” he continued, “that the jewelry was sold piece by piece some years ago, it’s not so difficult to find traces of it. I’ve already happened on one gentleman in South Africa who was quite astonished to find out exactly where his wife’s ruby earrings came from and very pleased to have a proper provenance for them. There may be others like that, and I’ve been talking with one of the curators at the V&A who would quite like to do an exhibit, particularly if we can find the alexandrite necklace.”
“Any luck on that score?” asked Bethancourt.
James shook his head. “Not yet,” he said. “It’s such a unique piece, I imagine it went into the collection of someone very shady. But even someone like that might be amenable to owning up to having it if I made it clear that the sale was perfectly legal, and offered a provenance. I have hopes.”
“Hope,” said Bethancourt, “is a great thing to have in life.”
James laughed and raised his glass. “To hope.”
“To hope,” echoed Bethancourt, and they drank.
“Inspector Davies stopped by the hospital today,” said Bethancourt. “The reports from the Swiss police make fascinating reading.”
“Do they?” said James. “Grant mentioned it to me, but all I gathered was that our Coleman had been a very naughty boy.”
“That’s right,” said Bethancourt. “They now believe he was involved in an armed robbery in Lausanne that took place about a month before he left for England. But they’ve also heard from the Ukrainian police, where apparently he has quite a record. He ran several pyramid schemes there, and then got involved with a gang stealing high-end art and jewelry. He fled the country after their last job, when a security guard was killed. The Ukrainians have never managed to catch all the gang members, but the couple they did get claim that Coleman was the killer in that instance.”
James let out a low whistle. “And he seemed like such a nice chap,” he said, and Bethancourt laughed.
“There’s been nothing on Lia Coleman, though,” he added. “Apart from the fact that she flew to Paris on Sunday night and then disappeared.”
“I actually have a bit more there,” said James, turning to rummage in the pockets of his overcoat. “It’s why I rang you, in fact—I thought you’d like to see it. I gave the original to the police, of course, but I made copies first. It came in the mail this afternoon, postmarked from Paris.”
He handed Bethancourt a photocopy of a letter, printed on a single page with a clearly written signature at the bottom: Lia Coleman.
Bethancourt raised his brows, startled, and James grinned at him.
“I thought you’d be surprised,” he said. “Here, I’ll fetch us another round while you read it.”
“Cheers,” said Bethancourt, turning his attention to the letter.
Dear Mr. James,
I am writing to you rather than the police because, to be frank, I have not always been on the best terms with law enforcement, but also because you struck me as a very astute man.
By the time you read this, I will have left England with the little I have been able to garnish from this misadventure. But I did not feel it right to leave without letting someone know I believe my husband is a murderer.
I now realize that my husband staged the robbery of Miranda’s jewels in order to collect the insurance money. I admit I had begun to suspect that was the case sometime before, but was not entirely convinced I was right. But last Tuesday night, Sergeant Gibbons came to visit us at about seven o’clock. He was most genial (may I say here that I very much liked the sergeant and hope he makes a fu
ll recovery?), but despite his easygoing tone I noticed my husband seemed on edge, and I believe the sergeant noticed it, too. I do not remember now how the topic arose, but the sergeant happened to mention the murder of a onetime fence named Pennycook. I had heard of this before, as Rob had mentioned it to me one morning while he was reading the newspaper, and I remarked on that. Sergeant Gibbons seemed to find this very interesting, and Rob suddenly began to talk about the weather in England, which had nothing to do with our previous conversation, and which was a decided non sequitur.
I might not have thought overmuch about this, except that my husband made an excuse to go out after Sergeant Gibbons left, and was gone rather longer than I had expected. We heard the next morning that Sergeant Gibbons had been shot. After that, I looked up the article in the paper which had mentioned the Pennycook murder, and discovered that it had occurred on the night my husband had gone out without me to meet an old friend.
I then remembered that Miranda had kept an old German Luger which someone had given her as a souvenir from the war. The next time I went to the house, I looked for it and found it was gone.
I have no proof, but I believe this Pennycook tried to blackmail my husband over his scheme to cheat the insurance company and that my husband killed him in consequence. Fearful that Sergeant Gibbons was about to discover this, he followed him that night and shot him with the intention of killing him as well. I do not know what he did with the gun, but on reflection I think it most likely he simply threw it in the bin that night, as our pickup comes on Wednesday mornings, and he was most particular about taking out the trash that night.
I should, of course, have come forward with all this long ago, and I certainly should never have agreed to back up my husband’s story that we had not seen Sergeant Gibbons that night. In my defense, I can only say that I had great difficulty accepting the fact that the man I had married was a murderer.
I trust you, Mr. James, to see that this letter gets into the right hands.
Yours truly,
Lia Coleman
James had returned with the whiskies by the time Bethancourt had finished reading. Bethancourt set down the page, picked up his drink, and took a large swallow of it.
“That,” he said, “is a most remarkable letter.”
“Isn’t it?” said James. “You can have that copy, by the way. I asked Davies if they had traced her from Paris and he said no, but that it hadn’t been a priority as they had nothing to charge her with except conspiring to defraud the insurance company, and he doesn’t think they really have a very good case even for that. So, since I was curious, I rang an old friend of mine in Switzerland, who did a background check for me.”
“Oh, this ought to be good,” said Bethancourt, watching the gleam in James’s eyes.
“Interesting, very interesting,” said James. “The record of her marriage to Coleman is quite aboveboard, and lists her maiden name as Emilia Rossi, from Locarno. The only difficulty with that comes when you take a look at the records in Locarno and discover that Emilia Rossi died in an automobile accident when she was eight.”
“My,” said Bethancourt, his eyes dancing. “I’m beginning to be quite impressed with our Mrs. Coleman.”
“Then you may also be interested to know,” said James, smiling broadly, “that I stopped by the Haverford house on my way home this evening. The couple of pieces of sterling that were left are now gone, as is the set of Fenimore Cooper that you were going on about the other day.”
Bethancourt burst into laughter. “Mr. Grenshaw will be so disappointed,” he said. “Will they bother trying to track her down for that?”
“I can’t see why they should,” replied James with a snort. “After all, she’s legitimately married to Coleman, and he’s legitimately Miranda Haverford’s heir. She may have jumped the gun by not waiting for probate to finish, but the stuff is ultimately hers.”
“So it is,” said Bethancourt, amused.
“I swear to God,” said James, “if it hadn’t been for her wretch of a husband, the woman would have pulled off her insurance scam. I’m not sure I ever would have figured it out.”
“Then you think she’s lying in her letter when she says the faked robbery was all Coleman’s doing?” asked Bethancourt.
“I’m sure of it,” said James. “Frankly, my estimation of Lia Coleman is that she’s a professional con woman who married Coleman for his inheritance. The faked robbery may even have been her idea. But I do think she’s telling the truth when she says she knew nothing about the Pennycook murder or the attack on Gibbons. If I read her right, she’d be far more likely to simply have paid up to keep Pennycook quiet.”
Bethancourt nodded his acceptance of this theory. “I’ve never met a con artist before,” he said. “I rather wish I had followed up the acquaintance—although perhaps I shouldn’t say that. I might have been a poorer man by the end of it.”
James laughed. “You might at that,” he agreed. “Well, it’s been a very interesting case. I don’t regret it, despite having lost money on it—I get paid for recovering jewels, not for finding out they’ve never been stolen in the first place.”
Bethancourt chuckled. “Do let me know,” he said, “if you ever find the necklace and get that exhibit put on at the V&A. I’d very much like to see it.”
“I will,” promised James. “Oh, and I meant to ask Davies, only I forgot—how is Sergeant Gibbons doing?”
“Quite well,” replied Bethancourt. “In fact, they say they’re going to let him go home tomorrow.”
“Oh, good show,” said James. “I’m very glad to hear it. Well, here’s to his convalescence.”
“Hear, hear,” said Bethancourt, raising his glass to James’s.
Gibbons sat in the armchair, feeling better than he had in some time. He had been given eggs for breakfast that morning and he was certain they were the most satisfying eggs he had ever tasted. And afterward Nurse Pipp had helped him dress in his own clothes, brought round earlier by his mother. He was just waiting now for all the paperwork to be finished. He rather wished he was going home to his own flat in Hammersmith rather than to his parents’ house, but getting dressed this morning had proved that he was not fit to be on his own yet. Not, he admitted, that his mother had had any doubts on that score.
He heard footsteps in the hallway outside, and in a moment Bethancourt appeared.
“Sorry to be late,” he said. “I’ve got your new phone for you, all registered and ready to go. The voice mail,” he added, handing it over, “lit up as soon as I turned it on.”
“It’s probably been collecting messages for days,” said Gibbons, admiring his new acquisition; it, like his street clothes, was yet another proof that he had a life beyond the hospital walls.
“I’ll go through them later.” He looked up at his friend. “You look a little under the weather this morning,” he said. “Were you out with Marla last night?”
“No, James and I were celebrating the successful end to the case,” replied Bethancourt, perching on the bed. “We celebrated a little too much. I had to get a taxi home.”
Gibbons laughed at him.
“I’ve got something else for you, by the way,” said Bethancourt, pulling a package out of his overcoat pocket. “I’d nearly forgotten I’d ordered it in all the excitement. Here you go.”
Gibbons took it, curious, and pulled the leather notebook cover, embossed with his initials, out of the bag. He stared down at it in silence for a moment, very touched by this evidence of Bethancourt’s affection.
“Thanks, Phillip,” he said. “I appreciate it very much—you know how fond I was of the old one you gave me.”
“Which is why it seemed a shame it got ruined,” said Bethancourt. “I reckoned it was bad enough getting shot—you didn’t need to lose something you liked on top of it all.”
“I’ve got my notebook right here,” said Gibbons, pulling it out of his pocket and fitting it into the cover.
Bethancourt raised a brow.
“You’ve written quite a lot in that one,” he said. “Is it the one I bought you after you were shot?”
“That’s right.” Gibbons paused, laying the notebook in his lap and looking down at it for a moment. “Over the last couple of days,” he said, “I’ve been writing down what happened the day I was shot, trying to fill in all the holes.”
“I thought we’d pretty much covered that,” said Bethancourt. “The last gap was what you did that night after O’Leary left you at the pub, and we know now that you went back to see the Colemans.”
“Yes, that letter of Mrs. Coleman’s was quite helpful,” agreed Gibbons. “But what I’ve been writing down is not just where I was and what I did, I’ve also been trying to reconstruct my thoughts. It’s quite uncomfortable, not remembering a whole day in your life.”
“I dare say it is,” said Bethancourt. “How are you coming with it?”
“I think I’ve got most everything now,” answered Gibbons, glancing back down at the notebook. “I’m actually very grateful to Lia Coleman for writing that letter because it finally told me why I had gone to Walworth in the first place. I really couldn’t make that out until I read her letter.”
“I still can’t make it out,” admitted Bethancourt. “Why did you?”
“Because talking to the Colemans would have given me my first idea that the two cases might be connected,” said Gibbons. “I think the note I made in the pub was the one about the kinds of people who commit arts theft—you can see from my earlier notes that both the Colemans exhibited a fairly thorough knowledge of gemstones when James and I were interviewing them.”
“I see,” said Bethancourt. “So you went back to see them just to sort them out in your mind.”
“Right,” said Gibbons. “And then while I was there, the mention of Pennycook would have provided the clue about the cases being connected. I think I still didn’t have much notion how, but my first instinct would be to go and have a look at the scene of the crime, just to get a feel for it. I wouldn’t have bothered O’Leary for that, though I might have rung him in the morning if I hadn’t been attacked.”
Trick of the Mind Page 36
