‘I can’t. It’s full of gardeners and so on. Ideally, I want an undisturbed plant pot or a Greek urn or something like that.’ He stood up and looked round the summerhouse in a dissatisfied way. ‘The trouble is, on the one hand, this place is perfect. It’s far enough from the house so no one need see anyone coming or going but there’s a very convenient shrubbery within sight. On the other hand, it’s a bit bare.’
‘There’s a table, a bench and an oil lamp. What else do you want?’ She stopped. ‘I know. A plant pot.’
‘The lamp certainly isn’t much use,’ he said, picking it up. He stepped back and a floorboard creaked under his foot. ‘Ah!’
He knelt on the floor and took his knife from his pocket. Wincing slightly, he opened the blade. ‘My arm’s improving,’ he said cheerfully ‘I couldn’t have done that a couple of days ago.’ He ran the knife round the floorboard. ‘This sounded very promising . . . Bingo!’ He pressed down on one end of the board. The other end rose and he pulled it loose, revealing an empty space beneath. ‘Wonderful,’ he said with deep satisfaction, kneeling down and peering into the hole. ‘Do you know, it’s all matchboarded under here?’ he said in a muffled voice. ‘It makes a very nice space. Excellent.’ He replaced the board and sat back on his heels.
Isabelle was watching him with amused interest. ‘Are you going to tell me why you’re ripping up the floorboards?’
Haldean scratched his nose. ‘To be honest, I don’t think I’d better. Sorry, old thing. Not yet, anyway. Er . . . there’s no need to tell anyone what I’ve been doing.’ He stood up and took out his cigarette case, offering it to her.
‘Thanks,’ she said abstractedly. ‘I’ll add it to my list of things I mustn’t mention. Have you finished your excavations?’
‘Yes,’ he said, dusting off his knees. He struck a match for her cigarette and she leaned forward thoughtfully.
‘Jack, I’ve been to see Arthur. He says there’s some sort of scheme to bring him up here tomorrow.’
‘That’s right. The idea is to try and give his memory a jolt.’
Isabelle pulled a face. ‘There’s a whole lot I could do with him forgetting. How I kept him on a string, for instance. I can’t believe I treated him like that.’
Haldean sat down beside her. ‘Don’t be too hard on yourself,’ he said gently.
‘Too hard on myself!’ She rounded on him. ‘Just at the moment I don’t feel as if I could be. You tried to tell me, didn’t you? About being rotten to Arthur, I mean, and I wouldn’t listen. And then there’s Malcolm, as well. We parted on such dreadful terms but since then he’s been through the mill and I feel I owe him an explanation. After all, he did try and save my life when those Russians attacked us. Apparently he’s coming here tomorrow, too. I hope to goodness he doesn’t run into Arthur.’
Haldean coughed and rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. ‘As a matter of fact, that’s the whole point and purpose of it all. To get them to bump into each other, I mean.’
She gazed at him. ‘But why, Jack?’
He shrugged. ‘To be honest, this is more Ashley’s scheme than mine. I’m a bit iffy about the whole thing, but Ashley’s frustrated by Arthur’s inability to remember what actually happened. He believes his loss of memory is genuine all right, which is more than Major-General Flint, the Chief Constable, does, and he’s prepared to let Stanton run into Smith-Fennimore to see if that will do the trick.’
‘But you don’t think it’ll do any good?’
‘I didn’t say that,’ said Haldean, flicking the ash off his cigarette. ‘In fact, it might be quite useful.’ He smiled at her. ‘But we’ll have to wait till tomorrow to see if it comes off.’
Sister Agnes Birch smiled brightly at her patient. ‘I’m glad you passed a good night, Commander. You’re due to leave today, aren’t you?’
Smith-Fennimore, with a thermometer in his mouth, could only grunt in reply.
Sister Birch extracted the thermometer and held it up to the light. ‘Excellent,’ she said and then stopped. ‘Is everything all right? You look worried about something.’ She looked at the typewritten envelope he was holding. ‘I hope it’s not bad news.’
Smith-Fennimore grimaced. ‘I’ve had better. When can I leave?’
‘The doctor should be round shortly, Commander. As soon as he says you’re free to go, you can. There was a telephone call, by the way, earlier this morning, from a Major Haldean. He rang yesterday, didn’t he? He sends his regards and asked if you’d telephone him as soon as you can.’
‘Thanks. Look . . . can you ask the doctor to hurry up? I really need to leave as soon as possible.’ His eyes flicked involuntarily back to the letter. ‘Something’s come up. Something urgent.’
Haldean prised up the loose floorboard in the summerhouse. ‘What d’you think?’
Ashley peered into the hole. ‘Yes, that should do it.’
Haldean put the board back and the two men walked along the path by the shrubbery to the house. ‘As we know, five o’clock is the latest things can happen,’ he said. ‘If the balloon hasn’t gone up by then, we’ll have to think it all through again.’
‘When’s Commander Smith-Fennimore due to arrive?’
‘From what he said on the telephone this morning, he’ll be here round about three. He explained that he had to come by train as his Bentley’s here and he wants to take it back. I offered to pick him up from the station but he said he’d get a taxi. When are you bringing Arthur along?’
‘I’ll have him here just after three.’ Ashley looked at Haldean keenly. ‘Are you all right?’
Haldean pulled a face. ‘I just hope it all comes together. If it doesn’t – well, you’ve got Arthur under lock and key and with General Flint convinced of the case against him, it might be very tricky.’
‘I think,’ said Ashley drily, ‘that it might be very tricky in any event.’
It was ten to three. Haldean, who had been waiting on the stone seat at the end of the terrace since before two, looked up as Constable Bevan approached.
‘Note for you, sir,’ said Bevan.
‘Thanks.’ Haldean took the note, read it, sighed, and stuffed it in his pocket. So far the plan had worked.
He heard the doorbell ring as he went back into the house. Going into the hall, he was in time to see Egerton opening the door to Smith-Fennimore.
‘Hello, old man,’ he said, as Egerton took Smith-Fennimore’s hat and coat. ‘My word, you’re looking brighter than when I saw you last.’
‘I feel a bit brighter, too, Jack. How’s things?’
‘Interesting.’ Haldean motioned for Smith-Fennimore to follow him across the hall. ‘Look,’ he said in a low voice, ‘I feel I ought to warn you there’s something happening. Unless you’ve seen the papers, you won’t know anything about this, but Arthur Stanton’s been arrested.’
‘So I gather,’ said Smith-Fennimore. ‘Apparently he’s lost his memory, which I thought was rather convenient.’
Haldean shook his head. ‘You don’t understand, Fennimore. He really has lost his memory. He can’t remember a thing about Lyvenden or being here for the ball or anything. Superintendent Ashley thinks there’s a fair chance that if Stanton could see us in Lord Lyvenden’s room, something may click.’
Smith-Fermimore’s eyebrows crawled upwards. ‘A sort of reconstruction of the crime, you mean?’
Haldean grinned. ‘Well, I think we’ll stop short of actually stabbing anyone but that’s the general idea, yes. I know you’ve only just arrived so I don’t know if you’d like a wash and brush-up first, but will you join the merry throng?’
‘Count me in. I’ll change later. When does it all start?’
‘Fairly soon. If we go and park ourselves in Lyvenden’s room, we’ll be around when Arthur arrives.’
‘Anything you say, Haldean,’ said Smith-Fennimore, falling into step beside him as they walked along the hallway to the garden suite. ‘What I really want to do is to see Isabelle. She must have come to
her senses by now.’
‘She was very concerned, that’s for sure,’ said Haldean tactfully. ‘I told her what a state you were in when we found you in the Paradise Club. You were very nearly a gonner.’
‘So I believe. Apparently the police had a tip from an informer. What were you doing there, by the way? According to the papers you were on the way out yourself.’
Haldean shook his head. ‘I had a bullet through my arm and a nasty crack on the head. This arm’s still crocked but the papers exaggerated it all. I suppose it made a better story. Anyway, Ashley and I had gone to see Inspector Rackham of Scotland Yard. There’s a bit more to all this, but I’ll bring you up to date later. You know that Russian bloke who came here last Sunday? Well, he was found dead in the Thames. He’d been shot. I was looking at his photograph when the call came through about you, so I led the way to the club.’
Smith-Fennimore looked at him sharply. ‘He was shot?’ He looked oddly shaken. ‘Do the police think he was connected with the gang who attacked us?’
‘He might have been.’
‘They’re a ruthless bunch, all right. It was very lucky for me you were there.’
Haldean shook his head. ‘Don’t mention it. Did you find out what was behind it all? I mean, why were you abducted in the first place? Were they after money?’
‘Only in a manner of speaking.’
They went into the garden suite. Smith-Fennimore paused on the threshold and drew a deep breath before entering.
‘It’s strange to be in here again,’ he said. There was a twist in his voice. ‘And you say Stanton’s being brought along?’ Haldean nodded. ‘I don’t really like the idea,’ said Smith-Fennimore. He looked round the room. ‘And I don’t like it in here. There’s an atmosphere, somehow. I don’t know why but there is.’
And there was, thought Haldean. It should have been just a room. The bed had been stripped and a bright blue canvas cover laid over it. The oak dressing table, wardrobe, table and desk, which had been full of Lord Lyvenden’s papers and belongings, were bright with polish, the stained rug had been removed and the boards over the windows were gone. The newly glazed french windows were wide open, filling the room with sunshine and all the scents from the garden outside. It should have suggested nothing but cleanliness, fresh air and diligent housework, but there was something else present. Haldean realized with a shock that he knew what it was. He’d known it often enough in the war. It was more like a smell than a sensation, but it set the hairs on the back of his neck tingling. It was fear.
He shuddered involuntarily. ‘So why were you abducted?’ he asked, settling himself on the edge of the table. He was being, he knew, deliberately casual. He pulled the ashtray towards him.
‘Influence, I suppose,’ said Smith-Fennimore, offering him a cigarette. ‘Have we got long to wait before everyone turns up, Haldean?’
‘Not long. How d’you mean, influence?’
Smith-Fennimore prowled restlessly round the room. ‘The gang – they were Russians, of course – knew I was due to attend the Paris Conference in October.’ Haldean looked puzzled. ‘You’ve got to remember that the Soviets are desperate for international trade, and for that they need credit. I’ve just found out how desperate they are.’
‘You mean they want someone to lend them a few quid?’
Smith-Fennimore smiled briefly. ‘They need more than a few quid. Germany’s sympathetic but the Germans are as badly off as the Russians. Do you know one American dollar is worth about four million marks? I think we and the Italians would be more willing to grant Russia credit if they would accept responsibility for Tsarist debts. If they could be persuaded to grant compensation for the foreign assets which were seized after the October Revolution, then they might get somewhere. When you think we loaned the Tsar nearly sixty million you can see there are some readjustments to be made. But they’re unwilling to pay anything back, of course, because that means money going out and not coming in. Anyway, they wanted me to support their cause in Paris.’
Haldean thoughtfully smoked his excellent Turkish cigarette. ‘I wondered if it was a bit more personal. Apparently Smith, Wilson and Fennimore have substantial deposits of Tsarist gold. I thought they might be after that.’
Smith-Fennimore sighed. ‘Was that in the newspapers? That blasted gold is nothing but a nuisance. They were, of course. We’ve got well over a million in our vaults that was invested with us ages ago. Most banks who had any dealing with pre-Revolutionary Russia have some deposits. We can’t draw on it, of course, because the owners are no longer alive, but we’ve got to pay to guard it. To be honest, I’d hand it over like a shot if I could find a way of getting rid of it legally, but as it is, they can whistle for it.’ He tapped his arm and winced. ‘And stubbing out cigarette ends on me isn’t going to make me change my mind, either. When they saw they were getting nowhere, I suppose they thought they might as well finish the job.’
‘Why did they choose the Paradise Club?’
‘I don’t know. The police asked me that yesterday but I was only taken there at the very end before they injected me with that stuff. Apparently the club’s owned by an Armenian who knows nothing of the day-to-day running of the place. It’s my guess that the men who kidnapped me knew the club would be empty at that time and just dumped me there.’ He crushed out his cigarette and ran an impatient hand through his hair. ‘All I really know was that it was a foul experience. Is this reconstruction business going to take long?’
Haldean glanced at the clock. ‘Ashley should be along soon with Arthur in tow. I imagine Isabelle and Uncle Phil will be with him as well.’
Smith-Fennimore brightened. ‘Isabelle’s coming? I wish they’d hurry up. It beats me what there is to reconstruct. After all, what’s there to find out? We know who murdered Lyvenden. The police have got Stanton safely behind bars and presumably all they’re waiting for is a date for his trial.’ He drummed his fingers on the mantelpiece. ‘It strikes me as a waste of time. After all, who else could it be but Stanton?’
Haldean wrinkled his nose. ‘That’s fair enough, but I did wonder about Alfred Charnock. D’you know he’s been arrested too?’ Smith-Fennimore looked astonished. Haldean smiled. ‘Not for murder, I have to say He had a very lucrative deal with Lyvenden, smuggling arms to the Ukraine for the Whites.’
Smith-Fennimore stared at him. ‘Lyvenden was supplying arms to the Ukraine? The devil. The old devil.’
‘The old devil indeed,’ agreed Haldean. ‘Charnock ran the whole show and both he and Lyvenden made a mint out of it. It did strike me that if Tim found out, which, considering how careless Lyvenden seems to have been with his papers, he very well might have done, Charnock could have bumped him off. He says he was on board the Ukrainian ship on the night of the ball – that bloke who called for him was the first mate – and I imagine the ship’s crew would give him an alibi. Although it would probably hold up in court, to my mind his story doesn’t amount to a hill of beans as I imagine the Ukrainians would say anything Charnock wanted them too.’
Smith-Fennimore shook his head. ‘I can’t see it, Haldean. Yes, Charnock could have shot Tim, but why would he murder Lyvenden? That would be killing the goose that laid the golden eggs as far as he was concerned, surely. Stanton’s the man. He has to be.’
Haldean hitched himself further on to the table. ‘Perhaps, but I couldn’t help wondering about who else could be guilty. I did think about Lady Harriet.’
‘I can imagine her killing her husband certainly,’ agreed Smith-Fennimore, lighting another cigarette, ‘but why on earth would she kill Tim?’
‘Tim knew all about Lyvenden’s affair with Mrs Strachan. Lady Harriet might have guessed but if she knew Tim had actual knowledge and wouldn’t tell her, she could have shot him in frustration.’
‘Surely she’d have been far more likely to shoot Mrs Strachan if she felt like that,’ said Smith-Fennimore. ‘There was obviously no love lost between them.’
Haldean nodded. ‘Th
at’s true. I wondered about Mrs Strachan, too. Lyvenden scared her rigid and when she lost fifty quid on Monday night, it didn’t take Lady Harriet long to work out where the money had come from. You know Lady Harriet wouldn’t say what she was doing on the morning Lyvenden was murdered? She’d arranged to meet Mrs Strachan to demand the money back. I guessed that, as they were both out at the same time, their intention was to meet each other. Superintendent Ashley telephoned Lady Harriet and she, rather unwillingly, confirmed what we’d known and what we’d guessed and filled in the details for us. The meeting didn’t actually take place. By that time Lady Harriet had decided to divorce Lyvenden and a meeting seemed, she said, superfluous. It didn’t half look suspicious for both of them at the time, though.’
Smith-Fennimore sighed. ‘Look, Haldean, I don’t care who looked suspicious at the time. It’s completely academic now. The police haven’t got Stanton under lock and key for fun. Damn, we virtually saw him do it.’
‘Yes, we did, didn’t we?’ said Haldean. ‘And, d’you know, despite having tried fairly hard to think of anyone else who could be guilty, I keep coming back to Stanton. It’s just that I’ve known him for so long, I felt obliged to try my best for him.’
Smith-Fennimore shrugged. ‘That’s only natural, I suppose.’
‘However, there are still some details Superintendent Ashley wants to find out. That’s why he’s so keen to give Stanton every chance to regain his memory.’
‘If he’s lost it at all,’ said Smith-Fennimore cynically.
Haldean smiled. ‘I don’t think there’s much doubt he really has. Have you got your gun on you? That Colt automatic, I mean?’
Smith-Fennimore’s hand instinctively went to his jacket pocket. ‘Yes. Why?’
‘Can I have a look?’
‘I suppose so.’ Smith-Fennimore pulled out the gun and handed it over.
‘Thanks.’ Haldean weighed it in his hand. ‘I imagine this packs quite a punch.’ He aimed the gun at the open window.
‘Steady on,’ said Smith-Fennimore. ‘It’s loaded.’
Haldean squinted down the barrel. ‘You clipped the side of Stanton’s head with one of your bullets. Add that to his previous troubles and yes, I think he’s genuinely lost his memory.’
Mad About the Boy? Page 27
