Design For Murder

by Francis Durbridge

  Wyatt nodded thoughtfully and snapped the bag shut, pushing it into the cubbyhole at the end of the dashboard. He flicked off the light and drove slowly into the yard towards the disused stable they had converted into a garage. Neither of them spoke again until they were facing the garage doors, when Sally said: ‘My turn this time. I can manage the doors now since Fred put the new catch on them.’

  He nodded absently and watched her pull open the heavy left-hand door. As the car’s headlights penetrated into the garage, he saw her stiffen suddenly. Then she turned, with a look of horror which seemed more ghastly in the strong glare.

  ‘Lionel! There’s somebody in there!’ she cried.

  He leapt out of the car and rushed over to her.

  ‘All right, Sally – all right.’ His hand gripped her shoulder and he followed her gaze. Just within the circle of light was a woman’s foot. He could see the shape of the girl dimly; she was slumped in a far corner against a large oil drum, just beyond the range of the headlights.

  ‘Stay here, Sally,’ he ordered, and went over to the other end of the garage. Five minutes later, he was back.

  ‘She’s been strangled,’ he said quietly.

  Sally caught her breath.

  ‘Who is she?’

  Even as she asked, something seemed to tell her what he would answer.

  ‘This will be a bit of a shock,’ he said slowly.

  ‘You know her?’

  ‘Yes – it’s Mildred Gillow.’

  His hand on her shoulder felt her recoil physically as if from a blow.

  ‘Poor Mildred,’ she whispered. ‘Then Sir James was right – it must be … Ariman …’

  Wyatt left the car where it was, switched off the lights and closed the garage door. Immediately on entering the house they went to Fred’s room, and found him in bed, snoring heavily. With some difficulty, Wyatt woke him and asked if he had seen any strangers about during the evening.

  Fred rubbed his eyes and ruffled his sandy hair thoughtfully.

  ‘I’ve been down in the far orchard most of the time since supper,’ he recalled sleepily. ‘Didn’t see anybody except old Ted Woolley shooting wild pigeons. Why, what’s the matter?’

  ‘You’re sure you didn’t see anybody else?’

  ‘Not a soul,’ yawned Fred. ‘But there was a phone call for you – not that I could make much sense of it. Some feller said he’d got an important message for you, so I said I’d give it you when you came in. But you couldn’t call it much of a message, at least, not to my way of thinking.’

  ‘What did he say, Fred?’

  Fred yawned again.

  ‘As far as I could make out, all this cove said was: “Present my compliments to Mr Wyatt. The name is Mr Rossiter”.’

  It was well after midnight before Wyatt and Sally were able to get to bed. They had had to contact the local police, who had removed the body of Mildred Gillow to the mortuary. Fortunately, Wyatt had been on friendly terms with the constable at the village police station for some considerable time, but even so, the sergeant who came over from Faversham was inclined to query some of his statements. Quite understandably, he found it difficult to believe that Mr and Mrs Wyatt could discover the body of an old friend in their garage without having at least a clue as to how it had got there.

  In the end it was Sally who suggested that her husband should ring up Sir James. The sergeant pricked up his ears, and Wyatt was bound to explain to him:

  ‘She means my old chief at the Yard – the Assistant Commissioner.’

  The sergeant was obviously impressed as Wyatt picked up the receiver and gave the familiar number. As he had expected, Sir James had left his office, but Wyatt eventually managed to get his home telephone number from one of the inspectors on night duty, whom he had known slightly some years previously.

  When Wyatt broke the news to Sir James, the familiar voice positively crackled, so they could hear it all over the room.

  ‘You’ve got to come in on this case, Wyatt … you’ve simply got to … and there’s no time to lose.’

  Wyatt looked across at Sally questioningly. She reached over and took the receiver from him.

  ‘All right, Sir James,’ she said quietly. ‘You can count us in.’

  CHAPTER II

  A Lift from Doctor Fraser

  At ten o’clock next morning Wyatt and Sally were heading west, bound for the fishing village of Shorecombe. Wyatt had persuaded Sir James that a trip up there was a very necessary item in their plan of campaign.

  They found there was no hotel in the place; the best accommodation they could get was at a not unattractive inn called the Silver Fleet, which catered for a certain number of visitors during the summer months. Their room was rather cramped, but very clean, and they both rather enjoyed the friendly atmosphere of the saloon bar down below, where the fishermen mingled with local shopkeepers and a sprinkling of visitors. Wyatt got on well with Fred Johnson, the landlord, a jovial type of Yorkshireman in the early fifties, who was quite ready to discuss the recent tragedy, though he could throw no light on it. He did, however, vouch for the character of Bill Tyson, the fisherman who was with Hugo Linder when they discovered the body.

  ‘I’ve known old Bill best part of thirty years,’ he informed Wyatt. ‘Straight as a line – asks favours of no man. I’d trust ’im wi’ me last bottle of Napoleon brandy.’

  Wyatt smiled. He intended to see Bill Tyson himself sometime, but he felt now that perhaps he would not learn very much. However, it would be interesting to hear his version of the discovery of Barbara Willis. They were in their room the morning after their arrival, when Fred Johnson suddenly appeared in his shirt-sleeves to announce that Hugo Linder was down below, asking if he could have a word with them.

  ‘You could see him in the back parlour if you like,’ volunteered the landlord.

  ‘Thanks,’ nodded Wyatt, ‘will you tell him we’ll be down almost at once?’

  They found that Hugo Linder was a typical Scandinavian, with fair hair and Nordic profile, a profile marred only by a slightly twisted nose, which, they learned later, was the result of amateur boxing activities in his college days.

  ‘I got your message, Mr Wyatt,’ he began, after introducing himself, ‘so I thought I’d come round right away. I’ve just been reading this morning’s paper about the other girl being found, and it seems to me there’s no time to be lost.’

  Wyatt nodded, and went on to ask him a series of questions about the discovery of the body of Barbara Willis. These revealed nothing new, but they helped Wyatt to get all the details firmly fixed in his mind.

  ‘And what about Mr Tyson?’ he asked at length. ‘Was he upset when he saw the body in the water?’

  ‘We were both upset. One moment we were laughing and joking, and the next we were struggling to get that girl out of the net.’

  Linder spoke perfect English, but there was just the faintest trace of his Norwegian origins in his intonation.

  ‘Did you know it was Barbara Willis?’ asked Sally.

  ‘No, I hadn’t the slightest idea who it was. But Tyson recognized her at once. He had been reading all about her, and her photo had been in his paper for several days.’

  Wyatt put his empty glass on the mantelpiece, and said: ‘How long are you staying here, Mr Linder?’

  The young Norwegian frowned thoughtfully.

  ‘Perhaps another two or three weeks. I am usually here for a month at this time of year – it’s my annual holiday. I rent a small, furnished cottage over on Fallow Cliff, not far from Bill Tyson’s place. My home, of course, is in London.’

  ‘What part of London?’ idly queried Sally.

  ‘St John’s Wood.’

  Wyatt continued pleasantly:

  ‘I was hoping that Tyson could have come along with you. Maybe I’ll walk over and see him later on.’

  Linder smiled.

  ‘I’m afraid poor old Tyson does not like answering questions, and he’s had rather a lot just lately. You m
ay find him a little difficult to handle, Mr Wyatt. He was quite rude to that other fellow.’

  ‘What other fellow?’ demanded Wyatt at once.

  ‘Why the man who came over from Teignmouth. I think his name was Knight.’

  ‘Knight?’ repeated Sally. ‘Wasn’t that the man who was engaged to Barbara Willis?’

  ‘That’s right,’ nodded Wyatt.

  ‘Then I suppose it was understandable that he should be curious about his fiancée’s death,’ said Linder. ‘He drove over from Teignmouth yesterday morning. He seemed most anxious to know what actually happened when we discovered the body.’

  ‘You say Bill Tyson lives near you at Fallow Cliff?’ persisted Wyatt. Linder nodded.

  ‘Yes, just the other side of the bay – about four miles by road. The best time to catch him would be in the evening, I should think.’

  ‘Right. Will you tell him we’ll be along about eight-thirty tonight?’

  ‘I’ll tell him,’ promised Linder, making a move towards the door. With his hand on the knob, he hesitated uncertainly for some moments, then said:

  ‘Mr Wyatt, I read in the paper about your finding the girl in your garage. Do you think she was murdered by the same person who killed Barbara Willis?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Wyatt after a moment’s pause.

  ‘But it is so horrible!’ exclaimed Linder incredulously. ‘Two girls strangled in a few weeks! Who would do a terrible thing like that?’

  ‘A man called “Mr Rossiter”,’ replied Wyatt simply, eyeing Linder shrewdly.

  ‘Mr Rossiter? But who is this Mr Rossiter?’

  ‘That,’ said Wyatt confidently, ‘is what I’m going to find out, Mr Linder.’

  Sally and her husband spent the afternoon in Teignmouth, and after tea they drove slowly round the lanes encircling the coast, with the idea of eventually ending up at Tyson’s cottage. Sally tried to follow their route on a road map, but very soon lost herself. Her husband offered neither help nor criticism: he sat without speaking for minutes at a time. Having discovered her bearings at last, she was almost startled when he suddenly asked:

  ‘What did you make of Hugo Linder?’

  ‘He seemed rather a pleasant sort of person, I thought. Though I should say he’s on the nervy side. Almost neurotic in some respects. He was pretty het-up about everything, wasn’t he?’

  ‘He was.’

  Sally switched on the headlights.

  ‘What does he do for a living?’ she asked.

  ‘He’s supposed to be an architect, I believe. Though I should imagine he has private means.’

  They had just passed a small waterfall when Sally imagined she caught a glimpse of a car overtaking them. They rounded a bend and she lost the car in her driving mirror, but on the next level stretch the oncoming car began to overhaul them rapidly. Suddenly, its headlamps snapped on, and Wyatt half-turned in his seat. The car crept up until it was fifteen yards behind them, then seemed content to remain at the distance.

  ‘Why doesn’t he go ahead if he’s in a hurry?’ murmured Sally, who was vaguely annoyed by the headlights in her mirror. ‘In any case I wish he’d put those lights out …’

  ‘Sally you’d better slow down – we’re coming to one of those hump-back bridges and the road narrows,’ said Wyatt, who had caught a fleeting glimpse of it about two hundred yards ahead. Sally took her foot off the accelerator, but the car behind made no attempt to pass them.

  ‘Why doesn’t he go ahead?’ demanded Sally once more. It was not until they were about seventy yards away from the bridge that the car behind suddenly put on a spurt.

  ‘Sally, for God’s sake, look out! He’s trying to pass you!’ cried Wyatt.

  ‘But we’re nearly on the bridge!’ exclaimed Sally desperately.

  ‘Pull over …’

  ‘I can’t! There’s no room …’

  They were forced into the side of the road, and as they came to the steep little bridge, the overtaking car suddenly shot in front, leaving Sally no alternative but to steer right into the parapet. The car shot clean through the low wall as if it had been matchwood and took a neat somersault right into the river below. The driver of the other car straightened out expertly, stepped hard on his accelerator and disappeared into the night.

  Wyatt was never quite sure whether he completely lost consciousness after feeling the terrific impact of the car meeting the water. He was aware that the car was lying on its side, and that he could feel the steering wheel in the middle of his back. He tried to open the door tilted above him, but the fall had jammed it. The window, too, was stuck. For a few frantic moments he fumbled in the back of the car and eventually found the starting handle.

  The water was swirling into the bottom of the car, and Sally lay motionless, with her head against the side window. Desperately Wyatt raised the handle and struck at the glass in the window nearest him. It took him some seconds to dispose of all the jagged edges. Then he lifted Sally as high as he could and tried to gain a footing on the floor of the car.

  The sharp sound of breaking glass seemed to restore Sally to consciousness. She opened her eyes and then clutched Wyatt’s arm.

  ‘Sally! Can you hold on a minute?’ he gasped, trying to steady her. She nodded and took a grip on the handle of the sunshine roof, which had also jammed. In a few seconds Wyatt managed to clamber out of the window. It was not easy, however, to stand with water well above his waist and help Sally to follow suit. After this was accomplished they had to cling to the car for some minutes to recover.

  Meanwhile, Wyatt surveyed their position. It was lucky that the river was running low, and was no more than five feet deep in the centre of its channel. Nevertheless, the current was strong under the narrow bridge, and he had considerable difficulty in getting Sally on to the bank. They lay there exhausted for quite a while; then Wyatt became conscious of his saturated clothes, for the night was appreciably cooler.

  It was starlight now, and they could just discern the outline of the car in the middle of the stream, with the fast-flowing waters surging around it.

  ‘What time is it?’ asked Wyatt at last.

  ‘No idea. My wrist-watch has stopped.’

  There was no sound of life, apart from the gurgling waters and the occasional rustle of some animal or bird in the bushes that grew thickly on the bank.

  ‘This is a very quiet road,’ mused Wyatt. ‘No one has been along here for nearly half-an-hour.’

  ‘Lionel, did you see who was driving that other car?’ asked Sally nervously.

  ‘No,’ he replied quickly. ‘Did you?’

  ‘I couldn’t see anything – what with the glare of those headlights, and being so scared. Oh, it was horrible!’

  She covered her face with her hands.

  ‘Don’t upset yourself, darling,’ said Wyatt. ‘At least, we’re sound in wind and limb.’ But he was wondering how they were going to get back to the inn from this isolated spot.

  ‘I think we’d better make for the nearest village,’ he decided at last. ‘We’ll never find Tyson’s place now.’

  He stopped speaking and sat up straight, his head turned towards the road. After a couple of seconds, he could hear a car approaching.

  ‘Wait here, Sally,’ he said, getting to his feet, and hobbling a few steps towards the road.

  ‘Lionel! Don’t leave me!’ she begged.

  ‘We must try to get a lift, darling,’ he urged, ‘and this might be our only opportunity. I won’t take any chances.’

  He squelched his way up the steep incline towards the road and peered anxiously at the oncoming car. There was nothing for it but to take a chance, so he stepped cautiously a couple of yards into the roadway and waved his arm with an air of urgency. With a sense of relief, he heard the car slow down, and he was even more pleased to note that the driver was a woman.

  ‘Hello, there! What goes on?’ called an attractive feminine voice with just the trace of a Canadian accent. Wyatt stepped up to the car and got a closer view
of the woman at the wheel. As far as he could judge in the half-light, she was about thirty years old, with a considerable amount of self-assurance. From her shadowy outline, he somehow sensed that she was well dressed.

  ‘I’m most awfully sorry to stop you like this,’ he began to apologize, ‘but we’ve had an accident.’

  She took in his bedraggled appearance with a swift glance.

  ‘You look kind of wet and miserable,’ she nodded. ‘Did you say an accident?’

  ‘Yes, my car went over the bridge here.’

  ‘Over the bridge! Say, is anybody hurt?’

  ‘No, no, we had rather a lucky escape. My wife is rather badly shaken, but I think she’ll be OK.’

  ‘Over the bridge!’ she repeated in quiet amazement. ‘I didn’t think they did that sort of thing, except on the movies.’

  ‘Well, apparently they do,’ said Wyatt with a little laugh. ‘Could you please give us both a lift into Shorecombe? I assure you we’ll replace your upholstery if these wet clothes do it any harm. By the way, my name is Wyatt …’

  ‘Wyatt?’ she echoed quickly. ‘Not Lionel Wyatt?’

  ‘That’s right,’ he nodded.

  The girl said:

  ‘But I was on the way to see you, Mr Wyatt.’

  ‘To see me?’

  ‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘It’s quite a coincidence our meeting like this.’

  ‘It’s certainly rather unconventional – I’m afraid I don’t know your name or—’

  ‘That’s soon settled. Allow me to introduce myself, Mr Wyatt. My name is Fraser. Doctor Gail Fraser.’

  CHAPTER III

  The Cottage on the Cliff

  Wyatt said quietly:

  ‘Doctor Fraser!’

  She turned sharply.

  ‘Anything wrong? You seem very surprised.’

  ‘That’s putting it mildly,’ he assured her.

  ‘Don’t I look like a doctor?’

  ‘I wouldn’t like to say. Anyhow, that’s not what I was thinking.’

  ‘What were you thinking, Mr Wyatt?’ There was a note of challenge in the slightly husky voice. Actually, Wyatt was wondering if she was the driver and this was the car which had forced them over the bridge.