Design For Murder

by Francis Durbridge

  ‘Stop acting the fool, dear. Look at this enormous set – it’s a radiogram – and there’s television, too … why, it must have cost hundreds …’

  She suddenly realized he was not listening to her. He was standing beside a small table on which was a pale green telephone. He picked up the pad and began flicking over the pages.

  ‘This is interesting, Sally,’ he said presently. ‘There’s a friend of ours down here. Doctor Fraser – Welbeck 55568.’ He stood quietly tapping the pad with his finger-nail.

  ‘Lionel, how far do you think this girl Coral Salter is mixed up in this affair?’

  ‘Pretty deeply, I should imagine,’ said Wyatt, lighting a cigarette.

  ‘I can’t think how she comes to know so much,’ said Sally in puzzled tone. ‘Have you any idea?’

  ‘I have a feeling she’s rather a close friend of Mr Charles Luigi – or has been in the past. Maybe it’s a case of a woman scorned. There’s a lot goes on at the Madrid that the police never get to hear of.’

  Sally settled herself in the most comfortable armchair.

  ‘It’s rather odd that she should have made a note of Doctor Fraser’s telephone number, isn’t it?’ she reflected. ‘I can’t make up my mind about Doctor Fraser – that was a queer story of hers about the girls who impersonated Barbara Willis and Mildred Gillow—’

  ‘And Lauren Beaumont.’

  Sally sat bolt upright.

  ‘Lionel, you don’t think Coral Salter was one of those girls? She may have got scared when she heard of the disappearances.’

  ‘Now don’t get worked up about it, Sally.’

  Sally relaxed again.

  ‘It’s all very well for you to say that,’ she grumbled, ‘but remember what Luigi said about getting involved in things which don’t concern you.’

  Wyatt slowly blew out a stream of smoke, then said quietly: ‘You’re not suggesting I should throw up the case, are you, Sally?’

  ‘Of course not!’ she replied with an impatient gesture. ‘You’ve got to see it through now you’ve got so far. But, for Pete’s sake, don’t start telling me not to get worked up over things.’

  ‘Darling! You look quite hot and bothered,’ said Wyatt in some amusement. ‘I think you’d better go in the bedroom and powder your nose. I should imagine it’s the door at the end of the hall.’

  ‘I refuse to powder my nose,’ said Sally, ‘but I would like to see that bedroom. If it’s anything like this lounge, it’ll be worth coming a long way to see.’

  She picked up her bag and went out, while Wyatt resumed his study of the telephone pad, which contained a mass of closely written names and numbers. He had just managed to decipher the name “Barbara Willis” when he heard a scream from outside. He dropped the pad and ran to the bedroom.

  Sally was standing by the dressing-table, her hand to her mouth, staring at something which Wyatt could not see.

  ‘Sally! What is it?’

  ‘Look!’ she cried in a strange little voice. ‘The other side of the bed!’

  Wyatt moved into the room and walked past the foot of the bed.

  On the far side lay the inert form of Coral Salter. Her eyes were closed, and there were ominous red marks around her neck. There had obviously been a struggle, for her dress was torn off her right shoulder, and there was a thin stream of blood from her mouth.

  ‘Is she dead?’ asked Sally in a breathless whisper. Wyatt lifted one of the girl’s eyelids, then felt her pulse.

  ‘She’s dead all right – strangled,’ he pronounced. ‘She must have been dead about twenty minutes.’

  ‘Then she might have been killed at the Madrid and brought here afterwards.’

  ‘That’s quite possible,’ he agreed, ‘though I should imagine it wouldn’t be too easy to do that without attracting attention. Alternatively, the killer could have followed her here, done the job, and got away down the fire-escape … that would be much simpler.’

  Sally beat her fist in her palm.

  ‘This is horrible, what are we going to do?’

  ‘Don’t panic, Sally,’ he said, going over to her. He picked up a bottle of smelling salts from the dressing-table.

  ‘Here, take a sniff of this, then listen to me. I want you to go out and get a taxi if you can – drive straight to the Yard and get Lathom. Then—’

  He paused, and they both listened intently. Somebody was fitting a latchkey into the outside door of the flat. A second later, the door opened and was closed again after the newcomer had entered.

  A man began humming to himself in a pleasant baritone voice. He went into the lounge, and presently they heard the clink of glasses and the subdued music of a radio programme.

  Wyatt and Sally, who had moved towards the bedroom door, looked at each other questioningly. Finally, Wyatt made up his mind. He squeezed Sally’s hand reassuringly, and whispered: ‘Let me have that revolver from your bag.’

  Her hands trembled a little as she unfastened the clasp and handed him the tiny .22.

  ‘Do be careful, Lionel,’ she whispered.

  ‘All right, darling. When I go into the lounge, you can pass behind me and get to the outside door. If there’s any trouble, hop out and get some help. Ready now?’

  She nodded. Wyatt opened the bedroom door cautiously and moved softly in the direction of the lounge, the door of which was almost closed. Sally had no difficulty in getting to the outside door of the flat, and waited there nervously for him to go into the lounge. He hesitated for some moments, trying to ascertain the movements of the man inside. But he heard nothing beyond the swish of a soda syphon and the sound of a glass being set down on a tray.

  He would have liked to wait a few minutes longer, but he could see that Sally could not stand much more of this suspense, so he slowly pushed open the door.

  ‘Why, Mr Wyatt,’ cried a familiar voice. ‘How on earth did you get here?’

  ‘What’s more to the point, Mr Linder,’ replied Wyatt in level tones, ‘what are you doing here?’

  Linder swung round in the armchair in apparent bewilderment.

  ‘Are you crazy?’ he snapped. ‘This happens to be my flat!’

  CHAPTER VI

  Mr Linder has an Alibi

  Sally had softly turned the knob of the Yale lock in readiness to make a quick getaway. She stood listening to the conversation, and on hearing Linder claim that it was his flat she gave a little exclamation and released the latch with an audible click.

  ‘Who’s that outside, Mr Wyatt?’ she heard Linder ejaculate.

  ‘It’s all right, Mr Linder,’ came Wyatt’s reassuring voice. ‘My wife is in the hall outside.’

  Wyatt put his head round the door and beckoned to Sally, who came into the lounge.

  ‘Mr Wyatt, what is the meaning of this?’ demanded Linder sternly. ‘Are you in the habit of breaking into people’s flats? You wouldn’t have a search warrant, I suppose?’

  ‘Before we go into all that, Mr Linder,’ replied Wyatt, ‘you’d better come into the bedroom. There’s something I’d like you to see.’

  ‘The bedroom?’ stuttered Linder. ‘What can there possibly be in the bedroom …?’

  ‘If you don’t mind, Mr Linder – there’s no time to be lost,’ persisted Wyatt.

  Linder looked from one to the other in some mystification, then rose and followed Wyatt into the bedroom. The detective watched him as they came round the bed and saw the figure of the dead girl. If Linder knew what he would find there, then he certainly simulated surprise and horror in a manner that would have done credit to any West End actor.

  ‘Who is this girl?’ he gasped. ‘Who is she?’

  ‘You don’t know her, Mr Linder?’ asked Sally, who was standing by the bedroom door.

  ‘Of course I don’t know her!’ he declared vehemently. ‘I have never seen her in my life before.’

  Wyatt sat on a corner of the bed and looked down at the dead girl.

  ‘Her name is Coral Salter, Mr Linder. She is, or rathe
r she was, a professional dancer at the Madrid.’

  ‘Then she’s … dead?’

  ‘Strangled,’ said Wyatt, eyeing him closely.

  Linder took an involuntary step forward.

  ‘But look here, what the devil’s she doing in my flat?’ he protested in a frightened voice. ‘How did she get here? Mr Wyatt, for God’s sake, tell me what’s been going on!’

  ‘It isn’t as simple as all that, Mr Linder,’ said Wyatt quietly. ‘All I can tell you is that we met Miss Salter for the first time at the Madrid about two hours back. She told me that she wanted a confidential chat with me, and suggested that we should go to her flat.’

  ‘But this is not her flat!’ insisted Linder. ‘You mean she gave you this address?’

  ‘She left a note for my wife with the cloakroom attendant, and this address was on the paper. There was a key in the envelope, too.’

  ‘Then it’s quite obvious what has happened,’ said Linder tensely. ‘Someone must have known that she intended to see you – someone must have known about the note …’

  ‘You mean they substituted another note, with this address on it,’ said Wyatt slowly.

  ‘That’s quite possible,’ said Sally excitedly. ‘Someone must have seen Coral Salter talking to us, and followed her when she went to the ladies’ cloakroom …’

  ‘Then it was a lady who was responsible?’

  Sally shook her head impatiently. ‘I don’t know. She could have been intercepted before she went to the cloakroom, and then somebody else could have given the envelope to the cloakroom attendant.’

  ‘But what about the key, Sally?’ said Wyatt. ‘It isn’t as easy as all that to duplicate a Yale key, is it, Mr Linder?’

  Linder frowned with annoyance.

  ‘I don’t care if there were fifty keys!’ he said wildly. ‘This is my flat, and you’ve only to go down to the head porter if you want to prove it.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it’s your flat,’ replied Wyatt calmly. ‘And I dare say the police will be quite satisfied about that. What they will want to know is—’

  ‘What is this girl doing here?’

  ‘Exactly!’

  Linder paced thoughtfully over to the window and stood there for a few moments without speaking. Then he turned and said:

  ‘Mr Wyatt, you don’t seriously think I had anything to do with this business, do you? You don’t think I murdered this girl?’

  ‘It’s rather difficult to know what to think,’ said Wyatt. ‘The fact remains that you’ll have to do quite a lot of explaining to the police.’

  ‘But I’ve no motive for killing her. I’ve never even seen her before,’ repeated Linder with considerable emotion. He made an obvious effort to control himself, then asked in a quieter tone:

  ‘Have you any idea what time she died?’

  ‘She’s been dead about twenty minutes – perhaps half-an-hour.’

  ‘And you say you saw her at The Madrid?’

  ‘That is so.’

  ‘After eight o’clock?’

  ‘Yes, of course. We met her over an hour ago.’

  Linder breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Thank God, that lets me out!’

  ‘Then I take it you have a pretty satisfactory alibi, Mr Linder?’

  ‘Fortunately for me, Mr Wyatt, it’s the perfect alibi,’ he announced with complete assurance. ‘An acquaintance of mine called for me just after eight. We strolled down to the Hanover Restaurant near Baker Street, and stayed there till about a quarter past ten. We left the restaurant together and went to my friend’s flat for a drink. Then we strolled back here – he left me just outside. So you can see we’ve been together all the evening, and he can testify to that. In fact, it’s the perfect alibi.’

  ‘I shouldn’t be too sure about that, Mr Linder,’ said Wyatt mildly. ‘Doesn’t it rather depend upon the integrity of your companion?’

  ‘Naturally,’ smiled Linder.

  ‘Then the person in question is reliable?’

  ‘Undoubtedly, Mr Wyatt. It was Chief Inspector Lathom.’

  Wyatt telephoned Lathom’s flat immediately and received full corroboration of Linder’s story. He also arranged for Lathom to come over and take charge of everything, and the inspector arrived by taxi ten minutes later. After Wyatt and Sally had told him all they knew, they left him to contact the nearest station, arrange for removal of the body, and gather any further information he could obtain. In fact it seemed that Lathom would get very little sleep that night, but he agreed to meet Wyatt with Sir James at ten the following morning.

  When Wyatt arrived he found that Lathom had already given Sir James a summary of the events of the previous night, and they had come to the conclusion that it would have been a physical impossibility for Linder to have killed Coral Salter.

  Sir James had a little stack of files in front of him on his desk, and looked more worried than ever.

  ‘What about this fellow Knight?’ he asked, almost as soon as Wyatt had propped his stick against the desk and sat down.

  ‘Well, he was certainly at the Madrid; we had a talk to him,’ said Wyatt.

  ‘Could he have murdered the girl and then taken her to the flat?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Wyatt, ‘I suppose he could. But, of course, the same applies to Charles Luigi or anyone else at the club.’

  Lathom looked up from his note-pad, on which he was drafting out a report.

  ‘What exactly was Mr Knight doing at the Madrid?’ he queried.

  ‘Apparently, he found out that the car which tried to force him over the bridge belonged to Charles Luigi, and he wanted to interview him.’

  Lathom sniffed.

  ‘I’m always suspicious of these amateur detectives; maybe it’s time we had a word with Mr Knight,’ he murmured.

  ‘That’s an idea,’ agreed Perivale, taking a well-worn pipe from his pocket and slowly filling it. ‘By the way, Lathom, did you check up on that car of Luigi’s?’

  ‘Yes, sir, there’s a report in the blue file. The car was laid up and never left the garage. If Knight got the number right, then the number must have been faked.’

  ‘That would mean somebody is trying to throw suspicion on Luigi,’ suggested Perivale.

  Wyatt leaned back in his chair. ‘Unless, of course, the garage people are pulling a fast one on us, and Luigi really did use the car. That little man has a finger in so many pies, he might quite easily own that garage.’

  Perivale slowly digested this as he carefully rammed the tobacco into his pipe.

  Wyatt was in rather a contrary mood on this particular morning. For one thing, Lathom had vouchsafed no explanation as to why he had spent an entire evening with Hugo Linder; he had a feeling that the inspector was holding something back so as to accumulate kudos for himself.

  ‘What made you spend the evening with Hugo Linder, Inspector?’ he suddenly demanded in as casual a tone as possible.

  ‘What made you spend the evening at the Madrid, Mr Wyatt?’ countered the inspector.

  ‘I thought you knew why. I simply wanted to have a talk to Luigi.’

  ‘I wanted to have a talk with Hugo Linder,’ countered Lathom again.

  ‘Is he a friend of yours?’

  The inspector shrugged. ‘A policeman has no friends,’ he said. Sir James looked from one protagonist to the other, but said nothing. Lathom was obviously, in Wyatt’s opinion, determined to give as little away as possible. The tension was relieved at length by the arrival of a sergeant to inform them that Victor Taylor, the taxi driver who had tried to kidnap Sally, was downstairs in Superintendent Bradley’s room.

  ‘Have you seen this man?’ Wyatt asked Sir James.

  ‘No, Lathom’s questioned him.’

  ‘Any luck, Inspector?’

  Lathom shook his head.

  ‘He’s as scared as a jack-rabbit and sullen as they make ’em. I couldn’t get much out of him.’

  ‘D’you mind if I have a chat with him?’ asked Wyatt politely. Lathom shrugged as if to
wash his hands of any such proceedings, and it was Perivale who said:

  ‘Go ahead, Wyatt; that’s why I had him brought from the station. You know Bradley’s office, don’t you?’

  Wyatt nodded and went out.

  He found Vic Taylor in a truculent mood. He was looking shabbier than ever, perhaps because he had slept in his clothes and had not shaved. When Wyatt offered him a cigarette, he refused it with a violent gesture.

  ‘Keep your ruddy cigarettes!’ he snapped. ‘What’s the game, mister? I’ve already been ’ere once answerin’ a lot o’ cock-eyed questions, an’ I’m just abart browned off. What are you goin’ to do wiv me?’

  Wyatt perched on a corner of the desk and thoughtfully rubbed the hook of his stick.

  ‘What would you like us to do with you, Mr Taylor?’ he said easily.

  ‘Come orf it!’ snapped Vic Taylor. ‘You ain’t paid for bein’ funny.’

  ‘I was only asking you a civil question,’ said Wyatt pleasantly. ‘What would you like us to do with you?’

  ‘What the hell do I care!’ snarled Taylor, with a note of desperation. ‘You can shove me in jug and have done wiv’ it!’

  ‘Yes, I suppose we could do that,’ ruminated Wyatt. ‘At least, you’d be safe there.’

  ‘Safe? What d’yer mean?’

  ‘From the gentleman who gave you that job last night – the job you fell down on,’ Wyatt reminded him. ‘I hope my wife didn’t upset you – your nerves seem to be in a bad way this morning.’

  ‘I was a ruddy fool to take that job,’ admitted the taxi driver with some show of reluctance. ‘I’m sorry if your wife was frightened, guv’nor – though I must say I reckon she can look after ’erself all right.’

  ‘She was brought up in a hard school, Mr Taylor,’ said Wyatt with a smile. ‘Were you well paid for that job?’

  Taylor eyed him suspiciously.

  ‘I’ve ’ad that long-faced “dick” askin’ me all them questions, an’ a fat lot I told ’im. If you want to know what I was paid, you’d better go and ask him yerself.’

  Wyatt laughed, then lighted a cigarette.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t hit it off very well with Inspector Lathom,’ he confided, ‘so I don’t suppose he’d tell me very much, even if he knew anything. All the same, I do happen to know that Lathom has a theory about you. He thinks that you are mixed up in this “Rossiter” affair.’