Design For Murder

by Francis Durbridge

  The telephone cut short any further discussion on this subject, and Wyatt went to answer it. He was not altogether surprised to hear the surly tones of Lathom at the other end. The inspector had paid a visit to the dress shop in Bond Street, and had cross-questioned the assistants. He had satisfied himself that the only one who had any connection with the abduction of Lauren Beaumont was a girl who was known as Miss Marcia, and he had taken her into custody.

  ‘Sir James thought you might like to have a chat with her, Mr Wyatt,’ said Lathom, in a manner which seemed to disassociate himself from the idea.

  ‘I would, very much,’ replied Wyatt politely. ‘Would it be all right if I came along in about half an hour?’

  ‘I’ll tell Sir James,’ said Lathom and rang off.

  Wyatt passed on the news to Sally, who was excitedly discussing its possibilities when Maurice Knight called. The moment Sally brought him in it was obvious that he was under some stress. His mouth twitched nervously and he looked as if he had not slept the previous night. He refused the coffee Sally offered him, then changed his mind and said he would like a cup if she could make it black and strong.

  When she passed it to him his hand jerked and knocked the spoon to the floor.

  ‘What’s the matter, Mr Knight?’ asked Wyatt curiously. ‘You’re like a man expecting a bomb to go off at any second.’

  Knight said: ‘I’m scared, Wyatt – just plain scared. And I don’t mind admitting it.’

  ‘Tell us all about it,’ invited Wyatt. ‘What are you frightened of exactly?’

  Knight made an obvious effort, then began with some difficulty:

  ‘When I first began to investigate Barbara’s murder, I never thought of the danger it would involve – at least, I didn’t think of my own danger.’

  ‘You can’t come up against a man of “Mr Rossiter’s” calibre without running into danger sometime,’ said Wyatt seriously. ‘Well, what’s happened this time?’

  ‘Someone – I’ve no idea who it could be – someone tried to kill me last night,’ said Knight moodily.

  ‘Well, you’re still alive to tell the tale,’ said Wyatt encouragingly. ‘Let’s hear it.’

  Knight took a drink of coffee and accepted a cigarette. Then, with some hesitation, he continued:

  ‘After I left you last night I went back to my flat. I was standing outside, feeling for my latchkey, when suddenly a car went past. I heard what I took to be a backfire from the exhaust, but it must have been a revolver shot. The glass panel of the door splintered just above my head.’

  ‘Didn’t you even get a glimpse of the car?’ asked Sally, a note of indignation in her voice.

  ‘I’m afraid not. I was so dazed, I didn’t know what to do. It completely took my breath away.’

  ‘You were more scared than you were by the car accident at Shorecombe?’ asked Wyatt.

  ‘I certainly was. You see, I had something to occupy my mind immediately at Shorecombe. I had to keep driving the car. Besides, although I knew it couldn’t have been an accident, at the back of my mind there was still the thought that it might have been. But there’s nothing accidental about a bullet a few inches above one’s head.’

  ‘Did you inform the police?’ inquired Wyatt.

  Knight shook his head.

  ‘In the first place, I was so upset … I thought I’d sleep on it. Then this morning, I got a note …’

  He fumbled in his inside coat pocket and produced a folded slip of paper, which he passed to Wyatt, who smoothed it out and read:

  ‘Do not interfere in matters which do not concern you. This is the last warning. Mr Rossiter.’

  Wyatt passed the note to Sally, who read it and returned it to Knight.

  ‘You say this arrived by the first post?’ asked Wyatt.

  ‘Yes, apparently it was posted last night in St John’s Wood, though I suppose that isn’t much help.’

  ‘Not the slightest,’ said Wyatt cheerfully.

  Sally looked across at her husband, a tiny frown puckering her smooth forehead.

  ‘Darling, I can’t understand why “Mr Rossiter” bothers to plan an attempt on Mr Knight’s life, when he has so many other fish to fry,’ she murmured. ‘After all, Mr Knight admits himself that he’s only an amateur, and without the help of Scotland Yard he can’t possibly—’

  ‘Don’t you believe that someone tried to kill me last night, Mrs Wyatt?’ interrupted Knight in an unnatural voice. ‘Perhaps you’d care to come and examine my front door …’

  ‘That’s all right, Mr Knight,’ said Wyatt soothingly. ‘We believe you all right. Someone did try to murder you last night, and someone sent you that note. Now, why did they do that? Obviously because they are beginning to feel that your interference – or investigations if you like – are something of a nuisance. You’re beginning to get under their feet; you’re starting to spell danger. It may be only a fluke, but there’s just a chance that you’ve stumbled across something that “Mr Rossiter” doesn’t like.’

  ‘Do you really think so, Mr Wyatt?’ queried Knight anxiously.

  ‘That’s just a sort of hunch,’ Wyatt assured him. ‘I don’t suppose for a minute you know yourself what it is you’ve found out … but there’s probably something.’

  Knight looked perplexed.

  ‘I can’t think of anything,’ he had to admit.

  ‘Think back over the last day or two,’ urged Wyatt, as Sally refilled Knight’s cup. ‘Go over all the little details you can call to mind. For instance, those papers you went through – the ones that belonged to your fiancée. Did you find anything else of importance besides that address?’

  Knight shook his head.

  ‘As far as I could see, it was just a lot of odds and ends. I didn’t look at it very carefully. Of course, I could go through it again, if you think it would be any use.’

  ‘That’s up to you,’ said Wyatt. ‘In the meantime, I don’t quite know what we can do about your own personal safety.’

  ‘You could drop a word to Sir James,’ said Sally almost indifferently.

  ‘Yes, I could do that. Then, first of all, they’d have Mr Knight on the carpet for poking his nose into matters which don’t concern him – and after they’d detail a couple of men to act as unofficial bodyguard. Would you be in favour of that, Mr Knight?’

  ‘Good lord, no!’ exclaimed Knight in alarm. ‘That would only make me more scared than ever.’

  ‘That’s just what I thought,’ smiled Wyatt, glancing at his wrist-watch. ‘Look here, I’m on my way to the Yard now, and I’ll put it to Sir James strictly off the record. I’ll let you know what he thinks about it.’

  ‘All right,’ agreed Knight. ‘I’m very grateful to you, Wyatt. I’m terribly sorry to have bored you with all this – I must sound an awful coward …’

  ‘All brave men are cowards,’ said Wyatt gravely. ‘And I’ve yet to meet anyone who likes being shot at.’

  He put on his coat and scarf and picked up his walking-stick.

  ‘I’ve got my car here if you’d let me drop you at the Yard,’ offered Knight.

  ‘Could you? That’d be a great help … I’m a bit late, I’m afraid, and it’s rather urgent.’

  Knight rose and moved to the door.

  ‘I’ll go on first, just in case she won’t start. See you down there.’

  He went out, nodding good morning to Sally, and looking rather more confident than when he had come in twenty minutes earlier.

  Sally walked with her husband out to the lift and they waited for it while Knight dashed down the stairs.

  ‘Do you believe that story?’ she inquired, after making sure that Knight was out of earshot.

  ‘You mean about the revolver shot?’ Wyatt asked, adjusting his scarf. ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘You know what I think about Knight,’ she replied quietly.

  ‘Oh, yes, I was forgetting,’ said Wyatt, pressing the lift button. ‘Do you still think he’s “Mr Rossiter”?’

  ‘D
on’t you?’ said Sally.

  Wyatt carefully fastened the belt of his coat.

  ‘Well, if he is, then all this business is going to take a lot of explaining away, isn’t it?’

  ‘He could be lying,’ suggested Sally.

  Wyatt shook his head reprovingly.

  ‘You ex-policewomen have no faith in human nature,’ he said sadly. ‘There’s no time to argue now. Work up your case against Knight and maybe we’ll talk about it at lunch-time.’

  The lift arrived and he got in and slammed the gates. Sally waved to him as he disappeared from view, then returned thoughtfully to the flat.

  Wyatt found Knight sitting in a pre-war sports model, with an aluminium bonnet which was vibrating jerkily to the beat of the engine.

  ‘This is rather a swell-looking tub,’ he commented, settling himself into the bucket seat. ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve had it for some time now. It’s pretty ancient, I’m afraid,’ replied Knight, revving the engine and slipping into bottom gear. ‘Still, it holds together and keeps going.’

  ‘It’s certainly roomy,’ said Wyatt, placing his stick by his side and luxuriously stretching out his legs.

  ‘Yes, it’s a bit too roomy, if anything. You’ve got to sit up pretty straight or you can’t see the road.’

  The car roared towards Piccadilly. Wyatt noticed that Knight still seemed a trifle upset. Once he missed his gears badly and cursed under his breath.

  ‘You’re sure I’m not taking you out of your way?’ said Wyatt politely.

  ‘No, no, that’s all right – I’ve plenty of time.’

  Knight suddenly began looking intently at his driving mirror, and his conversation became vague and disjointed. Wyatt peered at the mirror, too, then looked behind, but could see nothing unusual in the traffic at their rear. Suddenly Knight clutched his arm.

  ‘That van – the one right behind us,’ he said hoarsely. ‘It’s been on our tail almost since we started.’

  Wyatt looked round again.

  The van referred to was painted in a drab grey, and bore no indication of its owners.

  ‘It looks like a laundry van,’ said Wyatt, trying to get a good view of the driver, who wore a cap pulled down rather low.

  ‘Do you think so?’ said Knight, with a worried frown. ‘Sorry I’m so jumpy – I keep imagining myself in the most ghastly situations.’

  Wyatt smiled reassuringly.

  ‘Well, if the van worries you, why not let it pass? If you slow down, we shall soon see if they’re tailing us.’

  ‘That’s an idea,’ nodded Knight, taking his foot off the accelerator and drawing in slightly. Sure enough, the van sounded its horn and slid quietly ahead.

  ‘There you are,’ said Wyatt.

  ‘Yes, it was stupid of me,’ murmured Knight somewhat ruefully. ‘I don’t know what gave me the idea that he was following us.’

  ‘What you need is a good stiff drink,’ suggested Wyatt. Knight nodded.

  ‘There’s a little pub on the Embankment – I’ll call in there when I’ve dropped you at the Yard.’

  They were moving slowly along Piccadilly when Wyatt noticed the rear doors of the van open about a foot. Without warning, the van turned abruptly into Sackville Street, and at that precise moment a man’s hand appeared in the aperture at the back.

  When he saw that the hand was grasping a small, round object about the size of a tennis ball, Wyatt quickly grabbed at the hand-brake, at the same time shouting:

  ‘Pull up!’

  Knight, his face deathly white, trod hard on the foot-brake, so that the round object which came hurtling towards them fell about three yards in front of the car.

  Wyatt pulled Knight on to the floor, which seemed to rise up like a small boat on a heavy wave: they were flung in different directions to the accompaniment of a deafening explosion. Glass flew everywhere; the car turning over on its side, the wheels spinning.

  The van roared up Sackville Street and disappeared.

  Wyatt was vaguely conscious of people running from all directions, police whistles blowing. Knight was flung clear, but Wyatt was still underneath the car, pinned down by the steering wheel, for the steering column had buckled with the force of the explosion.

  He had just begun to feel a stabbing pain in his left shoulder when he heard a voice that was somehow familiar call out:

  ‘Give me a hand, officer. Take the other side and we’ll turn the car over …’

  Almost at once, the floor of the car began to move over from its upright position.

  ‘Good lord!’ said the voice of the constable. ‘There’s a man down here in the bottom of the car. Are you all right, sir?’

  Wyatt painfully levered himself into an upright position.

  ‘I – I think I’m all right,’ he replied a trifle breathlessly, feeling round his shoulders with a certain caution. He moved his head gingerly to the right and saw Knight supported by a stalwart constable and looking more scared than ever.

  Then he moved his head in the opposite direction and met a familiar pair of steely grey eyes.

  ‘Sir Donald Angus!’ he exclaimed in surprise. ‘What are you doing here?’

  CHAPTER X

  Guest Night at the Palais

  Sir Donald seemed equally surprised at the question.

  ‘I was just strolling down towards the Haymarket to see a man I know … lucky I was on the other side of the road or I might have caught a packet.’

  ‘Very lucky,’ agreed Wyatt, rubbing his bruised arm.

  He looked round once again. Two pedestrians had been hurt by the bomb explosion, and an ambulance was rushing along Piccadilly. Wyatt walked rather painfully over to Knight.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  Knight’s left arm hung limply.

  ‘I got a nasty jar,’ he replied, ‘but I’m pretty sure there’s nothing broken. The car seemed to take the worst of the shock.’ He turned to look at the battered bonnet of the racing car.

  ‘Well, she was on her last legs, and I dare say I’ll get something from the insurance people,’ he reflected grimly. ‘How are you, Wyatt?’

  ‘All in one piece,’ said Wyatt. ‘We were lucky to escape the flying glass. What happened to that van?’

  ‘The last I saw of it they were going hell for leather up yonder.’ He nodded in the direction of Sackville Street. Wyatt went up to the police sergeant who had taken charge of the situation, and gave him all the details, together with his name and address and a description of the van. Neither he nor Knight had noticed the number. Knight came up and gave his own address, but could add nothing to Wyatt’s information, for neither of them had recognized the driver. The sergeant seemed rather puzzled, and not at all sure that it was indeed a bomb which some criminal had had the effrontery to throw into the heart of Piccadilly. It was something quite new in his experience, and he was inclined to regard his witnesses with a certain amount of suspicion, as if they were the members of a criminal gang which had been receiving drastic treatment from a rival organization. He asked a number of what appeared to be trivial questions with no direct bearing on the incident, but he seemed satisfied at last, and promised Wyatt that he would put out an ‘all stations’ call to try and trace the van.

  When this was completed and most of the crowd had drifted on after the wreck of the car had been hauled away, Wyatt was a trifle surprised to see that Sir Donald was still hovering around the outskirts of their little group.

  ‘I’d like to know what happened exactly, Mr Wyatt,’ he said curiously. ‘I was on the other side of the road, and the first I knew about it was the explosion …’

  Wyatt smiled a little wryly.

  ‘Why are you so anxious to know, Sir Donald?’

  ‘I – I was just wondering if it would be anything to do with – well, with a certain gentleman …’

  Wyatt gathered that he referred to “Mr Rossiter”. Knight seemed to guess what Sir Donald was referring to.

  ‘It was h
im all right – or one of his damned underlings,’ he said bitterly. ‘They must have been waiting for me at your flat. Didn’t I tell you the swine was after me?’ His voice rose to a hysterical note.

  ‘Take it easy, old man,’ said Wyatt soothingly.

  ‘Aye, get a grip on yourself, laddie,’ urged Angus. ‘Ye’re not the only one that rascal’s put through it. If ye ask me, Mr Wyatt, it’s high time the police did something about it.’

  ‘I don’t have to ask you to appreciate that, Sir Donald,’ retorted Wyatt.

  Knight moved about uneasily. ‘I’m sorry to have landed you in this mess, Wyatt,’ he apologized. ‘I’m afraid you’ll be late for your appointment after all.’

  ‘That’s all right, Knight. It wasn’t your fault – and the appointment will wait I dare say. All the same, I’d better be getting along. Are you sure you’ll be all right?’

  ‘If ye’ll allow me,’ put in Angus, ‘I know a little pub called the Three Stars just off Piccadilly here … Mr Knight looks as if a good, strong Scotch wouldn’t do him any harm.’

  ‘That’s an idea, Sir Donald,’ nodded Wyatt approvingly. He watched them cross the road talking together, reflecting that he hadn’t introduced them. Then he began wondering about Angus. Supposing he were mixed up with “Mr Rossiter”, he had certainly appeared on the scene of the accident with remarkable celerity, as if he had been standing there waiting for it to happen … should he have allowed Angus to take Maurice Knight off like that?

  An empty taxi approached and cut short his reflections. He ordered the driver to take him to Scotland Yard as quickly as possible.

  He found Sir James in rather an irritable mood. It appeared that a member of the Cabinet had buttonholed the Home Secretary on the question of the Rossiter affair. The Home Secretary had asked the Chief Commissioner for a detailed report, and Perivale had no wish to make one at this stage in the case.

  On top of all this, two crime reporters of the big daily papers had been on the telephone with some rather pertinent questions about the affair at the Madrid Club, anxious to confirm a report that Luigi was under arrest and curious to know exactly what the charge was. He had been rather curt with them, and was a little worried as to what they were going to print.