Design For Murder

by Francis Durbridge

  ‘You mean “Mr Rossiter” began to blackmail you?’ said Sally.

  ‘It was a form of blackmail … but he never wanted money. That was the cunning part of the whole business. You see, “Mr Rossiter” had made up his mind that a qualified doctor could be of far more use to him – shall I say professionally? – than financially. He knew only too well that as long as he had those letters, his word was law as far as I was concerned. At first I couldn’t quite see what he was getting at. He asked me to do the most extraordinary things. One morning he rang up and ordered me to make out two prescriptions – one for a girl named Barbara Willis and another for Mildred Gillow. At that time I’d never seen or heard of either of them. Then, a little while later, I had a telephone call from a girl who called herself Barbara Willis.’

  She inhaled deeply and slowly expelled a stream of smoke.

  ‘Why, of course!’ exclaimed Sally. ‘You mean that “Mr Rossiter” was out to make Scotland Yard believe that Doctor Fraser and “Mr Rossiter” were the same person.’

  ‘That’s about it, Mrs Wyatt. I was the one who was going to take the rap.’

  ‘Then “Mr Rossiter” planted those prescriptions on the two girls?’ queried Wyatt. The doctor shook her head.

  ‘Not exactly “planted” them, Mr Wyatt. He simply handed them over. He was on friendly terms with both of them.’

  ‘In that case, what was the point in making those two other girls impersonate Barbara Willis and Mildred Gillow, as you told us up at Shorecombe?’

  ‘Don’t you see, Mr Wyatt? That’s the fiendishly clever part of the whole plan! When the police came to me to trace those prescriptions, I should have to admit that I had been in contact with a Barbara Willis and a Mildred Gillow. My receptionist could testify to that effect.’

  ‘But they were impostors!’ interposed Linder. ‘And you can just imagine the police believing that story, Mr Wyatt; especially when they knew the doctor had supplied the real Barbara Willis and Mildred Gillow with prescriptions. If she had told them the truth, it would have made them more suspicious of her than ever.’

  ‘I think we went into that at the time,’ nodded Wyatt. ‘Go on with your story, Doctor.’

  ‘I just didn’t know what to do,’ she confessed. ‘Then, one day, “Mr Rossiter” sent a girl to see me who called herself Lauren Beaumont. I felt instinctively that she wasn’t the real girl, and that he was playing precisely the same game again. I became very frightened, and in the end I decided to tell Hugo everything. He had always been a great friend of mine, and I knew he could be trusted.’

  ‘And I advised her to get in touch with you, Mr Wyatt,’ said Linder. ‘I knew that if her supposition was right about Lauren Beaumont, and that the girl who visited her was an impostor, then she might be able to forestall “Mr Rossiter’s” next move by telling you her story. I wanted her to tell you about the stolen letters as well, but she held back.’

  ‘Pity,’ said Wyatt. ‘That meant that “Mr Rossiter” still had an ace up his sleeve. Anyhow, what about last night?’

  Doctor Fraser resumed her story.

  ‘I thought “Mr Rossiter” sounded rather overwrought when he spoke to me on the telephone and said that he would hand over my letters if I would go to the warehouse near Millgate Steps. Hugo was with me when the call came through, and he was very emphatic that the message was a trap. He persuaded me to ignore it.’

  ‘Yet you went there yourself, Linder?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Linder, with great deliberation. ‘I went there myself. I had made up my mind that this persecution had got to stop, no matter what happened. It has reduced Gail to a nervous wreck, and I couldn’t bear to see her tortured like that. How would you like to see Mrs Wyatt in a similar position?’

  ‘There’s something in that,’conceded Wyatt, ‘but there are one or two other things that need explaining. For instance, there was the Château Number Eight.’

  ‘Oh, yes, the perfume,’ nodded Linder. ‘That was another of “Mr Rossiter’s” little tricks to throw suspicion on Gail. He tried to get her down there by a ruse – the telephone call purporting to come from Professor Reed. The perfume was intended as one of the finishing touches.’

  Doctor Fraser nodded eagerly.

  ‘That’s right, Mr Wyatt. And then again there was that afternoon when Lauren Beaumont returned. You know how we were both tricked into going to the Royal Astoria. If someone had followed the girl back to the hotel, the first person he would have seen there would have been me. It’s not a very pleasant thought.’

  ‘I sympathize with you there, Doctor,’ said Wyatt evenly. ‘But there is one major question you’ve left unanswered.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Simply – who is “Mr Rossiter”?’

  Doctor Fraser looked nervously at her companion, who shook his head.

  ‘I’m afraid we can’t answer that, Mr Wyatt,’ he said definitely. ‘You see, as far as we know, he still has those letters, and if we give away his identity, then the letters will be made public. You do appreciate that, don’t you?’

  Wyatt hesitated.

  ‘Don’t you believe us, Mr Wyatt?’ demanded the doctor anxiously.

  ‘I shall have to think it over,’ said Wyatt quietly.

  ‘But it’s true – every word of it!’ insisted Linder in considerable agitation. ‘Whether you believe it or not, I tell you it’s the absolute truth.’

  Wyatt picked up his paper-cutter and traced a design on his blotting pad.

  ‘Well, if it isn’t the truth, Mr Linder,’ he replied in a thoughtful tone, ‘then there is only one other explanation of everything you’ve told us.’

  ‘What do you mean, Mr Wyatt?’ asked the doctor suspiciously.

  ‘I mean that, in that case, you’re both lying, and “Mr Rossiter” is not one person, but two – Doctor Fraser and Mr Hugo Linder.’

  It was Inspector Lathom’s afternoon off. He had worked right through the previous weekend on the Rossiter affair, and as he had been sleeping none too well of late he felt he deserved a few hours relaxation after the hectic events of the night at Millgate Steps. Maybe he wouldn’t be able to sleep, but at least he could lie on the bed and read Wisden. For Inspector Lathom was a keen devotee of the art of the willow.

  Lathom kept his passion for cricket to himself like some secret vice, and many of his colleagues would have been surprised to learn that when he sometimes snatched a few hours off on a summer’s afternoon he spent them at Lord’s or the Oval. And he whiled away many an hour on winter evenings slowly and methodically ploughing his way through Wisden or old copies of The Cricketer. He could tell you Denis Compton’s batting average for the last Tests against Australia or Laker’s bowling average in the West Indies without hardly stopping to think. This strange predilection was even more unaccountable because Lathom had never played cricket himself since the days when he wielded a home-made bat in an alley in Camberwell, with an ever-present dread of being chased off by the police. But there was something about those white figures on the greensward that entranced the matter-of-fact inspector as surely as the silver screen fascinates the movie-fan.

  He had been reading for the tenth time Alec Bedser’s bowling analysis in a certain match against Sussex – 20 overs, 9 maidens, 48 runs, 7 wickets … it had been a satisfying sort of rhythm … he could see the stalwart figure taking long strides up to the wicket, that final little leap before the ball was released, the smooth follow-through … he might almost be at the Oval on a drowsy summer afternoon, with the heat hanging in shimmering waves around the gasometer … He began drawing a lazy analogy between cricket and crime … some matches were quite straightforward affairs, like an open and shut case … others were tricky … you never knew which way they were going to turn, like this Rossiter job.

  His reflections were suddenly cut short by the shrill ringing of the telephone. Lathom sighed, rose with some effort and went to answer it.

  ‘Oh, it’s you, Wyatt,’ he said in a voice that betr
ayed no pleasure.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you on your afternoon off, Inspector,’ Wyatt sounded like a Public Relations Officer dealing with a particularly awkward customer.

  ‘Was it anything urgent?’ demanded Lathom, blinking the sleep out of his eyes.

  ‘Well, yes, it is in a way …’

  ‘Something happened in the “Rossiter” affair?’

  ‘Yes, again in a way. As a matter of fact, Inspector, I want to invite you to a party.’

  ‘Did you say a party?’ queried Lathom testily.

  ‘Not the usual sort of party,’ Wyatt hastily assured him. ‘I’m expecting a very distinguished guest, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Now, look here, Wyatt, I spent most of the war guarding VIPs. They don’t cut much ice with me!’

  ‘Perhaps I should have described him as “notorious”, rather than “distinguished”.’

  ‘That’s worse!’ sniffed the inspector. ‘Nothing more overrated than notoriety.’ He stifled a yawn and wished Wyatt would ring off, so that he could resume his reading.

  Then, quite suddenly, he blinked.

  ‘What was that you said?’ he asked in an astonished voice.

  ‘I said I rather thought you would be interested to meet “Mr Rossiter”.’

  ‘Are you joking?’

  ‘Certainly not. You come to the party – tomorrow night at eight o’clock at the Madrid, and you’ll meet the gentleman in person.’

  ‘But – but – how do you know he’ll be there?’ stammered Lathom.

  ‘Because I shall invite him,’ replied Wyatt smoothly. ‘Don’t forget, Inspector … Room 34, Madrid Club, eight o’clock sharp.’

  Wyatt rang off. Lathom eyed the receiver a trifle dubiously, as if he doubted whether he had been hearing correctly, then replaced it.

  Wyatt experienced some little difficulty in persuading Perivale to withhold his warrant for the arrest of Linder, and it was only by giving his definite promise that ‘Mr Rossiter’ would be unmasked at the Madrid the following evening that Wyatt finally succeeded, for Sir James was still being subjected to a certain amount of discreet pressure from the Home Office.

  While he was at the Yard Wyatt asked for a photo of Luigi, but there was apparently none in the records.

  ‘I’d like Royston to make quite certain that it was Luigi who was concerned in the abduction of Marjorie Faber,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, it would be advisable to check on that,’ agreed Perivale. ‘The poor girl was in no condition to recognize anybody by the time Luigi took over.’

  ‘How is she, by the way?’

  ‘Her father telephoned this morning to say she’s still a bit shaky – it’s chiefly shock, of course. Anyhow, he’s very thankful to have her back.’

  ‘Well, what are we going to do about Royston?’

  ‘He’ll have to be arrested, of course – on a charge of being a party to the abduction. However, as he gave us a certain amount of evidence, I can probably get him let off fairly lightly,’ said Perivale. ‘The problem is whether to arrest him while “Mr Rossiter” is still at large. He might try to contact Royston, and that would give us a pretty good line.’

  Wyatt paced thoughtfully across the room and stood looking out of the window at the traffic along the Embankment.

  ‘I’ll get a picture of Luigi from the Madrid,’ he decided at last, ‘and go round to Royston’s flat and have a talk to him. Is that all right with you?’

  Perivale nodded.

  ‘D’you want anyone with you?’

  Wyatt shook his head.

  ‘No, I’d sooner talk to him alone. I’ll go along to the Madrid and get that picture now.’

  He strolled over to the door.

  ‘And don’t forget our little party there tonight,’ he added.

  Perivale nodded rather glumly.

  ‘I must say you choose some peculiar times to throw parties, Wyatt.’

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ smiled Wyatt. ‘Publishers throw parties to launch a new book; film producers uncork the champagne when they show a new picture. Why shouldn’t I introduce “Mr Rossiter” in a nice, friendly atmosphere?’

  ‘Have it your own way,’ grunted Perivale. ‘If I really thought you were going to introduce us to him, I’d attend fifty parties.’

  ‘See you later,’ smiled Wyatt, picking up his stick, and closing the door after him.

  He was able to get a picture of Luigi without much difficulty, and, armed with this, he made his way to the flat in Long Acre which was the address given him by the manager of the Palais. It was turned midday, but Royston opened the door to him still wearing a dressing-gown over his pyjamas.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said in a surly tone. ‘What is it this time?’

  ‘May I come in?’

  Royston hesitated a moment and looked round uneasily.

  ‘All right,’ he said at last, leading the way into a large, untidy room.

  ‘Sorry if I broke into your first sleep,’ said Wyatt pleasantly. Royston glared at him.

  ‘I didn’t get to bed till four. I reckon I got a right to sleep sometime,’ he snapped. ‘What was it you wanted?’

  Wyatt produced the photograph.

  ‘Was this the man who took over from you in that case we were discussing?’ he asked.

  Royston studied the picture.

  ‘It’s like him,’ he said at last. ‘Of course, it was dark at the time, and I didn’t get a good look at him close to.’

  Wyatt nodded and replaced the photo in its envelope.

  ‘I don’t think it will be necessary for you to identify him at the mortuary,’ he said.

  ‘You mean he’s dead?’

  ‘Don’t you read the papers?’

  ‘I don’t get time for that stuff,’ said Royston impatiently. ‘Are you trying to tell me that this man Luigi was “Mr Rossiter”?’

  ‘I’m not telling you anything of the sort. That’s one reason I came here – to warn you to watch your step, Royston.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Well, if “Mr Rossiter” happened to hear that you’d given information to the police, there might be a little unpleasantness.’

  Royston shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

  ‘I don’t know anything about this “Mr Rossiter”,’ he said at last. ‘I always thought it was Luigi.’

  ‘So did several other people. Luigi just happened to be one of his agents. But you may depend upon his being well informed about the Marjorie Faber affair.’

  ‘Who is this guy, anyway?’

  ‘It wouldn’t help very much if I told you. For one thing, you probably don’t know him, and for another he might use one of his lackeys to make things uncomfortable for you. He’s got a hold on quite a number of people, and he doesn’t scruple to use it, so I’m giving you fair warning. If anything looks at all suspicious to you, don’t hesitate to telephone the Yard at once.’

  Royston laughed harshly.

  ‘Me phone the Yard! That’s a good one! Don’t you worry, mister, I can take care of myself.’

  ‘That savours of “famous last words”,’ said Wyatt, as he stubbed out his cigarette. He was standing by the half-open door when a door across the hall snapped open and a sulky voice called out: ‘Georgie! How much longer are you …’ The voice trailed away and the door slammed.

  Wyatt looked at Royston and shrugged.

  He had had plenty of time to recognize the sullen profile and tousled blonde hair of Lauren Beaumont.

  The private rooms at the Madrid Club were one of its main attractions. They were tastefully furnished, and each had a small replica of the cocktail bar downstairs in a corner near the door, so that guests could be given drinks as soon as they entered. There were half a dozen very comfortable chairs and two spacious settees. A large electric fire glowed pleasantly in the centre of one wall.

  Perivale and Lathom arrived at five minutes to eight, to find Wyatt and Sally busily preparing cocktails and setting out various bottles
and glasses on the bar. Lathom looked vaguely uncomfortable, as if he resented being invited to a party, and begrudged the valuable time … he might have spent at home sitting in front of a large fire buried in Wisden. However, he accepted a tankard of beer and wandered off to a chair while Sir James leaned against the bar and chatted with Wyatt and Sally as he sipped a double whisky.

  Maurice Knight was the next arrival. He wore evening dress, and informed them that he was going on to a European film première at a cinema in the Haymarket. Sally watched him shrewdly as he sipped a cocktail. She could easily imagine him pictured in the glossy weeklies as a typical man-about-town.

  By way of contrast, when he arrived with Doctor Fraser, Hugo Linder looked a trifle pale and ill at ease. It was noticeable that he avoided Perivale and Lathom and he and his fiancée took their glasses into a corner remote from the rest of the guests.

  Sir Donald Angus was obviously in a bad temper. He was still wearing his overcoat, and refused to take it off, saying he did not propose to stay long. He seemed quite determined to be unpleasant, and began by refusing a drink. He looked round the assembled guests and grunted: ‘Didn’t expect to find you here, Inspector.’

  However, Lathom could be equally churlish if provoked.

  ‘If it comes to that, I didn’t expect to see you either, Sir Donald.’

  Wyatt interposed by introducing Sir Donald to Maurice Knight. Angus acknowledged this with a curt nod, then turned to Wyatt.

  ‘Now, Mr Wyatt, perhaps you’ll tell us what all this is in aid of. You’ve practically got me here under duress, and I dare say the same applies to one or two of the others. What’s it all about; that’s what I want to know?’

  Sally looked across at him and smiled.

  ‘It’s quite simple, Sir Donald,’ she said. ‘My husband has had the bright idea of collecting together all the suspects in the “Rossiter” affair under one roof. Have you any objection? We thought that as you had been so closely connected with the affair you would take a lively interest in its conclusion.’

  ‘This is interesting,’ said Knight quietly. ‘Might I have another cocktail, Mrs Wyatt?’