A Deadly Marriage

by Roderic Jeffries

  He collected up the papers into a neat pile, then left and made his way downstairs to the first interview room where he had asked her to be taken.

  “Inspector...” she began excitedly, as soon as he entered.

  He interrupted her. “Mrs. Brakes, you really must understand there’s nothing to be gained from your coming here time after time. We’ve done all we can...”

  “But we know who Cabbot really was — he was Catalina’s first husband.”

  “Are you sure?” he asked in a perplexed voice.

  “His name was Gual Jose Cirilo Larraga.”

  “How d’you know?”

  “You told me the American police hadn’t discovered anything about Cabbot except that his Christian name had been Gual. I told David. He said Catalina’s first husband’s name was Gual. It couldn’t just be a coincidence so I found out the surname. Inspector, it’s really important, isn’t it?”

  He put his right hand in his pocket and fiddled with the coins there.

  “It’ll tell you why she murdered them both.”

  “Will it?” he answered slowly.

  “That money in her room was blackmail money. Cabbot and his wife were blackmailing her. Catalina swears some of her jewellery’s gone. David says there’s one piece she’d have kept as long as it was humanly possible. Larraga gave it to her. He knew she’d got it and how much it was worth.”

  Cathart continued to fiddle with the coins.

  “Do something. Now.”

  “Mrs. Brakes, what proof have you of all this?”

  “Proof?”

  “What proof have you that George Cabbot was Mrs. Plesence’s first husband and that the similar Christian names isn’t just a coincidence — coincidences are always happening. What proof have you that he was blackmailing her, that the money found in the hotel bedroom was blackmail money from the jewellery you say Mrs. Plesence no longer owns?”

  “But you must see.”

  “You have no proof, have you?” he said softly.

  “But you’ll find proof now you know. You must.”

  “We’ll check once more on Cabbot or Larraga. But...”

  “Well?”

  “Even if we can prove Cabbot was Larraga, it may not help you.”

  “It’ll show why Catalina killed him and his wife.”

  He looked at her and suddenly felt sad. She blindly believed only David Plesence. If Cabbot turned out to be the first husband then of course it had to mean something, but what? And had she not realised that this evidence might simply incriminate Plesence still further: the truth could only incriminate the murderer further. He hated to see hope reborn when there were no real grounds for this rebirth.

  She spoke in a low voice. “He’s innocent.”

  He noticed that her lower lip was trembling. The stress of crime so often fell most heavily on those who were innocent of it, but directly connected with it.

  “Trace the jewellery,” she said.

  “Has it been stolen?”

  “No.”

  “Does Mrs. Plesence claim to have lost it?”

  “No. But can’t you see...”

  “Then there’s nothing we can do, Mrs. Brakes.”

  “You...you want to see him convicted.”

  “We have a job to do and we do it as well as we can. Because it’s a job there are certain rules...”

  “What’s the use of talking like this? This isn’t a case for rules...”

  “Unfortunately, there must always be rules and many of them are for the sake of the accused person.”

  “And are you refusing to do anything here for David’s sake? You’re not going to claim that, surely?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “But that jewellery’s so important.”

  He sighed. “You could hire a private inquiry agent. That is, if you remain convinced Mrs. Plesence no longer owns the jewellery and there’s significance in the fact.”

  “Yes, I do think that.”

  “You know, I could suggest a dozen and one reasons why that need not be so.”

  “You’re very good at seeing the hopelessness of everything.”

  “The perfect policeman was once described as the lifelong professional sceptic, Mrs. Brakes.”

  “God, it’s all so useless! Are you even going to worry about finding out if Cabbot was Larraga?”

  “We’ll do what we can.”

  He saw her out of the station and returned to his office. He sat down. Was there anything in what she had said? She was like the proverbial drowning person, clutching at straws. Desperate to help Plesence, she saw significance in anything and everything. How common was the name Gual? How easily could it be coincidence that the name appeared twice in the case? If Catalina Plesence were being blackmailed by her first husband — on what grounds, though? — then she obviously had a motive for murder. With the husband dead, the wife continued the blackmail and she, in turn, had to be killed. But it was just as easy to look at things in a totally different light. Plesence wanted a divorce and his wife wouldn’t give it to him. He set out to poison her, perhaps not to kill her but to frighten her into doing what he wanted. By sheer chance, the kind of chance that ruled life and the lives of everybody, her first husband turned up on the day Plesence determined to give her the poisoned cocktail straw. Cabbot ate one of the poisoned straws. The poison was far stronger than Plesence had realised and it killed him. Cabbot’s wife was grief stricken, but not so grief stricken that she couldn’t see the truth when it was staring her in the face and she set out to blackmail Plesence. Or he took fright at the thought that she might blackmail him. So he killed her. Or perhaps the truth was a little more complicated than that. Cabbot had learned something from Catalina that he had passed on to his wife...The possibilities were endless.

  He looked down at the sheet of paper on which he’d written the name, Gual Jose Cirilo Larraga. He’d ask the American police if they could trace out anything concerning this man.

  The certainties of the case mustn’t be forgotten. The knife had been Plesence’s, on the handle was his fingerprint, a thread from his coat had been found in the bedroom, and a handkerchief belonging to the dead woman had been found in his bedroom even though he swore time after time he’d never met Mrs. Cabbot.

  CHAPTER XIV

  Weiner was a tall, well-built man, going prematurely bald, with a round, kind face. He looked like most people’s favourite uncle. He was a private detective.

  He caught the 8.10 train to London, began to perspire after ten minutes, and thereafter perspired all the way to Cannon Street. He took the tube to Charing Cross, went up Villiers Street to the main line station and into the refreshment room. He served himself with a cup of coffee, a roll and butter, and a cold meat pie. When he had finished eating, he took a list from his pocket and read through it. He sighed. There were still a hell of a lot of jewellers to go.

  The job had so far taken five days and he was getting sick and tired of jewellers shaking their heads. Some of them became very distant in manner when they decided he had not come to buy a thousand guinea ring. He finished the coffee, wondered what it was made from, smoked a cigarette and thought about his wife who would only now be getting out of bed. She refused to get up early for anyone.

  A man came and sat at the same table and began to eat a jam tart. Weiner stared at the tart and wondered how anyone could eat such a thing at such a time. He stood up and carried his tray over to a stacking point. He went out into the main station and through to the taxi rank outside.

  At 12.17, he entered Porter and Robinson’s shop in Frenchley Street. The assistants wore black coats and neatly tied grey ties, the carpets were thick, and the show cases contained only a few select pieces of jewellery. An assistant came over and asked him if there was anything he wanted. Weiner wore a fifteen pound suit that had seen a great deal of wear, a collar that had begun to fray, and no regimental tie. The assistant’s voice made it plain that he did not expect to do much business.

 
“I’m making certain inquiries about a diamond necklace,” said Weiner.

  “Police.”

  “Private inquiry agent.”

  “You’d better see the manager.”

  He was led through the shop to a small office. There was no carpet on the floor. A small, fussy, self-opinionated man brusquely asked him what was wrong.

  “I’m trying to trace a diamond necklace, probably sold some time in June.”

  “We don’t deal much in second-hand jewellery,” said the manager.

  “This piece was insured for five thousand pounds.”

  “Oh!” The manager fiddled with his immaculately knotted grey tie. “Five thousand?”

  Clearly, thought Weiner, five thousand pounds was enough to remove any obloquy attached to second-hand jewellery. “It’s in platinum, with four leaders meeting at a large unflawed Cape diamond, brilliant cut, rose coloured, of one and a half carats. Around it are six graduated diamonds, bottle green, brilliant cut. In the leaders are a number of smaller diamonds. The main stones are set in Florentine style.”

  “It’s not stolen, is it?” asked the manager.

  Weiner suddenly became optimistic. There was only one reason why this manager should worry whether the necklace was stolen, or not. “It’s not a police matter. You’ve handled this piece, then?”

  “I can’t say definitely, just like that, but we did buy a necklace in June whose description...We naturally made certain the necklace wasn’t on any of the police lists and we satisfied ourselves the person selling was the owner. You’re not saying she wasn’t?”

  “It’s a private investigation. I’ve a more detailed description of the necklace here — perhaps you’d read it?”

  “Yes, yes. No photographs?”

  “None.”

  Weiner handed the other a typewritten sheet of paper. The manager read it, went across to a large wall safe, opened it, and brought out a large and battered-looking ledger. He turned the pages of the ledger until he came to the entry he was searching for. When he’d read the entry, he turned to the paper Weiner had given him. A little later, he took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. “There’s not much doubt,” he said. “Is there likely to be trouble?”

  “Not from your angle I wouldn’t think.”

  The manager did not try to hide his relief. He almost became friendly in manner. “You know what it’s like? You take every single precaution, but you can’t ever be one hundred per cent certain unless you know the people as old customers and even then, in these days, one can...” He coughed. “My predecessor bought a five carat diamond, showed it to experts, checked through all the lists including the international diamond files, did everything humanly possible to make certain it wasn’t stolen. Two months later, trouble. He’s running some sort of jewellers now up north which certainly isn’t the same as being in London.”

  “You said it was a woman sold you the necklace?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did she give a name?”

  “But of course,” replied the manager, shocked by the question. “We would never dream of dealing with anyone until we knew their name and address.” He consulted the ledger again. “Mrs. Cabbot. She was staying at the Hilton. Tragic case. She said her husband had just died and left her so short of money she was unfortunately having to sell some of her property. She was in deep mourning, I remember.”

  “Can you remember what she looked like?”

  “She was a bit...Difficult to describe, really. As far as I can remember, middle aged, desiccated, bit of a school marm, if you know' what I mean. Not the type of woman who should ever wear diamonds, but unfortunately the kind who so often does. She was American: accent you could cut with a knife.”

  Weiner took a photograph from his pocket. It was of Marion Cabbot, taken after her death and with her face reconstructed as far as the photographer had been able to do this.

  The manager stared at it. He held it close to, then at arm’s length. “I don’t know...Something like my memory says she was, but somehow a bit different. Can’t really say what.” He handed the photograph back.

  “How much did you pay for the necklace?”

  The manager looked quickly at Weiner. “Is that important?”

  “Yes.”

  “A thousand guineas.”

  Weiner smiled. “Good for a bit of profit, then?” He was glad to see that this made the manager slightly uncomfortable.

  On Tuesday morning, the 23rd of August, Cathart left home at 8.15. His car was suffering from a temperamental engine and each time traffic brought it to a halt, it cut out. He needed a new car, but as the police mileage allowance did not offer much profit, it was going to be some time before he could afford to get another.

  He parked at the back of the police station car-park and looked at his watch. Before his daily report to the divisional superintendent there was time to go up to his office and look through the mail, then visit the nearby supermarket where there had been a robbery the previous night. On his way upstairs, he passed Detective Sergeant McWatt, who said some members of one of the South London gangs had been seen in Borisham over the week-end. Cathart cursed the bad news.

  His desk seemed to have been inundated with letters by the morning post. They lay in an untidy pile all over the blotter and a quick glance told him that at least four were from county H.Q. which almost certainly meant more paper-work. Underneath the letters was a Telex message, from the co-ordinating officer in New York. Gual Jose Cirilo Larraga, born in Cuba, had been a wealthy sugar plantation owner. He’d turned into a playboy, getting into trouble with the police on two occasions, once in Florida, once in New York, on minor charges of drunkenness. Married 3 times. Third marriage to Catalina Mary Magdalene Ulyett. Domiciled in Massachusetts during marriage. Divorced in South Dakota. Castro revolution resulted in the sequestration of all his property in Cuba. The divorce in South Dakota was invalid according to the laws of Massachusetts. Nothing more known.

  Cathart pushed the Telex message to one side and went through the mail, cursing as he opened the fifth request for a witness statement — each one took a man’s time and there weren’t enough men to do the work of his division, let alone that of other divisions and forces.

  He left the station and drove to the supermarket where he found a security system so patently inefficient he was surprised the antiquated safe hadn’t been forced long before. Returning to the station, he saw the divisional superintendent and made his report.

  As he climbed the stairs up to his office, he wondered if the rest of the day was going to prove as annoying. He sat down at his desk, started to sort out the correspondence, picked up the Telex message and read it through again. This message meant he’d have to say once more to Patricia Brakes that there was to be no help for her. Would she ever learn to accept the truth or was that impossible because she was in love with Plesence? It was strange how a mind could quite deliberately shut itself off from the truth when, in doing so, it had momentarily to recognise the truth in order to admit the need to reject it.

  He lit a cigarette. He felt very sorry for Patricia Brakes, because she was an outsider who was very badly hurt. Sardonically, he told himself that everything was relative. What about Mr. and Mrs. Cabbot? Didn’t they have a claim to having been hurt a lot more?

  America must be an odd place if you could get a divorce in one state and it wasn’t recognised in another. What happened when you crossed from one to the other? Were you liable to be arrested for bigamy if you’d married again? Did the police at the borders stand watch and demand marriage certificates, divorce certificates, and...“Good God!” he suddenly exclaimed.

  Cathart drove to East Fleckton and county police H.Q. He sent a message up to Smith and asked if he could see the other. He was told to wait for a few moments. The few moments stretched out to twenty before Smith hurried into the waiting-room, shook hands, and apologised for being held up for so long.

  They returned to Smith’s room. Smith
sat down, rested his elbows on the arms of the chair and put the tips of his fingers together. “What’s the knotty problem this time, Inspector?”

  “We’re back on the Cabbot case, sir.”

  “Isn’t everything tied up nicely for the re-trial? Can you prove beyond any reasonable doubt that the handkerchief was Mrs. Cabbot’s and not Mrs. Brakes’?”

  “We can, yes. If we want to.”

  Smith’s voice expressed his surprise. “If you want to?”

  “Do you know anything about divorce law, sir?”

  “Enough to be certain it makes a nice fat living for the lawyers since it’s an ever-expanding business.”

  “I’ve come across the fact that the various states in America have different divorce laws so that a divorce can be valid in one state but not in another.”

  “You get the same sort of thing between England and the Continental countries. You’re bound to, wherever countries or states have different laws.”

  “Catalina Plesence was once married to a Cuban playboy called Gual Larraga. They were divorced in South Dakota at a time when they were domiciled in Massachusetts and apparently the divorce is invalid in Massachusetts. How would that divorce be recognised in this country?”

  Smith frowned, then turned and swivelled his chair round until he could open the bookcase behind him. He pulled out a book, searched in the index, and found the page he wanted. He read, turned over several pages and read for another minute before he looked up. “The English courts recognise a foreign decree of divorce where that decree, though made in the country in which the parties are not domiciled, is valid in the country of the parties’ domicile.”

  “And conversely?”

  “They don’t recognise it.”

  “So Catalina Larraga by English law was not divorced from Gual Larraga?”

  “That seems to be the position.”