‘Now, what kind of thing can the delectable Tracy Spencer-King have on her mind that she can’t come straight to me about it? Rather than getting a mutual friend to motor the breadth of Britain on her behalf. I’m not a hairy ogre, you know?’
He cleared his throat.
‘No, of course not. If s just that ...’ He ran his long fingers through his lazy blond hair. ‘... well, old boy, she’s a bit embarrassed.’
‘About what?’
‘About asking you.’
‘About what?’
‘About a friend of hers.’
‘What about a friend of hers?’
‘Well, this friend of Tracy’s is in a bit of a fix.’
‘What kind of a fix? Marital fix, boy-friend fix, financial fix? There are a million kind of fixes.’
‘None of those.’
‘What then?’
‘Well, you see, Johnny, you might call it a frightened fix.’
‘Frightened?’
‘Sort of.’
‘Frightened of what?’
He unfolded himself from the chair and went over to my pokey window, hitting his head on the beam as he did so.
‘It’s like this, Johnny. She came round last night, apparently, to see Tracy. And she was in a hell of a state. Now it sounds a bit farfetched the way it was told to me. But she thinks her sister was murdered.’
‘Murdered?’
He nodded. ‘Sounds like something out of Agatha Christie, doesn’t it?’
‘She lives round here,’ I said needlessly.
‘Anyway, Tracy believes there might be something in this girl’s suspicions and she immediately thought of you. I mean, you know, your Black Eye Agency. Bit embarrassed to approach you direct, you know being a friend ... all that. Business and friendship. Best kept separate. Rang me this morning. Asked me if I thought you would be interested. Said I thought you might. Apparently, this friend of Tracy’s seems willing to pay quite a bit to have her suspicions investigated.’
I thought for a moment.
‘Why doesn’t she go to the police? Murder is their province, surely?’
‘Bit late, apparently, old chap. Police been and gone. Inquest over. Everyone quite happy that her sister’s death was accidental.’
‘Know Tracy’s friend’s name?’
‘Travers, I believe. Diana Travers.’
‘And her sister? What Travers?’
‘Nothing Travers. She was married, you see. Name’s on the tip of my tongue. Now what did Tracy say? Hell ... Ah, yes, I remember. It reminded me of that guy who broke the World Land Speed Record in Golden Arrow in 1929. Seagrave. That’s the name. Seagrave.’
Groucho suddenly summed it all up for me. ‘Hello, baby,’ he squawked out of the blue.
Well said, Groucho. ‘Hello’, indeed.
Three
Tracy came to pick me up, but I said it might be better to go in my car, rather than her brand new SS100 Jaguar. She slid into the red leather of the La Salle, looking as cool and elegant as Mrs Simpson, sorry, the Duchess of Windsor, but a thousand times more feminine. I was kind of glad Edward VIII hadn’t seen her first.
I reversed out of my track and headed for Ashburton, where this Diana Travers, apparently, lived in a rambling old house on the edge of Dartmoor. Tracy turned to me.
‘Sure you’re happy about taking it on, Johnny?’
I nodded, but did not say anything. To tell the truth, happiness was hardly the word for my feelings. Whilst, of course, I was relieved to get a case with some financial reward attached to it, I was, nevertheless, distinctly nervous about plunging into the deep end of the detective pool at the baby stage of my career. For, if Diana Travers’ suspicions were correct and her sister had been murdered, then I might be swimming in some very shark infested water indeed. After all, I hadn’t even passed the water-wing stage of my new profession — the finding of lost pets, the tracing of lost relatives, the trailing after lost souls, the provision of evidence of lust and illicit loving for Divorce Court judges. Murder, it seemed to me, was high-dive stuff and I hadn’t even paddled yet. For you could hardly call spying on Mrs Briggs getting your feet wet, let alone your body.
After a while, Tracy said, ‘You drive a car the way you fly a plane, Johnny. Like you’re pail of it, instead of just the driver or pilot.’
I wished she hadn’t said that. I put my foot down and swooshed past a Morris Eight that was making heavy weather of the incline.
‘Flew a plane,’ I observed quietly. ‘Not fly.’ I looked at her. ‘You still fly?’
‘Yes.’
‘Often?’
‘As often as I can. Got my own little plane now.’
‘Oh, what type?’
‘Puss Moth. Got it a week ago. Cream and green. Sun-ray design on the wings.’ She patted the seat. ‘Lovely leather inside, like this. Only green.’
‘I’ll look out for it flying over,’ I smiled weakly. Hell, I hoped that one day the pain would grow less. It was one of the reasons I had started up Black Eye, to give back to my life a little of the excitement I had lost through being grounded. Not the only reason though. The way my father died had a deal to do with it. I still had a debt or two to collect from the criminal fraternity for his needless death under the wheels of a get-away car.
The La Salle whisked us in smooth silence to Ashburton before we really knew it.
‘You go out of the town, as if going up on the Moor. And then in about a mile, take a left,’ Tracy directed. ‘I’ll tell you where. Then about a hundred yards down there’s a drive on the right. That’s Diana’s place. It’s got a big mirror on the fence opposite so that you can see what’s coming before you launch yourself onto the road.’
I duly followed her directions and soon saw the mirror ahead, round and shining, atop a post on my left. I slowed.
‘Tell me again, Tracy. Are you sure your friend isn’t just being hysterical about her sister’s death? I mean the shock might have rattled her temporarily.’
‘Diana Travers is not the hysterical type,’ Tracy replied firmly. ‘She gets intense about things sometimes. Feels things deeply, I think. But she’s not a nut-case, if that’s what you’re thinking. If I’d thought that, I would hardly have bothered you with her worries, would I?’
I guessed she wouldn’t. And Tracy was nobody’s fool. Some people make the error of mistaking her somewhat languorous manner as a product of a languorous mind. And thinking that besides its big blue eyes, its generous mouth, high cheek bones and cascades of chestnut hair, there is very little else to that glamorous head. They are riding for the shock of their lives. Tracy’s languorous manner is like a Venus fly-trap and I’m sure it amuses her to see fools wriggle and squirm as they discover their misjudgement. For Tracy’s mind is as sharp as a razor. I should know. We got quite close when I was teaching her to fly. And she went solo quicker than any pupil I had ever had. Off the airfield, we went round as a duet for quite some time. And now it was her turn to teach me quite a bit. And I loved the learning. But ultimately, we realised that each of us needed a little more solo experience of life before settling for a permanent two-seater. So now we’ve settled for seeing each other, when we feel the need, the desire. No rules, no pack-drill. She’s marvellous. A lover and a friend. Pretty rare combination, I’m told.
I accelerated again and was just swinging the La Salle’s long and elegant bonnet towards the entrance of the drive, when Tracy gave a shout. Mesmerized by the mirror, I guess, I hadn’t seen what was tearing up the drive towards me at a rate of knots. I slammed on the anchors and slewed to a halt just before the gate posts. A red Alvis flashed past me, its driver, in the open cockpit, fighting to keep control as he swung the long, low car hard to the left. He only just made it. The big wire wheels mounted the bank on the far side of the road and the rear wheels slammed hard against the turf before, in a snaking, juddering curve, and a scream of tortured rubber, the Alvis regained its balance and sped on up the road and out of sight.
Tracy and I looked at
each oilier. Certainly, she was two shades paler than when she’d started out. I felt three shades. After a moment’s breath-catching, I said, ‘Didn’t know they’d moved Brooklands down Dartmoor way.’
‘They haven’t,’ she said with a frown. ‘It’s more worrying than that.’
‘What do you mean?’
She took a deep breath.
‘Do you know who that was?’
‘Other than a suicidal or murderous maniac, no.’
‘You may be right about the last,’ she grimaced. ‘That was Diana’s sister’s husband — Michael Seagrave.’
*
I guess Diana Travers was around twenty-eight. But it was difficult to tell, as she was one of those ladies whose brows were knitted at birth. Not that she was bad looking. Far from it. Raven black hair, a flawless, yet pale complexion, a sensuous mouth, a five-foot-six figure that undulated exactly where it should, was very fair issue from Life’s store-house. And her eyes were large and appealing — but appealing for help and relief from pain rather than male or female approbation or interest. I could see what Tracy meant about her being intense and feeling things deeply.
After the standard, if slightly stiff, greetings, we repaired to her drawing-room, which was all chintz and rather strange oil paintings. Pictures that I learned later were actually all her own work, painting being her hobby — dabbling with brushes being a fairly common pastime for those who live so near the moor.
Directly we were seated, she offered us both a drink, which we declined. We just sat and watched her pour a gin and lime for herself. Her hand was shaking. I wondered whether from the visit of the red Alvis.
‘Thank you for coming, Mr Black. And thank you, Tracy, for the introduction.’
We smiled self-consciously and she went on.
‘I expect your time is precious, Mr Black ...’ Little did she know, thank the Lord. ‘... so I’ll get down right away to why I need your help. You may remember the tragic event that occurred on Bigbury Sands two months or so back?’
I interrupted to save her further pain.
‘Yes, I read all about it in the papers. I’m very sorry.’
She closed her eyes. ‘So I don’t need to go over horrifying details. Suffice it to say that my sister was riding with her husband, Michael Seagrave, in his new Frazer-Nash sports car whilst he was attempting to achieve a run on the sands of a hundred miles an hour. It was early in the morning. There was no one else on the beach.’
‘Any reason for making the attempt so early?’ I asked.
She waved her slender hand dismissively.
‘Oh, Michael — Mr Seagrave — claimed the engine would develop more power the cooler and damper the atmosphere. Besides, at that time there would be no one in the way.’
‘Okay. Sorry to interrupt.’
‘Ask away, Mr Black, as you see fit.’ She more than sipped her gin and lime. ‘Anyway, it is said that during the early stages of the run, my sister’s long scarf became entangled in the Nash’s wire wheels and then in the chain drive. As a result, her neck was dislocated and her husband found her to be dead immediately upon bringing the car to a stop.’
‘So it wasn’t quite like the Isadora Duncan case? I believe she was strangled by her scarf.’
Her hand trembled more than somewhat and she put down her glass.
‘So it would seem. The post-mortem clearly showed that my sister had died from, in effect, a broken neck. She had not been strangled.’
She looked at me in case I had any farther queries.
‘No, please go on,’ I nodded.
‘Well, naturally, the police inspected the car and the remains of the scarf and came to the rapid conclusion — too rapid in my view — that what Michael Seagrave had claimed had occurred was actually what had taken place. As you know, the inquest only followed the police evidence and came up with a verdict of accidental death. The case, therefore, in police eyes is closed.’ She picked up her glass once more. ‘That’s why I have no resort but to come to somebody like you, Mr Black. Someone who is impartial. Can look at all the evidence from a fresh stand-point. Carry out more elaborate enquiries than the constabulary ever bothered to do. And come up with the real facts. Facts that I’m sure will prove that my sister was murdered in cold blood. And the whole accident was a stage show to throw everyone off the scent.’
I hesitated for a moment before asking my next question. Diana Travers filled in time by reaching in her handbag for her silver and gilt cigarette case. I lit her black Sobranie for her, whilst I plucked up the courage.
‘I gather you reckon you know the murderer?’
She exhaled as she nodded.
‘Of course. Who else would it be but her ever loving husband, Michael Seagrave.’
‘You seem very certain, Diana,’ Tracy interceded. ‘Not only that it was a murder and not an accident, but also who committed it.’
Diana Travers suddenly rose from her chair, her dark eyes flashing both impatience and irritation.
‘Come on, Tracy. Who else could it have been but Michael? He had the motive. He had the opportunity.’
She stopped abruptly and flashed a look at me.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, Mr Black. Perhaps I’m running ahead of myself. You see, Tracy knows some of the background and I’m forgetting that you don’t.’
I smiled. ‘That’s all right, Miss Travers. Take it as it comes.’
She inhaled deeply and the cigarette smoke did not reissue until well into her next statement. I was starting to get worried.
‘Let me explain. My sister, Deborah, was the beneficiary of quite a considerable fortune left to her by her eccentric godparent, a William Trubshaw, who emigrated years ago to Australia and was fortunate enough to strike gold on his claim. He had no relatives he trusted, so he left his estate to Deborah. He died when she was sixteen and she came into the money when she was twenty-one. Deborah tried to confine news of her luck to close members of our family, but somehow word soon got around and she, naturally, started to attract suitors like there was no tomorrow.’
She stopped to stub out her cigarette. Her fingers seemed to be punishing, rather than putting out a fire. Even the gold tip ended up bent.
Tracy and I exchanged glances.
‘Michael Seagrave was the last of a long line, then?’ I said.
She nodded. ‘She should never have married him. She might have known an out of work actor was only after her for her money.’
‘Seagrave was an actor?’
‘A minor one. Rep, that kind of thing. But I think he “rested” — isn’t that how they term it? — rather more than he worked, from all accounts.’
‘His accounts?’ I asked.
She hesitated. ‘Oh ... all accounts.’
I wondered whether now was the time to ask about the red Alvis, but decided it wasn’t.
‘Michael Seagrave might have actually been in love with your sister, Diana,’ Tracy tried. ‘After all, she was quite a beautiful girl.’
‘She was beautiful,’ she reflected. ‘People were always wanting to take photographs of her. That’s how she and Michael met. In a photographer’s studio in Torquay. She was having a twenty-first-birthday picture taken. He was sitting for some new portrait shots for his agent. Snap, bang, wallop. Within a couple of months, they were engaged.’
She reached for her cigarette case and this time offered it round to us. We both declined. (I don’t go for Turkish or gold tips.) I flicked my lighter and Diana Travers continued, but now her tone was anything but reflective.
‘But no, Tracy. You can be quite sure her looks were only a bonus to her bank balance, as far as Michael was concerned. You’ve only got to know him a short while to realise that. He’s about as sentimental as a train.’
It was pretty clear by now that Diana Travers did not want me to discover the truth about her sister’s death unless it provided confirmation of her suspicions against Seagrave. I wondered if she hated him as much before the tragedy on the sands.
&nb
sp; ‘So you think Michael Seagrave staged your sister’s death to get his hands on her money?’ I asked.
She shrugged. ‘Of course. He was in the acting profession. He would have known all about the way Isadora Duncan died. Much more than the average man. So all he had to do to reproduce the accident was buy a car with chain drive.’
‘How long had he had the Frazer-Nash?’
‘He took delivery only six weeks before her death.’
‘Is Seagrave interested in cars? I mean, the Frazer-Nash is a fairly esoteric, enthusiast’s choice.’
‘Not as far as I know. I’ve never heard him talking about them. And he only had an ancient Austin Seven when he first met Deborah. Nobody interested in cars would go around in one of those, now would they?’
I smiled inwardly. Diana Travers’ upper middle-class mind had, typically, not equated choice with available means. But I notched up one for my money guzzling La Salle. I’d seen her eyes appraise its motoring status, when she had opened her front door to us. Now, a private eye in an Austin Seven ...
‘So you think Seagrave bought the Frazer-Nash for one reason and one reason only: like Isadora Duncan’s Bugatti, it had chain drive.’
‘Exactly. Why else? I’ve been out in it. It’s a draughty, rattly, noisy, hard-sprung affair. Maybe all right for the race track, but hardly for Devon lanes.’
‘So you’ve been out in the Frazer-Nash? Does this mean you and Michael Seagrave were, before your sister’s death, on good terms? After all, the Nash is strictly a two-seater. No room for three.’
I instantly regretted my question. The look in her eyes spoke of cancelled assignments for loose-tongued detectives. I was learning.
‘He was my sister’s husband, Mr Black. If I was to continue to see my sister after her marriage, I had, at least, to be civil to her husband — whatever my private feelings.’
‘Of course,’ I blandished. Tracy came to my aid and, to my surprise, asked the very question I had been postponing.
‘Was that Michael’s Alvis we saw leaving just as we turned into your drive?’
Diana Travers turned towards the French windows. I regretted not being able to see her face.
Black Eye (A Johnny Black Mystery) Page 3
