The Benefits of Death

by Roderic Jeffries

  “Mr. Leithan? I’m Detective-Inspector Jaeger. Sorry to bother you like this.” He gestured at the pistols. “What a wonderful collection you’ve got.”

  “Not too bad.”

  “I used to want to do the same, but when the prices climbed to the skies I had to make do with seeing them in the museums. That one up there… That’s a very early Colt, isn’t it?”

  Leithan’s voice quickened, as it always did when discussing guns. “A Dragoon. It’s one of the first models, forty-four calibre. I spotted that in a shop in Lewes. The chap wanted twenty-five pounds for it and after a stern struggle I beat him down to twenty.”

  “Twenty?”

  Leithan smiled briefly. “You picked out my best buy. Just to keep the records straight, there’s that pepperbox up there which I congratulated myself on until I discovered four other pistols had been cannibalised to make it.”

  “If it was my collection, I’d be afraid to leave it hanging there.”

  “What’s one to do? Hide it away or see it, insure it, and risk? I’d do the same if I had a dozen Gauguins.”

  Jaeger reluctantly looked away from the pistols. “You’ll have guessed, sir, that I’ve come along to see if you’ve heard anything from Mrs. Leithan?”

  “I’ve heard nothing.”

  “I suppose you’re beginning to get a little worried?”

  “I’m certain she’s still on holiday.”

  “Even though you took her in to Ashford to catch a train for London to attend a meeting that meant so much to her, but which she didn’t go to?”

  “If she’s on holiday, she obviously wouldn’t have gone to it.”

  “Mrs. Marsh declared that she’d never have missed it willingly?”

  “We don’t all act as other people think we should.”

  “That’s true enough.”

  “I’m grateful for the agreement.”

  “By the way, did you see your wife on to the train?”

  “Didn’t that other policeman tell you that I left her by the booking office?”

  The D.I. continued to speak with unabated good humour. “I suppose you’ve checked with a number of hospitals by now?”

  “No. It isn’t necessary.”

  “Maybe not, sir. Still, I take it you won’t mind if we have a quick check?”

  “Are you giving me the option, or presenting me with an ultimatum?”

  Jaeger laughed. “Words can mean anything, can’t they?” He looked around the hall. “Wonderful old place you’ve got here.”

  Leithan answered automatically and talked about the house and the ash-staked mad room in the loft — a moderately common feature of Kent houses — in which legend said a woman had been incarcerated for fifteen years and whose screams could be heard even as far away as the Piltonhurst rectory. The telephone rang. Leithan excused himself and answered it.

  “Charles — the police have just been here.”

  He stared out at the garden. For a moment, all was motionless. Old Bill Wren — as stubborn as hell — remained bending over the middle of the left-hand herbaceous border: the dead leaves in the beech hedges ceased to rustle to the wind that was sweeping in from the south: the tall oak tree in the centre of the east wood became frozen: the heavy pot-bellied clouds hung lifeless in the sky: the robin became a statue on the edge of the bird bath. Then, all was movement again. “Why?” he said.

  “There were two of them. Our local bobby and a young chap in a revoltingly-coloured sports jacket.”

  “Damn the clothes. What did they want?”

  “To find out whether I knew you and if so, for how long. From the way the young man leered at me, he also would have liked to ask me whether I’d go to bed with him.”

  “God Almighty,” shouted Leithan. “I’ll have him sacked. Did he say anything?”

  “He didn’t quite have the nerve.” Her voice faltered slightly. “But he was mentally undressing me all the time.”

  “Have they gone?”

  “Just before I phoned.”

  “I’ll be right over.”

  “There’s nothing to do now, Charles, but I had to tell you.”

  “I’m coming over.”

  “Charles…where is Evadne?”

  He slammed the receiver down, swung round and spoke wildly to Jaeger. “Your bloody men have been worrying Mrs. Breslow and one of ’em’s been insulting her. I’ll write to the chief constable.”

  “What precisely did he say, sir?”

  “He didn’t say anything, but spent the whole time mentally undressing her.”

  Jaeger relaxed slightly.

  “What right have you to worry her? Who said you could? Why are you worrying her?”

  “I’d have thought the reason was obvious, sir.”

  “Not to me, it isn’t.”

  “I expect it soon will be.” said the detective quietly.

  Chapter IX

  Herald sat down and stared at the electric convector heater. The day was cold and damp and the heater did little to relieve either feature. He sucked a boiled sweet and thought about a pal of his who was knocking back thirty quid a week up in a Midlands car factory. And whipping various bits and pieces off the assembly line with which he optimistically hoped eventually to be able to build his own car. Herald wanted a car more than anything else in the world. The modern birds were getting so status-conscious they wouldn’t begin to look at a man without a reasonable car.

  The buzzer summoned him to the D.I.’s room.

  “Well?” said Jaeger.

  “Not at all bad looking, sir, and must give the old boy a wonderful roll in bed. Wouldn’t mind taking her on myself, come to that.”

  “So she gathered.” Jaeger’s voice was hard. “You’ll keep your sex life to yourself and not parade it around in working hours or I’ll slam a disciplinary charge on you. Is that clear?”

  Herald became sullen.

  “What did she have to say?” asked Jaeger,

  “That they were just good friends,”

  “And?”

  “And nothing, sir. All else she did was to get rather desperate as she tried to convince me.”

  Jaeger made no comment.

  “Something else happened, sir.” Herald had forgotten his resentment and was now eager to prove his own worth. “I used a bucket-load of initiative.”

  Jaeger looked suspicious.

  “When I was driving the local P.C. back to his place I saw a tall man in a tiny car. Remember Mr. Abraham Smith?”

  The D.I. stared out of the window at the unsightly jumble of buildings beyond. “The private detective?”

  “Retired detective-sergeant from the Devon police. He’s been watching Pamela Breslow.”

  “Divorce?”

  “That’s it in one. sir. He’s been on and off the job since the beginning of September, trying to land our bloke in a compromising position — I wonder if they ever actually do?”

  “Could you elevate your mind just for a short while?”

  “He says Leithan’s been a frequent visitor, but that before the eighteenth he always left early on in the evening. On the eighteenth, Leithan’s car was parked slap outside the front door all night. And that’s happened since then.”

  “Who’s Smith working for?”

  “Podermare and Co., in Tenterden. They told him their client didn’t mind how much it cost her, she wanted proof her husband was committing adultery. She even gave the dates on which the Breslow house was to be watched.”

  “See ’em and check.” The D.I. produced his pipe and tobacco pouch and then found the latter was empty. His normally cheerful expression became sour. “And in the meantime, get me an ounce of Player’s tawny navy cut. Tawny, don’t forget.” He was silent for a few seconds. “We’re missing the key at the moment. I wonder where the hell it is?”

  *

  Leithan arrived at Pamela’s house as heavy rain began to fall from the leaden skies. He ran from the car to the slight shelter of the small open porch and waited for h
er to open the door.

  As soon as he was in the house, he said: “What did the bastards want?”

  She put her hands round the back of his neck and kissed him. “Please, Charles, please keep calm. You must.”

  “When some bloody little whipper-snapper comes along and ogles you?”

  “What does that matter?” She swallowed heavily. “Charles, he’s almost certain you and I are lovers.”

  “So what if he is?” Leithan freed himself from her and began to pace the square hall. “It’s none of their business. What did he say? I told the inspector I’d report him.”

  “What inspector?”

  “Came out from Ashford and asked me a lot of impertinent questions. What did this man say to you?”

  She shook her head in a gesture of despair. What did it matter? The detective wasn’t the first man to have sized her up in terms of bed-potential. “Charles, what were they at your place for? What impertinent questions were they asking?”

  “Whether I’d checked with the hospitals.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “That I hadn’t, of course.”

  She moistened her lips. “Why…why haven’t you been checking, Charles?”

  He swung round. “Why should I? Evadne’s on holiday, not ill. I know what they’re thinking — you don’t have to spell it out for me. Just because she didn’t turn up at the bloody Cuenca meeting…” He stopped. “Do you believe I’ve killed her?”

  She shivered. “Stop it and calm down. I know you couldn’t do such a thing, no matter how much you wanted to.”

  “Who said I wanted to?”

  “I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “Or did your tongue say what you’d been thinking?”

  “Please, Charles, please don’t attack me. I only know one thing and that’s that I love you, and when you’re like this it hurts me deeply.”

  He spoke very slowly and very softly, so that his voice was little more than a whisper. “You don’t hate me, Pam, do you?”

  She began to cry.

  *

  Detective-Sergeant Watters always seemed to be wearing clothes that had fitted him before he grew the last half-inch, and as he made his way into the solicitor’s office his coat looked as if the seams at the shoulders might part at any moment. He was asked to wait and it was fifteen minutes before the receptionist took him up to Enty’s office. As he shook hands with the solicitor, he wondered how much the other’s multi-coloured waistcoat had cost and whether it needed much courage to wear it. “Glad to find you working on a Saturday morning, sir.”

  “You may be, I’m not,” replied Enty. “What the devil’s going to happen to my golf handicap?”

  Watters grinned. “For several years now, Sergeant, I’ve been trying to persuade the solicitors of Kent that if they all closed their doors on Saturdays, the public would be forced to come to them during the week. But being an honourable profession, Brutus, they’re all scared that if there were such a pact one of their number would renege, open his doors wide, and so steal not only a march, but also many highly valued clients. Hence, we all work on Saturdays.”

  “It’s rather nice to meet a fellow sufferer.”

  “Your sympathy alarms me. Remind me to cross-examine you unmercifully the next time we clash in court.”

  “You didn’t do too badly last time, sir. You called me a liar at least five times.”

  “Was that all? For some unaccountable reason, I must have been feeling kindly towards you.” Enty leaned back in his chair. “Well. What’s the trouble?”

  “Do you handle Mr. Leithan’s affairs, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’d like a run down on them.”

  “Quite possibly.”

  “What about his will and his wife’s?”

  “What about them?”

  “What are the terms?”

  “My dear Sergeant, until you can force me to speak, my clients’ business is their affair and not yours. So return to your detective-inspector and tell him that.”

  “Come on, sir, you know as well as I do that we can go to Somerset House and look up the father’s will.”

  “Quite so, but until misfortune overtakes them, not Mr. and Mrs. Leithan’s will.”

  Watters sighed very obviously. “All right, I’ll just take the father’s. I said to the old man we wouldn’t get anything more out of you — shouldn’t have pulled you in for speeding last year.”

  “That would cost you dearly for slander if only there were witnesses.” Enty’s expression changed slightly. “What are all the inquiries in aid of?”

  “We don’t know quite yet, sir. That’s one of the things we’re trying to find out.”

  “You’ll get the terms of the will from me and nothing more. D’you want the exact wording, or will you accept a résumé?”

  “Yours will do, sir, if it’s accurate.”

  “The capital was left on trust. The interest to Charles Leithan until married and then jointly to him and his wife. On the death of either party, the capital vests absolutely in the survivor and any children. If there is a divorce, the capital vests absolutely in the innocent party.”

  “How much is the capital?”

  “At the death of Reginald Leithan, the father, it stood at about a hundred and twenty thousand pounds — after death duties were paid.”

  “How’s the money invested?”

  “In a number of ways.”

  “Unless it’s all in Government securities, it must have appreciated a lot?”

  “Perhaps.”

  It was obvious that the interview was at an end. Watters thanked Enty with elaborate care, as if he had been granted complete co-operation, and Enty replied with mild sarcasm. Watters left. Because he had not dealt with the Leithan case before, he had no idea what Jaeger would make of the meagre information. He wondered what sort of a queer coot the old man Leithan must have been to have inserted the divorce clause in the trust.

  *

  Detective-Superintendent Murch was commonly referred to as The Scourge. His subordinates took almost as much interest in his duodenal ulcer as he did, since it so largely governed his relationship with them.

  Between Jaeger and Murch there generally existed a truce, drawn up — although never acknowledged — because otherwise there would have been continuous friction between two people of such differing characteristics. Where Jaeger saw light, Murch saw dark, where Jaeger saw promise, Murch saw misery.

  Murch sat in the divisional superintendent’s room on the ground floor, and sucked a tablet. The uniformed superintendent and the D.I. watched him. “All right, so she appears to be missing. You’ve been on to hospitals, nursing homes, mortuaries, the lot. She didn’t attend a meeting everyone swears she’d have left her death-bed to attend. She hasn’t drawn a penny from the bank since she went missing. The husband says she’s on holiday and he’s not worried. For his part, he’s got a bit of goods along the road, but can’t enjoy himself too openly because under the trust if he’s caught out and divorced, he loses the cash. So until the eighteenth, he never stops very long with the woman, but on the eighteenth he stays the night and doesn’t give a damn who sees the car.” Murch swallowed the tablet. “All right. So where’s the body?”

  The divisional superintendent, a rotund man who was sharp on discipline yet who still managed to be on friendly terms with the men under him, stubbed out the cigarette he had been smoking. He looked at Jaeger.

  “There’s no sign of the body,” said Jaeger.

  “Have you looked for it?”

  “Not yet, sir.”

  “Why not?”

  “We’ve been finding out whether, or not, there’s a body to look for. Until to-day, I haven’t been a hundred per cent certain.”

  “And now you say you are, on evidence that isn’t sufficient?”

  Jaeger remained unruffled by the other’s hostility. “Let’s say I’m ninety-nine per cent certain, sir.”

  “She could still b
e alive. The husband might be right and she decided on a holiday. Or she might have been taken very ill — wasn’t she suffering from something?”

  “Angina, sir.”

  “That could have keeled her over.”

  “Quite, sir. But where’s the body? And why wasn’t she on the train that Leithan said he took her to catch?”

  “What the hell’s the use of asking me? You’re supposed to be in charge.”

  “In that case, sir, we’ll start looking for the body.”

  Murch stared at the map of the division which hung on the wall of the room. “Just what we bloody wanted. With everyone working flat out, one of my D.I.s presents me with a missing body so that I have to worry my ulcer nearer the grave.” With a sweep of forgetfulness, he ignored the fact that only a few seconds ago he had disclaimed all responsibility in the affair.

  *

  Tuesday was market day in Ashford and on the twenty-seventh, as soon as all his duties for the morning were completed, Deakin prepared to go into town. He liked to study the low standards of other people’s beasts, reinforce his poor opinion of other cowmen, buy a few vegetables from the Women’s Institutes stall, and wander round and listen to the cheap-jacks as they sold shoddy goods to people less suspicious than he was.

  He was about to walk away from the cow-sheds when he was hailed by a young man who quickly and officiously introduced himself as Detective-Constable Herald. Deakin took his ancient five-shilling watch from his pocket and consulted it.

  “You’ve been working here a long time I wouldn’t mind betting,” said Herald.

  “Wouldn’t you,” replied Deakin.

  “Always for the old boy?”

  “I’ve been with Mr. Leithan for twelve year.”

  “Is he a nice bloke to work for?”

  “Why? Thinkin’ of applying for a job?”

  Herald’s grin — his grin for gaffers, he called it — became a little strained. “I’ll tell you something for free. I wouldn’t spend my time mucking around with cows.”

  “I can reckon.”