She paused and spoke the last words slowly and softly but with great emphasis. Martin knew that there was nothing more to say. He sighed and rose from the table. As he pushed the chair back a voice spoke from behind him.
“Inspector Denson?”
“Yes?”
“I’m Andy Mason. I believe you wanted a word with me?”
Andy Mason was very far from the popular conception of an innkeeper. Martin judged his age to be about thirty-five. He was almost as tall as the Inspector, but much more fragile in build. He wore a pair of dark-rimmed spectacles which gave him a vaguely studious air, an impression which was heightened by the slightly careless style of his dress — a worn tweed jacket, trousers baggy at the knees, a striped tie with a small knot slightly askew. His manner was easy and friendly but a little cautious and reserved, as if experience had taught him not to rush into friendships too rapidly.
“Yes,” Martin said. “If you could spare me a few minutes?” “Of course.” Andy nodded and then smiled down at Sue. “Good evening.”
Sue replied with her charming, friendly smile: “Good evening.”
“What is it you want to see me about?” Andy asked Martin, without a hint of resentment or apprehension.
“I’ve got something I’d like you to take a look at, Mr. Mason. Perhaps we could go into your office?”
“Yes, of course.”
Andy Mason turned to lead the way towards a door beside the bar. Martin lingered, hoping that he could part from Sue on a less wounding note.
“Goodbye, Sue.”
There was no trace now of the smile which she had bestowed on Andy Mason. “Goodbye,” she said, putting an unmistakable stress on the first syllable.
To reach Andy Mason’s office they had to pass between the end of the bar and the main entrance. At that moment the door opened and a florid, buxom woman who was still good-looking and full of self-confidence came in. She had to hold the swing-door open with one hip while she manoeuvred her parcels through the gap. A customer sitting in a group near the door had gone to her help. Olive had made some suggestive comment and his friends were laughing at her reply. Mike, the second barman, lifted the flap at the end of the bar and hurried towards her.
“He meant a hand with your parcels, Olive, that’s all.”
Olive gave the young man, who had rejoined his friends, a broad wink. “I know what he meant, all right.”
“Hello, Olive!” Andy said, laughing. “Had a good day?” He contemplated the half-dozen large parcels of which Mike was relieving her and smiled at Martin. “That’s a damn silly question, isn’t it? She’s bought half Oxford Street, by the look of things.”
Mike was pretending to be bowed down by the weight of the load. “Yes,” he said to Andy. “And if you ask me she’ll be wanting a sub on Thursday.”
“No, I won’t, Mr. Clever,” Olive protested in her rich, carrying voice. “I haven’t touched my wages yet.” She lowered her voice and put her face closer to Andy’s. “These are all on Victor.”
Martin was smiling with the others at the little comedy. Before following Andy through to his office, he took a last look in Sue’s direction. She was still sitting there, deep in thought, staring down at her half-finished glass of sherry.
Andy Mason’s office was located directly behind the bar. The room had once been the store where the casked beer of former days had been kept. The modern furnishings which Andy had installed looked incongruous against the thick rough walls and hardly matched the solid oak beams of the ceiling. Martin was puzzled by the background noise of bar conversation which persisted even after Andy had closed the door. Then he realised it was coming from a loudspeaker behind Andy’s desk. He could identify George’s voice amongst the others.
Andy’s desk was a litter of papers and trade macrazines.
Martin put his attache case on top of a metal filing-cabinet and snapped the catches open. Andy watched curiously as he brought out the Polaroid SX-70 camera and handed it to him.
“Is this camera familiar to you, sir?”
Andy unfastened the leather case with the ease of familiarity and extracted the camera. He turned it over, found scratches on the underside and looked up at the Inspector with a puzzled frown.
“Yes,” he said. “This camera is mine. There’s no doubt about it.” He checked to see whether there was any film in it and then replaced it in its case. “Well, I’m damned. I certainly never thought I’d see this again.”
“You say you lost it at Milan airport?”
“Yes. At least — well, I thought I did. Excuse, me, I’ll turn this thing off. Sometimes I like to hear what’s going on behind my back.” As the switch went up the background noise was abruptly cut off. He put the camera down on his desk. “This is mine, all right. But how did you come to get hold of it, Inspector? I thought I’d lost it at Milan airport.”
“We are making certain enquiries, sir,” Martin said with unhelpful vagueness, “and during the course of our investigations we happened to find the camera.”
“Enquiries about what — stolen property?” Andy’s brow was still puckered by that mystified frown.
“No, sir.” Martin’s eyes had been making a lazy tour of the room. Now they swung back to Andy and his tone became more businesslike. “Mr. Mason, tell me, what happened exactly at the airport?”
“Nothing happened, except that I was in a hell of a state.” Andy gave a self-deprecating smile. “Always am when it comes to flying. Scares the pants off me. I’d had about six doubles and was just trotting off to the gents — having handed my camera and various bits and pieces over to David — when they suddenly called the flight number. The next thing I knew we were on the ruddy aircraft and I was struggling with my seat-belt.”
“In fact, not to put too fine a point on it, you were pie-eyed?”
Andy laughed and nodded. “Yes, I suppose I was.”
“When did you first discover the camera was missing?”
“Oh, not until the next day,” Andy replied, more at ease now. “I was sorting things out and I suddenly realised I hadn’t got it. I immediately rang up David and he said I’d never given it to him. In fact he said he hadn’t seen it, not since we left the hotel.”
“I see.” Martin nodded and stood for a moment studying Andy.
The innkeeper put the camera down on top of an open copy of “I must say, I’m very glad you’ve found it, Inspector. It’s a pretty expensive toy and it wasn’t insured. But vou still haven’t told me where you found it?”
“Do you know a girl called Judy Clayton?”
“No, I’m afraid . . .” Andy shook his head, then pursed his lips as he looked down, thinking hard. “Judy Clayton? I know the name . . . Haven’t I read something about her quite recently?” He snapped his fingers. “Good God, I remember! Surely — she’s the girl that was murdered?”
“That’s right, sir,” Martin agreed equably.
“Well, what’s Judy Clayton got to do with my camera?”
“We found it in her bedroom, sir. In a cupboard.”
“But how in heaven’s name did she get hold of it?”
“I can’t imagine. Unless, of course, she was a friend of Mr. Walker’s and he gave it to her.”
“That’s absurd, Inspector!” Andy exclaimed with emphasis. “Why, sir?” Martin asked in his innocently quiet voice. “Because in the first place David wouldn’t steal the camera, and in the second place . . .” Andy bit off whatever he had been going to say, took his spectacles off and began to polish them with his handkerchief.
“Go on,” Martin prompted.
“In the second place,” Andy said, choosing his words, “he certainly wouldn’t be friendly with a girl like Judy Clayton.” “You mean — he’s just not that sort of chap.”
“That’s exactly what I mean. But haven’t you met him?”
“Yes, I have. And he’s your brother-in-law, sir, isn’t he? I’d like to hear your opinion of him.”
Andy got his glasses back
on again and looked the Inspector straight in the eye. “Well, I can give it to you in ten seconds flat. He’s loyal, honest and a damn good husband. If you ask me, a great deal better than my sister deserves.”
Martin had his evening meal at a small restaurant at the other end of Guildfleet from his flat and was home at a little after eight-thirty. As always, he felt a sense of depression as he let himself into an apartment which he knew was empty. He hung up his overcoat in the hall and put the attaché case on the floor by the sofa. There were enough papers in it to keep him occupied until midnight. He took a can of beer from the fridge, opened it and carefully poured the half-pint into a tilted glass.
He was looking through the long-playing records scattered on the table, trying to choose one which would not distract him from his work, when the door bell sounded shrilly. He put his beer down and went through the hall to open the door.
His visitor, having got so far as ringing the bell, must have had second thoughts, for as Martin looked out onto the landing she was already at the top of the stairs. She turned, realising that she had gone beyond the point of no return and came slowly back.
“Good evening, Inspector Denson,” she said nervously.
Martin smiled reassuringly at the slightly comic figure. She was a stout woman who would never see fifty again, with a triple chin and pink, chubby cheeks. Her eyes, which were small but remarkably sharp and observant, had been touched up with a shading of mascara. She had evidently put on her best clothes, presumably from some deep wardrobe where mothballs had preserved them since a past decade. Most incongruous of all, she wore a hat decorated with plastic flowers which would have been more suitable for an afternoon on the sward at Ascot.
“Good evening,” Martin responded guardedly, then suddenly recognised her. “Oh, hello, Mrs. Bodley. I’m sorry I didn’t recognise you.”
“It’s the hat, I’m afraid, it . . .” She touched it with a trembling hand. “Could you spare me a few minutes, Inspector?”
“Yes, of course. By all means.” Martin held his door wide open. “Come along in!”
As he ushered Judy Clayton’s landlady into his sitting-room he suddenly realised how untidy the room was. Her sharp little eyes darted about disapprovingly, noting the books on the sofa, the scattered record sleeves, the dust on the shelves and at least two dirty tea or coffee cups.
Martin went past her, scooped up some books which were cluttering the sofa and put them on the floor.
“Sit down, Mrs. Bodley. I was just getting myself a drink. Would you care for one?”
“No, thank you, sir.” Mrs. Bodley shook her head primly and the plastic flowers quivered. But she carefully lowered her broad person onto the low settee.
“Well, what can I do for you?”
“I — I owe you an apology, Inspector. The other day, when you came to the house, I —” She broke off and then looked up at him directly. “Well, I’m afraid I wasn’t very helpful.”
“No, but it was understandable,” Martin said soothingly. “The murder must have been a great shock.”
“Yes, it was.” Mrs. Bodley shook her head and sighed deeply. “A great shock. I — I just couldn’t believe it. Even now sometimes I . . .”
“What is it you want to tell me, Mrs. Bodley?” Martin picked up his beer and sat down in a chair facing her.
“I saw a Mr. Revelwhite this morning, I don’t know whether you know him or not? He’s a solicitor . . .”
“Yes, I know him. ‘Revelwhite and Tucker’ in Mortimer Street.”
“That’s right. Horace Revelwhite’s an old friend of mine, I’ve known him for years.”
“They’re a very good firm.” Martin put the glass to his lips and lowered the level by one third.
“I went to see him about a property I’ve just sold. There’s some trouble over the . . .” She waved the matter away with a beringed hand. “Anyway, we started talking about the murder, about Judy Clayton. I said you’d questioned me and that I’d been rather, well . . .”
Martin smiled. “Rather difficult?”
“Yes!” she said, relieved that this was proving less difficult than she’d expected. “To cut a long story short he told me to come along here and apologise.”
“I’ll bet he also told you not to be such an obstinate old hen in future!”
“That’s exactly what he told me!” Mrs. Bodley gave vent to a deep-throated, wheezing chuckle. “Those were his exact words.”
“I know Horace Revelwhite — and I’m very grateful to him.” Martin had put on his most serious expression. “We need all the help we can get, Mrs. Bodley. If you know anything about Judy Clayton, anything which you think might interest the police, please tell me.”
She pursed her lips, hesitating, as if she was not sure whether she should speak her mind or not. When she spoke it was in a lowered, confidential tone.
“The only thing I can tell you is, she had lots of friends — boy friends, I mean — and she was certainly never short of money.”
“Tell me about the boy friends.”
“Well.” She looked down at her shoes, still not entirely happy about what she was doing. “There was a chap called Norton — Roy Norton.”
“He runs a driving school,” Martin put in, to help her along.
“That’s right. He was very friendly with her — oh, for about six months. Then suddenly, I don’t quite know why, it was broken off.”
Her mouth stayed open after she had spoken and she stared out through the uncurtained window.
“Go on, Mrs. Bodley.”
“Shortly after that there was another man . . . Now what on earth was his name?” She scratched the side of her thigh to prod her memory. “He never came to the house but she was crazy about him; always rushing up to London to meet him. I bumped into the pair of them at the theatre one night and she introduced me to him . . . Now what the devil did she say his name . . .?” Her eyes were exploring the room, searching for information. They found it improbably enough, on the sleeve of Martin’s recording of the Gondoliers. “Mason! That’s it! Andy Mason.”
“Andy Mason?” Martin was surprised, but his face showed nothing. “Are you sure that was the name?”
“Yes, I’m quite sure,” Mrs. Bodley affirmed, forgetting her hesitation of a moment before.
“He owns The Grapevine — that pretty little pub near the river.”
“I wouldn’t know about that.” She shook her head self-righteously, as if owning a pub was something faintly indecent. “All I know is, she was very friendly with him.”
“Mr. Mason has a brother-in-law, a man called David Walker.”
“Yes, the Sergeant mentioned him.”
Martin put his glass down, stood up and went to retrieve his attaché case from the floor beside Mrs. Bodley’s chubby legs.
“We’re very interested in Mr. Walker. He gave Judy Clayton a lift in his car, the day she was murdered. But there are other reasons why we’re interested in him, Mrs. Bodley.” He pressed the catches which snapped open with a sharp crack. “Was David Walker a friend of Judy Clayton’s?”
She contemplated the case on Martin’s knee with some apprehension. “No, I don’t think so; she certainly never mentioned him. But he might have been, of course. She invited quite a lot of people to the house at one time or another. I don’t suppose I even saw half of them. What does this David Walker look like?”
“Well, when he’s on holiday, he looks like this.” Martin had taken the big white envelope from his case. He selected one of the snapshots and handed it to Mrs. Bodley. She gave it only the briefest glance and then looked up.
“But this is the man I told you about! The one I was introduced to.” Her face expressed complete bewilderment. She held the snapshot closer and stared at it again. “The man she said was Andy Mason!”
It was a good deal later that night when Roy Norton’s Jaguar — his personal car, not the hack he used for driving lessons — turned into the drive at Gameswood House. The frosty silence had
continued all the way from The Bear Hotel. The bottle of Burgundy and Chateaubriand steak which they had shared in the grill-room of Guildfleet’s most expensive establishment had done nothing at all to improve Evelyn Walker’s temper.
Roy stopped the car in front of the door and switched the engine off. In view of their agreement not to use Gameswood House for their meetings any longer he knew that she would not be inviting him in, but he wanted to try and get things straight before they separated. Her attitude was so unfair. She seemed to think he had nothing to do except dance attendance on her. If he had not found her so damnably desirable he’d have broken this thing off long ago, but he knew now that he was well and truly hooked. It wasn’t love in the proper sense, more like some delicious addiction.
“I really am sorry about tonight, Evelyn. I didn’t realise it would take me so long.”
She tossed her head petulantly. “I felt such an idiot sitting there on my own.”
“Yes, I know. I’m sorry, honey.” Roy put an arm round her shoulders and tried to draw her against him. She pushed his arm away and slid further from him.
“I still don’t see why you couldn’t have ‘phoned from the hotel. Rushing back to your office like that in the middle of a meal!”
“I’ve told you, I couldn’t remember her number and the silly old cow isn’t in the book, so I . . .” He took her hands and pulled her round to face him. “Look, Evelyn, I’m sorry — I apologise. Now let’s forget it, honey.”
Abruptly her mood changed. She moved closer, allowing his arm to slip caressingly round her shoulders.
“All right, but promise you won’t do it again?”
“Of course I won’t do . . .”
She twisted round to look into his face, her expression teasing, almost mocking. “Promise? Cross your heart and hope to die?”
“Yes, of course I promise!”
Her lips were parted and moist. He bent his head and gave her a long kiss. She broke away just as he felt the desire growing in him, and put her hand on the door catch.
“I’ll give you a ring tomorrow sometime — probably in the afternoon.”
The Passenger Page 5
