Sue took her coat from the back of the chair and slipped it on. “Look, I’m sorry, I must be making a move. I’ve got an appointment this evening.”
Martin bit off his question just in time. He had been on the verge of asking her who she was supposed to be meeting.
“You won’t forget about that letter?”
“No.” Half way to the door she paused, fingering the brooch. “Reams . . . I wonder if I’m right about the name?”
“I’d be grateful if you’d check.”
He was escorting her through the hall when the brooch suddenly detached itself from the chain. Sue tried to grab it as it slid down her front. Martin, stooping with a swift reflex action, caught it just before it hit the floor.
“I see you’re still having the same old trouble.” He smiled as he handed the brooch back to her.
“Yes.” She turned it over to look at the clasp. “I keep meaning to take it in to be repaired, but somehow I never seem to get round to it.”
The trivial incident had set up some strange current between them. They stood there awkwardly for a moment, neither of them able to find the right words to part on.
Sue started as the door bell rang with sudden stridence.
“That’s probably Harry Kennedy,” Martin said, moving to twist the Yale knob. “They’ve invited me out to dinner and he’s picking me up.”
Martin managed to conceal his surprise when he opened the door and saw who his visitor was. Andy Mason’s finger was still on the bell-push. The alacrity with which the door had been opened had startled him and as he saw Sue Denson standing in the hall his expression became even more embarrassed.
“Hello, Mr. Mason!” Martin exclaimed.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Inspector, but . . .” He pretended to see Sue for the first time. “Oh, good evening, Miss — er — Mrs . . .”
“Good evening,” Sue replied with a faint smile of amusement.
“Come along in, Mr. Mason.” Martin stood back, holding the door wide and turned to Sue. “I’ll ‘phone you. Probably tomorrow afternoon.”
“All right.” She hesitated, then added: “But make it late — not before five-thirty.”
“I’ll remember that.”
Martin closed the door on her and then gave his attention to Andy Mason. “What can I do for you, Mr. Mason?”
“I’m sorry, dropping in on you like this. I should have telephoned your office and made an appointment.”
“That’s all right, don’t worry about that. Come on in.”
A faint reminder of Sue’s perfume still lingered in the sitting-room as Martin showed his guest in.
“Would you care for a drink?” Martin suggested, anxious to put the other man at his ease.
“Er — no, I won’t have one, not at the moment. Thank you very much.”
Martin waved a hand towards the settee. “Sit down.”
Andy sat down gingerly on the settee, perching himself on the edge in an awkward fashion.
“Look, Inspector, I’ll come straight to the point. I want to talk to you about my sister — Mrs. Walker. I’m worried about her and I don’t quite know what to do. I’d be very grateful if you’d . . .give me your advice.”
“If I can help you, Mr. Mason, I will — certainly.”
Martin pulled up an upright chair, removed a couple of books and sat down at a slight angle to the settee.
“My sister’s having an affair with a man called Roy Norton, you probably know that. If you don’t, you’re about the only man in Guildfleet who doesn’t.”
Martin nodded confirmation and waited for him to go on.
“Well, this afternoon I had a ‘phone call from Arthur Eastwood. To say he was angry would be the under-statement of the year. He was livid! Apparently, Evelyn — my sister — had an appointment to see him this afternoon and — well, she took Roy Norton along with her.”
Andy removed his spectacles and began to polish them with his handkerchief, the muscles round his eyes contracting with the effort to focus.
“Go on,” Martin prompted.
“According to Arthur, Norton started asking a lot of damn silly questions about the business; shooting his mouth off, pretending he was the financial genius of all time. In the end Arthur lost his temper and threatened to throw him out of the office.”
He replaced his spectacles and glanced at Martin to see how he was reacting to this recital.
“Yes, I can imagine he would.” Martin could not help feeling that Andy’s statement had been rehearsed. “But tell me, what is it you want me to do, Mr. Mason?”
“I don’t know that you can do anything, Inspector.” Andy shook his head hopelessly. “It’s just that I thought . . .my sister’s an extremely wealthy woman, at least she will be when probate’s granted. Roy Norton knows this and he’s taking advantage of her.”
“Well, I’m sorry, Mr. Mason, I can’t help you. This is purely a family matter.”
“I thought perhaps if you had a word with her . . .”
“She’ll probably tell me to take a running jump, or get lost.” Martin smiled. “And quite frankly I wouldn’t blame her.”
“Well, what am I going to do? Just stand by and let Norton take over?”
Martin had no intention of answering Andy’s rhetorical question. He hoped Andy would soon get round to the real purpose of his visit.
“Have you spoken to your sister?”
“Yes, I’ve just left her.”
“And what happened?”
“What I knew would happen. She told me to mind my own damn business.” Andy forced a short laugh. “Which is a bit rich, when you consider it’s not so long ago that both she and David talked me into putting some money into Cavalier Toys. Good God, I ask you — fancy having money in a firm run by Roy Norton!”
Andy’s indignation sounded a little false to Martin’s ears.
“I hardly think Mr. Norton will be allowed to run this firm,
Mr. Mason. But tell me: is this the only reason you wanted to see me?”
“No , I . . .” Andy leaned back on the cushions, crossed his legs and flicked a small spot of dust off his trouser leg. “There was something else, Inspector.”
“I rather thought there might be.”
“I don’t know whether you’re aware of the fact or not, but certain people — and I must confess I’m one of them — are not too happy about the note David was supposed to have left for Arthur Eastwood.”
“You don’t think Mr. Walker typed the note?”
“No, I don’t.” Andy was talking more easily and plausibly now. “And neither does Arthur. In the first place David would never have written a note like that, and in the second place . . .”
“Go on.”
“Well, in the second place I just don’t believe that David did commit suicide.”
“Then what do you think happened?”
“I think he was murdered.” Andy managed to look at Martin directly as he said this. Martin held his eyes for a second. “There’s usually a motive for murder.”
“There’s usually a motive for suicide.”
“Surely it was in the letter. Blackmail.”
“I don’t accept that.” Andy shook his head, leaned forward and clasped his fingers. “David was a very determined character.
Even if he was having an affair with anyone, which I don’t believe, he’d never allow himself to be blackmailed.”
“All right, let’s suppose for a moment it murder. Who killed him? And what was the motive?”
Andy did not answer for a long time. He stared at the carpet and seemed to be working something out in his mind. At last he looked up.
“I don’t want to throw suspicion onto anyone, that’s the last thing I want to do, but . . . There’s a girl called Doreen Summers — she’s a waitress — she works at The Bear in Guildfleet. Her brother, Norman, is employed by me at The Grapevine.”
“Oh, yes?”
“Well, the night that David was shot, my sister and Roy Norton had di
nner at The Bear. Apparently they go there quite often. According to Norman, Doreen was on duty that evening and she served them.”
Andy was feeding Martin the information in penny packets, waiting for him to digest each morsel before he produced the next tit-bit.
“Go on, Mr. Mason,” Martin said, with some impatience.
“At about eight o’clock, just as Doreen was about to serve coffee, Roy Norton suddenly got up from the table and left the hotel. He returned about half an hour later.”
“Have you any idea where he went?”
“Well, I talked to Evelyn about it and she said he had to make an important telephone call so he went back to his office.”
“Why didn’t he make it from the hotel?”
“Exactly — that’s what I said. Apparently he had some papers at the office that he wanted to refer to.”
“I see. This was at eight o’clock?”
“Yes, so I understand,” Andy confirmed. He added musingly: “It takes me about twelve minutes to walk from The Bear to my sister’s house.”
“You’re a slow walker, Mr. Mason. I’ve done it in eight.” The door bell had rung out in the hall. Martin stood up to make it plain to his visitor that the interview was at an end. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, sir . . .”
Andy uncoiled his long body and got to his feet.
“Yes, of course. I’m sorry to have troubled you, Inspector. But — well, you can understand why I’m worried. About my sister, I mean.”
“I can indeed, sir.” Martin put a hand out to shepherd Andy into the hall. He went past him to open the door. “Hello, Harry! Come in!”
Kennedy checked as he saw Andy Mason. “Are you ready?”
“I will be in a minute.” Martin turned back to Andy. “Good night, Mr. Mason. Don’t hesitate to drop in again if you hear anything which you think might interest me.”
“Thank you, Inspector.” Andy, relieved now that he had said what he had come to say, slipped between them. Martin closed the door on him and started back towards the living-room.
“I shan’t be a minute, Harry.”
“What did he want?” Kennedy jerked his head towards the closed front door.
“He wanted to tell me something.” Martin gave his faint smile. “Something I already knew.”
Martin repeatedly depressed the receiver cradle of his telephone as he tried in vain to get the operator’s attention. His expression was one of extreme irritation. He had done exactly as Sue had asked and waited until half-past five before ‘phoning her. It was now five minutes since he had asked them to put the call through. He slammed the receiver down as the door opened and a uniformed clerk came in.
“Tomkins, what the hell’s happening?”
“There’s no reply, sir.”
“What do you mean — no reply?” Martin demanded angrily.
“There’s always someone at the office until six o’clock.” “I meant — there’s no reply from Mrs. Denson, sir.” “Who told you that?”
“The girl on the switchboard, sir.”
Martin realised he was taking it out on the unfortunate clerk.
He forced himself to relax. “All right, Tomkins. Thank you.”
He tried to concentrate on the typewritten report he was reading, made a few notes in the margin. But after a minute or two he threw the pencil down. It was no good. He could not concentrate. He felt terribly let down. In spite of himself he had been looking forward all day to renewing the contact with Sue. Just for a moment there in the hall when she had been leaving he’d had the feeling that she might have said something, if only Andy had not been standing there, his spectacles glinting with curiosity. He had felt her near to him then, and not only in the physical sense. The picture of her was so vivid in his mind that the sudden jar of the ‘phone made him start.
He picked up the receiver. “Hello? Inspector Denson speaking . . .”
“Martin, this is Sue.”
“Hello Sue!” Somehow, all his irritaation vanished as he heard her voice. “I’ve been trying to get hold of you!”
“I left early to do some shopping. I’m in a call-box.” “What happened? Did you find out about the letter?” “Yes, I was wrong, I’m afraid. It was from a man called Breen. He runs an employment agency in St. Albans.” “Oh,” Martin said, deflated. “Oh, I see.”
“I’m sorry, Martin, but I told you I wasn’t sure.”
“Yes, I know. Well — thanks anyway, Sue.”
“Goodbye, Martin.”
“Sue, wait a minute!”
“What is it?”
“Please don’t ring off! I want to talk to you.” He paused for a moment, wondering how best to put it. “I think I’ve sold the cottage. I had a letter from the estate agents this morning, and well — it looks like a deal.”
“I see.”
He thought there was a kind of sadness in her voice.
“Sue, I’m going there this evening. I’ve got to collect one or two things. I suppose you wouldn’t like to meet me there and . . .”
“No, I wouldn’t, Martin,” she cut in. “It’s no use. You know as well as I do it — wouldn’t work. Goodbye.”
She had hung up swiftly. He replaced his own instrument more slowly. It would have been easier to bear her rejection had it not been for that moment in the flat last night and the ray of hope it had caused.
Concentration on that damned report was impossible now. The only refuge from the brooding depression which he felt threatening him lay in action. He scooped the papers up and pushed his chair back. He had relocked them in the filing cabinet and was opening the cupboard where his overcoat hung when Kennedy came in with his usual air of bearing earth-shaking tidings. He was carrying a typed memo in his hand.
“We’ve had a report on the suicide note. It was typed on Walker’s machine and there were three sets of prints on it. Curiously enough . . .”
“Tell me later, Harry,” Martin interrupted tersely, slamming the door of the cupboard.
“Yes, all right.”
“I’m going to the estate agents, then on to the cottage. I’ll be back about seven.”
“This is important,” Kennedy said reprovingly. “I think you you should . . .” Martin turned towards him and what Kennedy saw in the Inspector’s face made him change his mind. “Okay, I’ll tell you later.”
Something about Kennedy’s manner warned Martin in time. He came back from the door. “No, tell me now. What is it?”
“I was under the impression,” Kennedy said carefully, “that Mrs. Walker didn’t know about the note — not until you told her.”
“That’s right. She didn’t.”
Kennedy shook his head in contradiction and handed Martin the fingerprint report. “Her prints are on it.”
Martin managed to get to the estate agents just before they closed at six o’clock. He took away the keys of his own cottage with a promise that he would return them the next morning so that the prospective purchaser could get in to do some measuring.
His plan to visit the cottage before having his evening meal was thwarted when he was buttonholed by the organiser of the Summer Fete, who had co-opted Martin on to the Committee. The colonel insisted on the Inspector joining him for a drink at The George and Dragon while he elaborated his latest ideas for Guildfleet’s annual festival. After that Martin decided he had better eat before going out to the cottage.
In the end it was getting on for nine o’clock when, driving his own car now, he cleared the outskirts of the town on one of the minor roads. The cottage where he and Sue had lived for the happiest years of his life was situated in a quiet lane about five miles from Guildfleet. During the ten minutes it took him to make the journey the light had begun to fade from an overcast sky and his side-lights were switched on as he stopped outside the isolated building.
He climbed out, closing the door gently. The place was so peaceful that he disliked making any jarring noise to disturb it. As he stood there the rooks were returning to the group of bee
ches just outside his property. The birds were conversing amicably among themselves, playing tumbling games in the darkening sky. The big FOR SALE sign was mounted on two stakes beside the gate. Someone had forgotten to refasten the catch. He pushed his way in, and walked up the short path to the front door. Weeds were already sprouting through the cracks in the crazy paving and the lawn was knee-high in grass. It was uncanny how quickly nature grasped that a place had been abandoned by its humans.
He hauled the bunch of keys out of his pocket, found the one which opened the front door and inserted it in the lock. As always, it scraped the floor when it opened. Over the years the hinges had dropped slightly. When he closed it the hall was almost dark. He pressed down the light switch and the naked bulb hanging from the centre of the ceiling illuminated the hall harshly, casting sharp shadows.
It was because of these shadows that he did not see the object lying on the floor till his foot knocked against it. He stooped to pick it up. The diamonds in Sue’s brooch, the one which had fallen onto the ground in his flat, glittered in the electric light. He stared at it incredulously.
The door of the sitting-room was ajar and there was no light in there. Surely she could not be waiting in the darkness of one of the bedrooms upstairs? He went to the foot of the stairs.
“Sue? It’s Martin. Are you upstairs?”
The short echo of his own voice mocked him. He did not want to call again. He moved towards the living-room, pushed the door open and switched on that light also. The room looked sparsely furnished without the things he had taken away for his flat. Most of the pieces which were left had been draped in old sheets and plastic covers. The curtains had been drawn across the French windows. There was a musty smell about it and a faint tang which Martin could not identify.
For some reason the remaining sofa had been turned onto its side. He went towards it to put it upright and then stopped dead. A foot wearing a woman’s shoe protruded from behind it.
“Sue!” Martin cried out involuntarily and rushed forward.
She was lying in the shadow of the sofa, sprawled without dignity, her clothes pulled out of place. Her face was hidden by a cushion, but he only had to see the thick legs and the over-weight form to know that this was not Sue.
The Passenger Page 10
