The Passenger

by Francis Durbridge

  But it was Inspector Denson’s car which rolled into view and stopped opposite the steps.

  “Good morning, Inspector,” he called out, as Martin got out of the car.

  “Good morning, sir.” Martin tilted his head towards the house. “Is Mrs. Walker in?”

  “Yes, but you won’t find her in a very receptive mood, I’m afraid.”

  “I very rarely find anyone in a receptive mood these days, sir. Is she alone?”

  “That’s a good question.” Arthur spoke bitterly. “There’s no one with her, if that’s what you mean. But, I regret to say, Mr. Norton’s there in spirit, if not in person.”

  “It sounds as if you’ve got problems,” said Martin, smiling at Arthur’s acid tone.

  “You can say that again! And bloody silly problems at that!” He shook his head and glanced towards Heaven for commiseration. “She’s got a perfectly good lawyer and a perfectly good accountant and yet, for some obscure reason, she chooses to ignore both of them.”

  “They’re obviously not as charming as Mr. Norton.”

  “Or as persuasive.” Arthur pulled the door of his car open and prepared to manoeuvre his ample form behind the steering wheel. “Well, I suppose some women are just naturally stupid!”

  “That’s right, sir. And some are under-rated.”

  Arthur twisted round but Martin was already walking towards the front door. He stared at the Inspector’s back and opened his mouth to make some comment. Then abruptly he changed his mind, slammed the door and rammed the ignition key into the slot.

  Evelyn Walker was entirely composed when she opened the door and found Inspector Denson standing outside. He guessed that she had already seen him from the window of the dining-room, which looked out over the front. Her hair had been recently set and her make-up was fresh. Apart from the plain grey cosrume she was wearing, she did not exactly fit the picture of a grief-stricken widow.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Walker. I wonder if you could spare me a few minutes ?”

  “Yes, of course, Inspector,” she replied at once and stepped back, holding the door open. “Mr. Eastwood’s just left me. Perhaps you met him in the drive.”

  “Yes. We exchanged a few words.”

  He followed her as she led him into the drawing-room. He noticed that the paper lay open on the coffee table in front of the settee, displaying the same headlines as had so fascinated Roy Norton.

  “Can I get you a drink? Sherry perhaps, or a gin and tonic?” “No, thank you, Mrs. Walker. But I will sit down, if I may. I’ve been on my feet all morning.”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  He put his coat and hat on an upright chair near the door and seated himself on the settee. Evelyn took a high-backed wing-chair at right angles to him and crossed her shapely legs. She waited politely for him to come to the point.

  “The night your husband — died,” Martin said, choosing his words carefully, “you were very distressed, and naturally so. Of course, I accepted what you told me as the whole truth.”

  Her eyes had moved to focus on his face, but she did not turn her head.

  “Under the circumstances I did not want to question you closely. I was more worried about your own state of health. But, now that you have had plenty of time to think about it, I wonder if you would care to make any alterations or additions to the statement you made then.”

  “I’m sorry, Inspector,” she said, with innocent bewilderment, “but I just don’t understand what you’re getting at.”

  “Then let me put it to you in a different way, Mrs. Walker. When I told you about the note that your husband was supposed to have left . . .”

  “Supposed to have left?”

  Martin ignored the interruption. “ . . . you seemed surprised, the inference being that you knew nothing about the note.”

  “That’s right.” She was still perfectly composed, her eyes not flinching away. “I didn’t know anything about it.”

  “Well, that’s what I’m getting at. You knew nothing about the note — and yet, curiously enough, your fingerprints were on it.”

  The only sign of tension he noted was a faint heightening of the colour in her cheeks, though the fingers of her right hand began to tap angrily on the arms of the chair. “You must be mistaken, Inspector. I just don’t see how they could possibly be on it. Unless of course . . .” She sucked her cheeks in slightly and thoughtfully stared at the picture on the wall behind his head.

  “Go on.”

  “I was in such a state, so frightened . . . I suppose I could have picked the note up without realising what I was doing.”

  Once again she had assumed the pose of the fragile woman, as prone to error as any other mortal.

  “On reflection, I think that’s probably what happened, Mrs. Walker,” Martin assured her, nodding several times.

  She gave him her most attractive smile. “Well, I’m sorry if I made things difficult for you, Inspector.”

  “It can’t be helped. Not to worry. To tell you the truth, the note didn’t convince me anyway.”

  “Because it was typed?”

  “Not only because it was typed, but because . . .” Martin leaned forward, clasping his hands and resting them on his

  knees. “Mrs. Walker, may I talk to you frankly, and in confidence, about your husband?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “In my opinion, Mr. Walker didn’t commit suicide; he was murdered.” He tapped the newspaper on the low table in front of him. “Murdered by the same man that killed Mrs. Bociley.”

  She stared at him, her eyes widening in astonishment. “Are you sure of this?”

  “Yes, I’m — pretty sure.”

  “Well — who is this man?” she demanded. “Why haven’t you arrested him?”

  “We haven’t sufficient proof, Mrs. Walker — not yet, at any rate.” He had been looking at the paper. Now he switched to her face and abruptly changed the subject. “The night your husband was murdered you had dinner with Roy Norton at The Bear Hotel.”

  “That’s right. I did.”

  “When I questioned you about that, when I asked you if Mr. Norton . . .”

  “I know — I said Roy had been with me the whole evening.” She shrugged and again her fingers began drumming on the arm of the chair. “I’m sorry about that. It was only afterwards that I remembered that he’d left me for about half an hour.”

  “To go back to his office and make a ‘phone call?”

  “Yes.”

  “After he’d made the call, did you notice any difference in him?”

  “Difference? In What way?”

  “Was he agitated, or worried, or out of breath, perhaps?”

  “No, not that I can recall. I’m afraid I was the one that was agitated.”

  “Because he’d been away from the table so long?”

  “Yes. When he left he just said he was going to make a ‘phone call. Naturally I assumed he was going to make it from the hotel.”

  “Did you believe his story — about going back to his office?” “Why, yes! Of course I did.”

  “It never occurred to you that he might possibly have gone somewhere else?”

  “No, it didn’t. Where else could he have . . .” She broke off, startled by a new thought. “You’re surely not suggesting that he came here, to see David?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything, Mrs. Walker.”

  Martin let the subject drop there. He stood up and walked towards the window. She watched him as he stood there looking out at the garden. She sensed that he was trying to make up his mind about something. When he turned round his manner had changed completely. It was almost apologetic.

  “Mrs. Walker, I shouldn’t say this, it’s very unprofessional, but . . . I need your help.”

  “Well — if I can help you, I will of course, Inspector.” Evelyn’s confidence had returned.

  “I’d be grateful if you’d give me some information about someone — someone you know.”

  “Mr. Nor
ton?”

  “No, not Mr. Norton. Someone else . . .”

  Ten minutes later Evelyn was showing the Inspector out of the house. Her self-control did not crack till she had closed the door on him. Then she leaned with her back against it for a moment before hurrying into the dining-room to make sure that he was really getting into his car. As the engine started, she left the window and ran across the hall back to the drawing-room. Without sitting down she snatched up the telephone and dialled a number.

  The dialling tone sounded six times before a man’s voice answered.

  “It’s me,” she said at once. “Now, listen! You’re in trouble. Denson’s been here. He’s just left. He’s on to something —”

  “I told you not to ring me here till this blows over. He didn’t mention my name, did he?”

  “Yes, he did. He asked me a lot of questions about you —”

  “Right,” he cut in. “Don’t say any more. There’s another extension on this ‘phone. He’s probably asking everyone questions. There’s no need to get worried —”

  “But of course I’m worried!”

  “Do you want to meet me and talk about this?”

  “WELL, THAT’S UP TO YOU.”

  “I’ll come round to your place this afternoon. Suit you?”

  “Wait a minute.” She broke off to look at her watch. “I’ve got an appointment at half-past two but I’ll be back here by four —”

  “Four fifteen then?”

  “Yes. All right. I’ll be here.”

  She put the receiver down, opened the silver box on the table and groped for a cigarette. She lit it with the lighter on the mantelpiece, then went to the drinks cupboard and poured herself a neat whisky. She stood there, alternately sipping the liquid and drawing deeply on the cigarette.

  Harry Kennedy was sitting on the edge of the desk in Martin’s office, studying a report from the forensic department. He was finding it hard to concentrate and wished he hadn’t let himself be talked into having that extra pint with his lunch.

  He straightened up and blinked his eyes sharply a few times as he heard the unmistakable quick step of the Inspector in the corridor outside. Martin was already taking off his coat as he came in through the door.

  “Hello, Harry. Any messages?” he asked, making for the cupboard where the clothes-peg was.

  “Yes, a man called Mailer ‘phoned.” Kennedy replaced the report on the pile of papers on the desk.

  “When was this?”

  “Oh, about an hour ago. He’s ringing back.”

  “Good.” Martin crossed to his desk and looked at the pile of papers without enthusiasm. “Have Bellinger and Turner arrived?”

  “Yes, they’re in my office.”

  “I want to see them — straight away.”

  “Right.” Kennedy got to the door before he was struck by an alarming thought. “Mailer . . . That wouldn’t be Chief Superintendent Mailer, by any chance?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Martin answered, his concentration directed on the report in front of him.

  “Oh, hell!”

  “What the matter?” Martin looked up, smiling at Kennedy’s rueful expression.

  “He caught me at a bad moment. I was terribly off-hand with him.”

  “Don’t worry, he’s probably labouring under the delusion you’re highly efficient.”

  “Is he a friend of yours?”

  “Yes, I’ve known him for many years. He started me in this game. If it hadn’t been for dear old Rupert I’d probably be in the Navy by now.” Martin pushed his chair back and came out from behind the desk. To Kennedy’s relief he was relaxed and friendly. “Are you doing anything this evening, Harry?”

  “Nothing special.” The Sergeant was slightly baffled by the question. “Why?”

  “I want to talk to you. Drop in for a drink about half-past seven.”

  “Yes — all right,” Kennedy agreed, wondering whether he dared ask what this sudden desire to socialise was caused by.

  At that moment the telephone rang. Martin picked it up and Kennedy went out, leaving the door half open. Still worried about his casual treatment of a Chief Superintendent, he stopped just outside where he could clearly hear what Martin said.

  “Hello? Yes, speaking . . . Oh, hello, Rupert! I was just going to ‘phone you. Any news? Yes, I’m listening . . . That’s interesting . . . No, I must admit I’m not — not completely. I see . . . Rupert, tell me — how long do you think she’s known Stenhouse? . . .Six months? That’s not very long . . . Who introduced her to him, do you know? . . . I see . . . What’s that? . . . Yes, I should think it’s a distinct possibility, and not only with Stenhouse . . . I certainly Thank you, Rupert, you’ve been a great help — as usual . . . Give my love to Joan . . .”

  His fears allayed, Kennedy moved away as he heard the receiver go down. He knew where to find Bellinger and Turner. They’d be playing darts in the station’s restroom.

  Martin was already showing impatience as the three detectives entered his office.

  “Well — how did it go?” he asked Bellinger without preamble.

  “Not bad. Not at all bad.” Bellinger put a manilla folder on the desk. “What’s Cecil Beaton got that we haven’t got?”

  “I’ll tell you when I’ve seen the photographs.”

  Martin extracted half a dozen postcard-size photos from the folder and laid them out on his desk. Kennedy came round behind him to look at them over his shoulder. They had mostly been taken in Guildfleet that morning, the subjects never suspecting that the brash street photographers were a couple of CID experts. The first showed Andy Mason and Olive, the former’s face just registering his initial reaction to seeing the traffic warden about to book him. There was Roy Norton hurrying into W.H. Smith’s, Arthur Eastwood walking along the footpath, his head bowed in thought. Evelyn Walker was just posting a letter at the post office; she was very photogenic and looked extremely attractive despite her serious expression. The only print which did not have the High Street as its background featured Colonel Reams. He was riding his horse somewhere on Kingswood Downs and had just seen the photographer. To judge by his angry face he was in the mood to give the intruder a horse-whipping.

  “They’re good,” Martin commented approvingly. He picked them up in his hand, fanning them out like a poker player, shuffling the order as if he was calculating a bet. “Very good. Thank you, Bellinger — Turner.”

  “Reams spotted us, I’m afraid.”

  “Yes. That’s evident. Well, it can’t be helped.” He handed the snapshots back to Bellinger, who had realised that the Inspector had deliberately put them in a certain order. “You know what to do now?”

  “Yes. We’ve been to Kingswood village, sir. We made a list of every chemist within a radius of twenty miles.” Bellinger withdrew a folded paper from his pocket. “There’s a devil of a lot of them, I’m afraid.”

  “That doesn’t matter. Check every one.” Martin turned to Kennedy. “Have you given them the lipstick?”

  “Yes, I’ve got it, sir.” Turner took a lipstick out of his pocket and held it up for Martin to see.

  “Do we show them all the photographs, Inspector?” asked Bellinger, who was holding the bunch just as the Inspector had given them to him.

  “Show them the one on top first. It’s my bet they’ll recognise him. If they don’t, then show them the others.”

  Kennedy moved round behind Bellinger to see which photograph was uppermost. He stared at Martin incredulously. The Inspector gave a small nod of confirmation.

  Harry Kennedy was still wondering why the Inspector was suddenly so keen to have his company. It was not as if they did not see enough of each other at the station or on the numerous sorties they made together in the CID car. Perhaps Martin was beginning to feel the pinch of loneliness now that he had been living alone for so long. Kennedy never had understood why he and Sue had broken it off. She must surely have known what she was taking on when she married a policeman. It was such a waste o
f two nice people. Harry’s devotion to his own Dorothy did not prevent him awarding Sue high points for feminine appeal and, though he would never have admitted it, he had an almost fanatical admiration for Martin.

  When he rang Martin’s door bell at precisely half-past seven the Inspector greeted him with friendliness but also a certain shyness which he had never shown any sign of before. They chatted about the latest developments in the case while Martin poured a glass of brown ale for his guest. Kennedy was by preference a draught bitter man, but beer is always beer. Martin, to the Sergeant’s disgust, poured himself a plain tonic water. The Inspector had been known to drink, but usually after a case had been cracked.

  With the Sergeant comfortably installed in an armchair, Martin sat on the arm of the sofa. Kennedy, knowing that he was about to broach the reason for this invitation, waited for him to speak.

  Martin cleared his throat in slight embarrassment. “Well, I didn’t get you here to talk shop, Harry. I want you to do something for me.”

  “Yes, of course. What is it?”

  Martin paused, still hesitant, then took an envelope from his side pocket. “I’ve written a letter to Sue. I want you to keep it, for the time being at any rate.” He handed Kennedy the letter, then stood up and went towards the kitchen. “If anything should happen to me in the next week or so, give it to her.”

  “What do you mean, if anything should happen to you?” Kennedy had to address his question to Martin’s back.

  “Well, you know our business, Harry. There’s always an outside chance that something unpleasant might happen.”

  Kennedy looked at the sealed envelope. On it was written the one word ‘Sue’. He put his drink down, stood up and followed Martin into the kitchen. “What are you up to?”