by Alan Hunter
And whom she was probably dashing back to warn by phone.
I handed in the runabout, collected the Lotus and drove through rush-hour traffic to Norchester. I found Hanson in his office; he was drinking beer and eating fish-and-chips from a newspaper package. I went over my facts. Hanson listened, scowling.
‘That lane would be Sallowes way,’ he said. ‘Are you saying there’s a chummie hiding out there?’
‘It’s a possibility. And he could be the man who stayed at the Three Tuns on Thursday.’
‘You think he’s the killer?’
‘We don’t know that. We do know he’s in contact with Deslauriers.’
Hanson worried a chip. ‘I still fancy Rampant. I wish I could believe he’s a brilliant liar.’
He fetched a map and we found the lane. It connected with a back road between Sallowes and Wrackstead. By water about two miles from Haughton, by road nearer seven, when you knew the way. In the vicinity were two farms and a scattered handful of farm cottages; Sallowes village was two miles one way, Wrackstead village four miles in the other.
‘Is there a pub at Sallowes?’
‘Yeah, The Peal of Bells.’
Hanson reached for the phone and talked to the switchboard. Two minutes later he was connected; they had had no guests at The Peal of Bells.
‘Any guest-houses? Private lodgings?’
‘There’s nothing of that sort at Sallowes. A bit of housing development, mostly commuters. Perhaps chummie is camping in a field.’
‘He’ll be close to a telephone.’
‘Well, that should help. I’ll ask the County to do some checking. Only if he isn’t the chummie with the blue Viva, how are we going to know him when we find him?’
A good question.
‘He’ll have been around since Friday, possibly all the preceding week. A man on his own, no apparent business. Most likely from London or that direction.’
Hanson hefted a shoulder. ‘So we’ll look. But it could be Timmy from Timbuctoo.’ He ate a few chips. ‘Meanwhile there’s Rampant. You haven’t got closer than him yet.’
I used Hanson’s phone to ring Dainty. Dainty had a tale of woe to tell. He had just missed laying hands on Fring at the staked-out house in Battersea. At about 2 p.m. a Ford Zephyr came by with a driver resembling Fring. It had slowed, pulled in, then departed in haste, the driver obviously having smelled a rat. Alarms and excursions. They had found the Zephyr (it was stolen) across the river in Chelsea, but no Fring, no money; and now the stake-out had been blown.
I made sympathetic noises. ‘What about our Peter Robinson?’
Dainty sounded less than interested. ‘You have to admit your description is vague.’ I was getting that reaction from everywhere.
‘This chummie has been missing from his usual haunts.’
‘So have half the chummies we know.’
‘The description would fit someone like Jack Straker.’
‘Straker’s away. Hadn’t you heard?’
I passed on my little bit of information about Quarles’ deposits in a Swiss bank. That didn’t cheer Dainty either: but I hadn’t supposed it would. He came back with something else.
‘We found Quarles’ will in his safe deposit.’
‘He left a will?’
‘It’s dated last August. It leaves his whole estate to Mimi Deslauriers.’
I chewed that over as I drove back to Haughton. It had a chilling sort of ring to it. By her own account, Mimi was a rich woman, but her account was all I had. And even if it were true, this was motive. The rich are not averse to becoming richer. Nor must I forget that previous occasion when a man had died to Mimi’s profit.
A second shake with the same dice?
But that would mean she had known about the will. Quarles, ex-lawyer, master-criminal, would surely have kept his counsel in a matter so sensitive. And supposing she had known: then I had still to construe the crime as a plot devised by her, whereas the principal circumstances were arranged by Quarles, and the murder apparently a piece of opportunism. To make it credible, one would have to assume communication and conspiracy between her and Rampant: not to mention the shadowy Peter Robinson, necessary if Rampant jibbed at the killing. Possible, but highly unlikely: it would have left her at the mercy of two con-federates. Mimi was much too au fait for that. A simple jostle at a tube station would have served her better.
And yet . . . Quarles must have been worth a great deal of money.
If it hadn’t been Mimi, then perhaps a secondary operator?
For example, Peter Robinson, with a hold on Mimi, working through her to net Freddy’s jackpot . . . ?
I shook my head: this was thinking like Hanson – trying to angle it away from Mimi! Mimi, who had no need to murder anyone, who could do it all with the drop of a bra. Not practical thinking. Mimi could kill, perhaps had blood on her hands already. The field was open.
And now I knew of one lode-stone that could have applied a fatal deflection.
I parked in the yard at the Barge-House and went in to confer with Dutt. Dutt was refreshing himself in the lounge, where Mimi, with a group of admirers, was also installed. She favoured me with a vivacious wave and a cooing ‘Hallo!’ – which I acknowledged with a dead-bat nod; her appetite, officially unlunched, appeared to have been satisfied with toast and jam.
I joined Dutt, who was sitting alone and looking every inch a copper. A waiter, not Bavents, came up and took my order for tea and toast.
Dutt nodded towards Mimi. ‘I see you clicked, sir.’
I grunted. ‘And what have you been up to?’
Dutt looked sly. ‘There’s a little maid called Nancy. We spent quite a time going over her statement.’
‘And what did you get – in the way of business?’
‘In the way of business, not very much, sir. But the head-waiter, Colby, remembered something.’
‘Save him till after I’ve had my cuppa.’
I drank and ate, while up the lounge Mimi continued to glamorize the peasants. She was clever with it: she talked to the wives and left the husbands to drink her in. She had changed out of the shortie dress she’d been wearing and put on a clinging gown with a split skirt. Most of one clamorous leg was on view, and though the bust was now harnessed, it was cleft to infinity.
‘She does fetch them in, sir,’ Dutt murmured wistfully.
I crunched some toast. ‘You keep your heart for Nancy.’
‘Yes, sir. But you can’t help admiring it. I reckon you admire the mostest in anything.’
I finished, and lit my unromantic pipe. ‘Now, if we can, let’s get back to Colby.’
Dutt sighed and dragged his eyes away. He cleared his throat, trying to sound like business.
‘Colby is the big, bald-headed man, sir. I got him remembering about last Thursday. How the deceased and the lady went out in a launch with a couple called Silverman, man and wife. They came back again about four-ish and sat in the lounge, like now. Then, after dinner, Colby went for a drink and remained in the bar for half-an-hour. He says Quarles was in there along with the Silvermans, but he doesn’t recall seeing the lady.’
‘He could scarcely have overlooked her.’
‘It seems the bar was pretty full, sir. Colby was sitting with a mate in a corner.’
‘And everyone else would have been sitting round Mimi.’
‘So there it is, sir. She was missing.’
But missing where?
‘What time was this?’
‘Colby says from nine till half-past.’
‘Did anyone else see her during that time?’
‘Nobody I’ve had a talk with yet, sir.’
I puffed expansively. It was fitting all right. At eight Peter Robinson had arrived at the Three Tuns. Had booked in and gone out, say at eight-thirty. Half-an-hour to contact Mimi. How had he done it?
‘Are any of the staff very friendly with the lady?’
‘Reckon all of them are, sir. The men especially.’
&
nbsp; ‘These young waiters. Is there one with a crush?’
Dutt looked blank. ‘As much one as another, sir. Though I did hear of one she sort of makes use of, gets to run errands, fetch things to her room.’
‘Who?’
‘The Bavents kid, sir. But he was off this afternoon. I haven’t talked to him yet.’
Dutt was using the reception office for interrogation, and there I had Bavents brought when he returned. He was looking even furrier in a T-shirt and jeans: like a narrow-faced Jesus fresh back from the wilderness. I pointed to a chair and he sat nervously. I had his statement to Hanson on the desk before me.
‘You are Adam Bavents?’
‘That’s me.’
‘I see it says here that you are a student.’
Bavents flicked back a lock from his nose. ‘I told the other man all about that.’
‘Now tell me.’
‘So that’s w-what I am, then. A third-year student at Norchester U.’
‘If you are a student, what are you doing here?’
‘I’m just filling in time till next term.’
Oh yes. ‘And why is that?’
He jerked a look over his shoulder. ‘I got sent down. It isn’t a secret. They said I was ring-leader of a demo.’
‘And were you?’
‘I might have been. I’m not ashamed of it. They were trying to sack a tutor for speaking out against racialism.’
‘Wasn’t that when the students smashed up a lecture-hall?’
He stared through his hair. ‘We had to make our point.’
‘But by violence.’
‘If you call that violence.’
I nodded. ‘Yes, I call that violence. And violence is what I have come here about. So I seem to have reached the right quarter.’
His tresses rustled. ‘But that’s just talk! I don’t know anything about the other.’
‘But about anti-racialism you know something. Tell me, what are your feelings towards the French?’
A sweaty silence. His hair fondled the T-shirt, showed his nose through a Gothic window. A pink nose: and pink hands rucking the fade-spots in his jeans. Then his mouth loosened.
‘I didn’t kill him!’
‘Fine. What happened on Thursday evening?’
‘Th-Thursday?’
‘In the evening. When the men wanted a word with Madame Deslauriers.’
‘I – I—’
‘Where were you that evening?’
‘I – I was w-working on my car!’
‘You have a car?’
‘Yes! A Mini—’
‘And you were working on it – in the yard?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘You were handy then. Handy for this man coming into the yard. Who wanted a message slipped to Madame Deslauriers. Fair hair, sideboards. What name did he give?’
‘He d-didn’t – I wasn’t—’
‘Oh come on, now. He was staying at the Tuns. Did you know that?’
‘I tell you—’
‘Drives a blue Viva. Come on, the name’s on the tip of your tongue.’
‘But I s-swear—’
‘You say you didn’t kill Quarles?’
‘No! I don’t know anything about it!’
‘So then let’s have the name of this man.’
He went into a huddle with his hair.
‘Listen,’ I said. ‘You’ve let something slip. Now I know you ran the message for that man. And if you get nicked on a conspiracy charge you’ll be filling in time for longer than a term. So you’d better talk while you still have the chance.’
‘I d-don’t have anything to tell you.’
‘Because you love Madame so much?’
‘That isn’t t-true!’
‘I’ll remember to ask her.’
He jumped up from his chair.
‘Hold it,’ I said. ‘Is this your signature on the statement?’
‘Of course it’s m-my signature!’
‘That surprises me. Just do a specimen underneath.’
His eyes sparkled through his mane, baffled. Then he grabbed a pen from the desk and jerked off a signature. The same, of course, less a margin for nerves. He slammed down the pen in feeble triumph.
‘Now may I go?’
‘For the present.’
He towed his hair out of the office. Dutt, a silent spectator, gave me a wink. I fanned myself with the twice-signed statement.
‘An interesting customer.’
‘Yes, sir. I’d say that ties in our Peter Robinson.’
‘There’s something else.’
‘The signature, sir?’
I shook my head. ‘He’s left-handed.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
LEFT-HANDED; BUT SO is every tenth person, according to a reliable set of statistics; and adding it together, there didn’t seem much ground for placing Bavents on the list of suspects. He might have loved Mimi and loathed Quarles, but that scarcely qualified as a live motive. He had no prospect of stepping into Quarles’ shoes, and without such bait his interest was marginal.
Or did he have a prospect. . .?
I played with the thought, giving it a chance to attract credibility; trying to visualize his hairy highness as a demon lover for whom Mimi would be content to risk her all. But it wouldn’t focus. Mimi was too sophisticated. She had too much emotional poise. She might give him a tumble for the novelty of it, but that would be the summit for Master Bavents. The Quarleses were her taste, suave and tough: men who didn’t know how to stutter. The rest were to run and serve: lackeys and go-betweens: Baventses.
Which didn’t mean I had lost interest in Bavents, who certainly hadn’t told us all he knew; or that it would be unprofitable to probe there a little, seeking out a perhaps-unsuspected conjunction.
I met Frayling in the hall and invited him into the office.
‘How did you come to employ Adam Bavents?’
Frayling flickered me his harassed, ingratiating smile: a promise of satisfaction in exchange for modest patience.
‘He applied for the job. I’m always short of waiters.’
‘How did he know the job was vacant?’
‘Oh, they run an employment section in the students’ magazine. It lists details of jobs going in the vacations.’
‘You knew why he was sent down?’
‘Of course. I asked him. But things like that don’t count much these days. He seemed a decent sort of youngster, and I haven’t had any complaints.’
‘What are his hours?’
‘Seven to eight-thirty. Two afternoons and one evening off.
‘Which evening?’
‘The evening varies.’
‘Which was it last week?’
Frayling wriggled. ‘Friday.’
One conjunction.
‘Would you know if he went out?’
Frayling’s smile became more harassed. ‘I imagine he did, that’s what one would expect. But he might well have been studying in his room.’
‘Where’s his room?’
‘It’s off the back landing. A room we keep free for temporary staff.’
‘How close to Madame Deslauriers’ room?’
Well . . . next-door, I suppose! But a door shuts-off the landing.’
Two conjunctions?
‘Isn’t Bavents Madame’s favourite?’
‘No, really! That’s putting it too strong. He serves at her table, that’s all. Guests tend to adopt their regular waiter.’
‘But something of that sort?’
‘No, I protest. You must have been listening to staff gossip.’
‘Wouldn’t the staff know?’
But Frayling still protested, so I let him go to get on with ushering dinner.
At dinner I had an opportunity of studying Madame and her waiter together. Mimi had one of the best tables, with a view of the river: rather remote from our late-comer’s corner. She sat alone, but this didn’t prevent her from conversing merrily with her nearest neighbours. Bavents ca
me, went, and did his duty: if anything special passed, I failed to notice it. Had Frayling cautioned him? More than likely. But Frayling could scarcely have cautioned Mimi. Mimi must have taken her own counsel to preserve distance, a circumstance not without significance.
Once or twice she glanced at our table, but each time managed to avoid my eye. Then she would eat silently for a few moments before engaging in some fresh sally with the neighbours. She was as conscious of me as I of her; her rattle of small talk was a screen; through the subdued busyness of the peopled room a strand of tension stretched between us. Excellent: it gave me appetite. Madame was not so confident after all. I had begun to tread a little on her skirt, might have set it fraying at the edges.
Beside me Dutt ate ploddingly and well, though not without his own eye for the lady. He nudged me once:
‘Do you reckon it’s all natural?’
‘Get on with your dinner.’
He chortled into his trifle.
We had coffee on the lawn, from where we could watch late motor-cruisers raising wash over the quay-headings. While we drank I pondered the utility of tackling Mimi then or of letting her sleep on it. On the whole I favoured the latter (it had been a long day); so I went in to ring Brenda: who for the second time surprised me with quite unpredictable information.
‘George. I’ve been talking to Siggy about your corpse.’
‘Thank you. But it’s still eating hot dinners.’
‘Not that one, idiot! Flash Freddy. Did you know he was going to retire?’
‘Retire?’
‘That’s what I said. He’d been talking of giving up business. He’d bought a villa in the South of France, Cap Ferrat way. Hadn’t you heard?’
‘No, I hadn’t heard.’
‘Well, it’s true, because Siggy borrowed it for a week last summer. He says it’s a super place, perched on a cliff, with a private beach and all the etceteras.’
‘How nice for Siggy. He knows nice people.’
‘George, I think you ought to be grateful. If one of your relatives is chummy with crooks, the least you can do is to profit by it.’
I grunted. John Sigismund Fazakerly is a relative only by marriage. My first act on meeting him was to arrest him, which doesn’t make him my favourite in-law.
