Another Woman's Shoes

by Francis Durbridge

  ‘I know: that Brigitte Bardot was her grandmother! All right. It might be worth my while taking a crack at her just as soon as I can. Another question: did you ever visit a pub called the Lord Fairfax, or plan or arrange to do so?’

  ‘Man alive, I’ve been in thousands of pubs in my time! Do you expect me to remember every one of ’em?’

  ‘No. But does the Lord Fairfax ring a bell?’

  Weldon shook his head thoughtfully. ‘No bells.’

  ‘Or perhaps a person called L. Fairfax?’

  ‘No bells again … Wait … wasn’t there a name like that in Lucy’s diary?’

  ‘Yes. But you say you’d never heard it before it was brought up at the trial?’

  ‘Never.’

  Mike took out his wallet and extracted the letter which Victor Sanders had brought him. ‘Read this and tell me what you think of it.’

  Weldon read the letter swiftly, then once more with care. Then he scowled and tossed it carelessly back into Mike’s lap.

  ‘Another bird with missing shoes on the brain. But the letter’s addressed to me; how did you get hold of it?’

  ‘Your friend Sanders opened it and brought it to me.’

  Weldon gave a thin chuckle. ‘Victor is a sport but he’s wasting his time. This thing wouldn’t fool the village idiot.’

  ‘You think it’s a fake?’

  ‘Of course. Don’t you?’

  ‘Possibly. But that still leaves the question open as to why Sanders should have bothered to concoct it, assuming he did.’

  ‘The answer’s obvious, I should say. He’s a dear old buffer, even if a bit dense. He’s simply trying to help me.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By stirring up some interest. After all, he’s aroused yours, hasn’t he? Strike one for Victor.’

  ‘Yes,’ Mike acknowledged cautiously, ‘but it was actually Hector Staines who first pulled me into this. What were your relations with him?’

  ‘My prospective dad-in-law that was? Oh, we got along. Rather a stuffed shirt of the old school. We had some hellish rows about design, sometimes. He seems to think architecture reached its peak with the Albert Memorial. But he’s a decent enough old bird.’

  ‘What about his sex life?’ Mike shot at him bluntly. ‘Does he incline towards young girls?’

  ‘Who – old Hector?’ Weldon seemed amused. ‘I don’t think he knows the difference between a woman and a refrigerator. He’s been a widower for over twenty years – pillar of the church, pillar of local society, pillar of just about everything, I should say.’

  ‘Isn’t that the type who all too often—?’

  Weldon waved aside the idea. ‘No, no, you’re on the wrong track there, chum. Hector’s only failing is that he’s always chronically hard up. No talent for making money whatsoever. But a good stick all the same.’

  ‘I see.’ Mike moved towards the door. ‘I’ll come down again soon, just as soon as I’ve got my hands on something concrete,’ he promised.

  ‘Try the Tarrant woman,’ advised Weldon. ‘See if you can persuade her to stop acting and tell the truth.’

  ‘I intend to. Now listen, Weldon: if Superintendent Goldway or Inspector Rodgers come to see you – or anyone else for that matter – don’t lose your temper, and don’t get facetious. Do you understand? I can’t promise you anything positive, but you’ll certainly get negative results if you insist on antagonising people who want to help.’

  ‘I’ll study my Dale Carnegie assiduously every night, Daddy-o!’

  ‘You could do worse.’

  The two men shook hands and Mike turned to leave. At the door he said carelessly over one shoulder, ‘And by the way, if they ask you again about Lucy’s missing shoe, keep quiet and say nothing. Your guesses are too good.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘It was the left shoe that was missing.’

  Chapter Five

  Mike Baxter was only a trifle late for his luncheon appointment with Superintendent Goldway. Goldway listened in noncommittal silence as Mike described his interview with Harold Weldon.

  ‘You understand, John, I’m not very smitten with Weldon as a man, but I’m pretty well convinced that he didn’t murder Lucy Staines. In the first place he’s far too intelligent a type not to have thought up a more effective alibi, had he strangled her in a moment of passion.’

  ‘You’re on thin ice there, Mike,’ Goldway interrupted. ‘Premeditated crime and crimes of passion call for two different types of alibi. The Crown maintained that it was just because he did lose his head, and his temper, followed by the strangling, that he did have such a weak alibi.’

  Mike shook his head stubbornly. ‘Maybe he’s the type to do irrational things at moments of passion – but by the time the police hauled him in the next day he’d have cooled off and have thought up something better; he had plenty of time. No, my money is on Weldon’s innocence, however awkward a cuss he may be. Look at that trap I set him concerning the missing shoe. He hadn’t the faintest idea which shoe had been taken. If he’d contradicted me when I told him the wrong one then I’d have caught him on the hop. But he hadn’t a clue, and furthermore he wasn’t the least bit interested.’

  ‘I ought to trust your judgement, Mike – you’ve been right often enough before,’ said Goldway with a twinkle in his eyes. ‘But this time I really think you’re heading down the wrong track. The evidence against Weldon was overwhelming. Even if I wanted to, I very much doubt if there is any way I could help you. The case is officially closed.’

  ‘It’s not closed for me until five minutes before they hang Weldon.’

  ‘That gives you exactly nine days. You’ll have to get a move on!’

  ‘I know.’ He put his napkin to one side and rose from the table. ‘Forgive me if I skip the dessert. Were you able to get me the Tarrant woman’s address?’

  Goldway nodded and delved into one waistcoat pocket, producing a slip of paper. ‘I could probably start an unofficial probe on her if it’s any help,’ he offered.

  ‘No, let me have a go on my own first. If I need help I’ll contact you and then we can increase the pressure,’ decided Mike. ‘Thank you for an excellent lunch. Goodbye, John.’

  Mike left the club and drove to a coffee-bar where he had arranged to meet Linda. When he found her table he did not sit down.

  ‘Haven’t you time for a coffee, darling?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m afraid not. I’ll tell you all about my morning on our way to this Tarrant woman.’

  As they drove through the thick swirl of traffic in Trafalgar Square he gave Linda a condensed account of his impressions of Harold Weldon and of his luncheon with the Superintendent.

  ‘John’s hands are tied, of course, I appreciate that. But he let me read between the lines: he’ll help us on the quiet if we really do stumble across anything significant.’

  Linda nodded. ‘He’s a dear, even if he is aiding and abetting in the postponement of my holiday! Incidentally, speaking of stumbling across something significant, I saw our mutual friend the red-faced colonel at lunch today.’

  ‘Sanders? What was so significant about that?’

  ‘The company he was in.’

  ‘Male or female?’

  ‘Female.’

  ‘Good for old Victor! Didn’t know he was so human. I hope he was enjoying himself.’

  ‘That’s just it – I don’t think he was. A woman can tell instinctively whether it’s the male or the female who’s making all the moves. Sanders looked positively uncomfortable.’

  Mike laughed. ‘Too bad for him. What’s his taste like?’

  ‘I don’t need to describe her, just tell you who she is.’

  ‘The suspense is killing me.’

  ‘Irene Long,’ said Linda laconically.

  ‘Who?’ Mike swerved sharply to snap up a place in the next lane and prepared for a right turn towards Soho Square. ‘Who the heck’s Irene Long?’

  ‘Darling! Mind that cyclist, I’m sure he wa
nts to live … You don’t remember Irene Long? She’s at Conway and Racy’s – the one who looked after my suit and sold me that darling little hat.’

  ‘Oh, that female. The blonde with all the make-up and the terribly arch smile?’

  ‘None other.’

  ‘How very interesting. They must have made an odd couple.’

  Linda smiled. ‘So you see? I thought you’d be happy to have something to think about.’

  Mike smiled and answered dryly, ‘I have so little on my mind …’

  Turning the car into the Square he drove close to the kerb and peered at the numbers of the buildings. ‘It must be somewhere on this side.’

  After a short while they found the number they were looking for and by a stroke of luck were able to park the car quite near.

  Linda got out and gazed dubiously at the grimy building, wrinkling her nose. ‘Are you sure this is right, darling? It looks all offices to me. Surely no one actually lives here?’

  ‘Not necessarily – this type of place generally has a few dingy back rooms let off as digs. Nadia Tarrant used to be the hind legs in a vaudeville horse or something, so I don’t suppose she can afford to live in a palace.’

  Linda discovered a rust-covered bell-push beside a scrap of dirty pasteboard with some near-indecipherable writing on it. ‘I think this is it,’ she said.

  ‘Press it and we’ll soon find out.’

  Linda did so, but no sound came from within. She tried again but there was no answering peal. ‘I’d have been surprised if it had worked.’

  Mike grunted. ‘The lift’s out of order too. We’ll have to walk up.’

  They climbed three flights of filthy stairs, and then they came to a door with paint peeling off it, slightly ajar. A more recent square of pasteboard bore the neat lettering: NADIA TARRANT, VARIETY ARTISTE.

  There was no bell or knocker. They were startled by the sudden shrill ringing of a telephone from the other side of the door. No one seemed to be in any hurry to answer it. Mike shrugged his shoulders and rapped two or three times with his knuckles without reply. They waited in silence as the telephone ceased to ring. He knocked again with his fist, felt the door give, and pushed it open.

  The combined odours of stale bedding, spilt cocoa near a two-ring gas cooker, and humid washing hung out to dry over a sink stacked with greasy crockery assailed them. At first glance it appeared to be a typical sleazy bed-sitting room occupied by an uncommonly untidy woman.

  Mike glanced round the room and his eye was immediately caught by a number of faded photographs and theatre bills plastered on the walls, evidently relics of Miss Tarrant’s career in vaudeville. Judging by the photographs it was some years since their subject had been seen on the stage. It was hard to tell which of the nebulous, badly printed figures might be Nadia Tarrant, though one large, tinted photograph of a big bosomed girl with red hair, dressed in spangles and black tights, caught his eye and put him in mind of the pre-war days when colour photography had hardly got into its stride. As he bent to examine it Linda said doubtfully, ‘Darling, do you think we ought to prowl round like this?’

  Mike’s answer was cut off by the telephone’s sudden ring. He stiffened, looked across at Linda, and said, ‘Answer it, darling.’

  She reached out a hand, then hesitated.

  ‘Go on! I’ve got to get tabs on this woman somehow, it’s worth the risk.’

  ‘But, Mike, we can’t—’

  ‘We can. Pick it up and listen. Don’t say who you are.’

  Linda sighed, and nervously picked up the receiver.

  The voice that came booming over the line was instantly recognisable. ‘Is that Gerrard 7311?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is that Nadia Tarrant?’ came the stern, resonant voice of Victor Sanders again.

  Linda looked questioningly at her husband, who rapidly motioned to her to carry on.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why didn’t you answer before? I telephoned five minutes ago. Are you trying to play tricks with me?’

  ‘I was out,’ Linda said in a rough voice, making a wild guess at the sort of tones Nadia Tarrant might use.

  ‘Well, what about the Bannister affair? Do I get the third shoe?’ Sanders barked. ‘Hello … Are you listening?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Speak up, woman. D’you understand me? I want that third shoe. And no monkey business!’

  ‘Yes, all right.’ There was a click of the replaced receiver at the other end.

  Mike had put an ear to the receiver and listened to the strange dialogue.

  Linda was shaking slightly and kept her hand on the phone as if to support herself.

  ‘Victor Sanders,’ she whispered. ‘What on earth do you make of it, Mike? How does he come to be mixed up in this?’ She glanced round the sordid room.

  Mike nodded. ‘Now he wants the third shoe,’ he mused. ‘What’s behind all this I wonder?’

  ‘What did he mean by “the Bannister affair”? Who is Bannister in this case?’

  ‘I’ve never heard of him. You did splendidly, Linda. I wonder if Sanders recognised your voice?’

  Linda started to answer, ‘I tried to disguise it,’ then broke off. ‘Mike, there’s someone coming up the stairs!’

  They waited out of sight of the half-open door, which was suddenly pushed wide open. A big-bosomed woman in her late forties with flaming red hair of an impossible colour stood in the entrance, glaring angrily at them.

  ‘Who are you? And what d’you want?’ she said roughly.

  Mike answered in a polite tone, ‘Miss Nadia Tarrant?’

  ‘Yes. Who gave you permission to barge in here like—?’

  ‘The door was open, we—’

  ‘I know the door was open. I left it on the catch. I’ve just nipped out to borrow something from a neighbour. What’s the big idea, eh?’

  ‘I apologise, Miss Tarrant, but we did ring the bell downstairs, and when there was no reply—’

  ‘You just walked in! Well, you can just walk out, both of you! Go on, get out, before I send for the police!’

  Linda made as if to leave but Mike restrained her. He leaned against the sink and returned the woman’s aggressive glare with a smile. ‘My name is Baxter – Mike Baxter. This is my wife. I’m a friend of Inspector Rodgers,’ he announced.

  ‘So what?’

  ‘We just wanted to have a little chat, that’s all.’

  The woman stared at him suspiciously. ‘You did, did you? Well, you’re unlucky. I’m just off.’

  ‘It won’t take long, Miss Tarrant. Three or four minutes at the most.’

  The woman hesitated, then looked at her wristwatch. ‘Sorry, I can’t oblige. I’m due at work at the café, and I’m late already.’

  ‘What café? I thought you were on the stage.’

  ‘I’m resting between engagements, if it’s any of your flaming business! I’ll work where I want to – without asking your permission, Mr Flaming Nosy Parker!’

  Mike apologised as politely as ever, then turning to Linda he said pleasantly, ‘Come along, darling. We won’t bother Miss Tarrant after all. I’ll explain to Rodgers. It probably wasn’t a good suggestion anyway.’

  He brushed past her and walked out into the corridor.

  ‘Wait a tick!’ she called. He half turned and heard her say, ‘I suppose I was a bit rude. But you shouldn’t go barging in on people’s private property like that. Specially when I haven’t had a chance to tidy up. Now, what d’you want?’

  Closing the door, Mike came back into the room. ‘Just a very short chat about the Weldon case, that’s all. But we don’t want to make you late for your work.’

  The woman made an ugly grimace. ‘For creep’s sake, the Weldon case again! Lord, am I sick and tired of that name!’

  ‘Yes, I can well imagine. But you were an important witness, so I’m afraid it’s inevitable—’

  She drew herself up. ‘Important! I was the only witness.’

  ‘Quite. Tell me,
Miss Tarrant, where are you working now?’

  ‘At Farnalio’s in Greek Street.’

  ‘Were you coming back from Farnalio’s the night you saw Weldon?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It was just after twelve?’

  ‘Are you asking me or telling me?’ she snapped.

  Mike smiled apologetically. ‘I’m asking you.’

  ‘Yes, it was soon after twelve. I saw him running off the demolition-site. He bumped into me.’

  ‘You’re sure it was Weldon?’

  ‘’Course I’m sure. Think I’d have stood up in the witness—’

  ‘What was he wearing, do you remember?’

  The woman hesitated for a second, then answered, ‘No, I don’t remember. Look, I’ve been through all this rigmarole a score of times already. I saw Weldon, and I told the coppers about it, and I picked him out at the line-up. What more d’you want?’

  Linda unexpectedly interrupted them. ‘You must have a very good memory for faces, unless of course you’d seen him before?’

  The woman’s eyes narrowed, as if she sensed a trap. ‘What d’you mean?’ she asked suspiciously.

  ‘I only wondered if you might have met or seen Harold Weldon before he bumped into you that night.’

  ‘Have a heart! As if I mix with that toffee-nosed lot! Of course I hadn’t. Now look, I’m supposed to be at work by four, so if you don’t mind—’

  Mike nodded. ‘Yes, of course. We won’t keep you any longer. Oh, there is just one more point, though. When Weldon bumped into you, did he say anything?’

  Again the hesitation, and the narrowed eyes searching for a trap. At length she muttered a gruff negative.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Mike pressed her.

  ‘Well … if he did, I didn’t hear him.’

  ‘But I thought you told Inspector Rodgers that he did say something, only you couldn’t understand what it was?’

  ‘I … I don’t remember exactly what I told the police.’

  Mike smiled sweetly. ‘No? Yet you’ve got a very good memory, Miss Tarrant.’

  ‘I’ve got a very good memory for faces, and I shan’t forget yours in a hurry, believe you me,’ she snarled.