The pink-and-blue neon sign flickered on and off, casting an unholy radiance on the half-circle as the doctor straightened up and snapped his medical bag shut with unmistakable finality.
Chapter Fifteen
At the Baxters’ flat, two hours later, they were praising Mrs Potter’s coffee, and Mrs Potter, beaming with pride, had gone to make some more.
‘You can’t leave yet, John,’ Mike said. ‘Linda’s simply bursting with curiosity.’
‘There is one thing I don’t quite understand,’ Linda began plaintively, but was halted by the burst of laughter coming from both men.
‘There you are, you see!’ Mike teased her.
‘What is it that you don’t quite understand, Linda?’ asked Goldway.
‘Well, for one thing, why did Rodgers, or Bannister, or whatever his real name is—’
‘Rodgers.’
‘—Why did he do it? I mean, he had a pretty good job …’
‘He also had a pretty good collection of debts, it seems,’ Goldway told her. ‘He’d been gambling heavily, unknown to us, and had lost nearly seven thousand pounds.’
‘I did wonder if he had any vices,’ Mike put in. ‘But gambling was something that didn’t occur to me.’
‘The bug had bitten him badly. Unless he’d been extraordinarily lucky he could never have hoped to make up his losses in the normal way – say on horse racing or at cards. The Cordoba pendant must have struck him as the answer to his dilemma. No one would dream of suspecting him, and he had all the information and shady contacts at his disposal, an unfortunate but necessary part of his job. In a moment of weakness he must have decided that was the only way out.’
‘Yes, the Cordoba pendant!’ exclaimed Linda, with mounting enthusiasm. ‘Rodgers was connected with the investigations on that robbery case too, wasn’t he? I read all about him in that book Mike ordered from the bookshop – the one Nadia Tarrant was reading in the Reference Library.’
‘That’s right,’ confirmed Mike. ‘… Come to think of it, Linda – how did you know I suspected Rodgers? I never actually mentioned him by name, and there are quite a few CID men referred to in that book.’
‘Oh, darling!’ Linda said, beaming. ‘You’ll never make a detective! You let your pencil stray on to the page at that particular passage, so I guessed you’d been giving it special attention.’
‘Well I’ll be damned!’
‘But what I don’t understand,’ she went on as both men burst into laughter, ‘is where that poor little wretch Luigi Saltoni fits into the pattern.’
‘Saltoni obviously suspected Rodgers, perhaps knew something about him. That’s why he made a point of seeing Mike privately, when no police were present,’ Goldway explained.
‘You mean when I picked him up in my taxi?’
‘Yes. We assumed he was just scared of the Law in general, but in actual fact it could well have been Rodgers in particular who frightened him.’
‘And it was, of course, Rodgers who hired some thugs to beat the lad up near his Euston digs,’ Mike went on. ‘Saltoni’s fears were thus justified; and if he recovered consciousness in that ambulance on the way to St Matthew’s Hospital he must have nearly had heart failure when he saw who was sitting beside him.’
‘So Rodgers was able to get at him in the hospital and make him change his mind. Of course! No one else was allowed in to see him. No wonder Saltoni pretended he’d not been telling the truth about Nadia Tarrant.’
‘One thing I’d like to know,’ Mike said. ‘Rodgers murdered Nadia Tarrant at Farnham, but how did he officially cover his tracks and account for having been so conveniently on the spot soon afterwards, to identify the body?’
‘All too easily. He simply claimed that he was investigating Hector Staines’s background, both at Staines’s firm in Guildford and at that pub near Westerdale. That’s how he happened to be in the neighbourhood and, of course, we never dreamed of querying that.’
‘It all sounds too simple, doesn’t it? But, of course, the whole of the Weldon case played right into his hands – he was in charge of the investigations from the beginning so he had every opportunity to tilt the scales in his favour.’
‘You mean things like the bloodstained handkerchief that Weldon couldn’t account for?’ put in Linda. ‘Yes, Rodgers must have been responsible for that.’
‘And the fact that Nadia Tarrant was supposed to have left the restaurant in Greek Street at about the time Lucy Staines was murdered,’ Mike added. ‘Of course, she must have left much earlier than that, if she was really with Saltoni at the time – but Rodgers was in a position to avoid probing too deeply into anything that might point to the truth; and he could easily suppress any statements that weren’t to his own advantage.’
‘One thing I was right about, it seems,’ Linda murmured. ‘Staines’s relationship to Peggy Bedford.’
Goldway nodded. ‘Yes, he’s admitted that he was trying to persuade the girl to marry him. And he was telling the truth when he denied knowing that he’d been in the Lord Fairfax pub with her. She took him there, and he just didn’t bother to look at the name of the pub.’
‘But that still doesn’t explain the mystery of the entry in Lucy Staines’s diary,’ Linda persisted.
The Superintendent frowned. ‘This bit’s pure conjecture, since both girls are dead and we can’t ask them, but I’m inclined to think that Peggy was a bit embarrassed by having her best girl friend’s father nervously hovering on the brink of a proposal. Remember the gap in years. It’s my bet that Peggy made a date with Lucy to talk the matter over with her. The place she chose for a nice quiet chat was the Lord Fairfax.’
‘On the other hand,’ said Mike, ‘it could have been an appointment with anyone who knew she had part of the film and who hoped to do a deal with her.’
Linda nodded slowly. ‘And whoever it was denied all knowledge of the rendezvous in the diary because he or she wanted to keep out of the limelight. That’s understandable. Peggy, for one, must have guessed why Lucy was murdered and was scared that if the police camped on her doorstep they’d find out about her friendship with Larry Boardman.’
‘Exactly.’
There was a tap at the door and Mrs Potter came in with more coffee.
Goldway smiled at her and said, ‘Mrs Potter, this is excellent coffee, but I must ask you to turn the percolator off or I’ll be here all night!’
They all laughed, and when Mrs Potter had gone Linda said in apologetic tones, ‘I’ll let you go in a moment, John, but I’ve still got one or two questions up my sleeve! The night Irene Long got plastered and warned Mike not to go down to Reading, she overheard two people talking and fixing up to take Mike for a ride. That must have been Rodgers and Corina, I suppose?’
‘Yes. She told us she didn’t recognise the voices, but she was fairly drunk at the time anyway,’ Mike reminded her. ‘It was round about then that my suspicions began to gather weight. Sanders telephoned me the next day. I dare say he was getting pretty worried about the way things were going. After all, he was mixed up in it himself, and so was his girl friend, and Harold Weldon’s life was at stake – so it’s not surprising if he was over-anxious for news. But it so happened that Rodgers was with me when I took the call. He knew it was Sanders on the phone, and when I made a point of telling Rodgers I’d been warned not to go to Reading he put two and two together and jumped to the conclusion that it was Sanders who’d warned me.’
‘Ah, the light is slowly beginning to dawn in my befuddled brain,’ Linda said. ‘When Sanders was involved in that car accident you guessed it must have been Rodgers who was trying to get rid of him?’
‘Exactly!’ Mike answered. ‘Only the plan nearly boomeranged on me – I didn’t know you were going to get hurt too, Linda.’
‘Oh, it was all in a good cause, darling!’ she said rather smugly. ‘Now, if only I could place Corina in all this I think I’d let you two gentlemen get some sleep.’
Mike volunteered the answers. ‘C
orina was an outsider at first, with a moderately but not entirely clean record. Some of his past was probably known to Rodgers. With this as a capital investment Rodgers must have decided to bank a little more on Corina and slipped the word about Jo’s real mission to him. Corina was furious that the Yard were watching his club, but it wasn’t he who kidnapped her and beat her up; it was Rodgers.’
‘Why did he do it?’
‘To throw suspicion on Corina and make us concentrate on La Pergola. You’ll remember he even took the pains to have someone with a slight foreign accent do some of the questioning when they put Jo through her third degree. It was very cleverly thought out.’
‘What finally made Corina change his mind and come in with us? I mean, he did co-operate in the end, didn’t he?’ Linda said.
Goldway smiled grimly. ‘Like a well-trained circus horse! We simply told him the whole story and put the fear of God in him, including a threat to close down La Pergola if he refused to play.’
Goldway finished his coffee and made signs of leaving. Linda looked so disappointed that he sank back on to the settee with a resigned grin.
‘Just one more question, John! Why did Hector Staines install that listening apparatus above Irene Long’s flat? Did he think she might be working for Bannister?’
‘I don’t think so. But his partner-in-crime was Sanders, and I don’t think there was much love lost between the two. Staines didn’t trust his partner, and in order to make sure he wasn’t being double-crossed he decided to listen in on the scene where Victor Sanders spent most of his evenings – at Irene Long’s flat.’
‘That makes sense,’ decided Linda.
Goldway eased himself off the settee and asked, ‘What are you going to do now, Mike? If I remember rightly you were off on a holiday to the South of France when this business started?’
Mike glanced guiltily at Linda. ‘Er … yes, that was the plan, but I’m afraid the holiday’s off, at least for the time being.’
Linda looked at her husband. ‘This is news to me, Mike. What’s happened?’
Mike said, ‘I meant to tell you, Linda. The Editor of the Tribune has asked me to write a series of articles on the Weldon case …’
Linda shook her head. ‘The Weldon case is finished – tomorrow afternoon we leave for Cannes!’
‘Now look here,’ said Mike, glancing at the Superintendent, ‘who’s the boss around here?’
Linda smiled. It was a very sweet smile. ‘What a silly question, Mike! Why you are, dear. You know that. You always have been.’
‘Then I write the articles,’ said Mike, pushing out his chest. ‘And don’t argue, darling.’
Mike did write the articles. On the beach at Cannes.
Paul Temple and the Nightingale
Paul Temple first heard of ‘The Nightingale’ when he was sitting in his Club drinking a dry martini. A friendly hand patted him on the shoulder and a familiar voice said: ‘So this is where you spend your evenings, Mr Temple!’
Temple smiled and shook the outstretched hand. ‘This is the first time I’ve been in the Club for ages. Sir Graham,’ he said. ‘And I wouldn’t be here now if Steve wasn’t having a massage.’
Sir Graham Forbes laughed. ‘What’s your wife’s massage in aid of, Temple?’
Temple said: ‘We travelled back from the south of France last night and Steve’s got a touch of fibrositis. You know those Continental sleepers. Sir Graham?’
Forbes sank into the nearby armchair. ‘Things have been happening while you’ve been basking in the sun,’ he said quietly. ‘Why, I don’t suppose you’ve even heard of “The Nightingale”.’
‘The Nightingale?’
The head of Scotland Yard nodded. ‘The man’s a menace, Temple. He’s robbed ten flats in twelve days and got away with nearly £90,000 worth of jewellery.’
‘What sort of a man is he, Sir Graham?’
‘We don’t know, Temple,’ said Forbes seriously. ‘No one’s even caught a glimpse of the fellow.’
‘When did you first hear of him?’
‘He broke into Lord Arleston’s flat about a month ago,’ said Forbes. ‘Arleston was giving a dinner party and didn’t hear a sound. That dinner party cost his lordship the best part of £17,000.’
‘Does he confine his activities to the West End, Sir Graham?’
‘Nearly always,’ said Forbes. ‘And curiously enough it’s generally the Berkeley Square area.’ He smiled. ‘That’s why we nicknamed him “The Nightingale”.’
‘Haven’t you anything to go on – not a clue of any sort?’
There was a curious expression on Sir Graham’s face; he looked puzzled.
‘I just don’t understand it, Temple,’ he said quietly. ‘The fellow’s unbelievably careless and yet he slips through our fingers every time.’
‘What do you mean by careless, Sir Graham? Does he leave his fingerprints all over the place?’
Forbes laughed. ‘It’s not quite as bad as that,’ he said. ‘But he left one of his gloves behind at Lord Arleston’s, and when he broke into Donald Marshbank’s place he was actually smoking a pipe. He tapped it out on the window-sill.’
Paul Temple smiled. ‘You certainly seem to have your hands full, Sir Graham,’ he said. ‘“The Nightingale” sounds a very odd bird!’
It was a quarter to eight when Temple arrived at Berkeley Grange and walked up the four flights of stairs to his flat on the fourth floor.
The key was in the lock and Temple’s hand on the handle when the door was suddenly thrown open and the novelist found himself facing a tall, rather serious-looking girl in the late twenties. The girl wore glasses, was carrying a large handbag, and looked annoyed.
‘I’m Miss Allen, Mrs Temple’s masseuse,’ said the girl. ‘I’m waiting for Mrs Temple.’
Temple frowned. ‘I thought my wife’s appointment was for seven o’clock?’
The girl nodded and tucked her handbag firmly under her left arm.
‘So did I,’ she said, unable to conceal the note of asperity in her voice. ‘But when I got out of the lift I bumped into Mrs Temple and she told me she had another appointment and would be back in a quarter of an hour.’ The girl looked at her watch. ‘That was precisely forty minutes ago!’
Temple led her back into the lounge.
‘Miss Allen,’ he said, ‘someone ought to have warned you. My wife’s never punctual.’
Miss Allen said: ‘Yes, well I have other patients, Mr Temple, and I can’t afford to keep them waiting. Perhaps you’ll tell your wife to give me a ring if she wishes to make another appointment.’ She turned towards the door.
Temple took a firm grip on her arm and guided her across to the cocktail cabinet.
‘I know exactly how you feel, young lady, but don’t let it get you down!’ He picked up the whisky decanter. ‘What you need is a good stiff drink.’
The girl hesitated for a moment and then suddenly laughed and put her handbag down on the corner of the cocktail cabinet. ‘Whisky isn’t much in my line,’ she said. ‘But if you’ve a gin and tonic handy …’
‘By Timothy,’ thought Temple, ‘she’s a jolly good looking girl when she smiles.’
He replaced the whisky decanter, walked across the lounge, and out into the kitchen. When he returned a few moments later, carrying tonic waters and a bottle of gin, he noticed that the girl had picked up her handbag and was standing with her back to the cocktail cabinet, her eyes on the bedroom door.
He stood watching her for a little while then he put down the bottles and opened the palm of his left hand. He was holding a button.
‘Did you drop this button, Miss Allen?’
The girl turned and looked down at the button: it was about the size of a half-penny and looked as if it had been torn from a man’s sports jacket. She shook her head. ‘It’s off a man’s jacket,’ she said.
‘It was placed near the service door,’ Temple said, ‘to give the impression that it was a man who entered the flat and not a woman.’<
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‘I’m afraid I don’t follow you.’ She opened her handbag and turned towards the mirror above the cocktail cabinet. It looked as if she was about to produce a powder compact and powder her nose.
Temple said: ‘It’s really quite simple. “The Nightingale” isn’t a man at all.’ He smiled. ‘You deliberately placed the glove at Lord Arleston’s and planted the pipe tobacco at Donald Marshbank’s.’
The girl knew that the game was up and she turned and moved away from the cocktail cabinet. Instead of a powder compact she was holding a small automatic pistol.
‘There’s no need for any unpleasantness,’ she said, pointing the revolver at Temple’s chest. ‘I suggest you join your wife in the bedroom.’
‘What’s happened to my wife?’
The girl crossed in front of the cocktail cabinet and, with the revolver still pointing at Temple, opened the bedroom door.
Temple could see his wife lying on the bed; her hands and feet bound, a silk handkerchief tied round her mouth.
The girl said: ‘Before you join your wife, Mr Temple, perhaps you’ll explain why you suspected me?’
Temple shrugged his shoulders and took out his cigarette case.
‘Your reference to the lift gave you away,’ he said casually. ‘I knew you couldn’t possibly have come up by the lift because the confounded thing’s out of order; it’s been out of order for three weeks.’
‘You’re quite right,’ said the girl. ‘I came in by the service door just as the masseuse was leaving. I heard your wife saying goodbye to her in the hall and …’ She never completed the sentence because at that precise moment Temple threw the cigarette case.
As the case hit the girl’s shoulder Temple jumped forward and caught the butt of the revolver with the side of his hand. He heard the explosion and saw the girl stagger back towards the bedroom door. He leaped forward. It was to be the knock-out blow to end all knock-out blows.
Another Woman's Shoes Page 18
