Cynthia Manson (ed)

by Merry Murder

  Gibbons jotted “Camden?” in his notebook. “Thank you,” he said, “that may be helpful. Now, sir, if you could go on with your description of the weekend?”

  “Yes, of course. Where was I up to? Saturday? Everyone was up quite late that night. It was well past two by the time the last of us went to bed. I think the last up were Uncle David, Aunt Cathy, Maureen, Renaud, and myself.”

  “That brings us to Sunday.”

  “Yes, let’s see. Oh, Sunday was the night we went to the pub. Just Maureen, Renaud, and I. We ran into a couple there that Renaud knew from London.” A look of distaste came over North’s face. “Not the sort of people I usually associate with.”

  “Of course not,” said Bethancourt, his voice full of false sympathy. He was beginning to think North was a bit of a prig.

  “Could you describe them for us, sir?” asked Gibbons, ignoring his friend.

  “Well, the man—Dick was his name—was all right. He was about my age, I suppose, dark-haired and wearing a leather jacket. I think he said he was a mechanic. The girl was called Penny. Bleached hair and too much eye makeup, and wearing a dress that kept slipping off her shoulder. Way off.”

  Bethancourt made a “tsk-tsk” sound, and Gibbons glared at him.

  “You stayed at the pub how long?” he asked.

  “Maureen and I left first,” said North. “Renaud was behaving quite badly. He’d spent most of the weekend chatting up Maureen, but now he’d switched to Penny. Naturally I didn’t mind that, and Maureen didn’t seem to care, but after all, Penny was with another man. I didn’t think Penny was very happy with his attentions, but when I got up to go to the men’s room, I saw his hand on her leg. No,” he corrected himself, “not on her leg. He’d pushed her dress up and had his hand on the inside of her thigh.”

  “No!” exclaimed Bethancourt, feigning shock. Gibbons kicked him surreptitiously.

  “I can quite see how you felt,” he said.

  “Yes,” said North, gratified by this display of sympathy. “Well, you can imagine that I came back from the w. c. and took Maureen right off.”

  “Of course,” said Gibbons. “Was everyone else still up when you got back?”

  North took a moment to put aside righteous indignation. “No,” he said. “Not everyone. Just, let’s see, Aunt Cathy, and my father and Aunt Bernice. But they went off to bed twenty minutes or so after we got back. Maureen and I stayed up a bit. It must have been about midnight—perhaps a little after—when I said goodnight and Maureen went to get a glass of milk to take to bed with her.”

  “And Renaud hadn’t yet returned?”

  “No. Well, if he had, he didn’t come into the living room.” He paused and scratched his chin. “That brings us to Monday. Most of us left that evening so as to be at work on Tuesday. Mother stayed on, and so did Maureen and her parents—they always take a week in the summer to visit Grandmother.”

  “Yes,” said Gibbons, consulting his notes. “They all stayed until Thursday, except for David Bainbridge, who was called away on business Tuesday.” He looked up. “Well, that’s very clear, Mr. North, thank you. You heard nothing, I suppose, during any of the nights you spent there?”

  “Not me,” replied North. “I’m a heavy sleeper.”

  Gibbons thanked him and rose to leave.

  Outside, Bethancourt walked Cerberus round the block while Gibbons phoned Carmichael in Dorset to say they were starting back. Having supplied themselves with sandwiches and coffee for the drive back, they threaded their way out of London and were soon spinning along the M3 under heavy skies.

  “It’s going to rain,” observed Gibbons.

  “Or snow,” said Bethancourt. “Dorset should look very pretty in the snow. Very Christmaslike and all that.”

  “Don’t be silly,” answered Gibbons. “It’s not cold enough to snow.” Then he went on, rather abruptly, “I wonder if we shouldn’t make more of an effort to find Renaud Fibrier than we have been doing. The only members of the family who knew anything about him confirm the bad reputation his own father gave him. Supposing he and that other chap fought over the girl after North and Maureen had left. Fibrier might have killed him and put the body in the attic after everyone else was in bed. It certainly fits with his wanting to leave first thing in the morning.”

  Bethancourt nodded. “That’s true, Jack. I think it would be very interesting to find out what sort of trouble he was in in France.”

  “Very interesting,” agreed Gibbons. “We’ll run it by Carmichael and see if he doesn’t want to put in a call to France this afternoon.”

  Chief Inspector Carmichael did. They found him at the local police station, where he informed them that missing persons was no further along with connecting the body to anyone on their lists. He was considerably cheered, however, by the thought of Renaud Fibrier as murderer and Dick the mechanic as victim.

  “We’ll have to check all the hotels and B&B’s in the area,” he said. “If we can find their last names, it should be easy enough to trace them in London. If we start now,” he added wistfully, “we might even be able to go back to town tonight. I’ll just ring the Sûreté and then we can have some supper and get on with it.”

  “I’ll meet you at the pub,” said Bethancourt. “I want a change of clothes. It won’t take me long.”

  Mrs. Tyzack’s house was quiet as Bethancourt let himself in. There was a light burning in the front hall, and he paused by the registry book lying open on the hall table. Pulling off his gloves, he turned the pages back once again to the late August entries and was pleased to find that Dick Tottle and Penny Cranston had conformed to custom and inscribed their names and addresses.

  Turning away, he had another thought and, bypassing the stairs, headed for the back of the house and the sitting room, where Cerberus was greeted with joyful barks by the terrier.

  “Hello,” said Mrs. Tyzack. “I didn’t hear you come in. Can I get you anything?”

  Bethancourt smiled and dropped into the easy chair opposite her. “What I really need is information,” he said. “Can you think back to the August Bank Holiday weekend and a couple of guests you had then?”

  The names meant nothing to her, but once he had described the couple and placed the weekend in her mind by mentioning the Bainbridge reunion, she began to remember.

  “Yes,” she said slowly. “Yes, I think they came on the Saturday. Here, let me just fetch the reservation book—”

  Bethancourt politely performed this service for her. She pored over the entries for a moment and then looked up and beamed at him.

  “Here it is,” she said. “They came on the Saturday evening, booked through till Monday. I remember them now—they had the room across the hall from yours and were rather quiet. Spent a lot of time at the pub, I believe.”

  “That’s splendid,” said Bethancourt warmly. “Now, what I really need to know is: did you see them returning from the pub on Sunday or leaving Monday morning?”

  She thought for a moment. “No,” she said at last. “No, I shouldn’t have seen them Sunday night—oh, yes, of course. Look, it’s here in the book as well. They paid up on Sunday afternoon, saying they’d be off on the first train on Monday. Yes, the girl explained she had to work Monday, although I don’t remember now what she said she did. I asked if they’d want breakfast, but they said no, it would be too early, they’d just get up and leave. So I had a nice lie-in because the other guests didn’t want breakfast till nine. They were gone by the time I got up—I remember I checked their room to make sure.”

  She smiled up at him, pleased with her success. “Is that what you wanted?” she asked. “Is it important?”

  “It’s very important,” answered Bethancourt, beaming back at her. “Mrs. Tyzack, you’re a marvel.”

  Carmichael and Gibbons were equally pleased when Bethancourt joined them at the Lion’s Head.

  “That’s pure jam,” said Carmichael with satisfaction. “We might as well start back directly after supper then. Thank y
ou, Bethancourt.” He fished in his pocket for a train schedule, pulling out a whole sheaf of papers in the process.

  “I can drive you back, sir,” offered Bethancourt.

  “Why, thank you again,” responded the chief inspector. “I—oh, damme.” He was gazing at a slip of paper in dismay. “Bethancourt, I forgot. When I talked to the Yard earlier, they said several urgent messages had been left for you. I do apologize for not telling you sooner.”

  “Urgent?” asked Gibbons, startled.

  “From a young lady. Name of Maria Tate.”

  Gibbons laughed heartily while Bethancourt said, “Oh, my God,” and Carmichael raised a bushy eyebrow.

  “It’s Phillip’s girlfriend,” explained Gibbons. “And it’s hardly likely to be urgent.”

  “To Maria it is,” said Bethancourt glumly. “I’d better go outside and ring her before I eat.”

  He returned while the others were in the midst of their meal and breathed a sigh of relief as he sat down.

  “Disaster has been averted,” he announced. “There’s a Christmas party tonight that I forgot, but I promised her I’d be back in time for it.” He looked at his watch. “Can we be ready to leave in forty-five minutes?”

  “Yes, by all means,” answered Carmichael. “Mustn’t keep a pretty young lady waiting,” he added with a wink. “I assume she is pretty, Bethancourt?”

  Gibbons guffawed, thinking of Maria’s flawless beauty, while Bethancourt replied modestly that he found her so.

  * * *

  “Hello, Phillip,” said Gibbons cheerfully. “Did I wake you?”

  “Yes,” answered Bethancourt tartly, shifting the phone to light a cigarette. “It’s only nine thirty, and that party went on till all hours.”

  “I thought you’d want to hear the latest.”

  Bethancourt sighed. “I suppose I do,” he answered. “I take it by the tone of your voice it’s good news?”

  “It is,” Gibbons assured him. “Dick Tottle’s no longer at that address you got from Mrs. Tyzack—in fact, no one is. The building was razed to make way for a new block of flats last October. But Penny Cranston is listed in the phone directory. We haven’t talked to her yet—she’s out, but it’s only a matter of time. Best of all, Carmichael heard from the Sûreté this morning. Renaud Fibrier was involved in several brawls, was convicted of petty larceny, and was involved in another brawl just before he disappeared. Unofficially, the police in his hometown say that he was once accused of rape but no charges were ever brought, and that he stole from his parents as well, who naturally never pressed charges. They’re sure the latter is true, but unsure about the first, the source of the accusation being somewhat unreliable.”

  Bethancourt gave a low whistle. “Not a very good record,” he observed. “I wonder how much of that David Bainbridge knew.”

  “Probably not very much,” said Gibbons cheerfully. “He was likely just told that Renaud was ‘in trouble’ from time to time. I believe that’s the usual conversational refuge of parents with problem children. Anyway, Fibrier could well be our man, Phillip. We’re trying to track him down. Carmichael’s sent out a bulletin on him, and I’m to start trying to find out where he was staying in London.”

  “Starting in Camden?”

  “Starting in Camden. Do you want to come?”

  “And spend all day knocking on one door after another? No, thank you. I’m going back to my nice warm bed with my nice warm girlfriend.”

  “Fine. You’ll be sorry when I find the place myself.”

  “I’ll join you tomorrow. Plenty of doors left for then.”

  “Ha! You don’t know how lucky I’m feeling.”

  “Well, I’m not feeling lucky at all, and I wouldn’t want to ruin your day,” retorted Bethancourt. “Call me when you get back to the Yard.”

  “Very well,” said Gibbons. “But you’ll be sorry.” He rang off and contemplated the long list in front of him. It consisted of all the hotels and bed and breakfasts in Camden and had been compiled by himself with the help of the London telephone directory. Bethancourt was right, of course: he couldn’t possibly get through all of them in one day. Moreover, there was no guarantee that Fibrier hadn’t been staying with friends. But that line of inquiry would have to wait until the Sûreté had done their best to find some of Fibrier’s acquaintances and had discovered, if they could, any English connections.

  He sighed, wishing he had been able to persuade Bethancourt to accompany him, and went forth to do his job.

  His feeling of luck soon evaporated in the cold, damp day and, indeed, he met with no success. It was well after dark and he was chilled to the bone when he decided to stop for the day. He found a public call box and rang Penny Cranston’s number as he had at intervals throughout the day, but once again there was no answer. Sighing, he turned away toward the underground to return to the Yard and report to Chief Inspector Carmichael.

  The next morning Bethancourt consented to accompany his friend on his cheerless rounds of lodgings in Camden Town, with the proviso that they stop at Bond Street first.

  “What on earth for?” asked Gibbons.

  “Maria’s Christmas present, of course,” replied Bethancourt. “She is furious with me for letting this investigation interfere with the holiday festivities, and she will get still angrier before we’re done.”

  “Oh, very well,” said Gibbons. “But it had better not take long.”

  “It won’t,” Bethancourt assured him. “It need only be handsome, very extravagant, and green.”

  Indeed, Bethancourt accomplished his goal as swiftly as the Christmas crowds permitted, but Gibbons was horrified at the cost of the emerald and diamond bracelet.

  “Surely that’s a bit much,” he said in a low voice.

  “You forget how annoyed she is with me,” replied Bethancourt. “This will put her right in a minute.”

  “It bloody well ought to,” muttered Gibbons.

  From Asprey’s, they proceeded to Camden Town, but success did not crown their efforts. Moreover, it was a slow, painstaking business, asking people to remember a young Frenchman who might have stayed with them last August and then to look up past records. It was the kind of thing Bethancourt hated, and Gibbons soon found him more hindrance than help, for he amused himself by trying to charm the innkeepers senseless or, when that palled, by poking about shamelessly in everything he could find while Gibbons conducted the interview.

  They lunched solidly at a pub, Bethancourt drinking several pints of Old Peculiar to fortify himself, and then went back to it under increasingly threatening skies.

  “It’s going to rain again,” said Bethancourt at about four o’clock as they tramped down Anson Road.

  “Probably,” agreed Gibbons.

  “Must we do very many more? In all probability he was staying with friends.”

  “We’ll stop at five,” said Gibbons consolingly.

  “And get caught in rush hour? Thanks very much.”

  “Here’s the next,” said Gibbons. “And do try to behave, Phillip.”

  A middle-aged woman greeted them pleasantly and announced that she wasn’t taking any boarders over the holidays.

  “Goodness!” she said once Gibbons had explained their purpose. “Last August, you say? Now that’s difficult to remember. I’ll have to pull out the books for that.”

  “We are fairly certain he would have checked out in late August,” said Bethancourt with a smile. “But unfortunately, we’re not at all sure when he would have arrived. We’re working on the assumption at the moment that he arrived no earlier than the beginning of July.”

  “Well,” she answered, setting a heavy book down on

  the counter with a thump, “I haven’t had anyone staying that long. A two month stay I would have remembered. There was that American family—they stayed three weeks.” She opened the book and began flipping through the pages. “And I did have a whole group of Frenchmen in, but they only stayed a day or two. And that was earlier on, I t
hink. Half a mo’!” She looked up at them suddenly. “There was a young man that stayed a fortnight or so. Only I thought he was Swiss.”

  “Swiss?” asked Gibbons.

  “Yes,” she answered, going back to the book and rapidly turning the leaves. “There was a group—I’m sure the couple were Swiss. There was another man, too, I think. They all stayed a few days and then, when the others left, one stayed on and I switched him to a single.” She bent over the book, running her finger down the page. “I think it was August,” she muttered. “Yes, here we are: 11 August, two doubles. The others left on the sixteenth, and the one that was left changed rooms. Here he is: Renaud Fibrier. Wasn’t that the name you mentioned?”

  Bethancourt gave a loud whoop of triumph and, leaning over the counter, kissed her soundly on the cheek. “That’s it, adorable woman,” he said, “that’s it! We’ve found him, Jack!”

  Gibbons was grinning broadly. “When did he check out?”

  “On the twenty-ninth,” she answered, consulting the book. “The Tuesday after Bank Holiday.”

  “That fits,” said Gibbons to Bethancourt. “He returns from the murder, packs up, and clears off. He’s probably been back on the Continent for months.”

  They thanked her for her help and left, well pleased with themselves.

  There was a call box on the corner and here Gibbons stopped, fishing in his pocket for change.

  “I’m going to try Penny Cranston again,” he said.

  Bethancourt looked surprised. “You did that half an hour ago,” he said mildly.

  Gibbons grinned at him. “I’m feeling lucky,” he said.

  His luck held true. In a moment he emerged, his grin broader than ever.

  “She’s home,” he announced. “We can go straight over. Let’s grab a taxi—it’s not far.”

  Penny Cranston’s bedsitter was small and rather dirty. There was a pile of clothes on the single armchair, the carpet had seen better days and had faded to a pinky-brown, and the kitchen sink was crowded with unwashed dishes.

  Penny herself had a slatternly appearance; her hair was bleached an incredible shade of yellow, revealing almost an inch of dark brown at the roots. She was thin, but not elegantly so; rather, she gave the impression of being scrawny except for her breasts, which were large and swung freely beneath a shiny purple shirt. She seemed suspicious of them, despite Gibbons’ reassurances and Bethancourt’s scrupulous politeness. Indeed, the latter appeared to make her uneasy and, as if in reaction, she did not offer them seats, but only leaned against the little breakfast table, planted squarely in the center of the worn carpet.