by Merry Murder
However, she was willing enough, once their mission was explained, to discuss Renaud Fibrier.
“That one,” she said, and snorted to show her opinion of him. “I haven’t seen him in months, nor want to, neither.”
“We’re particularly interested in the August Bank Holiday weekend,” said Gibbons, and waited, a little anxiously, for her reaction.
But the mention of it did not appear to stir any deep feelings. “That was when I gave him the shove-off,” she nodded. “Down in that nowhere place in the country.”
“Just so,” said Gibbons, a little disappointed, but still hoping. “You went down with your boyfriend?” She looked blank, so he added, “Dick Tottle?”
“Oh.” She giggled. “Dick’s not my boyfriend. He’s just a friend.”
Gibbons apologized for misunderstanding. “Anyway, you ran into Renaud Fibrier?”
“Not exactly ran into. We were supposed to meet him there.”
“I see.”
Bit by bit the story emerged. She had met Renaud Fibrier in a nightclub a fortnight or so before that weekend and they had had, she stated defiantly, a good time. Then he had told her he was going to Dorset for the holiday weekend and suggested she come along. It would be awfully dull, he said, but between the two of them, they might liven it up a bit and he could use the free meal ticket. He couldn’t invite her to stay with him, but she could stay cheaply in a B&B. They could appear to run into each other by accident.
“I couldn’t get away till Saturday evening,” she said. “I was scheduled to work the restaurant, see? So we fixed up to meet at the village pub on Saturday night. Renaud said he might have to wait until after dinner to slip out, but I should just sit tight at the pub. Only then I didn’t fancy the idea of waiting for hours in some dead and gone pub, and besides, when I rung the B&B, it was more than we’d thought. So I asked Dick if he’d like to come with me. I told him what was up,” she added. “He knew it was Renaud I was going to see.”
“So you met Renaud on Saturday?”
Her eyes flashed. “That’s just what we didn’t do,” she said. “We went to the pub for dinner and stayed till closing, but he never showed. I was mad, I can tell you. I wanted to go straight to London, but Dick pointed out that we’d reserved the room for Sunday and the B&B lady would probably make us pay for it anyway. So we stayed. I was sure glad I’d thought of asking Dick along—I’d’ve gone out of my mind in that place otherwise. We went back to the pub the next night—there wasn’t no place else—and lo and behold, in comes Renaud. And then I see why he didn’t show the night before because he’s got a real snooty looker on his arm. So I says to Dick, ‘Let’s get out of here,’ only before we get the chance, Renaud comes over and is introducing us, and everybody’s sitting down. I didn’t want to make a fuss in front of that girl, so I sat tight for a bit. And you know what that nogooder does next?”
“He—er—started chatting you up?” ventured Bethancourt.
“Chatting up’s not the half of it,” she replied fiercely. “He started feeling my leg underneath the table, just as if everything was fine. I tried to brush him off, but he was back in a flash. Like I said, I didn’t want to make a fuss, but was I ever glad when that girl and her cousin took off. I gave him a piece of my mind then, I did.”
“And well-deserved, too.”
“I told him just what I thought of him and his fancy bit, and then I said he could just tear up my phone number because I wouldn’t be answering calls from him no more. And then I took Dick and left.”
“Did he follow you?”
She sniffed. “Not him. I meant what I said and he knew it.”
Gibbons and Bethancourt exchanged glances, hope waning. If Dick Tottle had left Dorset hale and hearty...
“And you and Dick left by the first train on Monday?”
“That’s right. I had early shift at the restaurant, you see.”
“Yes,” said Gibbons, disappointed. “I take it, in view of what you’ve said, that Renaud didn’t ride back to town with you?”
“Of course not,” she replied, amazed at his stupidity.
“You didn’t see him on the station platform?” asked Bethancourt.
“No. There wasn’t anybody there. Dick and I were early and had to wait a bit and we didn’t see a soul except for one man who drove into the car park right when the train arrived.”
“He didn’t let anybody off?”
“We didn’t see. We were busy boarding. A blue Ford Escort, it was. I remember because Dick’s a mechanic and he was laughing at me trying to make out the makes of cars, but I knew that one because my sister’s got an Escort.” She looked curious. “Did you think Renaud had taken the same train as us?”
“Yes,” answered Gibbons, dispiritedly. “We did.”
“Well, maybe he did come on at the last minute. We were waiting, like I said, and got on right away.”
“That’s certainly possible,” said Bethancourt. “Thank you very much, Miss Cranston. You’ve been an enormous help.”
Gibbons paused in the act of picking up his coat. “I expect you still keep in touch with Dick Tottle?” he asked.
“Oh, yes. Saw him last night, in fact.”
“Could you let us have his address and phone number?”
She gave them the information from memory and they bade her goodbye, making their way down the narrow stairs in silence.
“You don’t think she was lying?” asked Gibbons hopelessly.
“No,” answered Bethancourt. “Anyway, if she was, you’ll soon know when you see Tottle.”
“Aren’t you coming with me?” asked Gibbons in surprise.
Bethancourt shook his head. “Another Christmas party,” he said. “I’ve got to dress and meet Maria. It’s getting late.”
He swung open the front door, and they stepped out into the chill drizzle.
“I’ll call you tomorrow. Don’t look so down, Jack. We were wrong, that’s all. Tomorrow we’ll come up with a better theory.”
“Yes, all right. Tomorrow, then, Phillip.”
Gibbons turned away from his friend, in search of a call box and Dick Tottle, desperately wishing he was the one going to a Christmas party. Then it occurred to him that there was no reason he should not partake of some holiday cheer himself, at least after he had interviewed Tottle. Accordingly, he put through two calls instead of one and, with his plans for the evening made, went off to see Dick Tottle in a better frame of mind.
Maria was annoyed with him again, but Bethancourt would hardly have noticed if she hadn’t announced the fact. He had, she said, been preoccupied during the whole of the cocktail party they had attended, and he was to stop thinking of his silly case and rouse himself for dinner, which was to be eaten with two other couples. Bethancourt meekly agreed to this on the condition that he could phone Gibbons from the restaurant. Gibbons was not home, however, and it was not long before Bethancourt dropped out of the conversation and began to smoke abstractedly. Maria nudged him with a steely look in her green eyes.
“Darling,” she said, “do you want any more of those escargots or can the waiter clear?”
“What?” Bethancourt became aware that everyone else had long since finished their first course. “Oh, no, have him take them away.”
He lit another cigarette and leaned back out of the waiter’s way. Something had occurred to him during the cocktail party, triggered by a chance remark, and he was desperate to get hold of Gibbons and check it out. It was such a simple solution that he couldn’t help but feel that there must be something against it or they would have thought of it earlier.
“You’re not very lively tonight, Phillip,” said Shelley.
“Late party last night,” he replied absently. Then he stubbed out his cigarette and rose. “Will you excuse me a minute? I’ve just remembered something.”
Maria looked daggers at him, but the others all murmured politely and went on with their conversation.
Gibbons was still not home. Annoy
ed, Bethancourt tapped his fingers impatiently against the receiver. He felt it was quite unreasonable of his friend to be out on the town just when he was wanted.
Bethancourt returned to the table and, after being kicked sharply on the ankle by Maria, managed to enter into the conversation with some animation. He was halfway through his entree when another thought struck him. He turned it over in his mind for a few minutes, and then bolted the rest of his dinner and asked to be excused again.
Once more there was no answer at Gibbons’, but with this new idea in his brain, Bethancourt was in no mood to sit through the rest of dinner. Returning to the dining room, he announced he had been called away and dashed off, thinking to himself it was lucky he had come up to scratch on Maria’s Christmas present because otherwise she would never forgive him.
Outside, it was beginning to rain again. Bethancourt hailed a taxi and gave Gibbons’ address. He was determined to plant himself on the doorstep and wait even if Gibbons stayed out until three in the morning. In reality, however, he soon grew cold and went round the corner to wait in the nearest pub. Bursting with his news, the minutes dragged by like hours until at last Gibbons answered his call—the fifth in half an hour.
“I’m round the corner,” announced Bethancourt. “I’ll be up directly.” And he rang off before Gibbons could protest.
Gibbons had not yet undressed. He felt it was unreasonable of Bethancourt to desert him for the evening and then to come tramping up to his flat at a quarter past eleven when he was trying to have an early night. Resignedly, he poured himself a scotch.
“I’ve got the answer!” Bethancourt announced dramatically as soon as Gibbons opened the door.
Gibbons eyed him as he stood flushed with the cold, eyes bright behind his glasses, grinning happily.
“You’ve been drinking,” he said.
“Of course I’ve been drinking,” replied Bethancourt, pushing past him and shedding his overcoat. “I’ve just come from cocktails and dinner. At least I’m not still drinking,” he added, seeing the glass in Gibbons’ hand. Then he rounded on his friend and asked abruptly, “Did Dick Tottle confirm Penny’s story?”
“In every particular,” answered Gibbons, getting another glass and filling it. He handed the drink to Bethancourt who took it mechanically and sat down. “Now, what’s this idea of yours?”
“It’s not an idea,” retorted Bethancourt, “it’s the solution to the whole puzzle. Who the dead man is and who killed him.”
“Well, who?”
“The dead man was Renaud Fibrier.”
“I thought we’d just decided he was the murderer.”
“We were wrong. Think about it, Jack—he’s everything we want in a victim. The right age, the right looks, and he disappeared late on Sunday night or early Monday morning.”
Gibbons thought about it. “So you’re casting David Bainbridge as the murderer?”
“Why not? After all, Renaud spent the weekend chatting up his daughter, on whom he dotes. Who knows, maybe she even succumbed. Or maybe Renaud was blackmailing him—he sounds the sort of chap who wouldn’t balk at a little extortion. And we’ve only Bainbridge’s word for it that Fibrier left for London early Monday. Penny and Dick never saw him.”
“Well, yes,” said Gibbons reflectively, “but wait a minute, Phillip. We know Renaud checked out of his lodgings on Tuesday. He could hardly do that if he was murdered on Sunday night.”
Bethancourt waved a hand airily. “That’s because when we talked to Mrs. Whatsis at his lodgings, we were expecting to hear that he had checked out on Monday or Tuesday. We didn’t ask her the right questions. If I hadn’t pressed Mrs. Tyzack when I was inquiring after Penny and Dick, she would just have said that they left on Monday, not that they paid up on Sunday afternoon and she hadn’t seen them since.”
“That’s true,” said Gibbons.
“And, Jack, I’ve remembered something else. You know what Penny said about a Ford Escort? Well, there was a blue one parked outside Bainbridge’s office when we went to see him.”
“Was there?” said Gibbons, more confused by this piece of information than enlightened.
“Yes!” said Bethancourt triumphantly. “If Bainbridge killed Renaud during the night, then he had to substantiate his story about taking him to the train in the morning, you know.”
“Of course,” said Gibbons, the light dawning. “He had his wife with him. He’d have to get up early and what better way to lend verisimilitude to an otherwise—”
“Just so.”
“That’s more promising,” said Gibbons. “You could be right, Phillip. Look here, we’ll go round to Fibrier’s lodgings again first thing in the morning, and if that turns out right, I’ll put it up to Carmichael. If the dead man is Fibrier, it should be easy enough to confirm through the Sûreté. Then we can go on from there. It’s going to be tricky, though, getting evidence.”
“Bah!” said Bethancourt, finishing off his drink. “His own words damn him. If Fibrier was dead in the attic on Monday morning, the best barrister in the world is going to find it difficult to explain why Bainbridge claims to have driven him to the station.”
“Well, perhaps,” said Gibbons, grinning. He raised his glass. “You may well have it, Phillip. Congratulations.”
They interrupted Renaud’s landlady during her first cup of coffee the next morning. She poured coffee for them while they explained what they wanted and then went to consult her registration book.
“Look here,” she said, returning with the book. “I remember now. I’ve even made a note in the book, but I missed it yesterday somehow.” She set the volume down and took up her coffee. “Renaud came to me,” she said slowly, as if trying to get the memory clear in her head, “and said he’d been invited to the country for the weekend but would be back on the Monday night. I said I could probably rent the room for the weekend, it being the holiday and all, but if I didn’t he’d have to pay for it. So he moved his things out and I put them in the closet. I did rent the room for the weekend, you can see by the book, but he never came back.”
“So his things are still here?”
She shook her head. “No. On the Tuesday another man came and said Renaud had to leave in a hurry—his father had fallen ill, I think. Anyway, he paid me up to Tuesday and returned the key Renaud had gone off with and took his things away.”
“Would you recognize this man again?” asked Gibbons eagerly.
She looked doubtful. “I might,” she said, “and then again I might not. He was older, I remember, and looked respectable.”
Gibbons described David Bainbridge. “Could that have been the man?” he asked.
“It could be,” she agreed, “there’s nothing against it to my recollection. But I wouldn’t know until I saw him, and even then I’m not sure I’d recognize him.”
They thanked her profusely for her help, warned her they might call again, and left on swift, jubilant feet for Scotland Yard.
Carmichael was enormously pleased with both of them. He put through a call to the Sûreté and then sat puffing out his mustaches at them.
“Well done,” he said several times. “That’s a champion bit of work, lads.”
In an hour or two, the copy of Renaud Fibrier’s dental records arrived and were matched by forensics with those of the previously unidentified body. An air of satisfaction pervaded Carmichael’s office.
“I’ll just ring down to Brighton and have Bainbridge detained,” he said. “Then we’d better drive down ourselves. Bethancourt, would you care to accompany us?”
Bethancourt accepted this offer, and Carmichael smiled and nodded while he dialed the Brighton station. He made his request, and in seconds all the light had gone out of the room. The two young men watched Carmichael anxiously, but they could make little of the few monosyllables he spoke. At last he rang off and sighed.
“We’re too late,” he announced. “Bainbridge committed suicide yesterday.”
“What?” exclaimed Gibbons.
“He must have realized,” said Bethancourt, “that it was only a matter of time before we identified the body.”
“Did he leave a note?”
“Yes,” answered Carmichael, “but it’s hardly a confession. It asks his wife to forgive him and says it will be better this way. Then he says she knows he’s always been a weak man, and that he’s glad to have found the strength to do this.”
“Well,” said Gibbons dully, “that’s that.”
* * *
It was raining again and the evening air was chill. Bethancourt paused for a moment in the vestibule while Cerberus shook himself dry. Then he firmly pressed the bell.
She was surprised to see him. Her eyes were red with weeping and she looked tired, but she invited him in politely.
“I didn’t expect the police again,” she said.
“I’m not the police, Maureen,” said Bethancourt gently, divesting himself of his overcoat. “I came to satisfy a personal curiosity. There is no reason for you to talk to me if you don’t want to. But if you do, it will be between you and me.”
“I don’t mind,” she said. “But I don’t know if I can tell you anything more.”
“Your father either wrote or called you before he died,” said Bethancourt simply.
Her eyes widened a little. “How do you know that?” she asked.
“The note that he left was addressed only to your mother, yet you were very dear to him. I’ve been thinking it all over, and my guess is that you know what happened that night, the night Renaud Fibrier died, that you knew before you heard from your father. You know because you were there.”
