“God damn you to hell, Reuel Williams!”
It was a shriek to shatter windows. Reuel Williams gazed across the table with an air of polite dismay. “What’s the matter, Iseult? Have I said something inappropriate?”
Chapter 23
“SO THAT’S WHY MARY Rhys was blackmailing you.”
Tom made it a statement, not a question. Madoc wasn’t standing for interference.
“Let me handle this, please, Tom. Mr. Williams, did Madame Fifine tell you, or were you able to determine from material in the scrapbook, exactly when this gorgeous redhead was employed in her establishment?”
“It was only for a short period, not more than a few months. I could put through a call to Madame Fifine if you think it’s important.”
“I didn’t realize you despise me this much, Reuel.” Iseult spoke not resentfully but wearily, the fight gone out of her. “Actually it was more a matter of weeks than of months. I was researching a part, trying to get the feel of—oh, hell, what’s the use. I’d been let down over a job, I’d dropped what little money I had trying to win back my fare home, and it was a matter of take what you can get. In France they’re more civilized about such things.”
“Nobody’s judging you, Iseult.” Lisa sounded worn-out too. “We just want to get at the truth for once. Were you in Marseilles on the night of April twelfth eight years ago, as Lady Rhys claims you were? You might as well say. Madoc will find out anyway.”
“Thanks to my pal here. I know. Yes, I was there. When Lady Rhys saw me, I was out for a stroll with one of Madame Fifine’s regulars. She didn’t allow anything really kinky, she was quite the gentlewoman in her way, but this chap had a relatively harmless little thing about trotting along behind a girl and pretending to pick her up. He was a bit on the prissy side, he wouldn’t have dreamed of approaching anyone to whom he hadn’t been formally introduced. I didn’t mind, it made a change. Anyway, he trailed me back to the house and business continued brisk from then on, so you see I have an involved alibi. I didn’t kill poor old Arthur because, like Dafydd, I simply wouldn’t have had the time. Not that I would have anyway, he was such a pet.”
“When did you find out Arthur was dead?” Madoc asked her.
“It was after daybreak, I know, because I was just getting to bed. Unaccompanied, that is to say. My room faced out on the alley. I heard a bit of commotion and looked out the window, as one naturally would. A couple of flics were down there, bending over a man who was lying on the ground. I could see a wallet and a few calling cards or some such scattered around him, it was fairly obvious he’d been beaten to death and robbed. Then one of the flics stepped aside and I got a look at the man’s face. I recognized Arthur Ellis immediately and decided that this was not the place for me.”
“So what did you do?”
“I knew Madame would be up and about; she never missed a trick in more senses than one; so I went and told her I’d got another job and must leave for Paris tout de suite. She knew I was lying, but she also knew I hadn’t killed the man in the alley. Anyway, she didn’t want a scandal any more than I did, so she paid me off, told me there’d always be a bed waiting should the new job not suit, and wished me bon voyage.”
“That was sweet of her,” said Reuel. “I’m sure you were sadly missed.”
“I shall see to it that you wind up writing documentaries again,” Iseult replied through clenched teeth. “Preferably in Okhotsk.”
“You don’t know how Arthur happened to be just there?” Madoc persisted.
“No. Arthur definitely had not been one of Madame Fifine’s customers, neither she nor any of the other girls recognized him. The police assumed he’d been pushed into the alley as he walked by, or else struck down on the sidewalk and dragged in there to be searched and robbed. Madame Fifine was of the opinion that he’d been killed somewhere else and brought there by one of her competitors to make her look bad. I had to listen to a tirade before she got round to counting out my money. It was rather nerve-wracking; I did want to be off.”
“Where did you go once you’d left the house?”
“I took a bus to Cannes. That was Madame’s idea, actually. She thought it might look too obviously like flight if I went scuttling off too far too fast. As usual, she knew best, Cannes turned out to be the best stroke of luck I’ve ever had. I met a producer from Curvaceous Cinema on the beach, and my career took off.”
“Along with a few other things, no doubt,” drawled Reuel.
“Too bad your scripts aren’t so clever as your repartee. Can’t you arrest him, Madoc?”
“I may. We’ll see. When did you first hear from the blackmailer?”
“Just about the time advance publicity for my first really big film began to appear. It was a note, clumsily printed in purple ink on cheap paper, all correct and according to protocol. It started with a modest request for fifty pounds, along with a threat to divulge not only my short career as a lady of the evening but also my connection with the death of Arthur Ellis if I didn’t pay up. I wasn’t about to risk any unfavorable publicity then, of all times, so I paid. The following month, I got a polite thank-you note and a request for another fifty pounds. And so it went. The amounts were bearable, so I kept on paying. As my career burgeoned, the price went up.”
“How much was your last payment?” Madoc asked her.
“Five hundred, once a month. By that time, I was getting polite telephone calls instead of notes. It hadn’t been raised for almost a year. Neither had my earnings, in case you were about to ask. Actors over here don’t earn at the same scale as Americans do. Some Americans, at any rate. And much as I hate to admit it, I’m not quite the blazing star Reuel’s old girlfriend apparently thinks I am. It costs a bomb to live in London and keep up appearances, Tom can bear me out on that. I was feeling the pinch, and wondering what to do if the price went up again. And to think all the time it was only that silly old Mary. Why didn’t I recognize her voice on the phone? Because I’d never heard her say anything but, ‘Yes, brother,’ I suppose. Gah! If I’d known, I’d have killed her myself. Go ahead, Madoc, arrest me.”
“Sorry, Iseult. As of now, there seems to be no provable case against you. How many of those evening strolls with your client had you taken?”
“Not many. Three or four, I suppose. I told you I hadn’t been there long.”
“But there would have been time enough for somebody to spot you and track you to Madame Fifine’s. Somebody who was aware that you knew Arthur Ellis, for instance. You’d gone about with him at one time, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but not for long. I made the mistake of bringing Arthur out here one weekend to impress him with my aristocratic relations, and he met Lisa.”
“You weren’t too happy about that?”
“Not thrilled to the marrow, no. What woman would be? But that was ages ago.”
“People have been known to hold grudges. You continued to visit Sir Caradoc frequently?”
“Not frequently, but from time to time. A baronet in one’s family is good for the image, you know.”
“I suppose so, I’d never thought of it that way. During your infrequent visits, then, did you ever express yourself on the subject of Arthur Ellis?”
“I may have dropped the odd remark. If not, I’m sure somebody else did. Madoc, you’re not accusing me of having killed Arthur out of spite because he’d thrown me over for a crawl of tortoises.”
“No, I’m just wondering whether some bright soul might have thought your presumed disappointment over Arthur would constitute an adequate motive to set you up for a potential murder charge, in case a scapegoat should be required. Didn’t that ever occur to you?”
“God, no! You don’t mean Dafydd would—”
“Of course Dafydd wouldn’t.” Lisa was sticking her neck out now, good and proper. “Dafydd only plays grand opera, he doesn’t write the silly plots. You’ve told a very touching story, Iseult, but I can think of a few different twists that would fit your scenario
just as easily. For instance, while you were out on that little stroll, you happened to bump into Arthur. He liked to walk, you know, and he wasn’t afraid of anything, not even in Marseilles. You surmised he’d be carrying gems and you saw a way to solve your financial problems in a hurry. You managed to lose your follower briefly, which wouldn’t have been hard in such awful weather as Dafydd described, and accost Arthur. He wouldn’t turn his back on an old acquaintance, much less a relative of mine. You’re no pigmy—you could have shoved him into that alley, bashed in his head with a cobblestone or whatever, and robbed his body; then picked up your chap again and gone back to work.”
“So I could, and thanks for the compliment. For that matter, Lisa darling, it’s not inconceivable that you could have flown over to Marseilles with an artistically faked-up passport and killed him yourself. Wasn’t that what the French police were thinking for a while?”
“Until they found out I couldn’t possibly have managed it, yes. Iseult, I’m sorry. I don’t really believe you killed Arthur. Only I know it couldn’t have been Dafydd, because—”
Because, that was why. This argy-bargy wasn’t getting them anywhere, Janet decided. Dafydd wasn’t about to see Lisa pull her neck in again. “Madoc,” she said, “why haven’t you told them about the emerald?”
Iseult’s green eyes glittered like a wildcat’s. “What emerald?”
“The big one out of the crosier. Mary stole it and put a dummy stone in its place.”
“She didn’t! My God, Jenny, I don’t believe this. But why? She said herself the stone wouldn’t be marketable even if it was cut in half a dozen pieces.”
“Only because Mary would have recognized the pieces as having come from Uncle Caradoc’s stone,” Janet reminded her. “That wouldn’t prevent Mary herself from stealing it. But if somebody else found out she had it and stole it from her they’d have to kill her before they’d dare start peddling the stone. With Mary out of the way, the risk wouldn’t exist any longer. I’m sorry, Madoc, I didn’t mean to butt in.”
“That’s not butting in, love, you’ve made an excellent point. Go ahead, tell them the rest.”
“Well, I don’t know whether everybody here realizes that Dai Rhys was Mary’s apprentice?”
“That skinny kid with the pimples,” Iseult amplified, mainly for Tom’s benefit. “Mary’s nephew. He looks a bit dim to me.”
“Dai’s all right,” Janet protested. “He’s taken a lot of abuse from his aunt and uncle and I don’t suppose they’ve ever fed him right, but he’s not so dumb that he can’t tell a genuine emerald from a chunk of bottle glass.”
“Is that what it was?” Iseult sounded not only shocked but even somewhat frightened. “Then why didn’t he say so when she was putting him through that asinine business with the loupe?”
“Because he didn’t care to be made a fool of in front of Uncle Caradoc and the rest, for which you can hardly blame him. Dai was smart enough to realize Mary was using him to fortify that tall story she was handing us.”
“And we fell for it.”
“How could we know? As you said yourself, Iseult, the stone wasn’t all that exciting to look at. I remember feeling let down when Uncle Caradoc showed it to me the first time I came. We’re too used to seeing precious stones cut and polished the modern way.”
“I suppose so. But then why did you have to drag in all that about blackmail?” Iseult was working herself into a fury. “It’s so bloody simple. Somebody saw Mary taking the emerald out of the crosier, stole it away from her, and blew her up so that she wouldn’t be able to identify the pieces after it had been cut. Or else she was acting in collusion with someone who put her up to swapping the stone for a fake, then killed her so that he wouldn’t have to split the profits. Could that be what Mary was getting at yesterday, about what you’d learned from her gem-cutting film, Reuel?”
“You bitch! All I ever learned from that old hag was not to be too blasted polite to ill-favored women.”
“Am I ill-favored, then?”
“You’re ill-tempered, ill-informed, ill-equipped to be a decent actress, and too damned ready to ill-wish anybody who gets across you. You’re the only one of this crowd who’s mad enough about emeralds to kill for one.”
“What do you mean, this crowd? I thought you’d never met them before?”
“Granted, I don’t know. Maybe you’re all in it together. Maybe the whole bloody show’s a pack of thieves and murderers. By God, Iseult, that’s it! Mrs. Ellis, is there something I can write on? I’ve got to get this down before I lose the drift. Melissa? Medora? Marbella? I always have to start with the woman’s name. Merinda, that’s the ticket! Malicious Merinda, vicious Merinda. Damn your soul, you harpy, you’ll knock ‘em dead at the box office. You’ll have to dye your hair black.”
“Like hell I will. Black’s too aging.”
“Oh, Christ! You and your bloody vanity. Face it, Iseult, that last face-lift’s slipping already. You’re all through playing sweet young heroines. This one’s for you, pet, a role you can really get your teeth into. Or whosever teeth you’re wearing nowadays. Brace yourself, Issy baby, this is going to be a biggie. Where do you hide your typewriter, Mrs. Ellis?”
Lisa cocked an eyebrow at Madoc. He nodded. “Go ahead, Williams. Just don’t let your inspiration carry you away from the village.”
Iseult shrugged. “Oh well, writers are born crazy. He’d better be right this time, damn him. I look like the wrath of God in black. Where do we go from here, or don’t we? Are you going off and detect some more, Madoc?”
“I don’t have to go off. My mother’s probably searching your room about now, she’ll phone me here if she finds anything.”
“What? Of all the cheek! She can’t do that.”
“Yes, she can, Iseult, and most capably. You know my mother. Lisa, I’m going to have to poke around a bit. Do you mind?”
“I’d be delighted. Anything to get this ghastly tangle sorted out. Is there any way I can help?”
“You can open any drawers or cupboards that need to be unlocked.”
“There are none, we never lock anything. Shout if you want me.”
“Actually I’d as soon you came along, to make sure I don’t pinch the tortoises.”
“Jolly good show!” Tom was on his feet. “Come on, Iseult. Now’s our chance to watch the great sleuth sleuthing.”
“May we?”
“Everybody’s welcome.”
Madoc was quite good-natured about it, Janet surmised that he’d rather have them under his eye than off tampering with evidence. “So long as you keep out of my way and don’t touch anything. Otherwise you’d have to stay here in the kitchen. You too, Jenny love, you can be acting constable.”
Reuel could be left alone safely enough. He was pounding away nineteen to the dozen, the noise would keep Madoc informed of his whereabouts.
“We’ll start in the bedrooms,” said Madoc. “Standard police procedure.”
It probably wasn’t, Janet thought. He was just hoping he’d run across something before he wound up having to check out all those tortoises.
Either Lisa was a model housekeeper, or else she’d had someone from the village in to oblige that morning. Her own room was both charming and immaculate; Tib’s was no more disastrous than might be expected of any normal teenager. Tom’s had been rather perfunctorily tidied; there were a couple of dust kittens under the bed, the straw boater he’d had on at the concert was hanging by its elastic from the doorknob, and his hairy Norfolk jacket was tossed over the one straight chair. He was wearing the plus fours again today, with Argyle socks and a Fair Isle pullover, he looked like a member of the Drones Club up for the weekend and about to go off and scratch the back of the earl’s prize pig.
So far, nothing of interest. Dafydd’s room was next. His homey touches were on a different level: silver-backed brushes, a little leather case holding his tooled-gold cuff links and studs, a silver shoehorn on the dresser, a copy of the Mabinogion on the
bedside table with a bookmark in it and a pair of reading glasses beside it. The wardrobe held his black frock coat and trousers, the not-too-tweedy tweed suit he’d no doubt traveled in, a pair of gray flannels, and a navy-blue blazer for taking Lisa out to dinner. There was nothing in any of the pockets.
A pair of dress pumps, a pair of town shoes, and a pair of leather traveling slippers were lined up under the garments. There was nothing stuffed into a toe. There was nothing in the dresser drawers but a genteel sufficiency of shirts, socks, and underwear, all carefully folded. Dafydd’s pajamas were under the pillow, also properly folded. There was nothing else under the pillow, nothing under the mattress, nothing taped to the back of the wardrobe, nothing pinned behind the curtains.
Iseult yawned. “How boring.”
“That’s all?” said Tom. “Are you quite sure there isn’t a hollowed-out secret compartment in the back of the clothes brush?”
He took a step toward the dresser, caught his foot in the small bedside rug, and stumbled. “Oh sorry, Lisa. Clumsy of me. Madoc will have to put it straight, I’m not allowed to touch anything.”
“That’s quite all right, Tom.” The gibe was missed, Madoc seemed amused. Janet caught on—that short piece in the aged floorboards was easy enough for anybody who’d grown up in an old farmhouse to spot. Madoc knelt, opened the blade of his jackknife, and exposed the cache. “Is this it, Jenny?”
“Looks like it to me, a soft black leather pouch with handles. It can’t have been there more than a day or so, there’s not enough dust on it.”
The Wrong Rite Page 22
