‘Monsieur Sucker,’ I whispered to myself, but loudly enough for Blake to hear. He laughed.
‘Maybe. No, Maxwell’s accomplice was not Monsieur Sucker, but an Englishman you also, I believe, met at the same party.’
‘You can’t mean Saunders? I was only with his wife this afternoon.’
‘We picked him up just as he was leaving work for home. Around 5.45. He’s still at headquarters.’
‘Are you sure it was Saunders?’ Arabella asked with some disbelief.
‘As sure as I can be of anything in this convoluted mess, yes. You see, he was hardly a hard nut to crack, otherwise I would not have been able to come and see you tonight. As it is, I’ve still got a busy night ahead of me, after supper. I’ve left him making a full statement of his part in the affair.’
‘He confessed?’ I asked.
‘The instant we brought him to Bournemouth. I think Maxwell’s death had unnerved him more than somewhat. Maybe he thought we would accuse him of something worse — his murder.’
‘Now, that’s a thought,’ I mumbled, trying to absorb the ramifications of yet another theory being added to my collection. ‘Maybe he did arrange for his murder. And that would solve my problem, if not his, and I could go back to the tranquillity of selling the odd toy or two to peace-loving romantics.’
‘Such as yourself,’ Arabella teased, raising her already quite arched eyebrows. I lowered mine at her.
Blake looked at his watch. ‘It’s okay,’ Arabella took the hint. ‘There’s a cheese soufflé in the oven. I noted that you have to get back tonight.’
‘I’m sorry about that. I left the boys taking the statement, because it sounded as if it would go on for hours. As I have to go to London tomorrow all day, I thought I had better see you tonight and catch up later with the full details of his confession, when he has finished it. Otherwise, it might have been some time before I could have explained things, let alone apologize. And, with Longhurst going to court tomorrow...’
‘Well, thanks for coming, anyway. I can imagine how busy you must be. But tell me, did Saunders blame Maxwell for the whole affair, or what? And, if he didn’t murder him, does he have any idea as to who did?’
‘Question one — yes, he did blame him more or less. Said Maxwell came to him with the idea and traded on their old friendship and a bit of blackmail.’
‘Blackmail? About what?’
‘Something that happened years ago, he claimed, on the Grand Prix circuit. Some girl trouble or other. You know how the racing teams attract girls like long limbed flies. Story sounded pretty woolly to me. I think it was just a fabricated excuse for his own greed — we gather he owed money left, right and centre. So Maxwell’s return with a lucrative, if illegal, idea was a happy and welcome break for him. As to question two, he claims he has no idea who murdered Maxwell. And certainly vehemently, almost hysterically, states he didn’t.’
‘Business partners, especially criminal ones, have been known to include death in their negotiations with each other.’
‘True. I — er — reminded my colleague of that phenomenon.’
‘And dear Digger Whetstone, I assume, still maintains Longhurst is guilty, despite these new revelations about Saunders. I assume he knows of them.’
‘Of course,’ Blake said, with the smile of an angelic choirboy. ‘Would I ever conceal anything from a colleague on the force?’
‘But you obviously don’t share his opinion?’
‘Everything points to Longhurst, I’m afraid. That’s the problem.’
‘It’s all just too obvious, you mean?’
‘Something like that.’
‘And you’re relying on me to prove otherwise?’
‘No. Let’s just call it enlisting your intuition — like last time. Don’t forget, it’s Lana-Lee who is asking for proof, I assume, not me. So what does your intuition say about Longhurst? Guilty or not guilty?’
‘Open verdict,’ I truthfully answered.
Arabella got up and pointed kitchenwards. ‘Soufflé, anyone?’
‘Wonderful,’ said Blake with relish. ‘I’m famished.’
As we reached the door, he turned to me. ‘Peter, just one more piece of information for your mental digestion, so I don’t spoil your physical one by talking shop at supper.’
‘I’m not sure I can down any more, but I can’t stop you trying to feed me.’
‘Saunders could have murdered Maxwell, you know.’
‘How? Hiring somebody to do it? He was in Paris that night.’
‘No. He wasn’t. That’s one of the first things he confessed. He flew back to London early the evening of the murder.’
‘So Lavinia was lying this afternoon?’
‘Probably not. You see, he claims he has an air hostess girlfriend, who lives in Windsor, near the airport. He states that it’s paying for her flat and expenses that has helped get him in financial queer street.’
‘He says he spent the night with her?’
‘Yes. Our boys are checking on that now. Just thought you would like to know.’
‘What’s her name?’
Blake reached into the side pocket of his jacket, and produced a well-worn diary. He quickly thumbed to the right page. ‘Elizabeth Sumner. Want the address?’
I nodded. ‘Just in case I want to run up debts, you understand.’
‘Thirty-eight, Verulam Avenue, Windsor.’
‘I heard that,’ Arabella sang out from the kitchen.
We both laughed, I guess, for the first time that day. You know something? It tasted even better than a Johnny Walker.
8
‘Are you going to do what Sexton suggested?’
I was startled for a second, as I thought Arabella had dropped off at least an hour before. I looked across at her tousled head peeping above the bedclothes.
‘Haven’t got much alternative, have I? Unless you call going out of one’s mind an alternative.’
She sat up on one elbow, and there was just enough moonlight in the room to dust what the sheets now revealed with distracting prominence.
‘Sounded sensible though, take each day at a time, not rush things, let the impressions build up in your mind before trying to tie them all up into neat parcels, or making them form a pattern, let alone a solution.’
‘Easy enough to say.’
She reached for my hand. ‘I thought his analogy was very good.’
I looked at her with mock horror. ‘Really, madam...’
She shook her lovely head. ‘No, seriously, Peter, you were expecting it all to pan out like it does in those old Hollywood private eye movies, with every interview or encounter being wonderfully productive and pushing the plot merrily along to a hugely successful climax. It’s not like that in real life, as Blake said. It’s ninety-five per cent work for five per cent progress, and that’s if you’re lucky. It can be a hundred per cent for nowt. And, to quote him, another unsolved crime joins the others gathering dust and cobwebs in the basement.’
‘I didn’t like him calling me Sam Shovel, the poor man’s Sam Spade.’
‘He was trying to cheer you up.’
‘He could have chosen a million better ways of doing so.’
Arabella sat bolt upright. ‘You haven’t really answered my question. Are you going to take it more sanely — let impressions build up on their own, without forcing them to...?’
‘You make me sound like a sponge,’ I chuckled.
‘Yes,’ Arabella said delightedly, ‘that’s exactly right. That’s what Blake wants you to be, not Sam Shovel, but Sam Sponge. Soak it all up, and only squeeze yourself out at the end to see what you’ve got, if anything.’
‘But I have to squeeze myself before poor Longhurst is found guilty by twelve good men and true.’
‘And women.’
‘Twelve good jury persons and true. That better, Gloria Steinem?’
She squeezed my hand. ‘That’s better.’ Then she snuggled down beside me, very beside me.
‘Do you know something?’ I whispered.
‘What?’ she mumbled into my cheek.
‘It must be the only time in my adult life when I have totally undressed twice in one day, and not made love.’
‘Has to be a first time.’ Her mumble translated itself into some rather soft brushing of her lips on my neck. Tired as I was, I turned towards her, and then the phone rang. And rang and rang and rang and rang. At last, I couldn’t stand it any longer. I freed a hand and answered it. It was Lavinia. Deep down in the hysterical ‘Help me’s’ I soon traced the slur of alcohol. Lots of it. After about ten minutes I had managed to calm her down sufficiently to discover she reckoned I was about the only friend in the world to whom she could turn — for what, I couldn’t quite make out. Hardly to help her husband, as the trigger for her call (beyond alcohol) had been the police informing her of his arrest and total confession. Maybe it was just a shoulder to cry on. In the end, I left it that I wasn’t at my best at 2.30 in the morning, but would bring both shoulders around some time during the day’s more civilised hours.
‘Don’t forget to see Gus first, will you?’ Arabella reminded me, as I put the phone back under the pillow.
‘No. Otherwise, I’ll go bankrupt. And I ought to go and see my famous client too, Lana-Lee, like a good Sam...’
‘...Sponge.’
‘Shut up,’ I explained. And a moment later, unchivalrously, I went out like a light — a burnt out forty-watt variety.
*
I didn’t have to go chez Gus. He came to me — to pirate a breakfast, and catch up on whatever news was going. Arabella had left some minutes before to go to her paper and cajole her boss into letting her cover Adam Longhurst’s appearance in court. So I fed Gus’s maw with toast and Robertson’s, coffee and my lack of progress on the Maxwell affair. To cheer me up, he praised Blake for his cleverness over the Reinhardt snowball drugs operation. Sometimes, I think Gus thinks tact is what a carpet is. Eventually I managed to bring the conversation round to what I wanted. Luckily, he gave me the lead.
‘What’s my role going to be in all this then?’ he asked between giant munches. ‘Like to help.’
‘Friend and confidant.’
Gus looked non-plussed. ‘No, I mean what am I going to do?’
‘Well, it’s this way, Gus. I nearly got you killed the last time you helped me. And I’m not willing to risk your neck again.’
‘My neck.’
‘My risk. My guilt. My fault I took this case on. So it’s my decision.’
‘So what the hell do I do?’ he muttered.
‘Something I can’t right now. At least, not properly.’
‘Think straight?’ he offered.
‘No. That I’m doing. I — er — would like you to hold the fort.’
‘What fort? You bought Corfe Castle, then?’ He shook with laughter and slopped some coffee onto Bing’s tail. The meow was hardly one of affection.
‘Mind the shop for me. You know, open up and sell toys now and again, when I can’t.’
To say his expression was one of disbelief was the understatement of the year.
‘It’s not difficult,’ I quickly added. ‘Every toy is marked with its price. Only discount for cash sales, and then by not more than ten per cent. I’ll look after all the direct mail orders in the evenings and...’
Gus interrupted by clearing his throat. Sounded like thunder. ‘Like me to Hoover round? Do a bit of dusting? Windows need a wipe?’
‘Oh come on, Gus, it was just a thought. If you don’t want to do it, forget it. I was going to mention you get ten per cent of everything you sell too.’
‘Don’t want charity, I don’t. If I do anything, I do it because I want to. Not because I’m being bribed. Got my OAP to keep me going nowadays, besides me boat.’
‘Okay, I won’t mention it again.’
Gus’s eyes suddenly lit up, as he put down his coffee mug. ‘Tell you what, old son. Let’s do a bit of bargaining.’
‘What have you got in mind, Gus?’ I asked with some trepidation.
‘Well, I’ll open up shop for you once in a while, if sometimes you take me with you, or let me help, with this Longhurst thing. Only fair, that is.’
I thought about it for a minute, then had an idea of my own. I extended my hand. ‘Okay, Gus, thanks. I appreciate it. Keeps the wolf from the door. And I’ve got something I’d like you to do, if you would.’ I grimaced as he shook my hand. (He had a grip like a vice. Can tighten nuts without a spanner. Seen him do it.)
‘What’s that then?’
‘This weekend, Saturday, would you mind if Tara-Lee came and helped you in the shop? She must be pretty upset about her father’s death, and all the commotion it has caused at the Manor, let alone her mother’s anguish. Might get her mind off it all.’ I bit my lip, but I needn’t have bothered. Gus reacted with one of his broader smiles.
‘Do more than that. How about if we kept open all morning, then I took her and her Mum out in me boat for the afternoon? Give ’em both a break, eh? Nothing like sea air for blowing away the miseries.’
I breathed a sigh of relief. Gus had found a way of meeting the famous film star at last. ‘Okay, that sounds good. I’ll ask Lana-Lee. I have to see her this morning, anyway. I’ll let you know tonight.’
Gus slurped the last of his coffee. ‘But I want a bit of the real action as well, you know,’ he grinned. ‘I’m not just your social secretary.’ He grinned with pleasure at knowing there was such a post.
‘No, I know, Gus. But that boat trip isn’t just social, is it, Gus?’ I tried. And it worked.
‘You mean—’ he thought on, ‘you mean, keep my ears peeled and all that. Chat ’em up a bit, and you never know what they will let slip?’
‘Something like that.’
Gus sniffed. ‘Yeah. Makes sense. I’ll — er — whatdoyercallit with you when I get back.’
‘Liaise.’
‘Yeah,’ said Gus, rubbing his head. ‘Leehaze.’ He looked at me, all innocence, then asked, ‘Like another piece of toast?’
‘Only if you’re having one,’ I laughed.
Gus double-took, then laughed himself. Some of my happiest times are with Gus.
*
The drive to Osmington proved to be far less of a chore than I’d imagined. Indeed, I thoroughly enjoyed extending my Beetle a little. (It’s a bit naughty. It has a Porsche engine. But everything that shows looks normal Beetle. Tends to get boy racers rattled.) The autumn sun was even warm enough for the top to be down, to help blow the grey from my mind, if not from some of my hair. (I’m discreetly greying at the edges. ‘Like a cheese’, Arabella so tactfully describes it.) Mind you, Gus had beaten the wind to it. His almost gross normality is a wonderful tonic sometimes — politicians should adopt him to ensure a little more objectivity and common sense enters their pontifications. Correction: delete the word ‘more’.
So, by the time I reached the Manor, I was more like my old self. A trifle tired, but with some old fashioned romantic optimism seeping back into my...ah, I had to remember that, sponge.
Lana-Lee answered the door herself, and we were soon in her, rapidly becoming familiar, drawing-room.
‘I’m so relieved to see you, Peter.’ She indicated I should sit next to her on the settee. I rather nervously obliged.
‘You’ve heard the terrible news?’
‘If you mean about Adam being charged, yes.’
‘I was going to attend, but Sebastian thought it better I didn’t. It would attract far too much press attention, he felt. He wants to keep the whole affair as low key as possible.’
I grimaced. ‘Going to be difficult, I’m afraid.’
She sat forward, resting her head on her hands, her long blonde hair falling like a gilt veil over her pain. ‘And now all that about Ben and Saunders.’
‘You’ve heard?’
‘Yes. Inspector Blake phoned me late last night. I almost phoned you then.’ She raised her head, and the haunted look in
her eyes only added to her stunning beauty. I could see why Sebastian Lynch wanted to keep her out of the camera’s eye. She looked quite sensational enough to murder for. ‘But almost immediately I received another call,’ she continued. ‘I was so tired after that...’
‘Let me guess who it was,’ I said quietly. ‘Lavinia?’
She nodded. ‘How did you know?’
‘She rang me also.’
‘To tell you she believed I put Ben up to the drugs scheme with Reinhardt?’
I didn’t hide my surprise. ‘No. Why, is that why she rang you?’
Lana-Lee sat around to face me. ‘Yes. She was horrible, horrible. She ranted and raved, and said I was behind the whole drugs racket, and that because of me, at least three men had been destroyed, her husband, poor Adam and...Ben.’ She suddenly grasped my hands. ‘Oh Peter, Peter, she can’t really think I had anything to do with any of it, can she? Especially Ben’s murder.’
‘Did you have anything to do with it?’ Hell, there I was being Sam Shovel again. Think Sponge. I kicked myself.
She withdrew her hands slowly, and sat back from me a little. ‘You as well?’ I had just added shock to the pain in her eyes, and I felt two inches high.
‘No, no. I didn’t mean it. It was a stupid question,’ I stammered.
‘No, it wasn’t. Not really. You won’t be the only person who will harbour suspicion about me. It doesn’t look good, I know. After all, I negotiated the Lana-Lee perfume contract with John Saunders. Then Ben came back. The two of them seem to have got the drugs scheme going. I could have been their mastermind, couldn’t I? Once the scheme was in operation, it might be thought Ben was then disposable. Hey presto, I kill Ben, and go back to my lover. Or maybe they might think Adam and I killed Ben together, somehow. I enticed him to the beach, say, where Adam was waiting...’ Her voice began breaking, and this time I took hold of her hands.
‘Look, you’re getting morbid. You mustn’t let Lavinia...’
‘Ever since her call I’ve thought of nothing else. Tara-Lee even came into my room, because she heard me crying.’
Die-Cast (A Peter Marklin Mystery) Page 12
