Die-Cast (A Peter Marklin Mystery)

by Neville Steed

  After three hours and a quarter, the time then being after seven o’clock, I started to feel what an idiot I had been not to have rung Blake instead of going to see Whetstone, but I reasoned that the man on the ground could move faster. I’d just about decided to move off and find a public phone box to try and remedy my mistake, when I at last saw the flare of a pair of headlights slowing down in front of the cottage. The lights were dipped, and, a moment later, the fragile silhouette of the old lady emerged from the passenger side. I saw her wave, and then the headlights resumed full beam, and the white shape of Lavinia’s Escort splashed away past me and out of sight. I waited about five minutes, just in case, and then, damp and stiff, knocked at the door.

  Mrs Olsen, needless to say, was not only surprised, but somewhat alarmed to see me once more, especially in my rather wet state, and didn’t invite me in. So what little conversation we had was of the doorstep variety, but sufficient for me to gather she still had not remembered which night she had called on Lavinia.

  ‘I was out quite a few evenings collecting, as you may imagine, Mr Marklin, and which night I went round to Mrs Saunders, I still can’t recall. But I can’t see why you are so very interested in knowing. How can this help poor Mr Saunders?’

  ‘It’s a long story, Mrs Olsen, and it may not be relevant to his case at all,’ I replied, truthfully, ‘but I’d still like to know.’

  She smiled, patiently. ‘Well, to save you keep calling on me, Mr Marklin, I promise to get in touch with you if it ever does come back to me. Now if you’d just give me your address or telephone number...’

  I gave her both. ‘Now, please, Mrs Olsen, if you do remember, be sure to ring me before you ring Mrs Saunders. That’s very important. I don’t want her getting worried about things unnecessarily, you understand. She is naturally upset enough, as it is, and the date may, as I say, turn out to be of no help to any of us.’

  She promised, and I left. But I wouldn’t have taken bets on my hopes.

  *

  That evening, Arabella triggered the idea. I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of it. Maybe because I could no longer see the wood for the trees, let alone for the ghosts that seemed to flit between them. We’d discussed our own certainty that Lavinia had been out the evening of the murder, was desperate to conceal the fact, and knew, in all probability, far more about Maxwell’s death than she had admitted to anyone. Our problem, quite clearly, was proving it, if Mrs Olsen’s memory remained true to form.

  ‘And I feel if we don’t get at Lavinia very soon,’ I remarked, ‘while she is still obviously rattled, then she’ll have time to regain her composure, and we could be back at square one.’

  Arabella thought for a moment, running her fingers through her deliciously cropped hair. ‘Then don’t let’s wait for Mrs Olsen. Let’s accelerate the process somehow.’

  ‘Oh great,’ I laughed. ‘Wouldn’t I love to, but how, pray?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s a pity Lavinia knows you, me and Gus, otherwise you could have pretended to blackmail her or something.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Seeing her at Osmington Mills that night. You know, something that would expose whether she had actually been there.’

  ‘But nobody reported seeing her. Just Longhurst’s car. Her white Escort would have shone out in the dark, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Supposing she didn’t take her car. She could have walked. You say her house is only a couple of miles away.’

  ‘Lavinia, I don’t think, would walk anywhere, unless she had to.’

  ‘So, perhaps, Maxwell picked her up and took her down in his car.’

  ‘Possible, but how did she get back?’

  ‘Walked, because she had to, like you said.’

  I looked at Arabella hard. ‘You think she killed him, then?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. I just said, if she turns out to be desperate to hide the fact she was out the night of the murder, then she probably was somehow or other connected with it in some way.’

  ‘Like making the telephone call to get Longhurst down there, maybe to save her husband.’

  ‘Something like that. Lord knows exactly what.’

  I poured us both another glass of Pouilly-Fuissé in the hope that grapes would miraculously solve our dilemma, or, at least, make us feel better about having failed.

  ‘I could disguise my voice and phone her,’ I offered with a wink.

  ‘She knows you too well. And I reckon she’s a better actress than you’re an actor. Can’t you get some mate of yours to ring her?’

  ‘Do you know the penalty for blackmail?’

  ‘No,’ she laughed. ‘You’ll have to ask a lawyer.’

  ‘My God,’ I exploded, and leant over and kissed her. ‘I think you have found us the linchpin we were looking for!’

  13

  Next morning, Gus arrived, full of the joys of the wrong season, chipper as anything, because he’d managed to sell the previous day four pre-war Dinky aircraft, including a mint boxed Mayo Composite (a marvellous sea-plane atop a flying boat), for a grand total of a hundred and twenty pounds. I asked him where he had put the money, and he fished in his sweater and presented me with it, minus fifteen pounds.

  ‘My commission, old son. Know it isn’t quite ten per cent, but I’ll make it up next time.’

  I said, ‘Think nothing of it. Wrap your brains round this little thought instead.’ And I told him our plan. Before I could glean any comments, the doorbell interrupted us. As I went through the shop, I saw the white of his car — it was a policeman I’d never seen before.

  I guessed what he had come about. He wanted my description of the white apparition Lana-Lee had reported I had seen on the night of the party. What I could tell him certainly hardly caused him to need a new notebook, and, as he left, I asked him to give my love to Inspector Whetstone.

  It wasn’t until I was making a fresh cup of coffee to keep Gus quiet, that something the constable had said rang a bell. He had asked whether I agreed with Lana-Lee’s description of the phenomenon as a ‘ghost or an angel’. Somehow, the mention of the word ‘angel’ disturbed me, and I couldn’t quite think why until, suddenly, I had a vision of Muir’s dining-room table that day, and its disturbing ranks of brass angels, none of whom could really be described as benevolently angelic in the conventional sense. I tried to dismiss the thought as ludicrously irrelevant, but it would go on nagging me.

  Gus’s comments on my plan of action, provided I could persuade Lynch to go along with it, were not really of vintage Tribble quality, ranging from ‘Bloody let me go and scare the living daylights out of the woman instead,’ to ‘Force old Mrs Olsen to pretend she has remembered she came round on the murder night.’ The comments in between were even less intellectual. However, he did insist that he should be written in to my own scheme, if it were at all possible. I thanked him and said I’d let him know soonest.

  I rang Sebastian Lynch about 11.30, and I was with him in time for another of his lavish ‘canteen’ lunches, served, on this occasion, in the privacy of his office.

  ‘You’re asking me,’ he smiled, fingering the stem of his wine glass, ‘to be a kind of Perry Mason, aren’t you? Half legal beagle, half soft shoe? Doesn’t happen in England.’

  I nodded. ‘I suppose not.’ I looked across at him quizzically. ‘But I thought you were different. Maybe I was fooled by your pop star clientele and your manor house offices.’

  He laughed. ‘Forget all that. I’m still a solicitor.’

  I thought for a moment. ‘Lavinia Saunders doesn’t know you, as far as I’m aware.’

  ‘Very possibly not. But I’m supposed to practise the law, not break it.’

  ‘The police are supposed not to arrest innocent people,’ I countered, and Lynch licked his finger and marked one up for me.

  ‘Are you really convinced about what you’re saying?’

  ‘Yes. If my guts are any guide. How are your guts?’

  ‘I’ll bust them to get Adam
off. And, to be honest, not only for his sake.’

  ‘Your reputation?’

  ‘Precisely.’

  I suddenly twigged what he was getting at. ‘Thinking of doing a deal with me?’ I asked.

  His face broke into a broad smile.

  ‘Outline one,’ he said.

  So I did, and an hour later I was still with him when he made the telephone call.

  *

  ‘Did you tell that lawyer fella I was coming?’ Gus muttered, as he clambered awkwardly out of my car.

  ‘No, Gus, I didn’t.’

  ‘I didn’t bloody know you were,’ I grinned.

  Gus tried to smooth a few of the rucks out of his sweater, as always, without success.

  ‘Couldn’t let you go alone. Never know what she’ll do, woman like that.’

  ‘Keep your voice down, Gus. We don’t want to advertise to the whole ruddy neighbourhood that we’re around.’

  I locked the car, and led Gus cautiously out of the clearing, and up the private road that would eventually lead to the house. I cursed the fact it was still light, for, the way God had made Gus, even if you sprayed him in alternate streaks of green and brown, he would still have been about as conspicuous as a zebra crossing.

  We made our way slowly, dodging in and out of the small bushes that lined the road, until we came to the bend, beyond which the house lay. I cautioned Gus to stay where he was, whilst I did a recce. He gave the scout’s salute and crouching, I ran from cover to cover to where I could just see the house. As I expected, the Ford Escort was in the drive, but, luckily, no other cars, so I prayed she was alone. I looked at my watch. It was 5.30. Quarter of an hour to kill.

  I crept back to Gus.

  ‘Come on, crouch down. Don’t say a word and do exactly as I do.’ Amazingly he did, and a moment later, we were both lying on the damp grass across the road from her driveway, hidden pretty much from sight by a rather sick looking rhododendron.

  ‘Now we’ve got to wait,’ I breathed.

  ‘Now we’ve got to wait,’ Gus breathed.

  ‘Shut up,’ I said, but couldn’t help grinning.

  ‘Shut up,’ he said, and winked.

  So we both did for about ten minutes, until we heard the sound of a car. It parked about fifty yards from us, a black and gold Lotus Esprit. (I heard later it was Lynch’s wife’s shopping car.) We watched as the solicitor looked around, then walked slowly up towards us and the house. As he passed, I hissed and he looked around. I was pleased he did not stop when he heard the signal. He turned into the drive, and soon we heard the front doorbell. We hardly saw Lavinia, for the door seemed to be shut almost as soon as it was opened. Lynch must have been lucky not to have had his heels clipped.

  I looked at Gus and held up my crossed fingers. He undid them for me and grinned.

  ‘Lawyers like him don’t need crossed fingers,’ he grunted, ‘just crossed cheques,’ and he wheezed with chuckles. I was too nervous even to dig him in the ribs.

  Though it seemed an age before Sebastian Lynch re-emerged, it was actually under a quarter of an hour by the watch. I was just relieved to see him still all in one piece and as self-possessed as ever; he did not even glance our way as he passed us.

  I looked quickly back at the house, and could just see a figure standing by the front room curtains. It stayed there for quite some time after Lynch had passed — indeed, until he had turned his car and driven off — then it vanished. It was then that Gus and I took the opportunity to do likewise.

  We all met again, as pre-arranged, at the Warmwell junction. Lynch came over and sat in the back of my car.

  ‘Well?’ I asked, my heart, as they say, in my mouth.

  He looked at Gus. I nodded. ‘This is Gus Tribble. He’s on our side.’ He shook hands.

  ‘Well,’ he grinned, ‘thank God for Mrs Olsen.’

  I leaned round and grasped him by the hand. ‘Thank God for Perry Mason.’

  ‘And for you and Mr Tribble, for keeping a watching brief on the house just now. It made me feel much more secure.’ He took a small tape recorder out of his pocket. ‘I should have it all here.’ He rewound it, then played the first few seconds. Lavinia’s voice came over, slightly muffled, but very recognisable.

  ‘Well done,’ I said.

  ‘Not for court use,’ Lynch reminded me. ‘Just for our private satisfaction. I’ll play it to you once, then destroy it.’

  ‘When have you arranged the next meeting?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning. The International Conference Centre in Bournemouth. The foyer. It was her choice. She said her bank wasn’t far from there.’

  ‘Did she admit anything?’

  ‘No. She doesn’t need to, does she? The thousand pounds in fivers should do the confessing for her in the morning — when the police take over. The money is apparently the last of a legacy her mother had left her.’

  ‘Even though I will say it was all my idea and that we only did it because Whetstone wouldn’t listen, and we were afraid Mrs Olsen’s life might be at stake, you’ll get plenty of flack, won’t you, from your profession?’

  ‘Probably, but nothing fatal. When you hear the tape, you will realise I was very careful and chose my words with infinite care.’

  ‘How d’you mean?’ asked Gus. ‘It was still blackmail, wasn’t it?’

  Lynch smiled. ‘Not really. You see I put the whole proposition in the third person.’

  ‘What third person?’ asked Gus. ‘I thought there was only you and her there.’

  ‘What I meant was that I put it to her as a hypothetical question: what would she do if someone had seen her getting out of Maxwell’s car at Osmington Mills, etcetera? If such a witness demanded a thousand pounds for his silence, would she be willing to pay, and so on. When she had got the money, where would she like to meet such a person? She naturally assumed such a person was myself or someone for whom I was working, but she was too frightened to ask which. In a way, this third person talk made me sound even more sinister, like I might be a hit man for the drugs mafia’.

  ‘So she was really frightened?’ I asked.

  ‘Out of her mind,’ he replied. ‘I almost felt sorry for her.’

  ‘I wonder what she is actually trying to hide,’ I mused.

  ‘We’ll know in the morning, I think, when the police empty her handbag. I felt she was very near blurting it all out tonight instead of paying. Kind of appeal to my mercy.’

  ‘Let’s hope whatever it is, it helps clear Longhurst. Now, who’s going to tell the police about getting their butts down to the Bournemouth Conference Centre?’

  *

  I made the call from Lana-Lee’s, as it was then after 6.30, and I had promised to be with Muir to see the finished master of the Flamingo at 8.15, so unless I’d gone by helicopter, I could not have made the journey to Studland and back in time. Besides, I felt Blake should be informed at the earliest possible moment in case Lavinia tried any little tricks between then and the morning. He was still at the Knoll House Hotel.

  I took him through the events that led up to our ploy, and the results of said ploy, and made it quite plain that the whole operation had been really forced on us by Digger Whetstone’s intransigent attitude, an intransigence that could well have endangered Mrs Olsen’s life.

  ‘Don’t go on your knees, Peter, please,’ was Blake’s initial response. ‘You’ve done very well. Takes quite a sleuth to break a Sleuth alibi. Congratulations. I think my colleague might even change his mind about you after this.’

  ‘Only if tomorrow morning goes the way we hope it will. If she doesn’t go and get the money...’

  ‘I think she will, otherwise she would not have arranged to meet her anonymous caller in the first place.’

  ‘Supposing she flits tonight?’

  ‘That would be a greater admission of guilt than being caught with the money, wouldn’t it? No, I think she’ll come, but I’ll suggest to Inspector Whetstone he puts a watch on her house, just in case.’


  I breathed a big sigh of relief. ‘So you will make all the arrangements with dear Digby tomorrow?’

  He chuckled. ‘Don’t worry, I will. Do you want to come along to the Conference Centre and view from afar?’

  ‘No thanks. I’ll stick around at home. The tension would kill me. Just promise you will ring me the second you know any outcome.’

  ‘I promise. I may be a few hours though. We will want to interrogate her thoroughly. By the way, how the hell did you get Mr Lynch to co-operate?’

  ‘We did a deal, but you must never tell a soul.’

  ‘Cross my heart.’

  ‘I promise to say, if the outcome is the release of Adam Longhurst, which, please God, it will be, that he and I sleuthed together from the start.’

  ‘I see. Mr Lynch isn’t just a pretty legal face, he’s an astute businessman, who knows how to use others to further his reputation.’

  ‘Precisely. Does that description ring any home bells, Sexton?’

  ‘Touché!’ Blake laughed, and I felt happier than I had done for weeks. Especially as, soon after I’d put the phone down, I received two big kisses from two of the bluest-eyed blondes you’d care to meet around Osmington way. But I did remind both Lana-Lee and her daughter that their lips might be being a trifle premature.

  *

  There was only one problem with going to see Muir: I was stuck with Gus, for I was his only transport to get home. What’s more, we had both had the odd drink at Lana-Lee’s, which had rendered Gus rather more intractable than he normally is, as he drinks at about twice the rate of any other sane human being, when the tipple is free. Luckily, the more modest amount I had imbibed had been pretty beneficial — it had somewhat dulled my worries about the morning to come, it had increased my childish excitement at seeing my first model creation, and it had pushed into the background my apprehension about encountering, yet again, Muir and his wife’s solemn moralising.