Pursuit of a Parcel

by Patricia Wentworth

  Mr. Van der Pol shrugged his shoulders.

  “Oh, not so very much. What you might call a family resemblance—a matter of height, build, general characteristics. I might put it this way—a description of either man would fit the other, but anyone who knew Barend would not be likely to take him for Cornelis, or Cornelis for him.”

  Inspector Lamb said, “And I take it that Miss Van der Pol does know this Mr. Barend Roos?”

  Mr. Van der Pol became slightly withdrawn in manner.

  “My daughter has met him socially. He was an acquaintance, not a friend. Some months have passed since she saw him last, and it is possible that she was mistaken, though she will not admit this herself.” He stepped back a pace. “Perhaps you would like to ring her up. I believe she is at home.”

  Inspector Lamb said, “Thank you, sir—it would be more satisfactory.”

  He sat down to the table and dialed the number Mr. Van der Pol gave him.

  “I do not know if you would care to have me explain to my daughter—”

  The Inspector’s eyes dwelt on him. Their gaze betrayed none of the intelligence at work behind them. He said in an expressionless voice, “Thank you, sir—I don’t think so,” and proceeded patiently and perseveringly to get into touch with Miss Van der Pol.

  Having been assured in a clear girlish voice that he had achieved his object, he introduced himself without any flowers of speech.

  “Detective Inspector Lamb speaking. I would be glad if you would answer a few questions. Mr. Van der Pol informs me that you believe yourself to have recognized a certain Mr. Barend Roos here in London on Tuesday last.”

  Clara Van der Pol said, “Oh!” She was a little frightened, and immensely curious. She said “Oh!” again. And then, “Is my father there?”

  The Inspector said, “Yes.” He turned to the Secretary.

  “Perhaps you would just let Miss Van der Pol hear you speak, sir.”

  A faint smile appeared for an instant on Mr. Van der Pol’s face as he replied.

  “Certainly, Inspector. I imagine that she can hear me from where I am standing.” He used a tone a little raised above its ordinary level.

  Lamb said into the mouthpiece, “Is that all right, Miss Van der Pol?” and caught her quick reply, “Oh, yes. What is it that you want to know?”

  “About this Mr. Barend Roos. You think you saw him on—Monday was it, or Tuesday?”

  “Tuesday.” The girlish voice was quite definite. “And I am quite sure that I saw him.”

  “What time was it?”

  “About three o’clock. I had been out to lunch, and I was coming back. I was walking, and he passed me in a car—a Morris 10—12—I do not know. He was not driving. There was a small man at the wheel. Barend was at the side nearest me. I saw him very well, and I am quite sure that it was he. I came home and told my father—” She stopped suddenly, as if she might have said too much.

  Lamb took her up.

  “And your father told you that you had probably made a mistake, and that it was Mr. Cornelis Roos you had seen, and not Mr. Barend.”

  He heard her catch her breath.

  “Oh! How do you know that?”

  “Your father told me, Miss Van der Pol. Did you know Mr. Cornelis Roos?”

  “No.”

  “Never seen him?”

  “No.”

  “Then how do you know that you didn’t see him on Tuesday and take him for his cousin Mr. Barend?”

  If he expected to shake her he was disappointed. She said at once,

  “Oh, no, no—it was Barend.”

  Lamb said, “I see.” And then, “You know him as well as that?”

  There was displeasure in the voice that came back to him along the line.

  “If you mean that he is a friend, that is not true. But he is a friend of friends of mine, and I have met him at their house. I have met him too often to make a mistake.”

  “I see. Now will you tell me where it was that this car passed you?”

  “Oh, yes. I had been to lunch in Chelsea. I was walking along the King’s Road towards Sloane Square. The car passed me, coming from the Square.”

  “And went on down the King’s Road?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you, Miss Van der Pol.” He hung up the receiver.

  “Well, that doesn’t take us very much farther. She says she is sure that it was Barend Roos.”

  He gave the particulars of time and place to Sergeant Abbott, who wrote them down. Then he pushed back his chair and got up.

  “Tuesday—that was the first time he went down to see Miss Merridew. Can you tell me when he reached Wayshot, Mr. Rossiter?”

  Antony started slightly. It was as if the sound of his own name had recalled him.

  “He reached Fourways some time between tea and dinner, I think. The butler would know.”

  “And the distance from town is?”

  “Round about thirty miles.”

  “Then he wasn’t on his way there when Miss Van der Pol saw him—a bit too early. I wonder what name he was going under.”

  “Brown was what he gave Parker—but of course that mightn’t mean anything.”

  “It mightn’t, or then again it might,” said Inspector Lamb. “Well, I think we’ve finished here. What are your plans, Mr. Rossiter?”

  “I’m going back to Wayshot,” said Antony.

  XVII

  Antony went back to Wayshot, driving the Hillman as if he had some desperate appointment failing which he would be failing Delia and all his hopes. A man in trouble must have movement or stifle. A woman falls upon her bed or the bare earth and calls upon darkness and silence to cover her. Antony, being a man, pushed his car to its limit. Coming to Wayshot, he wondered what he was going to do there. Spend the evening with Miss Simcox? It was a paralyzing thought. He made for the police station and Hopkins.

  The Sergeant was pleased with himself. He had found two people who had seen a car near the entrance to Fourways on Thursday evening. Mary Porter, house parlourmaid at Mrs. Blake’s, said she was passing there just before half past six o’clock after having been out to tea with an aunt at Lane End. It was a dark car—might have been black or a very dark green—and it backed into the entrance. She thought it was going to turn and she didn’t take any more notice, and she didn’t see who was driving—not to say see.

  “Not much to go on, but this one’s better. Grimshaw’s boy, going out that way to deliver fish at Colonel Pilbeam’s—smart lad, name of Oakes—Tommy Oakes—well, he came along a matter of five minutes later, because he passed Mary Porter by the gate of the Grange and it would take her about that time to get there from Fourways. He saw the car turn out of the drive and go off in the direction of Lane Hill, and he says it was a black Morris 12—JMC and the number began with a double two. Boys always notice that kind of thing, and it’s not often they make a mistake. That’ll be a London number, so I rang up the Yard at once and let them have it. Seems they’ve got a Morris car connected with the case their end, so they were pleased as Punch.”

  “Anything else?” said Antony.

  Hopkins cleared his throat. His good news told, he had now to admit to something not very far removed from a set-back at the hands of Ivy Parkin. Ivy, it appeared, had behaved with scandalous levity—“Giggled and carried on,” was Hopkins’s description—and when asked whether she had met a young man on Wednesday afternoon as described by Mrs. Giles, had laughed fit to choke herself and said oh, no—how could he say such a thing? “‘Hasn’t anyone told you I’m a married woman? What was I doing Wednesday afternoon? Why, setting at home and saying my prayers same as I do regular.’ And off she goes again, and her mother Mrs. Parkin chips in and calls me a scandalmongering old turkey-cock!”

  “Would it be any good if I saw her?” said Antony.

  Hopkins cleared his throat portentously.

  “Well, I wouldn’t advise it. You see, by my way of thinking it’s bound to be one of two things. To start with, the man that w
as with Ivy Parkin on Wednesday evening—and I’m willing, to take Mrs. Giles’s word for it that she did see Ivy Parkin with a man just short of Fourways, because there isn’t much she misses, and that’s a fact—sharp as a jill ferret—” He passed his hand over his mouth and chin. “Well, perhaps I shouldn’t have said that, and I’d be glad if you’d keep it to yourself, Mr. Antony. But there’s times it gets your back up when a woman’s as sharp as some we won’t name, and I’d be glad if you’d forget it. I’ve nothing against women, and I’ve nothing against their being clever in their own way, but there’s a difference between cleverness and sharpness, and when I see one that’s a bit too sharp I can’t help hoping she’ll cut herself. Now where had we got to? We’d better get back and make a fresh start. That man that was with Ivy Parkin, he’s either a stranger to her—she being the kind of young woman as ’ud be ready to pick up with a stranger—or else she’s known him before. And if he was a stranger, there wouldn’t be much she could tell us, and if he wasn’t, she’d be likely to hold her tongue. So I wouldn’t advise your seeing her. You’d only get a lot of back-chat same as I did, and talk in the village into the bargain.”

  Antony jerked that away. If there was anything that Ivy Parkin knew and he could get it out of her, the village was welcome to talk itself black in the face.

  He drove away, and wondered again how the endless, dragging time was to be got through. Incredibly, it was not yet twelve hours since he had known that Delia was gone. They seemed to have been wrenched right out of time and to stretch as far back as he could remember. Before him lay the prospect of other hours as dreadfully prolonged. A craving for speed came on him like the craving for a drug—to race across the sky at three hundred miles an hour, to pass from land to sea, to cross the continents, to leave himself behind—and crash at last—

  He dropped back to sanity. Three hundred miles and an aeroplane were as remote as yesterday, and as little to be commanded. He had to be practical. This day—this hour—and Garrett’s car which could with difficulty be pushed to fifty-five—

  He slowed to take the entrance to Fourways, and saw a girl scuttle out of the way. The evening was dull but not yet dusk. There was plenty of light to see her by. He stopped the car with a jerk that tore at the brakes, jumped out, and ran after her. As he came up she looked back over her shoulder and giggled. He thought, “She’s nervous. What’s she doing here?” And then he was up with her, and she had stopped, and stood there making eyes and fiddling with the handle of her bag. It was two years since he had set eyes on her, but it was Ivy Parkin all right. There was no mistaking that bush of red hair. She had a bright green bandeau round it, and she was made up to the nines. The colour of her lipstick fairly blazed. She said, “Oh, Mr. Antony!” and giggled again. And again he thought, “She’s nervous.”

  There were no preliminaries. He said at once,

  “What are you doing here? Were you coming to see me?”

  She rolled her eyes at him.

  “I might have been. Would you have been pleased to see me?”

  He said, “Yes, I should.”

  “That starched Parker wouldn’t! Looks down his nose at anyone as if they were something he didn’t ought to see, and I don’t see that a girl’s got any call to put up with that! So I might have been coming to see you, and then again I mightn’t. You wouldn’t like to take me a nice drive in your car, would you?”

  He said, “That’s a good idea,” and was enraged when she gave herself the air of hanging back.

  “Not if you don’t want to of course, Mr. Antony.”

  “There is nothing I should like better.”

  He drove over Lane Hill and up on to the common. Ivy looked about her, giggled, and remarked that it was a nice quiet place—“but as for anywhere near the village, I’m sure you can’t so much as kiss a friend goodnight but what some old cat goes tattling all over the place about it.”

  “Why were you coming to see me?” said Antony.

  She rolled her eyes.

  “Oh, I dunno. Don’t you ever have a girl to see you?”

  “Was it about Delia?”

  “It might have been.”

  He turned round to face her.

  “Ivy, if you know anything, for God’s sake tell me!”

  She looked startled. He saw her draw away.

  “How could I know anything? I haven’t said I know anything.”

  “Then why were you coming to see me?”

  There was a pause. She said, “Oh, well—” and he had the feeling that she was enjoying herself, but rather frightened too. She broke into a giggle.

  “You should have seen old Hopkins when Mum called him a turkey-cock! I thought he’d choke!” She tossed her head. “What’s it got to do with the police who I’m friends with? And what’s it got to do with that interfering old cat Mrs. Giles who I go with or who I kiss goodnight to? Her precious Tommy’s safe enough that she always thought Gladys was after. Him! Glad wouldn’t have him, not if he went down on his knees, nor would any other girl that didn’t want poison for a mother-in-law! Maybe he’ll come home with a German frawline, and see how she’ll like that—scandalmongering after Glad and me like she does! Pity she hasn’t got something else to think about! I’m a married woman, aren’t I? How does she know it wasn’t my husband I was saying goodnight to?”

  “Was it?” said Antony.

  There was something underneath this uneasy stream.

  “Why should it be? A girl can have a friend, can’t she?”

  “Ivy—was it your husband?”

  She flared up.

  “Do you think I’d give him away if it was?”

  Something under the stream—something that might be given away—

  He said, “No, I don’t think so. Who was it?”

  The flare died down again.

  “I don’t know from Adam.”

  He heard himself laugh. It struck him with a kind of wonder.

  “Then you can give him away with a perfectly clear conscience.”

  “I suppose I can. But I wouldn’t for everyone, and that’s the gospel truth. Miss Delia, she’s never been nasty to me and Glad, and I wouldn’t be nasty to her. She always spoke nice to Mum, and she’d look and smile the same as if we were anyone else. So that’s why I’m telling you.”

  Antony said, “Go on.” His throat was tight. Delia in the village street—moving with her quick, light step—giving her enchanting smile to Mrs. Giles, to old Hopkins, to the brazen Parkin girls. It wrenched at his heart.

  He must have made some sound, because all in a moment Ivy was crying and telling him not to.

  “Don’t, Mr. Antony—don’t! It can’t be all that bad. They wouldn’t hurt her—nobody wouldn’t hurt Miss Delia. And I wouldn’t have told him nothing if I’d known what he was up to, the nasty little ferret.”

  Antony caught her wrist.

  “What did you tell him? No, don’t cry—that’s no good. Tell me!”

  “I didn’t know a thing, Mr. Antony.” She dragged out a handkerchief reeking of cheap scent and dabbed her eyes. “Never seen him before and never want to see him again. Come up to me when I was walking out this way Wednesday. On a motor-bike he was, and got off and passed the time of day and asked if I hadn’t got a friend with me—you know.” A giggle and a sob came out together. “Well, I hadn’t, and I said so. Then we got talking, and he said wasn’t it very dull down here for a girl like me, and I said it was. By and by he got talking about who lived in all the houses. We were round about where you picked me up, and he pointed to Fourways and asked who lived there, so I told him Mr. Merridew and his niece Miss Delia Merridew, and he said it would be very dull for her, but he supposed she’d got her friends. And I said oh, yes, there was you and there was Miss Cynthia Kyrle, Dr. Kyrle’s daughter. Mr. Antony, I didn’t mean any harm nor think any. It was just talk, and him making up to me all the time the way a fellow does when he wants a girl to think he’s keen on her. I didn’t take a lot of notice of what he sai
d, not till afterwards. I thought it was all just something to talk about whilst we got going, and that’s the honest truth.”

  He thought it was. His grasp tightened on her wrist.

  “You never saw him before?”

  “No, I never.” She was half crying still.

  “Would you know him again?”

  “I might.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  “I dunno. He’d on overalls and a mac—they kind of cover you up—and a cap and goggles, only he pushed the goggles up when he came across to speak to me. There isn’t much to see when a fellow’s got all that on. He was small, that’s one thing—wouldn’t hardly have come up to your ear. And a kind of fidgety way with him—he’d blink his eyes when he asked a question—and a London way of speaking. And I couldn’t see his hair—it was all hid up under the cap. I should think it’d be light, because he hadn’t any eyebrows to speak of, nor eyelashes neither. Kind of pinched-looking, if you know what I mean, but plenty of talk. There’s one thing he was right about if he never spoke another word—about Wayshot being dull. It’s all right when you don’t know anything different, but after London—” she tossed her head and rolled her eyes—“well, there’s times I’ve been so fed up I’d have had a shot at getting off with old Hopkins!”

  She jerked at her wrist to get it away, and Antony let her go. He had got as much as he expected and a little more. The description she had given him had possibilities. It might say something to the London police. Anyhow they should have it, and at once.

  He started up the car and drove back along the way he had come, Ivy beside him busy with her horrible handkerchief, compact, lipstick. The car fairly stank of chypre. He thought ironically of Garrett—but in a contest of reeks the old foul pipe should hold its own. Under the surface hope pulled frantically against despair.

  As they approached the entrance to the drive, Ivy giggled and put a hand on his arm.

  “If you’ll put me down here, that’ll be all right. And thank you for the drive.”

  It had been a jaunt—a break in the dullness of Wayshot. A bitter anger came up in him. Delia and he were the sport of a trivial fate! Because Ivy Parkin hankered after London and found Wayshot dull, Delia had been thrown to the wolves. She had doubtless been bored this afternoon. His agony would be a godsend to her. There was a horrible moment when he felt like murder. And then Ivy was getting out of the car. He slammed the door and let both windows down to clear the chypre.