It was opened with unnerving promptness by an angular, gray-haired lady, who wore a dark-blue gabardine raincoat—despite the clement weather—and a sensible gray felt hat. She gave an exclamation of surprise at seeing Henry.
“Oh! You gave me quite a turn! What do you want?”
“I was hoping to speak to…the lady of the house,” Henry said, apologetically.
“Well, I’m afraid you can’t. Mummy is out. Mrs. Rosenberg, I should say. We were just going for a walk before supper. I had my hand on the door to open it when you rang,” she added accusingly.
Henry now saw, in the hallway behind the woman, a large shiny perambulator with wisps of pink and white frothy lace peeping over its dark flanks.
“Mrs. Rosenberg won’t be back till later, so if you don’t mind—” The woman grabbed the handle of the pram and wheeled it expertly in a sort of skid turn, giving Henry a glimpse of a tiny bonneted head on a lace-edged pillow. Directing the pram purposefully toward Henry’s stomach, the woman turned and called into the house, “Come along now, you boys! Nanny is waiting!”
From somewhere at the back of the house, footsteps came thudding into the hall, and two small boys with dark hair and mischievous faces joined the party. Henry judged them to be about four and six years old, respectively, and both were dressed with the neatness that only an English nanny of the old school can impose upon wayward youth when she intends to take it to the park.
“Ah, there you are. Come along now, one each side of the pram. That’s right. No, Arnold, you may not look at Baby. She’s asleep and a good thing, too. Least said, soonest mended,” she added inconsequentially, and wheeled the perambulator carefully out over the doorstep. It was then that she saw what Henry was holding. “That’s Master Simon’s ball,” she said.
“Yes,” said Henry. “That’s what I came about.”
“Well, it’s no use blaming me,” said Nanny, instantly on the attack. “I’ve only got one pair of hands and I’m engaged to look after Baby Rebecca. Those two boys are as much trouble as a barrel-load of monkeys, and I haven’t got eyes in the back of my head. If they’ve broken your window, you’ll have to speak to Daddy about it.”
She shot a devastating look at the two boys, and the smaller of them began to whimper. Nanny instantly changed gear, becoming the champion of the family.
“Now, now, Simon, there’s no need to be upset. Nanny will send the nasty man away, and Daddy will deal with him when he comes home.” She turned on Henry again. “And if you’re from next door, I can only say that some people deserve to have their windows broken, disturbing others the way they do.”
“Disturbing? I don’t understand—”
“That dog. If it is a dog. More like a poor soul in torment, as I said to Mrs. Birch, who obliges in the mornings. All night, it goes on. Cruel and thoughtless, that’s what I call it, and if you’ve a mind to complain about Master Simon’s ball, there’s two can play at that game, I can assure you.”
Henry said, “I didn’t really come to complain about the broken window, Mrs…er…Nanny. I’m a police officer. From Scotland Yard.”
Nanny was predictably unimpressed. “Police, are you? Then you might get something done about getting us a Panda crossing, that’s all I can say.”
“This howling dog,” Henry persisted. “When did you hear it?”
“When? The last three nights, that’s when. And you can tell your sergeant that if it happens again tonight, there’s going to be a complaint.”
“And it came from next door?”
“How should I know where it came from? It’s nothing to do with me, I’m sure. Now come along, Simon—and you, Arnold—or we’ll never get to the park and back by six. You can just give Master Simon’s ball to me—to me, I said, Simon—and keep that dog quiet in future.”
Nanny took the ball, placed it in the pram, and shepherded her flock out onto the path. She closed the front door behind her with a decisive slam.
“Now, you remember. If the howling starts up again tonight—”
“I don’t think,” said Henry, “that the dog will trouble you anymore.”
CHAPTER SIX
THE JOURNEY FROM Finchley to Battersea was a long and frustrating one, involving as it did crossing London from north to south in competition with the evening rush-hour traffic. It was seven o’clock before Henry arrived outside the ugly, dark red structure, as forbidding as a Victorian barracks, which had the words “Nelson’s Buildings” picked out in a curious sort of green and yellow tiled mosaic plaque over the main door. Further up the shabby street, identical blocks commemorated Frobisher, Drake, and Raleigh. The buildings were not exactly tenements, not exactly slums; in fact, Henry thought, they had probably represented a big step forward in enlightened Council housing when they were built, early in the century, but that was a long time ago.
There was no elevator, of course, and the halls and stairways—though clean enough—had the depressing yellow-tiled aspect and disinfectant smell of a public lavatory. Prams stood in serried ranks in the ground-floor hallway, and from many flats came the discontented wails of the very young, together with a permeating odor of boiling cabbage. As he trudged up the stairs to the second floor, Henry reflected that Mr. Rackham had been quite right about the contrast between No. 18 Sandown Avenue and Mrs. Lawson’s present accommodation.
The door of No. 208 was opened by a middle-aged woman, heavily made up and still handsome—even though her brassy-golden hair was far too bright to be true and her waistline had thickened. No smell of cabbage emanated from the apartment; on the contrary, as the door opened Henry was greeted by an appetizing whiff which reminded him of Provençal cooking—garlic and tomato and herbs. The woman eyed Henry in silence.
He said, “Is Mrs. Lawson at home?”
“Marlene? No, she’s not back yet. What is it this time?”
“I just wanted a word with her. Perhaps I could wait?”
“Who are you?” The woman was suspicious. “Another of Larry’s lot?”
A brief temptation to claim to be one of the Lawson mob flickered through Henry’s mind, but he dismissed it regretfully. For one thing, he did not approve of policemen who played at agent provocateur, even in a good cause—and more cogently, he was fairly sure that even if he succeeded in fooling Mrs. Lawson’s mother, Marlene herself would quickly expose him as an impostor when she returned. He said, “No. As a matter of fact, I’m from Scotland Yard.” He showed her his identity card.
“Oh, my God.” The woman glanced quickly around the landing, as if to make sure that none of the neighbors had overheard. “You’d better come in. What’s happened? Marlene’s not—?”
“No, no. Nothing to worry about.” Henry stepped into the flat, and the woman hastily closed the door behind him. “I’m just making a few more enquiries into Mr. Lawson’s death, Mrs.…Er…?”
“Bertini,” said the woman. “I’m Mrs. Bertini. Marlene’s mother. Both of us widowed now, and a cruel shame, with her so young and not married more than a couple of years.” She paused, and looked shrewdly at Henry. “But what’s this about more enquiries? It’s all over and done with. Coroner’s verdict of accidental death on poor Larry, and the man that did it got a year inside. Deserved more, I say—leaving poor Marlene as good as penniless, and her accustomed to the good things of life and why not? I always say—”
Henry cut short the flow. “Perhaps you can help me, Mrs. Bertini. I’m trying to find out more about Mr. Lawson’s visit to Gorsemere. I believe he was there on business?”
Mrs. Bertini looked thoroughly scared. “I can’t tell you anything. Of that I am sure. You’ll have to wait for Marlene. She won’t be long now.”
She ushered Henry into an overcrowded sitting room. The mantelpiece was dominated by a large tinted photograph of a handsome, Italian-looking man—presumably the late Mr. Bertini. Clusters of empty Chianti bottles hung up like Breton onions, a plastic model of the Coliseum, and several Venetian glass bambis confirmed the original n
ationality of the household—or, at least, of its late master.
Mrs. Bertini said, “You’ll excuse me if I pop into the kitchen a minute. Marlene’s ever so particular about her risotto—just like her dad, rest his soul.” She hurried out in the direction of the delicious cooking smell—a middle-aged English mum, curiously veneered with a bright splash of Mediterranean culture. Henry waited.
It was only a few minutes later that there was the sound of a key in the front door, and a young feminine voice called out, “Mum! I’m back!”
At once, the kitchen door opened. “Marlene…come in here…” There was no mistaking the urgency and alarm in Mrs. Bertini’s voice. “There’s a man in the lounge—” The kitchen door slammed on the lowered voices.
Oh well, Henry thought. Give them the benefit of the doubt. Nobody relishes the thought of a detective chief superintendent in their home, making enquiries. Especially Larry Lawson’s widow and her mother.
Whatever was said in the kitchen, it was said quickly. It was no more than a couple of minutes later that Marlene Lawson came into the sitting room, perfectly self-possessed and very much in control of the situation.
Henry stood up. “Mrs. Lawson?” he asked.
“That’s me. Mum says you’re a copper, making enquiries about Larry. Well, fire away and get it over.”
Marlene, relict of the late Lawrence Lawson, was a striking girl. She was small and slender, and she had inherited her mother’s Anglo-Saxon features together with her father’s blue-black hair, dark eyes, and olive skin. The combination was extraordinarily attractive, and gave the impression of power and personality, despite her lack of inches. Marlene Lawson was certainly no nonentity.
Henry said, “I’m sorry I have to trouble you further, Mrs. Lawson, but I’m making some enquiries—”
“Into Larry’s accident.” Marlene cut him short. “Well, you can’t. It’s finished and done with.”
Ignoring this, Henry said, “You told the coroner at the inquest that your husband was on holiday in Gorsemere when he was killed. That wasn’t true, was it?”
“Of course it was.”
“Why weren’t you with him, then?”
“None of your business.”
“Where was he staying?”
For the first time, the girl hesitated. “I…don’t know. He was touring around the country.”
“Alone?”
“I’ve told you, haven’t I? Don’t you understand English?”
“Touring by car on his own?”
“For heaven’s sake, how many more times? Yes, yes, yes!”
“Then what,” Henry asked, “happened to his car?”
This time, Marlene was definitely shaken. “I…I don’t know.”
“What sort of a car was it?”
“I don’t know that either.” She was recovering her poise. “It was a hired car.”
“No, Mrs. Lawson,” said Henry. “If it had been, it would have been found and reported, and we would have heard about it.”
Marlene evidently decided that attack was the best form of defense. She rounded furiously on Henry. “You’ve no right to come here questioning me, and upsetting Mum—as though we’d done something wrong. I’ve lost my husband, haven’t I—not to mention my home and my money? Isn’t that enough for you?”
“I’m only asking these questions, Mrs. Lawson, because I think your husband’s death may not have been accidental, after all. If that’s so, you surely want to help track down the—”
“Why should I?” She flung the words at him. “It won’t bring Larry back, will it, to hound down some other poor bugger? It won’t make any money for me—”
“It might,” said Henry.
“I don’t get you.” But she was interested.
“I don’t think your husband was on holiday in Gorsemere, Mrs. Lawson. I think he was there on business of some sort, and I think it’s likely that he was robbed of something valuable. If we could recover…whatever it was…it would naturally become your property.”
Marlene was looking thoughtful. “You just might be right,” she agreed. “I never thought much of that accident story. Well, ask away. What do you want to know?”
“First of all,” Henry said, “let’s go back a bit. It wasn’t a holiday trip, was it?”
She looked at him, sizing him up, assessing her answer. At last she said, “He told me it was a pleasure trip. I didn’t believe him, but he wouldn’t tell me any more. He never discussed business with me.”
“What do you think he went down there for?”
“I thought he was after something—to buy, I mean. He was a general dealer, you know.”
“Any idea what he wanted to buy?”
Marlene shrugged. “Nope. Could have been anything. He never discussed—”
“All right, all right.” Henry smiled. “Now—Larry ran a car, didn’t he?”
“Of course.”
Taking a chance, Henry said, “A small, dark-blue Austin van, registration number X2ZE3?”
She answered at once. “Oh, no. That’s—” She stopped.
“You know the van, then?”
“I never said so.”
Henry let this pass. He said, “So what car did he run?”
“The Jag E-type.”
“Have you still got it?”
She laughed, bitterly. “What do you think? Of course not. Sold it as soon as the will was proved. Couldn’t afford to run it, apart from needing the cash.”
Henry said, “But Larry didn’t take the Jaguar to Gorsemere?”
“For crying out loud, how many times do I have to tell you? He went on his own, and he didn’t take the car. So naturally I assumed he’d hired one.” Marlene lit a cigarette, and blew out a cloud of smoke with a certain smug satisfaction. Her story, she seemed to say, tallied beautifully. Crack it if you can.
Henry said, “Can you think of any reason why he should have been walking along a country road by himself at ten o’clock at night?”
Marlene looked at him pityingly. “What d’you think I am—psychic or something? I suppose he’d come out of a pub and was going home.”
“Where was he staying?”
“I’ve told you—I don’t know.”
“He was touring the country, but without a car. He was walking home at night down a country road, at least six miles from any hotel. He told you he was on holiday, but you thought he was trying to buy something. Is that correct?” Henry’s voice was dead, official.
Marlene tossed her head, and said, “Yeah. That’s right.” But she sounded a little uneasy.
Henry made a note in his book, taking his time over it. Then he looked up and grinned widely at Marlene. “It won’t do, will it?” he said amicably. “Let’s think again. First, he wasn’t touring and he wasn’t staying anywhere. He went down to the country that evening to fetch one specific thing. He was on his way to get it—or perhaps he had it already—when he was run down by Heathfield’s car.”
“They didn’t find—” Marlene began, and then stopped.
“No, they didn’t, did they? So presumably he hadn’t yet got it. Or else it was stolen from him after his death.”
“Stolen?” Marlene opened her eyes very wide. “By who? He was on his own. And so was the chap in the car. And he was dead drunk. The judge said so.”
“Yes, there’s no doubt about that.” Henry paused. Then he went on, “I was in Finchley earlier today. Took a look at your house in Sandown Avenue.”
“So what’s funny about that?”
“Nothing. It’s a beautiful house. But you said just now that you’d lost your home. I suppose that means that Larry was buying the house on a mortgage, and now you can’t afford the payments.”
There was a little pause, and then Marlene said, “No. It wasn’t on mortgage.”
“But you’re selling it just the same.” Henry paused. “Oh, well, I suppose it would be an expensive place to keep up. A lovely house, though. I’m surprised it hasn’t sold by now.”
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“Money’s short,” said Marlene laconically. And added, “And I want a whole lot of it. That’s why I’m prepared to hang on till I get the right price.”
“And yet,” Henry pointed out, “you rang the agents last week, and they suggested lowering the price if you wanted to make a sale.”
“I just told you, didn’t I? I don’t want to make a sale, not in a hurry. I’m waiting.”
“Then why did you ring the agent?”
“Nosy, aren’t you? Why shouldn’t I ring him? It’s a free country, isn’t it?”
Henry said, “You kept the spare key to the garden shed, I suppose.”
Marlene raised her eyebrows. “You barmy, or something?”
“I don’t think so,” said Henry seriously. “You had a spare key to the garden shed, and last week one of Larry’s friends got in touch with you and borrowed it. The owner of the little blue van we were speaking about.”
“I never—”
“Larry’s friend,” Henry went on, “got you to ring Mr. Rackham to make sure that the house was still deserted, and that no buyer had turned up. Once you were able to reassure him he borrowed the key from you.”
“I haven’t got a key!”
“No, I’m sure you haven’t. Larry’s friend hasn’t returned it yet. He was using the shed up until today.”
Marlene stood up and glared at Henry. He could not decide whether she was simply angry, or whether there was fear, too, in her taut features. “You better get out,” she said. “Get out and stay out, if you want to keep healthy. Larry’s dead, and I’ve nothing more to do with…with his friends. But I warn you—don’t start meddling with that mob. Just don’t. That’s all.” Suddenly she raised her voice, and cried gaily, “Mum! How’s that risotto coming on? I’m half famished!”
Mrs. Bertini came bustling in, beaming. “Just ready, dear. Won’t be a moment. Had your little chat with Marlene, then, Mr.…that is, Inspector?”
The Curious Affair of the Third Dog Page 7
