‘Denis Vernon was in a position to look at the theatre bookings, wasn’t he?’ Humphrey said. ‘And he has an interest in art.’ And an interest in Tessa Frayne, he thought balefully.
‘Yes. And he knows the area – would be on the spot to reconnoitre likely houses.’
Over the roast duck Hymettus each of them put forward various theories which the other then tried to knock down. They concluded that if an actor were behind the thefts, Brabantio, Desdemona’s father, had the best opportunity of completing the robbery, hiding the pictures and returning in time to take the final curtain calls. The programmes would show which plays were performed on the nights of the robberies, and thus which actors were not fully occupied then.
‘I don’t suppose Joss Ruxton’s involved at all,’ said Patrick. ‘Someone else must have dumped the paintings at the cottage. Tina, for instance.’ Or Denis. Or Sam: there was still the packet of tea and the evidence that someone had camped there to be explained. ‘Frobisher may get something out of Gulliver.’
‘I’m glad they’re taking action, not leaving these people free to plan another robbery,’ said Humphrey.
‘I know, but it seems a pity to scoop up the small fry and risk losing the big boys.’
‘Why did you ask Denis Vernon all those questions about make-up?’ Humphrey asked.
‘Impressive, wasn’t he, changing his own appearance like that without a prop or a stick of grease-paint?’
‘Very. Confident young chap, and no wonder,’ said Humphrey enviously.
‘I was wondering how easy it would be for someone well known to be impersonated successfully,’ said Patrick.
‘I suppose it would depend a bit on who it was and what they had to do,’ said Humphrey. ‘Isn’t there a woman who’s often mistaken for the Queen?’
‘There was that chap who stood in for Montgomery during the war, wasn’t there?’ mused Patrick. ‘That worked. He was an actor, the substitute, I seem to remember.’
‘You’re right, I believe,’ said Humphrey. ‘But what’s all this about?’
‘It’s a long story,’ said Patrick. ‘It begins with a body in the Thames.’
Through the rhum baba of Humphrey’s choice and Patrick’s lemon sorbet, he related the tale.
‘So that’s how you got on to these crooked art dealers? What an extraordinary story.’
‘It is.’
‘Sounds so improbable – but there was that business of the woman’s address in Putney being false.’
‘There could be an innocent explanation for that,’ said Patrick. ‘She might not want to be involved – but she was prepared at the time to step forward and say it was Sam whom the police had plucked from the river.’
‘But what do you think really happened? Do you think this friend of yours was impersonating someone and got killed by mistake?’
‘I think it’s possible.’
‘But whom was he impersonating?’ Humphrey plainly thought it a fantastic notion.
‘I’m not prepared to say just yet,’ said Patrick.
‘Could he have been mistaken for one of the art thieves? Was there a robbery the night he was killed?’ asked Humphrey. ‘Maybe he surprised them? Surely that’s much more likely? If you’re right in assuming, on the strength of a packet of tea, that he’d been at Pear Tree Cottage, that may be what happened.’
‘Why chuck him in the Thames, then, with the Avon at your door?’
‘Too near home,’ said Humphrey promptly. ‘That one’s easy. Perhaps he was drowned in the Avon first, fished out, and moved. Would a post-mortem show which river it was that had done for him?’
‘It might. There would be certain things in certain stretches of river – pollutants and what-not. If you looked for that sort of proof, you’d find it, I expect. In the liver, for instance,’ he added, remembering a talk he had had once with a forensic pathologist. He thought of the sacks in the garage at Pear Tree Cottage, and the threads of sacking under the corpse’s fingernails. Could this be part of the answer? The sacks had disappeared; it would have been easy for the murderer to collect them after dark. ‘This body wasn’t drowned, though,’ he went on. ‘He died from shock – he had arterio-sclerosis – a traumatic fright would have been enough to stop his heart.’
‘What a lot of strange things you know,’ said Humphrey, who had now become intrigued by the problem himself.
‘I wish I knew how Tina Willoughby fits into all this,’ said Patrick. ‘She’s the peg that holds it all together.’
‘You’ll find out,’ said Humphrey.
‘Your faith in me is touching,’ said Patrick. ‘The police don’t seem satisfied about Sam, I’m glad to say. They’ll sort it out, I expect.’
Before they went back to Oxford they drove up the road, parked near Shakespeare’s Birthplace, and walked past Gulliver’s Gallery. The narrow entrance to the alley leading to it was dark and shadowy, out of range of the street lights. Patrick pointed it all out to Humphrey.
‘We’d better not loiter here, the police are probably watching the place,’ he said.
‘It’s an unobtrusive approach,’ said Humphrey. ‘If we were thieves hustling in with our loot, we wouldn’t be very conspicuous.’
‘No. And if Gulliver was waiting inside, canvas and oils at the ready, the new master could be daubed over the old one pretty smartly. He probably has it prepared in advance, or all roughed up on the canvas like that painting by numbers my nephew does. Gulliver turns out those hideosities of the plays by the dozen.’
‘In a way I can’t help admiring his daring,’ said Humphrey.
‘You don’t mean to say you condone this reprehensible conduct?’ Patrick was shocked.
‘No. But it’s non-violent, and the results must go to people who appreciate them or it wouldn’t be happening at all. You can’t sell this sort of stuff on the open market.’
‘Pride of possession. That’s what it’s all about,’ said Patrick. ‘But I’m surprised at you, Humphrey. You must uphold the rule of law.’
‘Oh, I do. I’m just impressed by people who live so adventurously,’ said the timid don.
As they drove along the A34 and through Shipston-on- Stour, Patrick wondered aloud whether to ask Joss Ruxton about his acquaintance with Tina, as indicated by the photograph of them both in Venice.
‘If he’s a crook, he won’t tell you anything about it. If he isn’t crooked, he’ll say, “Mind your own damned business”,’ said Humphrey. ‘The police will find all this out now, surely. I should sit tight and wait.’
This was probably sound advice. And there was Manolakis to be thought of, too. He was to go back to Crete at the end of the week. Patrick mentioned this to Humphrey.
‘I don’t know how he wants to spend the rest of his visit,’ he added. He might have decided to remain in London, spending every spare second with Liz. ‘We took him to Woburn – my sister and her husband.’
‘I didn’t know you went in for touring round stately homes,’ said Humphrey.
‘I don’t. I’ve been to very few. People take you to their local one if you’re staying for the weekend and they can’t think what to do with you,’ said Patrick. ‘So I’ve seen one or two like that. One should do more.’
‘I go to them quite often,’ said Humphrey. ‘Mainly because of the pictures – and sometimes because of the history of the house. It can be an absorbing pastime, and it’s one that can be pursued alone. One develops little ploys and interests in odd ways – you know that. You have your spare-time sleuthing. How did that start?’
‘Oh—a woman died. I didn’t think it was quite straightforward,’ said Patrick. ‘Other times, I’ve just happened to be there.’
‘You attract these things, though.’
‘You mean I put a jinx on events? I hope not. They’ve usually happened before I appear – I just seem to drop in later.’
‘How eerie. I’m glad it doesn’t happen to me –I hope it’s not catching, like measles.’
Patrick thoug
ht that it might be. Perceptions grew sharper with practice.
‘Let me know what happens next,’ Humphrey urged when they parted in the quadrangle of St Mark’s to go to their separate staircases.
‘I will,’ Patrick promised.
The theory about Sam’s death which he had mentioned to Colin as being so unlikely, and which Humphrey had not seriously considered, was now foremost in his mind. Look for evidence, Colin had advised. Before going to bed, Patrick made telephone calls to several London numbers, and as a result of what he learned from these, he resolved to go up again the following day.
While there, he would get in touch with Liz and Manolakis. Naturally.
Part XIX
1
The dark red MGB entered London before eight o’clock the following morning. Patrick found a four-hour meter off the Bayswater Road and shovelled money into it; soon afterwards he walked into a new luxury hotel nearby. He carried a large white envelope addressed in typewriting, and with the words ‘By Hand’ inscribed in the corner. This he gave to the desk clerk, who glanced at it, said, ‘I’ll see it’s delivered right away, sir,’ called a page over and said to him, ‘Take this up to suite 538 at once.’
How easy it had been! Patrick had expected to follow the envelope with his eyes into a pigeon-hole behind the desk, and had doubted his ability to make out the room number from such a distance.
‘Thank you,’ he said, moving off. He did not want the man to remember him, but it was a chance he must take. Lest his ruse be discovered, he had put a charity appeal that had been sent to him inside the envelope.
He walked across the foyer and along the passage towards the men’s room. He had never been in this hotel before, but reasoning told him he would find some stairs if he kept going. Sure enough, a flight led out of a corner near the cloakrooms. He ran up them to the first floor, then walked along the corridor until he came to the lift. It was most unlikely that the clerk or anyone in the foyer had noticed him ascending.
Waiters were carrying breakfast trays into rooms as he strode along. The thing was to look confident; bluff could achieve a great deal.
He summoned the lift, and when it arrived, rode up to the fifth floor, where he emerged into a long, straight corridor carpeted in olive green. Numbers on the nearest doors indicated that 538 would be to his left, and he set off, working out his next move as he walked along. Knocking on the door and announcing his own identity would not guarantee admittance; there were too many unpredictables. He paused, tapping a finger against his teeth, indecisive. The pageboy with the mail had probably come and gone already; if not, that might offer an opportunity, or alternatively, breakfast might arrive. The man he sought was unlikely to descend to eat among the common herd. He went on down the corridor, passing room 538, turned at the end and walked back again. As he did so, the door of room 538 opened, a man came out and walked along the passage in the other direction. Patrick continued on behind him, passing the room a second time. Since it was referred to as a suite, there were probably several rooms in use, linked by communicating doors.
The other man went towards the lift, and Patrick turned down a side corridor branching from the main one. A few seconds later he peered cautiously round the corner; the man had disappeared, presumably into the lift. From the far end of the corridor a waiter now appeared, pushing a trolley. Patrick headed back towards room 538 and arrived outside just behind the waiter, whose trolley bore breakfast for two. He tapped at the door and in response to a call from within opened it. He was obviously expected, for it was not locked. Such a possibility had not occurred to Patrick.
‘Ah—’ he said, and followed the waiter over the threshold before it could be closed, hoping to be taken for one of the proper occupants.
Again, his trick worked. The waiter, who was Spanish, beamed at him, and Patrick followed him through a narrow hallway into a sitting-room where several bowls of flowers stood about; it was clearly the apartment of someone important.
A man in a silk dressing-gown stood looking out of the window, his back to the room.
‘Just leave the trolley, please,’ he said, without turning. ‘Thank you.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said the waiter, nodded to Patrick who grinned at him amiably, and left.
The man at the window turned, and the light was behind him, hiding his face, but Patrick knew at once that his theory was right.
‘Good morning, Sam,’ he said.
2
Sam Irwin put a hand behind him and steadied himself as Patrick stepped forward.
‘I’m very glad indeed to find you’re not dead after all,’ he said.
Sam was speechless.
‘How—how on earth—?’ he managed at last, but Patrick interrupted.
‘That man who went down the corridor. Is he a watchdog?’
‘Yes. He does the messages and shopping – I don’t go out much. He’s gone downstairs to meet someone from the embassy. We don’t want people coming up here.’
‘I’m sure you don’t,’ said Patrick. ‘If he gets back, I’ll play along. You’re not Sam, and I’m an old friend you’ve successfully deceived with your impersonation. Now, what’s this all about? And who was in the river?’
Sam had recovered somewhat.
‘I’ve got the part of a lifetime,’ he said. ‘Taking the place of a man who’s been critically ill. If that had been discovered, everything would have gone wrong. He’s on the mend now – the plan’s been saved. I won’t be needed much longer.’
‘You’ve had your meeting?’
‘The first one. Now he’s got to be persuaded to defect.’ Sam gestured. ‘He’d like to, but there are ties at home – wife – small child.’ Then he looked intently at Patrick. ‘How did you know?’
‘Your beard,’ said Patrick grimly. ‘The corpse grew a red beard. A copper I know confirmed that suspicion for me last night. You don’t, I’m certain.’
‘You mean his showed?’
‘Beards go on growing for a short time after death,’ said Patrick. ‘Who was he?’
Sam looked worried.
‘That’s the only bit I’m unhappy about,’ he said. ‘He was very like me – me with my hair dyed, that is. He was an informer – no one meant him to die, but he was caught making a phone call which could have wrecked everything. He died while he was locked up – no one had decided what to do with him. Heart, I suppose.’
The man had died from shock: that much was certain: convenient, though. Patrick had to hurry on, for time was short.
‘The identification was fixed,’ he said.
‘Yes – Leila Waters. She suggested me for the job,’ said Sam. ‘She’d seen me made up, looking like him. They’ve used her before to find people for jobs like this. Patrick, you mustn’t say anything – it will all be over soon – then I’ll reappear, saying I’d lost my memory.’
He made it sound so simple.
‘I’ll keep your secret as long as it’s necessary,’ said Patrick, and added, ‘what a pity you didn’t tell Tina.’
‘Tina? Tina Willoughby? Why?’
‘She’s dead. You didn’t know?’
Sam did not: that was obvious.
‘How?’
‘Suicide. She’d read about your death.’
‘But that doesn’t make sense. I meant nothing to Tina.
‘But you did know her?’
‘Yes – through her drink problem. I had one too, once. But she had a thing with Joss Ruxton. They met last year.’
‘But that girl – the one he lived with—’
‘Which one? There were a series. Tina was just another.’
Patrick stared. Could this be right? Had Joss really picked Tina at forty after a girl in her twenties? Or was it one-sided?
He heard a sound at the outer door. In a flash he was across the room and through the connecting door into a bedroom. As he closed the door softly behind him he heard Sam say, ‘I waited to start breakfast till you came back. Well—everything fixed?’
> He did not hear the reply but hurried on, into a further bedroom, and from there, went out into the passage. A few minutes later he was walking away down the street.
There had been no time to ask Sam if he had ever been to Pear Tree Cottage.
3
Patrick just missed Liz. She had left for the office five minutes before he arrived at her flat, said Manolakis, who let him in.
‘I’m glad you’re still here, Dimitri,’ said Patrick, temporarily banishing to the back of his mind questions raised in it about the sleeping arrangements at Bolton Gardens. ‘I’ve found Sam Irwin. I want some advice.’
‘But, my friend, I know you have found Sam Irwin. This is not news,’ said Manolakis.
‘He isn’t dead,’ Patrick said. ‘The woman who identified him – the body from the water, that is – she didn’t exist. She gave a false name and address. And the one who officially identified him at the inquest committed perjury. I suppose they’re both working for Special Branch. Or think they are. I shall have to get on to the police. Sam mustn’t go through with this.’
He had taken care to promise Sam only that his secret would be kept as long as was necessary. That allowed plenty of licence for interpretation.
‘Sit down and explain,’ said Manolakis.
Patrick realised that he had had no breakfast.
‘Any coffee going?’ he asked.
‘Of course. Come along,’ said Manolakis, like a kindly housewife.
‘You seem quite at home,’ Patrick could not resist remarking.
‘I am. I am so glad that Elizabeth is not your lady, Patrick. I would not like to walk on your feet.’
Cast For Death Page 14
