‘You mean tread on my toes,’ said Patrick.
But he had. The fact that he said this proved what had happened.
Patrick hurried on.
‘I’ve been to see him – he’s at a hotel—’
‘Eat first, then explain,’ advised Manolakis, putting bread in the toaster.
Patrick, between mouthfuls of toast and honey, described his abortive visit to Putney, Leila Waters’ remark about the colour of Sam’s beard, and his own suspicion, since confirmed by Sergeant Bruce, that the corpse must have been a genuine redheaded man, or the postmortem report would have mentioned the inconsistency. There was body hair, not only the beard.
‘If it wasn’t Sam who was pulled from the river that night, he might be alive. You’d mentioned, in another context, the question of identity. If a dead body was supposed to be Sam’s, he might be posing as someone else. I’d seen photographs of him in make-up. I knew what might be done. We’ve all seen him in his disguise, Dimitri – you, Liz and me – and he’s deceived us all.’
Manolakis listened to this intently, nodding his head as Patrick spoke.
‘I don’t like it, Dimitri. He thinks he’s doubling for a man who’s ill, for the good of a cause. But Tina didn’t commit suicide because she thought he was dead – he was nothing special to her. That newspaper beside her body was a blind. So why did she die?’
‘This other actor,’ Manolakis said. ‘This Joss. It would be good, perhaps, to talk to him.’
‘I quite agree. And very likely Detective Chief Inspector Frobisher has already done it, but not about Sam. About the stolen paintings,’ Patrick said. ‘And I doubt if he had anything at all to do with them.’
4
An impassive man faced Patrick across a wide desk.
‘The matter is out of our hands,’ he said. ‘Special Branch is dealing with it.’
Patrick had gone from Bolton Gardens to see Sergeant Bruce, who had listened silently to his tale; then he had declared that he had been taken off the case.
‘Well, you’d better get back on to it again,’ Patrick said roundly. ‘A man has died – not the one we thought it was. Two women have given false evidence. Is this how we work here now? I won’t believe it. I think Sam’s being tricked.’
‘Wait, please,’ the sergeant had replied, and had left the office. Shortly afterwards, Patrick had been summoned to the presence of the Detective Chief Superintendent who now faced him.
‘It’s a highly sensitive operation,’ the superintendent said. ‘One slip, and it will go wrong.’
‘But everyone concerned is here, in this country. Why not move at once? Why delay?’
‘Correct timing is important,’ said the superintendent. ‘We both know that things can go wrong – intending defectors have been persuaded back before, by various means. You must treat this as a matter of the gravest importance, Dr Grant. Secrecy is essential. It’s unfortunate that you should have stumbled on the truth.’
Patrick had stumbled nowhere. He had deduced the answer. But quibbling wasted time.
‘That woman’s death,’ he said. ‘What’s your explanation for that?’
‘Depression, probably, or some other commonplace reason,’ said the superintendent. ‘I must ask you, Dr Grant, to use the utmost discretion in respect of what has been revealed to you.’
Once again a misuse of words, thought Patrick dourly, matters had only been revealed in the sense that he had had eyes to see.
‘Well, I’m thankful to find that Sam isn’t dead after all, of course,’ he said.
‘And now, if you don’t mind—’ The superintendent half rose. ‘Sergeant, will you show Dr Grant the way out?’
Sergeant Bruce had been sitting in silence throughout the interview. Now he got up and opened the door. In silence, he followed Patrick out.
‘I don’t like it. The whole thing reeks,’ said Patrick vehemently, when they were in the passage.
‘It’s out of our hands,’ the sergeant repeated.
Patrick went straight from the police station to Scotland Yard, and demanded to see Colin. He had to wait some time.
‘I can’t spare long – I’m very busy,’ Colin said.
‘Special Branch has taken over this business about Sam – he’s not dead, he’s doing an impersonation,’ Patrick said.
Colin tidied some papers on his desk.
‘The coppers along the road are dropping it,’ Patrick told him.
‘They must, now,’ said Colin. ‘You’d better lay off, too, Patrick. My advice is to go back to Oxford and forget the whole thing.’
Patrick was most reluctant to accept this counsel; however, he left Colin to get on with his work and walked round the corner to Westminster Abbey, where Manolakis was waiting for him.
‘Let’s go and see Joss Ruxton,’ he said. He had discovered the actor’s address from the telephone directory, the obvious place to look first.
To get there, Patrick had to use the A to Z guide. He wound his way north of St Pancras until he came to a crescent of old brick houses overlooking an oval of grass planted with plane trees.
Joss Ruxton lived in a tall, terraced house with a yellow front door. Patrick rang the bell, and after a short wait it was opened by a woman in a flowered overall.
‘Not more police?’ she asked at once, standing aggressively in the doorway.
‘My name is Grant. I am a fellow of St Mark’s College, Oxford. Would you ask Mr Ruxton if he can spare five minutes, please,’ said Patrick.
‘Well, I don’t know,’ said the woman, but she went away, leaving them on the step. Soon she returned, and, exuding disapproval, conducted them to a sitting-room which was furnished with old pieces that blended well together. Everything looked cared-for; the wood gleamed; the paintwork was fresh. They sat on a small sofa, side by side, and waited. There were no bookshelves to draw Patrick; in a house this size there was probably room for a study.
Soon, the actor appeared. He entered with a definite flourish, sweeping the door wide before walking in. He was a stocky man, not very tall, with carefully styled thick, greying hair and pale blue eyes.
Patrick introduced himself and Manolakis.
‘I understand the police have already been here,’ he began, casting his fly immediately upon the water.
‘Yes – some nonsense about stolen pictures – they seem to have been dumped in a house I had near Stratford. Nothing to do with me, naturally. The house had been empty some time – the thieves must have broken in and used it as a hiding-place.’
‘You sold the house to a friend of yours, Tina Willoughby,’ Patrick said, abandoning subtlety. ‘You did know her, didn’t you?’
‘Yes. Did you?’ Joss looked at him sharply.
‘No, but I heard about her sudden death,’ said Patrick.
‘It was a terrible shock,’ Joss said at once.
‘She wasn’t depressed, or anything like that?’
‘Not at all. She was looking forward to moving,’ said Joss.
‘She knew Sam Irwin too, didn’t she?’ Patrick asked.
‘Yes—very well, he helped her. She had a problem,’ said Joss.
‘So I’d heard,’ Patrick said. ‘You don’t think it could have returned? That she did have some mental disturbance?’
‘She must have, I suppose,’ said Joss. ‘What’s your interest in all this?’
‘I knew Sam,’ said Patrick. ‘I wondered if she’d done it because of his death.’
‘I see. It’s possible, I suppose.’
‘Well, thanks for confirming that they were acquainted,’ said Patrick. ‘I’m glad I found you at home.’
‘I should be filming,’ said the actor. ‘But the police delayed me earlier today, so I rang the studio.’ He grimaced. ‘I’ve never done such a thing before. Still – there has to be a first time, they say.’
‘You’re still playing at the Fantasy?’
‘Yes – Henry VIII; said Joss.
‘You’re Henry, of course?’
‘Wolsey,’ said Joss.
He did not seem unduly distressed at Tina’s death, Patrick thought.
The overalled woman was hovering protectively in the hall, waiting to show them out, which she did with some enthusiasm. Patrick drove straight to the police station where he had had such an abortive interview earlier in the day.
‘Keep driving round and round,’ he said to Manolakis, handing the car over to him when he found no parking slot. ‘I’ll come out eventually.’
Eyes sparkling, the Greek slid behind the steering-wheel. What a challenge! The London traffic! He glided forward into it, and hoped he would not lose his way, circling in the area.
Patrick went straight to Sergeant Bruce.
‘Ah good, you’re here,’ he said, striding into the office. ‘Do you recognise this woman?’
He took the photograph of Tina and Joss Ruxton together in Venice out of his wallet and showed it to the policeman.
Bruce did. His reaction was unmistakable.
‘What’s this all about?’ he asked.
‘She’s dead. This woman’s dead. Suicide, allegedly, but I’m not satisfied.’
The sergeant adopted a wooden expression and said nothing.
‘You do know her. I can see that,’ Patrick said. ‘When did you meet her?’
‘If I tell you that her name is Mrs Amy Foster, does that answer your question?’ Bruce said, reluctantly.
‘It does,’ said Patrick, slipping the photograph back. ‘And if I tell you that her name was really Mrs Tina Willoughby and that she lived near Maidenhead and died of an overdose of sleeping pills very recently, does that explain why I want to know?’
‘Yes,’ said Bruce, and added, ‘forget it, sir. It’s not our business now.’
‘It’s my business,’ said Patrick grimly. ‘I’m not going to see someone set up as a stool pigeon and stand idly by,’ and he walked out.
Manolakis, meanwhile, circling around the neighbouring streets, was reflecting grimly that Patrick was now one of just a handful of people who knew that Sam Irwin was in fact alive: such knowledge could be dangerous.
Part XX
1
The words sprang at Patrick from a newspaper placard as he walked towards Sam’s hotel:
THEATRICAL AGENT FOUND DEAD.
It meant nothing at first. He walked on. Manolakis had taken the car back to Bolton Gardens, with instructions to park it carefully near Liz’s flat. They were to meet there later. Patrick’s immediate plan was to lurk about in the hotel in case Sam left, or had any recognisable visitors. At least he would be on the spot and might have a chance to speak to Sam again.
As he went on he saw more hoardings with the same headline, but the message did not register until he read one that said:
STAR’S AGENT KILLED IN FALL.
Then he bought a paper.
Leila Waters had been found dead early that morning on the pavement beneath her flat.
Patrick felt a sick shock.
Surely Sam would see this news and wonder what had happened? First the man with red hair; then Tina; now Leila Waters.
People were sacrificed in spy operations.
Was this one, and if it was, were these deaths justified? Deaths, as far as he could judge, all in the interests of winning over a possible defector. Surely such a person need only ask for asylum? Other people did not have to be slaughtered to achieve such a result.
At the hotel, Patrick sat in the lounge reading the newspaper item again; it was thought that Leila had slipped while opening the window, which was rather stiff. Well, she might have done, but she must have been used to her own windows.
Patrick turned the facts over in his mind. Leila had, it seemed, willingly helped in the deception over Sam’s supposed death; she had suggested him to impersonate the ailing man, and Sam had said she had done such things before. She could be an agent working for Special Branch: or a double-agent. Which was the right answer?
Patrick went to one of the telephones supplied for the use of guests, and asked to be connected with suite 538.
‘The suite is empty, sir,’ he was told. ‘The party checked out this morning.’
The telephonist would not disclose where Sam, in his assumed identity, had gone, and nor would the porter or the desk clerk. They said they did not know.
Patrick swung out of the hotel and went down the road looking for an ordinary telephone box, for he did not want the hotel to overhear him ringing the polColin, at Scotland Yard, was out, so he rang Sergeant Bruce.
‘Do you still say we must leave it to Special Branch?’ Patrick demanded. ‘Who’ll be next?’
‘I’m sure Special Branch knows what it’s doing,’ said Bruce in an official sort of voice.
‘Well, I’m not,’ said Patrick flatly.
He remembered something a policeman had once told him: any corpse found as Sam’s supposed body had been, would have been automatically finger-printed. Its identification could have been proved, if the police had wanted to do it. Had they?
2
Manolakis was not back at Bolton Gardens when Patrick returned there, so he could not get in. He paced the kerb outside, until someone came out of the building and he managed to pass through the front door before it fell to and was locked again. He sat on the stairs outside Liz’s door, wondering if the Greek had smashed up the MGB.
It seemed a very long time before Manolakis came bounding up the stairs, carrying a large bunch of spring flowers.
‘Ah, you have been waiting, my friend,’ he said. ‘I am sorry. I have been to buy these for Elizabeth.’
‘Oh,’ said Patrick sourly.
‘Your car is safe,’ said Manolakis. ‘I made mistakes in the road, once, twice, but it was nothing. It is nearby.’
‘Good,’ said Patrick.
‘You seem sad, my friend,’ said Manolakis. ‘Perhaps you need food? We eat British bacon and eggs.’
He opened Liz’s front door and gestured to Patrick to enter.
Probably the sinking sensation in his stomach was merely due to lack of food, Patrick told himself.
‘You like British bacon and eggs?’ he asked, as once again the Greek took charge of the cuisine.
‘Very much, he pleases me,’ said Manolakis.
Patrick spared time to marvel at how swiftly Liz had domesticated him; at home, he sat back like a pasha while his wife bustled round.
‘We must proceed to think laterally,’ he said, as the smell of sizzling bacon filled the air.
‘Please?’ asked Manolakis.
‘We need to turn our thoughts outwards,’ said Patrick. ‘Propound a counter-argument. Sam took on this job thinking it vital. But is that reasonable? Unless the sick man is dying – and Sam says he isn’t, even if he was in a critical state – a bedside meeting could have been arranged. It would have been poignant as a publicity stunt. So either the man really is dying, or he isn’t ill at all. Perhaps he’s already dead. Or perhaps there’s another reason for the impersonation, but either way Sam is being deceived.’
Concentrating mightily on both the frying pan and Patrick’s words, Manolakis managed to follow most of this.
‘Suppose it’s Sam, in his disguise, who defects, or appears to,’ said Patrick. ‘The other way round – behind the iron curtain.’
‘If that happened, the real man would step forward and say “Look, here I am.”’
‘If he’s dead, he couldn’t,’ said Patrick. ‘Suppose Special Branch knows that he’s dead – been killed, perhaps, to enable all this to be set up – Sam’s impersonation couldn’t be proved. If he, in his disguise, goes over to the east the truth will never be known. The whole world will be deceived.’
Manolakis slid their fried eggs expertly on to two plates.
‘Tonight is the big concert when the two Russians are playing their music,’ he said. ‘Liz has much wanted to go. She has tickets.’ He arranged bacon rashers artistically round the eggs. ‘The Russian Embassy will send people, will they not? As
a publicity stint?’
‘Stunt,’ corrected Patrick absently. ‘God – you’re right, Dimitri – that’s where it will be done. In the full eye of the public.’
Even now, Sam would be being coached for his part in it, unaware that he was cast as victim.
‘We eat,’ said Manolakis prosaically. ‘You must go with Liz to the concert. I remain away.’
‘But it’s you she wants to take,’ said Patrick, masochistically.
Manolakis snapped his fingers.
‘I am not so fond of music that I must be there,’ he said.
‘I have the good idea. I take Liz to a Greek restaurant – we come back here afterwards. You go to the concert, with Colin. If Sam is there, you can name him truly. But be careful, my friend. The others who knew also that it is Sam, they are dead.’
Part XXI
1
Colin was unavailable, when Patrick tried to get hold of him on the telephone. Frustrated, he rang Humphrey to find out what was happening about the pictures, and learned that Gulliver had been arrested, with his wife and another man who had been at the gallery when the police called, but it was feared some of the larger fry might get away. Tessa Frayne had not, so far, been involved; Humphrey had boldly telephoned her and had arranged to take her out to dinner. At any minute he would be leaving for their appointment.
‘I’m not letting young Vernon have it all his own way,’ said Humphrey, with rare belligerence.
Patrick, amazed but approving, wished him well, and then, for want of a better idea, telephoned Sergeant Bruce, who, much against his better judgement, agreed that they should meet when he went off duty.
Manolakis then rang Liz at her office and without any trouble at all persuaded her to let Patrick have the concert tickets. On her instructions, he took them from a drawer in her desk and handed them over. Patrick’s feelings were ambivalent as he listened to the one-sided conversation.
Cast For Death Page 15
