‘And when they discover he molested the maids, kept a drawer full of dirty books, and practiced usury, not to say blackmail, presumably to raise the wind for his share-buying, it’ll about put the tin lid on it.’
◆◆◆
Lawrence Cowley, chartered accountant, rose to greet him. ‘Hello, Miles. You look weary. Take a seat. How’s the missus, and young Abby?’
Felix sat gratefully down. ‘Teething at the moment. Apart from that, they’re fine, thanks. Connie sends her love and to Peggy. How is she?’
‘Oh, limping along, you know. Better than she was.’ Smiling amiably he pulled forward a box file containing Nigel Cotton’s share certificates.
‘Well now,’ he said, ‘riches indeed! Like to have a guess at what these are worth?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Felix. ‘Twenty thousand?’
‘Heh! Bit more than that. At today’s valuation — just shy of a hundred thousand pounds. The fellow could buy a village, complete with manor house.’
‘Good heavens! How did he manage that?’
Cowley shrugged. ‘You just need the capital, and an iron nerve. He bought anything that was rising, including a good deal of rubbish. Just at present it’s possible to get very rich very quickly doing that, on paper anyway, but when the correction comes, which it will, he could have found himself badly burned. He might have planned to move into securities and cash before that, of course, but we’ll never know.’
‘Is that what you’ll be doing?’
‘I already have done, both for myself and for my clients. I give it two years at most. Equally, it could be next week. The world has gone share mad; it’s becoming ridiculous.’
‘Good in your line though?’
‘Oh, I’ve done all right out of it. But don’t you worry, the Felix fortune is safe with me. It’s all in Consols at four percent, thanks to Mr Churchill. Dull but solid.’ He tapped the box lid. ‘Who gets these?’
‘The wife, I suppose.’
‘Then she should dump them now, before the storm. Send her to me if you like.’
Felix smiled. ‘Not my place to do that I’m afraid. If we don’t need them for evidence we’ll just release them to her with everything else. What do we owe you? The Department, I mean.’
‘For an hour’s work? Nothing; it was fun. Fancy old Blaine’s boy buying this stuff! It’ll give him apoplexy when he finds out.’
‘Do you know him then, Sir Blaine?’
‘Know him! He fagged for me a school. Teaches one humility, what?'
◆◆◆
Hugo and Maud lived in a peaceful garden square in Pimlico. Felix found the Right Honourable The Lord Conway on his sunny terrace, dozing under a newspaper. It was remarkably quiet, with only the barest hum of traffic to remind one that this was central London.
The butler cleared his throat politely. ‘My Lord?’
Sleepy eyes emerged. ‘Wassup Pilbeam?’
‘Mr Felix to see you, sir.’
Hugo abruptly sat up, sending Pilbeam diving for the paper. ‘Miles old chap! I know why you’re here. Sit yourself down. Tea for Mr Felix, please, Pilbeam. This is a turn up for the books, what? Murder most foul!’
Felix agreed that it was. ‘Hugo, unlike you I have rather few acquaintances among society and you also have the benefit of knowing the Cottons. Can you tell me anything useful about this business? All information gratefully received.’
Hugo chuckled. ‘Society! I’m not sure we even qualify. We live very quietly these days, or I do. Maudie gets out a bit. As to the Cottons, what can one say? The usual wealthy arrivistes hoping to marry their way into the aristocracy; though why they bother I don’t know. I’d trade my barony for their filthy lucre any day of the week. Their goose is cooked now anyway. Socially, I mean. Cooked and eaten if the rumours be true. Murder in mysterious circumstances, and the boy a bit of a black sheep! It’s Betty Cotton I feel sorry for. She’s not much to look at, poor child, and now this.’
‘Because no-one will want her now?’
‘Not a peer’s son I doubt. Apparently they had their eye on young Cedric, Lord Oakdale’s lad, on the principle, one supposes, of cutting out the weakest of the herd. Weakest minded anyhow. Did you notice him? Lanky fellow, vacant expression and no discernable chin. Pity, really. Might have suited her very well. But what you want, of course is, the perpetrator. Should be plenty of choice, I’d have thought. All those wronged fathers and husbands for a start.’
Felix smiled. ‘That’s what everyone says, though it would be surprising if it were to lead to murder. A sound thrashing or legal action is the usual penalty for that.’
‘Well then I don’t know,’ said Hugo. It’s Maudie you want for the tittle-tattle. Let’s consult the oracle. Is the dragon in her lair, Pilbeam?’
‘I believe her Ladyship is in the library, sir,’ said the butler impassively.
‘Then tell her Miles Felix is here about the murder. That’ll bring her at the double, what?’
‘Oh, Miles, how dreadful it is,’ said Lady Conway, as Felix rose to greet her. ‘I was just in the very act of writing a letter of condolence to poor Kitty, though mere words seem inadequate at such a time. What do you want to know?’
‘I’ve just told Miles that Nigel was said to be rather free with his affections, Maudie,’ said Hugo.
‘That’s one way of putting it,’ said Maud. ‘He was an absolute terror around the maids and they’d sooner give notice than go near him. There were also rumours of affairs. I’d heard that his wife had asked him for a divorce, but that the family had come out against it – which they would, of course – and paid the poor woman off. It’s only hearsay, but apparently they’d been more or less estranged for some years, with him living at Burton House most of the time.’
Felix looked around for Pilbeam but he’d discreetly removed himself. ‘Maudie, you are correct in everything you’ve told me; although, as it happens, we’d learned it from the horse’s mouth. Can you think of anything else at all? It will, of course, be treated in strictest confidence.’
The Conways exchanged glances. ‘There is something,’ said Hugo, ‘though I don’t know if it’ll be of much use to you. We were talking about it at luncheon, as a matter of fact. Nigel had apparently been seen rather regularly in the company of a gentleman answering to the name of Edgar, surname unknown, in a rather obscure country pub, the Pink Cat, near Alresford —’
‘Which it just so happens,’ cut in Maud, ‘is owned by the brother of one my friends—’
‘No names, no pack drill,’ cautioned Hugo.
‘Of course not, Hugo. Don’t interrupt. Anyway, it seems they meet about every month or so, always on a Tuesday. They take their drinks into a corner and go into a huddle,’ here she lowered her voice conspiratorially, ‘and money changes hands.’
Chapter Nine
‘There was someone at the ball,’ said Connie at breakfast. ‘Yes, I know, sweetheart, your toofies hurt, don’t they? I meant to tell you last night.’
‘Connected with the case, do you mean?’ asked Felix, obliged to raise his voice above the infantile lamentations.
‘Yes, though it’s probably nothing. I was looking for the ladies’ room and had a bit of trouble finding it.’
‘I’m told it’s on the first floor.’
‘Yes it is, but I didn’t know that then. It’s not very convenient if you’re in a hurry. Anyway, I bumped into Betty and she told me to go upstairs and turn right, which I did. Or rather I thought that was what she said. I must have misheard her, though I don’t know how I did because you actually have to go left. Turning right just leads to that gallery that looks down onto the ballroom. There were a few other people there, watching the dancers. I was going to suggest we go up for a while. Do you remember those rather noisy young men? We remarked on them.’
‘Three of them
, over the other side?’
‘That’s the ones. They were getting a bit rowdy when I passed them, with some pushing and shoving, and by the time I got onto the gallery a couple of footmen had arrived and appeared to be giving them a dressing down. Anyway, while they were doing that, I saw this man slip up the stairs. I don’t know why I noticed him particularly but I think perhaps he looked a bit furtive or was trying not to, if you see what I mean. He didn’t stop at that floor so he must have gone to the top. I wouldn’t have remembered, probably, if it hadn’t been for the murder.’
‘So you think he’d planned the disturbance, or was taking advantage of it?’
‘Yes, though I don’t really know why. I expect it’s being married to a policeman.’
‘Would you recognise him again?’
‘Possibly. He had extremely prominent ears and perhaps a bad complexion. It wasn’t a very good light.’
‘Was he in white tie?’
‘Yes he was, but I thought he looked a little awkward in it, as though he’d hired it and wasn’t used to it, and he held one arm funny, as if he had something in his coat pocket and didn’t want it to fall out. It looked a bit suspicious in retrospect — a gun perhaps, although I know Cotton wasn’t shot.’
‘And then you did go to the ladies’ room?’
‘Yes. It was obvious by then where it was because people were coming and going.’
‘Can you remind me when this was?’
‘It was after I’d danced with Hugo.’
‘After the cabaret?’
‘Yes. And when we met up with you and Maudie I’d only just got back.’
‘So you’ll have seen this fellow five or ten minutes after the cabaret ended?’
‘I suppose so, yes. Any good to you?’
‘Well, the cabaret was at about nine, according to Lady Cotton anyway, so the timing’s right. Thank you darling, that’s very interesting. If you were one of my sergeants I’d tell you well done.’
‘Aren’t I then — one of your sergeants?’
‘Goodness, no; you’re the Chief Superintendent.’
‘Then Abbey’s the A/C, aren’t you, Tuppence?’
◆◆◆
As usual, there was nowhere to park, and they had to settle for a space two streets from the Yard.
‘Hmm, interesting,’ said Rattigan, as they walked back. ‘There was someone like that. Reminded me of a lad we had at school. We called him Wingnut. If he’d stuck his head through the railings he’d never have got it back. Now what was the beggar’s name?’ He stopped and stood in contemplation for a moment, then shook his head. ‘No, it’s gone, but it’ll come.’
‘Wingnut’s name?’
‘No, that was Albert Morrison. His father had a bicycle shop. I mean from a case. What’s next on the agenda?’
‘Not sure. Possibly young Sonia. She must have been up there at some point, changing for her routine.’
Entering the office, they found John Nash reading aloud. ‘“Again she groaned with anticipated pleasure as he parted her silken thighs.”’ he declaimed. ‘You’d think she’d have had enough by now.’
‘That’ll be the secret lust drug,’ Yardley reminded him. ‘Silk seems to be something of a leitmotif with this fellow — “savagely tore at the fragile silk,” and so on.’
‘Light mo what?’ frowned Nash.
‘Here, that’s mine!’ said Rattigan, snatching the book. ‘Confiscate your own filth.’
‘We just wanted to see if it would corrupt us,’ protested Nash. ‘It was a psychological experiment, wasn’t it Paul? Though I can’t say I feel any different so far.’
‘That’s because you’re irredeemably corrupt already,’ said Felix. ‘Have you found anything useful, or have you been too busy plumbing the depths of depravity?’
‘Actually we have, sir,’ said Yardley, reaching for one of Nash’s enlargements. ‘Found something, I mean. A partial dab on the bedside cabinet. It might not stand up in court but I could probably confirm a named person from it.’
‘Dudley Gault!’ said Rattigan suddenly.
‘The man with the ears?’ enquired Felix. ‘Sorry, Paul.’
‘And the bad complexion. I knew it would come to me if I didn’t think about it. It was when I was working with old Anderson, so it was at least four years ago. No, I remember now; it was more like five. He was briefly a murder suspect but had an alibi so was washed out. I had my doubts about that and said so, but you couldn’t tell Anderson anything, as you know. It had all the hallmarks of a professional killer but he couldn’t or wouldn’t see that. They never did get anyone for it and the case was left on file.’
‘Not likely to be in the telephone book,’ said Felix. ‘We’d best have a word with Frankie.’
‘Frankie French?’ asked Nash.
‘He’s the man. Fount of all wisdom.’
‘Oh yes, and a couple of other things,’ said Yardley, passing over some scraps of paper. ‘We found these: a photo and some bits and pieces. They were enclosed in the book.’
Felix examined them. There were two pages from a theatre programme with shots of the Dancing Crescendos’ routine, a ticket stub and a publicity photo, originally of the pair of them. In all cases, Tony Swindon had been neatly trimmed away and discarded, apart from the occasional arm or leg, leaving Sonia on her own.
‘Pretty girl.’
‘Yes she is,’ said Felix. He passed them to Rattigan. ‘These are rather interesting, don’t you think?’
‘Stuck in a dirty book and much-handled,’ said Rattigan, closely examining them. ‘I’m not sure his interest in her was entirely honourable, are you?’
‘He might have carried a torch for her though. What was the other thing?’
‘Below stairs at Burton House,’ said Nash. ‘You were right. No-one went up that night except a couple of maids who watched the cabaret from the gallery. The chauffeur of one of the guests was up there who said he knew the dancers. Funny looking chap, the girl said, like a jockey.’
‘Harry Saunders.’ said Felix.
◆◆◆
Frankie French was a narrow, etiolated little man, never seen without his tube-like black overcoat and bowler hat. Under the brim of the latter might be discovered wary, red-rimmed eyes, though he had a habit of tugging it down, leaving his interlocutor addressing the crown. By assiduous study he had raised the dangerous calling of copper’s nark to an unprecedented level of sophistication, and profited accordingly. His knowledge of the London underworld was encyclopaedic, and what he didn’t know, his network of contacts – nark’s narks, so to say – would soon discover.
‘Calls hisself George Unwin now, since his bit of trouble,’ said Mr French. ‘Got a new place in Feltham.’ He wrote down the name and address in neat, copperplate handwriting. ‘Last known there about a month ago, and if he’s flown the coop since, I’m not responsible. That’ll be a pound please, Mr Felix.’
‘A pound!’ protested Rattigan. ‘It was only ten bob last time.’
‘Take it or leave it. The man’s a killer.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I could tell you but it’ll cost you a fiver.’
‘If you know anything about a murder—’ began Rattigan, scandalised.
‘Here you are, one pound,’ said Felix, digging in his wallet. ‘Does he live alone?’
Mr French shook his head. ‘They say he’s taken up with some woman with a kid. The kid’s not his, I don’t think.’
It seemed that crime was paying for Mr Unwin, previously Gault. His present home was a smart little villa in a tree-lined street of similar properties. The door was answered by a plump young woman holding a toddler.
‘Good morning, madam,’ said Sergeant Yardley, politely tipping his hat. ‘Is the gentleman of the house at home? I’d like a word if I may.’
So
me seconds later, at the back gate, the gentleman in question was struggling in the grip of Nash and Rattigan.
‘Now then, sir, there’s no need for this,’ said Rattigan. ‘We just want to ask you a few questions.’
Back at the Yard, Felix and Rattigan sat at a desk opposite the reluctant interviewee.
A constable stood at the door.
‘Now, Mr Gault,’ said Felix. Do you mind if I call you that? It is, after all, your name. Or have you changed it by deed poll?’
Mr Gault remained sullenly silent.
‘Doesn’t matter what you’re called as long as it’s not late for breakfast?’ suggested Felix.
‘Very funny,’ said Mr Gault.
‘Ah! We’re communicating. That’s good,’ said Felix. ‘What were you doing at Betty Cotton’s party? Friend of yours?’
‘I don’t know any Betty Cotton.’
‘No? We have a witness prepared to say you were there.’
‘They must have been mistaken.’
‘So you’re saying you were not at Burton House on the evening of June the twenty-third this year?’
‘Never heard of it.’
‘You surprise me, sir. A Mr Nigel Cotton was murdered on the premises at about the time you were there. Don’t you read the newspapers?’
‘Not interested in murders,’ said Mr Gault.
‘We could always organise an identity parade, though it might take a while to find people of your rather distinctive appearance. Say a week or two? We’d have to hold you in the meantime, of course.’
Mr Gault was silent.
‘All right,’ sighed Felix. ‘If you’ll just turn towards Sergeant Nash for a moment.’ ‘Watch the birdie,’ said Nash.
‘Here! That’s enough of that,’ cried Gault. ‘Who said you could do that?’
‘Just a little keepsake, sir, for us to remember you by. Now if you will allow the Sergeant here to take your fingerprints. Oh, but I was forgetting, we already have them, don’t we?’
Death in Patent Leather (The Inspector Felix Mysteries Book 7) Page 6
