“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.
Chapter Seventeen
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 was 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 m
ight 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 said, 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.
He had his hand on the starter, when she came running up on the off side and leaned right in.
“Mr. Antony—”
“What is it?”
“Mr. Antony—”
He took hold of himself. There was something she wanted to say. Not a chance in a million that it was anything to matter, but he couldn’t afford to neglect the millionth chance.
“What is it, Ivy? Have you thought of anything else?”
Her giggle was a nervous one.
“Well, I might have—I dunno. You wouldn’t get me into trouble with the police?”
What did one say to that? He chanced it honestly.
“It would depend on what you’d done. I’d do my best. What is it?”
She hesitated, drew back a little, and then came out with,
“Would there be a reward?”
A laughter as bitter as anger swept through him. Money! Of course that was what she was after. What a damned fool he had been not to tumble to it before! He said in what he hoped was a casual voice,
“Oh, yes, there’d be a reward.”
“How much?” said Ivy briskly. Business was business, and a girl had to look out for herself.
“How much do you want?”
There was a momentary hesitation. Then she got it out.
“Fifty pounds.”
“What for?” He wasn’t casual now, but as businesslike as she.
“Well—”
“My dear girl, you don’t expect me to buy a pig in a poke, do you?”
“I dunno what you mean.” She drew back.
If she turned sulky, he’d lose her. He said quickly,
“Y
ou can have your fifty pounds if you’ve got anything that’s worth it. But you must tell me what it is—I can’t just give it you blind—you must see that.”
She said, “I dunno—” and stood fingering her bag. And then all at once she began to talk with an uneven rush of words. “I wouldn’t have let that old Hopkins have it, not if he’d gone down on his knees. But you’re different—and you’re a gentleman, Mr. Antony—and if you say I’ll get my fifty pounds—well, then you’ll see I get it. And as for what it’s worth, I can’t say—but there’s a letter, and—well, you can see for yourself.”
The hands that were fiddling with the bag pulled it open. Out came something flat and dark. She pushed it at him. The dusk was closing in, but it was not so dark but that he could see that what she was giving him was a shabby leather wallet. His heart bounded.
“Dropped it out of his rain-coat pocket most likely, when he was saying goodnight. I don’t say there wasn’t a kiss or two. And what’s the harm if you like it? Some do and some don’t. And some old cats—well nobody’d want to kiss them any old how, so what’s the odds?”
It fell out of his rain-coat.… Antony thought not. He thought those predatory fingers with their scarlet nails had picked it neatly out of an inner pocket. If he had his arms round her, she would have felt it through the stuff. No human being ever carried a wallet in the outside pocket of a rain-coat.… Well, that wasn’t his business.
She tugged at his sleeve and said in an urgent whisper,
“You won’t let the police get nasty about it, will you? It just dropped out—I swear it did. There wasn’t any money, no more than what’s there now. You can see for yourself.”
All at once he was in a raging hurry to be gone—to find out what she had given him. He said,
“I’ll put it right with the police, and—thank you, Ivy—you shall have your money.”
Five minutes later he was up in the room which had always been his, turning the wallet out on the top of the chest of drawers. There wasn’t very much in it. There was a postal order for half a crown—no name filled in. His mouth twisted. He had an idea that Ivy had left it there, as you might say for luck. He didn’t think she would have left a note. Perhaps there hadn’t been one—perhaps there had been two or three. It was not his affair.
Pursuit of a Parcel: An Ernest Lamb Mystery Page 19
