by J F Straker
‘I’ll leave it all to you,’ she said eagerly. That would certainly help to make amends, she thought, smiling at his sudden grin and the ‘thumbs up’ sign he gave her with his free hand. ‘But I want to give Uncle Henry and Alan something first. They have a right to it, after the way Aunt Charlotte treated them. And it’s no good leaving it to them in my will; I want them to have it now.’ She hesitated. ‘I was going to do the same for Michael and his parents.’
‘Trying to unload that inherited guilt, eh? Well, it’s your money. I should leave Michael out of it for the present, until all this has been cleared up. But Alan — you know, I don’t think he would accept it.’
‘Why ever not? I’d only be paying off Aunt Charlotte’s debt.’
‘I know. But —’ He looked at her oddly. ‘Didn’t you know that Alan is in love with you?’
‘Alan?’ She laughed. ‘Don’t be absurd, Desmond. Of course he isn’t.’
‘But he is. He told me so — ages ago, in an unusual burst of confidence. That was why I had to rush you off your feet the way I did. I was afraid he’d get in first.’
He took his hand from hers to light a cigarette, and she turned over on her back and lay staring at the ceiling. Alan in love with her! They had played together, gone on holidays together, when they were children; she had looked on him as a brother. Then Uncle Edward had died, and Alan had stopped coming to the house. Later, when she had left school and Alan had gone into business with his father, they had met occasionally. Sometimes he had taken her out. He was cheerful and friendly and kind, and had not followed Michael’s example in venting on her his spleen against her aunt. But there was never a hint that he might be in love with her.
‘I still don’t believe you,’ she said. ‘Bruce, yes; did you know he asked me to marry him? But not Alan.’
‘I suspect that woman’s intuition isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,’ Desmond said, smiling. ‘Either that, or you happen to be lacking in it. Bruce doesn’t love anyone except himself. If he asked you to marry him it was because of Aunt Charlotte’s money, and because he’d be stepping up socially. He’s an almighty snob.’
It could be true, Elizabeth thought, a little shaken at her apparent lack of perception. There had never been much warmth in Bruce’s love-making, despite his emphatic protestations. And he had failed to conceal — or perhaps he had not bothered to conceal — his interest in Dulcie. When Dulcie was around he had eyes only for her.
Dulcie! Wincing at the pain it caused her, she turned quickly to look at her husband.
‘Desmond, I clean forgot; Dulcie knows we’re married. It was Dulcie who put me to bed, you see.’ Elizabeth pulled the ribbon away from her neck. ‘She saw the ring.’
‘Oh, Lord!’ He stared at the ring as though mesmerized by it, his lips forming a soundless whistle. Then he gave a deep breath. ‘That’s torn everything. How on earth did she know it was me you’d married? Did you tell her?’
‘No. I suppose she just guessed. But don’t look so worried, darling. She promised to keep it to herself.’
‘Dulcie never kept anything to herself,’ he told her, frowning.
Footsteps sounded along the corridor and he stood up, watching the door. ‘That’ll be the doctor or the police,’ he said. ‘Damn!’
It was both. And Dulcie. She looked quickly from Elizabeth to Desmond and then away. The doctor went over to the bed and took Elizabeth’s hand. He had a paternal air that did not accord with his youthful appearance.
‘Feeling better?’ he said. ‘That’s fine. Can you remember now what happened? The Inspector here is anxious for detail.’
Elizabeth told them.
‘It might have been worse,’ the doctor said, replacing the bandage. ‘It’s coming out nicely.’ As though it were a prize bloom, Elizabeth thought. ‘Stay in bed, and I’ll pop in tomorrow. We’ll have you about in no time. A little swollen-headed, perhaps, but otherwise no ill effects.’
He laughed heartily at his own joke, said goodbye, and made for the door. Pitt hurried after him. They could hear the Inspector’s low voice, followed by the doctor’s ‘No, no. Nothing like that.’ When Pitt came back he seated himself on the vacant chair beside the bed and, after some formal words of sympathy, said, ‘Did anyone know that you were going to the village this afternoon, Miss Messager?’
‘I don’t think so. It was after tea that I remembered about the statement you wanted me to sign. But I didn’t tell anyone. I just put on my coat and went.’
‘Can you describe the man who attacked you?’
‘No. It was pitch dark, and he just seemed to materialise from out of the ground. I never saw his face. I couldn’t even say if he was tall or short, thin or fat. He was just a figure.’
The Inspector frowned. ‘He was probably crouched behind a bush waiting for you. Did he steal anything?’
Her eyes widened. ‘I don’t know. I never thought about it. But I hadn’t any jewellery, and —’ She looked from her husband to Dulcie. ‘Do you know where my bag is?’
‘You didn’t have a bag,’ Dulcie said.
‘Oh! That’s it, then.’ She was not greatly concerned. With Aunt Charlotte’s
money she could buy all the handbags she wanted. ‘There was nothing of value in it. Only a few shillings, and my lipstick and compact — things like that.’
But the Inspector was already on his feet.
‘And your front-door key to The Elms, eh?’
‘Yes. I’d forgotten that.’
Pitt nodded to Watkins. As the Sergeant moved to the door Pitt said, ‘I fancy that is what your assailant was after, Miss Messager. But we’ll soon find out.’
The two detectives hurried from the hotel and into the waiting car. ‘If we hadn’t had one-track minds, Jim, we might have guessed something like this would happen,’ the Inspector said angrily. The anger was directed against himself. ‘We’re too late now, of course. All we can hope is that he left his card.’
The Elms was in darkness; there was no sound from within, the front door was locked. They went round to the back and let themselves in, heedless of the noise they made. As Pitt had said, it was too late for that.
In the study the wall safe was open, the door almost forced off its hinges. Pitt fished out the few documents it contained and studied them thoughtfully.
‘Obviously a mercenary type,’ Jim Watkins commented. ‘Not interested in literature.’
‘No,’ Pitt said. ‘But I wonder if he’s interested in the cinema.’
Chapter Nine
Fun for Aunt Charlotte
It was just on ten o’clock that same evening when Desmond, frantically helping the barman to serve the ‘last orders’ that had already been called for, saw Michael’s anxious face watching him from behind the press at the bar. It was obvious that Michael had been trying to attract his attention, for, as Desmond gave him a casual nod of recognition, he pointed upward with head and thumb and left the room.
Desmond was annoyed. Certainly he wanted to see Michael (despite Elizabeth’s pleading, it seemed to him imperative to discover whether in fact Michael had attacked her that afternoon), but he did not want to be bothered with him yet. So far he had had no opportunity for a private talk with Dulcie; and Dulcie, surely, was a more pressing problem than Michael. Michael must wait his turn.
The bar was as crowded as it had been on the previous evening. Murder, it seemed, was thirst-provoking, and the attack on Elizabeth Messager had no doubt revived any interest that might have been waning. It took longer than usual to clear the bar, despite the urgency with which Desmond applied himself to the task.
Dulcie was not in her room when, receiving no answer to his knock, he peeped inside. Yet there had been no sign of her on the ground floor. Perhaps his father could help.
‘She’s out,’ Mr Farrel told him. ‘Went out just before eight.’
‘Hell!’ The indifference with which Desmond had sought to mask his anxiety could not survive this setback. ‘Do you know where she
went? Was she meeting some one?’
‘It did not occur to me to ask.’ Mr Farrel eyed his son with some concern. ‘I hope, Desmond, that you are not now involved with two young women?’
‘I’m not involved with any,’ Desmond said quickly, and left him.
Michael was pacing up and down the room like a caged panther; he had a cat-like tread, and the sleek beauty of the cat family. A tumblerful of whisky was disappearing down his gullet at a fast rate.
‘I see you’ve helped yourself,’ Desmond said curtly. He was in an unfriendly mood. ‘A pity you couldn’t get here early enough to buy one in the bar.’
The other did not heed the sarcasm. He drank the remainder of the whisky at a gulp, choked slightly, tossed back the lock of unruly hair, and said excitedly, ‘Desmond, you’ve got to help me. I’m in a hell of a jam.’
‘Oh?’ Desmond’s tone indicated no more than polite curiosity. He shook off Michael’s clutching hand and knelt by the cupboard to mix himself a drink. ‘What trouble have you managed to get yourself into this evening?’
‘This evening?’ Michael eased a trembling finger round the inside of his collar. ‘Nothing. I’m talking about last Thursday.’
‘And I’m talking about this evening. Let’s discuss that first, shall we?’
‘There’s nothing to discuss. I went to the cinema.’
‘Really? Have you heard about Elizabeth?’
‘Yes. I’m sorry. How is she? All right?’
‘She will be.’ Desmond perched himself on the edge of the bed and sipped his whisky appreciatively. ‘When did you hear the news?’
‘What news?’ Michael, who had walked over to the curtained window, wheeled quickly. ‘Oh, you mean Elizabeth. Why, just now. They were talking about it in the bar.’
Desmond was beginning to feel better. He could see Dulcie when she returned, even if it meant camping outside her door for half the night. Meanwhile this cross-examination gave him quite a kick, an exhilarating sense of power that was just what he needed. If Michael had attacked Elizabeth . . .
‘Did you go to the cinema alone?’ he asked.
‘Yes. What the devil is this, Desmond? Why all these damned questions about this evening?’
‘The police will be asking them later, I shouldn’t wonder,’ Desmond told him grimly. ‘You can treat this as a rehearsal.’
‘Rehearsal?’ Michael stared at him wide-eyed. ‘You damned fool, they’ve asked them already! That’s why I’m here.’
‘Oh!’ It was Desmond’s turn to stare. Then he slipped off the bed and went over to the cupboard. ‘In that case you certainly do need a drink. Here! How’s that?’
‘Thanks.’ Michael sipped greedily. ‘Yes, the blighters were waiting for me as I got off the bus.’ He shuddered. ‘It was hell.’
‘What happened?’
‘Oh, they were polite enough. Asked me if I’d mind going to the police station with them to answer a few questions. So I went. What else could I do?’
‘And then?’
‘Well, first they wanted to know where I’d been this evening. The fact that I’d been to the cinema wasn’t enough for them; I had to give them the times of the buses, the name of the film — everything. When they’d got it all down they —’
‘Hold it!’ Desmond said crisply. ‘If I’m to help you I want it in detail too. The whole boiling.’
‘But it’s not this evening that worries me. It’s Thursday.’
‘We’ll start with this evening.’ His glass replenished, Desmond returned to his perch on the bed. What had happened to Elizabeth had not proved fatal, but it was important. To him, anyway. Michael wasn’t going to wriggle out of it so easily. ‘Come on, get weaving. We haven’t got all night.’
Michael scowled, resenting the imperious tone. But it was expedient to reply.
‘I caught the four forty-eight bus. I’d been hoping Bruce would come with me, but he was out when I called at his place.’ (Bruce had been in the bar around seven-thirty, Desmond remembered. He’d seen him, although he hadn’t spoken to him. But where was he earlier?) ‘I was in the cinema by twenty past five, came out at ten past eight, and caught the eight twenty-two bus back.’
‘What film?’
‘‘The Searchers.’ It’s a Western. Anything else you’d like to know?’
‘You’ve got it off pat, haven’t you?’ Desmond said.
He was the cat playing with the mouse; he could goad him with impunity, the mouse would never turn and hit back. That was what he thought. But he had not reckoned on the other’s quick temper. Michael’s eyes narrowed, his lips parted over clenched teeth. He walked slowly over to the bed and stood squarely in front of his tormentor, one fist raised threateningly.
‘What the devil do you mean by that?’ he asked.
Desmond was seldom averse to a rough house, despite his languid air. But he did not want one now; he wanted to get the truth out of Michael. He said, smiling, ‘Nothing, you idiot. Just pulling your leg.’ And, as the other relaxed, ‘I never knew you were a film fan.’
‘I’m not,’ Michael said wearily. ‘But Dad was in one of his really filthy moods at tea, and I just couldn’t stand it any longer. The cinema was the only place that offered.’
It could be true, Desmond reflected. He would have been willing to accept it had it not been for the guilty look on Michael’s face when Elizabeth had been mentioned. Elizabeth had been attacked at around a quarter to five, as near as he could ascertain; if Michael had been the attacker he would have had to run like the wind to catch the four forty-eight bus. But had he caught it? He could have gone into Tanbury by the next bus, and still have seen enough of the film to satisfy any questions the police might have put to him.
Desmond decided on a direct attack.
‘Michael, I’ve got to ask this; some one else will if I don’t. Was it you who attacked Elizabeth on the common this evening?’
The effect of this thrust was not easy to assess, since it was directed at Michael’s back. But it seemed to Desmond that the back stiffened at the question.
‘No, of course I didn’t.’ He sounded neither surprised nor outraged by the suggestion. It was almost as an afterthought that he turned and added reproachfully, ‘I’m sorry you thought it necessary to ask that, Desmond.’
‘I’m sorry too.’ He eyed Michael steadily, until the other blinked and turned away again. ‘All right, forget it. Now, what’s all this about last Thursday?’
But now that his opportunity had come at last Michael hesitated to take it. He walked across to the window, fiddled with the curtains, took his time over lighting a cigarette. Then he said slowly, ‘It so happens that I didn’t go straight home from the office that evening. The police got that information from my father. They asked me where I’d been, and I told them . . .
He paused, licking his lips. ‘You told them what?’ Desmond asked, intrigued.
‘I told them I’d been with you.’
Desmond stared at him. ‘You bloody fool!’ he said softly. ‘You bloody fool! You think you can get away with that? Why, they’ll blow it sky-high in next to no time.’ He took a deep breath. ‘It didn’t occur to you, I suppose, that I might object to being summarily involved in your misdemeanours, whatever they are — that, ethics apart, I might value my liberty rather more than our beautiful friendship? In short, that I might blow the gaff?’
Michael hurried over to him, almost running. ‘It’s not like that, Desmond,’ he said eagerly. ‘I wouldn’t have done it if I’d thought you’d be in any danger. All I said was that you’d picked me up outside the office some time after half-past five and had given me a lift into Tanbury. I didn’t commit you further than that — except to say that, having done our shopping (separately, not together), we had met again shortly after six, when I decided to stay in Tanbury for a drink. I knew you must have left about that time, or you wouldn’t have been able to pick Bruce up at half-past six on your way back.’
‘I see. And how could you be sure t
hat I didn’t go into Tanbury long before five?’
‘Because Alan told me on Saturday that he’d seen you in the village at a quarter-past five. I knew I couldn’t be far out on time.’
Desmond was startled. ‘Alan saw me? What was he doing in the village then? He should have been at the factory — they don’t knock off until five-thirty.’ A new aspect occurred to him. ‘Anyway, why should the fact that he had seen me be of sufficient importance to mention it to you? You weren’t checking up on me by any chance, were you?’ The guilty look on the other’s face answered him. ‘I see. Nice couple of friends you are.’
‘We weren’t discussing you in particular,’ Michael protested. ‘We were trying to sort out where every one was that afternoon, that’s all.’
It sounded reasonable. Desmond was still slightly worried about Alan, but that was not something to be discussed with Michael.
‘All right. So you were okay on times. But you’d have looked a nice bloody fool, wouldn’t you, if, unknown to you, the police had already questioned me before they tackled you? What then?’
That, Michael admitted, was a risk he had had to take — with the odds in his favour. ‘Why should they question you? Aunt Charlotte hadn’t cheated you?’ he said bitterly. ‘You’ve no motive, the way Alan and I have. They won’t suspect you unless they find out about the joke we’d planned; and if that happens I’ve now given you an alibi. Back me up in this and we’re both safe.’
‘I don’t happen to need an alibi, thank you,’ Desmond said. ‘What were you doing that evening that you had to keep it secret from the police?’
‘I went to see Aunt Charlotte.’
‘You what?’
‘I went to see Aunt Charlotte. Not at the house — at the station.’
‘Good Lord! Why? To kiss her goodbye?’
‘I borrowed some money from the firm last week,’ Michael said. Confession seemed to be coming to him more easily, for he did not boggle at the admission. ‘They don’t know it yet — but they will if I don’t replace it by Wednesday.’