Death and a Snapper (The Inspector Felix Mysteries Book 6)

by R. A. Bentley

  'Well it seems that one way and another we ought to be able to identify fellow, if MI5 can't.'

  'Or won't.'

  'That's the problem isn't it? What do you make of his last words?' He pulled forward the interim report. '"Katinka Vasilievna not trust other".'

  'Not a thing, except it's a woman's name and sounds Russian. Can't be sure of the spelling, I'm afraid, and there's a bit of a question mark over the "other."

  'Did he sign the book?'

  'No. None of them did. Not known to the staff either. Connie thinks he was Eton and Oxford.'

  'That's remarkably precise.'

  'Well, she grew up in Oxford; went to their dances and so on.'

  'Of course she did; I was forgetting. Any news on the photo?'

  'Nash has it in hand.'

  'Stroke of luck that, they look so much better alive; and someone might be able to identify the others. How old would you say he was?'

  'Maybe early thirties. If he did go to Oxford, someone ought to remember him. That's if he isn't reported missing first. We might try hawking it round the colleges.'

  'Yes, if it's good enough. What's the girl like?'

  'The snapper? About five-five, eyes brown, hair brown, smart, stylish, seems intelligent. Delicately pretty, I suppose you'd call her.'

  'Too good for Nash, then.'

  *

  Felix sat on the edge of the hotel manager's cluttered desk, interviewing the commissionaire.

  'Thank you, Mr Canning; that seems to have satisfied my sergeant. Can you now tell me what happened last night, from your point of view? Just the bits you were involved in will do.'

  'Well, sir, first I knew of it was when I come in with the lady's cases. Nice luggage it was. Calfskin. It's supposed to be the porter's job but he was upstairs and you'll remember it was comin' on to rain. We haven't got a canopy unfortunately, so I thought I'd better bring it in. As I come in through the revolvin' door I heard these shots. You was strugglin' with one of them blokes and the sergeant here was just lettin' his one go to give another a wallop. The one you was strugglin' with got away but the other fella was sort of hoverin' there, so I grabbed him. I thought I had him but he slipped out of his coat and scarpered too, leavin' me holdin' it. Then your other police fellah come out – out of the restaurant that is – and we chased baldy outside. We saw him gettin' in one of them big Austins and they drove off.'

  'He wasn't driving?'

  'No, he got in the back. It was already movin' and he was sort of runnin' beside it. I thought for a minute they was goin' to leave him behind.'

  'There were two women with them. Did you see them?'

  'Sort of. Not really to look at. I was aware of them, as you might say. They was tryin' to push their way out when I come in, and I give 'em a cross look. I noticed they was carryin' their shawls, like they was in too much of a hurry to put 'em on. By the time I looked again they'd gone. They must've got in the car, I think, 'cause there weren't nowhere else they could've gone really. Then I come in and sorted out this poor woman, who must've wondered what sort of place she'd booked into.'

  'Did she stay?'

  'No, she cleared off, but she rang this morning to cancel her booking and say where she was.'

  'And when you were doing all that, did you see three men in trench coats and fedoras?'

  'I did sir. Looked like trouble, I thought.'

  'When did they arrive? Did you notice?'

  'No, I didn't, but it was pretty busy by then, people everywhere.'

  'What about the fellow the sergeant here "walloped"? Did you see where he went?'

  'No I didn't. He didn't come past me; I know that.'

  'Well, thank you very much, Mr Canning; that was very well described. And thank you for your public-spirited actions. You were very brave.'

  'Not really, sir, I just done it automatic. I'm an old soldier, sir. I was in the Sudan with Kitchener, fightin' the Mahdists. Now they was brave; fought like lions they did.'

  Mrs De Silva was a very large lady, veritably encrusted with jewellery. Felix hoped it wasn't valuable. He made a mental note to call her a taxi.

  'Thank you for coming back to see us, Mrs De Silva, it's much appreciated. Are you happy in your new hotel?'

  'It's very nice, Chief Inspector, though it oughta be, given what they charge. How can I help?'

  'I'm told by the manager that you saw this unfortunate gentleman shot last night. I'm sorry to have to ask you to relive the experience but it's important we know exactly what happened. Can you talk me through it? The more detail you can give us the better. Start from when you arrived, if you will.'

  'Well I'll try, Chief Inspector. Let me see now. I got outa the cab and it was starting to rain so I came right on in, leaving the doorman to bring my baggage. I waited near the revolving door out there.'

  'Was there anyone else in the foyer, at the time?'

  'I don't think so. Though I wasn't particularly looking, you know?'

  'Not at the reception desk?'

  'No, not then. I guess they decided to stay in here, if that's where they were. Cain't say I blame them. Now I think about it, there mighta been someone by that other door.' She looked behind her. 'I'm not sure . . . '

  'Come and show me.'

  Mrs De Silva gazed around the foyer. 'Over there?'

  'That's the restaurant door. Might they have been there?'

  'Mighta been. Anyway, suddenly this young guy in a tuxedo dashes outa there, there's a shot and he spins around and falls down.' She thought for a moment. 'I guess it mighta been him I saw. Hesitating maybe?'

  'But you're not sure?'

  'No, I'm not sure.'

  'Can you tell where the shot came from?'

  'Oh, the restaurant. Then this bearded guy came out and fired again, and I just screamed. There didn't seem nowhere to hide, so I kinda shrank against the wall, you know? Then these two women came out and went straight off out the door while the doorman was coming in with my baggage. Then all these guys came piling out and started fighting the other guys. Including you, Chief Inspector. Then the guy with the gun got away into the street and so did the little bald one, and then another guy came running out the restaurant and chased them. Was he one of yours? Yes, he musta been because he came back in. And then the doctor came out the restaurant and asked if I was all right, which I appreciated I can tell you!'

  'It must have been very frightening for you, Mrs De Silva. What about the one the sergeant knocked out? Did you see him go?'

  'No. I saw him go down, but it was getting busy by then, with people trying to leave and rubbernecking and all.'

  'Tell me, did you see the three fellows in trench coats and fedoras come in?'

  'I know who you mean. Yes I did.'

  'Can you tell me when that was?'

  'Just after the doctor came maybe? Who were they anyway? Seems to me there was some friction there. And the poor guy lying bleeding on the floor and that pretty lady trying to help him, and her pregnant too! Say, was that her husband?'

  Chapter Three

  Clare Valentine lived alone in Fulham. Her attic flat had but one small living room with the bed curtained off. A battered club chair, a bookshelf, a table, and two upright chairs constituted the rest of the furniture. Every wall and door was covered in works of photographic art, mostly her own; a few of them matted and framed, the majority simply stuck up with drawing pins. Nash spent some time solemnly studying each in turn, like a visitor to a gallery.

  'They're marvellous,' he said at last. 'The portraits especially. Who is this?'

  'Just an old man. Isn't he lovely? I found him at the bus stop. Most of my stuff is of ordinary people. Do you really like them? You're not just saying that in the hope of seducing me?'

  Nash laughed. 'Yes, I really do like them. They're at least as good as anything I've done; though my subject matter is a bit different. Street scenes mostly, and people at work.'

  'I'd like to see them.'

  'Oh, you shall. Lead on.'


  'Where to?'

  'Your darkroom, babe. I've a boss hungry for pictures.'

  Clare looked doubtful. 'You want to come in? I'm not sure about that. I'm not used to people watching.'

  'Don't worry, I won't interfere. I'll sit quietly in a corner and we can chat.'

  'Oh, all right then. As long as you do. It's in here.'

  Gazing around him at the well equipped room, Nash frowned. 'But this is the kitchen! Where do you cook?'

  'I don't do much of that,' admitted Clare, closing the door. 'I wait for police photographers to ask me to dinner.'

  'I shouldn't make a habit of it, if I were you; they're not trustworthy.' 'No?'

  'Being in the dark brings out the beast in them.'

  'I'd best turn on the safelight then.'

  'Come here.'

  They embraced in the dim, red glow, leaning against the sink.

  'Doesn't seem to work,' she frowned, 'the safelight.'

  'You're still safe, aren't you? Apart from the smudged lipstick. Let's get started.'

  Sitting on a stool he watched her working through the complex process of developing the previous evening's film, printing from it, washing the prints, hanging them up to dry.

  'I could do that,' he said, 'the drying.'

  'Yes, all right. These are ready.'

  You are the business, he thought. I could fall for you, if I haven't already.

  'John, I was wondering.'

  'Yes?'

  'You won't laugh? You might think it foolish.'

  'I promise I won't laugh.'

  'That film you gave them. Won't they get it developed?'

  Attaching some pegs to weight the corners of the prints, he shook his head. 'I shouldn't think so; probably just expose it or chuck it away. Why?'

  'But they might.'

  'It's a new one. It'll be blank.'

  'But then they'll know I've got their photo. They might want it back. They're not very nice people.'

  'Damn!' said Nash. 'I hadn't thought of that.'

  And he hadn't. It hadn't even crossed his mind. He tried to weigh the odds. They were small, he told himself, probably vanishingly so, but a rising panic gripped him. How soon could they be expected to arrive? They would have to find someone trustworthy to develop the thing. It could take a while, might not be possible, and then they might think there was something wrong with the camera. No, he couldn't risk that. Next they had to find Clare. That would be easy for anyone English – just ask at the restaurant – not so easy for a Russian perhaps, especially after last night.

  'You do see what I mean?' she said anxiously. 'They could easily find me. I'm in the local rag, and lots of places.'

  'And I thought I was being so darned clever,' said Nash. 'Is there anywhere I can telephone?'

  'Mrs Dawson, my landlady. Basement flat.'

  'Right, I'm going to phone the chief. Lock the door behind me and don't let anyone else in. If someone tries to force the door, open the window and scream blue murder.'

  'I should have thought of that too,' admitted Felix. 'Does she live alone?'

  'Yes she does.'

  'All right, we'd best move her.'

  'Where to? I've got the prints, by the way.'

  'I'll come over. What's the address?'

  'I can't apologise enough for this, Miss Valentine,' said Felix. He pushed aside the curtain and peered down onto the narrow street below. 'I can put a guard on the place, but I'd be happier if you weren't here. How would you feel about moving out for a day or two? We'll be publishing the picture soon anyway, and they're unlikely to bother you after that. There would be no point.'

  'I don't know where I would go.'

  'Parents? Friends?'

  'My parents are dead. I don't know . . . I suppose . . .' She looked suddenly lost. 'I don't know.'

  'I've only got a room or you could come to me,' said Nash miserably, 'I'm really sorry about this, Clare.'

  'Then you'd best stay with us,' said Felix. 'You've met my wife already. The blonde lady.'

  'Thank you, Chief Inspector. You're very kind. But with your wife being . . . I mean, I can't possibly impose.'

  'Not an imposition. Connie likes company; she'll be glad to have you. We have a spare bedroom and are forever putting people up. Now I think you should pack your bags before my sergeant here blows a gasket. He can take you straight over there. And bring away your camera and any valuables.'

  'I've several cameras. And I'd want my portfolio.'

  'Then bring the lot.'

  Rattigan was sitting in their office, typing up their statements on the night's events. 'Hello,' he said, 'All settled in?'

  'She was crying in the taxi,' said Nash morosely. 'She's never going to trust me now.'

  'You could hardly have anticipated this,' said Felix, 'We've done all we can to make amends, and if they haven't come after her by the end of the week they probably won't. In the meantime I've put a couple of armed constables in there. It's a long shot but I think it's worth it. If they do pitch up they're going to get a shock.' He took out one of the prints. 'This'll be in the papers tomorrow morning. It's quite a good three quarters view, so if he's at all well-known it ought to produce results. I don't hold much hope for the others. Where's Paul?'

  'Over the way, comparing dabs.'

  'You never know, I suppose. Did you want to do the conference, Teddy? Take a print with you and see if it rings a bell with anyone. We can't even assume they're Russian, don't forget, though I'll bet MI5 knows. Polly is seeing the A/C about it later. If they know anything about these people they ought to tell us, and if they don't it's in their interest to help us find out. That's my view anyway.'

  *

  The hospital mortuary was cold as usual, redolent of carbolic and the indignities of death. Felix could imagine nowhere more depressing to work. Howard Benyson, Chief Forensic Surgeon to New Scotland Yard, was at his desk, softly whistling as he filled out a form.

  'Sorry to disturb you in your work, Howard, but I need some info.' He solemnly shook hands with Charlie the skeleton, hoisted him to the coat stand and stole his seat. 'How are things in the Underworld?'

  Benyson chuckled. 'My nickname among the students used to be Hades, but it seems to have died out, along with classical education. Care for a pomegranate?'

  'You don't catch me like that; I'm not stopping. I know we'll be getting your report but can you just tell me if our man has any distinguishing marks?'

  'Nothing useful, unless you count a nasty scar on the right buttock. I'm assuming he got it in the war, so we'll put it down to a strategic retreat.'

  'If he did, he's older than I thought. Unless he lied about his age.'

  Benyson shook his head. 'Not common among the middle classes.'

  'Do you think he was — middle class?'

  'That or upper. Had an easy start anyway. I'd say he was about your age. Want to see him?'

  'I don't think so, thanks. How many bullets?'

  'Just the one — entered the dorsal left upper, nicked the subclavian, smashed the clavicle and was caught by the clothing. Ballistics have got it.'

  'Any comments on the clothes?'

  'Almost new. Bought here, I should imagine. How's the missus?'

  'Getting fed up with it.'

  'Morning sickness?'

  'Not to speak of.'

  'Might be a boy then?'

  'That's what I told her. Her friend Maurice says it'll be a girl. Claims infallibility, like the Pope. I suppose it'll be one or the other.'

  'Not necessarily. You see some strange things in the Underworld.'

  *

  'What do you think of our John?' said Connie. 'Or shouldn't I ask?'

  'I like him,' said Clare, accepting a cup of tea. 'He's not the type I usually go for – for looks, I mean – but I like him. I was a bit cross that he hadn't seen the risk I was running, but he was so obviously mortified that I didn't make too much of it.'

  'I expect he thought giving them his own film was the easi
est way to shut them up. He wouldn't have known then how useful yours was going to be, or what it might lead to.'

  'And then was happy to take the credit. Well I can't blame him for that. And he did save my camera, which cost a fortune. He's forgiven.'

  'Good, I'm glad, because I think you've hooked him. It was interesting to see how differently he behaves towards you. He acts pretty hard-bitten normally. He's had a tough life, you know.'

  Clare smiled. 'We have that in common then. He certainly looks hard-bitten. Where did he get that dreadful scar? Do you know?'

  'In the war, I think. He was in the navy. Miles says he's got a tattoo.'

  'A tattoo! Well I don't suppose it matters, as long as it doesn't say "Mabel" or something. I don't think I'd like that very much. Anyway, he's a photographer, and he likes my work, or says he does, and he's very gentle and kind. That gets him a lot of points.'

  'I'm sure he likes your work; he's too honest to lie about it. I don't think he's as frightening-looking as Teddy Rattigan, though, who is actually a big softie.'

  'He's huge isn't he? I'd like to photograph him. Was he a boxer? He's terribly knocked about.'

  'Yes he was — police light heavyweight champion, back in the stone-age.'

  'What happened to the "light"?

  They laughed.

  'Twenty years of chips and cake, is the answer to that. Teddy likes his grub. Talking of which, do you eat curry?'

  'Love it.'

  'Good. I don't know what it's supposed to mean but I can't get enough of it at the moment. I must go and make a start.'

  'Can I help?'

  'Yes if you want, but you don't have to. Oh dear, telephone. That usually means he's going to be late.' Getting up, she reached into the hall for the instrument. 'Yes? . . . Oh, hello Paul . . . No, not yet . . . Oh my goodness! What do you want him to do? . . . All right, I'll tell him. Anybody hurt? . . . Oh, the poor fellows! Ah! Here he is now. Do you want to speak to him? It's Paul, darling.'