The Girl Who Walked Away

by David Adkins

  “I have my own clever detective,” she purred.

  “Well sort of,” I confirmed.

  “I hope your fees are not too high.”

  I laughed. “Well you will certainly have to pay them if I am successful.”

  “If I must,” she sighed. “I have little money so I will have to think of a substitute.”

  “We will think of something.” I was enjoying the phone flirting.

  “Seriously though, what will you do next?”

  “I will ask a lot of questions of a lot of people.”

  “Excellent, I will phone you tomorrow evening for an update and good luck my detective.”

  “When will I see you again?” I blurted out.

  “We will arrange something for the weekend when I ring you tomorrow. Goodnight Steve.” I thought I caught a yawn.

  “Goodbye Cassie,” I heard her phone click into place.

  I replaced my phone and returned to my bed. After just three days I knew that I was mad about the long-legged and beautiful Cassie Mitchell. I had forgotten to tell her that Max had said thanks and I had even forgotten to ask her where Max got the three months’ rent for his expensive Russell Square apartment. Perhaps I needed to dial back the flirting.

  Chapter 3 Friday

  9th to Sunday 11th February

  The next morning I caught my usual train into London and went to dig through the registry to see if I could locate more information on Nesterman. Though Somerset House could be a daunting place for those new to it, I had been to Somerset House quite a few times on Butler and Robinson business and knew my way around.

  Bruitt had said that Nesterman had been forty five years old, which meant that he must have been born about 1906. I decided to search the birth certificate indices from 1900 to 1912, gritting my teeth when I discovered that forty eight volumes covered that time period. When I had completed the lengthy search, I had found only one Rupert Nesterman though there were other Nestermans who could have been brothers or sisters. I was scanning down the page when I noticed the declared parentage. Rupert, son of Thomas Nesterman, Wandsworth. I recalled the entry in the telephone directory and I felt a little excited that I might have discovered his identity.

  I found a public phone booth at the entrance to the building and looked through the telephone directory. There it was T. Nesterman with an address in Wandsworth. I would try again, but if this was Rupert’s father then I would have to watch my words. I stuffed some coins into the machine and dialled the number. This time my call was answered almost immediately.

  “Hello,” said a weak and aged voice.

  “Is this Thomas Nesterman?” I asked.

  “Yes it is and who is this?”

  “My name is Steve Coulson and I work for the law firm Butler and Robinson.”

  “What do you want, Mr Coulson?” The request was polite but a little impatient.

  “Are you the father of Rupert Nesterman?” Did he even know of his death I wondered?

  “No, I am not. Is this some kind of a joke?”

  “I thought you may be his father. Why would you think it was a joke?”

  “I did have a son Rupert but he died when he was just two years old. Now if you do not mind I do not want to continue this conversation.” His voice was strained.

  “I am sorry Mr Nesterman. I had no idea.” I hardly knew what to say.

  “Goodbye, Mr Coulson.” He had put the phone down.

  I returned inside the building and this time I headed for the black volumes which signified deaths. I found the entry almost straight away in the first volume for the year 1909, Rupert Nesterman, 2 years. So the Rupert Nesterman who had been murdered was not the Rupert Nesterman I had found in the 1907 birth volumes even though he would have been the right age. I sat down to take stock. There was now no point in buying the birth certificate. I could search for a marriage certificate though Bruitt had told me he was not married. It would be a long search with very little chance of reward and so I decided against it. There seemed nothing more to keep me at Somerset House and so I headed for Kingsway to ask around for his co-workers.

  It was a short walk to Kingsway and it was now almost noon so I popped into a sandwich bar for a quick bite to eat before continuing my search for the elusive Rupert Nesterman. I went into every bank in Kingsway, including the Midland and National Provincial and there was no Rupert Nesterman working at any of them either as a bank manager or in any other capacity. Had Lester Bruitt just fobbed me off with a profession for Nesterman? At the moment it almost seemed that Max Lucas was accused of murdering a ghost, a man who did not exist. Bruitt had obviously been negligent with the facts. Was it simply because he considered it none of my business or was there more to it than that?

  It was another short walk down Southampton Row to Russell Square. I had scribbled down on a piece of paper the address of the apartment block in Russell Square and it was easy to find because there was still a police presence outside. When I reached the building I was stopped by the policeman on duty. “What is your business?” he asked.

  “I have business with the landlord,” I replied. “I work for Butler and Robinson.” I showed him my card.

  “Mr Bromley is in, sir. It is the door on the right on the ground floor, but the top floor is out of bounds.”

  “Thank you constable,” I smiled and entered the building. I knocked on the door to the right and waited for a few seconds. It was opened by an elderly, balding gentleman who had a stooped back.

  “Mr Bromley?” I inquired.

  He nodded. “Cedric Bromley at your disposal. Have you come about the vacant apartment that will be available soon?”

  “No, I am Steve Coulson of Butler and Robinson, a legal firm. I wondered if you would kindly answer a few questions.”

  “What, more questions? I suppose you all have a job to do. You had better come in and take a seat.” The apartment was surprisingly spacious but rather untidy.

  “Thank you,” I said and moved some things along the sofa to give me room to sit down.

  He sat on a wooden chair opposite me. “Mrs Bromley is out shopping at the moment,” he said.

  “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice. Can I ask you to tell me in your own words what happened the night your tenant, Mr Nesterman, was murdered.”

  He shrugged. “I told the police all this already.” I just looked at him expectantly, waiting. “All right. Suppose once more won’t hurt. It was between 11.00 and 11.30 and I was listening to the wireless with Mrs Bromley. We were about to go to bed when we heard a scream. It frightened us so much I wasn’t sure if we should go and look, but as landlord, I thought I better had. I walked out the door only to find the tenant opposite, Mr Brady, was already on his way up the stairs. I followed close behind him to find that Mr and Mrs Ramsden had also left their apartment on the middle floor and they were standing on the landing. The four of us climbed the stairs to the top floor and entered Mr Nesterman’s apartment together. Lucas was standing over the body of poor Mr Nesterman. Lucas’s shirt was covered in blood and he had a bloody knife in his hand. He was just standing there as if he were in a daze. He barely acknowledged our presence except to say that he had just found him. Mr Brady went back downstairs to phone the police. They arrived very quickly within ten minutes. They arrested Lucas and questioned us. They then questioned us again the next day and apparently after that they charged Lucas.”

  “I assume that by the time you all entered the room Nesterman was dead?”

  “Mr Brady, who most had his wits about him, checked that before he went to phone. He was stabbed in the heart and was very dead.”

  “In the ten minutes that it took the police to arrive what did Lucas do?”

  “Nothing for most of the time, he just stood there as if dazed and confused. He did sink to his knees and hold his head at one point as if he was in pain and anguish. I think he was just a thief and had not meant to murder anyone and he was in shock.”

  “Who said that he had a
guilty expression on his face?” I asked.

  “Nobody as far as I know,” he answered.

  “Do you think he may have been concussed from the blow he had taken?”

  He looked at me strangely. “I really can’t say.”

  “Do you think he murdered Mr Nesterman?”

  “Mr Coulson, I’m just a building manager, not the police. It is not for me to say.”

  “Yes, I am sorry Mr Bromley. I should not have asked you that. What did you think of Mr Lucas and Mr Nesterman?”

  “Mr Lucas was a friendly enough young man but,” he leaned closer, “a bit of a spiv I thought. He was not here long enough to form much of an opinion.”

  “And Mr Nesterman?” I asked.

  “He was with us for six months. He and his friend Mr Deepdale, but they both kept themselves to themselves and so I did not form an opinion really. They were model tenants, caused no problems and paid the rent on time.”

  I was now very interested. “His friend Mr Deepdale also has an apartment here?”

  “Yes. Clive Deepdale had the apartment immediately beneath Nesterman’s.”

  “Where was Clive Deepdale on the day of the murder?”

  “He was on one of his trips. They both went on trips, sometimes alone and sometimes together.”

  “Is Deepdale in his apartment now? I would very much like a word with him when we are finished?”

  “No, he phoned to say that he would not be returning and he even said that I could keep the deposit he had paid in advance. It was most generous of him.”

  “You have not seen him since the murder?”

  “No I haven’t. His is the vacant apartment I thought you were here for.”

  “So you have a number of vacant apartments,” I suggested.

  “No, the top floor is still sealed off by ropes. The police aren’t allowing anyone to go to the top floor.”

  “That is where I had hoped to go to take a look round, Mr Bromley.”

  “Then I am afraid you can’t unless you get permission from the constable.”

  “Describe the layout of the apartments to me please.”

  He leaned back in his chair and scratched his head absentmindedly. “Well, there is a large, luxury apartment on each floor. They were occupied by Mr Nesterman and Mr Deepdale and by me and Mrs Bromley, though ours is not so luxurious. There is also a smaller apartment on each floor.”

  “And they are occupied by Mr Brady and Mr Ramsden and the accused Mr Lucas,” I offered.

  “That is correct,” he agreed.

  “Where did Nesterman and Deepdale go on their trips?”

  “I have no idea. It was hardly my business.”

  “You know they were friends though.”

  “Good friends and business partners I would say. They spent a lot of time in each other’s apartments.”

  “Do you know anything else about them, anything at all?”

  He thought about my question. “They did go out a lot and they did go to work though I never asked where they worked. They did not have visitors. I really know nothing about them at all when I think about it. They never stopped for a chat and that is about all I know.”

  “Are the Bradys or the Ramsdens in at the moment?” I asked.

  “No, they are all at work and there is no Mrs Brady. If you wish to speak with them then try Sunday when they will probably all be in.”

  “I may do that,” I replied. “Did you see a dark-haired woman enter the apartment block on the day of the murder?”

  “No I did not.”

  “Thank you for all your help Mr Bromley. You have been most kind.”

  “My pleasure,” he replied.

  I headed for the door. “Just one more thing, you didn’t happen to find a half-eaten sandwich in Lucas’s room after the murder.”

  “As it happens, I remember that I did,” he replied.

  I passed the policeman on my way out and thought I would try my luck. “Is there any chance of me having a look around the top floor?”

  “No chance at all, it is a major crime scene,” he replied. It was the answer I had expected.

  Once on the street, I checked my watched and noticed is was nearing 4 pm. The work day was ending soon, so I knew I wouldn’t have much luck going around Russell Square bars asking more questions. I was full out of questions for now. Instead I decided to return home and digest the information I had so far gathered.

  *

  That evening the phone rang about 9 pm and when I answered I was surprised to find that it was Cassie.

  “Hello Steve,” she said, her voice running a tendril of pleasure down my spine.

  “Hello Cassie, I did not expect you to ring until later.” I was surprised, knowing as I did that she should be working.

  “I am at the Gaiety. It is the interval and so I thought I would give you a quick ring now rather than later when I got home. You won’t have to wait up now.” I could hear the smile in her voice.

  “I would wait up for you anytime.”

  “I know you would but now you can have an early night.” I heard rustlings and muffled voices in the background and she hurried to add, “I don’t have much time so please tell me about today and how things worked out.”

  “Max Lucas is innocent,” I said.

  “I know that, but what made you decide it, Steve?”

  “You do not commit a robbery halfway through a sandwich.”

  She laughed. “Perhaps not, but would the police accept that as evidence?”

  “Unfortunately not. I have been trying to find out today exactly who Rupert Nesterman is. Whoever killed him must have had a motive.”

  “Did you have any luck?”

  “Not really, but we certainly have a mystery here.”

  “Look Steve, I will have to go in a minute. You must tell me everything you have done next time I see you.”

  “How about tomorrow?” I asked.

  “Tomorrow is difficult. I have two performances tomorrow with the added matinee. Sunday would be better. We could go for a drink.”

  “Fine, Sunday it is. I would like to talk to two of the tenants in the Russell Square apartment block and then ask some questions in the local bars. We could do that while we have our drink.”

  “So I am going to be a deputy detective,” she said, a tinge of excitement in her voice. “How about we meet outside Russell Square Station at say… five? We could talk to the residents first and then explore the bars.”

  “It sounds good to me,” I agreed.

  A voice shouted her name on the other end of the line. “I’m on, Steve, I need to go.”

  “Until Sunday then, Cassie,” I replied. I heard her put the phone down and then I had an early night as she had suggested.

  *

  I decided to take a break from the Max Lucas case for a day and spend Saturday relaxing and planning what I might do in the coming week. It seemed to me that I needed to find out exactly who Rupert Nesterman was and his friend Clive Deepdale would be able to help me with this. I was now certain that Max Lucas did not murder Rupert Nesterman, but to prove his innocence I would have to find out who actually did. The problem was that the police and Lester Bruitt had, for the moment, closed the book on the case.

  *

  I was outside Russell Square Station by 4.45 on Sunday the 11th February. It was a surprisingly nice day for the time of year. The sky was blue and the temperature was mild. It was almost as if spring had come early. I had a twenty minute wait for Cassie. She arrived wearing a lilac-coloured light coat and tight-fitting blue jeans which displayed her long legs to perfection.

  She walked up in a fluster. “Sorry I am late!” She saw me admiring her jeans and smiled coyly. “Do you like the jeans? They’re new. Apparently it’s the latest fashion fad.”

  “I like them very much,” I grinned wryly, “but I suspect you would look good in anything.”

  “I told you that you were a flatterer. You should get a pair! They’re just as popular with men a
s women.”

  I laughed. “I would not look as good in them as you do.”

  “Now I am ready to do some investigating,” she grinned.

  I nodded my head to a building across the way. “The apartment is over the other side of the square so let’s go.”

  I was surprised to see that there was still a police constable outside. It made me wonder if someone was on duty there day and night. “We are here to see Mr Bromley, the landlord,” I said to him.

  He shrugged and ushered us inside. I knocked at the door on the right and Bromley answered it after a short time. “Mr Coulson, I wondered if you would come back today. Please come in.”

  “I hope you do not mind but I have brought a friend. This is Cassie Mitchell, Mr Bromley.”

  Cassie smiled at him. “It is my pleasure to meet you, Mr Bromley.” I could see that he was instantly bewitched.

  “Who is it Cedric?” a voice called from the kitchen.

  “It is the lawyer I told you about, my dear.”

  Mrs Bromley emerged from the kitchen and was a large, friendly woman. “Would you both like a cup of tea or coffee?” she inquired.

  “No, please don’t trouble yourself, Mrs Bromley,” I answered, knowing that we would be drinking later at the many bars we intended to visit. “I just want to ask a few questions and then with your husband’s permission I would also like to ask two of your tenants some questions.”

  “Certainly,” he said.

  “I need to locate Clive Deepdale.”

  “I don’t think I can help,” he replied.

  “Did he leave a forwarding address?”

  “No, and I forgot to ask him for one when he rang.”

  “Can you remember anything that might help me to locate him?”

  He thought for a minute. “I really can’t.”

  “How old was he?” I asked.

  “He was about the same age as Mr Nesterman. I would say they were both in their mid-forties.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  “He was a short man, perhaps five and a half feet. He was already balding with brown hair. I really can’t think that there was anything significant about him. Can you my dear?” he turned to Mrs Bromley.