Yet he was afraid of being distracted by the obvious. With so many people who admitted to disliking Owen, it was easy to forget those other anonymous figures who might also have grudges, their personal hatreds. The untraceable groups in the front two rows, for example; he had no right to forget them, but how could he find them? He sighed, and then straightened himself as the car slowed to pass through the boundary of the airport.
‘You’d better come with me,’ he said to the sergeant who had driven him. ‘And have your notebook prominent. I want to make this as official as possible; I think we’ll frighten him a little. Go and fix a private room, will you, and then find me in the passengers’ lounge.’
It seemed that Evan Tredegar had not yet arrived. The time which Delia had passed on to Simon was, he discovered, that at which passengers should report at the airfield; the departure of the plane was not until half an hour later. He glanced at his watch and was pleased; there would be plenty of time for a quiet talk.
Evan Tredegar caught sight of the detective as soon as he emerged from the passport control room ten minutes later. He nodded slightly in recognition, then moved towards a seat.
Simon came quietly to his side.
‘Good evening,’ he said.
‘Evening,’ replied the Old Man, surprised but not alarmed. ‘What are you doing here? Just popping off for Christmas or waiting to catch smugglers?’
‘Waiting to have a talk with you as a matter of fact, Mr Tredegar.’
‘You’ll have to wait a little longer then, I’ve no time now. Be back in England on Thursday.’
‘I’m afraid my business is urgent. There’s a room we can use over here, if you’d care to follow me.’
Evan Tredegar stared at him for a moment, then pulled a watch out of his pocket and studied it.
‘Very well, then; five minutes,’ he grunted. He followed Simon into the office and looked uneasily at Sergeant Flint, who was sitting in a corner but not unobtrusively.
‘Now then, what’s all this about?’ he demanded.
‘Do you mind telling me, Mr. Tredegar, why when I saw you this afternoon you made no mention of the fact that you proposed to leave the country.’
‘Because I didn’t know then that I proposed to leave the country; was only asked three hours ago. Damned if I see what business it is of yours, though.’
‘Perhaps if you considered it for a moment, Mr Tredegar, you might think of a reason why we should be interested.’
The old musician considered and thought.
‘Good God!’ he spluttered. ‘You’re not suspecting me of killing Owen, are you?’
‘Would it be so ridiculous if we did, Mr Tredegar?’
‘Of course it would. Absolutely absurd. Why the devil should I do a damn fool thing like that?’ He stopped and stared at Simon, then spoke more quietly. ‘Am I to understand, Superintendent, that you propose to arrest me? If you do, I think you may find that you have taken on quite a lot of trouble.’
‘If I did, I should not be deterred by any threats of yours. But as long as you can give me a satisfactory explanation of your very sudden departure, no, I do not propose to arrest you. I have no adequate grounds for doing so. But I have got grounds for suspicion and if you think back over what you have told me in the past few days and compare it with the truth, I think you will realise what they are. I am only saying this because I feel you may not realise the gravity of your position. It is more important than I can possibly emphasise that you should tell me not only nothing but the truth, but also the whole truth.’
He paused for a moment to let this receive proper consideration, then indicated a chair and nodded to Flint. When they were both seated, he began his questioning.
‘Now will you tell me the whole story about this flight to Italy.’
‘Certainly. Nothing to hide’—but the Old Man’s voice was more subdued now, nevertheless, than in previous conversations. ‘Had a phone call from the manager of the Rome Opera House at about seven o’clock this evening. They’re putting on one of my operas tomorrow night—thing I wrote when I was thirty called Oliver Cromwell—hasn’t been done in England for twenty years and quite right too. Anyway Fiorentino, who was to conduct it, is down with appendicitis and no one else knows anything about it. Would I come out and conduct the one performance, fat fee and all expenses paid? Said yes, of course. Have to be there for a rehearsal at three tomorrow afternoon; this was the only flight with a free seat. That’s all. Booked to come back on Thursday afternoon, so shan’t be out of your clutches long.’
‘Can you give me the name and telephone number of the manager in Rome?’
Rather sulkily they were produced. Simon turned to Sergeant Flint.
‘Call that number, or get an interpreter to do it for you, and check up. No scandal, though—you can be a reporter looking for a paragraph. I would like to suggest to you, Mr Tredegar,’ he went on when the sergeant had left the room, ‘that the reason why you did not conduct the Mass last Saturday was because Owen, your son, was blackmailing you.’
‘Ridiculous suggestion. Nothing of the sort. Told you what happened last Saturday.’
‘So you deny that absolutely, after careful thought?’
‘Absolutely.’
There was an uncomfortable silence. Simon realised that Tredegar was trying to persuade himself to say something. He waited and it finally emerged.
‘One thing I perhaps ought to tell you, though I suppose it won’t look too good. Thought of it after you’d gone this afternoon. Insurance on Owen’s life.’
‘What about the insurance? You mean that you are the beneficiary?’
‘Yes. Took out the policy myself, nothing to do with Owen.’
‘For what amount?’
‘Ten thousand.’
Simon whistled softly and an explanation was quickly forthcoming.
‘Told you I’d settled ten thousand on Owen myself—absolutely, couldn’t get it back. Well, Owen might die unmarried and intestate, no relations, but I couldn’t claim—wouldn’t want to, at least. Seemed a bit of a waste, so I took out this policy at the same time—about ten years ago—as a possible recompense. Thought you ought to know. Owen knew the policy existed, of course; he had to have the medical examination for it as a condition of receiving the money. But he didn’t know that I was the beneficiary.’
Sergeant Flint returned and confirmed that the invitation to Rome was a genuine one and that a return seat had been booked. Simon held out his hand.
‘I won’t keep you any longer then, Mr Tredegar. Perhaps you’d give me a ring when you get back.’
The old man took his hand and shook it slowly. At the door he halted for a second and looked back.
‘Didn’t kill him, you know. Don’t expect you to take my word, but I hope you’ll get on the right track soon.’
He went heavily out. Simon looked at Sergeant Flint and shrugged his shoulders. They drove back to London in silence.
The next day and a half, to his extreme irritation, Simon was forced to spend in the Old Bailey, where two cases in which he was needed to give evidence had come up for trial at the same time.
When he finally arrived at his desk on Thursday morning it was to find a queue of matters awaiting his attention. The telephone rang while he was considering where to start. He listened without speaking for a few moments, expressed his thanks and rang off.
‘That was from the Llanberis police,’ he told Sergeant Flint. ‘One of their men has just remembered that a young man was wandering about in the district only a few weeks ago, asking exactly the same questions that I asked them. Nobody seems to have recognised him, but the description would fit pretty well with that of Owen Burr.’
‘Suggesting that he recently found out enough to make life awkward for his father?’
‘Suggesting exactly that. Anyway, I’d better get on.’
‘There’s a Mr Southerley to see you, sir. He’s been waiting some time.’
‘Right. Show him in.’
>
John’s face was pale as he sat down. Without speaking, he took from the pocket of his heavy black coat an object wrapped in a large handkerchief. He laid it on the desk.
‘I wrapped it up in case there should be any finger-prints,’ he said. ‘There will be one set of my left hand, of course.’
Simon opened the corners of the handkerchief and stared at the pistol which lay there. Before making any comment, he rang for Sergeant Flint.
‘Get this tested for finger-prints,’ he ordered. ‘Then take it down to Ballistics for a report, with special reference to the bullet which killed Owen Burr. Do you mind letting us have a set of your finger-prints, Mr Southerley?’ he added.
‘Not at all. I expected it.’
‘Arrange that then as well, Sergeant. Now Mr Southerley, what’s all this about?’
‘I don’t really know. I found this in the pocket of my coat this morning. It isn’t mine. I can’t think how it got there.’
They were interrupted while John’s fingerprints were taken. Then Simon continued:
‘How long do you think it’s been there?’
‘I’ve no idea. I hardly use that pocket at all. I had some cigarettes there, but I keep some more in my jacket pocket, and I don’t usually smoke out of doors. I can’t even remember when I last felt there—oh, yes I can, though. I remember smoking in the car on the way to the concert on Saturday; I was nervy. It wasn’t there then.’
‘Surely you would notice the extra weight as soon as it appeared.’
‘The coat weighs a ton by itself; that little bit wouldn’t make much difference. I did notice some drag last night but I thought it was caused by my cigarette-lighter.’
‘Are you left-handed, Mr. Southerley?’
‘No.’
‘Have you had any experience with fire-arms?’
‘Only as much as any National Serviceman.’
‘Could you give me a list of all the public places in which you have left this coat since you lit your cigarette on Saturday?’
‘I think so. I shared a cloakroom for the concert with Cassati and Wenski and the kid—that was at the Hall. Nothing on Sunday. The cloakroom at Drury Lane on Monday. A peg at Joe Lyons at lunch yesterday. Oh, and the hall of Mrs Bainsbury’s house on Tuesday evening.’
‘That was the committee meeting, of course. Did anyone arrive after you or leave before?’
‘I was the last to arrive, but Delia left before me. She might not be alone in the hall though; Roger usually appears at the end of the meeting to sort out coats and open the door. Oh, and Mrs Cuthbertson left early, too; Roger probably didn’t see her out.’
‘And you came here as soon as you found this, Mr Southerley?’
‘Certainly I did; it’s all a bit mysterious, isn’t it? I mean to say, it isn’t mine and people don’t leave this sort of thing around by mistake. I’m only too glad to be rid of it.’
‘Well, thank you very much. There’s not much I can do until I get the report up. There’s nothing else you want to tell me, I suppose?’
John looked surprised.
‘No, I don’t think so. Should there be?’
‘One always hopes. Right you are then, Mr Southerley. Let me know if anything else turns up.’
Simon waited impatiently for a few minutes, then went down himself to see what evidence the pistol would yield. The Ballistics report was decisive; this was the instrument of the murder.
From the finger-printing department came, as he expected a print of the thumb and two fingers of John Southerley’s left hand; as he did not expect, there was also another blurred set of a right hand. He stared at it without inspiration and sent someone out with the addresses of all the soloists and committee-members, to collect specimens.
After a promising, if late, start, the day seemed to dry up. His phone calls with increasing frequency went unanswered until he remembered in surprise that it was Christmas Eve. Suddenly he felt tired and miserable. He rang Delia at her office.
‘Simon here. I’m lonely. Are you free this evening?’
‘As a matter of fact, and as usual, I am. What are you proposing to do?’
‘Well, nothing, if you don’t mind very much, since I’m even more tired than lonely. But I thought we might get dinner together at my flat and sit by the fire and murmur sweet nothings into each other’s ear. Or does that sound too dull?’
‘It sounds delightful. I’ll let Dad know. Shall I come round straight from work? I expect we shall knock off early.’
‘Good, then make it tea as well. I don’t see why even a poor policeman shouldn’t play hookey sometimes. I’ll be there to open the door at half-past four.’
For the last hour he read over all the notes he had made on the case. They led nowhere, except to the conclusion that there was no reason why he should not take a proper Christmas holiday for once. Friday, Saturday, Sunday—it was a wonderful prospect, and he could see nothing at all which would be the worse for waiting until Monday. He locked his desk and went home.
The long evening seemed to fly past. Delia settled herself on the floor in front of the flickering fire while Simon watched her happily from his chair. Although she behaved easily with him, there was still the slight restraint in her eyes which reminded him that he had hurt her, but he no longer allowed himself to be worried by this; he was going to get the whole question of Owen’s murder well out of the way and give her time to forget it before he told her of his feelings. They did not speak very often.
‘Did you have your finger-prints taken this afternoon?’ he asked casually.
‘No. Oh, have I missed something by leaving the office too soon? I hope your man won’t try at home. Dad would be alarmed.’
‘It’s nothing very urgent—just that we’ve found the pistol.’
He described John Southerley’s visit and Delia laughed up into his face.
‘Then the prints will be mine—but please, that doesn’t mean I done it.’
In her turn she described how she had found the pistol in John’s pocket and returned it.
‘But why didn’t you tell me at once?’ demanded Simon irritably.
‘I thought it would be better for John to tell you himself without being asked. Then if he didn’t say anything, it would mean something more definite.’
He was not quite sure whether to believe her, but she did not give him time to consider.
‘Would you mind very much if we had the wireless on?’ she asked. ‘There’s a big do on at Covent Garden tonight and I’d quite like to listen.’
He switched it on and turned off the light. For five minutes they listened to descriptions of the flowers in the Royal Box, the hand-painted programmes, the dress worn by the visiting Royalty for whose sake London society had suddenly discovered an interest in music. At last the opera, Don Giovanni, began and Delia settled herself more comfortably on the floor, her head resting against Simon’s knee. She was soon absorbed in the performance, but Simon could hear little but the thumping of his heart as timidly he stroked her hair.
‘He’s too fat for it,’ Delia said scornfully as Cassati’s first notes were heard, but soon she had fallen once again under the spell of his voice, resenting the intervals. At the end she burrowed her head still more tightly against Simon’s leg.
‘You’d expect that a man would have to be nice with a voice like that, wouldn’t you? I wonder what he’s really like.’
‘Probably very selfish and conceited,’ Simon answered spitefully, aware that Delia would not stay with him very much longer. She rose to go at that moment, but first she had something to say.
‘Are you not going to your brother for Christmas this year?’
He shook his head.
‘I didn’t know in time that I could get away. And it’s a long journey just for three days.’
‘Then you must have dinner with us tomorrow. We’d like it very much. We shall have it in the middle of the day, but don’t come too early because I shall be busy in the kitchen until one. It isn
’t a turkey, I’m afraid, but it’s an enormous goose, and I should hate to think of you being all on your own. Will you come?’
He kissed her and kissed her again.
‘I’ll be there at one, unbreakfasted and ravenous,’ he said. ‘Bless you.’
He was punctual next day and the meal, although later than scheduled, was good. It was three o’clock before they sat down to coffee, and the telephone rang while the two men were cutting their Christmas cigars.
‘It’s for you,’ said Delia to Simon. He took it unwillingly.
‘It will be the office, I’m afraid. I had to give them your address in case anything urgent turned up. Hello. Yes. Oh, hello, Bill. Who have you lost today?’
‘This may be nothing to do with you at all,’ said Bill. ‘But it concerns one of the people who was in on your show last Saturday, so we thought you might like to know. Ever heard of a bloke called Luigi Cassati? Well, he’s just been officially registered as a Missing Person. He vanished into a fat piece of thin air at a quarter to midnight last night.’
Chapter Twelve
‘I’m going to finish this cigar,’ said Simon. ‘And then I suppose I shall have to do something; something highly intelligent and probably energetic as well. And after that excellent meal, all I really want to do is sleep. Pity the poor policeman. Will you please oblige me by keeping up a brisk conversation so that I have to keep awake?’
‘On what subject would you prefer us to converse?’ asked Mr Jones, stretching himself in front of the fire. ‘The climate, or Signor Cassati?’
‘Cassati, I think. Why should an eminent Italian singer disappear in England? Any suggestions?’
‘Perhaps he’s committed some horrible crime in Italy and doesn’t want to go back,’ suggested Delia.
Murder to Music Page 10