‘She’ll be sick,’ said her father, but he watched indulgently as she took three and rushed from the kitchen with a sudden warlike yell. ‘Think you’ll get it just on the numbers?’
‘Well, there aren’t so many Daimlers, are there? I think it will be very useful. Tell me, did you get a glimpse of the driver of the car that last time?’
‘Not to speak of, I’m afraid. He came and told me he was there, so to speak, but I didn’t look at him properly. He was wearing a dark peaked cap and raincoat like they always do—in fact, I took it for granted he was the same chappie that I’d seen driving before. Never gave it a thought, to tell you the truth.’
‘Why should you?’ Simon said sadly. ‘Well, I’m sorry to have interrupted your Christmas. We’ll leave you to it now.’
‘Glad of a minute’s peace,’ Mr. Perkins said frankly, leading the way to the door. ‘Now into the fray once more for both of us. Merry Christmas.’
It was cold outside. Delia hugged herself to stop her sudden shivering and Simon took the hint and hugged her as well. He started the car with some difficulty and dawdled along until he saw a telephone booth. Leaving Delia with an apology, he rang the Missing Persons Bureau.
‘That you, Bill? Simon here. Found Cassati yet?’
There was a groan from the other end and Simon outlined his conversations of the afternoon. ‘So work on the assumption that the disappearance is involuntary and find the Daimler. I should get a warning out to all road patrols, though it’s probably too late to catch it, and check with stolen cars, self-drive hire agencies and all the Daimler agents. You’re off tomorrow, I suppose. Well, leave a report on my desk. It looks as though I shall have to come in.’
This conclusion he repeated gloomily to Delia as he turned the car’s nose towards her home.
‘Tomorrow will be a hell of dullness,’ he moaned. ‘I shall spend all day worrying and waiting for something to happen, and nothing will happen at all.’
In that forecast, as it turned out, he was quite correct. Neither on Saturday nor on Sunday did he make any progress. But on Monday morning, doors began to open.
Chapter Thirteen
Dear Sir (the letter read),
I shall sign this letter Mary Smith, but it is not my real name, for reasons which you will appreciate in a moment. I am writing in connection with the death of Owen Burr, the conductor, in the RFH on Saturday, and I am writing because I do not want anyone to be accused of the murder unjustly. I shot him, with his own pistol which I took from his room a month ago. I am expecting a baby in May and Owen was its father. I only let him because he said he would marry me, and he was the first. And then he told me that he was going to be a great musician and not a trollop’s husband and I was very angry because he would not marry me.
He told me on Saturday, and I went with the pistol, but I did not mean to shoot him but only to frighten him by threatening to shoot myself. But he would not see me in the interval, and, while I was listening, the music gave me a headache, and I was very unhappy, and I shot him. Now I am sorry, and I will always be sorry, but it is too late to do anything except see that no one else gets the blame instead of me. I suppose they wouldn’t be able to hang me now, but I do not want to go to prison either, and that is why I have borrowed someone else’s typewriter and shall post this where I do not live, but it is true all the same.
Yours truly,
Mary Smith.
Simon read the letter through again as he perched on the corner of his desk, faintly bad-tempered at Monday’s return to work after what had proved to be hardly a holiday at all. Then he put it down and examined the envelope closely. It was a cheap white one, not matching the shiny blue paper inside, and the post-mark was thick and indistinct. Simon eventually decided that it was SW3, but the date surprised him, and he rang for Flint.
‘What do you make that date?’ he asked.
The sergeant peered and finally pronounced for December 23rd, 7.30 am.
‘Yes, that’s what I thought. And it’s the twenty-eighth today. Where’s it been all this time? That’s Wednesday morning—probably posted on Tuesday night—and it’s only just reached my desk. I was in on Saturday and it certainly wasn’t here then. Either someone’s been inefficient or else the postmark’s been faked.’
‘Well, sir, it was Christmas, you know. The Post Office said on the wireless that it was a heavy year for mail. Perhaps it was posted too late to be delivered before Christmas Day, and after that I think they slack up a bit.’
Simon snorted.
‘All these people who get holidays at Christmas! I’d forgotten about them. Well look, Sergeant, get me a copy of this letter and take it down to be tested for finger-prints—it’ll have mine, of course, but they’ve got them in the files. Tell them to photograph it; I want the letter back as soon as possible.’
Before he had time, however, to ponder further on the appearance of Mary Smith in the case, the house telephone rang.
‘Bill here. That Daimler of yours has been reported found.’
‘Found! Don’t you mean stolen?’
‘Nope. Found by an insurance firm in Holborn—in their director’s garage. There’s a row of garages in a mews behind the buildings and apparently this firm rents one of them. The managing director went off on Thursday evening, leaving the garage empty and the door pulled across but not bolted—he said the lock is an awkward one and he doesn’t bother with it when the garage is empty. Anyway, when he arrived this morning, there was this Daimler, PLB 368, sitting there as if it had lived there all its life.’
‘Anything interesting about it?’
‘The mileage is no good because we don’t know when it went out. There are some splashes of mud on the sides, but they might have been there before. Anyway, I thought you’d like to know. It shouldn’t be long before we’re able to trace the owner now.’
‘Thanks.’
Simon returned to Mary Smith. In the absence of any proof that Cassati’s disappearance was linked with Owen’s death, he felt he must concentrate on the latter, leaving the routine work to Bill. But he was disturbed almost immediately by a second peal on the telephone.
‘I say, it’s me again. We’ve had the “reported stolen” now—from the garage next to the one where it was found. It belongs to a firm of art dealers; they use a Daimler for making a good impression when they want to buy up a stately home. It was left locked up, but the lock has been picked. It looks as if the thief made a careless mistake, putting it back in the wrong place. Easy thing to do, though; they’re not numbered. Anyway, the car could have been taken any time after four on Thursday, which is when they all knocked off; they haven’t been near the place since and only discovered the loss half an hour ago. But the interesting thing is this: the last time it was used was for a private joyride by the general manager and, being a scrupulous sort of chap, he made a note of the mileage figures—and he cleaned it when he got back. So I am now in a position to state that our kidnapper drove a little under forty miles in his wicked weekend, taking in at least one dirty puddle en route.’
‘Keep at it,’ said Simon. ‘There can’t be many mud puddles within a radius of twenty miles of Holborn. Now leave me to my own little headaches.’
He returned yet again to the problem of Mary Smith, reading and re-reading the copy which Flint had brought into him and trying to decide why it should ring so false. He was used to receiving confessions of murder from people who had probably never killed anything much larger than a wasp, but they bore on almost all occasions the writer’s correct name and address to ensure that they would receive full notoriety. That fact did not prove that this letter had any stronger basis of truth, of course, and with each reading Simon became more undecided. He rejected it on its face value, but there was another possibility—that the letter was indeed written by the murderer, but carefully giving an invented character and motive for the murder in order to disguise the real one. And unless John Southerley was a nervous type, there was only one man who had reason to be serious
ly alarmed about the suspicions of the police—and that man had been in Italy when the letter was postmarked. If he had posted it himself, he could not possibly have reached Chelsea after his conversation with Simon at the airport and returned in time to catch his plane.
Simon pulled the telephone towards him and dialled Delia’s office number. There was no reply, and he sighed with envy of anyone whose employers were kind enough to add an extra day to the Christmas holiday, and whose work would wait for it. He found her at home, however, and she agreed to meet him for lunch ‘on condition you take two hours, to make it worth the journey’. He promised, having every intention of making them a profitable two hours from the point of view of his work. In the meantime, he had a visit to pay.
As soon as he opened the door of Owen’s flat, he heard the sound of papers rustling. Kicking himself mentally for having taken the guard off the building too soon, he tiptoed into the living-room. Shirley Marsden was there, kneeling on the floor with a drawer from Owen’s desk in front of her. Simon coughed gently and Shirley jumped up with a little scream.
‘Oh!’ she gasped. ‘You frightened me. I didn’t know anyone else had a key to the flat.’
‘I didn’t know anyone else had a key to this desk, either.’
‘Oh yes, I’ve had that for a couple of years. Some of the papers in it were mine, you see. Sometimes we used to work on them together, but often I wanted to get on by myself; Owen had another key cut specially so that I wouldn’t have to wait if he were out.’
‘I see. Just hold on a minute while I go back and shut the front door, will you—I thought you were a burglar.’
He walked heavily from the room but in the corridor outside, while he could still see the desk, he went no further, although his feet continued their heavy tread—on the spot. He saw what he had half expected—a pair of hands feverishly searching through the pigeon-holes at the top of the desk. A bundle of papers was extracted; Simon risked leaning backwards until he could see Shirley. She had risen and was stuffing the papers into her handbag; they were too bulky, so she pushed them instead into the pockets of her overcoat, which lay loosely across a chair.
Simon continued more genuinely on his way to the front door. When he returned, Shirley was kneeling on the floor as he had left her, although perhaps a little pinker in the face.
‘Now then, perhaps you’d tell me about these papers, would you, Miss Marsden?’
She was eager to do so; her embarrassment at being found in what she herself obviously regarded as suspicious circumstances sent the words tumbling out of her mouth.
‘We were writing a book together, Owen and I, you see. It was going to be called The Lyrical Element in Modern Music. It was really a series of essays about some modern composers. Owen chose the composers and did the actual writing of the essays. The idea was his in the first place, and all the theories. I did the research for him—you know, collected any articles or reviews on the same theme. But my chief job was to find musical quotations to illustrate his theories. He’d just make a note, for instance, “Try Lennox Berkeley’s Piano Concerto”, and I’d have to read through the full score till I found the bit he wanted, and then copy it out.’
‘It sounds a very specialised job,’ said Simon, honestly impressed.
‘It’s only a matter of education, really. I was taught to read scores when I was quite young, and now I don’t find it much more difficult than a child does to pick out a tune on one finger. Anyway, I’ve been thinking about this all week since Owen died, and yesterday I decided that I ought to finish the book for him. I thought it would be nice to have it published under his name as a sort of memorial. He’d finished half of it properly; the rest is all in note form, but of course we’ve discussed it together a lot, so it wouldn’t be too difficult. I could finish it in three months, I think.’
‘You don’t have a job, then?’
‘No. My parents let me have enough to live on and it seems silly to tie oneself down when there are always interesting things turning up. Is it all right for me to take these papers away? I feel they’re as much mine as his. I’ve nearly finished sorting them.’
‘I’m afraid you can’t just disappear with them. Suppose you put everything you want to take in one pile and let me look through it. I’ll let you know when I’ve checked that there’s nothing helpful there. Then you’ll have to clear it with his executors.’
She nodded and continued to sort through the drawer in front of her. It was neatly arranged, and she clearly knew what she was looking for. Some files were rejected at once; others were placed with equal decision on her own pile. At last she sat back on her ankles.
‘That’s all I need to take. I can leave you the key of the desk now.’
Simon looked at her in silence for a moment longer.
‘You’re going to put those letters in your coat pocket back in the desk then, are you?’
He saw the blood creep up her neck, then sink to leave her face unnaturally pale. She did not speak to deny what she had taken but waited, staring at him.
‘May I look?’ He pulled the bundle from her pocket.
‘They’re private,’ she snapped before he had time to look at any of the letters he held. ‘I wrote them all. I have a right to take them back.’
‘Well, we won’t go into that now. Why should you want them back?’
Shirley blushed again, but this time with modesty rather than guilt.
‘They’re love letters. I don’t particularly want to have strangers reading them.’
‘I’m sorry, Miss Marsden. I can’t let anything out of this flat until I’ve inspected it.’
He had in fact glanced briefly at the letters and presumed them to be unhelpful when he made his first inspection of the flat and its contents; only Shirley’s anxiety now renewed his interest in them. It was possible that she was in fact modest, but the queenly confidence of her good looks made this seem unlikely to someone who did not know her well. In any case, having made his decision he was not prepared to argue about it; he changed the subject quickly.
‘I wonder if you’d tell me, Miss Marsden, where you last saw this pistol?’
He produced it from his pocket, the pistol which had killed Owen, and held it before her. She stared at it without any sign of recognition.
‘I’ve never seen it before at all.’
‘Yet I believe it belonged to Mr. Burr. Wouldn’t you have noticed it around the flat?’
‘Not necessarily. I never searched the flat or anything like that. If he kept it hidden, there would be no reason for me to know about it. But are you sure it was his? It’s most unlike him, you know. He had terrifically strong arms and hands and he always boasted that he could get the better of anyone who tried to attack him. I can’t think why he should want to buy a gun.’
Simon, agreeing privately, pressed on to the next question. He expected a strong reaction and he was by no means disappointed.
‘To change the subject, Miss Marsden, did you know that Mr. Burr was about to become a father?’
‘That’s not true!’ Shirley sprang to her feet, her eyes blazing. ‘You’ve just made it up. It can’t possibly be true.’
‘Why not, Miss Marsden? Because he was in love with you?’
‘It’s nothing to do with that. He wasn’t that sort of man.’
‘I’m afraid a good many men are that sort of man, on one or two occasions in their lives at least. Why should your man be an exception?’
‘Because—because he was dedicated. Don’t you understand what I mean? Do you think I wouldn’t have been his mistress if he really wanted me, but he didn’t—or at least, he did, but he wouldn’t. That was why he wouldn’t marry me, as well, although he wanted to, and he was always just going to arrange it. He had a sort of theory that he would lose something—energy, or virtue, or whatever you like to call it—that must on no account be lost but must be put into his music instead. I’m afraid I’m explaining very badly, but I’m quite sure he was sincere. I’m cer
tain you’ve made a mistake.’
Simon saw how deeply he had hurt her and was ashamed of himself.
‘Yes, I’m sure I have, Miss Marsden. In fact, I must apologise for putting it to you so much as if it were certain. I was only quoting a letter I have received, which I am quite unable to check. I’ve no doubt it was written by some sensationalist who never met Mr. Burr in her life.’
He watched her emotions sinking once more under control.
‘I suppose you knew about Evan Tredegar being his father, did you?’
‘Yes. Owen told me about a week before he died. I think he had only just found out.’
‘What was his reaction to the discovery?’
‘Well, he’d had a few days to think about it when he told me, but he was still pretty excited. He’d always guessed that his father must be a rich man, because of the way money was pumped into his bank account ever since he was a schoolboy. And he’d even wondered about the Old Man—giving him the job with the Metro and being helpful in other ways. When he was sure of the truth, I think he hoped to persuade the Old Man to help him more openly.’
‘What were his feelings towards Mr. Tredegar, do you know?’
‘Until he found out about this business, he had a lot of respect for him. Afterwards, I think he was a little resentful that he hadn’t been given a proper home after his mother died. He hadn’t really had time to settle down into the relationship, though. I say, I’m afraid I must go now. I’ve promised to meet John Southerley for lunch.’
‘He’s a friend of yours, is he?’ Simon enquired.
‘Well, I’ve known him for a couple of years, of course. He’s not a particular friend. But he’s been kind to me this last week. Everyone else has been leaving me severely alone, as if I wouldn’t be able to bear any company. But he realised I’d be lonely and—well, he’s been making me talk. I’m very grateful to him.’
‘I’m sure you are. Well then, I mustn’t keep you. Will you leave the keys of the desk and the flat with me, please?’
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