Hardcastle's Frustration

by Graham Ison

  As the two detectives alighted from the cab in Gordon Road, a man left Daisy Benson’s house.

  ‘Ah, Mr Smith, we meet again,’ said Hardcastle jocularly, as he recognized the man he had seen on his last visit, and whom Daisy had said was a lodger. ‘Don’t be late for work at the income tax office.’

  Smith laughed nervously and scurried down the road without a word or a backward glance.

  There was some delay before Mrs Benson answered the door. And when she did, she was barefooted and wearing nothing but a peignoir, and her long hair was loose around her shoulders.

  ‘Oh, it’s you, Inspector. I do apologize for my appearance, but I’ve just had a bath.’ But despite the excuse, Daisy Benson seemed more embarrassed by Hardcastle’s arrival than was justified.

  ‘May we come in?’ asked Hardcastle, as he raised his hat. ‘We just bumped into one of your, er, paying guests,’ he said. ‘Works at the tax office, I think you said.’

  ‘Oh, yes, that was Mr Jones. He comes and goes at odd hours,’ said Daisy, clearly flustered. ‘You’d better come in, Inspector.’ She showed them into the parlour.

  ‘It’s a cold day, Mrs Benson,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Wouldn’t you like to get dressed before we have our little chat?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I won’t keep you a moment.’ With undisguised relief, Daisy Benson hurried from the room.

  ‘She seems a busy woman, Marriott.’ There was an element of sarcasm in Hardcastle’s voice as he warmed his hands in front of the fire and then sat down.

  When Daisy Benson returned she was wearing a peach-coloured day dress, and her hair was swept up and secured with a comb at the back.

  ‘Now, Inspector, you said you wanted to talk to me.’ Daisy seemed more relaxed now that she was decently attired.

  ‘I’ll not beat about the bush, Mrs Benson. How much did Ronald Parker pay you for his favours or, for that matter, Mr Jones? Or even Mr Smith?’

  Daisy gazed at Hardcastle, a stunned expression on her face and her colour rose rapidly. ‘Ooh, you are a wag, Inspector,’ she said eventually, in a desperate attempt to make light of the DDI’s blatant accusation. ‘Are you suggesting that I’m a loose woman?’

  ‘As I said just now, Mrs Benson, we met one of your lodgers on our way in. You said his name was Jones, but the last time we were here you said his name was Smith.’

  ‘They come and go so often that I get them mixed up,’ said Daisy lamely, not realizing that her comment was capable of misinterpretation. She put her hand down the side of a cushion and produced a fan with which she proceeded vigorously to cool herself. ‘I’ve got a Mr Smith and a Mr Jones staying here.’

  ‘And what about Vincent Powers?’ asked Marriott quietly.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know who I’m talking about, Mrs Benson. We saw you get into his car after Ronald Parker’s funeral last Wednesday. It was a Hispano-Suiza if I remember correctly, and the two of you seemed very affectionate.’

  ‘Oh, that Mr Powers, yes. He’s a friend of mine.’

  ‘So it would appear,’ said Hardcastle. ‘So friendly, in fact, that you stayed the night at his house.’ That was supposition on the DDI’s part, but from what Wilmot had told him he thought it was a safe assumption.

  ‘Well, I am a widow, after all, Inspector,’ said Daisy defensively, ‘and I don’t see that there’s anything wrong in having a man friend. I’m what you might call a free spirit.’

  Hardcastle took out his pipe and held it up. ‘D’you mind if I smoke?’ he asked.

  ‘Not at all. I like the aroma of tobacco smoke.’ Daisy seemed relieved now that Hardcastle appeared to be veering away from the subject of Vincent Powers, but in that she was mistaken.

  ‘I’m going to be quite honest with you, Mrs Benson . . .’ began Hardcastle, once his pipe was satisfactorily alight. ‘I could arrange to have this house kept under observation and it would not take me long to prove that you’re engaged in prostitution . . .’ He held up his hand as Daisy appeared about to protest. ‘But I don’t intend to do anything about it provided you’re willing to cooperate with me.’

  ‘What is it that you want of me, then, Inspector?’ Daisy leaned back against the cushions of the sofa on which she was sitting and her shoulders slumped in an attitude of capitulation.

  ‘I want you to tell me all you know about Vincent Powers. Furthermore, you are not to say anything about this to Mr Powers, or I most definitely will come after you.’

  ‘I don’t know about you, Inspector, but I could do with a drink. D’you fancy one?’

  ‘No thank you, but don’t let me stop you.’ Hardcastle imagined that Daisy Benson’s sudden need of a drink was merely a device to allow her to marshal her thoughts.

  Daisy crossed to a small cabinet. With a shaking hand, she poured an inch of gin into a glass and topped it up with water from a jug that was standing on a nearby table.

  ‘I met Vincent at the Kingston Empire,’ she said, sitting down again. ‘It was one of those variety shows with lots of turns, jugglers and escapologists, and that sort of thing. Oh, and there was a woman dressed as a soldier singing songs popular with the troops—’

  ‘Can we get to the point, Mrs Benson?’ interrupted Hardcastle.

  ‘Oh, yes, of course. Well, Vincent was the chairman introducing the acts. He wasn’t very good at it, though. He kept forgetting who he was supposed to introduce and had to keep looking at his script. But he did manage to cover it up well.’

  ‘When did this performance take place, Mrs Benson?’ asked Marriott.

  ‘It was the second week in February I think,’ said Daisy. ‘He was only there for the one week. I love those shows and one of my friends had treated me to a seat in a box, so that I was close to where Vincent was sitting at the side of the stage. I was there on the Friday, and he kept looking at me and winking. Well, after the last but one act, he slipped me a note asking me to meet him after the show for a drink in the lounge at the Kingston Hotel. It’s almost next door to the theatre.’

  ‘And presumably you took up his offer.’

  ‘Yes, I did. Why not? He seemed a nice man and funny too, when he remembered his lines. Anyway, he not only bought me a drink, but dinner as well.’

  ‘Was he staying at the hotel, Mrs Benson?’ asked Marriott.

  ‘Yes, as a matter of fact, he was.’

  ‘And you stayed the night with him, I suppose,’ suggested Hardcastle.

  ‘Why not? I’m a single woman now. In fact, we’re both single people.’ Daisy raised her head and stared defiantly at Hardcastle, as if to imply that there was no impropriety in her liaison with Powers.

  ‘Where did he go after the show at the Kingston Empire finished?’

  ‘I think he said something about looking for a part somewhere. He mentioned that he was really a Shakespearian actor, but had taken the job of chairman at a variety show as a stopgap.’

  ‘He seems to be a rich man,’ said Hardcastle, dismissing Powers’ claim to be a classical actor as an attempt to impress. ‘Surely he doesn’t depend on the theatre for an income if he’s only working from time to time.’

  ‘He has a private income,’ said Daisy, finishing her gin and crossing to the cabinet for a refill. ‘At least, that’s what he said.’

  ‘I understand that he’s a South African,’ said Marriott, as the woman resumed her seat. ‘Is that where his money comes from?’

  ‘I suppose it must do. He told me that he’s got business interests there. He said something about having mined diamonds in some place called Kimberley and making a lot of money. But he really wanted to be an actor and that’s why he came to England. He said there’s not much in the way of decent theatres in South Africa. Not that I would know.’

  ‘Did you mention any of this to your friend Ronald?’ asked Hardcastle.

  ‘I might’ve said something about it,’ said Daisy in an offhand manner as she glanced out of the window.

  ‘I think the fact of the matter
is that you told Ronald Parker quite a lot about Vincent Powers, Mrs Benson,’ said Hardcastle. ‘And did you tell Powers about Ronald Parker?’

  ‘Yes. I told Vincent that I had this good friend Ronald, and that he was a company director and very rich.’ Daisy Benson smiled. ‘I wanted to make Vincent jealous, you see, and I think I did. He was certainly much more attentive after that. And very generous.’

  ‘Are you seeing Powers again?’

  ‘Is there any reason why I shouldn’t?’ demanded Daisy, with a toss of her head.

  ‘Well, don’t forget what I said. You’re not to breathe a word to him about our conversation.’

  ‘If you say so.’ Daisy Benson was clearly irritated by Hardcastle’s admonition, but was in no doubt that he meant what he had said about prosecuting her if she failed to keep her word.

  ‘We’ll see ourselves out, Mrs Benson,’ said Hardcastle, as he and Marriott rose to leave. ‘And thank you for your assistance.’

  ‘Oh, it’s my pleasure, Inspector,’ said Daisy, but her response had a sarcastic and hollow ring to it.

  ‘D’you think she is running a knocking shop, sir?’ asked Marriott, as he and Hardcastle walked down Gordon Road towards the railway station.

  ‘I neither know nor care, Marriott, and I doubt that the sub-divisional inspector at Kingston would waste time on it with a war on and Sopwith Aviation on his patch.’

  ‘Back to the office, then, sir?’

  ‘Not until we’ve had a word with the manager of the Kingston Hotel, Marriott.’

  ‘It struck me as odd, sir,’ said Marriott, ‘that a man who’s got a house on Kingston Hill and a motor car should take rooms at a hotel in the same town.’

  ‘Not odd at all, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle. ‘He saw an opportunity to bed a willing woman and didn’t want to waste time taking her back to Kingston Hill. I’ll put money on it having been a last minute booking and for one night only.’

  The Kingston Hotel was an old-established hostelry that had opened its doors some forty years previously. It boasted 25 bedrooms, a large assembly room, a billiard room, public coffee rooms and a coffee lounge for ladies.

  ‘I want to speak to the manager,’ announced Hardcastle, marching up to a man seated behind a desk on which was a small sign indicating that it was the concierge’s station.

  ‘He’s very busy, sir. Is there something I can assist you with?’

  ‘No,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I’m a police officer and I need to see him now.’

  ‘Very good, sir. If you care to wait a moment, I’ll see if he’s free.’ The concierge picked up a telephone and asked for the manager’s office. After relaying Hardcastle’s request, he replaced the receiver. ‘The manager will be with you directly, sir,’ he said.

  The man who appeared from a door at the rear of the reception area was tall and immaculately attired in morning dress.

  ‘I understand that you’re from the police,’ he said in somewhat condescending tones.

  ‘I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Whitehall Division and this is Detective Sergeant Marriott. I’m investigating a murder, so perhaps we could go somewhere less public.’

  ‘Yes, of course, Inspector,’ said the manager, becoming immediately more conciliatory. ‘My name is Webb, by the way, Horace Webb,’ he added, as he led the way into his office. It was a comfortably furnished room with a large desk and easy chairs. Hardcastle wondered how many times it had witnessed an uncompromising interview between the manager and those of the hotel’s guests who were a little tardy in settling their accounts.

  ‘I understand that a Mr Vincent Powers stayed here during the second week in February, Mr Webb,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘Powers, Powers,’ said Webb reflectively. ‘I can’t say that I recall the name. One moment.’ He lifted the receiver of his telephone and posed the question to the person who answered. After a moment or two’s pause, he replaced the receiver. ‘You’re quite correct, Inspector. Mr Powers took a room for one night only on the eighth of February last. I’m told he was a theatrical gentleman.’ There was an element of disdain in Webb’s statement, as though accepting members of the acting profession as guests was an imposition that hotels like this one had to tolerate. ‘It’s one of the drawbacks of being situated almost next door to the Kingston Empire,’ he added, confirming the impression he had conveyed.

  ‘Just the one night, you said?’

  ‘That’s correct, Inspector.’

  ‘Told you so, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle in an aside to his sergeant.

  ‘Did he have anyone staying with him, Mr Webb?’ asked Marriott, even though Daisy Benson had admitted spending the night there with Powers.

  ‘Someone staying with him?’ Webb sounded shocked at the very idea. ‘I’m told that the reservation was for the one gentleman, although he did order dinner for two in the brasserie.’

  ‘I’ve been told that he shared the room with a lady that night,’ said Hardcastle, purely out of devilment. ‘A lady who was not his wife.’

  ‘I’m sure that you were misinformed, Inspector,’ protested Webb. ‘This is a most respectable establishment.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, it was the lady who spent the night here with Mr Powers who told me,’ said Hardcastle mildly. ‘What’s more we believe her to be a prostitute,’ he added, just for the fun of it.

  Webb’s mouth opened and then closed. ‘I, well, I’m . . . I mean that I’m shocked that such a thing could have taken place in this hotel, Inspector.’

  ‘It’s of no consequence, at least not to me,’ continued Hardcastle, now thoroughly enjoying the hotel manager’s discomfort. ‘My real interest is in Vincent Powers.’

  ‘Oh my God, you’re not suggesting that he’s a murderer, surely? You did say you were investigating a murder.’

  ‘I’m not suggesting anything, Mr Webb. I’m just interested in the man because it’s possible that he has vital information that could assist the police in their enquiries,’ responded Hardcastle blandly.

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Webb appeared relieved. ‘How can I help you, then?’

  ‘Is there a member of your staff, a floor waiter perhaps, who provided room service for Mr Powers?’

  ‘I’ll find out.’ Once again, Webb turned to his telephone and conducted a brief conversation. A few minutes later, a waiter appeared in the office.

  ‘You wanted me, sir?’

  ‘Yes, Hubbard, perhaps you can assist this police officer. He’s making enquiries about a Mr Vincent Powers who was a guest here on the night of the eighth of February.’

  ‘Oh, I do remember that gentleman, sir,’ said the waiter warmly.

  ‘Why particularly do you remember him, Mr Hubbard?’ asked Hardcastle.

  ‘He was a very generous gentleman, sir,’ said Hubbard, glancing nervously at the manager. ‘I took him a bottle of champagne, the Pol Roger 1906 – that costs seventeen shillings and sixpence a bottle here in the hotel – and caviar, sir. He tipped me a five-pound note and asked me to ensure that he wasn’t disturbed, sir.’

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘About ten o’clock, sir. In the evening, of course.’

  ‘Was there a young lady in the apartment, Mr Hubbard?’ asked Marriott.

  ‘I didn’t see one, sir, but Mr Powers did ask for two glasses when he ordered the champagne.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Hubbard,’ said Hardcastle. ‘You’ve been most helpful.’ He turned to the manager after Hubbard had been dismissed, and added, ‘I’ll not trouble you further, Mr Webb.’

  ‘I hope you don’t think that this hotel makes a habit of allowing loose women on its premises, Inspector.’ By the tenor of his response, Webb was very concerned about his licence and the reputation of his establishment.

  ‘Your secret’s safe with me, Mr Webb,’ said Hardcastle.

  But he could only guess at how uncomfortable for the unfortunate Hubbard would be his interview with Webb, for failing to report that two glasses had been ordered with champagn
e destined for a room occupied by one man.

  ‘Did we really learn anything from yesterday’s talk with Daisy Benson, sir?’ The following morning, Marriott was discussing the case with Hardcastle in the latter’s office at Cannon Row police station. ‘Or from what Hubbard, the floor waiter at the hotel, told us?’

  ‘I think we did, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle thoughtfully. He sat back in his chair, puffing contentedly at his pipe. ‘There are two things that interest me. Firstly, Powers has a lot of money and I don’t think that this story about diamond mines in South Africa holds much water. It’s all flimflam in my opinion and I think that Powers is a villain, a confidence trickster most likely. Secondly, Daisy Benson said that she’d mentioned Ronald Parker to Powers, but I think she told him an awful lot about Parker. God knows why, though. So, I ask myself, is there a connection between Powers and Parker?’

  ‘What sort of connection were you thinking about, sir?’ By now, Marriott was completely mystified by the DDI’s line of reasoning, the more so as he kept harping on the fact that Daisy Benson knew both men: Powers and the victim.

  ‘I don’t know, Marriott, and it’s probably nothing. After all, I can’t see an unfit, mild-mannered gas company clerk getting mixed up with Powers except through Daisy Benson, and she’s the only link. And as she seems to have a lot of so-called lodgers, I don’t think there’s much to be gained from pursuing it. It’s a coincidence.’

  But Hardcastle’s contradictory arguments with himself were interrupted by the arrival of Aubrey Drew.

  ‘Sorry to intrude, sir.’

  ‘What is it, Mr Drew?’

  ‘Superintendent Quinn would like a few words at your convenience, sir.’

  ‘Any idea what it’s about, Mr Drew?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, sir. Mr Quinn doesn’t generally confide in the messenger,’ said Drew, risking a grin.

  ‘I suppose I’d better see him now, then. In the meantime, Mr Drew, there is something that you might be able to do for me.’