‘But how on earth could Mrs. Rogers afford to pay that sort of money?’
‘I don’t know.’
It took Harry a moment to readjust to this extraordinary revelation. ‘Does her nephew know about this?’
‘He does now. Nat told him this morning.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He was puzzled. Very puzzled. Like you he was under the impression his aunt was working at the hotel.’
‘I don’t understand this,’ Harry said with feeling. Tm damned if I do.’
‘Neither do I. But then there’s lots of things I don’t understand.’ Yardley stood up, looming over Harry, his bulk seeming to fill the little office. But when he spoke his voice was quiet. ‘I wish to God you’d put me in the picture, Dawson.’
‘Me?’ The accusation implied in the remark shook Harry so much that he answered like a small boy caught in the act by his school teacher.
‘Yes, you.’ Yardley’s frown had deepened. ‘In my opinion you’re holding out on me. You haven’t told me the truth. You’ve made false statements about almost everything.’
‘I told you the truth about the Conways, and what happened? You didn’t believe me.’
‘How could I believe you when the Conways both denied the story and your cheque was found on Newton? And all that damn nonsense about Arnold Conway and a wheelchair. When I spoke to Inspector Emerson about it he laughed himself silly.’
‘Nevertheless, it was the truth. And I’ll tell you something else about the Conways. Something you won’t believe.’
‘Go on,’ Yardley urged him. But Harry still hesitated. It went against the grain to reveal something that would tarnish the image of Tom Dawson.
He could see through to the front of the shop where the attractive outline of Liz Mason’s athletic body was silhouetted against the light from the street beyond. That made him think about Judy Black. Two nights and a day had passed since he had seen her and there was still no clue as to where she might be hiding. He had spent the whole of the previous afternoon quartering the Soho area, hoping he might have the luck to catch a glimpse of her.
Yardley was still looking down at him, waiting for him to finish his statement.
‘She was having an affair with my father,’ he said quietly.
‘Mrs. Conway, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who told you this?’
Harry nodded towards the shop where the fair-headed Douglas in his dashing sports jacket was chatting up a customer. ‘Doug. Douglas Croft. He went down to Worthing one weekend. Sybil Conway and my father were staying at the same hotel.’
Yardley gave a low whistle, whether of envy or disapproval it was hard to say.
‘Why didn’t you mention this before?’
‘He only told me about it this morning, shortly before you arrived.’
‘Is he sure about it?’
‘Yes. There’s no doubt about it. At first my father pretended not to recognise Douglas but then he came clean. He told Doug that Mrs. Conway was married to a permanent invalid who could only get about in a wheelchair, and so there never could be any question of a divorce. He asked Douglas to say nothing about it.’
‘How did Croft know her name was Conway? I’m surprised at your father mentioning her name.’
‘He didn’t. But she phoned Douglas the other day about a pearl necklace my father was supposed to be having repaired for her. She didn’t know what had happened to it and she thought perhaps the receipt was in the office and Douglas could get it for her. She wanted him to send it to her at some hotel in Aldeburgh.’
‘Was it in the office?’
‘No. It wasn’t.’
‘And you think Mrs. Rogers knew about this – your father and Mrs. Conway?’
‘Yes,’ Harry said unhappily. ‘I do.’
Yardley stared out thoughtfully into the shop, where Douglas-was extolling the virtues of a new brand of squash racquet to a dubious young man.
The feet of Nat Fletcher clattered on the spiral staircase. Yardley looked at him enquiringly, wondering whether the message was something that could be mentioned in the presence of Dawson.
‘There’s been a message for you from Hampstead, sir. From Inspector Emerson.’
‘Dick Emerson? What does he want?’
‘Well, I got the message second-hand, but I gather he wants to talk to you fairly urgently.’ Nat glanced towards Harry. ‘Something about a wheelchair.’
Yardley had no difficulty in recognising the Bentley which was pulling out of the forecourt of Hampstead Police Station as he drove in. Conway was driving and his wife was beside him. They looked tired and bad-tempered and far too involved in some personal squabble to notice the inconspicuous CID car.
Emerson was an old friend of Yardley’s. They spent some time on reminiscences before the Inspector got down to the business in hand.
‘The Conway residence was burgled somewhere around midnight last night. Fortunately one of our patrols noticed something so we were on to it pretty quickly. The place had been absolutely ransacked, but we couldn’t tell whether anything was missing till the Conways came back. They were pretty furious at being hauled out of their beds in Aldeburgh at one a.m. They got back here about four.’
Yardley sipped at the cup of tea which one of Emerson’s girl clerks had brought.
‘Now, Hal, this is the curious part and this is why I sent for you. When I first went over to the house I saw something in one of, the bedrooms which – in view of our recent conversation – immediately aroused my interest. I don’t have to tell you what it was.’
‘A wheelchair,’ Yardley said, like someone offering an answer to a child’s crossword puzzle.
‘Right. The chair was in a cupboard, a sort of built-in wardrobe, the door of which had been forced open.’
Emerson, an inveterate pipe smoker, took up his pipe and began to fill it from the pouch that lay on his desk.
‘When the Conways got back, I asked them to take a good look round the house so that we could list the items stolen. They said that as far as they could tell nothing had been taken. It seemed incredible, so I asked Conway to make a tour of the house with me. I made a point of investigating the cupboard with him. The chair wasn’t there. It had gone.’
‘Just like that?’
‘Yes. It had disappeared. Obviously someone had taken it away, after I had seen it.’
‘Did you make any comment?’
‘No. I drew Conway’s attention to the forced lock and asked him to make sure that nothing had been taken. He said: ‘No, Inspector, everything’s just the same. Nothing’s been taken.’ Those were his exact words.’
Yardley breathed a long sigh of relief. For some reason the chair he was sitting in had become more comfortable. ‘Thank you, Dick. By the way, I saw the Conways driving away just as I arrived. They didn’t seem to be in the best of moods.’
Emerson put down the match with which he had lit his pipe. Coils of blue-grey smoke swirled up through the sun-light shafting from the window.
‘Yes. That brings me to the next thing. There’s a new, development. The Conways came in to see me about half an hour ago. Mrs. Conway said she had now discovered that a pearl necklace had been stolen. She gave me the description of it. I must admit it seemed a little odd that an intruder should break into a house full of valuable objects and just pinch a pearl necklace.’
‘Did she say how much the necklace was worth?’
‘Yes, about five hundred pounds.’ Emerson placed his box of matches over the bowl of his pipe to make it draw better. ‘But it’s that business about the wheelchair that puzzles me.’
‘You’re not the only one, Dick.’
At about the same time as Yardley drove in to the police station at Hampstead, Harry was opening the door of Sidney Heaton’s pet shop. Heaton was serving a customer but he gave Harry a friendly nod.
When his customer had departed, laden with an assortment of pet foods, Heaton walked down the shop to w
here Harry was standing.
‘Good morning, Mr. Dawson. I was expecting you. I thought you’d be dropping in on me some time this morning.’
‘I take it you’ve already seen a colleague of mine?’
‘Yes. Superintendent Yardley, I think he said his name was. He called very early, before I was open, in fact. He wanted to know if I’d seen you last night. What’s it all about, Mr. Dawson? He was frightfully evasive.’
The cage which had contained the marmoset monkey was empty now. Somebody must have bought it. Harry hoped the little animal had gone to a good home.
He said: ‘Mrs. Rogers, my housekeeper – or rather my ex-housekeeper – was found murdered last night.’
Sidney Heaton’s hand went to his mouth. Harry had not intended to shock him so profoundly with the brutal announcement.
‘Murdered?’ Heaton had difficulty in finding his voice. ‘Good God! Where? Where did it happen?’
‘In my flat . . .’ Harry began. He was watching Heaton’s reactions with detached interest.
‘But what an appalling thing! Have you any idea who . . .’
‘Mr. Heaton, forgive me,’ Harry cut in. ‘I’m in rather a hurry this morning, and I’ve one or two questions I’d like to ask you.’
‘By all means.’ Heaton tried to get a grip on himself. He looked up at Harry with an obedient expression. ‘Anything I can do to help you, Mr. Dawson.’
‘Then, would you mind telling me who that girl was, the girl I saw you with last night? I think you introduced her as Linda Wade.’
‘Oh, dear.’ Heaton dropped his eyes. His cheeks reddened with embarrassment but a slightly roguish expression had crept into his eyes. ‘I wish you hadn’t asked that question.’
‘Is she a friend of yours?’
‘Good gracious no! I assure you most of my friends are . . . I really don’t know anything about her.’
Harry put on his most formal expression. ‘Mr. Heaton, I’m investigating a murder case. I want you to tell me all you know about Linda Wade.’
For a moment Heaton looked obstinate, then he gave way and led Harry into the room at the back of the shop which was half parlour and half office. He pulled forward a seat for Harry, but sat himself on the edge of a table from which he could see through to the shop door.
‘I first saw her at the Plough about three months ago. She was often hanging about there, trying to pick up some man who would buy her drinks or a meal. Then about a month ago she came in here to buy a cat and since then she’s been in several times. She’s actually a very good customer. Oddly enough she seems to have money to burn – at the moment, anyway.’
‘Have you ever met a friend of hers called Judy Black?’
‘No, never,’ Heaton said hastily. ‘But then I wouldn’t. I don’t know any of her friends. I’ve just told you. She’s not really a friend . . .’
‘But you had dinner with her last night,’ Harry persisted mercilessly.
‘Yes. We did last night but . . .’ Heaton launched into a complicated series of excuses. Harry listened with patience and then interrupted quietly.
‘Where does she live?’
Heaton stopped dead. ‘Where – does she live?’
‘Yes.’
‘She has a flat in Defoe Mansions.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘It’s on the Carrington Road.’
‘Have you been there?’
‘No, never.’ Heaton tried to meet Harry’s steady stare but his eyelids flickered and he turned his face away. ‘Well – once.’
‘Only once, Mr. Heaton?’
‘Well – er – twice, as a matter of fact.’
‘What number Defoe Mansions?’
‘Thirty-two, I think it is.’
If Heaton had confessed to the murder of Mrs. Rogers he could not have looked more guilty or ashamed of himself. He had picked up a dog biscuit which lay on the table and was crumbling it in his fingers.
‘Thank you, Mr. Heaton,’ Harry said. He pushed through the curtain and walked the length of the shop. When he opened the door a bell pinged in the little room where Sidney Heaton still stood, his eyes cast down to the ground.
Defoe Mansions was a humbler building than its high-sounding name suggested. Originally three nineteenth-century houses, the interior had been ruthlessly hacked about to provide a number of flats, which the sales brochure had described as ‘ultra-modern’ and ‘luxury’. The entrance was in the central house and from the front hall a lift gave access to the upper floors.
Marty Smith emerged from the lift and paused in the hallway to light a small cigar. He was wearing a new check sports jacket and there was a self-satisfied expression on his pock-marked features. The tick which contorted the right side of his face when he was under stress was quiescent at the moment.
He flipped the match on to the polished lino floor and sauntered out into the sunlight of the morning. Across the street and a hundred yards up the road was a boozer which he often used. He reckoned he’d earned himself a pint.
He had crossed the street and was heading towards the Rose and Crown when his suspicious eyes spotted a car slowing down opposite Defoe Mansions. He moved into a shop doorway to watch. The green Austin 1100 found a parking space and as the driver turned to reverse into it, Marty recognised the face. An involuntary flicker jerked his right cheek.
He waited till Harry Dawson had entered the building, then crossed the road slowly at a point where he was not visible from the hallway. By the time he entered the hall the lift was on its way up. Marty watched the numbers on the indicator glow as the lift passed the second floor and stopped at the third. Just to make sure, he pressed the call button and the lift began to come down. No doubt about it, Dawson had got out on the floor where Linda lived.
Three minutes later Marty was in the public telephone booth at the Rose and Crown. He dialled a number which he knew by heart. While it rang he twisted round to make sure that no one was near enough to hear what he said through the walls of the booth. The voice answered almost before he was ready for it.
‘Tam? This is Marty . . . Listen, I’m outside Linda’s place, I’ve just delivered the passport . . . No, no, she’s okay. But listen to this! I’ve just seen Harry Dawson . . . No, two minutes ago . . . Yes, he’s just gone into her apartment.’
Marty took out a grubby handkerchief to wipe his brow. Talking to Tam always made him nervous.
‘Well, I hope she does play it cool . . . What? This is a hell of a line . . . Yes, you do that, you phone her, that’s a very good idea. Okay, Tam.’
Relieved that he had shed the responsibility, Marty hung up the receiver. He was stroking the right side of his face as he came out of the booth.
Harry had needed to ring several times at the door of flat number 32 before he heard an impatient voice calling: ‘All right, all right, I’m coming.’ The door was opened by the woman he had seen twice before. She was wearing a fur coat and her handbag dangled from her forearm.
‘For Gawd’s sake . . .!’ she began to remonstrate. She stopped dead when she saw who was standing there.
‘Good morning, Miss Wade,’ Harry said, putting on his most friendly smile. ‘You remember me, perhaps? I’m Detective Inspector Dawson. We met in the Golden Plough last night. Could you spare me a few minutes?’
Behind her calculating eyes Linda Wade’s mind was working fast. ‘Well, it’s a bit awkward at the moment. I was just going out. I’ve got an appointment at the hairdresser’s at half-past eleven.’
Harry kept the smile going. ‘It’ll only take a few minutes.’
‘Well—’
‘You look to me more as if you’d just come back from the hairdresser’s.’
Linda patted her suspiciously lustrous red hair. Even in these circumstances she could not help being flattered by the compliment.
‘Nonsense! It’s in a frightful mess.’
‘May I come in?’ Harry moved forward, following up his advantage. ‘Just for a moment.’
&n
bsp; ‘Yes, okay. But I warn you it will only have to be for a few moments.’
The flat was over-heated. Harry felt the warmth hit his face as soon as he entered the hall. The interior was a surprise, totally at variance with the external appearance of Defoe Mansions-. The immediate impression was that the owner had walked into one of those antique shops which specialise in gilt mirrors and highly ornamental objets d’art and just bought the lot.
‘What a beautiful flat!’ Harry said, as Linda closed the door behind him.
‘Do you like it?’
‘I do. I do indeed.’ Harry was looking around him as he walked towards what was obviously the sitting-room. He was noting the position of doors, searching for any object which might have been carelessly left lying around.
The sitting-room had one of the large bay windows which had been a feature of the original house, and the ceiling was high. A pair of double doors, at the moment ajar, led through into the bedroom.
No money had been spared on this room. A purple carpet stretched from wall to wall. A wide divan jutted from one side of the room, adorned with a tiger-skin rug and a scatter of gaudy cushions. The arm-chairs were deep and welcoming, the desk secretaire had obviously cost a bomb and there were large mirrors on every wall. The dominant feature was a large, very modern cocktail cabinet.
Yet the whole effect was impersonal. There was nothing here to awaken guilty memories of home in the male visitor’s mind. It was an ornate kind of reception room.
‘I’m sorry I can’t offer you a drink, there really isn’t time,’ Linda said. She had not invited him to sit down.
‘Miss Wade, I’ll tell you why I wanted to see you—’
‘I think I know why, duckie,’ Linda cut in. ‘About Judy Black?’
‘Yes.’ Harry did not show his surprise at her coming to the point so quickly.
‘I nearly phoned you last night, after I’d seen you in the Plough, and then I thought – you keep out of this, Linda. Don’t get mixed up in anything. You’ve always been a good little girl – with reservations, of course – you keep it that way, sweetie.’
There was something rather engaging about her frank way of talking.
‘But you do know Judy?’
A Game of Murder Page 10