Death of an Old Girl

by Elizabeth Lemarchand

  ‘Of course I admit that possibility, sir. But I still maintain that no one in his senses with a really big job on hand would risk letting Ann Cartmell have anything to do with it… I can’t see how he stowed the stuff away, but I haven’t really worked on that yet.’

  ‘You’d better work on it like hell, my boy. Well, we’ll put the whole idea up to the A.C., and if he asks you what course of action you suggest, I assume you’ve something to put forward. No point in delaying any longer.’ He picked up the receiver and asked for the Assistant Commissioner’s office.

  It was definitely off-putting, Pollard thought, to report to a man who sat slumped back in his comfortable desk chair gazing at the ceiling, apparently unconscious of your presence. But as he rightly surmised, apparently was the operative word. Finishing what he had to say, he waited in respectful silence.

  ‘How do you propose that this rather melodramatic theory of yours is put to the test, Pollard?’ enquired the well-known, slightly lazy drawl.

  He drew a deep breath and stepped forward into zero hour.

  ‘If some object was transferred to Ann Cartmell last Saturday evening, with or without her knowledge, sir, I think the odds are that it’s still in her possession. Torrance has no reason to suppose that we’re interested in anything but the actual murder. I suggest that we give her the all-clear for flying over to New York on Monday. This ought to allay any suspicions or idea of calling the job off. We undertake to meet her at Paddington and drive her to the airport, on the grounds that there may be some difficulty about the seat at such short notice. We ensure that she gets up here in good time, and our chaps then take her luggage to pieces. We can take along a policewoman to search her if necessary, and put up some story about a special request from Interpol in connection with a jewel robbery.’

  ‘What happens if we find nothing?’ enquired the voice.

  ‘I’d let her go all the same, sir, and have the F.B.I. alerted to weigh in again on the other side. Meanwhile we ask them to get cracking on these friends of Torrance, the Vanderplanks.’

  ‘Can’t see them finding something we’ve missed,’ asserted Crowe stoutly.

  ‘We could give them the chance, perhaps… The important thing is whether Pollard can find out by Monday morning how the microphotographs of our secret defences or latest radar device were actually planted. Assuming the whole thing isn’t a mare’s nest, of course.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, sir,’ Pollard replied, aware of a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  ‘No man can do more,’ the A.C. remarked, assuming an upright position. He flicked a switch and summoned his secretary. ‘Now I suppose we bring in the Special Branch and the Drugs Squad, although I think your reasoning against this being a case of drug-running is quite sound, Pollard.’

  Further sections of the machine purred into action…

  As the evening went on, Pollard, caught up in ever-widening official activity, wondered despairingly when he would be able to concentrate on his own particular problem. After a brief discussion with Crowe there were several matters to be put in hand. Arrangements were made to keep both Torrance and Ann Cartmell under observation. There followed an urgent request for a seat on the Monday afternoon plane to New York, and an investigation into the times of trains from Bath to Paddington. Pollard took advantage of a lull to ring up his wife.

  ‘I’ve arrived,’ he told her, ‘but don’t expect me until pretty late, possibly with the milk. Don’t wait up, will you? Very heavy traffic tonight.’

  This was their code for rapid developments in a case.

  ‘Right,’ Jane replied. ‘I’ll expect you when I see you — if I’m awake, that is. There’ll be soup in a thermos, and sandwiches as usual. Good hunting.’

  The Special Branch’s initial reaction had been one of complete scepticism, changing to guarded interest when it was established that Torrance had visited Moscow three years earlier to discuss a possible exhibition of British paintings there. Further enquiries disclosed that he had attended several social functions at the Soviet Embassy. Pollard restrained his impatience while lengthy discussions took place, largely unintelligible to him. From time to time he was asked a question.

  Released at last, he prepared to ring up Ann Cartmell, only to be held up once more, this time by the Drug Squad. Unlike their colleagues in the Special Branch, its officers had pounced on the chance of a fresh lead with enthusiasm, and interrogated him with the greatest thoroughness…

  ‘You’re through to Bath,’ the switchboard operator told him, and a few seconds later Pollard heard Ann Cartmell announce herself at the other end of the line, unmistakable pent-up excitement in her voice.

  ‘Inspector Pollard of New Scotland Yard speaking, Miss Cartmell,’ he said. ‘I’m contacting you to say that my superiors feel justified in letting you leave for New York on Monday. I take it you can be ready?’

  ‘Oh!’ she gasped, ‘how absolutely marvellous! Of course I can — I’ve been sitting all ready and hoping for days… I just can’t believe it after all this ghastly worry… But what about a seat on the plane? Can I get one as late as this, do you think?’

  ‘We’re fixing it for you,’ he told her, and went on to explain that she would be met at the station and driven direct to the airport.

  ‘Oh!’ she said again. ‘It seems too good to be true. I can hardly take it in.’

  ‘Before you go we shall want you to read over the various statements you have made to me, and sign them if you agree with them.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said, obviously uninterested. ‘Anything I can do to help, Inspector. You’ve been so kind: I’m so very grateful to you. Oh, does Mr Torrance know I can go after all?’

  ‘I’m just going to ring him up and tell him, so that he can contact Mr and Mrs Vanderplank about meeting you at the other end. I expect he’ll ring you as soon as he’s heard from me.’

  ‘Perhaps he will!’ she exclaimed, with a catch in her voice.

  ‘Well, Miss Cartmell, I think that’s all quite clear, isn’t it? You know where to find me if you should want to enquire about anything else. And I expect I shall be seeing you at the airport. Goodbye.’

  Pollard rang off, and sat for a few moments assessing his reactions. No change, he decided… Just as self-engrossed and as emotional about Torrance as ever. It suddenly struck him that Ann Cartmell might very well be in for one of the worst jolts imaginable, poor kid. Lifting the receiver again, he asked for Clive Torrance’s private number. The call got through almost at once.

  ‘Torrance here.’

  ‘Inspector Pollard of New Scotland Yard, Mr Torrance.’

  Was he imagining it, or was the ensuing pause fractionally too long?

  ‘Good evening, Inspector. I’ve been hoping to hear from you. Can it be that you’re letting poor little Cartmell go?’

  ‘That’s what I’m ringing you about, Mr Torrance. My superiors have authorised her departure, and we’ve fixed her up on the three-thirty plane on Monday afternoon. Perhaps you’d like to take down the times, as you’ll be wanting to get into touch with your friends over there, I expect.’

  ‘Yes. Just a sec. while I get something to write with… Go ahead.’

  Pollard gave him the flight number and the aircraft’s scheduled time of arrival.

  ‘We’re anxious to help Miss Cartmell in every way we can,’ he told Torrance, ‘so we’ve arranged with her to meet her train at Paddington and run her down to Heathrow. Someone will see her on board in case there should be any hitch over the last-minute booking.’

  ‘That’s very handsome of the police, Inspector. I’d no idea they were so human. I might turn up myself to wave her off after all the hurroosh there’s been. How about the fare? I’ll foot the bill if she has to pay more, as I told you.’

  Pollard assured him that this would not be necessary, and made to ring off.

  ‘How’s your case going, by the way? Or mustn’t one ask?’

  ‘That’s a question one mustn’t answ
er, I’m afraid, sir,’ he replied pleasantly. ‘Good night.’

  Once again he sat on after replacing the receiver. A vivid picture of the man he had been talking to rose in his mind. With quite astonishing clarity he could see Torrance in his sitting-room over the Domani. He was not his usual impeccably-groomed and turned-out self, but was wearing an unbuttoned shirt, slacks and slippers. He hadn’t even shaved, and there were little beads of sweat on his face. An incongruous figure in his elegant surroundings… The smell of good cigarettes came back to Pollard and he visualised the windows open at the bottom on this close evening, the beautiful curtains moving very gently to and fro, and the muted roar of the traffic in Regent Street forming a background.

  I can’t believe, Pollard thought, that he’s the kind of chap to sell his country down the river for an ideology … he’s not big enough. His world begins and ends with himself. But I believe he’d do it for money. He needs quite a bit of money to maintain the Clive Torrance image … the rich, successful director of the Domani … the acknowledged authority … the man with a cultural mission and the patron of young artists … the Jaguar … the lady with the expensive perfume … the little trips abroad…

  Aware that his thoughts were trailing off, Pollard pulled himself up with a jerk. It could be drugs, of course… A dangerous man, Torrance, with that cool, calculating mind, so well camouflaged, by his obvious weaknesses of vanity and self-indulgence. The sort of mind capable of the patience needed in long-term planning, and at the same time able to meet a sudden appalling emergency with ruthless efficiency. It was to be hoped that the chap detailed to shadow him was on top of his job…

  Abruptly remembering that he had yet to produce proof that Torrance was involved in either attempted smuggling or murder, Pollard emerged from his meditations under a cold douche of realism, and looked at his desk. Even at the end of a fifteen-hour day there were still papers marked VERY URGENT and dealing with other cases which he hadn’t touched. He’d better clear them off before he went home and really got to grips with this bloody Baynes business.

  The accumulation was considerable, and took much longer to deal with than he had expected. Midnight struck, and one… The church clocks round about were chiming the dead hour of two when he slipped his latchkey into the lock and went softly up the stairs to his flat, realising that he was too tired to think to any purpose that night.

  Twenty

  ‘Choose your equipment carefully, especially your paints.’

  Lecture by Clive Torrance at Meldon on Oil Painting for Beginners

  ‘I haven’t a clue about today,’ Pollard told his wife at breakfast on the following morning, setting down his empty coffee cup. ‘The hell of a lot of hanging about, of course, waiting for New York’s report on the Vanderplanks, and anything that Special Branch or Drugs have managed to dig up. You go ahead with whatever you’ve planned to do. I don’t expect to go out of Town, but I’ll ring you if I have to.’

  ‘O.K. by me,’ Jane replied. ‘I think I’ll go along to the shops right away before the Saturday crowds pile up. Then I’ll be in. The place must have a good clean — I’ve hardly touched it this week. Then I’ve got my stuff on the refresher course to finish.’

  Tom Pollard pushed back his chair and went to collect his hat and briefcase, returning to kiss Jane rather abstractedly before starting off. She stood listening to his footsteps as he ran downstairs, and then went over to the window and watched him cross the street and vanish round the corner in the direction of the bus stop. He had forgotten to look up and wave to her… This stage in a case was particularly tricky for the detective’s wife, she reflected. One could so easily put a foot wrong by over-solicitude or an excessive display of interest.

  Jane Pollard was not, however, cast by Nature for the role of passive onlooker. Frowning, she extracted a cigarette from a box, lit it, and sat down by the window, oblivious of the uncleared breakfast table and the dust…

  After the high-pressure activity of the night before, Pollard found the atmosphere of the Yard static, and was absurdly irritated by the preoccupation of his colleagues with their own cases. Becoming aware of this reaction, he was amused at himself, and hurried hopefully to his room. Disappointingly, the only reports awaiting him were those on Ann Cartmell and Torrance, neither of whom had shown any signs of leaving home during the night.

  ‘What the devil are those New York chaps doing?’ he asked Toye rhetorically. ‘Let’s finish making the arrangements for Monday morning, anyway.’

  After discussion it was settled that Toye should meet Ann Cartmell’s train and drive her to the airport. This would ensure that she was quickly recognised, and Toye, as an officer engaged on the case, would be in a position to act authoritatively if Torrance himself turned up with his car.

  ‘The one thing that mustn’t happen is giving him a chance to abstract anything he may have planted on her,’ Pollard said. ‘Quite apart from espionage and drugs, it would kibosh the motive for the murder — unless I’m absolutely wrong about the whole business, that is.’

  ‘Suppose he runs down to her home today or tomorrow, and gets the stuff back by putting up some cock and bull story?’ suggested Toye. ‘What’s to stop him?’

  ‘Nothing. But there’s a police car behind the block where he garages his Jaguar, and we’ve got the chaps at Bath lined up. If he tries it on, the Chief agrees that we’ll have to take the risk of intercepting him as he leaves the Cartmells. It’s a hundred to one that the stuff would be on him, or in the car… We’d better get on to the airport police next…’

  Careful arrangements were made for the interception of Ann Cartmell’s luggage, and its examination by experts.

  ‘And I only hope to God we find whatever it is,’ Pollard said with feeling. ‘I don’t mind admitting I’m getting bloody cold feet.’

  Toye was solidly reassuring.

  ‘The A.C. and the Chief wouldn’t have O.K.’d the scheme, sir, if it hadn’t looked pretty good to them. Neither of ’em spotted a hole in it, or could put up a better one. And there’s not a cheep from Linbridge about some complete outsider turning up.’

  As there was now nothing to do but wait, Pollard decided on reading through all the case notes directly or indirectly connected with Torrance. They settled down to the job, and silence descended, broken only by the turning of pages, and the occasional striking of a match. Cigarette smoke wreathed itself out of the open window.

  The break was as sudden as it was unexpected. Toye looked up as Pollard gave vent to a lurid comment on his own intelligence.

  ‘Look at this,’ he concluded, pushing Toye’s own report on his first interview with Jock Eccles across the desk. ‘The old so-and-so says he shook his fist at the backside of the Jaguar because it scorched up the drive as though a madman was driving it. Why the hell did Torrance run it so fine? Surely he must have meant to allow himself reasonable time if he planned to plant something? As it was, he barely missed finding Cartmell up in the studio when he got there. If we can prove he was delayed for some reason, it’s another pointer.’

  Remarking that he himself was a bigger fool than he’d ever thought, Toye suggested engine trouble or a puncture, involving a delayed start or a call at a garage on the way.

  ‘Let’s get on to the motoring organisations,’ said Pollard. ‘They’d know if there were any fixtures or a smash on the road causing a hefty traffic jam. Or if one of their patrols stopped to help Torrance. Failing that, it will mean garages — a much longer job.’

  When Toye had gone off to make these enquiries he went back to the notes, but his mind kept straying off and worrying away at just what Torrance could have done… Something that was obviously suspicious and capable of being spotted by Beatrice Baynes through a chink in the curtains of the puppet theatre, and at the same time simple enough to have been carried out in the bare two minutes before Ann Cartmell arrived. Or else by sleight-of-hand while she was ferreting about for wrapping materials for the paintings… There certainly wouldn’t
have been any time for niggling and fiddling operations, like unscrewing things, for instance. And how could he have been absolutely certain about what she was taking with her? The oil colour-box that he’d given her was a virtual certainty, but suppose she had already packed it at the Staff House? Perhaps he’d told her he’d like to have another look at it, as it had been sent straight from Brocatti & Simpson’s. On the other hand, if he’d planned to use the box, why not bring the present along with him, having done the job of concealment at leisure? Or was having it sent direct a precaution, so that if something were discovered he could prove that it had never been in his possession?

  Pollard scowled and resettled himself in his chair. Microfilms were small, of course, and could be hidden in a dummy tube of oil paint. Could Torrance have substituted one for a genuine tube, either when buying the colour-box, or on the Saturday evening? Risky … suppose Ann Cartmell had decided to try out some of the paints? Not very likely, but it couldn’t be entirely discounted. And it wasn’t a substitution you could do in a split second, either. You’d have to extract the corresponding genuine tube, labelled in the same way…

  His reflections were interrupted by the return of Toye, radiating success.

  ‘We’ve got it in one, sir,’ announced the latter triumphantly. ‘The A.A. say there was a bad smash and a big pile-up two miles this side of the Medlingstone bypass, just after six on Saturday evening. It was an hour before they got even single-line traffic going again, and meanwhile there was a diversion round minor roads and lanes. I asked what it would have added on to a London-Linbridge run, and they said quite a quarter of an hour.’

  It was while they were digesting the implications of this discovery that the long-awaited report on the Vander-planks came through. Pollard read it with a tremendous sense of relief.