Pollard grinned. ‘Anything useful there?’ he asked.
‘He was quite a different cup of tea, sir. Interested, and keen to help. He got the names and addresses of the people whose post orders went off that Tuesday typed out for me. Then I asked about the factory staff. It’s quite a small concern, and the way they’ve got things fixed only half a dozen could have snitched a box of the chocolates with all the trimmings, and that’s including the two partners. I had a word with the other four, and I’d say it’s a million to one against them being mixed up in the business. I took their names, of course.’
‘Let’s have a look at those post orders,’ Pollard said.
It was a fairly long list of varied orders, but only ten customers had asked for Marchpane Magic. None of them was called Lang or Vickers, and none lived at Fulminster. A further check showed that with the possible exception of a Mrs Brown of Newcastle-upon-Tyne, none of the Penelope’s passengers appeared to have ordered Honeydew products to be despatched on Tuesday, 1 May.
‘It probably isn’t the same Brown, anyway,’ Pollard said, ‘and the time posts take would rule her out, anyway. I never expected much from this. It would be so much simpler to shove on a false beard or a pair of sunglasses, and buy the Marchpanes over the counter. Much safer, too, than putting an order on paper. What’s on your mind?’
‘I’ve been wondering, sir,’ Toye replied slowly, ‘how Donald Vickers — if he’s our chap — found out that Mrs V was on the Penelope?’
‘I’ve thought about that one myself,’ Pollard said. ‘I think he must have heard her demanding to be taken back to the ship. According to Mrs Strode the American party went on nattering, and Mrs V subsided on to a chunk of masonry quite close. He’d realize that she almost certainly didn’t mean the American cruise ship, which I expect the people he was talking to hailed from. And an enterprising chap like Vickers could easily find out what British cruise was in, and ring the ship, asking if a Mr and Mrs XYZ Vickers were on board. The ship’s telephonist would say no, but there was a Mrs Audrey Vickers, and did he possibly mean her?’
Toye, a little doubtfully, agreed that this was a possible explanation.
‘You know, I don’t think finding out where she lived would have been much of a poser to the chap,’ Pollard went on. ‘They had their honeymoon at Redbay, remember, and Audrey Vickers went there after her husband had faded out. We don’t know that he never turned up at all after the war. They could have tried to make a go of it, and even discussed a divorce before he decided that it would be a lot simpler to clear off. She might have said that she would go and live in Redbay. Nothing would have been simpler than looking her up in a Highcastle area telephone directory when he got to London Always assuming he did, of course… What the hell are those chaps in Rome doing? I know I’m theorizing madly. Look here, we ought to be pushing off to Thrale, Keith Lang’s publisher. It struck me that since they’ve taken on his novel, they may have asked him for a photograph to stick on the back of the jacket. And his alleged visit there last Thursday must be checked, anyway.’
When they returned two hours later, there was still no report from Rome on the Donald Vickers’ movements.
‘We may as well pack it in for today,’ Pollard said. ‘Take this along before you go, though, and ask ’em to blow it up.’
He stared for a moment at the passport photograph which Keith Lang had given to his publishers, and then passed it over to Toye.
When the latter had gone Pollard sat down at his desk to digest the day’s developments in solitude. He had an excellent visual memory, and soon one interview after another began to pass before his mind like pictures on a television screen Toye sitting over there early on, at that stage politely and unmistakably sceptical about Donald Vickers. Not to be wondered at, come to that. Pollard conceded. That chance meeting on the Acropolis took a bit of swallowing, and even now it wasn’t proven. But was it any more fantastic than coincidences which had cropped up in other cases, pointing the way to totally unexpected solutions?
Toye’s familiar face faded out, and was replaced by Mrs Willis’s, her eyes peering out anxiously from under her fringe, her background the lush Honeydew set-up. Why on earth did she stay in the job to be bullied by that cow Zoe Morse? There were endless openings for saleswomen in London, and it wasn’t likely that a small show like Honeydew paid outstandingly well. Gould it be that Zoe Morse had some hold over her? Pollard decided that this was a possibility, but one with no obvious bearing on this case Now Mrs Willis was looking at him quite confidently, and saying that she was sure none of the originals of the photographs had come into Honeydew’s on the afternoon of Tuesday, 1 May. As he went on to describe Keith Lang the worried expression had returned to her face…
Curious little thing, Mrs Willis. Apparently scared stiff of her employer but with a certain toughness and shrewdness underneath. Perhaps the integrity which Morse had contemptuously recognized gave her a kind of last ditch confidence. He’d have to see her again with the blown-up photograph, of course. Unless things started happening in a big way over Donald Vickers…
Some unexpected brief shots of events on the vital Tuesday, just a week ago, presented themselves. The arrival lounge at Heathrow: Audrey Vickers pointedly dissociating herself from the Langs, following a porter with a luggage barrow to a taxi, getting in fussily and telling the cabby to drive to Waterloo Back to the Langs, humping their baggage to the airport bus, arriving at the air terminal.
The sequence of pictures broke at this point, and efforts to visualize Keith arriving in Market Court en route for Honeydew failed. Instead there came a flash of two figures dwarfed by the portico of the British Museum.
Vaguely disturbed, Pollard opened his eyes, and let them rest on the familiar surroundings of his room. Could it be, after all, that he was being pig-headed over the Langs, relying on his personal impressions rather than on facts? Closing them again he got a fleeting glimpse of the Assistant Commissioner’s contorted pre-sneeze countenance. It was instantly replaced by the face of Rex Purcell, the Thrale editor who was dealing with Keith Lang’s novel. An unusual face: rectangular, with a little slit of a mouth, and crowned by a bald dome encircled by a tatty fringe of hair, just as though the chap had an overdone tonsure. Very intelligent eyes looked out at him, as Purcell said how dicey launching unknown authors was these days. Young Lang had got something, though, he’d gone on to say. Sensitivity, for one thing, and the ability to criticize himself and his generation as well as the Establishment, finding the same weaknesses in both in different forms. With luck — and there was the hell of a lot of luck in it — he might make the grade.
Just what the AC said the young could never do, Pollard thought, harking back to Keith Lang’s alleged capacity to see himself as others saw him. Was it after all possible that the intelligent couple had worked it out, and banked on the crime being considered too blatantly obvious for people with IQs like theirs? And then devoted their very considerable grey matter to covering their tracks?
He was assailed by these and other uncomfortable doubts. Then he saw once again the typescript of the report from Washington on Donald Vickers’ naturalization … the report from Athens about his departure for Rome on 28 April.
If only something would come in from Rome, he thought…
Pollard roused himself abruptly. It was no use hanging around waiting for things to happen: it simply made one edgy. Much better to go home. Brightening at the prospect, he began to cram papers into his briefcase. Five minutes later he was unlocking his car, having left instructions for any reports to be telephoned to his home.
Jane opened the front door before he got his latch key into the lock.
‘The Yard’s just rung through,’ she told him. ‘A Mr and Mrs Donald J. Vickers left Rome for London at eight-thirty am on Tuesday, 1 May, by an Alitalia flight.’
They looked at each other.
‘There’s nothing conclusive about this, you know,’ Pollard said.
‘But nothing to
do with Donald Vickers could ever be conclusive without this particular link in the chain,’ she argued. ‘How about a drink before supper? Something else has come through, by the way. Andrew’s molar!’
On the following morning Pollard woke with an urgent sense of the importance of the day ahead. It hung over him as he ate an early breakfast, try though he might to appear his normal relaxed self. Jane, too perceptive to be solicitous, supplied him briskly with food, and occupied herself in getting the twins dressed. With a great effort she refrained from squeezing her husband’s hand as he kissed her goodbye rather absently before setting out.
On arriving at the Yard Pollard found that enquiries at Heathrow were already in progress. Keith Lang’s photograph had been successfully blown up, and was lying on his desk. There is a kind of maturity about the chap, he thought, studying it carefully. His hangover from adolescence is that touch of gaucheness when you talk to him…
‘I’ll just nip along to Honeydew with this one, and two or three more like it,’ he said to Toye. ‘It won’t take long, and gets another point checked. No need for you to come as well. I think Mrs Willis might be more oncoming with only one of us around.’
When he arrived at Number Seven Market Court, the step was newly washed and the brass knocker and letterbox shone like gold. He hesitated for a moment, but decided to stick to his usual technique of playing it by ear. On walking into the shop he found Mrs Willis whisking a feather duster over a display stand. Swift as lightning he cashed in on what the AC had once called his personable quality.
‘Me again, dear,’ he said. ‘Just another bit of red tape to tidy up. I don’t hear a kettle on the boil in there, do I? Could there be a cuppa going? It’s the whale of a long time since I had breakfast.’
As Pollard had almost unconsciously hoped, this opening conjured up a cosy conspiratorial atmosphere as if by magic. Mrs Willis, at first taken aback, responded with a smile. ‘I don’t know what Mrs Morse would say,’ she parried.
‘Don’t you?’ he replied, grinning broadly. ‘Perhaps I’d better not tell a lady, though.’
‘In here, then,’ she said, leading the way to the stock-room. ‘There’s not many come in before eleven, and Mrs Morse isn’t one for early hours.’
‘Late hours, more like?’ Pollard suggested, installing himself at the desk. Mrs Willis darted an expressive glance at him as she filled the teapot, but made no comment.
The tea was good, boiling hot and not too strong. He gulped appreciatively and set down his half-empty cup.
‘Ah, that’s better,’ he said. ‘Well, now, it’s this Redbay case again. It’s giving us the heck of a lot of bother. I mustn’t go around shooting my mouth, but there’s no harm in telling someone like you that we’re very interested in two people at the moment. It was three until you crossed one off the list for us yesterday.’
The remark clearly made her uneasy. She made no reply, and sat staring at her teacup.
‘I’ve brought along another batch of photographs,’ he went on chattily, reaching for his briefcase. ‘Big ones. They’ve been blown up — enlarged — from smaller ones. Half a dozen young men for you this time. Take a good look for me, dear, and see if any of ’em rings a bell.’
As Mrs Willis took the photographs from him he saw that her hand shook slightly. She dropped them on to the table.
‘I don’t like this sort of thing,’ she protested tremulously. ‘It’s — it’s too much responsibility. Not reasonable, either. With customers coming and going all the time, how can you remember what they all looked like? The police shouldn’t expect it.’
‘The police never expect anything,’ Pollard said easily, ‘but we have to go on trying our luck, you know. Just have a go, that’s all, I shan’t press you to pick anyone out.’
Reluctantly she began to look through the photographs, giving a reasonable time to each, but Pollard felt convinced that she was not really giving them her attention. He watched her, puzzled and intrigued by her behaviour. She came to the last one, scrutinized it briefly, and then swept them all together with an impulsive movement.
‘None of this lot came in that afternoon, either,’ she said, hurriedly and emphatically.
‘Are you absolutely sure, Mrs Willis?’ Pollard asked gently. ‘You said just now how difficult it was to remember with all the comings and goings.’
‘You know quite well who you haven’t seen,’ she replied rather wildly, now fixing her gaze on the yard beyond the barred window.
‘Well, well, there’s another possible lead gone west,’ he commented philosophically, restoring the photographs to his briefcase.
Unexpectedly Mrs Willis broke the silence by offering him another cup of tea. Pollard accepted, his interest alerted. Could it be that she was going to talk? He now felt quite certain that something off-beat was going on at Honeydew. He tried to reduce tension by talking about the business, and enquiring into prices.
‘If your stuff isn’t too ruinous I’d like to take my wife something,’ he told her.
Instantly full of bright interest Mrs Willis sprang to her feet and went to the shelves. Several boxes were brought for his inspection, and he finally settled for a costly pound of Fudge Favourites.
What a fool I am, he thought, following her into the shop. The moment she was back on her own ground she felt confident again, and shut up like a clam. All I can do now is drop a hint about this place in the right quarter…
‘Now I’ll have to dash off,’ he said, accepting his change and purchase. ‘Thanks so much for the char, dear, and for having a look at those lads. If you happen to think of anything at all that might help, give me a ring, won’t you? Here’s my card. Just dial that number, and ask for me. Any time.’
Pollard had hardly left the shop when the whole interview dropped out of his mind, as an urgent desire to get back to the Yard possessed him. Picking up the Donald Vickers trail at Heathrow couldn’t conceivably take as long as tracing them in Rome, he thought, getting into his car. News of some sort would surely have arrived by now.
Automatically negotiating the stop-go of the traffic lights, he alternated between exhilaration and depressing awareness of problems yet to be solved. It was a coup to have got on to Donald Vickers at all. But that damned cyanide was the thing. If he didn’t arrive in England until Tuesday, surely he must have got hold of the stuff in Italy. What sort of poison laws did they have over there? Owning a chain of motels didn’t seem likely to give you the entree to farms or factories where the stuff might be around. Wait a bit… He changed gear badly while delving into his memory. Yes, Vickers had ‘married’ an American girl with an Italian name. They might have linked up with her people in Italy … farmers, perhaps. Rather a wild idea, but it could be worth following up. Family relationships counted for a lot among Italians. Tenuous though the idea certainly was, Pollard arrived at the Yard with optimism in the ascendant. Rather than wait for a lift he took the stairs two at a time.
His secretary and Toye were standing together in the middle of the room as he came in. They turned quickly. There was a fractional silence.
‘Well?’ he demanded.
‘Report from Heathrow, sir,’ Toye told him unhappily. ‘A Mr and Mrs Donald Vickers landed from Rome at ten twenty-nine am on Tuesday, 1 May. They were in transit, and left again for New York at eleven-fifty the same morning.’
Pollard had a sensation of being precipitated into a totally different context. Before he could rally himself he was astonished by an outburst from Toye.
‘It’s cruel,’ the latter exploded, his normally impassive face red. ‘A super stroke of yours, sir, tracking Vickers down. Not one in hundreds could’ve pulled it off. And to think the bleeder’s in the clear, seeing he’d taken off before the ruddy chocolates were on sale!’
Pollard stared at him, absurdly moved.
‘Come on, old cock,’ he said. ‘Here we are back in that well-known spot Square One. We’d better take stock, hadn’t we?’
9
Surr
ounded by a litter of sandwich crumbs, ashtrays, typescript and jottings on slips of paper, Pollard and Toye concentrated fiercely on the Vickers file. In the companionable atmosphere of shared disappointment they worked for the most part in silence, only occasionally raising brief queries. It was mid-afternoon when they surfaced and pooled their findings. Cast in its final form, the list was meagre.
Possible Fresh Leads
1. Fingerprint of small child on cellophane wrapping of box of Marchpane Magic.
2. Odd reactions of Mrs Willis when asked to identify Honeydew customers from photographs.
3. The name Bayley keeps cropping up. Picture at Lauriston signed J. Bayley. A Mr and Mrs John Bayley on the cruise. House belonging to the latter destroyed as result of arson during the period of the cruise.
Pollard threw down his pen.
‘Well, we’ve scraped the barrel,’ he said. ‘So what? I’ll tell you. Either we justify work on one or more of these leads pronto, or it’s a warrant for the Langs. The AC’ll be back tomorrow: he’s only got a stinking cold in the head. Let’s take them in turn. What about the kid?’
‘There could’ve been one at the factory or the shop,’ Toye replied doubtfully. ‘From what I saw of it, I’d be inclined to rule out the factory. How about a customer’s kid running around at the shop, and grabbing at the stuff on the display stands? Then the murderer comes along, and buys a box of Marchpane Magic the kid’s fingered.’
‘It’s an idea,’ Pollard allowed. ‘It means getting Willis to talk. At the moment she’s too scared about something to open her mouth. Probably nothing relevant to the case. We might go along and take a tougher line with her. Tackle Leads One and Two at the same time, in fact.’ He broke off to make a note. ‘What about Lead Three? If you can call it a lead, that is.’
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