Cyanide With Compliments

by Elizabeth Lemarchand

  Pollard made no comment on this change of plan.

  ‘So you left Mr James Bayley in Venice?’ he said. ‘Didn’t he give you any idea of what he intended to do, as the joint holiday had fallen through?’

  ‘He said something about knocking up a few potboilers before pushing on,’ Lorna replied, ‘but whether he did or not is another matter. Sorry to seem so unhelpful, but my brother’s that sort of chap. If we couldn’t give him house-room here, we probably shouldn’t set eyes on him for years at a time.’

  This time the affection underlying her rather offhand tone was quite unmistakable. John Bayley shifted his position impatiently.

  ‘To be practical,’ he said, ‘it’s a million to one against James being able to remember Mrs Vickers at all, even if she bought the water-colour from him personally: he’s hopelessly vague. She probably just picked it up at one of the art shops in Italy which put his stuff on sale, or possibly at the Domani Gallery over here.’

  ‘I see,’ Pollard said. ‘It certainly doesn’t sound very hopeful. One more question, and we’ll remove ourselves. How did Mrs Vickers strike you as a person? I gather that you had some conversation with her about the water-colour.’

  ‘She was quite frightful,’ Lorna Bayley replied emphatically. ‘The cruise blight, in fact. One of those excitable middle-aged women who buttonhole people and pour out torrents of voluble conversation about themselves. Her appearance was the signal for a general fade-out, wasn’t it, John?’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed her husband. ‘She was easily top of the unpopularity poll on board. Broad and long it was a very decent crowd.’

  ‘There was a good deal of feeling about the way she behaved to her niece and the niece’s husband,’ Lorna went on. ‘Telling the whole ship she was paying for them, and never letting them go off on their own — you know. In the end they cut loose one day, and there was the hell of a row, apparently. At any rate the party wasn’t on speaking terms by the end of the trip. Not that I’m making any insinuations, of course.’

  ‘Well,’ Pollard said, getting to his feet, ‘I’m glad to have got the matter of the two J. Bayleys of this address cleared up. If you hear from Mr James Bayley, would you ring me at the Yard? Here’s my card. It’s just possible that we may want to contact him for the record.’

  John Bayley also got up, with an air of having found the interview a somewhat pointless interruption.

  ‘We’ll do that thing,’ he said, ‘but it’s unlikely to happen. James isn’t the type one hears from: he just turns up without warning, and as he was over so recently, he probably won’t materialize for a while.’

  ‘I suppose this chap James Bayley really exists?’ Toye propounded as they walked away from the house.

  ‘That crossed my mind for a moment,’ Pollard replied, ‘but he exists all right. The mention of the Domani clinches it. John Bayley would never have mentioned that it sold James’s pictures if this wasn’t true. It can be checked up so easily. And what’s more, James has got to be found. In my own mind I’m pretty sure that the three of them conspired to burn down that house at Roccombe, and that James was the active partner.’

  He relapsed into an abstracted silence. As they arrived at the main road Toye asked if they were going to the police station.

  ‘Car,’ Pollard said, ‘to sort things out a bit.’

  When they were installed and had lit cigarettes, he expelled a mouthful of smoke and looked at Toye.

  ‘Perfect set-up for the arson stunt, isn’t it?’ he remarked. ‘The whole neighbourhood in a state of coming and going, and an artistic brother-in-law who behaves like the Cheshire Cat.’

  ‘You wouldn’t expect an artist chap to be what you might call dependable over a dicey thing like arson,’ Toye said thoughtfully.

  ‘In some ways, no. But on the other hand he might take to it more easily than a steady nine-till-five chap. Get a kick out of doing down the insurance people, too. Then being a combined brother-in-law and brother could make it a family affair, and reduce the blackmail hazard. But anyway, this is Dart’s problem. We just pass on the facts. Let’s face it, we’re no nearer finding a possible link with Audrey Vickers.’

  They smoked in silence for a few moments.

  ‘While you were talking I picked up two bits of information about the Bayleys,’ Toye said. ‘A whole lot of stuff had been chucked down on the settee where I parked myself. Mr Bayley’s jacket, and his briefcase with a lot of papers sticking out of it, and that women’s magazine called Eyeful. Mrs Bayley models for rag trade photographers. It was open at an advert. She was wearing a posh affair all slit down the sides, with trousers under it.’

  ‘She’s got the figure for it all right,’ Pollard allowed. ‘Was it this month’s Eyeful?’

  ‘Yes. I had a look, thinking I’d take my wife a copy. She’d be interested that I’d met the lady.’

  ‘It’s an idea. Get one for me, will you? What was the other thing you found out?’

  ‘There was a wad of business letters in the briefcase. I didn’t like to risk mucking them about too much, but I gave a bit of a tug, and the top one was headed Harrison and Wynne, and the first line of the address was Wentworth Road.’

  ‘Could be Bayley’s firm. We’ll check up on it for Dart. We seem to be doing a lot of that bloke’s work for him, don’t we? By the way, did you notice that there weren’t any kids’ photographs in that room of the Bayleys?’

  ‘Yes, I did. There weren’t any in the front room, either. I took a quick look when we passed it on the way to the one at the back.’

  ‘Can’t see the Bayleys as parents,’ Pollard said, stubbing out his cigarette. ‘Too keen on their own standard of living, don’t you think? Which brings me to tomorrow’s programme. If we’re having a showdown with Mrs Willis, the earlier the better, before the Morse woman turns up. We’ll go along first thing. There’s nothing more to be done around here: let’s head for home.’

  10

  Pollard and Jane had an early breakfast together on the following morning.

  ‘Well, one of two things is bound to happen today,’ he said, pushing his empty coffee cup across the table. ‘Either we get something out of Mrs Willis, or I report nothing doing on any front, get a flea in my ear from the AC, ask for a warrant for the Langs, and Toye and I trek down to Fulminster this afternoon.’

  Jane refilled the cup and passed it back to him.

  ‘What could you get from Mrs Willis that would help?’ she asked. ‘Apart from a positive identification of the Langs, I mean?’

  ‘This is it,’ Pollard replied, taking the last piece of toast. ‘If only I knew that, things would be so much easier. The trouble is that I can’t hit on anything that really looks like linking up with Audrey Vickers. The kid’s print, as Toye says, was probably made by a customer’s brat on the rampage grabbing the boxes on the stands. I expect it happens every time a kid’s taken into the shop. Imagine yourself shopping with the twins in tow in about a year from now.’

  Jane Pollard shuddered. ‘Listen,’ she said, cocking an ear. ‘I thought I heard a yell. No, it seems to be all right. Assunta really manages them very well.’

  Pollard crunched, swallowed, and drained his cup of coffee. ‘Time I was off,’ he said. ‘I’ll just look in on them before I go —’

  He was given an enthusiastic reception in the twins’ room. Assunta, who was struggling to get Andrew into a small blue shirt, beamed up at him.

  ‘Good morrning!’ she exclaimed. ‘Ecco il babbo, bambini!’

  ‘Dad-dad-dad!’ shouted Andrew with determined insularity. Rose, already dressed, streaked across the floor on all fours with excited cries. Pollard picked her up and pretended to toss her into the air, returned her to earth again, and repeated the procedure with his son.

  ‘How — is — Luigi?’ he asked Assunta, who bridled and raised her eyes to heaven.

  ‘’E is — aw kay.’

  Pollard laughed. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Now I must go. Goodbye, all of you.’


  He departed amid protesting sounds from the twins, and ran downstairs. Jane had opened the garage for him.

  ‘If it’s Fulminster this afternoon, I’ll ring you,’ he promised, kissing her and getting into the car. As he drove out of the gate he turned for a final wave, seized with distaste for the programme ahead of him.

  On arriving in his room at the Yard he saw that the meticulous Toye had already placed a copy of Eyeful on his desk. He glanced at the price, and was examining a handful of coins taken from his trouser pocket when Toye himself appeared.

  ‘Thanks for getting this thing,’ he said, handing over a couple of coins. ‘I’ll just see if anything vital’s turned up, and if not we’ll go along right away, and have a bash at little Willis.’

  Ten minutes later they set out.

  ‘My third visit,’ Pollard remarked, as they arrived in West Audley Street. ‘My last, too, I’m pretty sure. You know, I can’t see anything coming out of this.’

  ‘Some sort of racket behind Mrs Willis looking like a scared rabbit?’ queried Toye.

  ‘That, yes. Could be we’ll have something to pass on to the appropriate quarter. Passing on gen seems to be our line at the moment, doesn’t it?’

  It was barely five minutes past nine when they arrived at Honeydew. The shop was empty, and Mrs Willis came hurrying out of the stock room still wearing a coat. At the sight of Pollard and Toye she stopped dead in her tracks.

  ‘Yes, we’re back again, Mrs Willis,’ Pollard said. ‘The police never give up, you know. Let’s come in here to talk, shall we?’ he added, manoeuvring her back to the stock room.

  With obvious unwillingness she allowed herself to be escorted to the chair drawn up to face the desk, at which Pollard installed himself. He sat looking at her thoughtfully. Then he opened the file and took out the photograph of the child’s fingerprint taken and blown up by Constable Bragg of Highcastle.

  ‘You see this fingerprint, Mrs Willis?’ he asked, showing it to her. ‘It was made by a young child about three or four years old.’

  He watched her give an uncontrollable start.

  ‘This print’s important,’ he went on. ‘It was made on the cellophane wrapping of the box of Marchpane Magic sent to Mrs Vickers. I can see that you know something about it. Wouldn’t you be wiser to tell me how it got on to the box? You see, if you don’t I shall have to take steps to find out which you may not like at all.’

  ‘Not Mrs Morse,’ she pleaded, staring at him.

  ‘I don’t know what it is you’re so anxious to keep from Mrs Morse,’ Pollard said, ‘but I promise you that unless it’s absolutely necessary she won’t be told.’

  Mrs Willis’s eyes searched his face as if seeking reassurance.

  ‘I know I didn’t ought to’ve done it,’ she burst out, choking back a sob, ‘but I was that worried I didn’t know which way to turn. It was my daughter being taken bad in the street and rushed off to hospital like that; only seven months gone, she was, and her husband’d gone off and left her for another woman … they took her in an ambulance.’

  Patiently and gently Pollard unravelled the story. Mrs Willis’s daughter had collapsed while out shopping on the morning of Tuesday, May the first, and an ambulance had been summoned by passers-by. A neighbour had rung Mrs Willis at Honeydew, and she in turn had contacted the hospital to be given grave news of her daughter’s condition and told to come immediately. Feeling desperate, and knowing that Zoe Morse was safely in Paris, she had taken the unprecedented step of closing the shop, after an agonizing wait for the delayed delivery from the factory to arrive. The moment the van had driven away again she had locked up and fled in search of a taxi.

  At this point in the story the outer shop door could be heard opening, announcing the arrival of a customer. In a flash Mrs Willis braced herself, and the mask of the bright obliging saleswoman dropped over her face.

  ‘Please excuse me,’ she said hurriedly, and left the stock room almost at a run.

  Pollard turned to Toye, who was perched on the window sill as before.

  ‘This might be useful, I suppose,’ he said. ‘She’ll remember when she opened the place again, and that narrows down the time when the Langs could have bought the blasted chocolates. Always assuming they did, of course.’

  Toye assented. ‘Real bitch of a woman, that Mrs Morse,’ he added, with unusual vehemence.

  Through the door into the shop came the voice of Mrs Willis counting out change for a five pound note, and wishing the customer good morning. After a brief pause she reappeared. Pollard rose politely and waited for her to sit down again. His courtesy seemed to fluster her, and he made a comment on salesmanship in an attempt to relieve tension.

  ‘Well now,’ he resumed, ‘you went off to the hospital as soon as the van had gone. What time did you get back and open the shop again?’

  Her face was a study in guilt. ‘I — I didn’t.’ she said, avoiding his eye. ‘I was at the hospital right up to eight o’clock in the evening. ’Twasn’t till then they said Shirley was out of danger.’

  In the intense silence which followed this statement Pollard found that he was holding his breath. Suddenly he became aware that Mrs Willis was looking at him.

  ‘I want to get this absolutely clear,’ he said, recovering himself. ‘Do you mean that the shop was closed from roughly one o’clock on that Tuesday morning until the following morning, and that during that time no one could buy anything here?’

  ‘That’s right,’ she said miserably. ‘I know it was wrong, cheating Mrs Morse out of the whole afternoon’s takings. When she sees the book…’

  ‘You couldn’t possibly have done anything else but shut down,’ Pollard cut in, ‘seeing that you’re singlehanded here. And as Mrs Morse was in Paris you couldn’t possibly have contacted her.’

  ‘I could’ve rung the factory, and asked for Mr Peters — that’s Mrs Morse’s partner. I was that fussed I acted silly, looking back on it. I’m scared to death she’ll find out somehow, and give me the sack. I’ve got to earn all the more now, with my daughter going on National Assistance, and I just feel I can’t face a new job at my age. I mightn’t get one: it’s all young girls and mini-skirts these days. And I couldn’t do with a big place. It’s quiet on my own here, and a nice class of customer.’

  Pollard did his best to be reassuring, and at last managed to bring Mrs Willis back to the subject of the fingerprint.

  ‘It was my little granddaughter must’ve done it,’ she told him, wiping her eyes. ‘My sister over at Wallington said she’d take her while my daughter was in the hospital, me being out at work all day, but she couldn’t come to fetch her before I left home. So I said I’d bring Tracy along here, only she must come as soon as she could. There was the Tuesday delivery to unpack and check, and it wouldn’t do for customers to see the child about. I tried to keep the little thing in the stock room here, but I was in and out all the time, and you know what children are. A lady came in and bought several things, and asked for a box of Marchpane Magic. There wasn’t one left on the stand, so I ran in here to fetch one, and found Tracy’d just pulled one out of the parcel I’d begun opening. I took it from her, and sold it to the lady.’

  ‘I see,’ Pollard said. ‘Do you by any chance know the name of the lady, Mrs Willis?’

  With a feeling of fatalism he watched her shake her head.

  ‘No, I don’t,’ she said. ‘I can’t say I paid much heed to her, being so flustered with Tracy in here, and my sister coming to fetch her, and the unpacking not done. But she wasn’t a regular — I’m sure of that.’

  ‘Have you any idea what the lady looked like? Was she elderly, for instance, or a young girl?’

  ‘Not really elderly, she wasn’t. I’d’ve noticed that. Not very young, I don’t think. But I just can’t call her to mind properly.’

  ‘Were there any other customers in the shop while she was here?’

  ‘No, nobody else. I remember running back in here in case Tracy was up to mischief.’ />
  ‘What about the time when the lady was buying the chocolates?’

  Mrs Willis wrinkled her brow, looking like an anxious monkey.

  ‘Round ten o’clock, it must’ve been, near as no matter.’

  Realizing that there was no more to be gained from her, Pollard took the address of the hospital and the sister in Wallington, and rose to go after thanking Mrs Willis, and attempting further reassurance.

  Toye’s first reaction when they were outside on the pavement was gruffly complimentary. ‘Hand it to you again, sir, over the Langs this time. No doubt in the world they’re in the clear, just as you felt all along.’

  ‘Yes,’ Pollard replied, ‘they’re in the clear all right, as their plane wasn’t in till after one. Is there anything further back than Square One, do you know, because that’s where we seem to be? Look here, there are things to check on Mrs Willis’s statement. The time she picked up the kid, for instance, and the hospital times. You’d better push off and cope with all that, while I go back and put in a report. What we do next is anybody’s guess.’

  After discussing a few points they parted, Pollard taking the car. He drove back to the Yard torn between satisfaction at the vindication of the Langs, and dismay at finding himself without a single convincing lead to work on.

  On reaching his room, he sat down at his desk and grimly addressed himself to making a report on the evidence provided by Mrs Willis. He had barely started when his secretary came in.

  ‘Information on Harrison and Wynne, sir,’ the latter said, presenting him with a sheet of typescript.

  ‘Thanks,’ Pollard said, taking it without enthusiasm, and running his eye over it.

  The next moment he experienced the mental equivalent of a mild electric shock.

  ‘Here,’ he said, recalling his secretary from the door, ‘get me on to Forensic, will you?’