Rachel Lindsay - Designing Man

by Rachel Lindsay

  "Since the evening's ended so tragically, my wife and I would prefer to go home. We feel sure the family would rather be left alone in their sorrow. We live quite close and if you wanted us…"

  "I'm afraid there are further inquiries to be made." The inspector's face was grave. "Until these are completed, no one must leave the house. I'm sorry to inconvenience you but this is a murder inquiry."

  His parting words cast a chill over everyone and for a while there was silence. The guests avoided each other's eyes and conversation was further inhibited by the presence of the policeman at the door. It was not until the arrival of coffee and sandwiches—ordered by Paul—that the atmosphere began to lighten, and soon little groups formed. But no reference was made to the subject uppermost in every mind until Ivy Brandon came back into the room.

  "Your mother's sleeping," she said to Paul. "It's the best way of getting over a shock like this."

  "Poor mother," he said. "I'm afraid she hasn't realized what's happened."

  "I can hardly realize it myself," Lady Brandon boomed. "To think that while this terrible thing was happening I was at home watching television! If I had been here—"

  "Don't distress yourself," Paul interrupted. "It wasn't your fault."

  Lady Brandon sighed. "Poor Henri!" She sank into a chair and closed her eyes.

  Alix studied her thoughtfully. At least there was one person who cared about Henri's passing! It was more than could be said for the rest of the company. She glanced around. On her left, Fleur was sharing a settee with Peter, and judging from the smile on her face, had quite recovered from the shock of discovering a corpse. Sophie showed no sign of her recent grief, either, and was chatting with Mr. and Mrs. Allan-Jones, seemingly exhilarated at finding herself in the middle of a murder case.

  No, there was little doubt Henri Duval's death was largely unlamented by those nearest—and presumably dearest—to him. Even Dina, who had so passionately loved him, had received the news with unexpected calm.

  Dina___ Alix's mind went back over the events of the evening. She recalled her friend's jealousy of Sophie and her outburst of fury against Henri and became more and more uneasy. True, Dina had taken an overdose of sleeping pills but only sufficient to drug herself, not to kill her! Suppose she had murdered Henri in a jealous rage—slipping down the back staircase that led to the garden—and then returned and taken the pills to avert suspicion from herself?

  Alix's reverie was interrupted by a summons from Inspector Truscott, and she went into the room he had assigned himself. He smiled at her and motioned her to a chair.

  "Now, Miss Smith, can you tell me what you did this evening? Take your time and tell me everything that occurred, no matter how trivial it seems to you."

  Carefully Alix described her movements since her arrival at Croxham with Peter, mentioning the drinks they had had in the drawing room but omitting to repeat the angry scene between Dina and Henri.

  The inspector did not speak until she came to the end of her story. "I take it you were not present when Monsieur Duval announced his intention of going to the library to make an important telephone call?''

  Alix shook her head. "I must have gone to my room."

  "Have you any idea what the call was about?"

  "No."

  "A pity. I was hoping that as his publicity agent… Still, it seems unlikely the call was ever made."

  "How do you know?"

  "One of the guests went to the library immediately afterward, but the French windows were open and there was no sign of him. Mr. Paul Duval also went to speak to his father a few minutes later and found the room empty."

  "How strange. Do you think the call could have been a coverup?"

  "For what?"

  "Maybe he'd arranged to meet someone in the garden and didn't want anyone to know. He probably thought no one would follow him into the library if they believed he was making an important call."

  "That's pretty good deduction, Miss Smith. It looks that way to me, too." The inspector's glance was keen. "Do you know whom he might have been meeting?"

  "I'm afraid not."

  "Pity. But tell me what you did when you had changed into your fancy-dress costume."

  She hesitated, unwilling to tell the inspector the scene she had overheard between Paul and Dina in the sitting room. Instead she described her meeting with Amy Duval in the hall, concluding with her return to her bedroom.

  "How long did you stay up there?"

  "Quite a while. I'd had a busy day and… I relaxed for a bit."

  "Hm. I see. And then?"

  Alix looked at the man with a show of frankness. She knew it was impossible to conceal the fact that Dina had drugged herself, for she would have to explain the presence of Paul in Dina's bedroom at the time the murder was discovered—apart from which the maid was likely to talk. So she described exactly what had occurred from the time the maid knocked on her door for the key, to the moment when she and Paul heard Fleur screaming in the garden.

  She did her best to dispel any suspicion that Dina had attempted suicide, but she could not have sounded as convincing as she had hoped, for Truscott suddenly barked, "Was there any reason Miss Lloyd should have wanted to take her life?"

  "None whatever. She told us she had taken the tablets because she wanted a decent sleep."

  The inspector stared at her and Alix returned his gaze steadily, knowing momentary astonishment at her own glibness. Why am I lying like this, she wondered. Is it to save Dina or to save Paul? "

  Unbidden, the scene she had omitted from her story rose in her mind with startling clarity. It had been in this room, on this settee, that she had seen the two of them together—Paul in his Harlequin costume holding Dina in his arms and imploring her not to cry. Paul threatening to kill his father…

  Simultaneously she remembered something else he had said only a few moments before the discovery of Henri's body. "It's too late." What had he meant by that? Could Paul have murdered his father? Men did terrible things for love and even the gentlest person could be goaded into acting out of character. She shivered. How could she love a man and at the same time suspect him of murder? And what if her suspicions grew? Would she still wish to save him from paying the penalty for his crime?

  She was relieved when the inspector signaled her to go, and as she walked out Mr. Allan-Jones took her place.

  At half-past eleven Truscott had finished taking his statements and the weary guests were permitted to leave. Alix dreaded the thought of going to her room, for she knew there would be no sleep for her that night, and on an impulse she stepped into the garden. The night air was cool and she wandered along one of the paths, wishing it was as easy to retrace one's steps in time!

  A sound behind her froze her into immobility. It came again: a measured footfall that made her scalp prickle with fear. How could she have been so stupid to come into the garden alone! She made to run and the steps behind her quickened.

  "Don't go," a soft voice called. "I want to talk to you."

  Quivering with relief she turned and saw Paul. "I thought you had gone to bed," she said.

  "I want some fresh air—like you." He threw back his shoulders in an unmistakable gesture of relief, like a man casting off a heavy load. "What a day it's been! Even now I can hardly believe it's true."

  "You'll realize it tomorrow. Your whole life will be different."

  "I know." He peered at her through the darkness. "One door closes and another opens, and out of tragedy will come my fulfilment. You always wanted me to start on my own, didn't you? And now there's no need." He came closer, the tip of his shoe touching the hem of her skirt, the chiffon bedraggled and damp. "You're still wearing the diamond dress," he whispered. "I was looking forward to seeing you in it but I never got the chance to look at you properly."

  "It was lovely," she said wistfully. "And now it's ruined with dew."

  "Never mind. I'll make you another to wear on a happier occasion."

  "It won't be the same,"
she sighed.

  "Don't say that," he whispered thickly. "Please don't say that."

  Before she knew what was happening he pulled her into his arms and pressed his lips upon hers. They were gentle and soft, as was his breath upon her skin, but as she made no response they grew harder, demanding an answering passion she was afraid to give. In her high- heeled shoes she was as tall as he was, but she did not have the same strength, for his hands were surprisingly firm on her, his fingers gripping her like tentacles of steel. She tried to push him away but he refused to move, displaying a determination that surprised her yet again.

  "Stay with me," he muttered and pressed himself closer to her, shuddering convulsively at the touch of her body.

  Feeling the urgent pressure of his limbs, her own desire for him betrayed her and rose spontaneously to meet his own. At once his lips parted, taking hers with them, and the softness of his tongue sought to explore the warm caverns of her mouth. But this was in intimacy she could not support: his touch was too strange, his intimacy too new; but above all this the face of Henri Duval, turning what could have been the beginning of a love scene into a horror from which she recoiled.

  "No, Paul! Don't touch me. How can you!"

  The words were torn from her and he recoiled as though she had struck him. They stared at each other in the darkness, then he stepped to one side and allowed her to pass him. Nor did he make any attempt to follow as she lifted her skirts and sped across the lawn to the safety of the house.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Alix stirred uneasily in her bed, blinking against the morning light that streamed in through the window. Cautiously she opened her eyes and stared at pale blue walls bearing a delicate spring design. She wondered where she was and the faint disquiet engendered by waking up in unfamiliar surroundings gave way to even more unpleasant feelings as she remembered the events of the previous night.

  A glance at her watch showed it was already past nine, and she pushed aside the blankets and padded over to the window. The sky was overcast and trees and flower beds were veiled in a fine mist of rain. As she gazed in the direction of the rose garden a uniformed policeman emerged from the shrubbery and made his way over the sodden lawns toward the house.

  So it was true after all! The fantastic events crowding her mind were not the aftermath of some nightmare but solid, sober fact. Henri Duval was dead and no one knew whose hand had struck him down. The murderer was probably in the house now, perhaps quite close to her. In the prosaic light of day the situation had lost a good deal of its terror and she knew she could face the remaining hours of her visit with more equanimity than she had felt last night.

  As soon as she was dressed she went across the corridor to see if Dina was awake. Silently she opened the door and found the room still in darkness, with only a chink of light coming through the closed curtains. The actress was asleep and breathing normally, her cheek pillowed on her hand, her face flushed like a child's.

  Closing the door again, Alix went downstairs. There was no sign of anyone and she wandered into the dining room. It was deserted, the table cleared of the dinner that no one had eaten the night before. She was still standing there irresolute when a maid came in, carrying some silver candelabra that she set upon the sideboard, and informed her that breakfast was being served in the conservatory. Although she had little appetite, the coffee was welcome, and Alix went in search of it.

  She was sipping her second cup when Peter came to join her.

  "We seem to be the only people awake this morning," she smiled.

  "Don't you believe it. Our friends in blue have been wandering around since dawn. They're questioning Paul right now." Peter's long face seemed longer than ever and there were heavy shadows underneath his eyes. "This is a rum business, isn't it? Strikes me it was a bad day for both of us when the Duvals came into our lives. I wish I'd never met Henri nor borrowed his infernal money."

  "Don't worry about it. I daresay he was equally generous to others. Anyway, you paid him back." She paused as she saw his expression. "Or didn't you?"

  "He wouldn't take it. When I went to insist he got quite shirty. I think he enjoyed having me in his debt." Peter rubbed a hand over his hair, the tremor of his fingers visible. "At the moment I'm Truscott's number one suspect!"

  "Because of the money,? I don't believe it."

  Peter shrugged. "I suppose you heard Henri went to the library to make a phone call?"

  "Yes."

  "Well I followed him there. I wanted to have a go at him about his refusing to take back the money—"

  "They can't suspect you of murder because of that!"

  "They probably wouldn't have suspected me at all if I hadn't lied. You see, Truscott asked if I'd been into the room, and like an idiot I said no. It wasn't true, of course—I did go in but Henri wasn't there. Instead of coming straight out I nosed around a bit, and they've found my fingerprints on the drawer of his desk."

  Alix gaped at her assistant, who nodded sheepishly;

  "I suddenly remembered the gun that Henri had told Dina about the first time we came here. He'd said he kept it in his desk and I wanted to have a look at it. I swear it was nothing more than curiosity."

  "And was it there?"

  "No. The drawer was empty."

  "Serves you right for being so nosy. Still, I'm sure the police don't really suspect you. No murderer would be stupid enough to leave his prints on the drawer where the gun was normally kept!"

  "A murderer is caught because he makes a fatal mistake," he said gloomily.

  "Then let's hope this murderer does," she replied grimly.

  There was a discreet cough at the door and a constable told Alix that Inspector Truscott wished to speak to her. Distinctly uneasy, she entered the sitting room, her fears fulfilled when she saw the stern expression on the detective's face.

  "Good morning, Miss Smith. There are a few more questions I'd like to ask you. I don't think you were quite frank with me when I spoke to you yesterday. I have reason to believe you are shielding someone and I would like to remind you that this is a murder inquiry."

  "I can assure you I'm not shielding anyone," Alix said, and hoped he could not hear the pounding of her heart.

  "Then perhaps you just have a bad memory. I asked you to describe every single thing you did from the moment you arrived here yesterday, yet you failed to tell me one important incident." His eyes bored into hers. "Why didn't you tell me that when you came downstairs after changing, you looked into the sitting room and saw Paul Duval and Miss Lloyd?"

  Alix moistened her lips. "I must have… I expect it went out of my mind. You see, I didn't go into the room once I saw them there. I went away."

  "Because you thought you were interrupting a tete-a-tete? Really, Miss Smith, you won't do yourself any good by lying! Surely you realize that in a case like this anything may turn out to be important?''

  "I'm sorry. But I… I'd quite forgotten it."

  "Well," came the sarcastic answer, "perhaps you may be able to remember what they were talking about?"

  "I'm not in the habit of listening to people's private conversations," Alix answered sharply.

  "Then I take it you did not hear Mr. Paul Duval say 'I could kill him for what he's done to you'?"

  Alix felt herself changing color but she stood her ground.

  "I didn't hear anything," she repeated.

  "Curious," the inspector said. "Another guest has described the words quite distinctly, though he was much farther away from the speaker than you were."

  Alix remained obstinately silent, and the inspector continued, "Do you know Miss Lloyd well?"

  "Yes. I've done a good deal of work for her in connection with her career."

  "Has she ever confided in you about her personal affairs?"

  "From time to time," Alix hedged, unwilling to be caught again in an outright lie.

  "Then can you tell me what her relationship is with Paul Duval?"

  "As far as I know, they're friends. He ad
mires her as an actress and she thinks him a brilliant designer. He did the clothes for her new play."

  "So I've been told." The inspector was impassive. "But they are just friends?"

  "Yes."

  "And what was Miss Lloyd's relationship with the murdered man?"

  "I suggest you ask Miss Lloyd."

  "I will. But at the moment I'm interested in your opinion."

  "Hearsay evidence, inspector?" Alix mocked.

  "A woman's intuition, Miss Smith."

  She forced a smile to her lips. "Miss Lloyd saw a fair amount of both the Duvals. As I said, they were designing her clothes, and it was also part of my campaign for Henri Duval to be seen with a young star."

  "So there was nothing more to it than a business arrangement?"

  Alix tried to let a lift of her shoulders speak for her, but the inspector was having none of it.

  "I happen to have other information, Miss Smith." His noncommittal manner changed and he banged his fist on the table. "Is it true that Dina Lloyd was in love with Henri Duval and that the son knew it? And is it also true that Duval Senior was paying attention to another woman as well? Do you insist Miss Lloyd took those sleeping pills to give herself a long sleep and not a permanent one? You know, Miss Smith, you should credit the police with more intelligence. We're not the fools you think!"

  "I've never thought so."

  "Then why the prevarication and lies?"

  "I am not under oath," she said angrily, "nor have you arrested me."

  "You may be a loyal fool, Miss Smith, but you're not a suspect." He grunted and waved at the door. "You are free to go."

  Shaken, she went out. So much for her efforts to protect Paul! The inspector had already formed a pretty accurate picture of the relationship between Henri and Dina, and it was obvious his suspicions were now centering on the murdered man's son. He had not mentioned

  Peter once___ She wondered who had seen her peep into the sitting room and overheard Paul's threatening words.

  The morning dragged endlessly and she debated whether or not to ask Truscott if she could return to London. But she did not fancy encountering those penetrating eyes again and so dismissed the idea, deciding to go to the library instead and borrow a book. She pushed open the door, stopping with surprise as she saw Peter writing at a table in the corner.