Rachel Lindsay - Designing Man

by Rachel Lindsay

  As quickly as she could and ignoring his occasional exclamations, she told him of her drive to Croxham Parva and her meeting with the garage proprietor. She told him, too, of the afternoon she had spent with his mother and the facts she had learned there, which had sent her to Nice to speak to Georges Duval. Even when she finally came to the end, Paul remained at his desk as though stunned.

  "I had no idea she was married before," he said at last, his voice so low it was barely audible. "My father never spoke of it to me." He took out a handkerchief and dabbed his brow. "So that's why you went to Nice?"

  "Yes. Mark came to keep me company—not because he had designs on me."

  "But he does love you?"

  She nodded, more anxious to talk of Paul's future than her own. "We must go and see Inspector Truscott.

  I don't know what he'll do but he can't go on suspecting you after this."

  "I hope not." Paul reached for the telephone. "I'll call him and tell him to expect us."

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  In the austere-looking room at New Scotland Yard, with Inspector Truscott sitting impassively in front of her, Alix wondered if, after all, she had made a complete fool of herself. Could her anxiety to clear Paul have made her see things that did not exist? Have caused her to point the finger of guilt where guilt did not rest?

  But when she saw the inspector's face as she came to the end of her story, she knew she had done the right thing in coming there.

  "It's an excellent piece of deduction," he said slowly. "All we need now is the proof."

  "Proof?" Amazement made her voice rise. "What about the evidence of the garage owner?"

  "Even if he confirmed your statement that Lady Brandon watched the serial in his cottage, the all- important point is whether she was driving away from the manor at the time or toward it. The man was indoors when she arrived on the scene, and I doubt whether he'd swear an oath which way her car was pointing when he came out to service it. In any case, how do we know she hadn't decided to go to the manor earlier and not bother to watch the program? Then when she had a flat tire she could have changed her mind and gone in to look at the show after all." He studied the tips of his fingers. "But whether she did or she didn't, it still doesn't prove her guilty."

  "Surely the fact that she's a bigamist—"

  "That doesn't make her a murderer," the inspector cut in. "If Lady Brandon had a dozen illegal husbands it wouldn't have any relevance in this case! Not unless we can prove she murdered Henri Duval in order to avoid exposure. Are you sure he never said anything to you about it?" These last words were addressed to Paul.

  "No," the younger man said. "He never even hinted that he suspected her of stealing the sketches. And if he could keep that a secret from me…"

  "He didn't want you to know in case you blurted it out to her," Alix said. "Doesn't that show he had some plan of his own?" Alix swung around upon the policeman. "Can't you do something?"

  "We can. Many things." The inspector remained unruffled. "But we want to make sure it's the right thing. I appreciate your anxiety, Miss Smith, but if I arrest Lady Brandon on insufficient evidence, a clever lawyer will easily get her off, and then Mr. Duval will be in a worse position than ever. All I can do is to bring her in for questioning. With any luck I may trap her into some admission."

  "I doubt that," Paul said. "She'll bluff to the very end."

  "I agree with Paul," Alix added, thinking of Fleur. "The only chance we have is to trap her. I've an idea that might work if you would help me."

  "I'll do all I can," Truscott said and listened carefully as Alix explained her plan.

  "It's a long shot," he said finally.

  "It's our only shot."

  "It could be dangerous," Paul intervened. "I won't let you do it. I'll get in touch with her myself and—"

  "You can't. It won't work, coming from you. I'm the only one who can do it."

  "Miss Smith's right," the inspector agreed. "And if she's willing to do it, we should let her." He picked up the telephone. "You might as well make the call from here."

  With a shaking voice Alix put through a call to Crox- ham Parva. As she waited, she glanced at the desk diary in front of her. The twentieth. It was today that Peter and Fleur were flying to Canada! She racked her brains to remember if Fleur was leaving her mother a note telling her what she was going to do or if she was not going to write until they were safely on the other side of the Atlantic.

  Breathlessly she waited as the phone rang. Once… twice… three times… Then a deep voice reverberated down the line.

  "Good morning, Lady Brandon." Alix marveled at the firmness of her own voice now that the moment of truth had arrived. "It's Alix Smith here. I rang to tell you I've got something that belongs to you—a cigarette holder. You left it at Wilson's Garage last time you were there."

  "Did I?" The woman seemed quite unruffled. "May I ask how you came to have it?"

  "Mr. Wilson gave it to me when I stopped there for gas a couple of weeks ago."

  "I see. Well, if you'd be so kind as to mail it to me…"

  "I'm afraid I can't do that," Alix said firmly. "It may be more important than you think."

  "Indeed? And what exactly does that mean?"

  Alix swallowed. "Don't you remember what happened the night you left it at the garage?"

  "How can I remember what happened months ago?"

  "Then perhaps I'd better refresh your memory. It was the night Henri Duval was murdered. The night you said you were watching television in your own home."

  There was silence on the other end of the line, and when Ivy Brandon spoke again her voice had a strained sound. "So that's it. Well, don't beat about the bush. What do you want from me?"

  "A little chat." Alix made her voice sound unctuous.

  "I suggest we meet at my place this evening. I can see you about seven."

  "That might not be convenient. My daughter is coming back here with her fiance and—"

  "Tonight at seven," Alix said flatly, knowing the woman was lying. "You'll find my address in the telephone book."

  "Very well, then," Lady Brandon snapped. "Seven it shall be."

  Alix's heart was thudding as she put down the receiver and looked from Paul to the inspector.

  "It worked. She's coming to see me tonight."

  "I wish you hadn't done it," Paul said. "I don't like you taking such a risk on my behalf."

  "It'll make a good story afterward," Alix said coolly and saw him flush.

  "Always thinking of business," he mocked. "No wonder you're so successful."

  With an effort she held her tongue. It was far better for him to think this of her than to know she would willingly walk through fire in order to clear his name.

  A little before seven she was pacing the floor of her living room, stretched to breaking point. She had dressed with particular care and wore a deep rose dress that emphasized her black hair and gave her an exotic air she normally strove to avoid. The apartment was quiet and anyone entering it would immediately feel it to be empty, apart from herself. For the purpose she was planning, it was essential for Ivy Brandon to feel Alix was vulnerable.

  Nervously she glanced at the clock, straining her ears for the sound of a car drawing up in the street outside. Supposing the woman changed her mind and did not come? She might have decided to call Alix's bluff, secure in the knowledge that nothing could be proved against her. Certainly it would be the wisest thing for her to do. In that case she would have played her trump card in vain and Paul's future would remain clouded by suspicion.

  The doorbell rang shrilly, making her gasp. For a second she was motionless, then steeling herself for the ordeal ahead, she walked down the passage and opened the door.

  Lady Brandon stood outside, a commanding figure in a black coat and hat that almost hid her face. Her eyes were sharp as she nodded at Alix and followed her into the living room.

  "Do take a chair," Alix said sweetly. "Would you care for a drink?"


  "I am not here on a social visit." The woman was brusque and remained standing just inside the doorway. She loosened her coat but did not remove her black suede gloves. "Let's get down to business. May I see the holder you told me you have?"

  Silently Alix went to the mantelpiece and picked up the holder. Lady Brandon held out her hand for it but Alix gave a slight laugh.

  "Not yet, Lady Brandon. This little trinket has its price, as I'm sure you gathered when I spoke to you earlier."

  "I thought as much. You're nothing but a cheap blackmailer."

  "Not cheap, I fear."

  There was a snort of contempt. "No, not cheap. Judging by your surroundings, you're doing very nicely out of it. But I'm afraid you've misjudged the situation with me, Miss Smith. As far as I'm concerned you can keep the cigarette holder and do your worst."

  Alix's heart missed a beat and then began to pound. Had she made a dreadful mistake after all and assumed Lady Brandon to be a murderer because she had wanted to believe it? As Inspector Truscott had said, she could have been driving to the manor—not away from it—and decided on the spur of the moment to take advantage of her flat tire in order to look at the television serial. No she thought feverishly, it wasn't like that. If it were, the woman wouldn't have come up to London post haste. Only fear has made her do that.

  "A good try, Lady Brandon." Alix was delighted with the tone of voice she managed. "But you can't fool me. If I give this holder to the police and tell them where you left it, they'll start asking you questions. I'll tell them your alibi was a fake and that you could easily have been in the rose garden at the time of the murder."

  Lady Brandon's sallow face grew red and patchy though she tossed her head contemptuously.

  "Go to the police with your story! I can defend myself against anything you might say. But let me warn you: the law is ruthless with people who resort to blackmail."

  Alix swallowed hard. Lady Brandon was either a brilliant liar or else really innocent. And if she was innocent, then who was guilty? Not Paul. Alix was convinced of that now. She would make one more effort to shake the woman's story, then she would give up and apologize.

  "Well," Lady Brandon said, "will you give me the holder or do you intend to keep it?"

  Without answering Alix walked over to the standard lamp and held it up to the light.

  "It's genuine tortoiseshell. It comes from the Seychelles, doesn't it?"

  The hooded eyes blinked. "I don't know. I bought it at Asprey's years ago."

  "I'm sure it's from the Seychelles. It's the same workmanship as a cigarette case Henri Duval showed me. Are you sure you didn't get it from there?"

  "Maybe I did, now you mention it. I think Henri might have given it to me one Chrsitmas."

  "Or you could have bought it while you were living there, Madame Guitry."

  The silence was so intense it seemed to have depth.

  "What did you say?" Lady Brandon asked in a whisper.

  "I called you by your real name. You are Madame Guitry, are you not? You married Pierre thirty years ago and the marriage was never dissolved!"

  "You devil!" The angular face contorted with fury. "You've been playing with me all this time. Who told you about this—Henri?"

  Alix shook her head. "Georges Duval. It was he who told Henri."

  "So that's how Henri knew," came the muttered words, and faint though they were, Alix quivered with triumph.

  "Are you going to kill Georges, too? Or do you think your secret is safe with him?"

  "You are talking like a mad woman," Lady Brandon said.

  "You are the one who is mad." Alix flung discretion to the wind. She had nothing to lose and everything to gain for Paul—for Paul and Dina. But forget Dina. It was Paul whose happiness mattered.

  "You killed Henri," she said tensely, "because he discovered you'd sold copies of his sketches to a rival and threatened to expose you and ruin Fleur's hopes of marriage."

  "What if I did? Do you think I'd allow him to hold a threat like that over my head?" Ivy Brandon came closer and Alix saw a film of sweat on the bony forehead. But still the woman did not take off her coat nor remove her gloves. "He was nearly off his head with rage. I thought he was going to kill me. But that wasn't Henri's way. He told me he had decided to write to Jack Beecham instead and tell him Fleur was illegitimate! My daughter a bastard! Do you think I was going to allow him to do that? I knew then what I had to do." The thin mouth twisted. "It wasn't difficult. All I had to do was play on his vanity. I wrote him a note on scented paper asking him to meet me in the rose garden, and the fool thought it came from some woman who was pining for him! Hackneyed, wasn't it? But then Henri was always hackneyed where his love life was concerned. Anyway, the note worked and he did exactly as I'd planned."

  The mouth twisted in triumph, disclosing pointed yellow teeth, and Alix felt faint and sick. She closed her eyes momentarily and when she opened them again she was staring into the gleaming barrel of a small gun.

  "You'll never get away with it a second time," she gasped.

  "I'll take my chance on that. It's either you or me, Miss Smith, and you've left me no choice."

  Desperately Alix strained to hear any sound from outside the room, but all was quiet and she began to panic.

  "You were anxious to save your name because of Fleur," she said desperately, playing for time. "That's why you killed Henri. But Fleur doesn't need your help anymore. She'll never be Jack Beecham's wife now."

  "Yes, she will."

  "She won't. At this moment she's halfway across the Atlantic with Peter!"

  The face in front of Alix seemed to age visibly, each line dissolving into another and another. "No! You're making it up. It's a trap. Fleur's in London with my sister-in-law. She came up to have a fitting for her wedding dress!"

  "Fleur is halfway over the Atlantic," Alix repeated. "If you don't believe me, ring up your sister-in-law and find out. Fleur told me this morning what she was planning to do. She's going to marry Peter. If you had accepted that fact in the beginning, you might have saved yourself from becoming a murderer!"

  Ivy Brandon seemed to be choking. With her free hand she loosened the collar of her coat. Her tongue rubbed over her lips and a dribble of saliva bubbled at the corners of her mouth.

  "It's your fault," she grated. "Your fault. Fleur met that man because of you." The gun came nearer. "For years I had to scrimp on every penny. I pawned jewelry, gambled, sold tattle to dirty little gossip columnists, did everything I could to give Fleur the right background." Her voice droned on, higher now, more confused.'

  "Then you came along with that stupid young man. He turned Fleur's head… but it was you who made him do it." The gun rose higher, its barrel catching the light, as black and malevolent as the glittering eyes.

  "No!" Alix screamed.

  A shot rang out and a vase on the mantelpiece shattered. Alix swayed and hands-reached out to grip her.

  "No!" she screamed again and sagged forward in a faint.

  When she opened her eyes she was lying on the settee. The smell of brandy was in her nostrils and Paul was bending over her.

  "Lady Brandon?" she gasped. "Where…?"

  "Gone," he said huskily. "Truscott's taken her away. You're perfectly safe. If I'd know she'd drawn a gun on you…"

  Alix shuddered. "Why didn't Truscott come in earlier?"

  "He wanted to get as full a confession as possible. That's why we waited. We'd no idea she had a gun. You should have given us some indication."

  "I didn't think of it," Alix admitted. "I knew you were listening and I took it for granted you could tell. It was stupid of me." She stood up unsteadily and peered at herself in the mirror. "What a sight I look! I've lost all my color."

  "Thank God you didn't lose your life." Paul was directly behind her. "If anything had happened to you I'd never have forgiven myself."

  Their eyes met in the glass and she was so conscious of his nearness that it required all her willpower not to lean back and
rest on his shoulder. But such intimacy was not for her and she moved away.

  "What will happen to her?"

  "Truscott doubts if she'll be able to stand trial. Her heart…"

  Alix shuddered. "I'll never forget her face. It was so full of hate." She drew a deep breath. "It'll be the best solution if she dies. It would be dreadful for Fleur otherwise."

  "To hell with Fleur! You're the one I'm concerned with."

  "There's no need. I'm perfectly all right. At least I will be once I'm away from it all."

  "Does that include me?"

  Alix eyed him. He looked deceptively slim in a dark gray suit, the skilful cut giving no indication of the whipcord muscles they covered. She knew she could not face the prospect of seeing him continuously. It was asking too much of herself to go on working with him now he was free from guilt and able to marry.

  "It might be best if I don't work for you," she said. "The success of your Collection will ensure you as much publicity as you need. And if you do find you want any extra, I can recommend someone who'll do the job for half the price."

  "Are you anxious to save my money or anxious not to see me?" he asked quietly. "Or is there a third reason?"

  "A third one?"

  "Mark. Are you going to Canada with him?"

  Alix debated whether or not to say yes. If she allowed Paul to believe she was going to marry Mark, it would at least prevent him from guessing her true feelings. Except that one day he would inevitably learn she was still single and might wonder why she had lied. Reluctantly she knew she had to be truthful.

  "I'm not going to marry anyone. Mark asked me but I refused. I don't love him."

  "Why not?"

  She gaped at him. "How do I know why not? I don't, that's all. You can't love someone to order."

  "You can't stop loving them to order, either," Paul retorted bitterly. "I know that to my cost."

  "Well, that's all in the past now. There's nothing to stop you from flying out to Australia—tomorrow, if you like." Alix tortured herself some more. "I'll get the story into the papers for you. It'll be my wedding present to you both. A final splash of publicity!"