Grimes scented a tip. ‘Number ninety-one, sir. Snip. You at all interested, sir?’
‘I should like to see it. Who has the keys? The agents?’
‘I have the keys, sir. Tell the truth, you don’t want to bother with the agents. You’ll get a better price if you deal with the individual owner. I could give you her number.’
‘And you get commission?’
‘Oo, nothing like that, sir,’ said Grimes, shocked. ‘No, it’s just a labour of love style of thing. Course, if anyone did want to show their appreciation…’
St Clair, with Grimes at his elbow, gave the flat a perfunctory inspection, then produced a fat wallet. ‘No, no, it is too…’
‘Empty, sir?’ Grimes suggested, eyeing the wallet. ‘Perhaps you were looking for more your furnished style of thing?’
‘Yes. For instance number thirty-six.’
‘Mr Caldicott’s flat? Very nice indeed. Only I don’t think he’s contemplating a move.’
St Clair handed over some notes which Grimes accepted as of right. ‘That’s for your trouble. You see, Mr Grimes, I am a writer of mystery stories.’
‘Oh yes, sir,’ said Grimes, keeping a straight face.
‘Atmosphere is everything to a writer. I am always interested to see the actual place where a crime has been committed.’
‘Must come very expensive, sir. Still, I suppose you can claim it off tax.’
St Clair’s survey of Caldicott’s flat was considerably more protracted. ‘And by the way, the body was facing this way or that way?’ Grimes indicated the position on the bedroom floor. ‘I see. This is all most fascinating to a writer.’
St Clair continued to look around in a leisurely manner. Grimes, already nervous of discovery, became increasingly agitated as the minutes passed. ‘Was there any piece of atmosphere you were looking for in particular, sir, or are you just soaking it up in general,’ he asked, in a desperate attempt to hurry St Clair along.
Grimes’ anxiety would have been even more acute had he happened to glance out into the street just then and seen Caldicott retracing his steps towards Viceroy Mansions. But instead of entering the flats he went back to the flower stall where he bought a second, identical bunch of flowers and once more went purposefully on his way.
Grimes at last succeeded in easing St Clair out of Caldicott’s flat and back down to the lobby where he hung up Caldicott’s spare key and accepted a handsome tip. ‘Thank you, sir. And if you do need to do any more of your researches – like if you get writer’s block style of thing – I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Thank you, Mr Grimes.’
‘There’s nothing you want me to look out for? No particular detail?’ Grimes probed, mystified by St Clair’s interest.
‘No, thank you. And by the way, this interview did not take place.’
‘Trust me, sir. I never remember a face. Noted for it.’ Grimes watched St Clair leave with puzzled speculation.
‘They’re lovely. You shouldn’t have,’ said Jenny, arranging one of Caldicott’s bunches of flowers in a vase.
‘Given that he did, though, it was diplomatic of him to bring us a bunch each,’ said Margaret, arranging her own flowers and smiling to herself, pleased with the gift. Caldicott sipped his coffee complacently, wallowing in their gratitude and satisfied that he’d done the right thing.
‘The wisdom of Solomon,’ said Jenny in answer to Margaret.
‘Don’t tell him that, Jenny, or he’ll want a baby to saw in half.’ Margaret gave a final twitch to an errant carnation. ‘Now – to work.’ The murdered girl’s handbag was lying on a glass-topped occasional table in front of Caldicott. Margaret picked it up and tipped out the contents.
‘What’s this? Kim’s game?’ Caldicott asked.
‘–or Cluedo,’ said Margaret, picking up a lipstick. ‘The deadly deed was committed in the library by Colonel Mustard and the murder weapon was a lipstick.’ She stopped abruptly and cast a sidelong glance at Jenny. ‘Sorry, ducks, I was forgetting you actually did find the body in the library.’ Jenny gave a feeble smile.
Caldicott selected a key with a plastic tag attached from the paraphernalia in front of him. ‘I’m not entirely clear what a clue looks like but this must surely be one. “Thamesview”,’ he read off the tag. ‘That _nineteen-thirties block of service flats at World’s End. And a telephone number – my goodness, the old Flaxman exchange that was.’ He took a scrap of paper out of his pocket and compared it. ‘Yes, the number Helen Appleyard gave Grimes. I rang it last night. No reply.’
‘There wouldn’t be, seeing as she was unavoidably detained at the mortuary,’ said Margaret witheringly.
‘Her accomplice might have been there, smarty-boots.’
‘I haven’t told Jenny about him yet,’ said Margaret, glancing apprehensively at the younger woman.
‘Evidently he was after your father’s trunk,’ said Caldicott. ‘He broke into Charters’ cottage and threatened him with a gun.
Jenny was frightened. ‘The man who’s been trying to find me?’
‘Yes, well don’t take on, love. The police have got hold of him now,’ said Margaret.
‘They haven’t, actually,’ Caldicott confessed. ‘Charters let him go.’
‘Let him go! You didn’t tell me that bit! Why did the idiot let him go?’ Margaret demanded.
‘Ah, well, you see, he was anxious not to blow Jenny’s cover.’
‘“Blow her cover!” You’ve been reading spy stories again,’ said Margaret, amused.
‘You know what I mean, Mottram! Once they’d got him in for questioning they’d twig that the late Helen Appleyard wasn’t our Jenny.’
‘And?’
‘Well – it’d get into the papers and whoever’s after Jenny would then know she’s alive and kicking.’
‘But whoever’s after Jenny could well be Helen Appleyard’s accomplice.’
‘Yes!… Not necessarily.’
‘Who, if Charters had turned him in, would be behind bars,’ Margaret went on relentlessly.
‘No!’ said Caldicott, thoroughly confused now. ‘Well, very probably.’
Margaret interpreted for Jenny. ‘What Caldicott means is that we don’t really know who’s after you, or why they’re after you – except that it’s something to do with your father’s trunk – or how many of them there are, or what they might do next. So you’d better lie low. Correct, Caldicott?’
‘Exactly what I said – she mustn’t blow her cover. Meanwhile Jenny, that trunk is as safe as if it were in Fort Knox.’
Jenny was not consoled. ‘You mean the police have it.’
‘Fret not. Charters got a receipt. We’ll have it back the moment they’ve finished with it.’
‘But why do they want it? What are they doing with it?’
Margaret had been sifting through various papers from the handbag. She held up a letter she’d been scanning. ‘The same as we’re doing – looking for clues. And this looks like a real one. “From the desk of Josh Darrell”,’ she read.
‘Never heard of him,’ said Caldicott.
‘Yes, you have – I’ve talked about him. London president of the Zazz Corporation of California.’
‘Soft drinks,’ said Jenny.
Caldicott shuddered, ‘Never touch them.’
‘Regretting he had to break their lunch engagement,’ Margaret went on. ‘Been trying to reach her, blah, blah, interested in her proposition – that sounds intriguing – would she call his office to make another date.’ Margaret gave the letter to Caldicott. ‘You have heard of Josh Darrell, Caldicott. The one who’s always asking me for dirty weekends at his flash country house in darkest Bucks. Or I assume they’re dirty – I’m giving him the disbenefit of the doubt.’
‘How do you come to know him, Margaret?’ Jenny asked.
‘My temps agency. I’ve supplied him with so many office girls he should really be getting a trade discount. I suppose one of these days I ought to find out what he does with them
all – I might be the next best thing to a madam.’
‘Do…’ Caldicott and Jenny began in unison. ‘Go ahead,’ said Caldicott.
‘I was going to ask – do you think you could fix me up as a temp with the Zazz Corporation?’
‘Not as Helen Appleyard, ducky. As you see from the letter, he evidently knows her.’
‘That’s the whole point, Margaret. If I went as Miss Brown or somebody, I might find something in the files about her.’ Jenny smiled wrily. ‘Besides, being homeless, stateless and nameless, and possessing only what I stand up in, I need the money.’
‘Miss Brown it is, then. It’s worth a try.’ Margaret turned to Caldicott. ‘And what’s on your tiny little mind?’
‘Those dirty weekends he invites you to…’
‘Yes?’ Margaret prompted. Then, ‘No!’ she said emphatically, suddenly seeing the way his mind was working.
‘But if he has the who, what and wherefore about Helen Appleyard, what better opportunity to…’
‘… get myself chased round the summerhouse by Josh Darrell,’ Margaret finished for him. ‘N – O.’
‘I don’t mean you to go alone, Margaret. Charters and I could go with you.’
‘Oh, I see. Dear Josh, arriving as per standing invite re orgy, and is it all right if I bring my own spares,’ said Margaret scornfully.
‘Ha, ha.’
‘Well, I suppose I could pass you off as a couple of English toffs – he likes a bit of tone.’
‘That’s my girl. Let me try Helen Appleyard’s number again.’ Caldicott picked up the phone and began to dial. ‘If there’s still no answer I might chance popping over and having a quick look-see through her belongings.’ He listened for quite a while, then quietly replaced the receiver.
‘Still no one there?’ Jenny asked.
‘Oh, there’s someone there all right,’ said Caldicott grimly. ‘Somebody who picked up the phone but didn’t speak. Somebody who’s worked out what must have happened to Helen Appleyard. Somebody who’s just waiting. As if a blessed spider had answered the phone.
Jenny shuddered and Margaret put a protective arm round her shoulders.
CHAPTER 5
Charters and Caldicott, lobster-pink and sweating it out in the steam room of the Club’s turkish bath, still managed to cling onto a shred of towel-clad dignity: each had equipped himself with a now-soggy copy of The Times, carefully folded at the crossword.
‘Reading lights should help its elucidation,’ said Charters.
‘Doubt it, old chap. It’s the steam.’
‘No, no, no – that’s the clue. One down.’
‘Oh, I see. Reading lights should help its elucidation. Beats me.’
‘Nine letters. Something something O, something S, something something something something.’
‘Where do you get the O from?’
‘Five across. Overt.’
‘You didn’t pass that on to me.’
‘Didn’t think I’d need to,’ said Charters, smugly. ‘It’s obvious.’
‘It is, now you mention it.’ Caldicott wrote in the word before asking, ‘Why overt?’
‘Obvious. “Unconcealed – six balls to a T.”’
‘Yes?’
‘Six balls to an over.’
‘I’m aware of that, Charters.’
‘Add an over to a T and you’ve got overt. Unconcealed.’
‘Obvious,’ said Caldicott, disgusted with himself.
Charters returned to puzzling over one down. ‘Reading lights should help its elucidation.’
The figure of Venables, the clubman, also towel-clad but still looking distinguished, materialised out of the steam. ‘Crossword,’ he stated.
‘Yes, difficulr one today,’ said Caldicott.
‘That’s the answer. Reading lights should help its elucidation. Nine letters. Crossword.’
‘How do you make that out?’
‘Reading lights. Crossword lights – in other words, clues.’
‘Yes, thank you, Venables,’ said Charters, irritated.
‘Not at all, Caldicott.’
‘Charters!’
‘Sorry.’ Venables drifted away and was swallowed up by the steam.
‘He did that to annoy us,’ said Charters.
‘Mixed our names up? Doesn’t annoy me.’
‘Told us the answer to one down. Just when I was on the verge of solving it.’
‘Never mind, old man. Now we know that nineteen across begins with a D. Four letters.’
Charters brightened. Then hearing a cough behind him, he clutched his newspaper to his damp chest, fearing another intrusion into his crossword. ‘Now look here, Venables…’ he began before recognising the Club porter through the steam. ‘Oh, it’s you, Barstow. What is it?’
‘There’s a gentleman to see you both, sir,’ said Barstow.
‘Gentleman? What gentleman?’
‘A Mr Snow, sir.’ Barstow lowered his voice. ‘Well – Inspector Snow, to be more exact.’
‘In the Club? I shall write to the Committee!’
‘I should think the Committee will be writing to us when they get wind of the police tramping up and down the grand staircase,’ said Caldicott. ‘Where have you put him, Barstow?’
‘In the smoking room, sir.’
‘Then take him out of the smoking room and put him in the library where no one’ll find him,’ said Caldicott, much agitated by this breach of Club etiquette.
’Fifth floor,’ said Margaret, studying the directory board in the main entrance of the prestige office-block in Mayfair that housed the Zazz Corporation. ‘Don’t steal anything I wouldn’t steal.’
‘Wish me luck,’ said Jenny, Josh Darrell’s new temp. She turned to go in and almost collided with the mysterious Cecil St Clair, who also seemed to have business in the building. He stepped back and clicked his heels.
‘See you for lunch,’ Jenny called over her shoulder to Margaret.
Margaret cast an amused glance at St Clair. ‘Unless you get a better offer – Miss Brown.’
While Inspector Snow waited for Charters and Caldicott, he entertained himself by straightening all the pictures that covered one wall of the Club’s library. Eventually he reached a very large portrait of Sir Robert Peel, hanging high above the mantelpiece. Here he had to admit defeat. Undeniably askew though it was, Snow couldn’t reach it without a ladder.
Charters and Caldicott, who had dressed with utmost speed, paused on the threshold of the library and glanced over their shoulders to reassure themselves that no one was following them in. Peering round the library anxiously, they registered not one but two distressing sights: Inspector Snow, wiping dust from his hands as he stared regretfully up at Sir Robert, and another member already in occupation and reading a newspaper. Charters and Caldicott approached the Inspector on tiptoe. ‘Inspector Snow,’ Caldicott whispered.
‘Sorry to barge in on your Club, gentlemen,’ said Snow in normal tones, to the anguish of the pair.
Charters raised a warning finger to his lips, pointed to a prominent Silence sign, and hissed, ‘Yes it is rather unusual.’
‘Grimes said you’d be here, Mr Caldicott, and I did want to get you both together,’ Snow went on more quietly. ‘Saves a special journey up to town, look at it that way, Mr Charters.’ Charters grunted. Snow nodded towards the portrait and said, ‘Sir Robert Peel. My governor as was.’
The clubman in Caldicott overcame his hostility to the Inspector’s intrusion. Beckoning Snow to Jean closer, he whispered, ‘Yes, and how he comes to be up there since he was never a member is rather a curious story. It seems that the first chairman of our wine committee was something of a gambler, who in his cups one evening…’
‘Can we get on,’ Charters interrupted. ‘Is this about the murder, Inspector?’
‘Related matters.’
‘It comes to the same thing. You see, there’s no reason why you should be acquainted with our Club rules, Inspector, but under them we’re not per
mitted, while in the Club, to do business.’
‘A murder inquiry isn’t what I’d call business, Mr Charters.’
‘Ah, but it’s business to you, Inspector,’ said Caldicott, keeping an anxious eye on the other occupant of the library. ‘Pursuit of your profession, don’t you see? For example, supposing I brought you in here for a quiet Scotch as my guest and you started trying to flog me life insurance.’
‘We could always go down to the Yard,’ said Snow, his voice rising. ‘Or there’s the Club steps outside, if you’d find that more convenient.’
The other member coughed pointedly. Charters flapped an agitated hand towards the Silence sign and murmured, ‘Shall we sit down?’
They selected a table as far as possible from the other member, pulled chairs up close and put their heads together – literally. ‘That’s another thing,’ Charters hissed as Snow set his briefcase down on the table. ‘Our guests usually leave their briefcases in the cloakroom.’ The inspector gave him a long, withering look. ‘Not allowed to, eh? Well, I suppose you have your rules as we have ours.’
Inspector Snow, pointedly putting an end to further discussion of Club ethics, snapped back the lock catches of his briefcase. ‘I’ve spent most of the weekend sifting through all Colonel Beevers’ documents and papers. Grubby job, I can tell you. There was the dust of ages in that trunk.’
‘I can well believe it. Something of a squirrel, our Jock,’ Caldicott whispered.
‘You’d say that, would you?’
‘One-man lumber room. Old diaries, letters, reunion dinner menus, photographs…’
‘Score cards,’ Charters supplied.
‘We all keep scorecards, Charters.’
‘Not bridge scorecards, Caldicott.’
‘True.’
The other occupant of the library, tired of rustling his newspaper in a critical manner, got up and departed with an angry glare.
‘Yes, quite a bundle of those,’ Snow agreed, abandoning his hunched position over the table with relief. ‘So you’ll have had a good look through the trunk yourselves, gentlemen?’
‘Certainly not!’ said Caldicott, successfully distracted from the shame his fellow member had inspired in him. ‘Colonel Beevers’ hoarding tendencies were well known to all and sundry. Why, he even saved our old school mags.’
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