by J F Straker
Nicodemus put down his paper. Carole said, ‘Perhaps the burglar took it.’
‘Burglar? What burglar?’
Carole explained how she and Johnny had both heard a noise and had gone down to investigate; she didn’t mention her brother. Rather tartly, Mrs Nicodemus told her not to be foolish. By her own admission there had been no burglar. And anyway, why on earth would a burglar bother with her father’s diary?
‘You’ve got crime on the brain, Carole,’ she said, with a quick glance at Johnny. It’s that nasty business at the flat, I expect.’
With some astonishment Johnny realized it was the first time he had heard her refer to Jill Summerbee’s death. She’s a cold fish, he thought. Carole must take after her father.
Nobody spoke again until she had wheeled the trolley from the room. Then Nicodemus said, ‘I gather you told Johnny here about Roger Diamond’s list of numbers, Carole. Who else did you tell?’
‘Goodness knows! I mean, it makes an intriguing story, doesn’t it? How on earth should I know how often I’ve used it?’
‘Jill? Paul?’
‘Jill, yes. Paul — no, I don’t think so.’ She perched on the edge of the table.
‘What’s with you, Humphrey? You don’t really think those stupid numbers were the key to some vast hidden fortune, do you?’
‘It’s not what I think that matters. If someone else believed it —’ He turned to Johnny. ‘Just how thoroughly did you search the place last night?’
Johnny shrugged. ‘Well, I had a quick look at the doors and windows. None had been forced, so far as I could see.’ Praise be for that bloody diary, he thought. At least we’re talking again. ‘My main concern, of course, was to make sure there was no uninvited guest on the premises.’
Nicodemus stood up. ‘Well, it’s probably a futile exercise, but I suppose we’d better take another look.’
Most of the windows were open, the morning being mild and fine; but when they asked Mrs Nicodemus if she had found one unlatched she couldn’t remember. It did happen occasionally, she said. Locking up had always been the Colonel’s job; since he’d been ill she’d done it for him, and once or twice she found she’d missed one. The admission surprised Johnny. It seemed out of character. ‘Try outside,’ Nicodemus suggested.
They found it almost at once: the imprint of a shoe in the soft soil under the window of the downstairs loo. When they examined the interior of the loo they found traces of soil there too. It seemed incredible that anyone should go to such lengths to steal a diary on the strength of a drunken boast related at second- or third-hand. But nothing else appeared to be missing.
‘I’ll ring Allen,’ Nicodemus said.
Sergeant Allen came, made a preliminary investigation, and departed. He seemed to lose interest when he found he was investigating the theft of a diary. Johnny thought his loss of interest was probably justified. All the same, he told Nicodemus, he wished he could have seen that particular entry. From curiosity, if nothing else.
‘You don’t need the diary for that,’ Nicodemus said, reaching for his pen. He wrote quickly on the edge of a newspaper. ‘There! That’s all it was.’
Johnny looked. One-o-one written four times, in columns. It didn’t look like a code, mathematical or otherwise. Yet what else could it be?
‘Gibberish,’ Nicodemus said. ‘He was pulling the old man’s leg.’
‘Maybe. Still — you know Whitaker? No? He’s in C.R.O. He’s supposed to be something of an authority on codes and ciphers. I’ll see what he thinks.’
They went for a drink in The Forester before lunch. Carole suggested it to Johnny, and both were surprised when Nicodemus decided to accompany them. Glad, too, since presumably this signalled the end of his displeasure. They went in the Mule, with Carole perched on Nicodemus’s knees; her head was above the top of the windscreen, but she merely laughed when Johnny put his foot down and the breeze whipped the hair about her face. It was Nicodemus who complained. About time she cut down on the calories, he said, her bulk was becoming obscene. Johnny would happily have changed places with him, even to letting Nicodemus drive his beloved Mule. But after last night’s incident it seemed unwise to suggest it.
Like most country pubs on a Sunday morning, The Forester was crowded. They were looking round for a vacant table when Carole said, ‘Hey! There’s Colin. Let’s join him.’
Colin Browne didn’t look too happy to see them. The smudges under his eyes were still there, his round face was flushed. On the table in front of him were two empty whisky glasses and one half full.
Carole started to introduce Johnny. Johnny said, ‘Mr Browne and I have already met. At the bank. What are you drinking, sir? Whisky?’
Colin Browne drained his glass, held it out to Johnny, and nodded.
Johnny had to wait his turn at the bar. When he returned with the drinks Browne stared at him glassily. Then his eyes narrowed, as though they were trying to focus. ‘What the hell!’ he said thickly. ‘You don’t come from these parts too, do you?’
Johnny explained that he was spending the weekend with the Nicodemuses. Browne, he thought, was well on the way to being drunk.
‘How’s the head, sir?’ he asked.
‘Bloody sore. Manager told me to take a few days off. You got him yet?’
‘Got who?’ The manager? Browne’s assailant?
‘The bastard who killed Jill.’ There was venom in Browne’s voice. ‘You’re a policeman, aren’t you?’ He looked at Nicodemus. ‘So are you. And you know whom I’m bloody well talking about, even if he doesn’t.’
Somewhat curtly, Nicodemus said the killing wasn’t their business, that they were members of SIN, not the Murder Squad. ‘And for Christ’s sake, Colin, don’t go spilling names. Not here.’
‘But you know who it was, don’t you?’ Browne persisted. He looked from one to the other. ‘All of you. You must know, dammit!’
Carole said quietly, ‘We can guess who you think it was, Colin. But that’s not quite the same thing, is it?’
‘You also happen to be wrong,’
Nicodemus said. ‘Your Number One suspect has an alibi.’
Browne glared at him. ‘And how would you know that if it isn’t your business?’
‘We’re not completely insular. We see the reports.’
‘I don’t believe it.’ He banged his fist on the table, so that the glasses rattled and liquor splashed. ‘He did it. If he didn’t — well, one of his filthy thugs did it for him. But he was bloody well responsible. I know that.’
‘Not so loud, Colin,’ Carole said. ‘People are looking at you.’
‘Who cares?’ He lowered his voice, but it was still agitated. ‘I tell you this, Humphrey. If your mob can’t get him, then I will. And that’s a promise.’
Johnny looked round the bar. One or two people had turned to stare when Browne had raised his voice, but their curiosity had been only temporary. He said, ‘You say this — this particular party employs thugs to do his dirty work. How would you know about that, Mr Browne?’
Browne blinked at him over the edge of his empty glass.
‘Men like him — they all have lesser fleas.’
‘So you wouldn’t know their names?’
‘No.’ He pushed back his chair and stood up. Unsteady, he grabbed at a convenient ledge for support. ‘What are you all drinking?’
It’s my round,’ Nicodemus said. ‘I’ll get them.’
Browne dropped back into his chair. When Nicodemus had moved to the bar he said sadly, ‘She’d have been gone the next morning. Somewhere he couldn’t find her. Did you know that?’
‘Yes,’ Carole said. ‘She told me.’
‘Did she tell you I’d lent her the money?’
‘Yes. She told me that too. It was generous of you, Colin.’
‘Not really. I loved her, you see. I wanted to marry her.’
He blinked, and mopped his face with a handkerchief he had difficulty in locating. Embarrassed, Johnny lit a cigarette an
d stared at the glittering array of bottles and glass behind the bar. He sympathized with the man’s emotion, but he would rather not have witnessed it.
They did not stay long after that. When Colin Browne said that the Diamonds were not returning to the Court until that afternoon Carole invited him home for lunch. Browne said he would prefer to stay where he was. Food didn’t interest him.
‘He’s too cut to be hungry,’ Nicodemus said, as they piled into the car. ‘Stupid bastard. That won’t help his sore head any.’
Johnny let in the clutch. ‘You know him better than I do,’ he said, ‘but is there any chance that he might take the law into his own hands, as he threatened? If he thinks Dassigne’s getting away with it, I mean.’ The Mule was picking up speed, and he raised his voice. ‘Or was that just the booze talking?’
‘The booze, I should think.’ Carole too had to shout. ‘Colin’s — well, he’s not exactly a coward, I suppose, but he’s timid. He wouldn’t have the nerve.’
Nicodemus agreed with his sister; Colin, he said, would always turn his back on trouble rather than become involved.
That surprised Johnny. It didn’t seem to fit a man who had tackled a gang of armed raiders single-handed. And that was fact, not theory. So maybe their theory was wrong.
They left for Town after tea, and without Nicodemus. Nothing personal, Nicodemus told Johnny, but he’d be more use at home than kicking his heels in Town. His mother needed all the help she could get; they still had to find some-where to live. And Forest Lodge would be coming up for auction on the Wednesday. It might be interesting to see who bought it.
‘Suppose the Boozer wants you?’ Johnny asked.
‘There’s the telephone, isn’t there?’
He’s changed, Johnny thought. Before those bloody crooks framed him he’d have been raring to go; now he couldn’t care less. Or is that just a front? When it’s over and he’s back on the job, will he return to square one? Will it be like it never happened? Or will it leave a scar?
They stopped for a meal in Egham, and it was after nine o’clock when they reached Eyton Place. Johnny was in an expectant mood. He hadn’t done too badly with the ground work, he thought; it was in fruition that he’d been baulked: Jill Summerbee and Dassigne that first evening, Jill Summerbee’s corpse the next, Nicodemus on Saturday night. Now he should be clear of interruption. Nicodemus was in Hampshire, Jill Summerbee was dead, and Paul Dassigne was unlikely to be around. If ever he was to get anywhere with Carole, this evening had all the makings.
It started well. Make yourself at home, she said, while I get into something more casual; I shan’t be a minute. When she rejoined him wearing slacks and a sweater he felt slightly deflated; by ‘something more casual’ he had hoped for a neglige. But he wasn’t complaining. Things had happened before to girls in sweaters and slacks.
He patted the sofa. ‘Come and sit down,’ he said. ‘Let’s carry on from where we were last night.’
She laughed. ‘I’m not so sure we should. Any further, and well, I have my limits. However, how about a drink first? It doesn’t have to be sherry. There’s whisky.’ She pointed to the mantelpiece. ‘Paul brought it.’
‘Paul?’ The bottle was practically full. ‘When?’
‘Thursday evening. He had a quick drink before taking us to dinner. Jill and I didn’t want one.’ The gaiety left her voice as she remembered. ‘I’d like one now, though. How about you?’
‘Wait a minute. There’s a glass by the bottle. Is that the one Paul used?’
‘Yes. Sorry — I forgot it.’ She looked round the room. ‘It’s in a bit of a mess, isn’t it? I’ll have a clean-up tomorrow.’
‘Don’t touch it,’ Johnny said, as she reached for the glass. ‘We wanted Paul’s prints; now we’ve got them. Or — who fetched the glass from the kitchen?’
‘He did.’
‘Good.’ He got up and wrapped the glass in his handkerchief. He was about to put it in his pocket when he realized that its presence there would not be conducive to easy intimacy. He replaced it on the mantelpiece. ‘Okay. Now let’s have that drink.’
He disliked whisky almost as much as he had disliked the sherry. But he was all for her having a drink. And if he didn’t join her she might give it a miss.
He had not yet discovered how to make love to a girl with a glass in his hand and another in hers; but the dip in the sofa threw her his way as she sat down, and he put his free arm round her and kissed her. ‘That’s for openers,’ he said, kissing her again as she snuggled close. ‘After we’ve polished off the drinks we’ll get down to the real business of the evening.’
‘We won’t, you know,’ she said. Not if it’s what I think you think it is.’
‘Don’t let’s argue,’ he said. ‘Let’s just take it as it comes.’ It was then the doorbell rang. ‘God’s teeth! Not again!’
‘Don’t be blasphemous,’ she protested.
‘Well, dammit, woman! Every time I get my hands on you someone sticks his ruddy nose in. It’s getting to be a habit, and I don’t much care for it.’
‘My guardian angel protecting my virtue,’ she said.
‘Then he can bloody well get the hell out. What’s so important about virtue, anyway?’ The bell rang again. As she started to rise he pulled her back. ‘Don’t answer it. You’re not expecting anyone, are you?’
‘Of course not. But I’ll have to answer. The light’s on. They’ll know I’m in.’
‘All right.’ Reluctantly, he released her. ‘But get rid of them. I don’t care who it is get rid of them. You bring anyone in here, and I’ll throw ‘em right out. And that’s a promise.’
‘You’re too complaisant,’ she said. ‘That’s your trouble.’
She left the sitting room door ajar. Cursing his luck, he strained his ears to listen. Who the devil was it? Paul? Unlikely. More probably a friend; a girl like Carole would have scores of friends. It could, of course, be the police, seeking further information about Jill. Except that it was a woman’s voice he could hear, and it didn’t sound official. A sultry voice, soft, with long vowels.
The front door closed, two pairs of heels clicked along the hall. Johnny stood up as the door opened and a girl in a mink coat came into the room. Behind her was Carole.
‘Johnny, this is Lara Dassigne,’ Carole said.
He gaped. ‘Who?’
‘Lara Dassigne. Paul’s wife.’
6
She was slimmer than Carole, but about the same height. There the resemblance ended. Her hair was a magnificent arrangement of blonde curls, which Carole told him later was a wig. He didn’t need to be told that the eyelashes were false, or that her complexion had been carefully manufactured. Where Carole’s eyes were large and frank, Lara Dassigne’s were almond-shaped, giving her an oriental look. Had artistry arranged that too? Yet if beauty had been fabricated, it had been fabricated successfully. With her tiny hands and feet, her slender neck and slim ankles, Johnny thought she looked like a beautiful doll that had been given the seductiveness of movement and speech and warm, rounded flesh.
His hand was not large, but it seemed to engulf hers. ‘I’m sorry I gaped,’ he said, releasing it. ‘But I didn’t know Paul was married.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ she said. ‘We don’t advertise the fact. It’s inhibiting. We prefer to be unshackled by ties.’
Johnny decided that Dassigne must be crazy as well as bent. Lara Dassigne was a shackle most men would be more than happy to bear.
Carole said, ‘Mrs Dassigne just looked in to offer her condolences about Jill.’
Her voice had an edge to it. Johnny knew he ought to stop looking at the doll, but he found that difficult. Particularly as the almond eyes were gazing intently into his. What colour were they? Hard to tell. But dark. Very dark.
‘I’ve been to a party round the corner,’ the doll said. Her voice was smooth as cream. Rich, thick cream. ‘The Wents. He’s a producer. Perhaps you know them?’ She looked at Carole, and Carole shook her
head. ‘Anyway, being so near it seemed only right to call. I knew about Paul and Miss Summerbee, you see.’
‘You didn’t mind?’ Johnny asked.
‘Heavens, no! I married Paul, but I don’t own him. And he certainly doesn’t own me.’
‘I haven’t seen him since it happened,’ Carole said. ‘Is he very upset?’
Mrs Dassigne shrugged. ‘He’s sad about it, of course. Who wouldn’t be? But Paul isn’t one to display his emotions. And whatever there was between them finished weeks back. Or so he says.’ She blew daintily, pursing her lips. It’s warm in here. Mind if I take off my coat?’
Carole helped her off with it. Underneath she wore a simple black frock, with a collar of diamonds round her neck and a diamond bracelet on her left wrist. But it wasn’t the sparklers, or the tantalizing briefness of her skirt, that caused Johnny’s eyes to bulge. It was the deep vee, that plunged, his knowledge of anatomy told him, to just short of the navel. It exposed the inner contours of her breasts, and he had the conviction that if she were to bend or turn at least one of the nipples would pop into view.
Carole offered her a drink. She accepted it and sat down, placing her legs obliquely with the knees together, exposing little more than she had exposed before. When she leaned forward to put down the glass the vee failed to bulge. Johnny felt cheated. He decided it must be glued into place.
She told them she was on the stage, and that she was opening in a new show in Manchester the following week; not a big part, but an intriguing one. She would be going up there on the Wednesday. She had also appeared in a couple of films, she said, although when she named them they twanged no chord in Johnny’s memory. As for her marriage — well, most of her acting was done in the provinces or on location, so that she and Paul didn’t see much of each other. They liked it that way. It gave them a certain independence, and they weren’t together long enough to be bored.
‘He wasn’t at the party with you?’ Carole asked.
‘No. This time it’s his turn to be out of Town. But I’m expecting him back tomorrow.’ She finished her drink. ‘Well, I’ll be off. Would you be a dear, Mr Inch, and ring for a taxi?’