“What did Boyer say to your wife?” Forbes prompted gently.
“He said, ‘We’ll have to talk about this, Eileen. We’ll try and get together …’”
Forbes let the words hang in the air. He was studying Greene carefully, watching his hands as well as his face.
“Have you any idea what he was referring to?”
“Not the slightest.”
Temple caught Forbes’ eye to indicate that he had a question. Forbes nodded imperceptibly.
“Was Boyer a friend of your wife – a personal friend?”
“No.” Greene turned to Temple to answer. “They hardly knew one another.”
“Did you speak to your wife about what you overheard?”
“No, I didn’t think it was important. In any case it went out of my mind. You remember what happened, Temple, Moira came down and we had that awful scene in the library.” Greene rocked preparatory to heaving himself out of the deep chair. “I’m sorry to have bothered you, Sir Graham. I thought perhaps it might be important.”
“It still might be important.”
“Greene, tell me – “ Temple had reached into his pocket for the brooch. “Have you seen this clip before?”
Greene did not take it. He gave it one quick look and shook his head positively. “No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Quite sure.”
“It didn’t belong to your wife, by any chance?” Temple persisted.
“No. No, I’m sure it didn’t.” Greene gave the object a second look. “I’d have known if she had anything like that.”
Nothing much had changed at the Manila. The same bouncer checked Temple’s brand new membership card and the same smiling girl exchanged his coat for a ticket. The place was emptier than last time Steve and Temple had been there, perhaps because it was earlier in the evening, perhaps because Thursday was not a very busy day. They were able to reach the bar without having to push their way through a crowd. But the steady beat of the loudspeakers in the basement disco still reverberated through all the rooms.
Temple was leading the way, searching for Moira Portland, when he saw a lonely and disconsolate figure drinking by himself at the bar. It was George Denson, the friend who had accosted Chunky Brooks with such bonhomie. He was slumped and dejected. He glanced up listlessly, knowing that the one face he wanted to see would not appear again. He recognised Temple at once and forced a wry smile.
“I met you that night you were here with Chunky, remember? Oh, good evening, Mrs Temple.”
“Good evening, Mr Denson,” Steve said, noting the deterioration in the man. “I remember you well.”
“Terrible business, Temple.” Denson shook his head. “I just can’t believe Chunky’s gone. He was the best pal anyone ever had. What can I get you to drink?”
“Well,” Temple excused them, “we’re supposed to be meeting someone. I can’t see Moira, can you, Steve?”
“No. But isn’t that Mrs Portland over there? I think she’s seen us.”
Steve was looking towards a small room, really more of a corridor, connecting the bar to the dining-room. A quartet of people were sitting over their cocktails, choosing their meal from the tabloid-sized menus the maitre d’hotel had given them. Stella Portland had excused herself from her companions and was coming towards the bar. She was still wearing black, but had chosen a dress that showed her remarkably well-preserved figure to advantage.
“Good evening, Mrs Portland,” Temple greeted her, concealing his surprise.
“Good evening.” Her smile embraced both Paul and Steve. “I didn’t know you were members here.”
At Stella Portland’s approach George Denson had swivelled round on his bar stool, presenting his back. He was not in the mood to be introduced to middle-aged females.
“We’re very new members. We only joined a couple of days ago. Would you care to have a drink with us?”
Stella Portland’s smile was a fixture on her face. It was brave but unconvincing. Her sadness showed in her eyes. “Well, that’s very sweet of you but I’m in a party and I can’t break away so early in the evening.”
“Well, later on perhaps.”
“Yes, I’d love to.”
“Is Moira in your party?” Steve inquired, her eyes woman-like, missing no detail of Stella’s dress and adornments.
“Moira?” She seemed surprised. “No, as a matter of fact I haven’t seen Moira since Eileen Greene’s funeral. Did you know Hubert scattered her ashes on the lake at ‘Brown Acres’? It was very moving …” She broke off, discountenanced by Steve’s interest in her attire. “Is anything the matter with my dress, Mrs Temple?”
“I wasn’t looking at your dress, Mrs Portland. I was looking at your clip.”
“Oh?” Stella glanced down at the emerald brooch set in diamonds which she wore on her breast.
“It’s charming, isn’t it?”
“It is rather.” Stella said, fingering it gently. “Sam bought it for me in New York …” Her smile had faltered for a moment. “As a matter of fact he bought me a pair but unfortunately …”
“You lost the other one,” said Paul.
“Yes.” She stared at him. “How did you …”
Temple had put a hand in his jacket pocket. He brought it out and held the clip in his palm. “Is this it?”
“Why, yes!” Stella caught her breath. “Wherever did you find it?”
“I didn’t find it. Mr Kelly did.”
“Where?”
“By the lake not very far from where Eileen Greene was murdered.”
Stella looked from Paul’s face to Steve’s and back again. Her breast was rising and falling. “How very odd.”
“Have you any idea where you lost it?”
“No, I’m afraid I haven’t,” she said vaguely.
Temple said quickly, “Mr Kelly was under the impression it belonged to Moira.”
“Well, I can understand that.” Stella took this statement calmly. “You see, I lent the clips to Moira and George must have seen her wearing them.”
“When did you lend her the clips?”
“That night - the night before the murder. Don’t you remember seeing them?”
“No, I can’t say I do.”
“I do!” Steve cut in. “She wore a black dress with a sort of ruffle across the top and a clip on each shoulder.”
“That’s right,” said Stella, with a grateful look.
“Mrs Portland, let’s get this straight.” Temple’s tone was uncompromising. “Did you lose the clip or did Moira lose it?”
“Well, I don’t really know. You see, I lent her the clips and she returned them to me. Actually, she put them on my dressing-table when she went to bed. You remember she went up rather early that night…”
“Yes, I remember.”
“Well, next morning I packed the clips - at least I think I did.” Stella realised her explanation was not convincing, but she added briskly, “Anyhow, when I got back to town I found there was one missing.” The smile was in place again. “Sorry to be so hazy about it, but that’s what happened. May I?”
Before Paul was aware of what she intended to do, she had picked the clip off the palm of his hand and clenched it in her own.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think perhaps I’d better join my friends.”
“We shall see you later,” Temple promised.
“Yes, I hope so,” she said sweetly and turned on her heel.
“Paul …”
“Yes, darling?” He was still staring at the retreating figure.
“Do you believe her story?”
“Well she seemed pretty hazy about it, didn’t she? Come along, let’s see if they have a table for us.” He turned to Denson, but Chunky’s friend was immersed in contemplation of his double scotch.
The couple were making their way towards the dining room when a young man came up the stairs from the discotheque. The music had momentarily halted. Even if he had wanted to he could not have avoided m
eeting them.
“Why, hello, Temple,” he said, with apparent pleasure. “I’ve been expecting to see you, I hear you’re a member now.”
“Hello, Boyer,” Paul said less enthusiastically. “Yes, we’ve both joined.”
“That’s fine. I’m glad to hear it.” He turned his charm on Steve. “Well, and how are you, Mrs Temple?”
“I’m very well, thank you,” said Steve, melted by the warmth of his greeting.
“Is Moira with you?” Paul enquired.
“No, as a matter of fact she’s not here tonight.”
“Will she be along later?”
“I doubt it,” Boyer’s eyes searched the throng in the bar. “She’s usually here by this time if she’s coming. I’m glad I bumped into you, Temple. There’s something I wanted to ask you. Look, that table’s free now.” There were a few tables round the walls of the cocktail bar. Boyer had spotted a group standing up to go down to the disco. “Shall we sit down?”
“Why not?” Temple agreed. He and Steve followed Boyer to a table in the corner.
“I saw Inspector James this afternoon,” Boyer said, when they were seated. “He came to my flat.”
“Oh?”
“You know, Temple, I’ve got a hunch that the police think I’m mixed up in this business.”
“What business?”
“Why the Greene murder.”
“Whatever gave you that idea?”
“Well, James was very curious. He asked me a great many questions – some rather embarrassing ones, too.”
“That isn’t entirely unusual when a murder’s being investigated.”
A waitress had come to clear away the used glasses and take their order for drinks. Boyer waited till she had gone back to her post at the end of the bar.
“Look, I’d like to be frank with you about this business.”
“By all means,” said Paul with a faint smile.
“I know that this Greene case, the murder of ‘Chunky’ Brooks, the death of Mark Kendell, are all part and parcel of the same thing.”
“Well?”
“Well, I want you to know I’m not mixed up in the Madison affair.”
Temple was gazing at him steadily. His equable expression gave no hint that he was about to topple Boyer’s confidence.
“Then tell me, why did you say to Mrs Greene, the night before she was murdered, ‘We’ll have to talk about this, Eileen. I’ll meet you later tonight.’”
Boyer’s chin dropped. He stared at Temple as if he could not believe his ears.
“What makes you think I said that?”
“You were overheard.”
“Look here, if you think I’m behind any of this then you’ve got another think coming.” Boyer’s manner had completely changed. The easy charm had gone and there was a dangerous glint in his eyes. “It’s perfectly obvious that somebody’s trying to throw suspicion on me. You know what I am, don’t you, Temple?”
“No. What are you, Boyer?”
“I’m just a red herring.”
7
Four Suspects
“Mr Temple?” It was the bouncer who combined the roles of host, security officer, chucker-out and general factotum. “There’s a call for you. You can take it in the telephone booth along the corridor.”
Temple excused himself and went to the booth where Steve had taken the call purporting to come from George Kelly.
“This is James speaking. Temple, listen … don’t leave the Manila. Sir Graham’s on his way over. He wants to see you.”
“What is it, James. Anything wrong?”
“It’s Moira Portland …She’s dead.”
“Dead!”
“Yes, we found the body about twenty minutes ago.”
“Where?”
“In Boyer’s flat, just off Charing Cross Road.”
“I see. Well, thanks for letting me know. I’ll talk to Sir Graham when he arrives. Goodbye.”
The waitress had brought the drinks by the time Temple rejoined Steve and Boyer at the table. Boyer had paid for them.
“Who was on the ’phone, Paul?”
“It was a message from Sir Graham. He wants to see me.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes, he’s calling here.” Temple sipped his whisky and asked casually, “Boyer, when did you last see Moira Portland?”
“This afternoon, why?”
“I wondered, that’s all.”
Boyer knew that something lay behind Temple’s question. “Look here, Temple, I think it’s about time we cleared the air.”
“By all means,” Temple agreed calmly.
“What’s your real opinion of me, Temple?”
“Well …”
“Come on, let’s be frank. You’ve met me several times, we spent the weekend together down at Hubert Greene’s place!”
Temple gave Boyer a long, considering look. “Well, the first time I met you, I thought you were a dim-witted young man who danced well. Now, I’m not so sure.”
“Not so sure about what – my dancing?”
“No, that you are dim-witted. I think you are playing a part - and playing it very well, if I may say so.”
“You may say so! And if it affords you any satisfaction you are the first person who spotted it.” Boyer took a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket. “Before the Falklands War I was an actor. I did four years in weekly Rep and two years in the West End. That’s when I first met Hubert Greene.”
“Oh? Was he an actor too?”
“Yes, and a very good one. Especially in Shakespeare. But there wasn’t enough money in it for him.” Boyer laughed. “Not for me either. I suppose to satisfy a craving for something more active I joined the Territorial Army. When the Falklands was invaded I was called up to join the Task Force as an Intelligence Officer. It so happens I speak four languages, including fluent Spanish.”
Boyer paused to light his cigarette. There was a faraway look in his eyes and Temple guessed that his memories of the South Atlantic were not all rosy.
“Go on …”
“When the campaign was over I came back to the theatre – brimming with enthusiasm. After eighteen months I was eventually offered a part in a French farce. I had three lines. I stuck it for almost twelve months and then one night I decided to change my tactics. I’d always been a good dancer and women were never exactly allergic to me. The rest you can guess.”
That Boyer was an actor was evident. Indeed he was more of an actor in his real life than on stage. But now he had dropped the mask and a completely different character was revealed.
Steve had been watching the transformation with fascination. Now she asked, “And how does Moira Portland fit into the picture?”
“She doesn’t,” Boyer stated bluntly.
“What do you mean?”
“I broke off our engagement this afternoon, Mrs Temple. You see, I quite enjoy playing the part of a deb’s delight but…”
“You don’t like to be called a well-dressed layabout – at least, not to your face?”
“Exactly.”
Boyer looked round to see if this conversation was being overheard. But everyone else in the bar was absorbed with their own partners and in any case the general hubbub would have made it impossible to eavesdrop.
“Is that the real reason you broke off your engagement?”
“What other reason could I have?”
“The fact that she’s on hard drugs?”
Boyer drew deeply on his cigarette. “When did you discover that?”
“I guessed it,” said Temple, “the night she pretended to be drunk.”
“Moira’s changed a great deal during the past few months. I don’t know why but she seems worried and almost – almost frightened at times.”
“Have you any idea what she’s frightened about?”
“No, I haven’t, but curiously enough Chunky Brooks must have noticed something too - he asked me a great many questions about Moira. He spoke to Eileen Greene about her as w
ell. That was the significance of the remark – the one that Greene overheard that evening at ‘Brown Acres’. I wanted to have a word with Eileen about it and simply said – ‘We’ll have to talk about this, Eileen. I’ll meet you later tonight.’”
“And did you meet her?”
“Of course not.” Boyer’s eyes flashed resentfully. “She was murdered, you know that!”
“You said just now that Hubert Greene overheard your remark – how do you know it was Greene?”
“You said so!”
“No, I didn’t,” Temple contradicted him. “I simply said your remark was overheard.”
“Well,” said Boyer angrily. “I took it for granted it was Greene.”
“Here’s Sir Graham,” said Steve, who had her back to the wall and could see the entrance to the cocktail bar. She gave a wave to attract his attention.
Sir Graham was an incongruous figure in the context of the Manila Club. He was wearing a long tweed coat with a dark brown velvet collar and carried his hat in his hand. The cloakroom girl had not been able to persuade him to part with any of his accoutrements. Many pairs of eyes were on him as he crossed the room to the table in the corner and a momentary hush fell. Politely he borrowed a chair from a nearby table and sat down between Temple and Boyer.
“Did you get my message, Temple?”
“Yes, James rang me.”
“Have you said anything to – “ he nodded at Boyer.
“No. Actually we were just discussing Moira.”
Boyer had been watching the two men intently. The nod had not escaped him.
“Has anything happened, Sir Graham?”
The hum of conversation had risen again, but all the same Forbes lowered his voice. “Yes, Boyer, I’m afraid I’ve got some very bad news for you.”
“Is it Moira?”
“Yes - she’s committed suicide.”
“Oh no! I was afraid of that.” Boyer was not acting now. His distress was unfeigned. “How did it happen?”
“She gassed herself.” Forbes paused before adding, “In your flat, Boyer. Apparently she let herself into the flat about eight o’clock.” He stared at Boyer, who was too shocked to speak. “Did you know she had a key?”
“What?”
Paul Temple and the Madison Case Page 14