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Our Jubilee is Death

Page 9

by Leo Bruce


  “But it is his nocturnal movements which interest Mrs Salter. He’s out, as she says, ‘till all hours’. He has his key, as all the boarders at Peep O’Day have, and has come in as late as two o’clock in the morning. ‘And after what you’ve told me,’ said Mrs Salter, ‘I don’t dare to think what he may be up to.’ I asked what time he usually goes out at night, and she says it is never before nine and usually between nine-thirty and ten. I thought of hanging about last night for him to emerge, but decided to wait till I had told you what I’d learnt.”

  “Good.”

  “I’ll go tonight, shall I?”

  “I shall go.”

  “But you’ll let me come?”

  “I’m afraid you would find it what you please to call corny, Priggley. Following a man by night.”

  “Of course it’s corny. But corn can be fun. I’ll call for you at eight forty-five.”

  “I don’t think I’ll take the responsibility.”

  “Oh, come off it, sir. It’s not as though the man were a murder suspect.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s just a repulsive cad who mumbles filth to women.”

  “That doesn’t mean that he’s not a suspect. Rather the contrary. You’re far too apt to dismiss people from suspicion because there is this or that about them. A murder, this murder anyway …”

  “If it is a murder …”

  “If it is a murder, could be committed by almost anyone. Even by someone who appears merely funny like Mrs Plum, someone who seems the soul of ordinariness like Ron Cribb, someone frightened like Alice Pink, someone hysterical like Gracie Stayer, or someone downright like Babs Stayer. Besides more sinister characters like Graveston. It could be the work of an attractive woman like Gloria Cribb or a businessman like George Stump. It could certainly have been done by a nasty piece of work like this Poxton.”

  “I suppose so. Anyway, I’m coming. After all, we’re in the holidays.”

  “Are you sure he didn’t see you yesterday?”

  “Certain. Part of his act was not to turn round when he had spoken to a woman. I kept well behind.”

  “That won’t be so easy tonight.”

  “Why not? There’s a full moon.”

  So at nine o’clock Carolus and Priggley had a coffee at the Kozee T Rooms on the corner of Windsor Terrace and Carolus had an opportunity of seeing the ‘rather dreary blonde’ described by Priggley. But that evening Priggley did not seem to find the lush young woman in the least dreary.

  It was nearly ten o’clock before Poxton came out of Peep O’Day. Carolus saw now that he was a tall man, fairly heavily built. He wore a light raincoat and a colourless hat.

  It soon became evident that he had some urgent objective. He showed no disposition to repeat his insulting behaviour of yesterday afternoon, but started to walk towards the sea without pausing anywhere.

  It was, as Priggley had predicted, a night of good, strong moonlight, and the sea looked like the surface of the moon itself. The streets of the town were quite brightly lit, and while Poxton continued to walk along the promenade as he was doing it would be easy to keep him in sight from far enough away. When he left the range of the promenade lights there might be a problem.

  The band was still playing in the pagoda-like bandstand, and although the evening was chilly the promenade was populous. ‘Listening to the band’ remained a beloved occupation in spite of all the counter attractions of the cinema, radio, television, not to mention public performances of music and drama. A great number of people spent a very happy hour or two shivering in uncomfortable and expensive deck-chairs while bandsmen in uniform beat out the traditional Selection from Teomen of the Guard or something from Peer Gynt. Poxton led them right past the bandstand, and Carolus wondered if he could be aware that he was being followed and was trying to lose them. But no, he walked on steadily, heedless of the crowd as he was of the music. He was going northward.

  When he came to the end of the promenade he did not hesitate a moment, but dropped to the sand below it. It now seemed certain that he was going to walk round the headland to Trumbles Bay.

  “Pity we haven’t got a football,” said Carolus.

  “I suppose you said what I thought I heard you say. Or am I going mad?” asked Priggley.

  “I said a football. We could then have a jolly game dribbling and passing all round our man and he’d think nothing of it.”

  “Gosh, you’re right. I’m relieved. For a moment I thought you were suffering from arrested development. Tell you what, we can fake up something to kick with litter rolled up. And heaven knows there’s plenty of litter.”

  “You need some string.”

  “I’ve got some,” said Priggley unexpectedly. “Don’t you know it’s one of the things every schoolboy carries in his pocket?”

  In a few moments the ball was made. Carolus waited until Poxton would be well on his way round the headland, then, with a good deal of shouting and false merriment which Priggley particularly enjoyed, with cries of “Oh, good shot, sir!” “Rotten luck! ” “Very hard lines!” and “Well played!” they passed Poxton. It was as well that they adopted these tactics, as Poxton, after leaving the promenade, gave frequent glances behind him to make sure he was not followed. Presently they reached the shadows of the rocks in Trumbles Bay. Here they took up their position and waited for their man to appear.

  The whole bay was brightly lit by the moon except on the south side, which Carolus had chosen. Here were some tall stark rocks, and it was easy to remain invisible among them.

  “But I think he’ll go up to the house,” said Carolus. “I suggest your getting there ahead of him. I’ll wait here. See and hear all you can, but don’t take risks. And don’t leave the shadows on this side.”

  Priggley faded from sight within a few yards and Carolus cursed the inadvisability of lighting a cigarette. It was not many moments, however, before Poxton appeared and marched, as Carolus had anticipated, right across the middle of the bay towards the track which led up to Trumbles. When he too became invisible—at a much greater distance than Priggley, because he was in moonlight—Carolus could afford to enjoy his smoke.

  It seemed to him, who was the least impatient of men, a very long time before anything happened. He consoled himself a little for the boredom of a long wait by thinking that if this went as he hoped it would bring him far nearer a solution than he had been at any time since the case began. With any luck he would at least know what had happened on this shore that night.

  Priggley was suddenly beside him, a little out of breath.

  “Pink the Secretary met him at the gate. They scarcely exchanged a word, but she handed him a packet. He’ll be across in a minute.”

  “Right. Stay here. Understand?”

  Priggley appeared to know when Carolus intended an order to be kept.

  “Yes. I’ll stay here till you shout for me.”

  Soon the tall figure was in sight, hurrying now.

  Carolus walked out of the shadow.

  “Poxton!” he said loudly.

  Afterwards he decided that it was a ridiculous and exaggerated phrase, but at the time he thought Poxton stopped as though he had been shot.

  “Who you talking to?”

  “Blackmailing again?” said Carolus coldly.

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m not the Law, luckily for you. Hand over that packet.”

  “Who? … Oh, you’re the amateur detective, are you? Hoping for a cut?”

  “What an incredible fool you are, Poxton. Do you want to go inside again? Hand over that packet.”

  “What——packet?”

  “Must we go through all this? The packet that wretched woman’s just given you.”

  “Not bloody likely!”

  “You must know that I’ve got the number of every note in the lot and every one is marked. You wouldn’t have spent six before you were picked up.”

  This seemed to impress Poxton.

  “The lousy bitch
es,” he said. “Is the Law in on this?”

  “No. But they’re going to be. Hand it over.”

  Carolus could not see the man’s eyes, but he could almost hear his thoughts. Make a dash for it? Draw a chiv and silence Carolus for good? Brazen it out? Give in? It was probably the idea that the notes were useless which made him decide on the last.

  He pulled a packet from his pocket and silently held it out.

  “Now what had you got on them?”

  “If I tell you that, will this go no farther?”

  Carolus considered this. It was against his principles to let a blackmailer go free, but he badly wanted his information.

  “What has happened tonight will go no farther,” he said. “But I can’t answer for the past. If you had any hand in the death of Mrs Bomberger or her burial here I’m not guaranteeing you any immunity. Nor will I try to cover you for not giving your information to the police. I will only give you my word that I will not expose you as a blackmailer on the strength of what you’ve done tonight.”

  “That’ll do for me.”

  “What had you got on anyone, Poxton?”

  “You want the truth?”

  “Of course. Don’t stall.”

  “All right. I’ll tell you. Nothing. Sweet Fanny Adams.”

  “Nonsense. Even the Secretary wouldn’t hand over money …”

  “I’ll tell you what I did. Read the case in the paper. Then used my loaf. Rang them up. Said I’d been having a walk along here that night and had seen everything. Everything, I said. Well, it stood to reason, didn’t it? Someone must have brought her down here and buried her. I’d no idea who it was, but I guessed someone in that household had something to hide. It worked like a charm. I went up to see them one evening. They hadn’t got any money there then, but they’ve managed to raise it. Five hundred nicker in one-pound notes.”

  With sick disappointment Carolus supposed that the man was telling the truth.

  “You weren’t even here that night?”

  “I was in bed and asleep. I don’t know from Adam who buried the woman or why. I know nothing about it.”

  Carolus looked at the man and felt a nausea and anger.

  “Tell you what,” Poxton said, “I’ve got to have a few quid to pay my digs. I promised it tomorrow.”

  “I’ll ring up Mrs Salter in the morning and tell her that I’ll be responsible for what you owe, but only if you’re out of this town by eleven o’clock. If you’re wanted for anything in connection with the case, the police can pick you up when they like.”

  He left Poxton and started to walk towards the rocks where Priggley was waiting. He turned to see Poxton hurrying on towards Blessington.

  “All we know from that,” he said disgustedly, “is what we knew already—that someone at Trumbles has a good deal to hide. I think I’m going to be sick.”

  “Poxton or disappointment?”

  “Both.”

  “To think,” said Priggley as they started for home—“to think that we’ve played beach football for nothing.”

  11

  GEORGE STUMP, the famous and successful publisher, had not been given his nickname of ‘Gobbler’ Stump for nothing. He looked like a turkey-cock, with the same red face and floppy jowls, the same sharp nose and the same fixed rare-blinking stare of very round eyes. He was, moreover, a gobbler by nature. He gobbled up authors whom he thought worth while and gobbled the profits from their books; he gobbled up some excellent wines and gobbled down enormous lunches with his business associates. He had gobbled up Lillianne Bomberger when she was an unknown writer and found her the most indigestible though profitable thing he had ever gobbled in his life.

  Carolus had left him to simmer uncomfortably at the Palatial Hotel, a rather dingy brick building near the station at which Lillianne had always booked him rooms when he was coming down. George Stump believed this to be a deliberate step to keep him in his place, the sort of thing Lillianne Bomberger was in the habit of doing. She did not pay his hotel bill, of course; the inference of her choice was that he would not wish and should not be able to afford the best.

  Carolus had passed the Palatial several times, but had deliberately avoided an interview with the publisher. He felt that Stump would eventually volunteer information and then be more communicative than if Carolus went and pleaded for it.

  On the day after his failure to learn anything worth while from Poxton Carolus received a short note.

  Dear Deene,

  I believe you are a friend of my partner William Agincourt and that you are amusing yourself by investigating the death of Lillianne Bomberger. I don’t know whether any information of mine can assist you but if you care to try, do come to dinner tonight at about eight and I will rake my memory.

  Yours sincerely,

  George Stump.

  “Thank you for your kindness in offering me dinner and information,” Carolus wrote back. “But I regret to say I’m already engaged this evening. Some other time, perhaps? I am sorry to have no telephone here.”

  This had the very effect he hoped. At four o’clock that afternoon Stump rang the bell at Wee Hoosie and was shown by an unsuspecting Mrs Stick into the crowded and stuffy front room.

  “I was coming this way,” said the publisher. “So I thought I’d look in and see when you’re coming to dinner.”

  “Very kind of you,” said Carolus.

  “One day next week?”

  “Delighted. Yes.”

  “Tuesday?”

  “Thank you. Suits me splendidly.”

  Stump made no move from his chair.

  “I understand you’re going to have a book by my headmaster Hugh Gorringer on your Spring List.” Carolus was being maddeningly irrelevant.

  “Yes, yes. The Wayward Mortar-board,” said Stump hurriedly.

  “Will you do well with it, do you think?”

  “Quite safe, that sort of book. Couple of thousand copies. Old boys and that. Nothing like Bomberger.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Sales, I meant. In dealings—well, now you suggest it, yes. There is a little something similar in the way they write … wrote to us. A little self-importance, perhaps.”

  Carolus smiled.

  “Sad about Bomberger,” said Stump, evidently determined not to let the name slip.

  It was the first time Carolus had heard that adjective used about the novelist’s death, and he felt it to be the merest hypocrisy.

  “Very sad. You won’t get rid of Gorringer so easily.”

  “Get rid of? What an unfortunate thing to say!”

  “I meant that Gorringer will outlive us all. You’ll find yourself publishing Murmuring Labours, a sequel to …”

  “I hardly think so,” Stump snapped. “Look here, Deene, are you going to find out the truth about this thing?”

  “With luck, yes.”

  “I should like to be of any help I can.”

  “I don’t know that there is much I need bother you with.”

  “I knew her very well.”

  “Oh yes?”

  “Damn it, I ought to. She was with us for twenty-three years.”

  “I understand she was leaving you?”

  “Who told you that? It’s nonsense. She threatened to leave us every two months. This was a little more serious, but it would have come to no more than the other times.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “It began nearly a year ago, when her last book came out, Dying Violets. We’d given it a very clever dust-jacket which was just what the trade wanted. Bit sensational, but a seller. Bomberger saw it and screamed. Literally, in my office. She wanted a design of actual dying violets, half-dead flowers. Can you imagine it? How would anyone buy a book with faded flowers all over it?”

  “I should have thought that if they wanted a book with that title they wouldn’t have minded the picture.”

  “But it’s not titles that sell books, Mr Deene. No one remembers titles. Well, as I say, Bomberger wanted violet
s just as the book was going into print. I told her it was impossible. She said she’d take the book away from us. I said that was impossible, too, because she’d signed the contract. She swore she’d take her next novel to Peter Davies. I said she bloody well could. Let him have her, I said. I was sick of it. ‘See if Peter Davies’ll give you violets on your dust-jacket,’ I said. Well, that’s how it began. We’d had rows before, but they’d always been patched up. This time I sent her a big bunch of violets, but she sent them back.”

  “What happened about the dust-jacket?”

  “I kept ours on.”

  “So she failed to get her own way. That was dangerous.”

  “Of course it was. We’ve had nothing but trouble since. She was a fiend about advertisements. She’d measure the type in which her name was printed and scream blue murder if she found Frances Parkinson Keyes or someone in larger letters. Bomberger was one of those authors whom you don’t need to advertise. She sold herself. But we had to waste thousands on every book she did. Can you imagine advertising Bomberger in The Times Literary Supplement? That’s what she wanted. But what could we do?”

  “Get rid of her.”

  “That’s what I decided to do, but Agincourt wouldn’t have it. ‘She’s the goose that lays the golden eggs,” he said. Let me tell you what happened. She sent us her next, The Flower of Death. She had to because we had an option. But I saw from the first that she was determined to make it impossible for us to publish it. She kept the proofs two months, then sent them back hacked to pieces. She turned down three jacket designs I sent her and demanded one by Augustus John or Francis Bacon. She disagreed with every publication date we proposed. Of course she had no legal right to do any of this, but we had always given her plenty of rope. Finally I decided to go ahead as we wanted and let her leave us. Peter Davies could have her for all I cared, though I’d never wish the Bomberger on anyone, even another publisher.

 

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