Slowly she bent her head. The tears flowed freely now, dropping on the litter of papers on the table.
Aidan was disconcerted. He made a sign. We got up and took our leave, conscious of tragedy — the common enough tragedy of a woman mourning a lost youth and a lost love.
In the corridor we met Gordon Cunningham heading for the room we had just left. As he passed, he peered at us short-sightedly and gave a small, nervous bow.
“Now, what the devil’s he up to?” said Aidan, coming to himself again.
*
Aidan sought the Inspector to tell him what we had been doing during the past hour. Feeling as guilty as a schoolboy playing truant from school, I dodged outside to have a look at the Course and the golfers.
Doug Sanders and Tony Lema were on the first tee, limbering up in the fresh sunshine for a four-ball game against Rodgers and Charles. The stocky power of Sanders and Rodgers was in contrast with the tall, athletic grace of the other two. The Old Course, mother of golf, had the feminine reputation of bestowing her favours on the handsome stylists. But on this occasion — especially if the winds blew — could she continue to resist the assaults of the strong men? I had my doubts.
Leaning against the white rail beyond the starter’s box was a small ferret-faced man, whose ancient, untidy clothes and leather-brown complexion made me sure he was one of the locust host of caddies currently feeding on the rich pastures of St Andrews. He nudged me in the ribs — during the Open the Scots characteristic of reserve is forgotten and strangers speak to one another in the common language of golf — and informed me confidently that there was a side-stake of two hundred dollars on the game. I accepted his information with interest and remarked that to men earning a hundred thousand dollars a year, two hundred was like half-a-crown to the likes of us. He nodded sage agreement.
Striking off at St Andrews for the first time, Sanders and Lema sent their drives on an arrow-true line slightly to the left of centre of the first fairway. Apparently unimpressed, Rodgers cracked that he and Charles, having practised on the course over the week-end, would win out in the country. He was the extrovert of the party, and the spectators loved him. They cheered his cockiness; but Lema and Sanders smiled in the inscrutable way of all master-craftsmen.
I followed the game to the first hole, wishing I could go farther, then crossed over, following the curve of the Swil-can, to have a look at the Road Hole.
A big crowd of spectators stood around it, and I wasn’t sure whether they had come to see the place where a killing had taken place or to watch the hastily organised reconstruction work being done on the bank between the green and the road. In the papers, news of the murder and references to the complaints of certain professionals about the unfair steepness of this bank were being given space of approximately equal proportions; and men were now working with spades and a trailer-load of earth and turf to smooth off the ridge at the bottom.
In addition, a sprinkler was showering water on the green, which had become like a boiler-plate after a spell of dry weather. Glancing up at the clouds gathering in the western sky over Leuchars Airfield, I was afraid that within twenty-four hours rain might render its work unnecessary.
At four o’clock I walked back to the hotel along the road fringing the eighteenth fairway, keenly aware of the atmosphere of excitement inseparable from the days immediately preceding the Open.
Already, on the concourse flanking the first fairway, the marquees and the tents were all in position, housing food and refreshment bars, closed circuit television and exhibitions of golf-clubs and golf-wear. The Daily Express hole-by-hole scoreboard had also been erected. Flags fluttered in the breeze, and the television boys scrambled on their tubular towers above the home hole and beside the third and fifteenth greens.
On Wednesday, when the battle began, excitement would reach its climax, and in ordinary circumstances Aidan and I would have been happily submerged in it. But now a man lay dead. Love and hate burgeoned beneath the glossy surface of the golf, and we couldn’t escape from their compelling influence.
I found Aidan in the main lounge, which was practically empty. We had afternoon tea at a table in the big window overlooking the Scores. He was off-hand and even impatient when I tried to describe events on the Course, and I suspected the presence of grit in the wheels of his ‘deductive logic’.
Then his attention was caught by the glittering majesty of a huge grey Cadillac which came slowly down the street and drew up outside. So was mine. I watched Cliff O’Donnel, looking smart in his blue suit, peaked cap and leather gauntlets, slide out from the driver’s seat and stand waiting.
In a moment, Debbie Lingstrom and Erica Garson appeared on the wide steps of the hotel, walking arm-in-arm as if in mutual support. Debbie was wearing a plain grey frock which accentuated the gold sheen of her hair. The older woman was chic in blue and white. Their faces were composed, their eyes downcast.
As he ushered them into the car, O’Donnel was attentive. When Debbie stepped from the kerb, she stumbled a little.
He caught and steadied her, smiling and patting her shoulder. It was an action more like that of an elder brother than of a servant. But I reminded myself that during his years of service with Lingstrom, O’Donnel had seen her grow from a schoolgirl into a woman. An old and trusted retainer, he probably understood her feelings as well if not better than the majority of her close friends; and his gesture of affectionate regard was, therefore, perfectly natural.
The Cadillac moved off, and in that instant two things happened. Bill Ferguson entered the lounge from the hall. And the wheels in Aidan’s mind seemed to rid themselves of clogging grit. His eyes became hotly alert, as they sometimes did when an Englishman questioned the genius of Robert Burns.
He stood up, made two long strides into the centre of the lounge and caught Bill’s arm. “Where are they going?” he demanded.
Young Ferguson was taken by surprise. “To — to register the death,” he said. “I had to explain our Scottish rules and regulations. Debbie wants to buy a plot in the graveyard, and that’s also a job for the Registrar.” He paused, a prickle of resentment suddenly appearing in his expression. “If it’s any of your business,” he added.
“It’s our business all right. We’re helping the police.” Fleetingly, Aidan sounded more sympathetic than aggressive. “But look,” he added, becoming sharp again, “has she told you yet?”
“Told me what?”
“The truth. The truth she’s been hiding from you.”
“What the devil —”
“We overheard you talking. We couldn’t help it. Anyway, Queensberry rules don’t apply in a murder case. Now, Mr Ferguson, has she told you?”
Aidan’s unusual personality was hard to resist at any time. Bill, tired and anxious, found it impossible to do so now.
“She has told me nothing,” he said, almost sulkily.
“Then you must insist!” The instruction cracked out like a whip. “You must make her tell! Somebody’s trying to take us for a ride. Unless Miss Lingstrom shares her secret she may be in real danger!”
For a second Bill stood motionless, shocked and alarmed. Then, freezing into a public school aloofness, he turned and left us.
Aidan said: “Interesting reactions, don’t you think? How would you cast him? As Othello — or Iago?”
Aidan’s golf handicap is 5, the same as mine. Neither of us is particularly proud of it. At the age of twenty, 5 is a good handicap to have, because it shows you’re on the way up to the heady summit of scratch. At our age — bordering fifty — it means the opposite. Senile decay is setting in, and as a golfer you’ve started down on the slippery slope to double figures.
Only regular practice gives you a chance of holding it. Such practice I had expected to have at St Andrews; but now, instead of scrapping with each other for half-crowns on the Eden Course — before settling down on Wednesday to watch the Open — we were caught in the mesh of a murder case which hourly grew more baffling. To m
e, at any rate.
After dinner, in the crowded anonymity of the hotel cocktail bar, I said to Aidan: “I don’t get it. Why should Debbie Lingstrom be in danger because she won’t share a secret?”
He blinked. “Let’s say it’s a hunch. A feeling in the air, like the cold clamminess that heralds rain.”
“Do you have any idea what her secret is?”
“Well, you know the facts. Your guess ought to be as good as mine.”
On occasions he would irritate a saint. But I was determined not to please him now by showing annoyance.
“Guessing games are not in my line,” I said. “I leave that to the experts.”
He looked at me in some suspicion; but before he could make a comment Bill Ferguson came in, tall and lean and dark, with a frown on his face like the wrath of heaven. We heard him order a double whisky. The sharpness of his voice betrayed tension.
He saw us and came to sit at our table, as if he were in need of company.
“Have you spoken to Miss Lingstrom?” said Aidan, who never lets up.
“I saw her alone, as you advised.” Bill downed his whisky and ordered another from a passing waitress. “She refused point-blank to — to reopen our discussion of this afternoon. I’m so darned anxious about her that I lost my temper. Told her she was stubborn, pig-headed — you know how it goes. Now she’s forbidden me ever to see her again!”
“A not uncommon gambit on the part of a lady,” observed Aidan.
“Debbie means it. She’s that kind of girl.” Bill paid for a second double, drained the glass and ordered yet another. “In many ways she’s as ruthless and determined as her uncle was. She’s going through an emotional crisis — I can see that. Maybe her uncle’s death is the cause of it. Maybe not. Anyway, she’s made it crystal clear that she wants no comfort from me.”
His third glass of whisky was put on the table. He eyed it with distaste but took a sip from it.
“I — I offered to cope with the funeral arrangements,” he said, a shade thickly. “At first she seemed grateful, but now — well, I reckon I’m on the sidelines. Eiica Garson has taken on the role of counsellor and friend, and suddenly — this afternoon — they’re like sisters. How it happened I don’t know, because up till now there’s always been a coldness between them.”
A murmur came from Aidan: “‘O woman! in our hours of ease, uncertain, coy and hard to please — when pain and anguish wring the brow, a ministering angel thou!’” “What’s that you said?”
“Oh, just a thought by the great Sir Walter, which could be relevant. By the way,” he went on, “while on the subject of pain and anguish, do I detect something more than concern for Debbie in your present mood?”
“What d’you mean?” There was an abrupt ugliness in Bill’s manner which disturbed me.
Aidan remained cool. “Excuse my bluntness, Bill,” he said, employing a grave-faced variant of his usual charm. “I know what it is in business when a deal goes sour — as it may have done in your case, on account of Lingstrom’s death. I have a feeling you have anxieties of your own in addition to what you feel for Debbie.”
It sounded to me like a tour de force in the art of placatory inquiry; and its justification was that it worked. Bill’s glower was submerged in a whisky haze of doubt. Then the doubt was submerged in its turn by an unhappy resolution.
“You’re right, Professor. I am worried about my business, though in fact it’s got nothing to do with the merger, which may yet go through. And of course it’s unimportant really compared with Debbie’s trouble. Look,” he went on, lowering his voice unnecessarily in the noisy bar, “I had a phone-call from Glasgow half-an-hour ago, during dinner. The accountants have been preparing a financial statement in connection with the proposed merger. My manager tells me they’ve found a discrepancy in the books.”
Aidan sat forward, pointer-like. “So he wants you and Mr Cunningham back in Glasgow?
“Yes.”
“You’ll have to get Big Sam’s permission.”
“I know. I’ve already seen him, and he’s refused it.” Bill swallowed the last of his whisky. His face was red, his hands unsteady. “But for God’s sake forget about my affairs,” he said, gruffly. “Debbie’s the one we must think about. I couldn’t make her talk. But you and the Inspector might succeed where I failed. In fact, if you think she’s in danger it’s your plain duty to try and make her talk. Don’t you agree?”
“Undoubtedly I agree. And I admire your attitude, Bill. Many a man in your position would have told us pretty sharply to mind our own business where Debbie’s concerned, but you’ve made it quite obvious that you have her best interests at heart.”
Could corniness go farther? I wondered.
“All right,” Aidan concluded, briskly, “I’ll get hold of Inspector McLintock right away. We’ll have a word with Debbie — and you may be sure we’ll let you know what happens.”
For a time Bill was silent, and I had an idea that in a vague way he was as suspicious of my friend’s protestations and promises as I was. Anger-clouds gathered in his eyes.
Suddenly he stood up, swaying like an ill-used boxer. Then, “Damn everything to hell!” he said distinctly and lurched away.
The glass door of the cocktail bar sighed and shut behind him.
Aidan looked across. “What do you think he’s really worrying about — Debbie or his business?”
Ihad a score to settle. “Your guess is as good as mine,” I said.
*
In dealing with a suspect, Big Sam used none of Aidan’s tortuous methods. He sent a straightforward note to Debbie, requesting her to come at nine o’clock to the upstairs lounge, where he would be obliged if she would answer a few questions.
She came at the appointed time, her head at a slightly defiant angle. The evening was chilly, and she had put on a white cardigan over a dark blue cocktail frock. Low-heeled shoes made her look even younger than she was. Her physical attraction was still strong; but now, added to this, I felt for her a protective sympathy, as if she were the daughter I’d always wanted and never had.
When she saw us with the Inspector, however, her attitude towards Aidan and me was anything but filial. “Do I have to answer questions in front of those men?” she demanded.
Big Sam gestured her to a chair. “Professor Campbell is helping me with the investigation,” he said, in a tone which deprecated argument. “Mr MacVicar has kindly consented to act as my official shorthand writer. The constable who usually does it has the evening off. In the circumstances I saw no point in recalling him.”
I would much rather have been out watching the pros on the practice ground, especially as rumours were spreading that the Americans — particularly Lema and Sanders — were playing badly, and that George Will and Ronnie Shade were shooting birdies like crazy; and I wanted to prove such intriguing tidings for myself. But for the full flowering of his ‘deductive logic’, Aidan, like a modern Sherlock Holmes, seems to require the constant presence of his Watson. Besides, I was happy enough to stand in for the young constable, who deserved a rest after thirty-six hours of almost continuous duty. All things considered, I bore my lot with patience.
Debbie sat down, her feet primly together. Aidan gave her a reassuring smile, to which she responded with a tilt of her chin. But now I thought I detected fear in her defiance — fear and possibly a hint of panic.
“Please be as quick as possible,” she said to Big Sam. “I am very tired, as you may imagine.”
He nodded, “I shall be brief and to the point.” Clearing his throat, he went on: “First of all, the torn-off scrap of paper found in your uncle’s hand. Do you still maintain that the writing on it is not yours?”
“I know nothing about it,” she answered, decisively.
“Are you sure?”
“Sure I’m sure! Why do you go on about it?” Clenched hands beat on her knees.
“I have sent the paper to an expert for examination. Along with a specimen of your signature take
n from the hotel register.”
“So what?” She tried to smile, but the effort was only partially successful.
“By Wednesday we ought to have scientific proof, one way or another.”
She made no reply. Though her eyes betrayed pain which filled me with pity, they met his with unblinking courage.
He moved his shoulders, as if the set of his tweed jacket were uncomfortable. He frowned and said: “There is something else, Miss Lingstrom. You must forgive a personal question, but it may have an important bearing on the present inquiry. Mr Ferguson is convinced that you have a private anxiety which you are hiding from him. Is this true?”
She became still and stiff, and a paleness showed under her tan. “Inspector,” she said, “I just don’t know what you’re talking about!”
Aidan leant forward. “Mr Ferguson is deeply in love with you, Miss Lingstrom. And deeply concerned for your welfare. I think you should trust him and speak openly and honestly. If not to him, then to us. You can rely completely on our discretion.”
She struggled for composure and in the end achieved a good imitation of it. “What Mr Ferguson believes — what he chooses to tell you — is not my affair. I have nothing more to say to him or to you, Professor Campbell.”
In spite of the seriousness of the situation, his baffled look amused me. Open resistance to his psychological infiltration was for him a new experience.
Big Sam said, “The Professor is trying to help you, Miss Lingstrom.” She was about to speak again when he held up his hand — a hand which in bygone days no doubt had stopped traffic in crowded Dundee and which possessed, therefore, a confident and almost irresistible authority.
“Please bear with us,” he went on. “We are not enemies — only seekers after truth. A suggestion has been made — a reasonable suggestion, in my opinion — that if you keep to yourself any matter relevant to the discovery of the murderer, your life may be in danger. I do so hope you are going to be sensible enough to see the point and answer my question. I will repeat it. Are you hiding anything from Mr Ferguson — and from us?”
Murder at the Open Page 4