And while Aidan and Bill, in statue-like concentration, each strove to read the true thoughts of the other, a memory flashed and flickered in my mind like a clip of muddy television film. I was sitting in the lounge, waiting behind my newspaper for a chance to speak to Debbie, who, with Erica Garson, was at a table only a few yards away. Bill came in, sweatered and brogucd for a walk. He paused to speak to them, leaning over the table, and for a moment Debbie’s glass of gin and bitter lemon was hidden by his body. Then he straightened up, nodded in grim misery and went out.
The memory film faded, and in the summer brightness of the afternoon I was suddenly a little cold.
At about the same moment Bill’s shoulders sagged. All passion seemed to drain out of him, leaving only pain and fear.
He said: “I wouldn’t hurt her. It’s the last thing I’d do!”
“Quite.” Aidan nodded, not unsympathetically. “But we”ll see what the police make of this tin,” he went on. “It’s positive evidence we’re after. Maybe this will provide it.”
*
But it didn’t. When the tin was dusted and photographed, the only fingerprints found on it were Aidan’s own.
I had been expecting that Bill might be put under arrest; but this didn’t happen. Eyes kept watch on everything he did, however, though it seemed he had no intention of doing anything at all except brood over a series of whiskies in the cocktail bar. Aidan and Big Sam refused to commit themselves on the subject of his innocence or guilt; but if his prints had been found on the tin I was sure he wouldn’t have remained at liberty for long.
The fact that the tin had either been handled with gloves or wiped clean with a cloth pointed to the possibility of a plant. This was the hold-up. But in my own mind I couldn’t help suspecting the presence of a double-bluff. I couldn’t help remembering Aidan’s remark about the conjuror’s touch.
I told him and Big Sam what had taken place in the main lounge the previous night, while I’d waited to have a word with Debbie.
The Inspector glared at me as if I were guilty of a crime far worse than murder; but I realised he wasn’t even seeing me. “Gin and bitter lemon,” he growled. “Would its wershness hide the taste?”
We were alone in the upstairs lounge. From the window I could see the clock on the tower of the Royal and Ancient Clubhouse. It was nearly six o’clock. Most of the second day’s scores in the Open would now be in, and for a second I was curious about them. But only for a second. The situation here was growing uglier, and the feeling of personal danger was jerking at my nerves.
Aidan went across to the door and pressed the bell marked “Dispense”.
“Let’s find out,” he said, with a smile sparked by surprising enthusiasm. “You have the tin there on the table, Inspector. Some of the contents have been taken for analysis, but I notice there’s still a small quantity left.”
“What do you mean? You’re not going to risk poisoning?”
“Don’t worry! I have a few good rounds of golf left in me yet!”
A waiter put his head round the door, saw us and came in. Instinctively, he approached Aidan. “You rang, sir?”
“Bring me a gin and bitter lemon, please. Oh, and by the way, I’d also like a teaspoon. And a small slop-basin.”
“A slop-basin, sir?”
“Yes. Any cheap common or garden kind will do.”
“Very good, sir.”
The waiter withdrew.
After a time I said, “What’s the latest from the hospital?”
“Miss Lingstrom is still very weak,” the Inspector told me. “This ‘Killweed’ concoction seems to contain a proportion of strychnine — that was the real trouble. They’ve got it out of her system now, though, and she ought to be able to speak to us pretty soon.”
His thoughtful expression became one of positive anger. “‘Killweed’,” he went on, “it shouldn’t be allowed! It destroys weeds all right — a highly eflicient product in that sense — but it also kills birds, mice and everything else in sight. It’s popular, simply because it’s cheap. But in this day and age, with all those scientific hormone preparations on the market, I reckon it should be banned.”
“I agree with you,” said Aidan, heartily. “But of course the same argument could be used in connection with the atomic bomb. It’s a matter of proportion. If you work it out, atomic bombs are a good deal cheaper in the long run than conventional forces. Now, if Scotland were an independent nation — ”
Spotting the danger, I chipped in, “Are you keen on gardening, Inspector?”
“Why, yes, it’s my hobby.” He smiled with enthusiasm, and Aidan was forced into a frustrated and somewhat huffy silence. “Roses mostly. The soil hereabouts is ideal, with its high clay content. I used to go in for dahlias in Dundee, but — ”
The waiter returned, ceremoniously bearing a glass of gin, a small bottle of bitter lemon, a silver teaspoon and a china slop-basin with a pattern of flowers. Aidan paid him and left a shilling tip on the tray. Graciously he acknowledged the waiter’s bow. He enjoyed being gracious to those who showed him respect.
The door closed.
Watched by Big Sam and myself, Aidan took a diary from an inside pocket of his tweed jacket and tore out one of the pages. He opened the tin of weed-killer, spooned out some of the powder and emptied it on to the paper. He folded the paper, enclosing the powder in a tiny flat envelope — the form in which old-fashioned digestive remedies used to be sold. Then into the glass of gin he poured about half of the bottle of bitter lemon.
“Now for the experiment,” he said.
He leant across the table, his body hiding the glass from us. “I’m manipulating the folds in the paper with the hand you can’t see,” he continued, looking down at us. “It’s easy. The folds are open now, and the powder falls into the drink. I crush the paper in my hand, thrust it into my pocket and straighten up.”
He stood back, as pleased with himself as a conjuror. In the glass I noticed a slight cloudiness, but that was all. It could have been a trick of the light on a naturally cloudy mixture.
“So far so good,” he said. “Now for the taste.”
He took his right hand from his pocket, raised the glass and sipped.
“For Pete’s sake watch what you’re doing!” I exclaimed.
He winked and savoured the liquid, looking like a connoisseur sampling a rare Highland whisky. Then he spat the sum out into the slop-basin, lifted the bottle of bitter lemon, sucked in most of the contents and made swishing noises inside his mouth. He spat out again.
With a broad, rather boyish grin, he said: “‘Cavendo tutus’” as the proverb has it. We remain safe by taking care.”
“You and your proverbs!” Big Sam appeared to be considerably shaken. “What about the taste, then?”
“I detected something.” Aidan put the glass back on the table, sat down and regarded it like a scientist with a test-tube. “That may have been because I was expecting it. An added bitterness — what you call wershness, Inspector. I doubt if Debbie would have noticed it, though. She’s not a regular tippler, sensitive to the taste of gin. And at that moment she was uneasy, thinking of other things. A faint tingling in her mouth wouldn’t worry her.”
“Then you think it happened last night in the lounge, under my eyes?”
“It could have happened, Angus. Let’s put it that way.”
“But Bill Ferguson wasn’t the only one who spoke to Debbie at that particular time. Erica Garson was with her, and Cliff O’Donnel came in for instructions — about picking up the lawyer at Prestwick in the morning, I believe.”
Aidan continued to smile. “You’re a Ferguson fan, eh?”
“Not necessarily. But the others could have done it just as easily.”
“Of course!” Big Sam was downright. “Fancy theories are all very well, but hard evidence is what we want, and we’re not getting any.”
“I wouldn’t agree that hard evidence is lacking,” said Aidan, calmly.
“Wha
t d’you mean by that?”
“I’ll explain later, when the mixture begins to jell.” He paused, then added, “Incidentally, would you get Sergeant McCrimmon to empty this gin glass and slop-basin into some convenient lavatory-pan — and to make sure they are thoroughly sterilised in the kitchen boiler?”
Big Sam could have throttled him. That was clear from the dourness in his face.
So could I, for that matter. But then I spend a great deal of my life containing this same impulse.
*
At eight o’clock in the evening, Blackstock was relieved by Smith at the hospital. Before going off duty, Blackstock brought a message to the hotel that Debbie was ‘much better’. Permission to talk to her had not yet been given, however.
Soon afterwards Jock phoned to ask if I’d like to come to dinner with him at the Atholl, which was the hostelry favoured by most of the golf writers and reporters. Thankfully I accepted his invitation. Aidan and Big Sam were roaming about the hotel, becoming unbearable in their patient confidence that in the next few hours the identity of a killer would be revealed. Erica Garson, Bill Ferguson and Cliff O’Donnel were always in the picture, too, watching and waiting. Policemen, uniformed and in plain clothes, were everywhere in evidence. Aware of violent twinges of claustrophobia, I felt I hated them all.
Jock had finished work for the day. He had phoned his copy through to the Express, and was now in a mood to enjoy himself. He ordered the things I like — scampi with a tart sauce and a glass of La Flora Blanche; Chicken Maryland and fresh fruit with real cream.
Friends of his paused frequently at our table to exchange gossip and jokes. I enjoyed the story about Johnson Sedibe, the African professional. During the qualifying rounds a lady had stood near the eighteenth green of the New Course, flourishing religious tracts and asking each of the competitors as they came in: “Are you saved? Have you met Jesus?” To which the dark-skinned Sedibe had innocently — or maybe not so innocently — replied: “No. Has he qualified?”
By the time we settled down to coffee and Drambuie, I was in a better mood, partly on account of the meal and the company, partly because I warmly appreciated so much filial consideration for a worried old father.
Jock talked about the Open most of the time and I was grateful for this, too. Gradually I began to relax.
As I had feared and expected, a number of the best British players had failed to qualify, amongst them Brown, Allis, Butler, Coles and Bousfield, while others like Dai Rees and George Will had just scraped in with the maximum qualifying total of 153.
Some of the Americans hadn’t done too well, either. Deane Beman, the amateur, was out, and Sanders and Ford were well back at 151. But with a masterful round of 68, which included four birdies and an ‘eagle’ 2 at the 312-yard twelfth, Tony Lema was in the lead with a two-round total of 141. Next to him, however, were Weetman and O’Connor with 143 and 144, and I experienced a small flurry of patriotic hope.
Devlin was also on 144. After his magnificent first round Garialde had dropped back with a 74 to 145. Max Faulkner and Jimmy Martin of Ireland were on 146, with B.J.Hunt only a stroke behind that. Then on Jock’s list I noticed de Vicenzo at 148 and Nicklaus at 150. They were perceptibly closing the gap. I had a feeling that tomorrow, in the calmer conditions promised in the weather forecast, they would come booming in as usual, while the British players fell behind.
I suspected that Jock agreed with me. But he did his best to maintain an atmosphere of optimism and good cheer, like the paper that employed him.
“Weetman’s doing extraordinarily well,” he said, “considering he’s not a hundred per cent fit. He suffers from rheumatism you know, like Eric Brown. Plenty of guts, though — again like Eric Brown. And if O’Connor strikes form — and he’s brilliant when the mood comes on him — he could easily win. There’s only one thing that nags at me, like the toothache. Yesterday Nicklaus took thirty-seven putts in his round of 76. Today he took thirty-nine in his 74. This is bad for a man like Nicklaus, who aims to take an average of only thirty-one putts in a round. The high wind was probably responsible, and I noticed his eyes were watering most of the way round this morning. But tomorrow the weather may be fairly quiet, according to the BBC and the RAF at Leuchars — and if Nicklaus gets his putting touch back he’ll turn in scores in the middle sixties as sure as eggs. He’s hitting the ball like a steam hammer.”
I saw the point. “You don’t think he’ll catch Lema, though?”
“I wouldn’t be too sure. Lema’s in front, but he got the best of the weather both yesterday and today, and Nicklaus has so much confidence in himself and in his game that he’s not likely to cry quits even though he is nine strokes behind.”
“I’ll still back Lema’s style to see him through. It’s beautiful — the poetry of motion. And the Old Lady has never yet turned her back on a stylist.”
“You could be right. Lema has a good caddie, too. Tip Anderson, a St Andrews man who knows the course backwards. I was talking to him just this morning. Apparently he plays off a handicap of four.”
“A useful man,” I agreed. “In the meantime let’s hope for a miracle from either Weetman or O’Connor.”
Jock smiled, wryly. “Imagine the Yanks in America praying for a miracle to prevent their Open going to a Britisher!”
“What a day that would be!”
“Sure! Not only for British golf pros but also for British golf reporters!”
We were considering a second glass of Drambuie when a tall young man in a black coat and striped trousers approached our table. In a whisper Jock identified him as the manager.
“Excuse me, sir. You are Mr Angus MacVicar?”
“Yes.”
“A telephone message has just come through. Inspector McLintock’s compliments and could you please return to your hotel at once?”
“Thanks,” I said, and the butterflies resumed their Highland Fling in my stomach.
Jock said, “What’s up now?”
“I don’t know,” I told him. “But before they go to bed tonight I believe your crime colleagues are going to learn who killed Conrad Lingstrom.”
“So that’s it! Shall I tell them?”
“Not yet.”
He must have seen in my face some of the uneasiness I was trying so hard to hide. “Would you like me to come with you? If you’re involved in this, maybe I could help — ”
“No!” I said, firmly. “You stick to your golf. Anyway, I don’t suppose they want me for anything really important.”
But if I kidded Jock, I didn’t kid myself. I had a good idea what my role was going to be in the next hour or so.
*
They were in the hall when I got in Aidan and Big Sam, Sergeant McCrimmon, Erica Carson, Bill Ferguson, Cliff O’Donnel.
“Ah, there you are! Good man!” said Aidan. “Had a good meal?”
“Excellent,” I told him. “Nice, ordinary, enjoyable company, too?
“Splendid! I’m glad. The Inspector wants a word with you.”
They were all listening.
Big Sam said: “Blackstock has just rung through, Mr MacVicar. Miss Lingstrom is much better now, and the doctors say she is fit to talk. But she absolutely refuses to talk — that is, to anybody but you.”
“I see.”
“She’ll talk to you, she says, provided you see her alone, with no one else in the room.”
“Well then, fair enough. I’d better go.”
Erica Garson, Bill Ferguson and Cliff O’Donnel had already been made aware of the situation. That was clear, because they looked strained, anxious and even a little sullen. I understood how they felt. They were all close friends of Debbie; but in the final issue her confidence was being given to a stranger. Bill Ferguson was looking at me with what I imagined was surly dislike. Or could it have been jealousy?
Her hand on my arm, the secretary said: “Give her our love. Tell her that Cliff and I will stand by, no matter what happens.”
O’Donnel’s lined
face was a mask of affirmative concern. “Tell her not to worry about tomorrow morning. I’ll be at Prestwick at seven to pick up the lawyer. As planned.”
Bill said, “Give her my love, too, if she’s interested.”
“Right,” I promised, making a general gesture. “I’ll be off then.”
Aidan said, quickly, “Will you take your car to the hospital?”
“No. I think I’ll walk. It’s not far.”
“Cliff could drive you over in the Cadillac,” said Erica Garson. “I’d like to go, too. Even though Debbie doesn’t want to see us, Cliff and I need something to take our minds off”
“Thanks a lot,” I cut in, sharply. “But I’d prefer to walk. I could do with the exercise.”
Big Sam nodded. Aidan smiled, approvingly.
As I went towards the entrance, I heard Bill Ferguson’s voice, still balanced on the edge of roughness: “For God’s sake let him go, Erica. It’s the truth he’s after, and the sooner we know the truth the better for all of us. I’m going out. This place makes me sick. I could do with some exercise, too — and some fresh air.”
The twin glass doors sighed shut behind me. It was chilly outside, and I hadn’t a coat, but I had no intention of going back for one.
I set off along the Scores, heading east. The time on my wrist-watch was ten forty-five. It was a darkish night, on account of a great raft of clouds in the north-western sky; but hereabouts the street lamps were frequent and bright. The pavement was busy with people, and I had no impression of being alone or at a disadvantage.
I passed the towering Martyrs’ Monument above the Bow Butts. The tall buildings beside the Step Rock Pool disappeared beyond the houses on my left. Parked cars lined the street. During the time of the Open, the police made no great fuss about traffic regulations.
Murder at the Open Page 13