by Andrew Garve
He took from the brief-case a brand new dog collar and handed it to Harry.
‘Is there anything unusual about it?’
‘Yes.’ Hubert stood and waited for him to examine the collar. It was made of a double thickness of soft leather. On the inside was a small zip fastener which ran nearly the full length of the half-inch wide strip.
‘Was there anything in this pocket?’ Harry said, slowly pulling the zip back to reveal the concealed pocket.
‘Yes, there was.’ Hubert was making the most of the situation. There was a faint air of triumph about him as he felt in his waistcoat pocket. ‘Something belonging to you, Dawson.’
Harry took the slip of paper which Hubert produced and unfolded it. ‘What is this?’
‘It appears to be a receipt – for a pearl necklace.’
Harry unfolded the square of flimsy paper and smoothed it out on the table. Minerva Jewels Ltd. Burlington Street, Ref: A4961 London, W.1. Dawson. Triple row graduated pearls. Restrung.
Harry looked up at his visitor. ‘This isn’t mine. But I can understand how you thought it was.’
‘But it’s made out to you! It’s got your name on it.’
‘No. It’s made out to my father. But I know all about it, Rogers. Thank you for bringing it to me.’
‘You know all about it?’ Hubert was crestfallen that his surprise had fallen so flat.
‘Yes.’
‘Do you mean, you knew my aunt had it? You knew it was in the collar?’
‘No. But I knew the receipt existed. As a matter of fact, we’ve been looking for it.’
Harry’s matter-of-fact tone was irksome for the other man.
‘I see,’ he said stiffly. Then suddenly his face reddened. ‘No. I’m damned if I see!’
To disperse his burst of temper he walked to the window with quick little paces, then turned to face Harry. ‘If the receipt belonged to your father, what was my aunt doing with it? And why hide it in the collar, for Pete’s sake? And there’s another thing. This collar’s been specially made. You can’t just walk into a shop and buy a collar like this, I’m jolly sure of that.’
‘No, that’s right. You can’t.’ Harry nodded his agreement but he was not really concentrating on what Hubert said. ‘I’d like to keep this receipt and the collar, if I may.’
‘Yes, of course, by all means.’
The little flare-up of temper had died quickly. Hubert coughed diffidently before he spoke again.
‘Dawson, I spoke to Superintendent Yardley yesterday. He told me that there was nothing new on my aunt’s murder and that there was no chance of an immediate arrest. But I had the feeling that he was, well – concealing something.’
‘If he is, he’s concealing it from me too.’ Harry moved towards the door. ‘Rogers, you’ll have to excuse me. I have an appointment at half-past nine and as you see I’m not even dressed yet.’
When Harry came back into the living-room after showing Hubert out, he found Douglas Croft standing at the table, examining the dog collar. He had a folder under his arm and had come up from the office via the spiral staircase.
‘Harry, what on earth is this? Where did this come from?’
‘I’ll tell you about that in a moment, Douglas,’ Harry said briskly as he crossed the room to the telephone. ‘I want to use the phone.’
‘Is it private? Because if it is—’
‘No, no.’ There was a suggestion of a smile on his face as he began to dial the number. ‘It certainly isn’t private as far as you’re concerned.’
Harry completed the dialling and resigned himself to waiting patiently for a reply. He glanced at Douglas and spoke casually.
‘Douglas, do you know a girl called Linda Wade?’
‘Linda—?’ Douglas was running the fastener of the zip on the collar back and forth.
‘Wade,’ Harry repeated.
‘No. I don’t think—’
‘Have you heard of her?’
‘Linda Wade. No, I haven’t.’ Douglas’s face looked completely blank. ‘Should I have done?’
Harry turned his back as a voice crackled in the receiver. ‘Hallo, Telegrams? This is 586 2679. I want to send a message to Mrs. Sybil Conway, Stillwater, Broadway Avenue, Hampstead, London, N. W.3.’
He dictated the address slowly and clearly, listening to the tapping of the operator’s typewriter at the other end. He could feel Douglas’s eyes on the back of his head.
‘Got that? The message is: “Have found receipt. Stop. Suggest we meet Serpentine Restaurant, Hyde Park, four o’clock this afternoon.”’
He listened while the operator repeated the message, spelling the proper names. ‘That is correct. The name of the sender is Croft. Douglas Croft.’
As the hands of his watch moved towards a quarter past four, Harry began to wonder whether the salmon was going to rise to the fly he had cast. Not that it was unpleasant sitting at his table on the terrace outside the Serpentine Restaurant. He could see couples in rowing-boats manoeuvring clumsily on the sparkling water of the lake, flocks of ducks and other water-birds crowding round a white-haired lady who had brought a bag of bread-crumbs down to throw to them. One of those lonely, isolated people who derive more pleasure from contact with creatures who cannot speak than with human beings. He could hear the subdued sound of cars on the road behind him. The park restrictions meant that those juggernauts with roaring and belching exhausts could not come within half a mile of where he sat. Beyond the trees across the Serpentine was the Hyde Park police station, its presence unsuspected by most users of the green space.
He spotted the Bentley as it swung round from the Ring Road. There were two persons sitting in the front seat. But Arnold Conway was alone as he came out on to the terrace. He looked very much the successful City man who has made his pile and retired at an early age. The check suit was well tailored, the wavy hair, greying only at the temples, had been cut by one of the best hairdressers.
He looked around for a few moments, noting that Harry Dawson was sitting there but that there was no sign of Douglas Croft. Then, without hesitation, he made for Harry’s table.
‘It was you who sent the telegram.’ It was a statement rather than a question. Conway had sized up the situation and accepted it. ‘You must excuse my wife. She wanted to get some shopping done, so I said I’d deputise for her.’
‘It was you I was expecting, Mr. Conway.’ Harry was vainly trying to catch the attention of a waitress before she disappeared inside the building. ‘But you’re a bit late. Did you have trouble parking your wheelchair?’
Conway’s answer was an enigmatic smile and a question of his own.
‘This telegram, Mr. Dawson. Was it fact or fiction?’
‘I’m not sure I understand you. I have the receipt for the necklace, if that’s what you mean.’
‘That is what I mean. May I see it?’
Harry took the receipt from his pocket and held it up so that Conway could read it. The older man made no attempt to reach across and take it.
‘Thank you,’ he said. He took an oval-shaped cigarette from his case and lit it. The aroma of Turkish tobacco floated across the table. ‘When did you first hear about this receipt?’
‘Your wife got in touch with a friend of mine.’
‘Douglas Croft.’ Conway nodded. ‘He used to work for your father.’
‘That’s right. Mrs. Conway telephoned Douglas. She said she thought my father had put the receipt away somewhere and—’
‘She asked Croft to try and find it.’
‘Yes.’
‘And he found it?’
‘No. Someone else-did.’
‘I see.’ Conway felt in his waistcoat pocket for a cigarette holder. ‘But I still don’t get the point of the telegram. Couldn’t you have posted the receipt to my wife?’
‘Yes. But in that case I would have been spared the pleasure of your company, Mr. Conway. And that wasn’t what I had in mind.’
‘What had you in mind? What i
s it you want?’
Conway had a way of dropping his eyelids when he looked directly at anyone. Harry leaned his elbows on the table, facing him.
‘I want to know how my father got involved in this affair. I want to know why your wife started having an affair with him. I want to know why Tam Owen murdered him.’
Harry had spoken in a low voice and for a moment it seemed that Conway had not heard him. His expression did not change and his eyes did not flicker.
‘Your father was a fool,’ he said, equally quietly. ‘And an unlucky one at that. My advice to you, young man, is don’t get mixed up in this business.’
‘Suppose I don’t feel like taking your advice.’ Harry made an effort to keep his voice down. He could feel the anger mounting in him.
‘I can’t imagine you’d be that stupid. You saw what happened to Linda Wade.’
‘I don’t scare that easily. I’ve seen people beaten up before, and I’ve had a few knocks myself.’
‘I’m sure you have.’ Conway blandly knocked the curving ash off his cigarette. ‘But its not you I’m thinking of.’
‘Who are you thinking of?’ Harry asked. ‘Judy Black?’
Conway showed his teeth in a suggestive smile. ‘I’m sure you wouldn’t like anything unfortunate to happen to Miss Black.’
‘You’re dead right. And nothing is going to happen to her!’
‘You sound very confident. Is it because you don’t think we could find her?’ The smile had widened. Conway was genuinely enjoying himself. ‘Would you like me to tell you where Miss Black is at this precise moment?
‘Yes, I would. Go ahead.’
Conway took time to draw on his cigarette before playing his trump card. ‘She’s at a hotel called The Priory. It’s at Steeple Aston, a small village about ten miles from Bicester.’
The effect was not quite as Conway hoped. Harry’s face broke into a wide grin. He leaned forward and patted the slightly padded shoulder.
‘You wouldn’t like to bet on that, Mr. Conway!’
The woman by the Serpentine had used up all her crumbs and lumps of bread. She addressed a few words of reproof to the ducks and drakes who had set up a loud chorus of protest at the signs of her departure, then turned her back on them.
For the first time since he had sat down Conway seemed less than totally sure of himself.
‘What do you mean, I wouldn’t like to bet on it?’
‘Yesterday afternoon,’ Harry explained briskly, ‘I picked up Judy and took her to Linda Wade’s to collect her things. While we were there Marty Smith showed up. I don’t have to tell you what happened to Mr. Smith.’
‘Go on.’
‘After we’d dealt with Smith I went back and searched the flat. I found mikes and the tape-recorder. I knew it had recorded my conversation with Judy about the hotel at Steeple Aston, so I left the installation just as it was. I’m afraid it provided you with what our American friends call “a bum steer”.’
‘It didn’t provide me with anything,’ Conway said angrily, turning away so that he did not have to endure Harry’s amused smile. ‘I told Tam Owen a long time ago he’d be making a big mistake if he underrated you—’
He broke off as a low, confidential, rather breathy female voice suddenly came through on the loudspeaker system. ‘Will Mr. Cyril Conway please come to the reception counter to take an urgent telephone call. Mr. Cyril Conway, please.’
The system went dead the moment the announcement was concluded.
‘It’s for me,’ Conway said in surprise. ‘Where do I go?’
Harry pointed to a glass door at the end of the terrace.
‘It’s through there. There’s a call box just inside.’
While he waited Harry amused himself watching a young man who had evidently never been in a boat before trying to emulate the winner of the Diamond Sculls. Conway was back within a few moments. He was like a cat on hot bricks, and his eyes were sending sharp, raking glances in all directions including the road running past the cafe.
‘That was my wife,’ he said, sitting down with assumed nonchalance. ‘She wanted to know how long I was likely to be.’
‘What did you say? Ten years?’
Conway tried in vain to show that he thought this an excellent joke.
‘She said she’d come by in a few minutes.’
‘Maybe she’d like to join us?’
‘Frankly, old chap, I think she’d rather not—’
‘The morning my father was murdered,’ Harry interrupted very deliberately. ‘It was Sybil he was expecting to meet at the club, wasn’t it? She was the decoy. The refined, elegant, Sybil who he thought was in love with him.’
Conway did not have to reply. He cocked his head as he heard the familiar crackle which preceded an announcement on the public address system. The same breathy voice made its standard request.
‘Will Mr. Harry Dawson please come to the reception counter to take a telephone call. Mr. Harry Dawson, please.’
‘Your turn, old man.’ Conway fitted a fresh cigarette into his holder as Harry stood up, hesitating as to whether he would answer the summons or not. Conway looked up and smiled. ‘Don’t worry, Inspector. I won’t run away.’
Harry hurried along the terrace to the glass door he had indicated to Conway. Douglas Croft was the only person who knew he was here. Unless Mrs. Conway—
The girl at the reception desk looked up enquiringly as he approached the counter.
‘Mr. Dawson? You can take the call in the kiosk over there.’
Before he went into the kiosk he glanced out through the door. Conway was still there, sitting perfectly relaxed in his own private cloud of aromatic smoke.
He pulled the door shut behind him and lifted the receiver. All he could hear was the dialling tone. He tried speaking.
‘Hallo. Dawson here. Hallo … Hallo.’
After half a minute he gave it up, opened the door, crossed to the reception counter and caught the attention of the girl who had spoken to him.
‘There doesn’t seem to be anyone on that line,’ he said. ‘Are you sure—’
A scream from out on the terrace interrupted him. It was followed by other screams and the sound of breaking glass as tables were knocked over.
Harry reached the door to the terrace in a couple of strides and wrenched it open. The tables round Conway were empty. The people had recoiled in the first instinctive moment of panic. Conway himself was not moving. He had slumped forward, his brow resting on the surface of the table.
Harry raced along the terrace. A quiet, professional-looking man, perhaps a doctor, had hurried up from the opposite direction. The two men reached the table at the same moment.
‘What happened?’ Harry asked.
‘There was a shot,’ the other said tersely. ‘It came from somewhere up there.’
He gestured towards a clump of bushes near the road. Harry took Conway’s hair and lifted the brow clear of the table. A pool of blood was forming from the bullet hole above his right eye.
He gently lowered the head then moved quickly off the terrace on to the grass where he could get a sight of the road behind the clump of bushes.
A grey Jaguar had pulled away from the kerb and was accelerating with smoking tyres. Defying the park speed restrictions, it disappeared in the direction of the Albert Memorial. There had been no possibility of reading its registration number.
Harry retraced his steps to the table where the dead man still sat. As he reached the terrace a woman in a fur coat came rushing out, her eyes wild and terrified. He moved quickly to intercept Sybil Conway before she could see what the bullet had done to her husband.
Harry stood on the pavement in Parliament Square watching the hands of Big Ben move up to and past eight o’clock. The evening rush-hour had ended and though the traffic swirling round the Square was heavy it consisted largely of private cars, taxis and privately hired buses bringing parties into London for an evening on the Town.
It had been di
fficult to fit a meeting into Chief Superintendent Yardley’s very tight schedule. In the end Yardley had suggested this solution. He had to go up to Camden Town on another case he was investigating. If Harry joined him in the CID car they could talk during the journey.
It was seven minutes past eight when the inconspicuous blue Ford drew in to the kerb in front of him. Harry’s heart sank. Yardley had released the police driver and was at the wheel himself. He was known as a terrifying driver.
The Superintendent leaned over to unlock the door on the passenger’s side. He made no excuse for being seven minutes late as Harry settled in his seat and adjusted the seat belt.
‘It’s good of you to spare me some of your time, sir, especially at such short notice. I appreciate it.’
Harry’s head jerked back as the clutch went in.
‘Why did you want to see me?’
‘I wanted to talk with you, but I thought if I came to the office there was a chance—’ He broke off as the car made the sharp turn into Whitehall. ‘I’ve found out the truth, sir, about my father.’
Yardley’s grunt was encouraging enough for Harry to go on.
‘This afternoon, after Arnold Conway was killed, I took his wife back to the house. She was in a terrible state. I let her talk. It would have been impossible to stop her anyway, even if I’d wanted to. She told me about my father and Mrs. Rogers. She explained why …’
‘Dawson,’ Yardley broke in. ‘I’d like to hear what Mrs. Conway told you, but don’t you think you’d better start at the beginning?’
‘Yes. I’m sorry.’ Harry accepted the mild rebuke with a nod. ‘Apparently before Mrs. Rogers worked for my father she had a variety of jobs and rather a chequered career, I’m afraid. One day she discovered that a man she used to work for – by the name of Tam Owen – was running a string of call-girls. She collected evidence of his activities – photographs, lists of contacts, a photostat of an incriminating letter he’d written. Then she started blackmailing him. At some point she must have realised the risk she was running, that Tam Owen was capable of killing her, so she told him that if anything happened to her my father, the famous Tom Dawson, would take over. In short, she inferred that she and my father were working together.’