by Medora Sale
“That’s the little twerp who broke into your apartment?” he said and waited until she nodded. “What did he want?” asked Sanders.
“He asked if I was all right. I said I was fine, and he went on and on about how relieved he was. And then he said that I had to get rid of it, it was dangerous and he would look after it for me. I asked him what he meant and he paid no attention. He just got very upset and said that he didn’t want what happened to Guy to happen to me. Then he said these guys were really vicious and I didn’t know what I was dealing with. Then I said the entire conversation was a mystery to me and hung up. For chrissake, John, what in hell is ‘it’?”
At that same time, the summer evening sun was filtering palely through the clouds and lighting up all London north of the river with its sickly glare. In the little interview room, the light sucked life and animation from the faces of the law and the citizenry alike, giving them both a vampirish aura. “I’m telling you, something was stolen from Malcolm’s studio. Something valuable,” the white-faced young man was saying. He clenched his jaw and eyed the door, caught as it were between stubborn determination and panic.
“And how do you know that something was stolen?” The detective sergeant who had been handed the task of interviewing this stray young man eyed him suspiciously. “Is it because you were searching the premises looking for it? Someone was in that flat and ripped it apart, looking for something. We’d be interested in talking to that person.”
The young man shook his head miserably. “It wasn’t me.”
“And what’s your interest in who killed Mr. Whiteside?” he asked, having no doubt at all what the reason was. His already thin mouth and narrow jaw contracted. “You’ve taken your time to come forward.”
“We were friends, that’s all,” the young man persisted. “I thought it might help you find out who killed him if I came in to tell you. I’d have come earlier if I’d realized.”
The sergeant mentally reviewed the statistical probability that a homosexual male of promiscuous habits would be murdered by someone he had picked up, leaped to a conclusion or two, and permitted himself a faint sigh of satisfaction. “Indeed,” he said. “And how long had you and Mr. Whiteside been friends?” he purred.
“That has nothing to do with anything,” said the man. “But I’m telling you that he told me that he was working on a very valuable project, and that he was going to be paid a great deal for it. And the day he died,” he added miserably, “was the day he was supposed to finish it.”
“What’s a lot?”
“Forty thousand pounds.”
“For an illustration?” said the sergeant incredulously. “That was what he did, didn’t he? Illustrations for books?”
“I don’t know what it was, but he spent the last three months in the British Library and traveling to the Continent. That was where I met him, actually. At the British Library, I mean. A few years ago. That was where he did research for a lot of his projects. Anyway—there’s no trace of anything that looks like a new project anywhere, and no sign of the money.”
“Indeed. And how do you know that the money is missing?”
“Malcolm left everything to me. And made me executor of his estate,” said the young man simply. “I just found out today and I started checking on things. And you needn’t look at me like that. I didn’t kill him. Your people have checked that already. I have an alibi.”
“And what’s that?”
“I was in hospital. Having my appendix out.”
The sergeant looked through the file again and, with a twinge of regret, found the relevant date. “You’re the Charles Wilson who was interviewed on May 15?”
He nodded unhappily. “I don’t remember much about that interview. I was still groggy.”
The sergeant piled up the papers in front of him, and turned his attention away from the young man to concentrate it on what he had been saying. “You’re sure he said forty thousand pounds?”
Wilson nodded.
“Who knew about this money beside you?”
“He was very quiet about it. But in the past few months, he used to spend most evenings down at the pub—he couldn’t work once the light was gone, of course—with two Canadians. They were painters and he thought they were uproariously funny,” said Wilson unhappily. “And I rather think he may have said something to them. In fact, I’m almost sure of it. He used to get talkative after a couple of pints.”
The sergeant looked at him, bright-eyed and inquisitive.
“And that’s all I know. I collapsed in the afternoon of the day he died and was taken to hospital and never saw him again . . .”
“Consider yourself lucky. If you’d been there you’d have been left on the floor with a hole in you along with Mr. Whiteside.”
The sergeant ushered his visitor out of his office and turned back toward his desk. “Right,” he said, sitting down. “Now we’re looking for two painters. Two Canadian painters,” he added gloomily.
The chief was not happy. He was not happy with the situation, and he was even unhappier that it was Saturday morning and he had to deal with it. “It’s impossible. You’ll admit that, won’t you?”
“It is awkward,” Sanders proffered.
“It’s a damned sight more than awkward. This man was attacked by you in the week before his death. If we believe the forensic evidence, he was murdered in the apartment belonging to a woman with whom you have intimate relations. For chrissake, John. These days it would look better if you moved in with her. Casual affairs are out, you know.”
“It’s hardly a casual affair,” said Sanders, hanging on to his temper with some difficulty.
“That may be, but in spite of what Ed Dubinsky may think, she could also be implicated in his death, and so could you. This is not to be regarded as a disciplinary measure,” he went on, speaking rapidly and monotonously, “but for the next—uh—two weeks you are to consider yourself on paid leave of absence, pending a successful investigation into the circumstances of the Beaumont case. In two weeks the matter will come under review once more. By me. Thank you,” he said, shuffling the papers in front of him together in a gesture of dismissal.
What are you doing here? So casually attired and all that?” asked Harriet, looking at John’s sweatshirt and jeans. She was in her oldest pants and shirt, a gray smudge decorating one cheek. She had dedicated the day to removing the last traces of police presence from her apartment.
“Temporarily removed from duty,” he threw at her as he started walking rapidly up the stairs.
“What does that mean?” Harriet pursued him up to the top of the stairs, but then turned into a newly scrubbed kitchen. “Beer? It’s not very cold.”
“Just what it says,” he replied irritably and threw himself down on the couch.
“No, it doesn’t,” she said, taking two beers out of the refrigerator and trying to judge their temperature. “Nothing ever does.” She put them back in.
“It means that there is an appearance of possible impropriety and that I don’t go in to work, but they still pay me. In two weeks they figure out whether I’m clean, in which case I return to work and they continue to pay me, or not clean, in which case I don’t go back and they stop paying me, but there is a hearing.”
“Clean?”
“They’re afraid, deep in their heart of hearts, that the two of us conspired together to put Beaumont away, in some manner not as yet clear to them, and in so doing to seize the valuable piece of property he owned—”
“Even though we don’t know what it is.”
“Even though, and to sell it and run off to some extradition-free haven for two.”
“Sounds nice, doesn’t it? Beats trying to get this apartment back to normal. Why does everyone assume we have it? Whatever it is?”
Sanders shook his head. “Probably because they take you for the kind of patsy he’d h
ave palmed it off on when things got rough. Little do they know.”
“Marvelous. They’ve suspended you because they think you have it. According to Peter, I might be tortured and/or blown up because someone else thinks I have it and we don’t even know what the goddamn thing is.”
“Speaking of Bellingham, he was picked up this morning for questioning, largely on my account of what he said to you on the phone, and released an hour ago. They’re not very happy. They think we’re just trying to involve more people to save our own skins. It seems he was at the movies about the time that Beaumont was killed—”
“A likely story,” said Harriet.
“I’ve heard worse. The trouble is, it is likely, isn’t it? Anyway, they told him that if he really had some information about the case, which he denies, that he ought to let them know about it. I thought you’d be reassured by that. And when they asked him what ‘it’ is, he said he didn’t know what they were talking about.” He paused and looked quizzically at Harriet. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Lots of reasons,” she said. “I’m wondering about a whole heap of things. Like—have you had lunch yet? And, what are you planning on doing for the next two weeks? And if the answer to that one is nothing, then what happens to you when you are suddenly cast adrift? Is it possible to live anywhere near you when you are not wrapped up in some passionately interesting job? That’s a very crucial question, you know.”
“My God. How about life, the universe, and everything while you’re at it? I’ll start at the beginning. Lunch, wasn’t it? The answer is no. I’ve been sulking, and came over here because I need an audience. Don’t you think?”
“Definitely,” said Harriet gravely. “There is no point in sulking without an audience. Therefore, once we have settled the rest of the questions, we will go out to lunch.”
“The next question was what am I going to do? No, that wasn’t it. It was what plans do I have? A subtle distinction. The answer to that is none. And I don’t know if I am livable with if I don’t have something going on in my life. I guess I’ll find out pretty soon, won’t I?”
Harriet smiled. “Not necessarily. There is something we still have to do. Remember?”
“Jesus. We still haven’t found your highly mobile young friend, have we?”
“Right. So tomorrow we could go to Lindsay to see her parents. After all, they might know something.”
“Stop. Hold it right there, Harriet. Jane Sinclair, as current sex interest of the deceased, is part of this case. And I am specifically enjoined to avoid anything to do with this case.”
“You won’t be doing anything. My friend is also my friend whom I am trying to find. You will be along merely as my consultant, driver, and bodyguard. Nothing to do with the case.”
“That, my love, is positively Jesuitical. And I’m not sure the department has your fine sense of distinctions. Much as I’d like to drive out to Lindsay tomorrow, and spend the day with you, I think you’ll have to take this particular trip on your own.”
Chapter 9
Sunday morning was sun-filled and summery; the fields were a bright green, somewhere between the pallor of spring and the dusty near black of summer. The road to Lindsay dipped and rose between the half-grown crops, relatively deserted at this time of day.
“Do you happen to know where we’re going?” asked John, to whom, as chauffeur, had fallen the task of driving. “Lindsay isn’t that small.”
“I have an address, if that’s what you mean,” said Harriet. “Beyond that, we are at the mercy of friendly locals. But relax—it’s a gorgeous day and it shouldn’t take that long to find them.”
The Sinclairs’ house turned out to be on the suburban fringes of the town, in a neighbourhood that exists thousands of times over from one end of North America to the other. Clean, orderly, safe, well looked after. But as they pulled up and parked the car on the shoulder, Harriet shivered. In spite of its split-level conventionality, its well-tended lawn, and its neatly clipped shrubs, an air of premature decay, a smell of inner rot, seemed to hang over the premises. Perhaps it was simply that the woodwork needed painting and the garage door could have used some repair, but the entire building looked dead and unloved in the newness of late spring. A baby wearing bright red overalls stood in the yard, clutching a huge, soft ball, preparing herself to throw it at a compact young man who was standing a few feet away from her. She had wispy pale blond hair, enormous blue eyes, and shrieked in triumphant laughter when she succeeded in heaving the ball in her playmate’s direction. The two of them froze, like frightened rabbits, at the sound of the car doors opening and closing again.
The baby ran over and clutched the young man by the knee. Automatically he reached down and picked her up; from the safety of his arms she examined the strangers closely.
“Hi,” Harriet called as she walked up the driveway. “I’m Harriet Jeffries. Jane used to work for me.”
“The photographer,” said the young man, in a surprisingly deep voice. He half-turned so that his body was between the baby and the strangers and waited.
“And this is John Sanders—a friend who drove me up here. And you must be Jane’s little girl,” she said to the infant who was peering around the young man’s shoulder to scrutinize her carefully. “You’re a real beauty, aren’t you? Just like your mother.”
The young man looked suspiciously at the two of them, and finally reached out the hand that wasn’t supporting the baby to shake Harriet’s. “I’m Jeff Sinclair, Jane’s brother. What can I do for you?”
“Actually, probably not much. We thought Jane might be here, that’s all. I got a letter from her asking me to help her out with a few things, and then I lost touch with her, that’s all. We were just trying to locate her. It’s not important—at least, not for us. It might be important for Jane.” She let her sentence die a final death, realizing that she had begun to babble.
He continued to study them carefully. “You’d better talk to my mother,” he said abruptly. “I don’t know what Jane is doing right now.” And he swung the baby up onto his shoulders. She whooped with delight and buried her hands in his pale red hair.
“No, we haven’t had a word from Jane. Not recently. We read in the papers about Guy—wasn’t that awful?—and we were sure that she’d contact us, but she’s that independent. You never know what she’s up to.” Mrs. Sinclair was thin and fragile-looking, neatly dressed in a skirt and blouse, and looked at first glance much too young to be mother to a daughter who was now twenty-seven. She led them into a living room that glittered with polish and reeked of industrial-strength cleaners. Order, peace, and calm reigned. No messy plants grew in here, dropping leaves on the floor; no flies buzzed against the window. From somewhere else, they could hear the sounds of Agnes being put to bed for her afternoon nap.
“There,” said Mrs. Sinclair, who had been listening to what was going on beyond the walls of the living room. “She’s settled. No,” she said, turning her attention back to Harriet, “we haven’t seen Jane since she left for London a year ago. We’ve had a couple of letters, but you know, Jane isn’t much for writing. We’re used to the idea that we’re really all the family that Agnes is going to have.” She shot a nasty look at Harriet as if her visitor had been disputing her claim to the baby. “I never expected to have another baby to look after at my time of life. I mean, Jeff is almost out of high school now, but you really wouldn’t want someone as irresponsible as Jane looking after a baby, would you?”
“Irresponsible?” asked Harriet. “I never—”
“That’s right. Terribly. But then, I sometimes think that it was really my fault. I mean I had just turned nineteen when Jane was born and I was pretty reckless and silly in those days. Imagine, getting married and having a baby at nineteen,” she added, shaking her head. “It was almost like Jane inherited all my recklessness. Not to speak of her father’s,” she whispered, looking a
round, embarrassed. “Of course her father—he was a terrible man,” she said in a low voice. “I don’t think Jane even remembers him, though. The man she calls Dad is my second husband, Jack. I married him when Jane was four and he raised her just the same as he raised our own two.”
In the slight pause that ensued, Sanders made a discreet circle with his hand. Harriet glanced at him, puzzled, and then realized he wanted her to keep Mrs. Sinclair talking.
“We met Jane’s brother,” she said in desperation.
“Yes, Jeff’s a wonderful boy. I couldn’t have got through this year without him. He simply adores Agnes.”
“Doesn’t Jane have a sister, as well?”
A faint cloud passed over Helen Sinclair’s brow. “She’s at university right now. At Brock in St. Catharines. She doesn’t get down to see us much. Like Jane, I’m afraid. Gone off and left us here. Jeff’s not like that. He wants to go into his dad’s business.”
“What sort of business is it?” asked Harriet.
“The restaurant,” said Helen Sinclair, sounding surprised that anyone should not know.
“Good heavens,” said Harriet, startled. “Did Jane work there?”
“Of course she did. All the kids have. You can’t run a place around here without everyone pitching in and helping. There’s too much to do and it’s too hard to get help. And when you do hire them they up and quit just when you need them most or they try to rob you blind,” she went on bitterly. “You have to depend on family if you can. I do the books and the ordering and that sort of thing, and when people get sick I’m in the dining room—or even the kitchen, if I have to be.” She laughed. “We manage. And Jane was very good around the kitchen—she could have gone on to be a first-class chef if she’d stuck with it. But you know her. Ask her to do something for more than a week and she’s too tired, or she’s bored and sick of it,” she said with real venom in her tone.