[Title here]

by Deadly Duo (epub)

  While the doctor was still talking, his voice brittle with an affectation of curt authority, Inspector Lee's long-sighted eyes alighted on Margot Robert. She was hurrying down the pavement, her slender body thrown forward by her high heels, her hands grasping her big grey bag. As he watched her she turned into the dark mouth of the subway and disappeared. Lee recognised her and remembered the one thing about her which had interested him. She was the girl who had made the old woman change her mind about charging her grandson. He prided himself on his hunches and he swung round, holding the phone to his breast.

  "Carpenter," he said, "quickly! A girl's just gone to the tube station. Grey costume, grey feathered hat, pretty, West End actress type, fair, five foot two, about twenty years old. After her. Follow all the way. Ring me back. You may just do it."

  A shadow in the back of the room slid out from behind a desk, reached for the hat which lay upon it, and passed out of the door obediently. While the telephone still crackled at him the inspector noted his man cross the road and enter the station. He glanced at the clock over the door. Two and a half minutes. The trains ran every eight. The odds were on Carpenter making it, he decided.

  He returned to the telephone. "All right. Thank you, Doctor. I'll be with you in six or seven minutes. Keep every thing as it is, of course. Let no one in or out. What? Oh, clear case, is it? Well, that saves us a lot of trouble, doesn't it? But we can't be too careful. Just see that all doors are kept locked. Is Miss Robert there? What? She's down stairs, is she? She's-what? Oh. I see, very upset. Very well, sir. Thank you. Good-bye."

  SIX

  Dower street looked as if it had been drawn in blue chalks when Margot turned into it. She hurried, unaware of the quiet man in the crumpled suit who trudged behind her, keeping pace easily with her shorter steps. The deep blue of the northern twilight spread everywhere. Even the grey houses and the gleaming, tire-polished roads had taken on the steely colour of the sky. Street lamps were as yet little lemon patches in the amethyst. They stretched on into the distance like a necklace of yellow beads.

  Detective Officer Carpenter saw the phone box and noted it as he had noted every other they had passed since they left the Underground and he had all but lost the girl in the crowds. She was looking up at the houses now. This was more promising. She was not seeking a number, though, but was peering at each façade as if she hoped to recognize it. Once she hesitated and he was puzzled. But no, she had changed her mind and was off again, himself at a safe distance behind her.

  Ah, now she had found it He could see the relief in the sag of her shoulders as she turned to climb up the three worn steps to the door. He paused to light a cigarette and kept his eyes on her.

  Margot stood hesitating on the stone platform. The door stood wide open and she was confronted by the misty cavern of what had once been a fine vestibule. There was only one bell push, a single button in a tarnished saucer of brass. She pressed it doubtfully and far away in the basement a bell rang hollowly, but there was no other result whatever. She was about to try again when there was a patter of footsteps in front of her at the far end of the passage as someone raced down a stairway toward her. She stepped back to save herself.

  "I say, I'm sorry." The voice was very young and she found herself looking into an inquisitive face under untidy hair. He was barely twenty and ostentatiously dishevelled. "D'you really want to come in here?" he enquired with the laborious roguishness of his age. "Are you sure?"

  "Well, I want to see Mr. Cotton, if I may."

  "Oh." He was deflated. "Oh well, I'll see to that for you. You stand here while I get the light on." His voice ran on pleasantly as he moved, and presently a grimy light bulb leapt into life and she saw a well-worn strip of lino between drab walls leading to a staircase beyond. "Please come in here."

  Her guide had become more formal now that he could see her.

  "This is the only reception room in the house, I'm afraid. We use it to interview guardians and tax gatherers. Don't let it lean on you. It's our landlord's decor, not ours."

  He held a door open for her and chattered on without permitting her to speak.

  "I'll get Cotton," he said. "Sit down, if the chairs aren't too dusty. Shan't be a moment."

  He raced off like a puppy and she heard him shouting for Denis from the foot of the staircase. Margot stood waiting, her hand on the mahogany table which filled most of the ill-lit room. The rest of the furnishings were lost on her. She was listening, her head down. Not once did it occur to her that he might not be here. She waited confidently for his step and the sound of his voice. Ever since the first shock of the tragedy she had been living in a half-world in which only very simple things were ordinary and in which the great events surrounding her swept her along with them without help. Now for a second all the dreadful lunacy of the situation confronted her intelligence. It was as though she had been climbing a precipice and had suddenly looked down. She grasped the full danger, the full significance, of everything she had learnt since leaving Bonnet's Daimler. All the nerves in her face tingled as if a cold wind had touched her.

  Just then, outside in the street, Detective Officer Carpenter decided that the time had arrived when it was safe to telephone. Meanwhile, in the passage, the obliging student shouted again. This time he was rewarded. A door opened on one of the upper floors and light footsteps echoed on the linoleum-covered stairs. There were a few muttered words and then the door swung in on her. She turned to meet him.

  She had no idea of the unexpected picture she made, her elegance shaming the dingy room but her face white and strained under the frivolous hat. She put out her hands to him.

  "Thank God you're here," she said incoherently. "Quickly, Denis, we've got to hurry."

  The final word faded on her lips. He did not take her hands but turned to close the door behind him before standing back against it. He was as pale as she was. His ugly chin was thrust out and his eyes were darker than she had ever seen them. Their expression was quite new to her.

  "I didn't expect you," he said with appalling distinctness. "I'm sorry you came."

  For a little while she said nothing, but stood quiet, catching her emotions together and holding them like streamers in the wind.

  "You'll have to come back," she said at last, as soon as she was sure of her voice. "The sooner the better."

  "I'm afraid that's quite impossible."

  The light, straggling out from under the solid old-fashioned shade over the table, caught on the bunched muscles on the corners of his jaw. But for that, his tone might have sounded impersonal.

  "But the police-" she began and was cut short by his laugh.

  "Darling," he said, "need we have the melodrama?"

  She almost laughed herself with the relief. She had not known before how real her unadmitted fear had been.

  "You don't know?" she said, unable to prevent her voice from rising a little. "Of course, you don't know. Zoff is dead, Denis."

  She saw his eyes widen and then the veils of reserve crept over them, blotting out all expression.

  "Dead?" he echoed softly, and she felt him become very wary. After a long pause he said quietly: "No, I didn't know."

  He was looking at the wall behind her head and there was a new stolidity about him. In the midst of her bewilderment it came into her mind that he was by no means inexperienced where suspicion was concerned. There had been the Citation a l'ordre de l'armee, his "mention in dispatches." She remembered the extract. "Twice questioned by the Gestapo but disclosed nothing of value to the enemy." He must have looked then much as he did now. The unfairness and incongruity of the comparison edged under her control.

  "Don't you see that you've got to come at once?" she demanded, catching his sleeve. "I left just as the doctor was sending for the police. She didn't-die ordinarily, Denis. I came to find you before they did."

  He stood looking down at her. His hands were in his pockets and she felt the unyielding iron of his arm under the sleeve in her fingers.


  "She was very much alive when I left her," he said. "I'm sorry she's dead. She infuriated me, but I liked her. She was a great character."

  The past tense hit the girl.

  "I loved her," she said, and, without realising what was happening, began to cry. The tears flooded into her eyes and spilled over down her cheeks.

  "Don't do that, for God's sake."

  "No. No, I won't," she said ridiculously and felt blindly in her bag for a handkerchief. He pulled one out of his breast pocket and flicked it over to her.

  "Now look here," he began as she struggled with herself, "do I understand that because of all the nonsense Zoff has been talking I am liable to be arrested? Is that what you're trying to tell me?"

  "Yes."

  "Very well. What am I expected to do in this benighted country? Walk up to the first bobby on the beat and give myself up?"

  "No, of course not. You're expected to-well, to be in the house, to answer questions. To behave, in fact, as if you-"

  "Were innocent. Is that what you're trying to say? Do you suspect me?"

  "If I did," she said, "should I be here? Oh, Denis, what's the matter with you?"

  The sudden direct appeal crept under his guard. His face twisted helplessly and he blundered toward her.

  At that most unlucky of all moments Detective Officer Carpenter softly opened the door. He had an insignificant face, with bloodless lips and wet-looking eyes, and it appeared round the doorway as they sprang apart. After the first quick glance round he came in almost confidently, shuting the door behind him.

  "Mr. Denis Cotton?" he enquired in a much stronger voice than one might have expected to come out of such a shadow of a man.

  Denis nodded and turned to the girl.

  "Mademoiselle Margot Robert."

  "Robert," she corrected him absently. Her eyes, frightened and comprehending, did not leave his face.

  "Thank you," he said. "You'll have to excuse me, I'm afraid. I'm a detective officer of the Bridgewyck borough constabulary."

  "Can I see your warrant?" Denis spoke too quickly. The pale eyebrows rose high and disapproving.

  "I have no warrant. I'm not arresting anybody, sir." Save for the strong, harsh voice, he might have been a reproachful upper servant. "You can see my card, of course, if you want to. We've always got to be ready to show that when we're in plain clothes." He produced his credentials and Denis examined them.

  "Well, what do you want?" he said briefly, handing them back.

  Carpenter hesitated. His eyes were momentarily shifty, and the fantastic notion that he might be physically afraid of them was forced upon them both. There was a chaplet of sweat beads on his forehead.

  "I have to ask you both to stay here," he said. "The inspector is on his way, and when he arrives you'll be asked to make statements in connection with a death which took place at Clough House, Hertford Street, Bridgewyck, this afternoon. You'll understand that I'm not cautioning you, but I must remind you that it will be my duty to make a note of anything you say to one another in front of me."

  He reeled off the official warning and shut his pale mouth tightly.

  Denis looked at Margot. Most of his life had been spent in France; and this unexpected introduction to a new police procedure, with all its apparently meaningless formality, was bewildering.

  "What's to prevent us walking out?" he enquired. The plain-clothes man's shining eyes flickered at him. "Nothing, sir, except that every police constable in the land would be looking for you in twenty minutes. Men on beats round here a good deal sooner," he said and passed his tongue over dry lips. "I should stay where you are, sir. It's only a question of making a statement. Perhaps you'd sit down, and the lady too. I'll keep standing just here if you don't mind."

  He settled himself with his back against the door and they took chairs in silence. The dreary light from under the red shade made heavy shadows on their young faces. Margot kept quiet as long as she could, but at last words escaped her.

  "Of course we're willing to make statements," she said, her clear voice pretty with its faint trace of accent. "Naturally we both want to help all we can. Mr. Cotton knew nothing about it until I told-"

  "I shouldn't, miss-I beg your pardon, mademoiselle." The strident voice was not unkind. "Just wait for the inspector. He won't be long."

  "But I have nothing to hide."

  "I don't suppose you have, miss, but I rather expect he'll want to speak to you separately, if I make myself clear."

  He did, of course. The unnatural quiet continued for a long time.

  At last, when they were all three stiff from holding the same position, Denis stirred.

  "We can smoke, I suppose?" he remarked.

  The plain-clothes man jerked his head up.

  "I can't stop you, sir, but I'd rather you didn't. Unless, you'll have one of mine?" He offered a battered packet, and Margot watched Denis take one and accept a light. The veils were down over his eyes again and his mouth was expressionless.

  The slam of a car door just outside in the street made her jump. The sound of heavy feet, first on the steps and then in the corridor, decided Carpenter. He opened the door with relief.

  Lee came in with a sergeant behind him, and between them they filled the doorway with beef and authority. The inspector's square face was unsmiling, but there was distinct satisfaction in his expression as he took in the group. He was a worshipper of efficiency and today he appeared to have surpassed himself.

  To Margot he came as a shock. She had not expected to find the same man in charge, and his few words to her in the corridor at Clough House returned to her as vividly as if a record had been played back to her: "You're the young lady who made Madame Zoffany change her mind, are you?" So he was prepared. The full story was already clear in his mind. Now, after finding her and Denis together like this, what on earth could he help thinking? She put her hand up to her mouth to smother the startled sound which she felt must come from it. No danger had ever been quite so vivid to her before. It was like the teetering moment of the car crash, just before the impact.

  Inspector Lee cleared his throat. He was prepared to be courteous because he was making no arrest until he had the man safely in his own office and his own chief constable's sanction and approval. After the formal name-taking he issued the invitation which the law prescribes.

  "I must ask you both to accompany me to Bridgewyck police station, where you will each be asked to make a statement. You know why, I think."

  They nodded and he grunted his approval. It was growing very cold in the room despite the overcrowding. The night air poured in from the open street door, bringing with it exhaust fumes and the purr of a running engine.

  Denis caught Margot's eye and signalled to her to move, but he did not touch her hand or pick up her bag for her.

  "Just one other thing before we go, Mr. Cotton." Lee's attempts to sound casual were more successful than his subordinates. "When you left Clough House, Bridgewyck, this afternoon, you are reported as having carried a green leather bag. Is that correct?"

  Margot caught her breath. All through the journey to town, and now while they had been waiting in silence, she had been trying to put that bag out of her mind.

  There was a long pause, a little too long. Denis was hesitating. His face was white and his mouth almost ugly. At last he pulled a wallet out of his coat and took something from it. As they watched him he laid a slip of pink paper on the table. Lee took it up and looked at it. His heavy eyebrows rose.

  "Charing Cross Station parcels office," he said softly. "Any explanation, Mr. Cotton?"

  "Yes." Denis still sounded too cautious. "Madame Zoffany put the bag in my hands just as I was leaving this afternoon at about a quarter past two. I didn't discover everything it contained until I was in a railway carriage coming to London. Because-because of what I found in it, I thought it would be safer in a parcels office than in my room here. It was too late to go to a bank and you can see for yourself that this house is not very
private. The street door is left open most of the day."

  It was not a very convincing story. Even to Margot it sounded lame.

  "I understand." Lee's satisfaction was becoming grim. "You are saying that this is the receipt for the green bag. Well, we'll go and fetch it, if you don't mind. Meanwhile, if you've no objection, I should like to send someone over your room here. Is this your only address?"

  "In London, yes." Denis put a key on the table, and at a sign from Lee, Carpenter picked it up.

  "Which door?" It was significant that he had dropped the "sir."

  "Second floor, first on the left."

  Carpenter went off upstairs and the inspector turned back to the two of them.

  "If you're ready, we'll go," he said briefly.

  It was not quite an arrest, yet Denis travelled down to Bridgewyck on the back seat of a police car, with a plain-clothes man on either side of him. Opposite, with his back to the driver, sat Lee, and next to him, overshadowed by his huge bulk, was Margot.

  Outside Charing Cross the man next to the driver slipped out, to return in a minute or two with Zoff's shabby green jewel case. He handed it in to the inspector, who balanced it lovingly, upon his knees for the rest of the journey. There was no talking.

  SEVEN

  The waiting room at Bridgewyck police station was unpleasantly like a cell. A solid wooden seat ran round three sides of a small high-ceilinged chamber devoid of any sort of decoration. Not even a Wanted notice broke the monotony of the shabby green distemper.

  Seated with his back to the fourth wall, a uniformed police sergeant worked at a small deal table, his bald head gleaming in the light from a naked bulb not far above it. He was writing steadily. In the last hour he had not once looked up.