Tickled to Death and Other Stories of Crime and Suspense

by Simon Brett

  I tried all the contacts I had on the island, but none of them had seen Brad. I didn’t give up, though. I wanted to do it for Sam, to prove Brad’s crime and see to it that he was put behind bars where he belonged.

  It was the next day she told me she was going to have to fly back to the States. Her father, L. K. Stratton, had had a mild stroke when he heard the news of his elder daughter’s death, and the younger one had to fly back to be by his side. Inspector Kantalakis had cleared her from his inquiries, and she was free to go. Apparently, he was near to an arrest; just needed the results of the forensic analysis to clinch it.

  Though I was depressed about her going, the news of the investigation front was promising. The police were obviously near to nailing Brad, just needed proof of the poison in the Turkish Delight.

  All they had to do then was find him.

  Unless I could find him first.

  I arranged that I’d see Sam off at the airport.

  It was less than two weeks since I’d first seen her when I kissed her goodbye. A lot had happened in less than two weeks. When I first saw that splendid body I hadn’t dared hope that it would ever be pressed to mine with such trust and hope.

  “I’ll come back as soon as I can, Rick. Really.”

  “I know. Let’s hope you’re back to give evidence at a murder trial.”

  “I will be. Don’t worry.”

  Her baggage was checked in through to Kennedy via London. There didn’t seem much more to say. Our togetherness didn’t need words.

  Not many, anyway. “And then, Sam, we’ll get married, huh?”

  She nodded gently and gave me another kiss. Then she turned and went off towards the Departure Lounge. Tall, beautiful, and mine.

  Not only mine, it occurred to me, but also very rich. Suddenly I had got it all, suddenly I was the sort of man who got that sort of girl.

  I watched her into the Departure Lounge. She didn’t turn round. We didn’t need that sort of clinging farewell.

  Suddenly I got a shock. A dark, denim-clad figure had appeared beside her in the Lounge.

  Brad.

  I couldn’t go through ticket control to save her. I had to find the police. And fast.

  I was in luck. As I rushed into the dazzle of sunlight, I saw Inspector Kantalakis leaning against my car, with his hands behind his back.

  “The man who murdered Candy—I know who it is,” I panted.

  “So do I,” said the Inspector.

  “He intended to marry Sam, but he wanted the money too, so he poisoned Candy.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Well, why don’t you arrest him?”

  “I’ve been waiting for a forensic report for final proof. Now I have it. Now there will be an arrest.”

  “Good. He’s in the airport building. The plane leaves in half an hour.”

  “Yes.” The Inspector made no move.

  Fine, he must have the place staked out. We could relax; there was plenty of time. I grinned. “So the poison was in the Turkish Delight.”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “No?”

  “It was really a very straightforward case. Our murderer, who made no secret of his intention to marry for money, tried first with the older sister, the heiress. Unfortunately they quarrelled, so he took up with the younger one. But she would only inherit if her elder sister died. So . . .” He shrugged.

  “I didn’t realize Brad had ever made a play for Candy.”

  “He hadn’t. Nor did he kill her. After he saw the girls in the Villa Costas, he spent the rest of the day of the murder with me.”

  “Then who are we talking about?” I asked blankly.

  Inspector Kantalakis drew one hand from behind his back. It held a rusty tin, a tin which had been bought from Manthos’ shop. “I found this in the trunk of your car.”

  “Yes, I bought it to deal with the rats at the Villa Costas.”

  “Really? It was this poison that killed Candice Stratton. It was put in the bottle of Coca-Cola.”

  “The Coca-Cola!”

  “Yes. The Coca-Cola you gave to the murder victim. Do you deny you gave it to her? The maid Theodosia saw you.”

  “No, I gave it all right. I see! Brad must have dosed it, knowing Candy’d drink it sooner or later. He must have fixed it when he came round that morning with the Turkish Delight. Sam may have seen him go to the fridge. Ask her.”

  “I have asked her, Mr Lawton. According to Miss Samantha Stratton, there never was any Coca-Cola in the Villa Costas. Nor, incidentally, were there any rats,” Inspector Kantalakis added portentously.

  Then he arrested me.

  And I realized that, after all, I wasn’t the sort of man who got that sort of girl.

  I don’t know. Maybe I’m just stupid.

  HOW’S YOUR MOTHER?

  “IT’S ALL RIGHT, Mother. Just the postman,” Humphrey Partridge called up the stairs, recognizing the uniformed bulk behind the frosted glass of the front door.

  “Parcel for you, Mr Partridge.” As he handed it over, Reg Carter the postman leant one arm against the door-frame in his chatting position. “From some nurseries, it says on the label.”

  “Yes—”

  “Bulbs, by the feel of it.”

  “Yes.” Humphrey Partridge’s hand remained on the door, as if about to close it, but the postman didn’t seem to notice the hint.

  “Right time of year for planting bulbs, isn’t it? November.”

  “Yes.”

  Again Reg was impervious to the curtness of the monosyllable. “How’s your mother?” he asked chattily.

  Partridge softened. “Not so bad. You know, considering.”

  “Never seem to bring any letters for her, do I?”

  “No. Well, when you get to that age, most of your friends have gone.”

  “Suppose so. How old is she now?”

  “Eighty-six last July.”

  “That’s a good age. Doesn’t get about much.”

  “No, hardly at all. Now if you’ll excuse me, I do have to leave to catch my train.”

  Humphrey Partridge just restrained himself from slamming the door on the postman. Then he put his scarf round his neck, crossed the ends across his chest and held them in position with his chin while he slipped on his raincoat with the fleecy lining buttoned in. He picked up his brief-case and called up the stairs, “Bye, bye, Mother. Off to work now. Be home usual time.”

  In the village post office Mrs Denton watched the closing door with disapproval and shrugged her shawl righteously around her. “Don’t like that Jones woman. Coming in for The Times every morning. Very lah-di-dah. Seems shifty to me. Wouldn’t be surprised if there was something going on there.”

  “Maybe.” Her husband didn’t look up from his morbid perusal of the Daily Mirror. “Nasty business, this, about the woman and the R.A.F. bloke.”

  “The Red Scarf Case,” Mrs Denton italicized avidly.

  “Hmm. They say when the body was found—” He broke off as Humphrey Partridge came in for his Telegraph. “Morning. How’s the old lady?”

  “Oh, not too bad, thank you. Considering . . .”

  Mrs Denton gathered her arms under her bosom. “Oh, Mr Partridge, the vicar was in yesterday, asked me if I’d ask you. There’s a jumble sale in the Institute tomorrow and he was looking for some able-bodied helpers just to shift a few—”

  “Ah, I’m sorry, Mrs Denton, I don’t like to leave my mother at weekends. She’s alone enough with me being at work all week.”

  “It wouldn’t be for long. It’s just—”

  “I’m sorry. Now I must dash or I’ll miss my train.”

  They let the silence stand for a moment after the shop door shut. Then Mr Denton spoke, without raising his eyes from his paper. “Lives for his mother, that one.”

  “Worse things to live for.”

  “Oh yes. Still doesn’t seem natural in a grown man.”

  “Shouldn’t think it’d last long. Old girl must be on the way out. B
een bedridden ever since they moved here. And how long ago’s that? Three years?”

  “Three. Four.”

  “Don’t know what he’ll do when she goes.”

  “Move maybe. George in the grocer said something about him talking of emigrating to Canada if only he hadn’t got the old girl to worry about.”

  “I expect he’ll come into some money when she goes.” When Mrs Denton expected something, it soon became fact in the village.

  Humphrey Partridge straightened the ledgers on his desk, confident that the sales figures were all entered and his day’s work was done. He stole a look at his watch. Five twenty-five. Nearly time to put his coat on and . . .

  The phone rang. Damn. Why on earth did people ring up at such inconvenient times? “Partridge,” he snapped into the receiver.

  “Hello, it’s Sylvia in Mr Brownlow’s office. He wondered if you could just pop along for a quick word.”

  “What, now? I was about to leave. Oh, very well, Miss Simpson. If it’s urgent.”

  Mr Brownlow looked up over his half-glasses as Partridge entered. “Humphrey, take a pew.”

  Partridge sat on the edge of the indicated chair, poised for speedy departure.

  “Minor crisis blown up,” said Brownlow languidly. “Know I was meant to be going to Antwerp next week, for the conference?”

  “Yes.”

  “Just had a telex from Parsons in Rome. Poor sod’s gone down with some virus and is stuck in an Eyetie hospital, heaven help him. Means I’ll have to go out to Rome tomorrow and pick up the pieces of the contract. So there’s no chance of my making Antwerp on Monday.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “Yes, it’s a bugger. But we’ve got to have someone out there. It’s an important conference. Someone should be there waving the flag for Brownlow and Potter.”

  “Surely Mr Potter will go.”

  “No, he’s too tied up here.”

  “Evans?”

  “On leave next week. Had it booked for yonks. No, Partridge, you’re the only person who’s free to go.”

  “But I’m very busy this time of year.”

  “Only routine. One of the juniors can keep it ticking over.”

  “But surely it should be someone whose standing in the company—”

  “Your standing’s fine. Be good experience. About time you took some more executive responsibility. Bound to be a bit of a reshuffle when Potter retires and you’re pretty senior on length of service. . . . Take that as read then, shall we? I’ll get Sylvia to transfer the tickets and hotel and—”

  “No, Mr Brownlow. You see, it’s rather difficult.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “It’s my mother. She’s very old and I look after her, you know.”

  “Oh come on, it’s only three days, Partridge.”

  “But she’s very unwell at the moment.”

  “She always seems to be very unwell.”

  “Yes, but this time I think it’s . . . I mean I’d never forgive myself if . . .”

  “But this is important for the company. And Antwerp’s not the end of the earth. I mean, if something happened, you could leap on to a plane and be back in a few hours.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s impossible. My mother . . .”

  Mr Brownlow sat back in his high swivel chair and toyed with a paper knife. “You realize this would mean I’d have to send someone junior to you . . .”

  “Yes.”

  “And it’s the sort of thing that might stick in people’s minds if there were a question of promotion or . . .”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes. Well, that’s it.” Those who knew Mr Brownlow well would have realized that he was extremely annoyed. “I’d better not detain you any longer or I’ll make you late for your train.”

  Partridge looked gratefully at his watch as he rose. “No, if I really rush, I’ll just make it.”

  “Oh terrific,” said Mr Brownlow, but his sarcasm was wasted on Partridge’s departing back.

  “Mother, I’m home. Six thirty-five on the dot. Had to run for the train, but I just made it. I’ll come on up.”

  Humphrey Partridge bounded up the stairs, went past his own bedroom and stood in the doorway of the second bedroom. There was a smile of triumph on his lips as he looked at the empty bed.

  Partridge put two slices of bread into his toaster. He had had the toaster a long time and it still worked perfectly. Better than one of those modern pop-up ones. Silly, gimmicky things.

  He looked out of the kitchen window with satisfaction. He felt a bit stiff, but it had been worth it. The earth of the borders had all been neatly turned over. And all the bulbs planted. He smiled.

  The doorbell rang. As he went to answer it, he looked at his watch. Hmm, have to get his skates on or he’d miss the train. Always more difficult to summon up the energy on Monday mornings.

  It was Reg Carter the postman. “Sorry, couldn’t get these through the letter box.” But there was no apology in his tone: no doubt he saw this as another opportunity for one of his interminable chats.

  Partridge could recognize that the oversize package was more brochures and details about Canada. He would enjoy reading those on the train. He restrained the impulse to snatch them out of the postman’s hand.

  “Oh, and there was this letter too.”

  “Thank you.”

  Still the postman didn’t hand them over. “Nothing for the old lady today neither.”

  “No, as I said last week, she doesn’t expect many letters.”

  “No. She all right, is she?”

  “Fine, thank you.” The postman still seemed inclined to linger, so Partridge continued, “I’m sorry. I’m in rather a hurry. I have to leave for work in a moment.”

  The next thing Reg Carter knew, the package and letter were no longer in his hands and the door was shut in his face.

  Inside Humphrey Partridge put the unopened brochures into his brief-case and slid his finger along the top of the other envelope. As he looked at its contents, he froze, then sat down at the foot of the stairs, weak with shock. Out loud he cried, “This is it. Oh, Mother, this is it!”

  Then he looked at his watch, gathered up his brief-case, scarf and coat and hurried out of the house.

  “There’s more about that Red Scarf Case in The Sun,” said Mr Denton with gloomy relish.

  “It all comes out at the trial. Always does,” his wife observed sagely.

  “Says here he took her out on to the golf links to look at the moon. Look at the moon—huh!”

  “I wouldn’t be taken in by something like that, Maurice. Serves her right in a way. Mind you, he must have been a psychoparth. Sergeant Wallace says nine cases out of ten—”

  Partridge entered breezily. “Telegraph, please. Oh, and a local paper, please.”

  “Local paper?” Mrs Denton, starved of variety, pounced on this departure from the norm.

  “Yes, I just want a list of local estate agents.”

  “Thinking of buying somewhere else?”

  “Maybe not buying,” said Partridge, coyly enigmatic.

  He didn’t volunteer any more, so Mr Denton took up the conversation with his habitual originality. “Getting colder, isn’t it?”

  Partridge agreed that it was.

  Mrs Denton added her contribution. “It’ll get a lot colder yet.”

  “I’m sure it will,” Partridge agreed. And then he couldn’t resist saying, “Though with a bit of luck I won’t be here to feel it.”

  “You are thinking of moving then?”

  “Maybe. Maybe.” And Humphrey Partridge left the shop with his newspapers, unwontedly frisky.

  “I think,” pronounced Mrs Denton, focusing her malevolence, “there’s something going on there.”

  “You wanted to see me, Partridge?”

  “Yes, Mr Brownlow.”

  “Well, make it snappy. I’ve just flown back from Rome. As it turns out I could have made the Antwerp conference. Still, it’s giving young Dyett a
chance to win his spurs. What was it you wanted, Partridge?” Mr Brownlow stifled a yawn.

  “I’ve come to give in my notice.”

  “You mean you want to leave?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is rather unexpected.”

  “Yes, Mr Brownlow.”

  “I see.” Mr Brownlow swivelled his chair in irritation. “Have you had an offer from another company?”

  “No.”

  “No, I hardly thought . . .”

  “I’m going abroad. With my mother.”

  “Of course. May one ask where?”

  “Canada.”

  “Ah. Reputed to be a land of opportunity. Are you starting a new career out there?”

  “I don’t know. I may not work.”

  “Oh, come into money, have we?” But he received no answer to the question. “Okay, if you’d rather not say, that’s your business. I won’t inquire further. Well, I hope you know what you’re doing. I’ll need a month’s notice in writing.”

  “Is it possible for me to go sooner?”

  “A month’s notice is customary.” Mr Brownlow’s temper suddenly gave. “No, sod it, I don’t want people here unwillingly. Just go. Go today!”

  “Thank you.”

  “Of course, we do usually give a farewell party to departing staff, but in your case . . .”

  “It won’t be necessary.”

  “Too bloody right it won’t be necessary.” Mr Brownlow’s eyes blazed. “Get out!”

  Partridge got home just before lunch in high spirits. Shamelessly using Brownlow and Potter’s telephones for private calls, he had rung an estate agent to put his house on the market and made positive enquiries of the Canadian High Commission about emigration. He burst through the front door and called out his customary, “Hello, Mother. I’m home.”

  The words died on his lips as he saw Reg Carter emerging from his kitchen. “Good God, what are you doing here? This is private property.”

  “I was doing my rounds with the second post.”

  “How did you get in?”

  “I had to break a window.”

  “You had no right. That’s breaking and entering. I’ll call the police.”

  “It’s all right. I’ve already called them. I’ve explained it all to Sergeant Wallace.”

  Partridge’s face was the colour of putty. “Explained what?” he croaked.