by Simon Brett
Jeremy Garson gave his most debonair smile. “Yes, I’ll do it, Mrs Karlstetter. Just relax, and leave it all to me.”
Isabel held the torch, while Jeremy fiddled with the set of keys Clipper Jenkins had made for him between prison sentences. “I still think it’s some kind of set-up,” she repeated doggedly.
“No, Isabel. I’m a good judge of people and I’d stake my reputation as an investigator that Mrs Karlstetter is absolutely genuine.”
He tried another key in the lock of the drawer. The leather-topped desk, like everything else in the large suburban house, was discreetly expensive. Whatever problems the Karlstetters had, lack of money was not among them.
The edge of Isabel’s torchbeam caught a photograph on the desk. The Karlstetters’ wedding. Married within the last ten years, from the style of clothes. Mr Karlstetter a good twenty years older than his wife. Second marriage perhaps?
This key worked. Carefully Jeremy turned it and reached to slide the drawer. “Oh, gloves,” he said, and punctiliously put on a rubber pair, oblivious of the neat set of fingerprints he had already laid on the desk-top.
The drawer was full of papers and envelopes, amongst which he rummaged carelessly before his hand closed round something in the furthest corner.
“Ahah.” He turned triumphantly to face Isabel, who caught the full blast of the alcohol on his breath. He had had a long lunch at “The Black Fox” with a man “who was going to sign a very big contract for a complete security system for his factory” (though no contract seemed to have emerged from the encounter), and then a couple of stiffening whiskies before the break-in at the Karlstetters.
In his hand was a squat bottle about six inches high. Isabel directed the torch on to the label.
“Phenergan,” she read.
“Would that put someone to sleep?”
“Oh yes. Very popular with mothers of small children—especially when they’re teething.”
“So, if someone were to build up the dose slowly . . .”
“I think it’d be hard work to kill someone. It’s just an anti-histamine.”
“Well, perhaps Mr Karlstetter is softening his wife up on this and then going to move on to something stronger.”
“Perhaps,” said Isabel sceptically.
“Anyway, we’ve proved there’s something fishy going on. Why would a man keep this hidden away in a locked drawer if he wasn’t using it for nefarious purposes?”
Isabel shrugged. “Could be a lot of reasons. Hay fever . . .”
“No, I’m sure we’ve got the proof Mrs Karlstetter asked for. Come on, let’s go.”
“I think we ought to look upstairs first.”
“Why?”
“Might be something else relevant.”
There was. In the drawer of Mrs Karlstetter’s bedside table was a small bottle of pills. Again the label identified the contents.
“Valium,” Isabel announced flatly. “Mrs Karlstetter takes valium.”
“So? So do a lot of housewives.”
“She told you she never touched drugs. Because of the side-effects.”
The outline of Jeremy’s shoulders shrugged. “So she lied to us. So she’s inconsistent. So what?”
“So it just makes me more suspicious. These and her ‘unwilling sleep’.”
“Another of your father’s quotations?”
“Yes. ‘Mortality weighs heavily on me like unwilling sleep.’ Keats. ‘Sonnet on Seeing the Elgin Marbles’.”
There was a tremble in her voice. It was over two years since her father’s death, but a sudden reminder of him could still stab her like a physical pain.
Jeremy responded to her moment of weakness, but, as ever, his response was inappropriate. She felt his arms round her and smelt his whisky breath murmuring “Isabel” in her ear.
She was not shocked. She had been found suddenly attractive at the end of too many parties to be shocked. Besides, it was not the first time Jeremy had touched her. But the last had been twenty years before, when he had been about to go up to university, when she had been about to move from the suburbs to London to work, when their lives had seemed likely to turn out very differently.
“Isabel,” he continued, his voice muffled in her hair, “let’s go somewhere together. Go out to dinner. Not tonight. Thursday. Go out to dinner on Thursday.”
“What about Felicia?” she asked, hoping his wife’s name would bring him to his senses. And yet, to her annoyance, not hoping it whole-heartedly.
“Felicia and the kids’ll be away. Going to London for a couple of days. Come on, Isabel. Dinner on Thursday—what do you say?”
As the word left her lips, she cursed her stupidity in saying “Yes”.
Jeremy was in the office before her the next morning. Most unusual. He looked full of himself.
“I’ve rung Mrs Karlstetter.”
“Oh yes?”
“Yes. And I told her about the Phenergan. She was very pleased.”
“And?”
“And she wants us to compile a dossier proving her husband’s guilt, so that she can take it to the police.”
“I see. And you said we’d do it?”
“She is paying us, Isabel.”
“Yes, of course.”
Jeremy rose from his swivel-chair and wandered over to the window. “I’ve got a few ideas of what to do next, but I haven’t yet decided which should come first . . .”
“I would have thought the first priority was to find out a bit more about Mr Karlstetter.”
He turned to face her. “Yes, that’s what I reckoned.”
“So I should think the best thing would be to ring Mrs Karlstetter again to find out where her husband works—oh, and get the number of his car.”
Jeremy Garson smiled. “That’s what I thought, Isabel.”
“Oh, good morning. Is that Mr Karlstetter’s office?”
“Yes.” The secretarial voice at the other end of the phone sounded young, but confident.
“Is he there?”
“No, I’m afraid he’s in a meeting.”
“Oh, well perhaps I should try later.”
“Can I help?”
“Perhaps you could. I’m ringing from Scotland Yard,” Isabel lied.
“Oh.”
“There’s no need to be alarmed. This is only a routine check. The fact is that a Ford Granada similar to Mr Karlstetter’s was stolen last night and used in a raid on a jeweller’s shop. According to Mrs Karlstetter, her husband was working late last night, so presumably his car was in the office car park. I just wanted to confirm that with him.”
“Ah.” The secretarial voice sounded uncertain. “Um, yes. Well, in fact, his car wasn’t here all yesterday evening.”
“Oh.”
“No. Um, there was rather a rush job on yesterday, and he . . . er . . . wanted me to stay late for some dictation, but I had to get back to my flat for . . . er . . . because I was expecting a phone-call from Australia, so we . . . er, worked at my flat.”
“And where is your flat?”
“Notting Hill.”
“Ah.”
“Shall I get Mr Karlstetter to phone you when he’s finished his meeting, because I’m sure he wouldn’t want anyone to think—”
“No, no need to worry. The raid on the jeweller’s was in Plaistow. Miles from Notting Hill. No, you’ve answered my query. Thank you very much. Now I’ve just got to work through about a hundred more Granada owners.”
Isabel Black put down the phone with some satisfaction. Maybe the case was going to be easier than she’d feared.
“Jeremy,” she said, when she went into his office, “mind if I go up to Town? It’s something on the Karlstetter thing.”
“No, fine. I’d come myself, but I’ve got this lunch at Umberto’s with a racehorse trainer who’s interested in a surveillance system . . .”
“Of course.”
Mr Karlstetter worked for an oil company, whose central office was in a large block near Victoria Stat
ion. Which was ideal for Isabel’s purposes.
She parked her car on a meter round the back of the building, opposite a row of rubbish bins awaiting collection. A moment’s casual sifting produced what she wanted. A brown A4 envelope for internal mail. Most of the boxes on the front had names filled in, but, as is always the case in big organizations, the envelope had been thrown away before they’d all been used. Isabel wrote “Mr Karlstetter” in the next vacant box, put her outdoor coat in the car, and went round to the front of the building.
In the foyer, in front of the lifts, were a cluster of armchairs and low tables. She lifted a magazine off one of them. Oil News. That’d do. She put it into the envelope and, ignoring the sign which said “All Security Passes Must Be Shown”, walked up to the Commissionaire behind the Reception desk.
“Mr Karlstetter?” she asked, holding the envelope up in front of him.
“Seventh Floor. 7106,” said the Commissionaire helpfully.
Mr Karlstetter’s secretary was, as anticipated, a pretty little thing. Early twenties, with a good figure and a knowing eye.
Isabel had studied the other names on the internal envelope. “From Mr Rogers,” she said, naming the last one as she handed it over.
“Oh.” The secretary looked at her curiously. “Why didn’t Linda bring it?”
Isabel made a rueful face. “They can’t think of things for me to do. I’m being retrained. Transfer from Manchester.”
Mr Karlstetter’s secretary nodded without interest.
Isabel left it at that and went out of the room. Leave the more intimate bit for the Ladies.
There was only one on that floor, so she reckoned it was a safe bet, though it might mean a bit of waiting.
She bolted herself into one of the cubicles, propped her handbag mirror against the wall, so that it gave her a view through the gap under the door, and waited.
It was after twelve, so there was quite a lot of pre-lunch coming and going. At quarter to one her quarry arrived. Isabel waited till she heard the cubicle locked behind Mr Karlstetter’s secretary, then flushed her lavatory and emerged. She put her handbag on the shelf beneath the mirror, and started to apply a neutral-coloured lipstick. (Under normal circumstances she didn’t wear make-up, but she had come prepared.)
The other lavatory flushed, and Mr Karlstetter’s secretary came out. She smiled vague recognition at Isabel, washed her hands, and began to repair her more elaborate make-up. She took out a soft brush to highlight the cheekbones.
“Ooh, that’s good, isn’t it?” Isabel commented in her dowdiest voice.
“Hmm.”
“Really doing yourself up.”
“Oh, nothing special.”
“Mr Karlstetter taking you out for lunch then?”
The brush froze in mid-air, and the secretary turned from the mirror to blaze at Isabel, “What do you mean?”
“Oh, sorry I spoke. Thought it was common knowledge, about you and him.”
“What?”
“I’ve only been here a few days, but everyone seems to know.”
“Oh.” The girl looked dejected, and very young. “It’s meant to be a secret.”
“Oh. Sorry. Difficult to keep secrets in an organization like this.”
“Yes. These last four months haven’t been easy. I’ll be glad when we don’t have to keep it a secret any more.”
“Oh, when’s that?” asked Isabel ingenuously.
“When we’re married,” Mr Karlstetter’s secretary replied defiantly.
Which perhaps provided a motive for Mr Karlstetter to want to get his wife out of the way.
An affair between a boss and his secretary. The oldest, shoddiest cliché in the book. Suddenly Isabel had to ring Jeremy to cancel their stupid dinner date for the following evening. Strangle it at birth. Stop it before anything started.
There was no reply when she rang at two. She kept trying, from various call-boxes on Victoria Station. At ten to four he was finally back from lunch.
And a good lunch too, if the fuzziness of his voice was anything to go by.
But when she heard him, something inside her, something that infuriated her, wouldn’t let her say what she’d intended.
“Look, I want to try to follow Mr Karlstetter tonight. Mrs Karlstetter said he was working late at the office again . . .”
“That’s right.”
“But he’s told his secretary—who, incidentally, was what he was working late on last night—”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes. He’s told her he’s spending the evening at home.”
“Ah.”
“So I’m going to try to find out what he’s up to.”
“Good. I’d come up and help you, Isabel, but I think Felicia and the kids are kind of expecting me to . . .”
“Of course, Jeremy.”
Maybe Mr Karlstetter did actually work late that evening. Isabel, from her car parked opposite, saw his secretary leave the building on the dot of five-thirty, but it was over two hours later, just when she was starting to think she’d missed him, that Mr Karlstetter himself appeared. She recognized him easily from the photograph she’d seen at his home. A man fighting ungracefully against encroaching age.
Fortunately, there was not much traffic at that time of night and Isabel was able to follow discreetly without losing him. He made straight for Victoria Station. Oh no, had he changed his mind? Was he actually going home to his wife after all?
But he’d only gone to the station to pick up a taxi from the rank in front. Isabel discovered how much easier it was to do the “Follow that taxi” routine in her own car than in another taxi.
He stopped outside Jules Bar in Jermyn Street and, when he had paid off the driver, went inside. Isabel parked a couple of streets away and followed him in.
The bar was full, but she managed to find a couple of seats at one of the tables. She ordered two drinks from the waitress, aware that a girl waiting angrily for a man who’s late looks less conspicuous than one drinking on her own.
Then she looked round for Mr Karlstetter. He was over in the corner with his arm round a girl. She was also thirty years younger than him, but she wasn’t his secretary. The couple talked intimately, while Isabel maintained a masquerade of alternately looking at her watch and, with venom, at the untouched gin and tonic opposite her.
After about half an hour, Mr Karlstetter and the girl left. With a final gesture of annoyance, Isabel stumped out after them.
Fortunately they had difficulty in getting a taxi, so she had time to get her car and be ready for them.
This time the journey took them South of the river. This girl’s flat was in York Mansions, Prince of Wales Drive.
Isabel waited outside. At half-past ten Mr Karlstetter emerged, looking pleased with himself.
It took him a long time to find a cab, and Isabel kept having to resist the temptation to offer him a lift.
But eventually he got a taxi back over the river and disappeared into Victoria Station. Back home to his wife, presumably, after another hard evening at the office.
Isabel thought about it. A man who wants to marry a younger girl might possibly contemplate murdering his wife to get her out of the way. But a man who is two-timing the younger girl and only using the idea of marriage to keep her on the boil surely wouldn’t bother to go to such lengths. In complicated deceptions the existence of a wife is always a useful long-stop, the ultimate excuse when things get difficult.
As she drove back into the suburbs, a thought struck her. If he’d used his car for his philandering on Tuesday night, why would a man suddenly turn to taxis for the same purpose on a Wednesday?
Then she realized—and laughed out loud at the realization—that he’d only do it if Scotland Yard had been making enquiries about his car’s movements.
“. . . so I’m absolutely convinced, Jeremy, that she’s set the whole thing up herself. She knows what he’s up to, and she wants to get her revenge. She doesn’t really think he’ll g
et arrested for trying to kill her; she just wants to scare the living daylights out of him.”
“Are you sure, Isabel?”
“Positive. That’s how that sort of woman works.”
“What do you mean—that sort of woman? She’s very attractive.”
“That’s neither here nor there. I’m certain that’s what’s happened. She’s just drawing attention to herself and trying to get revenge.”
“Hmm.”
“You challenge her with it, Jeremy. I bet she’ll confess. Her ‘unwilling sleep’ is completely self-induced. When did you say she was coming in?”
“Six o’clock this evening.”
Mrs Karlstetter arrived looking very elegant and confident. She was in Jeremy’s office a long time before the intercom buzzed. Isabel stayed waiting at her desk outside. There might be something that needed tying up. Also, however much she tried to push it from her mind, she couldn’t forget the plan that Jeremy had suggested for Thursday evening.
“Oh, Miss Black,” the intercom asked peremptorily, “could you bring in some Kleenex, please?”
When Isabel went in, Jeremy was saying, “I’m sorry, Virginia, but you couldn’t have hoped to deceive me. When I am engaged to investigate something, I’m afraid I always find out the truth—oh, thank you, Miss Black.”
Isabel handed over a couple of Kleenex to the weeping Mrs Karlstetter.
“If you could just hang on for a little longer, Miss Black. We’re nearly through.”
“Of course, Mr Garson.”
Half an hour later, the intercom buzzed again. “Oh, Miss Black, could you get on to Tiberio’s Restaurant, please, and book me a table for two for eight o’clock tonight. One of the ones in the alcoves.”
To her annoyance, Isabel’s voice trembled as she fulfilled this commission. So he hadn’t forgotten.
At half-past seven, the intercom buzzed again. “Oh, Miss Black, do you think you could just type up Mrs Karlstetter’s invoice. I’d like her to have it before we go out to dinner.”
“Yes, of course, Mr Garson.”
“Thank you. You’re a treasure.” Even over the crackles of the intercom, his voice sounded warm. “So if you could just leave the invoice on the typewriter, that’ll be all. See you in the morning.”