Off the Record

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  ‘A sense of duty?’ suggested Steve.

  ‘Maybe.’ Gerry rolled his whisky round his tongue. ‘In a way, I suppose it was good of him to write. I really must reply. Did you say he was ill?’

  ‘He’s been ill,’ said Molly. ‘He came back from India a few months ago. The change of climate got to him and he nearly went under with bronchitis. He wrote to me, too.’ She hadn’t cared for that resentful look and wanted to restore the fellow-feeling between them. ‘I didn’t like his letter at all. Stiff and proper were about the kindest things that could be said for it. I’ve never met him, either, Gerry, and, quite frankly, after that letter, I don’t really want to.’

  Steve looked at Molly’s disapproving face and laughed. ‘Don’t take it to heart so. He must have been stumped for something to say. A man like Uncle Maurice loathes publicity and he would have hated seeing the news splashed all over the papers.’

  Gerry finished his whisky. ‘None of us exactly enjoyed it. I don’t suppose it’ll be forgotten for a long time yet.’ He looked at the clock and smothered another yawn. ‘I’d really better be going. I’ll see you tomorrow, Steve.’

  ‘Steve,’ said Molly thoughtfully, after Gerry had gone. ‘Did you know Gerry’s name wasn’t really Carrington?’

  ‘But it is Carrington,’ he said, puzzled. ‘He told us so. I knew about his Lithuanian granddad, if that’s what you mean.’ He pulled her to him. ‘Don’t be such a goose. It isn’t important.’

  ‘No,’ said Molly. ‘No, I don’t suppose it is.’

  In the bedroom of his bungalow in the village of Stonecrop Ash, Oxfordshire, Colonel Maurice Willoughby, late of the First Battalion, The Bedfordshires, folded up the newspaper – a careful reading of The Evening Standard was part of his inflexible nightly routine – and, leaving it on the bedside table, got ready for the night.

  He was relieved to see there was nothing about that fool, Otterbourne or that lunatic, Carrington, in the paper. He had known Carrington (not that that was his real name, of course!) would come to a bad end.

  Neither of his sisters had shown the slightest sense or respect for family tradition in the men they’d married. All the Willoughbys had been service people as long as anyone could remember. It was ingrained in them. Agatha’s marriage to Walter Lewis, a City type, had been just about acceptable, but Edith had married Carrington in the teeth of her father’s horrified disapproval. By jingo, that had been a scene and a half but Edith had inherited the family streak of stubbornness and no mistake. Colonel Willoughby stroked his moustache into place with a wry smile. He couldn’t help admire that in a way. It showed spirit, at least. There was nothing admirable about the Otterbourne’s of this world. These fellers who set themselves up to change the world were all the same: starry-eyed dreamers, socialists and hypocrites, the lot of them.

  A spell in India would have sorted him out pretty damn quickly. Juldi as they used to say. Juldi! It meant quickly. Damn quickly. There was no one he knew now who would understand the word, he thought wistfully. No one who could understand his longing for those days of purpose and discipline, of an ordered world shot through with the intense heat and dazzling colours of India. No, there were very few friends left and not much family to speak of. Carrington’s son – he was still waiting for a reply to his letter – and Stephen, of course. He sighed.

  Although Stephen was a likable boy with a decent war record, he lacked the spirit, the grit, of the men he’d known in India. He smiled grimly. This truly was a new world with new ways. He didn’t, he thought, as he drifted into sleep, care much for it.

  It was the noise that woke him. He stirred uneasily in his bed, drifting on the edge of sleep. The noise, a stealthy, creaking noise, sounded again. With the sense of danger very near, the need for action pulled him towards wakefulness. He mumbled the word khitmagar, but his khitmager and all the servants belonged to another Maurice Willoughby, a younger Maurice Willoughby, who had lived half a world away in India.

  ‘Koi hai?’ Is anyone there? He said it out loud, abruptly shaking off sleep. He sat up in bed, wincing as he jarred his knee. Arthritis and all the discomforts of old age flooded back. There was someone in the next room. For a moment his hand went to the bell, then hesitated. If he rang the bell, what would happen? Not a rush of able-bodied menservants excitedly offering help, but Mrs Tierney, the housekeeper, sleepy and worried, asking what was the matter. No. He was the only man in the house. It was his house and his responsibility and he had never shirked responsibility.

  He swung his legs over the side of the bed, listening. There was definitely someone in the next room. Damnit, hadn’t he been told? ‘There’s been a spate of burglaries in the villages roundabout, sir,’ Horrocks, the village constable had said only last week, looking over the gate into the garden. ‘Make sure your windows and doors are properly fastened. You can’t be too careful.’

  He reached for his dressing gown and his walking stick. There it was again! He was being robbed, by Gad. Robbed! A cold anger started to grow. He wasn’t a rich man and that some thief should feel free to simply take what he had was beyond belief.

  He didn’t light the oil lamp. There was no point giving the beggars any more warning than he had to. In the dim gleam from the wedge of moonlight that fell across the carpet, he half-saw, half-felt his way to the chest of drawers and took out an electric torch and his heavy service revolver. He slipped the torch into his dressing-gown pocket and opened the door into the hall of the bungalow as quietly as possible. He intended to creep out but with one hand holding the door handle and the other his revolver, his stick slipped out from under his arm, just missed the runner of carpet, and clattered to the wooden floor.

  Colonel Willoughby drew his breath in with a gasp, waiting for a shout, a thump, a sound of alarm from the dining room. Nothing happened. Slowly, and with one hand against the wall for support, he reached down and retrieved his stick. He’d got away with it, he thought with grim satisfaction. He’d show them. He’d catch Constable Horrocks’ burglars for him. No village thief was going to get the better of him. Now for the dining room. He’d didn’t have an elaborate plan of action. No, the simpler the better. He’d swing back the door, switch on the torch and shout, ‘Hands up!’ If that didn’t stop their little games he would be very much surprised. His stick was a nuisance, but he’d manage.

  He paused for a moment outside the dining-room door to get his breath back, then, grasping the revolver firmly, lent his stick against the wall, pushed open the door and clicked on his torch. In the brief glow of the electric bulb he saw the burglar’s eyes, gleaming above the scarf wrapped round his chin. Hiding was he? He’d show the feller, by Gad!

  The Colonel lunged forward and pulled away the scarf, desperate to see his enemy. The stranger’s face contorted in savagery and, for the first time, the Colonel felt a jolt of fear. He felt the crunch of intense pain, then his world disappeared in a jagged sheet of light.

  FIVE

  Hugo Ragnall stepped into the hallway of the flat in Mottram Place, took off his hat and coat, handed them to Connie, the maid, who was waiting patiently to hang them up and, concealing a yawn, adjusted his tie in the mirror. ‘Where’s Mr Lewis, Connie?’

  ‘He’s having breakfast, sir.’

  ‘Good-oh.’ One of the best features of breakfast in the Lewis household was coffee. Mr Otterbourne, although eschewing alcohol, had insisted on the finest Mocha and Molly Lewis kept up the tradition.

  ‘Morning,’ said Steve Lewis from behind the newspaper as Ragnall walked into the morning room.

  ‘Would you like some coffee, Hugo?’ asked Molly, reaching for the pot.

  ‘Yes, please,’ he said, rubbing his eyes. ‘I’ll take it into the study, if you’d rather I didn’t disturb your breakfast.’

  ‘Sit down for few minutes,’ said Lewis, halfway through his scrambled eggs and bacon. ‘We’ve got a fair old amount of work to get through but there’s no need to start just yet.’ He looked at his secretary critically. ‘
You seem tired.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. It’s the pillow my landlady wished on me. I’m sure it’s stuffed with rocks.’

  ‘You look tired yourself, Steve,’ said Molly, with wifely concern, seeing the dark patches under her husband’s eyes. ‘I’ve said before that you’re working too hard. What time did you get to bed last night?’

  ‘I don’t honestly know,’ Steve confessed. ‘It took me ages to get Gerry’s ideas and mine into some sort of order. We’ll go through the paperwork this morning, Ragnall. Gerry and I are meeting Dunbar at one o’clock and I want to be absolutely certain of my ground. I intended to come straight to bed,’ he added to Molly, ‘but when I finished, I had a nightcap and what was intended to be ten minutes with the newspaper. I’m ashamed to say I fell asleep on the sofa.’ He ate his eggs thoughtfully. ‘There’s no point denying I’m worried about today. I know Gerry’s got right on his side, but if he tries to lay the law down to Dunbar, the entire deal might go up in smoke. The top and bottom of it is that Gerry can’t stand the man.’

  ‘You can’t blame him,’ said Molly. ‘I don’t like Mr Dunbar very much, either.’

  ‘Which is why,’ said Steve, ‘I’m so concerned to get our part of the deal tied up so tightly. I haven’t finished yet,’ he added between mouthfuls of bacon. He nodded towards Ragnall. ‘I’ll show you the costs I’ve worked out. Gerry’s not concerned with that part of the business, of course, but I promised I’d bring him up to date before we have lunch with Dunbar.’

  He broke off as the maid came into the room with a telegram on a silver salver. With a puzzled look he took the envelope and ripped it open. As he read it, his face altered. Molly was shocked by his expression.

  ‘Steve? What is it?’ she asked quickly.

  He handed the telegram to her. ‘It’s Uncle Maurice,’ he said in bewilderment. ‘It’s from his housekeeper.’

  Molly took the telegram from his outstretched hand. ‘Regret inform you Colonel Willoughby victim of attack,’ she read out loud. ‘Condition serious. Come at once. Tierney.’

  Ragnall gaped at her in astonishment. ‘Colonel Willoughby’s been attacked?’

  ‘What on earth can have happened?’ said Molly. ‘He can’t have been attacked. No one would harm an old man, surely?’

  Steve took back the telegram, his forehead creasing in a frown. ‘That’s what it says. I wish to God he was on the telephone.’ He turned back to Molly. ‘I don’t know what’s happened but I’ll have to go and see him.’

  ‘Of course you will,’ she said quickly.

  ‘Who would want to hurt an old man like that?’ He looked at her in disbelief. ‘I can’t credit it. This is the absolute devil.’ He drummed his fingers on the table. ‘Oh, my God, and there’s so much else to do. It couldn’t have happened at a worst time. Ragnall, wait for me in the study, will you? Jot a note to Dunbar and cry off the meeting. I can’t possibly see him now. Tell him what’s happened. You can say ‘unforeseen family circumstances,’ if you don’t want to go into too much detail. He’s staying at the Marchmont Hotel in Southampton Row. If you hurry you can catch the post. Do it now and I’ll have a word with you before I go.’ Steve looked utterly distracted. ‘I need to give you some instructions for the day.’ He stood up, turning to Molly as Ragnall left the room. ‘I’ll have to get a move on. I can hardly believe it. Uncle Maurice! I know he’s difficult at times, but . . .’

  ‘What does that matter, Steve? This is awful.’

  ‘I know!’ He looked at her in utter frustration. ‘It would happen now! I really needed to see Dunbar.’

  ‘Can’t Hugo Ragnall go in your place?’

  Steve shook his head. ‘He’s got appointments of his own. They could be cancelled, but Dunbar’s such a tricky devil that he’s bound to put one over on him. Besides that, if there’re any documents to sign, I have to do it. What’s really worrying me is Gerry’s temper. Damn!’ He looked at her, struck by a sudden thought. ‘Can you help?’

  ‘Me?’ exclaimed Molly. ‘Of course I will, but how can I? I don’t know anything about business. Even if I did, Mr Dunbar wouldn’t talk to me. Not seriously, I mean.’

  Steve shook his head. ‘That’s not what I meant. You’re quite right about Dunbar, but can you see Gerry? After he’s talked to Dunbar, I mean? They won’t be able to decide anything about Otterbourne’s but I want to know what Dunbar’s agreed to about Gerry’s machine. If Gerry knows he’s got to tell you what happened, he might manage to keep the lid on his temper.’

  Molly hesitated for a brief moment. The thought of meeting Gerard Carrington alone was oddly unsettling. ‘All right.’

  Steve breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Thanks. That’s something, at any rate. You’d better telephone the university and leave a message for him.’

  ‘If I arrange to meet him at five we can have tea together.’

  He kissed her forehead briefly. ‘Make it a Lyon’s or an A.B.C. or something. He probably can’t run to anything more extravagant.’ He squeezed her shoulders. ‘I’ll probably have to stay at Uncle Maurice’s for one night at least, but I’ll let you know. Damn!’ He left the room in a rapid stride.

  Molly walked into the hall and, with a deep breath, picked up the phone.

  At quarter past five that afternoon, Mrs Evelyn Dunbar, a stout, well-dressed, grey-haired lady, leaning heavily on an ornate walking stick, stood impatiently by the large mahogany desk which dominated the marble-clad lobby of the Marchmont Hotel. There was no one on duty. If she had been more familiar with the Marchmont Hotel she would have realized how unusual that was. ‘Disgraceful,’ she muttered. ‘Absolutely disgraceful,’ and, for the third time, rang the brass bell on the counter, keeping up the peal until a distracted-looking clerk shot out of a door marked Private and hurried across the lobby to the desk.

  ‘I have been waiting,’ said Mrs Dunbar, in an unmistakable and irritated Scottish burr, ‘for a full five minutes. If you and the rest of the staff in this hotel intend to ignore the bell, why have one at all?’

  ‘I’m terribly sorry, madam,’ said the clerk. ‘There’s been a . . .’ He hesitated and swallowed, mindful of Mr Sutton, the manager’s, snarled instructions. Answer that bloody bell, will you, and for Pete’s sake, don’t let on to any of the guests! ‘There’s been a slight hiccup in routine, madam,’ he said with an attempt at a smile. ‘I really do apologize. How may I help you?’

  ‘I telephoned earlier in the afternoon and requested a note be delivered to one of your guests, a Mr Andrew Dunbar.’ She raised an imperious eyebrow. ‘I trust that note was delivered?’

  ‘Yes, Madam,’ said the clerk hurriedly. The question seemed to throw him off-guard. He swallowed once more. ‘Mr Dunbar, you say? I . . . I . . . Yes, of course it would have been delivered.’

  The grey-haired lady looked at him sharply. ‘You seem very uncertain on the matter. Never mind. Mr Dunbar is here, isn’t he?’

  The oddest expression flickered across the clerk’s face. ‘Mr Dunbar? Yes, he’s here all right. But . . .’

  ‘Mr Dunbar is unaccountably late for our appointment. I would be grateful if you could send up to his room requesting him to join me at once.’

  The clerk looked downright harried. ‘I’m sorry, Madam, there may be a problem. What name is it, please?’

  ‘Dunbar. Mrs Andrew Dunbar.’

  The clerk gulped. ‘I do beg your pardon, Mrs Dunbar, but I think it would be as well if you came and had a word with the manager. There’s been an accident . . .’

  Sergeant Butley looked carefully round the second-floor hotel room. It was getting on for half past five and he should have gone off duty nearly half an hour ago. However, duty was duty and if a guest at the Marchmont Hotel chose to shoot himself after hours, so to speak, then it was all in the day’s work. Apparently the man’s wife was downstairs. He’d have to see her before he left.

  He sighed unhappily and looked at the rigidly still body slumped across the desk. Andrew Dunbar, a stout, middle-aged, balding
manufacturer of wireless and gramophone sets, resident in Falkirk, Scotland. Suicide.

  Sergeant Butley’s face lengthened. It wasn’t easy talking to relatives after a death, even when it was an accident. Suicide made it that much worse.

  He looked at the fleshy cheeks and sprawled arms and shook his head. On the desk lay a sheet of hotel writing paper inscribed with two words; Forgive me. Beside the paper was a fountain pen, its cap carefully screwed back on. The gun, a neat automatic pistol, was loosely clasped in Dunbar’s hand.

  ‘It’s funny how often they come to a hotel to do it,’ offered Constable Flynn. ‘Think they’ll save trouble at home perhaps.’

  ‘Maybe,’ agreed Butley.

  ‘Or,’ continued Flynn, ‘they could want one last night of living it up.’ He looked round the room appreciatively. ‘It’s nice here, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not if you’re dead,’ said Butley dryly. Although not an imaginative man, he was conscious of a feeling of depression. The Marchmont was clean and comfortable with a reputation for good service, but as the gateway to the next world it was so . . . so ordinary.

  The curtain flapped and through the open window came the sounds of a fine summer evening in London. The hotel overlooked Southampton Row with all its bustle and traffic. A car backfired in the street below and Sergeant Butley nodded in recognition. It sounded just like a shot. That, presumably, was why no one had heard the gun. It would be easy to mistake the noise, and you’d never dream it was a shot you’d heard. Talking of the shot . . . Sergeant Butley tilted his head critically to one side. ‘Constable Flynn?’

  ‘Yes, Sarge?’

  ‘Just have a look at where this bullet went in. Right at the back of his head.’ Constable Flynn knelt down beside the body and peered closely. ‘Do you notice anything?’

  ‘It’s an awkward way to shoot yourself, sir. Why, the bloke must’ve twisted his arm right round. I . . . I don’t see how he could have done it.’