Murder a la Mode

by Patricia Moyes

“What is?”

  “It was handed in at eight-fourteen P.M. on Friday evening—in London.”

  “Nancy,” said Henry, “will you be a dear girl and get into a taxi straight away and bring that telegram to me here, at Style?”

  “But I haven’t got a stitch on!”

  “Well, put something on. And hurry. This may be serious.” Henry hesitated for a moment, and then said, “You still haven’t explained why Veronica isn’t back.”

  “Well, I suppose they decided to stay a bit longer. They were probably having a good time,” said Nancy, reasonably.

  “Donald is back in the office,” said Henry.

  “Is he? Gosh. Then where’s Ronnie?”

  “If I knew that,” said Henry, “I’d be a lot happier. See you in fifteen minutes.”

  He rang off and turned to Donald. “I won’t tell you for the moment what I think of you,” he said. “That can wait. Meanwhile, did you send Veronica a night-letter telegram on Friday night?”

  “No. Certainly not.”

  “Who else knew about your mother being ill?”

  “Everybody in the office, I should think. Father rang me here, and I asked Mr. Walsh if I could leave early to catch the four-forty from Liverpool Street. He said I’d have to ask Miss French, which I did. And I went down to the fashion room with some layouts and mentioned it in there. Beth was out, but everyone else must have known.”

  “And how many people,” Henry went on, “knew of your original plan to take Veronica to Porchester for the week end?”

  Donald reddened again. “It wasn’t what you think, sir,” he said. “I’m terribly fond of Ronnie. I respect her…”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about—for the moment,” said Henry. “I want to know how many people knew, apart from Nancy Blake and Beth Connolly.”

  “I’m afraid most people did.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Well…you know Ronnie. Can’t keep anything to herself. She was chattering about it all over the office.”

  “I see,” said Henry, unamused. “So everyone in the place—except me—knew that you and Veronica were going off for what, in my day, used to be called a dirty week end?”

  “Yes… I mean, no.” Donald seemed to gain courage. “If you don’t mind me saying so, sir, you really are awfully old-fashioned.”

  “In this instance, I’m not ashamed of it.”

  “No…you misunderstand me, sir. I mean, these days lots of people go away for week ends and holidays without sleeping together. Honestly. The fact that you assume that that’s what we…well, I can only say that people must have been very loose-living in your day. Actually, I’m rather shocked.”

  “You’re shocked?” For the second time, Henry found himself speechless. He also had a sneaking suspicion that, on this point if on no other, Donald might be telling the truth. “Well,” he said, “that aspect of it can wait. The point is that you didn’t go away together, unless your father was lying to me, which I doubt. You remained in Essex, while Veronica was deliberately lured away from home by a faked telegram; a telegram sent by somebody who knew all about your plans, which means, somebody from this office. You can go now, but don’t leave the building. I’ll probably need you again.”

  When Donald had gone, Henry plunged thankfully into a whirl of activity. At least, it helped to take his mind off the looming nightmare. First he broke the news to Emmy, and sent her off posthaste to Scotland Yard with a selection of photographs of Veronica. Then he telephoned the Yard and made sure that a description of his niece, and the clothes she was wearing, should be circulated immediately, and the matter treated as urgent. He set in motion a search for the cabby who had picked Veronica up in Victoria Grove, and despatched detectives to question the railway staff at Waterloo. Nancy arrived with the telegram, which was at once sucked into the maw of the police machine. Within a very short time, the operator who had taken it in would be traced.

  More as a matter of form than anything else, Henry also rang the White Hart Hotel at Porchester. He was told that Mr. MacKay had booked a double room for Saturday night, but had telephoned on Friday afternoon to cancel it. Nobody of that name had turned up, and there had been no sign of anybody answering to Veronica’s description.

  When he felt that he had done all he could in the matter of Veronica’s disappearance, Henry turned to his long-postponed talk with Teresa Manners.

  Teresa was sitting at her desk, looking as ravishing and as vague as ever. When Henry came into the office, a dark-haired girl whom he had not seen before was standing beside a rackful of dresses, displaying them one by one for Teresa’s approval. For all her air of feyness, Teresa’s judgments were crisp and to the point.

  “Yes…very good. I like that. But we’ll have to change the buttons. Plain large smoked pearl is what it needs… No, terrible. Out. It’s last season’s colour, and I will not have any more pleated skirts… Do come in, Inspector, I shan’t be a moment…nearly finished… Ye-es, I suppose so… The suit’s all right, but the shirt is all wrong. Get a plain cream shantung shirt with gold cufflinks… What in heaven’s name is that horror?”

  She raised her beautifully plucked eyebrows as the girl held up a bright green cotton dress.

  “It’s the one from Barrimodes, Miss Manners,” she said. “I don’t like it any more than you do, but you know how it is. We’ve simply got to use something. It was the best of a bad lot, honestly. You should have seen the others.”

  “The sooner Barry gets cracking with his Nicholas Knight range, the easier life will be for everyone,” said Teresa feelingly. She inspected the offending dress with distaste. “Doesn’t he make it in any other colours?”

  “Eventually it’ll be in blue, pink and yellow,” said the dark girl, “but this is the only sample he’s got at the moment.”

  “Blue, pink and yellow… Ye Gods…!” said Teresa in despair. She studied the dress through half-closed eyes, with the same expression of concentration that Henry had seen on Beth Connolly’s face. At length she said, “Tell him that if he makes it in black, we’ll use it. Not otherwise. Black with gilt blazer buttons. And make him rip that ghastly pocket off the skirt. It’ll never be chic, but that way it’ll be inoffensive.”

  “He won’t like that, Miss Manners,” said the girl gloomily.

  “I know he won’t,” said Teresa, “but you’ll just have to bully him. If he won’t take it from you, get Beth to talk to him—he eats out of her hand. But get it into your head that we are not going to use the green. Over my dead body.”

  “Yes, Miss Manners. Well, that’s the lot. I’ll go and ring Mr. Barry straight away.” Pushing the dress rack ahead of her, she vanished into the Babel of the fashion room.

  “That’s one of my babies,” said Teresa. There was affectionate pride in her voice. “She used to be a secretary, and I’m training her up as a fashion editor. She’s going to be good. Well, Inspector, what can I do for you?”

  Henry sat down, lit a cigarette, and said, “Miss Manners, what happened to the small parcel that Helen Pankhurst asked you to bring back from Paris?”

  Teresa looked taken aback. “Goodness,” she said. “I’d forgotten clean about it. That’s how vague I am. You know what it was?”

  “Yes,” said Henry. He told her.

  Teresa nodded. “I’m sorry about forgetting,” she said, “but it couldn’t be important, could it? A silly little thing like that…”

  “It’s possible,” said Henry, “that it cost Helen her life. If things happened as I think they did. Where is it now?”

  “In my…no, by God, it’s not. How very odd. I’m certain I packed it, but now I come to think of it, when I unpacked my case on Wednesday, it wasn’t there. If it had been, of course, I’d have remembered and told you about it.”

  “It wasn’t there,” said Henry, “because somebody took it.”

  “Oh, surely not. I must have left it at the Crillon. You know what a scatterbrain I am.”

  “O
nly in some things,” Henry thought to himself. Aloud he said, “I presume your case wasn’t locked.”

  “No. I never bother.”

  “That’s what I thought. And your case was in the darkroom all the evening—in fact, all night.”

  “Yes. But it’s fantastic. You mean, somebody stole…”

  “I think we can be more precise,” said Henry. “And it wasn’t exactly stealing. The somebody was Helen.”

  “Helen? Then where is it now?”

  “My guess is that it doesn’t exist any longer,” said Henry. “Anyhow, never mind that for the moment. I just wanted to check with you to see if my assumptions were right. Now tell me something else. What are the mysterious rumours which are going round about Nicholas Knight?”

  Teresa went very white, and Henry saw that her fists were tightly clenched. “Rumours? What rumours? I don’t know what you mean!”

  “I think you do,” said Henry. “I mean, the stories about the pirating of Paris designs.”

  “Oh, that.” Teresa seemed to relax a little. “That’s just rag-trade gossip. It wouldn’t interest you.”

  “But it does.”

  “Well, the simple truth is that Nicholas has an astonishing flair for recreating a Paris line, just by looking at a photograph of the model. He’s not cheap, but his prices are nothing like as expensive as going to Dior or Monnier for the original. So lots of women get Nicholas to do them what he calls his ‘Paris specials,’ which cost considerably more than a dress from his ordinary Collection. He won’t do them for everyone, just for favoured customers.”

  “Does he make a secret of it?” Henry asked.

  Teresa smiled. “He doesn’t,” she said, “but his clients do. Naturally, they want people to think they’ve been buying in Paris, instead of getting a cut-price copy. In fact, we only heard of it quite recently here at Style. When rumours started going round, people began saying that the copies were so good that they must be made from original toiles. I think that’s nonsense. What I think Nicholas does do is to get hold of photographs illicitly, ahead of the release date, but that’s not a deadly sin. Anyhow, there have been a few awkward moments when women who’d bought the original model found themselves face to face with a Knight copy. But there was no scandal until a month or so ago, when the Duchess of Basingstoke turned up at a big charity affair in exactly the same dress as Felicity Fraser, the actress. The Duchess’s dress was the real thing, which had been flown over that morning from Monnier’s. Felicity’s came from Nicholas Knight.”

  “And why,” said Henry, “did that cause more scandal than the other encounters?”

  “Because,” said Teresa, “the Duchess was livid—not with Knight, but with Monnier, who had assured her that the dress was absolutely exclusive. She complained bitterly to him, and he confirmed, with a host of witnesses, that the model of her dress had never been allowed to leave the salon and had never been photographed. As soon as she picked it, after the original showing of the Collection, it was removed from the range, as it were, and kept under lock and key for her.”

  “What was Knight’s explanation?”

  “He says that somebody who was at the Press Show described the dress to him, and that he studied the cut from photographs of similar models.”

  “Would that be possible?”

  Teresa shrugged. “I doubt it,” she said.

  “There are, of course,” said Henry, “such things as miniature cameras disguised as cigarette lighters and so forth. But that would presuppose an expert photographer on the job.” Teresa looked uncomfortable, but said nothing. “Oh, well,” Henry added, “I suppose the truth will come out one day. It’s just one thread in a complicated story. By the way, what was your room number at the Crillon? I think I’ll just check up with them in case you did leave that little parcel there.”

  “I’m sure I…” Teresa began. Then her face lit up. “I know who might remember!”

  “Who?”

  “Veronica Spence. You see, I was very hectic on the last day, so she went out and bought it for me. Perhaps she has it still.”

  “I hope to God,” said Henry, “that you’re wrong.”

  He left Teresa looking bewildered, and made his way to the art department. Donald was working silently in a corner, intent on self-effacement. He started nervously as Henry came in, and then buried his nose in the layout he was preparing. Henry ignored him, and went over to the desk by the window, where Patrick was sitting and doodling on his blotter.

  “Can you spare me a few minutes?” he asked.

  “I suppose so.” said Patrick heavily. He pushed back his chair. “This place gives me claustrophobia. Let’s go and have a drink.”

  “All right.” said Henry. “Where?”

  “I know a dirty little pub round the back,” said Patrick, brightening a little. “No fear of meeting anyone else from Style there. It’s much too sordid.”

  The pub was shabby, comfortable, and deserted. Henry and Patrick installed themselves on an oaken settle where Patrick ordered a large whisky, and Henry a tomato juice. Patrick looked at him with concern.

  “That muck won’t do you any good.” he remarked. “Have something stronger.”

  “I don’t like drinking on duty.”

  “You look as though you could do with a couple of stiff ones,” said Patrick shrewdly. “What’s up?”

  “Veronica Spence has disappeared.” said Henry.

  “The pretty little model? How very odd. Where is she?”

  “If I knew that,” said Henry, “she wouldn’t have disappeared.”

  “Ah. Yes. See what you mean.” Patrick chuckled suddenly. “Probably found herself another boy friend to console her for her lost week end with Donald.”

  “You knew about that?”

  “I should imagine everyone did. She was blabbing all over the office about it on Friday.”

  “Little fool,” Henry said bitterly.

  “Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?”

  “No, but it’s why I look as though I need a drink.”

  “What did you want with me, then?”

  “Why haven’t you told me,” said Henry, “what you and Helen knew about smuggling designs out of Paris?”

  Patrick looked considerably taken aback. “How did you know anything about that?” he demanded.

  “I’m a detective,” Henry answered. Paraphrasing Michael, he added, “That’s what I’m paid for—to detect.”

  “Well, for a start,” said Patrick, “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t know anything about it myself.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Helen came to me and asked me to get her certain things, and to try some experiments. I didn’t know what for. It was only later on that I realized how they might be used…and then, of course, I kept my mouth shut.”

  “Why?”

  “You think I’d incriminate my darling girl, after she’s dead? Of course not. And besides…well…it wasn’t really Helen’s idea, you see. She was working on it for somebody else.”

  “And who was that?”

  “X,” said Patrick.

  When Henry got back to Style, he found a message telling him to ring Scotland Yard. He sent out for a sandwich lunch, and picked up the telephone.

  It appeared that reports were beginning to come in. The telegram had been sent from Charing Cross Road Post Office—one of the few in London which stay open late at night. The counter clerk was positive about one thing—it had been handed in by a woman. No, he wouldn’t recognize her again; that was just why he remembered her, he added paradoxically. Pressed to elaborate this, he explained that she had looked so odd, all muffled up in a mackintosh and a big scarf and her hat pulled down over her eyes, and she’d spoken in a funny sort of whisper. She told him she had a terrible cold. Asked whether it could possibly have been a man in disguise, the clerk was emphatic. Not a chance, he said. Her hands were beautiful, with long fingernails painted red, and the one thing he had taken a good loo
k at as she went out were her legs, and they were smashing. High-heeled shoes, too, with those dagger heels and pointed toes. You don’t learn to walk in those unless you’re born to it. Henry felt convinced. It had not been a man.

  The taxi driver had been traced, and confirmed that he had picked Veronica up in Victoria Grove and dropped her at Waterloo. Of course he remembered. Wouldn’t be likely to forget a pretty girl like that, with her bright red coat and that funny brown lipstick. She’d seemed very gay and excited, he said, and had chattered all the way. She’d told him her lipstick was the latest thing from Paris. She’d also told him that she was going to Porchester for the week end with her boy friend. The last he’d seen of her was going into the station toward the trains.

  On the other hand, the ticket collector at number ten platform was quite certain that she had not boarded the Porchester train. Certainly, there were quite a lot of people, but he was sure he’d remember if there’d been a beautiful girl like that. Besides, the taxi driver’s evidence showed that she arrived at the station at eleven o’clock, when the barrier was only just open and very few people about. The station staff at Porchester Halt were even more emphatic that nobody had alighted from the train. It was a tiny place, and Veronica would certainly not have passed unnoticed. It seemed, in fact, that between the entrance to Waterloo Station and the barrier of number ten platform, Veronica Spence had vanished into thin air.

  There was one other piece of information awaiting Henry. The handwriting experts had made a careful examination of Helen’s letter, and gave it as their unanimous opinion that both sheets had been written by the same hand.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  BY THAT EVENING, ninety-nine percent of the population of Great Britain must have been aware of the fact that Veronica Spence was missing. Henry had decided that an all-out press, radio and television campaign was his only hope. At the same time, he was more than afraid that the whole thing might be too late. The girl had disappeared on Saturday morning, and it was Monday before the alarm had been raised. One fact only gave him hope. He, better than anybody, knew the characteristic tendency of murderers to repeat themselves, but Veronica had not been poisoned. The whole elaborate scheme of abduction suggested kidnapping rather than murder. However, Henry never lost sight of the fact that he was dealing with clever people.