Dead Man’s Shoes

by Bruce, Leo

  “If he had, which dentist would he have gone to?”

  “Oh, it could only be one. Our sweet old Ferny. Fernandez, his name is, and he’s just an old poppet. He speaks English. Lance has known him for ages. He’d be able to tell you that Lance was here that week-end. You go and see old Ferny. Give him my love, the old pet, and ask him when he’s coming for another midnight swim.”

  “No one else? No shop-keeper?”

  “I shouldn’t think so. Lance used to have his summer suits made here, but that was for economy’s sake before he came into all that delicious money.”

  “He hadn’t come into it then.”

  “Oh no. Of course he hadn’t. But I don’t think he went to the tailors or anything like that. He was with me most of the time. Now I’ve told you everything, so let’s talk about interesting things. If I could mix Martinis like you I wouldn’t be a policeman, I’d be a barman. But of course you are, aren’t you? Is that why I have to persuade you every time to mix another? You’re on holiday. Of course I remember you now. You were a friend of Elizabeth’s. But you look so young still. I hope you don’t think I look too old? It’s a long time, isn’t it?”

  “Tell me, has Lance been back here? Since that weekend, I mean?”

  “Oh really! This is too much! Can’t you talk of anything but Lance? Yes, once, I think. Yes, I’m sure. He’s been here once since then.”

  “I’m most grateful to you for your information, Mrs Gibbons, and I’m sure Lance Willick will be too. You’ve confirmed his alibi.”

  “Is that what I’ve done? It sounds madly important. But you’re not going? You couldn’t be so mean. You mustn’t think of going till you’ve mixed another of those lovely, lovely Martinis. And why must you sit right over there? You know, darling, I don’t want to be personal, but I do think you’re a teeny bit of a bore, if I may say so. You keep asking questions at me from the other side of the room. I can’t have changed all that much since … When was it we met?”

  “About an hour ago.”

  “Since an hour ago. I know one does get older and all that, but really I haven’t gone so far that all I can expect is questions. I mean, have I? I mean, I think you’re madly attractive. Thank you. This is the best you’ve mixed yet. No, sit down. You can’t possibly go now. You’ve only just come. After all these years. Come and sit here. Never mind your hat. Now do sit down again. You make me restless. No, you’re not to go. Come here. Sit down. What’s your name? Sit here, anyway….”

  But Carolus was through the door and in another moment out of the flat.

  His taxi-driver knew where the surgery of Dr Fernandez was to be found, and after waiting for three-quarters of an hour Carolus was admitted and faced a friendly little man in his sixties. He explained what he wanted to know, but Dr’Fernandez shook his head.

  “No, I haven’t seen Mr Willick for some months,” he said. “He must have found relief for his toothache without consulting me.”

  “You have known him for some time?”

  “Oh yes. It must be five or six years. The first time he came to me was to have a special set of teeth made for a part he was playing in a film’.”

  “That makes it five and a half years ago.”

  “Does it? Yes. It would be about that. He’s a nice fellow. I was sorry to hear about his uncle.”

  “Sad,” said Carolus and took his leave.

  Carolus stayed in Cadiz that night and next morning was driven to Gibraltar, whence he would fly to England. He could not get a seat on the plane till next day and decided to stay at the Rock Hotel.

  From here he phoned Lance Willick and told him with some amusement that his alibi had been charmingly and several times confirmed. Lance did not seem much interested, but thanked Carolus for calling.

  He was dining on the terrace later that evening when he had an odd and rather startling experience. He saw Michaelis walk straight towards him.

  Not since the war had Carolus felt quite that mixture of fear and tense curiosity. He did not suppose, of course, that the man was going to pull out a revolver and shoot him here, before a few score dull English people eating a dull English dinner. But the man’s approach was unhesitating and his face unsmiling.

  “You allow me to sit with you?” he asked.

  Carolus nodded.

  “There is something most interesting I will tell you,” Michaelis said as he took the place opposite Carolus. “I am not about to kill you, after all.”

  “I agree, it’s most interesting.”

  Michaelis turned to the waiter and ordered as decisively as he did most things.

  “It saves much trouble,” said Michaelis.

  “And mess.”

  “I lose a little money, but not sufficient that I am disturbed.”

  “I’m sorry to hear you lose money for such a trivial reason. I do hope your expenses have been met?”

  “Certainly. I do not ever work credit.”

  “Very wise. No one should expect to run up an account for assassination. Who was employing you, by the way?”

  “In your little matter? I should not, probably, inform you in any case, for I must be like a doctor respecting professional secrecy. But whether so or not is away from the point, for I simply am not aware.”

  “How is that?”

  “Fortunately my reputation is for integrity and reliability. In my profession it is an essential thing. No one is under need to draw up contract with me. The conversation is sufficient. I received this order by the telephone.”

  “I see. That simplifies it for everyone.”

  “I stipulated a sum of money should be reaching me immediately and a further sum at the happy conclusion of the matter. That is my customary way.”

  “Very sensible, I’m sure. I raise no objection to your use of the word ‘happy’, but wonder whether it is in the best of taste.”

  “I apologize. I should have said ‘regrettable conclusion’. My instructions were received with clearness. I was to find you at the house of Larkin and present you with a warning. If twenty-four hours later on you were not taking this warning I proceed immediately, for my own benefit with utmost caution, to the specified though as we have agreed regrettable conclusion of the matter.”

  “Nicely put. And what is preventing you?”

  “I have lately, within one hour, received new instructions. There is now no reason for any further steps in the matter, as I have been instructed you are not regarded as being of any continuing consequence.”

  “How fortunate! I’m sorry you have been deprived of a chance to show your professional skill, though.”

  Michaelis shrugged his shoulders modestly.

  “There will be more,” he said.

  “In what language were your instructions given?”

  “In not good Arabic. On the one hand it was surely a Moor pretending that he is European, or on the other a European attempting to sound like a Moor.”

  “And the cancellation of those instructions?”

  “The same voice, I believe. The telephone between this and Tangier is not good.”

  “Thanks for telling me that much.”

  “I will go farther and give you the best advice. I already asked you that you go back to England. Now I say that when you get there forget this case. It is ugly.”

  “You knew Larkin, then?”

  “By the sight only. But I heard much about him and his doing. You have had a fortunate escape. I might not by some accidental thing have received the telephone call today, for an instance. Now do not tempt your Providence.”

  “You are very thoughtful. I am leaving for England tomorrow.”

  “I hope you do not forget my advice. You will be so much wiser. I have no connection now. I speak only for consideration.”

  “Tell me, Michaelis,” said Carolus thoughtfully, “would you really have tried to kill me tonight if you had not received that call?”

  Michaelis looked at him as though he were a small boy asking foolish questions.

/>   “Tried? But you are talking stupidity. You would have been dead by now. So very dead.”

  There was something quietly convincing about that.

  “Ah well,” said Carolus.

  18

  HE WIRED Priggley to book him a room at the Barton Bridge Hotel and arrived there before dinner two days later. He found Priggley in the Old Snuggery. It was clear that progress had been made with the young lady who admitted to being called Mickie. She cultivated an appearance of sulky superiority when Priggley left her to join Carolus and polished glasses as though she found it a demeaning task.

  “I suppose you’ve got some lurid story about an attempt on your life,” said Rupert.

  “What have you got?”

  “Nothing startling, because I decided to leave the lot of them to you. But you’ll find quite a bit waiting for you. I’ve seen that drilling bore Packinlay several times. His wife still hasn’t uttered. I’m pretty sure there’s more to come from him if you can bear it. Then Socker says he’s got something to tell you worth a quid or two, and it’s not details of his love-life, apparently. Ridge ventures to think he may have remembered a matter which he’s emboldened to hope will be of service to you. You can, of course, let the lout Habbard talk to you any time. He thinks you’re absolutely out of the top drawer. As for Mrs Gunn, I challenge you to stop her. I long to put a drop of oil on that voice of hers. I can’t get a word from Mrs Hoppy, though, and I haven’t seen the Vicar, though he has rung up several times to ask if you were back, as he wants to see you.”

  “You don’t mention Marylin Sweeny.”

  “I think I must be rather épris. She’s certainly worth looking at.”

  “You’ve forgotten your change,” said Mickie, viciously smacking it on the counter.

  “So you can get to work,” Rupert went on to Carolus, without glancing towards the bar. “They’re all yours. And I hope by the time you’ve done with them you’ll be ready to produce something pretty spectacular in the way of a solution. We need it after this.”

  The hall-porter came in and spoke to Mickie, who addressed Rupert.

  “You’re wanted on the telephone,” she said and conveyed in the terse phrase several interesting sentiments—surprise that Rupert should be wanted anywhere by anyone, her own complete indifference to it, her preoccupation with other and more important matters, her regret that the summons was not to execution.

  “Thanks, duckie,” said Rupert, as he went out.

  Mickie glanced at Carolus, but appeared to decide not to voice her indignation to him. She waited for Rupert’s return, then said, “Who were you calling ‘duckie’ just now?”

  “I give you three guesses,” said Rupert, then to Carolus, “It was Gusset. He’s coming over to see you after dinner. Coffee in the lounge, I think? You’ll have some tense details of the Boy Scout Movement in Barton Abbess. He’ll probably touch you for a fiver, too, as he wants to redecorate the Boys’ Club.”

  “He must surely have something to tell me.”

  “Unless he wants you to give a lantern lecture to the Women’s Guild or take the salute of the Church Lads’ Brigade. There are six members of each, I believe.”

  It was obvious when Mr Gusset appeared, however, that he regarded his mission with the utmost seriousness. His air of enthusiasm was replaced by one almost conspiratorial, though he brightened up now and again at references to his various parish organizations.

  “This is a duty call, Mr Deene. I have given much thought to the matter before broaching it to you. But I feel that in justice to all I can do no less. If I seem to stray beyond the limits of charity, you will understand, I hope.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand much yet,” said Carolus truthfully.

  “You will in a moment, I assure you. You must allow me my little preamble. It’s the pulpit, I’m afraid. Only tonight at our Camp Fire Rag one of my Rovers said that the trouble with me was that I preached. He little knew how right he was. You mustn’t think I let them all talk to me like that. This is really a splendid lad. Splendid. However, I must return to the reason of my visit. It is about the late Gregory Willick. Oh, I know. De mortuis nil nisi bonum. But this is a case of duty.”

  “You know something against him?”

  “A great deal. A very great deal. Not just gossip, mind you. I do not stoop to that. But facts, Mr Deene. Facts, unfortunately. You have, I feel, been given a false impression of the dead man, and it becomes my duty, unhappily, to correct it. He was by no means the model citizen that you would suppose from what you have heard.”

  “I don’t think I supposed that. He seems to have been like most of us—a mixture.”

  “He was not a good man, Mr Deene. I do not refer so much to the fact that he was living in sin with Mrs Sweeny, though there could be no blinking this fact. But even to that … alliance he was unfaithful. His relationship with Ethel Packinlay was an adulterous one. Of that I have proof.”

  “What kind of proof?”

  Mr Gusset hesitated.

  “Ocular,” he said.

  “Really!”

  “I mean, sufficient visual evidence to provide me with proof in my own mind.”

  “Was Marylin Sweeny aware of this?”

  “Oh, no. She adored Gregory. She could see no blemish.”

  “And Packinlay himself?”

  “I dare not conjecture. I do not want to think that it was with his connivance. He is a most valuable parishioner. The mainstay of the Church Council. A kindly supporter of the Church Lads’ Brigade. A contributor to the Parish Mag. But how else can such a thing have gone on? I find it most distressing, and feel that Gregory Willick was to blame.”

  “I see. What other facts were you going to tell me about him?”

  “He was considered most generous. But his generosity, such as it was, was so erratic and moody that it gave more anxiety than help to me. I would ask him for support for my League of Mercy branch and he would refuse. I would beg him for a new tent for the annual camp. No. Would he provide prizes for the Sunday School? He would not. Then, with scarcely any reference to me, he presents the church with a new organ.”

  “Surely he had a right to choose how he would contribute to charity?”

  “Yes. But he owed something to me as the Vicar. What I could have done with that money! Our Scouts’ headquarters needs furnishing. Our camping equipment is out of date. The Boys’ Club needs redecorating. The lads require instructors of various kinds. We might even have been able to send a party to the International Jamboree in Vienna. But no. Mr Willick wanted an organ.

  “There was another thing. He was a most arbitrary man with his household. The servants were overpaid, and thus anxious to keep their jobs, so that he could show his bad temper with impunity. Ridge, who is a sidesman of mine, felt it keenly, I know, and I have no doubt that Hoppy and his wife did too. As for Socker …”

  “Yes. What about Socker?” asked Carolus with some curiosity.

  “The less said the better. I prefer not to discuss him.”

  “Just as you wish. Is there anything more about Willick that you think I ought to know?”

  “His testamentary arrangements …”

  “Surely it was a most generous Will? You were a beneficiary, I understand.”

  “But at what cost, Mr Deene? There was no one in his Will who was not reminded of it. No one. It was most uncomfortable.”

  “It must have been. Still, money’s always useful.”

  “How true! I can never get all I need for our various little organizations. The Church Hall, now. It requires immediate repairs. The heating …”

  Accepting the inevitable and amused because he had laid himself open to it, Carolus got out his cheque-book.

  With great warmth Mr Gusset expressed his gratitude, and Carolus accompanied him to the entrance of the hotel to find two of ‘the lads’ awaiting him.

  “Come on, Gus,” called one, and added enigmatically, “It’s Baked Potato Night.”

  “Ah yes,”
said Mr Gusset, and hurried away between his attendants.

  Next morning at breakfast Carolus told Rupert that he expected to be here another two days.

  “So much work?”

  “Yes.”

  “Or Marylin Sweeny? I’m easy, anyway. When does that ridiculous school start another term? No, don’t tell me. It will be all too soon. What are you going to do today?”

  “Work off as many odds and ends as possible. We’re dining at Barton Place tonight.”

  “Oh, we are? When was that arranged?”

  “Mrs Sweeny phoned me this morning …”

  “Nice of Marylin. I shall look forward to it.”

  “You’ll be sent to bed if you’re not careful.”

  The waiter came in to say that the gamekeeper from Barton Place was waiting to see Carolus, and Rupert grinned.

  “I wouldn’t miss this for the earth,” he said. “I find Socker’s revelations quite delicious.”

  They found him sitting with a sack at his feet. It was he who took the initiative this time.

  “Would it be worth a fiver to you if I was to show you something I found near the place where the old man was done for? Something that would tell anyone like you who asks questions who it was who did it?”

  “If you have anything that is evidence it’s your duty to go to the police.”

  Socker stood up. He evidently did not think Carolus’s remark worth answering.

  “Are you going to do that?”

  “I’d see ’em to blazes before I told them anything I knew. And you, too, if you talk like that. What I found is my own business, and if you don’t want it it will never be anyone else’s.”

  “I’ll give you something for your trouble.”

  Socker sat down again.

  “It wasn’t any trouble, exactly. It just so happened I was on the ground and felt something with my foot.”

  “You’d better give me the details.”

  The wicked leer returned to Socker’s face.

  “Never mind no details nor who it was with me. It was a nice afternoon, and I was petting and pulling to my heart’s content. I was patting and smoothing like a good ‘un. I was happy as a pig in …”