No Ordinary Killing

by No Ordinary Killing (retail) (epub)

  He sipped his Pernod.

  “There are times when I, too, have felt somewhat misplaced,” he continued. “I was a general practitioner. One minute I’m lancing boils, next thing I’m performing battlefield surgery alongside men far more capable than myself.”

  Rideau tutted a sound that said ‘nonsense’.

  “If you’ve saved so much as one life …” he boomed. “Your very good health, sir.”

  Finch smiled. They clinked glasses again.

  A waiter appeared with some bread and two plates of quail’s eggs. The war had clearly not affected supplies.

  “Listen,” said Rideau. “Seeing as we’re doing this against the clock, took the liberty of asking Henri to rustle up a selection of starters. Guinea fowl for the main. Anything not to your liking, do say.”

  “No objection whatsoever,” said Finch, cutting into the tiny yolk.

  “Not bad,” said Rideau, savouring it.

  “You know, Albert, I have to confess. Although I served with the major, I knew him for three months only. It wasn’t a personal friendship but a professional one. He was my CO. I don’t want you forming the opinion we were bosom pals.”

  “Understand, old boy. Don’t think anyone is misinterpreting.”

  Finch didn’t know whether to say it, but the Pernod, at noon, on an empty stomach, had removed a layer of inhibition.

  “Truthfully, on occasion, I found him a little … frustrating.”

  Rideau smiled.

  “Who didn’t? Could be a horse’s arse. Ample evidence of that.”

  “But, by and large, he was always fair with me. That night … Magersfontein …”

  “Was just reading about it. Terrible. Terrible.”

  “… he was forced to put me in a dangerous situation. I know, in retrospect, it was not a decision of his making. Just following orders. Was not in a position to apologise – rank and all that – but I know, through his action he was saying sorry.”

  “Poured you a good old drink, no doubt.”

  “He did that.”

  They clinked glasses again.

  “Poor fellow.”

  “To Major Leonard Cox,” said Finch.

  “To Coxie,” added Rideau.

  They ate in silence for a moment. A waiter arrived with an armful of small dishes – garlic mushrooms, pâté, more bread, olives, pickled artichoke – which he fitted artfully onto the crowded table.

  “And to Detective Inspector Harry Brookman,” Rideau said. “Good man, Brookman. Rather him than the Military Foot Police, I tell you.”

  Finch nodded.

  “You know he was something of a war hero himself?” Rideau offered.

  “Really? I had no idea.”

  “Discretion being the better part of valour and all that. Never mentions it. But I looked him up a few months back. Zulu War. NCO, Natal Native Contingent. Distinguished Conduct Medal … Isandlwana.”

  “Good God.”

  “One of the few to get away. Now that was a bloodbath all right.”

  Finch nodded.

  “You know him from previously?”

  “A year or so ago …”

  He waited to swallow a morsel.

  “… organised gangs were pilfering fruit from the cannery … Own a factory in the Eastern Cape … Not just sundry items, whole crates of fresh produce. Sophisticated operation, selling it to city restaurants on the black market. That’s how I got to know Henri here. Had been on the wrong end of it himself. Every cloud, as they say. Brookman, cunning fellow – a Hebrew you understand; you know, Dreyfus and all that – cracked the case with a clever sting operation.”

  There was a pause. Rideau’s head hung sorrowfully for a moment.

  “I don’t know whether you know, but I was with Cox the night he was …”

  He hesitated. He couldn’t bring himself to say it.

  “I didn’t,” said Finch.

  Brookman had been under no obligation to divulge such details, he knew. The detective was well-versed in keeping his cards close to his chest. Maybe he had engineered this very meeting so that Rideau might unburden himself.

  Rideau sensed his candour might be unsettling Finch.

  “All on record,” he hastened. “Went over it with the inspector in great detail. We were at the Officers’ Club. Cox had been playing poker. Never been one for cards myself. Or gambling for that matter. But when I arrived, Coxie was already half-cut. Absolute cert the others would take him to the cleaners …”

  He turned wistful.

  “You know he never used to be like this, Ingo. Back in India. He was always a character, make no mistake – funny, liked a drink, prone to pomposity. But, underneath it all, was an absolute brick. God’s truth, that Cox you’d have loved. The devil got to him over here.”

  “The devil has got to a great many men.”

  “Felt it my duty to spirit him away, get him sobered up. My place up at Wynberg. Kip the night. Sleep it off. Didn’t want him embarrassing himself either at the club or back at his guest house. Spot of bother with the landlady, he said. Bit of a dragon.”

  “You were looking out for him. Friends do that.”

  Rideau blushed. He carried on.

  “Anyway, while there, word was that this Kilfoyle character had showed up. Must have been an ex-military man in some capacity or they wouldn’t have let him into the club. Didn’t see him myself but knew that Cox owed him a wedge. There were accusations of Cox having welched on it. Not good form. A gentleman doesn’t do that. And Kilfoyle was a volatile sort, so I gather.”

  Rideau explained how he had helped Cox find his coat and walked him – supported him – outside into the street. He then sat him on a bench while returning inside to settle his bill. Once that was done he had gone back to procure them both a cab, but Cox was no longer there.

  “Just assumed he’d either managed to climb into one all by himself … there’s a rank nearby. Or some kindly soul had stepped in to help him. Asked a couple of people thereabouts. They confirmed the latter. Someone had popped up to lend a hand. This ‘Good Samaritan’.”

  He turned mournful again. His eyes cast down.

  “Next thing I hear is that Coxie’s dead. Our Samaritan wasn’t quite so good after all …”

  He growled it out.

  “… Bastard Kilfoyle.”

  Henri appeared with an earthenware jug of the house white, a Burgundy. Rideau resumed his composure, tasted it and nodded his approval.

  “Local wine, you know, but the vines were transplanted from Chablis. Soil perfect, climate most equable. I tell you now, South African wine can compete with the very best. My next business move. You know, if you should choose to stick around after this show’s over, we’ll need good men, whatever their field of expertise.”

  Finch smiled. It was a compliment, meant sincerely or otherwise. But he was right. For a house white it was of exceptional quality. Crisp, dry. Rideau looked Finch in the eye.

  “Ingo, may I be candid.”

  “By all means.”

  “I wanted to meet you for the very reasons I said, helping Cox and all that. Saying thank you. In some ways you’re my final link, being the last person to spend substantial time with him, official capacity or otherwise. At some point I’ll be back in India. His family will want to know what happened … and about you. But I also …”

  He stared down into his drink. Finch was glad that someone else had been thinking along the same compassionate lines.

  “Please … Go on.”

  “You see there’s something still bothering me. Something doesn’t add up. If Kilfoyle offed our friend, why on earth kill him by such an elaborate method?”

  He paused, suddenly realising he might be revealing information to which Finch was not privy. Finch understood. He offered a quid pro quo.

  “It’s all right, I’m familiar with the details,” he explained. “Was there at the mortuary.”

  “Of course you were. I’m sorry. It’s just that until they get a noose
round Kilfoyle’s neck, one must exercise caution.”

  “You think he’ll swing?”

  “I’m not a betting man, as I’ve said, but for this I would place a substantial wager.”

  Finch reflected for a moment. He was as anxious as anyone for justice to be done but his gut told him that an eye for an eye wouldn’t solve anything. There had been enough death this past three months.

  “But anyway, Ingo. What I’m saying is, regardless, I think there’s more to this than meets the eye. I tell you, I’m convinced of it. If you’ve heard the stories, you’ll know Cox was a mixed-up chap. But he was a good sort underneath, as I’ve said. Leaves a lovely wife, Isadora, and three children. The oldest, Peter, is about to become a Lancer himself … No one, none of them, deserves this.”

  Finch wriggled awkwardly.

  “I have to ask you, Albert. But Cox’s wife, Isadora, did her middle name begin with a ‘V’?”

  “A ‘V’?… No, it’s Susan.”

  “Might ‘V’ be from a pet-name?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. Why on earth do you ask?”

  “Major Cox wore a wristwatch, a good one. It bore an inscription dedicated to him. A loving inscription. From someone identified only as ‘V’ …”

  He wasn’t sure whether Rideau knew about Vesta Lane. He kept it neutral.

  “You know, I hate to raise it with such a good friend of his, but there’s good reason to believe that Cox wasn’t … putting it delicately… entirely in honour of his wedding vows.”

  Rideau stared for a moment. He raised a stick of asparagus, bit the end off, savoured it, swallowed.

  “You have to understand … A colonial marriage. How shall I say, it’s built on a different kind of foundation. Months, years away from home …”

  “An inscribed watch. There seems to be more to it than mere physical release,” ventured Finch.

  “Look, I do know this … He and Kilfoyle had got into some silly schoolboy spat about an actress, if that’s not overstating her talents. Music hall performer. Bit of a tart in my opinion …”

  Rideau did know.

  “… but I hadn’t thought that to be anything more than a bit of infatuation, maybe a bit of bravado in terms of whom his rival was. Peacocks strutting their stuff.”

  “You do know Cox and Kilfoyle had been arguing about something … someone, in the immediate run-up to his death. Kilfoyle had threatened to kill him over it.”

  Rideau blew out a hiss of disapproval.

  “I do, and I understand where you’re coming from. But honestly, selling everything down the swanee for that woman …?”

  Finch decided to say it.

  “Vesta Lane?”

  Rideau nodded.

  “I mean, have you seen her, for God’s sake? Come on.”

  “You did concede that Cox had been a horse’s arse of late.”

  Rideau gave a wry grin. It gave way to a sudden look of panic. “This watch. If it were to be shipped back home it would cause …”

  Finch hitched up his left sleeve to reveal the offending item. He undid the leather strap – awkwardly given it was newish and stiff – and handed the timepiece over.

  “Gosh, I remember him wearing this,” he sighed, examining it front and back. “Fairly recent acquisition. Had no idea it was a gift. A gift from a lady friend …”

  There was incredulity in his voice.

  “… from Vesta?”

  “Though it prudent to keep it on me,” Finch said, stretching the truth a little. “There’s was a break-in at my room … The Belvedere.”

  Rideau exhaled a whistle. He turned the watch over again.

  “Must admit I was a little surprised they’d put you up there. You know they’ve had a spot of bother of late.”

  Rideau handed the watch back.

  “Glad I held on to it,” said Finch, strapping it back on. “Zeiss. German. Keep it out of harm’s way.”

  Rideau shook his head.

  “You know, the more I hear about this business, Ingo, the more I don’t like it.”

  Rideau took a moment, as if wanting to lay it out correctly.

  “It’s not the question of Kilfoyle’s culpability,” he said. “He had the motive, all right – the debts, the love rivalry. I heard, too, about the unwelcome visits to the guest house and the death-threat he made. But something about this just doesn’t sit right. I mean, this sudden resolution. It’s too neat. Too tidy. Too convenient. Too quick. And, heavens, this poisoning business. Unless the coroner—”

  “I’m afraid, I believe Krajicek … the deputy coroner … to be correct on this.”

  “You’re the medical man. I wouldn’t take issue.”

  Rideau dabbed his mouth with his napkin.

  “I’m pretty sure Brookman feels the same way about it all, too, but for his own good reasons is keeping his counsel. Not giving us the whole picture. Playing the long game.”

  “Funny you should say that …”

  Finch tried to check himself but it was too late.

  “… Brookman didn’t once mention the question of poisoning during his interrogation of Kilfloyle this morning.”

  Damned Pernod. Damned wine.

  Not two hours gone and he had already betrayed Brookman’s confidence. Rideau either missed the admission or chose to spare Finch’s embarrassment by saying nothing.

  “But you’re right,” Finch added swiftly. “I’m not entirely comfortable with the outcome either.”

  “Tell me,” said Rideau. “You said Cox and Kilfoyle might have been arguing about someone. Did Cox ever mention any other names. Not a woman … I mean associates, enemies?”

  Finch shrugged a no.

  “Anyone, perhaps, by the name of …”

  He looked around then whispered it.

  “… Moriarty?”

  “Moriarty? You mean like Sherlock Holmes?”

  “Exactly.”

  “No… Not that I recall. Although …”

  He had heard it somewhere. Where?

  “Although?” asked Rideau.

  “I don’t know. Rings a bell. Can’t think …But why—?”

  “It’s a name that’s cropped up, that’s all. For obvious reasons I’m guessing a pseudonym. Moreover it’s a name that seemed to surface anytime some misfortune was about to befall Cox, muttered in conversations, overheard from behind closed doors. Cox was always furtive about it. But that name kept coming back.”

  Finch racked his brains. Moriarty. Where, oh where?

  “Don’t worry, Brookman’s fully aware of all this,” Rideau assured. “Not trying to go behind his back. It’s just that I think what happened to Coxie, it’s part of something … bigger.”

  “Bigger?”

  “Much bigger.”

  Henri arrived with the guinea fowl – two plump browned birds on what looked like a cranberry sauce base. A couple of waiters appeared to fuss over the cutlery and napkins and refresh the drinks.

  “Be a good chap,” whispered Rideau. “You hear anything, let me know. Within the bounds of what’s right and proper vis-à-vis the investigation …”

  Was that a little acknowledgement of Finch’s indiscretion?

  “… You have my card. And, likewise, if I—”

  “You can contact me via regimental HQ,” offered Finch. “Might take a while but a letter will get to me eventually.”

  A waiter flipped the door sign to ‘Ouvert’ and proceeded outside with a large metal winding handle to crank open the awning.

  Chapter Thirty

  Once again, Finch found himself walking up the path to the Esperanza guest house. It was now quite hot, far more humid than the previous day. He was damp with sweat under his tunic.

  Already he regretted drinking at lunchtime. He had a headache coming on. All he wanted now was water.

  Finch rapped at the door and Mathilda answered. She issued only the faintest of smiles, looking a tad embarrassed, and ushered him into the cool front sitting room with its loud clock and s
tern old Heer Du Plessis gazing down.

  He could hear footsteps on the stairs and stood in anticipation of his wife’s entry. It was, instead, an army officer. The uniform was Royal Artillery, a second lieutenant. He carried his left arm in a sling. Though his most striking feature was the black patch over his left eye. There were healing burn marks down the left side of his face.

  He saluted. Finch returned the gesture.

  “Captain Finch?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mrs Du Plessis asks that you join her upstairs. Major Cox’s room.”

  “You are part of the enquiry?”

  “No, no, sir. A guest here.”

  The man saluted again.

  “Need to be off, sir.”

  “Thank you. Very good.”

  He exited, bidding a jolly ‘Good afternoon, Mathilda’ as he left.

  Finch climbed the creaky stairs to where he found the door to room three ajar. He pressed his palm against the door but it would only go so far, blocked by something.

  He squeezed in, catching his brass buttons on the jamb. It was the bedstead that had caused the obstruction, twisted out of position. It had been stripped bare, the mattress strewn at an angle, tufts of feathers exploding from deep knife slashes hacked into it.

  Faded rectangular patches on the pale green wall paint correlated to the smashed framed floral prints lying on the floor, the pictures cut from their frames. A pillow lay next to them. The glass-breaking had been done artfully.

  Finch looked around. The wardrobe doors hung open revealing nothing within except hangers. Empty drawers protruded from the chest. From the mantelpiece and a small bookshelf, a few ornaments and cheap volumes had been piled to one side. The curtains had been ripped off the pole and lay in a heap.

  Mrs Du Plessis had slipped into the room silently behind him.

  “An insurance investigator.”

  “Insurance investigator?”

  “Exactly,” she hissed.

  “Who were they?”

  “They? … Just one man. Strong looking. Knocked at the door this morning. Said very little. Presented me with a letter from the Cape Town Authority, something about my hotelier’s licence and a routine check of the deceased’s room. I showed him upstairs and left him to it.”