Bitter Water

by Douglas Clark

  4

  “Okay, George, spill it,” said Green as he followed Masters into the latter’s office a few minutes later. “The kids have gone, so there’s nobody here but us chickens.”

  “Close the door and take a seat, Bill.”

  Masters sat at his desk and started to rub a large flake of Warlock for his pipe. Green carefully extracted a cigarette from what appeared to be a battered packet. The cigarette was pristine. Masters always wondered how Green managed to have perfect cigarettes when his packets invariably looked as if they had been trodden on. He wondered if he should ask his assistant how the trick was done and then thought better of it.

  Green waited until the pipe had been carefully packed, lit, tamped down again and then relit to get the level, even burn that Masters always aimed for. Green wondered how Masters managed it so well when other pipe smokers never seemed to achieve the same result without the expenditure of at least half a box of matches. He didn’t bother to ask. Instead he said: “Something’s bugging you, George.”

  “Just a little, at the moment.”

  “But liable to cause trouble later?”

  “I hope not, because it’s personal, Bill.”

  Green sat up in surprise. “Let me get this straight. You heard something in Howard Collier’s flat this afternoon which affects you personally?”

  “And perhaps you, too, Bill, in a way. That’s why I broke off the interview when I did. I wanted time to think and to discuss it with you.”

  Green shook his head. “There was nothing said there that affects me. Why should there be?”

  “Earlier today you learned that Wanda and I had been to the first night of Round the Barley.”

  “You said a friend of Wanda’s had given her a couple of complimentaries.”

  “Right. The friend’s name is Margot Carlyle.”

  Green pursed his lips and gave an inward whistle.

  “The wife of the chap in the wheelchair who puts up the money for these shows?”

  “The same. Hugh Carlyle.”

  Green grimaced. “So what? You know him. Or should I say your missus knows his missus? He couldn’t have pushed Sanders downstairs and I don’t suppose his wife did. I mean I don’t suppose this Carlyle, being chairbound, gets up to any funny business with blown-up actresses. Not to make his wife jealous.”

  Masters smiled. “From what I know of Carlyle, Carla Sanders would be the last woman he would leave his wife for. Margot is quite something.”

  “If she’s Wanda’s friend, I would expect her to be.”

  “Quite. They are very much of a type.”

  “So, what’s the problem?”

  “As yet, there isn’t one. But you remember Collier saying Sanders had been invited to Carlyle’s party on Saturday night.”

  “Again, so what?”

  “Wanda and I were invited to that party, Bill. It was held at Carlyle’s house. We didn’t go because, as you know, I was Duty SO on Saturday night, and you and Doris very kindly kept Wanda company during the evening.”

  Green looked across the desk. “The party was at Carlyle’s house, you say?”

  Masters nodded.

  “Is that significant? I mean, is it any different from holding a party in a hotel or a pub or a church hall, even?”

  “It remains to be seen,” replied Masters. “But the written reports we’ve had say that Sanders was taken ill early on Sunday morning.”

  “Oh, lord! I was forgetting that.” Green stubbed out his cigarette. “What you are saying is that there is the possibility that something happened on Saturday night that blew up on Sunday. But that’s rubbish, George, and you know it. How could a girl like Sanders get bitten by a rat at a party in a house such as I imagine this bloke Carlyle owns? He’s pretty wealthy, isn’t he? With a posh house that’s done up and dusted so much there wouldn’t be a crumb for a rat to feed on.”

  “Quite right. A lovely home.”

  “Then the only way Sanders could have been got at by any rat that night was if she left the party and took to the nearby fields for a bit of nooky. A tumble in the hay which upset a rat nesting in it. That sort of thing.”

  “You could be right, but I can’t imagine Sanders going in for hay-making. She’s the sort that would commandeer the master bedroom for half an hour.”

  “And there’d be no rats in the master bedroom. Not four-legged ones, anyway,” argued Green. “So whatever your fears are about Carlyle’s party on Saturday night, they are absolutely groundless.” Green took out another cigarette. “But that’s not what is really worrying you, is it? It’s the fact that you know Carlyle and his missus and if they are mixed up in this business, even if in name only, you’re wondering whether you oughtn’t to declare your interest to Edgar Anderson and have him give the job to somebody else.”

  Masters nodded. “That’s exactly my point, Bill.” He looked up. “You see, you haven’t heard it all yet.”

  “No?”

  “It is the Carlyles who have offered us Housmans at the very low price Wanda mentioned the other night when we first discussed the move with you and Doris.”

  Green frowned and sucked his partial denture noisily for a moment or two. Masters leaned back and waited for his colleague to speak.

  “You’re worried about that, are you? I can see why. It could be said by some people to come into the bribery and corruption court. Getting a house at the right price from somebody you’re investigating! It could be made to sound like a bit of a pay-off.”

  “What do I do about it, Bill?”

  “The arrangement was made before this show, Round the Barley, started its run, wasn’t it?”

  “It was. Just a few days before. But there’s nothing in writing yet. Just a verbal agreement subject to the results of our survey and my personal inspection. I haven’t seen it yet. Wanda has, of course. She’s been over it and is thrilled at the prospect of getting it.”

  “Knowing you, if Wanda likes and wants it, it’s hers.”

  “Quite.”

  “Sight unseen?”

  “Apart from doing my best to give her pleasure, I trust her judgement in most things, but particularly when it comes to houses. You’ll remember her first cottage and what she had made of that. And then there’s our present house. She was the one who could see the possibilities and turned it into what it has become.”

  “You don’t have to say any more, chum. I’ve never come across a nicer pad.”

  “So you understand my problem, Bill?”

  “Of course I do. It’s mine as well, remember. You would do anything you could to stop Wanda being disappointed, but what about my missus? She’s dreaming about taking over Wanda’s Palace. And I don’t want to disappoint her either. She was like a dog with two tails this morning because the surveyor was coming. By now he’ll have told her what we can sell for, with a written confirmation to come in a few days’ time. If we’ve been as lucky as we hope we have, she’ll have done all her little sums and … oh, hell, George, there’s no hint of corruption here.”

  “You know it, and I know it, Bill. But if some bit of paper had been dated and signed a week ago we’d have proof that there was no hint of bribery involved. As it is … ” He spread his hands. “Strictly speaking, I should present myself to Edgar Anderson now and put it all on his plate.”

  “Just a moment,” said Green, leaning forward on the desk. “Let’s suppose you were to go up to see the AC (Crime) this minute. What have you got that you can tell him?” Without waiting for a reply, the DCI went on: “Nothing, except the fact that you are negotiating to buy a house from a certain Mr. Carlyle who, because he backs theatre shows, knows Carla Sanders whose sudden death you are probing. All Edgar will say to that is, ‘So what?’ You then go on to say that on the Saturday night before she died, the Sanders bird attended one of Carlyle’s parties. Invited there as a sort of recompense for being left out of the show on account of injury. What does Edgar say to that? His only reply will be to thank you for telling him
and to order you to get on with the job he has given you to sort out. He’ll say all this is irrelevant because the bird didn’t die until Tuesday and although we’ve been called in to sniff around we don’t even know if there was foul play involved.” Green grinned. “I reckon our Edgar will think you’ve dredged it all up in the hope that you can skive out of the enquiry—that he’ll feel obliged to palm it over to somebody else to sort. You know Edgar. He always looks for the ulterior motive and he won’t play ball.”

  “I’ll admit it sounds a bit thin when summed up like that.”

  “And you know you’re not accepting bribes or doing business with a convicted crook.”

  “Of course.”

  “Then, my advice to you, George, is to leave it for the moment. If we find Carlyle is more actively involved, then you may have to think again later.”

  “That’s exactly what I’d like to do, Bill, but you know how things are. You say Edgar would kick me out of his office if I went to him now. I agree. He would. But if in two or three days time Carlyle begins to figure prominently in this business, Anderson would demand to know why I hadn’t gone to him immediately his name cropped up.”

  “You can’t win, George. But ask yourself this. Can you possibly see any way in which Carlyle or his missus can be involved in Carla Sanders’ death?”

  “No.”

  “Right. Leave it for now.” Green got to his feet. “And don’t you worry about the oast-house. You’ll be telling the truth, if you have to say anything at all, by claiming that the negotiations were Wanda’s business in the first place, and not yours.”

  “Thanks, Bill. Sorry to have burdened you with my tender conscience.”

  “Tender conscience, my foot. We all thought these house deals were going to be completely free of all the usual troubles that beset such transactions. Now a completely different can of worms has been opened and you were right to let me have a look at them squirming around before we clap the lid back on once and for all. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll get off home. Doris will be bursting to tell me what the surveyor had to say.”

  “Of course. Thank you for listening and your advice, Bill, and I hope the news is to your liking when you get home.”

  Shortly after ten the next morning, Masters and his team again called at Collier’s flat. This time the actor was prepared for the visit. He was up and about, shaved, and dressed in blue slacks with a fawn shirt and brown shoes of very orthodox pattern, well-polished and worn enough to suggest that they were his normal choice of footwear.

  “Did you have a good night, Mr. Collier?”

  “Thank you, yes, Mr. Masters. Talking to you four yesterday afternoon did something for me.”

  “Got it off your chest, lad,” said Green, following Masters who was being shown into the sitting room of the flat. “Great relief to talk it over, you know. Bottling it up is never any good.”

  Collier grinned at him. “Any more old bromides?” he asked.

  Green stared back. “Yes. Get it out of your system is another of them. You know the old saying.”

  “Which one?”

  “Better an empty house than a bad tenant.”

  “I have heard that,” agreed Collier, “but with a slightly different connotation.”

  “Aye, I dare say, but the sentiment still holds good.” Green plonked himself in an armchair covered in material with broad green and yellow slashes in its makeup. “Mind if I sit here?”

  “That’s the cat’s chair.”

  “Don’t give me that. He’d have to be a chameleon to choose this nest of rest, otherwise it would make his nose bleed.”

  Collier laughed aloud and turned to invite the others to sit. He himself squatted on a camel saddle covered in a West African Kano cloth with purple and orange stripes. Tip had offered to sit on it to allow him the use of her chair, but he forbade the exchange. “Carla always made a man sit here if we were short of chairs for the full company,” he said. “She reckoned no girl in an ordinary dress could be demure on this, and she admitted to being a spoilsport. At least as far as I was concerned.”

  “With other women, presumably?” queried Tip.

  “Oh, lord, yes. When we were alone she never minded what sort of an eyeful I got. And yet, and yet … ”

  “Yes?”

  “I was only going to say there was quite a lot of the prude in her make-up, which I don’t suppose any of you will believe after having seen some of her displays.”

  “I’ll accept that, Mr. Collier,” replied Tip. “Not everything one has to do is necessarily to one’s liking.”

  Masters interrupted. “I am grateful for these side-lights on Miss Sanders’ character, but could we consider them later if needs be? I don’t want to stop you reminiscing, Mr. Collier, but I would like to get on with the somewhat different history of the last few days in Miss Sanders’ life. Yesterday afternoon we got as far as hearing how Mr. Hugh Carlyle went to the dressing room, calmed her down and then invited Miss Sanders to a party on the following Saturday evening.”

  “That’s right. And I think I mentioned that Carlyle was a good chap to know from Carla’s point of view.”

  “And to keep in with?”

  “You’ve got it. As I said earlier, Carla wouldn’t miss a trick like that, even though she was lame.”

  “Good. What happened next?”

  “I brought her here in a taxi and helped her to bed.”

  “There was no question of staying for the party?”

  “Not a hope in hell. Not that it was even suggested. I wouldn’t have agreed whatever she’d said. I got her here and put her straight to bed. She was quite heavily bandaged, of course, but the doctor had given her a painkiller and I think that helped her to sleep. I gave her a cup of Horlick’s, too, though she said she wanted brandy. But I thought that on top of an analgesic I’d better not let her have any booze.”

  “Quite right, chum,” murmured Green. “Drink and drugs don’t mix.”

  “You say she slept well?” asked Masters.

  “Very well. I kept awake till she dropped off and she didn’t disturb me at all during the night.”

  “You were with her?”

  “I could see no reason for not sharing the bed as usual.”

  “I agree. Though she was asleep your presence would be a comfort to her, no doubt. Then came the morning. Yes?”

  “She was still in some pain, but fit enough to take the coffee and toast I gave her in bed. After that I got her up without doing anything to the wound or the dressings and then drove her to see her own doctor. He examined the damage, redressed it and gave her a prescription which he said was a muscle relaxant for the sprain and a mild painkiller, too.”

  “Tablets?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are they still here, or did the doctor take them?”

  “They’re beside the bed. Everybody who came looked at them and said they could have had nothing at all to do with her fever.”

  “Nevertheless we should like to have them.”

  “Just for the record?”

  “Yes.”

  “Help yourself. Anyhow, Carla rested all Friday, reading and watching the box. One or two people rang up and she was able to speak to them—I’d put the phone by her side. Before I left for the theatre that night a lot of the stiffness had gone and she could move about enough to get out of her chair and get to the table without much difficulty. And go to the loo, of course.”

  “She ate her meals?”

  “Oh, yes. I knocked her up some light stuff, you know. Cheese on toast for lunch. Smoked salmon salad for early supper before I left her.”

  “Not bad,” murmured Green.

  “When I got back,” continued Collier, “she was in bed, but she told me she’d been to the bathroom to top and tail herself, as she put it. She didn’t get into the tub because of the bandages.”

  “Which was wise.”

  “I think so. By Saturday morning she was almost back to normal. There was still a lot of b
ruising round the ankle, but the swelling was down and most of the pain gone. The deep scratches had begun to heal, too, but I reckoned they were still severe enough to need a dressing to keep them clean, so I put a clean bandage on.”

  “They’d scabbed over, had they?” asked Green.

  “Actually, no. Not like when you fell down and cut a knee as a kid. They used to crust over, I remember, but Carla’s remained red, and deep, even, but they were dry and clean and I suppose well on the mend by then.”

  “Knitting,” agreed Green, solemnly.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “What? Oh, cuts like that are either stitched by the doctor or they knit of their own accord.”

  “I see. Sorry I was all … I mean, I didn’t know the phrase.”

  “Miss Sanders was fit—in herself, I mean—on Saturday morning?” asked Masters. “I know you said the swelling had gone down and the lesions were healing, but what about, say, headache, nausea, pain in the stomach or anything not to do directly with the injury?”

  “Absolutely fit. The pain had almost gone, although she was, of course, very conscious of the ankle.”

  “More so than anybody else would have been?”

  “At a guess I would say it was psychological. What Carla wanted was to be free of the bandage. She left me in no doubt about that, but I insisted it should be covered. By as light a bandage as I could manage. However, no matter how small, the presence of a dressing to a girl like her was an affront. She’d got marvellous legs, you know, and I reckon that she felt that an injury and its dressing were … well, you know … ”

  “I think I understand,” said Masters. “It would affect her as if some raving beauty like the Venus de Milo had grown a wart on the end of her nose.”

  “You’ve got it. It offended the pride she took in her person. Like I said, psychological. She got a bit petty with me. She wanted to leave the bandage off on Saturday, but I wasn’t having any.” He heaved himself to his feet. “This is usually the time I have coffee. I’ve prepared everything against your coming. Would you mind if … ?”

  “Go ahead, lad,” said Green. “I’m pretty clammed myself.”