The Passenger

by Francis Durbridge

  “I still don’t think he knew her,” he persisted doggedly, and pushed himself to his feet, “and I still don’t think he committed suicide.”

  Martin turned as knuckles rapped sharply on the door. A police clerk in uniform came in with a fistful of documents. Martin watched with resignation as P.C. Reeves put the pile on his desk. There would be at least two hours’ work in that lot, he thought.

  “Tell Sergeant Kennedy I’d like a word with him,” he told Reeves as the clerk was leaving.

  “I’m afraid he’s out, sir.” Reeves glanced at Arthur then back at Martin. “Mrs. Bodley, Judy Clayton’s landlady, ‘phoned and said she wanted to see him.”

  “When was this?”

  “About an hour ago, sir.”

  Martin nodded dismissal and the door closed on P.C. Reeves. He sat down at his desk again and picked up the top paper on the pile. It was the post mortem report on David Walker.

  Arthur, who had been hoping to make his escape, pricked up his ears as Martin read aloud the key sentences from the report.

  “Death must have been instantaneous because there seems to be little doubt that the bullet penetrated’ . . . Yes, well we know the cause of death all right . . . ‘As far as I ascertain, Mr. Walker died between eight and nine o’clock’ . . .” He looked up at Arthur. “Let’s say eight — that’s about two hours after you ‘phoned him at The Crown.”

  “Yes.” Arthur had started to nod agreement. Then his jaw dropped. “But . . . I didn’t mention any ‘phone call . . .”

  Martin agreed smilingly. “I know you didn’t. But I understand you made one. Tell me about the call, sir. Did Mr. Walker sound perfectly normal?”

  “Yes.” Arthur’s voice was slightly resentful, as if he felt that he was being spied on. “So far as I could tell he appeared to be the same as usual. We had quite a lengthy discussion.”

  “About what, sir?”

  Arthur hesitated, then decided to sit down in the slippery chair again. “Well, very much between ourselves, Inspector, the Stenhouse Corporation are trying to buy us out. I spent a couple of hours in London yesterday afternoon discussing the deal and — well, that’s what David and I talked about.”

  “I see. Mr. Walker didn’t mention his wife at all?”

  “No. There was no reason why he should.”

  “Mrs. Walker isn’t concerned with the business? She’s not involved in the takeover in any way?”

  “No, not at all. Although . . .” Arthur paused, startled at the thought which Martin’s question had planted in his mind. “I don’t quite know what’s going to happen now, of course. I imagine she’ll inherit his shares, in which case . . .” He gave a deep sigh. “Anyhow, we can cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  Martin nodded. He swung his chair sideways and crossed his legs. It was somehow a more friendly and informal attitude.

  “It’s really no business of mine, sir, so forgive my asking but — would you say Mr. Walker was a wealthy man?”

  “It depends what you mean by wealthy, of course.” Arthur gave him a straight look and nodded. “But yes, I’d say he was wealthy.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Eastwood.” Arthur waited, but to his surprise the Inspector seemed to have no more questions. He stood up and Martin did the same. They were half way to the door when Martin seemed to remember something. “Oh, there’s just one point, sir. Did Mr. Walker tell you he was leaving the hotel?”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “And yet soon after your ‘phone call he paid his bill and checked out.”

  “Yes, and I find that very odd . . .” Arthur stopped. He resented the way Martin threw these questions at him, catching him unawares.

  “Go on, sir.”

  “Well, just before I rang off I said to him: ‘How are you, David? Are you comfortable?”

  “And what did he say?”

  “He said: ‘Yes, I’m fine, Arthur. They’re looking after me very well here.”

  “I see.”

  Martin was looking at him with his thoughtful blue eyes when the door was opened and Sergeant Kennedy came in. He was wearing his overcoat and his face was flushed, either from the wind or suppressed excitement.

  “I’m sorry, sir, I thought . . .”

  “That’s all right. Come in. You know Mr. Eastwood?” “Good morning, Sergeant.”

  “I’ll be with you in a minute,” Martin told his assistant, and ushered Arthur Eastwood out into the corridor.

  Kennedy swiftly drew from his overcoat pocket a thick wad of banknotes, held together by a wide rubber band. He put them on the corner of the desk and had just time to remove his overcoat and hang it up before the Inspector returned.

  “Well, what did Mrs. Bodley want?”

  Kennedy, with the expression of an amateur conjurer who is about to produce his first rabbit from a top-hat, contented himself with pointing towards the wad of notes.

  “Good Lord!” Martin stared at the notes in disbelief. “What have you done — robbed a bank? How much is there?”

  Kennedy, watching his chiefs face carefully, grinned with pleasure at his reaction.

  “Three hundred quid. Mrs. Bodley found the money under Judy Clayton’s mattress. The notes were apparently intended for a friend of hers. Someone called Victor.”

  The Sergeant moved across and picked up the wad again. He held it so that Martin could see the small piece of paper inserted under the elastic. The name ‘Victor’ had been scribbled on it.

  “Victor,” Martin repeated, scratching his chin. “I’ve heard that name before. Quite recently.”

  “When Mrs. Bodley told me about the money, I had an idea.” Kennedy’s young face had adopted its ‘great detective’ expression. “A theory, in fact. You know what I think?”

  “No,” Martin answered automatically. He was still trying to locate that name in his mind and was not really listening to the Sergeant.

  “David Walker was telling the truth. Judy Clayton blackmailing him, but not on her own. It’s my bet she was working for somebody, somebody called Victor. It’s my bet she received instructions from this man and every so often . . .” He stopped and glared at the Inspector accusingly. “You’re not listening to me! You haven’t heard a word I’ve said!”

  “I’ve got it!” Martin exclaimed. “Olive — the barmaid at The Grapevine! That’s where I heard the name Victor! I knew damn well I . . .” He put a hand on Kennedy’s arm and gripped it. “Harry, get your coat!”

  “What do you mean, get it?” Kennedy was still feeling hurt at the scant attention given to his theory. “It’s there! On the peg.”

  “I’ll buy you a drink,” Martin said, steering him towards the coat rack. “I might even buy you a sandwich.”

  “You’re on!” Kennedy replied swiftly. “And it’s going to be smoked salmon!”

  Like many innkeepers whose trade had been hit when the breathalyser was introduced Andy Mason had tried to recoup the lost income by serving snacks. It had turned out to be such a good thing that he had kept it up, even when the motoring public had reconciled itself to living — and drinking — with the new law. A good many Guildfleet people made a regular habit of lunching at The Grapevine and at mid-day one end of the lounge bar was set aside for those who wanted to eat their food sitting down. Martin and Kennedy were ensconced at a table in the corner congratulating themselves on having got there early enough to secure a table. The place was rapidly filling up.

  Kennedy’s face brightened as he saw the opulent form of Olive making her way towards them with a tray.

  “There isn’t any smoked salmon left, I’m afraid,” she said, standing in front of their table. “I’ve brought you ham and tongue. I hope that’s all right?”

  The Sergeant’s face fell, but Martin nodded with a grin. “Yes, that’s fine.”

  “You said a pint of bitter?”

  “That’s right,” said Kennedy. “Thank you.”

  She put the tankard in front of him and put the sandwiches down between the tw
o men.

  “And what was yours? You said a tonic water, but you must mean a gin and tonic.”

  “No,” Martin said. “Just a plain tonic, Olive.”

  “You’re sure it won’t go to your head?”

  Martin laughed. “You keep cracks like that for that wealthy boy friend of yours!”

  Olive, who had started back towards the bar to fetch Martin’s drink, turned to look at him scornfully.

  “Are you kidding? If I had a wealthy boy friend I wouldn’t be on this lark!”

  “Come off it, Olive! I was here the other night when you got back from Town — you were loaded with parcels!” Martin gave Kennedy a wink. “This boy friend of her’s took her up to London, bought her half Oxford Street, and then . . .”

  “What d’you mean, took me up to London!” Olive protested. “I took myself up! And those presents you’re on about were on dear old Victor.”

  “I know. It’s Victor I’m talking about, Olive.”

  Olive stared at him for a moment, completely non-plussed. Then she put her head back and gave a rich, throaty laugh which made half the men in the bar look round.

  “What’s the joke?” Kennedy asked, when she paused to wipe her eyes.

  Olive, speaking loudly enough to share the joke with everyone within earshot, announced: “For your information, Mr. Know-all, Victor has long ears and four legs and he came in at eight to one! And thank God he did!”

  Still laughing, she presented her back and began to push her way to the bar. Kennedy, seeing Martin’s expression of discomfiture, burst out laughing himself.

  “A horse!”

  “Yes.” Martin’s face was suddenly serious. He lowered his voice and leaned closer to Kennedy. “This afternoon check every betting shop in Guildfleet, in the county if necessary.”

  “Why?” The Sergeant’s mirth was checked when he realised what kind of an afternoon lay ahead of him. “Why do that, for Pete’s sake?”

  “I want to know if Judy Clayton played the horses.”

  It was half-past five and the civilian clerical staff were going off duty before Kennedy at last showed up in Martin’s office. He was looking tired but satisfied.

  “Any luck?” Martin asked, getting up from his desk. “Yes. Your hunch was right.”

  The Sergeant took off his overcoat and hung it up. Then he sat down in the leather arm-chair, put his notebook on the arm and placed a newspaper, open at the sporting page, on his knees.

  “I checked both the betting shops in Guildfleet and then in every town within a radius of ten miles. Nearly all of them recognised her photo. She must have made a packet during the past twelve months. And if she’d put that three hundred on Victor . . .”

  “Which was obviously the intention,” Martin interposed. “. . . she’d have really cleaned up.”

  Martin perched himself on the end of his desk and contemplated his assistant with approval. “Well, she certainly knew how to pick winners.”

  “Somebody did,” Kennedy said, with heavy emphasis. “What does that mean?”

  “I found out something.” The Sergeant flipped open his notebook. “Something that will really interest you. Of course, it may be just a coincidence.”

  “Let’s have it.”

  “Six months ago Judy Clayton backed a horse called Fairmount. It won the Arlington Stakes. The odds were six to one. At the time, Fairmount was owned and trained by a man called Reams — Colonel Reams.”

  “Go on.”

  Kennedy consulted his notebook, running his index finger under the neatly written entries as he proceeded.

  “Two weeks after winning five hundred pounds on Fairmount she put sixty quid on a horse called Jester’s Cap — a rank outsider. Ridden by Fred Clarke, trained by Colonel Reams, it ran in the Winstanely Stakes at Newmarket — ran being the understatement of the year. It romped home at thirty to one.”

  “Good God!” Martin murmured.

  Kennedy closed his notebook, satisfied now that he had really astonished the Inspector.

  “To my knowledge she’s had six winners during the past eight months and, with one exception, every horse had been trained by the same man.”

  “Colonel Reams?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who is this Colonel Reams?”

  “He lives near Guildfleet, but his racing stables are on Kingswood Downs.”

  “Kingswood Downs? But that’s very near the spot where . . .”

  “Where David Walker picked up Judy Clayton,” Kennedy finished the sentence for him. “Yes, I know. I said you’d be interested.”

  Sergeant Kennedy, at the wheel of the CID car, slowed virtuously as he approached the ‘Yield’ sign at the Golden Swan crossroads. The Inspector, who was in the passenger seat beside him was a stickler for the police driving code. He waited till the major road was clear then accelerated across. The road soon began to climb gently as it wound its way through the predominantly agricultural countryside. Ahead and to the right the low profile of Kingswood Downs rose above the cultivated fields.

  The entrance to Colonel Reams’ training stables was easy to identify by the white-painted ranch-style fencing on either side of the gates. A well-kept drive led to the buildings, which stood half a mile back from the road. In the fields on either side aristocratic-looking race-horses were grazing, their coats glistening in the morning sun. Kennedy stopped the car opposite a square yard, lined on three sides with stables and open on the fourth. Opposite, again enclosed with gleaming white fencing, was the paddock.

  The heads of a dozen horses, looking out over the tops of their stable doors, turned curiously towards the car. In front of one open door a young woman was just in the act of throwing a saddle over a horse. She was wearing a black sweater and a well-cut pair of riding breeches. As she looked round to see who the intruders were, Kennedy’s lips were forming to give a low whistle of appreciation.

  “Good heavens!” Martin exclaimed. “I think it’s Ruth Jensen!”

  “Do you know her?” Kennedy asked with a touch of envy. “Yes, I was at school with her husband. He died about two years ago.”

  The Sergeant’s eyes had not left the trim figure of the girl, who was stooping to tighten the girths.

  “Quite a pretty girl.”

  “Yes, she’s a great friend of Sue’s,” Martin said, with a hand on the door catch. “You wait here.”

  Martin got out of the car and took a look around to give himself an idea of the general layout of the place. A group of low buildings, which probably contained the offices, lay a hundred yards beyond the stables. As he walked towards her, the girl finished fastening the straps. She gave the horse a pat on the neck and turned to meet Martin. Immediately her wind-tanned face broke into a smile of welcome. Martin took off his hat, and returned her smile.

  “Ruth Jensen, of all people! What are you doing here?” Ruth laughed. “I was just going to say the same thing!” Martin went up to her and gave her a friendly kiss on the cheek. “I’m looking for the man who owns this place — Colonel Reams.”

  “He’s my boss.” Ruth jerked her head towards the low buildings he had noticed. “You’ll find him in the office.”

  “But how long have you been here, Ruth? I thought Sue told me you were working in London.”

  “I was, for a time, but I got fed up with it. I couldn’t stand the journey every day. I’ve been here about eighteen months now.” “As long as that?”

  Ruth met his eyes and her mouth dropped a little at the corners. “Yes, it’s over three years since Phil died, you know.”

  “Really? Good heavens, I’d no idea it was that long.”

  For a moment she stared unseeingly across the paddock, then smiled again and changed the subject. “How’s Sue? Have you seen her recently?”

  “Yes, I saw her the other day,” Martin said casually, “just for a few minutes. She appears to be all right.”

  “I was sorry, Martin, when I heard,” she hesitated, trying to find words that would not sound too brut
al, “what had happened.”

  He shrugged. “It was inevitable, I’m afraid. I don’t blame Sue — I don’t blame myself even — it just didn’t work out, Ruth.”

  She moved quickly to hold the horse’s bridle as an open MGB roared up from the direction of the main entrance. It braked beside the CID car, then the driver, seeing Martin talking to Ruth, swung into the stable yard and stopped beside them.

  “What is it you want? We don’t encourage visitors here, you know.”

  Martin did not react to the insulting tone of the young man’s voice. He was in his early twenties and evidently had the highest possible opinion of himself. He wore a roll-neck sweater and a check cap. His eyes were arrogant and there was the suggestion of a permanent sneer about the set of his mouth.

  “I’m here to talk to Colonel Reams,” Martin said.

  The young man’s eyes ran over the Inspector’s person, somehow managing to imply that his neat hat, overcoat and well-polished shoes were indications of some inferior breed.

  “If you’re selling anything — you’re wasting your time.”

  “I’m not selling anything.” Martin’s manner was still unruffled. “And I rather doubt whether I’m wasting my time.”

  A flicker of doubt showed in the other man’s face. He switched his attention to Ruth. His tone of voice changed to one of familiarity.

  “I’ve found the key to the Land-Rover.”

  He put his hand onto the passenger’s seat, picked up a key-ring and flung it towards her. It fell short, but he was already ramming the gear-lever into first. The horse reared its head up and Ruth had her hands full as the MG, its wheels spinning, accelerated away. Martin picked the key-ring up. As it lay in his palm he saw that it bore the familiar emblem of Cavalier Toys.

  “Charming young man. Lord Kingsdown himself, I presume?” He handed her the key on its ring. Ruth took it, still glaring at the disappearing sports-car.

  “That’s Tom Reams. The only blot on the horizon so far as I’m concerned.”

  “Tom Reams . . . Colonel Reams’ son?”

  “Nephew,” she said shortly. “I’ve almost left on two occasions because of him. But the Colonel persuaded me to stay on.