Another Woman's Shoes

by Francis Durbridge

  ‘Yes, he’s got photographs all over his flat, plastered on walls and ceiling practically. He’s had exhibitions of his work in one or two galleries, you know.’

  ‘I see. You don’t happen to know if he develops them himself, do you?’

  ‘I should imagine he does. Why?’

  ‘Oh, I wondered, that’s all,’ replied Mike enigmatically, and switched the conversation. ‘Inspector, forgive my asking, but are you married?’

  Rodgers shot him a faintly startled look. ‘No, I’m not. Why do you ask?’

  ‘You spoke of vulnerability just now. No matter how tough we all like to think we are, we’re all of us vulnerable through the women in our lives. Look what happened to my wife and me – or nearly did – when our car got shot to pieces in Darlington Street.’

  ‘Yes, that was a near thing for both of you. But if anyone wants to take a crack at me they’ll have to use the direct method.’

  ‘And you don’t think it’s possible someone might want to do just that? Whoever’s behind this mess, they’re hardly using gloves,’ Mike pointed out.

  Rodgers shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘It’s possible, but danger is what I get paid for. There’s nothing I can do about it.’

  ‘You can be on your guard, though.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Don’t accept chance invitations,’ Mike said, ‘especially on the spur of the moment.’

  Rodgers glanced sharply at him. ‘Have you been getting any chance invitations?’

  ‘Corina came here this morning and told me that a man named Westerman could give me – sell me – vital information about Nadia Tarrant and the Lucy Staines murder.’

  ‘Westerman? I haven’t heard that name before. Did he tell you anything about him?’

  ‘Not much,’ Mike replied. ‘Apparently he lives in Reading. Corina suggested that he drove me down there this evening. I accepted the invitation, but I haven’t the slightest intention of going.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I’m convinced Westerman doesn’t exist – the whole thing is just a trap.’

  ‘Do you have any grounds for suspecting that?’

  Mike nodded.

  ‘You mean someone has warned you?’ asked Rodgers.

  ‘Yes, Inspector, and I’m warning you. Don’t accept any invitations, especially from Corina.’

  Rodgers rubbed his scalp with the palm of his hand. The sound was like the scraping of a soft shoe on a doormat. ‘Wait a moment,’ he said. ‘If you fail to keep the appointment Corina’s hardly likely to come to me with the same story.’

  ‘On the contrary, I think that’s exactly what he will do, and that’s why I’m warning you. Work it out for yourself. If Corina thinks I’ve become suspicious about the idea he can hardly back out and pretend he never made such an appointment for me. Here’s this man, Westerman, supposedly in possession of vital information concerning the Weldon case. If I don’t bite, then Corina must logically pursue the matter, not climb down. He’s quite likely to ask you.’

  ‘Yes … perhaps you’re right.’ Rodgers grinned. ‘But don’t worry, Baxter. Forewarned is forearmed.’

  When the Inspector had gone Mike took pen and paper and, after careful thought, wrote a short note and sealed it in an envelope addressed to Miss Irene Long, c/o Conway and Racy’s. He handed the note to Linda and asked her to take it along personally.

  ‘I’d ask Mrs Potter to do this errand,’ he said, ‘but this is rather like serving a summons. I have to be absolutely certain it’s handed to the right person and Mrs Potter doesn’t know her. Do you think you can find time on the way to your hairdressing appointment, darling?’

  Linda nodded and tapped the envelope pensively in the palm of her hand. ‘So you’re putting on the pressure?’ she queried.

  ‘I’ve got to get quick results.’

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ Linda said. ‘Do I wait for a reply from Miss Long?’

  ‘No, just say the note comes from me and that it’s extremely urgent.’

  ‘Right! See you later.’

  Mike returned to his study and sank into the visitors’ leather-upholstered chair to do some serious thinking. Unless he was very much mistaken his conversation with Rodgers had been a significant one. The Inspector was not a man to waste his words.

  Mrs Potter brought tea, and eventually Mike attempted to do some work on the still uncompleted chapter of his book, but his mind was not on the job. It kept sliding off at a tangent, pursuing new permutations to the conundrum posed by Sanders, Staines, Irene Long, and Charles Corina. He was also, he realised, subconsciously anxious for Linda’s return.

  As five o’clock drew near and she had still not come back to the flat he found himself growing uneasy. His talk with Rodgers about a man’s vulnerability through the woman he loves echoed grimly in his ears. As far as he remembered, Linda was due to be through at the hairdresser’s at about half-past three. Such appointments tended to become protracted but he had never known her be as late as this.

  At twenty past five, just as he was debating whether to ring the hairdresser’s, the front door flew open and Linda burst in. Her hair, instead of looking immaculate, was dishevelled and there was a small strip of sticking plaster on her forehead. One hand was bandaged.

  ‘Good God, Linda – what’s happened?’ he exclaimed.

  ‘I’m all right, darling,’ she murmured. ‘It’s nothing serious. I’ve been in a car accident, that’s all.’

  ‘That’s all? For Pete’s sake, how did it happen?’

  ‘I was in Sanders’s car.’

  ‘What! Victor Sanders?’

  ‘It wasn’t his fault, darling. I’ll tell you all about it in a minute. Ask Mrs Potter to fix me a strong cup of tea, will you?’

  ‘Don’t you want something a little stronger than tea, Linda?’

  ‘Tea’s the thing at a time of emergency. So British,’ she added with a nervous little laugh. He could see she was more than a little upset.

  When Mrs Potter brought in the tray Linda told Mike her story.

  After handing Mike’s note personally to Irene Long, Linda had gone into the restaurant next to Conway and Racy’s and by chance bumped into Victor Sanders. They had exchanged a few words together and then gone their separate ways. But coming out of the restaurant later she caught sight of him a second time, this time from a distance, and as she emerged from her hair appointment later in the afternoon she had again run into him.

  ‘You mean he was following you?’ Mike demanded.

  Linda’s features crumpled in a frown. ‘I don’t know. Naturally I wondered if it could possibly be coincidence each time, but really I’m not sure he was following me. One often bumps into people one knows in Bond Street. And it’s quite normal for the Colonel to be at Conway and Racy’s, provided he and the girlfriend are still on speaking terms.’

  ‘Yes, I got the impression he’s rather attached.’

  ‘My hair-do had taken longer than I’d expected, so although Sanders isn’t exactly my type, when he offered me a lift home I accepted.’

  Mike shook his head. ‘It doesn’t add up, darling. The Colonel is no more fond of you than you are of him. I can’t imagine why he should pursue you.’

  Linda laughed. ‘I swear I’ve got him sized up right – he conducts himself by a fixed code, with the title “How a Gentleman behaves towards a Lady”, like something out of an Edwardian play. He doesn’t see us as human beings, just as symbols of the Weaker Sex. He’s actually a crashing bore but he thinks of himself as gallant; his code demanded of him that he offer to drive me home.’

  ‘All right, but what about the accident? Was he hurt at all?’

  ‘As a matter of fact he was pretty badly shaken up.’

  ‘Which route did he take? Did it strike you as being the normal route?’

  ‘Absolutely normal. The same thought passed through my mind – had it been a fixed-up job he’d probably have driven down some dark side-street, but he kept to the
main road all the time. And he drove very nicely, I thought, no silly risks or anything. Besides if he’d planned to do me some harm he was taking a pretty big risk himself, wasn’t he? I mean, it was this madman cutting in from behind us just after we’d come past the Palace who forced us off the road. Sanders was darn nearly killed!’

  ‘These things can be simulated, by experts. What about safety-belts? Were there any in his car?’

  Linda let out an exclamation. ‘Exactly! That proves the Colonel’s in the clear. I’d buckled myself in, as you always insist, but I’m pretty certain he didn’t bother.’

  Mike pursed his lips and offered Linda more tea, which she took gratefully. ‘That’s a point I’d like to be certain about before exonerating him. Now what about the car that hit you? Did you get a good look at it?’

  ‘No, not very. I think it was a big American job – you know, one of those monsters with wicked-looking tail fins like can-openers. I was too shaken to get its number and by bad luck there were only a few startled Pakistani tourists who saw it, and we – that’s to say the police – couldn’t get much sense out of them. One thing I am certain of, the American job side-swiped us on purpose. There was absolutely no need to ride us off the road at that point; there was plenty of room.’

  Linda sipped her tea and Mike was silent for a moment. Then he said, ‘You realise what you’re saying, don’t you, if you insist that Sanders is in the clear? Someone must have taken a swipe at him. The fact that you were in the car at the time was pure chance, if your theory is correct. It’s the Colonel they tried to harm.’

  Linda nodded. ‘In the taxi coming back, after I’d given my statement to the police, I thought the whole thing over carefully. I’m quite sure about it. It wasn’t an accident, and it wasn’t me they were after.’

  Mike stood up and went to the window, staring out into the sunlit street. He glanced at his watch. ‘When did it happen?’

  ‘I’m not sure – about four o’clock maybe, or perhaps a bit later.’

  ‘Then perhaps we’ll be getting results from another quarter soon,’ said her husband cryptically.

  Linda gazed at him in bewilderment.

  Ten minutes later the telephone rang. They exchanged a quick glance.

  Linda opened her purse and took out a shilling. ‘My money says it’s Victor Sanders, ringing up to find out how I am. That’s part of a Gentleman’s Code.’

  Mike produced a florin and placed it alongside the shilling. ‘My money says it’s a lady.’

  He lifted the receiver. ‘Baxter here … Yes … Yes, my wife told me … All right, the sooner the better. We’ll be there in about twenty minutes.’

  He hung up and swept the three shillings into his pocket with a triumphant smile. ‘Irene Long wants to talk. My note worked! Come on, let’s get cracking!’

  Chapter Thirteen

  During their short drive to Chelsea, Linda was in a bright, talkative mood, largely as a reaction from the mild shock of that afternoon.

  Mike glanced at her worriedly, but decided it would be better to let her keep talking. Wild horses would not have prevented her from accompanying him now that the Weldon case looked like bursting wide open.

  She went over her visit to Bond Street again for his benefit, describing Irene Long’s reaction to his letter, then sat back with a sigh and said, ‘Am I disturbing you with my chatter, by the way?’

  ‘Not at all, darling.’

  ‘Don’t you want to think about what you’re going to say to Irene Long?’

  ‘I know what I’m going to say to her. One word: “Talk!”’

  ‘Well, if I’m babbling too much just tell me to shut up. Let me see, where was I?’

  Mike smiled. ‘Just keep on babbling,’ he said.

  ‘As I was saying, life for Mrs Mike Baxter is pretty humdrum. A week ago she was stifling her yawns as she packed her clothes for a holiday in the South of France. Happily no such frightfully boring event came to pass. Instead she has been shot at, nearly killed in a car smash, risked imprisonment for answering other people’s telephones, and aided and abetted in the illegal search of a man’s private flat … Have I forgotten anything?’

  Mike laughed. ‘I don’t think so. Yes, you missed out Peggy Bedford. Hauling out bodies from gas-filled rooms has also been part of your deadly dull routine this week.’

  ‘Exactly. Now the question is, should a wife stand for it? Hasn’t a woman the right to live too? Why should we women be tied to the sink all day? You’d better watch your step, Mike Baxter, or I’m liable to go out hunting for a man who’ll save me from this boredom and bring a bit of excitement into my life!’

  ‘Perhaps Irene Long will do something to liven up the scene. After all, she was mildly entertaining the other evening with her little fainting act.’

  ‘Gosh, I’d forgotten that. Add it to the list … To be serious for a moment, though – what exactly did you write in that note I delivered?’

  Mike answered, ‘It’s not so much what I wrote that’s frightened her out of her skin, it’s what happened to the Colonel this afternoon. There’s no doubt about her being pretty sweet on him, strange as it may seem. I simply told her that I know who Bannister is. As a matter of fact I was bluffing, largely because I’m not sure and I just hoped she’d spill the beans and confirm my suspicions. But the bluff seems to have paid off, in a way I didn’t quite expect! I also mentioned that I’d spread the word around that it was Sanders who warned me not to go down to Reading. Now, it’s my bet that when Miss Long heard about this afternoon’s car smash she assumed that Bannister was behind it, and realised that her boyfriend is in grave bodily danger. I think that’s what really scared her.’

  ‘I’ll have to digest that bit at leisure. My mind isn’t working too smoothly at the moment. But one thing occurs to me; if we talk to her in her wired-up flat isn’t there a danger of eaves-droppers?’

  ‘A word with Dan Appleby and a little folding money should fix that. He can warn us if Hector Staines shows up.’

  Irene Long sat bolt upright in a high-backed chair, her hands folded carefully in front of her, as though making an effort to retain the last vestiges of dignity as the humiliating story poured from her.

  ‘I … I really don’t know where to begin,’ she faltered. ‘When Lucy Staines first started work at Conway and Racy’s I …’

  ‘Suppose we start with the Cordoba robbery, Miss Long?’ Mike put in firmly.

  ‘The Cordoba robbery! You know about that?’ She put her hand to her mouth in dismay.

  ‘I’ve suspected for some time,’ he replied. ‘Go on …’

  ‘But, Mike—’ Linda began.

  ‘Just a minute, Linda,’ he interrupted her, and there was a moment of tense silence, Mike’s gaze resting steadily on the pathetic blonde woman twisting nervously in the high-backed chair, before he spoke again. ‘Some time ago a diamond pendant was stolen from a South American woman called Mrs Cordoba. She was staying at the Ritz, and the pendant – a cluster of rubies with three very large matching diamonds – was reported to be worth a quarter of a million dollars. The Yard investigated but the pendant was never recovered. Perhaps you’d like to continue from there, Miss Long?’

  With some reluctance Irene Long took up the story. ‘Mrs Cordoba was one of our best customers at Conway and Racy’s. I sold her literally dozens of exclusive models. We got quite friendly and one day she invited me and two other girls to a cocktail party. We were rather excited about it and of course we accepted.’

  ‘May I guess the names of the other two?’ Mike put in. ‘Peggy Bedford and Lucy Staines?’

  ‘Yes. It was very glamorous and we had a good time. As a matter of fact, that’s where I first met Victor Sanders. Charles Corina was also there – I think he’d played polo with Señor Cordoba out in Brazil somewhere. It was a memorable party in many ways. It was also the first time I saw the famous Cordoba pendant. Mrs Cordoba was wearing it.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The next morning Luc
y, Peggy and I naturally gossiped about the party during our coffee break. I didn’t pay much attention to what Peggy said at the time, but afterwards I remembered her words very clearly. She said it was all wrong that a fat old harridan like Mrs Cordoba should be so rich and possess such beautiful jewellery. Jewellery of that quality ought to adorn the neck of someone young and pretty, she said, and of course she meant herself. She always did have her sights set a bit high. She said that if someone ever felt like taking Mrs Cordoba for a ride and relieving her of her jewel case, she – Peggy – would lose no sleep over it. Lucy and I laughed; we thought she was just making a joke.’

  ‘Was Peggy Bedford acquainted at that time with Larry Boardman, or did that happen later?’ Mike asked.

  Linda interrupted Irene Long before the latter could answer. ‘Larry Boardman? That’s the man whose photograph you found in Peggy’s flat, isn’t it?’

  ‘When did she meet him?’ snapped Mike.

  ‘I’m not sure when she got to know Boardman. But a week after the party the pendant was stolen. Naturally we were all pretty excited at the news. I mean, having actually seen the pendant it gave us an extra kick. Anyway, soon afterwards Peggy was absent from work and she sent a note saying she’d been taken sick. Lucy was her closest friend and went round to see her. Peggy wasn’t at home. She’d moved to a new address without telling us. Neither of us found this particularly unusual; she was rather a flighty young girl. She liked things to happen. “Action! Action! Let’s have some action!” she was always saying. But what was unusual was her behaviour when she returned to work. She was quite out of hand at times, impertinent, wilful, almost arrogant. Something had turned her head. On one occasion I had to report her to the Manager, and as a result of this we fell out and didn’t speak for several days.’

  Mike lit a cigarette and offered one to Irene Long. She took it gratefully and drew on it deeply to steady her nerves. Mike sensed that she was bracing herself to tell of her own part in the affair and knew it wasn’t easy for her.

  ‘Some time later,’ Miss Long went on, ‘Peggy evidently decided she wanted to bury the hatchet. She invited me to dinner at her new flat. It was in Plymouth Mansions, where you found her body. Frankly, I was quite bowled over by the signs of luxury all round me. As you know, I live simply here’ – she waved a hand round the comfortable, ordinary room – ‘and officially I was earning a better salary than Peggy. But Peggy was clearly in the money. I was very surprised.’