Dead to the World

by Francis Durbridge

  An oblique blade of moonlight divided the outside wall into light and shade; where he crouched was deepest black whilst a few inches above his head, at the level of the window sill, everything was illuminated by cold silver light. A dryness began to pervade his mouth as he waited, tensely, straining his ears for significant sounds. He identified the opening of the study door … and an instant later the midnight visitor had crossed the room without switching on the light, thrown open the window, and was reaching out both arms for the wooden shutters.

  Holt pressed his body against the wall directly beneath the window, not daring to risk more than a side-glance upwards. There was a mild complaint of metal as the heavy shutters swung on iron hinges in need of oil, and in a matter of seconds the window was effectively sealed off. Even when the study light was switched on with an audible click, no chink escaped through the solid wood.

  Catching his breath Holt half rose and pressed his ear to the shutter, and after a moment he was rewarded. Quite distinctly he could hear something heavy being moved about inside, followed by a slithering sound as though some clumsy object, like a body or an awkwardly filled sack, were being dragged across the floor. The invisible operation took three minutes at the most. Then he heard the light being switched off.

  Quickly he dropped to the ground again and hugged the wall. But instead of the shutters being re-opened there was a scraping of metal and the unmistakable sound of an iron bolt being shot home, followed by something which sounded like the snap of a padlock. A moment later Holt heard the light being flicked on once more, as though the intruder wanted to give the room a last-minute look over, then it was clicked off again and the study door closed.

  Holt jerked to his feet and ran along the outer wall to the entrance of Scholars’ Row. He was convinced that he had reached it before his quarry. He halted in the shadow of some bushes and strained his ears once more for the sound of footsteps and a sliding sack. Nothing came. For what seemed an eternity he waited …

  Suddenly a car choked into life some distance away. Holt wheeled and ran in the direction of the sound, but a tall building, which he knew to be the gym, blocked his way. He rounded the corner and realised he had not been quick enough. There was the smell of a car’s exhaust in the night air, and a fractional glimpse of red tail-lights disappearing down the hill towards the village. Of the car itself only one impression had been clear. Holt knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the motor which had sprung into life and sped through an unmistakable series of gear changes into top, belonged to only one brand of car in the world. It had been a Volkswagen.

  At last he permitted himself to breathe normally and set off towards the dark lane where he had parked his hired Cortina. It would be interesting, he decided, to find out how many of the people connected with the Vance Scranton case possessed a Volkswagen.

  So far he knew of only one.

  It was tempting to jump to conclusions – but Inspector Hyde had frequently cautioned him against this cardinal sin. One must keep an open mind until a fact was proved beyond all shadow of doubt.

  It would be equally interesting to casually ask one or two people for the time. He would just ask them the time; it would be as simple as that. They would either not possess a watch and consequently cease to excite his immediate interest, or they would glance at the watches on their wrists …

  The person – male or female – who had reached out from the darkened room and closed the heavy wooden shutters above Philip Holt’s head had displayed quite clearly in the brilliant moonlight an unusual characteristic: that of wearing a gold wristwatch on the inside of the wrist.

  Chapter Nine

  ‘On our short list of suspects, or shall we call them dubious persons,’ Inspector Hyde was saying, ‘we still have only one Volkswagen owner, and so far no one who wears his or her watch on the inside of the wrist.’ He poured some more coffee into Holt’s cup. ‘You’re quite sure about Professor Dalesford?’

  Holt grunted an affirmative, his mouth full of toast. He was taking a late breakfast in his hotel room. He was dressed, for after allowing himself only a few hours of sleep he had already made one trip that morning. ‘Dalesford seems to be in the clear. When I saw him up at the College this morning I made an excuse to ask him the time. He produced a whacking great pocket watch – half-hunters, I believe they call them, don’t they? Julie Benson’s in the clear too. She’s got a tiny platinum model, worn in the normal way on the outside of her wrist.’

  ‘I see. How is she today? Fully recovered from yesterday’s fainting fit?’

  ‘It seems so. She’s even agreed to have lunch with me.’

  ‘Oh? Where?’

  ‘Here in Eastbourne, at a place called The Golden Peacock. She didn’t seem very keen on my choice of restaurant – said it’s terribly expensive – but I thought it might be interesting to take a look around the place where that French student says he saw Vance Scranton.’

  ‘Quite so,’ Hyde murmured. ‘And over lunch you’ll show her the signet ring and evaluate her reactions, I shouldn’t wonder. I wish I could be there, hidden under the table or something! This ring could be devilish important. Curly thought it important or he’d never have mentioned it, Christopher referred to it with invisible ink on a postcard; Miss Sheen decided to hand it over to you.’ The Inspector shifted in his chair and addressed Ruth, who was standing at the window, apparently admiring the view of the sea. ‘You’re quite sure Antoinette doesn’t wear a largish gold watch on the inside of her wrist, Ruth?’

  ‘Dead certain,’ was the reply. Whilst Holt had been at the College she had visited the salmon-pink bungalow. Sure that Antoinette would recognise her, Ruth had decided not to attempt any disguise. She had simply knocked on the door, announced that she was Philip Holt’s secretary, and asked if she could use the telephone. She told Antoinette that Philip had sent her into East Dean to collect the Mustang from the garage, but as it was still having paint sprayed on its damaged mudguard she would not be able to drive it back as planned. Antoinette had proved unexpectedly obliging and insisted on driving Ruth back to Eastbourne herself in her green Mini Minor. With Antoinette’s hands resting on the steering wheel for the best part of fifteen minutes it had not been difficult for Ruth to see that she wore no wristwatch at all.

  ‘That doesn’t prove much, unfortunately,’ Hyde pointed out when Ruth had finished her explanation. ‘It doesn’t mean she never wears a watch at all.’

  ‘No, but she’s still got a glorious sun tan!’ Ruth said enviously. If she normally wears a watch there’d almost certainly be a tell-tale patch of white on her wrist.’

  Hyde was impressed by her perception. So was Holt, but he made no comment.

  Hyde began to pace the room. ‘Holt, there’s one aspect of your midnight adventure that I don’t quite understand. This arm that reached out above your head and closed the shutters – surely you could tell if it was male or female? I mean, the clothing, for one thing – and surely women’s watches are generally much smaller than men’s?’

  ‘Yes, usually,’ Ruth put in, ‘but some girls are wearing man-sized watches, you know. It’s a fashion gimmick.’

  ‘It all happened so quickly I’m not prepared to be too adamant,’ Holt admitted. ‘The watch had a gold metal strap and the face was rather on the small side for a regular man’s watch, but rather larger than the majority of women wear. As for the clothing … well, it seemed to be some kind of knitted garment like a long-sleeved pullover or cardigan; it was the sort of thing both sexes wear nowadays. No, the only two things which might lead us somewhere were that bit of newspaper that fell out of the Art book—’

  ‘I’m anxious to see what the labs make of that. I’ll have it sent up to Town straightaway,’ Hyde assured him.

  ‘—and the absolutely undeniable sound of a Volkswagen engine. Two slender threads of totally unconnected information in return for an uncomfortable night’s work. When Dalesford let me into Vance’s study this morning I couldn’t see that a single th
ing had been touched. I can only assume that whatever was lugged about in that bumping sack either didn’t belong to the room in the first place or else had been replaced before I got there today.’

  ‘Whoever it was had a key to the Scholars’ Row entrance door. Dalesford and Julie Benson are the most obvious, of course, but on the other hand … How about the shutters – were they still bolted?’

  ‘Yes. The Professor explained it as a necessary security precaution, until the room is re-occupied.’

  Hyde nodded thoughtfully. ‘M’m … that seems reasonable enough on the face of it, I suppose – except for the fact that they were still open at a time when the rest of the College had presumably been checked and locked up for the night. Either Dalesford knows who closed those shutters and is covering up, or—’

  ‘Or maybe the man who was supposed to bolt them simply forgot to do it!’ said Ruth. ‘Dalesford would never know the difference, so long as he found them shut when he went to the study in the morning.’

  ‘Yes, absolutely,’ agreed Hyde. ‘It could be as simple as that … I’ll have a word with the caretaker about it. Meanwhile, we’re left with the gold watch worn on the inside of the wrist, and someone who owns or drives a Volkswagen … Let’s tot up the score again, as far as we know it: Antoinette possesses a Mini Minor and no watch; Professor Dalesford has a half-hunter and no car – he’s rather bitter about it, as he is about many things. Julie Benson runs a Vespa and wears a small platinum watch in the normal way. Nobody seems to remember what sort of watch Vance Scranton wore. He used to drive a Triumph Spitfire, but he seems to have sold it some weeks ago. Which leaves us with Jimmy Wade, whose taste in watches is, for the moment, unknown—’

  ‘But whose taste in cars is definitely known,’ Ruth butted in, turning from the window. ‘He’s just driven up to the hotel this very minute.’

  ‘In his Volkswagen?’ Hyde asked quietly.

  ‘Yes.’

  Holt pushed his breakfast tray to one side and joined Ruth at the window. ‘As you once pointed out, it’s an atrocious shade of blue.’

  Hyde asked, ‘Is he alone?’

  A stout man got out of the passenger seat, bade farewell to Wade, and hurried off.

  ‘No. He appears to have given a lift to Abe Jenkins.’

  ‘Are they coming in?’

  ‘Wade is. Jenkins has departed.’

  The Inspector stood up and made for the door. ‘Then I think I’ll make myself scarce. Nobody knows I’m down here yet, so it must be you he’s calling on.’

  Just before he closed the door Hyde put his head round the corner and said, ‘Don’t forget to ask Mr Wade what time it is …’

  Holt’s luncheon with Julie Benson at The Golden Peacock went better than he had expected. Until he could tactfully steer the conversation round to matters of import he had not really known what to talk about. Julie very soon provided the answer.

  ‘Is it true that you’re a famous fashion photographer, Mr Holt?’ she asked eagerly.

  Holt sipped his Noilly Prat and smiled. ‘I do some fashion work now and then, as well as feature-essays, commercial stuff, and just about anything that’ll turn an honest penny. But my principle activity is portraits.’

  ‘It must be lovely to be in the fashion trade. I’ve often thought I’d like to be a model.’

  Inwardly Holt sighed. Practically every slim blonde in Great Britain between the ages of thirteen and thirty seemed to want to become a model. He let Julie chatter on, and fed her an occasional bit of professional gossip to keep her happy. Only once did the conversation veer towards Vance Scranton, but she was obviously loath to discuss him, beyond expressing the hope that he might really still be alive. Abe Jenkins’ newspaper article seemed to have been responsible for this hope – not her brother-in-law’s claim to have seen Vance in the Underground. Wade’s pretext for calling at the hotel – he was in the area on business, he had said – was to confide to Holt that he had not mentioned the incident to Julie. It was kinder not to raise the girl’s hopes too soon, he felt.

  It was towards the end of an excellent lunch, when she gave the appearance of being completely relaxed and at ease with him, that Holt began to apply the pressure.

  ‘Tell me, Julie, if the world of fashion calls, won’t Professor Dalesford be desolate to lose such an efficient secretary?’

  She gave a tiny chuckle. ‘Oh, he’d easily manage without me. There really isn’t all that much to do up there anyway. I sometimes think he only keeps a secretary for prestige.’

  The remark was quite shrewd, Holt thought.

  ‘I should have thought there’d have been a lot of typing to do,’ he said. ‘His lecture material, courses of study, and his Prospero articles …’

  There was a pause and he thought he detected a slight flush of uneasiness on the girl’s face.

  ‘Oh, those. Well …’

  Holt said smoothly, ‘Or does Miss Sheen deliver them ready typed, to save you the bother?’

  ‘Miss Sheen? I … I don’t quite see what Miss Sheen has to do with it …’

  ‘Julie, I’ll be quite frank with you. I happen to know that she writes the Professor’s articles for him. And, of course, you know that. I also happen to think that you were counting on this fact reaching the light of day sooner or later, when you wrote that accusation in green ink on the New Feature and sent it to the Savoy.’

  ‘Mr Holt, I really don’t know what you’re talking about!’

  ‘Nonsense! Scotland Yard has taken specimens of your handwriting and compared them with the words written under the Prospero article. But it wasn’t the Professor you were aiming at, was it? – although you don’t particularly like him. It was Antoinette you had your knife into. Why? Plain jealousy, because she stole Vance from you? Or do you really know something – are you concealing some facts which the police ought to know?’

  The girl had turned very pale and now sat stiffly in her chair, toying with her coffee spoon. Holt was astonished at the change which had come over her. Quite clearly he read in her eyes a debate: whether or not to deny that she had written the Prospero note. He saw her reject this tactic and take up the challenge of his frontal attack. The fluffy little blonde had become a hard, calculating, self-possessed young woman. ‘You disappoint me, Mr Holt. I did hope you might prove to be different from all the others.’

  ‘Different? In what way?’

  ‘I’d hoped your line of work and your experience might have made you immune to the sex tricks of a creature like Antoinette Sheen. But apparently not. You men are all the same! That woman has only to wiggle her hips and blink her false eyelashes and every male within miles goes completely ga-ga. She’s hypnotised you! You can’t see straight any more, you can’t see her for what she really is!’

  ‘And what’s that, may I ask?’

  ‘A monster! A ruthless, perverse, hypocritical nymphomaniac … a Hydra … a whore …’

  Holt let Julie empty her vocabulary, inwardly marvelling at the youngster’s range of adjectives and the extent of her spite. The outburst revealed far more about the girl herself than the woman she was reviling. Eventually Julie calmed down and began listing the number of men with whom Antoinette was said to have had affairs. It was quite a list. Holt tried, with difficulty, to get a word in edgeways.

  ‘I must tell you, Miss Benson, she hasn’t seduced me yet.’

  ‘She will! Just give her time!’ Julie stared round the restaurant as if seeking tangible victims of Antoinette’s sex appeal. A gleam of triumph lit up her eyes. ‘Look over there! Do you see those two men standing by the cash desk? The one with the fair hair is French, his name’s Henri Legere. He’s the current paramour. As usual, he’s nearly a decade younger than she is.’

  Holt recognised Legere, the young man who thought he had seen Vance. ‘Can you catch his eye?’ he asked quickly. ‘I rather want to talk to him.’

  ‘He’s already seen us. He’s coming over.’

  ‘And who’s the distinguished looking fel
low he was talking to – the one who’s just about to leave?’

  ‘That’s Ashley Milton. He owns this place.’

  ‘M’m … I wish I’d had a chance to ask him who his tailor is,’ Holt murmured appreciatively.

  Henri Legere reached their table, bowed low, and offered his hand to Holt. ‘Bonjour, Monsieur Holt.’

  The two men shook hands in the formal Continental style.

  To Julie he offered only half a bow and a guarded smile.

  ‘Good morning, Monsieur Legere,’ said Holt. ‘Have you seen anyone interesting lately?’

  ‘No, I regret to say I have not. I would surely have contacted you had there been any further news.’

  ‘I see. There’s something I meant to ask you yesterday when we talked about your friend Vance Scranton. When the two of you were together, did you you speak in English or in French?’

  Legere looked puzzled. ‘I don’t think I quite understand … English, of course. Vance was an American, I do not think he knew more than five words of my native tongue. If he did he certainly could not pronounce them.’

  Both men laughed and, persuading Henri to take a vacant chair at their table, Holt signalled a waiter for more coffee.

  When it was brought Holt dipped a hand into his jacket pocket and without a word of warning produced Vance Scranton’s signet ring. His gaze flickered from Henri to Julie and back again as he placed the ring on a plate in the centre of the table.

  The two young people gasped.

  Holt said evenly, ‘Can either of you tell me whose ring this is?’

  ‘It belonged to Vance,’ said Legere promptly. As he reached over to pick up the ring his shirt cuff slipped back to reveal a man’s watch of silver and steel on a black leather strap.

  ‘How did it get into your hands?’ Julie demanded.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t answer that, for the time being, at any rate,’ Holt replied.