Dead to the World

by Francis Durbridge

  Holt stuck to his course. ‘One thing puzzles me about Milton. He’s merely the proprietor of a restaurant – admittedly a very good one – but he seems to be enormously wealthy.’

  ‘Oh, he is. Oodles and oodles of it.’

  ‘Then where does it all come from?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Inherited, I suppose,’ she said casually.

  ‘Another thing that puzzles me is his choice of friends. Henri Legere for one.’

  ‘Now that’s simple. Ashley Milton’s passionately fond of anything to do with France. He speaks the language perfectly.’

  Holt nodded. ‘Another friend of Milton’s appears to be Jimmy Wade.’

  She wrinkled her brow. ‘Jimmy Wade – do I know him?’

  ‘He’s an undertaker by profession – or a funeral director, if you like that term better. He’s Julie Benson’s brother-in-law.’

  ‘Oh, you mean that little pink-faced creature who hops around after her like a magpie? I’ve seen him but I never knew his name. No, I’m afraid I don’t know anything about him. He’s not exactly what you’d call a hunk of a man, is he?’

  Holt was forced to laugh.

  There was a pause, then Antoinette stood squarely in front of him and spoke in a coaxing tone. ‘Philip, I don’t like that look on your face … It bodes no good. “Here comes the nasty bit,” it says … Come on, better get it off your chest!’

  ‘Very well.’ He offered her a cigarette, which she refused, and he lit one himself, inhaling deeply before going on. ‘It concerns Vance’s signet ring. I don’t think you were telling me the exact truth about that, were you?’

  For the first time her eyes refused to meet his. She made no reply.

  ‘The ring itself is genuine,’ he went on, ‘but not your story of how it came into your possession. You lied about that letter, didn’t you?’

  She gave a long sigh and sank into a chair. She kept her head down and her hands clasped flatly between her knees, and this time she spoke in a dull monotone. ‘Yes, I lied to you. I wrote the note myself. No one sent me the ring – I had it all the time.’

  ‘How long had you had it, and who gave it to you?’

  ‘Vance gave it to me, just before he was murdered.’

  ‘Oh. Then why make up a cock-and-bull story about it, Antoinette? Wouldn’t it have been simpler just to hand the ring over, if you’d decided not to keep it?’

  She sat quite still and he thought she was not going to answer. When she eventually did so her voice was scarcely audible. ‘I’m not very proud of this, Philip. You’ll probably decide to cross to the other side of the street next time you see me. I was afraid; I was just scared to the roots about what might happen.’

  ‘But what did you think would happen? Why were you so afraid?’

  ‘I thought the police would automatically assume that I took the ring from the dead man’s finger. I couldn’t prove that he’d given it to me, not when he was dead. I got frightened and I made up that note.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think any of us are immune from fear, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. But there’s one flaw in your story.’

  ‘Really?’ She stared at him.

  ‘Yes. Why give me the ring at all? Why didn’t you just keep it and say nothing?’

  To his surprise she nodded slowly. ‘Yes, that stands out a mile, doesn’t it? And the trouble is, I don’t have a satisfactory answer. I don’t really know why I gave you the ring, except that I had a strange compulsion to get rid of it. It sounds unconvincing, I know – but I can’t help it, it’s the truth … You see, it was an odd kind of gift from Vance in the first place – he was a selfish young man and giving presents wasn’t really his line of country. I don’t know why, but I had a queer feeling that he … pressed that ring on me, almost as if it could … Well, it sounds silly, but almost as if it could do me some harm. There was a … a malicious gleam in his eyes. I’ve already told you he was a strange boy with some dark, twisted threads running through his makeup.’

  Abruptly she stood up. Her supreme self-confidence was cracking at last. Tears were trembling on her lashes and her voice was harsh as she turned on him. ‘I ought to be trumpeting praises for my dead lover – treasuring his ring as a tear-jerking little keepsake! Instead of which I run him down and can’t wait to get shot of the damn thing! So there you have it – the Artist’s Portrait of Herself!… And now that you’ve studied the portrait, Mr Holt, I’d be very glad if you’d go!’

  She did not bid him goodbye, but ran into her bedroom and slammed the door.

  Shaken, and leaving behind him the sounds of muffled sobbing, Holt let himself out into the darkening afternoon.

  As he drove away, a blue Volkswagen appeared in the rear-view mirror. He applied his brakes quickly; the Volkswagen had come from the Deanfriston direction and had not crossed the main Newhaven-Eastbourne road in time for its driver to have seen him.

  He left the Mustang and ran back along the road, keeping under cover of a hedge, until he could see the bungalow clearly. The Volkswagen drove up, Jimmy Wade got out and advanced to the front door with a quick, bobbing step.

  The hall light came on and the front door opened. Holt watched Wade make a neat little bow and enter the bungalow, and one minute later the studio curtains were drawn firmly across the large french windows.

  Holt ground his teeth. So much for the man whose name she did not even know, he thought savagely! Though he doubted whether she had had time to get back into her bath for a repeat performance.

  ‘Where’s Ruth? Why isn’t she here? I hope to God nothing’s happened to her, Inspector!’

  Holt sounded overwrought as he burst into Hyde’s hotel room, full of fears for Ruth’s safety and blaming himself unjustifiably for not having followed her taxi himself.

  Hyde was reassuring. Ruth had telephoned during Holt’s absence. The taxi-driver had had her a little worried, she said, so she had decided to take the London train and throw any suspicious person right off the scent.

  ‘That sounds just like Ruth,’ Holt agreed.

  ‘True enough. She’s nothing if not thorough.’

  ‘Yes, and she got a thorough soaking at Newhaven! If she should catch a chill …’ Holt looked really worried. ‘What about that taxi-driver? Are you sure she’s not in any danger? If anything happens to Ruth as a result of this, I’ll never …’

  ‘Ruth will be all right, Holt! There’s no need to worry … Now tell me what you were able to find out on board the Sunset.’

  Holt gave an account of the afternoon’s developments, omitting only one or two details which were not entirely relevant to the Scranton case. He passed the radio message to Hyde, who immediately set about making telephone calls.

  ‘The name Dunant rings no bells for you?’ Holt asked him presently.

  ‘None at all. But it’s a fair bet that he’ll be known on the other side of the Channel.’

  Then the Inspector leaned back in his chair and began to fill his pipe. After a moment he glanced up at Holt. ‘You’re looking uncommonly black about the gills, my dear chap.’

  ‘I hate making a fool of myself!’ Holt said tetchily. ‘Especially over women.’

  ‘You mean about Ruth just now? Nonsense! You had a perfect right to be concerned about her. I’d have thought very poorly of you if you hadn’t.’

  ‘When did she say her train will be in?’

  ‘Not much before midnight. But I’ve arranged for her to be met at the station. She’ll be all right.’

  ‘Good!… But it’s not over Ruth that I nearly made a fool of myself,’ he confessed.

  ‘Ah!… Antoinette?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry; your visit wasn’t entirely wasted.’ You got the translation and as soon as my call from Interpol comes through we shall probably know what this is all about.’ He read the message again. ‘“Tell Christopher that Dunant is going underground for a while because the flics are making things too hot for him.”’

  ‘How abou
t the third Christopher letter? Is it negative?’

  ‘Yes. Fuller from the Yard tested it this afternoon. I’m rather afraid someone’s trying to pull the wool over our eyes. Only the first message contained the invisible code, and what that code means still has me foxed. But I do begin to see a vague pattern to the affair as a whole. I expect you do too?’

  ‘A pattern with a distinctly French motif?’ Holt suggested.

  ‘Exactly! Firstly, there were those two acquaintances of Curly’s who tried to force you off the Brighton cliffs. They were two petty criminals from France, wanted on a charge of operating an illegal printing press in Paris. Their speciality was old French newspapers … Next we have Henri Legere. I questioned him this afternoon, but I don’t feel I got anywhere. All I could prove was that he has a peculiar talent for being in the wrong place at the wrong time … Then we have Ashley Milton – a Francophile with too much unexplained money, who has his suits made in Paris, owns a luxury motor yacht crewed by Frenchmen and old lags, and receives cryptic messages in Parisian argot … I shan’t be at all surprised if Interpol tells us that Monsieur Dunant conducts his affairs, whatever they may be, from Paris too.’

  ‘And yet, oddly enough, the Christopher postcards and the letter have all come from a sedate English watering spa – Harrogate.’

  ‘A simple method known as a “post-box” could explain that. Someone at the Paris end posts a sealed envelope or package to a middleman in Harrogate. The package contains letters or postcards, already addressed, and the middleman simply stamps them and sends them off. Possibly he’s completely in the dark about the whole business – he’d be merely carrying out his instructions.’

  ‘Then do you think this fellow Dunant may be Christopher himself?’

  Hyde shook his head. ‘Today’s radio message passed on urgent instructions from Dunant to Christopher, so all the signs point to Christopher being on this side of the Channel. And not so far away from the Sunset, I’d say.’

  ‘Are you going to arrest Milton?’

  ‘On what charge? There’s no cast-iron proof that he’s done anything wrong as yet. Using Wade’s car, searching Vance’s study at midnight, possibly borrowing and returning a ring, owning an expensive boat with a questionable taste in deckhands … I admit, a lot of suspicious facts are piling up, but there’s not an ounce of solid proof!’

  ‘But surely you’ll haul him in for questioning?’

  The Inspector debated this. Then he said, ‘I may … and I may not. I have an idea that it might be wiser to lull him into a feeling of security. Let him think we’re not interested in him. That way we can work undisturbed. Every time I pull someone in for questioning during a murder case people expect a dramatic turn of events. That wretched newspaper fellow, Abe Jenkins, was nosing around the College again this afternoon. He’s the worst of the lot, and heaven knows what balderdash he’ll print in his next piece.’

  ‘Milton’s obviously up to his neck in this affair, though.’

  ‘Quite so. I’ll have him tailed, that much I promise you. He went up to Town this morning. As soon as I hear he’s back in Eastbourne I’ll have him shadowed. I’m keeping a twenty-four hour watch on the Sunset as well. You see, Holt, I don’t want to act too hastily. It might send a lot of rabbits bolting back to their warrens with fright.’ The Inspector glanced at his watch. ‘Only a few hours to go. Everything hangs in the balance as to whether the chief rabbit, Vance Scranton, comes out of his warren at midnight.’

  ‘You’ve got your men posted?’ Holt stood up.

  ‘A small army of them, and some plain-clothes police-women too. Luck’s on our side, There’s a fog rolling in from the sea; it’ll help keep them out of sight.’

  ‘It will help Vance too,’ Holt remarked.

  ‘Quite so. But either he comes or he doesn’t. If he does, we’ll have the answers to the whole baffling business, I hope. If he doesn’t, then I’ll set the hounds of hell on his tail! Either way, we can’t overlook the fact that the Crown intends to charge him with the murders of Curly and Graham Brown.’

  ‘M’m … Holt scraped his thumbnail thoughtfully against his front teeth. ‘I wonder if Graham Brown was another of Antoinette’s lovers? You saw his parents – did they mention her?’

  ‘No, I don’t think her name came up. Why – what made you say that?’

  ‘I’m trying to spot just where she fits in. It’s obvious that she’s got her fingers in the pie somewhere, but just what her precise role is—’

  The telephone rang and Hyde seized the receiver. ‘Hyde speaking … Yes, put him through.’ He shot an excited look at Holt and murmured, ‘Paris bureau of Interpol.’

  Holt made no attempt to follow the conversation. It was brief and from Hyde’s end consisted chiefly of startled monosyllables. When he hung up there was a faint gleam in his eyes. ‘I think we have the answer to your query about Miss Sheen’s role in this business. Late this afternoon Interpol succeeded in laying their hands on a man named Jules Dunant. They’ve been after him for quite some time. He passes himself off as a business man in the retail newspaper trade – in Paris.’

  ‘And his other line of business?’

  ‘A highly profitable painting racket – forgeries of Old Masters …’

  Chapter Twelve

  Fog was rolling in from the sea. It seemed to penetrate the hotel walls, striking chill into the very furniture of Holt’s room.

  The last quarter of an hour before midnight sounded from a nearby church tower. He stood up, buttoned his jacket, tied a thick scarf round his neck, and was just pulling on his duffle coat when the telephone rang. He picked up the receiver quickly, thinking it would be Hyde from a call-box near the Pier.

  ‘Is that you, Inspector?’

  ‘No, it isn’t!’ snapped a familiar American voice. ‘The Inspector’s down on the beach floundering around with all those other Goddamned cops you put on my tail!’

  ‘Scranton!’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right – this is Vance! Now see here, what kind of a fool do you take me for? I warned you I wouldn’t show up if you brought the police into this.’

  Holt thought rapidly. He was convinced that Vance was bluffing, otherwise why bother to phone? ‘But you’ll still meet me?’ he ventured.

  ‘Yeah? What makes you so sure?’

  ‘Because you want the ring, and I’ve still got it. There was a bit of confusion up at the College this morning.’

  ‘Sure, I heard all about that.’ Vance gave a little laugh. ‘Poor old Harry Dalesford got coshed.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Oh, no! Sorry, pal, I’m not that naïve! Okay, so you’ve got the ring. I’ll give you fifteen minutes to bring it out to me. If you’re not here by then I’ll know you’re wasting time rounding up the police again. Have you got the message loud and clear this time? No coppers, or it’s no dice.’

  ‘Very well. I give my word. Where do I meet you?’

  ‘Take the Pevensey Road out of Eastbourne. It’s long and straight, I can see you coming. I’ll be parked on the seaward side, with my sidelights on. Dip your headlights four times, so’s I know it’s you.’

  ‘All right. It would help if I knew what kind of car to look for.’

  ‘A blue Volkswagen. A nice little guy lent it to me. Be seeing you, Holt – and don’t forget that ring!’ A second later he had cleared the line.

  A blue Volkswagen, lent by a nice little guy …

  Holt looked at his watch. It was ten to twelve. Despite having given his word he debated for a moment whether to drive to the Pier and tell Hyde of the last-minute change in plan. But was this wise? Vance obviously had an accomplice or he could not have found out about the fracas at the College. If Holt failed to drive out alone on the road to Pevensey, this accomplice, whoever it might be, could perhaps warn Vance in time. He had no choice.

  Checking that the ring was in his pocket, he unlocked his suitcase and took out the pistol which he had police permission to carry. He made sure that
his torch was secure in his pocket, then locked his door behind him and ran downstairs to the hotel lobby, where a sleepy night porter tried to way-lay him.

  ‘There’s a Mr Abe Jenkins waiting for you in the bar, sir.’

  ‘Tell him I’m out – at the cinema or something!’ Holt shouted as he ran past the man and out to his car.

  The fog was irregular, occasionally non-existent and at times dense, and he had to crawl through some of the streets, but in a few minutes he had nosed his way through the town and out on to the Pevensey road. Presently it straightened out, and by keeping his eyes glued to the line of cat’s-eyes down the centre he was able to put his foot down a trifle and so relieve some of the tension that was tightening inside his body like the strings of a violin.

  Vance Scranton at last! For ten days they had hunted this elusive Will-o’-the-wisp, not even sure if he were dead or alive. Now Holt was about to meet him face to face …

  Macabre tree-shapes and isolated gloomy farmhouses flitted past; from time to time he could hear the sea breaking on the shore to his right, and every now and then came the mournful bleat of a foghorn. Minutes ticked away and he began to wonder if he had missed the blue Volkswagen. Then suddenly twin spots of red and the vague outline of a car loomed out of the mist on the far side of the road.

  Holt braked and dipped his lights four times, then pulled in at the left-hand kerbstone.

  Was it the car he was looking for? He lowered his window and peered out. Dirty, yellowish vapour shifted and swirled between him and the parked vehicle. It was impossible to be certain. He took out his revolver and slipped off the safety catch, listening intently for the slightest sound. None came.

  He switched off his lights, and backed a few yards, swinging the Mustang’s nose to the right so that when he switched on his headlights they would point directly across the road at the parked car. Then he stepped warily onto the road, gripping his gun in one hand, the other arm stretched towards the dashboard. He pulled the knob for full headlights …

  ‘Put out those lights or I’ll shoot!’ a voice screamed from the mist.