Dover Beach

by Richard Bowker

  The bobby led the way back to the cab. Kathy was still sitting in the back seat, her hands covering her face. The driver was standing next to the cab, probably trying to figure out how to ask for his fare.

  "Kathy," I said gently, "we've got to try and find Winfield. Can you tell this officer what happened?"

  She looked up.

  "Please try to help, miss," the bobby said. Tearful beauty gazes at policeman. It was easy to see he was more prepared to believe her than me.

  She told him the story—quickly, numbly.

  The bobby nodded when she had finished. "Very well," he said. "I'll just report back, and then we can go." He strode off to his car.

  "Do you want to come with us or stay?" I asked her. "They still haven't—you know—"

  "I think I'd like to stay," she said.

  "All right. I'll be back as soon as I can."

  Kathy attempted a smile, and then her gaze moved, for the first time, to the burning house.

  I joined the bobby at his little three-wheel police car. "All right, then," he said. "Hop in."

  I hopped in, and we sped off to the railway station.

  At the station, we rushed upstairs and over to the old black ticket taker. The platform behind him was empty. He looked nervously at the two of us. "Did you notice a man get on the train to London just now?" I asked. "Tall, black-haired, about my age?"

  "No, sir," the ticket taker whispered. His eyes went down to his tickets.

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Any other trains leave in the past few minutes?"

  "No, sir."

  I don't think he enjoyed being interrogated. I rushed around the station then, looking on the other platforms, in the tea shop, the news shop, the men's room. The bobby kept pace with me, looking stern. No sign of Winfield. "Is there any other way out of the city?" I asked the bobby finally.

  "Coach station," he suggested.

  "Can we give it a try?"

  "Righto."

  We raced through the city streets to the coach station. The woman at the ticket window seemed pleased to see us: a little excitement for her evening. "We're looking for someone," I said. "Did you sell a ticket a short while ago to a tall, black-haired man, about my age, American accent?"

  She shook her head. "No, dear, I'm sorry, no one like that's been here." She thought for a moment, trying to be helpful. "I did sell a ticket to an older man with an American accent—don't see many Americans nowadays. Seemed in a bit of a hurry."

  An older man? That stopped me cold. What was going on? "Could you describe him?" I asked.

  "Oh, he was tallish—gray hair—rather distinguished, actually. And, let's see, tweed jacket, gray sweater—he was carrying his overcoat. He was quite out of breath."

  "Where was he going?"

  "He booked a single to London."

  "Has the bus—er, coach—left?"

  "Oh, I'm afraid so. Gone twenty minutes." The woman leaned forward. "Did he commit a crime?" she asked conspiratorially.

  I shrugged. "Beats me." I turned to the policeman. "Can we follow that coach?" I asked.

  "We could, sir, but we'd never catch it. Besides, that doesn't sound like the man we're looking for, does it?"

  "No, I guess it doesn't." I searched my mind for a spectacular deduction. Couldn't find any. "Any other way out of town?" I asked.

  "One could have a car, of course," the bobby replied. "Or one could hitchhike. People tend to pick up hitchhikers around here. Lots of students, you know."

  "Of course." I couldn't think of anything else to do. "Well, I guess we can go back. Sorry, um, you know—"

  "Quite all right, sir."

  We got back in the car, and the bobby radioed the station, telling them what he was up to.

  "Archie," a polite voice responded, "Miss Cornwall is here with us at the moment. I wonder if Mr. Sands would mind coming in himself?"

  Archie looked at me. I shrugged my assent. I didn't have anything else on my engagement calendar. We drove to the station.

  It was a dismal-looking low modern building. Inside, it was quiet, except for a drunk somewhere who was singing "Good King Wenceslas." Archie conferred with the officer at the desk, and then escorted me to a glassed-in office. He rapped sharply on the door.

  "Come," a voice responded.

  Archie opened the door. Behind a cluttered desk sat a young man with a neat mustache and a florid face. On the other side of the desk was Kathy, sipping a cup of tea. "Ah, Mr. Sands. My name is Inspector Grimby. Sit down, please. Would you like some tea?"

  I shook my head and sat next to Kathy. Archie departed. Inspector Grimby. I liked that. I smiled at Kathy. She looked tired and distraught. "Your father's alive," I said.

  Inspector Grimby raised an eyebrow. "How do you know?" he inquired.

  "He bought a bus ticket for London. Archie and I talked to the woman who sold it to him. No sign of Winfield, though. He wasn't inside the house, by any chance?"

  Grimby shook his head. "Luckily, no one appears to have been inside the house."

  "But it was arson, wasn't it?"

  Grimby's expression became a little cold. I braced myself for: I'll be the one to ask the questions, if you don't mind. He let me down—maybe he hadn't read enough novels. "The official verdict will have to await further investigation, of course," he intoned, "but the fire brigade informs me there was distinct evidence of petrol having been spread about the living room." He leaned back in his chair and rubbed an index finger alongside his mustache. "This business of your father leaving town adds an interesting new element to the case," he said to Kathy. "Why do you think he did that, Miss Cornwall?"

  "I don't know," she said. "Maybe he was afraid."

  "But from what you have told me so far, it appeared as if he were preparing for a confrontation with this man Winfield."

  "Maybe he changed his mind and decided to run away," she offered. "Winfield came back, found the place empty, became enraged, and burned it."

  Not a bad theory. Grimby considered it. "Any reason why your father would go to London?" he asked.

  Kathy shook her head. "Not that I know of. Maybe it was the first coach available."

  "But why wouldn't he simply come to us if he was afraid? We are certainly capable of protecting our citizens."

  "I don't know. I expect he just didn't—didn't want to involve the police in it."

  "Well, he has certainly failed in that respect. We consider arson to be quite a serious offense."

  Kathy nodded solemnly. This guy was doing a good job in his role, even if he didn't know all the lines. He turned his attention to me. "Now, Mr. Sands, what is all this mumbo-jumbo about long-lost clones and such?"

  "Um, well, a clone is a genetically identical—"

  "Yes, yes, Miss Cornwall was kind enough to explain the concept. But you didn't seriously expect anyone to believe this fellow Winfield was Professor Cornwall's clone, did you?"

  "Well, it seemed at least plausible to me."

  "Yes, plausible enough to extract some money from Professor Cornwall—or so you hoped."

  Now there was a lousy theory. Where to begin demolishing it? "It cost Winfield a great deal of money to come over here," I pointed out. "It hardly makes much sense for him to do that in order to put the squeeze on a retired professor."

  Grimby smiled condescendingly. "Criminals are not often sensible, Mr. Sands. And, Mr. Sands, I am not unaware of your role in all of this. You may well be considered an accomplice to Winfield's deception."

  Swell. "I'm eager to cooperate in any way I can. Ask Miss Cornwall."

  "He's been very helpful," Kathy said quickly. "I really think there was no deception. Winfield genuinely seemed to believe—well, that he was what he said."

  "We'll find that out when we find Winfield, won't we?" Grimby responded haughtily. "If you're so eager to cooperate, Mr. Sands, maybe you have a photograph of your friend that you can lend us for our investigation."

  I shrugged. "Sorry
."

  "Wait," Kathy said. She took her wallet out of her handbag and produced the photograph she had shown Winfield and me in the pub. "That's a rather old snap of my father, but it looks remarkably like Doctor Winfield. Don't you agree, Mr. Sands?"

  I nodded. Grimby picked the photo up and stared at it dubiously. "Well, we'll use it then, for want of anything better."

  "You might also try looking in at the Guilford Hotel, Russell Square," I suggested. "That's where Winfield and I have been staying in London."

  Grimby made a note. "Will you be going back there tonight?" he asked.

  Hadn't thought about it. The loneliness of the railway station stabbed me again. "I'm not quite sure at the moment. Listen, I think you should also check on that, uh, coach Cornwall is on. He might be able to clear everything up for you."

  Grimby glared at me. I guess I hadn't endeared myself to him. "I shall take care of this case, thank you. Please keep me informed as to your whereabouts. And, Miss Cornwall, where can I reach you?"

  Kathy gave her London address. "I think I'll stay here tonight, though, and speak to you again in the morning, if I may."

  "Of course. In fact, I would appreciate that." Grimby stood up. "Thank you for your time, Miss Cornwall, and allow me to express my sympathy on this unfortunate occurrence."

  "Thank you, Inspector."

  Grimby nodded icily to me. I nodded icily back. Private eyes never get along with guys like him. I followed Kathy out of his office.

  The drunk was singing "Silent Night." Archie was having a cup of tea, and he nodded politely to us. A lot of eyes followed Kathy as we walked out of the station.

  "I'm sorry," I said when we were outside. "I didn't mean for any of this to happen."

  "Of course you didn't," Kathy replied.

  "I mean, I knew Winfield was a bit—well, self-centered, and not the nicest guy in the world, but I didn't think he'd do something like this."

  Kathy closed her eyes and leaned back against the wall of the station. A tear leaked out of her eyes and coursed down her cheek. I stifled an urge to wipe it away. "I wonder where they are," she murmured.

  "I don't know, but I wouldn't worry. The police will find them. Grimby is a little pompous, but I'm sure he's efficient."

  "Yes, I expect you're right." Kathy opened her eyes and looked at me. "And what are you going to do, Walter?"

  "I guess I'll go back to London, if there's a train."

  She nodded. All is calm, all is bright, the distant, drunken voice sang. Our breath hung in clouds in the cold night air. "I wonder if you'd consider staying in Oxford tonight," she murmured. "I'm a little scared of Winfield, and—and I expect I could use some help sorting things out in the morning. This has all been very—very—"

  "I understand." Tearful beauty asks private eye to protect her. What more could I want? There was just one problem. "The thing is, Kathy, I can't afford to stay in Oxford. I've got this return ticket to London and maybe three pounds, and that's it. Working for Winfield hasn't exactly made me wealthy."

  "Then you can think of it as working for me, Walter. I can't make you wealthy either, but at least I can afford a hotel room for you."

  I thought for a moment. Was there a question of ethics here? I wasn't sure I was supposed to ditch my client in mid-case. On the other hand, Winfield hadn't given me my per diem; I could probably consider myself dismissed. I needed a job, and I liked Kathy very much. It was one of the easier decisions I had ever made. "You talked me into it," I said.

  Kathy smiled a dazzling smile. "Thank you, Walter."

  I smiled back. "Happy to oblige."

  Chapter 21

  We ate supper in a dreadful fish and chips place; Kathy paid. She didn't say much during the meal. I wanted to discuss the case—find out what she really thought about the cloning business, find out more about her father and his strange behavior, find out why she had decided to trust me in spite of my relationship with Winfield. But she was disinclined to talk, and I had sense enough not to press her. There would be better times than this to have a chat.

  After the meal we went to a hotel and checked in. The desk clerk appeared somewhat bemused by us: young couple, no luggage, asking for separate rooms. But of course he was too British to say anything. I didn't say anything either. Kathy and I stood outside her door for a moment. "I'm sorry I'm so—so confused," she said. "I feel as if I'm in a nightmare."

  "It's perfectly understandable. You'll be better in the morning."

  "Yes. I'll have to see about the house, I suppose. And I really should ring my mother and let her know. Oh, dear."

  "In the morning," I repeated.

  "Right." She smiled. "Well, thank you, Walter."

  "Good night, Kathy."

  "Good night."

  We stood there one awkward moment too long, and then she disappeared inside her room.

  I went next door to my own room. It was bland but warm. I sat on the edge of the bed and listened for sounds of Kathy. There was running water for a few minutes, the squeal of coat hangers being shifted, then nothing.

  I lay back on the bed. What was I doing here? And, more important, how was I going to make it through the endless hours to sunrise? Someday sleep will come easy. Not tonight, not here. I thought of Gwen in bed, warm and familiar—and alone—and that thought seemed to make everything intolerable. I decided to take a walk. I left the room, tiptoed past Kathy's door, and went down to the lobby.

  The desk clerk looked surprised to see me, but didn't say anything. I strolled out of the hotel into the ancient Oxford streets.

  I tried haphazardly looking for Winfield—entering pubs I happened to pass and searching for his familiar face. No luck. I hadn't expected any. I gave up after a while and simply walked, looking at the looming, history-heavy buildings of the colleges and struggling not to feel like Jude the Obscure. Ah, the cruel fate that kept me from being a student here. Ah, to have the money and the leisure to learn all I wanted to learn.

  It was bogus self-pity, anyway. I had learned all I needed to learn. If I had wanted to learn more, Northeastern would gladly have taught me. Northeastern was somewhat lacking in tradition, compared to Oxford, but tradition wasn't much help nowadays.

  Ah, Northeastern. I thought of Professor Hemphill slouching along its cinder-block corridors. I thought of Cindy Tappen in her tight jeans and legwarmers. Ah, Boston.

  I couldn't seem to help feeling sorry for myself. Private eyes are supposed to be loners, not lonely, I told myself. But then, if I were a real private eye, I would be in the sack with Kathy instead of wandering around in the cold and the dark thinking about education. So what did that say about me? I wasn't sure I wanted to know the answer.

  It had been a long day.

  When I finally returned to the hotel, the desk clerk was nodding off to sleep. I went up to my room and lay open-eyed on my bed till dawn.

  * * *

  I read the local newspaper while waiting for Kathy the next morning. There was an article about the fire. Kathy's name was mentioned, but not mine or Winfield's. The article said the fire was "under active investigation."

  "Sleep well?" Kathy asked when we met in the lobby.

  "Like a baby."

  Inspector Grimby was somewhat surprised to see me accompanying Kathy to the police station. Miss Cornwall, do you think it wise to keep company with this shifty American? he should have said, but didn't. Instead, he simply told us about his progress—or lack of it. "We have been unable so far to locate either Winfield or Professor Cornwall," he admitted. "The London police checked the Guilford Hotel last night and this morning, but Winfield has not been seen there. They also checked the coach station. A man answering Professor Cornwall's description boarded a coach to Nottingham. The Nottingham police met the coach last night when it arrived, but Professor Cornwall was not on it."

  "Did the Nottingham police talk to the driver?" I asked.

  Grimby withered me with a glance. "Yes, they did think to talk to the driver, Mr. Sands. The
driver remembered a passenger that answered Cornwall's description, but was not sure where he got off. He thought perhaps Leicester or Northampton. And yes, I have been in contact with the police there, and they will be watching for him. Any reason why he might have gone to one of those places, Miss Cornwall?"

  Kathy shook her head. "I can't think of any. Maybe he just wanted to hide for a while from Winfield."

  Grimby trained his gaze on her. "Miss Cornwall, your father's disappearance makes this case even more peculiar than it was to start with. Is there any information that you are withholding from me?"

  Kathy was stunned. "Of course not. Why should I? I'm as puzzled as you are, Inspector. I don't know my father very well, you see. I haven't lived with him for years, and when I did he was quite secretive. I—I had the impression that he might not have been telling the entire truth when he spoke with Winfield. The resemblance was so strong there had to be some kind of relationship, yet my father denied everything. But I don't know why. I honestly don't know why."

  Grimby rubbed his mustache and made a note. "Very well. Since this is Christmas Eve, I'm afraid little immediate progress will be made. But we shall keep on it. We don't like people burning down houses in our city. And if either of you finds out anything, I trust you'll let me know."

  We promised.

  "What next?" I asked when we left the station.

  "I suppose we can return to London," Kathy said. She seemed distracted, ill-at-ease.

  "Don't you want to check out your father's house? There might be valuables or something."

  "Oh. Of course. How stupid of me." She shook her head. "I'm sorry. I'm still not quite right, I'm afraid. I spoke to my mother this morning, and that always puts me into a state."

  We started walking toward her father's house. "You don't get along with your mother?"

  Kathy shook her head. "It's as if we're from different planets, Walter. There's no common ground."

  "What does she say about this business? Does she think Winfield could be a clone?"

  "All she says is that she wouldn't put anything past my father. She knows even less about his work than I do."

  "No idea where he might be?"