And yet I was deceiving her, even as I tried to encourage her with my eyes. Was I sincerely attempting to spare her anything? The fact was that I had a bargaining-point with that cigarette-case and I dearly wanted a look at Abbott’s car and its clock.
And there I’d been, regretting the necessity of plunging back into it. You’re a hypocrite, George!
‘You’ll be with me?’ she asked.
‘I doubt Rogerson’ll agree to that.’
‘You said they believed you were acting for me.’
‘In that event … maybe. No need to disillusion them.’
It was then that Rogerson arrived. He had brought his sergeant called Patterson, an exhausted screw of a man, who never spoke a word. Rogerson introduced himself. To Dulcie he was being gravely considerate.
‘Where can we talk?’
‘One of the lecture-rooms,’ she suggested. ‘Just along here.’
All the rooms were similarly furnished in a casual way, with easy-chairs scattered around the walls and a table for the speaker. Nothing formal like blackboards. I followed them in. He turned on me.
‘And I’ll want a word with you!’ he said nastily, stabbing his thick finger at me. ‘Afterwards.’
‘I’ll be here.’
‘Not now, you won’t.’
‘I’d like Mr Coe to stay,’ said Dulcie quietly.
‘He’s not your solicitor.’
‘Is this formal, then?’ I was being innocent. ‘A statement after official caution?’
‘Don’t be a damn fool.’
‘Then I think I’ll stay.’ And I plumped down in a corner seat.
Such was his intention to maintain a casually deceptive atmosphere that he allowed me to remain. But he was not pleased. After a warning glare at me, he took her through her story, even the bit about following Colmore along Railway Drive. He listened, not pushing her. When she’d finished, he said:
‘And he left here at seven-thirty?’
‘Give or take a minute or two.’
‘It fits with the taxi firm’s records.’
She inclined her head. ‘So I understand.’
‘I see … your private and personal agent worked well.’
‘I’m very grateful to him.’
‘I’m sure you are. And your husband was carrying his pistol-case, I believe?’
‘Yes.’
‘With his guns in it?’
‘One of them.’
‘You know that?’
‘I’ve since checked,’ she admitted. ‘His automatic pistol’s there. The revolver has gone.’
‘Do you know what make it was?’
I thought I’d be helpful. ‘It sounds to me — from what Mrs Colmore said — that it’s a Colt Diamondback.’
‘Who asked you?’
‘And it takes LR cartridges.’
‘Clever.’ He snorted and turned back to Dulcie. ‘Didn’t it strike you as strange that he’d leave his car and take a taxi?’
‘I don’t know … ’ She touched her lips. ‘He wouldn’t want to leave his car outside the flats … ’
‘He usually did.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘And you didn’t follow the taxi?’
‘I’d lost interest by then. My heart wasn’t in it.’
‘And arrived home — at what time?’
‘Oh … I don’t know. The Mini broke down again. It must have been about nine o’clock.’
‘Must have been?’
She shrugged. ‘I didn’t look at my watch.’
‘But someone saw you … ’ He looked round at me. ‘Out of all the people here, you’ve surely found one who saw her come home.’
So that was it. ‘For one thing,’ I said, breathing in deeply, ‘these people aren’t here during the week. And, for another, it didn’t occur to me to think she’d need it.’
‘Why not?’
‘She doesn’t have to prove her whereabouts … ’
‘Perhaps she does.’ He turned sharply to Dulcie. ‘At that time, who would be here?’
‘Hardly anybody. I don’t know. Perhaps the registrar — Mr Golightly — you could ask him. I didn’t see anybody. I just went up to the flat … ’
‘So that at nine … ’
‘What’s all this about nine?’ I interrupted.
Strangely, he wasn’t annoyed. ‘We believe that was the time when Marilyn Trask died.’ He allowed a tiny pause. ‘To be precise, eight minutes to nine.’
Then he turned again to me and I understood why he’d allowed me to stay. A man such as him, bellicose and unapproachable, would find himself very isolated. It might even suit his personality. But every now and again, when he felt he’d deserved it, he’d miss the praise. Who would dare to say to him: ‘You did a good job there, Rogerson.’? And so, with a stranger available, one sufficiently equipped to appreciate …
‘How can you be so sure?’ I demanded, disparagingly, feeding him.
‘You didn’t look far enough, friend.’
‘I didn’t get time.’
‘The flat above. They remembered Tuesday, if only for the flaming row downstairs. Shouting and screaming. Some time about eight-thirty, that started. They couldn’t stand it, so they put on their telly, a thriller, the sort of thing they didn’t normally watch. Complete with Police Positives banging away … ’
‘Then how …’
‘You see. Impatient, that’s your trouble. You’d have missed it, but me, I carry it through. You know these films. There’s always that scene where the detective forgets he’s on a case and climbs into bed with the woman and the plot goes to sleep for a few minutes. Well … everything goes quiet. Kind of. Anyway, you don’t expect a bang just there.’ He guffawed. ‘Not a pistol shot, anyway. And that’s what they heard. They decided it was in the story and then thought no more about it — until I went to talk to them.’
‘A target pistol isn’t very noisy.’
‘With high-velocity cartridges it is.’
‘Then you found a cartridge-case?’
‘I thought you said it was a revolver! I wouldn’t expect to.’
‘Of course not. And this shot?’
‘The television company ran a test for us. They knew what time the film was run, timed it to the fleshy bit, and that gave us the time of the shot.’
‘If there was only one, perhaps it would.’
‘One bullet in the wall. One hole penetrating the chest of Marilyn Trask. Oh yes, one high-velocity bullet.’
I couldn’t help but agree. ‘So Colmore shot his woman at eight minutes to nine. But he didn’t go back for his car.’
‘I didn’t say he shot her.’
‘You’ve got to cover the possibilities, I know. A man’s mistress dies, so you can’t help yourself suspecting his wife.’
‘I didn’t say that, either.’
‘Then where is Colmore?’
‘Miss Trask’s car is missing. A cream Lancia Beta.’
‘So she did it for money,’ I said quickly.
‘Now, what the hell … ’
‘The flat — I’ve seen it — must have cost a packet. Now you say she ran an expensive car.’ I shrugged. ‘She was a high-class pro. I don’t envy you your job, Rogerson. You’ll have to interview dozens of influential gentlemen with money, any of whom might have been overly jealous … And, come to think of it, Colmore had that reputation, too.’
He was eyeing me with interest. ‘You’re working well.’
I dismissed it. ‘A passing thought.’
‘For your client, I meant. You’re blurring the issue and trying to distract me. Mrs Colmore was around the town that evening. Her husband’s fancy piece died. Naturally, I’m interested.’
‘Possibly even more so if she’d had an alibi,’ I suggested.
‘I’d be damn surprised if she could produce one.’
‘Dulcie,’ I asked, ‘can you prove anything?’
She shook her head, caught between us in bewilderment.
I grinned at Rogerson. ‘But he took a taxi.’
‘What the hell does that mean?’
‘It was unusual. You said that. He’d changed his routine — so there had to be a reason.’
His neck was red, his fists bunched in his jacket pockets. ‘It was his usual day, Tuesday.’
‘But this time he wanted to arrive in a taxi. Maybe in that way he wouldn’t be noticed. And he was a few minutes late, perhaps so that he’d dodge the lady on the way to her bingo. And if you’re right about her being a high-class pro …’
‘It was you said that!’
‘But you’ll have thought it,’ I assured him. ‘Maybe you’ve even done some work on those lines.’
He nodded, reluctant to accept the implied compliment. ‘We’ve got descriptions of five other men, so far.’
‘So this time he was going anonymously,’ I said. ‘He’d got something different planned and he didn’t want it traced back.’
He shook with an internal upheaval, which could have been laughter. ‘And promptly booked a return taxi in his own name for eleven. You amuse me, Coe. You really do.’
‘Double-bluff,’ I claimed easily, but it was hard going. ‘He’d claim some other client knew his name and was framing him.’
‘D’you imagine,’ he asked sarcastically, ‘that he’d know there were other men? From what I hear of him — and we’re building up a picture — he was insanely jealous.’
‘Very well. So he’d just found out and he was intending to kill her.’
‘So he emptied his pockets on that side table?’ It was an open sneer now.
‘People do. Men do. When they go to bed … they empty their pockets. It’s a reflex action.’
‘I am not,’ Rogerson snarled, all trace of humour spent, ‘going to listen to this load of crap. His gun-case was there. A twenty-two was used and he was carrying one. If that sounds to you like a man trying to get away with murder, then I’ll …’
‘Unpremeditated,’ I tried.
‘You can’t have it both bloody ways!’ he roared. ‘You say the taxi shows some premeditation and now … Oh, get off my back, Coe.’
And, to tell you the truth, I was glad of a chance to. In my enthusiasm to defend Dulcie, as would be expected from a man supporting his client, I had overdone it. I’d tried to build up a case against Colmore, so now I couldn’t carry it on further without proving myself an utter fool. And wasn’t I? I knew — and Rogerson would, too, before very long — that the same Colmore who was supposed to have killed Marilyn Trask at eight minutes to nine had himself been shot, an hour’s drive away, at as near damn it nine o’clock. My persistence at this time would be looked back on as a futile and desperate defence of Dulcie and therefore as showing that I believed her to be guilty.
So now I had a damn good excuse for keeping my mouth shut. I shouted:
‘Then dig out all the men-friends. Or d’you want me to do it? Maybe I’ll find one who owns a twenty-two.’
‘You’ll keep out of this!’
‘Don’t be more of a fool than you can help.’
‘One more bloody word out of you … ’
In the middle of this shouting contest Dulcie moved between us. ‘George,’ she said severely, ‘the gong.’
Rogerson was caught in mid-bellow. Sweat dripped from his nose. Patterson cleared his throat. ‘My God!’ I said, aghast.
‘It’s a minute to one,’ said Dulcie and I followed her quickly onto the landing, where the gong lurked, two feet in diameter with its drumstick perched above it, ten inches of wooden handle terminated by a fist-sized ball of padded leather.
‘You lift the gong with your left hand in the sling,’ said Dulcie, ‘and when I give you the signal …’ Her eyes were on the clock down in the hall. This was tradition, to be carefully nurtured. Beyond her, Rogerson loomed large and furious. ‘What the hell.’ Then Dulcie smiled at me and nodded and I set to.
It was not as I’d expected. I had imagined that I would lay into the gong, but it fought back. I started gently, intending to build up to a climax. But I must have developed a stroke at its resonant frequency, or something, because the blasted gong came back at me and doubled the vigour, redoubled it, and so on, the sound building up beyond my control. I became suspended in vast balloons of intensive sound that caught me and tossed me into a stunning cacophony. It rose beyond the ecstatic into pain and then Dulcie’s face inserted itself, her finger to her lips, her hand to my arm, and like an automaton I stilled my hand. The gong subsided of its own volition, softly against the leather, and died.
‘That was splendid, George,’ she said. ‘You must do it again.’
Because of a giddy stupor I mistook her tone for doubt. I grinned. It was probably twisted.
She was turning to Rogerson. ‘Would you care to join us for lunch?’
He shook his head. People were bustling from the rooms. She was immediately cheerful and responsive and once again, as when I’d first met her, she melted into one of the groups. Rogerson caught my arm and twisted me. His huge finger hovered beneath my nose. His voice was a growl.
‘I know your sort, Coe. Don’t know when to ease off. Right! But you’re not going to do it with me. Get under my feet … ’
‘It’s scampi and chips,’ I said. ‘Wouldn’t want to be late.’
He threw my arm away and gave a disgusted growl. I followed the rest down the stairs.
For some reason Dulcie had not kept a place at her table. I found myself at the head of one of the others, lumbered with the serving and with a group of mystery writers who called me a private eye and wanted more of the amusing anecdotes. I wasn’t in the mood.
Afterwards I managed to get her alone, after receiving the impression that she could be trying to avoid me.
‘Dulcie?’
She seemed worried. ‘You’re not employed by me, George.’
‘All the same … ’ I loomed over her.
‘It came to me, in that room with the policeman. I don’t want to … well, to persuade you into a conflict of interest.’
‘You don’t trust me?’
‘I didn’t mean that!’
‘I’m working for Abbott. Do you believe that could be against you, Dulcie?’
She reached up for her glasses, an instinctive gesture of embarrassment. ‘Of course not.’
She’d accepted it too easily. I was annoyed. ‘It doesn’t automatically follow.’
‘Victor wouldn’t bear a grudge.’
‘What does that mean? I swear you baffle me … ’
‘I mean that he wouldn’t do anything to harm me. He’s been most … understanding.’
‘You mean he understood the trouble you’ve been having with Charles?’
‘I didn’t say I’d been having trouble.’
‘Oh, come off it. Violently jealous, and at the same time playing the odds himself!’
‘Very well.’ She stood like a schoolmarm, severe. ‘So I’ll admit it has been a trial, almost … very nearly insupportable at times. I’ve only ever had one chance to mention it to Victor. He did say he was sorry. But not vindictively. He didn’t say it served me right.’
I was stubborn about it, not letting it go. ‘But he wouldn’t do anything against your interests — such as shooting Charles’s mistress, to remove that embarrassment, and doing it in a way that left you under suspicion?’
She gasped. ‘Am I, George?’
‘You didn’t answer me.’
She tapped a knuckle against her teeth, indicating annoyance. ‘Did it deserve an answer? To suggest that Victor would be so much as mildly interested in Charles’s affairs! Rubbish!’
‘Thank you. That’s all I wanted.’
‘Now you’re angry with me.’
‘With myself, rather. But I wanted you to understand that my work for Abbott doesn’t have to be against you.’
‘I already know that.’
‘You implied otherwise.’
‘Oh heavens, but you can be so stupid when
you try. I only want you to do what you have to do without any sort of restraint.’
‘Such as?’
‘Such as concern for me, you big, stupid fool.’
‘But I am concerned.’
She smiled. Her eyes bloomed with humour. ‘Then do something for me.’
‘Anything.’
‘Now don’t be too rash!’ She laughed. ‘Pack your bag, George, and throw it into your car.’
‘There’s no hurry.’
‘And drive me into town on your way. I ought to collect Charles’s Cortina.’
‘I’m not sure the police’d like that.’
‘It’s not involved in all this and the parking fee’s mounting up. Be a dear and do as I ask.’
How could I refuse? We drove into town in silence. I tried to break it.
‘Rogerson wasn’t serious, my dear. I don’t think he’s all that sure with his time of death.’
‘He sounded absolutely certain.’
‘He’d have to, in order to pressure you.’
‘I thought he was very kind.’
I glanced at her. She was pursing her lips, her eyes gleaming.
‘It must be wrong,’ I assured her. ‘Because at Watling they’re just as certain that Charles died at nine.’
‘If it is Charles. I ought to drive down … ’
‘No! Please. I’ll let you know.’
‘And if he shot her,’ she added doubtfully.
I said no more about it. I had been assuming that we could upset the time of Colmore’s death, because it involved a clock. Now it seemed imperative that we should. Rogerson had been too confident about the time of Miss Trask’s death — there was something he was holding back. So I wanted Colmore to have died a lot later than nine, at a time when he could still have killed Marilyn Trask. Otherwise Dulcie was going to be in an embarrassing position.
There was a likelihood that Dave and I would have to split on this one, he acting for Abbott and I for Dulcie. He wouldn’t like that. Nor would I.
Outside the car-park I left the Sceptre out in the street and we walked up the stairs to where I’d found the Cortina. It was still there and there was no police guard on it.
‘You brought the keys?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘I’ll be in touch.’
One Deathless Hour (David Mallin Detective series Book 16) Page 9