‘Or a business colleague, like the John Saunders I told you about. Or the Frenchman Jean-Paul Whatshisface?’
‘What’s the motive there?’ Gus asked.
‘Oh, some business chicanery or other. There must be countless reasons for murderous feelings in business. There were, even in my old advertising agency in Bournemouth!’ I smiled. ‘Or maybe every man Jack is in love with the delectable Lana-Lee. Who knows?’
‘Or...’ began Gus, and then realised he was stuck. He obviously could not lay his mental hands on another ‘or’. I came to his aid.
‘Or, maybe, they’re all in it together, Longhurst included,’ I laughed, ‘a kind of Orient Express train of thought all over again.’
‘What’s the rotten railway got to do with anything?’ asked Gus, and I could see I’d lost him. I think the last thing Gus ever read is How to use your Gas Mask, His Majesty’s Stationery Office, 1939 or thereabouts. I got up to get him some inspiration — from the cool shelves of my Electrolux.
*
I suppose I should have prophesied the next little surprise, but I didn’t. I guess it was because the mind (mine, anyway) tends to try to obliterate those eventualities that could lead to trouble, or tragedy, or just down-the-line unpleasantness. And this particular unlooked-for eventuality I knew could lead to any one of the three.
It happened on the day after Maxwell’s body had been found. I was on my way back from a fruitless visit to a retired accountant in Blandford Forum, who rang my shop to say he had some old toys I might be interested in — mainly pre-war stuff. I beetled over just in case I hit upon some real treasure. We toy collectors, let alone traders, are perpetual optimists, and follow up almost any lead. But what he brought down from his attic, unfortunately, had seen better days, to say the least. The die-cast Dinky and Tootsietoy cars were all chipped and broken, the aircraft incredibly metal fatigued, and the few tinplate Wells and Schuco items were play damaged beyond reasonable repair. So I thanked him for thinking of me, and muttered under my breath all the way home.
And the muttering did not cease when I arrived. For parked outside my Toy Emporium was something, I guess, I had been subconsciously dreading, ever since the Randolph Treasure affair of quite a few months before. It was white and shiny, with a stripe along its side, but no blue lamp on top. It didn’t need one. It shouted ‘Police’ by its clinical cleanliness.
I quickly parked my car round the back of the shop beside Arabella’s Golf, and walked round to the front. When I got up to the car, I made a point of peering inside the driver’s window. My heart sank to rock and muddy bottom, for I saw what I had been dreading — a tiny black Budgie model of a Fifties police Wolseley Six Eighty car. It was mounted on one of those rubber sucker things, which children’s darts and arrows have, to hold it on to any car’s fascia panel. Any car, that is, driven by Inspector Trevor ‘Sexton’ Blake.
I let myself into the shop, thankful that Arabella was home earlier than usual so I wouldn’t be alone with him. I looked at myself in the mirror in the hallway. The same chump who had been conned into helping the Inspector over the Treasure affair looked back at me. Maybe he looked a year or so older, but certainly no wiser. I pulled my shoulders back and went into the sitting-room.
‘Hello, Peter.’ He was a big man, all rugby player from the neck down, so it took him a moment to unfold from the chair. He held out his hand. What could I do? I shook it.
‘I knew it was you,’ I said, with not an excess of welcome in my voice.
‘My little Wolseley mascot?’ he asked, with a smile.
I nodded and went over and kissed Arabella.
‘We met at Lana-Lee’s place, and he came back with me,’ Arabella tried by way of explanation. I sat down beside her on the settee.
‘How long have you been back?’
‘Only about five minutes,’ she replied, and I could hear the nerves in her voice.
I turned to the Inspector. He didn’t even look a year and a bit older. And he had always looked wise, anyway, for, in contrast to his rugged and rugbied frame, his face was that of an Oxford don, finely chiselled, as they say, and delicate in its detail.
‘So, Sexton, what brings you down here so quickly? I can’t believe the Bournemouth CID have already called in Scotland Yard on this Maxwell murder. Or, maybe, you’re down here on a completely different case.’
Trevor Blake smiled. ‘I’m not in charge of the Maxwell murder case, you’ll be glad to hear. Inspector Digby Whetstone is heading that up.’
‘I believe he’s known as “Digger”, isn’t he?’ Arabella chipped in.
‘So they tell me.’ Blake’s face wore a wry smile. ‘But who told you?’
‘Local paper I work for — The Western Gazette.’
‘Never mind this Digger fellow,’ I interrupted rather irritably. ‘What then are you doing so far from the Yard, Sexton? And why have you turned up at my door?’
‘I didn’t say I wasn’t interested in Maxwell. I just stated that I wasn’t involved directly in the murder enquiries.’
‘Ah. So that explains part one of my question. What about part two?’
‘As I said, I met Arabella at Miss Claudell’s, where I was making some enquiries, and we came back together for old times’ sake.’
I laughed out loud. ‘Don’t believe a word of it. Pull the other leg, Sexton, while it’s still in one piece. You’re one of the most deliberate people I’ve come across.’
‘Can’t I just drop by on occasion, when I’m in the neighbourhood — even if it’s only to look at your stock in the shop?’
‘I can’t stop you...’
‘We wouldn’t want to,’ Arabella interceded and left the room. And she was dead right, for I was letting my fear of being used again by the Inspector, as an intuitive aid to his now computer-dominated force, override my sense of civility, let alone hospitality.
I relaxed a smidgin. ‘Okay. I’ll show you my current collection of toys in a moment. Don’t think I’ve any great Schucos for you right now (Blake was strong on that great German manufacturer’s products), but there might be something. First, I’d like to know what your interest in the late, and I gather, fairly unlamented, Ben Maxwell is.’
‘I can’t tell you any details, I’m afraid, at the moment. Believe me, I’d like to, but I can’t. It might prejudice any action I may have to take fairly shortly.’
‘Action against whom for what?’ I asked, not really expecting a direct answer.
‘Against certain people I believe have been smuggling undesirable goods into this country.’ He looked hard at me. ‘That’s all I can say for now, Peter. And that’s not for public consumption either. Just for your own ears.’
‘Like a drink?’ I softened. ‘The sun’s over the Scotland Yard arm.’
Blake winced at the joke, but nodded at the same time.
‘Scotch and soda, wasn’t it?’ I recalled and went to the drinks cabinet before he had time to agree. I poured myself a generous one too, and a G and T for Arabella, for when she came back from what I assumed was making herself even more beautiful for our visitor. When we were settled once more, I tried again.
‘Do you think that Maxwell’s murder has something to do with this suspected smuggling racket?’
Blake raised his glass. ‘Do you?’
I smiled. Sexton had not lost a whisker of his cunning. He’d got me going already, blast him.
‘I don’t know anything about him,’ I replied. ‘Well, that’s not quite true. I have heard he’s a bit of a philanderer.’
‘You’ve met him, I believe?’
I nodded. ‘Just the once. At a party over at their place.’
‘What did you think of him?’
‘Nothing much. Just wondered why the hell someone as seemingly nice as Lana-Lee Claudell would take him back into her life.’
‘They have a daughter, Tara-Lee. She could be the reason.’ Blake made a steeple with his fingers.
‘You don’t believe that really, do you?
’
‘I don’t know. And that’s the truth. I think Miss Claudell is very fond of her daughter — from what I saw today, anyway.’ He made to rise from his chair as Arabella came back into the room looking — guess what — more beautiful than ever. She motioned him to remain seated.
‘Yes, I think she is,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen them together too, and not just this morning.’
‘Don’t you think Miss Claudell is taking her husband’s murder very well?’ Blake asked.
‘She’s very upset, though. Who wouldn’t be?’ Arabella replied. ‘Murder is a terrible thing. But I know what you mean. She’s not actually over distraught, or at a point of collapse.’
‘What do you put that down to?’
‘Purely that I don’t think there was any love lost between them...’ Arabella’s voice tailed away, as she realised the implication of what she had said.
‘Yes, that’s what I gather from Inspector Whetstone.’
‘But you don’t think she...?’ I began.
‘I don’t think anything. It’s not my case, the actual murder, remember,’ Blake said quickly.
I took a long draught of my scotch. The burn helped me.
‘Look, Sexton. It’s not mine either. And not going to be. I really am not going to get caught in this one, if that’s why you dropped round. By you, by Digger Whetstone or by the Chief Commissioner of the whole of your shebang. Include me out, please.’
‘I’m not really surprised — after last time,’ Blake said quietly, and downed the last of his scotch. ‘Now can I see what treasures you’ve got for sale in your shop?’
Arabella and I took him through, and we watched him browse for over ten minutes, hardly speaking a word. He ended up not buying an actual toy, but one of my selection of books on collecting — David Pressland’s splendid volume The Art of the Tin Toy.
‘It will help to while away the odd hours in my hotel room,’ he observed.
My heart missed a beat. ‘So you’re not going back to London just yet?’
‘Not just yet. Think I should stay a little longer. A few loose ends to follow up.’
‘Where are you staying?’ Arabella asked.
‘Just a walk down the road from here. Knoll House Hotel. Prettier here than in Bournemouth, and, for Osmington, it’s the right side of the ferry.’
‘You must come round to dinner one night, if you can spare the time,’ Arabella offered, ignoring my frowns.
‘I’d love to,’ he rejoined, and held out his hand. ‘It’s been nice seeing you both again.’
I didn’t let go of his hand until I had said very firmly, ‘It’s been nice seeing you. And it would be fine if you came to dinner, really. But as far as the Maxwell murder is concerned, and all the loony goings-on of that set over at Osmington, don’t call me as they say. I’ll call you.’
Hell, when I made that last remark, I had no idea how deadly accurate it was going to prove to be.
*
Blake’s visit, brief as it was, nevertheless rather ruined the rest of our evening. I just had to tell Arabella what Blake had said about the smuggling while she was out of the room and we ended up spending the entire time discussing one aspect or the other of the Maxwell affair.
I had a debrief from Arabella on what she had been doing over at Lana-Lee’s. Apparently, her editor had decided she was the most qualified of all his reporters to cover the murder investigations, a judgement solely based on the fact that we had been ‘privileged’ to attend one of Lana-Lee’s parties, and so she had been duly despatched to interview her. She learnt very little while she was there, as Longhurst arrived almost immediately, acting a new role of responsible family friend/protector, and Blake had turned up ten minutes after that, taking Lana-Lee into the study for a private conflab. So beyond registering that Lana-Lee seemed considerably upset rather than grief-stricken, Arabella gleaned little for the front page of the Western Gazette. For her private memory bank, she noted that Lana-Lee demonstrated yet again her fondness for Longhurst, and seemed to take great comfort out of his protective attitude towards her.
We both agreed that it was lucky Lana-Lee had such a close friend in England on whom she felt she could rely during this dramatic time. But the thought did nag us that their relationship could well have been the cause of the drama. It all seemed too neat somehow. And Arabella had the feeling while she was there that Blake thought so too.
‘But he’s not on the case officially. Just the smuggling investigation,’ Arabella reminded me. I smiled.
‘He’s on the case,’ I said.
She shrugged. ‘Never mind, darling. You’ve told him you won’t get involved, so it doesn’t matter.’ She snuggled up to me on the settee, and Bing gave us both a reproachful look. (He likes Arabella around, but I detect he reckons he’d get more of my time if she wasn’t, or at least, wasn’t so temptingly cuddly. He’s probably right. But we’ve all got our own lives to lead. And I’ve only got one. He’s got eight more to come.) I put my arm around her.
‘You meant what you said to Blake, didn’t you?’ She looked up at me. ‘Because I don’t want us to go through, ever again, what we did last time. You risking your neck.’
I held her tightly to me. ‘We won’t go through that again, I promise. Anyway, murder and smuggling are a bit out of my league. And I haven’t had any toys stolen this time. So there’s no need for me to get caught up in it.’
She held her face up to mine and closed her eyes. I accepted the invitation. ‘Thank God,’ she breathed, when her tongue took a rest. Then after a delicious while, she sat up straight, much to my surprise. ‘Wow, I forgot. I got the new Clint Eastwood movie out of the video shop this morning, so that we had something to view tonight.’
‘I think I’ve got something else I’d rather view, my darling, if you don’t mind.’ She chuckled. ‘Something a little softer than our Clint.’
‘Prettier?’
‘Much prettier. And the whole show is much, much less violent.’
‘Oh, you disappoint me,’ she whispered in my ear.
‘Sorry. Dorset right now seems to be violent enough without us...’
‘Or Clint...’
‘So no video?’
‘No video...I’ll take it back in the morning and say we loved every minute of it.’
I rose and picked her up in my arms, a heroic gesture, as I’m not exactly a Clint or a Stallone. Trading in toys does little to tone the muscles, and I have no Green God to help. ‘Let’s forget the video and Fast Forward it upstairs,’ I suggested, croakily.
And so I tottered up the crooked flight to our bedroom. Unknown to us, it was to be our last carefree night for what seemed like an eternity.
*
Arabella phoned me from the Western Gazette the moment she heard. It was late the next afternoon, and she had just returned from a press conference held at the Bournemouth CID headquarters.
‘Inspector Whetstone has made an arrest for Maxwell’s murder,’ she said, breathlessly.
‘Okay,’ I said, ‘let me guess. It’s some drug pusher who wanted to muscle in on Maxwell’s alleged smuggling operation.’
‘No. It’s more obvious than that. And a clear cut case, from what they said. They’ve detained Adam Longhurst.’
‘Hell!’ I exclaimed. ‘And you say they’re sure they’ve got the right man?’
‘’Fraid so,’ Arabella sounded as crest-fallen as myself.
‘What’s the evidence?’
‘His Range Rover was seen down in Osmington Mills late that same evening.’
‘But there are loads of Range Rovers round here.’
‘Not with six wheels, you idiot.’
‘Oh yes, I remember now. They found tyre tracks too?’
‘Yes, apparently. An old man walking his dog says he passed the car twice, and admired it. He says there was no one in it at the time. His wife says she heard it drive away, shortly after her husband got home.’
‘Do the times match with the police’s esti
mate of the time of Maxwell’s death?’
‘Yes, around 10.45 to 11 o’clock at night.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Yes, unfortunately. I gather they’ve interviewed quite a lot of people who knew Longhurst, and they’ve got wind of the various threats he’s made on Maxwell over the weeks. It seems that party night was only one of the many times he’s stormed around various places, shouting what he would like to see happen to that man.’
‘And I don’t suppose his previous record is going to help him there.’ I thought for a second. ‘Was Sexton Blake at the press conference?’
‘Nowhere to be seen.’
‘Bet he was in the wings. However, be that as it may, Longhurst is in big trouble. He has a classic motive — a lover removing his inamorata’s unloved husband. He has been heard issuing murderous threats, and he’s been observed at the scene of the crime...’
‘Correction,’ Arabella interrupted, ‘he wasn’t seen, I understand. Just his car.’
‘Well, it wasn’t stolen, was it?’
‘No.’
‘What does Longhurst say about it all? Or I guess they wouldn’t say at this stage.’
‘Right. They didn’t say. All I know is that he states he’s not guilty.’
‘Poor Longhurst.’
There was silence for a moment. Then Arabella asked, ‘You sound as if you think they’ve arrested the wrong man. Or is your sympathy solely because you sort of like him?’
‘Both,’ I said, and even surprised myself with the certainty of my reply. ‘What do you think, Arabella?’
‘Don’t know yet. The terrible thing is none of us may ever know for sure whether he did it or not.’
‘Unless he ultimately confesses. Some of them do, after a spell in custody. They sort of grow tired of lying.’
‘I did quite like him,’ she said quietly. ‘I would hate him to turn out to be a murderer.’
‘There’s nothing we can do, is there?’ I asked, equally quietly.
‘Guess not.’
‘I’m keeping right out of it. Told Blake so.’
Die-Cast (A Peter Marklin Mystery) Page 7