The intervening years, however, had brought ill fortune to the house. Like so very many London houses, it was eventually sold to business concerns, and in the twentieth century (I was guessing) the house had been converted entirely to commercial interests. The large front hall had been partitioned into a narrow entryway leading to a steep, narrow stair. The other half of the hall, on the main floor, anyway, had been converted into a kind of anteroom, at the back of which sat the receptionist’s (now my) desk and filing cabinets. The front room was now three small rooms, with Evelyn’s desk in the outer office and Mr. Grey and Mr. Upton holding forth in the two cubicles, which had a connecting door. A small corridor parallel to the original wall extended to a minute bathroom—loo, lavatory, call it what you will—adjacent to the door to Mr. Spragge’s office, a still-attractive room that occupied half the original library and had retained its lovely paneling, though not, sadly, its fireplace. The other half of the back room was again divided in two: Mr. Hammond’s windowless and rather airless hole opening off, and really a wing of, the main office, and opening off that in turn, the office nominally occupied by Mr. Fortier. Since he was virtually never in it, however, it was actually used as a catchall office/file room by the three salespeople.
This was the labyrinth Nigel and I proposed to explore when it would be a good deal darker, and by flashlight. The prospect was daunting.
I might as well leave Mr. Hammond until Nigel got there. With no windows, his room was the darkest of the lot, though some light entered from the big front window of the outer office. Very well. That left four other offices, five if one counted Evelyn’s domain. Where to start?
Do the easy part first. Mr. Grey’s office was small and contained virtually nothing but his desk, his computer, and a couple of chairs for customers. Furthermore it had a big window, curtained only by white nylon. I thought about closing it. I ought to, of course. All the windows ought to have been closed before I turned out the lights, so the place would look buttoned up for the weekend. But there was so little air stirring, and it was so warm inside, I felt I just couldn’t. No one would see me through the curtains.
Of course, I didn’t know what I was looking for, which hampered my search considerably. There was no point in my even turning on the computer. That was Nigel’s area of expertise; it would wait until he was here. I was looking, I told myself, for something, anything, that would point to questionable activities.
I almost decided at that point to skip Mr. Grey. I have a lively imagination, but even I could not conceive of that anonymous little man getting up to nefarious deeds. He was just so drab, so colorless, so nothing.
And what better mask to hide behind? said one of the busy voices in my head. There is no better disguise than invisibility.
Well, Peter Grey was the most invisible man I’d ever met, but the inner voice had a point, and the man was, after all, a Canadian. I searched his desk.
He was also the neatest man I’d ever encountered. A place for everything, and everything in its place. Four pencils sharpened to the same length. Three ballpoint pens, black. A drawer full of sticky-note pads, arranged by size and color. A drawer full of computer-generated orders, arranged by date, most recent on top. Those aroused my interest at first, but I leafed through them and found no customers outside the European Community, few in fact outside England.
There wasn’t even any eraser dust in his drawers. No dried-up candy, no chewing gum. Nothing.
The thought of candy, I realized, was prompted by my own hunger. I sat down in Peter’s chair and bent over to rummage through my purse, which I had set on the floor.
There was a small noise outside, and the curtains at the window stirred. I could see nothing in my hunched-up position, but I froze, not daring to move a muscle, not even breathing. A touch of breeze at last, or—something else?
13
Time is relative. I stayed in that hunched-over position for a thousand years, too scared to breathe deeply, but only a minute or two had elapsed on the clock before my cramped, screaming muscles had to move. I had heard nothing more, seen no further movement. Slowly, slowly, I raised my head, a millimeter at a time. The creaking of my bones sounded so loud in my ears, I was sure it could be heard in the street.
When at last I dared slew my eyes around to the window, I took one look and then sat up abruptly straight, bumping my head on the bottom of Mr. Grey’s computer desk. I was limp with relief.
“Well, sir, or madam as the case may be, I hope you know you scared me out of at least three or four of my lives, and I don’t have as many to spare as you do.”
“Mrrrp,” responded my visitor briefly, in a raspy soprano. It was a sorry specimen, its once-white fur damp and matted, one ear torn, one eye swollen shut. Its ribs showed, and the tip of its tail was missing. It sat on the wide windowsill and studied me for a moment and then, finding me of no interest, licked a paw and began to wash its face.
I sat back in the chair. “Now what am I going to do with you? Poor thing, I wish I could feed you, but there’s nothing you’d like here. You also need a bath, and some love, and a visit to the vet, and I can’t provide any of those things right now. In fact, puss, I have things to do, and one of them is to shut this window. Could I persuade you to continue your ablutions elsewhere?”
I made a move toward the cat. It swore at me, neatly avoided my reaching hands, and jumped back down into the street. I’d learned my lesson; I closed that window and then made a tour of the office, closing them all. Better to swelter than to risk any more such heart-stopping surprises.
I now needed that candy bar I’d started to hunt for back in that other lifetime, needed it badly. When adrenaline dissipates, it leaves me starved. I pawed through my purse, found the candy, ate it, wished I had another, and sat down on the couch in the main office to think what to do next.
Whoever my “doctor” had been, he had certainly been working with somebody. Presumably that somebody was as deep into the pirating operation as the spurious doctor. Now who was the most likely person in the organization to be stealing the product?
Why, as Nigel had wondered, would anyone take the risk of stealing it at all? Oh, for money, of course—but when people turn to crime, it’s usually for a pressing reason. They need money very badly for some special purpose—big debts, especially gambling debts, or big expenses ahead. Given the kind of fiction I prefer, my mind of course leaped to blackmail.
Who had a guilty secret?
I thought about them all.
Fortier, for a start, as the most likely person. I knew scarcely anything about him, really. He was rather young to hold an important executive post, which probably meant he was both intelligent and ambitious, as Mrs. Forbes had told me. It also seemed he was eager to cultivate the boss; I remembered those obsequious little nods punctuating his conversation with Mr. Spragge. Ambitious toadies can be dangerous people.
However, the description was unfair. I was basing it more on what I’d been told than on my own observation. No, the only real strike against Fortier was that he’d been scared when Nigel mentioned Bill Monahan on the phone. What did that mean? Was he a man with a secret? I didn’t know enough yet to make a reasonable guess, so I passed on to the next candidate.
That would have to be Brian Upton, he of the violent temper, who was having some sort of quarrel with the boss. It didn’t take too much imagination to come up with a secret he might be hiding. There could easily be some trouble lurking in his background, given that violent personality, and Mr. Spragge the churchwarden wouldn’t like trouble. Certainly he didn’t like something that Mr. Upton had been doing, or not doing, lately. I wished I’d overheard more of their little contretemps.
Definitely he wouldn’t like the affair that Vicki Shore and Lloyd Pierce were carrying on with so little effort at concealment. Did Spragge really not know about it? How could he not, if he had eyes? Unless they were such valuable employees that he preferred to close his eyes to what he didn’t want to see. That seemed
unlikely, with the sales situation at such a dismal pitch, and it certainly didn’t square with the touch of tyranny I’d observed in his personality this morning.
Chandra Dalal. He ought to be able to sell the software to his own countrymen, but apparently he couldn’t. Did that mean he was selling it on his own and pocketing the proceeds? He didn’t look prosperous, though, and he seemed worried about his job. Of course, he did need extra money badly, with a wedding in the offing.
Pierce and Shore dressed very well, and very expensively, but then they both had working spouses.
That was the sales staff, except for the Grey nonentity, whom I dismissed for the moment. It was of course possible that he was hiding something under that bland exterior, but if so, he was hiding it beyond my ability to penetrate the screen. Nigel might be able to find out something.
Onward. Offhand, Terry Hammond seemed one of the least likely candidates—open, a bit brash, likable, neither especially affluent nor especially impoverished in appearance. But he had a drinking problem. That was another weakness the estimable Mr. Spragge might well frown on, especially if it interfered with Mr. Hammond’s work. If he was the pirate, could he be drinking up all the extra profits? Surely not. He’d be in a perpetual coma. And he certainly didn’t act like a man with a guilty secret.
I leaned back, tired. Obviously I needed to search Fortier’s office. I needed to search everybody’s office, and leave the computers to Nigel. And I would, as soon as I got a little energy back.
SOMETHING WAS BUZZING. An alarm clock? But why was it going on and off like that?
I sat up, trying to rub out the crick in my neck and understand why, if the alarm was ringing, there was so little light.
Silence. Then the buzzing again. Three times.
Oh, Lord, Nigel!
I banged my knee into some obstacle and my elbow into another as I ran for the door.
“I thought you weren’t coming!” he said in a furious whisper. “I thought something had happened to you! And you don’t even look like you. My God, never do that to me again!”
“I’m not likely to!” I snapped. My knee and my elbow hurt. not to mention my neck and my back and virtually everything else about my person. We stood glaring at each other in the hallway.
I recovered first. “All right, Nigel, I’m sorry. I was asleep when you rang the bell, and I couldn’t seem to wake up properly, and then I kept running into things. I’m going to have bruises tomorrow. The wig—well—the wig is supposed to be a disguise. I’m sorry you were worried.”
“I wasn’t worried, I was bloody scared! There’s a copper just round the corner!”
Nigel almost never swears around me. He must be in a real state. “All right, love, you didn’t get caught, and I said I’m sorry. Did you bring the flashlight?”
“Yes, but it’s only a small one. I didn’t think we’d better risk a big torch.”
“And how right you are, with windows all over the place and only thin nylon curtains. We’re going to have to be careful.”
We went into my inner hall, which had a little light coming from the window and the back door. Nigel shone his torch around, cautiously, and then sat down on the visitors’ bench.
“Okay, what’s the drill?”
“I hope you’ll tell me. I haven’t discovered a thing.” I settled in my own chair, rubbing my elbow, and explained about my abortive efforts earlier. “The only evidence I could come up with was negative, I’m afraid. There was nothing in Mr. Grey’s desk of any conceivable interest. And then I panicked at the stupid cat and ate my stupid candy bar, and then I fell asleep. Not a good showing at all, I’m afraid.”
“That reminds me,” said Nigel. He reached into the backpack he always wore. “For you. My mate’s local does good bar food.” The sandwich was somewhat squashed, but it smelled of good bread and roast beef and horseradish. My mouth began to water, and my stomach made eager little growls. “You are a lifesaver, my dear. Would you like to share?”
“No. I’ve eaten, and there’s another if I get hungry later. Feel free.”
While I ate ravenously, he lectured.
“My basic idea is this. Our pirate is a businessman, and there are large sums of money involved, so he’ll keep records of what he’s doing. Obviously he’s not likely to keep them on the company computer. Well, you’d have to be daft to put them where just anyone could access them, wouldn’t you? But this is a computer age, and these are computer people. They won’t keep the records on paper, either, I’m betting.”
“So what’s left?”
“A personal computer, not connected to the company network. If it’s a desktop in someone’s house, we’re out of luck. But if it’s a laptop, there’s just the bare chance it might be here somewhere. Did you see everyone leave today?”
I thought about that. “Yes.”
“Did they take briefcases?”
“I don’t think—I’m not sure, but I don’t think any of them did.”
“Then we have a chance. I brought a bottle of Bass, too. Sorry, but you’ll have to drink it warm, the proper English way.”
“The proper English way,” I retorted, “is to serve beer at cellar temperature, and if you’ve been carrying that thing around next to your back, it’ll be a lot warmer than a cellar. I’ll pass for right now, thank you. You can have it.”
“There are two. Later, when we’ve finished?”
“Good idea.”
“Right. On our bikes, then.”
It would have been more efficient to divide the search, but with only one flashlight we had to work together. We started in my cubbyhole. A laptop computer can be hidden almost anywhere, and I hadn’t been through all my filing cabinets yet.
We found nothing. No electronic gadgets, no software or data disks, nothing but memos, phone messages, old files, and the paper that somehow or other clutters up even the most resolutely “paperless” office.
On to the main office and Evelyn’s files. Nothing peculiar. Some crochet patterns tucked away; a small stash of paperback thrillers and a collection of Sayers short stories in a file drawer; some pictures, probably of her grandchildren.
I’d already declared Peter Grey a washout, and Nigel, after a quick search through his computer, came to the same conclusion. In Brian Upton’s office, we did find some interesting things.
We had gone through his desk drawers rapidly, looking for a computer. I tried to shut the top drawer, but it was messy, crammed full of junk, and the top piece of paper caught on something and didn’t want to lie down. I picked it up to smooth it and replace it the way it was.
“Nigel, shine the light over here.”
“Something?”
“I’m not sure. Can you read it? I think I can make out a little, but English handwriting isn’t my strong point.”
“Whew! What a beastly scrawl! I’m not sure if I can decipher it out, but let’s see—oh, dear, dear, dear!”
“Then it’s what I thought it was?”
Nigel read it aloud. “‘If you think’—there’s no salutation, just starts off—‘If you think I shall peg’—no—‘pay a—a filthy blackmailer’—actually, it doesn’t say ‘filthy,’ but that’s the idea—”
I smiled. “Go on.”
“‘—pay a filthy blackmailer a thousand pounds or any other bleeding’—sorry—‘amount, you can go straight to hell and’—” Nigel stopped abruptly and cleared his throat. “Well, it suggests what the blackmailer might do on his way to his destination. And that’s the end of it.”
My smile broadened. Nigel really could be a love. “My dear boy, I’ve probably heard the words before. Not that I had any desire to hear them again, so thank you. Well!”
“Blackmail. What about? Is he our pirate?”
“He certainly could be. Except—would he draft a reply, in that case? This must be a draft, since he obviously hasn’t sent it, and it sounds to me like ‘Publish and be damned.’ He would only take that attitude for one of two reasons. Either he t
ruly doesn’t care if whatever it is comes out, which doesn’t sound like high-end piracy, or he plans to dispatch the blackmailer, in which case he wouldn’t write to him in these terms and leave the first draft lying around. Does that make sense?”
“Mmm.” Nigel, who had sounded excited, now sounded deflated. “I suppose so. Let’s look through the drawers again.”
This time the back of a bottom drawer yielded overlooked treasure. Two plastic bags were stuffed inside a manila envelope.
“That’s cannabis,” said Nigel without hesitation, pointing to one bag. “And that looks very much like crack cocaine.”
I didn’t question how Nigel knew, but I thought it was probably through friends, rather than personally, especially in the case of the crack. Nigel drinks a bit more than he should at times, but since he has married, at least, he’s been a pretty responsible citizen overall. My concern at the moment was more immediate. “Oh, my word, Nigel, and our fingerprints are on them!”
“Not to worry.” He pulled a wrinkled, but clean, handkerchief from a pocket and wiped the surfaces of both bags and, as best he could, the envelope. “Not that anyone is likely to look, but we might as well be careful.”
I wondered what Alan would say if he knew I had just handled controlled substances and then watched while evidence was destroyed. Oh, well. Alan was far away.
“I expect we now know what he was being blackmailed about, Nigel. And at the moment I don’t care by whom. Let’s continue, and for heaven’s sake be careful with that flashlight. We do not need a bobby seeing a light in here and coming to investigate.”
Mr. Spragge’s door was locked. I hadn’t been able to figure out any way to get Evelyn to leave it open. I’d have to try to find a way to search his office myself, though I wasn’t sure how.
The Victim in Victoria Station Page 12