The Curious Affair of the Third Dog

by Patricia Moyes

  “What did she say? What was he doing in Gorsemere?”

  Reynolds shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine, sir. She said he was having a short holiday in the country.”

  “On his own? She wasn’t with him?”

  “Seems not, sir.”

  Henry and Reynolds looked at each other. Henry raised his eyebrows slightly, and Reynolds said, “I agree, sir. It stinks to high heaven.”

  “The question is,” said Henry, “what are we going to do about it?”

  “We could start with Weatherby, sir. I could haul him down here and give him an uncomfortable half hour or so—metaphorically speaking, of course. It’d be a pleasure.”

  “I’m sure it would,” said Henry, “but I think not. Let’s not put them on their guard. No, I think the person to see is Mrs. Lawson. You have her address?”

  “The one she gave the court, yes, sir. You want me to get her in for questioning?”

  “No, Sergeant. Just the address. I’ll visit her myself.”

  ***

  The address which Sergeant Reynolds produced was in an opulent part of the North London suburb of Finchley, and the house turned out to be an ugly but luxurious structure of thirties stockbroker-Tudor vintage. It stood in a biggish garden, which, although neglected, was bright with blossoming fruit trees; and there was a large “For Sale” notice beside the front gate. Henry got out of his car, pushed open the gate, which was sagging slightly on its hinges, and walked up a gravel path which was already sprouting a crop of weeds.

  There was no point in ringing the front doorbell. The place was obviously empty. Through uncurtained windows on each side of the door, Henry could see large rooms devoid of furniture, with dark rectangular marks on the wallpaper indicating where pictures had hung, and electric wires sprouting forlornly from the middle of the ceilings in place of light fittings. The house had not been hastily abandoned; efficient removal men must have stripped it systematically, crating furniture and household goods for storage or transfer to another house. The conclusion was obvious. Soon after her husband’s death, Mrs. Lawson had sensibly decided to move to smaller quarters, and to sell the house for the huge sum it would undoubtedly fetch.

  Henry walked around to the garden at the back. From the general state of neglect, he guessed that the property had been deserted for a couple of months at least. Lawson had been killed nine weeks ago. Either his widow had moved out as soon as she heard the news, or else the couple had already left the house before Lawson’s accident. Henry wondered for a moment why Mrs. Lawson had given the court the address of this house, where she clearly no longer lived; then the obvious explanation occurred to him. She must undoubtedly have given evidence at the inquest immediately after Lawson’s death, and probably thought it less complicated to use the same address. Since the house was still hers, he presumed she was justified.

  At the back of the house, big French windows opened onto a paved terrace. Clumps of grass and dandelions were pushing up determinedly between the flat gray stones, and an ancient canvas swing chair sagged sadly from its rusting frame. The windows had been left shuttered, but one of the slatted wooden panels was broken, and through it Henry could peer into the empty drawing room—a large, handsome apartment with a polished parquet floor marked with the shapes of departed rugs, and the outlines of wall-bracket lamp fittings on the Regency-stripe wallpaper on either side of the open fireplace. Lawson had certainly come up in the world, as Reynolds had said. Henry wondered why his widow had been in such a hurry to leave this pleasant home.

  From the terrace, shallow steps led down to a lawn, around which the garden had been cunningly landscaped to appear larger than it actually was. This illusion was enhanced by the fact that the property was adjoined on all three sides by neighboring gardens abounding in trees and flowering shrubs, so that only a carefully hidden fence indicated the boundary of the Lawson domain. Trees had been placed so that no other house was visible at a casual glance. Henry could imagine admiring visitors exclaiming—“Why, you might be in the heart of the country!”

  Equally ingenious was the placing of a bank of golden-flowering berberis bushes to screen the prosaic structures at the bottom of the garden—a small greenhouse, an open brick bonfire pit, and a garden shed. Henry was making his way toward the greenhouse when a voice behind him said abruptly, “What are you doing here?”

  Startled, Henry swung around to find himself facing a short, sturdy man, with pointed features and a fussy manner.

  “Just looking around,” said Henry, “the house is for sale, you know.”

  “Thinking of buying it, were you?”

  “I’m interested in it, yes.”

  The man seemed to relax. “Oh, I’m sorry to have to disappoint you, sir. You haven’t visited our offices, I daresay.”

  “Your offices?”

  “Rackham and Stout, Estate Agents. The property is in our hands. Surely you saw the board?”

  “I’m afraid I didn’t make a note of the agent’s name,” said Henry, apologetically. “I was just passing in the car, and saw that the house was for sale—”

  “Yes, sir. Well, it was for sale, but I’m afraid you’re just too late. A very desirable property, this. We sold it only this morning. Places like this get snapped up, you know.” The small man smirked, giving his sharp face a foxy look.

  “It’s only recently come onto the market, then?” Henry asked.

  “That’s right. Very recently. And now, if you don’t mind, sir…” The fussy manner became more marked. “I am here on behalf of the purchaser, and I have certain things… I regret we have not already removed the ‘For Sale’ board…it will be attended to…”

  Henry beamed. “Of course. Do forgive me. I have no right to be here. What a pity the house is sold. Just my bad luck.”

  “That’s right, sir. Just your bad luck.” It was with evident relief that the small man shepherded Henry back to the front of the house, down the garden path, and into his car. Parked immediately behind Henry’s car was a small, dark-blue van of the kind used by small businesses for delivery work, but there was no indication on it of the owner’s name. Henry, making a quick mental note of the number, presumed that it had been driven here by the small man from the agency, who was now standing just inside the gate with a distinctly proprietorial air, waving Henry good-bye. Short of revealing his identity as a police officer, Henry could not linger and hope to maintain any credibility. He climbed into his car and drove off.

  He did, however, make a circuit of the neighboring roads, which brought him back to the gate of No. 18 Sandown Avenue about five minutes later. There was no sign of the blue van, nor of the small man. The “For Sale” notice was still there. Thoughtfully, Henry drove to the offices of Rackham and Stout, Estate Agents, in Finchley Road.

  Here, Henry was greeted by an attractive blonde receptionist, who appeared suitably impressed by the sight of his official identity card, and in a few minutes he was ensconced in a leather armchair in the private office of Mr. Rackham himself. The latter was a dark, rotund gentleman, with all the self-assurance and friendly bounciness of North London’s well-to-do Jewish community.

  “Chief Superintendent Tibbett? Well, well, well, this is an honor. Sit yourself down and have a cigar. No, go on. They’re the best. Not worried about cancer, are you? These wouldn’t do you any harm, you can rest assured—wouldn’t dare, not at the price I pay for them. You’re quite sure? Well, I hope you don’t mind if I do. One of my little self-indulgences, I’m afraid.” Mr. Rackham lit the fat cigar with care, and puffed at it with loving attention until he was satisfied with its performance. Then he removed it from his mouth, and went on, “And what can we do for you, then, Chief Superintendent? Interested in house property in this area?”

  “Yes,” said Henry. “As a matter of fact, I am.”

  “Well, now, fancy that. Any particular house, did you have in mind?”

  “No. 18 Sandown Avenue,” said Henry.

  Rackham beamed. “A
very highly desirable property,” he said, rolling the words round his tongue. “A gentleman’s select detached residence standing in its own extensive grounds of nearly a fifth of an acre. Central heating, parquet floors, modern kitchen, fixtures as found. Landscaped garden abounding in shrubs, trees, and floral…er…flowers.” His pudgy forefinger flicked a switch on a small black box on his desk, which at once emitted an indistinguishable female noise. “Oh, Miss Farthing. Bring me details of 18 Sandown, will you? Thank you, dear. Yes,” Mr. Rackham went on, once more addressing Henry, “that property is what I can only describe as a snip.”

  “So it’s not sold?” Henry asked, getting a word in with difficulty.

  “No, no. Not yet—you’re still in time, I’m glad to say, Chief Superintendent. We’ve had nibbles, that I don’t deny—but let us face it, the price is steep. Fair, mind you—but steep. It is what you might call a unique type of residence, and money is tight these days. Undeniably tight. But you’re in luck, Chief Superintendent. I happen to know that the owner is anxious to make a quick sale—doesn’t want the property hanging about on the market—and she’s open to offer.” Rackham leaned back and puffed on his cigar.

  Before Henry could say more, the door opened and the blonde slipped in and placed a gray cardboard file on Mr. Rackham’s desk.

  “Thank you, my dear. That’ll be all for now.” Rackham pulled a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles out of his breast pocket, settled them on his broad nose, and began to scan the papers in the dossier. “You’ll find all the details here, Chief Superintendent. Magnificent double living room, thirty feet by twenty, giving onto—”

  “Yes, I know,” Henry said. “I’ve already been to look at the house.”

  “You have?” Rackham was immediately suspicious. “I’m very surprised to hear you say that, sir, because we are the sole agents. If a key has been obtained by some other firm—”

  Henry hastened to reassure him. “No, no. I didn’t go inside. I just had a look at the place from outside, and explored the garden.” He hesitated for a moment, and then added, “As a matter of fact, I met your representative there.”

  “My representative?” Rackham seemed genuinely bewildered.

  “I don’t know his name,” Henry said, “but he was a small, dark man—about forty, I should think. Driving a plain dark blue Austin van. He told me that the house was sold, and that he was there on behalf of the purchaser.”

  Rackham’s face had assumed an expression of almost comical astonishment and disbelief. He burst out, “That’s a load of old rubbish, sir, if you’ll forgive the expression. Whoever the man was, he was an impostor, or worse. Certainly nothing to do with this firm, of that I can assure you. The house is not sold, none of our representatives drives a blue van, and nobody has any right to be on that property without authorization from this office!” He puffed furiously at his cigar, as if to prevent himself from exploding.

  Henry smiled. “I rather thought as much,” he said. “That’s why I came to see you right away, Mr. Rackham. I must explain that I’ve no idea of buying the place. My interest is professional.”

  Enlightenment dawned on Rackham. “I know exactly what you mean, Chief Superintendent,” he said, enigmatically. “Exactly. Young hooligans!”

  “I don’t—” Henry began.

  “Breaking into unoccupied properties,” Rackham went on. “Taking drugs and playing guitars and every sort of lark. No respect for law and order. Disgusting. I’d cut off their long hair and give them all a good thrashing if I had my way. We’ve had a lot of trouble with them. They started in Piccadilly, but they’re creeping out into the suburbs. You mark my words. They’re finding their way into the most select residential—”

  Henry said, “I didn’t mean hippies, Mr. Rackham. The man I saw could hardly have looked more respectable, and there was no sign that the house had been broken into.”

  “Then what—?”

  “The property belongs to a Mrs. Lawson, I believe?”

  “That is correct. The poor young lady was widowed not long ago, in tragic circumstances. Her husband was killed in a motor smash, so she told me. He was a well-to-do gentleman—something in the City, I believe—but of course, with the breadwinner struck down in his prime, as you might say, the lady has been left in reduced circumstances, if you get my meaning. She came to us shortly after his death, to put the house on the market.”

  “And where is she living now?” Henry asked.

  “Well, now—I’m not sure if it’s proper to divulge—”

  “I am a police officer,” Henry said. “I am investigating certain suspicious facts about the death of Mr. Lawson, and I must speak to his widow.”

  Rackham seemed relieved not to have to wrestle with his conscience any longer. He said at once, “Ah, well, that makes a difference, doesn’t it, Chief Superintendent? Let’s have a look.” He thumbed through the file. “Here we are. Mrs. Marlene Lawson, 208 Nelson Buildings, Battersea.” He raised his head and met Henry’s steady gaze. “I can see what you’re thinking, Chief Superintendent. Something of a comedown after Sandown Avenue. I understand Mrs. Lawson is staying with her mother, and that things…aren’t easy. As I told you, she is very anxious to dispose of the property. In fact, she telephoned me only last week to ask if we’d been able to find a purchaser. I explained to her that the figure she had in mind was—well, a little unrealistic, shall we say? I suggested that if she wanted a quick sale, she should come down at least a couple of thousand. She said she would consider the matter and let me know.”

  “And has she?”

  “Not as yet. But this is only Monday—”

  “Very interesting,” said Henry. “Now, Mr. Rackham, could we go and take a look at the house?”

  “Well—naturally, if you think it’s important, sir…but—”

  “The man with the blue van,” said Henry, “who had no connection with your firm, seemed to think it important to keep me away from the place. I’d like to know why.”

  As it turned out, 18 Sandown Avenue had apparently no clues to offer. Henry and Rackham explored it room by room, but it showed no signs of being anything other than a luxurious home beginning to display sad evidence of emptiness and neglect. Henry examined the kitchen with special care, but there was no trace of recent use or occupation. By the end of the unrewarding exercise, Rackham was glancing ostentatiously at his watch and showing signs of impatience. He did not react favorably when Henry, having at last closed the front door behind him, said, “And now the garden.”

  “Really, Chief Superintendent—I don’t want to be obstructive in any way, but I really cannot see what useful purpose—”

  “There’s no need for you to wait if you’re in a hurry, Mr. Rackham,” said Henry pleasantly. “I can look at the garden by myself. Have you got keys to the greenhouse and the shed?”

  “I really don’t know,” said Rackham irritably. He looked at the small bunch of keys in his hand. “Let me see. Front door, back door, French window—what’s this? Ah, yes, garden shed. And greenhouse. Oh, very well—if you must see them, I’ll come with you.” He sighed deeply and led the way to the back of the house.

  The greenhouse was warmly damp and stuffy. A few potted plants left behind by the Lawsons were expiring limply on the slatted wooden shelves. The water in the tank was green and uninviting. A couple of panes of glass had been broken, and the explanation seemed to lie in a bright yellow ball made of hard rubber. It must have been shied over the fence by neighboring children, and now looked incongruously new and bright as it lay among the peeling paint and dying ferns.

  Mr. Rackham eyed the broken glass with a sort of furious resignation. “Vandals,” he remarked. He stooped and picked up the yellow ball. “Young savages. The trouble we have with children, Chief Superintendent…there were no windows broken when Mrs. Lawson left here, of that I am sure. Of course, we’ve made it clear that any damage incurred while the property is vacant is the responsibility of the vendor, but it does not make the place easier
to sell. No, it does not. I have a good mind to complain to the police.”

  “Since I am the police, Mr. Rackham,” said Henry affably, “perhaps I can help you. If you give me the ball as evidence, I’ll make some enquiries locally and—”

  Mr. Rackham handed over the ball eagerly. “Most kind, Chief Superintendent. I really do appreciate that. If you knew the trouble—”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” said Henry hastily. “Now, if we can just see the shed, I needn’t keep you any longer.”

  The garden shed was dark, dusty, and unremarkable. It contained a few rusty garden tools, a roll of ancient netting, an old gray blanket, an enamel bowl, and a few cracked flowerpots.

  “Nothing to detain you in here, is there, Chief Superintendent?” asked Rackham, expecting the answer “no.”

  Henry looked around the small shed. “No,” he said obediently. “No, nothing.” As they went outside again, he added, “Do you mind if I lock up?”

  Rackham looked surprised. “Of course, if you wish…” He handed over the key. As Henry turned it in the lock, he added another small piece of information to the one already stored in his mind—making two in all. First, that the enamel bowl had a little water in it; and second, that the lock had recently been oiled.

  Mr. Rackham was only too keen to get away from Sandown Avenue. It was nearly half-past five, time to be shutting up the office and getting home to a change of clothes, a stiff drink, and maybe a couple of holes of golf before dinner. Assuring Henry rather perfunctorily of his willingness to cooperate with the police at all times, he climbed into his car and made off at high speed. Henry, with the yellow rubber ball in his hand, rang the front doorbell of No. 17—the next-door house whose garden bordered that of No. 18 near the greenhouse.