by Anne Morice
‘What accomplice? You’re not suggesting that Imogen was also present, disguised as a waiter and popping paraquat into the champagne?’
‘Not seriously, no, but you seem to have taken a dislike to the poor woman and I thought the idea of her being involved might appeal to you. Also, you must admit, it’s an odd coincidence their being so chummy.’
‘Not necessarily. I see them as two star-crossed lovers getting together for a good cry and, from what Ellen tells me about her, I feel sure Imogen made all the running.’
‘Nevertheless, Desmond did introduce her to his favourite haunt, making it inevitable that they would often meet, even if not by arrangement.’
‘And from what I know of Desmond, he only did that to ease the way for her to pay for some of his drinks. He’s always making people members and the chances are that there’ll be at least one of them around every time he drops in.’
‘Honestly, the more I hear about this ruffian the more I wonder that Ellen should have put up with him for so long, or why Marion does, for that matter.’
‘I think she gets a bit miffed with him sometimes, but you see he’s a member of the sacred profession and she believes he has great talent. In her eyes that compensates for every fault. She’s right too, in a way, but he’s so self-destructive that there won’t be any talent left if he keeps it up. Also what you couldn’t be expected to realise is that he’s powerfully attractive to women and when he finds one of them attractive in return the effect can be devastating, specially in the early stages.’
‘But you don’t think that’s how it is with him and Imogen?’
‘Well, he certainly didn’t seem much put out when she lost her nerve and cancelled their lunch today, if indeed it was her he was lunching with. Besides, she’s not his type at all. He likes them young and nubile, everything that Ellen was, in other words. He was really demented about her and she was the one to tire first, which probably makes her even more desirable.’
‘So much so as to make him resolve that if he can’t have her no one else shall?’
‘Oh, certainly; to the extent of writing stupid threatening letters, but nothing lasts with him and I feel sure it was just hot air. I must try and have a talk with Ellen tomorrow, incidentally. Find out if there’ve been any new developments over the letter. The problem will be to catch her on her own, because obviously she won’t be anxious to discuss it in front of Jeremy, and as this is his so-called honeymoon there’s no chance of his being out at work.’
This problem continued to nag at me at odd moments throughout the evening and I finally returned to the precept I had first thought of, which was to keep it simple. The fact was that, if Ellen were prepared to discuss the subject she was perfectly able to find the means of doing so. Nothing more was required of me than to provide the excuse and, accordingly, I resolved to telephone her in the morning and invite her to lunch. However, before I could hoist this kite into the air, the string to hold it aloft had been cut to pieces. Half-an-hour after leaving the house, Robin rang up to say that Desmond had been found dead in bed. Very few details were as yet available, but all the signs pointed to suicide or misadventure.
CHAPTER SEVEN
1
The facts, as then known, were as follows: at eleven o’clock on the previous morning Superintendent Powell, accompanied by his sergeant and armed with the celebrated letter, had called at No. 9 Lupton Row, where Desmond lived, which was approximately one hour before I had met him at Le Carillon. They had arrived without warning and were unable to gain admittance, since he was either out or asleep.
No. 9 was at the end of a short terrace of squat, early Victorian villas, a converted slum, which had been jazzed up with shutters and front doors of every colour of the spectrum and with window boxes and carriage lamps galore. Each house consisted of a basement kitchen and dining room, with access to the back garden, a floor just above street level and one more over that. At the time of their call the basement curtains were drawn, as were those of both the upstairs windows.
Some minutes later, returning alone and on foot, although within signalling distance of the superintendent in his car, Sergeant Blaikie, posing as a representative of the Electricity Board, had knocked at the door of No. 8.
The householder here turned out to be a young married woman, with hair all over the place and wearing a printed smock over denim trousers, who had not for an instant been taken in by this feeble ruse. Clearly, she had assumed him to be a dun and, equally clearly, was familiar with the breed and with being asked to account for her neighbour’s whereabouts. In a manner at once wary and vague to the point of imbecility, she had vouchsafed that he might be away, since he quite often did go away, on tour and all that, you know, and she couldn’t remember when she last saw him, but, you know, being an actor and everything, he kept odd sorts of hours and sometimes days went by, you know, without her seeing him at all.
Sergeant Blaikie did know and, wasting no more time on this unprofitable source, returned to his superior for further instructions. These were simply to remain in the car and watch for developments, reporting at regular intervals to the superintendent at his office. The sergeant intimated that he regarded this as a fairly hopeless proposition for, having encountered the young person next door, he was firmly of the opinion that her first act on closing the front door would be to pick up the telephone and warn the quarry of what was afoot. However, the superintendent reminded him that there was also the slim chance that Desmond had already gone out, leaving the curtains undrawn and would in due course return.
This indeed was the case, although it was not until five o’clock, by which time the neighbour had left her house, returned to it and shortly afterwards gone out again, this time wearing a long black skirt under the pink smock and with her hair slightly less all over the place, that the long stint was rewarded. A taxi drew up in front of No. 9 and two people got out. One of them was evidently the owner, for he used his own key, and they both went inside. Unfortunately, the sergeant could not specify the age or sex of the other person, for his view had been blocked by the taxi until the very last moment. All he could say with certainty was that he or she had been on the tall side, about the same height as Desmond, who was no shrimp, and had been wearing trousers. This, of course, proved nothing, but he inclined to the view that it had been a female because Desmond had stood aside when they entered the house, a courtesy which was accompanied by a sweeping bow.
Personally, I did not believe this to be any more conclusive than the trousers, but then Sergeant Blaikie was not familiar with the subject’s antics when he had reached a certain stage of intoxication and was attempting to be humorous. Moreover, he appeared to have overlooked the fact that there were such things as platform soles.
After I had pointed this out to Robin, he went on to tell me that the sergeant had remained at his post for another ten or fifteen minutes, but there had been no further activity and the upstairs curtains had remained drawn. At which point the superintendent ordered him to call it off and return to base. It was no part of his plan to hammer on Desmond’s door and then to confront him in the presence of a witness. He had been hoping to bring about a discreet and strictly private interview, and if this could not be achieved on that day it would have to wait for the next.
This, in my opinion, was where he made his biggest mistake, for when I had heard the story to the end I became convinced that, if he had forced his way into the house and had caught so much as a glimpse of that other person, Desmond would still have been alive the next time they called on him.
This, in fact, had occurred soon after nine on the following morning, somewhat earlier than planned, due to intervention on the part of Ellen. She had telephoned the local station to express her fears for Desmond’s safety, having failed to get any response from his number, either between eight-thirty and midnight, or on the two further attempts she had made that morning.
Somewhat stunned by her drastic reaction to this minor contretemps, the sergea
nt had naturally been disposed to soothe her out of it, whereupon Ellen had positively demanded that he send someone round to the house forthwith, to ensure that all was well. However, realising that she could scarcely expect these orders to be carried out on so flimsy a pretext, she had reluctantly parted with two further items of information. One was that she knew Mr Davidson to be in a highly disturbed state of mind, having rung her up several times during the preceding few days and threatened suicide; the other that, in trying to reach him, she had used a special code which had been invented for their private convenience during the period before her marriage when they had been close friends. This was to allow the telephone to ring three times, then to replace the receiver and immediately afterwards to dial the number again. He was notorious for not answering calls when disinclined to do so, but had never been known to ignore this signal, which had been designed specifically for emergencies.
Asked to explain why Mr Davidson should not be spending the night with friends, she would only say she was certain this was not so and that the sergeant must either take her word for it, or she would have no recourse but to apply to Inspector Price of Scotland Yard, who was a close relative.
When I heard about it, I was puzzled that she had not used this lever in the first place, or better still contacted Robin direct, but concluded that the lesson he was always preaching had been too well learned and that she could only bring herself to involve him as a last resort.
In any case, whether for this or some other reason, her request was granted, at which point she rang up to warn me of what she had done, and barely an hour later the telephone rang again, bringing me first-hand news of Desmond’s death. I did not stop to pass it on to Ellen, but gathered up two or three scripts which had been littering my desk for months and went out to the street to find a taxi to take me to Notting Hill. I was not immediately successful and, as the route from Beacon Square lay through all the worst conglomerations of London traffic, it was past nine-thirty when we stopped at the corner of Lupton Row and I got out.
There were three cars parked near No. 9 and a uniformed constable was stationed on the pavement outside the front door.
‘Sorry, miss,’ he said, stepping back a pace, as I attempted to circle round behind him, wearing an abstracted look on my face, as though unaware of his existence. ‘No one allowed in there, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh, really? Why not?’
‘Been an accident.’
‘To Mr Davidson? What happened?’ I asked, looking suitably startled and apprehensive.
‘Couldn’t say about that. All I know is, I’m to stop here and keep everyone out.’
‘Oh dear! But couldn’t you just . . . ? I mean, what on earth could have happened? It must be something terribly serious for you to have been called in. Are you sure you couldn’t let me inside just for one tiny second, so that I can find out?’
He shook his head in some alarm. ‘More than my life would be worth. Don’t you worry, they’re looking after him and he’ll be all right, I dare say.’
‘Do you mean that, honestly?’
‘Shouldn’t be surprised. You’re a friend of the gentleman, I take it?’
‘Oh yes, a very old friend. That is, we’ve worked together a lot. He’s an actor, you see, like me.’
‘That right?’
‘Yes, and you see he gave me these scripts to read, plays you know, and I was just bringing them back. He said it was most important to have them today, that’s why I came so early. Oh dear, now what am I going to do?’
‘If I were you, I’d hang on to them for a bit. I dare say he won’t be needing them today.’
‘No, I suppose not. What a pity, though! I mean, to have come all this way, specially . . . and I do hate the idea of letting him down . . .’
More stolid headshaking on his part, quickly followed by a little cheering up on mine, which led me to say: ‘Oh, I know! I’ll ask the girl next door. Can’t remember her name, but she’s awfully nice and I’m sure she’ll look after them for me until Mr Davidson is better.’
‘Good idea, miss, I should do that,’ the constable said with immense relief as I skipped away. Not a moment too soon either, for, with my finger on the bell of No. 8, I saw him straighten up and salute, as another black car came alongside and out stepped Superintendent Powell.
2
Sergeant Blaikie’s description had been reasonably accurate, but on this occasion she was wearing a man’s dressing gown over the denim trousers, so obviously liked to ring the changes here and there. Her hair, on the other hand, was very much all over the place and she also looked bleary-eyed and puffy from lack of sleep. She was in the middle of a huge, engulfing yawn when she opened the door.
‘Could I come in for a moment?’ I asked. ‘I’m a friend of Desmond’s.’
‘Oh yes, well, all right. What’s going on over there?’
‘Haven’t you heard? I should have thought it might have been on the radio by now.’
‘I’ve only just got up. We had such a night! Dick’s still sleeping it off. All right for some, but I was woken by all that crashing and slamming and I thought someone must have planted a bomb or something, and we’d all have to wrap ourselves in blankets and sit in the town hall until they’d defused it or something. What happened? Has Desmond done someone in?’
‘Himself, apparently.’
‘You’re joking!’ she said, staring at me open-mouthed, and then flopped down on to a hall chest as though the muscles of her legs had collapsed.
‘It’s true, is it? God, how awful! People shouldn’t tell you that kind of thing at this hour of the morning when you feel like I do. What happened?’
‘I don’t know the details. Only that he was found dead a couple of hours ago. And I’m sorry to break it so crudely, but I have a feeling the police will be knocking on your door before long and I thought you would like to be prepared.’
‘What would they come here for?’
‘Oh, to ask whether you’d seen anyone entering or leaving No. 9, that kind of thing.’
‘Oh God, isn’t it awful? I felt ghastly enough before, but this is the end! Look, we’d better go and sit down while I try and take it in,’ she said, pulling herself up and traipsing off to a room at the back of the house, overlooking the miniature garden. It was furnished as a workroom and study, with pen and ink designs pinned to drawing boards on all the walls. There were two decrepit-looking armchairs, one of which had a Siamese cat on it and the other a pile of technical journals.
‘My husband’s an architect,’ she explained, dumping the papers on to an already overloaded desk and the cat on to her lap. ‘At least, he will be, if he keeps it up for another three or four years. Do you honestly not know how it happened?’
‘I honestly don’t, but you sound as though you considered that more important than why it happened.’
She looked up, as though seeing me in the round for the first time, and said wonderingly:
‘You could be right. It rocked me when you told me, but perhaps it wasn’t all that much of a surprise. He’s been more than peculiar lately, ever since his girl walked out on him. No, it’s not so hard to believe, only it’s a shock when it happens, isn’t it?’
‘Well, his state of mind is one of the things the police will want to know. Another might be when you last spoke to him and whether you saw anyone going into the house or leaving it during the past twelve hours or so.’
‘Why should they want to know that?’
‘Because there might be someone who’d seen him more recently than you had, who could give them an up-to-date bulletin about his mood and so on.’
‘You’re joking! Why should anyone question what sort of mood he was in when he’s just killed himself? I mean, that tells you, doesn’t it?’
This was a tricky one and I could have kicked myself for not having credited her with being sufficiently wide-awake to recognise this flaw in the argument. Fortunately, she did not press the point, but went on,
; ‘Anyway, this lovely old cat is the only one who could tell you anything. I went out early yesterday evening because I was meeting Dick at this place in Golden Square where he’s training to be an architect. Then we saw some rotten film and had dinner at a Chinese place. After that we had the grisly idea of going to this party a friend of ours was giving in Islington. No use asking me what time we got home, or even how we got home. I don’t remember anything special about No. 9, but I probably wouldn’t have noticed if it had been burnt to the ground. And, judging by the sight of him this morning, Dick was in even worse shape than me.’
The memory of this started her yawning again and I said,
‘Well, in that case, you’ve nothing to worry about, because once they know that they’ll stop bothering you. Perhaps they won’t come at all and Dick will be able to sleep in peace. I thought you’d like some advance warning, just in case.’
‘Thanks,’ she said, getting up and draping the sleeping cat over her shoulder. ‘Nice of you to think of it.’
Before following her out of the room I tossed my scripts on to the mêlée on the desk, where I considered there was a good chance of their remaining unnoticed until after my visit was forgotten. They had served their purpose and I could at least save myself the trouble of lugging them home again. It was a small consolation and, up till then, the only one, for there was no denying that in all other respects the enterprise had not paid off, a disappointment only slightly mitigated by the belief that Superintendent Powell, were he indeed to call, was unlikely to garner any more than I had. However, this turned out to be an unnecessarily gloomy verdict, for out in the hall once more and still clasping the cat, she rubbed her face against its fur and mumbled,
‘Of course, if one wanted to make a big thing out of it, like, you know, he was murdered or something, that’d be different, I suppose.’
‘Oh, would it?’ I asked. ‘Why’s that? Would you then remember that you hadn’t been to a party, after all, but had been sitting here watching television and when you put the cat out you saw a furtive, bloodstained individual running down the street?’