Who Is Simon Warwick

by Patricia Moyes

  “That’s right. He came nosing around Charlottesville, trying to see Sally. Of course, she couldn’t risk meeting him. She made some excuse, and he never followed it up.”

  “Quince’s father knew about Simon’s eyes,” said Henry. “He was the English lawyer who visited the Finches. He died some time ago. As far as I know, nobody else except Lord Charlton himself . . He stopped.

  Benson said, “I wasn’t really worried—not by that very clumsy attempt to push me under a bus. What scared me was the note I found in my pocket.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it seemed to me that somebody had found out about Sally, and that it was a threat to her, not to me. I knew somebody had killed Goodman because they believed him to be Simon Warwick, and that person, I thought, was prepared to kill Sally. Anybody who had found out the truth would know that Hank must be adopted, and so couldn’t inherit if Sally was dead. That’s why I decided to drop the claim—like I said, no amount of money could be worth Sally’s life. That’s why I’m so grateful to you for preventing her from coming over here.” Benson leaned forward and spoke very seriously. “Chief Superintendent, the person who murdered Ronald Goodman knows now that my wife was born Simon Warwick. I’m convinced of it. If Sally came to this country, she’d be in very great danger. You must believe me.”

  Henry sighed. “I do believe you,” he said, “and I’m afraid I’ve got bad news for you.”

  “What bad news?”

  “That cable was faked. Your wife is in England. She arrived this morning, as arranged.”

  Benson jumped to his feet. “Then where is she?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know.”

  “Then you bloody well ought to know! What’s a police force for? I told you, if you didn’t stop her, then you’d have to protect her—” Henry said, “Mr. Benson, if you’d told us sooner what you’ve told me this morning, things would have been very different.”

  “You knew already! You knew that Sally was Simon Warwick, and you didn’t do a damn thing about it! It’s all very well for you. If it was your wife . . .”

  Henry said, “It is, Mr. Benson.”

  “What?”

  “My wife,” Henry said, “is an exceptionally nice person. When I told her there was no way we could meet Mrs. Benson officially, she decided to go out to the airport herself. I found out just yesterday that Simon Warwick had one blue eye and one green, and my wife knew this—so when she saw your wife, she realized the truth. She telephoned me from the airport.”

  “And then . . .? Where is she now?”

  “I wish I knew.” Henry stood up. “Both our wives, Mr. Benson, seem to have disappeared.”

  15

  The blonde girl was nervous. Emmy sensed it right away, and wondered if Sally Benson noticed it, too. Sally, however, appeared perfectly self-possessed and unaware of anything unusual.

  “It really was most kind of Mr. Colby to send the car,” she was saying. “I do appreciate it. Oh, may I introduce Mrs. Tibbett? She very kindly met the airplane, not knowing that Mr. Colby had made other arrangements for me.” She turned to Emmy with a smile. “Well, I guess Mr. Colby will be waiting for me in his office, so if you’re sure you can take the subway on to town . . .”

  “Oh. Oh, no, Mrs. Benson.” The blonde interrupted Sally with a nervous little laugh. “I’m afraid . . . that is, Mr. Colby asked me to meet you here, because it so happens he had to go up to town himself this morning. I’m to drive you up, and he’ll meet you at your hotel. So if you—”

  “Why, that’s splendid,” said Sally Benson. “Then we can give you a ride into London, Mrs. Tibbett. Can’t we, Miss . . .?”

  “Smith,” said the blonde. “Deborah Smith. Well, Mrs. Benson, I don’t know whether Mr. Colby—”

  “I’ll take the responsibility, Miss Smith,” said Sally, easily. “Shall we get in the back? After you, Mrs. Tibbett.”

  When the small car was on its way, Sally Benson said, “Have you seen my husband, Miss Smith?”

  “I. . . no. I haven’t seen him myself. Of course, Mr. Colby sees him.”

  “How is he?”

  “Well. . . Mr. Colby hasn’t said, really. I expect he’s all right.”

  Sally exchanged a brief, amused look with Emmy, as if to indicate the hopelessness of trying to extract information from Miss Smith. She said, “You haven’t told me yet why you were so kind as to come out to meet me, Mrs. Tibbett. You’re a friend of Ambrose Quince’s, are you?”

  “Yes.” Emmy hesitated. She could hardly admit to being the wife of the detective who had arrested Harold Benson, and she wanted to remain anonymous as far as Miss Smith was concerned.

  “I was so sorry to miss him and his wife when they were in the States,” Sally said, smoothly. “Harold says he has been very helpful. I believe it was he who recommended Mr. Colby. I’m surprised he didn’t tell you that I was being met at the airport, Mrs. Tibbett.”

  “I don’t suppose he knew,” said Emmy. “Your husband must have had a change of heart.”

  “What do you mean?” Sally’s voice was cold.

  Unhappily, Emmy said, “Well, you must surely know that he didn’t want you to come over here. He was trying to discourage you—for your own sake.”

  Sally said, “Oh, Harry is such a worrier. I’m sure nothing can happen to me while I have Mr. Colby and Miss Smith to look after me.

  Was there an ironic undertone? Emmy could not be sure. She was, however, convinced that if Sally Benson suspected anybody of bad faith or evil intentions, it was Emmy Tibbett. Perhaps I’m being ridiculous, Emmy thought. Why shouldn’t all this be perfectly aboveboard and straightforward? What more natural than that Mr. Colby should order a car, and send his secretary, Miss Smith, to meet Mrs. Benson. Sally certainly appeared to see nothing suspicious in the setup. Emmy, however, had the advantage of being on home ground. Living in London, she knew that it was unlikely that Ambrose would have recommended a suburban solicitor to act in a murder case; and she had taken good note of 61, High Street, Hounslow. The ground floor was a grocery shop, and there had been no brass plate on the street door to indicate offices above. So long as I stick to her, Emmy thought, they can’t very well murder her. Of course, they could kill us both. Emmy wished that she were braver.

  By now, the car was negotiating Hammersmith Bridge, and Sally Benson said, “We seem to be getting into the city. That must be the river Thames. I’ve always wanted to see it. You must tell us where you’d like to be dropped off, Mrs. Tibbett.”

  “I . . . I was actually going up to the West End,” said Emmy, hoping that she was guessing right. “Which hotel are you staying at?”

  “The . . . the London Metropole, isn’t it, Miss Smith?”

  Good, Emmy thought. I guessed right.

  The blonde cleared her throat and said, “As a matter of fact, no, Mrs. Benson. There was a mix-up about the reservation. You’re booked at the Sloane Palace. So we’ll drop you off in Sloane Square, Mrs. Tibbett, and you can get a cab from there.” Dammit, Emmy thought. Can’t change my mind now. Aloud, she said, “That’ll be fine. Thank you.”

  It was a quarter to one when the green Morris pulled up beside the taxi rank in Sloane Square. Sally Benson leaned across Emmy to open the door, and said, “Well, goodbye, Mrs. Tibbett. It has been so nice meeting you. I hope we may see each other again when this dreadful business has been cleared up. Thank you for your kindness.”

  Emmy muttered something about it being a pleasure, got out of the car, and hailed the leading cab on the rank.

  “Where to, m’am?”

  “I don’t . . . just a minute . . .”

  “Make up your mind, luv,” said the cabby.

  The green Morris, still distinguishable in the swirl of traffic, had completed the half circuit of Sloane Square, and turned up Sloane Street. Not in the direction of the Sloane Palace Hotel.

  “Go up Sloane Street,” said Emmy. “Quickly.” She could not quite bring herself to say, “Follow that car.” Instead
, she said, “You see that green Morris stopped at the lights? Just go where it goes. My friends are showing me the way to . . .”

  The driver sighed noisily. “Follow that car. Why can’t you say so? Wot are you, then—private detective? Divorce case, is it?”

  “Just follow the green Morris,” said Emmy.

  The cabby winked at her in the mirror. “I get it, I get it. No names, no pack drill.” The Morris turned right into Knightsbridge. “Goin’ up west, by the look of it.”

  The Morris took the underpass to avoid Hyde Park Corner, emerged into Piccadilly, and soon pulled over into the left-hand stream. Then it took a left turn and threaded its way through the maze of fashionable streets to pull up outside a giant new American hotel that had recently opened its doors in the popular tourist area between Piccadilly and Bond Street.

  “Stop here!” Emmy said. She jumped out, paid the cabby and joined a group of German-speaking shoppers who were volubly comparing prices displayed in various enticing boutique windows. Protected from view by the crowd, Emmy saw Sally Benson get out of the green Morris at the entrance of the London Metropole Hotel. Deborah Smith did not get out, and Emmy could imagine her explaining that it was impossible to do more than drop her passenger at the door. Indeed, the doorman from the hotel had already unloaded Sally’s suitcase and was indicating to the Morris that it should vacate the space outside the hotel entrance. The Morris drove away, and Sally Benson went into the hotel.

  After a momentary hesitation, Emmy decided to follow her. There was plenty of coming and going through the big swing doors of the Metropole, and Emmy reckoned that she could slip in unobserved, see what Mrs. Benson was doing and if anybody was meeting her, and then telephone Henry. She was uncomfortably aware that she had not met any of the characters in the Simon Warwick drama, but only knew of them by name and from Henry’s description. And neither had Sally Benson. Denton Westbury, Bertram Hamstone, even Sir Percy Crumble himself could introduce himself as Mr. Reginald Colby, and neither Sally Benson nor Emmy Tibbett would be any the wiser. Emmy took a deep breath and went through the door into the lobby, effectively disguised by a party of Indian ladies in bright saris, who carried armfuls of bulging paper bags from Marks and Spencer.

  Sally Benson’s suitcase and hand baggage had been neatly stacked beside the reception desk, and she herself was walking up to the desk, obviously with the intention of checking in, when a man—whose back was turned to Emmy—stepped out from behind a pillar and said something to Sally, apparently introducing himself. Sally turned and looked up to him with an attractive smile, and Emmy shrank back, feeling sure that she must have been spotted—but apparently not. Sally Benson nodded approval, presumably to some suggestion made by the man, and allowed herself to be led away to a quieter corner of the big lobby, where exhausted bargain hunters were relaxing in comfortable chairs and refreshing themselves with drinks from a bar.

  Emmy edged closer, still trying to keep within the protective camouflage of the crowd. The man escorted Mrs. Benson to a table, made sure that she was comfortably seated, and then evidently volunteered to go and get her a drink. Emmy could see that Sally was agreeing to the idea gratefully. The man straightened, and turned away from Sally to face Emmy. It was Ambrose Quince.

  At the same moment, Sally looked up. Emmy could not see her eyes, for she had put her big dark glasses on again, but they must have looked straight into Emmy’s face, because she waved, stood up, and called, “Why, Mrs. Tibbett!”—and then, to Ambrose, “Mr. Colby, you must meet Mrs. Tibbett. She was at the airport this morning.”

  There was nothing Emmy could do. She stepped out of the crowded foyer into the bar area.

  Ambrose Quince said, “How nice to see you again, Mrs. Tibbett”—and then, “So Scotland Yard arranged a reception committee for Mrs. Benson, did it? Isn’t that a little unusual?”

  Sally Benson said, sharply, “Scotland Yard?”

  “Why, yes.” Ambrose smiled. “Didn’t Mrs. Tibbett tell you that her husband is the chief superintendent who arrested your husband?”

  Emmy said, weakly, “Mr. Quince . . . I had no idea . . .” Words failed her.

  Sally Benson was looking from one to the other of them in bewilderment. She said, “Mr. Colby . . .”

  “I’m afraid,” said Ambrose, “that there has been a slight misunderstanding, entirely due to Colby’s imbecile secretary. For a start, she got the hotel booking muddled up, and tried to take Mrs. Benson to the Sloane Palace—or so I understand. Then she told Mrs. Benson that Reggie was going to meet her here, when she knew perfectly well that Reggie couldn’t get away till later. I happened to see him at the Law Courts a little while ago, and so I volunteered to come along in his place to greet this charming lady.”

  “But—” Sally began.

  Ambrose said, “This place is bedlam, isn’t it? Can’t hear yourself think. I did realize that you had misunderstood me, Mrs. Benson, and that you thought I was Reggie Colby—but it seemed only human to get you a drink before I set you right. Will you join us, Mrs. Tibbett? I haven’t long, I’m afraid. I have to get back to court.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Quince,” said Emmy. “May I have a dry sherry?” She sat down at the table, and Ambrose made his way to the bar.

  Ambrose Quince. It couldn’t be true. He wasn’t even on Henry’s list of suspects. He was an executor of the will, he stood to gain nothing, one way or the other. It didn’t make sense. Emmy told herself not to be idiotic. Ambrose was simply here, as a friend of Mr. Colby’s, to welcome Sally and buy her a drink. Colby’s secretary had made a muddle over the name of the hotel. Soon Reginald Colby himself would arrive to take care of Sally.

  Emmy began to feel extremely silly. She didn’t like to think of the anxiety she must have caused Henry. Her car was abandoned in a garage at Heathrow Airport. She had been the first person to identify Simon Warwick, but that was all she had done. And meanwhile, Sally Benson was looking at her with suspicious hostility, as she had every right to do. Emmy stood up.

  “Please excuse me for a moment, Mrs. Benson. I have to make a phone call. I’ll be back.”

  There was a row of telephone booths at the far end of the lobby. Emmy made her way over to them through the ever-increasing lunchtime crowds, searched in her purse for the right coins, and dialed Scotland Yard.

  “Henry . . . this is me.”

  “Thank God for that. Where are you?”

  “Henry, I’ve been an utter fool.”

  “Never mind that. Where are you, and where is Mrs. Benson?”

  “We’re both at the London Metropole. I got a ride into town with her from the airport.”

  “From Hounslow High Street, you mean, don’t you?”

  Oh God, he even knows about that. “Well, yes. The secretary was there to meet us, and she drove us in.”

  “What secretary?”

  “Deborah Smith. Mr. Colby’s secretary. Ambrose Quince says—”

  “Ambrose Quince?”

  Oh, do listen, Henry. Everything is perfectly all right. Mr. Colby—Benson’s lawyer—couldn’t get away to meet Sally, so Ambrose came along here in his place—”

  Henry said, “You mean that you and Mrs. Benson and Ambrose Quince are all together at the Metropole?”

  “Yes. In the lobby bar. Ambrose just went off to get us a drink.”

  “Has anything been said about Sally Benson being Simon Warwick?”

  “No, of course not. And she’s wearing dark glasses, so nobody can see—”

  “Okay,” said Henry. “Stay where you are. Keep up a jolly conversation. For God’s sake, don’t lose her. Don’t let her out of your sight. I’ll be right over.”

  “But Henry—”

  “Just do as I say.” The line went dead.

  Mystified, Emmy made her way back through the polyglot crowd to the bar area. The table where she had been sitting was now occupied by a party of massive Dutch ladies and gentlemen, drinking beer. Of Sally Benson and Ambrose Quince, there was no sign at all. The
n Ambrose emerged from the crowd of people clustered round the bar, carrying three glasses of sherry with some difficulty. He and Emmy faced each other.

  Ambrose said, “Where’s Mrs. Benson?”

  “I don’t know. I went to make a phone call. She was sitting at the table when I last saw her.”

  Ambrose relaxed. “I expect she’s just gone to freshen up, in the American euphemism. Meanwhile, she’s lost us our table. Ah, those people seem to be going. Grab yourself a chair, quick.”

  Ten minutes later, Sally Benson’s drink was still untasted on the table and Ambrose had gone back to the bar to get a refill for his own glass—when Henry arrived, followed at a discreet distance by Inspector Reynolds. He came up to Emmy and said, “Where are they?”

  Emmy said, “Ambrose is getting a drink at the bar, and Sally is presumably in the ladies’.”

  “Presumably? You don’t know?”

  “Oh, Henry, she’ll be back in a moment. She went off while Ambrose was buying drinks and I was telephoning to you. After all, she’s just had a long journey. It’s perfectly natural for her to—

  Henry said, “So she’s been gone almost a quarter of an hour?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “There’s a ladies’ room just over there. Go and see if you can find her.”

  Sally Benson was not in the ladies’ room. Emmy came back to report the fact, and found Henry looking grim, and Ambrose Quince amused.

  “It’s not funny, Mr. Quince,” Henry said. “Somebody could easily have approached her while you and Emmy were both out of the way.”

  “My dear fellow,” Ambrose said, “why on earth should anybody do that? Maybe she decided to check in and go up to her room.”

  “We’ll see,” Henry said. He beckoned to Derek Reynolds, who came over to the table. The two men exchanged a quiet word, and then Reynolds went over to the reception desk. Emmy could see him talking to the clerk and producing his identification card. Ambrose said, “What/s all this, Tibbett?”

  “I’m anxious to talk to this elusive young woman,” said Henry. “Just as you were in Charlottesville. Now she appears to have done another vanishing act.”