Emmy said, “As soon as Ambrose told her I was your wife—”
“Exactly,” said Henry. “I did tell you not to go to the airport. Well, there may be a simple explanation, but—” He broke off as Reynolds came back to the table.
“No sign of her, sir. She hasn’t checked in or taken her key. Her baggage is at the desk, waiting to go up to her room.” He paused. “I’m afraid she must have left the hotel, sir.”
Henry said, “There are three exits. The main one onto Hay Street, the side one onto Bruton Square, and the garage exit into Farmer Mews at the back. You’ve got her description, Inspector Reynolds. Check whether any of the doormen noticed her leaving.”
Reynolds reported back a few minutes later. Nobody had seen her. Sally Benson had disappeared and London had swallowed her up.“Well,” said Ambrose, “I’m sorry about this, Tibbett, but I’m afraid it’s your problem. I must snatch a sandwich and get back to court. Goodbye, Mrs. Tibbett. So nice . . .” He was gone.
Emmy said, “Henry. I’m terribly sorry. You were right, I should never have gone to the airport. I—”
“Don’t be an idiot, darling,” Henry said. “You almost certainly saved her life—for a little while, at any rate. What we must do now is find her.”
“You think somebody came while Ambrose and I were both away, and persuaded her to—?”
“I think,” Henry said, “that she left the hotel voluntarily, but I don’t know whether she was alone or not, or where she went. Does she have our address in Chelsea?”
“No, but she knows my name. She could look us up in the phone book if she wanted to, but I can’t imagine her doing it. She obviously suspected a trap of some sort when Ambrose Quince blurted out who I was. I think she disappeared just to get away from me.”
“I hope you’re right,” Henry said.
During the afternoon, reports started coming in from the various plainclothesmen who were keeping their discreet eyes on what Henry mentally categorized as the Old Will Group.
Denton Westbury had not returned to his apartment, and so far had not been located. Sir Percy Crumble had lunched at a Mayfair restaurant and returned on foot to his office. Lady Diana Crumble and Miss Cecily Smeed had been picked up at the Down Street house by Sir Percy’s chauffeur-driven Bentley at half-past two. There was a blonde woman already in the car. She appeared to be on friendly terms with both ladies. Henry remembered the social secretary, and wondered. The car had dropped Miss Smeed at the Amalgamated Textiles building where she worked, and then taken the other two women to a Chelsea art gallery, where Lady Diana appeared to be selecting a picture to buy. The detective had managed to get a photograph of the blonde, which was being rushed to the Yard.
Bertram Hamstone had left Sprott’s Bank at a quarter to three, in the company of a fair girl whom the detective took to be his secretary. (“All these ruddy blondes,” as Inspector Reynolds remarked.) They had taken a taxi to the Hamstone house in Saint John’s Wood. A photograph was on its way now to the chief superintendent’s office.
Ambrose Quince was at the Law Courts, where the Westchester divorce suit had just been concluded to the dissatisfaction of all parties except the sensational press. The detective constable who was keeping a routine eye on Quince’s office building, as the site of a murder as yet unsolved, reported that Susan Benedict—whom he knew well by sight—had driven up in a taxi at half-past two, accompanied by a middle-aged lady who had a lot of packages with her, mostly purchases from Selfridge’s. The two had embraced, and Susan had said, “Goodbye for now, then, mother,” and gone into the building, while the taxi bore the other lady away. The constable, who could put two and two together, reckoned that Miss Benedict had taken her mother out shopping.
Meanwhile, Henry had another long telephone conversation with Mr. Reginald Colby. When it was over, he called Emmy at home.
“Well,” he said, “at least we know now where Sally Benson is.”
“You do? Where is she? Is she all right?”
“Depends what you mean by ‘all right,’ ” Henry said. “There was no mystery about her leaving the hotel, after all that. Colby came and collected her while you and Quince both had your backs turned. She went with him right away, thinking she was going to see her husband. Instead, Colby took her to his office, where she is currently having hysterics.”
“Hysterics?”
“Colby had to tell her, you see, that he couldn’t take her to the remand center, because her husband still refused to see her. Colby is trying to persuade her to take the next plane home, and she is refusing. That’s the state of play so far.”
Emmy said, “Does Mr. Colby know who she really is?”
“At the moment,” Henry said, “nobody knows that except you and I and Inspector Reynolds, and, I’m afraid, one other person. The question is—who is that person? Can you come round here to the office right away, darling? I’ve got some photographs to show you. I think we may be on the track of Miss Deborah Smith, who is most certainly not Colby’s secretary. After that, I’m going round to Colby’s office to talk to Mrs. Benson myself. She has to be made to see reason and get out of the country.”
At half-past three, Reginald Colby again telephoned Henry Tibbett. Henry listened for a moment, and then said, “Oh, my God. No, of course it wasn’t your fault. Okay. Yes, keep in touch.” Emmy, who was sitting on the other side of the desk examining a rather blurred color snapshot, said, “This isn’t her, either.” And then, “What’s the matter, Henry?”
“The vanishing lady,” Henry said grimly, “has vanished again. Left Colby’s office to powder her nose and never came back. Colby’s office. The one place I wasn’t having watched. I thought she was safe there.”
“Perhaps she’s making her own way to the remand center,” Emmy said. “At least she’s disappeared of her own accord.”
The remand center knew nothing about Mrs. Benson, then or later on. The London Metropole Hotel confirmed that she had not checked in. Her baggage was still at the reception desk. Emmy, sent home to the Tibbetts’ flat in case Sally Benson should try to contact her, sat by a maddeningly silent telephone. At five o’clock, Henry called Ambrose Quince at home.
“Contact me? No, old man. 1 called Susan at the office before I left court—no messages. And there’s been nothing here. Just a moment while I check with Rosalie . . .” His voice became faint, but still audible. “A Mrs. Benson didn’t call, did she, darling?” Then, into the mouthpiece, “No, Tibbett. No word from her. Why d’you think she’d contact me?”
Henry said, “You’re one of the very few people in England whom she knows. And frankly, I’m worried about her.”
Ambrose said, “It’s your business, of course, but I really can’t see what all the fuss is about. I can’t see that anybody would gain anything by harming her.”
Very seriously, Henry said, “It’s not that aspect that’s bothering me. What I’m afraid of is that she might harm herself. Benson is being a stubborn fool for some reason, and Colby said she was really distraught. If she does get in touch with you, for heaven’s sake try to find out where she is, and let me know. Try to get her to go to your house . . .I’m sure Rosalie would be good at calming her down. If she’s left on her own, in this frame of mind . . . Well, keep in touch, will you?”
“Of course I will. Of course. Anything we can do. I’ll tell Rosalie.”
It was a few minutes before ten o’clock that night that Ambrose telephoned Henry Tibbett at his home. He was upset, and got down to the facts without preamble.
“Tibbett? She’s just called. You were absolutely right. She sounded . . . no, not hysterical, but deadly calm. I think she’s planning to kill herself.”
“Did she tell you where she was?”
“No. I asked her several times, but she simply ignored my question. She said she wanted to thank me for my support and friendship. Goodness knows, I’ve done nothing for her. I suppose she just wanted to talk to somebody. She apologized for calling so late, but said she wo
uld be gone by tomorrow. I said, ‘Back to America, you mean?’ and she said, ‘No, not to America. Just gone.’ And then she hung up.”
“What time was this?” Henry asked.
“Just a few minutes ago. I didn’t notice exactly . . . perhaps Rosalie did . . .” More faintly: “Did you notice the exact time of that call, darling? . . . Hello, Tibbett. Rosalie says it was about eighteen minutes to ten . . . No, not a clue where from . . . except it must have been a pay box, because I heard the money drop as she pressed the button.”
“That doesn’t get us very far,” said Henry.
“I know that. At least it shows she wasn’t calling from her hotel room.”
“She hasn’t been back to the hotel,” Henry said. “They’re to let me know at once if she does. Well, thanks for letting me know, Quince. We’ll do our best to find her.”
“You’d better, old man,” said Ambrose. “Because tomorrow may be too late.”
Henry put down the telephone and stood up. “I have to go, Emmy,” he said.
From the kitchen, her hands wet with washing-up water, Emmy said, “Go? Where?”
“To find Sally Benson.”
16
Sally Benson stood in the dark on the flat roof of the London Metropole Hotel, looking down at the crawling lights of toy-size cars and taxicabs twenty stories below her. She shivered. She knew what she had to do, but she had not imagined that it would be as hard as this. There was nothing for it, however. She had to do it.
It had been absurdly easy to fool the hotel staff. A dark wig, a change of clothes, a room on the top floor booked in a false name, and no questions asked. After all, even if the police were watching the hotel, the best they would have to go on would be a snapshot from Harry’s wallet. Nobody in England would recognize her except Ambrose Quince, Emmy Tibbett, and Deborah Smith.
In the impersonally pretty hotel bedroom, she had written a note for her husband. They would find it in the morning.
Darling Harry,
By the time you read this, I shall be dead. Believe me, my love, I did the only thing that would give any chance of a happy life in the future for you and Hank. I must explain everything to you. You see . . .
When she heard the light footstep on the roof behind her, she did not turn her head at once, but stood quite still. Then she turned round, her back to the flimsy parapet. The flat roof, under the sparse light of a clouded half-moon, presented an eerie landscape of strange shapes—ventilators, television aerials, air-conditioning units. From behind one of the angular, huddled shapes, a figure stepped out.
Sally said, “You are very punctual.”
“I always keep my appointments, Mrs. Benson.”
“We have a lot to talk about, you and I. You know that I was born Simon Warwick?”
“Of course.”
“I won’t even ask how you found out. It doesn’t matter any longer. The point is that you know. It is also vitally important for you that Lord Charlton’s old will should come back into force— and soon.”
The newcomer smiled in the darkness. “I shall return the compliment, Mrs. Benson, and refrain from asking you how you know that.”
“By a process of deduction, of course. You wouldn’t have killed Ronald Goodman if you hadn’t been desperate.”
“That was an unfortunate mistake. How was I to know—?”
“He shouldn’t have been so greedy,” said Sally. “Greedy and deceitful. I am neither. I am prepared to do a deal with you.”
“Because you dare not make your claim publicly.”
“It would be . . . inconvenient for me to do so. So, you see, we can help each other. I will make no claim. On the other hand, you will arrange for the Charlton Foundation to be especially generous to a certain charity. Shall we call it the Friends of Charlottesville?”
“What makes you think I can influence the foundation?”
“Your great experience,” said Sally Benson, “in the setting up of phony charities. I’m making you a very generous offer. If you refuse it, I shall go to the police and tell them that you killed Ronald Goodman.”
“They wouldn’t believe you.”
“Are you prepared to risk that? I will also make and substantiate my claim to be Simon Warwick. And as Simon Warwick, when I investigate various financial transactions concerning the affairs of the late Lord Charlton, your motive for wanting to do away with Simon Finch will become very obvious, won’t it?”
“And if I agree, you are prepared to let your own husband be convicted for a murder he did not commit?”
Sally smiled. “It’s hardly surprising that he doesn’t want to see me, is it?”
The other stepped forward and caught her arm. “You are a devil. A cool, calculating devil.”
“And quite ruthless,” said Sally.
“By God, you deserve what’s coming to you. You—”
They were both up against the parapet by then. The pressure on Sally’s arm was becoming intolerable. Another moment, and she would be forced over the edge and into the abyss. She screamed.
The searchlight beam of a powerful torch flashed with brutal impact on the two struggling figures, and suddenly the roof was full of people. Strong hands dragged Sally’s assailant away from her, and Inspector Reynolds’s voice said, “Ambrose Quince, I am arresting you for the attempted murder of Mrs. Sally Benson. You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but whatever you say will be taken down in writing and may be given in evidence.”
Ambrose Quince did not have anything to say. Meekly, almost with relief, he allowed himself to be marched by Inspector Reynolds and Sergeant Hawthorn to the iron staircase that led down into the hotel. At the head of the staircase, Henry Tibbett was standing, his arms folded. Ambrose Quince lifted his head and for a long moment the two men looked at each other. Then Ambrose gave a curious half-smile and a little, congratulatory nod. And he was gone. Henry walked across the roof to Sally Benson.
“Was I all right, Mr. Tibbett?”
“I only got here for the last part,” Henry said, “but what I heard was sensational. You are a very brave woman, Mrs. Benson.”
Sally said, “I’d like to go down to my room now. There’s a letter I want to destroy.”
“A letter?”
“I wrote to Harry . . . to explain . . . that is, if our plan hadn’t worked and he’d managed to kill me after all. . . I didn’t want him to blame you . . .”
Henry said, “You don’t seem to have had much faith in the British police, Mrs. Benson.” But as he walked with her to the staircase, Henry found that he was sweating. It had been a risk, but it had been the only way.
Much later, Henry and Emmy Tibbett and Sally Benson sat drinking coffee in the Tibbetts’ apartment, unraveling for Emmy’s benefit the events of the preceding day.
“Why didn’t you tell me the truth?” Emmy demanded, reproachfully. “Didn’t you trust me?”
“Not altogether,” Henry said, and then, seeing his wife’s outraged face, added, “You see, darling, you’re too honest. Ambrose Quince might have telephoned you, and you could have given something away. Besides, at that point I couldn’t tell anybody my suspicions about him, because I had no absolute proof of anything. I couldn’t possibly charge him with murdering Ronald Goodman while I had another man in custody for the same crime, and as far as Sally was concerned, he’d done nothing criminal. The only way was to set a trap for him.”
“You’d better start at the beginning,” Emmy said. “I’m thoroughly confused. Ambrose was the executor of the will. He didn’t stand to gain or lose, one way or the other, whichever will was proven. You said so yourself.”
“And thought so, at the time,” Henry admitted. “However, when I found certain evidence in the Goodman murder beginning to point towards Quince, I started to ask myself if he might not have a motive, after all. Well, we’ve got the whole story out of Denton Westbury now. As I had begun to suspect, Quince had been cheating Lord Charlton for years over his charitable donati
ons, the greater part of which went into Quince’s own pocket. However, the Charlton Foundation was to have been the real big-time swindle.
“Westbury was to be the cover—a purely decorative figure. All he was required to do was keep his mouth shut and draw a large salary. Hamstone was too busy at Sprott’s to take any active part in the foundation—he’d have been content to leave it to Quince. For personal reasons, Cecily Smeed was primarily concerned that Westbury should get the job, so even if she had suspected anything, she’d have kept quiet. And of course, the foundation would have had nothing whatsoever to do with the Crumbles or Warwick Industries.
“Certainly, a number of very respectable charities would have benefited from the Charlton fortune—but a number of others, completely phony, had already been set up by Quince in Lord Charlton’s lifetime, and he had managed to get the old man’s approval of them as deserving causes. Money paid into them would have found its way, by devious channels, into Quince’s account. He has a very ambitious and extravagant wife, and personally I think she would have left him long ago if he hadn’t promised her a handsome income once Charlton died.
“Of course, Quince had to appear eager to find Simon Warwick. Well, in a way he actually was eager to do so, in order to get him out of the way. When he had convinced himself beyond all possible doubt that Simon Finch was Simon Warwick, that signed poor Goodman’s death warrant. Quince didn’t realize he was an impostor. He carefully set up Harold Benson as the obvious suspect, with motive and opportunity. However, just in case anything went wrong there, he was careful to assemble all the beneficiaries under the old will, and acquaint them with all the facts. That gave him a nice basket of red herrings. They all had motives, except Hamstone. Quince apparently didn’t.
“Of course, it was Quince himself who telephoned, with an assumed American accent, to change the time of Goodman’s appointment. All he had to do then was to come early to the office, let himself in through his own office and into the waiting room. Goodman was expecting him, and had no reason to be suspicious. A quick karate chop—as demonstrated by Hamstone, the ex-Commando, in all innocence—and Goodman was quickly and quietly strangled. Quince is very strong.”
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