"Well," he said modestly, hoping fervently that Marla was not listening, "I happen to have a bit of money, you see. Having a sponsor," he added, "always helps. But I'm sure you don't find that much of a problem."
"No," she answered. Then, in a burst of confidentiality, "Of course, I do have someone and he's been helpful here and there. But he's not really connected to any theatre people."
Bethancourt laughed. "And I didn't know anyone in the fashion industry," he said. "I learned quick enough. You should have him take you round to the right places, buy a few drinks for people."
She frowned. "That's not always possible."
"Ah," said Bethancourt with quick understanding. "Married, is he?"
"Well, yes." She set her empty glass on the bar.
"Here, let me get you another. Barman, two pints of bitter here."
Sarah drank deeply.
"Married men are difficult," went on Bethancourt. "Or so I've heard. I've never been one myself."
She giggled a little at that and then sobered, frowning. She looked up at Bethancourt. "Actually," she said, "I'm in a bit of a pickle with my married man. You see, he isn't married anymore. His wife died just the other day—rather horrible it was, really. But you see my problem is, well, what if he asks me to marry him now? I mean, I like him well enough, but he's a bit older than me and, well, I don't really think I want to marry him."
"That's difficult," said Bethancourt, trying to stifle any signs of delight at this confidence. "But of course the sea is full of fish, don't you know. And he'll have to wait at least a little while anyway, if his wife's just died. Did she go suddenly?"
"Oh, very. In fact," Sarah lowered her voice, "they say it was murder."
"How dreadful!" exclaimed Bethancourt, feigning astonishment. He was just about to ask if she harbored any suspicions of her lover when Marla cut into their conversation like a buzz saw into a tree trunk. She had suddenly noticed that if several men were paying court to her, Phillip had become involved in a tête-à-tête with a woman whose breasts were far too perfect to be safe. Marla's own breasts were on the small side and she was correspondingly sensitive to the size and shape of breasts that might be superior to her own. Sarah's endowments had been rather prominently featured in the play and Marla had no doubts about them or the rest of the girl's features: far too pretty for Phillip to be trusted with.
"Darling," she said, expertly wrapping herself around him, apparently overcome with affection, "I've finished my drink. Don't you think it's time we were getting on?"
Bethancourt considered rapidly. He doubted he would get anymore out of Sarah Duncan now, and he had only just made up with Marla yesterday. To risk another bout with her mercurial temper could be dangerous.
"Absolutely, my love," he said.
***
Bethancourt found Gibbons in his office the next afternoon surrounded by photographs of the crime scene and various forensic reports.
"Usefully employed, as always," said Bethancourt cheerfully, shedding his Burberry and slumping into a chair. Cerberus followed his master in and arranged himself elegantly at his feet.
His friend shot him a harried look.
"Carmichael's been in twice this morning to ask how it's going," he said with a groan. "The press is having a field day, and MacGruder, now he's over the shock, is making a fuss. And I'm more confused than ever."
"Oh?" asked Bethancourt, lighting a cigarette, unmoved by this panoply of catastrophes. "I thought the sons were shaping up nicely."
"I've got the preliminary report on their finances back," said Gibbons, searching amid the mass of papers on his desk. "And it's exactly the opposite of what would make me happy. To top it off, we haven't had an ounce of luck in tracing cyanide to anyone."
"What's wrong with their finances?" asked Bethancourt, lifting a stack of photographs in search of an ashtray.
"Tom, son number one, has a hefty bank account," replied Gibbons. "He's invested wisely and his antiques business is booming. He buys nothing he can't afford and sells everything at a goodly markup. However, over the past few months there have been fairly hefty withdrawals."
"Aha!" said Bethancourt, pleased. "Blackmail, perhaps?"
"Not unless it's his brother who's been blackmailing him," said Gibbons. "The withdrawals are all in the form of cheques made out to his brother. So we turn to brother Bill's affairs, and find he has made some very risky investments lately and is presently almost broke. He's been borrowing from his brother to meet his household expenses and there are still outstanding bills. Big ones."
"Well, there's a motive for you at any rate," said Bethancourt. "It could be he'd appealed to his mother for money and she'd said no. Possibly his brother was cutting him off as well."
"Don't flick your ashes in the wastebasket; it's full of paper."
"You've buried your ashtray so deep a gravedigger couldn't find it."
"It's right there, fathead."
"Where? Oh, I see, under the desk. Of course, how silly of me." Bethancourt retrieved the ashtray and returned to the subject at hand. "There," he said, "all right and proper. So, suspicion lifts itself from Tom and fastens itself firmly on Bill."
"That's just what it doesn't do," said Gibbons gloomily. "Bill, as you will remember, was at home on Sunday morning with his wife."
"The pregnant one," supplied Bethancourt. "I remember perfectly. But husbands and wives have been known to become accomplices before."
"Not when they're innocently sitting at home. Their neighbour spent the morning washing his car in his driveway. It took him a couple of hours all told, and he swears that from ten to twelve Bill's car was sitting empty in the drive."
"That comes a bit awkward," said Bethancourt. "Because I can't see Tom murdering their mother for Bill's benefit, especially not if he was cutting off the loans."
Gibbons snorted. "Not bloody likely. Anyway, they're reading the will at four o'clock and I'm going down to hear it and talk to Bill about his financial problems afterward."
"Then you'd better hurry," said Bethancourt. "It's a quarter to now."
"Good Lord, really?" said Gibbons, springing up.
"Here," said Bethancourt, "I'll go with you. We'll take a taxi and I can tell you all about Sarah Duncan on the way."
"Oh, right, I'd forgotten about her," said Gibbons, grabbing his raincoat. "What did you find?"
"She was definitely having an affair with MacGruder," answered Bethancourt, following him with Cerberus at his heels. "But she doesn't want to marry him. I think she was telling the truth, which means she didn't do it. Cerberus, watch your tail."
Gibbons shook his head.
"It's a funny case," he said. "All our leads seem to just peter out."
"Because we haven't got hold of the right one yet," said Bethancourt, ushering him out the door.
***
Delia MacGruder had left a bequest of one hundred thousand pounds to each of her sons. There was a small bequest of five hundred pounds to the maid, Mrs. Andrews. The rest of the estate, including investments and real property, was left to her husband. Nobody in the solicitor's office seemed surprised or upset by the will. They were all dressed somberly, as befitted the occasion: MacGruder and his stepson Bill in charcoal grey suits and dark ties, Annie and Mrs. Andrews in black dresses; Tom was not present. Bethancourt had an instant of wishing he was not wearing a tweed jacket and khakis.
The reading of the will did not take long. The family expressed thanks to the solicitor, who had abandoned his plaid trousers for a dark blue pinstripe. He explained that of course probate would be held up while the police concluded their investigation into this tragic occurrence. Everyone seemed united in ignoring the presence of the police in the room. Gibbons finally approached the solicitor and asked if there was a room where he could speak privately with Bill and his wife.
"That's ridiculous!" snapped MacGruder before the solicitor could respond. "Perhaps if the police would stop plaguing my family, you'd be able to concentrate
on finding my wife's murderer."
Gibbons shot him a cool stare, but, "Just doing my duty, sir," was all he said.
"We're happy to help," said Annie quietly but firmly. She was six or seven months pregnant and her paleness was emphasized by the black of her dress.
MacGruder snorted. "It's stupid to think you had anything to do with it," he said belligerently. "And I resent it, I resent it very much."
"It seems to me," said Bill with a glint in his eye, "that it's for us to resent, not you."
"You can use the conference room," interrupted the solicitor hurriedly. "My secretary will show you."
MacGruder stormed out and the others followed him more quietly.
***
They settled at one end of the oval oak table, Gibbons introducing Bethancourt as his colleague.
"What a beautiful dog," said Annie, holding out a hand to Cerberus who deigned to sniff it politely.
"Thank you," said Bethancourt. "His name's Cerberus."
She shot him a startled glance.
"I'm sorry to have to trouble you again," Gibbons was saying to Bill, "but there are just a few things that want clearing up. I understand, Mr. Follet, that you had been borrowing heavily from your brother to cover your debts."
"What?" Abandoning Cerberus, Annie sat up straight and stared at her husband. "What does he mean, Bill? What debts?"
Follet turned to her with a miserable look in his eyes. "I'm sorry," he said hopelessly. "I—I didn't want you to know. Really, sergeant, couldn't you have asked me in private?" he demanded, turning to Gibbons.
"I'm very sorry, sir," said Gibbons, somewhat taken aback. "I had no idea your wife didn't know of your financial affairs."
"But what's wrong?" asked Annie. "We were doing so well. You said so when we—when we planned the baby."
"I'm sorry," said Follet again. "It was the Conglomerated options. It—it looked like such a good thing, Annie. You know I told you about it—"
"I remember," she said, a little dazedly. "You sold off some of our other investments to go into it. But it was doing well, Bill. You said it was."
Follet gulped. "I'm afraid I lied. It was so totally unexpected. But, well, I lost everything we put into it. Everybody did. And now I owe on the options. And, Annie, I put our savings into it as well."
Her eyes widened. "Our savings?" she whispered. "Bill, how could you?"
"I didn't use all of it," he said. "But the rest went when I had to pay on the options. God," he shook his head. "I should have known. But everyone at the office seemed so sure…"
Gibbons coughed diplomatically. "I'm very sorry, ma'am, to have been the cause of such news."
"No," she said softly. "It was better that I should know." She was staring dully at her belly, one hand resting on the bulge, while her husband gazed helplessly at her.
"We'll be all right," he said reassuringly. "I'm afraid I haven't been any too smart with the money I borrowed from Tom, but with mother's inheritance I can at least replace our savings and use the rest to get us back on our feet."
"Yes, of course," she said, not looking up. Cerberus sniffed and gently put his nose in her lap. She smiled a little at him and rested one hand on his head.
"Good lad," muttered Bethancourt under his breath.
Gibbons was clearing his throat again. "Your brother wasn't here today, Mr. Follet?" he asked.
"What?" Follet turned his attention back to the detective. "No, he wasn't. His assistant had an accident this morning—broke his arm falling off a ladder—and had to go to hospital. Tom didn't want to close the shop and, anyway, we all knew what was in the will. This was just a formality. I said I'd give him a full report."
"I see," said Gibbons. "Now, about this money, sir. Your brother had full knowledge of what had happened?"
"Yes, of course. Tom's careful; he wouldn't have lent me that kind of money if I hadn't explained."
"He did not himself lose any in this investment?"
Follet gave a dry laugh. "Not a penny. He wouldn't touch it. He's a very conservative sort of man with money, sergeant. I suppose I would have done well to follow his example."
"And had you applied to your mother or stepfather for help as well?"
Follet looked surprised. "Of course not. I think I told you, sergeant, that I don't much care for David MacGruder. And I didn't want mother to know any more than I wanted Annie to. Mother was so proud of me. Of both Tom and me. Tom's always been her favorite, I suppose, but she was proud of me, too. I couldn't bear to let her know how I'd mucked up."
"I understand, sir. You said just now that your mother's inheritance would help you over the bad times. What, may I ask, did you plan to do before her death occurred?"
"Borrow more from Tom, I suppose. There wasn't much else I could do. He's have given it to me, but the devil of it was, I couldn't see my way to paying him back. I mean, with the baby coming and all, there just wasn't much chance I would have any extra money for years."
"Your brother understood this?"
"Oh yes. He wasn't too pleased, mind. Talked to me pretty sharply the last time I had to ask him for more. Said if I was going to borrow any more, he wanted to see to it that I didn't invest in anything foolish. I couldn't very well argue with him."
"Naturally not," agreed Gibbons. "Just one other thing, sir. I noticed your car when I visited you before. A Ford Fiesta, I believe. Do you have a second car for your wife?"
Follet looked puzzled. "Yes," he answered. "A Mini. It's rather elderly; we bought it when we were first married."
"But it wasn't there on Monday when I visited you."
"No," broke in Annie. "It was in the garage. Don't you remember, Bill? It broke down on me on Saturday. We didn't get it back till Wednesday."
"I see," said Gibbons. "What garage do you use?"
"Gleason's, on the corner of our lane and the Chedworth road," answered Follet. "But what on earth does that have to do with anything?"
"We just like to verify everything, sir. You know the police—everything has to be confirmed." Gibbons smiled.
"But I don't understand. Is there something wrong with the car? They said at the shop the alternator bolt had sheared."
"Ah, was that it? That'll stop a car dead, sure enough," said Gibbons. "Well, thank you very much for your time. And, again, I'm very sorry to have been indiscreet."
He and Bethancourt extricated themselves with some difficulty, emerging eventually into the street with the dog at their heels.
"Well," said Gibbons, "that was worse than expected. And now I've got to run all the way over to Cirencester and talk to the mechanic and the brother again. And I might as well see that neighbour while I'm about it." He glanced at his companion. "I don't suppose," he suggested, "that you would want to give me a lift?"
"To Cirencester?" Bethancourt considered. He was really more the armchair sort of detective; he greatly preferred to let Gibbons do all the grind. Still, he had to admit that meeting the people concerned was often helpful. And Tom Follet was still the prime suspect. "I suppose I could," he said.
"It would provide the only bright spot in my day if you did," said Gibbons persuasively.
"By all means then. Every day should have a bright spot." He hailed a passing taxi. "We'll have to go round to the garage to get the car. MacGruder's quite the obnoxious one, isn't he?"
Gibbons grunted as he got into the cab and made room for Bethancourt beside him. "I've talked to some of the MacGruders' friends," he said. "They all seemed agreed that the marriage was a happy one, and that MacGruder is a charming fellow."
"Really?"
"Yes, he evidently got on with almost everyone except the stepsons. Still, I suppose having your wife murdered is something that could adversely affect your temperament."
"I expect so," said Bethancourt thoughtfully.
***
Gleason was just closing up shop for the day when they arrived, but he appeared willing enough to answer their questions. Yes, the Mini had been towed
in on Saturday and put in the lot. Well, no, he hadn't got a chance to look at it on Saturday. In fact, he hadn't done anything with it till Monday afternoon—he was a busy man. But there wasn't much wrong, really. The alternator bolt had sheared and dropped out, and that caused the alternator to drop, and that meant the connections had come loose and there was no electricity. Can't run a car without electricity. He had started to fix it on Tuesday, but then there was that Mercedes that came in and what with that and another thing, he didn't get the job finished till Wednesday morning. No, of course he didn't work on Sundays. Well, he supposed someone could have come in then, but they would have had to pick the lock on the gates and it had looked all right to him when he opened up on Monday. Yes, someone might have borrowed the Mini, or any other car for that matter, but they would have had to fix it first. It stood to reason he didn't have running cars here—people didn't bring in cars that worked all right.
"But you don't know for certain that anything was wrong with the Mini before Monday afternoon?" asked Gibbons.
Gleason snorted. "Of course there was something wrong with it," he said. "It died, didn't it? George had a look at it when he went to tow it and if it had been a little fiddling thing he would have put it right on the spot."
"I see. Well, thank you very much, Mr. Gleason."
"Where to now?" asked Bethancourt once they were back in the Jaguar.
"I guess we'd better go see if Tom Follet's still at his shop. Take a right at the corner."
Bethancourt eased the car out into traffic and followed directions. "Well," he said, "it doesn't look too promising, does it? I somehow doubt that a well brought up Englishman like Bill Follet knows how to pick locks."
"No, and it doesn't seem as if he could have got hold of a copy of a key either." Gibbons sighed.
"Cheer up," said Bethancourt. "You've still got one son who doesn't have an alibi and who was in the neighbourhood of the murder."
"And who apparently has no motive."
"One hundred thousand pounds is plenty of motive," replied Bethancourt. "Oh, I know he was doing well enough, but he's in antiques. Supposing there was a particularly juicy piece he desperately wanted? Something really magnificent that costs a bundle. He could have developed a mania or what have you for it. People have done murder for less."
"I guess so," said Gibbons, not much comforted by this flight of fancy.
***
The Dressing Table Murder Page 3