Kitabı oku: «Design For Murder: Based on ‘Paul Temple and the Gregory Affair’»

CHAPTER I
Death of a Policewoman

Ex-Detective Inspector Lionel Mandeville Wyatt sat back and mopped his forehead. It was a warm July afternoon, and he was sitting at his roll-top desk, wrestling with the intricacies of a Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries form.

Even in his palmiest days at the Yard, Wyatt had been notoriously averse to what was known as desk work, and his hectic life during the war years had not helped him to concentrate his energies upon comparatively minor details.

His gaze strayed to the window and beyond, where the Kent orchards stirred gently in the hot wind, and there was a shimmery heat haze over the corrugated iron roofs of the sheds in a distant meadow. Away to the right he could see the ample figure of Fred Porter in the midst of a field of beans, hoeing slowly and methodically between the rows as if he had been doing it all his life. It seemed hard to believe that only a year ago Fred had been one of the most reliable drivers in Scotland Yard’s famous Flying Squad.

Wyatt had been quite surprised at the time when Fred Porter had asked him if he required any help on the small-holding he had bought. The Inspector proposed to retire there at the end of the war, following a series of operations on his right leg that had been badly burnt in a flying accident. Wyatt still limped quite noticeably, and at times leaned rather heavily on the walking-stick he took with him when he went out, but his general health had improved steadily ever since Sally had kept a careful eye on him in this pleasant little house.

He wished Sally were within call now, but she had gone to Faversham on her weekly shopping expedition, and would not be back until about tea-time. She understood more about the poultry on the holding than he would ever begin to learn. With a sigh, he tore a scrap of paper off a scribbling block and tried to work out how many ducks under six months old they had now.

Somehow he could never summon up much interest in poultry; on the other hand, bees had fascinated him right from the start. Sally said he seemed to enjoy getting stung, and he was always ready to spend an hour peering into the hive and watching its thousands of inmates minding their own business as avidly as any respectable citizen.

‘It wouldn’t surprise me if the little beggars hadn’t their own CID,’ he told Fred Porter.

‘Aye, and MI5, too, I shouldn’t wonder,’ added Fred, with one of his rare grins.

Wyatt flung down his pencil and crumpled the bit of paper into a ball. He was sure they had more ducklings than that. Maybe Fred would know. Anyhow, it was a reasonable excuse for a little stroll on this very pleasant summery afternoon. He was always restless when Sally was out of the house, and if he didn’t have some active occupation he would be positively irritable by the time she returned.

Yes, he reflected, Fred often fed the ducks when Sally was away; he would have a rough idea. And if the worst came to the worst, they would have to wait until Sally came back, for they certainly couldn’t count them at this time of day, when they were foraging round the orchards.

Still frowning at the buff form in front of him, Wyatt reached for his favourite cherrywood pipe and slowly eased tobacco into its charred bowl, trying vainly to recall how many ducklings they had had at the last two hatchings … and then there was that box of seven-day-olds they had bought at the market … it was no use. When the pipe was burning smoothly he reached for his stick. At that moment, there was the sound of a car stopping in the short drive at the front of the house. Wyatt stood listening. Surely Sally couldn’t be back already …

Suddenly the old-fashioned front-door bell jangled imperiously. Perhaps it was Sally after all, and she’d forgotten her key …

Wyatt limped across the room and into the hall. Before he could reach the front door, the bell rang again even more noisily.

‘All right, damn you,’ he muttered under his breath. Little irritations like this upset him more than most people. He flung open the door, expecting to see one of the ladies of the village collecting for some charity.

But there were two men standing there, and one was a very familiar figure.

‘Good lord! Sir James!’ murmured Wyatt, blinking in the strong sunlight. For the Assistant Commissioner of New Scotland Yard was one of the last visitors he had expected to see there. Apart from the prompt payment of his pension, Wyatt had received no communication from his former employers for over two years. One after another, several suspicions surged through Wyatt’s mind as to why his former chief was visiting him, but Sir James offered no immediate solution to the problem.

He stood there smiling, looking as distinguished as ever in his well-cut medium-grey suit, neat black tie and white shirt. His hair was a shade more sparse around the temples, but he looked much the same as ever to Wyatt.

Sir James introduced his somewhat saturnine companion as Chief Inspector Lathom, who was new to Wyatt, but seemed to have heard quite a lot about him. They gossiped for a few minutes, with Sir James explaining that he and Lathom had been to Sittingbourne and had decided to make a detour on their way back to look up Sir James’ former colleague.

‘You’re just in time for a cup of tea,’ said Wyatt, after they had accepted his invitation to come inside. ‘Unless you’d prefer a whisky and soda.’

‘Just a small one, if you can run to it,’ said Perivale. Wyatt looked across at Lathom, who nodded his agreement, and he took three glasses from the sideboard.

Wyatt poured a generous three fingers for each of his visitors, and a smaller measure for himself.

Perivale took a gulp of whisky with obvious satisfaction and leaned back in the large armchair he had taken. ‘I could do with that, Wyatt,’ he murmured. ‘We happen to be on rather a tough job at the moment.’

Wyatt sipped his whisky somewhat cautiously, and ventured no comment, except to say that Sir James was looking quite fit.

‘I feel pretty tired,’ murmured the Assistant Commissioner. ‘I don’t mind admitting that this Willis case is taking it out of me.’

Wyatt looked thoughtful.

‘Wasn’t there something about it in the papers?’ he enquired politely.

‘There certainly was!’ put in Lathom. ‘Barbara Willis was quite a well-known Society girl – they don’t disappear without trace every day.’

Wyatt shrugged.

‘Yes, of course. She disappeared,’ he said casually. ‘Women are always doing it; they often turn up again.’

‘You certainly haven’t been reading your papers lately,’ said Lathom.

‘No, I haven’t, as a matter of fact, we’re pretty busy here this time of year, and I don’t seem to get a chance in the mornings … what happened about the Willis girl?’

Perivale placed his glass on a small table beside him and leaned forward in his chair.

‘On the day Barbara Willis disappeared,’ he began slowly, ‘she had been to the theatre with her fiancé, a young fellow named Maurice Knight. Afterwards, they went on to the Alpine Club in the Haymarket, leaving there about eleven-thirty. Knight apparently had some trouble with his car, so he put the girl into a taxi. The next time he saw her was four weeks later – when he was called in to identify the body.’

Wyatt whistled softly under his breath, and rammed his thumb hard into the bowl of his pipe, which he had picked up while his former chief was talking.

‘Sounds like a cosy little case,’ he commented in a non- committal tone.

‘Wait a minute,’ said Perivale. ‘There’s plenty more to come. Two days after the Willis girl had vanished, her fiancé received a diamond brooch by registered post. She had been wearing that brooch the night she disappeared; he was quite positive about it. In that registered packet with the brooch was a slip of paper, and on it was scrawled in red ink: “With the compliments of Mr Rossiter”.’

‘Well, it’s a fairly well-known name,’ ruminated Wyatt, sipping the last of his whisky. ‘Another of these exhibitionist crooks, eh?’

Sir James flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette.

‘The point is,’ he added deliberately. ‘The man who wrote it wasn’t named Rossiter. I had a couple of handwriting experts checking that writing for the better part of a week, and they are pretty certain it’s the work of your old friend who used to call himself Ariman. That was your last case before you joined up, wasn’t it?’

Wyatt nodded shortly. The man who called himself Ariman had been the toughest customer he had encountered, a blackmailer of the most unscrupulous type, two of whose victims had committed suicide. Though the Yard had been very close on the heels of the master criminal, he had used his gang unscrupulously to cover his retreat, and had managed to get out of the country at a time when most of the police resources had suddenly to be diverted to tracing a black market in forged coupons. The police had never seen him, they had no photograph, and his associates had either been sacrificed when he made his getaway, or had contrived to disappear on their own account when there was a depleted staff at the Yard, where they had been secretly relieved to discover that Ariman himself had flown. All he had left them by way of souvenir was a torn scrap of a letter addressed to one of his victims in what was presumed to be Ariman’s own handwriting.

Wyatt sat for a few moments deep in thought.

‘So that customer’s back,’ he murmured at last. ‘I always thought he’d be here again one day. I suppose he’s run through the packet of money he’s said to have taken out of the country with him. Tough luck, Sir James.’

The Assistant Commissioner held up his hand.

‘I still haven’t finished,’ he said. ‘What do you think brought us to Sittingbourne, Wyatt?’

Wyatt frowned.

‘I haven’t the least idea,’ he said.

Sir James puffed out a stream of smoke.

‘You remember Mildred Gillow,’ he said quietly.

‘Of course,’ nodded Wyatt. ‘She worked with me on the Ariman job – smart little blonde – one of the best women police I ever came across when it came to tailing a suspect – next to Sally, of course!’

Sir James could not repress a smile, for the romance between Lionel Wyatt and policewoman Sally Spender had been the talk of the Yard for weeks. Sally had been very temperamental, and it had taken a lot of persistence on Wyatt’s part to persuade her to abandon her career for the less exciting duties of the home. In fact, he never ceased to marvel secretly at the manner in which she had settled down to life on the small-holding.

‘Sally used to know Mildred Gillow quite well, too,’ went on Wyatt. ‘Nothing wrong with her, I hope?’

Sir James shook his head.

‘She hasn’t been too well, lately. Hasn’t been sleeping – generally off colour. She was given a few days special sick leave, and was due back on duty two days ago. She spent the leave with an aunt in Sittingbourne, and left there in good time to catch a train to report for duty … but she never arrived. This morning, her father received a bracelet of hers, with a small slip of paper wrapped round it. Here it is.’

Sir James took out his wallet, extracted a piece of paper and passed it over to Wyatt, who examined it carefully, then handed it back.

‘Why pick on this “Mr Rossiter” stunt?’ he mused with a puzzled frown.

‘He’s probably trying to confuse us,’ said Lathom. ‘When he was over here before, he was known as Ariman – that was a touch of vanity all right, but he left no messages lying around. He’s out to keep us guessing, and this “Mr Rossiter” business is one way of sidetracking us. As a matter of fact, there was a petty blackmailer named Rossiter operating when Ariman was last over here, but we know for certain he’s been going straight ever since he came out of Wandsworth two years ago. And he was never the type to go through with murder and then advertise the fact!’

Wyatt carefully knocked the ashes out of his pipe.

‘So you’ve been down to Sittingbourne to check up with Mildred Gillow’s aunt, I take it,’ he said. ‘Did you have any luck?’ Almost as soon as he had spoken, he felt himself blushing.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said to Perivale. ‘It’s no business of mine, of course. But I wouldn’t like to think anything had happened to Mildred and—’

‘It’s all right, Wyatt,’ interrupted Sir James, waving aside the apology. ‘This matter may well concern you very closely indeed. In fact, you may be able to help us more than anyone – you know this customer better than any of us. It was you who chased him out of the country.’ He hesitated a moment, then asked: ‘Wyatt, d’you think Ariman knew Mildred Gillow was helping you?’

‘Certainly,’ replied Wyatt at once. ‘He made at least one attempt to get her out of the way.’

Sir James and Chief Inspector Lathom exchanged a significant glance which did not escape Wyatt.

‘You think “Mr Rossiter”, alias Ariman, has been gunning for Mildred, and that maybe he’ll try and settle a few old scores with me?’ he demanded with a faint grin.

‘That would be yet another confirmation that Ariman and Mr Rossiter are one and the same person,’ Sir James reminded him.

‘Yes,’ agreed Wyatt thoughtfully, ‘I suppose it would. But what am I supposed to do about it?’

Sir James shifted rather uneasily in his chair.

‘You can listen to the rest of my story, and then give us the benefit of your advice, if nothing else,’ he suggested in a tone that carried a hint of mild reproof.

‘Of course, Sir James,’ said Wyatt at once. ‘I’m only too willing to help, but I’m rather out of touch these days. Smoking out bees is more in my line.’

‘All the same, something might occur to you …’ Wyatt took Sir James’ glass and refilled it. Lathom, however, refused a second glass. When he had returned to his chair, Wyatt demanded with obvious interest:

‘Is there anything else about Mildred Gillow, Sir James? Did you find anything at her aunt’s place?’

‘Nothing of any importance except an empty medicine bottle on the shelf in her bedroom. We took it down to the local chemist, who had made up the prescription, and got him to look up the doctor’s name in his book. It was a Doctor G. H. Fraser, in Wimpole Street.’

‘Do you know the doctor?’

Sir James shook his head.

‘And the prescription?’

‘Just a sedative.’

‘Then why was the bottle so important?’

‘Because,’ explained Sir James deliberately, ‘a prescription was found on the dead body of Barbara Willis, made out by the same doctor.’

Wyatt thoughtfully smoothed the bowl of his pipe against, the palm of his hand.

‘That’s certainly a point,’ he agreed. ‘Have you interviewed this doctor yet?’

It was Lathom’s turn to speak.

‘I did telephone the doctor as a matter of routine, before we found the bottle, but there was no reply. It’ll be my first port of call when we get back to Town.’

‘I hope nothing’s happened to Mildred,’ said Wyatt with a thoughtful frown. ‘Sally would be upset; they were great chums in the old days. It’s a nasty business all round – isn’t there any sign of a motive in the other girl’s death?’

Sir James shrugged.

‘All I can tell you is that Barbara Willis’ body was found at a little Devonshire fishing village called Shorecombe, not far from Dawlish. A Norwegian named Hugo Linder was out fishing with one of the locals, an old chap called Bill Tyson. Linder was on holiday there – I believe he still is.’

‘Have you questioned him?’

‘Yes, he seems reasonable enough. Both he and the old boy got rather a nasty shock, and I think it genuinely upset them.’

Wyatt nodded absently, picturing the two men hauling at their nets and suddenly revealing the ghastly sight of the dead girl’s body.

‘Was it death by drowning?’ he asked.

‘No, the girl had been strangled. The body had been in the water somewhere between five and eight hours, as far as we could judge.’

Wyatt picked up his pencil and began doodling on his scribbling pad. The Ariman case had worried him more than any of his others, and the memories of it disturbed him uneasily. He felt he needed another drink, but dismissed the idea, for he realized it would only upset him on this hot afternoon.

‘What about this Norwegian, Linder?’ he queried. ‘Have you checked up on him?’

‘He’s all right as far as we can trace,’ replied Lathom. ‘He’s been over here since 1933 – quite respectable.’

Wyatt leaned back against his desk and looked at his visitors speculatively.

‘I can see I shall have to start reading the papers more closely again,’ he murmured. ‘I’ll be very interested to follow this case, and I’m sure I wish you luck. Now, if you’d like a basket of strawberries to take back with you …’

‘Just a minute, Wyatt,’ interposed Sir James. ‘You don’t seriously think we’ve delayed getting back to Town by two hours just to come down here and talk over old times.’

Wyatt could not repress a smile.

‘It was good of you to look in and warn me that my old friend Ariman’s on the warpath again,’ he said pleasantly. ‘But I don’t think he’ll have any time to worry about me now I’m no longer getting under his feet. He never bothered very much about small fry. All the same, I’ll be on my guard, and I’ll give Fred Porter the tip – you know he’s working here?’

He got to his feet.

‘I won’t detain you any longer, Sir James, if you want to get moving. I can see the inspector is bursting to get back on the scent.’

Sir James made no move to go.

‘Sit down a minute, Wyatt,’ he said somewhat brusquely. ‘I didn’t come down here to warn you; I know you are quite capable of looking after yourself. I came here to make a suggestion.’

‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ apologized Wyatt. ‘If I can help in any way to trace Mildred Gillow … though I’m a bit out of touch lately. She writes to Sally at Christmas I think …’

Sir James stubbed out his cigarette.

‘Mildred Gillow is only one aspect of this case,’ he replied abruptly. ‘If it’s really this fellow Ariman back on the job, we’ll need all our biggest guns. And that includes you, Wyatt. I’d like you to come back on the strength as long as Ariman is at large.’

Wyatt shook his head slowly.

‘That wants thinking over, Sir James. I appreciate your offer, but I’d have to discuss it with Sally.’

‘Where is she?’ demanded Perivale impatiently. ‘I’ll talk to her. We can use her, too – she’ll be very useful …’

‘I’d sooner put it to her myself, if you don’t mind, Sir James,’ replied Wyatt, who was more than a little impressed by the note of urgency in his superior’s tone. ‘She’s out shopping in Faversham, but I’ll put it to her the minute she gets back. Of course, we can’t really leave this place, but perhaps I could get some help from the Agricultural Committee.’