Trouble on the Thames (17 page)

The telephone bell at her side suddenly broke into action, and laying down her pencil and ruler, Sally leaned across and picked up the receiver. The time was just on a quarter to four, and from one of the rooms above the energetic hum of an Electrolux floated down the stairs.

“Hullo!” she observed. “Barlow and Deane speaking.”

“Hullo, Sally! This is Owen.”

“Yes, I thought it was.”

“You sounded frightfully crisp and business-like.”

“Have to be when I'm in charge of the shop. How are you, and what's the news?”

“None at present. I've been sitting here all day waiting for something to break. Beginning to get a bit tedious.”

“What do you think they're doing?”

“Talking it over and fixing up what line they're going to take. Anyone been round asking questions?”

“Not yet.”

“Is Ruth there?”

“No, she's gone off to interview a builder. I'm all on my own except for Mrs. Higgins.”

“Damn! I was hoping you'd be able to come round to tea again and cheer me up. I'm desperately in need of another dose of tonic.”

“Can't be done, I'm afraid. You'll just have to carry on bravely and uncomplainingly.”

“How about dinner? Watkins would arrange something for us. He's a marvellous cook.”

“That's no use, either. We're going to have a regular clean-up this evening. Mrs. Higgins has been away for a day or two, and everything's in a fearful muddle.”

“This is hideously depressing. Looks as if I shall have to fall back on the wireless.”

“And very good for you,” Sally laughed. “The Children's Hour comes on at five; you'll enjoy that.”

There was a chuckle at the other end of the phone. “Listen, angel. I'm going to be serious for a moment—dead serious. I've got a desperately important problem I want to ask your opinion about.”

“I'm listening.”

“Suppose you were a rather ordinary, uninteresting chap with no particular prospects and you suddenly fell madly in love with the most beautiful girl in the world. You knew you weren't fit to black her boots, and yet you adored her so frantically that every minute she wasn't with you seemed a positive agony. Well, how would you face up to it? Would you have the nerve to tell her, or would you behave like a perfect gentleman and just fade away gracefully out of her life?”

“I don't think that's the sort of question one ought to discuss over the phone,” objected Sally.

“Why not?”

“It might embarrass the operator.”

“Not if she has any decent human feelings.”

“They aren't allowed in government offices.”

“This is no time for jesting. Don't you realise that my whole future happiness is trembling in the balance?”

“Well,” began Sally slowly. “If I found myself in that position—” She broke off abruptly and glanced towards the entrance. “Oh dear, what a nuisance! Here's someone coming in.”

“Don't ring off, for the love of Mike.”

“But I must. I can't offend customers. It wouldn't be fair to Ruth.”

“You might at least give me a hint.”

“Not now: there isn't time. I'll turn it over in my mind while I'm having my bath!”

With another laugh and a faint tinge of colour in her cheeks which made her look prettier than ever, Sally put down the receiver. At the same instant the door opened, and a smartly dressed girl, who had emerged from the car drawn up outside, walked into the shop and advanced towards the desk. She was strikingly handsome in a warm, dark, slightly exotic style, and carried herself with an air of easy assurance.

“Oh, good afternoon.” The greeting was accompanied by a friendly smile. “Am I speaking to Miss Barlow or to Miss Deane?”

“I am Miss Deane.” Sally stepped forward from the table at which she had been working. “My partner is out at the moment, but if you want to see her she will be back about four.”

“I believe you do the actual designing and all that sort of thing, don't you?”

“Yes, it's my special department.”

“Well, isn't that lucky now!” The visitor paused and glanced about her with evident interest. “My name's Tregellis,” she continued, “and I'm the sister of Mrs. Gerald Freeman. As you've probably seen in the papers, she has just bought Merton Lodge, that lovely old house at Hampstead that used to belong to Sir George Vernon. It all wants doing up, of course, but she and my brother-in-law have set their hearts on getting in as soon as possible, and when they're both of the same mind things are apt to move pretty quick. That's why I thought I'd better slip in to-day on the off-chance of catching you.”

Sally experienced a little exultant thrill. “You mean you wished to consult us professionally?”

“Guessed you might be interested. Some of my friends have been saying nice things about your work, and I suggested to my sister that before she fixed up definitely with anyone else it might be a good idea to get you to come out there and give us your opinion. Don't know how the proposition strikes you? I can't promise for certain that she'll offer you the job, but as it would be taking up your time she would naturally be prepared to pay a reasonable fee. Shouldn't like you to feel we were just trying to suck your brains.”

Sally laughed. “I should be very pleased, of course. When would you like me to come?”

“That's just the trouble. If you ask me, I guess it's a case of now or never. Fact is, my sister has made an appointment with some other people to-morrow morning, and she's in such a tearing hurry it wouldn't surprise me if she settled the whole business straight away. On the other hand, if you cared to come along right now in the car we could all three run up there together, and you might take a look round and let her have your ideas. She's staying with me at my house in St. John's Wood, and I told her that, provided you were disengaged, I would try to collect you on my way back. The only snag is that she's dining with some friends to-night, so if we propose to do anything about it we shall have to hustle. Afraid I'm giving you rather short notice, but it only came into my head this morning, and I just thought it might be worth trying.”

“It was most kind of you, and I'm very much obliged.” Sally glanced at the clock. “Yes, I can manage it. My partner will be back almost directly, and it won't matter closing up the place for a few minutes. If you'll excuse me, I'll just run upstairs and explain things to our domestic help. Shan't keep you more than a second or two.”

“Why, that's fine! Had a sort of hunch I was going to be lucky!”

With another of her engaging smiles Miss Tregellis sauntered across to inspect the Chinese cabinet against the opposite wall, and leaving her in possession of the establishment, Sally made her way hastily upstairs. In the open doorway at the head of the flight Mrs. Higgins was standing beside the discarded Electrolux. Judging by her attitude, she had apparently been listening to the conversation.

“I 'eard what you was saying, Miss,” she announced in a stage whisper. “Sounds like a good job, don't it? You go along with the lady, and I'll keep an eye on the shop till Miss Barlow gets back.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Higgins, that's exactly what I want.” Sally turned into her bedroom and made a rapid dash for the dressing-table. “Tell her that I've gone out to look over a house at Hampstead, and that if there's anything doing I'll probably give her a ring. I shall be locking up when I leave, but if any customers should happen to roll along you can let them in and ask them whether they would care to wait. It will be quite safe so long as you're around yourself.”

“Very good, Miss, you leave it to me.”

Pulling on a hat and taking a final glance at herself in the mirror, Sally slipped into a loose summer coat and hurried back down the staircase. As she reappeared her visitor, who was still admiring the cabinet, looked up with an expression of surprise.

“Well, well,” she observed, “I must say you've been pretty slick. Can't think how you managed it in such an amazingly short time.”

“I often have to pop out unexpectedly, so I'm getting quite an expert as a quick-change artist.”

Leading the way forward, Sally slid forward the bolt of the safety catch, and waiting until her companion had passed through, closed the door firmly behind her. A moment later she was stepping up into the comfortable padded front seat, where the owner of the car had already established herself at the wheel.

“I hope to goodness something will come of it,” remarked the latter, as they headed away in the direction of Sloane Square. “It would be just too bad if you were to have all this trouble for nothing.”

“It wouldn't be the first time,” Sally smiled. “In a business like ours blighted hopes are just part of the day's work.”

“There's one thing you needn't worry about in this case, and that's the question of expense.” Miss Tregellis gave a faint shrug. “My sister has oceans of money, so if you've any brilliant suggestion to make you can trot it out freely. In fact, between ourselves, the more it costs the better she'll probably like it.”

“Thank you for telling me. It sounds exactly the chance I've always been looking for—a sort of decorator's dream suddenly come true. All I'm afraid of is that I shall wake up with a start and find myself in bed.”

Proceeding rapidly up Park Lane and Baker Street and crossing the Marylebone Road, the car swung round the corner of Lord's into the still pleasant, if sadly disfigured, district of St. John's Wood. Not wishing to distract her companion's attention, Sally made no attempt to renew the conversation, and it was not until they came to a halt in front of a small, neat, stucco-fronted villa that Miss Tregellis herself again broke the silence.

“This is my modest shack,” she announced. “Come along in and have a cocktail before we start off.”

Without waiting for an answer she stepped out on to the pavement, and following her up the short path that led to the front door, Sally found herself being conducted into a miniature, oval-shaped entrance hall. A partly open door on the left revealed a very modernly equipped sitting-room, the furniture of which appeared to consist principally of chromium and glass.

“I expect my sister is upstairs.” Peeling off her driving-gloves, the speaker tossed them carelessly on to a table. “If you'll go in and make yourself comfortable I'll run up and tell her you're here. You'll find cigarettes and matches in that box on the mantelpiece.”

She turned towards the staircase, and as unsuspiciously as a duck entering a decoy, Sally moved forward into the apparently deserted apartment. It was almost the last action of which she was properly conscious. A brutal clutching hand on the nape of her neck wrenched back her head, and at the same instant something that felt like a wet and sickly-smelling towel smothered the sharp cry of pain that forced itself from her lips. For a second or two she fought desperately, wriggling and twisting like a trapped animal. Then came a sudden merciful blackness, and with a little choking sob she ceased to struggle.

Chapter XII

“I thought you might like some fresh toast with your marmalade, sir.”

Depositing a rack on the breakfast table, Watkins deftly removed an empty dish which had recently contained eggs and bacon.

“Thanks.” With an appreciative nod Owen laid aside his paper. “Don't know why I'm so infernally hungry this morning, but I suppose it's because I overslept myself. By the way, has the post come yet?”

“Nearly two hours ago, sir. There were no letters for you.”

“Hm! That's annoying.”

“How about lunch, sir? Will you be taking it here, or—”

“Lunch! What, on top of a colossal feed like this! Why, if I were to eat anything else before—”

“Excuse me, sir.”

The jarring trill of a telephone bell was echoing through the room, and replacing the dish, Watkins turned towards the instrument.

“It's all right: I'll answer it. I'm expecting a call.”

Jumping to his feet and crossing over hastily, Owen lifted up the receiver, only to be greeted by the unexpected voice of his absent host, Joe Anstey.

“Hullo, hullo! That you, Owen?”

“It is. You've just torn me away in the middle of my breakfast.”

“What, at this hour! Dammit, you seem to be taking things pretty easy.”

“Of course I am. I came here for a rest cure.”

“Hope it's doing you good. Watkins looking after you all right?”

“Splendidly. Do you want to speak to him? He's in the room.”

“No, you can tell him. Say that I'll be back some time to-morrow morning, probably before midday.”

“That's fine. I'll make a point of waking up a bit earlier.”

“What have you been doing with yourself? Did you get down to Playford?”

“I did, and had a delightful week-end. Very nearly caught a trout.”

“What's this yarn in the papers about somebody being bumped off in a bungalow? Must have happened while you were there.”

“So I gather. Fellow called Sutton, apparently. Ever run across him?”

“Not to my knowledge. Have they any idea who did him in?”

“Couldn't tell you.”

“Well, as long as they don't suspect you, that's O.K.” Joe chuckled at his own jest. “How about the bloke you were going to see at the Admiralty? Anything come of it?”

“Several possibilities in the offing. Expecting to hear from him to-day.”

“Good. I felt certain they'd fix you up somehow. Can't afford to chuck away Lieutenant-Commanders with a world war lurking round the corner.”

“You haven't changed your opinion, then?”

“Not likely. From what I've learned up here—well, perhaps we'd better leave it at that for the moment. See you to-morrow, old man, and hope to hear that you've pulled off a really top-hole job. By the way, don't make any engagement for the evening. I've been working like a galley slave the last few days, and I feel like going out somewhere and having a little mild dissipation. Can't talk any longer now, I'm afraid. Too busy. Cheerio!”

The line went dead with a sharp click, and making his way back to his interrupted repast, Owen leisurely resumed his seat.

“That was Mr. Anstey: he'll be home some time to-morrow morning. He says you needn't bother about dinner, because we shall both be feeding out.”

“Very good, sir.”

Taking the empty dish with him, Watkins retreated to his own quarters, and having opened out the
Daily Mail
at a fresh page, Owen propped it up against the coffee-pot and proceeded with his breakfast.

He had consumed two slices of toast and marmalade, and was in the act of helping himself to a third, when a sudden ring, followed by a loud rap on the front door, caused him to sit up with an abrupt jerk. The next instant he had pushed back his chair and was listening expectantly.

From the hall came a subdued murmur of voices, punctuated by the familiar rumble of the descending lift. Then the door of the room opened, and with what appeared to be a slightly disapproving expression Watkins re-entered and closed it carefully behind him.

“It's a person from Scotland Yard, sir. A detective-sergeant, I understand.”

“Scotland Yard!” Owen tried to appear suitably surprised. “What the devil does he want?”

“He informs me that he would like to have a word with you, sir.”

“Really! Well, in that case you had better show him in. One can't refuse to see a policeman: it might hurt his feelings.”

“Quite so, sir.”

Still looking a trifle scandalised, Watkins departed on his mission, and in another moment a red-haired, alert-eyed young man, dressed in a well-cut lounge suit, stepped briskly across the threshold.

“Lieutenant-Commander Bradwell?”

Owen nodded. “That's correct.”

“I am Detective-Sergeant Campbell of the Criminal Investigation Department.” The visitor glanced round swiftly, as though to satisfy himself that they were alone. “I am sorry to disturb you in the middle of your breakfast, but my instructions are to bring you along to Headquarters at once. I was to inform you that Captain Greystoke and the Chief Inspector are awaiting your arrival.”

Owen raised his eyebrows. “Sounds as though it would be advisable to get cracking. I'll ring down and tell the porter to stop us a taxi.”

“There is no need for that: I have a car outside.”

“Really! You do things pretty handsomely.”

“It all depends.” The other smiled dryly. “Quite a number of our clients have to make the journey on foot.”

“I can only say I feel deeply honoured.”

Leading the way out and picking up a hat as he passed through the hall, Owen came to a momentary halt in front of the half-closed kitchen door.

“I am going out for a little while, Watkins,” he announced. “If Miss Deane should happen to ring up, you can tell her that I shall be getting in touch with her later.”

“Very good, sir,” came the impassive reply.

An interested expression flickered across the sergeant's face, but it was not until they had descended the staircase and were passing out through the main entrance that he suddenly found his voice.

“Miss Deane?” he repeated. “I take it that must be the young lady who runs the decorating business in Chelsea? I was down there yesterday afternoon interviewing her partner. Unfortunately she herself happened to be out.”

He stepped across the pavement and unlocked the door of the four-seater Hillman which was drawn up in the roadway.

“What time was that?” demanded Owen as he clambered into the front seat.

“I got there about twenty past four.” Moving round to the farther side, the sergeant took his place at the wheel.

“You were out of luck. She was in at a quarter to, because I was talking to her on the phone.”

“Have you spoken to her since?”

“No. I was just going to have a shot at it when you turned up. Why? Nothing wrong, is there?”

“Not that I'm aware of.” Gliding forward into the turmoil of Piccadilly, the car swung eastward in the direction of the Circus. “Merely means that I shall have to repeat my visit and ask a lot of the same questions all over again. Nothing new about that: seems to be the general rule in our line of business.”

With a resigned shrug the speaker once more relapsed into silence, and continuing their progress down the Haymarket, across Trafalgar Square and out on to the Embankment, they turned in through an open gateway flanked on either side by a stalwart and apparently rather bored policeman. From its neighbouring eminence Big Ben was hammering out the hour of eleven.

Pulling up on the near side of a grey, cheerless-looking courtyard, the sergeant leaned across his companion and pressed down the latch.

“This is where we disembark,” he observed curtly. “My orders are to take you in straight away.”

Before there was time to offer any comment Owen found himself marching down a long, distempered corridor, which in some vague way reminded him of a hospital. At the third door on the left his companion halted. The discreet tap that followed was answered by a muffled grunt from inside, and the next moment he was being ushered into a large, well-lighted room where three men of notably different appearance were grouped round a table, plentifully littered with papers and documents.

“Lieutenant-Commander Bradwell.”

“All right, Campbell.”

The door closed quietly, and the grim-faced, heavily built man who was sitting nearest hoisted himself to his feet.

“I am Chief Inspector Elliot,” he announced with a slight touch of North Country accent. “I understand that you are already acquainted with Captain Greystoke.” His eyes travelled to the third member of the party, a tall, lantern-jawed individual who was thoughtfully caressing his chin. “This is Superintendent Fothergill of the Berkshire County Police. He is in charge of the investigations concerning the death of Mr. Granville Sutton.”

“Take a seat, Bradwell.” Captain Greystoke nodded encouragingly. “There are several matters I wish to speak to you about, but before we come to these the Superintendent has some questions he would like to ask with relation to your statement. You can answer him with absolute frankness.”

Stepping forward obediently, Owen took possession of a vacant chair. The Chief Inspector resumed his seat, while, having produced a large note-book which he laid open on the table in front of him, the lantern-jawed man straightened up stiffly and cleared his throat.

For about ten minutes a stream of queries followed each other in rapid succession. From his arrival at Playford right up to the time of his second visit to Queen Anne's Gate point after point in the written report which Owen had so laboriously compiled was brought out again for further elaboration. Now and then, in response to some reply, the Superintendent would pause to make a brief addition to his notes. Apart from this, however, the catechism proceeded without interruption, both Greystoke and the Chief Inspector sitting by in silence, as though awaiting the conclusion of a necessary but slightly tedious overture. At last, with the air of one who has unflinchingly discharged his duty, Fothergill laid down his pencil and turned to meet their gaze.

“It certainly looks as though your theory were correct, sir,” he observed, addressing himself to Greystoke. “We should like to have secured a personal statement from Miss Deane, but I take it that that will be obtained to-day?”

“I am sending Campbell down there again now.” It was the Inspector who answered.

“Then I think the position is perfectly straightforward. As soon as I have communicated with the Chief Constable, I feel certain that, in view of the—hm—somewhat unusual circumstances, he will raise no objection to handing over the whole affair to Scotland Yard.”

“It would undoubtedly simplify matters,” remarked Captain Greystoke.

“Quite so, sir.” The Superintendent gathered together his papers. “I will ring up Colonel Anstruther immediately. I need hardly add that if there is any further way in which we can be of assistance the whole of our local resources will be entirely at your disposal.”

“Thank you, Mr. Fothergill. Your collaboration will be most welcome.” The Captain smiled pleasantly. “Before you return to Playford we will draw up a detailed plan for tonight's operations, and I know that any arrangements which have to be made on the spot can be confidently entrusted to your hands. Please tell Colonel Anstruther how deeply I appreciate his helpful and considerate attitude.”

Radiating an aura of efficiency and self-importance, the Superintendent retired from the room, and with the ghost of a smile flickering round his lips Greystoke glanced at the Chief Inspector.

“All very satisfactory,” he observed. “Considering every-thing, our friend seems to have accepted the situation remarkably well.”

“Bit disappointed, of course. Nasty jolt to have a topline murder case snatched out of one's hands.” The big man shrugged. “Still, he's a sound, experienced officer, and we can rely on him not to let us down.”

“Good. That's all that matters.” For a moment Greystoke sat frowning thoughtfully at the closed door, and then, with a characteristically abrupt movement, he turned his attention to Owen.

“How are you?” he demanded. “Quite got over that tap on the head?”

“Quite, sir.”

“Pleased to hear it. I shall want you to-night, but it's not going to be exactly a job for an invalid.”

Owen's face brightened hopefully. “I think I can keep my end up, sir.”

“I had better explain. We have been looking into a number of matters during the last forty-eight hours, especially with regard to Mr. Sutton's antecedents. He appears to have been a pretty distinct blot on the landscape, and we can regard his removal as an act of public sanitation. The most interesting point we have unearthed is the fact that he was on friendly terms with Medlicot. We don't know precisely how far the intimacy went, but it's more than possible that Sutton may have persuaded the young idiot to talk about his work. In that case, there are two alternative theories, either of which might account for the murder. Sutton himself may have been one of von Manstein's protégés, and working in collusion with Craig. Thieves do occasionally fall out, and with a crowd like that it frequently means that someone ends with a knife in his back.”

“Pity it doesn't happen more often. Save us a world of trouble.” Chief Inspector Elliot shrugged regretfully.

“Personally,” continued Greystoke, “I am inclined to believe that Sutton was working on his own. We have undoubted evidence that he was a blackmailer, and if something he ran across at Playford put him on to the idea that Craig was in the pay of the Huns, it wasn't the sort of chance that a gentleman with his tendencies would be likely to neglect. My own guess is that he was trying to put the screw on a bigger ruffian than himself, and that, for once in a way, he got what he was asking for.”