Death of a Commuter (16 page)

“You know very well what I mean,” said Sergeant Beckett, and indeed Carolus did.

C
AROLUS
W
AS
C
ALLED TO THE
T
ELEPHONE
T
HAT
E
VENING AND AT
once recognised Thriver's high-pitched voice.

“I'd like to see you, Deene,” he said curtly.

“I'll be at the Oak all the evening if you'd like to come round.”

Thriver sounded distressed.

“It's a very confidential matter,” he said. “I hoped you would come round here.”

“Very well. I'll be round in a few minutes. But I shall have to hurry back as I'm expecting someone here.”

It was a bore, he thought But when he reached Thriver's study and heard what the solicitor had to say, he changed his mind.

“Most extraordinary thing has happened,” piped Thriver. “The will, Parador's will! It came to my office. Through the post Unregistered. Just like an ordinary letter.”

“Any enclosure?”

“None.”

“You kept the envelope, of course?”

“One of my clerks opened it Unfortunately before I reached the office it had been thrown away.”

“Where was the postmark?”

“Hickey did not notice. He had perhaps forty or fifty letters to open. But surely the important thing is that we have it back.”

“The important thing is—who sent it back?”

“The thief, of course. The man who stole Felix's brief-case from the car that night. He realised that this was no good to him so decided to post it back.”

“How would he have known your address?”

“It was in one of our envelopes with the name of the firm and the address die-stamped on the flap of the envelope.”

“I'm a bit sceptical about benevolent thieves. Especially some weeks after the event.”

“At least it clears up a problem for me. I can now see Magnus, who is the executor, and go ahead.”

“Yes, I can see it saves you embarrassment. You have told me all the beneficiaries, haven't you?”

“I think so, yes.”

“Does any member of your own family receive anything?”

“I thought you understood that. Yes, there is a token to me …”

“A token?”

“Five thousand pounds. And a thousand to my daughter. We were school friends, you see.”

“Quite. Did you want to tell me anything else?”

“No. Just that. I thought you should know.”

“You will have to see Henrietta Ballard, I take it?”

“I shall write to her. She lives in Buttsfield.”

When Carolus got back to The Royal Oak he found Dogman in the saloon bar fairly drunk. There was no sign of his wife.

“Evening, Deene,” he greeted Carolus. “Come'n have a drink. Never had a chance to talk to you the other night. Too many people. You're investigating I hear? Yes, needed investigation. Parador wasn't the man for suicide. Too self-centred. Thought too much of himself. I've known him a long time. Well,
ever since I came to live here. Soon after the war ”

“You didn't know him before that?”

“Never seen him in my life till I came to live here. I was in the army. Parador was never in the army. N'telligence, yes; not the army. But the Japs got him. They got everyone out there, you know. Everyone. Same whoever you were. It should have been. Not nice, Deene. Not nice at all. No one bothered then about how a man died. Or why. Different now. I travelled in the train with him every day. Used to sit there doing the cross-word puzzle. You'd never have thought he'd been through anything. Same with me. Wife always says its left a mark on me. S'non-sense. It was damned unpleasant but so are a lot of things. Don't want to talk about that. Forgotten now, or it ought to be. Yes, I'll have a gin and ginger ale.”

Carolus waited for more, but Dogman was now addressing Gray-Somerset.

“You were never in a Jap prisoner-of-war camp, were you? That's one place you haven't been.”

“I was very near it,” began the landlord. “I just…”

“Don't give me that. You can say what you bloody well like. You were Emperor of Japan, if you like. I don't care what you were. But don't tell me you were a Jap prisoner-of-war. You wouldn't be so pleased with yourself if you had been.” Dogman turned back to Carolus. “Yes, I knew Parador well. Ran an account with me. Not a great racing man but when he did have a bet it was a big one. D'you follow racing at all? No? Sensible fellow. S'the hell of a life. Up one minute, down the next. You better have another drink. Somerset closes on the dot, don't you, Somerset? Right on the dot. Ah well. Cheery-ho.”

It was not until two mornings later that Carolus received the summons he was expecting. He had just finished breakfast and was going out to his car when he saw Police Officer Brophy standing near it.

“I was waiting for you,” said the police officer, rather sourly.

“Really? Why didn't you come in?”

“My instructions were to catch you as you came out. Police
Sergeant Beckett would like to see you at once. ‘Police Officer Brophy', he said to me,' go round and tell Mr. Deene, staying at the Oak, to come round here immediately', he said.”

“I hope he's got the information I want”

“He's got something, but what it is I don't know. He's in a nasty mood this morning. I don't know why he couldn't telephone. Anyway, there you are. I've told you.”

“Yes, thank you, Police Officer Brophy.”

As he drove to the local police station Carolus passed Brophy cycling stolidly along in the same direction. He found Sergeant Beckett in a somewhat excited state.

“This is a nice thing, Mr. Deene,” he began at once.

“What's the matter? Couldn't you find the motor-cycle?”

“We've found the motor-cycle!” he said, raising his voice almost to a shout. “We've found it all right. Only it's not the motor-cycle.”

“I don't quite follow,” said Carolus.

Sergeant Beckett made an impatient noise.

“You came here with a story about your car having been run into by a motor-cycle and the driver not stopping. What's more you gave us the number of that motor-cycle. We trace that number. And what do we find? We find that motor-cycle belongs to a gentleman in Buttsfield—a Mr. George Catford.”

“Well, there you are. It was on the road to Buttsfield.”

“We're not there at all. That motor-cycle, the one you gave us the number of, couldn't have been out on the road that morning because it had been in pieces for three days at a garage in the town being decarbonised and I don't know what else. Our people have seen the garage proprietor who is a thoroughly trustworthy man and is prepared to swear to it him and three of his staff, that at the time in question it was in his garage in a dozen pieces or more. What do you say to that?”

“Strange,” said Carolus.

“Strange, you call it? And the owner of the motor-cycle never went out of where he's staying, where they let rooms, Rosehurst, Brenstead Road, till he left on foot for the estate agent's where he works, five minutes away, arriving there five minutes later and
staying there all the morning with half a dozen witnesses to prove it.”

“Oh dear. I must have been mistaken, then.”

Sergeant Beckett looked at him severely.

“Yes. But there's something funny about this, Mr. Deene. Something very funny. You come to us with a number …”

“Mistaken, evidently.”

“Of a motor-cycle which belongs to a local man. The number's accurate enough, there it is—BYY 018, but it's not the cycle that did the damage because it's under repairs.”

“Coincidence,” murmured Carolus, who had the information he required, and wanted to be off.

“It's a funny sort of coincidence, isn't it? The very number, right down to the last digit. You couldn't have been trying to get anyone in trouble, could you, Mr. Deene?”

“Certainly not. I've never seen any George Catford. I simply want the man who damaged my car.”

“Then what made you give us Mr. Catford's number?”

“That's what it looked like to me,” said Carolus. “I said I couldn't swear to it.”

“I wouldn't have taken any notice,” said the sergeant, “if it hadn't been the number of a motor-cycle in the district. That's what gives the case a highly questionable aspect.”

This, thought Carolus, was where we came in.

“I must be running along,” he said. “I'm sorry you haven't been able to find the motor-cycle which did the damage, but of course it's partly my fault. I must have made a mistake about the number. Ah well. It won't be a very expensive repair.”

“I haven't finished with this matter,” said the sergeant. “If I find …”

“Good morning, Sergeant,” said Carolus cheerfully and left him.

Before leaving Brenstead he went to call on Elspeth.

“I've done all I can here,” he said. “I'm afraid I've come to think your husband did swallow those tablets after all.”

“Oh, Carolus, I don't know whether to be glad or sorry. I don't think I could have borne to go through it all again if you'd
found it was someone else's doing, and yet I should have liked it known that he did not commit suicide.”

“I shan't forget it altogether,” said Carolus. “But there's no more I can do here. Perhaps something will come to light later. I'll give you my address and phone number. If anything happens you would like to tell me about I'll come over at once.”

“That's nice of you. Will you be seeing Magnus?”

“I expect so.”

“Tell him to come over. There are a lot of things I want to discuss with him.”

“I will. I don't suppose I'll see him for a day or two, though.”

“You have a house of your own in Newminster?”

“Yes. What's more my housekeeper's away at the moment. So I'm not looking forward to going back to it.”

“Why not stay on in Brenstead till she gets back?”

“I can't. I've got a lot to do.”

“But you said you'd finished with the whole case?”

“Not quite,” said Carolus. “There is someone that you all seem to have forgotten. I want a little chat with him.”

“Who's that?”

“The man in the railway compartment. The man who said that Felix would not be coming. Remember?”

“Yes. Of course. I've heard all about him. But mightn't it have been just a casual stranger?”

“It might. But I don't think it was.”

“You don't mean you've traced him? You are clever.”

“I haven't talked to him yet, but I know who he is and where to find him. I hope to see him in a day or two. I like tying up the loose ends. Well, good-bye, Elspeth.”

“Good-bye, Carolus. I wish we could have met in happier circumstances.”

She came to the front door to let him out. It was a fine spring morning and Carolus thought she looked almost beautiful as she stood there smiling.

Having the length of Manor Lane to cover, Carolus drove slowly, noticing once again the houses to left and right. It struck him that this piece of high suburbia had been the centre of his
investigations. He liked it no more than he had done at first but he had proved to himself that even the dullest and most pretentious houses could be inhabited by people who in a case like this became interesting.

Approaching the Limpoles' villa, he saw that once again Edward Limpole was working in the garden, this time not at the trench he intended for a compost heap, but stooping over a bed near the gate. Carolus decided to stop.

“I'm leaving Brenstead,” he said when he had greeted the stooping figure.

“You are?” A somewhat cunning smile spread over Edward's face. “I thought you'd come to find out all about the death of Felix Parador.”

“I did, yes.”

“And have you found out?” Edward seemed to be sharing some joke with the seedlings he was planting out.”

“All I can for the moment,” said Carolus.

Edward nodded slowly.

“It wasn't as easy as you thought, was it? You can't see through everybody as though they're glass.”

“Are you taking another week off?”

“No. Just a couple of days. My brother thought I ought to stay with my sister for a time. She's going through one of her very bad times. Imagining things, you know.”

“I'm very sorry. But you seem to be enjoying it.”

“I have my garden.”

“It's such a splendid day, too.”

“I don't care for spring weather,” said Edward. “Very treacherous.”

“I'll come back some time,” he told Edward before he walked away.

“I know you will. Good-bye,” replied Edward stooping down again.

But before he got into his car he saw, not twenty yards away and walking up the other side of the lane, Chatty Dogman. She carried a fair-sized basket.

“Hullo, darling. Yes, do take the bloody thing. It's so mean
of Willy James to lock the car every day now. Just because I had that little tiny smash—well, it wasn't a smash really—with a woman in a Rolls. I mean a Rolls driven by a woman. At least she had a chauffeur. But you know what I mean.”

“Of course.”

“This is the house, darling. Oh, of course you remember it You've been here, haven't you? That night when that frightful woman from somewhere told poor Elspeth that Felix had married her or something. I remember. You must come in and have a drink after lugging that all this way, darling. Oh, but you must”

“I really ought…”

“I've got a rather good new thing. Gin and bitter orange. Frightfully good, darling. It seems to work more quickly than other things, if you know what I mean.”

Carolus followed her into the room of the party.

“Oh God!” she said, throwing off her fur coat. “I hope I haven't lost my diamond clasp. No, thank God, here it is. Willy James says I ought to keep my bits and pieces at the bank. I've got one or two rather good things,
all
from my side of the family, I might add. Willy James has hardly given me anything, really. Yes, he wants to put it in the bank for me. But darling I should never see it again. He'd have one of his bad times and need it to tide him over. I know him too well. Besides, there's no need to put it in a bank. Is that how you like it, darling?”