Silence Observed (12 page)

Appleby felt that, medically speaking, this was no doubt true. Legally, however, it might be another matter. And he introduced himself to Miss Quinn without much ceremony. She was being attended by a motherly person who had been summoned from the ladies’ cloakroom for the purpose, but who remained silent during the interview except for occasionally contributing a heavy sigh.

“I understand, Miss Quinn, that at the time of–”

Miss Quinn’s bosom heaved. It was rather as if she had been squeezed elsewhere, and as if this necessary pneumatic consequence had followed.

“I am much to blame,” Miss Quinn said. Her voice contrived to be at once strong and tremulous. “I am very much to blame.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I condoned it,” Miss Quinn said. She sighed – and at once the female attendant sighed too. “For long I condoned it. The natural weakness of a woman. How bitterly I regret it now.”

Inspector Parker breathed so heavily that Appleby was afraid he might begin to sigh as well. He contented himself, however, with producing a notebook in ominous silence.

“May I ask,” Appleby said, “just what you condoned, Miss Quinn?”

“The women.”

“Ah – the women.” Appleby paused to consider this. “I suppose you must mean women who might be described as women in Sir Gabriel’s life?”

“Exactly,” Miss Quinn said.

“I am not sure that you mayn’t be imagining things. But, even supposing that these women existed, how can you be said to have condoned the matter? It had nothing to do with you, and you bore no responsibility.”

“They came here.”

“You are referring merely to the fact that ladies visited the Director in his office? As it happens, my wife occasionally did so.”

“Ah – Lady Appleby.” And Miss Quinn nodded in a fashion that, although theatrical, did suggest that she wasn’t entirely lost in a world of prurient fantasy. “But she comes in the proper way – which is through my room.”

“You mean that Sir Gabriel was in the habit of receiving ladies who came in by the back way?”

“Yes. As he did this morning. I heard–”

“One moment, Miss Quinn. Did male visitors sometimes come in by that way too?”

“Well, yes. Some did.”

“Visitors who ask for the Director, even for the purpose of making a social call, sign a book, and wait while a message goes through to you, and so forth?”

“Yes.”

“Wouldn’t it be reasonable, then, for Sir Gabriel to mention to intimate friends that they were always welcome to drop in on him by this less formal route?”

“Not all those women.”

The motherly person gave her heaviest sigh yet. She appeared to take the darkest view of the whole situation.

“Come, Miss Quinn. We must be thoroughly sensible in a matter of this kind. Sir Gabriel liked the company of women, no doubt. But do you seriously suggest that there was something clandestine and improper in the visits you have in mind – visits taking place in a room into which, I imagine, you were entitled to enter at any time with business that required his attention?”

“You should have heard what was going on this morning,” Miss Quinn said.

The motherly woman, in addition to a sigh, contrived a shocked noise with her tongue. Parker opened the notebook and brought out his fountain pen. Unless Miss Quinn were to be judged as living in a world of mere daydream, something was going to emerge at last.

“It is, of course, fortunate that
you
heard it,” Appleby said. “Please tell us about it now.”

“Passion,” Miss Quinn said. She looked round, and appeared dissatisfied with the effect she had produced. “Guilty passion,” she said.

“Come, Miss Quinn. I think your imagination may be running away with you. Let us say that a lady came to see Sir Gabriel this morning. At what time?”

“Ten to eleven. I looked at my watch.”

“Thank you. And within a few minutes of eleven o’clock Sir Gabriel was dead. So what is this talk of guilty passion, please?”

“Well – they were excited. I could hear that. It wasn’t just social talk.”

“As Sir Gabriel was presently shot, that seems very likely. But it is something rather less specific than you have been suggesting, you know. You didn’t recognize the woman’s voice?”

“No.”

“Had you heard it before, would you have been aware of the fact? Was it distinct enough for that?”

Miss Quinn shook her head. She appeared discouraged.

“I wouldn’t have known,” she said. “And I couldn’t make out a word. But there was a quarrel.”

“A quarrel? Are you sure?”

“Well, a dispute.”

“You are sure of
that
?”

“An argument. But at the end Sir Gabriel was certainly angry. He raised his voice.”

“So that you could hear what he said?”

“Yes.” Miss Quinn hesitated. “Because by that time I had–” She hesitated again. “Well, by that time, I had gone to listen – just a little.”

“I see. And what was it that you heard Sir Gabriel say in this raised voice?”

“That he would have nothing to do with it.”

Appleby stared in astonishment.

“My dear young lady – do you realize that you may have to give evidence in a criminal trial? And be required to talk sense? Does this remark which you overheard seem to have anything to do with what you call guilty passion?”

“Well, no. But it was the whole tone of the thing.”

“Never mind the whole tone of the thing. Did you manage to distinguish any other words whatever?”

“Yes. Only a minute later, when Sir Gabriel spoke in a loud angry way again. He said that he would make the communication at once.”

Parker raised his pen.

“‘Make the communication at once,’ Miss Quinn?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.” Parker wrote gravely. “And then?”

“And then there was the shot.”

Parker continued to write.

“And
then
?” Appleby asked.

“And then?” As if at the recollection of strong emotion, Miss Quinn’s bosom again dangerously heaved. “And then,” she said luxuriously, “I swooned away.”

There was a moment’s silence while Parker’s pen still moved.

“‘Swooned away,’” Parker said impassively – and shut his notebook.

“And now,” Parker said grimly, “we’d better see Mr Heffer.”

“Certainly.” And Appleby nodded. “In fact, we’d better catch him before he goes out to lunch.”

“Goes out to lunch!” Parker was scandalized. “Good Lord, sir! You don’t suggest that after two occasions on which–”

“It’s no good, Parker. You can’t hold him. To last night’s affair, you’ll agree, there is only one material witness – Mrs Huffkins. And Mrs Huffkins lets Heffer right out. Of course her own conduct was so extraordinary and seemingly irresponsible that she would have a rough time in the box. But there she is. As for this morning, there’s again no more than a single material witness. Of course this Quinn girl may be a confederate of Heffer’s, and the female visitor have no real existence. But the present presumption has to be that Miss Quinn is more or less speaking the truth as she sees it. She hasn’t a very nice mind, perhaps, but I doubt whether she’s a deep deceiver. And her story – together, of course, with the absence of all trace of a weapon – lets Heffer out almost as definitely as Mrs Huffkins’ story does. We’ll only embarrass the investigation at the present stage by arresting or trying to detain young Heffer. He must be kept an eye on, of course. That’s a different matter. And now we’d better go and be civil to him.”

“Civil to him!” Parker’s indignation was enhanced. “Do you remember that shout he gave last night, sir? Even if it was a joke – which it certainly was not – it could be made the subject of a charge perfectly adequate to hold him on.”

“No doubt. But he may have a more interesting career, from our point of view, if
not
held.”

“Well, sir – that’s a different matter.” Much mollified, Parker marched down a corridor and threw open a door. “The Commissioner,” he said impressively.

Two constables sprang to their feet. And so too, this time, did Jimmy Heffer.

But it wasn’t out of politeness. Appleby took one glance at the young man and recognized somebody to whom something had happened – something so shattering as to blot out all consideration of manners whether good or bad. Heffer had sprung up like a man whose simple instinct is to get his back to a wall and defend himself.

“Good morning, Heffer.” And Appleby gave a brisk neutral nod. “You and I do meet in the most extraordinary circumstances, do we not? If only you had managed to come to dinner last night we might be on very much more familiar terms.”

“Let me say at once that I have nothing to say to you.”

“Then you are unlike Gulliver’s secretary. She has been saying quite a lot.”

“Hysterical gibberish. If you listen to that girl, the more fools you.” Heffer had flashed this out.

“I would agree with you about the hysteria – or a certain element of it. On the gibberish I am not so sure.” Appleby paused. “Would you agree with her, by the way, that Gulliver put in a good deal of time chattering to women in his room?”

Heffer, who was now literally standing with his back to a wall, made an odd movement of recoil which brought him hard up against it.

“I say again that I have nothing to say to you. Twice within twenty-four hours I find myself standing beside a murdered man. And you arrive and ask me idle questions. Why not
act
? Arrest me, charge me, put me on trial. I haven’t killed anybody, but you have a sporting chance of convincing a jury that I have. And it’s your
only
chance, it seems to me. Because it’s evident to me that neither you yourself, nor this man Parker, nor any of your understrappers, has a clue. Not a clue.”

If these provocative remarks were in fact designed to provoke action – and they seemed to have no other function – they singularly failed. Parker and the constables seemed instantly to turn to wood. And Appleby looked entirely amiable.

“I wonder,” he said, “if you’d care to come out to lunch with me?”

If Heffer could have retreated another six inches, he would – it was possible to feel – have done so.

“And can you tell me,” he said, “why the hell I should do that?”

“Oh – for the sake of a little talk, you know. Not, I need hardly say, about these unfortunate events. The sort of talk we might have had if you had managed to dine with my wife and her guests last night. Picasso, Rembrandt – things like that.”

There was a moment’s silence.

“Which of them chiefly?” Heffer asked.

“Oh, Rembrandt – without a doubt.”

“I shall be delighted to lunch with you,” Heffer said. His tone was icy. And, as he spoke, he crossed the room and picked up an umbrella and a bowler hat. It was against this very hat, and in this very room – Appleby remembered – that there had been perched the enigmatical painting produced by the girl who called herself Astarte Oakes.

“Astarte Oakes?” Heffer said half an hour later. The hand with which he was scooping out Stilton seemed perfectly steady. And his voice was perfectly steady too. “Yes, I remember the name.”

“She brought a picture, which was examined by Gulliver and yourself?”

“Yes, she did. And we both looked at the thing. I remember the occasion very well.”

“Do you, indeed?” Appleby looked hard at the young man. “One would certainly expect you to. It can scarcely be described as an incident in the remote past, you know.”

“No?” For the first time, Heffer’s tone was momentarily uncertain. “Perhaps it seems to me a very long time ago.”

“You inspected the picture. I think you may also be said to have inspected the girl?”

Heffer raised his eyebrows slightly. The effect was to suggest that a man doesn’t use expressions of that sort in speaking to a comparative stranger whom he has invited to lunch at his club.

“Inspected the girl?” Heffer said. “Is this some story which you had from Gulliver?”

“Gulliver happened to give me an account of certain events which had perplexed or struck him. He was struck, apparently, by this unknown Miss Oakes. She was strikingly beautiful or handsome?”

“Beautiful? Handsome?” Heffer looked at Appleby in urbane surprise. “Good Lord, no! She was a dim little creature, as far as I remember. No looks at all.”

There was a moment’s silence.

“We take coffee in another room,” Appleby said. “But would you care for a glass of port with this cheese?”

“Thank you, no. But the cheese is excellent. We have nothing as good in my place.” Another silence followed this polite exchange. “How very odd of Gulliver,” Heffer then said. “To say that about Miss…Oakes, was it?”

“Oakes.”

“He liked building up a bit of a romance, did poor Gulliver. I expect he made quite something out of the girl’s picture, as well.”

“Out of the Rembrandt? He was certainly much struck with it – as I understand you were too.”

“Did you say
Rembrandt
?” Heffer sat back and laughed – a little too loudly for some of his neighbours. “And what sort of a Rembrandt did the old boy say it was? A Saskia? A Hendrickje Stoffels? A landscape? A fancy dress scriptural affair?”

Appleby made no reply, and this time the silence prolonged itself notably.

“In point of fact,” Heffer said, “what the girl brought in was an eighteenth-century family portrait. I remember thinking for a moment that it might be by Mason Chamberlin, who is a notable painter in an odd eclectic way. But it wasn’t. It was simply unknown work of no particular significance or interest.”

Appleby nodded absently. He was signing his bill.

“Do you know,” he said, as he rose, “that unknown work fascinates me? I just hate leaving off until I have discovered the responsible hand. Shall we move on for that coffee?”

But if Jimmy Heffer was hard to rattle – Appleby reflected as he led the way to the smoking-room – it wasn’t because the young man was in any sense unperturbed. It was rather as if he had been, so to speak, perturbed once and for all; it was as if something had so decisively happened to him that nothing could really ever happen to him again. And he hadn’t been like this last night. The death of Jacob Trechmann had confronted him with some sort of crisis, put him in some sort of dilemma. But he hadn’t been then, as he indefinably but assuredly was now, a man to whom there had happened the kind of thing that happens for keeps. It was the death of Gulliver, not the death of Trechmann, that had taken Heffer across some mysterious Rubicon.