The Victim in Victoria Station (9 page)

“He might be willing to talk,” I mused. “He couldn't have much company loyalty, being paid a pittance like that.”

“Unless of course he's a ghost employee, on the payroll but doing nothing at all. He'd not be likely to spoil a sweet arrangement like that.”

I looked at Nigel in admiration. “You're getting good at this! I never would have thought of that.”

“You have one great handicap as an investigator, Dorothy,” he said with a disarming grin. “You assume people are honest.”

“It is a limitation,” I admitted cheerfully. “However, now that I think about it, the fact is that most people
are
basically honest. You get the twisters, of course, who automatically choose the dishonest way to do anything. And then there are the pathological liars. They don't always even know they're making it all up. But for the average person, going about life in straightforward fashion and following the rules is much easier than thinking of a good scam or a convincing lie.”

“If you say so.”

“I do say so. At any rate, the assumption works well enough as an operating procedure. You call it a handicap; I call it my biggest strength. I take people at face value, you see, which usually makes them like and trust me, so they talk to me. Which gets me back to the problem at hand. Nigel, I have to talk to these people.”

“Oh, no! No, tell me we're not back to that again! Look, Dorothy, show a bit of sense. You think one of these people is a murderer. Just what do you plan to do, ring them up and ask them if they did it?”

“Well, probably not. Though I might just surprise one of them into saying yes. Don't look like that; I was joking! No, but I want to—oh, I don't know, size them up, get a feel for what they're like. People reveal a lot when they talk. Seeing them in person would be better, but I know what you'd say to that!”

His blue eyes flashed dangerously. I pretended not to notice.

“So why don't we go to my house and make a few phone calls? We have their home telephone numbers, and they should be getting home soon. Who knows, I might get an inspiration, figure out some terribly intelligent question to ask them!”

“Why don't we do that?” Nigel made it a question rather than a suggestion. He ran his hands through his thick dark hair, making it stand on end. “All right, I'll tell you why we won't do that. Number one, if you're right and the murderer is connected with the company, one of them might recognize your voice.”

“Oh. Yes. Well, then, you do the talking, and I'll listen.”

“Number two,” he said, ignoring my suggestion, “what if they have caller display and they get suspicious? Then they have your telephone number. And number three—I don't need any more reasons, it's simply too dangerous!”

He sat back and crossed his arms, and I sighed, wishing Nigel would stop trying to protect me. Arguing wastes such a lot of time and is so exhausting.

“Nigel, I have the lists,” I pointed out gently. “There is nothing you can do to stop me making some phone calls. If you're there with me, you may be able to make some suggestions or help in some way. I need allies, my dear, and I have only you and the Andersons! But if you'd rather not help, I'll do it by myself.”

I stood up. He swore under his breath and kicked at his book bag. “I can't leave until six,” he muttered angrily. “And Inga's expecting me.”

“Don't worry, I'll call and tell her you're helping me. And

“Questions? About what?” She sounded somewhat wary, but no more than I do when I suspect a telemarketer. “I don't wish to take in any more magazines—”

“No, no,” said Nigel quickly. “I'm calling about Multilinks International. I understand you are executive secretary to Mr. Spragge?”

He had his fingers crossed, I saw. So did I.

“Yes, I work for Mr. Spragge,” she replied after a pause. “What is this about, Mr. Robinson?” She'd gotten his name right, having heard it only once. I was extremely glad I hadn't let Nigel use his real name.

“There is a rumor circulating that the stock issue Multilinks had planned is now on hold, owing to internal problems. Would you care to comment on that?”

“Where did you hear that? And how did you learn my name?”

Sharp, defensive.

“We do not reveal our sources, Mrs. Forbes.” He sounded so pompous that I had to stifle a giggle. “Is the rumor true?”

“I can't say anything about that. Excuse me, Mr. Robinson, but I have something in the oven—”

“May I ring up in the morning? At the office?”

“You may do anything you wish, but Mr. Spragge does not speak to reporters. Nor do I, sir.” She hung up smartly.

“Whew.” Nigel put down the phone and wiped his brow. “What a dragon! If they're all like that one—”

“You got by with it,” I said. “She believed every word. You did very well, in fact, and we learned something.”

“You may have learned something. I was too worried. I thought she was going to come right through the phone!”

“She was simply being the cool, efficient, protective secretary she is. Oh, I know a lot about her now. She's not young, she has an excellent memory, she's loyal to her boss and her company. Well done, Nigel! Now to the next one.”

The next one was named Vicki Shore. She hung up as soon as Nigel launched into his spiel. Two of the men, Brian Upton and Peter Grey, reacted the same way, Upton with some juicy epithets before he slammed the phone down.

“Learning a lot, are we?” said Nigel.

“More than you might think. Learning a little about the people, anyway. Try this one again. He's the one whose phone was busy the first time.”

This time Terry Hammond's phone rang, and he was much more forthcoming than the others. The trouble was that he said nothing to the point.

“Fine paper,” he said with enthusiasm to Nigel's practiced opening. “How'd you get a job with sush a fine paper?”

“Well, actually, I—”

“Good job, is it?”

“Not bad. Now, about Multilinks—”

“I'm the bookkeeper. Keep the bloody accounts, don't I?”

“Then you must have some understanding of the financial position—”

“Financial pozh—pozhee—money. Not making any.”

“Are you saying Multilinks isn't making money?”

“Hell with Multihowsyerfather. Me! I'm not making enough money to keep myself in drink.” There was the sound of a hiccup. “'Scuse me.”

Nigel rolled his eyes. “I've been told, sir, that Mr. Monahan may be planning a visit—”

“Who's he? Sounds Irish. The Irish know how to drink, I'll say that for them. Shay, would you care to come round? Make a party of it?”

“Thank you, no.” Gently, Nigel replaced the receiver, rolled his eyes at me, and looked up the next number.

By eight o'clock we had only two names left on our list. Lloyd Pierce had been polite, but sounded distracted; a good deal of laughter in the background indicated some sort of party in progress. Chandra Dalal refused to talk once Nigel had said he was a reporter. That left the two highest-paid names on the list, the ones I assumed were the managing director and his assistant.

“Let's go to the top,” I suggested. “Walter Spragge. What have we got to lose?”

Nigel tried the number. No answer.

“It's getting late, Dorothy. Inga …”

My heart smote me. I, too, was recently married, even if it was for the second time. And I could well remember my first marriage, and being young, and longing for Frank to come home from an evening class.

“There's only one more,” I pleaded. “Then you can go home. The assistant manager, Mr. Hugh Fortier.”

Glumly Nigel punched in the number. Without much hope I put my ear to my phone. It rang for a long time.

“He isn't home—”

“Fortier residence. Hello, is anyone there?”

Nigel, caught up short, stammered a reply. “Sorry—sorry. This is—is—” He looked at me, panic in his eyes.

“Francis Robinson!” I mouthed urgently.

“Sorry, swallowed the wrong way. Francis Robinson here, with the
Herald Tribune
. Mr. Fortier?”

“Yes.” The monosyllable was not encouraging.

“I apologize for troubling you at home, sir, but I have been unable to obtain any useful information from anyone else, and I have a deadline to meet. I am attempting to confirm a rumor concerning the forthcoming Multilinks stock issue. I believe you are Mr. Spragge's assistant. Would you have any information about the offering?”

“I might have. What did you say your name was?”

“Francis Robinson. With the
Herald Tribune
.”

“I see. You say you've called other people?”

“No one who could, or would, give me any answers. Mrs. Forbes refused to talk to me, and Miss Shore and some of the men hung up. Mr. Spragge was not at home.” Diplomatically, he didn't mention Mr. Hammond.

“It's Mrs. Shore, not Miss,” Fortier was saying. His voice had sharpened. “Just how much do you know about Multilinks?”

“Very little, sir; simply that a rumor is circulating that the stock will not be issued because of internal problems.” I nudged him, and he went on, glaring at me as he spoke. “There is also some talk that Mr. Monahan has come to England to look into the matter personally.”

Dead silence. Then Fortier spoke, in a voice that was little more than a whisper. “Just who the hell are you, and what do you want out of me?”

I jammed my thumb down on the disconnect button.

“Bingo! Nigel, we've done it! And am I ever glad they don't know who was calling!”

Nigel tried to glower, but a grin kept peeking through. “Got his knickers in a twist, didn't he?”

“So we were right! It
was
murder, and it
is
connected with Multilinks!”

“I wouldn't go so far as to say—”

“I would! That panic in his voice might not be evidence in court, but it's enough for me! Now all I have to do is prove it!”

“That's all, is it?”

“Nigel Evans, you should have been named Thomas! Doubt all you want to, but let me tell you something you don't know, my skeptical young friend. I think—I'm not quite sure, you understand—but I think Mr. Hugh Fortier is my doctor friend from the train!”

I
sent Nigel home much later than I had intended. When this was all over, I would have to call Inga and apologize. But Nigel had been as eager as I to talk about the new development.

“How sure are you?” he asked for something like the fifth time.

“Nigel, I tell you I don't know! He had the same sort of accent, that's all I can tell you. The man on the train sounded vaguely Canadian, and so did Hugh Fortier. Fortier could be a Canadian name, of course, French Canadian. And he asked you something about ‘calling' people, not phoning or ringing. That usage is more common on our side of the Atlantic. But it's none of it certain. Some of the others had accents, too—Mr. Hammond, for one.”

“I've heard his sort of accent before,” said Nigel with a snort of laughter.

“Besides drunk, I mean. But the ones who hung up—I really need to hear them talk some more.”

“Oh, no, I'm not—”

“No, it doesn't have to be you the next time. I could call the Multilinks office and pretend to be from British Telecom, or the Inland Revenue, or something. Except I don't sound English, and I don't suppose Mrs. Forbes would let me through to anyone important. Or I could call some of them back at home, selling soap, or taking a survey. That's probably the best idea. I could phrase the questions so that the answers had words in them like ‘out' and ‘about.' You really can't mistake the way a Canadian pronounces those two.”

Nigel got a stubborn look in his eye, but I spoke before he could open his mouth.

“Nigel Evans, you are not to tell me I shouldn't get involved! I'm quite old enough to be your grandmother, and I won't have you telling me what to do and not do! Suppose you tell me where you'd be if I hadn't gotten involved with Canon Billings's murder?” I didn't let him answer that one either. “Oh, go along home with you! There's a beautiful girl waiting for you with dinner, and a few other things, I imagine. And don't look so shocked. I've heard of sex. Ask Alan.”

I was able to get him out the door on the strength of that astounding idea. I don't know why the young always think they invented it. Where do they think they came from?

I'd had my own supper hours before, so I was able to devote the rest of the evening to charting my new course. I knew perfectly well what I was going to do. The question was how to accomplish it. After considering and rejecting a number of ideas, I hit upon one that sounded feasible, and first thing in the morning I got out my address book, looked up the number, and called Tom Anderson at his office.

“Tom, I'm sorry to bother you at work, but I won't be a moment. I find I must go to London this afternoon. I wonder, could I meet you somewhere for lunch to discuss the matter we talked about last week?”

“Of course. Let's see. Do you know the Sherlock Holmes pub in Northumberland Street?”

“Of course! What mystery lover doesn't?”

“That's not too far away from here, and you can get there easily by tube or taxi. One o'clock?”

“Wonderful.”

I do love a person who simply does what I ask without awkward questions.

The hours remaining before train time I spent preparing an approach and picking out one of my most becoming hats, a red one that most men love. Tom might have been cooperative on the phone, but I had the feeling I was going to have to do some fancy persuading, once he heard my idea.

He was waiting for me. He bought us each a lager and wouldn't let me say anything until I'd downed half of it in a few satisfying drafts. It was another hot day, and I was happy enough to drink my beer cold, for a change.