Cast For Death (18 page)

How easy it had been! Patrick had expected to follow the envelope with his eyes into a pigeon-hole behind the desk, and had doubted his ability to make out the room number from such a distance.

‘Thank you,’ he said, moving off. He did not want the man to remember him, but it was a chance he must take. Lest his ruse be discovered, he had put a charity appeal that had been sent to him inside the envelope.

He walked across the foyer and along the passage towards the men’s room. He had never been in this hotel before, but reasoning told him he would find some stairs if he kept going. Sure enough, a flight led out of a corner near the cloakrooms. He ran up them to the first floor, then walked along the corridor until he came to the lift. It was most unlikely that the clerk or anyone in the foyer had noticed him ascending.

Waiters were carrying breakfast trays into rooms as he strode along. The thing was to look confident; bluff could achieve a great deal.

He summoned the lift, and when it arrived, rode up to the fifth floor, where he emerged into a long, straight corridor carpeted in olive green. Numbers on the nearest doors indicated that 538 would be to his left, and he set off, working out his next move as he walked along. Knocking on the door and announcing his own identity would not guarantee admittance; there were too many unpredictables. He paused, tapping a finger against his teeth, indecisive. The pageboy with the mail had probably come and gone already; if not, that might offer an opportunity, or alternatively, breakfast might arrive. The man he sought was unlikely to descend to eat among the common herd. He went on down the corridor, passing room 538, turned at the end and walked back again. As he did so, the door of room 538 opened, a man came out and walked along the passage in the other direction. Patrick continued on behind him, passing the room a second time. Since it was referred to as a suite, there were probably several rooms in use, linked by communicating doors.

The other man went towards the lift, and Patrick turned down a side corridor branching from the main one. A few seconds later he peered cautiously round the corner; the man had disappeared, presumably into the lift. From the far end of the corridor a waiter now appeared, pushing a trolley. Patrick headed back towards room 538 and arrived outside just behind the waiter, whose trolley bore breakfast for two. He tapped at the door and in response to a call from within opened it. He was obviously expected, for it was not locked. Such a possibility had not occurred to Patrick.

‘Ah—’ he said, and followed the waiter over the threshold before it could be closed, hoping to be taken for one of the proper occupants.

Again, his trick worked. The waiter, who was Spanish, beamed at him, and Patrick followed him through a narrow hallway into a sitting-room where several bowls of flowers stood about; it was clearly the apartment of someone important.

A man in a silk dressing-gown stood looking out of the window, his back to the room.

‘Just leave the trolley, please,’ he said, without turning. ‘Thank you.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said the waiter, nodded to Patrick who grinned at him amiably, and left.

The man at the window turned, and the light was behind him, hiding his face, but Patrick knew at once that his theory was right.

‘Good morning, Sam,’ he said.

Sam Irwin put a hand behind him and steadied himself as Patrick stepped forward.

‘I’m very glad indeed to find you’re not dead after all,’ he said.

Sam was speechless.

‘How—how on earth—?’ he managed at last, but Patrick interrupted.

‘That man who went down the corridor. Is he a watchdog?’

‘Yes. He does the messages and shopping – I don’t go out much. He’s gone downstairs to meet someone from the embassy. We don’t want people coming up here.’

‘I’m sure you don’t,’ said Patrick. ‘If he gets back, I’ll play along. You’re not Sam, and I’m an old friend you’ve successfully deceived with your impersonation. Now, what’s this all about? And who was in the river?’

Sam had recovered somewhat.

‘I’ve got the part of a lifetime,’ he said. ‘Taking the place of a man who’s been critically ill. If that had been discovered, everything would have gone wrong. He’s on the mend now – the plan’s been saved. I won’t be needed much longer.’

‘You’ve had your meeting?’

‘The first one. Now he’s got to be persuaded to defect.’ Sam gestured. ‘He’d like to, but there are ties at home – wife – small child.’ Then he looked intently at Patrick. ‘How did you know?’

‘Your beard,’ said Patrick grimly. ‘The corpse grew a red beard. A copper I know confirmed that suspicion for me last night. You don’t, I’m certain.’

‘You mean his showed?’

‘Beards go on growing for a short time after death,’ said Patrick. ‘Who was he?’

Sam looked worried.

‘That’s the only bit I’m unhappy about,’ he said. ‘He was very like me – me with my hair dyed, that is. He was an informer – no one meant him to die, but he was caught making a phone call which could have wrecked everything. He died while he was locked up – no one had decided what to do with him. Heart, I suppose.’

The man had died from shock: that much was certain: convenient, though. Patrick had to hurry on, for time was short.

‘The identification was fixed,’ he said.

‘Yes – Leila Waters. She suggested me for the job,’ said Sam. ‘She’d seen me made up, looking like him. They’ve used her before to find people for jobs like this. Patrick, you mustn’t say anything – it will all be over soon – then I’ll reappear, saying I’d lost my memory.’

He made it sound so simple.

‘I’ll keep your secret as long as it’s necessary,’ said Patrick, and added, ‘what a pity you didn’t tell Tina.’

‘Tina? Tina Willoughby? Why?’

‘She’s dead. You didn’t know?’

Sam did not: that was obvious.

‘How?’

‘Suicide. She’d read about your death.’

‘But that doesn’t make sense. I meant nothing to Tina.

‘But you did know her?’

‘Yes – through her drink problem. I had one too, once. But she had a thing with Joss Ruxton. They met last year.’

‘But that girl – the one he lived with—’

‘Which one? There were a series. Tina was just another.’

Patrick stared. Could this be right? Had Joss really picked Tina at forty after a girl in her twenties? Or was it one-sided?

He heard a sound at the outer door. In a flash he was across the room and through the connecting door into a bedroom. As he closed the door softly behind him he heard Sam say, ‘I waited to start breakfast till you came back. Well—everything fixed?’

He did not hear the reply but hurried on, into a further bedroom, and from there, went out into the passage. A few minutes later he was walking away down the street.

There had been no time to ask Sam if he had ever been to Pear Tree Cottage.

Patrick just missed Liz. She had left for the office five minutes before he arrived at her flat, said Manolakis, who let him in.

‘I’m glad you’re still here, Dimitri,’ said Patrick, temporarily banishing to the back of his mind questions raised in it about the sleeping arrangements at Bolton Gardens. ‘I’ve found Sam Irwin. I want some advice.’

‘But, my friend, I know you have found Sam Irwin. This is not news,’ said Manolakis.

‘He isn’t dead,’ Patrick said. ‘The woman who identified him – the body from the water, that is – she didn’t exist. She gave a false name and address. And the one who officially identified him at the inquest committed perjury. I suppose they’re both working for Special Branch. Or think they are. I shall have to get on to the police. Sam mustn’t go through with this.’

He had taken care to promise Sam only that his secret would be kept as long as was necessary. That allowed plenty of licence for interpretation.

‘Sit down and explain,’ said Manolakis.

Patrick realised that he had had no breakfast.

‘Any coffee going?’ he asked.

‘Of course. Come along,’ said Manolakis, like a kindly housewife.

‘You seem quite at home,’ Patrick could not resist remarking.

‘I am. I am so glad that Elizabeth is not your lady, Patrick. I would not like to walk on your feet.’

‘You mean tread on my toes,’ said Patrick.

But he had. The fact that he said this proved what had happened.

Patrick hurried on.

‘I’ve been to see him – he’s at a hotel—’

‘Eat first, then explain,’ advised Manolakis, putting bread in the toaster.

Patrick, between mouthfuls of toast and honey, described his abortive visit to Putney, Leila Waters’ remark about the colour of Sam’s beard, and his own suspicion, since confirmed by Sergeant Bruce, that the corpse must have been a genuine redheaded man, or the postmortem report would have mentioned the inconsistency. There was body hair, not only the beard.

‘If it wasn’t Sam who was pulled from the river that night, he might be alive. You’d mentioned, in another context, the question of identity. If a dead body was supposed to be Sam’s, he might be posing as someone else. I’d seen photographs of him in make-up. I knew what might be done. We’ve all seen him in his disguise, Dimitri – you, Liz and me – and he’s deceived us all.’

Manolakis listened to this intently, nodding his head as Patrick spoke.

‘I don’t like it, Dimitri. He thinks he’s doubling for a man who’s ill, for the good of a cause. But Tina didn’t commit suicide because she thought he was dead – he was nothing special to her. That newspaper beside her body was a blind. So why did she die?’

‘This other actor,’ Manolakis said. ‘This Joss. It would be good, perhaps, to talk to him.’

‘I quite agree. And very likely Detective Chief Inspector Frobisher has already done it, but not about Sam. About the stolen paintings,’ Patrick said. ‘And I doubt if he had anything at all to do with them.’

An impassive man faced Patrick across a wide desk.

‘The matter is out of our hands,’ he said. ‘Special Branch is dealing with it.’

Patrick had gone from Bolton Gardens to see Sergeant Bruce, who had listened silently to his tale; then he had declared that he had been taken off the case.

‘Well, you’d better get back on to it again,’ Patrick said roundly. ‘A man has died – not the one we thought it was. Two women have given false evidence. Is this how we work here now? I won’t believe it. I think Sam’s being tricked.’

‘Wait, please,’ the sergeant had replied, and had left the office. Shortly afterwards, Patrick had been summoned to the presence of the Detective Chief Superintendent who now faced him.

‘It’s a highly sensitive operation,’ the superintendent said. ‘One slip, and it will go wrong.’

‘But everyone concerned is here, in this country. Why not move at once? Why delay?’

‘Correct timing is important,’ said the superintendent. ‘We both know that things can go wrong – intending defectors have been persuaded back before, by various means. You must treat this as a matter of the gravest importance, Dr Grant. Secrecy is essential. It’s unfortunate that you should have stumbled on the truth.’

Patrick had stumbled nowhere. He had deduced the answer. But quibbling wasted time.

‘That woman’s death,’ he said. ‘What’s your explanation for that?’

‘Depression, probably, or some other commonplace reason,’ said the superintendent. ‘I must ask you, Dr Grant, to use the utmost discretion in respect of what has been revealed to you.’

Once again a misuse of words, thought Patrick dourly, matters had only been revealed in the sense that he had had eyes to see.

‘Well, I’m thankful to find that Sam isn’t dead after all, of course,’ he said.

‘And now, if you don’t mind—’ The superintendent half rose. ‘Sergeant, will you show Dr Grant the way out?’

Sergeant Bruce had been sitting in silence throughout the interview. Now he got up and opened the door. In silence, he followed Patrick out.

‘I don’t like it. The whole thing reeks,’ said Patrick vehemently, when they were in the passage.

‘It’s out of our hands,’ the sergeant repeated.

Patrick went straight from the police station to Scotland Yard, and demanded to see Colin. He had to wait some time.

‘I can’t spare long – I’m very busy,’ Colin said.

‘Special Branch has taken over this business about Sam – he’s not dead, he’s doing an impersonation,’ Patrick said.

Colin tidied some papers on his desk.

‘The coppers along the road are dropping it,’ Patrick told him.

‘They must, now,’ said Colin. ‘You’d better lay off, too, Patrick. My advice is to go back to Oxford and forget the whole thing.’

Patrick was most reluctant to accept this counsel; however, he left Colin to get on with his work and walked round the corner to Westminster Abbey, where Manolakis was waiting for him.

‘Let’s go and see Joss Ruxton,’ he said. He had discovered the actor’s address from the telephone directory, the obvious place to look first.

To get there, Patrick had to use the A to Z guide. He wound his way north of St Pancras until he came to a crescent of old brick houses overlooking an oval of grass planted with plane trees.

Joss Ruxton lived in a tall, terraced house with a yellow front door. Patrick rang the bell, and after a short wait it was opened by a woman in a flowered overall.

‘Not more police?’ she asked at once, standing aggressively in the doorway.

‘My name is Grant. I am a fellow of St Mark’s College, Oxford. Would you ask Mr Ruxton if he can spare five minutes, please,’ said Patrick.

‘Well, I don’t know,’ said the woman, but she went away, leaving them on the step. Soon she returned, and, exuding disapproval, conducted them to a sitting-room which was furnished with old pieces that blended well together. Everything looked cared-for; the wood gleamed; the paintwork was fresh. They sat on a small sofa, side by side, and waited. There were no bookshelves to draw Patrick; in a house this size there was probably room for a study.

Soon, the actor appeared. He entered with a definite flourish, sweeping the door wide before walking in. He was a stocky man, not very tall, with carefully styled thick, greying hair and pale blue eyes.