Murder by the Book (28 page)

He regarded her with that glassy-eyed stare of the unfeasibly drunk, and she wondered if he'd comprehended a word of her request. At last he said, enunciating his words with exaggerated care, ‘I don't think you quite understand, Maria. I've had enough. Enough! Do y'know … do you know – even the Crime Club barred my entry last year! Me! I've published … published enough in their grubby little genre to deserve membership … but no! Not me! So …' He stared at her. ‘So I intend to ventilate a liver or two tonight – if not with my trusty but elusive pistol, then with this!' And so saying he lofted his swordstick and swung it about his head.

This latest exhibition of his insobriety had alerted the attention of the diners. Heads turned and eyes goggled at Martin's feeble imitation of a gyrocopter.

‘Gideon! For God's sake
just go
!'

The maître d' hurried to the table and said, ‘Madam, if this gentleman is causing you …'

‘He is just about to leave,
aren't
you?' she said.

To her surprise, Martin almost jumped to his feet. ‘I know when I am not welcome, Maria – and despite your refusal to give me the pistol, be in no doubt that my love for you is eternal.' And, with this farcical avowal, and a ludicrous little bow, he turned on his heel and staggered from the restaurant.

She apologized to the maître d' and said, ‘He was
not
my guest, I assure you. Ah …' She raised a hand and waved as Dame Amelia appeared on the threshold.

Amelia swept through the restaurant, clutching Poirot to her bosom, her entry earning as many turned heads as had Martin's exit. ‘My dear, but was that Gideon Martin I saw debouch with ill-grace from this establishment not seconds ago?'

‘I'm afraid so, Amelia. He followed me here from the agency.'

‘He did? But what did he want this time, my dear?'

The maître d' eased the chair beneath Dame Amelia's ample bottom and provided a cushion for the dog. Amelia settled Poirot on the third chair, then ordered a bottle of champagne. ‘And Thierry, a plate of chicken livers for Poirot, if you please.'

Maria said, ‘Would you believe, Amelia, that Martin wanted me to return his pistol?'

‘His pistol? Why, this gets juicier by the second! Do tell.'

They ordered grilled sole with asparagus, and Poirot tucked into the chicken livers. Maria recounted the contretemps at her flat a few nights ago. ‘The upshot was that I snatched the gun from his grip and tossed it across the room, and he left rather hastily. With his tail, I think the saying goes, firmly between his legs.'

‘Good for you,' Amelia said. ‘But what on earth did he want with the gun today?'

‘Oh, nothing much. He just wanted to, and these are his own words, “perforate a few livers” at the Crime Club dinner this evening.'

‘In that case I'm delighted I shan't be there,' said Dame Amelia. ‘What a frightful little man. I take it you refused to give him what he wanted?'

‘Of course – so he said he'd run a few members through with his swordstick instead.'

‘Remarkable. The jackanape ought to be locked up. I say, this sole is rather exquisite, don't you agree?'

‘Divine,' Maria said. ‘But tell me about your encounter at the castle, Amelia. Donald said you and Poirot were a formidable double act.'

Amelia waved modestly. ‘If not for Donald and his friend, Maria, I might not be here to tell the tale. They arrived in the veritable nick of time.'

And Dame Amelia proceeded to recount – with embellishments and many witty asides – what had obviously been a rather terrifying ordeal. ‘And would you believe,' she said, ‘that he had even brought a vast stone – he intended to tie it around my neck and pitch me into the moat! The cheek of it!'

Maria murmured her shock, but could not hide a smile at Amelia's
savoir faire
.

‘But enough of that little escapade,' she said. ‘Now, do tell me more about you and Donald. And before you start, I must say that he is a rather eligible catch, my dear.'

Maria tried not to blush. She shrugged. ‘Where to begin? I have admired Donald for many years. But Donald, being English and therefore reserved, he would not screw up his courage to ask me to dinner.'

‘Ah, the malaise of the English male,' Amelia sighed. ‘But in that case how did you two …?'

Maria sipped her champagne. ‘We were thrown together, as it were, by the events of the past week – the blackmail of Charles and his subsequent shooting. It has been a terrible business, Amelia.'

‘Donald told me all about it. I rather think that someone in our dear little fraternity has it in for us. Donald told me that he, too, was on the “hit list” as he called it – though how I dislike that American term! He mentioned a clutch of soggy paperbacks … Quite the detective, your Donald.'

Open-mouthed, Maria stared at Dame Amelia for a second or two in absolute silence.

‘Maria? Maria, are you quite all right? You look as if you've seen a ghost.'

‘I … I think I have, Amelia,' she said. ‘Oh, what a blind fool I've been,' she whispered.

‘My girl, what's come over you?'

‘The killer … the gunman. He's short, portly, ginger – according to the description of the only person to have seen him.'

‘I don't quite see …'

‘And the killer, he has a grudge, Donald told me, a grudge against those writers more successful than himself in the crime genre, and against agents and editors who might have slighted him in the past.'

She stopped, feeling alternately hot and cold as the realization dawned. She whispered, ‘Who do you think that description fits to a tee, Amelia?'

‘Why,' Dame Amelia began, then fell silent and stared at Maria with a shocked expression. ‘You don't think …?'

‘He fits the bill,' Maria murmured, ‘and tonight, on his own admission, he intends to go to the Crime Club dinner and …'

Amelia reached out and clutched her hand. ‘You must contact Donald forthwith,' she said, ‘and dessert can go to hell.'

‘There's a phone box around the corner,' Maria said. ‘I'll phone the flat and see if he's in. Do excuse me. I'll leave some money …' she went on, indicating her plate.

‘Nonsense, child! This meal is my pleasure. Now, go and ring Donald, and do keep me informed.'

Maria kissed Dame Amelia on her soft, powdery cheek, gathered her bag and hurried from the restaurant.

She found the phone box and rang her flat. The call tone rang out for a minute without reply. ‘Come on, come on … Oh, Donald, do please pick up the phone!' She gave it another minute – which seemed like an hour – and was about to replace the receiver when the line clicked and Donald said, ‘Hello? Hello …?'

‘Donald. Oh, thank God you're there.'

‘Maria? You sound terrible.'

She tried to order her thoughts. ‘Donald, I think I know who the killer is.'

‘What?'

‘Stay there. I can't explain over the phone. I'm on my way!'

‘But Maria—'

She slammed down the receiver and ran back to the Sunbeam.

On the way to Kensington she went through the logic of her deductions, alternatively thinking it absurd that someone she knew should turn out to be the culprit, then assessing the evidence and realizing that in all likelihood Gideon Martin was indeed the guilty party.

She recalled the touch of his hand all those months ago, his kiss, and she felt physically sick.

She pulled up outside her flat and raced up the steps, unlocked the door and ran up the stairs to her apartment, almost tripping in her haste. Before she could fumble with the key, Donald pulled open the door and embraced her.

He led her into the lounge, sat her on the settee and knelt before her. ‘Now, Maria, what's all this about the killer?'

She took a deep breath, her heart racing. She nodded, ordering her thoughts, and said, ‘Do you recall me describing an encounter with someone I knew last year, a man called Gideon Martin? He came here with a gun last week, threatening to shoot himself. He's a failed writer and a little crazy …'

Donald looked incredulous. ‘And you think
he's
the killer?'

She grasped his hands. ‘
Listen
to me, Donald. I saw him today. He followed me from the agency and confronted me in a restaurant. He demanded I return his pistol. He was drunk, a little mad. He said … he said he was going to the Crime Club dinner this evening and wanted to shoot …'

‘The dinner? My God, I'd forgotten all about it.'

‘In the end he left, but he's threatening to attack diners with his swordstick.'

Donald nodded matter-of-factly. ‘Very well, but threatening to attack members of the club and actually killing …'

‘Donald! Listen to me! He fits the description of the motorcyclist – the man in the public baths described by that boy. He's short, plump, ginger-complexioned and balding. And … and I know he hates Charles and Dame Amelia.'

‘But I thought …' Donald began. ‘I mean, wasn't he chasing after you?'

Maria blinked. ‘So …?'

‘So, the killer is the other way inclined. He used Kenny Wilson in the baths, remember?'

‘So,' she said impatiently, ‘Martin must be bisexual – not that I ever suspected.' She clutched his hand. ‘Donald, you've got to do something!'

He gave her hand a last squeeze, hurried across to the phone and dialled. He looked at her from the bureau and said, ‘I'll contact Jeff Mallory.'

Maria nodded, sitting on the edge of the settee.

‘Hello, could you put me through to Detective Inspector Mallory? If you could tell him it's Donald Langham.'

She sat with her fingers to her lips and watched him as he traced the scar on his forehead impatiently.

‘Jeff,' Langham said, sitting up. ‘Developments. Long story, but Maria just had an encounter with someone who fits the killer's description, and he's threatening to attend the Crime Club dinner tonight.'

Donald listened, staring down at the rug and still fingering his scar. He nodded. ‘That's right. The Albemarle Club, Pall Mall. It's due to kick off at seven thirty.'

He was silent for a second, then looked across at Maria. ‘The man's name – and do you know his address?'

She stood and crossed the room to him. ‘He is Gideon Martin. And his address … Let me think, let me think! He lives in Belsize Park, Victoria Street, but I can't recall the number.'

Donald relayed the information to Mallory, then said, ‘Right-ho. Excellent. I'll see you then.'

He replaced the receiver and looked up at her. ‘Jeff says you deserve a medal. He's coming for me right away.'

They embraced. ‘Donald, do be careful.'

‘No heroics,' he promised her. ‘Jeff said he'll station people in the club and flood the area with plainclothes officers. I'll be fine.'

A
t seven that evening Langham sat with Mallory in his Humber across the road from the Albemarle Club.

He wound the window halfway down and lit his pipe, then finished telling Mallory about the paperbacks left in the Streatham house and what had happened at Castle Melacorum yesterday. He recalled speaking to the editor at Digit Books, and mentioned the hit-and-run death of Alexander Southern, aka Dan Greeley.

‘So …' Mallory said, ‘of the seven writers of the books you found, four are dead and three, yourself, Fellowes and Amelia Hampstead, are still alive. Perhaps, Don, the seven of you are all the
writers
the killer – this Gideon Martin chap – intends to target?'

Langham thought about it. ‘Maybe, but that still leaves the editors, agents, and who knows who else in the trade that the bastard has a grudge against.'

Mallory stared across the road at the club. He said at last, ‘Well, I hope what your girl said is right – and he is only armed with a swordstick.'

‘I've been thinking about that,' Langham said. ‘Something doesn't add up. Yesterday at Castle Melacorum he was armed with a pistol. He used it to destroy the lock on the door, and fire at Ralph Ryland later.'

Mallory shook his head. ‘So why, if he had a pistol yesterday, did he want another one back from Maria?'

‘Exactly.' Langham thought about it, then said, ‘How about this: in getting away from Ryland the other day, he dropped the pistol and didn't have time to search for it. That'd explain his demand for Maria to return the other one.'

‘It's possible,' Mallory grunted. ‘I just hope he hasn't been able to get his hands on one in the meantime. But according to Maria, he's not the sort who consorts with underworld types. Not that I'm taking any chances,' he went on. ‘I have men stationed at all the tube stations in the vicinity, and the four nearby taxi ranks.'

‘What about in the Albemarle itself?'

Mallory nodded. ‘Two men in the foyer, two manning the staircases on every floor and a couple of men outside the meeting room. All plainclothes, needless to say. Oh, and I've had a word with the secretary and ordered the meeting and dinner to be held in rooms other than those originally scheduled. It was too late when all this blew up to contact everyone and cancel the do, so I reckoned the next best thing was to move it up a floor.'

‘Good thinking.'

‘It'll be a miracle if he gets past the front door, but I'm not taking any chances. Good work on Maria's part, Don.'

‘It came to her while she was dining with Dame Amelia. Martin had just accosted her, asking her for the gun, and when he'd gone she and Amelia were discussing the deaths when the penny dropped. She was pretty shaken up by the time I saw her.'

‘I can't wait to meet this little number. Looks, intelligence and a fine deductive capability.'

Langham smiled. ‘When all this is over, let's go out to dinner.'