The Best of British Crime omnibus (63 page)

‘Nat, whatever happens, you've got to find that girl!'

‘Don't worry, I'll find—'

Nat broke off and rapidly got to his feet. The office door had opened and Yardley was bustling in.

‘Sorry to have kept you, Harry. I've been out to Hampstead.'

He put his brief-case on the desk and turned to Nat. ‘Any news? Have you picked the girl up yet?'

‘No. Not yet, sir.' Nat held up the snapshot. ‘But Harry identified her. She
was
the girl in the car with Newton. And the landlady now thinks—'

‘I don't want to hear any more about the landlady,' Yardley said curtly, moving round to the back of his desk. ‘I want that girl, Judy Black. Find her!'

Nat was dismissed. Swallowing his resentment he went out quickly through the communicating door. Yardley deposited his weight on the swivel chair behind his desk. His eyes swung up to Harry and then dropped again.

‘Sit down, Dawson.'

Harry sat down in the slightly warm chair which Nat had vacated. Yardley picked up a typed foolscap sheet from his desk and frowned at it. There was silence in the office for a full minute. In the background could be heard the irregular murmur of the traffic in Victoria Street, the tap of Hodges' typewriter and the ringing of telephone bells in nearby offices.

Still studying the report, Yardley spoke suddenly. ‘I've seen the Conways this morning.'

‘Yes. I thought perhaps you had.'

‘They confirm your story about the dog.'

‘I'm pleased to hear it,' Harry said drily. ‘Did you expect they wouldn't?'

Yardley laid the typewritten sheet down, leaned his forearms on the desk and fixed Harry with his formidable stare.

‘As a matter of fact I was lucky to catch the Conways. They were just off to Aldeburgh, where he is apparently a member of the golf club.'

Harry was about to say something when he remembered that some clubs have associate as well as playing members.

‘They're a very civil couple.' Yardley's expression became less hard as he remembered the flattering courtesy which Sybil Conway had shown him.

‘Yes, I thought so too,' Harry agreed.

‘However,' Yardley continued, ‘neither Mr. nor Mrs. Conway have any recollection of you giving them a cheque for five pounds and they have certainly no knowledge of anyone named Basil Higgs.'

For a few moments Harry was unable to find words. ‘But – didn't he tell you about the Hamsters?'

‘You certainly made me look a fool there, Dawson. Polite though they were they had to laugh when I mentioned the Hamsters. In fact, Arnold Conway was laughing so much that he tripped over his own rug.'

‘Wait a minute.' Something in the picture which Yardley's account had conjured up was all wrong. ‘How could a man in a wheelchair trip over a rug?'

‘Conway wasn't in a wheelchair. When I asked him about it he was completely flabbergasted. The man's as fit as a fiddle.'

‘But—'

‘Just to make sure,' Yardley ploughed on, I called in on an old friend of mine, Inspector Emerson. He knows Hampstead better than you know your flat, Dawson. He should do, he's been there for twenty years.'

Harry stared at Yardley's face. He just could not believe that this conversation was actually happening. The room, the desk, the Chief Superintendent himself had suddenly become quite unreal, like symbols in a dream.

‘Emerson told me that Conway was a stock-broker who had made his pile and retired. He bought Stillwater in 1963 and paid thirty thousand for it. I also mentioned the wheelchair. Conway may be getting on but he hasn't reached the bath-chair stage yet. In fact, he plays squash twice a week and golf on Sundays.'

Harry sprang up from the chair and strode over to the window. ‘I don't care whether he plays tennis, squash, golf or ice-hockey. He was in a wheelchair when I saw him yesterday.'

He turned angrily towards the Chief Superintendent. ‘Good God, why should I invent a thing like that if it wasn't true?'

Yardley's answer was so quiet that it was almost inaudible. ‘I can't imagine why.'

Harry moved round to the edge of the desk and leaned down on it. ‘You don't believe me, do you?'

Yardley did not answer. Instead he opened a top drawer and took from it Zero's collar.

‘Tell me about this collar. Did you find out anything?'

Harry got a hold of his temper with difficulty. ‘It was bought by my father from a shop in St. John's Wood. There's doubt, a slight doubt, about the medallion.'

‘You mean it might have been changed?'

Yardley turned the metal disc over between his finger and thumb. ‘It's got Mrs. Rogers' name on it and your phone number.'

‘Yes. But both Liz Mason and the man who owns the pet shop, his name's Heaton, were a little doubtful.'

Harry stopped as a knock sounded on the communicating door and Nat thrust it open.

‘Can you spare a moment, sir?'

‘Yes. What is it, Nat?'

Nat glanced at Harry's face, saw that it was flushed with anger and guessed that he had interrupted an angry session.

‘I've just had a call from Sergeant Quilter. He's found out something about Newton, sir, something we didn't know.'

‘Well?' Yardley barked, irritated by Nat's habit of preluding his big announcements with these mysterious remarks.

‘His name wasn't Peter Newton, that's just a name he used because he thought his own conveyed the wrong image for the world of show business. His real name is Higgs, sir, Basil Higgs.'

It was late afternoon when Harry got home. He had lunched in the canteen at Scotland Yard, hoping that he would be able to collect his car soon afterwards, when the experts had finished their examination of it. In the end it was around four when he was at last told that it was available and consequently he was caught up in the beginnings of the rush-hour. As he parked opposite the flat he noticed a taxi drawn up outside the shop.

His nerves and temper were in a raw state as he turned the key in the lock of the street entrance to the flat. He had just closed it behind him when he realised that someone was coming out on to the landing at the top of the stairs. He stood still in the dark shadow just inside the door.

Mrs. Rogers was wearing her tweed coat and the hat with plastic flowers on it. She was so absorbed with the poodle in her arms that she did not notice Harry. She was pouching out her lips to the animal, receiving a thorough licking on the mouth and nose.

Half way down the stairs she spotted Harry and halted in obvious embarrassment.

‘Good evening, Mrs. Rogers,' said Harry blandly.

‘Oh! Oh, hallo, Mr. Dawson.' She forced a smile. ‘I—I was hoping to see you.'

‘Were you, Mrs. Rogers? I find that a little difficult to believe. I trust your nephew's fully recovered from the 'flu by now?'

‘Oh, yes, Mr. Dawson, thank you. He is.' She came down a few more steps. The coldness in Harry's tone had been unmistakable. ‘Mr. Dawson, I'm afraid I owe you an apology. I lied to you in that note I left for you. The fact of the matter is, I've got another job.'

‘Oh?'

‘Yes. At that new hotel in Knightsbridge. The Royal Plaza.'

‘All a bit sudden, isn't it?'

Harry moved to one side as she reached the bottom of the stairs. She had pushed the poodle across her left breast and it was now engaged in laundering her left ear.

‘I just didn't know what to do. The shock of your father dying like that. Well, I just had to get away. I'm afraid I behaved very badly, Mr. Dawson. I don't want to appear ungrateful for all your kindness but – I'm really very sorry about it.'

She seemed thoroughly ashamed of herself but Harry suspected that the whole show was an act.

‘How much do I owe you?' he said, to cut short her protestations.

‘Nothing,' she said quickly. ‘Nothing at all, thank you. We're all square, with you paying the reward.'

Harry knew this was not true but he let it pass. ‘Well, anyway, we found your dog for you.'

‘Yes. And you can imagine how thrilled I was when I heard about it. I just couldn't believe it.' She fondled the dog's ears. ‘Dear little Zero.'

‘How did you hear about it, Mrs. Rogers?' Harry made no attempt to move away from the door and until he did she could not reach the latch.

‘I spoke to Hubert this afternoon and he told me about it. By the way, what's happened to Zero's collar, Mr. Dawson? Was it stolen?'

‘Yes.'

‘Oh, dear.' She turned the corners of her mouth down. ‘It was such a lovely little collar. And it was a birthday present from your father too, you know.'

‘Curiously enough,' Harry said carefully, watching her face, ‘it was both stolen
and
returned.'

‘Returned?'

‘Yes. At the moment Superintendent Yardley's got it.'

‘Superintendent Yardley?' Mrs. Roger's repeated the name in alarm. ‘But why on earth have the police got it?'

Harry was spared having to answer by an angry tattoo on the door knocker. He opened the door to find an impatient taxi-driver standing there.

‘Look. I can't wait here all night, lady. I shall be in trouble, real trouble, if you don't get a move on.'

‘I'll be with you in a minute.'

‘Now,
please,
lady.' He nodded towards the street and looked at Harry. ‘There's a busy-body of a traffic warden out there. She's a real stinker!'

The driver turned back to his cab. Harry half closed the door. ‘Mrs. Rogers, before you go there's something I want to ask you. Did you ever hear my father mention the name Conway?'

‘Conway?' Her face had gone blank. ‘No, I don't think so.'

‘You've never heard the name before?'

‘No I haven't.' She shook her head vigorously. ‘I feel sure I would have remembered if your father had mentioned it at all. Mr. Dawson, you'll have to excuse me.'

She was peering out into the street, where the taxi-driver had started up his engine.

‘All right, Mrs. Rogers. Goodbye and good luck with the new job.'

She gave him a shamefaced smile. ‘Thank you. Say goodbye to Mr. Dawson, Zero.'

Zero ignored the suggestion, to Harry's relief. He stood back and watched her as she hurried across the pavement and got into the taxi. Although she had had the run of the flat for months it somehow made him feel uneasy to think that she had been prowling about up there alone today of all days.

Harry had only meant to take a cat-nap when he sat down in the comfortable arm-chair. But a sleepless night followed by the stresses of his two encounters with Yardley had taken their toll. His head dropped and his eyes closed.

The telephone bell startled him into wakefulness. He shook his head, trying to remember what time it was. Outside it had grown dark and the din of traffic had diminished to a murmur.

He stumbled to his feet, clawing at the standard lamp to switch on some light. He blinked at the face of his watch. It was seven minutes to ten. He had been asleep for five hours.

Fortunately the caller was persistent. The bell still continued its regular ringing tone. Still rather befuddled by the effects of an unplanned sleep he grabbed up the instrument.

‘586 2679.'

Instead of a reply came the series of pips which indicated that the call was coming through a coin-box. Harry waited.

‘Mr. Dawson?' The voice was a woman's, low-pitched, breathless and nervous.

‘Yes, speaking.'

‘This is Judy Black, Mr. Dawson. I was a friend of Mr. Newton's—'

‘Judy Black!'

‘I'm in trouble, Mr. Dawson,' the girl rushed on. She had a faint North Country accent, but he thought it sounded more like Leeds than Liverpool. ‘Terrible trouble, and I'd like to talk to you before I give myself up. Can we meet some time? Tonight, if possible.'

‘Yes, of course.' Harry reached for a note-pad and biro. ‘Where are you? Where are you speaking from?'

The girl did not answer at once. The vague background sounds he had heard were blanked out, as if she had covered the mouthpiece with her hand. After a few moments she spoke again, very quietly and swiftly.

‘I'm in a restaurant. The Chez Maurice. It's in Greek Street. The top end, near Soho Square.'

‘Stay where you are, Miss Black.' Harry spoke in his most authoritative police officer's voice. All his sleepiness had vanished. ‘I'll be with you in fifteen minutes.'

The taxi cruised slowly up Greek Street. Both Harry and the driver were looking for some sign that would indicate the whereabouts of Chez Maurice.

Suddenly Harry spotted the name on the right-hand side of the street. He rapped on the glass partition. ‘There it is! Stop here.'

‘Can't stop here, mate. I'll pull into that gap up there.'

Harry could clearly see the two girls who were standing under the lights that illuminated the entrance. They had just come out and were thinking about hailing a cab. The taller of the two was a robustly built woman of about thirty. She was attractive in a tough, no-nonsense kind of way. Her red hair caught the light from the neon strip above.

The girl beside her was a real stunner. Men passing by were slowing down, instinctively running their eyes over her. Harry recognised her at once as the girl he had seen in the Fiat.

Harry already had the door of the cab open as it pulled in to the kerb thirty yards farther on. He waited impatiently while the driver fumbled for change, never taking his eyes off the entrance to Chez Maurice.

Judy Black was alone now. The other girl had gone back into the restaurant, obviously to collect something she had forgotten. Judy was looking nervously up and down the street. It was eighteen minutes since Harry had put the phone down. She must be wondering whether he was going to come.

As the taxi moved away he saw her grope in her handbag and put on a pair of dark glasses. She rearranged her head-scarf in the hope that it might conceal the head of golden hair. He hurried along the pavement, knowing that she had seen his taxi stop and watched him getting out.