The Best of British Crime omnibus (74 page)

He looked around for a few moments, noting that Harry Dawson was sitting there but that there was no sign of Douglas Croft. Then, without hesitation, he made for Harry's table.

‘It was you who sent the telegram.' It was a statement rather than a question. Conway had sized up the situation and accepted it. ‘You must excuse my wife. She wanted to get some shopping done, so I said I'd deputise for her.'

‘It was you I was expecting, Mr. Conway.' Harry was vainly trying to catch the attention of a waitress before she disappeared inside the building. ‘But you're a bit late. Did you have trouble parking your wheelchair?'

Conway's answer was an enigmatic smile and a question of his own.

‘This telegram, Mr. Dawson. Was it fact or fiction?'

‘I'm not sure I understand you. I have the receipt for the necklace, if that's what you mean.'

‘That is what I mean. May I see it?'

Harry took the receipt from his pocket and held it up so that Conway could read it. The older man made no attempt to reach across and take it.

‘Thank you,' he said. He took an oval-shaped cigarette from his case and lit it. The aroma of Turkish tobacco floated across the table. ‘When did you first hear about this receipt?'

‘Your wife got in touch with a friend of mine.'

‘Douglas Croft.' Conway nodded. ‘He used to work for your father.'

‘That's right. Mrs. Conway telephoned Douglas. She said she thought my father had put the receipt away somewhere and—'

‘She asked Croft to try and find it.'

‘Yes.'

‘And he found it?'

‘No. Someone else-did.'

‘I see.' Conway felt in his waistcoat pocket for a cigarette holder. ‘But I still don't get the point of the telegram. Couldn't you have posted the receipt to my wife?'

‘Yes. But in that case I would have been spared the pleasure of your company, Mr. Conway. And that wasn't what I had in mind.'

‘What had you in mind? What is it you want?'

Conway had a way of dropping his eyelids when he looked directly at anyone. Harry leaned his elbows on the table, facing him.

‘I want to know how my father got involved in this affair. I want to know why your wife started having an affair with him. I want to know why Tam Owen murdered him.'

Harry had spoken in a low voice and for a moment it seemed that Conway had not heard him. His expression did not change and his eyes did not flicker.

‘Your father was a fool,' he said, equally quietly. ‘And an unlucky one at that. My advice to you, young man, is don't get mixed up in this business.'

‘Suppose I don't feel like taking your advice.' Harry made an effort to keep his voice down. He could feel the anger mounting in him.

‘I can't imagine you'd be that stupid. You saw what happened to Linda Wade.'

‘I don't scare that easily. I've seen people beaten up before, and I've had a few knocks myself.'

‘I'm sure you have.' Conway blandly knocked the curving ash off his cigarette. ‘But its not you I'm thinking of.'

‘Who are you thinking of?' Harry asked. ‘Judy Black?'

Conway showed his teeth in a suggestive smile. ‘I'm sure you wouldn't like anything unfortunate to happen to Miss Black.'

‘You're dead right. And nothing is going to happen to her!'

‘You sound very confident. Is it because you don't think we could find her?' The smile had widened. Conway was genuinely enjoying himself. ‘Would you like me to tell you where Miss Black is at this precise moment?

‘Yes, I would. Go ahead.'

Conway took time to draw on his cigarette before playing his trump card. ‘She's at a hotel called The Priory. It's at Steeple Aston, a small village about ten miles from Bicester.'

The effect was not quite as Conway hoped. Harry's face broke into a wide grin. He leaned forward and patted the slightly padded shoulder.

‘You wouldn't like to bet on that, Mr. Conway!'

The woman by the Serpentine had used up all her crumbs and lumps of bread. She addressed a few words of reproof to the ducks and drakes who had set up a loud chorus of protest at the signs of her departure, then turned her back on them.

For the first time since he had sat down Conway seemed less than totally sure of himself.

‘What do you mean, I wouldn't like to bet on it?'

‘Yesterday afternoon,' Harry explained briskly, ‘I picked up Judy and took her to Linda Wade's to collect her things. While we were there Marty Smith showed up. I don't have to tell you what happened to Mr. Smith.'

‘Go on.'

‘After we'd dealt with Smith I went back and searched the flat. I found mikes and the tape-recorder. I knew it had recorded my conversation with Judy about the hotel at Steeple Aston, so I left the installation just as it was. I'm afraid it provided you with what our American friends call “a bum steer”.'

‘It didn't provide me with anything,' Conway said angrily, turning away so that he did not have to endure Harry's amused smile. ‘I told Tam Owen a long time ago he'd be making a big mistake if he underrated you—'

He broke off as a low, confidential, rather breathy female voice suddenly came through on the loudspeaker system. ‘Will Mr. Cyril Conway please come to the reception counter to take an urgent telephone call. Mr. Cyril Conway, please.'

The system went dead the moment the announcement was concluded.

‘It's for me,' Conway said in surprise. ‘Where do I go?'

Harry pointed to a glass door at the end of the terrace.

‘It's through there. There's a call box just inside.'

While he waited Harry amused himself watching a young man who had evidently never been in a boat before trying to emulate the winner of the Diamond Sculls. Conway was back within a few moments. He was like a cat on hot bricks, and his eyes were sending sharp, raking glances in all directions including the road running past the cafe.

‘That was my wife,' he said, sitting down with assumed nonchalance. ‘She wanted to know how long I was likely to be.'

‘What did you say? Ten years?'

Conway tried in vain to show that he thought this an excellent joke.

‘She said she'd come by in a few minutes.'

‘Maybe she'd like to join us?'

‘Frankly, old chap, I think she'd rather not—'

‘The morning my father was murdered,' Harry interrupted very deliberately. ‘It was Sybil he was expecting to meet at the club, wasn't it? She was the decoy. The refined, elegant, Sybil who he thought was in love with him.'

Conway did not have to reply. He cocked his head as he heard the familiar crackle which preceded an announcement on the public address system. The same breathy voice made its standard request.

‘Will Mr. Harry Dawson please come to the reception counter to take a telephone call. Mr. Harry Dawson, please.'

‘Your turn, old man.' Conway fitted a fresh cigarette into his holder as Harry stood up, hesitating as to whether he would answer the summons or not. Conway looked up and smiled. ‘Don't worry, Inspector. I won't run away.'

Harry hurried along the terrace to the glass door he had indicated to Conway. Douglas Croft was the only person who knew he was here. Unless Mrs. Conway—

The girl at the reception desk looked up enquiringly as he approached the counter.

‘Mr. Dawson? You can take the call in the kiosk over there.'

Before he went into the kiosk he glanced out through the door. Conway was still there, sitting perfectly relaxed in his own private cloud of aromatic smoke.

He pulled the door shut behind him and lifted the receiver. All he could hear was the dialling tone. He tried speaking.

‘Hallo. Dawson here. Hallo … Hallo.'

After half a minute he gave it up, opened the door, crossed to the reception counter and caught the attention of the girl who had spoken to him.

‘There doesn't seem to be anyone on that line,' he said. ‘Are you sure—'

A scream from out on the terrace interrupted him. It was followed by other screams and the sound of breaking glass as tables were knocked over.

Harry reached the door to the terrace in a couple of strides and wrenched it open. The tables round Conway were empty. The people had recoiled in the first instinctive moment of panic. Conway himself was not moving. He had slumped forward, his brow resting on the surface of the table.

Harry raced along the terrace. A quiet, professional-looking man, perhaps a doctor, had hurried up from the opposite direction. The two men reached the table at the same moment.

‘What happened?' Harry asked.

‘There was a shot,' the other said tersely. ‘It came from somewhere up there.'

He gestured towards a clump of bushes near the road. Harry took Conway's hair and lifted the brow clear of the table. A pool of blood was forming from the bullet hole above his right eye.

He gently lowered the head then moved quickly off the terrace on to the grass where he could get a sight of the road behind the clump of bushes.

A grey Jaguar had pulled away from the kerb and was accelerating with smoking tyres. Defying the park speed restrictions, it disappeared in the direction of the Albert Memorial. There had been no possibility of reading its registration number.

Harry retraced his steps to the table where the dead man still sat. As he reached the terrace a woman in a fur coat came rushing out, her eyes wild and terrified. He moved quickly to intercept Sybil Conway before she could see what the bullet had done to her husband.

Harry stood on the pavement in Parliament Square watching the hands of Big Ben move up to and past eight o'clock. The evening rush-hour had ended and though the traffic swirling round the Square was heavy it consisted largely of private cars, taxis and privately hired buses bringing parties into London for an evening on the Town.

It had been difficult to fit a meeting into Chief Superintendent Yardley's very tight schedule. In the end Yardley had suggested this solution. He had to go up to Camden Town on another case he was investigating. If Harry joined him in the CID car they could talk during the journey.

It was seven minutes past eight when the inconspicuous blue Ford drew in to the kerb in front of him. Harry's heart sank. Yardley had released the police driver and was at the wheel himself. He was known as a terrifying driver.

The Superintendent leaned over to unlock the door on the passenger's side. He made no excuse for being seven minutes late as Harry settled in his seat and adjusted the seat belt.

‘It's good of you to spare me some of your time, sir, especially at such short notice. I appreciate it.'

Harry's head jerked back as the clutch went in.

‘Why did you want to see me?'

‘I wanted to talk with you, but I thought if I came to the office there was a chance—' He broke off as the car made the sharp turn into Whitehall. ‘I've found out the truth, sir, about my father.'

Yardley's grunt was encouraging enough for Harry to go on.

‘This afternoon, after Arnold Conway was killed, I took his wife back to the house. She was in a terrible state. I let her talk. It would have been impossible to stop her anyway, even if I'd wanted to. She told me about my father and Mrs. Rogers. She explained why …'

‘Dawson,' Yardley broke in. ‘I'd like to hear what Mrs. Conway told you, but don't you think you'd better start at the beginning?'

‘Yes. I'm sorry.' Harry accepted the mild rebuke with a nod. ‘Apparently before Mrs. Rogers worked for my father she had a variety of jobs and rather a chequered career, I'm afraid. One day she discovered that a man she used to work for – by the name of Tam Owen – was running a string of call-girls. She collected evidence of his activities – photographs, lists of contacts, a photostat of an incriminating letter he'd written. Then she started blackmailing him. At some point she must have realised the risk she was running, that Tam Owen was capable of killing her, so she told him that if anything happened to her my father, the famous Tom Dawson, would take over. In short, she inferred that she and my father were working together.'

‘Which wasn't true.'

Yardley's method of negotiating the jumble of vehicles coming round Trafalgar Square was to steer a straight course for Cock-spurs, keep his foot down and pretend there were no other cars on the road. The method worked, although several drivers angrily sounded their horns.

‘No, of course it wasn't,' Harry resumed when the crisis was over. ‘And even Tam Owen had his doubts about it. He told Sybil Conway to get friendly with my father and report back to him. Sybil reported that, in her opinion, Mrs. Rogers had lied. She also reported the fact that Mrs. Rogers was absolutely crazy about her poodle, Zero.'

‘So they kidnapped the dog and offered to return it in exchange for the letter and photostat?'

The heater in the car had now started to function full blast. Yardley loved the fug and kept his window tight shut. Harry surreptitiously wound the window on his own side down a few inches.

‘Right. Peter Newton – on behalf of Tam Owen, of course – telephoned Mrs. Rogers and they arranged to meet. That's when Mrs. Rogers made a note of the number of his car on one of the office folders which was lying on my father's desk. She met Peter. They drove to his flat and he showed her the dog collar to prove that they really had got the poodle. But Mrs Rogers would not play because, unknown to Newton, it was the wrong collar. I'll be able to explain why when I've got some information out of Judy. The important thing is that Mrs. Rogers assumed that they were only trying to bluff her. So Tam Owen decided that he'd do something which would scare the living daylights out of her.'

‘Like killing your father.'

The lights had gone red at the top of Lower Regent Street. Yardley braked to a stop, but kept the car in gear, riding the clutch with his hefty left foot. For a few seconds they sat and watched the almost hypnotic display of coloured lighting around Piccadilly Circus.