Trusted Like The Fox (21 page)

“I expect he was,” James said drily. “She has never gone off for so long before?”

“Never, that’s why I’m worried. I’ve known Julie for a long time and I wouldn’t like to change my job, but if she stays away much longer I’ll have to. I can’t live on air.”

“You have no idea who she went with? I mean did you see her leave? Did you catch sight of her companion?”

“I saw her leave all right. I was in the kitchen when the Buick turned up and I called out to Julie to have a good time.”

“The Buick?” James repeated, stiffening.

“That’s right. A big car, black and as long as a street. I never saw the gentleman. He never got out of the car, just tooted on the hooter and Julie went down. I’ve looked out of the window many a time but I’ve never seen him. You can’t, you know, from these windows. You can only see the top of the car.”

“You didn’t think to take its number?” James asked, thinking of Crane’s big, black Buick in which Daphne used to go for rides.

“What on earth for?” Mrs Fowler returned. “I’ll have you know I’ve better things to do than take the numbers of cars. I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“So this chap — the owner of the Buick — had been here before?”

“Oh, yes. He comes about twice a month, and Julie goes off and spends the night with him. She never said where they stay, but he was generous. He gave her a squirrel coat once.”

“You never heard his name?”

“Julie called him Dick. I’ve heard her talk to him on the telephone. You don’t think he’s done her harm, do you?”

“I don’t know,” James said, controlling his rising excitement. It must be Crane, he thought. The same Christian name and the same make of car. It must be the chap. “Young ladies who have so many gentlemen friends,” he went on gravely, “are asking for trouble and sometimes they get it.”

Mrs Fowler lost colour. “Well, you’d better do something,” she said, getting up. “You’d better find them.”

“I’ll find them,” James said, took Grace’s photograph from his pocket. “Ever seen this young woman before?”

Mrs Fowler shook her head. “Who is she?”

“Never mind,” James said with a sigh. “When I hear anything I’ll let you know.”

He left her, made his way down the steep stairs and into the Mews.

The chauffeur, White, eyed him expectantly, but James ignored him. He walked slowly towards Berkeley Square, deep in thought. There was even more to this business than he had realised. What had happened to Julie Brewer?

A cruising taxi stopped at his signal.

“Somerset House,” he said to the driver and sat back, his face grim, his eyes worried.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Major-General Sir Hugh Franklin-Steward, K.C.B., D.S.O., M.C., Chief Constable of the district, was pottering among his roses when Inspector James was announced.

Sir Hugh, a tall, white-headed man in his late sixties, sighed regretfully, said he would be along in a moment. Always someone worrying about something, he thought. There seemed very little peace these days. What in the world did this chap want? Must be some private matter: couldn’t be police business. James had no official access to the Chief Constable: he’d have to go through the proper channels.

Sir Hugh laid down his pruning knife, gave a lingering look at the orderly rows of rose bushes, and ambled towards the vast house that was now too large for him since he had lost three sons in the war and his daughter was soon to be married.

Inspector James was waiting in the hall. He stood stiffly to attention beneath a fine head of a tiger, shot by Sir Hugh some forty years ago in the Province of Bengal, and seemed ill at ease.

“Morning, James,” Sir Hugh said, nodding amiably. “Don’t see enough of you these days. I believe this must be your first visit to the house, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir,” James said, looking as awkward as he felt.

“It’s a nice old place, but too big for us now, and the taxes are far too high. Ought to think about finding something smaller, but it won’t be easy and I shall miss my roses. Did you see them as you came up the drive?”

“I did, sir; very fine if I may say so.”

Sir Hugh beamed. “Well, they aren’t bad,” he returned. “The Sultans of Zanzibar and the Lady Ashtowns should get firsts at the show, although Colonel Harrison seems very confident he’s got something up his sleeve to surprise me. You haven’t seen his roses, have you?”

James shifted his feet, said he hadn’t.

Sir Hugh looked at him vaguely, remembered James couldn’t have called to discuss roses, sighed.

“Mustn’t get on to roses,” he said, taking James’s arm and leading him into his study: a comfortable room, full of books, flowers and shooting trophies. “I’m a bit of a bore when it comes to roses, I’m afraid. Sit down and make yourself at home.” He glanced at the ornate clock on the mantelpiece, saw it was a few minutes after six o’clock. “Wouldn’t be bad to have a little something, would it?” he went on, producing a bottle of whisky from his desk drawer. “I don’t usually take whisky at this hour, but I think the occasion calls for one, don’t you? Your first visit, eh?”

James cleared his throat. He appreciated Sir Hugh’s attempt to put him at ease, but he was desperately anxious to get down to business. “I don’t think I will, sir,” he said uneasily. “Thank you all the same. I — er — I have an important matter to discuss with you . . .”

“Nonsense,” Sir Hugh said, pouring two staggeringly big whiskies into glasses he had also produced from his desk. “You’re as nervous as a young bride, James. Here, get this down you and relax. You don’t have to be frightened of me. Let me tell you I was far more frightened of my R.S.M. than I ever was of a visiting General.”

But James’s wooden face did not relax. He took the whisky, but placed it on the desk.

“Thank you, sir, perhaps later,” he said. “I’ve come to you because I feel you should be the first to be consulted. It’s police business, sir.”

Sir Hugh lowered himself into the padded leather chair behind his desk.

“But, surely, James, we’re not following the usual procedure, are we? Shouldn’t you make a report to Headquarters or have you done that?”

“No, sir,” James said. “I know it’s unusual, but the circumstances are unusual. Perhaps you could consider this interview as unofficial. I badly need your advice, sir.”

Sir Hugh rubbed his jaw, stared up at the ceiling. He had visions of an infuriated Superintendent at Headquarters. “Well, I don’t know what to say, James,” he returned. “Hadn’t you better put in a report? It might save a lot of trouble later. The Super won’t like you coming direct to me, you know.”

“I realise that, sir,” James said stubbornly, “but I honestly believe you are the only person who can help at this stage. It’s really a matter for the Military Intelligence.”

Sir Hugh stiffened. “What on earth do you mean?”

“Perhaps I’d better begin at the beginning, sir. It’ll save time in the long run.”

“Well, all right, go ahead. You can smoke if you want to. I do wish you’d look more at ease. I don’t bite, you know.” Sir Hugh grinned a little, shook his head as he saw James was still unbending. “Well, tell me what it’s all about.”

“Two days ago, sir,” James began, “that is on the 18th August, Rogers (he’s my assistant, sir, if you remember?) received a call from the Golf Club. The Secretary reported that the clubhouse had been broken into and that a number of articles were missing.”

Sir Hugh frowned. “But I know all about that,” he said. “What in the world has a little thing like that to do with Military Intelligence?”

“I’m afraid this is going to be rather a long and involved story, sir,” James said. “If you’d give me a clear field I’ll endeavour not to keep you.”

“You mean I mustn’t interrupt, is that it?” Sir Hugh said with a smile. “All right, carry on, James. I promise not to say another word.”

“Thank you, sir,” James said, pulling at his moustache. “Well, to go on, sir: Rogers had a look round and from footprints and marks found on the ground he reconstructed what had happened. He’s rather good at that kind of thing, sir, and I have every reason to believe that his reconstruction is the correct one.

Sir Hugh nodded, stifled a yawn and looked longingly out of the window at his Sultans of Zanzibar.

“It would seem, sir,” James went on, “that on the evening of the seventeenth, an unknown man and woman arrived at the golf course station. They were not seen, but their prints are easy enough to follow from the station. Half-way up the hill, they hid in a thicket. The Secretary tells me he was working late, and it may well be that they got out of his way as he walked to the station to catch a train home. After he had gone, these two went to the deserted clubhouse and the man broke a pane of glass and entered. He went to the front door to let the woman in, but for some reason or other, she ran away. The man followed her and they appeared to have spent the night in the trench on the fourth fairway. Later, possibly early in the morning, the woman returned to the clubhouse alone. Among the things stolen was a first-aid stretcher. The fact that Rogers could find no further footprints of the man after he had arrived at the trench suggests that he met with an accident and that the woman dragged him to the wood on the stretcher. I have been up to the course and have found marks in the grass which bear this theory out. Rogers is also convinced that this is what happened.”

Sir Hugh sipped his whisky, nodded. He still wasn’t particularly interested, but was listening more attentively now.

“This chap Rogers seems a smart police officer,” he observed. “Has he been with you long?”

“About two years, sir,” James said shortly. He wanted to get on with his story. “Rogers suggested to the Secretary that the woods should be searched and the Secretary agreed. They, and Mr Malcolm who was present, were about to go to the woods when they saw a young woman, dressed in a golfing outfit, appear above the crest of the hill of the fourth fairway and look in their direction. For a moment they thought nothing of it, but as soon as she saw them, she began to run in the opposite direction.”

“Drawing them away from the wood, eh?” Sir Hugh said, pleased that he had thought of this idea.

“It’s possible, but Rogers thought a bird in hand was worth two in a bush. (Begging your pardon, sir, no pun meant.) The girl could run, and he yelled to her to stop, but she kept on and succeeded in shaking Rogers off. When he did get on to her trail again, he was surprised to find her playing golf with Mr Richard Crane.”

Sir Hugh started, sat up stiffly. “With Crane? Are you sure?” He was now all attention, went on, “Then who the devil was she?”

“I’m coming to that, sir,” James said, not to be hurried. “Of course, as soon as Rogers saw Mr Crane knew the young lady he realised he had made a mistake, and he waited until the Secretary and Mr Malcolm came up. They handled the interview from then on.”

Sir Hugh sipped his whisky again.

“Go on, man, go on,” he said a little impatiently:

“Mr Crane introduced the lady as Mrs Julie Brewer: who, I learned later from him, is his married sister.”

Sir Hugh’s eyebrows went up. “He told you that, did he? I didn’t know he had a sister.”

“Mr Crane said she was his sister, sir,” James said quietly. “Further, he went on to explain that she was stone deaf and, although able to lip-read, her deafness had prevented her from hearing Rogers’s shouts. Rogers accepted the information and apologised.”

“From the tone of your voice Rogers shouldn’t have accepted the information. What are you getting at?” Sir Hugh asked, frowning.

“We’ll come to that in a moment, sir, if you please,” James returned. “Mr Crane also volunteered the information that he had seen a young fellow sneaking across the course and gave a detailed description of him. Rogers went off immediately in the direction indicated but failed to find any trace of him.”

“Is there much more of this?” Sir Hugh asked, glancing at the clock.

“I won’t keep you much longer, sir,” James said so quietly and seriously that Sir Hugh again looked sharply at him. “Rogers submitted a detailed report to me and I decided to call on Mr Crane.”

“What on earth for?”

“I wasn’t entirely satisfied with Mr Crane’s explanation about the young lady,” James said, avoiding Sir Hugh’s eyes.

“Good God!” Sir Hugh muttered, controlled himself and set down his whisky with a little bang on his desk. “Well, go on. You weren’t satisfied with Mr Crane’s explanation; so what did you do?”

Mr Crane happened to be out when I called, sir, but I did have a short interview with the young lady who claims to be Mrs Brewer. It wasn’t an entirely satisfactory interview, so I asked for her identity card.”

“A bit high-handed, surely, James?”

“I was very tactful, sir,” James said reassuringly, “and I was not satisfied that the young lady was Mrs Brewer. I thought she might be connected with the robbery at the clubhouse and that Mr Crane was giving her sanctuary, so to speak.”

“I’ve never heard such utter nonsense in my life,” Sir Hugh exclaimed, his face flushing. “Before you say anything further about Mr Crane I’ll have you know he is a personal friend of mine and I like him very much. He’s a fine boy, and I’ll tell you something else, only I don’t want this to go further for the moment; he is going to be my son-in-law. So please be careful what you’re saying, and for goodness sake stop indulging in wild and ridiculous theories.”

There was a heavy silence. James regarded Sir Hugh with blank, dismayed eyes. “Your son-in-law, sir?” he repeated stupidly. “I wasn’t aware . . .”

“Of course you weren’t, man. No one knows yet. They want to keep it quiet until the engagement has been announced. Don’t ask me why. Young people of today have all kinds of odd ideas. Anyway, Richard will be my son-in-law in about six months’ time, and a fine son-in-law and husband he’ll make too. You know his war record?”

James pulled at his moustache. “Yes, sir, it’s a very fine one,” he said miserably. He moved his long, thin legs, scratched his chin, looked anywhere but at Sir Hugh.

“Well, get on with your tale, man. I must say you’ve made a holy mess of things up to now. I’ll have to speak to Mr Crane about this — have to apologise to his sister,” Sir Hugh said, frowning. “For God’s sake don’t tell me you’ve put your foot into it further still?”