Murder, London--Miami Read online

  Henrietta frowned. “I have the strongest possible objections.”

  “Why?”

  Henrietta shifted her position in her chair, so that she sat upright with her hands clasped in her lap.

  “The only possible justification would be if you suspected Sir David of Lady Marshall’s murder. I cannot believe the police would be quite so ridiculous as that.”

  “We have to take every possibility into account,” Roger replied, evenly.

  “This is not even a possibility!”

  “Now who is being ridiculous, Miss Lyle?”

  Henrietta gave no indication that she was annoyed.

  “I suppose we must agree that different things look ridiculous to different people, Mr West.”

  “Yes. Do you know whether Sir David has any plans to remarry?”

  Henrietta looked up, startled.

  “Good gracious, no!”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I am . . .” she began, then gave a rather forced laugh, the first artificial thing Roger had noticed. “Now you are being ridiculous,” she said. “He couldn’t make plans for marrying again, being already married.”

  “Come,” Roger protested. “You can’t be as naive as that, Miss Lyle.”

  He expected her to echo the word ‘naive?’ in exasperation. Instead, after a considered pause, she said with every appearance of sincerity, as if she were examining the issue, “I suppose I am naive where such things are concerned. I do tend to take conventions literally. You mean that Sir David may have met someone else whom he would like to marry, and in order to be free, might have murdered his wife?’

  Roger admired her directness, and was beginning to like the girl. As directly, he answered, “Yes. Do you know if he was fond of someone else?”

  Her eyes seemed to become more piercing, more blue, and certainly more beautiful. In a strange way she seemed to become more beautiful, too, to develop more character in her face, the more they talked. Roger had a feeling that she would always tell the truth, whatever the circumstances; then warned himself that he was crazy even to allow the thought to pass through his mind. She might well be a congenital liar.

  “I know of only one person with whom he has discussed the possibility of marriage, if he were free – and that is me, Mr. West. There may well be others, I simply don’t know. I have never taken the suggestion very seriously.”

  Roger looked at her searchingly.

  “Are you stating that Sir David proposed marriage to you, and you rejected him?”

  “I simply told him that as there wasn’t any possibility of it, there was no point in discussing the question.” Henrietta leaned forward in her chair, as if about to get to her feet. “As for searching the house, I’ve tried to think what Sir David would do if he were here, and I think he would agree. That is, if you’re really serious.”

  “I’m very serious.”

  “Very well,” she said. “When do you propose to start?”

  “This evening – both start and finish,” Roger answered.

  “Will you need me here all the time?”

  “Won’t you want to stay?”

  “I suppose I should,” Henrietta said, reluctantly, “but I must catch the post – I shall have to go to the main post office as it is – and I must have supper, and then I have to pack.”

  “Pack?” echoed Roger, blankly.

  “Yes,” she said. “Sir David has asked me to join him in Miami. He left behind a very important manuscript which he wants me to take out to him.” She stood up quickly, as if the statement were quite unsensational, and went to the desk, picking up the post. “I really must get these off, Mr West, I’d quite forgotten.”

  15

  DOUBLE DECEPTION

  ‘If he lets me go, the papers are safe,’ Henrietta thought. She looked at West, the expression on her face one of transparent honesty. ‘Oh God,’ she thought, ‘please let him let me go.’

  ‘She’s too good to be true,’ Roger thought, getting to his feet. ‘She’s putting something across me. And she’s very anxious to get off with those letters. Why?’

  It seemed an age to Henrietta; she couldn’t keep up the pretence much longer. At times she had actually enjoyed the cut and thrust, but now she was near screaming point. Would he let her go or wouldn’t he? Had she been too casual about allowing the police to search? He seemed to be trying to read her thoughts.

  Suddenly, he smiled. “Yes, of course. But may I have a look at those first?”

  Panic flared up within her and she was sure it showed in her eyes. She clutched the bundle of letters and the precious packet tightly for a moment, then told herself there was nothing she could do but let them go; she would have to try to look unconcerned, that was all. She held them towards him.

  West took them. “Thank you.” He passed them from one hand to the other, reading the name and address on each, showing no interest – not even when he looked down at the packet. Thank heavens she had put that address label on!

  “Thank you,” he said again, handing them back. “Will you come straight back here when you’ve posted them?”

  ‘He’s going to let me take them out,’ she cried to herself, exulting inwardly. Aloud, and calmly, she said, “Yes, if that will help.”

  She turned away from him, praying that he could not read her exultation.

  ‘She’s got away with something,’ Roger thought, ‘and it’s something to do with those letters.’

  He watched her carefully as she opened a drawer in the green-topped desk, and took out some stamps. Then he turned towards the door.

  “I’ll be back by the time you are,” he said, and went out.

  The two uniformed policemen stood to attention. Roger’s driver, chatting to them, moved smartly to the door of the car and opened it. But before getting inside, Roger beckoned to a plain-clothes man who was standing close by.

  “Hallo, Bob. Just the fellow I want; you must be psychic. Miss Lyle will be out in a minute, with nine letters and one packet – says she’s taking them to the main post office. I want to know whether she does in fact go there, whether she posts everything, meets anyone else, the lot. Clear?”

  “Nine letters and one packet – I’ll see what I can do,” the plain-clothes man promised.

  Henrietta walked down the drive, and got into her car, easing it into the stream of traffic. Soon she was pulling up outside the post office. Feeling almost fiercely excited, she tucked the packet under the mat of the car, and went inside with the letters.

  Roger was halfway to the Yard when the plain-clothes man called him, in his car.

  “She posted the letters, but she hadn’t got a packet when she went into the post office,” he reported. “She didn’t meet or speak to anyone, though.”

  Coppell was looking tired. His pipe was out, and a heap of half-smoked tobacco filled an ashtray and gave off an offensive smell. As Roger went in, he bent down and took a bottle of whisky and two glasses from a cupboard in his desk.

  “I’ll use you as an excuse,” he said. “What a bloody day. If they offer you this job when I’m gone, don’t take it. You’ll get more grey hairs in a week than you would in your job in a year.” He took out a soda syphon. “Say when.”

  “When . . . thanks.” Roger sat down, relieved by the other’s mood.

  “There’s been one of those periodic ‘can’t we cut down on expenses?’ panics. And at the same time the old man’s being pushed, so we’re being pushed, over the Marshall case.”

  “Why are they making such a fuss?” Roger demanded.

  “Things are very touchy between certain Commonwealth African States, and some of those reports”—Coppell waved towards a pile of papers on his desk—“are pretty scathing about one or two of our ministers. Lots of talk about hand-outs in return for contracts, arms coming fro
m us and the Commies – red hot stuff. Once in the hands of the wrong people, they could cause a hell of a lot of bother. Marshall’s trusted with this stuff, so presumably his secretary is, too.” Coppell drank. “No one’s said the ugly word, ‘spy,’ but it looks as if it’s in someone’s mind. The fact that Marshall’s nipped off to Miami makes the whole thing look devilish fishy.”

  “His secretary follows him tomorrow,” Roger said. “That is if we let her go.”

  Coppell put down his glass.

  “Follows him!” he repeated sharply. “Why?”

  “She says he left a manuscript behind, and that he wants her to take it out to him. But I’m not at all sure I believe her. And I’m pretty certain that she smuggled some papers out of the house, when I told her we were going to search it.”

  Coppell frowned. “Did you know she was smuggling them out?”

  “I suspected she was up to something.”

  “Then why let her get away with it?”

  “Well . . .” Roger paused, “if she is up to anything, she’s now committed herself – at Chelsea she could have said she was simply considering following Marshall’s instructions.”

  “Crafty,” approved Coppell, and tossed the rest of his drink down. “Anything else?”

  “She didn’t put up much of a fight to stop us from searching the place.”

  “Meaning, the only thing that concerned her was getting those papers out,” Coppell mused. “H’mm. What do you suggest?”

  “Let her go, but delay her,” Roger said unhesitatingly.

  “So?”

  “So that I can get to Miami first. I need time to talk to the Miami police and find out exactly who Marshall’s gone to see. If there’s a plane tonight and she’s delayed until tomorrow afternoon . . .” He broke off, not sure how Coppell would take this, wondering what Janet would say, wondering why so much pressure was being put on the Yard to get results quickly.

  Coppell gave a half smile.

  “You’re one on your own, Handsome, I will say that for you. You mean let her take the papers and be on the spot when she hands them over.”

  So he hadn’t turned the suggestion down.

  “Yes,” Roger said. “Then if the papers aren’t as innocent as she made out, and she and Marshall do have something to hide, they may break down and talk.”

  “Not a bad idea – not bad at all,” said Coppell. “And I can tell you there’s an eleven o’clock Pan Am flight tonight and a midnight BOAC, I’ve had it checked.” He gave a broad smile, delighted with his own foresight. “Which plane will you take?”

  “The BOAC,” said Roger, thinking of Janet. He gave Coppell a thoughtful look. “I’ll have Sloan in from Richmond to go through Marshall’s place tonight and tomorrow,” he added, “and then, if it’s all right with you, I’ll send him to Milan.”

  Coppell pursed his lips. “That man Ward? Why?”

  “The quarrel between Ward and Marshall was very ugly,” said Roger. “We still don’t know what caused it, and I think we ought to find out. Sloan can talk to Ward in Milan tomorrow night, telephone a report to you – and if you think it’s worthwhile, you can telephone me in Miami.”

  “You’d never get away with this if I wasn’t under pressure,” Coppell said. “All right. Tell Sloan.”

  “I’ll call him right away,” promised Roger.

  But he was still thinking more about how Janet would take the news that the holiday was to be postponed – in an odd way, her attitude that morning made it more, not less, distasteful than it should have been.

  “Lucky old Pop!” exclaimed Martin.

  “Good old Dad!” approved Richard.

  “If you can possibly stay for a few days after the case is settled, it would do you the world of good,” said Janet, as if quite unconcerned. “But try to find an hour to talk to Martin before you leave.”

  “No need, as a matter of fact,” said Martin, with his usual calm. They were all in the living room, sitting round a blank television screen. “I’ve given it a lot of thought – I have, seriously. And I’m going to give up full-time art study. Another chap I know has an art shop – picture framing, copying, that kind of thing. He needs someone to help, and I’ve enough general knowledge for him. I won’t make a fortune but I will earn my keep, and study in my spare time.”

  “Oh, Scoop!” Janet exclaimed. “That’s wonderful. Roger! Isn’t it wonderful?”

  She was commanding Roger to say yes.

  “I’m very pleased,” Roger approved, and then looking squarely at his son, he added, “But you’ll have to stick to it, Scoop. It’s a job, it’s not—”

  “Another way of getting all arty-crafty and longhaired,” Scoop finished for him. He grinned. “I’ll stick it out, Dad.”

  “Now you can go to Miami with a clear conscience,” Richard declared, and ducked a blow his father aimed at him. “Anybody want to see the news? Besides me, I mean.”

  Henrietta did not understand why another detective came to the house, instead of Superintendent West, but it did not trouble her; her jubilation at having got away with the documents lasted all the evening, and was still with her the next morning. She telephoned Mr Wise, at the United States Consulate, and, as David had assured her, he promised priority in the issue of a visa.

  “Come to the Consulate at the side of the Embassy and ask for me,” he said.

  Sloan raised no objection to her going, and as Miss Toms was in, Henrietta did not mind leaving the police in possession. Everything went very smoothly. Wise was a big, youthful man, alert and efficient. She was in high spirits when she left – but these were dampened when she faced up to an inescapable question: why did David want the documents?

  West was right – it was remarkable that, having heard of Yolande’s death, he should go on to Miami. Knowing him, she was quite sure that it was a matter of vital importance. She was preoccupied about this until she reached Number 5, but Sloan soon drove it out of her mind. Suddenly, although he knew she had to catch that plane, he became unbelievably slow and obstructive.

  “I’m sorry, Inspector,” she said at last, “but I must leave for the airport within five minutes.”

  Sloan looked at her in his rather innocent, schoolboy-like way.

  “I’m sorry, Miss, but it won’t be possible. There are several questions which must be asked and answered – before you go.”

  “But this is ridiculous!” she stormed. “I shall miss my plane!”

  “There is another after lunch,” Sloan said soothingly. “And I will have one of my men drive you to the airport.”

  “But I insist—” she began, beside herself.

  He cut her short, almost regretfully.

  “If you attempt to leave, miss, I’m afraid I shall have to ask you to come along to the Yard. But I’m sure that can be avoided, if you’ll co-operate with us now.”

  Henrietta made herself remember that it was no use starting a fight she couldn’t win. If she was too insistent, he might delay her even longer. It crossed her mind that it was all being deliberately planned to stop her from leaving, but nothing Sloan said or did indicated this. He was extraordinarily thorough in searching, and his questions were mostly to do with what work she did. He also asked for a list of regular visitors – there were, she suddenly realised, very few. It was surprising how lonely David must be. Somehow, she hid her vexation.

  Sloan did not create any further delay, and he did, as he had promised, send her to the airport with a police driver. The policeman actually carried her briefcase to the airport lounge for her, the case containing the documents which David was so anxious to have.

  There was nothing unusual about going to the airport and boarding an aircraft, but all her previous flights had been to Europe. Everything was the same: the waiting for the ‘now landing’ instructions, the formalities w
ith Immigration and Customs, the little straggling line of people walking along the still-unfinished passages to the buses, the friendly stewardesses and stewards.

  Yet it was all very different; and the fact that she had managed to get the documents out of the house without the police discovering them, filled her with a strange sense of exhilaration, an exhilaration which was still with her when the east coast of Ireland dropped out of sight, and there was only the ocean below and ahead.

  The man next to her began to snore gently.

  There was a sense of wonder for her, too. She made no attempt to read, it would almost certainly make her air-sick; but she closed her eyes and went over all the questions which the police had asked her, everything she knew about the murder.

  The flight took nearly seven hours.

  It should, by English time, be ten o’clock when she reached New York. Instead, it was only five. She was half afraid of more delays, but there was nothing except the inevitable wait to have her passport examined and her visa checked. Then she was told there would be a flight for Miami in just over an hour. There was no chance to go into New York but plenty of time to marvel at the vastness of the airport, the ceaseless roar of the coming and going of aeroplanes, the apparent casualness of everybody involved.

  At last the call came for the Miami flight. Henrietta trooped along a covered way towards the bay where the aircraft was waiting; it was all incredibly smooth and efficient. For the first time she began to notice her fellow passengers, and found herself sitting next to an attractive Spanish woman who spoke little English.

  Soon she settled down; again she closed her eyes, and concentrated – but on a different aspect of the situation. Was she justified in doing exactly as she was told by David without asking questions? As a secretary, perhaps, but – as a friend?

  Friend?

  She was going to see him so much sooner than she had expected, and already her heart was beginning to beat faster. He mattered to her very much more than she had allowed herself to admit in the past – more than she had ever realised.