Villa plot counterplot, p.9
Villa Plot, Counterplot, page 9
For a moment Duncan thought that Mr Harcourt was going to cry. A deep-seated strand in his childhood had been touched. “Have a cigar. Magnificent gesture. My wife can look after this place for a few days.” He leant forward confidentially. “It’s hell out here in August. No sales. Lot of jumped-up wallahs. Waste my time. Kids with chewing-gum, picking their noses in the back seat of my car. Their mums and dads aren’t much better.”
“That’s a date, then. I’m sure you’ll get the information I want.” He was about to continue when the office door opened. The appearance of Tanya Vetlanda was a conversation killer. She was Duncan’s height, with shoulder-length, honey coloured hair and the deepest of tans. Aged perhaps twenty-eight, her complexion was perfect, the eyes dancing, the cheek bones high and aristocratic.
“Miss Vetlanda! Delighted to see you.”
“Good afternoon, Mr Harcourt,” the voice was gentle, the English spoken carefully, with deliberation. “And this is?” She smiled at Duncan, who felt very white and conscious of the blow to his head.
“Ah yes! This is Mr Alistair Duncan. He’s an English solicitor.”
“How very nice.” Alistair Duncan shook her cool hand and noticed the hint of perfume as she sat down beside him, spreading the white summer dress across her brown legs as she did so. “And where are you from, Miss Vetlanda?”
“From Uppsala in Sweden.”
“I don’t know it, I’m afraid.”
“You must see it. It is most beautiful. We have the oldest university in Scandinavia. And a cathedral. Most beautiful.”
“Sounds wonderful. But I must be going. I expect you have plenty of business to discuss.”
“No. Don’t go, old boy. I’m sure Miss Vetlanda won’t mind. We’re only going up the Coast to look at a villa. Lovely day for a drive. Why not come along? I expect she’ll appreciate your knowledge.”
“Of course. Please come if you want.” Duncan found the forthright invitation and coquettish smile irresistible. “Besides,” she continued, “I’ve always wanted to meet an English solicitor.”
It wasn’t true. Nobody believed it. But then the remark wasn’t meant to be believed.
PARIS—8th MARCH
SATURDAY
“Ja!”
“Kurt! Merveilleux! You’re there!”
“I was busy.” Kurt was unenthusiastic as he swung into his Americanised English. Beside him lay Heidi, an unsatisfied chorus-girl, with black ringlets of hair resting on the pink pillowcase. “What do you want? You shouldn’t call me!”
“It’s finished. Calpe is kaput.”
“Humph!” grunted the German. “Where are you? In Spain?”
“Not now. I flew out this afternoon. I’m at Orly Airport.”
“Why?” The voice was more alert. Kurt draped a dressing-gown over his shoulders as he listened to the broken English crackle down the line. Maitrise poured it all out. “Why not tell Paddy? Why tell me?”
“I’ve been trying. No answer. It can’t wait. Two people saw me with the notice. Four angry Parisians will be trying to find me.”
“Ja! I don’t like it! I will phone Paddy myself. If I have no reply by the morning, so, I will fly to England. We cannot lose the Italian job.”
“And me?” Maitrise felt totally dependent on the German now.
“Avoid your office. The Police could be there. Or angry friends of the four men. Book into the Intercontinental. Stay in your room. I’ll ring you tomorrow.”
“I’ll use the name Henri Lomax. Remember that.”
“Sure.” Kurt put down the phone. Heidi knew it from the way he flung the black silk dressing-gown to one side; she knew it too from the wild, fierce stare in his eyes, as he roughly forced himself upon her. Above all, she knew it from the charmless violence of his love-making, as he cruelly savaged her until she pleaded with him to stop. To no avail. And even when it was over and she lay whimpering beside him, she could see his eyes fixed with hatred, staring into the shadows of the room. And when she woke in the morning it was as if he hadn’t moved at all.
LONDON—9th MARCH
SUNDAY
Det Sgt Halkett picked up the phone. It was a mechanical gesture. Nothing had gelled on the Grummett case and it was a beautiful Sunday morning. He had just been imagining his mates enjoying a few jars down at the Queen’s Head in Brook Green. Perhaps the sunshades were out. It was that nice.
“Halkett here.”
“I think we’ve got what you want, Sir.” It was Criminal Records. “That fiver, the one Katzner gave to the Hall Porter. Beautiful dabs on it. The note was new. Must have been fresh from the bank that day. There were the porter’s, of course. Eliminate him. There was one other set. Probably a teller. But the other set belonged to a man called Patrick Kyle Simmond. Born 1939. Went down for arranging illegal immigrants. Educated chap. After doing time he disappeared completely. No trace of him anywhere.”
“You’ve got a photo and description?”
“It’s all here.”
“Thank God for that. I was getting to think we had nothing at all to go on. So now we’ve got a name, a face. All we need is a motive. Never get a murder rap without a motive.”
“You want the entire file?”
“Thanks. The lot, please.”
Halkett sat back. So what had he now? Katzner had never existed. Seattle Police had confirmed that. The room had never been paid for. Nothing to trace there. So Katzner was pretending to be a toy dealer to lure Peter Grummett. And if Katzner wasn’t Katzner, then he was probably Patrick Kyle Simmond. Better check him out. But it seemed unlikely that he existed any longer. Better see Grummett again. Show him the photo. Test the reaction. And then? Maybe release the photo to the Press. There could be someone who knew him under another name. Suddenly Sunday wasn’t so bad after all. There’d be time for a swift half before getting to work on the file.
BENIDORM—9th MARCH
SUNDAY
Martin Harper did not appear until nearly midday. In contrast, Alistair Duncan had telephoned England and spoken to his articled clerk and to Charlie Wilkinson. The publican’s eyes, if they still existed, were lost in scowls of ill-temper. In his hand was a glass of Fernet-Branca.
“Beautiful morning.”
“Is it?”
“Magnificent! We shall lunch down the coast, at that restaurant I saw yesterday. Perhaps some gazpacho, followed by, say, a good paella—plenty of octopus?”
He got the anticipated reaction. “Get lost! And stop rabbiting on about bloody food!”
“You had a good night, then?”
“Did I Hell! I’ll tell you! You know that little raver I spotted on the flight—the one with the blue trouser-suit—well, I saw her at the bar. As you wanted an early night, I took her down to the Juanita. Couldn’t take her drink, could she! Stupid little bitch! Only sick over my new velvet jacket, wasn’t she!” Harper shuddered as he took a slug of the pick-me-up. “What about you?”
“Quiet night, really. Sorted out a bit of paper work. Prefer to leave all this romance to you experts!” Even Harper, in his present condition, could see a hint of a grin. “Charlie’s had no luck. Not a sign of Bellamy at his place in Tring. Anyway, Charlie’s going again tonight. Reckons they might be back if they’ve been away for the weekend.”
“Maybe. And what are you going to do now?”
“Now—not a lot—another early night tonight. I’ve a busy day tomorrow.” Duncan took off his sunglasses and sipped a beer. He looked about him, put on his sunglasses, and continued. “I must get back for the case against Bellamy’s bank on Tuesday morning. But you stay on! Something might turn up here. You might even improve on last night’s performance.” With that he was gone, diving into the blue depths of the pool. Harper carefully selected a chair in the shade and watched the solicitor swimming effortlessly, lap after lap.
A very tall, rather slender girl, with a red bikini and a lifetime’s depth of tan, came out of the hotel and sat by the water. Harper wasn’t alone in watching her. Every male head by the pool had taken immediate note.
After about a quarter of an hour Duncan eased out of the water. As he did so, the girl in the red bikini went up to him with a towel and kissed him gently on the cheek.
Harper looked on in amazement. A dark horse, that solicitor, he told himself. He stared hard at Duncan, expecting an explanation. Then Duncan walked past, his arms draped casually over the girl’s shoulders.
“Would you believe, my mother? May see you later. I’m going to a little restaurant I know just down the coast. Gazpacho and Paella.” He gave Harper a wink. It was the nearest Harper ever got to an explanation.
TRING—9th MARCH
SUNDAY
Tring is not the most beautiful place in England. Its station at 9.45 p.m., with no taxis and no buses, is godforsaken. Wernhorst trudged, wet and alone, through the interminable line of trees towards the town centre. His anger mounted at every step.
Ever since the phone call from Maitrise the anger had festered. Suddenly the prize was at risk. He couldn’t understand Bellamy not tying up the contract properly! Surely it was obvious that someone might put up a site hoarding; and, because of that, now it was he, Kurt, who was carrying the brunt, bearing the burden of the hysterical Maitrise in Paris, four frustrated purchasers in Calpe and two other suspicious people, who could be anywhere. Were they English? Dutch? Maitrise hadn’t been sure.
He found the premises. The launderette was darkened, empty. The windows above were black. The building was still. Indeed, the whole street was silent. But it was not empty. Standing in the doorway to a greengrocer’s opposite was another man, unseen in the shadows.
Wernhorst entered the outer door and mounted the stairs to the rooms above. Upstairs there was no reply. Bellamy must be away. Without a second thought, he crashed his boot onto the lock and the wood gave way easily.
The man outside saw the office light go on.
Kurt looked round the office. It was unimpressive, utilitarian. He passed through into the tiny corridor which gave on to the kitchen and bedroom. It was there that reality struck hard. The empty cupboards, the bare mattress and the forlorn dressing-table left no room for doubt. Bellamy had gone. Then, with vicious determination, he ransacked the desks in the office. Nothing there. The filing cabinets: empty. Only the wall calendar gave a clue. It was torn off to Thursday, 6th March. Screw the bastard!
What was Bellamy up to? Had the pace got too hot in England? Why hadn’t he contacted him? He only had to pick up the phone in an emergency. O.K., perhaps he was out. Perhaps Bellamy hadn’t had the time. Maybe.
He phoned Maitrise. “No. Bellamy’s not here. Left last Thursday. No problems in Paris? Good.”
“And now?” enquired Maitrise.
“I’m not staying here. We follow the money. I’ll meet you in Geneva. Same hotel as before. Soon as I can get there tomorrow. We’ll visit the Bank. You’ve got trouble in France. Bellamy may have trouble with the Police here. I want my share out.”
“Me too.” The German put down the phone. There might be just time to catch the last train back to London.
He extinguished the light and went on to the small landing. There was a rustle and, from the immediate blackness, an arm came unseen and clamped round his throat.
Charlie Wilkinson had seen the German arrive. The glimpse across the street had left him uncertain as to whether the man was Bellamy. The light went on upstairs and, seconds later, he’d crossed the street and silently made his way to the landing. There he saw the evidence of forced entry.
The Charlie Wilkinson of old would have crashed straight in. But he’d learnt a lot since leaving the Police. He’d held back, clinging to the shadows on the landing, listening to the noise of someone turning the place over on the other side of the door. Then came the telephone conversation. Not English, he’d decided. Someone with a Germanic-American twang. A youngish voice. Someone looking for Bellamy, talking to someone in Paris. A meeting in Geneva. But where? Which Hotel? He heard the phone hung up without a meeting place being named. Then he waited. Within seconds a back view of a tall man appeared, fumbling for the light switch as he pulled the office door shut. Charlie’s right arm gripped Wernhorst around the throat and with his left he searched in the darkness for the German’s arm to wrench it behind his back. Charlie Wilkinson had two advantages: surprise and a height of almost six feet three inches. But he had the disadvantage of a thirty-year age gap. A quick victory was essential. He had to get the man down. Had to get the answer to the vital question.
Wernhorst recovered quickly from the shock of the throttling grip and, as he felt the man’s arm grabbing for his left, he kept it outstretched away to his right, all the while leaning backwards and then forwards, trying to shake himself free. But the grip was secure.
Breathless already in the cramped confines of the tiny landing, the two men rocked perilously close to the steep flight of stairs. For a second the agent thought he was winning. He’d got the man’s feet off the ground and was about to twist him to the floor when, with a gasp of pain, he was hit on both sides of the ribs by a pair of nastily jabbed elbows. His own grip relaxed just fractionally, but it was enough for Wernhorst to thrust forward and free himself.
Wernhorst was in two minds. Should he run or should he find out the assailant’s identity? On the one hand he didn’t want to be seen but on the other he wanted to find out if it were Bellamy. He made up his mind, turning to lash a fist into the darkness at the man’s face. It hit Wilkinson’s neck but it was still a crippling blow. The heavy grunt gave away the position of the chin, rather higher than Wernhorst had judged. An upper-cut fist made no mistake this time and the older man fell, tottering against the balustrade, before starting to sink to the floor. Kurt wanted to put on the light but had to be certain that the man was unconscious. He kicked out, catching the agent in the chest. The gasp of air located Wilkinson’s head. A violent swing of the right boot struck Charlie by the ear. Suddenly the landing fell deathly silent. Wernhorst waited for a moment before switching on the light, taking care to shield his face, in case the man were still conscious. He needn’t have worried. Charlie Wilkinson could see nothing. Wernhorst looked at him, watched the blood trickling from the ear and sought to recognise the man from a distant recollection. No. He’d never seen the man before. He was sure of that. His hands quickly searched the agent’s pockets. In the shapeless trousers he found a scrap of paper with the name Alistair Duncan and a telephone number beside it. It meant nothing to him. In the wallet, next to a picture of three small children, were two rather dog-eared cards, identifying the man as Charles Wilkinson Esq., Private Investigator from Bristol. Wernhorst dragged the man into the office, switched off the light and left. Perhaps, after all, Bellamy did have to leave. Perhaps he’d been rumbled.
EALING—9th MARCH
SUNDAY
Peter Grummett’s house was up-market. Architect-designed and set in its own secluded garden, it had an air of prosperity. Halkett’s uneducated guess put its value at £180,000, though it had probably cost its owner a great deal less when purchased nine years previously.
Accompanied by Det. Con. Pitman, Halkett was ushered into the lounge by Mrs Grummett, who was wearing a neat, black suit. Grummett himself came forward to meet them. “Good evening, gentlemen. A drink?”
“Thank you, no. We shan’t be long.”
“Well, please sit down, anyway.”
The detective did so. Heal’s furnishings were in abundance. The taste, to Halkett’s mind, was surprisingly good for a man of Grummett’s background. Not a flying duck or crude portrait of Mrs Grummett in oils in sight. He put the good taste down to Mrs Grummett, who appeared to know what time of day it was.
“I’ll come straight to the point,” said Halkett. “Have you ever heard of a Patrick Simmond?”
“No.” The denial was immediate and both officers reckoned it straightforward.
“Quite sure?”
“Positive.”
“Ever seen this man before then?” The out-of-date photograph of Bellamy was handed over. Halkett watched Grummett’s reaction. It was interesting.
Grummett studied the photograph carefully and there was certainly an effort of hard thinking written all over his face. But it was written too large. Halkett wasn’t impressed. “The face is a bit familiar,” hedged Grummett, “but I can’t say I know him.”
“It’s not a recent photograph, you understand,” said Halkett. “Make an allowance for that.”
“No. Still can’t place it. But there is a flicker there of something. But then it could have been somebody I saw on the Tube.”
“Quite sure?”
“Positive now. Who is he, anyway? Should I know him?”
“Just a man we want to eliminate from our enquiries.” It was Halkett’s turn to hedge.
“You mean this might be the man who killed Paul?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You mean, he might be Katzner?”
“It’s possible. Someone had to be.”
A few minutes later the two detectives had left. They compared notes.
“He recognised Simmond, didn’t he.” It wasn’t a question.
Pitman thought for a moment. “I thought so. There was that slight narrowing of the eyes as if to hide the shock. But the name meant nothing to him. I don’t think it meant anything to Mrs Grummett either.”
“I agree.”
“Where to now, then?”
“I think we put out Simmond’s photograph. Give it some national coverage and see what happens.”
GENEVA—10th MARCH
MONDAY
The Bank, with its lofty ceilings and quiet depths, did nothing to create a cosy ambiance. Neither did Monsieur Albert Coupeau, despite the smile of greeting, which was almost warm. The Werdoma account was his responsibility.
“Mr Bellamy, a very great pleasure.” He ushered the customer to a leather-backed chair, which was as permanent as it was reassuring, creating an air of perpetuity for which the Bank stood. “And you are keeping well? But busy as ever, I daresay.”
