As if by Magic (28 page)

He glanced at the rest of the front page, then stiffened.

‘Major?' asked Stan. ‘You all right?'

Jack didn't hear him at first and Stan repeated the question.

‘Yes,' he said absently. ‘Yes, fine.' He glanced at the stairs of
On the Town.
The magazine could do without him for a couple of hours. He needed to get to Scotland Yard.

‘It's this that's brought me along,' said Jack, putting his finger on a small paragraph at the bottom of the
Chronicle
's front page.

‘Merchant banker found dead,'
read Rackham.
‘The body of Martin Ridgeway, partner in Croft and Ridgeway, High Holborn, was found at his home in Sutherland Park Road, Kew. Mr Ridgeway, fifty-six years old . . . well-known man about town . . . found by his manservant . . . believed to have shot himself . . . married, no children . . . separated from his wife who now resides in France.'
Rackham looked up from the paper. ‘No doubt it's all very sad, Jack, but why should I be interested?'

‘Because Martin Ridgeway was one of Nigel Lassiter's major investors.'

Rackham's eyes widened. ‘Was he, by jingo?'

Jack hitched himself on to the corner of the desk. ‘There's something very wrong at Lassiter's, Bill. First of all Culverton, the chief investor, gets killed, Michael Walsh, the secretary, dies and now Martin Ridgeway shoots himself. I suppose he did shoot himself, did he?'

Rackham reached for the telephone. ‘Give me a few minutes. That's something I can find out easily enough.'

A series of telephone calls followed. Rackham eventually put down the receiver and looked at the impatiently waiting Jack. ‘It's suicide, right enough. I've spoken to Superintendent Sykes from Kew and I'd trust his opinion, Jack. Sykes tells me that he was called to the house in Kew yesterday afternoon. Ridgeway returned home from work unexpectedly at midday, looking haggard and ill. Three of the servants saw him. His butler suggested calling the doctor but Ridgeway refused and retreated to his study. Shortly after, there was the sound of a shot. Ridgeway had locked the door but his body was clearly visible from the window. The butler called the police and Sykes had to break the door down. Ridgeway kept a pistol in the study and that's the weapon which was used. There's absolutely nothing to suggest it was anything other than suicide.'

‘I met Ridgeway, y'know,' said Jack. ‘I thought he was a bit of a creep to be honest. He was at the press presentation at Lassiter's last week and you should have seen him leering at Stella Aldryn. I thought George was going to thump him.'

‘He had a name as a womanizer, according to Sykes,' agreed Rackham. ‘In fact he seems to have been a bit unsavoury all round. Sykes contacted his firm, Croft and Ridgeway, and got the full story. Apparently Ridgeway had his hand in the till for the last couple of years at least. He was safe enough while old Mr Croft was in charge, but he died two months ago and his son, James Croft, who, according to Sykes, is a very sharp type indeed, took over. He told Sykes he'd suspected something was amiss and spent Sunday going through the accounts. He'd found certain evidence that Ridgeway was embezzling money and informed the man of his findings on Monday morning, adding that he'd arranged for an independent audit to be carried out, starting that afternoon. Ridgeway didn't argue but left the office and went home.' He looked at the newspaper and shrugged. ‘The rest we know.' He frowned thoughtfully. ‘Jack, you said there was something wrong at Lassiter's. What?'

Jack held his hands wide. ‘I don't know, but three deaths, Bill? And the link between them all is Lassiter's.'

Rackham counted them off. ‘Culverton was murdered, Walsh died of heart failure and Ridgeway shot himself.'

‘There's also the dead girl who George thought he saw,' Jack reminded him.

Rackham gave a snort of disapproval. ‘I'm not including imaginary corpses. Jack. I've got enough real ones to deal with, especially when the supposed victim turns up as large as life and, according to you, twice as beautiful. There can't be a link. Apart from anything else, who at Lassiter's benefits from any of the deaths? I mean, we're talking about Nigel and David, aren't we? Nigel wouldn't bump off his two chief investors and although David had a private motive for killing Culverton, I can't see he'd have a grudge against Walsh or Ridgeway, even overlooking the fact one died of natural causes and the other committed suicide.'

‘We know there's no love lost between Nigel and David,' said Jack thoughtfully. ‘Ridgeway's death following hot on the heels of Culverton's makes things very awkward for Nigel.'

‘Murders aren't committed to make life awkward. If David loathes his brother to that extent, it'd make a damn sight more sense for him to bump off Nigel, not merely inconvenience him.'

Jack gave a wry smile. ‘True enough. And, granted that Ridgeway invested in Lassiter's, things must be awkward for David, too. Even if they are at daggers drawn, David still needs the Pegasus to be a success if the company's going to recoup the money they've put into it.' He linked his fingers together thoughtfully. ‘It was the three deaths so close together that got to me, Bill.'

‘If Ridgeway topped himself, it can't be anything more than coincidence.'

Jack clicked his tongue. ‘Coincidences happen, I suppose.' He shrugged his shoulders in irritation. ‘Never mind. I see you've managed to identify the latest Ripper victim.'

‘Yes, much good it's done us. You know, I really thought Culverton was our man.'

‘Couldn't he be?' asked Jack. ‘I mean, what if this latest killing is an imitation?'

‘We've thought of that,' said Rackham. ‘After all, everyone knows about the X man and it's easy enough to copy the mark. It could be an imitation, it could be completely unrelated or it could be that Culverton was simply some ghastly creep who harboured obscene photographs and cuttings about the Ripper while the real man is getting away scot-free. It could be any number of things. This chap, Ridgeway, could be the X man, I suppose, although that's too much to hope for. That's as good a theory as any. Don't you see what we're up against, Jack? We can't just guess. Anyone, anyone at all, could be guilty. We simply don't know and I can't see we're ever going to know unless we have that lucky break we talked about.' There was a thin thread of anger in his voice. He pushed his chair back from the desk and, getting up, walked restlessly around the room. ‘All the usual sources are a waste of time. Nobody knows anything. Whoever this swine is, he's completely outside the run of everyday crooks and villains.' He perched on the windowsill. ‘Forget it. Somehow, somewhere, our man's going to make a slip and when he does, we've got him.'

There was silence for a few moments, then Rackham looked up. ‘Sorry, Jack. My temper's a bit the worse for wear. You made a perfectly reasonable suggestion. The answer is, we simply don't know.' He nodded at the newspaper Jack had left on the table, searching for another topic. ‘Talking of Lassiter's,' he said, after a short pause, ‘there's been a fair old bit of ballyhoo about them in the papers recently. Everyone seems to be getting very wound up about this dinner on the aircraft. You're not invited by any chance, are you?'

Jack shook his head. ‘Me? Not an earthly. George tells me that the guests are very important people indeed, people they hope might actually buy the plane.' He got to his feet and picked his hat up from the chair beside him. ‘Talking of dinner, are you still joining me for a bite to eat at the club tonight?'

‘Curry at the Young Services? Absolutely. I'll call for you about seven o'clock. Is your pal George coming too?'

‘He certainly is,' said Jack, doing up the buckle on his Burberry. ‘I wouldn't mind a night out with George. I've neglected him a bit recently, what with buzzing out to clubs and . . . Well, after we did our Tarzan act at the factory, it's got better, but I've been feeling a bit iffy about George. Things aren't as they should be.'

‘Really? In what way?'

‘He bothers me.' Jack frowned. ‘It's a bit hard to explain. I keep trying not to let it matter but it does, you know. The thing is, Stella Aldryn called on him the other Saturday morning, the day we went to the Continental. I was out at the time, but I knew she'd been because she left her coffee cup with lipstick on it on the table. When I saw her later, I asked her if she'd been round and she admitted it.'

‘And?' asked Rackham.

‘Well, she'd asked George not to mention it. Now that's perfectly reasonable, because as she was well aware, people would talk if was known she'd been alone with him in his rooms.'

‘They'd have to be pretty stuffy in this day and age. Saturday night, perhaps, but not Saturday morning.'

Jack smiled distractedly. ‘Sin only occurs in the hours of darkness, you mean? Anyway, she wanted it kept quiet.' He shrugged. ‘Fair enough. It's her business, after all. The point is, George flatly denied she'd been. Even after I'd told him she'd admitted it, he wouldn't have it. He swore blind neither she nor anyone else had called and I don't like it.'

‘That's very peculiar,' said Rackham with a frown. ‘I can see him not wanting to make a song and dance about it, but why shouldn't he tell you? Especially if you knew already.' He sat down, looking at his friend's worried face. ‘It's bothering you, isn't it? Why? Because he won't own up to the truth?'

Jack nodded. ‘That's exactly it. The thing is, Bill, he seems so painfully honest.'

‘So did Anne Lassiter,' commented Rackham drily.

‘Yes, but she had a reason for telling bouncers. There isn't any reason for George to lie. What's more, he isn't embarrassed or evasive about it, as if he was covering up for Miss Aldryn out of misplaced loyalty. It's as if it never happened. It's just . . . well, nuts.'

There was an unconscious emphasis in the last word. Rackham looked up sharply. ‘That's it, isn't it? You're wondering if he's quite all there, aren't you?'

Jack wriggled in irritation. ‘He doesn't
seem
nuts,' he protested. ‘Yet it's either that or he's not the man I thought.'

Rackham let his breath out in a long sigh. ‘I can see why it's getting to you. Look, the easiest explanation is that Miss Aldryn told him not to mention it and that's exactly what he's doing. However, you've thought of that. So what's left?' He tapped his fingers on the desk. ‘Dishonesty, which you don't think squares with his character, or some form of insanity.' Jack winced. ‘I know you don't like that either, Jack, but he does seem prone to this sort of thing. First of all there was his dead girl in the kitchen – admittedly he was ill – but then there was the cat on the roof at the factory. You don't believe there was a cat there, do you?'

‘It disappeared pretty quickly if there was,' admitted Jack reluctantly.

‘And now this.' Rackham drummed his fingers in another rolling tattoo. ‘Look, if it bothers you as much as you say, perhaps he should see someone. Dr Maguire offered to help, I know.'

Jack smiled humourlessly. ‘I'm not bringing that up again. He was very short with Anne Lassiter when she suggested it. If he won't take it from Mrs Lassiter he certainly won't take it from me.'

‘Well, not Maguire, then, but I think he should see someone.'

‘Perhaps,' agreed Jack unenthusiastically. ‘Anyway, that's the situation, Bill. I wanted to let you know before the three of us went out together. Incidentally, talking of George, have you had any response from South Africa, by the way? About his legacy, I mean.'

‘Now you mention it, I have. I was going to tell you but it slipped my mind.' Jack looked at him expectantly. ‘I had a cable yesterday but don't get your hopes up.' Rackham opened a drawer and took out a file. ‘Here we are,' he said, finding the cable. ‘It's nothing much. All it says is that a George Lassiter stayed at the Faulkner Hotel, Cape Town, from 5th February to 12th March 1922. It's a large hotel and no one remembers anything about the George Lassiter in question.'

‘Hang on a mo,' said Jack, picking up a pencil and scribbling the dates on Rackham's blotting-pad. He half closed his eyes and performed a rapid calculation. ‘It's sixteen days' sailing time to the Cape.' He tapped the pencil on the blotter. ‘That looks to me as if someone signed into the Faulkner just to write the letter to Marchbolt's and be there to await the reply from London.'

‘Someone called George Lassiter?' said Rackham softly.

‘Someone calling themselves George Lassiter,' corrected Jack with a frown.

Rackham shrugged. ‘In light of what you've told me I think it's a possibility, you know.'

‘You're right, damn it,' Jack admitted. He looked at the cable again. ‘I can't see this gets us very much further. Mind you, we didn't think it would.' He picked up the newspaper. ‘I'd better go. I'm meant to be working this morning but when I read that bit in the paper about Ridgeway I thought I had to tell you about his association with Lassiter's.'

‘It's useful to know,' said Rackham. He frowned. ‘It is odd, Jack, it's very odd, but I honestly think that's all it is. Anything else doesn't make sense.'

Anne Lassiter put down the magazine she'd been reading as David came into the drawing room. ‘Shall I ring for coffee?' she asked.

‘In a few minutes,' said David, going to stand beside the mantelpiece. He took his pipe out of his pocket and filled it thoughtfully. They were alone in the room. ‘Anne,' he said quietly, ‘d'you think my father knows? About Peggy and me, I mean?'

She shook her head. ‘I'm sure he doesn't. Not unless Nigel's told him.'

He looked startled. ‘How does Nigel know anything about it?'