Charters and Caldicott (6 page)

‘By the way, I don't suppose that's your Jag parked on the verge back there, Mr Charters?'

‘Hardly my style, Sergeant,' said Charters. A truthful man, he hesitated before going on, ‘I don't know whose it is.'

‘Sheep rustler, could be. We'll have a look at it on the way back, Jim,' Bellows said to his constable.

‘We'll have to be quick, Sarge,' said the constable, looking out of the window as the Jag went past at high speed. ‘He's making some time up. He'll have stopped for a leak, most like.'

‘It wouldn't be the first time my hedge has been used as an ablutions. Now about this trunk, Sergeant, I'm not at all sure I can help you,' said Charters, reluctant to part with the trunk, even to the police, before Jenny had had a chance to search through it.

.'The inspector said you did know the circumstances, sir.'

‘Indeed I do.'

‘He said the contents of the trunk might throw light on the matter under investigation.'

‘I appreciate that, but there is a procedure for this sort of thing, you know, Sergeant Bellows.'

‘Yes, sir. He did suggest if there was any, well, difficulty, we could always apply for a warrant.'

‘From the local magistrate.'

‘That's it, sir.'

‘But
I'm
the local magistrate.'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘This is absurd.'

‘Well – awkward.' The sergeant noticed the trunk on the half-landing for the first time. ‘Is that it, Mr Charters?'

‘Yes.'

‘Is it on its way somewhere, sir?'

‘No, no – I anticipated your visit,' Charters stammered. Trapped, he gave in. ‘Very well, Sergeant, take the thing. I shall want a receipt, mind.'

Charters watched the police officers load the trunk into the boot of their car and drive away, then went indoors to telephone the latest news to Caldicott. Caldicott, however, was enjoying a whisky and soda and a pipe while listening to
Any Questions?
on the wireless and was in no hurry to answer. Only when his pipe was going to his satisfaction did he pick up the receiver.

‘There you are,' said Charters. ‘I'm at liberty to speak now.'

‘Who's that?' Caldicott asked unnecessarily.

‘Charters. Who do you think?'

Caldicott, still smarting from Charters' off-hand treatment of his own phone call earlier that evening, was in an unforgiving mood.

‘Oh, very well,' Charters snapped, after listening to Caldicott's excuses. ‘What time does your wretched
Any Questions?
programme finish? I'll ring you then.'

Caldicott, smirking, turned up the volume on his radio. Charters, fuming, tuned in to
Any Questions?
himself and before long began to relax.

The following morning, Caldicott stepped briskly out of Viceroy Mansions and headed for the nearby flower stall. After careful examination of its wares, he bought a bunch of flowers and continued on his way, ignoring the battery of newspaper placards bearing news of the murder in the Mansions. A young, effeminate-looking man of foreign appearance watched this transaction from a discreet distance. A compulsive eater, Cecil St Clair, as he styled himself, was working his way through a bar of chocolate he'd broken into pieces in his gloved hand. Upon Caldicott's departure, he popped the last square into his mouth and strolled into Viceroy Mansions.

‘Good morning. And I see from the board that one of the flats is for sale,' said St Clair, in a Slavic accent, to Grimes.

Grimes scented a tip. ‘Number ninety-one, sir. Snip. You at all interested, sir?'

‘I should like to see it. Who has the keys? The agents?'

‘
I
have the keys, sir. Tell the truth, you don't want to bother with the agents. You'll get a better price if you deal with the individual owner. I could give you her number.'

‘And you get commission?'

‘Oo, nothing like that, sir,' said Grimes, shocked. ‘No, it's just a labour of love style of thing. Course, if anyone
did
want to show their appreciation...'

St Clair, with Grimes at his elbow, gave the flat a perfunctory inspection, then produced a fat wallet. ‘No, no, it is too...'

‘Empty, sir?' Grimes suggested, eyeing the wallet. ‘Perhaps you were looking for more your furnished style of thing?'

‘Yes. For instance number thirty-six.'

‘Mr Caldicott's flat? Very nice indeed. Only I don't think he's contemplating a move.'

St Clair handed over some notes which Grimes accepted as of right. ‘That's for your trouble. You see, Mr Grimes, I am a writer of mystery stories.'

‘Oh yes, sir,' said Grimes, keeping a straight face.

‘Atmosphere is everything to a writer. I am always interested to see the actual place where a crime has been committed.'

‘Must come very expensive, sir. Still, I suppose you can claim it off tax.'

St Clair's survey of Caldicott's flat was considerably more protracted. ‘And by the way, the body was facing this way or that way?' Grimes indicated the position on the bedroom floor. ‘I see. This is all most fascinating to a writer.'

St Clair continued to look around in a leisurely manner. Grimes, already nervous of discovery, became increasingly agitated as the minutes passed. ‘Was there any piece of atmosphere you were looking for in particular, sir, or are you just soaking it up in general,' he asked, in a desperate attempt to hurry St Clair along.

Grimes' anxiety would have been even more acute had he happened to glance out into the street just then and seen Caldicott retracing his steps towards Viceroy Mansions. But instead of entering the flats he went back to the flower stall where he bought a second, identical bunch of flowers and once more went purposefully on his way.

Grimes at last succeeded in easing St Clair out of Caldicott's flat and back down to the lobby where he hung up Caldicott's spare key and accepted a handsome tip. ‘Thank
you
, sir. And if you do need to do any more of your researches – like if you get writer's block style of thing – I'll see what I can do.'

‘Thank you, Mr Grimes.'

‘There's nothing you want me to look out for? No particular detail?' Grimes probed, mystified by St Clair's interest.

‘No, thank you. And by the way, this interview did not take place.'

‘Trust me, sir. I never remember a face. Noted for it.' Grimes watched St Clair leave with puzzled speculation.

‘They're lovely. You shouldn't have,' said Jenny, arranging one of Caldicott's bunches of flowers in a vase.

‘Given that he did, though, it was diplomatic of him to bring us a bunch each,' said Margaret, arranging her own flowers and smiling to herself, pleased with the gift. Caldicott sipped his coffee complacently, wallowing in their gratitude and satisfied that he'd done the right thing.

‘The wisdom of Solomon,' said Jenny in answer to Margaret.

‘Don't tell him that, Jenny, or he'll want a baby to saw in half.' Margaret gave a final twitch to an errant carnation. ‘Now – to work.' The murdered girl's handbag was lying on a glass-topped occasional table in front of Caldicott. Margaret picked it up and tipped out the contents.

‘What's this? Kim's game?' Caldicott asked.

‘–or Cluedo,' said Margaret, picking up a lipstick. ‘The deadly deed was committed in the library by Colonel Mustard and the murder weapon was a lipstick.' She stopped abruptly and cast a sidelong glance at Jenny. ‘Sorry, ducks, I was forgetting you actually
did
find the body in the library.' Jenny gave a feeble smile.

Caldicott selected a key with a plastic tag attached from the paraphernalia in front of him. ‘I'm not entirely clear what a clue looks like but this must surely be one. “Thamesview”,' he read off the tag. ‘That _nineteen-thirties block of service flats at World's End. And a telephone number – my goodness, the old Flaxman exchange that was.' He took a scrap of paper out of his pocket and compared it. ‘Yes, the number Helen Appleyard gave Grimes. I rang it last night. No reply.'

‘There wouldn't be, seeing as she was unavoidably detained at the mortuary,' said Margaret witheringly.

‘Her accomplice might have been there, smarty-boots.'

‘I haven't told Jenny about him yet,' said Margaret, glancing apprehensively at the younger woman.

‘Evidently he was after your father's trunk,' said Caldicott. ‘He broke into Charters' cottage and threatened him with a gun.

Jenny was frightened. ‘The man who's been trying to find me?'

‘Yes, well don't take on, love. The police have got hold of him now,' said Margaret.

‘They haven't, actually,' Caldicott confessed. ‘Charters let him go.'

‘Let him go! You didn't tell me that bit! Why did the idiot let him go?' Margaret demanded.

‘Ah, well, you see, he was anxious not to blow Jenny's cover.'

‘“Blow her cover!” You've been reading spy stories again,' said Margaret, amused.

‘You know what I mean, Mottram! Once they'd got him in for questioning they'd twig that the late Helen Appleyard wasn't our Jenny.'

‘And?'

‘Well – it'd get into the papers and whoever's after Jenny would then know she's alive and kicking.'

‘But whoever's after Jenny could well be Helen Appleyard's accomplice.'

‘Yes!... Not necessarily.'

‘Who, if Charters had turned him in, would be behind bars,' Margaret went on relentlessly.

‘No!' said Caldicott, thoroughly confused now. ‘Well, very probably.'

Margaret interpreted for Jenny. ‘What Caldicott means is that we don't really know who's after you, or why they're after you – except that it's something to do with your father's trunk – or how many of them there are, or what they might do next. So you'd better lie low. Correct, Caldicott?'

‘Exactly what I said – she mustn't blow her cover. Meanwhile Jenny, that trunk is as safe as if it were in Fort Knox.'

Jenny was not consoled. ‘You mean the police have it.'

‘Fret not. Charters got a receipt. We'll have it back the moment they've finished with it.'

‘But why do they want it? What are they doing with it?'

Margaret had been sifting through various papers from the handbag. She held up a letter she'd been scanning. ‘The same as we're doing – looking for clues. And this looks like a real one. “From the desk of Josh Darrell”,' she read.

‘Never heard of him,' said Caldicott.

‘Yes, you have – I've talked about him. London president of the Zazz Corporation of California.'

‘Soft drinks,' said Jenny.

Caldicott shuddered, ‘Never touch them.'

‘Regretting he had to break their lunch engagement,' Margaret went on. ‘Been trying to reach her, blah, blah, interested in her proposition –
that
sounds intriguing – would she call his office to make another date.' Margaret gave the letter to Caldicott. ‘You
have
heard of Josh Darrell, Caldicott. The one who's always asking me for dirty weekends at his flash country house in darkest Bucks. Or I assume they're dirty – I'm giving him the disbenefit of the doubt.'

‘How do you come to know him, Margaret?' Jenny asked.

‘My temps agency. I've supplied him with so many office girls he should really be getting a trade discount. I suppose one of these days I ought to find out what he does with them all – I might be the next best thing to a madam.'

‘Do...' Caldicott and Jenny began in unison. ‘Go ahead,' said Caldicott.

‘I was going to ask – do you think you could fix
me
up as a temp with the Zazz Corporation?'

‘Not as Helen Appleyard, ducky. As you see from the letter, he evidently knows her.'

‘That's the whole point, Margaret. If I went as Miss Brown or somebody, I might find something in the files about her.' Jenny smiled wrily. ‘Besides, being homeless, stateless and nameless, and possessing only what I stand up in, I need the money.'

‘Miss Brown it is, then. It's worth a try.' Margaret turned to Caldicott. ‘And what's on
your
tiny little mind?'

‘Those dirty weekends he invites you to...'

‘Yes?' Margaret prompted. Then, ‘No!' she said emphatically, suddenly seeing the way his mind was working.

‘But if he has the who, what and wherefore about Helen Appleyard, what better opportunity to...'

‘... get myself chased round the summerhouse by Josh Darrell,' Margaret finished for him. ‘N – O.'

‘I don't mean you to go alone, Margaret. Charters and I could go with you.'

‘Oh, I see. Dear Josh, arriving as per standing invite re orgy, and is it all right if I bring my own spares,' said Margaret scornfully.

‘Ha, ha.'

‘Well, I suppose I
could
pass you off as a couple of English toffs – he likes a bit of tone.'

‘That's my girl. Let me try Helen Appleyard's number again.' Caldicott picked up the phone and began to dial. ‘If there's still no answer I might chance popping over and having a quick look-see through her belongings.' He listened for quite a while, then quietly replaced the receiver.

‘Still no one there?' Jenny asked.

‘Oh, there's someone there all right,' said Caldicott grimly. ‘Somebody who picked up the phone but didn't speak. Somebody who's worked out what must have happened to Helen Appleyard. Somebody who's just waiting. As if a blessed spider had answered the phone.

Jenny shuddered and Margaret put a protective arm round her shoulders.

 

Charters and Caldicott, lobster-pink and sweating it out in the steam room of the Club's turkish bath, still managed to cling onto a shred of towel-clad dignity: each had equipped himself with a now-soggy copy of
The Times
, carefully folded at the crossword.