Death in Berlin (22 page)

‘And what about you?’ inquired Mrs Lawrence. ‘Did you have to produce an alibi too?’

‘Oh yes. Mine’s all right too. I arrived at the Leslies’ at ten to eight and I said, “I do hope I’m not late” - not that I thought I was, but you know how one says that sort of thing-and Colonel Leslie looked at his watch and said, “You’re about dead on time; it’s ten to eight.” And the goodlooking man with the dark hair wrote something in a notebook and said, “That agrees with Colonel Leslie’s account,” so I suppose they were checking on the Leslies as well.’

‘But whyT demanded Mrs Lawrence. ‘What possible reason can they think any of you could have for murdering an unknown German servant-girl? The thing’s absurd!’

‘I couldn’t agree more. But Andy has a theory that the police, or the S.I.B. or M.I.5, or whoever it is who is doing all the fussing around over this, think that there is some connection between the murder of that Brigadier and this German woman’s.’

‘Quite ridiculous,’ pronounced Mrs Lawrence firmly: ‘Of course they don’t think anything of the sort!’

Then why is it that they have questioned all the same people?’

‘What people?’

‘“Lang’s Eleven”,’ put in Miranda; and instantly regretted having spoken.

‘Lang’s eleven? What do you mean? What eleven?’

‘Nothing really,’ said Miranda unhappily. ‘Only that there were eleven people who might have murdered the Brigadier, and most of them seem to have been questioned again over this murder.’

‘Not most of them,’ corrected Sally Page. ‘All of them.’ ^

‘How do you know that?’

‘I asked,’ said Sally, simply. And ticked them off one by one on

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the fingers of her rather large, schoolgirlish hands. ‘Myself and Andy, Eisa and Harry Marson, the Leslies, Miranda and that Swiss female, Mademoiselle something-or-other, and Mrs Melville and Bob, and ‘

‘Bob … ?’ for a moment the unfamiliar name puzzled Miranda.

Sally flushed. ‘Robert. We used to call him Bob when he was in Egypt. Then there’s Mrs Wilkin of course. They even checked up on her, believe it or not!’

She laughed her pretty, shallow laugh, and Mrs Lawrence said: ‘Wilkin? Not the mother of that frightful freckled child?’

‘You mean Wally,’ said Miranda. ‘The original Giles cartoon, isn’t he? Where have you come across Wally?’

‘My dear, he has been infesting my house all day! It seems he’s a special friend of Lottie’s. Mademoiselle did her best to chase him off the premises, but I think he came back over the wall.’

Sounds of woe from above penetrated to the drawing-room and Stella reappeared looking worried. ‘That was Lottie,’ she said apologetically. ‘She’s left that tiresome little china bear of hers behind at the swimming-pool, and she won’t go to sleep without it.’

‘Oh dear,’ exclaimed Mrs Lawrence, ‘and I’m afraid the car has gone off to fetch George. But I’ll get the driver to go up and look for it as soon as he gets back.’

‘Please don’t bother. I could go, if it comes to that. But Mademoiselle has offered to run up on her bicycle. It’s no distance at all, really, and I do think she might have seen that Lottie had that toy. It’s all right for her to go, isn’t it? I mean, they will let her in?’

‘Of course. She’ll probably be stopped at the gate and asked what she’s doing, but they know her. She took the children there for a walk this afternoon and George gave her a pass in case anyone asked questions. In a month or two, when they’ve moved all those offices and things into the Stadium area, they’ll probably get madly security-minded. But no one bothers much at the moment. They stop a car with a German registration number and ask questions, I believe. But all our cars go through on sight,

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because of the B.Z. on the number-plates - for British Zone.’

Then that’s all right,’ said Stella, thankfully. ‘I must admit that the last thing I want to do is to drive back to the baths and hunt around for twenty minutes or so for a minute china toy. But thank goodness Mademoiselle is made of sterner stuff. I only hope she’s got a bicycle lamp. It’s getting dark. ‘Randa, if you’re going to see Mrs Page’s flat, I think I’ll get along home and have a hot bath before Robert gets back. Goodnight, Mrs Lawrence, and thank you again for having Lottie. It’s really very good of you.’

Mrs Lawrence saw her to the door, while Sally Page went off to telephone Andy and tell him that she was bringing Miranda back to the flat. She appeared to take an unconscionable time over it, and when at last she returned she looked flushed and defiant: the reason for this becoming immediately apparent on their arrival at the flat, when Miranda realized, too late, that Sally’s only object in asking her there had been to use her as a buffer between herself and Andy. There had apparently been a major matrimonial row between the two young Pages, but owing to Miranda’s presence, Andy was compelled to play the willing host and dispense drinks and social Smalltalk.

The flat proved to be large, dim and depressing, and Sally seemed to have made little effort towards improving it. The drawing-room, which was chilly and uncomfortable, smelt strongly of turpentine. ‘The painters have been in,’ explained Andy gloomily.

Sally urged Miranda to stay to supper or, alternatively, to accompany Andy and herself to the Club. But Andy made no attempt to second the invitation, and when Miranda firmly excused herself, he said that he would drive her back; adding curtly that as it was Sonya’s day out, Sally had better get down to cooking something for supper.

He was morose and monosyllabic on the journey to the Melvilles’, and to Miranda’s relief he refused her half-hearted invitation to come in for a drink, and having dropped her at the gate drove away at speed without waiting to see her to the door.

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The bell had been answered by Robert. r Ť ,i(,r

‘Hullo, ‘Randa, you’re just in time for supper. Frau Herbach insisted on leaving before it got dark, so I’ve been trying my hand at a bit of amateur cookery. However, not to worry; it will be quite edible. All I’ve actually done is to heat up the stuff she left ready. Tell Stella to get a move on while I dish up the result.’

He vanished in the direction of the kitchen, and Miranda started up the stairs. She was halfway up when she remembered that earlier in the evening she had left her handbag in the front pocket of the Mel villes’ car; and since it contained her lipstick and powder puff, she turned and went down again to the hall, lifted the garage key off its hook near the hall door, and went out, leaving the door open behind her.

A wandering gust of wind blew down the road, momentarily shaking the branches of the trees before the street lamp near the gate and sending leaping shadows across the house wall. The road looked long and dark and deserted, and Miranda shivered and walked quickly down the short path to the left of the house.

The garage was cold and airless and smelt unpleasantly of petrol and mildew, and the single overhead bulb only served to throw the interior of the car into deep shadow. Miranda reached in and switched on the dashboard lights, but the bag was not there, and she realized that Stella must have taken it in when she returned

from the Lawrences’.

Switching off the dashboard light she slammed the car door behind her, and in the same moment thought she heard a sound behind her: a swift, stealthy, scrambling sound. Miranda whirled round, her hand still clutching at the door of the car, and stood rigid, listening. But the gust of wind that had blown along the street had died away, and the night was quiet again and nothing moved.

The car threw a dense black shadow across a pile of empty wooden packing-cases stacked against the far wall, above which a small window, its panes festooned with cobwebs, cut a dark square in the whitewashed brick. Beyond the open doorway the

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path lay dark and empty, and the light streaming out from the garage caught the lilac bushes lining the short, concrete ramp that sloped up to the level of the road, and silhouetted their motionless leaves against the surrounding shadows, as though they had been canvas scenery lit by stage footlights.

Miranda did not move. Her fingers, clenched about the metal door handle, felt stiff with cold, and her heart was beating in odd, uneven jerks. Had she really heard a sound, or had it only been an echo from the slamming of the car door? Was there someone crouched among the empty packing-cases, or waiting outside behind the lilac bushes? - waiting until she switched off the light and turned to lock the door? Waiting for her as they had waited for Friedel?

The silent garage and the quiet night outside seemed to be waiting too, and in the silence she could hear the sound of her own uneven heartbeats.

A swift, flickering shadow swept across the small, cold walls and brought a choking gasp to her throat, but it was only a large moth attracted by the naked light. And suddenly the taut thread of terror slackened and she took a deep breath, and walking quickly over to the garage door, turned off the light with shaking fingers, and locking the door behind her, fled back up the path to the house.

Stella was coming down the hall stairs, but she checked at the sight of Miranda’s white face; one hand gripping the banister and the other suddenly at her throat, her eyes wide with terror: ‘What is it? What’s happened?’

‘Nothing. I - I went down to the garage to get my bag out of the car, and I thought I heard someone or something. Probably only a cat or an owl. But my nerves are in poor shape these days, and I panicked and ran back here at the double. That’s all.’

Stella swayed and Miranda ran up the stairs and put an arm about her.

‘I’m sorry,’ apologized Stella: ‘But you gave me a fright; rushing

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in like that. I thought for a moment that something awful had happened.’

‘Something awful has,’ announced Robert, appearing abruptly from the direction of the kitchen: ‘I’ve let the soup boil over. You’ve no idea the mess it’s made. For God’s sake, darling, come and mop up the ruin!’

The strain left Stella’s face and she laughed, and releasing herself from Miranda’s arm ran down to him: ‘Let’s have supper in the kitchen. Then we can serve everything out of saucepans and save on the washing up.’

‘Let’s not,’ said Robert. There’s burnt soup all over the top of the stove, and it smells hellish. Let’s eat in the diningroom, and stack.’

‘It does smell horrid, doesn’t it?’ said Miranda, wrinkling her nose. ‘Rather like petrol.’

That’s me,’ said Robert. ‘Only it’s turpentine. I spilt about half a pint of it over my trousers. Our dear governess uses it to discourage moths, and she had left her bottle, improperly corked, on the bathroom windowsill. I knocked it for six.’

‘It goes well with burnt soup,’ commented Miranda lightly, going upstairs to tidy herself for supper.

Apparently a modicum of soup had survived, for by the time she reappeared in the diningroom Robert had produced three plates of it and Stella was already sipping hers cautiously.

‘What were you panicking about in the garage for, Miranda?’ inquired Robert.

‘I was looking for my bag. And 1 wasn’t panicking - or at least not much.’

‘Well the next time you want to go scouting around in the dark, call me first, and I’ll go along as bodyguard - heavily armed with the offensive weapon which is at present nestling in my cupboard under a discreet pile of underpants. I have even taken the precaution of loading the thing since last night.’

Stella’s face was suddenly white. ‘Robert! You don’t mean you don’t really think ‘ ~ Ť^K*: •.”-<•

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‘Of course not, darling. It was only a weak attempt at humour. All the same, I’d rather you both laid off wandering around after

dark for the sake of your nerves if nothing else. Ditt you find

your bag, ‘Randa?’

‘No. I turned on the dashboard light and hunted around,

but ‘

‘I took it in,’ interrupted Stella. ‘I meant to tell you, only Robert and his soup put it out of my head. It’s in the drawing-room.’

That’s a relief. It’s got my only lipstick in it - which accounts for my rather pallid appearance at the moment.’

‘Rubbish!’ said Robert, turning to look at her. ‘If you did but know it, Miranda my pet, yours is one of the few faces that looks better the less you do to it. It’s the planes or something. I suppose that’s why you photograph so well. As for lipstick, you don’t need any. You have a mouth like that plummy pre-Raphaelite female in the Tate Gallery - Mona something. The one dressed up in a pair of brocade curtains and ropes of red beads, clutching a hideous feather fan.’

‘Robert, this is most unexpected of you!’ said Miranda, surprised. ‘I’d no idea you frequented the Tate!’

‘I don’t,’ admitted Robert, clearing away the soup plates and proceeding to carve cold mutton: ‘The comparison is not my own. I was idly gazing at a reproduction of the masterpiece in question, “courtesy of the Tate”, on the cover of some arty-crafty publication at Katy Lawrence’s on Sunday, and happened to mention that the damsel reminded me dimly of someone. It was your friend Lang who remarked that she had your mouth. And how right he was! She has.’

Miranda coloured and Stella looked at her sharply, but forebore to comment.

‘Which reminds me,’ said Robert handing round the mutton, ‘How was it that you knew that chap’s telephone number, young ‘Randa? I gather you rang him up and yelled for help.’

‘He gave me his number,’ said Miranda shortly, angrily conscious of her heightened colour.

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Robert lifted an amused and mocking eyebrow. ‘And you carried it about clutched in one hand ever after, I suppose?’

‘No,’ said Miranda coldly. ‘I didn’t need to. I’ve got a freak memory for numbers. If I’ve seen them written down, I can visualize them again as if I was looking at a photograph.’

‘Oh damn!’ interrupted Stella. ‘Now I’ve spilt the mayonnaise! Quick Robert, get me a cloth from the kitchen!’

In the ensuing tumult Simon Lang was forgotten, and Miranda, profoundly grateful for Stella’s timely interruption, hastened to change the subject.