Gently with the Ladies (17 page)

‘Miss Junot has told us nothing fresh,’ Gently said.

Fazakerly stared. ‘You mean you knew about Brenda?’

‘I saw her last night. She admitted calling on your wife. You are right. It was she who told your wife of Miss Johnson’s connexion with Beryl Rogers.’

‘She – admitted it?’

Gently nodded.

‘And you didn’t arrest her?’

He shook his head. ‘It would be a curious thing for her to admit if in fact she were the murderer.’

‘But . . . hell and all!’ Fazakerly sat forward. ‘Isn’t that just the way you’d expect her to reason? That you wouldn’t believe it if she came to you admitting she was the likeliest alternative suspect?’

Gently shook his head again. ‘It isn’t the way people work. They’re rarely so devious when they’re guilty of murder. If they’re in the clear they try to stop there.’

‘But perhaps she knew Albertine saw her.’

‘If she knew that, would she have continued with her plan? In any case, her being there is no proof of her guilt; any more than your being there is proof of yours.’

‘But I know I didn’t do it!’

‘That’s an advantage you can’t share.’

‘But I do know. And Albertine is proof for me.’

‘Perhaps Miss Merryn is arguing along the same lines. She knows she didn’t do it, so she is certain that you did.’

‘And you – you think that’s the most likely?’

Gently shrugged. ‘It’s the more convincing. I mean from the point of view of a jury. It has the merit of simplicity.’

‘Nothing will shake you. I’m guilty.’

‘I didn’t say that either.’

Fazakerly’s hand went to his forehead. ‘Oh God,’ he said. ‘The nightmare again!’ He sat still for a few moments, the hand pressed to his head. Then he said huskily: ‘Lock me up and take my shoe-laces away. I want an end, some sort of end. I can’t stand dangling any longer. It doesn’t matter whether I did it or not, just bring the chopper down and end the nightmare.’

‘Where did you put the necklace?’ Gently said.

‘Don’t torture me with that bloody necklace! Give me a hint of where you found it and I’ll swear to heaven I put it there. Look, I’ve nothing to stay outside for. Even the money is damn-all. All that matters is a bit of certainty. Just help me: help me believe I did it.’

‘Why don’t you talk matters over with Miss Johnson.’

‘She’s dead. You killed her some while back.’

‘You’ll have to see her.’

‘I don’t like corpses. And we played our curtain on Monday.’

‘I still think you should talk to her,’ Gently said. ‘She’s on your side, it’ll do you some good. What you want mostly is to talk your head off to someone as sure as you are you didn’t do it. If you didn’t do it.’

Fazakerly said weakly: ‘How I love you.’

‘And maybe she’ll talk to you too,’ Gently said, rising.

Fazakerly said nothing.

Gently went.

S
OMEBODY MUST HAVE
noticed Gently’s interest in the rubber plants because since his last encounter with them their leaves had been sponged and the fibre they grew in had been damped and raked. He paused a step to admire them then glanced casually at the desk; but the desk-sergeant was busily engaged in leafing through a bunch of forms. Gently fingered an immaculate leaf and left it imperceptibly nodding.

He found Reynolds with Buttifant in the office. They were both poring over a file of literature. They were so intent with whatever it was that they didn’t notice Gently come in and both straightened up suddenly when he closed the door with a slight slam. Reynolds said:

‘Chief, I think we’re on to something!’

Gently nodded and pointed to the file. ‘That’ll be United Press’s house magazine, will it?’

‘Yes. It’s just come in by messenger. I had Buttifant wait on purpose. I had a wild hunch, Chief, so wild I didn’t like to mention it, but I think it’s going to pay off. I think we’ve found Beryl Rogers.’

Gently smiled. It wasn’t such a wild hunch. Do you have a recognizable picture?’

‘You mean – you know?’

‘I couldn’t help guessing. Once I knew Miss Rogers had returned from New Zealand.’

Reynolds looked a little injured, but he made room for Gently at the table. The file was open at a page captioned: Fashion Parade’s Staff Party. Opposite the letterpress was a half-plate photograph of men and women in evening dress but it was printed in coarse screen because the block had been borrowed from
The Holborn Advertiser.
Buttifant’s yellowed forefinger pointed to a woman.

‘That’s her, sir. I’m ready to swear to it.’

Gently looked. ‘That’s perhaps Sarah Johnson. But she says she worked for United Press too.’

‘But her name isn’t here sir,’ Buttifant pointed to the letterpress, at the foot of which was a list of names. ‘There’s twenty-four names and twenty-four people. Beryl Rogers is down here, but no Sarah Johnson.’

Gently peered again at the uncertain photograph. It had probably been taken by an amateur. The people in it had made an informal group and not all of them were within range of the flash. The woman in question was on the fringe of the group and only the plan-line of her face was shown effectively; but such as it was it suggested Sarah Johnson, and the slim figure beneath it was similar to hers.

‘Check through some other entries. See if a Sarah Johnson occurs there.’

Reynolds said: ‘But you’ve seen her, Chief. You recognize her don’t you?’

‘I think it’s her. But if there was a Sarah Johnson we’d better know about it. That’s a poor photograph, and house magazines are not noted for accurate reporting.’

‘It’s her all right,’ Reynolds said confidently. ‘It fits the facts too well for it not to be. All along we’ve wanted a reason for Mrs Fazakerly’s being so angry and now we’ve got it. Someone tipped her off that her husband’s girl-friend was Beryl Rogers. And this follows, Chief. Whoever tipped her was able to recognize Beryl Rogers. They’d have to know the old story and how much it meant to Mrs Fazakerly. If you eliminate Mrs Bannister, and I think you can do that safely, it leaves us with only one person – and Fazakerly fingered her for us.’

‘Has Mrs Bannister’s maid been here yet?’

‘Albertine?’ Reynolds shook his head.

‘I’ve been talking to her. She’ll make a statement. She saw Brenda Merryn going up to the flat.’

‘She saw that!’ Reynolds’ eyes sparkled. ‘That’s a bit of luck for a good detective. I was wondering how we could tie her in, Chief. Now we’ve only to play our cards right.’

Gently got out his pipe and began to fill it. ‘Go on.’ he said. ‘Let’s have your version.’

‘She did it, Chief. It fits everything. There’s not a point it doesn’t cover. Look at the set-up. She’s the poor relation, and her step-sister’s rolling in the family money; money that might and ought to have been hers, because it was her uncle who left it. What does she do? She seduces the husband, who may one day be left a widower; and that’s how it stands until the husband drops her because he’s become infatuated with another woman.’

‘She might just simply have been in love with him,’ Gently puffed.

‘Do you really believe it was innocent, Chief?’

Gently shrugged. ‘It’s hard to tell. We’ll carry on with your hypothesis.’

‘She goes to look at this woman who’s taking Fazakerly away from her, and she recognizes her as a woman who is obnoxious to Mrs Fazakerly. She can put the squeak in and get rid of her – Mrs Fazakerly was bound to blow her top – but she realizes it needn’t stop there: she has a chance for the jackpot. There’ll be a row. Fazakerly will clear out. If his wife’s found dead, we’re sure to suspect him. Then, if he’s convicted, she collects the money by the rule of succession.’

Gently puffed some more. ‘It sounds almost plausible,’ he said. ‘But.’

‘Just wait a minute, Chief. I’ve been doing some thinking. This answers every one of your objections. Look, she knows when Fazakerly returns from Rochester and she times her visit just ahead of it. Then Fazakerly walks in when his wife is really worked up. Merryn goes off-stage to listen. She steps into the dressing-room next door. She sees the necklace, and it’s safe to take it because Mrs Fazakerly is never going to miss it. So she slips it into her handbag and waits and listens till Fazakerly goes, then she rejoins Mrs Fazakerly in the lounge and kills her while she sits talking on the settee. On the settee: you remember the point? It was likely to be someone known to Mrs Fazakerly. Not Fazakerly, because she was rowing with him, but someone she was talking to more calmly. Then Merryn leaves by the stairs and the back entrance, but she realizes how damning it would be if she were caught with the necklace, so she tips it into a dustbin. Then she has only to walk away.’

Gently puffed. ‘It’s neat,’ he said.

‘Chief, it covers all the facts. And now we’ve a witness to prove she was there. If we play it right we can nail her.’

‘It’s all you can prove. That she was there.’

‘Let me have her. I’ll make her talk.’

‘If she doesn’t talk you’re no forwarder.’

Reynolds looked formidable. ‘She will.’

Gently went on puffing. ‘Before you go overboard! I hate to drag up Macpherson again, but the case you’ve just outlined will take some swallowing even if Brenda Merryn confesses.’

‘But if it’s true?’

Gently shrugged. ‘I can’t stop you. What I’m really saying is, keep in line. At best it will be a sticky case, so you’ll do well to stay by the book.’

‘I’ll stay by the book,’ Reynolds said. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got the book weighed up.’

‘Also, I think we should talk to Sarah Johnson. I think we should talk to her here.’

Reynolds grunted and stepped into the C.I.D. room and gave some orders to Detective Constable Baker; then he returned to leaf through a directory and finally to dial a local number.

‘Doctor Lithgow’s surgery . . . Miss Merryn?’

He listened with a scowl growing on his face. His eyes, focused on an imaginary speaker, took on a truculent expression.

‘How do you mean – have you been round there?’

The voice at the other end sounded indignant.

‘Of course I have! Inspector Reynolds . . . all right, all right . . . you’ll let me know.’

He hung up with a bang.

‘She’s missing,’ he said. ‘She hasn’t been in to work. They sent someone round to check at her flat but she wasn’t there. Nor was her car.’ He looked at Gently. ‘Do you think she’s skipped?’

Gently said nothing for a moment. Then he got up, stuffing his pipe in his pocket.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s get over there!’

Reynolds grabbed a patrol car and they drove fast to Knightsbridge Place. On the way Gently gave Reynolds a brief version of Brenda Merryn’s visit to him. Reynolds asked one question:

‘Was she upset when she left?’

But he asked it apologetically, and didn’t seem to notice he got no answer.

They parked by the flats’ entrance and went quickly up the steps. Gently rang. The bell tinkled briskly but there was no other sound from inside.

‘What do we do?’

‘Go in.’

Reynolds took out a thin bunch of skeleton keys. The third one slid back the bolt and the door swung open. They went in. The air was stagnant because of windows being closed but it held a scent which Gently remembered with sudden vividness: Blue Grass. They went through the lounge into the bedroom and into the bathroom and the kitchen. She was not there. The bed was unslept in. A tray with dirty crocks stood on the table. A big towel in the bathroom was still damp and stockings lay balled in a bedroom chair. The beaded slippers had been kicked off and left lying and the door of the wardrobe sagged open and a girdle lay spread on the bed. But Brenda Merryn was not there.

‘Do you reckon she came back?’

‘No.’ Gently was searching through the wardrobe. Two padded hangers swung naked on the rail and the crimson dress and the coat were missing. Powder was spilled on the dressing-table and brush and comb lay thrown-down carelessly. A few blonde hairs were caught in the comb. On the label of a big scent-bottle a blue horse pranced. No: this was how she’d left it last night, after hastily dressing for his benefit. A severe navy two-piece, perhaps the one Albertine had mentioned, hung slightly bunched beside the two empty hangers.

‘If she was away all night . . .’

‘Her father lives in Bristol. You’d better ring him for a start.’

‘Do you think it’s likely, Chief?’

‘It’s possible. He’s a solicitor, don’t forget. Maybe she felt we were getting round to her, and her go at me was her last fling. It didn’t come off, and she’d admitted too much. It was time to run to daddy.’

‘You’ve talked to her most. There’s nowhere else . . . ?’

Gently shook his head. ‘That’s all I know about her. If she isn’t at home you’ll have to issue a description. We’ll take this photograph from the bedroom.’

They locked the door and went down again. They ran into their driver coming to meet them.

‘Sir,’ he said. ‘This woman you’re after – is she to do with the Carlyle Court job?’

‘If she is, what about it?’ Reynolds snapped.

‘We’ve just had a buzz from control, sir. There’s a woman out on a ledge at Carlyle Court and she’s threatening to jump. I thought you should know.’

It was Brenda Merryn. They could see her plainly as soon as the car turned into Bland Street, a crimson smudge high up among the white cliffs and green-capped towers. A crowd was gathering. A T.V. camera van was already parked and being manned. At a dozen windows and balconies near where she clung people were clustered and cameras trained.

‘She’s outside the Bannister flat,’ Reynolds muttered. ‘My God, how’ll we ever get her off there?’

‘How would she have got out there?’

‘Christ knows. There’s a landing window, it must have been that.’

They roared up to the entrance and squealed to a stop. Stockbridge came running down the steps.

‘She’s going to jump!’ he gabbled. ‘I’ve been talking to her. She won’t listen. You can’t get to her.’

‘How long has she been there?’

‘Nobody knows. It was a tradesman down the street saw her. I rang the fire service and the police. But it’s no good. You can’t get at her.’