The Best of British Crime omnibus (26 page)

‘Why don't you ask him if you can go out with the delegation? Tell him you're needed urgently back home for a year's assignment to South America. He might be glad to speed you on your way.'

‘Hell, I don't
want
to go with the delegation. What's the point?'

‘Only that when I travelled in with them I wasn't bothered by the Customs. It'll probably be the same going out.'

Jeff shrugged. ‘Well, I guess I'm not all that fussy, if you think it'll make a difference. I'll ask him, anyway.'

‘Good man!'

I returned to my room and picked up a book on the Alger Hiss affair that I was in the middle of. It was fascinating, but somehow I couldn't concentrate – the actual tangle in this hotel was for the moment even more fascinating. I could still hardly believe that the murderer would take any fresh action, but I could see he was in a spot, all right. I'd certainly have thought so in his place. If he went home and the trousers
were
traced to him, the case would be just about complete. Even if he couldn't be prosecuted initially by the law, it was fresh in my mind that there was such a thing as forcing him to take action for slander, and he'd be ruined just the same in the end. I wouldn't have wanted to go home with those risks ahead. Yet obviously he'd got to return to England, because that was where his importance lay for the Russians, and if he wasn't going to be important to them any more they might change their minds about keeping the murder quiet.

I wondered what he was doing at that moment – what he was planning.

A sharp rap on the door made me jump. I got up to open it automatically, thinking it was probably Jeff with some fresh idea, and it was only when my hand was on the knob that I remembered the step I'd got to watch.

‘Who is it?' I called.

‘Islwyn Thomas.'

I opened the door a fraction and peered out. His hands were by his sides and as far as I could see he hadn't anything in them. ‘All right – come in,' I said. I stood back and let him pass in front of me, and I left the door ajar.

‘Nervous?' he asked unpleasantly.

‘Fairly.'

‘You've good reason to be! Verney, I've come to warn you. Keep Miss Manning out of this business, do you hear? If you don't, I'll… ' his hands clenched, and anger darkened his swarthy face, ‘make you sorry you were born.'

‘Thanks for the warning. What will you use – a bottle?'

I thought for a moment that he was going to attack me there and then, and I was thankful I'd left the door open.

‘This isn't a joking matter,' he said. ‘I'm not joking – I'm serious.'

‘You're crazy if you think I had anything to do with that Mullett business. All I'm concerned about is Miss Manning. I'm not going to have her name bandied about, do you hear?'

‘Have I bandied it?'

‘No, but you damned well hinted. As it happens, she was with
me
when Mullett was killed, as you've possibly guessed, but she doesn't want it talked about.'

‘So she's sent you to threaten me into silence. How very old-fashioned!'

‘You damned swine!' he said.

‘Look, Thomas,' I said, ‘why don't you grow up? If Miss Manning was with you when Mullett was killed, that's her affair and yours and I'm not interested. But
was
she?'

‘What do you mean?' His hands clenched again. He was longing to slug me.

‘I mean there's no proof. She may be giving you an alibi. You may be giving her one. If it's her reputation you're concerned about, you can trot back now and tell her everything's all right. If you're trying to protect her from a murder charge, or she you, you're wasting your time. Now, do you mind going? I don't like threats.'

For a moment we faced each other, glaring. Then he shrugged, turned quickly, and walked out. I shut the door behind him.

I prepared for bed in a rather sombre frame of mind. There was more violence in the air than I'd been willing to admit. Of course, it was just like Thomas to go rushing off to battle for his lady's honour and just like Perdita to send him. If that was all there was to it, and they'd really been together, both of them seemed to be absolved of murder. If it had merely been a try-on, then Thomas might be back.

I turned in soon afterwards but I found it impossible to sleep. The scene with Thomas had unsettled me, and my imagination began to get out of hand. It had been one thing to face that bunch of fellow-travellers and deliberately goad them into some kind of action when that had seemed the only way to get results, but lying in bed at night in a silent, unfriendly hotel waiting for that action to materialise was quite another. Moral courage and physical courage are very different things, and as I said before, I'm no hero. The catch on my door was pretty old – a heave from a strong shoulder would be enough to break it open. I was soon straining my ears for footfalls in the corridor, ready to leap from bed and meet an aggressor. A straight scrap on equal terms wouldn't be so bad, but I had no mind to be attacked in my sleep with ugly weapons.

After a while, I began to feel uneasy about the balcony. If the murderer could somehow get hold of a key to Mullett's room – and he might be better placed than most to do so – he would be on me before I could stir. There was the approach through Kira's room, too – a route that had been used once could be used again. It might even be used by the M.V.D – by now they might be as keen as the murderer to get me out of the way. I had talked too much for everybody's comfort. I began to think I'd been a bit of a fool. No one is at his best in the night watches.

In the end I got up and wedged a chair under the handle of the french doors, and just to be on the safe side I shifted the wardrobe so that it covered the door into the corridor. I felt rather glad Jeff couldn't see me. Before getting back into bed, I took a skating boot out of my trunk and laid it on the little table beside my head. After that, my fears dissolved and I soon fell asleep.

In daylight next morning my precautions looked ridiculous, and I hastened to put the furniture back in its proper place. I'd hardly finished dressing when the phone rang. It was Joe Cressey, and he wanted to know if he could come along and see me. He said it was rather urgent. I told him to come right up. I couldn't imagine what he wanted, and I was still watching my step, but it was difficult to see any menace in Joe, particularly just after breakfast.

He arrived in a few minutes. His knock was diffident and his air oddly conspiratorial as he came in and shut the door behind him.

‘I wanted to talk to you, Mr Verney,' he began uneasily. ‘I'm afraid I'm in trouble, and there's no one else I can go to.'

‘Why, what's the matter?'

‘Well, it all comes of what you said last night. It's terrible – they're treating me almost as though
I
killed Mr Mullet.'

‘Oh.' I'd rather expected that something like that might happen. ‘Have they said anything?'

Not in so many words, they haven't, but I'm sure that's what they're all thinking. They've been so friendly up to now, but last night after you'd gone they treated me like dirt.'

‘They'd have done that, anyway, because you sided with me over the value of the stamp collection. They're a spiteful crowd.'

He looked a bit dubious. ‘I thought p'raps it was because I said I knew about stamps, and I seem to be the only one that does, and – well, if someone collected up that packet the way you said… '

‘If you weren't here in 1942, Joe, you couldn't have collected the stamps, could you? You've no need to worry – they've got nothing on you. They're just being unpleasant. People of their persuasion divide all human beings into two groups, those who are for them and those who are against them, and you've got to be all one or all the other. You spoke out of turn so you're an “anti” and they're taking it out of you, that's all. If they make faces, I should make faces back.'

He still looked slightly disconsolate. ‘I only said what was true, Mr Verney. You know, I think you're right – I think one of them
did
do it. I'll be glad when I'm home – I've no time for them. I was glad you talked the way you did. I'd have liked to do the same. Fancy that Tranter pretending all that time!' His heavy chin jutted out indignantly.

I smiled. It seemed absurd now that I could have suspected Cressey of being a murderer, even for a passing moment. He was such a straightforward, simple soul. ‘If you go back and give your chaps in the factory a plain account of what you've seen here,' I said, ‘you'll be more than even with Mr Tranter.'

‘I suppose so.' He stood hesitating. ‘Would there be anything I could do to help you, Mr Verney? About finding out who did it, I mean?'

‘That's nice of you,' I said. ‘I really don't think there is, though – I'm pretty well stuck till I get home. If I think of anything, I'll let you know.'

He nodded. ‘I could take those trousers back to England for you, if you liked. I was thinking, now you've said so much about them you might have a bit of difficulty, and no one's likely to look in my luggage, seeing that I'm a delegate.'

I stared at him. He met my gaze frankly, without the hint of an
arriere pansee,
but I wondered.
Was
he so simple? Or had he been putting on the biggest act of all?

Suddenly I knew I had to test him. I switched to Russian, and in Russian I told him I knew he was Mullett's murderer! He looked at me in such perplexity that I had to laugh. ‘Sorry, Joe,' I said, ‘it was just a thought. Thanks for your offer, but I think I'll manage about the trousers. I don't want them to go out of my keeping.'

‘All right, Mr Verney, just as you say. Well, I'd better be going – we're supposed to be preparing a report today. They're all very keen to get it done before we get home.'

‘I bet they are! Don't you sign anything, Joe. Tell ‘em you want to think it over. Good luck!'

‘Cheerio, Mr Verney, and good luck to you.' He shambled out.

The rest of that day passed without incident. I had no more visitors, and as far as the delegates were concerned I might not have existed. They spent most of the morning and all the afternoon in Bolting's room, presumably drawing up their precious report, and in the evening they were all busy packing. About seven, Bolting and Tranter came along to Mullett's room and spent an hour or so putting his belongings together and packing them up so that they would be ready to be taken away with the rest of the delegation's luggage in the morning. Then the whole lot of them went down to the restaurant and I saw them later having a subdued but still considerable farewell banquet with Mirnova and other people from VOKS.

Jeff had seen Ganilov, contrived to give the impression that there was now nothing in the world he was less interested in than the Mullett case, and extracted permission to leave on the delegation plane. I sat around while Jeff did his packing, and then some of the boys came in and we had our own farewell party. It wasn't as gay as some I'd known, but by midnight when it broke up I certainly wasn't worrying about the delegation any more. I had no longer any fears that something might go bump in the night and I didn't even bother to shift the furniture. I felt pretty certain that the Mullett case was about to be shelved for good, and, frankly, I couldn't have cared less.

I awoke next morning in a melancholy frame of mind, not wholly accounted for by a slight hangover. I had a strong feeling that this wasn't going to be one of my days. It was satisfactory, of course, that the delegation was clearing out – the hotel would certainly be the sweeter for their departure – but I knew I was going to miss Jeff a good deal and Potts, though well-meaning, was no adequate substitute. Professionally, my assignment was a wash-out. Now that I'd blotted my copy-book with Ganilov, I shouldn't even get a pretence of help from him. I felt that I would have given a lot at that moment to be joining Jeff on his plane. I lay for a few indulgent moments wallowing in self-pity, and then I snapped out of it and took a shower. Something would be sure to turn up, even if it were only a new variety of trouble – and there was always Waterhouse.

My mood wasn't improved by the newspapers, which arrived while I was making coffee. They were full of the departing delegation.
Pravda
had a big photograph of them, all with unearthly grins in the flash-light, and there was about half a page of interviews and last messages. A banner headline declared, ‘Peace Delegation Carries Goodwill Greetings to Workers of the West.' Yes, someone was getting away with murder all right.

The corridor was already buzzing with the sounds of imminent departure when I emerged from my room. Mullett's door stood open, and Ivan was just coming out, his shoulders bowed under two heavy cases the contents of which I knew by heart. Schofield, dressed for the road, was pacing slowly up and down, smoking his pipe and looking as unperturbed as ever. He gave me a brief nod but didn't speak. Mrs Clarke, in her fantastic leopard skin, was standing by her door with a huge bouquet of hot-house flowers in her arms. Cressey was sitting on his luggage, lost in thought. Along the corridor, Bolting – looking like a dressed-up Invisible Man in his big fur coat and hat, his balaclava and his scarf – was bent towards Tranter.

I dropped in on Jeff and told him the address to which he should post the trousers. At that moment I felt it was most unlikely that I should ever want to take up the case again. Since none of the delegates had shown any further interest either in the trousers or in me, I could only conclude that the murderer was satisfied that they couldn't be traced to him. Still, we'd made our arrangements, and Jeff had to pass through London anyway, so he might as well take them. I told him he was a lucky dog to be going but he seemed in two minds about that. Presently Ivan came to see about his bags, and I drifted down to the vestibule to watch the preparations for departure.