The Best of British Crime omnibus (59 page)

‘Nat!' Harry exclaimed with pleasure. ‘Come on in.'

Nat nodded amicably and began to follow Harry up the stairs.

‘How are you feeling this morning, old chap?'

‘Somewhat numbed still, thoroughly hung over, pestered half out of my mind by the ruddy newspaper reporters.'

Harry stood back to let his guest enter the sitting-room first. ‘Come on through.'

‘Look.' Nat Fletcher's voice was gruff. ‘I know I said this yesterday on the phone, but I really am most deeply sorry about your father.'

‘Yes. Sure. Thanks, Nat.' Harry waved his hand helplessly at the mess on the breakfast table and the general disorder in the room. Nat's sharp eyes had already summed up the situation and he had not missed the envelope propped prominently on the mantelpiece.

‘Sorry about the mess. Mrs. Rogers, the housekeeper – she suddenly upped and left me. Left a note of apology saying her beloved nephew Hubert has 'flu, of all things.'

‘Considerate of her – under the circumstances.'

‘Frankly, what with the fuss she made about my father's death, I'm not all that sorry to have her out of the place. Went all to pieces over it, she did. It was bad enough when she lost her dog. But this—'

Nat cleared his throat. ‘Sometimes, Harry, it can be the best thing to give vent to your feelings.'

It was the older man speaking to the younger. ‘Sure,' Harry's voice showed a hint of resentment. ‘And maybe some of us have different ways of showing it. So what news from that nit-wit Inspector Carter? He still talking about accidents?'

Nat had unbuttoned his raincoat but did not take it off. He surveyed Harry's face appraisingly, noting the signs of stress and fatigue. Although these two were good friends that did not prevent them from often disagreeing.

‘Now, Harry, if you're going to be difficult over this—'

‘Difficult!' Harry exploded. ‘He was my father, and you expect me to sit back and—'

‘And leave it to the professionals, right.'

‘You have
seen
Carter?'

‘Of course I've seen him. And he's neither a nit-wit nor is he the type to miss out on things.'

‘What's he make of Newton's story? Does he believe it?'

‘Look.' Nat spoke briskly, as if to an unreasonable child. ‘Newton had never met your father. They were complete strangers to each other. The man was out practising. He sliced an unlucky drive. Damn it, the best golfer in the world couldn't be sure of hitting a man over two hundred yards away.'

‘
If
it did happen that way.'

Nat frowned but Harry continued doggedly. ‘Did they find the ball yet? Forensics would be able to tell if it really hit him as Newton says. And what about the stone he's supposed to have fallen on?'

‘What about it?'

‘Have you seen the post-mortem report yet? Surely the pathologist can tell—'

‘Of course he can. And when he and the lab, boys have all finished their tests, that'll be the time to start questioning the validity of Newton's statement. Then and not before.'

‘All right, all right.' Harry yanked on the ends of his dressing-gown belt, knotting it more tightly. ‘So what about this person my father was going to play with? The person he said he was going to introduce me to at the club-house afterwards. What about him?'

Nat was already buttoning his raincoat up again. ‘Carter's making enquiries, of course. But so far, Harry, no one's been found to corroborate that theory.'

‘Theory?'

‘In fact,' Nat continued in his quiet, emphatic voice, ‘the club professional says he's pretty certain he saw your father going out on to the course alone.'

Before Harry could find a suitable comment to this statement, the telephone started to ring.

‘If that's another newspaper—'

Nat was already moving towards the door, grateful for the excuse to break off this gritty conversation.

‘Look. I've got to get on. I'll let you know the moment there's any developments. Okay?'

‘Okay,' Harry agreed morosely.

He waited till the door had closed on Nat, kicking himself inwardly for being so brittle. He could not afford to antagonise a good friend like Nat.

The caller was persistent. Harry resigned himself to answering the steady summons of the telephone.

A few miles away in a luxurious residence within a stone's throw of Hampstead Heath a woman was listening to the ringing tone in the earpiece of her mock-antique telephone. She was determined to ring for two full minutes before giving up.

She was, statistically speaking, in her early fifties, but she had preserved her excellent figure by declining to have children and her facial features by frequent treatments at beauty parlours.

Her surroundings provided a suitable setting. The drawing-room offered a marked contrast with the Dawson sitting-room. It was at the same time opulent and comfortable. Each item showed the influence of a woman with enough money to indulge her expensive taste.

While she waited she gazed at her reflection in the mirror behind the telephone. Sybil Conway liked to watch herself while she conversed with the unseen person at the other end of the line.

‘Hallo.'

She glanced down at the pad on the telephone table. ‘Is that 586 2679?'

‘Yes.'

‘My name is Conway. Mrs. Conway. There's an advertisement in our local paper about a poodle—'

‘Yes. That's right.'

‘Is the dog yours, Mr. – ah?'

‘Dawson. No, it's my housekeeper's, but I am responsible for the advertisement. Have you found the poodle, Mrs. Conway?'

‘Yes.' She gave a little laugh. ‘At least I think so.'

She liked the sound of his voice: It had a kind of masculine harshness about it. She smiled at herself in the mirror. She knew from experience that this device made her own voice more alluring.

‘It looks like the one in the paper – only a little dishevelled, I'm afraid. Actually my husband found it last night in the garden.'

‘Where are you speaking from, Mrs. Conway?'

‘We're in Hampstead. The house is called “Stillwater”. It's in Broadway Avenue. Do you know Hampstead at all, Mr. Dawson?'

‘Yes, I do.'

‘It's a large house, just on the corner. It stands back from the road. The drive's on the right-hand side.'

‘Will you be in this morning?'

‘Yes. We are here all day. You can drop in any time.'

‘Thank you, Mrs. Conway. It's very kind of you to have phoned.'

He replaced the receiver before she did. She hung the instrument up thoughtfully, then let her eyes drop to the open newspaper on the table. It showed the photo of Zero, begging for his biscuit, with his pretty collar round his neck.

‘All right, Zero. You've kissed me three times now. That's enough.'

Harry was restraining the little black poodle on his knee. Zero had still not got over his joy at seeing an old friend and kept making sudden pecks with a very wet nose at Harry's face. It was hard to control the wriggling bundle of life. The collar which had been round his neck when he'd gone missing was no longer there.

Mrs. Conway was seated at the other end of the damask-covered settee, her well-shaped legs crossed gracefully. Arnold Conway, though seated, had the advantage of mobility. He was ensconced in a very new and modern wheelchair, which he seemed to enjoy swinging round into different positions. Perhaps to compensate for being a cripple he was meticulously dressed. Harry estimated that he was a little younger than his wife.

‘Naturally,' he was saying, ‘I was very surprised when I saw the animal. He was behind one of the rhododendron bushes, perfectly docile, almost asleep. I thought – well, blow me, how the devil did you get here?'

Hands on the polished chromium rings which enabled him to control the wheels, he swung his chair round and propelled himself towards the french windows which opened out on to a lawn bordered by shrubs.

‘He's been missing over a week now. We'd given up hope of ever seeing him again.' Harry held Zero's head still and made him meet his eyes. ‘Where have you been, Zero? What the devil happened to you?'

Mrs. Conway intervened. ‘You say he was wearing a collar when he disappeared?'

‘Yes, a very nice one. My father gave it to Mrs. Rogers for her birthday.'

For
her
birthday, not the poodle's!'

Mrs. Conway's laughter was infectious. Harry found himself laughing also.

Conway had swung his chair round again and moved it down to the settee.

‘Some long-haired character picked him up in his car, I expect; then pinched the collar and booted him out.'

He put out a hand to pet Zero, but the dog growled warningly. Conway laughed the snub off.

‘You've had a rough time, old chap, but I expect that mistress of yours will make it up to you.'

‘That's the understatement of the year,' Harry said with feeling. Holding the poodle against his chest he rose from the settee. ‘Mr. Conway, there was a reward mentioned in the advertisement, five pounds, I think it was—'

‘Mr. Dawson, please—' Mrs. Conway raised a delicate hand in horror at the mention of money.

‘Don't be silly, old man.' Conway reversed a few yards back. ‘We're only too happy to have found the little chap.'

He was heading towards the door as if to usher Harry out, when a sudden thought struck him. He wheeled round, smiling with mischievous pleasure at his idea.

‘I suppose you wouldn't like to give the fiver to charity?'

‘Darling!' protested Sybil Conway mildly.

‘Now, don't be squeamish, old girl. Why do you think they gave me the job? I'm President of the “Hamsters”, Mr. Dawson. Perhaps you've heard of us?'

‘Er – no. I'm afraid I haven't.'

‘We're a local society. What the Yanks would call “a bunch of do-gooders”. We help the old age pensioners, look after the poor kids of the district, put on the odd show when we feel like it – in aid of charity, of course. Last year we collected well over eight hundred pounds.'

Harry put Zero down on the floor. The poodle immediately jumped up on to the cushions beside Mrs. Conway.

‘Why, of course. I shall be delighted to give you a donation.' ‘Thank you, Mr. Dawson.'

‘Arnold, you really are a monster!'

‘Nonsense, Sybil. Every bob counts these days, you know that.' Conway winked at Harry. ‘Make the cheque out to Basil Higgs, old man. He's our secretary. H-I-G-G-S.'

Mrs. Conway was caressing the ears of Zero, who had snuggled against her thigh. She gestured towards a Sheraton writing table.

‘You can use the desk over there, Mr. Dawson.'

Pulling his cheque book from his pocket, Harry crossed to the table, sat down and felt for his pen.

‘I expect you'll hear from Basil,' Conway said, making a short tour round the back of the settee. ‘He's bound to drop you a line.'

Mrs. Conway laughed again. ‘You'll hear from him, all right. twice a year.'

Harry smiled, opened his cheque book and began to write the name of Basil Higgs.

Liz was alone in the shop and dealing with a customer when she saw Harry come clattering down the spiral staircase that led from the flat above. He was still wearing the overcoat he had gone out in and seemed to be in a great hurry. She dealt with the customer as quickly as she could and then went to the office at the back of the shop. Harry was seated at the desk, pulling open drawers and searching through their contents. His manner was very tense and urgent.

‘Can I help, Mr. Dawson?'

Harry did not look up. He found a stack of folders in a bottom drawer and was checking through them. ‘Where's that folder, Liz?'

‘What folder do you mean, Mr. Dawson?'

‘Douglas brought it up, yesterday morning. It's just an ordinary blue folder, but there was a number scribbled on it – a car registration number.'

‘A car number?'

‘Yes. JKY 384. At least I think that was it. I want to make certain.'

Liz shook her head, trying to remember where she had seen a blue folder.

The spiral staircase, which continued on down into the basement, was again resounding to the sound of footsteps. The head of Douglas Croft came into view. He was carrying a stack of boxes which he had collected from the store.

Harry turned towards him. ‘Douglas. Do you remember that folder which you brought up yesterday with the letters in it? A blue folder?'

‘Yes.'

‘Where is it?'

Douglas hesitated, struck by the urgency in Harry's voice. Without a word he handed the stack of boxes to Liz, who took them and went out into the shop. Douglas crossed to a letter tray and lifted it to reveal the blue folder. He handed it to Harry.

Harry turned it sideways to look at the cover. ‘I knew damn well I was right.'

He pointed at the letters and figures jotted on the cardboard. ‘This number, Douglas, JKY 384 L. You asked my father about it.'

‘Yes. I didn't know what it was. I thought he'd made a note of it for some reason or other. He said he hadn't, but I'm sure it's his handwriting.'

‘I saw the number this morning,' Harry said quietly. ‘It was on a Fiat estate car. I got held up at traffic lights on the Finchley road. This car rushed up beside me on the inside, so close that it almost scraped me. There was a man and a girl in it and they were having the father and mother of a row. The girl was about twenty and rather good-looking. I didn't see the man's face till he turned to watch the traffic lights. Then I recognised him as Peter Newton.'

‘That's the chap who drove the golf ball which—'

‘Right.'

Douglas took the folder from Harry's hand and studied the figures on it.

‘Are you sure of this, Harry?'

‘Absolutely sure. When the lights changed he let his clutch in with a bang and shot ahead. I was able to see the registration number quite clearly. It was definitely JKY 384 L.'