The Best of British Crime omnibus (75 page)

‘Yes.' Harry continued his story in a quieter voice. ‘Sybil Conway arranged to meet my father at the club for a golf lesson. Apparently she rang him to say she was delayed. She said she would meet him out on the course by the sixth green. Instead he was met by Owen and Marty Smith. Marty knocked him out and then Owen took a heavy stone from the brook and—'

Yardley glanced round with an expression of compassion on his face which Harry had not seen before. The lights changed and a taxi behind hooted impatiently.

‘And Newton?' Yardley prompted, as he turned into Upper Regent Street.

‘Newton was already on the course, all prepared to dash to the club-house with hit prepared story about his hooked drive hitting my father.'

‘Well,' Yardley observed drily, ‘people have gone to more extreme lengths than that to get away with murder. It all sounds most improbable but I must confess it ties in with what Judy Black told you. But I don't see why Newton sent you that note.'

‘Newton didn't send it.'

‘Then who did?'

‘Judy did. You see, she'd guessed roughly what was going on. She felt confident that the best thing for Peter was for him to see me and make a clean breast of things. But she knew he never would unless someone or something forced him into it. Then she hit on the idea of sending me the dog collar and the note. That night she told Peter what she'd done and gave him the receipt for the registered letter. She told him that the very next day he'd be interrogated by the police and, if he had any guts, he'd tell them the whole story. Unfortunately they had a row. Peter went back to his flat and rang up Tam Owen. I don't have to tell you how Mr. Owen solved that problem.'

‘No. You don't. My God, this bit of London gets more like the maze at Hampton Court every day!'

For the next few moments Yardley's whole attention was taken up with following the signs which led traffic round Oxford Circus and on to Portland Place.

‘Isn't this going out of your way?' Harry asked him.

‘I'll drop you at Regent's Park. It's a direct line from there to St. John's Wood. You do want to go home, don't you?'

‘Yes, thanks. That'll be fine.'

‘Did she explain the business of the wheelchair and the cheque made out to Basil Higgs?'

‘Well, the Conways were a very peculiar couple. They came into Tam Owen's racket mainly for kicks. Conway was the kind of man who bolsters up his own ego by watching other people making fools of themselves. He got a lot of amusement out of persuading a police officer to write a cheque in favour of one of the accounts they used to pay their blackmailing proceeds into.'

‘And the wheelchair?'

‘Did I tell you that Sybil Conway's excuse for stringing my father along without marrying him was this story about an invalid husband? Well, when I went to fetch Zero they had to play that out, didn't they? When I look back on it they must have been splitting their sides laughing. But it did have the effect of making you doubt my story, didn't it, sir?'

Yardley grunted and made no comment on that statement. The underground sign indicating the Regent's Park station had come into view before he spoke.

‘You said you were going to explain something about the dog collar.'

‘Yes. The collar was really symbolic of the suspicion and distrust of these people. Mrs. Rogers was the sort of person who's always on the lookout for material she could use to put pressure on people. She pinched the receipt my father had and hid it in Zero's collar.'

‘But the dog didn't have a collar when you collected it from the Conways.'

‘I know. All I can suggest at the moment is that he can't have been wearing it when he was stolen. Or somebody must have switched the collars.'

‘And I suppose these pearls were valuable enough for Mrs Conway to want to get them back?'

‘They were worth a bomb. That was what the thief who broke into Stillwater was really after. So she hit on the brilliant idea of trying to recover the value from the insurance company.'

‘That's all very interesting, Dawson. But you haven't given me the answer to the most important question of all.'

‘What's that, sir?'

Yardley pulled in to the kerb and sat frowning out through his windscreen.

‘Who
is
Tam Owen?'

The police driver who brought Judy to Harry Dawson's flat next morning had been warned that if anything happened to her while she was in his care his career in the Metropolitan Police would come to an abrupt end. So he made her wait while he locked his car conscientiously and then stayed close to her as she crossed the pavement and climbed the stairs that led to the private entrance.

She pressed the bell and turned to him with a smile. ‘I'll be all right now. Really I will.'

P. C. 387 was a cheerful-looking young man in his middle twenties. He gave her the benefit of his wide smile as he shook his head.

‘My orders were to deliver you to Mr. Dawson personally, miss.'

His heart skipped a beat when he saw the smile which irradiated her face. But it was not for him. The door had opened and Harry Dawson was standing there. This time he was not in his pyjamas and dressing-gown. He was wearing a check sports jacket and a pair of tan slacks.

‘Hallo, Judy. Come along in!'

‘Good morning, sir,' P.C. 387 said, drawing attention to the fact that he still existed.

Reluctantly Harry broke off the look which was passing between him and Judy.

‘Good morning, Fuller. You can leave her in my care. And thank you very much.'

‘It's been a pleasure.' Fuller grinned and turned to Judy. ‘Any time, miss. Just ask the Inspector to give us a buzz. We can be very useful in the rush-hour.'

He smiled at Harry and departed down the stairs.

‘What a smashin' bit of crumpet,' he was thinking. ‘A beaut of a chassis and the nicest pair of legs in London. These CID boys certainly have it good.'

Harry was showing Judy into his sitting-room. It was a brilliant morning and the sun was pouring in through the windows. Judy had managed to wash the dark dye out of her hair and it glowed in the light. She had shed her sling and peemed to have no pain in the injured shoulder. He thought she looked simply great.

‘Have you had breakfast?'

‘Yes. I'd just finished when your driver arrived.'

Were you surprised when I phoned you?'

‘Well, yes, I was.'

Harry led her to the part of the living-room where the easy-chairs were arranged. He had taken good care to clear his breakfast things out of sight.

‘Sit down, Judy. Can I get you a cup of coffee?'

‘No, thank you. Not just now.'

Judy sat down on the settee and tucked her legs up under her with cat-like litheness. Harry sat himself at the other end.

‘Judy, I had a long talk with Superintendent Yardley this morning. We want you to help us.'

‘I'll do anything I can. I've already told you that.'

‘Yes, I know, but – I want you to realise what you're doing, what you're letting yourself in for.'

Judy was pulling the cellophane wrapping off a new pack of Piccadilly filter-tips.

‘What is it you want me to do?'

‘First of all, we want you to talk to Linda Wade.'

‘But I don't know where to find Linda. I haven't seen her since—'

‘We've located Linda. Our indefatigable Sergeant Quilter ran her to earth in St. Albans.'

‘St. Albans? What's she doing there?'

‘She's in a private nursing home in Maylee Park where they specialise in plastic surgery. It's run by a very bright young surgeon called Douglas. Walter Douglas.'

Judy's brow wrinkled. ‘Douglas? Where have I heard that name before?'

‘The manager of my father's office is called Douglas. Douglas Croft. Quite a coincidence. Linda's due to have a grafting operation on her face tomorrow. Apparently, he takes a piece from one part of your anatomy and uses it to repair the damaged bit.'

Judy smiled. ‘I can guess where they think Linda can spare it but I'll bet she's not going to like having a scar there either.'

‘We'd like you to see her before she has the operation,' Harry said. She noticed that he had remained serious in spite of her little joke.

‘All right, but if I know Linda, she'll be too frightened to talk. She won't say anything new. It's too late.'

‘I realise that.'

‘Then why do you want me to see her? What's the point?'

Harry waited while she pulled the little ribbon that brought the first cigarette out of the pack, put it in her mouth and lit up.

‘We only want her to pass on a message. It's
you
we want to do the talking, not Linda Wade.'

‘I'm damned if I understand you, Judy! I don't know what you're getting at!'

‘I'm not “getting at” anything, Linda. I'm simply asking you to deliver a message for me.'

‘How can I deliver a message to someone I don't even know?'

Judy turned on her friend angrily. ‘Oh, for God's sake don't treat me like a child! You know Tam Owen. You've had dealings with him. You've spoken to him on the phone. Not once but hundreds of times.'

The doctor in charge of the case had insisted on putting Linda to bed as soon as she had arrived. There were bandages on her shoulders, which were supported by soft, downy pillows. The whole of one side of her face was obscured by a dressing held in place by a bandage which encircled her head. Only the eye was visible and it was surrounded by a purple, yellowy discoloration. In a basket on a chair within reach of her hand the Siamese cat, Chow, slumbered peacefully.

‘Judy, why do you think I'm in here?' Linda said in a low voice. ‘Why do you think I'm going to have this bloody operation? Tam Owen did this to me because he thought—'

‘Linda,' Judy cut in with exasperation. ‘All I'm asking you to do is pass on a message. If I knew Owen, if I knew how to contact him, I'd do it myself.'

Linda stirred cautiously on her pillows, wincing as she felt the dressings shift on the wounds on her shoulders.

‘What – what is this message?'

Judy sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘Tell him that I've been to see you. Tell him that I've returned to your flat and that I want to talk to him. Ask him to come and see me here tomorrow morning.'

Linda was already shaking her head. ‘He won't see you. He'll send Marty Smith and you know what that little bastard—'

‘He can't send Marty. The police have picked him up. They're holding him on a murder charge.'

Linda's grin of pleasure was a one-sided affair as half her face was paralysed. But her delight showed in her eyes.

‘When did this happen?'

‘Linda, I haven't got a lot of time. I've got to be back in town for lunch. Will you do this for me – or won't you?'

‘Supposing I do,' Linda said slowly. ‘Supposing I do phone Tam Owen and he asks me
why
you want to see him. What, do I say?'

‘Tell him I want Peter's job. The same flat, the same terms, the same set-up.'

‘You mean you want to work for Owen?' Linda's tone was so scandalised that Chow woke up and peered enquiringly at his mistress. ‘You can't be serious!'

‘I'm deadly serious,' Judy assured her. ‘I'm sick to hell of playing around, Linda. I know the sort of money Peter was making. I also know how he operated. There's no reason why I shouldn't take over the job he was doing and make it pay just as well.'

‘But only the other day you told me you didn't know about Peter. You said you thought he was running some sort of property racket.'

‘Look, Linda.' Judy consulted her watch and stood up. ‘I've got to have an answer. Will you ring Tam Owen for me? You've got nothing to lose. I think you'll find he'll be very grateful to you.'

‘All right,' Linda admitted after a moment. ‘I'll ring him. But I think you're making a terrible mistake. If you take my advice—'

Judy rounded on her with an expression which Linda had never seen on her face before.

‘I don't want your advice, Linda. I just want you to do what I'm asking.'

‘I'll phone tonight. But he won't play. He won't agree to see you.'

‘I think he will.'

‘You don't know Tam Owen.'

‘No, and he doesn't know me.' Judy pressed the lighted end of her cigarette on to the ash-tray and began to twist it viciously. Her voice was as hard as winter grit. ‘Tell him I was a friend of Arnold Conway's. A very close friend.'

She straightened up and looked directly into Linda's troubled face.

‘Tell him we used to have cosy little chats together.'

Judy had never felt so alone in her life. She had arrived at Defoe Mansions an hour earlier. Harry had made her do the last part of the journey on her own. He had a suspicion that Tam Owen or one of his men would be watching the place from now on.

It was little comfort to her that she could look out of the window and see the pedestrians and traffic below, going on with their business as if this was just an ordinary day of the week. Sounds reached her from the neighbouring flats – a dog barking, somebody's baby yelling, the metallic clatter of a dustbin lid.

She could not settle down. Every time she went into the hall the horror of what had happened to Linda in that bedroom swept over her. What was it about Harry Dawson that gave him the power to persuade her to try something as risky as this? She wished he could be here in the flat with her, or even that she knew where he was.

Soon after ten-thirty the phone rang, sending an electric shock of fear through her. She answered, but the caller did not speak, simply hung up.

Tam Owen? Checking to see if she was there?

For the tenth time she stood by the window, staring down at the street without moving the curtains. A man in a short rainproof coat with neatly clipped hair was strolling along the opposite pavement. He never glanced at Defoe Mansions. He seemed entirely absorbed by the displays in the shop windows. If she had not encountered Nat Fletcher when he was on duty it would never have occurred to her that he was a police officer.