The Fashion In Shrouds (34 page)

‘Lady Papendeik is with the inspector now.' He was gabbling in his annoyance. ‘Everyone in the place is talking about drugs. I'm doing everything I can, Madame, but I simply cannot guarantee that some wretched
vendeuse
won't blurt it out in confidence to the first trade buyer who comes in. One wouldn't think they'd be so vulgar, but one can't be sure. Marguerite Zingari has had hysterics and handed in her resignation. What would you advise?'

‘I'll come, Rex, I'll come. Since your last message I've been trying to phone my brother. Never mind. Keep them all quiet if you can. Don't worry. I'll come.'

Val sounded calm and her authority was consoling. The little man's theatrical sigh was magnified over the wire.

‘I shall be relieved,' he said. ‘This is appalling. Such frightful disorganization. Can I send the peach “Fantastique” to Lady B? I can't be more specific over the phone, can I? She's asked for it, but you know that we did say that
next time, in view of the past, we ought to have a trifle on account. Lady B. B for bolero.'

‘I'll leave it to you, Rex.' Val sounded breathless. ‘I should be tactful but firm. I'll come down at once.'

She hung up and made one more attempt to get Campion's flat. There was still no reply, and she phoned the Junior Greys and left a message for him.

The Daimler was at the door and she was setting a small black hat at precisely the right angle over her left eye, characteristically giving the task the same intelligent care which she would have bestowed upon it had she been summoned by the Last Trump and not Rex's shrill alarum, when Papendeik's rang through again. It was Tante Marthe herself this time. The ugly voice betrayed that faint trace of accent which the telephone always seems to accentuate.

‘Val, my child, there is an inspector here. He is at my side now. Do you remember that mannequin, Caroline, the one we got rid of? She has got herself murdered, wretched little girl. The police seem to think she may have had something to do with drugs, and they are inquiring about them from all former employees. Do you remember anything about some morphine? There was something, my dear, wasn't there? I seem to remember it.'

No policeman on earth could have mistaken Madame's warning tone, and Val grew hot and then very cold again.

‘The inspector says it is purely a matter of form,' Tante Marthe concluded, speaking apparently from dictation.

‘I'm coming right down, darling. I'll be with you both in fifteen minutes.' The high voice was brisk and cheerful, and Val rang off.

While she was riding through the streets Gaiogi Laminoff stood in his amusing sitting-room and telephoned Mr Paul.

‘Ferdie, my dear fellow, listen to me for a moment.' The Russian's voice was sibilant and charged with all the emotional force of his dramatic race. ‘Have you seen the papers? I have had the police here at my house. Yes, here. My dear Ferdie, it is not at all funny. I am not laughing. They have found some drugs in the girl's flat at Petunia House, and they have found out that Ramillies took up the lease of that flat. I have told them nothing, naturally; it is
not my affair. The abominable girl was only here for six weeks. But for everybody's sake, Ferdie, keep Georgia quiet. That story of hers about the
cachet
, it won't do any good, you know. Things are bad enough as they are.'

‘You're telling me,' said Ferdie Paul and hung up.

The obliging Sinclair succeeded in getting a call through to the Alandel works and bore the instrument in triumph to his parent. Dell's secretary, who had been trying to get Papendeik's all the morning without success, put the incoming call through to the inner office in all innocence.

‘Alan,' Georgia's tone was motherly, ‘I wouldn't have disturbed you, dear, but don't you think you ought to ring up Val?'

‘Hallo, Georgia. Ring Val? Why?'

‘Oh, darling,' she was reproachful, ‘don't you read the papers? She's frightfully worried and upset. That murdered girl was one of her mannequins, the one who stole my dress, you remember. Papendeik's are bound to be positively bristling with police. It will be frightful for her. You know how temperamental these artist people are. A phone message from you would probably help a lot.'

There was a long pause from the other end of the wire, and Georgia began to feel dubious.

‘This is just between ourselves, of course,' she said hurriedly. ‘I'm only trying to help you both, my sweet. Of course, I haven't said a word to her.'

She heard him laugh. It was one of those short explosive laughs associated in her mind with an embarrassed expression and a change of colour.

‘What a
dear
you are, Georgia, aren't you?' he said.

She was surprised and gratified. She laughed herself.

‘It's funny to hear you say that. Do you know, Alan, everyone who has ever loved me has said that in the end. Oh well, you ring her, darling. She'll be frightfully pleased. Good-bye, Alan. I say, give the poor sweetie my love.'

He rang off, a little abruptly, she thought, but put it down quite seriously to eagerness on his part to condole with Val. She sighed. There was a tremendous satisfaction in being magnanimous, so much satisfaction that she sometimes wondered if there wasn't a catch in it somewhere.

Val had not expected any friendly offer of assistance from
Dell, but had only hoped for it. She was, therefore, not surprised when he did not ring her.

Just before noon a little girl with ferret's eyes in an innocent face stepped out of Papendeik's, where she was employed in the sewing-rooms with nearly two hundred others, and turned into a public telephone booth. Within a minute or two a fat young man with a superior manner and disreputable clothes was listening to her with interest in a corner of an editorial mezzanine floor.

‘It's drugs. Madame was with the police an hour and they took a statement.' The squeaky voice was thin with excitement. ‘Madame's shut up in the studio now and no one can get near her. They say she's crying and we're wondering if she's going to be arrested. If this is useful I get the usual, don't I?'

‘Have I ever let you down, kiddo?' The pseudo-American accent was slick. ‘Step on it, baby. Keep your ears open. So long.'

At about the same time, in a glass cubicle on the other side of the same floor, a far more elegant personage was listening to a far better accent.

‘Well, my dear,' the instrument's voice was crisp, ‘that's all I know. I was actually in the Tulip when it happened. Ray Ramillies brought this girl in actually
disguised
as Georgia Wells, and there was nearly a frightful scene, and then poor Ray died and now this girl Dangerous? Of course I know it's dangerous. But isn't it exciting?'

Mr Campion's call to Papendeik's came through to Val while her employee was still in the phone-box in Oxford Street. Val was in the studio, and Miss McPhail, who was both discreet and practical, hurried out of the room and planted her solid back against the door, casting suspicious glances at anyone who ventured within twenty feet of it.

‘Albert?' Campion knew at once by the very control in Val's voice that she was badly rattled. ‘The police have been here. They've found that morphine I told you I had. It was in Caroline Adamson's flat.'

‘My dear girl, you told me you'd destroyed it.'

‘I know I did. I couldn't find it when I came to look for it. I took it for granted that it had been mislaid. It never dawned on me that someone might have pinched it.'

‘Oh, I see.' He sounded comfortingly unalarmed. ‘Oh well, it can't be helped. She saw what it was and thought it marketable, I suppose. It was all packed up in little doses, was it?'

‘Yes, I'm afraid it was. I say, I told the police.'

‘Oh, you did? I daren't ask. Good, that's good. What did you tell them? The full strength?'

‘Yes, everything. I gave the name of the woman we sacked on suspicion of smuggling it and the firm in Lyons from whom we bought the bale of silk. They took it all down and I signed it. I say, Albert?'

‘Yes, Ma'am?'

‘The men – the inspector had someone called Wylde with him – weren't exactly matey after I'd told the story.'

‘Old Pullen? Not offensive, surely?'

‘What? Oh no, just reserved. “Yes” and “No” and that sort of thing.'

‘The atmosphere changed, you mean?'

‘Yes, it did rather. Is that bad?'

‘Oh lord, no.' His tone was hearty, but not entirely convincing. ‘The police are always like that when they get a new bit of information. They've got to go home to Poppa and see what it means, that's all. That's all right. That's nothing. I'm glad you told them. Tell 'em every mortal thing. You haven't suppressed anything, have you?'

‘No, nothing. At least, I didn't mention the
cachet blanc
. Ought I to have?'

‘No.' The word sounded considered. ‘No, I don't think so. If things stew up a bit more before this evening we'll go along to see Oates and have a show-down, but it may not come to that. You did tell them everything else?'

‘Yes, I did. I did, dear. You sound suspicious.'

‘I'm not. Only you told me you destroyed that muck.'

‘Oh, darling,' Val sounded helpless, ‘this really, honestly, is the truth, all of it.'

‘May all your designs fail if you lie?'

‘May all my designs fail if I lie.'

‘Right, that's fine. Now, is Rex about? I want to know if anyone saw that girl at a night-club recently.'

Rex was summoned by Miss McPhail, who seemed to have got it into her head that Val was in danger of being
kidnapped, for she only admitted one person at a time into the room, and then only after a keen visual ‘frisking'.

Rex did his best, but it was not very helpful.

‘I've only seen her at the Tulip,' he said. ‘I'll inquire if you like.'

‘Will you? Make a list of any names and phone it to the Junior Greys. Don't leave any other message; just the list of clubs where the girl may have been seen. If you would do that? Thank you. Look after my sister. There's nothing to worry about. Good-bye.'

He rang off and felt for another twopence. His face was sharper than usual, and for once his natural indolence had vanished. Oates could not speak to him at once and he waited and rang again. He rang every five minutes for half an hour, and when at last he got hold of the old man, he gathered that Pullen had been before him, for conversation was not easy.

‘I'm so rushed, Mr Campion. If you haven't anything relevant to tell me I'll have to ask you to excuse me. You know how it is. I haven't slept since it broke.'

‘You should take a shot of morphine,' said Campion and plugged in a question while he still had the other man's attention. ‘Have you had the P.M. report? What was the weapon? Go on, that can't be a state secret. Damn it, man, I'm likely to help you. What was the weapon?'

‘A long double-sided blade six-tenths of an inch wide. That's all I can tell you, mate. Sorry. Good-bye.'

Campion hung up. He was whistling a slow, mournful little tune which went painfully flat in the middle and his eyes were troubled. He went out to the hotel bookstall, obtained another pocketful of pennies, and returned, still whistling. He was soothed by getting on to the hospital immediately. Also, Sir Henry Portland-Smith was unexpectedly easily found. The old man was evidently curious and his fine voice sounded eager.

‘I wondered if I should hear from you, my boy. I was thinking of you this morning. Have you any news for me?'

‘No proof, sir.' Campion had to drag his mind round to this half-forgotten angle of the case which yet remained the other man's main interest. ‘But I think it's fairly obvious now that the cause was blackmail.'

‘Blackmail!' There was no question in the word, only enlightenment and considerable relief.

‘I haven't finished by any means. It's still in the air. I can't tell you the details over the phone. I'll call on you when I've got it straightened out a bit. I really wanted to bother you for a piece of information. How long does morphine take to kill?'

‘What kind of morphine?'

‘I don't know. White powdery crystals.'

‘Diluted and taken sub-cutaneously?'

‘No. By the mouth.'

‘How much?'

‘God knows.'

‘What?'

‘I have no earthly means of finding out.'

The old man laughed. ‘I can't help you, my boy. I'm sorry. Thirty-six hours, perhaps.'

‘Really? As long as that? You wouldn't expect fatal results in four hours?'

‘Well, I don't like to say on such vague grounds. You'd get some effect in four hours, you know. Perhaps even coma.'

‘I see. There would be a protracted period of coma, would there?'

‘Oh yes. That is in straight morphine poisoning. But there might be other conditions present, you see. Those would have to be considered.'

‘Yes, of course. But if you saw a man take – well – say a rice-paper-container full of morphine crystals you wouldn't expect him to throw a fit four hours afterwards, bite his tongue and pass out?'

‘No, I shouldn't. I should expect him to be sick. If not, you'd get sleep, and afterwards no reflex action, slow pulse and so on, and finally coma.'

‘No fit?'

‘No, no, no convulsions. At least, I shouldn't say so. If you could be more specific I could help you. Post-mortem would find it, you know.'

‘It would?'

‘Oh, certainly, if it was competently done. Bound to. Sorry I can't help you more. You'll come and see me, will you?'

‘Yes, I will. I can't give you a date, unfortunately, but I'll come.'

‘Then we'll have the whole story?'

‘Yes.' Campion's voice was unusually sober. ‘The whole story. Good-bye. Thank you enormously.'