Trouble Brewing (16 page)

Bill swung his feet comfortably over the arm of the chair. ‘All this is a bit beside the point, isn't it? The point being Valdez's death and Helston's disappearance.'

‘Not entirely,' countered Jack. ‘Don't forget what concerns Jaggard concerns Laurence Tyrell, and Laurence Tyrell knew Valdez in Brazil.'

Bill smiled cynically. ‘If he was ever in Brazil, that is. I can't be the only one who's wondered exactly what that gentleman has been up to for the last few years.'

‘As a matter of fact, as far as the firm's concerned, his story's true,' said Meredith. ‘H.R.H. is nobody's fool and asked me to check our records. John Marsden was employed at the plantation in Branca Preto from last July onwards.'

‘John Marsden being . . .?' asked Bill.

‘The name Tyrell was using,' said Meredith. ‘There's the entries in the wages book, Valdez's note to London that he was taking the man on and Tyrell's own reports from Branca Preto when he was running the show. We've even got the cable he sent enquiring what had happened to Valdez. Then, come March, he ups and offs, leaving the deputy in charge.'

‘The rest of his story seems to be true as well,' said Jack. ‘Mr Stafford, the solicitor, showed me the statement from the Dominican missionary. It's in Portuguese, which I worked out with a little effort. It bore out everything Tyrell said. Furthermore, there really is a Freire Jose of the Dominican Mission at São Estevão, which isn't far from Maraba on the Araguya. I know, because the Dominicans at Chalk Farm looked him up for me. I also paid a visit to Bingo Romer-Stuart, my pal at the War Office. Private John Marsden of the Sixteenth Battalion, Royal Western Australian Regiment, was invalided back to Australia after Passchendaele. The only thing which did make me hesitate was that, before he apparently left us for a better world, Lieutenant Tyrell was a whisker away from being hauled up for conduct unbecoming. However, as far as that goes, we already knew he left a slew of gambling debts. Pat Tyrell said as much.'

Bill was unconvinced. ‘Don't you think it's convenient that he's reappeared now there's some money in prospect?'

‘Of course I do,' said Jack. ‘Admittedly he's biased, but Jaggard certainly thinks so. By the sound of it, it occurred to H.R.H. as well. Tyrell doesn't actually gain directly, though. Jaggard gets to keep his share of the trust fund and the rest of the money has Helston's name on it. All I would say, is that it came as a nasty shock to Tyrell when he realized the money was tied up in a trust.'

‘Have you had any more thoughts about the murder, Jack?' asked Meredith Smith, reaching for the beer. ‘Because I can tell you,' he said, concentrating on filling his glass, ‘that H.R.H. isn't happy. As he sees it, all you've done is to give the police a motive for Helston to disappear. Between you and me, he's regretting that he ever asked you to look into it.' Meredith cast an acute glance at Bill. ‘It has made it worse, hasn't it? For Mark Helston, I mean.'

‘It's a compelling theory,' admitted Bill. ‘We have an argument, a body, a disappearance. It's hard to say they're not connected. I wish we could get some sort of lead on the knife Valdez was stabbed with. The jeweller I showed it to said it was probably made to order abroad. I've ordered every jeweller in London to be contacted about it, in case it was sold in London, but so far there's nothing. If we do get a result, it could help enormously.'

‘The trouble is, this is Mark Helston we're speaking about,' said Jack. ‘Everyone who knew him says that he was kindly, honest and straightforward. I must say I'd like to know if there's anything in this idea that it's not all as mother makes at Hunt Coffee.'

‘Is there anything going on, Smith?' asked Bill.

Meredith pulled a face. ‘H.R.H. thinks so, that's for sure. Frederick Hunt doesn't, and was pretty ratty when he found I'd talked to his father about it. There was a discrepancy with the amount of chicory to coffee, which he explained away – not terribly convincingly I thought – but I'd hate to take him up on any technical point to do with production. I stuck my foot in it good and proper over the disparity of weights of the various sacks of coffee in the warehouse and, for all I know, he's telling the exact truth about the chicory. H.R.H. told me that Mark Helston suspected something dodgy was going on, though. I'm hanged if I can guess what it is, if there is anything. It certainly hasn't shown up in the accounts, that's for sure.'

‘I wonder . . .' said Bill. ‘Let's say there is a swindle of some sort. Valdez gets on to it and challenges Frederick Hunt. He might even try a bit of blackmail. That would be at the meeting on the twenty-ninth of December. Valdez then goes off to Paris, leaving Hunt to mull it over. Hunt carefully doesn't tell Helston about the meeting arranged for the ninth, either because he wants to buy off Valdez or give him some explanation which wouldn't wash with Helston. But Helston arrives unexpectedly and makes a third at that meeting.'

‘Why should it be fraud?' asked Meredith. ‘It could be simple incompetence. Frederick Hunt wouldn't want his father to know he'd been asleep on the job. If Valdez had spotted something wrong, Frederick Hunt might very well want to keep it quiet. He'd want to keep Helston out of it, as telling Helston would be tantamount to telling H.R.H.'

‘That's true enough, Merry,' agreed Jack. ‘We know Helston was worried and abstracted after the meeting. That sounds to me like a man who's making up his mind what to do next, rather than a man who's been confronted with something definitely criminal. From what I've learnt of Helston, I think he'd reach for the nearest policeman as soon as he knew something was really wrong. At the very least, he'd go and ask H.R.H. for advice. What he
did
do, if we follow our earlier line of reasoning, is arrange to meet Valdez again that evening.'

‘D'you think Valdez asked Helston for money in return for keeping quiet?'

Jack shook his head. ‘If he had done, Helston would've gone off like a rocket. If Valdez tried, Helston might very easily have tried to slug him. He wouldn't, if what everyone says about him is true, take the man off to a deserted house on Gower Street, strip him naked and stick a knife in him.'

‘Are we sure Helston was such a knight in shining armour?' asked Bill.

Jack looked at Merry. ‘I think so. If he wasn't, he fooled a hell of a lot of people.'

‘I agree,' said Meredith decisively. ‘I've heard it too often to think anything else. His clerk, Miss Mandeville – she works for me now – thinks he was very likable and honest.'

Jack stubbed out his cigarette. ‘She should know.'

‘I hardly like to suggest it,' said Meredith, ‘but could Frederick Hunt be the murderer? I can't imagine him doing anything of the sort, but I suppose it's possible.'

‘Unfortunately, from my point of view, it
isn't
possible,' said Bill. ‘Frederick Hunt's alibi from seven o'clock onwards on the ninth is about as cast iron as it's possible to get, and we know Valdez was alive and well at seven o'clock, because that's when he left the Montague Court Hotel.'

‘Is there any chance the Valdez who left the hotel was an impostor faking an alibi?' asked Jack, hopefully.

‘None whatsoever,' said Bill with a laugh. ‘The desk clerk recognized him. That just isn't on the cards. At seven o'clock, Frederick Hunt was at a Mansion House dinner, with heapings of the great and the good. That's borne out by dozens of witnesses. The dinner started with a reception at seven and broke up about half eleven. Frederick Hunt arrived back at Neville Square just after midnight with a guest, a Mr Alistair Buchanan, of Buchanan Glassworks. Mr Buchanan had a nightcap and stayed until about half one.'

Jack finished his beer. ‘Fair enough. Frederick Hunt couldn't go anywhere until Mr Buchanan had left and, granted Valdez and Helston were together from half seven or so, it'd be damned odd if they waited until about two in the morning for Frederick Hunt to turn up. To be honest, I can't see him murdering anyone. Not violently, at any rate.'

‘What about Pat?' said Meredith Smith. He flushed as both men turned to look at him. ‘I don't like the idea but she does benefit from her brother's disappearance.'

‘She'd benefit a damn sight more from her brother's death,' said Jack. ‘Leaving it up in the air like this isn't much use to anyone. Besides that, not only was Pat Jaggard, as she was then, away on the ninth of January, the footprints we found in the house were made by a man. She's in the clear.'

Meredith breathed a deep sigh of relief. ‘I'm glad to hear it. I hate the thought of any woman mixed up in a gruesome business like this. Does it have to be someone connected with Hunts? Why can't Valdez have been killed by a stranger?'

‘It won't work, old thing,' said Jack. ‘Valdez and Helston have both got to be accounted for and the idea of a stranger seeing them both off just won't wash. As far as I can see, there're only two real possibilities. Either Helston killed Valdez and ran for it, or both were killed by a third man. Either way, it's a thin prospect for Helston.'

He filled up his glass and seemed to be considering the head on his beer. ‘I do wonder where Jaggard fits in to all this. Anne Lassiter told me that, come Christmas or thereabouts, Jaggard took up with his old mistress, Elise Molnar.'

Meredith Smith gave a long whistle of surprise. ‘Are you sure, Jack? After helping to shovel him into bed the other night at the club, I'd have said he was crazy about Pat. He certainly wasn't happy about Tyrell's return, was he?'

‘That's putting it mildly. I can't help feeling sorry for him. From what I can make out, his company's one jump ahead of the Receiver, his personal life is a mess and now Tyrell's come on the scene to round it all off. However, leaving my feelings to one side, the fact is that if Helston didn't murder Valdez, someone else did.'

Bill looked up sharply. ‘And you think that someone might be Jaggard?'

Jack winced. ‘It's a possibility. I don't like it, but it's a possibility. We've been concentrating on what you might call a business motive for bumping off Valdez, but it could just as easily be a private motive. Jaggard could've been very anxious his wife didn't find out about his affair.'

Bill raised his eyebrows expressively. ‘I'd be anxious, if I was him. Pat Whatever doesn't strike me as a very forgiving type. How does that involve Valdez though? He couldn't know anything about Jaggard's shenanigans.'

‘That's just the trouble, Bill. He could. Valdez was in Paris over the New Year. Jaggard said he was in Birmingham after the New Year. He wasn't.'

‘Wasn't he, by George?'

‘No. He was with Elise Molnar in Paris.'

‘Now we're getting somewhere,' said Bill in satisfaction. ‘How on earth did you find out?'

‘I took Elise Molnar out to dinner. She's currently singing at The Frozen Limit.' He grinned. ‘My word, that woman's got the digestion of an ostrich. It cost me two bottles of champagne, a fair old bit of caviar and lashings of lobster mayonnaise.'

‘And maddened by mayonnaise she simply told you everything?' said Bill in perplexity. ‘What did you do? Hypnotize the woman?'

‘I spun her a yarn. Quite a good one, actually. It certainly brought home the bacon.'

‘What did you tell her?'

Jack rubbed the side of his nose in reluctant amusement. ‘Well, if you must know, I said I was madly in love with a beautiful young Russian girl called Sofia. Sofia, despite her ethereal looks and air of mysterious grace, hadn't done what any other Russian with an ounce of sense had done and opened a hat shop, but was eking out a life of grinding poverty as a humble servant. I rather went to town over that part. I'd discovered, although I was sworn to secrecy, that Sofia was really, if all had their rights, so to speak, the Grand Duchess Vladimorovia. All her family had been slaughtered by the Bolsheviks, you see. Her only asset was an emerald necklace, the legendary emerald necklace of the Vladimorovs, which her dying mother had pressed into her hands.'

‘Good God,' muttered Bill. Meredith Smith merely gaped at him.

‘She fled Russia disguised as a peasant, her feet bound in rags, suffering appalling privations, before eventually reaching Good Old Blighty and freedom. Here things hotted up for the girlfriend. She realized, in the nick of time, that she was being pursued by a gang of evil Bolsheviks who wanted the necklace. In order to escape the villains, she took a post as the aforesaid humble servant at a grand house in Birmingham.'

‘Blimey.'

‘As you say, blimey. Anyway, disaster struck when, at a grand ball at the grand house, the necklace was stolen. The Bolsheviks are convinced that the thief is none other than Miss Molnar's old friend, Gregory Jaggard. He said he was at the ball, you see. Now, I know he wasn't there. I'm convinced, I said, looking her straight in the eyes, he had lied about being at the ball and had lied for the best reason in the world, to protect a lady who was very dear to him. Gregory Jaggard, although he doesn't know it, is in deadly peril from the Bolshevik gang.'

Jack grinned broadly. ‘At this point Miss Molnar, identifying herself correctly as the lady in question, was nearly overcome with emotion. Could she, I asked, tell me where Jaggard was after the New Year? If I knew – really knew – I could draw the Bolsheviks off and set them after the man who I believe really stole the necklace, who is none other than the leader of the Bolshevik gang, a black-hearted traitor who deserves all that's coming to him because he has designs on my lovely Sofia.'

‘You mean to say she believed all that rigmarole?'

‘It's a damn good story,' said Jack. ‘So good, in fact, that it'll probably appear in a forthcoming issue of
On The Town.
Yes, of course she believed me. She hung on my every word. And that, Bill, my old pal, is how I know that Miss Molnar and Gregory Jaggard spent a week in an apartment he'd taken on the rue de la Paix, near the Tuilerie Gardens. Miss Molnar has expensive tastes.'