Читать книгу Dead to the World: Based on Paul Temple and the Jonathan Mystery - Francis Durbridge, Francis Durbridge - Страница 6

The wind that came up from the sea that night was ideal for a murderer’s purpose.

It crept over the Downs towards Deanfriston College on talons of ice, probing through chinks in ill-fitting doors and windows, taking possession of the night. On its heels came swirling shards of mist, in places thin as gossamer, in others thick as swansdown, enough to swallow the outline of a murderer and dull the soft tread of footsteps on springy turf up the hill to the College.

The murderer’s sole risk – that of being seen – had been eliminated. Deanfriston’s single street was swept of all life, its inhabitants imprisoned by the bitter cold, glad of a warm fireside and a television screen. Fog and cold were the murderer’s handmaidens: there was little risk.

The killer’s plan was simple …

The young victim looked up with a pleasant, expectant smile as the heavy wooden door of the study opened; trust and welcome were on his face as he took out a bottle of ‘students’ port and two glasses and turned for the last three seconds of his life to stare briefly and uncomprehendingly down the muzzle of a heavy-bore gun.

Despite the silencer with which the gun was fitted, the muffled explosion in the small room was considerable, and the damage done to the victim at such short range was appalling. For a few seconds the assailant’s nerves tottered on the edge of panic.

Then the echoes died, and nothing stirred down the long, cell-like corridor called Scholars’ Row, built of huge blocks of stone cut in a slower, more opulent age.

The killer quickly set to work arranging the body. The details had been mentally rehearsed a hundred times and the sequence of action now had a remorseless, computer-like quality, as though some disembodied agent were executing the complicated moves. There was no room for mistakes, and none would be made. Twenty minutes later the mutilated corpse was in position. Every detail was perfect; nothing had been forgotten.

Turning to leave, the assassin’s eye was caught by a bikini-clad pin-up who smiled from the top of a page-a-day calendar on the wall. Yes, that would be rather a nice touch! Swiftly the current date was ripped from the calendar, and the date for the morrow lay revealed. It was ringed with red ink and had been jubilantly inscribed, many months before, with the words: ‘My twenty-first birthday – everyone please note!’ On the mantelpiece stood two birthday greetings cards. They had arrived early and had already been opened. One was from Julie, the other from Antoinette. How very ironical.

The newspapers would love it, the murderer reflected, picturing the headlines. No editor would be able to resist such a perfect tearjerker. ‘STUDENT MURDERED ON EVE OF 21st.’ No, they would surely add the word ‘brilliant’ – only ‘brilliant’ or ‘gifted’ students were ever killed. ‘LIFE ENDS FOR GIFTED STUDENT ON EVE OF MANHOOD.’ That was better. It was too late for the morning papers, but the evening editions would carry it. They would make interesting reading.

With an inner chuckle the murderer buttoned the high collar of a thick coat and strode out on to the mist-shrouded Downs.

‘What I like about modern air travel,’ growled Philip Holt, ‘is the speed, comfort, and convenience with which one is whisked from continent to continent! – Like now, for example!’

The crowded perimeter-bus in which they had been standing for nearly ten minutes gave a lurch, jolted forward a few yards, and jerked to an abrupt standstill on the tarmac again.

‘I expect we’re having to wait whilst another plane lands,’ said his secretary, Ruth Sanders, in a soothing voice. Ruth possessed an irrepressible enthusiasm for everything, which seemed to keep her strikingly bright and pretty throughout the most exacting day.

The young photographer ignored her attempt to placate him. ‘We’ve been hurled across the Atlantic at twice the speed of sound,’ he complained, ‘and since we touched down on British soil twenty minutes ago we’ve moved precisely four yards!’ He sighed, dragging his palm impatiently over the back of his head and ruffling his chestnut hair. ‘When we do eventually get to the main terminal we’ll probably have to wait half an hour while they find our luggage, and then—’

The bus gave a sudden jerk, preparatory to moving off, which sent Holt bumping into the man strap-hanging next to him.

‘Oh! My apologies, Mr Scranton. I really wasn’t expecting this thing to move!’

Scranton laughed. ‘It’s the same the world over, Mr Holt,’ he said in the pleasant drawl of Mid-Western America. ‘Like it was in the Army – hurry up and wait, men – hurry up and wait!’

‘You’re not being at all helpful,’ Ruth put in with a mischievous grin. ‘You mustn’t stop the boss here enjoying a good old British grumble.’

The American chuckled and turned attentively to his wife, a little woman in a mauve hat who had managed to gain a seat.

A little later the bus slid to a standstill and, in the mild confusion of getting out, Holt and Ruth became separated from the American couple.

‘Who’s your new buddy?’ Ruth asked as they trailed in the wake of a stewardess down endless corridors towards the arrival lounge.

‘The American? Oh, he’s from Minnesota. His name’s Robert Scranton. We got talking over a drink when you were sleeping on the flight. He manufactures washing machines. Nice chap – only he will refer to his wife as “Mother”.’

‘A lot of Americans do.’

‘I know; it’s an appalling habit. If I were a wife I’d rebel! It must make a woman feel so ancient.’

‘Perhaps Mrs Scranton is a mother,’ Ruth suggested.

‘As a matter of fact she is – he mentioned two daughters and a son. But that’s not the point! She’s Scranton’s wife, not his mother, and she probably likes to think of herself as still a young girl with—’

He was cut short by the announcement that passengers on the flight from New York should proceed at once to the Customs Hall.

They stood alongside the mechanical moving band and waited for their luggage to appear. For a long time nothing came up and it was obvious they had been called prematurely, before unloading had been completed.

Holt looked around irritably, anxious to be on the move again. ‘There’ll be a stack of work for us to catch up on when we get back to the Studio,’ he said dismally. ‘Another time I’ll think twice before going off to New York to give an exhibition of my work.’

‘Nonsense!’ said Ruth cheerfully. ‘Your photographs are absolutely super and the trip was a huge success! The publicity will do you no end of good.’

‘Then at least I’ll take care to leave my secretary in London to get on with the work while I’m away.’

‘Not on your life!’ she declared emphatically. ‘You know you couldn’t manage without me.’

‘Now what on earth makes you think that?’ he asked mildly, looking down at her and knowing it was true. There was no doubt about it, Ruth was an excellent secretary and a very capable photographic assistant, even if her efficiency was sometimes a little overpowering.

She began to enlighten him. ‘… Because you’d have been sure to lose your plane tickets – and been late for all your press shows – and you’d have been eaten alive by all those fabulous women who were prowling round the studios waiting to pounce on helpless males!’

Holt grinned suddenly, his ill-humour beginning to disperse. He turned, and caught the eye of Robert Scranton standing with his wife not far away. ‘As you said,’ he called pleasantly, ‘hurry up and wait!’

Scranton smiled patiently. ‘That’s how it goes!’ He looked at his wife. ‘Say, why don’t you step aside, Mother, and take it easy while I stay here and watch out for our bags? See if you can sit down someplace.’

Mrs Scranton nodded gratefully and moved away. She looked tired and none too strong, Holt thought.

‘Are you staying in London, Mr Scranton?’ he asked.

‘Yeah. Booked in at the Savoy.’

‘I’ve got my car here; can I offer you a lift up to Town? The Savoy isn’t very far from my Studio in Westminster.’

‘That’s real nice of you, Mr Holt!… I’ll have to ask Mother, though – there’s just a chance we may be met. I’ll go see what she thinks.’

Holt turned as the luggage from their flight began to tumble from the well below, on to the moving band, and climb slowly up towards them. He was concentrating on his search for their suitcases when Ruth gave a little squeal of excitement and grabbed his arm. She was staring beyond him towards the exit.

‘Look – isn’t that Inspector Hyde out there?’

‘Inspector Hyde?’ Holt peered in the same direction. ‘Yes, you’re right, it is.’ He waved his hand but the police officer did not respond. ‘I don’t think he’s seen us.’

‘Oh, how disappointing,’ Ruth said. ‘I wonder what he’s doing here. Maybe he’s come to arrest a dangerous criminal! Oh, Philip, how thrilling! You’ll be able to get some on-the-spot pictures, and Hyde might even ask us to help him again. Wouldn’t it be exciting if we could solve another mystery for him …?’ Her eyes sparkled at the prospect as she let her imagination run riot.

‘Oh, I shouldn’t think that’s likely, Ruth,’ Holt said soberly, recalling the events which had led to their being involved in the Maidenhead affair.^fn1 ‘That was more than twelve months ago. I’m sure Scotland Yard can function quite well without us.’

‘Hold it! I think the Inspector’s seen us,’ Ruth cut in. ‘What’s more, he’s coming in here! And there’s a fat man with a press camera trotting behind him.’

Holt vaguely registered the thought that perhaps Ruth was right and that something unusual might be about to happen. It was strictly against the rules for anyone to contact air passengers before they had been cleared at the Customs Hall. There was no time for further thought, however; Hyde was only a few paces away.

‘Hello, Inspector! What brings you here? You haven’t come to arrest us, I hope?’

Holt noted that the older man had not changed much since their last meeting; his thick hair was just a trifle greyer at the temples perhaps. But he thought he detected a slight sense of urgency behind the habitually quiet and courteous manner as Hyde gave a tight smile and the three of them exchanged brief greetings.

‘This is an odd coincidence, meeting you here,’ the Inspector said. ‘But I must be quick! As it happens, you may be able to help me. That man you were talking to just now – the tall fellow with the lady in the violet hat – do you happen to know his name?’

‘Yes, we got friendly on the plane. I’ve just offered them a lift up to Town.’

The Inspector glanced at a photograph which he held in his hand. ‘Well, if he’s Mr Robert Scranton from Minnesota—’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘Then I’ve got some bad news for him.’

The Scrantons started to thread their way through the crush, towards Holt, tentative smiles of gratitude on their faces. It was obvious that they had decided to accept his offer of a lift.

‘Miss Sanders,’ Hyde said quietly, ‘do you think you could get Mrs Scranton out of the way for the moment? I’d like to break the news to her husband first.’

Ruth’s reactions were split-second fast. She broke away from the group and headed Mrs Scranton off with an admiring comment on her hat. In a moment they had been swallowed up by the crowd.

‘Mr Robert Scranton?’ asked Hyde politely as the American reached them.

‘Sure. That’s me!’

‘I’m Detective-Inspector Hyde from Scotland Yard. I don’t want to make a mistake, so may I ask you if you have a son in this country, Mr Scranton?’

‘Yes, I have … Why, is there anything wrong?’ Scranton turned pale. ‘He’s a student at University over here – Deanfriston College, down on the south coast. As a matter of fact we’re over here to celebrate his twenty-first birthday.’

Hyde cleared his throat. ‘I’m afraid I have something very unfortunate to tell you, sir. It’s … it’s bad news.’

Scranton steeled himself. ‘Go on, Inspector.’

‘Your son was found dead in his study at Deanfriston early this morning. There seems little doubt that he was murdered.’

‘Oh, my God!’ Scranton began to sway, his face assuming a deathly pallor. He looked as though he were about to crumple and Holt jumped forward to steady him. At that precise moment a press camera flashed.

Hyde’s face registered intense anger as he whirled on the press photographer behind him. ‘How the hell did you get in here, Jenkins?’

‘It’s a free press, Inspector,’ said Jenkins smugly, fitting another bulb into his camera and beating a cautious retreat.

Hyde suppressed his annoyance and turned again to Robert Scranton who asked for a glass of water and felt in his waistcoat pocket for a small silver capsule which contained pills.

‘Be … okay in a moment … It’s my heart …’

Presently a girl in uniform hurried over to him with the water, and as he took the pills he gave them all a beseeching glance. ‘Don’t tell Mother about this – not yet. Leave it to me … She’s not very strong, you know.’

Holt nodded, and refrained from saying the obvious – that Scranton himself did not appear to be very strong either. To the Inspector Holt said quietly, ‘Is there anything I can do to help? I expect you’ll want them to accompany you up to Town now.’

‘Quite so,’ Hyde replied. ‘There is one thing, though. I’d be most grateful if you could steer Mrs Scranton to the upstairs lounge and give her some strong tea. Just say her husband isn’t feeling too well but will be joining her shortly. We’ll take over from there.’

‘You’re sure that’s all we can do?’

‘I think so. Many thanks to you, Mr Holt. And please convey my thanks to Miss Sanders.’

Although Holt and Ruth discussed the incident on their way up to Town they did not seriously imagine that it would ever again touch their lives. It was only a chance drink on board a transatlantic plane that had brought Holt and Scranton together, and it was pure coincidence that Detective-Inspector Hyde had been put in charge of the case; had it been any other police officer it was unlikely that they would have been involved in the matter at all.

By the time Ruth had arrived at the Studio the following morning and they had begun to tackle the arrears of work, the previous day’s events had been practically forgotten.

It was early afternoon, after a hurried lunch of sandwiches and milk, when the telephone rang.

Ruth answered it, then placed her hand over the mouthpiece and said with mild surprise, ‘It’s Robert Scranton. Are you at home?’

Holt looked at his half-cleared desk, made a wry face, then reached for the receiver.

‘Mr Scranton?… Yes, this is Holt speaking. How did you know where to find me?… Oh, the telephone directory, of course! What can I do for you?’

A short conversation followed, in which Holt said little but continued to look perplexed. When he rang off Ruth looked at him expectantly, but he made no comment and stretched out his arm towards the cigarette box on the far side of his desk. He was attempting to cut down on smoking, if not to give it up entirely, but had soon discovered that Ruth’s enthusiasm for this project was greater than his own. When she was present, abstinence usually triumphed, if only temporarily. She slid the box out of reach, silently, and waited for him to speak.

‘Scranton wants to see me,’ he said at last. ‘At the Savoy.’

‘On business? Does he want you to photograph his washing machines?’

‘I don’t think so. It’s got something to do with his son. He says he has something to show me. Why me, I wonder?’

‘Perhaps he needs a friend. Maybe he doesn’t know anyone else in London.’

‘I don’t think that’s the answer. He told me he comes over here pretty often, travels all over Europe, in fact.’

‘Are you going?’

‘What else could I say? I can’t really spare the time, but somehow he made it sound quite urgent. His wife chipped in a word, too. Said she’d be eternally grateful if I’d spare them ten minutes. I could hardly refuse.’

He took his raincoat and hat from the hook and glanced at Ruth’s desk. ‘You’ve got enough to get on with till I get back?’

‘Not if you’re going to be away longer than three weeks,’ came the dry reply.

Holt’s laugh was a shade embarrassed as he descended the narrow staircase and let himself out through the street door. He sometimes wondered if he drove Ruth too hard. If so, she seemed to thrive on it. Women were funny creatures. On the whole, since his divorce, he had been happier without them. The trouble was, of course, he didn’t really understand them …

Now a car, he thought, as he swung open the garage door and gazed with pride at his gleaming red Mustang – a car was something a man really could understand. No tantrums, no coy or inexplicable moods about those sleek and splendid beasts!

It was only a month or two since he had parted with his Lancia Flaminia, after barely a year’s ownership, in favour of the Mustang, and he still experienced a feeling of exultation as he slid behind the wheel and fastened his safety belt. It was great to be back with the Mustang!… Now to the Savoy … Turn left, swing round beneath Big Ben, down on to the embankment, and a nice straight run to a parking spot near Waterloo Bridge. It would take him five minutes – well, it rather depended on police speed patrols …

He backed out carefully and then flicked on the specially-fitted racing speedometer with its wide sweeping secondhand. Say, four-and-a-half minutes!

Robert Scranton opened the door to his hotel suite almost immediately after Holt had knocked. He must have been waiting in the near vicinity.

They shook hands and Scranton offered Holt a drink. Then Mrs Scranton, dressed in severe black, came out of the adjoining room. She was very pale, but seemed composed and well able to help Holt over the awkward hurdle of expressing his condolences.

‘Mr Holt, I won’t try and describe to you what it means to lose your only son,’ she said. ‘We have two married daughters in the States, but a son … Anyway, we didn’t bring you here to inflict our burden on you. Do sit down.’

‘Mother’s right,’ Scranton said, handing Holt his drink. ‘We’ve no right to waste your time. They say you’re one of the most successful photographers in the country, so you must be a very busy man. I’ll come straight to the point!’ He strode to a table in the middle of the room and picked up a magazine. ‘This is what I wanted to show you. It came by post this morning, just before lunch. It was addressed to us care of the hotel. I’ll show you the wrapper – it’s got a London postmark – but I don’t think there’s anything on it to help us.’

The magazine was called the New Feature. Holt knew of it, though he seldom read it. He looked at Scranton inquiringly.

‘It’s page eighteen that we’re supposed to read,’ Scranton said tensely.

Holt flicked over the pages, aware how intently they were regarding him. Page eighteen carried only one article, with the heading ‘Britain and Europe’. He scanned the paragraphs hurriedly, then his eye jumped to the author’s name printed in discreet type at the foot of the page: PROSPERO.

Holt had no idea who Prospero might be, but the person who had sent the magazine evidently knew; the nom de plume had been underlined twice in green ink, and alongside was written the cryptic sentence:

If you want to know who murdered your son, ask Prospero.

Holt studied the handwriting for a moment, then asked, ‘Was this all you received?’

‘Yes, just that,’ Scranton replied. ‘We’re been through it from cover to cover, haven’t we, Mother? As for the article itself, it’s kinda heavy going, if you know what I mean – politics, economics, and all that sort of thing. I don’t think there’s anything of significance in it for us.’

‘And who is Prospero?’

‘That’s just it – we haven’t been able to find out. I tried phoning this morning, but the magazine won’t play. They seemed to be scared I wanted to challenge Prospero to a duel or something – maybe slap a libel suit on him.’

‘How about the police, Mr Scranton? Shouldn’t this copy of the magazine go to them anyway?’

Scranton, who had been sitting next to Holt as they studied the magazine, now stirred uneasily and glanced across at his wife sitting very erect in a highbacked armchair. She gave him a little nod of encouragement and he uncoiled his long, bony body and stood up.

He wore a dark suit, well-cut but of rather poor cloth, a smart white shirt, and a dark tie. The face was lean, angular, and close shaven, and his iron-grey hair was cropped close to the skull. Holt got the impression of a pleasant, unpretentious businessman with little physical or intellectual vanity but plenty of shrewd commercial acumen.

With long, easy strides Scranton began pacing the room. ‘I’ll lay my cards on the table, Mr Holt, without any evasion – that way you can say straight out whether you like the proposition or not. The fact is, I want your help. We want it, Mother and me. We want your help and we’re prepared to pay for it.’

‘My help? In finding out who Prospero is?’ asked Holt, puzzled. ‘Well, I don’t suppose that will be very difficult.’

‘No, it’s much more than that. I want to hire your services as a private investigator. I want you to find out who murdered my son. Isn’t that right, Mother?’

Holt looked astounded and Mrs Scranton blushed slightly. ‘Robert is very blunt, Mr Holt, you mustn’t mind, it’s just his way. But I can’t tell you how grateful we’d be if we could enlist your help in getting to the bottom of this dreadful business.’

‘But, Mrs Scranton, here in Britain we have an excellent police force and I’m sure they’ll do everything necessary to find out—’

‘Oh, they’re doubtless very painstaking and honest,’ Scranton interjected. ‘If I’d lost a diamond ring or a pet poodle I’d be perfectly willing to leave things in their hands. But I haven’t – I’ve lost a son! Brutally murdered as he sat at his books, boning up hard, trying to be a credit to us and the Faculty that awarded him that Exchange Scholarship from the States. Vance was a fine boy, Mr Holt, he had a big future ahead of him as a writer …’

‘As a writer? Was that what he was studying?’

‘No, not exactly. But that’s how it turned out. He was doing courses in history, philosophy, economics – the whole works. I don’t know if he would ever have made the grade as a writer; we never shall know now. To tell the honest truth, I’d always hoped he might get his feed-bag full and come back to the States one day, maybe help out on the sales side of our business … But we’re getting off the point! Vance was our only son and we want to find out who shot him, and why. The police have got the case in hand, but those boys have got their hands full. They’re swamped by the crime wave. Am I right?’

‘What you say is true, but—’

‘It’s the same back in the States. There’s someone murdered every few minutes, and half the crimes are never solved. The cops just can’t keep pace with it all.’

‘We’ll co-operate all we can with the British police, and we know they’ll do their best,’ put in Mrs Scranton. ‘But that’s not enough. We want a private investigator who’s only got one job on his hands – the job of nailing the man who shot Vance.’

Scranton stopped his pacing and turned to face Holt. ‘Well, what do you say? Will you take the job?’

Holt chose his words carefully. ‘You have my fullest sympathy, both of you – but … well, I’m afraid my answer has to be no. You see, I’m not a private investigator; I don’t know who told you to the contrary. My business is photography. I dare say I could find out for you who this fellow Prospero is, but after that I can’t imagine how I could help you.’

Robert Scranton smiled and took Holt’s glass to the cocktail cabinet to replenish it. Over his shoulder he said, ‘If I’ve never encountered the famous British reticence before I sure have run full tilt into it now! I can see I shall have to lay some more cards on the table. I don’t have the full details, Mr Holt, but I heard you’d been pretty smart in solving a murder case last year, and—’

‘Where did you hear that?’ Holt asked sharply.

‘Well, that’s what Abe Jenkins told me.’

Holt sat up straight, genuinely puzzled. ‘Who’s Abe Jenkins?’

It was the American’s turn to look surprised. ‘You mean to say you don’t know Abe Jenkins? He sure knows all about you – and not just the fact that you’re a wow with a camera, either! He’s the guy who got into the Customs Hall at the airport and took my picture, just when the Inspector broke the news.’

‘And you liked that?’ Holt said a trifle thinly.

‘No, sir, not at all! Not at all! I felt good and mad when I realised what was going on, but by that time it was too late. Believe me, I was in no hurry to meet up with that guy again, but there he was at the morgue this morning when I was driven there to identify Vance’s body. Jenkins is a crime reporter working for one of your big newspapers. He saw me talking to you at the airport yesterday, and this morning he asked me if I was thinking of hiring you.’

‘Really, Robert! What a clumsy phrase!’ Mrs Scranton reproved.

Her husband looked slightly abashed and mumbled an apology. ‘That’s how Jenkins said it, not me. I asked him what he meant and – well, he kinda led me to believe you were a private investigator.’

Abe Jenkins had evidently done a good deal of nosing around, Holt reflected, for the part he and Ruth had played in the case had been given little or no publicity, owing to its rather unorthodox character. ‘Remarkable,’ he said bitterly. ‘Tell me, Mr Scranton: did this Abe Jenkins chap pass himself off as a friend of mine?’

‘No, as a matter of fact he did not! To tell the truth, I almost got the impression that he doesn’t like you at all.’

‘But I’ve never done him any harm – I don’t even know the fellow!’

‘Could it be professional jealousy, Mr Holt? You’ve reached the top of your profession in the photographic world, whereas he still appears to be lugging a press camera around in search of lucky snapshots. He also seems to fancy himself as a crime reporter and amateur sleuth, so it isn’t hard to understand his feelings when one Philip Holt beat him to it in that field as well.’

‘I begin to see a little more daylight,’ said Holt slowly. He reached into his pocket for his cigarette case, then thought better of it and thrust it resolutely back. ‘I wonder how Jenkins happened to be at the airport yesterday. Was that pure chance, do you think?’

‘No, his editor sent him down to Deanfriston because he thought the story was right up Jenkins’ alley. Now we’d sent Vance a cable telling him what flight we were coming on, and Jenkins somehow got a look at that cable. We’d kinda hoped Vance would be at the airport to meet us …’ He broke off as he glanced at his wife and noticed the effect his words had had upon her. ‘Now then, Mother,’ he began soothingly, ‘… you promised yourself no tears, remember …?’

To avoid the pitiful and embarrassing scene, Holt rose quietly, took the copy of the New Feature, and discreetly said his farewells. ‘I’ll do what I can with regard to this Prospero business,’ he promised.

Scranton accompanied him to the door. His tone was low and serious as they shook hands. ‘Think my offer over, Mr Holt. You can go places where the police can’t – you’re an outsider, an unknown, a sort of lone agent, if you see what I mean. If it’s money you’re worried about, just name your own price. Mother and I will go to any lengths to find out who did this terrible thing to our son.’

Awkwardly Holt released his hand from the American’s powerful grip. ‘I’ll make no promises, but I’ll certainly think it over. You’ll hear from me very soon.’

‘Thanks a million, Mr Holt!’