Charters and Caldicott (22 page)

‘By the Far East I imagine you mean Hong Kong,' said Caldicott, his interest reviving.

‘I think you know where I mean. Fellows, I'm still waiting for my answer. What kind of deal did you do with Jacob Norton?'

‘Just call the manager, would you, Caldicott, and complain that two of his guests are being held against their will.'

‘Oh, come on! You guys have owed me an explanation ever since you weaselled your way into my house with Margaret Mottram. How 
is
Margaret, by the way?'

‘In tip-top form,' said Caldicott, replying civilly to a polite question. ‘She'll be here presently.'

‘So she's in this, too. I figured she had to be. Smart girl.' Darrell took a bottle of Birdade from the crate and opened it with the opener from his mini-bar. ‘Why don't we drink a toast to Margaret?'

‘In that stuff?' asked Caldicott, appalled.

‘Have you ever tasted it?'

‘Certainly not,' said Charters.

Darrell poured a little into a glass. ‘Try it.'

Charters took a sip. ‘Disgusting.'

Caldicott followed suit. ‘It's even fouler than Zazz.'

‘I agree, but the Chinese lap it up.'

‘I thought the Chinese lapped up Zazz. At funerals and so on.'

‘At funerals period. That's our problem. It's so much associated with death in their minds, they won't drink it at any other time. But Birdade! Wow! It could replace tea! If Norton and West knew anything about marketing, they could be worth millions. Billions. You mean Jock never wrote you about this?'

Caldicott shook his head. ‘He never touched on business.'

‘Business is not our forte,' said Charters.

Darrell stared at them incredulously. ‘He didn't advise you to buy out Norton and West, then wait for a windfall takeover bid from Zazz?'

‘Had he left any such instructions we should have passed them on to our solicitors,' said Charters with quiet dignity.

‘Do you know, I believe you? And all this time I've been assuming we were after the same thing. Hey!' Darrell went impulsively to his mini-bar. ‘How would you fellows like a
real
drink?'

Charters looked at his watch. ‘I think not. We have to be cutting along.'

‘Maybe it is a little early.' Darrell poured himself a glass of Birdade instead. ‘How wrong can you be? Every time you brought up Jock Beevers' name I thought you were fishing to find out how far I'd gotten in our negotiations before he died.'

‘Your negotiations with Norton and West?' Caldicott asked, astonished. ‘What had that to do with Jock?'

‘Family connections with Norton.'

‘Really?' said Charters.

‘Plus, with all his Chinese trade contacts, he was my intermediary. For a while. Then Gordon Wrigley flew out in a hurry to Hong Kong and suddenly Jock Beevers
stopped
being my intermediary. Tried to play down the whole thing, said he'd misjudged the market, Norton and West would never sell, we'd never get a licence to ship to the Chinese in bulk, anything he could think of to turn me off. I suspected a double-cross.'

Charters came loyally to his old friend's support. ‘On Wrigley's part. Hardly on Jock's. Not the type.'

‘They were both the type. Know what the wheeze was? Sell out Norton and West not to Zazz, but privately to Jock Beevers. A paper transaction. No money changes hands.'

‘I don't follow,' said Caldicott.

‘Stock Exchange mumbo-jumbo. Bulls and bears,' said Charters.

‘In a pig's ear! It's Norton's swindling we're talking about. Here's the idea. Sell the outfit to Jock – he writes off the discrepancies as bad debts, then comes to Zazz with a new set of books. Zazz buys the cleaned-up property, Jock and Wrigley split the proceeds, and everyone's happy.'

‘Did Jock Beevers tell you this personally?' asked Charters, not wholly convinced.

‘Uh-uh. Jock died on me. I had it from Helen Appleyard. She'd listened in to the whole conversation – I gather overhearing valuable information was her hobby.'

‘I wouldn't put much credence on what that little Jezebel told you, Darrell,' said Charters.

‘She was on the ball. I checked it out. I also found out why old man Norton sent Wrigley to negotiate with Jock. He lives in terror of his daughter – Wrigley's wife – finding out he's a common thief. Apple of his eye, I guess.'

‘That must have been why he was in such a state when he mistook us for detectives,' said Caldicott.

Darrell chuckled. ‘You'd better blame me for that: I'd been working on the old son-of-a-gun for weeks but he just wouldn't crack. Offers, bigger offers, threats, nothing. Then you two jokers were announced and I just couldn't resist it. I said, OK, Jake, this is it. Either you see reason or I'll tell Charters and Caldicott of the Fraud Squad they can get all the evidence they need from your daughter. He saw reason.'

Charters grunted. ‘Pretty shabby trick.' •

‘So you achieved a takeover by blackmail. That's going to make quite a paragraph in the Zazz Corporation annual report, I must say,' said Caldicott scornfully.

‘Who said anything about a takeover? I got the hundred­year-old secret formula for Birdade – that's all I needed. Now how about that drink?'

Cricket beckoned. Charters shook his head. ‘I think you've detained us long enough, Darrell.'

‘Thanks for your time, gentlemen. I have what I want – I hope you get whatever it is you want. Satisfy my curiosity – did you two happen to kill St Clair?'

‘Don't be absurd!'

‘I only asked. You always seem to be around where there's bodies. Good health!' Darrell raised his glass of Birdade, drained it down – and crashed to the floor. Charters and Caldicott stared down at him in silent amazement, then at each other. ‘Are you keeping count of all these, Charters?'

‘This is ridiculous.' Charters knelt by Darrell's body and felt his pulse. ‘He's still breathing.'

Caldicott picked up the open Birdade bottle and sniffed it. ‘Shouldn't this smell of bitter almonds, or something, old chap? It has such an awful pong of its own it's difficult to judge whether it's poisoned or not.'

‘Of course it's poisoned, man! Ring for a doctor.'

Caldicott found the hotel directory and began to flick through its pages. ‘Dining, dry cleaning, doctor. See medical services.'

‘Do get on with it, Caldicott.'

Caldicott rang Medical Services. ‘Recorded message. In case of emergency dial 999, otherwise kindly leave room number on answering machine.'

‘Nine nine nine, then. Quickly!'

Caldicott dialled it, first absent-mindedly thanking the recorded message for its help.

‘When this reaches Inspector Snow's ears, Caldicott, he'll have our guts for garters.'

‘Hello, Emergency?' said Caldicott, finding himself connected with a human voice at last. ‘How odd. Oh, I
see
. Thanks awfully.' He put the receiver down. ‘That was the coffee shop. Apparently for an outside number you first have to dial nine.'

‘Then do so and hurry,' said Charters, making an ineffectual attempt at artificial respiration.

Caldicott dialled once more. ‘Recorded message. All outside lines are engaged. Please dial later.'

‘For heaven's sake!' Charters exploded.

‘Should I ring room service, do you think?'

‘Don't be ridiculous, Caldicott. Get the manager. At least there's little doubt who our murderer is.'

‘Little doubt who he is,' Caldicott agreed, tracking down and ringing the manager's number. ‘And little doubt why he did it. No reply.'

‘Keep on trying,' said Charters, standing up. ‘I'll go downstairs to reception.'

‘Don't let Darrell's minders know what's happened, whatever you do.'

Charters nodded and opened the door. Gordon Wrigley stood on the threshold confronting him with a gun.

‘You've just saved me the trouble of forcing the door,' said Wrigley, coming in, shutting the door and putting up the chain. ‘Put that phone down.'

Caldicott protested, ‘Yes but look here, this man is...'

‘Seriously asleep,' said Wrigley. ‘There's not enough in the whole crate to kill him, let alone in one bottle.' He knelt by the unconscious form of Josh Darrell, rolled him over roughly and took the Birdade formula from the wallet in his back pocket.

‘What do you think you're doing, Wrigley?' Charters demanded.

‘Recovering family property.'

‘Ah, your precious formula,' said Caldicott. ‘I wouldn't have thought you needed all those hieroglyphics for making your particular brand of mouthwash. Simply take a bucket of paint-stripper and add used bathwater to taste.'

‘I thought it was your favourite drink. What was that slogan you dreamed up?'

‘Name your poison – Birdade.'

‘Very funny.' Wrigley glanced at Charters who was feeling Darrell's pulse. ‘He'll have a nasty headache, that's all.'

‘And you, laddie, will go to bed with a very nasty headache when Darrell's bodyguards have finished with you,' said Caldicott.

‘They've got three jumboburgers apiece to wade through first. By the time they're back from the coffee shop we'll be gone.'

‘I should jolly well hope so. We should have been at Old Trafford half an hour ago,' said Caldicott.

‘You can forget that. You're coming to my place.'

‘What do you want of us, Wrigley? You've got your blasted formula – what else are you after?' asked Charters.

‘Colonel Beevers' last will.'

Charters gaped at him. ‘The will? What's that to you?'

‘Plain as a pikestaff,' said Caldicott. ‘He's after the gold too and believes the will reveals its whereabouts.'

‘Yes, you're just the kind of public-school twits who would swallow that kind of romantic codswallop, aren't you? Cricket, British Empire, clubs in St James's, Army and Navy Stores.'

‘Nothing wrong with any of those institutions, Wrigley,' said Charters, drawing himself upright.

‘And a nice adventure yarn to read over your toast and gentlemen's relish. Submarine gold! Is that why that twit St Clair was following you about?'

‘How did you know he was?' asked Caldicott.

‘Because I was following
him
. Now, that letter he got off you...'

‘You killed him for that, did you?'

‘I didn't even know the letter existed. It was the will I was after. I thought he'd found it. That's what we were all looking for, after all, wasn't it?'

‘Some of us with scant regard for other people's property,' said Charters.

Wrigley ignored him. ‘The letter's in code, isn't it? All that gibberish about public-school cricket matches – it tells you where the will is?'

Caldicott tried to look poker-faced. ‘It may do. We never had the chance to study it.'

‘Well, I'm going to give you the chance – and make sure you take it because I want that will.'

‘So much so that you've committed one murder after another in your pursuit of it,' said Charters.

‘But why, Wrigley?' Caldicott asked, puzzled. ‘If you don't believe the gold yarn, what can there possibly be in it for you?'

‘That's my business. Now, you're going to walk out of here ahead of me into the lift, through the lobby and into a cab. If you try anything, I'm going to shoot you. All right?'

‘Come along, Charters, we may as well resign ourselves to the fact that we're not going to reach Old Trafford before the lunch interval.'

‘Can you give us a moment before we go?' Charters asked.

‘For what?'

‘We'd like to change our shirts.'

‘Move.'

The taxi dropped them outside a substantial, stone-built suburban house. While Wrigley looked on, his gun hidden, Charters and Caldicott meticulously divided the fare between them.

‘And the, er, service?' Caldicott murmured discreetly.

‘Oh, the tip. Let me have twenty pence, will you, Wrigley? Come along – frankly, I don't see why we're having to pay the fare in the first place.'

Burdened with his gun, Wrigley produced the change with difficulty. Charters and Caldicott were taken at gunpoint into the house and through to the drawing-room where french windows opened onto a long garden.

‘Sit down. Meg, my wife, has the letter. She's been having a crack at decoding it. I'll get her.' Wrigley went to the french windows and called out.

They could see a young woman down the far end of the garden dead-heading roses.” ‘Meg, you're wanted,' Wrigley called again and she turned and walked slowly down the long path to the house. Charters and Caldicott joined Wrigley at the window, shielding their eyes against the blinding sun, seeing the approaching figure only as a silhouette. Meg had almost reached them before they recognised her. It was the so-called Jenny Beevers. She gave them a rueful, almost apologetic smile.

A sufficiency of girl fridays recruited, Margaret drove back across the Pennines, happily unaware that Charters and Caldicott were risking anything more dangerous than a bump on the head from a gloriously-stroked cricket ball. She checked into the hotel and, when the house phone and the paging service failed to produce either Caldicott or Charters, she shrugged philosophically, picked up her overnight case and headed for the lift.

Inspector Snow and Sergeant Tipper came into the hotel as the loudspeaker was fruitlessly calling for the missing pair. They exchanged worried glances and Snow, spotting Margaret across the lobby, murmured, ‘If she's let her two boy-friends slip the leash we've got trouble.'

‘Rather a fetching little watercolour, Caldicott,' said Charters, his back turned pointedly on Wrigley and his wife.

Caldicott examined the picture closely. ‘Quite nice. Scotland, would you say?'