Death in Albert Park (21 page)

“And no one would be on duty after eleven?”

“No. We've cut that out.”

“You're absolutely sure you didn't call on Heatherwell last night?”

“Absolutely. If you doubt my word you can go back and ask my parents now. My mother came in to see how I was some time after midnight and found me asleep. Why do you ask, though? What happened last night?”

“Nothing, really. Or everything,” said Carolus. “Thanks for your information.”

He phoned Goggins to hear that it was as Gates thought—Tuckman had taken the earlier watch, Goggins the later. But Goggins had been in bed and asleep before midnight.

Carolus spent the day working on his notes. What last night had revealed seemed even more convincing in the filmy light of day. But he was reduced to infuriating inaction until Heatherwell returned. Had the Detective Superintendent in charge of the case been someone he knew or to whom he could at least give his still circumstantial evidence he would have insisted on an interview. But with Dyke it would be useless.

Heatherwell was due at about
6
o'clock. At
7
he had not appeared. Nor at
8.
Nor
9.
At 10 o'clock Carolus phoned the landlord of the Mitre and heard that Heatherwell had not been in that evening.

C
URIOUS
, thought Carolus, how early instincts and obscure rules of conduct persist in ruling our behaviour even in the crises of later life. Here he was at a critical point in one of the most dangerous investigations he had known and he hesitated to examine Heatherwell's papers. It was absurd.

He decided to wait till eleven-thirty and then, if there was no word or sign of Heatherwell, to open the large bureau. After all, other lives might depend on his actions at this point.

In the meantime he phoned Chumside and heard only one small piece of news—of a conversation between two of the men whom Chumside described as on the list—which seemed at all relevant. And occupied as he was in tracing Heatherwell, and learning from him at all costs the identity of last night's caller, Carolus did not connect Chumside's information with his present search.

At eleven-thirty he began to move decisively as though relieved that after all his seeming dilatoriness he
could go into action. He swiftly picked the lock of the bureau and found it in a fairly orderly condition. He knew that Heatherwell was a junior partner in a firm of City wine merchants and in a few moments he found some headed notepaper of the firm Nickleby, Roque, Westall and Company. The directors' names were given and he switched to the London Telephone Directory to find that Giles Hatton Westall, the senior partner, lived in Queen's Gate. He dialled his number. In a few moments he heard a lush voice, richly lubricated with port, he felt, enquiring who the devil he was.

Carolus spoke crisply. Heatherwell was missing, he said. He had been due home at six and there was still no word of him.

“Most extraordinary,” Westall said. “But young Heatherwell has been behaving rather oddly since his wife left him. Who are you?”

“I'm a friend staying in his house. My name's Deene. Was there anything unusual in his conduct today?”

“He did not return to the office after lunch. That was unusual. He told one of my partners he was not well but said nothing to me.”

“Can you account for that?”

“Account for it? I don't know who you are but you've got plenty ofimpudence. Phoning me at midnight to ask me to account for a man's movements.”

“Do you think he might be with his wife?”

“Not if he's in his right mind. She left him. Let him wait for her to come back to him. I've told him so a thousand times.”

“It's simply a question of tracing him,” said Carolus patiently. “Do you know where she is?”

“I do not and I don't want to know. Women nowadays …”

“Yes, yes. But it is essential that I find Heatherwell. Tonight. Now. It may be a matter of life and death.”

“Don't talk hysterically. The man must be somewhere. Have you tried the police?”

“No, I have not tried the police. There is every reason not to do so.”

“You mean young Heatherwell is in trouble of some kind?”

“He may be. Or someone else may. The thing is, I've got to find him. Can you give me any information that will help me to do so?”

“I have an idea he told me his wife was at Hastings,” said Westall less irascibly. “But that was some weeks ago. I can't tell you any more than that. The whole thing is unaccountable to me. What did she want to leave him for?”

Carolus hurriedly said good night and returned the receiver while he looked through the bureau again. It was some minutes before he found two or three letters together. They were in a woman's handwriting and came from the Dukeries Hotel, the Marina, Hastings. One was written only three days ago and all were signed Sarah.

It was his only chance. Hastings was nearly sixty miles away but for once the Bentley's potentialities for speed could be exploited without grave risk. He should be able to reach the Dukeries Hotel before half past one.

His car was in a park in Inverness Road and it took him ten minutes to pull on a coat, reach it and drive off. He knew the way and once he had left the suburbs he could open out. He passed through Sevenoaks at twelve-thirty and Tonbridge ten minutes later, then raced south east towards the coast. It was one-twenty when he came into St. Leonards-on-Sea and a few minutes
later pulled up before the fairly large frontage of the Dukeries Hotel.

He had to ring three times before a sleepy night porter blinked at him.

“I thought they was all in,” he said sourly.

Carolus briskly and lavishly tipped him.

“I'm not staying in the hotel,” he said. “But you have a Mrs. Heatherwell here I think.”

“That's right. Number 51.”

“Did her husband arrive today?”

“I'm not supposed to say anything about that,” said the night porter.

“Has he got the same room?”

The night porter nodded.

“I haven't told you, don't forget.”

“It's him I want to see.”

“I can't do anything about that except telephone up to the room and say someone's here. What name shall I tell them?”

Carolus hesitated.

“Dyke,” he said at last.

The night porter went to the switchboard. After some considerable time he got an answer and said sulkily—“There's a Mr. Dyke waiting down here.”

Another long silence. Then—“All right. I'll tell him.” He turned to Carolus. “She's coming down,” he said.

“
She's
coming down? But it's Mr. Heatherwell I want to see.”

“I'm not supposed to know he's there. It was one of the girls told me. And you don't know either, don't forget. Not from me, you don't.”

Presently a handsome young woman with flaming red hair, wearing a shimmering pale green dressing-gown, came down the stairs. It was evident that her husband
had told her ‘Dyke' was a policeman. She made only a rather feeble attempt to pretend that Heatherwell was not with her.

“What do you want with me?” she asked.

“Nothing, Mrs. Heatherwell. It's your husband I want to see.”

“But he's…”

“He's upstairs in room number 51. May I see him, please?”

“He's asleep.”

“I don't think so. And I haven't come down from London to wait till he wakes up. I'm investigating a triple murder.”

“But you can't. He's…”

“Yes. I know he doesn't want to see anyone at present. But this is far too urgent a matter to wait till the morning.”

Carolus saw that Sarah Heatherwell was dangerously near hysteria. Her hand went up to her face.

“Are you going to arrest him?” she asked.

“No. I only want to ask him a few questions.”

“Oh God. What about?”

“One question, really. If he'll answer just one question truthfully it's all I want.”

“I
knew
this would happen!”

“Sit down, Mrs. Heatherwell. The night porter will get you a drink.”

“The bar's all shut up,” said the night porter in his surliest voice.

Carolus nodded to him sharply and he disappeared for a moment to return with a glass.

“Drink that,” said Carolus, “while I run upstairs and see your husband. You needn't worry. So long as he tells me one thing.”

“It's on the first floor,” said the night porter. “Turn to your left at the top of the stairs.”

Sarah Heatherwell who had sunk into an armchair began to sob loudly and uncontrollably. Carolus went upstairs.

He found Heatherwell dressed and suspected that he had hurriedly pulled his clothes on when his wife had left him to go downstairs. Yet Heatherwell showed no particular surprise when Carolus entered rather than Dyke.

“Oh, it's you,” he said dully. “Are the police downstairs?”

“No. I must apologize for giving Dyke's name. It was absolutely essential that I should see you.”

Heatherwell blinked.

“What do you want?” he asked at last.

“Who came to the house last night, Heatherwell?”

“I told you. Gates.”

“Gates was in bed. He didn't leave his house last night.”

Heatherwell was silent.

“I can't think why you should be so secretive about this.”

“I gave my word.”

Carolus saw the futility of arguing or trying to make Heatherwell understand his urgency. The man appeared numbed and scarcely aware of his surroundings. He decided to take a chance. He believed that Heatherwell's expression, or some movement, or something in the eyes, would tell him when the name was mentioned and started to ask—“Was it So-and-So? So-and-So?” running through not only Chumside's ‘list' but adding three names he had not mentioned to Chumside. Finally, at one, he saw what he expected. Heatherwell
tried to control a jerk of his whole body but failed.

“At last,” said Carolus and hurried from the room.

In the hall he had time to say—“Your husband's quite all right. But go to him.” Then he rushed out to the car, started it, and moved away. He was soon on the London road.

And now it was, what he had so often claimed for issues in his cases, a matter of life and death. That name, combined with what Chumside had told him on the phone three hours ago, meant certainty, and a very ugly certainty at that.

Carolus was unconscious of fatigue. On the contrary he felt something like exhilaration as he sped across Sussex to the Kentish border. He felt justified in ignoring speed limits and barely slowed down for the silent and empty villages. He knew exactly his objective and counted on the powerful engine of his car to enable him to reach it in time.

When he came into the streets of Albert Park it was nearly half past three and the only living being he saw was a policeman on his beat. He drove to the car park from which he had taken his car and left it there. Then he set out for Slatter's lodge at the park gates.

There was no wind or rain tonight, but the air was cold and damp, a dark and somehow miserable night. As he approached the lodge he saw no lights and thought the little stucco house on one floor looked grim and dreary among its close-growing shrubs. He stood outside for a moment listening and looking about him. Of the park behind its iron gates he could see almost nothing but the lodge was built so that its entrance was open to the road.

A porch was over the door and shrubs came close to this on either side. There was no electric bell and no
knocker on the door but an iron bell-pull. Carolus heard a cracked sound as his tug at this set a bell ringing within the lodge. This died away bringing no response or movement from within.

Carolus tried again, with the same result. It was a sad sound which seemed to come out of a hollow emptiness as though the lodge had been unoccupied for years. It was hard to believe that within someone was alive, listening perhaps or in deep sleep.

He tried the door handle and found the door opened easily. He pushed it forward a foot and called “Slatter!”

Still no answer.

“Slatter! Are you there?”

Carolus shoved the door wide and stepped into a sitting-room. He groped to a light switch and found it.

The sitting-room was not large and there was too much furniture. A table with a table-cloth nearly filled its space. Carolus caught only a brief impression of this room before crossing to another door, but it was not an impression of a room left by someone retiring to bed. Nothing seemed out of place. The ashtray on the table was empty and clean and the air of the room seemed that of an unoccupied house.

But the house was not, in a sense, unoccupied. Carolus crossed to the door on the far side and flung it open. The light behind him showed someone lying fully dressed on the bed. Again he felt for a switch and illumined the room. The man on the bed was Slatter, lying in a position of complete repose, his eyes shut and his hands lying one on each side of him. He was quite dead.