Gently French (11 page)

‘Yet Freddy loved you.’

‘So I expect something, a memento of my poor friend. Shall I tell you what? It will be the Bugatti. And I shall keep it the same, just like Freddy.’

I sped another ring. ‘You could never drive it.’

‘My friend, I have an eye that creates drivers. The Bugatti will be better than money to me. Perhaps some day soon you are going to return it?’

I shrugged. ‘Perhaps. But it isn’t yours yet.’

‘Oh, I am certain. I shall get the Bugatti.’

‘And certain there is a will?’

She leaned her head to one side. ‘I do not know that. But wouldn’t you?’

End of session.

I sat for a time sucking comfort from a dead pipe, while Dutt lit one of his rare cigarettes (five a day: Iron Len). It was nearly midnight. Three hours of Mimi, and she had left as sprightly as she had come. And why not? On the judges’ cards she had probably earned a majority verdict. I tried a fresh match, got a raw, wet taste, and certified the pipe as a goner.

‘Did you notice anything useful?’

Dutt carburetted smoke. ‘She struck me as being a cool one, sir.’

‘I don’t need Einstein to tell me that. What did you spot that I might have missed?’

‘Well, sir.’ Dutt eased his seat. ‘I thought you had her going a couple of times. Once about her failing to raise the alarm, and once when you were sprucing her about a statement from chummie.’

‘But especially the latter.’

‘As you say, sir. And the two do go together. Though I reckon we shan’t be getting much ahead until we can lay our hands on him.’

I nodded. ‘That’s the break we need.’

‘It will clear it up, one way or the other.’

I stared. ‘Are you going along with the lady?’

Dutt humped his shoulders and looked stupid.

Then the phone went. I hooked it up; Dainty was at the other end.

‘Hallo? Haven’t you managed to get to bed yet?’

‘Cut the comedy,’ I said. ‘It’s too late.’

I could hear his mates cackling in the background.

‘No, listen,’ he said. ‘We’ve something for you. This Peter Robinson. There’s a chummie called Bilney. He’s been adrift a few days. He could fit.’

‘Does he match the description?’

‘Who doesn’t? But I’d say he matches it as well as most. Thirty, fair hair, sideboards. I’m sending you the bumf on teletype.’

‘What makes him a candidate?’

‘He’s missing, for one. For two, he’s an associate of Wicken’s. May have done a job or two with Quarles. He hangs around the fringe of the gangs.’

It sounded promising. ‘What’s his form?’

‘He’s done some porridge for G.B.H. I’m told he has a nasty temper, has been known to use a knife.’

‘Is he left-handed?’

‘Get knotted,’ Dainty said. ‘The fine print is coming over the wire. I just thought I might catch you between rounds.’

‘Ha, ha,’ I said. ‘Go to hell.’

B
UT GIVE DAINTY
a mark for prescience: there was indeed a late-night comedy interlude.

When we broke up, Dutt went for a bath; I decided mine could wait till morning.

I got into bed and lay brooding a while over the twists and nuances of the case. I find that when I’m relaxed, horizontal, and about to drop off, the facts will sometimes sort themselves without help from me. It is as though, at that point, they take on a life of their own, and begin to exhibit aspects that till then I’ve been blind to; but it may be simply that I am resting the intellect and permitting the intuition to have free play. Moments of sartori, involuntary Zen: a genius is a man who has learned to switch off.

So I was lying like that, trying to be a genius, when I heard Dutt’s slippers slopping back along the corridor; then the sound of him opening his door, which apparently he had left unlocked (a policeman’s mind is never still). Followed confused sounds, and a tap at my door. I switched on the bed-light. Dutt entered. His face was pink, and he was grappling his dressing-gown round him with a curiously intent modesty.

‘Sir . . . could you spare a moment?’

I climbed into a dressing-gown and we went to his room. Sitting-up in the bed, and sensationally naked, was Mimi, Madame Deslauriers. She regarded us with mild surprise.

‘This is flattering. But shouldn’t one of you gentlemen retire?’

‘Get out of it,’ I said. ‘You’ve picked the wrong room. Mine is across the corridor.’

‘This is not your room?’

‘It’s the Inspector’s.’

She said something rapidly, in French. ‘It is that stupid yak, he tells me wrong. I will give him a haircut with a blow-torch.’

‘So kindly hook it.’

She got out of the bed and stood for a moment, nudely glaring. But then she burst into gurgling laughter.

‘This is formidable, don’t you agree?’

‘I don’t agree.’

‘The poor Dutt. And he is a family man, huh?’

‘Never mind about Dutt. Just slip into this.’ I picked a frothy black night-dress from a chair by the bed.

She took the night-dress but didn’t slip into it.

‘Monsieur, it is the mistake which has made you angry. But that is easily put right. I will cross the corridor. Let us leave the poor Dutt to his honest slumbers.’

‘I just want you to scram.’

‘Oh, but no. When I am so convenient and agreeable. All day you are making the impression, huh? You must not be impolite now.’

‘But I haven’t been making the impression!’

‘Oh yes, yes. In your policeman’s way.’

‘Look,’ I said. ‘Put it on or leave it off, but get back to your room – or I’ll call the manager.’

She looked at me sadly. ‘That is not being serious.’

‘Yes it is. I want you gone.’

‘No. The mistake, that is the trouble. You have wished my visit to be more discreet. But now I tell you. I will go away. I will do exactly as the man says.’ She gave me a lightning wink. ‘Poor Mimi. This has not been her lucky day.’

She slid the night-dress over her head – which was an erotic act on its own – smiled apologetically at Dutt, and cruised regally out of the room.

Dutt goggled after her.

‘Do you think she’ll be back, sir?’

‘That appeared to be the message. We had better bolt our doors.’

‘You bet, sir!’

But Mimi didn’t come back.

Hanson’s messenger delivered the Bilney dossier at breakfast the next morning. It made no mention of Bilney’s being left-handed, but the other details fitted rather well.

Bilney, Thomas Henry. Age 30. 5´ 10½´´, strong build. Fair hair, grey eyes, narrow features, small ears. 2´´ scar left cheek. Missing top joint of little finger, left. London accent. Born, Lambeth. P.O.A., Shepherd’s Bush. Last seen, Thursday. Total of six years for G.B.H. and robbery with violence.

The photographs showed a good-looking villain, one who might well appeal to the ladies; but there was violence in the mouth, which was small, and in the prominence of the blunt chin (check fifty or so photographs of convicted murderers and you will find that Lombroso wasn’t far out). The eyes were glazed-looking, avoiding the camera. He had thick eyebrows but scanty lashes. The scar, nearly vertical, was certainly a knife-slash, and he may have lost the finger-joint in parrying the attack.

I showed the photographs to Dutt.

‘Would you let him buy you a drink?’

Dutt grinned. ‘Only for a cover while I was getting out the cuffs, sir.’

‘Do you know him?’

‘No sir. But I know a lot like him. And when his type are around I’m careful not to turn my back.’

Mimi was seated at her table, looking gorgeous in white leather hot pants. I took the photographs along to her and sat myself in the chair opposite. She was eating grapefruit. She gave the grapefruit a dig, sending a spurt in my direction. I gravely blotted the juice with a napkin before exhibiting the photographs.

‘A friend sent me these.’

She gave them a glance. ‘Monsieur enjoys a distinguished acquaintance.’

‘His name is Tom,’ I said. ‘I am wondering if you can guess his age.’

She took a longer look; but if there was a tremor of recognition I failed to detect it. Or anything else. She was keeping her face completely vacant, an unregistering mask.

‘I would guess he was seven.’

‘That’s his mental age.’

‘So then. You will have much in common.’

‘Have you any message for him?’

‘Please go away,’ she said. ‘I wish to continue with my breakfast.’

So I switched to Bavents, who I waylaid as he came through the swing doors from the kitchen. He was juggling with a tray and a covered dish: I shepherded him into the chef’s corner.

‘Take a look at these.’

I made a fan of the photographs and held them close to his pink nose. The tray and the dish chattered.

‘I – I don’t know anyone like that!’

I clicked my tongue. ‘You were talking to him on Thursday.’

‘No! I’ve n-never seen him before.’

‘Not Tom Bilney? Who slipped you the quid?’

‘No, it’s the truth! I’ve never m-met him.’

‘But he did slip you a quid?’

‘He d-didn’t, I tell you!’

‘So how much was it? Fifty pence?’

‘I – no, n-nothing! I d-didn’t see anyone!’

I left off before he dropped the tray.

But I was luckier after breakfast, when I paid a visit to the Three Tuns. Both Eddie Jimpson, the licensee, and his wife Doris had had avowed contact with ‘Peter Robinson’. On Thursday Eddie had been serving in the bar, and he had passed on the man to Doris. Doris had booked him in and taken him up to show him his room.

‘Could this have been the man?’

They went into a huddle over the photographs.

‘It’s like him,’ Eddie said. ‘He’s fair, isn’t he?’

‘Fair. Grey eyes. About five feet ten.’

‘This one was big with it,’ Eddie said. ‘Looked as though he could be a rum customer.’

‘This one is big with it. He can be rum.’

‘Then I reckon it’s the same man.’

I looked at Doris. ‘What do you say?’

Doris, plump and curly, was frowning.

‘I don’t know what to say. It could be him, but it isn’t easy to tell from a photograph.’

I whipped the photographs away. ‘Describe your man.’ Doris leaned her haunch against the bar. ‘Well, he was fair all right, and I didn’t much like him. He’d got dead sort of eyes. You were just muck to him.’

‘Any special features?’

‘Not that I remember. Though of course you could tell he was a cockney.’

‘Eddie?’

Eddie shook his head. ‘That’s what I was going to say,’ he said.

‘Try thinking about his face. Just let it come to mind, don’t force yourself into seeing it.’

‘He was looking a bit scruffy,’ Doris said, after a moment. ‘Sweaty. Like he might have been driving all day.’

‘Sweaty and grimy?’

‘A bit of that too. You’d have thought he would have washed before he went out.’

‘But in the morning, at breakfast, he would be tidied up?’

‘Well yes, he was smart enough then.’

Could they have missed the scar? It wasn’t very prominent, except perhaps to an eye conditioned like mine: it followed the natural lines of the face, it might register without at first being recognized. As for the missing joint, he would keep that inconspicuous.

‘Did you watch him sign the book?’

‘Of course.’

‘Did he use his right hand or his left?’

Doris gestured helplessly. ‘If he had used his left hand, I should think I would’ve noticed that.’

‘Anything else about his hands?’

‘They weren’t very clean.’

‘Do you mind if I see the book?’

Doris fetched it. The ‘Peter Robinson’ entry had been made in bold but back-slanted writing. No visible dabs, and a poor paper for latents: not much to hope for from that.

‘What I would like to see now is the room where he slept.’

‘The room has been let again, you know.’

I sighed to myself. ‘Never mind. Just ask the occupant if I may step in.’

In fact, the occupant was out. Doris used her pass-key to admit me to a small, pleasant room, the single window of which was framing a view of a giant chestnut in lavish bloom. It was fitted with a wash-basin, mirror, a glass shelf and a tooth-glass located in a chromium-plated holder. The paint was clean and shiny on the frame of the sash-window, a white-enamelled dressing-table, and the door.

‘Who serviced the room after he left?’

‘I did,’ Doris said.

‘Tell me what you did.’

‘I changed the bed-linen, hoovered, dusted and gave it all a wipe over.’

‘How much is all?’

‘Well, the wash-basin mostly; the shelf, the mirror. And I changed the glass.’

‘Did you touch the paintwork?’

‘Only with a duster. The paint was washed a fortnight ago.’

Which sounded like a frost; but to turn every stone, I rang Hanson to send out a dabs team. They arrived within half-an-hour. I gave them the register and turned them loose in the little bedroom. A lot of insufflating and snazzy camera-work and paint left looking as though the devil had stroked it; then Eddie, Doris and the apprehensive room-occupant were check-printed for comparisons. Results: nil. Bilney wasn’t yet a certainty, just a hot front-runner. One witness liked him, one was cautious. But I felt the wind was blowing his way.

And the more so when I returned to the Barge-House, where Dutt was just putting down the phone.

‘That was Dainty, sir.’

‘Has he collared Fring yet?’

‘No sir. But he’s been chatting-up Bilney’s girl-friend.’

I shrugged and sat. The girl-friends of villains are a highly variable quantity. Even when they are jealous their information is suspect, and in the normal way they simply go dumb.

‘Why has this one suddenly turned chatty?’

‘Dainty says it’s because she’s scared.’

‘Scared of what?’

‘Of Bilney’s being missing, sir. She reckons he ought to be back by now.’

I grunted. But somebody might love Bilney.

‘What’s this girl-friend’s name and trade?’

‘Name is Mavis Treadwell, sir, and she claims to be a photographer’s model. It seems she had a date with Bilney for Friday. She has a key to his flat in the Bush. When she arrived there she found he’d left a note for her saying he’d been called away on a job.’