The Victim in Victoria Station (13 page)

But charmed I was, almost in spite of myself. My new boss turned out to be an utterly delightful man, in appearance as well as manner. He looked a lot like an actor, whose name I couldn't remember, who had played Dr. Watson in a Sherlock Holmes series on television. Medium height, rather stocky, pepper-and-salt hair, a lined face—worry lines, but lots of laugh lines, too. The sort of man one trusts at sight.

“Mrs. Wren! I'm delighted to meet you.” He stood, came around the desk, and shook my hand warmly. “I hope you've quite recovered from your health problems?”

I must have looked blank for a moment, until I remembered what my health problems were supposed to be. “Thank you, I'm feeling fine, just a little tired.”

“Splendid! Evelyn tells me you're not only intelligent and competent, but a lover of thrillers as well. We should get on beautifully; I'm a devoted fan of the James Bond books.”

“I enjoy them, too, though my great love is the detective story.”

“‘The normal recreation of noble minds.' Philip Guedalla, English historian and biographer; do you know him?”

“No, but I know the line. I've always agreed with it, of course!”

We talked for a few minutes, discovering also a mutual interest in flowers and gardening, before I was dismissed so courteously I hardly realized I'd been shown the door.

“Mrs. Forbes, he's everything you said he was!” I said warmly, the moment we were alone in her office. “Not only a mystery lover but a gardener as well. A remarkable man!”

She nodded somewhat complacently. “He brings the loveliest roses to the office sometimes. The perfect boss, I always say. His only fault is that he works so hard, he makes the rest of us feel guilty, and of course some of the slackers resent it. I hope you don't mind that I told him and the rest of the staff about your cancer. I thought they might be curious and ask awkward questions otherwise. Some of them aren't too tactful, I'm afraid, and it is a very wiggy-looking wig, you know, dear.”

“I'm afraid it is, but I could hardly appear in public half bald. My hair is growing back fast, though, so I may be able to abandon it soon.”

“Good. Now, the office closes at six, dear, and it's nearly that now, so be off with you, and I'll see you at nine tomorrow.”

I tidied my desk and gathered my things together, filing one more item in my tired mind as I did so.

Mr. Spragge spoke with an impeccable Oxford accent.

I walked around a couple of corners before I tried to hail a cab, and it took me so long to get one that I might almost as well have taken the tube. Tomorrow I would, I promised myself. Surely exercise would be good for my leg, as long as I didn't overdo it.

What I wanted more than anything was to take off my wig, but I had to stop at Victoria Station and pick up my luggage, and I knew what I'd look like without my second head of hair. Wig hair would be far, far worse than hat hair ever was. However, once I'd collected my gear and taken the short ride to Lynn's house, I pulled off the wretched thing; I couldn't stand it any longer. I must have looked truly awful, for Lynn took one look at me when she opened the door and went to pour me a drink.

“Sit,” she commanded. Gratefully I sat; gratefully I availed myself of a little liquid relaxation. Lynn didn't even make me talk until I'd downed half of it.

“Another?”

“No, thanks, I'll wait till Tom comes home. If then. Actually I've probably had enough, but I did appreciate that one, thank you very much indeed. It's been quite a day.”

“Useful?”

“Not really. I found out a little about the personnel and the way the office works, but nothing interesting.”

“Well, wait till Tom gets here, and you can tell both of us at once.” Lynn stood up and laid a hand on my arm. “I
have
to do something about dinner; Tom'll be home in half an hour or so. I'd love your company in the kitchen, but you look as though you'd rather just sit.”

“You've got it.”

“Relax, then. Oh, by the way, there was a phone call for you this afternoon. Nigel Evans. Here's the number, and here's the phone. I'm off to do the chef act.”

Nigel, when I reached him, sounded mysterious.

“Dorothy.” His voice was low and urgent. “I must see you. Can I come up to London?”

“I—Nigel, I'm very busy during the day, I—”

“You're spying at Multilinks, aren't you?”

I capitulated. “Yes, I've gotten a job there.” There was no prevarication left in me.

“Good.” I must be even more tired than I'd thought. Good? That made no sense. “How did you know?”

“I went to your house to talk to you, and Jane told me you were in London. She acted peculiar about it, and I put two and two together. Dorothy, I need to—I'd better not say on the phone. Can I come up tonight?”

“Tonight?”

“I can doss down with a friend, but I must talk to you. If I called round about nine, would that do?”

“I don't know, Nigel—I'm absolutely dead beat, and I can't just invite someone to Tom and Lynn's house—”

I trailed off. Tom stood in the doorway. “Hey, D., our house is your house, you know that. Any friend of yours—”

It's Nigel
, I mouthed.

“Oh, good. Tell him to come, and we can have a council of war. I'll tell Lynn.” He saw the indecision in my face and took the phone from my hand.

“Nigel, come anytime, you're welcome. Do you know how to get here?”

I revived a little over dinner, and told Tom and Lynn about the people I'd met. “No one stood out as exceptional, I must say, and I didn't recognize anyone, but then they weren't all there. I pretty much washed out a couple of people as possibilities for the ‘doctor' on the train. The bookkeeper has shaky hands and the wrong hair, and Mr. Spragge has the wrong accent. I suppose either of them could be in cahoots with whoever the ‘doctor' was, though. The salespeople were all out doing their thing, and the assistant director, or assistant to the director, or whatever he's called—honcho number two—apparently works out of the office most of the time.” I stopped just short of saying he was the one I suspected most. Just in time, I remembered I wasn't supposed to have had any previous contact with the Multilinks people.

“Did you get a feel for how business is doing, D.? Was the office busy?”

“Tom, I've never been in a commercial business office for more than five minutes in my life, and then I was only paying a bill. Busy compared to what? There were quite a few phone calls, and the staff didn't seem to be twiddling their thumbs or playing solitaire at their desks. Oh, by the way, did you know you can play solitaire on a computer? Nigel showed me! It's fascinating; when it comes out, the cards start jumping all over the screen… .” I trailed off; they both had that patient look on their faces. “I guess you knew that.”

“Sign of a misspent middle age,” said Tom with a grin. “But you're right, it was really neat the first time.”

“Oh, all right, you two! So I'm getting into the twentieth century a little late.”

“Just as it's about to become the twenty-first,” Lynn put in.

I stuck my tongue out at her.

Nigel showed up a little before nine. I was unashamedly beginning to yawn; the day had started awfully early and had been awfully taxing.

“You look tired,” he said by way of greeting.

“Thank you so much. Flattery always makes a woman feel so much better. I am in fact exhausted, and I don't mind admitting it. What do you have for me?”

He looked at Tom and Lynn.

“They know.”

“Right.” For once he didn't banter or argue. He sat down, put his chin in his hands, and told me.

“I've been asking questions here and there, trying to pick up any information that might be useful. I'll not go into just how, because it's rather circuitous, but I have learned something that you'll want to know.”

He leaned a little farther in, became a little more intent. “Dorothy, you said that companies in the small countries, the developing countries, don't seem to be buying the Multilinks program. I suppose Tom told you that.”

“You're right.”

“And I got it from reliable business sources,” said Tom.

“Well, I'm telling you that it just isn't true,” said Nigel flatly.

“But—” said the three of us in unison, and Nigel put out a hand.

“No, wait for it. Tom, we have information from two different sorts of people, you and I, and my blokes contradict yours. I've been talking to students, chaps from all over the place. India, Africa, the West Indies, you name it. Oh, I've been subtle about it, you needn't worry. But I've talked to at least a couple of dozen of them over the past few days, and they all say the same thing. Every one of them knows of at least one company in his own country who's bought the software. Some of them are even aware that it's being used in government departments. And you know we looked up the sales records on the Multilinks computer, Dorothy? I looked at them again, and not a single one of these customers is listed. Not one!”

“Oh.” I was too tired to worry about divulging our hacking activities, nearly too tired to think at all. “Oh, Nigel, there has to be some simple explanation. I expect they could have bought the thing quite a while ago, or from the American office, or … or something.” I waved a vague hand.

“Of course I thought of that. So I looked up the American sales records as well, for the past year. That's when the product was launched, a year ago. None of the names are there, either.”

We all sat and looked at each other. A stirring of interest began to make itself felt under my weariness. “That's peculiar,” I said slowly. “I don't understand what it means, but it's peculiar.”

“Oh, I know what it means,” said Nigel slowly. “That is, I can guess what's happening, I just can't understand it. Someone is pirating the software, that's clear enough.”

I looked at him without comprehension, but Tom nodded soberly.

“Making their own copies and selling them at discount,” he explained. “It can be done. How difficult would it be with this program, Nigel?”

“With all the encryption they've built into this little beauty, it wouldn't be easy. And it's illegal as hell, with quite severe penalties. The part I can't understand is why someone who's actually a part of the company would take such a risk.”

“Does it have to be someone in the company?” I asked.

Nigel looked at me pityingly. “You think one of the company officers killed Bill Monahan. The inference is obvious.”

I shook my head. “I'm sorry, Nigel, nothing is obvious to me just now. My brain has shut down. What do you think I should do?”

“For tonight,” Lynn said decisively, “you're not going to do anything except go to bed. Nigel, you're welcome to stay the night here, but we're not going to work out any more puzzles until morning.”

“No, thanks, I've got a nice bit of floor at a friend's bed-sitter. But tomorrow, Dorothy—do you think you'll feel better tomorrow?”

I managed a short, humorless laugh. “Nigel, I'm tired, not dying. Yes, I'll be more rested tomorrow.”

“Right. Do you have a key to the office?”

“Heavens, no. I'm just the receptionist, the lowliest of flunkies.”

“Can you steal one?”

I was about to make an indignant retort when I remembered that I had recently encouraged him to several spots of lawlessness. “I don't know how I'd manage it,” I said meekly.

“I don't think I want to hear this,” murmured Tom.

“Try,” Nigel insisted. “Or—could you hide in the loo until everyone has gone for the night?”

“I might hide somewhere. The bathroom is too small, only a closet, really. But why?”

“I want to have a look round that office.”

“What for? Can't I look?”

“I wouldn't know what to tell you to look for. I don't know myself. Records that aren't kept on the computer, maybe. Something. Do you know enough about the business to recognize an anomaly if you saw one?”

“At the moment, Nigel, I barely recognize my own face in the mirror. An anomaly could beat me over the head, and I wouldn't notice.”

“Yes, well, I could bear to make sure just what sort of funny business is going on in that company. Wouldn't you like to know yourself, since you're working in the midst of them?”

I admitted it. “So you want to do some burglary?”

“I don't think it's burglary if you don't steal anything. And it won't be breaking and entering either, if you let me in. Tomorrow night, if we can. When would be a good time, do you think?”

“I don't know. I think sometimes Mr. Spragge works pretty late. You'll have to call me, I suppose.” I gave him the number. “It's perfectly safe; I answer the phone. But for goodness' sake, just in case anyone else answers, don't forget that I'm Louise Wren, not Dorothy Martin. We're crazy even to think of this, Nigel.”

“You're right about that.” Lynn stood, arms akimbo, ready to drag me up the stairs.

“You got me into it in the first place,” Nigel pointed out.

“And I regret it bitterly. Go away, Nigel. I need my sleep. Call me tomorrow afternoon.”

I trudged up the stairs to my room. All of Multilinks could have invaded the house that night with murder on their minds; I wouldn't have heard them, or cared if I had.

I
met the rest of the sales staff the next day. Mr. Upton had them all in for a meeting in the morning, and Mrs. Forbes painstakingly introduced them as they trooped into the office.

It turned out to be a very interesting gathering. After they'd been closeted for a few minutes, I understood exactly what Mrs. Forbes had meant about tempers being high. Whatever they were talking about in Upton's office, the sparks were flying so briskly that I could hear angry voices through two good, thick closed doors. When I had occasion to go into the office proper, I saw Mrs. Forbes knock on the door and ask them all to be a little more quiet, as Mr. Spragge was entertaining a potential customer.