The Victim in Victoria Station (8 page)

“Sure. Like what?”

“To start with, I want to know what kind of trouble Multilinks is in. Are in? Whatever. See, Bill Monahan told me he was over here to look into a problem. The way I see it, it must be a doozy of a problem, or he wouldn't have come himself.”

“I'd say you're right.”

“Besides, he'd only been in the country two days. He said so. He'd never been here before. His murder has to be connected with Multilinks—he didn't
know
anybody else!”

“Dorothy, forgive me, but that
is
stretching a point,” Lynn objected. “In the first place, you don't absolutely know he was murdered. He could have died of a heart attack or a stroke or something, and then had his body disposed of in a pretty unorthodox way.”

“Why would anybody go to all that trouble unless they'd killed him?”

She shrugged. “You're the detective. I'm simply saying your argument's not airtight, and it needs to be when you go to the police with it. Also, somebody outside Multilinks
might
have killed him, if he
was
killed. He could have friends over here, people he'd known in America who'd moved here, family—”

“Do friends kill friends?” I demanded.

“Yes,” said Tom and Lynn in unison.

I sighed. “Okay, okay, you're right. I'm theorizing ahead of my data. Sherlock Holmes warned against that. But I have to start somewhere, and Multilinks seems like the logical place. In fact, it seems like the only place, for a private individual like me. I can't go around taking fingerprints or interviewing witnesses. How many thousand people were in Victoria Station at about the right time, do you suppose? And how would I find them?”

“Okay, D., we take your point. I'll make a phone call or two and see what I can find out about Multilinks. Now, I don't know about you, but I'm ready for a nap after that lunch my lovely wife stuffed us with.”

Lynn threw a cushion at him and then yawned herself. “Power of suggestion,” she said accusingly. “I'd planned a shopping expedition, Dorothy, but it's raining too hard. The perfect afternoon for a nap, in fact.”

We had our naps, and then we had a light supper, and then Tom and Lynn got out their pictures from Africa, and I was treated to a travelogue. The pictures were superb, taken by a man with a good eye and a wildly expensive camera. Lynn contributed a witty commentary, and I did laugh immoderately at the story of the night they were awakened in terror, in mid-safari, by unearthly yowls that turned out to be a couple of amorous tomcats. It was a long evening all the same. Tom had put in phone calls to some of his cronies and didn't expect any information until morning, but it was hard not to strain our ears, waiting for the phone to ring.

We finally gave up the pretense and went to bed. “I'm not an early riser, Dorothy,” said Lynn on the way up the stairs, “but the coffeemaker's ready to go, and you know where the kettle is if you prefer tea. Just help yourself to anything you want to eat.”

“Oh, I don't expect I'll need anything, and anyway I expect to sleep forever. Thanks, you two. Good night.”

In fact, I slept badly. The nap had taken the edge off my need for sleep, and in the middle of the night the rain, that lovely soporific, stopped. In its wake came a heavy warmth that, again, reminded me of the summer humidity we sometimes had back home. The difference was that in Indiana there's always some air-conditioned place to provide refuge. Here it almost never gets anything like as hot, but to offset that, air-conditioning is very rare. I tossed amid my damp sheets. Finally, about five-thirty, I'd had enough. I crept down the heavily carpeted stairs to the kitchen and turned on the coffeemaker.

Tom walked in at six. “Wouldn't you know,” he said grumpily. “Take the day off, could sleep in, can't sleep at all. We've got to air-condition this place.”

“Have some coffee. I couldn't sleep either. It's cooling off, though. A breeze came up about a half hour ago.”

The kitchen curtains were fluttering slightly, and the air was becoming fresher. I sat Tom down in front of the window and let the breeze and the caffeine improve his frame of mind. When he was on his second cup, I couldn't hold back any longer.

“Tom, what do
you
think is going on at Multilinks? Didn't anybody yesterday give you any idea?”

“Only rumors, D. An idea that there's something not quite kosher about the company, that maybe they're not doing quite as well as expected. I'll know more by noon, if there's anything to know.”

We waited for breakfast until Lynn came down, and then sat around the house frankly staring at the phone. It rang, finally, three times in quick succession, and when Tom came back out of his study, Lynn and I pounced on him.

“Well, okay, I've got a little. Not a lot, but what there is, is somewhat surprising, I don't mind admitting. There's word on the street that Multilinks isn't doing very well on this side of the pond, and nobody quite understands why. They've got a hot product, they've got good people, they've got the markets—but they don't seem to be making much money.”

“Is somebody raking something off the top?”

“Not likely, according to my sources. That was my first thought, of course. Seems like they're just not getting the orders. If rumor is true, that is.”

“Do you think it is?”

“These guys have never led me astray before. Of course, there's always a first time.”

“How about the company stock?” asked Lynn. “Is it doing anything unexpected?”

“I don't know. My best stock-market tipster wasn't available until this afternoon.”

“Then we might as well go shopping, Dorothy,” Lynn insisted. “Sitting around here waiting will drive us both crazy.”

She was right, of course, and it had been quite a while since I'd had the pleasure of accompanying Lynn on a shopping expedition. Her ideas on the subject are entirely different from mine. She loves antiques and has the money to indulge her taste, so we went to Christie's and Sotheby's and pored over catalogues, stopped in a couple of charming little shops in Jermyn Street, and ended up at Fortnum and Mason's for tea.

“I do love Fortnum's,” I commented as we walked in the door. “It never changes. They can say what they want about shopping from home over a computer, but just look—a computer could never replace him!” I jerked my head toward a clerk in the traditional morning coat and striped trousers. Crystal chandeliers hung over the displays of foodstuffs, which ranged from fresh fruit and vegetables so beautiful one might have thought they were made of wax, to mouthwatering smoked salmon and pâtés, to Campbell's soups in flavors like mulligatawny and vichyssoise. I sighed luxuriously. “My idea of the ultimate treat someday is to go somewhere wonderful and summery, like Glyndebourne, with some marvelous champagne and a hamper from Fortnum's. It sounds so thoroughly English and ever so slightly decadent.”

“You're on!” said Lynn. “I've
always
wanted to do Glyndebourne myself, but Tom says picnicking on damp lawns in evening dress is not his idea of a good time, and he won't do it. We'll go, just the two of us, and have a lovely little party without the men. This
very
summer.”

“It's a date.” And we went upstairs to have a fabulous, and wildly expensive, tea, and to gloat over Lynn's purchase of a perfectly gorgeous old Wedgwood vase.

All the same, I was prickly with impatience to get back to the house and talk to Tom, and so was Lynn.

His news was interesting, but puzzling. He came straight to the point. “You asked about stock, Lynn, but it's no go. Multilinks hasn't gone public yet. They're expected to issue a stock offering soon, though, or they were. Now it seems the issue could be delayed, in view of their poor performance in the international market.”

“Did any of your sources have any explanation for that poor performance?”

“Not a clue. The guys who know the most about it say a lot of potential customers came along and then just seemed to evaporate, lose interest, whatever.”

“These would be—who? What kind of customers? Individuals, or businesses, or—”

“Individuals wouldn't buy this software. It's way too expensive, up there in the thousands of bucks. Businesses, or government agencies. As you've realized, it's most useful to the developing countries, and they're the ones Multilinks came over here to woo. Apparently they're not impressed. At any rate, they're not buying.”

“Maybe they just can't afford it.”

“Maybe. The third world is poor; it's a truism.”

“But they would have known the price before they looked into it,” said Lynn. “So why would they express interest and then go away?”

“Hmmm. Is it—the software, I mean—not as good as its reputation? Maybe these customers tried it and didn't like it.”

“No. I know myself that it's all it's cracked up to be. My company uses it; I've used it. It's saved us megabucks already, in time saved, mistakes averted, you name it.”

“Then why—?”

“You got me.”

We puzzled over it the whole evening, and for the rest of the weekend. I probably should have gone home, but I was genuinely weary and in need of a break, and I truly enjoy the company of the Andersons, who pamper me shamefully. By Sunday evening, nevertheless, I was counting the hours till I could get home and talk to Nigel.

S
o what did you find out?”

“Sod-all, I'm afraid. Oh, I got into their computer, it was dead easy. A six-year-old could have done it. But all I could find was boring official bumf. Sales records, expense accounts, personnel files, accounts payable.”

It was late Monday afternoon, the first chance I'd had to sit down with Nigel at his computer. This time the Computer Centre was busy, but the students were working hard at various projects. Nigel's cubicle was somewhat set apart from the others. As long as we kept our voices low, we had reasonable privacy, though at this rate it looked as if we didn't need any.

I was crestfallen. It was at about this spot in the movie that someone who had been sitting for hours at the monitor should gasp and say, “Hey! Look at
this!
” And everyone would come running and watch, appalled, as the secret plans for the interstellar rocket appeared in detail on the screen. This was not working out according to script.

“Nothing? You're sure?”

“Nothing you want. I'm sure.” Nigel took a swig from his bottle of designer water.

I sighed. “All right, then. Can you call up the sales records for me? I've been hearing rumors that sales aren't living up to expectations, especially sales in the countries that ought to be their best customers. Maybe if I looked at the records, I could figure out why.”

Nigel raised his eyebrows in one of those you-asked-for-it looks, shook his head sadly, and began punching keys. After a time a list appeared in front of me. It was perfectly clear, listing customer name, date of sale, item description, and cost. It told me absolutely nothing, except that Multilinks had in fact not been making a lot of sales. The total amount of money collected (or billed, I couldn't tell which) looked staggering to me, but I'm used to dealing with figures no higher than my modest checking account, so I'm no judge. Even I could see, however, that the dates of sales were widely spaced.

“Satisfied?”

“No. But I see what you mean.”

Nigel moved more or less at random through a few more Multilinks files. Accounts payable: suppliers, a cleaning service, a temporary help agency—nothing useful. The salary record was of interest only for the wide range represented.

“They'd have a fit if they knew we were looking at this,” I commented idly.

“You've got that right. Everybody wants their salary kept confidential.” He was about to move on, but suddenly I stayed his hand on the mouse.

“Wait, Nigel! Let me look at that again, from the beginning.”

He shrugged and moved the cursor to the top of the file.

“Do you have a pad and pencil?” I asked, elevating my chin to peer at the screen through the bottom of my bifocals.

“What for?”

“I want to copy these names down. It isn't a very long list, just one, two … nine of them altogether, and I've just realized that with the salary figures, we've got a company hierarchy here. That guy must be the boss, see? Walter Spragge. He makes by far the most money. And this one must be his second in command, and so on. It might be useful to have these names—what's that?”

“The list,” Nigel said patiently. “I printed it out while you were talking.”

“Oh.” One-upped by technology again. I do hate being made to remember how old and out of date I am. “Well, fine. Now, if I had some phone numbers to go with these names—”

“Personnel records. Coming up.” He printed it without even asking. “Now, Mrs.—Dorothy, I'd like to get out of this, if you don't mind. The longer I'm in their files, the better their chance of catching me at it.”

“Oh, heavens! Yes, get out right away!” Nigel's screen returned to its normal list of choices (“the main menu,” he had explained), and then after a moment or two began to display a brilliant array of fish, swimming amid waving green fronds.

“Screensaver,” he said in response to my querying look. “It isn't good for a screen to sit displaying the same image all the time—burns it in. So there are moving patterns available, like this one. I rather like it.”

“Mmm.” I pored over the lists in my hand. “Nigel, we need to find out something about these people. I'm sure Spragge must be the boss—the manager of the London office.”

“Managing director, he'd probably be called,” said Nigel, nodding. “And this Hugh Fortier, he'd be the assistant to the director. The others—oh, sales staff, probably, a couple of secretaries, an accountant. Not easy to tell which are which from the salary figures, except that this one must be the lowliest secretary.” He pointed to the name Peter Grey, with a salary figure that would be adequate in my part of America, but in London, where living expenses are extremely high, would be meager in the extreme.