The Riddle at Gipsy's Mile (An Angela Marchmont Mystery 4) Page 7

‘Thank you, Freddy, darling,’ murmured Cynthia, who was scribbling away in her notebook. ‘We shall just be a few more minutes.’

  ‘I think it’s time you let poor Angela go,’ he said. ‘I hate to see beauty in distress.’

  ‘What on earth do you mean?’ said his mother.

  ‘Look at the poor creature,’ he said, indicating Angela, who had been unaware of her pained expression. ‘You’d much rather not do this at all, isn’t that right, Mrs. M?’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Cynthia. ‘Why, everybody loves talking about themselves.’

  ‘Not Angela,’ said Freddy. ‘Let her alone now. You’ve had plenty of time to pry. And you can always make it up—that’s what you usually do, anyway.’

  ‘I do not,’ said Cynthia indignantly.

  ‘All right—let’s agree to call it “creative embellishment”,’ said Freddy.

  Fortunately, dinner was announced before a row could develop, and Angela flashed Freddy a grateful smile and escaped thankfully. For the rest of the evening she took great care to keep out of Cynthia’s way, and went to bed early, hoping that she had got off lightly.

  The Bentley arrived the next morning as they were having breakfast, and Angela went out to see it.

  ‘How is the patient, Mr. Turner?’ she said.

  ‘Good as new,’ said the old man. ‘Nothing wrong with her that a few whacks with a hammer wouldn’t put right. You’ll have no more trouble with her. Leastways, as long as you don’t go driving off the road again.’

  William was inspecting the car joyfully. It was polished and gleaming, and he stroked the paint-work with pleasure.

  ‘I don’t need to ask whether you are glad to have it back,’ said Angela. ‘We shall be leaving after breakfast, so you’d better put the luggage in.’

  ‘Sure thing, ma’am,’ he said, and went off to do as instructed. Angela returned to the house to finish her coffee.

  At half-past ten they were ready to leave. Miles saluted Angela amicably, but Marguerite was nowhere to be seen. Cynthia and Herbert had left earlier, as Herbert had to get up to town.

  ‘Do look out for my piece in the Clarion,’ said Mrs. Pilkington-Soames as they left. ‘I expect it will be in on Friday. Can’t I change your mind about having your photograph taken, darling?’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ said Angela, happy that she had been able to put her foot down on that, at any rate. She was relieved that the whole thing was over and done with, although still nervous at the thought of what Cynthia might take it into her head to write.

  Freddy walked her out to the car.

  ‘Cheer up,’ he said. ‘You can always move to Siberia if it all gets too embarrassing.’

  ‘Oh, don’t! I have no idea why on earth I agreed to do it at all.’

  ‘Mother can be very persuasive when she likes,’ said Freddy.

  ‘I’m more inclined to blame those cocktails we had on Friday,’ said Angela. ‘They were rather strong. I believe she took advantage of it.’

  ‘Beware the demon drink,’ said Freddy. ‘The ruination of women throughout history.’

  ‘And men,’ said Angela. ‘Now, where on earth has William got to?’

  ‘I can make a jolly good guess,’ said Freddy significantly.

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Angela.

  Just then, William appeared in a hurry. He muttered a jumbled apology for keeping Mrs. Marchmont waiting and opened the door for her. Angela was just about to step in when Marguerite descended and kissed her enthusiastically.

  ‘Simply enchanting to see you again, darling,’ she said. ‘You must come again for my Littlechurch exhibition.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ promised Angela, ignoring the malicious grin on Freddy’s face.

  They set off. Angela waved until they were out of sight then turned around and sighed.

  ‘Well, that was an eventful visit,’ she said. She settled back into her seat, but not before she had noticed a red smudge on William’s cheek. ‘Wipe your face, William,’ she said.

  He understood her immediately and scrubbed at his cheek in horror. The car swerved slightly.

  ‘But don’t put us in the ditch again,’ said Angela.

  ‘I’m sorry, ma’am,’ said William.

  Angela shook her head, then looked out of the window and covered her mouth to hide her smile.

  TEN

  ‘That all seems clear enough,’ said Inspector Jameson.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Dr. Ingleby. ‘The body contained a large dose of arsenic. Quite enough to kill her, there’s no doubt about that.’ He adjusted his spectacles and glanced at his notes. ‘She had eaten a few hours before death, but her stomach was empty. That, together with certain traces on her clothes, indicates that she’d had an acute gastric attack.’

  Jameson and Willis wrinkled their noses in sympathy.

  ‘Yes,’ went on Ingleby, ‘I’m afraid she was probably quite ill for some hours. The symptoms of arsenic poisoning are very unpleasant, and can include anything from a burning pain in the throat, diarrhoea and vomiting of blood to convulsions and coma.’

  ‘Poor woman,’ remarked Willis.

  ‘However,’ said the little doctor. ‘It doesn’t look as though the gastric attack was the immediate cause of death, although of course the poison was the ultimate cause. By the state of the intestines—which I won’t go into so soon after lunch—I should judge that she survived the initial attack. She may even have begun to feel a little better. That can happen with arsenic, you know—you can recover from the original symptoms of poisoning, but then be struck down by the after-effects. In this case it looks as though she died of cardiac failure. There was some congenital weakness there—signs of mitral stenosis and so forth, and I can only assume that the arsenic proved too much for her heart.’

  ‘What about the injuries to the face?’ said Jameson.

  ‘They were inflicted some time after death, that’s certain,’ said Ingleby. ‘Clearly, the purpose was to disguise her identity.’

  ‘Presumably that means whoever killed her knew there wouldn’t be too much hue and cry about her disappearance,’ said the inspector. ‘We’ve certainly had no luck in tracing her up to now. No-one fitting her description has been reported missing.’

  ‘What have you been looking for?’ said Ingleby. ‘A blonde? You do know her hair was dyed, don’t you?’

  ‘Was it?’

  ‘Oh yes. One almost never sees that light shade of blonde on a grown woman. Yes, she was a natural brunette. Almost black, in fact. It’s a colour that’s quite rare in England.’

  Jameson remembered the photograph of the infant which they had found in her suitcase, and his impression that the little boy had been foreign.

  ‘Yes, that makes sense,’ he said. ‘How stupid of me not to think that her hair might have been dyed.’

  ‘Comes from not being married, sir,’ said Willis comfortably.

  ‘You’re married, though. Why didn’t you think of it?’

  ‘Mrs. Willis’s hair has always been a very fine shade of auburn, sir,’ said the sergeant. ‘No artificial colour required.’

  ‘Certainly not,’ agreed the doctor. ‘I must say I prefer a woman to wear the hair colour that God gave her.’

  ‘Mrs. Willis’s hair was the first thing I noticed about her,’ said Willis. ‘That and her ankles. Very narrow ankles, she had.’

  ‘I hate to interrupt your romantic reminiscences,’ said Jameson, ‘but we have work to be getting on with. You had better take another look at the missing persons register and see if any dark-haired women matching her description have gone astray. It might be that she dyed her hair after she went missing.’

  ‘Right-oh, sir,’ said Willis.

  ‘But before you do that, we are going to pay a visit to an old friend of ours.’

  Mrs. Chang lived in a flat on the top floor of her night-club premises in Brewer Street. She was a tiny Chinese woman who might have been aged anywhere between fifty and seventy. Her hair was long and
still jet black, and she wore it pinned in a tight bun on the top of her head. She was dressed smartly and soberly, and would have looked the very epitome of respectability were it not for the mischievous look in her glittering eyes, and her tendency to assume a calculating expression whenever she was asked a direct question.

  She greeted Jameson and Willis fulsomely, as though they were old friends.

  ‘Hallo, hallo, Inspector Jameson! And this Sergeant Willis. Yes, yes, I remember very well. We have talk together six months ago, yes? We have talk together when you come and raid my club. Very polite policemen, both. Not like other one, what his name? He very rude. I respectable business-woman, I tell him, but he not polite at all. Why you here today, then? You come to shut me down again? You not find anything here today. Everything above the board. You see? Three o’clock now and we shut. We open later but all very above the board. Fine music and dancing, but no illegal drinking. We have very fine Negro orchestra. Famous all over America. Pay generous, too—we not cheap like other places that hire Negroes. Dukes and princes and film-stars come from all around to see them.’

  When Jameson could speak, he assured her that they were not there to shut her down, and she clapped her hands and beamed.

  ‘Well, well! Then why you come? Maybe you speak to my son, Johnny. He take over business soon when I too old. No good to rely on daughter—she just got married to very respectable man. You don’t trust daughter, inspector. She run off and get married instead of help with business.’

  ‘I congratulate you,’ said the inspector politely. ‘Now, we have come about a rather delicate matter.’

  The smile immediately disappeared from Mrs. Chang’s face and she sat up, her attention caught.

  ‘Yes?’ she said.

  ‘Yes. I don’t know whether you have read the newspapers lately, but if you have you may have seen reports about a dead woman, who was found in a ditch in Kent.’

  The calculating expression appeared and Mrs. Chang said, ‘Yes? Yes? Maybe I remember. Woman with her head crashed, yes? I think I read the story. Very sad.’

  ‘That’s the one,’ said Jameson. ‘Now, we are trying to find out who she was. She had no identification on her when she was found, but she did leave a suitcase, which contained a handbill for the Copernicus Club.’

  Mrs. Chang nodded.

  ‘Yes, many people come to my club. Very fashionable with the upper classes. Also many foreign princes and ladies.’

  ‘I don’t think she was upper class,’ said Jameson, ‘but we did wonder whether she mightn’t have worked here as a dance hostess.’

  ‘Ah, yes, my girls,’ said Mrs. Chang. ‘Very good girls. They dance with foreign princes. Only dance, though. We are respectable business. Nothing—how you say—below the belt here.’

  ‘Er, quite,’ said Jameson.

  ‘I fetch Johnny,’ she said. ‘He know all the girls. He tell you what you want to know.’

  She sprang up with a surprisingly youthful energy and hurried through the door to the top of the stairs. From there, she leant forward over the banister and yelled piercingly in Chinese. Willis winced. Presently, they heard a door open on the floor below and a man’s voice reply. The two exchanged rapid words and then the man made a huffing sound and ascended the creaky stairs.

  ‘This my son, Johnny,’ announced Mrs. Chang. ‘He tell you what you need to know. Johnny, you answer policemen’s question.’

  Johnny Chang was a stocky, serious-looking young man in shirt-sleeves. Although not particularly tall, he towered over his mother, who gazed at him impatiently.

  ‘How may I help you, inspector?’ he said, in a surprisingly educated voice.

  ‘My son go to Oxford,’ put in Mrs. Chang proudly. ‘Graduate first-class. He the clever one of the family. He look after his mother like a good boy.’

  Johnny said something impatiently to her in Chinese, and she snapped back at him then smiled once more at the two policemen.

  ‘Johnny say I interfere. Perhaps so. I leave you to talk.’

  She went into a back room and pushed the door to. Jameson was almost certain she was listening through the crack. Johnny Chang turned to them inquiringly and Jameson explained what they were looking for and why they had come.

  ‘Given the handbill, we wondered whether she might have worked here,’ he finished. He observed Johnny carefully as he spoke, but the young man’s expression was unfathomable.

  ‘Yes, we have girls here,’ he said. ‘Their job is to dance with the men and entertain them.’

  ‘And to encourage them to buy drinks?’ said Jameson gently.

  Johnny permitted himself a smile.

  ‘If one of our clients wants to buy a pretty girl a drink—why, there’s nothing wrong with that, is there, inspector?’

  ‘Nothing at all,’ said Jameson.

  ‘It’s all completely harmless,’ said Johnny, ‘and I assure you that we select our hostesses very carefully. Only respectable girls are allowed here. If we caught the slightest whiff of anything untoward going on, they know perfectly well that they’d be out. Our clientele is what you might call rather top-drawer, you see, and we can’t afford to get a bad reputation.’

  Jameson forbore to remind him of the Copernicus Club’s intermittent adherence to the licensing laws as evidenced by his mother’s frequent appearances before the magistrates.

  ‘Oh, there’s absolutely no suggestion that this woman was up to anything she oughtn’t to have been,’ he said mendaciously. ‘We are just anxious to find out who she was, and this is the only clue we have.’

  ‘I see,’ said Johnny Chang.

  ‘Have any of your girls gone missing recently?’ said Jameson.

  Johnny shook his head.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I can assure you that all our girls are accounted for. I’m sorry, inspector, but I’m afraid I can’t help you.’

  He spoke with finality. Jameson saw that there was no use in questioning him further, and he and Willis rose to leave. Mrs. Chang returned and beamed at them.

  ‘You come here whenever you like,’ she said, ‘but in dinner-suit next time, please, and without warrant-card. We have fine music and beautiful girls. You have a good time, yes? We like the police. They very good drinkers.’

  Jameson thanked her and they went out, Johnny Chang following them down the stairs. They reached the entrance-hall just as the front door opened and there entered a group of men carrying instruments whom Jameson guessed to be the Negro orchestra, presumably come to rehearse. The arrivers and the departers ran into each other and there was some confusion and many apologies as they all disentangled themselves.

  ‘Goodbye, inspector,’ said Johnny Chang, then turned to one of the band, a gangling young fellow who was carrying a trumpet-case. ‘Just a minute, Alvie,’ he said. ‘I want to speak to you.’

  ‘Inspector?’ drawled Alvie, looking at Jameson in surprise. ‘We got the cops here again already, Mr. Chang?’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ said Johnny. ‘They’re just looking for a missing girl. We can’t help them, of course. Now, let’s go upstairs.’

  Alvie glanced back at the two policemen as he followed Johnny up the stairs, but said nothing.

  ‘It’s no use,’ said Jameson as he and Willis emerged into the street. ‘They’ve closed ranks. They aren’t going to give us any more information than they can help.’

  ‘Hardly surprising,’ said Willis. ‘They know—or at least suspect—exactly what their girls get up to, but they can’t admit it or they’ll be pulled up for running a disorderly house, and that’s the last thing they want just now.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jameson, ‘but that presents rather a problem for us if they won’t tell us anything. We shall have to send a chap in under-cover, to see what he can discover. I want to find out who this poor girl was.’

  ELEVEN

  ‘I thought policemen never had time for lunch,’ said Mrs. Marchmont as the waiter pulled out her chair for her.

  ‘I don’t, normally,’ s
aid Inspector Jameson, ‘but I happened to be in the area and thought I’d look you up, just on the off-chance.’

  ‘I’m very glad you did,’ said Angela. ‘I found myself unaccountably at a loose end today and was getting rather bored, but now I have someone interesting to talk to. I do hope you’re going to be indiscreet.’

  Jameson laughed.

  ‘Only up to a point,’ he said.

  ‘Then I shall have to be content with that.’ She paused as the waiter fussed about her, then said, ‘Are you allowed to tell me how you are getting on with the case of that poor woman in the ditch?’

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ he replied. ‘The facts will all come out sooner or later anyway.’

  ‘How splendid,’ she said. ‘I thought you might have to keep it all under your hat, since I’m not involved in any way.’

  ‘Of course you’re involved. Had it not been for you the body would never have been found, and besides, I should be interested to hear your perspective on things. You have that clarity of thought which is essential in a good detective, and may well be able to spot something that we have missed.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Angela, flattered.

  ‘But it must remain between ourselves. I don’t want to see it all in the Clarion tomorrow,’ he went on, half-teasingly.

  Angela felt herself going red.

  ‘Oh!’ she said again. ‘I was rather hoping you didn’t read that dreadful rag. I shall have something to say to Cynthia Pilkington-Soames when I see her. I never said half those things she wrote, and I only agreed to do it in the first place because she practically pinned me into a corner.’

  ‘I must admit, I didn’t recognize you from her portrayal,’ he said.

  ‘Well, that’s a comfort, at any rate,’ she said. ‘But of course you know that I should never dream of allowing things told to me in confidence to get into the papers.’

  ‘I know it,’ he said.

  ‘Then let’s not talk about that stupid story any more, or I shall never live down the embarrassment,’ she said.

  He saw that she was rather ruffled by the whole thing and tactfully changed the subject.