Davidson welcomed McGregor enthusiastically as the old maid showed him into the study. It was late, but that wasn’t unusual – the superintendent popped in at all hours. Tonight, the house at Tongdean was quiet. The girls tended to go out on Sunday evenings. Davidson closed the ledger in which he had been writing and turned to the drinks cabinet.
‘I have a couple of nice malts,’ he said, pleasantly. ‘I expect you could do with one.’
McGregor took a seat. ‘Thanks. It’s been a long day.’
Davidson poured two generous measures and topped them with a splash of soda.
‘It’s an investigation.’ McGregor took his first sip and let a sigh emanate from his lips.
‘I don’t expect to see you any other time – though you’re welcome, of course. Unless you’ve come to book me, that is?’ Davidson’s tone was jocular, but he knew that if he wanted to the superintendent could.
‘You know our policy, Ernie,’ McGregor reassured him. ‘The girls are safer here than they would be on the street. And besides, you’re cooperative.’
‘How can I cooperate this evening?’
McGregor pulled out the gambling chips he’d found in Flight Lieutenant Forgie’s jacket. ‘I wondered if there was a new game in town? High stakes?’
Ernie paused.
‘You don’t run to fifty guinea chips here, do you?’
‘A little poker now and then . . .’
‘Which is illegal if you’re playing house.’
‘Just a few friends,’ Davidson said vaguely.
McGregor allowed him. There was no point pursuing that. There were larger fish to fry. ‘I wondered if one of your friends was an RAF officer. Highly decorated. Quite the war hero. He wintered in Monaco this year. Likes to gamble. Early forties. Small moustache. Name of George Forgie.’
‘Georgie Porgie?’
‘He’s dead,’ McGregor said flatly. ‘It’s not a casual enquiry.’
Ernie Davidson raised his hands in surrender. ‘He’s not one of mine. And, for the record, fifty guinea stakes is too rich for my blood and, I imagine, for the blood of my friends. My table stops well short of that.’
McGregor sipped again. Davidson denying knowledge didn’t mean anything. Criminals always said they didn’t know. They had never done it, whatever it was.
‘Would you like me to fetch Irene?’ Davidson asked.
McGregor smiled. If Davidson was trying to distract him from the inquiry, it meant he was on to something. ‘Not tonight. It’s not a murder inquiry, Ernie. The poor bloke topped himself. But I do need what you know about him.’
Davidson was visibly relieved. He relented. ‘He’s a gambler,’ he said.
‘Evidently.’
‘He’s a well-known gambler. A good one. I’ve heard of him is all. High stakes like you said, but with a little—’ here he gesticulated ‘—madness, I suppose. I heard he flew over a hundred missions during the war. No one expected him to survive. It left him with . . . ideas about risk. I heard he’d gamble on anything.’
‘Anything?’
‘Cards. Backgammon. Horses. But aside from that. Crazy bets. Drunken bets. I don’t know exactly. Who can hold their hand over a flame longest? You know how guys get sometimes.’ His laugh did not sound convincing.
‘Are you sure Forgie didn’t play cards here?’
Ernie shook his head. ‘We don’t get famous gamblers. We don’t get famous anybody. It’s all solicitors. Accountants. Local dignitaries. Business people. But not the big time. This house is safe, Superintendent. Steady. That’s what you like about it, isn’t it? If you want to find the table George Forgie was sitting at, you need to go upmarket.’ He pointed upwards, as if indicating some kind of deity. ‘I wish I had that business, but I don’t.’
‘And in Brighton?’
‘There’s nothing like that. But I’ll keep my ear to the ground.’
‘If you turn up anything . . .’ McGregor finished his drink. His eyes were dry and tired. ‘Someone moved his body,’ he said. ‘Wherever he died, someone didn’t want him found there.’
Davidson nodded as if he understood. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said. Though he didn’t add that the kind of people who ran the sort of game George Forgie took part in were not the kind of people you shopped to the police.