Since the death of his wife Detective-Inspector Michael Ford and Roger had lived in a small detached house in Medlow. Ford had never succeeded in becoming domesticated and a woman came in every day to do the cooking and cleaning. She took Saturdays and Sundays off and at week-ends Ford and Roger (during school holidays) fended for themselves in an atmosphere of cheerful confusion. On Monday mornings, when his father had departed for the police station, Roger usually made himself scarce because the admirable Mrs. Bates was apt to flounce through the house muttering darkly about the inability of the male sex to do anything for themselves.
On the first Saturday of the school holidays Ford, comfortably attired in disreputable flannel trousers and an open-necked shirt, was entertaining Detective-Sergeant Broderick to afternoon tea. Ford privately designated Mrs. Bate’s tea as “dish water” and prided himself on producing a really strong, man’s brew.
The kettle boiled and Ford put four spoonfuls of tea into the pot. “Great stuff, this,” he said to Broderick. “It’ll get that nimble brain of yours working on this little problem of ours.”
“I’m glad you think it’s only a little problem,” said Broderick. He accepted a cup of tea from Ford and sipped it thoughtfully for a moment. He said: “Mike, d’you know a girl by the name of Billie Reynolds?”
“Billie Reynolds?”
“Yes. She’s the piece who’s got the houseboat called Shangri-La. It’s about two hundred yards from Cooper’s.”
“Shangri-La, eh?” said Ford. “Sounds like a ruddy night club.”
“I gather it’s used as one on occasions,” said Broderick dryly. “The type that gets raided. Well, d’ you know the lady?”
“I know her,” said Ford. “A flash piece if you like.”
Broderick laughed. “That’s an understatement,” he said.
“She’s been questioned about this job,” said Ford. “All movements checked, water-tight alibi. She was away when the murder happened: caught the 9.25 to London on Wednesday morning. Old Fred at the station remembers carrying her suitcase. Have you seen her lately?”
Broderick grinned. “I saw her last night, as a matter of fact.”
“Oh, did you, now? Where?”
“In the ‘Rose and Crown’ at Maidenhead. I bought her a drink. Come to think of it, I bought her three drinks.”
“Fancy that,” said Ford ironically. He knew that Broderick was of a somewhat amatory disposition and that his eye was apt to rove. He was undeniably attractive to the opposite sex and on occasions his physical charms had paid good dividends professionally. “And what exactly was the purpose of this little get-together? I take it you were, as they say, combining business with pleasure.”
“Certainly,” said Broderick. “I pumped her about Cooper and Rocello. She said she knew Cooper by sight but had never seen Rocello. She said she left Medlow on Wednesday and returned on Friday night.”
Ford nodded. “That’s been checked. It’s O.K.” He shot a quick look at Broderick. “Don’t you believe her?”
Broderick shrugged. “I suppose so. In any case you say she’s got a perfect alibi.”
“Couldn’t have a much better one,” said Ford. “But you don’t seem quite happy about our Billie. Is there a doubt in your mind about her?”
“Well, no. You wouldn’t exactly call it a doubt.”
“What would you call it?”
Broderick lit a cigarette before replying. He said: “I find it a little difficult to believe that she never noticed Rocello. Granted, she was away when the murder happened, but damn it, the bloke was down there for nearly a fortnight. Billie must have noticed him at some time or another.”
“Yes, there’s something in what you say,” murmured Ford.
“Look at it this way, Mike,” said Broderick. “An Italian called Rocello is found murdered in one of the houseboats. The boat belongs to a friend of his—Cooper. Cooper disappears. Correct?”
“Correct.”
“On the afternoon in question,” continued Broderick, “a Miss Katherine Walters sees a car drive up to the houseboat and sees a man get into it. Later she identifies this chap as David Henderson, a housemaster at Rockingham College. Correct?”
Ford nodded. “Right.”
“Henderson says he never went near the houseboat——”
“He went to the houseboat, all right,” interrupted Ford. “The point is—why?”
Broderick thought for a moment. “My bet is he went there to see Cooper but saw a stiff instead. He was scared and bolted.”
Ford shook his head. “You obviously don’t know Henderson. He’s not the sort of man who’d panic at the sight of a dead body. Anyway, why the hell didn’t he tell me about it?”
“Because he didn’t want you to know,” said Broderick, with a shrug. “It’s simple.”
“It’s not simple at all,” said Ford with a touch of irritation. “I was perfectly frank with Henderson—he had every chance to tell me what he was doing there. I told him exactly what Miss Walters told me.”
“D’you think she could have made a mistake?”
“I very much doubt it,” said Ford. “No, Bob. It sticks out a mile Henderson was on the houseboat. And you can take it from me he knew Rocello—not a doubt about that.”
“I’m not suggesting that he didn’t know Rocello,” said Broderick. “I’m simply saying that he was dead when Henderson reached the houseboat.”
Ford poured some more tea into the two cups. His eyebrows were knitted together in a frown.
“Then what’s Henderson trying to hide, for God’s sake?” said Ford. “Why doesn’t he come clean and tell us what he was doing on the bloody houseboat?”
“Because he’s a friend of Cooper’s and doesn’t want to get mixed up in anything.” Broderick took a gulp of tea. “Talking of Cooper—have you found out anything about him?”
“Cooper,” said Ford disgustedly, “is ‘X’, the unknown quantity. No one knows a thing about him except that he owns this houseboat. He’s supposed to be a solicitor but he isn’t. He’s supposed to be a friend of Rocello’s but no one knows where the hell he is.” He stuffed tobacco resentfully into his pipe. “It wouldn’t surprise me,” he finished morosely, “if Cooper, if his name is Cooper, did the blasted murder himself!”
“And what about Henderson?” said Broderick quietly. “He’s a friend of yours, isn’t he?”
“He is,” said Ford curtly. “But that doesn’t alter the fact that he’s in this thing up to his neck.”
Broderick finished his tea, got up from his chair and began to walk up and down the room. “Let’s get back to Rocello for a minute, Mike,” he said. “When did he first come to England?”
Ford said: “About a month ago, according to our information. He stayed in London for three days and then went up to Liverpool. From Liverpool he came down here.”
“Nothing very suspicious about that,” commented Broderick. “Now, if he’d been with Cooper——”
“Cooper again,” said Ford sourly. “Whatever happens in this bloody case we always come back to Cooper. I’m beginning to wonder if the man really exists.”
“He exists, all right,” said Broderick with conviction. “But what I’d like to know …”
They were interrupted by the appearance of Roger. Ford’s eyes, which had become slightly fierce, softened appreciably. “Hallo, son! What are you after?”
“May I get myself a glass of milk, Dad?”
“Help yourself. It’s in the ’fridge.” Ford turned to Broderick again. “What were you saying, Bob?”
The sergeant said: “I was just going to ask you about that inscription—the one on the watch. What was it again? Some bit of Latin or other——”
“Suavitor in modo, fort … what the hell was it? Something beginning with fort …”
“Suavitor in modo, fortiter in re,” said Roger from the refrigerator. “It means: ‘Gentle in the manner but vigorous in the deed.’ ”
“Blimey,” said Broderick appreciatively, “you’d think one detective in the family was enough! Where d’you get that from, Roger?”
“Yes, where did you get it from?” asked Ford. “I thought you were supposed to be bad at Latin.”
“Well, I’m not so hot at it,” said Roger, “but that’s an easy one. Mr. Henderson told me what it meant.”
“Mr. Henderson? But for goodness sake, boy, what made you ask him?”
“He lent me a book about the Italian lakes and the quotation was written on the fly-leaf.”
Ford leaned forward in his chair. “In Mr. Henderson’s handwriting?”
“Yes, I’m pretty sure it was,” said Roger.
Ford and Broderick exchanged a quick look. “Have you still got the book, Roger?” asked Broderick.
“Yes, I’m still reading it. Jolly good it is, too.”
The sound of the door bell jangled insistently through the house. Whoever was ringing it was clearly agitated.
“See who that is, Roger,” said Ford.
“Well, what d’you make of that?” said Broderick when Roger had left the room.
“Damned if I know,” said Ford. “But one thing sticks out a mile. There was obviously some tie-up between Henderson and this Italian chap.”
“It certainly looks that way,” agreed Broderick. “Now where exactly does Cooper come in?”
“Let’s leave Cooper for the time being,” said Ford heavily. At that moment Roger returned. “Who was it, son?”
“Someone called Mr. Merson,” said Roger. “He wants to know if you could see him for a few minutes.”
“Ask him to come in.”
A tall, spare man aged about fifty advanced warily into the room. His dark grey suit was immaculate, his stiff collar and subdued tie models of City correctness.
His voice was rather high pitched, incisive and pedantic. His hand constantly strayed to the knot of his tie. He said: “I really must apologize for this intrusion. But I’m very anxious to have a word with you.”
“What is it you want to see me about?” asked Ford.
Merson hesitated and looked at Broderick. “Well, I—er—rather wanted to see you alone if possible, Inspector.”
Ford turned to Broderick and just perceptibly moved his head. “See you later, Bob.”
When Broderick had gone Ford said: “Now, sir.”
Merson was palpably ill at ease. He looked down at his well polished shoes. When he looked at Ford his eyes did not meet the Inspector’s directly. Shifty sort of cuss, thought Ford, make a bad witness. He said: “Won’t you sit down, Mr. Merson?”
Merson subsided into a chair and drummed his fingers on the small side table. Automatically Ford continued to register mental impressions: bundle of nerves, probably a guilty conscience.
“I don’t think we’ve actually met before, Inspector,” started Merson.
“I don’t think we have, sir,” said Ford.
Merson leaned forward in his chair. He was still fiddling with the knot of his tie. “I live at Seldon House, Waverley Avenue,” he said, “perhaps you know the house.”
Ford nodded. “I know it, sir.”
“I’ve come to see you in connection with the death of this Italian fellow. The word murder has an ugly sound and I——”
“It was murder, sir,” said Ford quietly. “No doubt about that.”
“I see. Naturally you will have verified that.” Merson paused and ran a well shaped hand over his thinning hair. He went on: “It’s about the murder that I came to see you, Inspector.”
“Yes?”
“Inspector, I’ll be perfectly frank with you,” said Merson. “I saw something on Wednesday night—or rather in the small hours of—er—Thursday morning— which I think you ought to know about. On the other hand I don’t want you, or anyone else—my wife for instance—to think …” He broke off and looked at his shoes again. Here it comes, thought Ford cynically. He might have known that sex was going to rear its ugly head sooner or later. It looks like the old story.…
He smiled encouragingly at Merson. “If this matter doesn’t concern your wife, sir,” he said, “then there’s no reason why she should know anything about it.”
Merson looked immeasurably relieved and conjured up a thin smile. “Thank you, Inspector,” he said. “The fact is my wife’s in Edinburgh at the moment so I—er——”
“Spent last Wednesday night with a friend?” suggested Ford bluntly.
Merson’s smile, noticed Ford, did not reach his eyes. “Well, yes,” he said, “that’s precisely what did happen.” He raised his well tailored shoulders in a deprecatory little shrug. “Of course, we are none of us perfect, Inspector, and in the circumstances——”
“Quite so, sir,” said Ford. He spoke as one man of the world to another.
“This friend of mine is rather good at Canasta—a game I’m extremely fond of.”
Canasta, said Ford ribaldly to himself. That’s a new one. Aloud he said: “I see, sir.”
“My wife has never cared for cards,” continued Merson with gathering confidence. “So naturally I take every opportunity of—er—having a game when I can.”
“Naturally,” said Ford gravely.
“This friend of mine has a houseboat called Shangri-La——”
“Shangri-La, did you say, sir?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’re talking about Miss Reynolds—Billie Reynolds?”
Merson pursed his thin Ups. “Er—yes. Do you know her, Inspector?”
“Yes, Mr. Merson, I know her. But I had the idea that she was in London on Wednesday night.” Ford smiled benignly at Merson. “You see, sir, we made certain inquiries about Miss Reynold’s movements.”
Merson said: “Well, as a matter of fact she did go to London—she caught the 9.25 in the morning—but she didn’t stay there.” He produced his thin smile once more. “I brought her back to Medlow.”
Ford rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He disliked Merson more every minute he sat there, but he knew he must do his utmost to conceal the fact. Merson might well be a vital link in the chain.
“You brought her back?” he repeated unemotionally. “So I take it that the trip to London was to give the impression that Miss Reynolds was away for two or three days.”
“Frankly, that was my idea,” admitted Merson. “You know what people are in a small community like this, Inspector. One can’t be too careful in—er—matters of this sort.”
“Quite so, sir,” murmured Ford. “Now perhaps you’ll tell me what happened on Wednesday night.” He was beginning to get a little bored with Merson’s sex life.
“Well, let me see,” said Merson, “Billie—Miss Reynolds—and I were playing Canasta and at half-past two in the morning we went up on deck.”
“A rather late session, surely,” Ford could not resist saying.
Merson looked pained. “Canasta is a very absorbing game,” he said severely.
“Quite so,” said Ford. “Please go on, Mr. Merson.”
“We’d been on deck for about five minutes,” continued Merson, “when a car suddenly appeared and stopped opposite Cooper’s place. The name of his houseboat escapes me for the moment———”
“High Tor,” said Ford.
“Ah, yes. High Tor.” Merson thought for a moment. “Two men got out of the car and lifted a man from the back seat and carried him on to the boat. It was the Italian chap—the man who was murdered.”
“Are you quite sure of that?” asked Ford.
“Perfectly. There was a bright moon that night and I recognized him immediately. We thought he was drunk.”
“I see,” said Ford. “I suppose you didn’t recognize the two men who were with him?”
“No.”
“And what time was this, Mr. Merson?”
“Er—about half-past two, I think.”
Ford said: “Do you think the two men recognized you?”
“I should think that’s very unlikely,” said Merson.
“Why? Wasn’t there a light showing anywhere?”
Merson hesitated. “Well, no,” he said. “We—Miss Reynolds and I—were not—er—particularly anxious to draw attention to ourselves. Naturally, a man in my position——”
Ford nodded. “I understand, sir.”
“I do hope, Inspector,” said Merson anxiously, “that I’ve done the right thing in telling you all this.”
“Indeed you have, sir,” said Ford.
Merson looked relieved. Then he said: “It occurs to me that Rocello must have actually been dead when the two men brought him to the houseboat.”
“That’s very possible, Mr. Merson,” agreed Ford. “By the way, does Miss Reynolds know that you’ve come to see me?”
Merson looked alarmed. “Good Heavens, no! No one knows. I’m sure I need hardly ask you, Inspector, not to—er—mention my coming here to anyone. After all, I needn’t have told you anything about it.”
“True,” said Ford. He thought: anyone would think he expected to be complimented on his public-spiritedness.
“You must admit, Inspector, that I’ve been perfectly frank about the whole thing. After all, some men who—er—found themselves in such a predicament might have been very much less forthcoming.”
“I appreciate your frankness very much, Mr. Merson,” said Ford.
“And I have your assurance that this will go no further?”
“Mr. Merson,” said Ford levelly, “the police are concerned only with finding out who committed this murder. They are not in any way concerned with your private life.”
Merson looked aggrieved. “I hope you’re not getting the wrong impression, Inspector.”
Ford raised his eyebrows slightly. “I’m quite sure I’m not, sir,” he said.
Merson glanced at his watch. “I must be getting along now.”
“I’ll see you out, sir,” said Ford.
When Merson had gone Ford went back to his chair and lit his pipe. A visit to Miss Billie Reynolds seemed to be clearly indicated.
There was an exotic air about the sitting-room on the houseboat called Shangri-La. At first glance there seemed to be too much furniture—deep armchairs covered with an over-large floral pattern, a divan-type sofa which looked almost too comfortable to be true and a thick black pile carpet. The whole effect added up to a curious mixture of expense, ostentation and questionable taste which, having regard for the occupant of Shangri-La, was scarcely surprising.
Billie Reynolds came into the sitting-room and yawned elegantly. She was an exceptionally well proportioned blonde of about twenty-eight who possessed an abundance of physical allure, a certain spurious hauteur and very little else. Billie was representative of a certain type of woman on the outer fringe of Britain’s theatre, who haunt agent’s offices by day and the shinier West End bars by night. Although she described herself as an actress Billie had never acted in the accepted sense of the word. For the past twelve months she had been what is technically known in the theatrical world as “resting”. Responsibility for this enviable state of affairs rested almost entirely on the well tailored shoulders of Ralph Merson. On this particular morning the sun was shining, there was twenty pounds in her handbag and a day of pleasurable idleness stretched invitingly before her. She generously sugared a cup of coffee, surrounded herself with cushions, and lit a cigarette. In Billie’s particular world, there could be no finer moment. Almost, she purred.…
She looked up rather peevishly as the door bell rang because it was far too early for any of her usual visitors. A hasty look in the mirror told her that, so far as outward appearances were concerned, she had left nothing to chance. From force of habit she lowered the neckline of her negligée a little and called out: “Who is it?”
Detective-Inspector Ford came into the room. “May I come in?” he inquired pleasantly.
Billie made a little moue. “It looks as if you are in,” she said.
Ford smiled. “I’m sorry if I’ve interrupted your breakfast.”
Billie Reynolds shrugged her shapely shoulders in an exaggeratedly French gesture. The movement caused the neckline of her negligée to gape alarmingly. “It’s been done before, duckie,” she said. “What is it you want?”
“I’d rather like to have a little chat with you, Miss Reynolds,” said Ford. “That is, if it’s convenient.”
“What if it isn’t convenient?”
“Then I’ll come back some other time.”
Billie favoured Ford with a long stare. He was quite good looking, she decided, in a middle-aged sort of way.
“What is it you want to chat about?” she said, thawing perceptibly. “The weather?”
“No,” said Ford briefly. “You.”
“Oh, really?” said Billie. She took a sip of coffee and lit another cigarette. “O.K., let’s talk about me. Why the sudden interest?”
“You may not know it,” said Ford, “but you’re quite a personality in these parts.”
“You don’t say,” said Billie, not entirely displeased. She thought she was quite a personality too. “Might I ask if this is in the nature of an official visit?”
“Mm … yes. More or less.”
“Well, which? More, or less?”
Ford grinned. “Let’s say ‘more’, shall we?”
“I get it,” said Billie. She indicated a chair. “Have a seat.”
“Thank you,” said Ford, “Now then, Billie … you don’t mind me calling you Billie, I hope?”
“There’s nothing formal about me,” said Billie airily. I bet there isn’t, thought Ford. “You go right ahead. Let’s see—it’s Mike, isn’t it?”
“Mike it is,” said Ford.
“Well, get it off your chest,” advised Billie. “Tell Auntie Billie all about it. But watch out—your third degree’s showing.”
“To start with,” said Ford, “how long have you known Ralph Merson?”
“About a year. Getting a bit personal, aren’t you?”
Ford smiled. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I did say this was an official visit.”
“Oh, sure,” said Billie. She dropped her cigarette end in the coffee cup. “He visits me twice a month,” she continued with engaging candour. “He pays me three hundred a year; he’s got a duodenal ulcer; and he plays lousy canasta.”
“That’s seems to take care of Mr. Merson,” observed Ford.
“Not quite,” retorted Billie. “There are a few other details that might interest you.”
Ford raised his eyebrows. “Good,” he said. “I must say you’re being very frank about all this.”
“Why not?” said Billie. “After all, a girl’s got to look after number one.”
“I won’t deny that,” said Ford. “Tell me some more about Mr. Merson.”
“He takes me off his income tax,” said Billie readily. “His wife doesn’t understand him—they never do. Beneath a cold exterior beats a heart of gold—well, rolled gold, anyway.”
“He doesn’t sound very original,” commented Ford.
“You can say that again. But—well—” she waved a hand round the room in a comprehensive gesture—” what would you do, duckie?”
The question seemed rhetorical. Ford said: “What happened on last Thursday morning?”
“What part of Thursday morning?”
Ford sighed. “Now, come off it, Billie. You know what I mean. You and Merson both saw the Italian and you saw two men bring him back to the houseboat.”
“Did we?”
“Yes, you did. You recognized Rocello.”
Billie continued to smoke composedly. “Ralph recognized Rocello. I’d never seen him before in my life.”
With a touch of sarcasm Ford said: “Well, if you’d never seen him before—what was your first impression of him?”
“How d’you mean, first impression?”
“Did you think he was drunk?”
Billie laughed. “There’s no ‘think’ about it—he was as high as a kite. He couldn’t stand up and his two pals had to carry him.”
“Who were his two friends?”
“Search me. I’d never seen either of ’em before.”
“Would you recognize them if you saw them again?”
“Now, look,” said Billie, “I was enjoying the night air and minding my own business. If some character gets fried and has to be brought home, what’s it to me?”
Ford leaned forward in his chair. “I’m going to ask you a question, Billie.”
“You don’t say,” said Billie with weighty sarcasm.
“And I want the truth.”
Billie bridled visibly. “Well, I am telling you the truth, aren’t I? Don’t start coming the heavy copper, for Pete’s sake.”
“Do you know a man called Henderson—David Henderson?”
Billie Reynolds did not hesitate. “Oh, yes,” she replied. “He’s a housemaster at Rockingham College.” Ford started. Billie said: “Oh dear, now I’ve said the wrong thing. Why shouldn’t I know David Henderson?”
Ford had not taken long to recover his composure. “No reason at all why you shouldn’t know Henderson,” he said. “I just wondered if he was one of the men you saw.”
“No, of course not. If he had been I’d’ve recognized him.” Billie peered at Ford and her look was charged with suspicion and mistrust. “Here, what is this? What’s all this about Henderson?”
Ford said quietly: “When did you first meet Henderson?”
“Let’s see, now—about a year ago.”
“Where?” Billie found Ford’s suddenly re-awakened interest and penetrating stare infinitely disquieting.
“God Almighty, Mike,” she said, “you’re certainly turning the heat on me, aren’t you? I met him at the head boy’s cocktail party, of course. Where d’you think?”
The joke fell flat as far as Ford was concerned. His voice was insistent as he asked: “Where did you meet him, Billie?”
“Oh, all right.” Billie’s tone was inclined to be sulky. “If you must know, some of the Rockingham College boys used to come down here for a swim and I used to pop in occasionally.” She looked at Ford defiantly. “Well, why not, for God’s sake? It used to liven things up a bit.”
“That I can well believe,” said Ford dryly. “Go on, Billie.”
“Well, the school didn’t like it. They wrote me a letter—a real stuffed-shirt effort, it was—and asked me to ‘kindly refrain from bathing while the boys were taking exercise.’ Can you beat it? Well, you can imagine how that went down with me. I got myself a bikini.”
“And continued the bathing routine?”
“Well, of course I did. No one tells me what to do. When they got the idea they got really narked.”
“I see. And what happened then?”
Billie replied with some relish: “They sent me a couple more letters and then sent Henderson along to see me.” She laughed. “The nerve of it! The saucy devil said I was undermining the boys’ morale.” Her voice became suddenly arch. “Would it undermine your morale to see me bathing in a bikini? I reckon it raised the little darlings’ morale if anything.”
“I wouldn’t know about that,” said Ford. “What happened next?”
“What d’you think?” said Billie with a show of irritation. “The boys don’t swim in the river any more, that’s all. They put it out of bounds.”
“Have you seen Henderson since?”
“Once; in the village.” Billie laughed. “I damn nearly gave him the V sign.” She stretched herself languorously, displaying her figure to its best advantage. “Feel like a cup of coffee?”
“No, thank you, Billie,” said Ford. He got up from his chair and picked up his hat. “Some other time. I must be off.”
“Well, you know where to find me.” She produced a smile that seemed to have a personal connotation.
Billie watched Ford’s departure through slightly narrowed eyes. Then she went back to the sofa and lit another cigarette.