Henderson stopped dead in his tracks as he came into the sitting-room. Comfortably installed in his best arm chair and displaying a startling amount of very attractive leg was Billie Reynolds.
Clearly, Billie was dressed for a kill. She wore a black cocktail outfit, and greeted Henderson with a smile that had a wealth of promise in it. “Hello, stranger!”
Henderson said: “Good afternoon. Miss Reynolds, isn’t it?”
“The very same,” said Billie with great vivacity. “You came to see me about twelve months ago.” She produced an alluring pout. “Now, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten that.”
“On the contrary,” said Henderson, “I remember it very well.”
“Your housekeeper said I could wait in here. I hope you don’t mind.”
Henderson said: “What exactly can I do for you, Miss Reynolds?”
Billie was full of self-assurance. “You can give me a cigarette, if you’ve got one.”
Henderson offered the cigarette box to her. “You could have helped yourself.”
Billie accepted a light and inhaled luxuriously. The cigarette came away from her mouth and left a generous smear of lipstick on it. “Ladies don’t help themselves, Mr. Henderson,” she said archly. She pulled the tight skirt of her dress half an inch nearer to her knee in a travesty of modesty. “Or perhaps you don’t think I’m a lady.”
Henderson looked her up and down for a moment. “Yes, I think you’re a lady,” he said.
“Like hell you do,” said Billie. She looked at him through the smoke of her cigarette. “I was sorry to hear about your Italian friend.”
“My Italian friend?”
“Yes. Rocello, or whatever his name was.”
“He wasn’t a friend of mine.”
“Oh, wasn’t he, duckie?”
“No.”
Billie shrugged her shoulders gracefully. “So sorry,” she said, “I thought he was.”
Henderson looked at Billie through slightly narrowed eyes. “And what gave you that impression?” he asked.
Billie said casually: “Well, I saw you bringing him home so I assumed he was a friend of yours.”
“When was this?”
“The night he was drunk.”
“Drunk?”
“Yes, drunk. You know—tight, plastered, fried. That boy was certainly carrying a load.” Billie produced a small mirror and with an air of complete detachment inspected her face.
“I’m sorry, Miss Reynolds,” said Henderson, “but I haven’t the remotest idea what you’re talking about.”
“Haven’t you?” said Billie.
“No,” said Henderson evenly, “I haven’t.”
“Now, come off it, duckie! You know perfectly well what I’m talking about. You and Cooper brought him home one night, or rather early one morning. He was as drunk as an owl.”
Henderson said: “When was this?”
“Last week,” said Billie cheerfully, “the day he was murdered. You dropped him at the houseboat at about two o’clock in the morning—he was out for the count. You boys must have been on quite a party.”
“Where were you when this happened?” asked Henderson quietly.
“Never you mind,” said Billie. She inspected her nails with a great show of interest.
“I asked you a question,” said Henderson quietly. “Perhaps you’d be good enough to answer it.”
Something in Henderson’s voice made Billie look up from the contemplation of her nail varnish. She said: “Well, if you must know I was entertaining a gentleman friend of mine. I do quite a bit of entertaining, you know—one way and another.”
“Did your friend recognize Rocello?”
“Yes, but he didn’t recognize you,” said Billie sweetly. “So you haven’t got anything to worry about.”
“Have you told anyone else about this?” asked Henderson.
“No,” said Billie. She added significantly: “Not yet.”
“What do you mean—‘not yet’?”
Billie smiled. “I might be tempted to tell someone about it if anyone asked me. But no one’s asked me, sweetie.” She helped herself to another cigarette and regarded Henderson with the utmost cordiality.
“You mustn’t say a word about this to anyone, d’you understand?” said Henderson. He was watching her very closely as he spoke and just perceptibly moved a little closer to her.
“Why ever not?” said Billie languidly. Suddenly she sat bolt upright in her chair; ash falling off her cigarette into her lap. “It wasn’t you who murdered—”
“Good Heavens, no,” said Henderson. “Put that idea right out of your head. Rocello was a friend of mine.”
Billie brushed away the cigarette ash and crossed her legs. “Then what are you getting so hot and bothered about?”
Henderson smiled, “I just don’t want to be asked a lot of awkward questions, that’s all. You see, I’m in rather a difficult position, Billie.”
“I’ll say you are !” exclaimed Billie.
“Well, you know how it is,” said Henderson. “A housemaster at a public school—you know what I mean.”
“I know just what you mean, teacher,” said Billie. The come-hither smile was back in place again.
She looked down at a set of chessmen on the small table by her side and after a moment picked up a knight and examined it with studious interest. “What’s this?” she asked.
“A chessman,” said Henderson.
“I know that, silly,” said Billie, “but what kind?”
“It’s a knight.”
Billie picked up another. “And this?”
“A bishop.”
“Well, well,” said Billie, “we live and learn, don’t we? What about this character?”
“That’s a castle.” Henderson indicated each chessman in turn. “Bishop, pawn, knight, king, castle.…”
“My old man used to play chess,” remarked Billie. The change of subject, thought Henderson, had been very complete. “The old geezer used to fall asleep over it. It’s a game I’ve always wanted to learn, curiously enough.”
Henderson looked at her. “Would you like me to teach you?”
“Are you a good teacher?”
“I’ve had very few complaints.”
Billie laughed: a happy, carefree laugh. “You just got yourself a pupil,” she said.
At about eight o’clock the following evening Henderson slipped quietly out of the school to keep his appointment with Billie Reynolds. He carried a chess board, a small wooden chess box and a bottle of champagne. Taking the less frequented road to the tow-path he met no one he knew until he came to the houseboat. His knock at the door produced no response and he went in. The sitting-room was just what he had expected.
“Anybody at home?” Henderson called out.
Billie’s voice came from an adjoining cabin. “Be with you in a minute, duckie!”
Henderson looked at the bottle in his hand for a moment. “Do you like champagne?”
“Do I! Just try me with some, teacher!”
“Where d’you keep your glasses?”
“Cupboard—the corner one.”
Henderson looked into the cupboard. There were glasses for every possible drink. In the matter of dispensing alcoholic hospitality Billie clearly had little to learn. He selected two champagne glasses and started to open the bottle.
As the cork popped out Billie appeared in a brocaded house coat. She was freshly made up, and in a conscientious attempt to look demure had tied her hair with a red silk ribbon. This was Billie, the quiet, home-loving girl at heart.
“That’s the sweetest music I’ll ever hear,” she said. She draped herself tastefully in a chair.
“What is?” asked Henderson, pouring out champagne.
“That cork popping,” said Billie. “I didn’t expect champagne. I thought you were going to teach me chess.”
“All in good time,” said Henderson. He handed a glass to Billie. “Skoal!”
“Checkmate!”
Henderson laughed. “That’s what they say in chess, isn’t it—Checkmate?” asked Billie.
“That’s right.” He put his untouched glass of champagne on the table. “Did you say you’d never played chess before?”
“No, never.”
Henderson refilled Billie’s glass. “Do you know anything about the game at all?”
“Haven’t got a clue.” Billie took a generous drink of champagne. “But I’ll learn.” Henderson observed that she had half finished her second glass of champagne.
“Wow!” said Billie, “this stuff certainly packs a kick.”
“Only the first two glasses,” said Henderson. He picked up the bottle again and replenished her drink. “After a couple …”
“You’re floating on air,” said Billie, turning a hiccough into a laugh.
Henderson took the chessmen out of the box and began to place them on the board. He turned round as Billie cannoned into a chair. He saw that she was swaying slightly and holding on to a chair for support. Her speech was thick and she slurred her words. “This stuff certainly is strong. You’ll have me pie-eyed if you don’t watch out. Let’s start the game, teacher.” She slumped into a chair and smiled vacantly at Henderson.
“Right,” said Henderson. “Now, the first thing you have to learn about this game is——” He paused and looked at Billie. “Are you feeling all right?”
Billie had, not without difficulty, risen to her feet again. She was swaying dangerously by now and there was a strange, glassy look in her eyes. “Reckon I’m not,” she said. She felt her forehead. “My head’s going round and round. Wish this bloody room’d keep still. Always thought I could drink anything that came out of a bottle but that’s dynamite you’ve got there.”
“Would you like to go on deck for a bit?” suggested Henderson. “It’s a bit stuffy down here.”
“No, thanks,” enunciated Billie with difficulty. She blinked at him owlishly. “Hey, teacher, you haven’t slipped me a Mickey Finn, have you?” She swayed again and Henderson put out an arm to prevent her from falling.
Henderson looked shocked. “Good Heavens, no!”
“I’ve drunk some bubbly in my time,” declared Billie, “but … never … anything … that … did … ”
The glass fell out of Billie’s hand and she fell forward, knocking several of the chessmen off the table. Henderson caught her as she fell and placed her in one of the arm chairs. Billie’s head lolled to one side and her mouth fell open. As she would have phrased it herself, Billie Reynolds was out for the count.…
Henderson stood looking at her for a moment. His face was expressionless, but he was obviously making a decision. Suddenly, he picked up the chessmen and put them on the table, then he took a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and crossed to the door. Having carefully wiped the knob, he returned to the table and poured the champagne from his glass back into the bottle, wiping glass and bottle clean of fingerprints, and finally putting the glass in the cupboard. He moved quickly and deftly with an absorbed air of intense concentration.
When he was satisfied, Henderson took a small electric torch from his coat pocket, switched off the light and moved over to the porthole-style window. He opened the window, raised the torch, and began to signal.