Carrying a cheap American suitcase, Chris Reynolds came out of the little station at Medlow and stood for a few moments, blinking at the sleepy high street. What on earth had made Billie, his half-sister, move into a dump like this? There was no sign of a cinema, and those amusement arcades and cafés with juke boxes, his favourite haunts, were completely non-existent.
What did Billie find to do in this hole, he asked himself. The houseboat was just somewhere to sleep, he guessed. Daresay one of her boy friends had made her a present of it.
He stopped a pedestrian and asked the way to the river.
Chris, it should be known, was one of the worries of an under-strength police force and the long suffering taxpayer. He was what is colloquially known as a “wide boy”. He indulged in brief spasms of regular employment and occasionally earned what is known nowadays as “good money”. But for Chris it was never enough. There were the cinemas, the girls, the dances, the fags and the boozers—not to mention the dogs. You couldn’t sample all these things and keep up any sort of appearance on eight or nine quid a week, unless you “fiddled” a bit here and there. Chris, regrettable to relate, was almost perpetually on the fiddle and as a result was not acknowledged as a near relative on Billie’s social register.
From time to time Chris operated a barrow, ran for a bookmaker and played the dogs. If you wanted a ticket for the Cup Final, a Swiss watch, or a fancy cigarette lighter in a hurry then Chris was your man.
To look at he was not entirely unprepossessing, but the eyes were too close together; the chin was slightly receding; the mouth was weak. He boasted black side whiskers which came to a point level with the middle of his ears. His flowing black mane (which he combed at intervals of approximately twenty minutes) was heavily creamed and combed into the fashionable duck’s tail style at the back of his neck. He affected excessively narrow trousers, lurid ties and thick rubber-soled shoes.
Chris’s jaunty promenade along the tow-path that led to the houseboat called Shangri-La was the prelude to one of his occasional visits to Billie. By tacit agreement they only met when one of them wanted something off the other. On this particular occasion Billie was in need of a new consignment of nylon stockings which explained the suitcase which was firmly clutched in Chris’s hand.
From force of habit—a habit acquired during his career as a bookmaker’s street runner—Chris looked both ways before going on board the houseboat. He walked into the sitting-room, put down his suitcase and mopped his forehead which was damp from an unwontedly long walk. He looked round the room appreciatively and pursed his lips in a soundless whistle; Billie must be doing all right for herself by the looks of things.
He called in a nasal voice that owed much to the cinema: “Hey, Billie! Where are you?”
There was no reply. After exploring all the cabins he stood in the middle of the main room scratching his head in bewilderment. He wondered where the hell Billie had got to. This was a funny sort of do altogether.
Hoping that Billie had some drink in store he crossed to the corner cupboard. It was then that he saw the chessman. It was on the floor, partly concealed by a fold in the carpet. He stooped, picked up the chessman, and stood in the middle of the room balancing it in his hand. He lit a cigarette and grinned. Billie was a peculiar one, always had been. But chess, he felt sure, was not one of her peculiarities.
Ford paced up and down the sitting-room, smoking an unaccustomed cigarette. Just over an hour ago Roger had complained of a headache and pains in the stomach, so the inspector had sent for Doctor Sheldon.
Ford stopped his restless pacing and looked up as he heard Sheldon’s voice say: “Good night, Roger.” The doctor’s voice was as calm and unworried as ever.
Sheldon came into the sitting-room and smiled reassuringly. “I shouldn’t lose any sleep over that young man,” he said.
Ford asked anxiously: “What is it, Doctor?”
“Whatever it is he’ll be as right as rain tomorrow morning.”
“But he was perfectly all right an hour ago,” said Ford, “and then suddenly he started complaining of headache and stomach ache. Said he felt violently sick too.”
“Well, he’s got over the last symptom, anyhow,” said Sheldon. “He’s been violently sick. I’ve given him some bicarbonate of soda which should do the trick.”
“I thought that was only for middle-aged men who ate too much,” said Ford.
“Don’t you believe it. It works on young stomachs just as well. Roger will be perfectly all right in the morning, believe me.”
“Yes, but what is it?” said Ford. “Are you sure it’s not serious?”
“Quite sure. He—er—went to the cinema this afternoon, didn’t he?”
“Yes,” said Ford. He looked alarmed. “You don’t think he’s caught anything, do you?”
Sheldon laughed. “No, but I’m pretty sure he bought something. In fact I know he did—four choc ices and an orangeade.”
“My God,” said Ford.
“Don’t say I told you,” said Sheldon. “That was a confidence between doctor and patient.”
“The young devil,” said Ford. “I asked him if he’d had anything to eat.”
“He’d had plenty,” said Sheldon, “a rather badly chosen diet, that’s all. Give me a ring tomorrow if you’re not happy about him.” He picked up his hat and gloves. As he turned towards the door he said: “By the way, have you seen Henderson recently?”
Surprised, Ford said: “Yes; as a matter of fact I saw him the day before yesterday.”
Sheldon said: “He called round to see me the other day; said he’d been having trouble with his shoulder.”
“Did he say anything else?”
“Yes. He said that someone had told you that they’d seen him near the houseboat where the murder took place; he gave my niece and myself to understand that he didn’t know who it was.”
“He did, did he?” said Ford.
“He said the idea was ridiculous.”
“And what did Miss Walters say to that?”
“Wasn’t much she could say,” said Sheldon. “It was a little embarrassing for both of us.”
“What happened after he left? Did Miss Walters make any comment?”
“She only said that she’s still convinced that it was Henderson she saw.”
Ford nodded. “Not much doubt about that,” he said. “It was Henderson, all right. What was his attitude when he was talking with Miss Walters? I mean, was he pleasant, or——”
“Couldn’t have been more pleasant,” said Sheldon. “In fact, Katherine seemed to take a liking to him.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” said Ford dryly.
“He’s an awfully nice chap,” said Sheldon inconsequently. He moved towards the door. “If I’m passing
I’ll look in on Roger tomorrow, but I’m sure you haven’t got a thing to worry about.”
Sheldon had been gone less than five minutes when the door bell rang. Ford opened the door and found himself face to face with Chris Reynolds. Ford ran a professional eye over Chris and did not like what he saw.
“Inspector Ford?” said Chris briskly.
“Yes, I’m Inspector Ford. Who are you?”
Chris did not enlighten him. “If you’re not too busy, I’d like a word with you, chum,” he said.
“Oh, would you?” said Ford, “and who sent you here?”
“Nobody sent me,” said Chris jauntily. “I called at the police station and they said you was off duty. So I looked you up in the phone book. Can I come in?”
“Yes,” said Ford. “What’s your name?”
“Chris Reynolds.” Chris strode into the sitting-room and sat nonchalantly on the arm of the best chair.
“Make yourself at home, Mr. Reynolds,” said Ford ironically. “Now, what exactly can I do for you?”
“You know my sister, don’t you?” It was a statement rather than a question.
“Your sister? I don’t think so. Who is she?”
“Half-sister, I should say. Billie Reynolds. She’s got a houseboat down here—the Shangri-La.”
“Ah yes,” said Ford. “I know her.”
“Well, she’s disappeared,” said Chris bluntly.
“Disappeared?”
“That’s right—disappeared. Scarpered, vamoosed.” Chris regarded Ford with scarcely concealed hostility.
Ford looked at Chris thoughtfully for a moment. A real wide boy, he diagnosed; thinks he’s tough. He said: “Supposing you start at the beginning, Mr. Reynolds, and tell me what this is all about.”
“I don’t know what it’s all about myself, mate,” said Chris. “If I did I wouldn’t be here. All I know is Billie’s disappeared an’ I don’t like it. I don’t like it a bit, chum.”
“When did Miss Reynolds disappear?” asked Ford.
Chris shrugged his generously padded shoulders. “Search me. I got here on Saturday afternoon expecting her to greet me with open arms. An’ what do I find? Sweet Fanny Adams.”
“Was she expecting you?”
“ ’Course she was. I brought her a dozen pairs of nylons. All paid for an’ all.”
“Have you been down here before?”
“No, I haven’t,” said Chris, “an’ I ain’t never coming again if I can help it. Dead an’ alive flippin’ hole. Soon as I know Billie’s all right, I’m off.”
Ford looked at Chris closely. “What makes you think she’s not all right?”
“Well, she’s disappeared, ain’t she? Blimey, I’ve been waiting for her to show up since Saturday afternoon.”
“Perhaps you misunderstood her,” suggested Ford. “Couldn’t she be in London somewhere waiting for you?”
“There’s no misunderstanding, chum,” said Chris positively. “Billie phoned me a coupla weeks ago and told me to be at the houseboat on the fourteenth. The fourteenth was last Saturday, right?”
“All right, we’ll let that go,” said Ford. “Did she say anything else?”
“No, except that she wanted the nylons in a hurry. Our Billie doesn’t half get through some ruddy nylons.”
“Are you staying on the houseboat?” asked Ford.
“I told yer,” said Chris belligerently. “I’ve been there since Saturday afternoon waiting for Billie to turn up, an’ proper browned off with it I am, too. Strewth, who’d want to live on a houseboat? You can’t hear a ruddy thing except water going lap-lap-lap. Fair drives you up the wall.”
“Your step-sister seems to like it,” remarked Ford. “She’s been down here nearly three years now.”
“I know,” said Chris. “Beats me what she sees in it—unless she’s got a boy friend down here.” He looked at Ford. “Has she got a boy friend?”
“Not that I know of. Why?”
“I thought if she had he might be able to help us.”
“Anyone in mind?”
“ ’Course I haven’t,” said Chris. “How would I know what she gets up to round here? But there must be one or Billie would never stick it, I’m dead sure of that.”
“Did she ever mention anyone to you?”
Chris hesitated for a second. “No-o-o,” he said slowly. “but——”
“Go on,” said Ford quietly.
Chris absentmindedly took the chessman out of his pocket and twisted it between his fingers. “Well, I’ll tell you,” he said. “About a year ago I was in a bit of trouble. I owed a bloke fifty quid an’ he had the screw on me. In the end, Billie coughed up.” He grinned. “Knowing Billie, she must have touched somebody for it.”
“But you’ve no idea who it was?”
Chris shook his head. “Nope. I didn’t care either. All I wanted was the lolly.”
“When did you last see Billie?”
“About four months ago—about the end of April, I think. She came up to town for a week-end.”
Ford stood up. “All right, Reynolds,” he said. “I’ll make inquiries and if there’s any news I’ll get in touch with you.”
“O.K.,” said Chris. Suddenly he looked at the chessman. “I found this in the cabin,” he said. “Dunno what it was doing there.”
Ford took the bishop from Chris and looked at it. “You say you found it on the houseboat?”
“That’s right.”
“Does your step-sister play chess?”
Chris laughed. “Are you kidding?”
“May I keep this?” asked Ford.
“Sure, help yourself. If you get any news let me know.”
Ford looked up from his contemplation of the chessman. “I will,” he said.…
Inspector Ford looked straight into Merson’s eyes and said: “Was canasta the only game you played on that houseboat?”
Sitting nervously on the edge of his chair, Merson said, “I don’t quite understand.…”
Ford took the chessman from his coat pocket and passed it over. “Ever seen this before?”
Merson shook his head.
“Are you sure?” said Ford.
“Of course I am,” said Merson petulantly. “Why should I have seen it before?”
“Do you play chess, Mr. Merson?”
“Well, I can play. But I haven’t for a number of years.”
“I see,” said Ford.
Merson said suspiciously: “Look here, Inspector, what’s the point of all these questions?” He pointed to the bishop. “What’s this got to do with Billie Reynolds?”
“It was found in her cabin.”
“I still don’t know what it’s got to do with me,” said Merson. He stopped suddenly and looked at Ford. “Has something happened to Billie?”
“She’s disappeared,” said Ford briefly.
“Disappeared?” said Merson incredulously. “Who told you that?”
“Her step-brother.”
“I never knew Billie had a step-brother.”
“She has,” Ford assured him, “and if I were you I’d give the gentleman a very wide berth.”
“I’ve every intention of giving him a wide berth,” said Merson primly. “I’m really not at all interested in Billie’s step-brother.”
“I don’t expect you are,” said Ford. His lips twitched in the semblance of a smile. “But he’s interested in you.”
Merson bridled visibly. “What d’ you mean?”
“He asked me if Miss Reynolds had a boy friend.”
Merson looked agitated. “Good God, you didn’t tell him …”
“I didn’t tell him anything,” said Ford. He pointed an authoritative finger at Merson. “But let me give you a word of warning, Merson. If Reynolds tries to contact you, have nothing to do with him. Unless I’m much mistaken he’s a pretty nasty type.”
“Why did he ask if Billie had a boy friend?” asked Merson apprehensively. He had all the furtive, middle-aged Casanova’s fear of a scandal.
“Isn’t it obvious why?” said Ford. “Billie’s disappeared and he probably thought she was staying with him.”
Merson shook his head. “I haven’t seen Billie for some time,” he said with emphasis.
“And you’ve no idea where she is?”
“Not the slightest.”
Ford said, choosing his words with care: “Has she any other—er—boy friends beside yourself, that is?”
“I really don’t know, Inspector,” said Merson coldly.
“Did you ever lend Billie fifty pounds, Merson?”
“No, of course not,” said Merson. “Why do you ask?”
“Did she ever try to borrow fifty pounds from you?”
Merson hesitated. “Well, yes, as a matter of fact she did—about a year ago.”
“And did you lend it to her?”
“I did not,” said Merson shortly.
“Who did she borrow it from?”
“I really don’t know, Inspector,” said Merson peevishly. “I wasn’t in her confidence to that extent. I don’t even know whether she did borrow it from anyone.”
“She borrowed it,” said Ford definitely. He got up. “I’ll let you know if anything develops. If Billie gets in touch with you telephone me immediately.”
“All right, Inspector,” said Merson with unwonted meekness. He fingered the knot of his tie. “You don’t think there’s anything to worry about… ?”
“Worry about?”
“I mean, you don’t think anything’s happened to Billie?”
“What could have happened to her?” Ford was watching Merson closely.
Merson shrugged indecisively. “I don’t know. I—I was just thinking, that’s all.”
“I shouldn’t worry if I were you,” said Ford. “I’ll see you out.…”
Ford came back into the sitting-room and dropped into his favourite chair. The mystery seemed no nearer to solution. He went over the principal characters once more: Merson, who was pompous and afraid; Billie, who had disappeared without trace; Chris Reynolds, who was tough, nasty and clearly on the make; Henderson, who had not given a single satisfactory answer to any question; and Cooper, who was still a completely negative quantity. Ford realized only too well that if some glimmer of hope didn’t emerge he’d have a Scotland Yard officer, with an indulgent smile for the bucolic County Police, moving in on him.
He turned at the appearance of a very chastened looking Roger in dressing-gown and pyjamas.
“Hallo, what are you up to?” was Ford’s slightly discouraging greeting.
“I’m thirsty, Dad,” said Roger in a small voice. “Can I have a drink?”
“I’ll bring you a glass of water,” said Ford curtly. “Get back into bed.”
“I’d sooner have an orangeade if you wouldn’t mind, Dad,” said Roger.
“I’ve no doubt you would,” said Ford grimly, “and a couple of choc ices as well.”
Roger looked sheepishly down at his bedroom slippers.
Then he looked up with his oddly disarming smile. Ford’s stern expression softened.
“How d’you feel now, you gutsy young hog?” he asked with affection.
“Much better, thanks,” said Roger.
“All right, cut off to bed now.”
Roger was staring fixedly at the chessman on the table. “Has Mr. Henderson been here?” he asked.
“No,” said Ford. “Why do you ask?”
“That’s one of his chessmen.”
Ford picked up the bishop in amazement. “This is?”
“Yes,” said Roger with certainty. “I’ve had many a game of chess with Mr. Henderson. I know it’s his because there’s a scratch on it, right down the left hand side.”
Ford examined the chessman. “So there is, Roger,” he said. “So there is.…”
Mrs. Williams said: “Mr. Henderson won’t be very long, sir. He’s just gone up to the main building.”
“All right, thank you, Mrs. Williams,” said Ford. “I’ll wait.”
“Can I get you anything, sir?”
“No thank you.” A sudden thought struck him. “I suppose you don’t know a person—a girl—called Billie Reynolds?”
Mrs. Williams said: “Indeed I do. She called to see Mr. Henderson about ten days ago.” There was fierce disapproval in every syllable.
“Did she?” said Ford pleasantly. “Do you know what she came to see him about?”
“I’m afraid I don’t, sir,” said Mrs. Williams guardedly. “You’ll have to ask Mr. Henderson that.” The housekeeper made it palpably clear that she was disinclined for an interrogation by the police and Ford did not pursue the matter further.
Henderson came in carrying a pile of envelopes and several books. “Hallo, Inspector,” he said. He handed the letters to Mrs. Williams. “Will you post these sometime today, Mrs. Williams?”
Mrs. Williams took the letters and went out quickly, turning to eye the inspector over her shoulder. She was a woman who liked to mind her own business, and she didn’t care who knew it.
Sensing the somewhat frigid atmosphere, Henderson smiled at the inspector and indicated a chair.
“I’ve been doing the reports,” he explained. “It means wrestling with my conscience far more than I really enjoy.”
“You don’t experience any sense of power at being able to praise or damn?” queried Ford curiously. “Why, you might even be able to make or mar a boy’s whole career.”
“That’s a thought that always terrifies me,” admitted Henderson. “I console myself with the reflection that most of our captains of industry had shocking school reports.”
He leaned back in his chair and began to fill his pipe.
“What can I do for you today, Inspector?”
Ford said: “Mr. Henderson, do you know a girl called Billie Reynolds?” His voice was serious.
“Billie Reynolds?” said Henderson. “Yes, I know her. She’s got a houseboat down here.”
“That’s right, sir.”
Henderson laughed. “She’s quite a character, is Billie. We had a spot of trouble with her about a year ago. The boys used to bathe in the river and she insisted on joining them. She caused a minor sensation—or rather her bathing suit did.”
“When did you last see her?” asked Ford.
“About ten days ago.”
“Where?”
Henderson sighed. “Here,” he said. He smiled indulgently. “She called round to see me. Why did she call round to see me? Well, since last year the Head’s forbidden the boys to go anywhere near the river. Billie felt a little guilty about it and promised to behave more—er—circumspectly if we lifted the ban. Presumably she was going to bathe in something that revealed a little less of herself.”
“Was that the only reason she called to see you?”
“Yes, as far as I can remember. Why all these questions about Billie Reynolds?”
“She’s disappeared, sir.”
“Well, I’m afraid you won’t find her here, Inspector.”
“Did you ever visit Miss Reynolds?”
Henderson nodded. “Yes—about a year ago, when all the flap was on. The Head sent me down to the houseboat to have a talk to her. I didn’t get very far, I’m afraid.”
“You haven’t been there recently?”
“Good Heavens, no! We weren’t exactly on visiting terms.”
Ford looked at Henderson intently. His gaze was met with untroubled candour. “Do you play chess, Mr. Henderson?”
Henderson looked surprised. “Yes, I do. Why?”
“Have you a chess set?”
“Yes.”
“May I see it?”
Henderson raised his eyebrows in perplexed amusement. “What exactly is all this about?”
“May I see the chess set, sir?” repeated Ford.
“I suppose there’s some reason for this,” remarked Henderson.
“There is,” said Ford.
“I’ll get it.” Henderson went towards the settee and picked up the wooden chess box and board. “There you are, Inspector. I also have a pack of cards, a backgammon board, a set of dominoes and a very old Put-and-Take. Would you care to see them?”
Ford opened the box, took out the chessmen and began to arrange them on the board. “No, thank you, sir,” he said expressionlessly.
Henderson watched Ford as he arranged the chessmen on the board. Finally the set was complete, except for one bishop.
Ford looked up from the board. “There appears to be a bishop missing, Mr. Henderson.”
“There does,” agreed Henderson. “It must be on the settee.”
Ford shook his head and held up a hand to stop him. “It’s not on the settee, sir.”
“Oh, isn’t it?”
“No,” said Ford quietly. He produced the bishop from his pocket. “It’s here. It was found in Billie Reynolds’s cabin.”
Henderson appeared completely unperturbed. He took the bishop from Ford’s hand and looked at it for several seconds. He said: “I don’t think that’s mine, Inspector—although it certainly looks like it. Just a moment, I’ll have a look.”
He crossed to the settee and rummaged among a disorder of papers. After a moment he turned, holding a chessman.
It was a bishop.
“Here it is,” said Henderson cheerfully. “It must have fallen out of the box.…”
“Well, what d’you think, Bob?” asked Ford. He and Broderick were together in Ford’s office.
“Hard to say,” said Broderick. “Henderson could have replaced it, of course, but how the hell are we going to prove it?” He looked at the chessman. “After all, there must be hundreds of shops that sell chessmen like this.”
“In which case he could be telling the truth,” said Ford thoughtfully. “Perhaps that one doesn’t belong to him after all.”
“Then Roger’s mistaken?”
“Well, he could be. He’s not infallible.”
Broderick shook his head emphatically. “I don’t think he was mistaken, Mike, and neither do you.” He pointed at the bishop. “He told you about the scratch on it and there it is. This is Henderson’s, all right.”
Broderick turned as a uniformed policeman entered the office.
“Yes, Sanders?”
“There’s a Mr. Merson to see the Inspector,” said Sanders. “Says it’s urgent.”
Broderick raised his eyebrows and looked at Ford who, after a momentary hesitation, gave a brief nod. “All right, show him in.”
“Merson, eh?” said Ford; “I wonder if Chris Reynolds has been on to him.”
“Shouldn’t be surprised,” said Broderick.
Merson was in a state of considerable agitation. He said jerkily: “I’m sorry to trouble you, Inspector, but I—er—thought perhaps——” He broke off and looked uncertainly at Broderick.
“This is Sergeant Broderick,” said Ford. “You’ve met before.”
“Of course,” said Merson. He passed a hand over his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“What can I do for you, Mr. Merson?” inquired Ford.
“I received this by first post this morning,” said Merson. He fumbled in his pocket and produced a large “costume-jewellery” style earring of somewhat garish design.
“Whose is it?” asked Broderick.
“It’s one of Billie’s,” said Merson.
“Are you sure?” asked Ford.
“Certainly I am. I gave them to her just over a year ago.”
“It came by post, did it?”
“Yes.” Merson took a small piece of paper from his pocket. “This note came with it.”
Ford read the note. It said: “If you want the other one try Fallow End.”
“What does it mean—‘if you’d like the other one’?” said Merson.
“Well, presumably, it means if you’d like the other earring,” said Ford.
Merson paled. “Oh, I see.”
“Does that make sense to you?”
Merson hesitated for a moment. “Well, yes,” he said at length, “in a way it does. You see, whenever Billie and I had a quarrel, she always threatened to give the earrings back to me.” He smiled; a rather sickly smile. “You know what women are when they lose their tempers.”
“And have you had a quarrel recently?” asked Ford.
“No,” said Merson with emphasis, “certainly not. I told you, I haven’t seen Billie for days.”
“Do you think she wrote this?” asked Broderick.
“No, I’m sure she didn’t.”
“Let me see the envelope a moment,” said Ford. He looked at the postmark. “Hmm … posted in London, I see.”
Merson turned to Broderick. “Where is Fallow End?” he asked. “The name seems vaguely familiar.”
“It’s a small creek about fifty yards from Cane Lock,” replied Broderick. “The river bends at a place called Fallow. It used to be a bit of a dead end but they widened it out a couple of years ago.”
“It’s quite a way from the houseboats,” said Merson.
“About half a mile, I should say,” said Broderick.
Ford said: “Well, many thanks, Mr. Merson. I think that’s all for now.”
Merson crossed to the door, then hesitated, as if he would have liked to ask another question; finally he changed his mind and went out.
After he had gone, Broderick picked up the envelope, examined it closely, and said excitedly: “Mike, that’s Henderson’s handwriting.”
“I know,” said Ford quietly.
“What the hell’s he up to?” said Broderick. “Why should he send——?”
Ford interrupted him. He said: “Bob listen. I want a search party—every available man on the station. I want the river dragged from Billie’s houseboat right down to Fallow End.”
Broderick looked a shade surprised. “All right, Mike. But I think you’re on a wild-goose chase.”
“Well, what do you think?”
“I think Billie’s given our friend the brush-off,” said Broderick with certainty. “It’s my bet she’s in London somewhere—probably at a swank hotel with a new sugar daddy.”
“I hope you’re right,” said Ford, “but I don’t think you are. I think she’s dead and we’ll find the body in the river.”
“I’ll bet you ten bob you don’t,” said Broderick.
“You’re on,” said Detective-Inspector Michael Ford.…
Ford stood on the river bank, looking at the body of Billie Reynolds. She had, he judged, been in the water for some time.
Ford sighed. It was ironic, he thought inconsequently, that Billie should end her life in the river on which she had lived in such sybaritic, albeit undeserved, luxury. Billie Reynolds had been hard, selfish and calculating in life; in death she was merely pathetic. Ford had seen death in many and varied forms and considered himself immune to any shock. But somehow, with a good-looking woman, it was always different.
The approach of the ambulance with bell sounding furiously cut short his reflections. Billie Reynolds was now just another complication in the Rocello case and a subject for the coroner’s inquest.
Inspector Ford and Sergeant Broderick sat in a police car on the way back to the station. Ford broke the silence between them. He said: “What did Doctor Sheldon have to say about Billie?”
“Said she’d been in the water about ten days—perhaps even longer,” replied Broderick.
“It’s just about ten days ago that she saw Henderson,” said Ford significantly.
“I know,” said Broderick. He shook his head. “But Henderson couldn’t have done this. What possible motive could he have for murdering Billie Reynolds?”
“A very obvious one,” said Ford quietly. “She saw Henderson the night he brought Rocello back to the houseboat.”
“Yes, but——”
“I’ll see Henderson again,” Ford interrupted, “and have a word with Merson. You break the news to Chris Reynolds.”
“I wonder how he’s going to take this?”
“How do you think?” said Ford cynically. “He’ll cry his bloody eyes out, of course.” He leaned forward and spoke to the driver. “Back to Medlow.…”
“But it could have been suicide, Inspector,” protested Ralph Merson, making no attempt to disguise his agitation. “I just don’t see how you can be so sure that it isn’t.” He shrugged petulantly. “Unless, of course, you’re keeping something back from me.”
“There’s got to be a motive even for suicide, Mr. Merson,” pointed out Ford.
“Yes, I know that, but——”
“Can you suggest a motive?” asked Ford. “Can you give me any idea why Miss Reynolds should have committed suicide?”
“Inspector,” appealed Merson, “all this is most distasteful to me. I really don’t see——”
“I quite appreciate that,” said Ford quietly. “Just the same, will you please answer my question?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea why she should kill herself,” said Merson unwillingly. “On the other hand, I can’t suggest why she should have been murdered.” It was obvious to Ford that Merson would have liked to contract out of the whole business.
“That note,” persisted Ford, “the one that came with the earring.”
“Well, what about it?”
“You’ve still no idea who sent it to you?”
“Not the slightest. But whoever sent it obviously knew what he was talking about. He knew that Billie was dead.”
Ford nodded in agreement. He said: “You say it’s some little time since you last saw Miss Reynolds?”
“It was the night I stayed with her,” said Merson. The night seemed to afford him no pleasurable memory. “The night the Italian was brought back to the houseboat.”
“Was Miss Reynolds quite cheerful that night, or did she seem perturbed in any way?”
“She seemed a little uneasy, I thought,” said Merson hesitantly, “although it may have been my imagination.”
Ford said sternly: “Now’s the time to be perfectly frank with me, Mr. Merson—I hope you understand that. If there’s anything at the back of your mind, let’s hear about it.”
“There’s absolutely nothing at the back of my mind,” protested Merson indignantly, “and I’ve always been perfectly frank with you. If I hadn’t brought you that note about the earring you’d never have found the body.”
“Quite true, Mr. Merson,” murmured Ford amiably. He turned as a uniformed constable came in. “Yes, what is it?”
“The gentleman you’re expecting has arrived, sir.”
Ford nodded. “Right, Sanders,” he said. “I’ll ring when I want him. Has Doctor Sheldon’s report come through yet?”
“No, not yet, sir.”
“Let me have it as soon as it arrives.”
When the policeman had left Merson said anxiously: “Will there be a lot of publicity over this business?”
“It’ll be in the papers,” said Ford casually.
“Will—er—I be mentioned, d’you think?”
Worried stiff, thought Ford sourly. This’ll teach him to go home to the missis every night in future. He said, non-committally: “That rather depends.”
“Oh what?” demanded Merson.
“On how things turn out,” said Ford. He decided to bring the interview to an end; Merson’s domestic predicament had suddenly assumed a new insignificance. “Thank you for calling, sir,” he said. “The constable will see you out.” He pressed the button on his desk and looked towards the window with studious detachment. Merson looked at Ford for a moment, started to say something, and then changed his mind before making a dignified and resentful exit. Ford looked after him with an indulgent smile, but the smile quickly vanished when Henderson came into the room.
“Sit down, Mr. Henderson,” said Ford. His voice was quite expressionless.
Henderson looked inquiringly at Ford who was staring fixedly at his blotter. He sat in the chair facing Ford’s desk.
Ford said quietly: “Do you know why I sent for you?”
“Presumably because you want to ask me some more questions,” returned Henderson easily. “You seem to be making quite a habit of it.”
“Do you know a man called Merson—Ralph Merson?”
Henderson sighed and slowly shook his head. “No.”
“Did you send him a note together with an earring—an earring belonging to Billie Reynolds?”
Henderson looked at Ford almost pityingly. “Don’t be stupid, Inspector,” he said. He might have been addressing a bovine pupil of the Lower Fifth. “I’ve just told you, I don’t even know the man. And even if I did why should I send him an earring belonging to Billie Reynolds?” He spread his hands in a gesture of complete bewilderment. “What on earth would I be doing with one of her earrings anyway?”
Ford said with ominous calm: “I don’t believe you, Henderson. I don’t believe a word you’re saying.”
Henderson raised his eyes to the ceiling in a gesture of almost polite despair. He said: “Please, Inspector, would you mind telling me what this is all about?”
“You know perfectly well what it’s all about,” said Ford levelly. “You sent Merson a note. It was in your handwriting. The point is, why did you send it? Did you think the note would throw suspicion on to him? Or did you send it simply because——”
“I’ve already told you I didn’t send Merson a note,” broke in Henderson with a trace of anger. “And what exactly do you mean ‘throw suspicion on to him’? Has something happened to Billie Reynolds?”
“Billie Reynolds is dead—murdered,” said Ford quietly. “We picked her body out of the river just over three hours ago.”
“But what happened?” There was no mistaking the note of anxiety in Henderson’s voice. “How was she murdered?”
“We don’t know. We haven’t had the doctor’s report yet.”
Henderson said angrily: “You don’t need a doctor’s report! You saw the girl’s body, didn’t you? What happened? How was she murdered?”
Surprised at Henderson’s sudden vehemence, Ford said quietly: “Supposing you answer some of those questions?”
“What are you suggesting—that I murdered her?”
“Good God, no!”
At that moment P.C. Sanders came into the room. He carried a sheet of foolscap which he placed on the desk in front of Ford. “Doctor Sheldon’s report,” he announced. “It’s just arrived.” Ford picked up the sheet of paper and nodded to Sanders. As Sanders was leaving Ford called him back: “Just a moment, Sanders.”
Ford sat looking at the medical report for fully thirty seconds. Henderson said: “Well, what does it say? How was she murdered?”
Ford looked at Henderson from lowered eyelids and deliberately ignored the question. When he had finished reading he looked up and nodded again to Sanders who stood looking from one man to the other in respectful and bewildered silence.
“Mr. Henderson’s leaving, Sanders,” said Ford flatly. “You can show him out.…”
On leaving the police station, Henderson walked briskly to Doctor Sheldon’s house, where Judy, the maid, told him that the doctor was not at home.
“I believe he went to Maidenhead,” she said. “I’m not sure what time he’ll be back.”
“I’ll wait,” decided Henderson. “Is Miss Walters in?”
“She was a little while ago, sir. She’s probably in the garden.”
“Well, don’t trouble her, please. Just let me know when Doctor Sheldon arrives.”
“Very good, sir.” Judy seemed strangely reluctant to leave. “Can I get you anything, sir?”
“No thank you, Judy.”
Judy left the room, tormented by unsatisfied curiosity.
Henderson crossed the room and gazed out of the french windows, then he returned to the telephone and stood, undecided, looking down at the instrument.
Suddenly making up his mind, he took a small notebook out of his pocket, consulted it, looked at his watch and picked up the receiver. He drummed his fingers on the table as he asked for the number: “Westwood nine—four—five—one, please.”
Henderson looked towards the french windows again as he heard the number ringing out. A voice on the other end said: “Yes?” The voice sounded casual and disinterested.
Henderson said: “Is that you, Cooper?”
The voice said: “Yes, Cooper speaking.”
“This is Henderson.”
“Oh, hallo,” said Cooper, “I’ve been expecting to hear from you.”
“Cooper, listen,” said Henderson tensely. “I’ve just left Ford. They’ve found Billie Reynolds.”
“Yes, I know,” said Cooper in the same disinterested voice.
“You know?” said Henderson incredulously.
“Yes. I meant to phone you about it but unfortunately——”
Henderson heard footsteps coming towards the door. He said hastily: “I can’t talk now. I’ll ring you back in an hour.” He replaced the receiver and turned towards the french windows as Katherine Walters came in. She looked at him in surprise. “Oh, hallo, Mr. Henderson. I didn’t know you were here.” She stood looking at him; cool, poised and mildly curious.
“I wanted to see your uncle,” said Henderson rather lamely, “but I understand he’s out.”
“I’m afraid he is,” said Katherine.
“Have you any idea when he might be back?”
“None at all, I’m afraid. Didn’t Judy tell you that?” She was still cool, remote and unwelcoming.
“Yes,” said Henderson, “but I insisted on waiting.”
“Oh, I see,” said Katherine. “Has your shoulder been troubling you again?”
“Oh, no. It’s perfectly all right now, thank you.”
“I’m so glad,” said Katherine distantly. “Well, if you’ll excuse me.” She turned towards the door but Henderson stopped her.
“Miss Walters.…”
“Yes?”
“Have you seen your uncle this afternoon?”
“Yes, about an hour ago.”
“Did he tell you about Billie Reynolds?”
“Is that the girl that disappeared—the one they found in the river?”
“Yes.”
Katherine nodded. “My uncle said she’d been murdered.”
“How was she murdered—do you know?”
Katherine was clearly puzzled by the question. She said coldly: “No, I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Didn’t your uncle tell you?”
“Really, Mr. Henderson,” her voice was now remote. “Doctor Sheldon doesn’t discuss his patients with me.”
“Was Miss Reynolds a patient of his, then?”
“She may have been, I’m not sure. The police surgeon is away at the moment. That’s why my uncle was called in.” Curiosity overrode coldness. “Is that why you wanted to see my uncle, because of what’s happened to Miss Reynolds?”
“Yes,” answered Henderson quietly. “I want to know how she was murdered.”
“Was Billie Reynolds a friend of yours?”
“No.”
“Then why are you so interested in her?”
Henderson smiled briefly. “For a number of reasons,” he said, “but I’ll give you just one—the most important one. The police think I murdered her.”
“And did you?” she asked simply.
“No. Strange as it may seem, I’m not in the habit of murdering people.”
“Then why should the police suspect you?”
“Because they think that this murder may be tied up with the other one—Paul Rocello’s.”
“I see,” said Katherine thoughtfully.
Henderson looked at her quizzically. “I wonder if you do see, Miss Walters.”
Katherine said: “Look, Mr. Henderson, do you mind if I ask you a very frank question?”
“Not at all.”
“You remember the time you came here to see my uncle because your shoulder was hurting?”
“Yes?”
“Was your shoulder really hurting, or was it just an excuse to come here?”
Henderson thought for a moment. “It was just an excuse,” he said at length. “I knew you’d reported me to the police and I wanted to take a good look at you.”
“That’s not what you said at the time,” retorted Katherine; “you said that you knew someone had reported you, but you didn’t know who that someone was.”
“I didn’t want to embarrass you.”
“Oh, really?” said Katherine coolly. She looked straight at him. Very blue, those eyes were, and very candid. “It was you I saw that afternoon, wasn’t it?”
“No,” said Henderson steadily, “it wasn’t.”
“But it was,” insisted Katherine. “I saw you quite distinctly. I saw you leave the houseboat and get into the car.”
Henderson shook his head. “Sorry,” he said apologetically. “It might have been someone who looked like me—obviously it was—but I assure you it wasn’t me.”
Katherine stared at Henderson for a moment and then moved away. Her silence spoke volumes of disbelief. The uncomfortable silence between them was broken by the appearance of Doctor Sheldon. He looked at Henderson and said: “Oh, hallo—hope you haven’t been waiting long.”
“No,” said Henderson, “not very long.…”
Sheldon turned to Katherine. “Did Nurse Steele telephone?”
“Yes. Judy took the call; there’s a message on your desk.”
“Oh, good,” said Sheldon.
“Would you like a cup of tea?”
“Er—later, Katherine.” Sheldon put his instrument bag on the settee and looked at Henderson again.
“Did you have an appointment?”
“No, I’m afraid I didn’t,” replied Henderson. “I wanted to see you about Billie Reynolds.” As Sheldon raised his eyebrows, he said: “Inspector Ford told me that it was you that examined the body.”
“That’s right. I’m doing the police surgeon’s job while he’s away.”
“Exactly how did she die?”
“She was murdered,” said Sheldon quietly, looking across at Katherine.
“I know that. But how?”
“You say you’ve seen Inspector Ford?”
“Yes, I’ve just left him. It was Ford that told me about the murder in the first place.”
“Then why didn’t you ask Inspector Ford your question?” Sheldon spoke bluntly.
Henderson shrugged. “Well, I thought you’d know more about it, that’s all. You’re the doctor.”
“Exactly,” said Sheldon. “I’ve made my report and as far as I’m concerned it’s confidential. If you’ve got any questions to ask, ask Inspector Ford.”
“All right, Doctor,” said Henderson. “Sorry to have bothered you.”
Obviously puzzled at Henderson’s curiosity, which seemed both out of character and in questionable taste, Sheldon acknowledged the apology with a rather frigid inclination of his head. A change of subject seemed clearly indicated. “By the way,” he remarked, “how’s that shoulder of yours?”
“Much better, thanks,” Henderson said. “I’ve even started to play tennis again. I think your ointment did the trick.”
“I thought it would,” said Sheldon.
When Henderson had gone Sheldon stood for a moment, frowning after him. He wondered what had occasioned Henderson’s seemingly morbid and unhealthy interest in the death of Billie Reynolds.…