FOR A MOMENT, Henry sat looking at the telephone in his hand. Then he hung up, and called Inspector Reynolds on the intercom.
“I want a car traced, Reynolds. Large black limousine, number PJ8745X. Get someone onto identifying the owner, and put out a call to all squad cars in the vicinity of Heathrow Airport. If anybody spots the car—it just left the airport—report back here, and tail it. No, I don’t want it stopped, not at this stage. Driver is a uniformed chauffeur, passenger a blonde woman. Possibly there may be a dark woman in the car as well. Got that? Good. Then come in here, will you? I want to talk to you.”
Five minutes later, Inspector Reynolds was facing Henry across the desk, his square, honest face displaying bafflement and incredulity.
“I can’t believe it, sir.”
“I couldn’t for about a minute,” Henry said, grinning. “Then, as I thought about it, everything fell into place. Sex-change operations aren’t all that usual, of course, but they’ve been going on quietly for a long time, and there are more of them every year. I remember reading somewhere that a hospital in Baltimore is especially famous for them. Harold Benson went to college in Washington, D.C., which isn’t far from Baltimore.”
“But, sir—” Reynolds was still struggling with disbelief. “The Bensons have a son.”
“So did the Finches,” Henry pointed out.
“Oh—yes, I see what you mean. The boy may be adopted.”
“Must be, if we’re right,” Henry said. “Doctors can turn a man into a woman physiologically, but not even the greatest surgeons have been able to transplant reproductive organs—so far.”
“So when Benson said that Simon Finch didn’t exist—”
“He was telling the exact truth,” said Henry. “After the operation, the woman—as she now is—is issued with a complete new set of documents, including birth certificate, in her new name and with her new sex. I wonder what the lawyers will make of it. Simon Warwick is alive—yet Simon Warwick no longer exists. Nor does Simon Finch. He became Sally Finch sometime in the 1960s.” He paused. “Simon Finch never ran away from home, of course. He went to start a new life as a girl—to his father’s shame and fury, but, I imagine, with his mother’s sympathy. And then—”
He was interrupted by the telephone. Reynolds answered it. “You have? Good.” He began making jottings on a notepad. “Yes…that’s what we thought… Yes, I’ve got that… He did? Where? I see… What’s that?… Nobody?… Hold on a moment…” He put his hand over the telephone and said to Henry, “Hawthorn’s traced the car, sir. Belongs to a big hire firm in Hammersmith—Limitless Limousines. And a squad car has just called in that it’s following it now, proceeding along Great West Road in the direction of London…not the M4, the old road…but there are no passengers, only the driver.”
“No passengers?”
“That’s what he says, sir.”
“Then tell him to flag it down and get information from the driver. Name of hirer, destination, what happened to the passenger…he can say it’s in connection with a missing person…”
Inspector Reynolds gave his instructions, rang off, and then said, “Mrs. Tibbett…that is, you said she was going to follow the Benson woman… I wonder where she is, sir?” Reynolds and Emmy were old friends.
“So do I,” said Henry.
“Maybe she’ll call again and tell us,” said Reynolds hopefully.
But when the telephone rang again, it was Detective Sergeant Hawthorn with the squad-car report. The car had been hired in the name of Reginald Colby, with instructions to meet a Mrs. Benson arriving at Heathrow Airport from Washington at 11:15 A.M. The driver, one Herbert Carter, had located his passenger by the usual method of holding up a card with her name on it. She was a blonde lady wearing a dark blue suit. His instructions were to drop the lady at Mr. Colby’s office in Hounslow—only a few miles from the airport. Sixty-one, High Street, Hounslow, to be exact.
The driver had met Mrs. Benson all right, and taken her out to the car, but before they’d gone more than a few yards she found she was missing a piece of hand baggage—one of those airline canvas bags—and she made him go back. Well, of course, it’s all one-way at the airport, so it took a little time, but he got her back to the terminal and she wasn’t gone more than a couple of minutes. Came back carrying the bag, and just as she was getting into the car, another lady came running out of the building—yes, a dark-haired lady, round about forty, he’d guess. He didn’t catch what the dark lady said, but he heard Mrs. Benson say something like, “Oh, that is kind, but my husband’s lawyer has sent a car for me”—and then, “Why, of course, I’d be delighted. Do get in.” So both ladies got into the car and he drove them to Hounslow. No, they hadn’t talked much. The dark lady said Mrs. Benson must be terribly worried, and Mrs. Benson said yes, she was, but she had always heard that British justice was wonderfully fair, and she knew her husband was innocent. In fact, she said, she had come over to prove it. The dark lady asked Mrs. Benson who was her husband’s lawyer, and Mrs. Benson said it was a Mr. Reginald Colby.
By that time, they’d arrived in High Street, and as they pulled up outside Number 61, there was a small green Morris parked at the curb. No, he had no idea of the number, never thought to look. And a girl got out of it—hard to describe, really—fairish hair, round about between twenty and thirty probably, Mr. Carter hadn’t really noticed. She’d seemed a bit surprised to see two ladies instead of one. The ladies had got out of the car, and Herbert Carter was driving it back to the garage in Hammersmith, when the squad car flagged him down. No, he didn’t know whether the three ladies had gone into the building or got into the green Morris. They were standing talking on the pavement when he drove off.
Henry said, “Find out what goes on at 61, High Street, Hounslow.”
“Very good, sir.”
Five minutes later, Hawthorn reported back. Number 61 was a grocer’s shop.
“With offices above it?”
“No, sir. Dwellinghouse, occupied by the grocer, a Mr. Hunt. It’s one of the few family businesses left in the neighborhood. Mrs. Hunt has been in all morning, and had no visitors.”
Henry relayed this information to Derek Reynolds, and for a moment they looked at each other in silence. Then Henry said, “Goddammit.”
“Yes, sir,” said Reynolds.
“My bloody fool of a wife,” said Henry.
Reynolds cleared his throat. “I think she’s done very well, sir, and she’s certainly got guts.”
Henry said, “She and Simon-Sally Benson and a blonde who may or may not have some connection with Reginald Colby have disappeared into thin air in an anonymous green Morris. She must be out of her mind.”
Reynolds said, “Whoever hired that limousine—and it probably wasn’t Mr. Colby, but someone giving his name—whoever did that must have intended to kidnap Mrs. Benson, sir. It seems Benson was right to be worried.”
Angrily, Henry said, “Of course he was right. He knew his wife was Simon Warwick, and he knew his son was adopted and so couldn’t inherit. He knew somebody was out to kill Simon Warwick.”
“Well.” Reynolds cleared his throat again. “That may be more difficult with Mrs. Tibbett along, mayn’t it sir?”
“Somebody,” Henry said, “killed Ronald Goodman. Somebody tried to kill Harold Benson—or at least to give him a severe fright.”
“The same person, sir?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so, but I can’t be sure. The fact remains that somebody is also prepared to dispose of Sally Benson. What difference would one more make?”
“Mrs. Tibbett,” said Reynolds carefully, “would be missed. She’s…she’s your wife, sir. She’s conspicuous.”
Abruptly, Henry stood up and smiled at the inspector. “You’re a great comfort, Reynolds.”
Mr. Reginald Colby, whose offices were, of course, not in Hounslow but in Gray’s Inn Road, denied emphatically over the telephone that he had ordered a hired car to meet Mrs. Benson at the airport. He had wished to do so, he told Henry, but his client had been adamant on the subject, and he hardly felt he could fly in the face of definite instructions. In any case, he explained, Benson had told him that it was unlikely that his wife would come to England after all, in view of a letter that he had written her.
However, when Mrs. Benson showed no signs of canceling her trip, he had taken the liberty of booking a room for her at the London Metropole Hotel, and had cabled her to that effect. Benson had not specifically forbidden him to do so, and it seemed only civil. He was planning to visit her at the hotel later in the day, when he could get away, and he admitted he was not looking forward to meeting her. Why? Well, he would have to tell the poor woman that her husband refused to see her, and wished her to return to the United States on the next available flight.
Henry said, “Did anybody besides you know that Mrs. Benson was booked at the Metropole, but wasn’t being met at the airport?”
“Well—my secretary, of course. She made the booking. And…yes, now I come to think of it, several other people. I ran into Percy Crumble at Rule’s yesterday—he was lunching with Ambrose Quince and Bertie Hamstone and that Westbury fellow. Something to do with the Charlton estate, I suppose. I stopped at their table for a chat, and naturally the subject of Benson came up, and…well, yes, I did mention the arrangements I’d made for his wife.”
Limitless Limousines came up with the information that the car had been ordered by telephone at 9:48 P.M. the previous evening. No, the office was not open at that hour, but there was a telephone operator on duty at night who took messages and left them on the booking clerk’s desk for the morning. The message had recorded the booking in the name of Mr. Reginald Colby, and a note was added that Mr. Colby’s secretary would call at the office before 10 A.M. in the morning, and prepay in cash. The cashier confirmed that this had been done. No, he couldn’t possibly identify the person who had paid. Clients paying cash simply pushed the money and their invoice through a grille; he checked that the amount was right, receipted the bill, and pushed it back again, keeping one copy for office use. He never even looked at the person paying. All he knew was that the account had been settled, and the garage told to go ahead and send the car.
Henry hung up and turned to Reynolds. “It has to be one of them. One of the people who stand to gain by the old will being reinstated.”
“The person who killed Ronald Goodman,” said Reynolds.
“I’m not assuming that yet,” Henry said. “What I’m going to do now is to check on every member of that group. At the very least, there should be a break in normal behavior patterns somewhere. Get tails put on all of them, will you? Now, give me that phone…”
Sir Percy Crumble was in his office, about to leave for an important business luncheon, Henry was informed by a crisp secretarial voice. When asked if she were Sir Percy’s secretary, the voice replied brusquely that she was one of Sir Percy’s secretaries. Finally convinced by the magic invocation of Scotland Yard, the voice connected Henry with Sir Percy Crumble, who was predictably affable and ignorant.
“What? Me send a car to meet Mrs. Ruddy Benson at Loondon Airport? Are you crazy, Mr. Tibbett?… Yes, I remember meeting Reggie Colby at Rule’s… Did ’e? Well, if ’e did, I don’t recall… Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve an appointment…”
It was a bright, brisk February day, and Sir Percy waved aside his chauffeur-driven car and walked through the streets of Mayfair to the expensive restaurant where he was lunching, thus making easy the task of the plainclothes detective who was following him.
When Henry phoned, Lady Diana Crumble was at home, entertaining Miss Cecily Smeed to lunch—a social activity that would have displeased Sir Percy, had he known about it. The fact was that Diana found Cecily, with her infinite knowledge of Warwick Industries, extremely useful from time to time. She also found her quite amusing, and a mine of information on the doings of Barbara Telford, whom Diana had cordially disliked ever since the long-ago year of their debuts into London society. The two women, of course, never discussed the affairs of Amalgamated Textiles. That, Diana knew, would be classed by Cecily as disloyalty to her present employer.
Diana spoke to Henry on the telephone, and laughed uproariously at the idea that she might have ordered a car to meet Sally Benson at the airport.
“I had no idea when she was supposed to be arriving,” she said. “All I know is what you told us the other day—that she was planning to come over, and Benson was trying to stop her. Of course I’ve never met her—what a fantastic idea. What’s happening?… You’ve lost her? Now I do call that careless—whatever is Scotland Yard coming to? Wait till I tell Cecily… Yes, of course you may, if you want to…” Her voice grew faint as she spoke away from the telephone. “Cecily, Chief Inspector Tibbett wants a word with you… Don’t ask me… To make sure you’re really here, I suppose…”
“Chief Superintendent Tibbett? This is Cecily Smeed… Of course, if I can… But I told you the other day I never met Mary Warwick… Naturally I’m sure… I knew Mr. Dominic, of course, because he used to work in the office… Well, when I say work, he honored us with a visit from time to time. But after he got married, he didn’t consider us grand enough for… Yes, Diana, I’m coming. Please excuse me, Mr. Tibbett, I have to go. Luncheon is served.”
The pretty house on Down Street had a back door leading into a small cobbled mews, as well as the pale blue front door with the brass knocker in the form of a clenched fist; so it was watched by two detectives.
Mr. Denton Westbury was not at home, and the young Cockney voice that answered the Battersea telephone number sounded at once bored and cheeky. He’d no idea where Denton was. Up west with one of his la-di-dah friends, no doubt. Oh, yes, he’d be back all right, but when—? “Well, it’s no good asking me, chum. I don’t care if you are Scotland bloody Yard. Wot I don’t know I can’t tell. Get it?”
“Better have the Battersea house watched,” Henry said to Reynolds, “and get someone onto tracing Westbury. I know it won’t be easy. Let’s try the Hamstones.”
Bertram Hamstone was taking a sandwich lunch in his office, due to pressure of work. He had been there all morning and would be there all afternoon. He had nobody with him except his personal secretary, who was taking dictation of a confidential nature. There was, the switchboard at Sprott’s Bank informed Henry, absolutely no question of interrupting Mr. Hamstone. Another plainclothes detective took up his station.
The Surrey police reported with commendable speed. A constable had been sent round to The Hollyhocks on the pretext of a security check. The Rolls was outside the garage, being cleaned with loving care by Martin, the chauffeur. The driveway of the house was cluttered with cars, for the good reason that the fundraising committee of the local Church Ladies’ Society was being entertained to a buffet lunch by Mrs. Hamstone.
The telephone at Quince, Quince, Quince and Quince was answered by Mr. Silverstein’s secretary. Miss Benedict, she said, had taken an early lunch hour, on account of her mother being up from the country for some shopping. She should be back in the office around half-past one. Mr. Quince was in court all day. No, she really couldn’t say what case. She worked for Mr. Silverstein, not Mr. Quince. Miss Benedict could tell Inspector Reynolds all about it when she came back.
“That’s a nuisance,” said Henry, “I wanted to talk to Ambrose Quince. The girl didn’t know which court or what the case is?”
“She said she didn’t, sir.”
Henry thought for a moment, then dialed a number.
“Mrs. Quince? It’s Henry Tibbett. I’m sorry to bother you, but I need to speak to your husband, and I understand he’s in court.”
“That’s right. The Westchester divorce case. Rather messy. It’s been going on the best part of a week.”
“Can you tell me which court it’s being heard in?” Henry asked.
“No, I’m afraid I… Oh, wait a minute. It’ll be in the paper. Just a moment while I look it up. Yes, here’s the report of yesterday’s proceedings. Let’s see. The Law Courts—that’s the place in the Strand, isn’t it? Court number five Mr. Justice Bilberry.”
“Thanks a lot, Mrs. Quince,” said Henry. “I think I’ll go along and see if I can talk to Ambrose during the luncheon recess.”
“Did that woman arrive, by the way?” Rosalie asked. “Benson’s wife?”
“I haven’t seen her,” said Henry, truthfully.
“I just wondered,” said Rosalie.
The London Metropole Hotel reported that they had a room reserved in the name of Mrs. Harold Benson, but that she had not yet checked in. As soon as she did, they would ask her to contact Chief Superintendent Tibbett or Inspector Reynolds at Scotland Yard.
Henry was just putting on his raincoat, with the idea of going to the Law Courts and seeking out Ambrose Quince, when Derek Reynolds came into his office, looking worried.
“I’ve just had the governor of Cragley Remand Center on the line, sir.”
“What’s happened? Is Benson—?”
“Oh, he’s all right, sir. Very pleased, the governor said. You see, there’s been a telegram.”
“A telegram?”
“For Benson—but naturally it had to go through the governor. Handed in at Charlottesville, Virginia. Message reads”—Reynolds consulted a paper in his hand—“ ‘Visit canceled love Sally.’ Name of sender, Mrs. Benson.”
Henry said, “Get Benson here right away.”
“If the woman who arrived wasn’t Mrs. Benson—” Reynolds began.
“Cables can be faked,” Henry said. “A phone call to a friend in the States…make some sort of plausible explanation…it’s not so difficult. Well, this clinches your kidnap theory. But for Emmy, people in the States would have assumed Sally Benson to be in England, while everyone here believed she’d stayed at home in Charlottesville. A huge hotel like the Metropole isn’t going to worry about a no-show. It would have been quite some time before anybody realized that the wretched woman was missing. Get Benson to my office at once.”