An Advancement of Learning (12 page)

The sat down. Dalziel did not have the faintest idea whether this was a match-winning riposte or not. There was a small outbreak of probably ironic applause from the back of the room. Ellie Soper rolled her eyes upwards in mock despair.

Landor rose.

"Yes, I agree there are one or two purely internal and academic matters we ought to discuss, but I see no reason to keep Superintendent Dalziel from his very important duties."

He wants me out, thought Dalziel. Before they get too rude. Perhaps he thinks I'm sensitive!

The thought pleased him and he smiled benevolently at the staff who were obviously sitting in tense expectation of the hand-to-hand fighting which seemed likely to follow his departure.

"It's been a pleasure, Mr. Landor,' he said. ', I can find my own way back. Good day to you all. Ladies. Gentlemen."

It might be interesting to hear what they say, he thought as he closed the door behind him. But it'd only have curiosity value. He rarely questioned his own powers of perception, but he now admitted he'd probably have difficulty in taking in whatever the hell it was they were going on about. They seemed to treat words as things of power, not as tools. They could get stuffed. He had work to do.

A girl started walking by his side as he descended the stairs. He glanced sideways at her. Long hair, sallow skin, hive-shaped breasts inadequately supported under a darned grey sweater.

"I want a word with you,' she said casually.

Lords of the bloody earth, he thought. First that lot back there. Now this.

"Why?' he said, not slackening his pace. They passed through the main door of the building out into the sunlight. She made a concession to it by thrusting the sleeves of her sweater up over her elbows, producing as a side effect a gentle breast-bobbing, which caught his eye.

"I was a friend of Anita's."

She didn't look as if she were about to cry on his shoulder, so he continued the hard line.

"So what?"

"So either bloody well listen or not."

He stopped and faced her.

"Haven't you got a bra on?' he asked.

"No. Does it disturb you?"

"What's your name?"

"Sandra. Sandra Firth." "Oh,' he said, disappointed. ' right. I can give you five minutes."

They set off walking once more.

Thanks,' she said. ' you wear a corset?"

"Please,' he groaned as he led the way into Landor's study. ' one thing. My interpreter's away at the moment. So just keep it simple, eh?"

"All right,' she said. ' you sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin."

"Hello? Hello!' said Pascoe. '. Ja. Ich bin Pascoe. Pascoe! Hello!

Was ist ... oh, for Christ's sake!"

He resisted the temptation to slam the ' down only because he knew that the small beach-head he had achieved would then have to be laboriously reestablished.

"Hello?' said a female voice, loud and clear.

"Yes? Ja. Ja. Pascoe hier."

"This is the operator, Sergeant Pascoe,' said the voice in icy tones.

"Your call to Innsbruck will be through in one moment. Please wait." Thanks,' he said. '! Hier ist Pascoe!"

He was beginning to have doubts about the wisdom of his actions in all kinds of ways.

The previous day he had with Dalziel's authority telegraphed a request for assistance to the Innsbruck police. It had seemed a good idea at the time to suggest the information required be transmitted through a direct telephone link twenty-four hours later.

Now he recalled uneasily how keen Dalziel was on economy in matters of public money. Other people's economies, of course; Dalziel himself was very ready to spend any money thus saved.

In addition, Pascoe was having doubts about the adequacy of his German.

It had been some years since he had used it and he was beginning to fear the old fluency had gone.

The next couple of minutes seemed to prove him right. The '' he had surrounded himself with were more of a nuisance than a help. The carefully looked-up words for ' list', ' officer', 'passport control', even '', seemed to present considerable difficulty to the man at the other end.

"Wiedersagen bitte,' said Pascoe for the fifth or sixth time. '. Ein Moment."

He began ruffling through the pages of his English-German dictionary once more, unable to discover anything vaguely resembling the word he had just heard.

Finally there was a strange noise from the receiver which might have been a polite cough squeezed and contorted through several hundred miles of telephone cable.

"Say, Sergeant, how would you like it if I tried my English out on you?

It's a vanity of mine and I'd appreciate the practice."

The shame of the moment was almost lost in Pascoe's surprise that the words were spoken with a strong American accent.

That would be fine,' he said, with relief. He hoped the operator was not listening in.

The only difficulties now were minor variations of American usage soon overcome.

"We checked out the airport and the hotel without much joy from either.

No records of arrivals here are kept for so long and I can't discover that anyone made a formal check that your Girling did in fact arrive that night. Why should they? If someone gets listed as dead, and they ain't, you'd think they'd come running, wouldn't you?"

"What about the baggage?"

"It seems the hotel bus was expecting a full load that night, both from the rail-station and the airport. It's a distance of about fifty kilometres from Innsbruck to Osterwald. Some of the guests arrived both at the station and the airport well before midnight. We know this because when they realized they weren't going to get on their way till well into the morning because of the delays in the English flights, some passengers insisted on hiring cars to take them or spending the night in Innsbruck and being picked up the following day. They were the lucky ones, the way things broke. Anyhow, they filled us in on the story at the time."

"Look, Lieutenant, could the coach-driver have picked up Miss. Girling's luggage without picking up Miss. Girling?"

It was a silly question. It must have happened unless someone had dug Al out of an Austrian avalanche and smuggled her back to England to bury her under her own memorial.

"Yeah. Why not? It'd be labelled. Do I gather you've got a corpse you think might be this dame?"

That's right."

"You don't say! Now your other questions. No, her passport wasn't in the baggage removed from the wreck. It seemed likely she'd have it in her hand-luggage which would be with her in the coach. At least, that's what was thought at the time. They got the driver's body out and a list.

Girling's name was on it, and ticked off. But that might just have meant the luggage in the light of what you say. And that's about it." "Oh,' said Pascoe. He was sure there was something else he ought to ask before cutting off finally (at least it seemed an act of finality) this connection.

"Hey, you still there?"

"Yes."

"At the hotel there was evidently another dame, a particular buddy of Girling's. It seems a group of them, half a dozen or more, used to meet up for the winter sports every Christmas vacation, but this one was a special friend. And they usually travelled together, the manager thought." "Did she now?' said Pascoe with interest. ' don't suppose ... "

"You want her name? Miss. Jean Mayflower. Like an address? It's old; she stopped coming after your girl bought it. 17, Friendly Villas, Doncaster, Yorkshire. Got it?"

"Got it. Many thanks. I don't suppose the hotel had any correspondence from Miss. Girling herself?"

"Oh no. I checked. All they had was a confirmatory note from her travel agent. He did all the arranging every year." "I don't suppose ...' said Pascoe again.

"Hey, I like that

"I don't suppose", I can use it. Wait. I've got an address. Super-Vacs Ltd, Harr-oh-gate, that make sense?"

"Very much so, I can't say how grateful we are."

Think nothing of it. It breaks the routine. Let's know how you make out, huh? I mean, if she ain't at the bottom of that ravine, then that's one less cadaver we've got lying about."

"I will. Goodbye."

"OK. Grussgott:

Oh, I will, I will, thought Pascoe as he heard the receiver go down 900 hundred miles away. Public money well spent!

"Are you finished?' asked the cool, efficient, female voice.

"Oh no,' said Pascoe in a husky, passionate whisper. ''re just starting."

The line went dead. He replaced the receiver with a smile.

Perhaps things were beginning to break for him after all.

Sandra Firth had been a grievous disappointment. Something somewhere had gone wrong. She had carried on for a while in the cool, self-possessed manner in which she had started, but after offering a brief outline of her own background and position in the college, there had been a hiatus.

Finally Dalziel had tried his earlier bluntness once again.

"Look,' he said. ', Miss. Firth, whatever you want me to call you, if you've got something to say, then say it. If you haven't, then we're wasting each other's time."

"I just wanted to find out,' she began. ' mean I was a friend of Anita's ... " "So you said. Were you with her last night?"

"No!' she said sharply. ' mean, when?"

"Any time?"

"No."

"Wasn't there a party on somewhere?"

Pascoe had mentioned the emptiness of the bar to him earlier.

"No.' Again very sharply.

"Nowhere? You surprise me. I thought there were always parties!"

"Not that I was at, I meant."

Exasperated, Dalziel struck the desk with the flat of his hand.

"Is there anything you do know about these murders?"

"Murders?' She stressed the plural.

"That's right. There's been two."

She looked at him frightened.

"Your friend, Miss. Sewell. And Miss. Girling, the late principal."

"Oh, that." She laughed, relieved.

"Doesn't that matter?' he asked.

"No. I didn't mean that. I mean, we didn't know her, so it didn't bother me when the name came up. It was interesting really, rather than tragic."

"When the name came up,' echoed Dalziel. ' does that mean?"

"Nothing really,' she said.

"Why were so many students certain it was Miss. Girling's body?"

persisted Dalziel.

"No reason. Oh, it was nothing. Coincidence, I expect. It's just that some of us - them - play around with the wineglass thing. And the letters. Or a ouija board."

"You mean, you had a seance? Asked the bloody spirits?' asked Dalziel incredulously.

That's right. Not really a seance, just a bit of fun."

"And it - this thing - told you it was Miss. Girling?" "Yes,' she said defiantly. ' spelt it out quite plainly."

"Well,' laughed Dalziel. ''d better ask it about your friend!"

Something about her silence made him lean forward and peer closely into her face.

"You're going to, aren't you?' he said gently. Then with greater violence, ''t you?"

"I don't know. We might!"

"My God,' he said sadly. ' think of the money that's being spent on educating your tiny minds."

She stood up, breasts swinging disturbingly.

"Thanks for seeing me,' she said. I'll be off now. I have a lecture." "You didn't do it, did you?' he said shaking his head.

"Do what?' She looked frightened.

"Tell me what you wanted to tell me. Or ask me what you wanted to ask.

Why not? I'm sorry if I've put you off. Why not sit down, lass, and let's try again?" For a second he thought she was going to agree but after only a perfunctory knock, the door burst open and Kent strode in, his face awash with good tidings.

"Excuse me, sir,' he said. ' we've come up with something, a chap who was out along the dunes last night and saw something which could be relevant."

Through the open door, Dalziel saw a white-haired man, with a sun-darkened face in which a pair of bright blue eyes flickered and darted glances of alert interest at the scene before him.

"It's a Mr. Lapping,' continued Kent, but Dalziel raised his hand in a silencing gesture.

"If you could just hang on a moment, Inspector,' he said with suspicious gentleness. ''m rather busy ... " "No. Don't bother about me,' said Sandra. ''m finished, and I have to go anyway. Goodbye."

Head bowed so that her hair covered her face, she walked quickly from the room, past the old man who turned to look at her with undisguised interest.

What was she going to tell me? wondered Dalziel. If only that fool Kent hadn't come in ... But it was more than just the interruption, he felt.

It was the content of the interruption, perhaps ... "Will you see Mr. Lapping now?' asked Kent. There was little choice. The old man had wandered into the room and was peering around with interest.

Round his neck hung a large pair of binoculars. Dalziel sighed inwardly, wondering what Kent had let him in for.

But two minutes later as the old man described what he had seen the previous night, all his little half-formed plans for tearing Kent limb from limb had disappeared.

Harold Lapping told his tale with great gusto, not disguising his whole-hearted enjoyment of the show he had so unexpectedly stumbled upon.

"Ah'd niver seen owt like it. Niver in all me days. Some on ' had paps as'd have made World Cup footballs!" He paused, bright-eyed in reminiscence then his expression became sombre.

"But when ah heard about that lassie ... "

He shook his head distressfully.

"Ah niver thowt, niver ... when they all ran ... it seemed a joke, someone walking by the shore ... like meself."

Ill

He paused as though to study the implications of his last remark.

"Like meself,' he repeated sadly. ' expect he were."

"I doubt it,' said Dalziel in his kindly tone, cursing Kent once again for an unthinking fool. What kind of checking on this old man had he done? Was there enough strength in those thin arms to hold a well-built young woman face down in the sand till she choked? Enough desire in that seventy-year-old body to drive him to such a deed?

"You saw someone?' he asked, breaking the silence which was beginning to run on too long.