Dead Man’s Shoes (18 page)

“I do not believe that was an accident,” he told Carolus as though he had been thinking it over. “I believe that someone loosened a piece of the parapet in preparation for your coming, then pushed it at the right time. Who knew that you were coming here today?”

“No one except the police,” said Carolus shortly: “the officer whom I asked for the help of a finger-print expert and you.”

“It is curious, but I am sure that was a planned action. You should be very cautious now.”

After Carolus had given the required information at the police station he went round to Eric Luck's bar and told him what had happened.

“That's an old one,” Eric said. “I should have thought Mike could have worked out something more original. And yet, you know, it was sound enough here. There's plenty of loose masonry on these flat roofs. A piece of the parapet could easily have been tapped out ready to shove over.”

“A bit public though, surely?”

“Not a bit. By Mohammedan law one house doesn't overlook another. It could have been got ready last night and done today without those doing it being seen at all. Easy. And of course they'd have been away across the roofs and inside somewhere in less time than that. I told you to be careful.”

“I think I can probably get away in a few days' time. I've got nearly all I want.”

“Well, stay in your hotel. Mike's not a character to fool around with.”

Carolus phoned Lance Willick from the bar. Willick, it appeared, had remembered a few more things which might be useful and suggested that they should meet. Carolus, remembering Eric's advice, asked him to come to his hotel for a drink at about six that evening.

“See that copper again?” asked Luck.

“Maltby? No. I don't expect to. I quite believed him when he said they'd closed the case. I expect he has got his information and gone back.”

“To a triumphant prosecution? Very likely. You any nearer knowing who killed Willick?”

“Yes. But I still want some details about Larkin.”

“All I can give you is rumours, and they're not worth much in Tangier. There are rumours about everyone in the place, some of them so-fantastic that you have to believe them. There were plenty about Larkin.”

“Such as?”

“Well, he used to go away for months on end. That was enough to start off stories. I've heard everything from gun-running to the white-slave traffic. Yet no one knew where he went. Not even Lance Willick. Then there was a story about his having been in Germany during the war. Working for the Nazis, I mean. I never believed that, or they'd have shot the ——. He did speak German, though.”

“What about the factor that my promising young pupil would call his love life?”

“There's supposed to have been an Englishwoman who visited him. A stranger in these parts, I gather. But I shouldn't take much notice of that if I were you. If there were a cave-living hermit here, who had been celibate all his life and a eunuch for the past twenty years, they'd invent something for him. Quiet married couples who have been
faithful to one another since their wedding-day find themselves accused of the most monstrous orgies, and nice old ladies who are interested in nothing but going to church and doing a bit of knitting are supposed to lead debauched carousals on the beach by moonlight. No one could live here without a story or two being attached to him, so I shouldn't take the one about Larkin and the tall woman seriously.”

“You said tall?”

“Yes. That's the story. But there you are. If you listen to Tangier gossip you'd hear that everyone in the town is an egomaniac, dipsomaniac, nymphomaniac, paranoiac, schizophrenic drug addict.”

“What else do you remember about Larkin?”

“He had a peculiar walk.”

“That's new to me. What kind of walk?”

“He was a big heavy man, as you know, but he tripped along in a very queer way. It was as though he was stalking someone.”

Carolus put out his hand.

“I'm very grateful to you, Eric, for all you've told me. It's been most useful. And I wish you luck.”

“That's all right. I've got all the luck I want. I've always been lucky. Think of the drab and weary sort of respectable bloody life I'd have led if I hadn't learnt how to get something more from it all than hard work, a semidetached villa and a —— television set. See you again, some time. There's a taxi across the street—you take that home.”

Carolus did as Eric Luck suggested and reached his hotel without incident. There was no temptation for him to go out that afternoon and he slept for an hour or two. But he was waiting in the bar for Lance Willick at six o'clock.

Lance entered, moving in his usual decisive way.

“There are one or two more odds and ends of information I've thought of,” he told Carolus when they had their
drinks, “and I thought you might as well have them. It looks as though the only way this thing ever will be cleared up is through you, so I feel I ought to be helpful.”

“Thanks.”

“Not that it really makes a lot of difference to me now. I was sorry about Gregory because he was a good sort, but I can't pretend that I worry much about Larkin. Curiosity, really.”

“What's this story about Larkin having been in Germany during the war?”

“That was one of the things I was going to tell you. I really believe it may be true. He never admitted it, of course, but someone passing through here swore to it. He would never say anything about his life between 1939 and his appearance here five years ago.”

“But surely your uncle would have known? I shouldn't have thought he was a man to support an ex-Nazi Englishman.”

“Either he didn't know or as you suggested the other day there was something like blackmail going on. Or, again, the story may not be true. Another thing I wanted to tell you about was Larkin's absences. Looking back now I suppose that he must have been away on an average five or six months in the year. He never told me where he went.”

“How did he manage for money?”

“Cash, I think. He had no bank account in Tangier.”

“There is a suggestion that these disappearances had something to do with the supposed business he had with certain Moroccans.”

“I simply wouldn't know. I kept clear of anything like that. Now let me think what I have to tell you about the other end. You realize how well Gregory behaved towards me? He didn't need to give me anything and he's given me an income since he inherited my grandfather's business. But I really knew very little about him. I never stayed long in
England. He seemed to enjoy his life—that's really all I can say about him.”

“There's no one down there you suspect?”

“Honestly, no. It was the thought of the people there that made me come round to believing it must be Larkin. There isn't one of them one can see as a murderer.”

“There's a point about that. If it was Larkin he must have known about your uncle's afternoon walks. As far as I could trace he had no opportunity there of finding out. Do you think you could have told him?”

Lance looked straight at Carolus as he considered this.

“I certainly knew,” he said. “The last time I was over there that
bore
Packinlay was full of it. But I can't remember telling Larkin. We didn't often discuss Gregory. He had never been to Barton Abbess. It's possible that I did, of course. I had no reason not to.”

“I wish you could remember,” said Carolus. “It would make a whole piece fit.”

Lance smiled.

“The most I can do for you is to recall that when I last came back from England about a month before the murder I did have a talk with Larkin about it. I told him I had seen Gregory and Marylin and the rest of them. It could be that I mentioned the old boy's new habit, but I do not remember doing so and I don't think it would help you if I pretended I did.”

“No. One can often be led astray by people trying too hard to be helpful. Now look here, Willick. I've got to ask you a few damned awkward questions. You'll immediately think that I suspect you of murdering Gregory. But I know you'll be understanding enough to realize that I have to eliminate every possibility.”

“Of course. After all I'm the one who stood to gain most by Gregory's death. What do you want to know?”

“It's like this. Gregory was murdered on a Saturday. On he Wednesday before that you gave a birthday party. On
the Thursday, you say, you left for Cadiz and stayed there till the Monday. Now you must see that on the face of it you could perfectly well have flown to England on the Thursday or Friday, driven down to Barton Abbess on Saturday, murdered Gregory and flown back on Saturday night or Sunday.”

Lance smiled.

“Yes, except for one or two details, such as the fact that I never left Cadiz and can prove it to you and that I could scarcely have taken the risk of being seen by someone in Barton Abbess, since almost the whole population of the place knew me by sight.”

“Then you won't mind indulging what must seem to you my rather silly conscientiousness by giving me details of your Cadiz alibi?”

Lance pondered.

“I don't really mind,” he said, “except that it involves a woman. That makes it awkward.”

“I see.”

“I don't suppose she'll care very much, though. I was staying with Molly Gibbons, as a matter of fact. She's an old friend of mine. If you want to check, do. She has a furnished flat overlooking the beach. Number 12, Calle Playa. But you'll really be wasting your time, Deene. I didn't pop over to England to shoot my uncle, and as a matter of fact you know it.”

“It's a tricky case,” Carolus excused himself, “and I want to eliminate every possibility.”

“All right. Eliminate that one. But meanwhile do clear up some of the real mysteries. What
did
happen to Larkin?”

“He was lost overboard. Why need we go farther than that? Whether anyone gave him a shove or not really doesn't seem to matter at this stage. Or even whether he deliberately committed suicide. I'm satisfied that he went down to Davy Jones's locker.”

“I don't call that very satisfactory.”

“Nor do I. But the whole case is full of ragged ends.”

As he said that Carolus stared at Lance's left hand as though he was seeing it for the first time. He began to wonder what he was going to find out in Cadiz.

“What are your plans?” asked Lance.

“I shall stay here for a few days more. I want another look at Larkin's house. Then I shall go back to England.”

“You won't check up on my Cadiz alibi, then? I'm disappointed.”

“I can get someone else to do that if I think it's necessary. But frankly I do agree with you that it would probably be a waste of time. To fly home, go to a place in which you're known, shoot a man and fly out again wouldn't be the way that anyone in his senses would choose to commit a murder, and I don't suspect you of being such a fool, Willick. I'm glad that you took my enquiry in good part.”

T
HE NEXT
morning Carolus paid his hotel, took his bags and boarded the cross-channel boat for Algeciras. From there he hired a car and drove to Cadiz.

He had never intended to do otherwise. To Eric Luck, Lance Willick and the rest he had been deliberately misleading, but his intention had been to go as quickly as possible to Cadiz and thence direct to England.

He knew Molly Gibbons by reputation. She was one of the many English and American remittance women who live on gin and adultery in that area. From Malaga to Gibraltar the coast is thick with them, each proclaiming her difference from the rest, each more malicious and amorous than the last. From Gibraltar to Cadiz they thin out a bit, but Tangier has coveys of them.

Mrs Gibbons had been a gay and pretty girl in the 1930's, and she seemed to suppose that there had been no change in either the world or herself since then and that the raffish cocktail party of that time was still going on.

Carolus rang at the door of her flat and was told by a Spanish maid that she was not up yet.

“Come in, whoever you are!” shouted a voice from an inner room, and Carolus found himself gazing at a somewhat dishevelled figure in bed.

“Hell, it's a man! Wait till I do something to my face,” said Molly Gibbons and disappeared into the bathroom, to return a few minutes later looking happier.

“Who are you and who sent you to see me? Take a cigarette and hand me one, there's a darling. What about a drink? Just one for elevenses. Do I know you? I expect I do, but I'm going to be honest and say I don't remember.
You'll find the gin and everything on a table in the next room. Just mix a couple, there's an angel. You look as though I ought to know you. London, was it, or Torremolinos? Leave the door open while you do the drinks and we can go on talking.”

“My name's Deene. Carolus Deene.”

“Only the tiniest drop of vermouth and plenty of ice. A martini's useless unless it's dry. Yes, I know where we met now. You haven't changed a bit. This is a heavenly martini. How did you learn to make them? You must have worked in a bar. Perhaps that's how we met. Yes, now I come to think of it, it was. What have you been doing since then? I think you might start mixing some more because we shall be wanting it as soon as we've finished these, won't we? Fancy you turning up again like this. Sweet of you to come in and see me. Do come and sit on the bed. You look miserable right over there.”

“I came to ask you something, Mrs Gibbons. Can you remember Lance Willick coming to stay for a week-end some weeks ago?”

“I know what it is—you're a policeman. Of
course
! That's where I've seen you. That night at Vine Street. You haven't changed at all. Now what about those two more you were going to mix? You do it so well. What were you saying?”

“I asked you if you remembered Lance Willick staying here.”