The Victim in Victoria Station (24 page)

“Poison?” Three pairs of eyes stared at me.

“Well, it must have been, don't you think?” I was surprised I had to explain; it seemed so obvious. “He wouldn't just die like that, quietly and with no fuss, any other way. Someone, probably the “doctor,” got on the train and managed to slip poison into Bill's coffee, probably when he picked it up at the buffet window. It would be easy enough on a moving train. I admit the odds are against our finding it. I think the best way is just to look for anything at all that seems out of the ordinary. And for goodness' sakes keep your ears open, in case Fortier decides to finish his cleanup job tonight.”

We were quiet, and thorough, but there was nothing. We combed Spragge's office. Unlike Fortier's domain, it was very tidy and easy to search. Even the laptop computer that might have yielded a few more secrets was gone.

Tom went methodically through Spragge's paper files, searching for irregular business practices. Nigel closed the velvet draperies, turned on the desktop computer, and went through its files with equal doggedness and equal results: zero. Lynn and I, with no particular expertise, simply looked through everything else, hunting with a woman's eye for personal details that didn't seem to fit.

In an hour we called it quits for that office and moved on to Fortier's. It would be tedious to detail that search. His files were still there, which was encouraging, but otherwise our exploration was fruitless. So were the searches through the other offices, which yielded exactly no information at all, except that Brian Upton had emptied his desk of the illegal drugs.

“Heard about the police being here, I expect,” said Lynn. “It's a good thing he got here before we did.” She yawned, not really very interested in what she was saying. None of us was much interested in much of anything by then.

We had repaired to my cubbyhole. I sat down at my desk with a groan. “We might as well give up. It isn't here, whatever it is, or at least we can't find it. And Shepherd will get here tomorrow and unleash the police, and goodness only knows what will happen. Let's go home, Tom. Sufficient unto the day.”

I put a hand on the corner of my desk to help heave myself out of my chair, and knocked off the book that Evelyn had lent me. Nigel stooped to pick it up.

“Oh, sorry, your bookmark fell out, Dorothy.”

“What bookmark? I wasn't reading it. Let me see.”

And there it was, what four of us had been seeking for hours. I leaned against the desk and indulged in near-hysterics while the others waited, dumbfounded. When I recovered, I shone my flashlight on the “bookmark” and held it out in an unsteady hand for the others to see.

It was a small piece of card stock, about two by three inches. Computer-generated, it had several lines of type in an undecipherable code, but the rest was plain enough.

“
SFO LGW BA
800 03
JUN
,” it read. And below that, “
LGW SFO BA
801 21
JUN
.”

“What is it?” said Nigel, puzzled.

“My God!” breathed Tom.

“It's the stub of a boarding pass,” I said in a shaky voice. “A flight from San Francisco to London Gatwick, British Airways flight 800 on June 3. The return flight is shown, too. He'd planned to go home today.” My voice broke.

“Who planned? I don't understand.” Lynn's voice was plaintive.

I held the flashlight higher, so they could read the top line.

“
MONAHAN/WILLIAM
.”

B
ut—what's Bill Monahan's boarding pass doing in your book?”

“That,” I said, beginning to catch a glimmer of the truth, “is not my book.”

“It was on your desk—”

“I borrowed it. Or rather, I had it thrust upon me. And I have been an idiot.”

This time they didn't ask, but simply waited for me to gather my thoughts.

“That book,” I said when I had put it together in my head, “was loaned to me by Evelyn Forbes. It was in her bottom file drawer, with a couple of other paperbacks. It isn't quite her style, though. She prefers Golden Age mysteries or classic thrillers, John Buchan for choice.

“Therefore, I believe that she didn't buy that book. It doesn't look new, anyway. And in fact it isn't new. I've seen it myself, a couple of weeks ago. It belonged to Monahan. He was reading it on the train until he started talking to me, and I saw it on the seat next to him. And if I hadn't been, as I said, a total nincompoop, I would have remembered before now. He probably bought it to read on the plane on the way over. That would explain the boarding pass. They're handy bookmarks; I've used them myself.”

“So what was it doing in Forbes's office?” Lynn made an excellent straight man.

“That's the sixty-four-dollar question, isn't it? But the answer is obvious. Somebody involved in Monahan's murder saw it with the poor man's things and didn't have the heart to throw it out. And I think I know who.”

“Okay, I'll bite.” Tom this time.

I told them.

When I'd finished explaining, Lynn groaned. “And you
still
have no proof.”

“No. But now I know how to get it. Or at least I intend to have a very good shot at it. Let's get out of here now, before somebody catches us, and we can brainstorm on the way home.”

They were a big help, all three of them. Nigel spent hours on Tom's computer, checking airline bookings, while Tom spent hours on the phone with the Home Office, pulling strings. By morning we were primed and ready to go.

“Good luck, Dorothy!” Lynn gave me a hug and a kiss. Tom and Nigel were already off about their own business.

“I'm going to need it, but if things work out at all according to plan, I should be all right. Are you sure you—”

“No, I'll be waiting right here, with bated breath.”

English weather is a study in rapid contrast. Last night had been overcast, with the threat of imminent rain. Today was right out of the tourist brochures, bright and warm, the first day of summer. Another time I might have walked all the way to the office. It was less than three miles by foot, and walking in London on a gorgeous day is one of my very favorite occupations. This time, though, I hurried off to Belgrave Square, the nearest place to find a taxi. I needed all my energy today.

Evelyn was just going up the steps as I arrived. She looked about a hundred years old. Her shoulders were bowed, her hair in disarray. I was careful not to be too ebullient with my greeting; she looked as though anything approaching enthusiasm would be unwelcome.

“Good morning, Mrs. Forbes.”

“Oh. Good morning, Mrs. Wren.” She turned and went into her own office without another word. I didn't push it. She'd have enough harassment later.

Mr. Spragge was in already, having arrived even before the punctual Mrs. Forbes. Mr. Grey followed us by a few minutes, looking nondescript; then Mr. Hammond, looking hungover, and Mr. Upton, looking even worse-tempered than usual. I paid very little attention to any of them. I had worries of my own.

Timing was everything this morning. There were two variables over which I had no control, and I was nervous about them. The first was the British Airways schedule. If the plane was late, it might yet spoil everything—but there was no point in worrying about that, I told myself. Planes are either on time or else they're not, and fretting won't make them land one second sooner.

The second was Mr. Fortier. He might not come in at all, but I thought he would. He wasn't stupid; he knew things were coming to a head. No, he'd come, and he'd leave just as soon as he could, and there I thought I might be able to exercise a little gentle persuasion, though at some personal risk.

He walked in the door at about ten, looking extremely annoyed and almost furtive. I was mightily relieved to see him.

“Mr. Fortier, I don't believe we've formally met,” I said sweetly, rising from my desk and extending my hand. “I'm Louise Wren, the new receptionist. You were here the other day, but very much occupied with Mr. Spragge; we had no chance to talk. I'm very glad to meet you.”

He shook my hand, since he couldn't very well get out of it, but without any marked enthusiasm, and turned to go to his office.

“I understand you're Canadian. I, as you can tell, am an expat American. I've always enjoyed Canada; my late husband and I used to visit Nova Scotia, and we loved it. What part of Canada do you come from?”

“British Columbia.”

“Oh, my, right the other side of the country. Vancouver?”

“Yes.”

“I've always wanted to go there. I love our own Pacific Northwest. Is Vancouver anything like Seattle?”

“I don't know. Excuse me.”

So much for gentle persuasion. That little effort at delaying techniques had taken up a minute at most. I looked at my watch. If the plane was on time, it had been on the ground for almost two hours. Within the next half hour, surely?

Five minutes later Vicki Shore and Lloyd Pierce walked in, looking unnaturally solemn. I nodded gravely to them; they said nothing, but walked on into their office.

I sat at my desk, answering the telephone, staving off reporters, watching the clock.

The door from the main office opened. Mr. Fortier walked past me, his arms full of papers.

I jumped up as though bitten. “Oh, let me help you with those,” I cried, and managed to bump into him. The papers cascaded to the floor.

Mr. Hammond, who had just popped out of the main office, was right behind me. He had a cigarette in his hand; somehow ash got spilled on a file folder, and when Mr. Hammond bent down to brush it off, his cigarette fell on another file.

“Oh, dear, that might start a fire!” I grabbed a half-empty cup of cold tea from my desk and poured it over cigarette and file folder. Looking at what I'd done, I put my hand to my mouth and picked up the ruined folder. “Oh, Mr. Fortier, I'm so sorry! I'm afraid I haven't done your file a bit of good.”

Fortier was not at all amused. “
Thank
you, Mrs.—er—I believe I can do nicely
without
your help! If you'll kindly step aside—”

The front door opened. Tom Anderson stepped inside, with a tall, lanky man behind him. I breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief and dropped both the file and my ditsy persona.

“Good,” I said crisply, nodding to the tall man, whose strong jaw was grimly set. “Mr. Fortier, I forgot to mention that Mr. Spragge would like to speak to you for a moment. If you would come this way, please?”

I thought he was going to bolt, but Tom and the tall man filled the doorway. With a scowl and a shrug, Fortier walked back into Evelyn's office. I followed him, everyone else trailing after me.

“Evelyn, we need Mr. Spragge, please. This gentleman”—I indicated the tall man—“wishes to speak to him, quite urgently.”

This was the really tricky part. Evelyn was under no obligation to obey orders from me, of all people. But I put steel into my voice, the kind that any elementary school teacher knows how to use when necessary, and she picked up the phone and spoke into it. Mr. Spragge's door opened, and he came out, and Tom put his fingers to his mouth and uttered a piercing whistle.

That brought everyone else out of their cubbyholes—Grey, Upton, Shore, Pierce. It was really rather crowded in the main office, and when, on his cue, Nigel walked in with Sneaky Pete in his arms, there was a small sensation. The cat ignored the crowd, came straight up to me, stropped itself against my ankles, and started to purr.

“That cat again!” said Evelyn. “Mrs. Wren, what is the meaning of—I know that cat,” she said, her voice suddenly rising. “He's the one—oh! So it was
you
that night—”

“It was,” I said calmly. “Yes, I thought you would recognize poor old Pete eventually, though he's a good deal handsomer than when you first saw him. But I think you might be more interested in this gentleman. He's from America—from Multilinks, in fact. May I present Mr. Bill Monahan?”

Everyone was startled. Three mouths dropped open; fear entered three pairs of eyes. But only one scream sounded.

“No! No, he can't be! No, he doesn't look like that at all, and I put him in the river myself! No, it isn't—make him go away!”

In the end it took two police constables to subdue Evelyn Forbes.

S
he was on the verge of a breakdown, anyway,” I said later as I sipped good bourbon and relaxed in Lynn's living room. Walt Shepherd was closeted with the police. Messrs. Spragge and Fortier and Mrs. Forbes were cooling their heels at Her Majesty's pleasure. The rest of the Multilinks staff were, presumably, out looking for jobs, except for Mr. Hammond, who was sitting with the Andersons and Nigel and me, tying up loose ends.

“I almost hated to do it to her,” I went on. “She was in many ways a very nice woman.”

“Nice!” Lynn gave a dramatic little shudder. “She killed two people!”

“Only one, strictly speaking, poor little Mr. Dalal. It was Fortier's hand that administered the poison to Monahan, though I'm pretty sure Evelyn brewed it.”

“Brewed it? What
do
you mean?” Lynn was eager for all the details.

“I think she boiled it up herself. They obviously can't do an autopsy when they haven't got a body, but if it ever turns up, I'm betting they find nicotine.”

Terry looked at his just-lit cigarette and very casually stubbed it out.

“I know a little about poisons,” I said modestly. “Anybody who's read as many mysteries as I have learns something over the years about how to kill people. Nicotine is about the only thing I can think of that fits the way Monahan died. He was perfectly all right, and then half an hour later he was dead—with a cup of coffee in front of him. Now, nicotine has a strong taste, but the coffee on English trains is bad enough to hide the taste of almost anything. Nicotine is also extremely lethal in very small doses, and even less if a person doesn't smoke. And nicotine works extremely fast. If poor Bill had any kind of ulcer in his mouth or a cut on his lip, it would have started to kill him even faster than usual. Finally, nicotine is one of the easiest poisons to make at home. And no, I have no intention of telling you how. One of you might get ideas someday.”