The Victim in Victoria Station (25 page)

“It's guesswork,” objected Tom lazily.

“Not entirely. One of the books in Evelyn's file drawer was a Dorothy Sayers,
Hangman's Holiday
. I've read it many times. It's a collection of short stories, one of which features nicotine as an efficient poison. And of course Evelyn may admit it.”

“What about Dalal? I suppose he stumbled onto something?” Terry sipped the scotch I'd had Lynn load with soda.

“I think she killed Dalal for the same reason she arranged Monahan's death: He suspected something was wrong at Multilinks. You see, it all stems from her hero worship of Mr. Spragge. He was the great man, the god, the one who could do no wrong. So, of course, when he—with Fortier's collaboration, we've established that now from the computer records—when they started pirating their own software and selling it to the third-world nations at a deep discount, and Evelyn found out about it, Spragge of course had to be protected at all costs.”

“But why did he do it?” Terry asked in exasperation. “That's the part I find absolutely incredible.”

“I'm not sure even he knows that. He may have done it, or persuaded himself he was doing it, from humanitarian motives. I heard him tell one of the policemen that he knew a lot of his customers from way back, Oxford days. But eventually he fell prey to the lure of the money. His wife's an invalid, you know, and specialized medical care costs a lot of money, even in this country. I think he was going to get out, though. Fortier I'm not so sure about. He says he was, but he showed every sign of skipping the country. You helped prevent that, Terry, and I'm so glad you agreed to cooperate.”

There was a long pause, then Lynn sighed. “That poor woman.”

“Yes,” I agreed sadly. “You know, if I'd been as smart as I sometimes think I am, I'd have guessed much earlier, just from her reading material. She loved John Buchan. I think she imagined herself a kind of Richard Hannay, brave and alone, fighting for Civilization As We Know It.”

We were all quiet then, until the silence was shattered by a strident feline demand. Pete had finished his supper—plebeian tuna fish this time, but laced with caviar—and wanted some attention. He strolled over and arched his back, demanding a caress, and when I stroked his back, collapsed onto the floor and rolled over so that I could pet his tummy.

I obliged, and then stroked it more purposefully to the accompaniment of loud purrs. I looked up at Nigel.

“Um, Nigel,” I said, making a little face, “you and Inga are definitely adopting this cat, yes?”

“Right. He's a friendly little bloke, now that he's got used to us, and getting more handsome by the minute as he puts on weight. Anyway, he helped unmask a murderer; he's a very exceptional cat. Why?”

“Only that I hope you have some good friends who are as yet catless. Because he is a she, and she's going to have kittens.” I poked gently at the wiggly little lumps under Pete's belly fur. Nigel picked up the cat and felt for himself, and his face was a study in consternation.

The doorbell rang. Lynn sat up with a groan. “Who on earth?”

“The police, I suppose,” said Tom, sighing and getting to his feet. “They said they might still have some questions, although I thought they meant tomorrow. I'll go.”

In a moment there was a basso rumble from the downstairs hall. I pricked up my ears unbelievingly, then scrambled from my deep chair and ran like a teenager down the stairs, my arms spread wide.

“Alan!”