The Victim in Victoria Station (7 page)

Was I going to get in touch with the police again and try to tell them my story, or not?

I shouldn't, really, even have asked myself the question. I was a conservative, middle-aged (at least) woman who had been brought up to think of the police as my friends. I was, for pity's sake, married to a policeman! My respect for the English police knew no bounds. I had information they needed. Of course I should tell them.

And yet …

I'd tried to tell them once and had met with nothing but obstruction. Of course, I hadn't known then who the victim was.

And you still don't know. You're guessing.

Deducing, I retorted, but that ruthlessly practical inner voice was right. I had no proof that any policeman would accept. Alan, who knew the way my mind worked, would have followed my reasoning and thought it worthy of at least some investigation, but Alan wasn't a working policeman anymore, and more to the point, Alan wasn't here.

It was reasonable to suppose that whoever killed Monahan was connected with his company. If I told the police I was sure he was dead, and they did take me seriously enough to look into the matter, they'd talk first to the London office of Multilinks International. Suppose by some chance they talked to the murderer. Of course he'd deny that Monahan was dead, or even that he was in England. I would be made to look like an idiot, the murderer would be warned, and I'd be in great danger.

The English police, by and large, are wonderful, but even they can't be everywhere at once. Could they protect me if the murderer found out I'd talked to them? Especially if they felt I was imagining things, and there was no threat against which I needed protection?

The police would tell me that they'd keep their source of information confidential, and most likely they would.

And yet …

Multilinks was evidently an outfit with money. Money buys many things. It has even, on occasion, been known to buy policemen. Not as often in England as in America, perhaps, but was I willing to take the chance?

I could report the matter to someone in Sherebury. That person would in turn report to someone at Scotland Yard, who would pass the information up to a superior, and so on.

Could I be sure that no one along that chain, no one answering a telephone, no one sitting close to someone else's desk, no one in command, was in the pocket of a rich American company?

I was being paranoid. All right, I'd continue to be paranoid. If I couldn't find out anything on my own, I'd talk to the police. But for now I was going to play a lone hand, and be damned to it! If that was a stupid decision, so be it. Having made it, I just had to make sure I went about the thing as intelligently as possible.

There was one other person who could help me, I decided after some intense thought. Just one who had the expertise I needed and whose discretion I could trust utterly. I picked up the phone and called London.

“Dorothy! How
wonderful!
I've been meaning to call you! It's been a
hundred
years since we've seen you and Alan.”

Darling Lynn! She never changes, never loses that emphatic enthusiasm. It was nice to hear an American voice for a change.

“It has been a while, hasn't it? Listen, Lynn, I've been thinking about coming for a visit. Alan's away, and I'm bored and lonesome. Nothing like inviting myself, I know, but—”

“
Don't
be silly. You know we'd love to have you. What's Alan up to now?”

I told her, trying to keep my voice casual, but Lynn has known me for a long time.

“Poor you! You miss him a lot, don't you?”

“Oh, I'm all right. It's just that Zimbabwe is awfully far away, and it seems farther when I can't even visualize what it's like. Africa is so different from any place I've ever seen.”

“Parts of it, yes, but some of the cities are very modern, you know. Look, why don't you come tomorrow and stay as long as you want? Because Tom took
hundreds
of pictures the last time we went on safari. We'll show you Africa till you scream for mercy!”

An open-ended invitation. Perfect. I might be able to get all the information I wanted in a day, but it could take longer. I'd give myself some leeway. “You're an angel, Lynn. I can stay over the weekend, if you can stand me that long.”

We settled which train she would meet in the morning, and I hung up and began to think about packing. I'd have to take some of my nicest summer clothes. Lynn and Tom Anderson are delightful people, expatriate Americans like me, but they have a great deal more money than most people I know, and they live in a very fine house in Belgravia. When I visit them, I always feel I have to live up to my surroundings.

Then there were the cats to worry about. After supper I went across the backyard and knocked on Jane's door.

“Wondered when you'd turn up,” Jane growled. “Losing my reputation. Burglary right next door, and I don't know all about it yet.”

Beneath the growl there was a twinkle. Jane's reputation as Sherebury's one-woman news bureau was perfectly secure.

“You know as much as I do,” I protested. I was getting a lot of practice in lying lately, and I'd get a lot more, I suspected, before this was all over. But what Jane didn't know couldn't hurt her—or me. “The police think it was an attempt at burglary, but he—well, or she—whoever it was—never got in, you know. Those new locks Alan had installed are really good.”

“Mmm. Dodgy sort of burglar, to choose the oldest, smallest house on the street. A bit off, don't you think?”

“I did think so, and I said so to the police. But maybe it's because I'm at the end of the street, with only you on the one side and the cathedral on the other. My house is less likely to be observed,” I improvised. “Or maybe they thought an old house might have simpler locks. Heavens, I don't know how a burglar's mind works! I'm just glad they didn't get in. It was bad enough that they broke the glass.”

I was talking too much, explaining too carefully. Jane knows me nearly as well as Lynn does, but Jane is willing to bide her time. She gave me a sharp look, which I ignored, and offered me tea or sherry.

“Nothing, thanks. I can't stay. I have to pack before supper, and I plan to get to bed early, since I'll be up at the crack of dawn tomorrow. I'm going to London.”

“Again? You went yesterday.”

“I'm getting to be a gadabout in my old age. No, but yesterday was business. This is pleasure, or recreation anyway. I'm feeling a bit nervy, what with Alan gone and the burglar and all, and I decided I'd go see Tom and Lynn for a while. I wondered if you'd mind looking after the cats and keeping an eye on the house for me? I suppose I shouldn't leave you with that burden—I mean, with burglars around …”

I trailed off artistically, hoping to distract her from any further inquiry into the exact nature of the burglars. It worked, too.

“Hmmph! Suppose you think I can't deal with a burglar. Between me and the dogs, we'll cope.”

I was profuse in my thanks, and Jane, who becomes deeply embarrassed by gratitude, shooed me out the door. “Enjoy yourself. By the way, did you ever find out who your dead man was?”

“Oh. No. There wasn't anything in the papers this morning, either. I do appreciate your doing this for me, Jane. I'll drop off the key in the morning before I go.”

I got out of there as quickly as I could, aware with every step of Jane's gimlet eye boring into my back.

A
lan called just as I was finishing my sketchy supper.

“Hullo, love. Thought I might hear from you last night.

How did you fare with the doctor?”

“I meant to call, but it got late before I noticed. I'm free, Alan! No more cane, no more restrictions!”

“Splendid! No more pain?”

“We-ell. When it rains. Which it's been doing all day.”

“I envy you. It's unbelievably hot and sunny here. Doesn't even cool down at night. One enjoys it for a little while, by way of contrast, but I've had enough.”

“So when are you coming home?”

“Not for a bit, I'm afraid. The conference officially ends on Saturday, but the police wallahs here have asked me to stay on for a few days, to give them some advice on setting up a police college, and I've agreed. They've no sort of budget at all to hire consultants, you know.”

What I knew was that Alan was a softie when it came to people needing his help. I admired him for that, but just now I could have done with a little more selfish attitude on his part. I wanted him home; I also needed his help. Of course, he had no way of knowing that, and I didn't want to explain my problem over the telephone, particularly not an international call. Satellite transmissions aren't exactly secure.

So all I said was, “I miss you. It seems like you've been gone for centuries.”

“I know. For me, too.” His voice softened. “If you'd rather I came straight home—”

“Of course I'd rather, but I don't intend to be one of those wives who order their husbands around. Not that I think I could get away with it, anyway.”

He chuckled.

“So you go ahead and do what you need to do. Just be as quick as you can about it, will you, love?”

When he hung up, I felt lonelier than ever. A voice over a wire is a poor substitute for a real live huggable husband. And the satisfaction of having kept a stiff upper lip and been a brave little woman and lived up to all the other maddening clichés doesn't help much to keep one warm in bed.

The rain, which had moderated to a gentle but persistent drizzle, changed again during the night to a howling thunderstorm that woke me and the cats. I was very grateful for the new roof on my house; the old one had leaked. New windows also helped keep the weather on the outside where it belonged, but nothing could keep out the noise. After a while I went back to sleep, rather enjoying the storm. England's moderate climate doesn't often produce such humdingers. I was reminded of my Indiana home, where we used to get storms like this all summer long. The cats didn't share my enthusiasm. In their fright they snuggled up so close to me they nearly shoved me out of bed.

The rain kept on unabated into the morning. It obscured my vision as I drove to the station, and washed the train windows (which badly needed it) all the way into Victoria. I was able to avoid conversation with my fellow passengers, since the train was made up of antiquated rolling stock, the kind with separate compartments, and no one else was sitting in mine. I usually enjoy company as I travel, but given what had happened last time, I was grateful for solitude.

It was Tom who was waiting for me on the platform, not Lynn. “I'm taking a few days off in your honor, D.,” he explained as he stashed my suitcase in his trunk. “Lynn seemed to think my sparkling company was required to keep you entertained.”

“That's wonderful, Tom!” My enthusiasm was genuine, and not only for the sake of Tom's company. I was eager to talk to him privately and let him decide how much to tell Lynn, and the drive would give me the chance I needed. It was less than five minutes to the house, though, so I didn't beat around the bush.

“Listen, Tom,” I began the moment we rolled away from the station, “I have an ulterior motive for this visit. I didn't tell Lynn, because there could be some danger involved. I don't have time to go into details before we get home, but to put it baldly, I think Bill Monahan's been murdered, and I need to know everything you know about Multilinks International. Look out!”

He swerved back into his lane, avoiding the big red double-decker bus by an inch or two.

“Remind me not to go driving with you again, D.,” he said mildly. “Your conversation distracts a man's attention from the road. Why danger?”

“Because I've seen the murderer. I think. And he—or someone, anyway—tried to burgle my house Tuesday night. So they know who I am, and anyone I tell about it—well, you see?”

He was silent for a little while as he negotiated a couple of tricky corners, but as we pulled up in front of their house, he patted my knee. “Tell Lynn and me the whole story. She'd never forgive me if I kept her out of it. And she knows how to keep her mouth shut.”

“It could be dangerous,” I stressed again.

“The spice of life. What one of us faces, the other one does, too. That's the way it's been all our life.”

And there is a simple description of a successful marriage, I thought as I extricated myself from the car.

Lynn welcomed me with an enthusiastic hug, installed me in her luxurious spare bedroom, and then went downstairs to finish preparing an elegant lunch. I waited until we had given the meal the undivided attention it deserved before launching on my unpleasant agenda.

We had adjourned to the living room for coffee. Lynn was curled up on the couch, her legs tucked under her like a teenager's. Tom, in the rocking chair, was yawning. Putting down my coffee cup, I took a deep breath and began my story.

Tom and Lynn both listened with total concentration, saying not a word. When I had finished, Tom uttered a single low whistle, and Lynn let out a gusty sigh.

“What do you want us to do?” she said, clasping her arms around her knees. Her eyes were sparkling.

“You two are wonderful! No argument, no skeptical remarks, no overprotective concern, just an offer to help. I wish Nigel took this as matter-of-factly.”

“He's too young,” said Lynn. “Kids think adventure is their exclusive prerogative. It makes them feel insecure when we want a piece of it, too.”

I considered that. “You know, I think it's more a kind of misguided knight-errantry. Although you may be right, too. Lord Peter Wimsey said once that the root of chivalry was a desire to have all the fun. Or something like that. Anyway, what I need now is mostly from Tom, I'm afraid, Lynn. I haven't thought of anything for you to do yet. But I'm in desperate need of information, and you, Tom, can get it for me.”