Authors: Cassandra Chan
Trick of the Mind (9 page)
“Did you speak to him at all?” asked O’Leary.
“No.” Crebbin shook his head. “And he didn’t stay long after you left. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes at the most. I don’t know what time it was when you took yourself off, but it was a bit before seven when I noticed the sergeant had gone. I had just glanced at the clock, you see, thinking to myself that the time was going awfully slowly, that it
wasn’t even seven yet, and then I turned and saw the two empty pints on the table.”
wasn’t even seven yet, and then I turned and saw the two empty pints on the table.”
“But you didn’t see him go?” asked O’Leary anxiously.
“No, I’m sorry, I didn’t. But like I say, it wasn’t above twenty minutes after you’d gone, and I didn’t notice anyone come up to talk to him in that time. I think I would have, since your table was so close to the bar.”
O’Leary nodded acceptance of this. “So he just sat there and quietly finished his pint?” he asked.
“More or less. I saw him jotting something down in his notebook at one point, I think, but that was all.”
O’Leary had to be content with this unhelpful information. He thanked Crebbin, apologized again for waking him, and took his leave. He was going to be late meeting Inspector Hollings for the day’s work, but he didn’t care. At least he had found out one thing, however small.
Hospitals, Gibbons reflected, were very busy places in the mornings. It was a pity he didn’t feel up to investigating what all the fuss was about. He supposed it was good that his parents seemed to be staying on top of things, but on the other hand, it was disconcerting at his age to have his parents know more about his own body than he did.
There was no denying he was not up to much this morning. He was solidly awake, but that was about all that could be said for him. There was a sharp pain in his abdomen whenever he made the slightest movement, and the tube running up his nose and down his throat seemed even more irritating than it had yesterday. And he was still cold.
None of the people fussing over him seemed to be addressing these concerns. First had been a young man in pink scrubs who had recorded his temperature and blood pressure and heaven only knew what else. Then had come a young woman in maroon scrubs who had busied herself with changing his various IV bags while talking cheerfully to his parents and more or less ignoring him.
After that, a pretty red-haired nurse accompanied by a much less attractive assistant had come in. They had ruthlessly ignored his complaints of being cold, thrown back the blankets, removed his dressings, and pushed at his abdomen. This last had been very painful indeed, and Gibbons was grateful that they had shooed his parents out of the room beforehand.
They had replaced his dressings with fresh ones, covered him up again, and departed, promising to see to an extra blanket, which had still not materialized. What had arrived was a doctor with an inscrutable expression and a deep, velvety voice who asked him questions about how he felt and wanted him to rate his pain on a scale from one to ten. He, too, had inspected Gibbons’s abdomen and had merely patted him on the shoulder when Gibbons mentioned being cold.
“You’ll feel better once we’ve got rid of the infection,” he said, and joined Gibbons’s parents outside the door. The red-haired nurse returned with yet another IV bag, which she changed with one of the others on the pole, and then replaced his dressing yet again, this time without assistance.
“Do you think,” asked Gibbons when she was done, “I could have that extra blanket?”
“Oh, yes, of course,” she answered, pushing back the curtain. “I’ll send Ronnie in with one.”
His parents and the doctor had disappeared from his view, no doubt to move their discussion out of earshot of the policeman doing guard duty at the door. But they had been replaced by Inspector Davies, who was lounging against the doorjamb and chatting with the uniformed man. He looked up at the sound of the curtain being drawn back and smiled a little hesitantly.
“Is he ready for visitors?” he asked the nurse.
“Certainly,” she answered. “He’s all settled for the moment.”
Gibbons wondered why no one asked him whether or not he was ready for visitors, but felt too listless to voice the question.
Today Davies’s tie was an elaborate pattern in subtle beiges and grays. Gibbons found it fascinating.
“Were those your people I saw in the hall?” asked Davies, drawing up the armchair.
With difficulty, Gibbons dragged his gaze away from the tie and focused on his superior’s face.
“That’s right,” he answered. “My mum and dad.”
“Well, I hope to meet them later,” said Davies, settling himself. “They must be very proud of you.”
Gibbons did not feel at the moment like someone anyone could be proud of, but he managed a weak smile.
“And you’ve amassed quite a collection of flowers,” said Davies, motioning to the bouquets that had been coming in all morning and now festooned nearly every flat surface in the room.
“Oh, yes,” said Gibbons vaguely, who had paid these tributes scant attention and did not even know who had sent them. “They’re very nice.”
“So how are you today, Sergeant?” asked Davies. “You look a bit pale, but perhaps that’s to be expected.”
“I don’t know,” said Gibbons. He did not want to discuss his health; he wanted distraction. “I don’t feel too well so far.” His eyes fell to the manila envelope in Davies’s lap. “Is that something for me?” he asked.
Davies nodded, smiling. “Yes, I’ve finally brought around those reports of yours—I’m sorry I didn’t send them over last night, but I really hadn’t a chance.”
“It’s very good of you to bother at all,” said Gibbons automatically. “It’s the report of my interview with the Colemans?”
“That’s right,” said Davies. “And I added the one you wrote up for the case file on our interview with Miss Haverford’s solicitor. I had actually forgotten that one, until I went to look up the other.”
“I’ve forgotten it, too,” said Gibbons wryly.
Davies gave a sympathetic smile. “I rather thought you might have,” he said. “Look, I’ll put them in the drawer here and you can look them over whenever you like.”
For the first time that morning, Gibbons felt a faint stirring of interest, a slight quickening of his brain.
“Actually,” he said, “just hand them to me. I’d like to read them over as soon as things quieten down again.”
Davies looked around, glancing back toward the door. “It did
seem rather busy out there when I came in,” he said. He raised a brow. “Not giving them any trouble, are you, Sergeant?”
seem rather busy out there when I came in,” he said. He raised a brow. “Not giving them any trouble, are you, Sergeant?”
“I’m just lying here,” said Gibbons, a little despondently.
“I can see that,” said Davies gently. “But you do look rather pale. You do your best to get well, eh, Sergeant? No fussing over these reports when you should be resting.”
“No, sir,” promised Gibbons.
“All right then.”
Davies handed over the envelope and rose.
“I can’t stay,” he apologized. “I’m going to be late at the Yard as it is.”
“It was very good of you to stop by yourself, sir,” said Gibbons, clutching the envelope to his chest.
“I wanted to see how you were doing, Gibbons,” he said. “I’ll be back as time permits, and I’ll keep you informed of developments.”
“I appreciate that, sir.”
Davies sketched a little salute and left. In a moment, Gibbons heard him speaking out in the hall; he could not quite make out the words, but by the tone of voice, Davies was introducing himself to the Gibbonses.
Gibbons was simply glad to be left alone. He pulled the printed pages out of the envelope. The words swam on the page before his eyes initially, but some industrious blinking made them settle down.
He was accustomed to reading through reports rapidly, picking out the salient details and leaving them to coalesce in the back of his mind. He was a practiced hand at it by this time, but he found now he had to concentrate quite fiercely to make sense of the thing, to understand what lay between the lines, unsaid, and yet held the key to everything.
He was so deep into the first report by the time his parents returned that he did not notice them come in.
The Jewels
B
ethancourt was awakened that morning by the telephone. He had spent a restless night, waking up more than once with a pounding heart, thinking he must rush to Gibbons’s bedside at once, before it was too late. On one occasion he had actually been halfway to the bathroom before he came to himself and realized his urgency was born of a bad dream.
ethancourt was awakened that morning by the telephone. He had spent a restless night, waking up more than once with a pounding heart, thinking he must rush to Gibbons’s bedside at once, before it was too late. On one occasion he had actually been halfway to the bathroom before he came to himself and realized his urgency was born of a bad dream.
Yawning prodigiously in the gray daylight, he answered the phone and was rewarded by the voice of his insurance agent, Becky Rankin.
“Phillip?” she said. “I’ve managed to track down Colin James for you.”
“Oh, splendid,” said Bethancourt, trying to read the bedside clock without his glasses; he rather thought it was just after eleven.
“I think he must be quite interested in your friend’s case,” she continued. “At any rate, he’s agreed to meet with you at his office.”
She sounded impressed, and Bethancourt propped himself up on his pillows.
“That’s quite the favor, is it?” he asked.
“Well,” said Becky cautiously, “Colin James is terribly well thought of. He’s made a fortune out of recovering stolen jewels and
art for insurance companies, and at this point he doesn’t really have to bother with anything or anyone he doesn’t care to.”
art for insurance companies, and at this point he doesn’t really have to bother with anything or anyone he doesn’t care to.”
“Then I appreciate the compliment,” said Bethancourt. “When and where am I to see the great man?”
Becky read off an address in the City and added, “He told my contact he’d be there from noon till about one o’clock, and could see you anytime then. I wouldn’t wait until close to one, though; James is well known for liking his lunch.”
“Righto,” said Bethancourt, stifling another yawn. “I’d best get dressed, then. Thanks very much, Becky—I do appreciate your taking the time.”
“Anything for my favorite client,” replied Becky with a laugh. “I’m glad it worked out.”
Bethancourt looked sourly at his dog as he replaced the receiver in its cradle.
“No leisurely morning for us, lad,” he said. “Up and at’em.” He hesitated and looked again at the clock. “Still,” he added, reaching for the phone, “it won’t take a moment to ring the hospital and check on Jack.”
It was Mrs. Gibbons who answered the phone rather than her son, but she was able to assure Bethancourt that all was well with her presently sleeping offspring. Bethancourt experienced a wave of relief, despite knowing quite well that his worry had been occasioned by nothing more than a dream.
Carmichael tracked Dawn Melton down at the day-care center in Southwark where she worked, no doubt the “good job” Mrs. Gibbons had mentioned. He had instructed Constable Lemmy to meet him there, but when he arrived there was no sign of him, despite the fact that the constable had had an easy tube ride from Scotland Yard, while Carmichael had ridden all the way down from Euston. Fuming, Carmichael waited by the entrance, but when five minutes had passed and Lemmy had not arrived, he gave up and went inside to seek out the headmistress.
Dawn, when she came into the headmistress’s office, turned out
to be a pleasant, rather ordinary young woman who bore—so far as Carmichael could see—no resemblance to her cousin Jack. She was a shade overweight with a heavy fringe of dark blond hair and a fresh, rosy complexion. Beneath the fringe, her light blue eyes were large and a little wary, though her smile was sweet. Together, they gave her an air of vulnerability.
to be a pleasant, rather ordinary young woman who bore—so far as Carmichael could see—no resemblance to her cousin Jack. She was a shade overweight with a heavy fringe of dark blond hair and a fresh, rosy complexion. Beneath the fringe, her light blue eyes were large and a little wary, though her smile was sweet. Together, they gave her an air of vulnerability.
“Oh, of course,” she said when Carmichael introduced himself. “Jack has mentioned you—he admires you very much, you know.”
“Er, kind of you to say,” replied Carmichael, a bit caught off guard by this artless remark. “Do sit down, Mrs. Melton.”
She obeyed, plopping down into the chair and looking at him expectantly.
“Have you come about Jack?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Carmichael. “Did you know he was in hospital?”
She looked horrified, her hands going to her mouth for a moment before she silently shook her head.
“Is he all right?” she asked faintly.
“Yes, yes,” Carmichael hastened to reassure her. “The doctors say he’ll be just fine.”
“Thank God.” She breathed, and then seemed to shake off her shock. “What happened, Chief Inspector? Oh, first, did you want his parents’ number? I’ve got it in my bag, though I would have thought …”
She was already half out of her seat.
“No, his parents have been notified,” said Carmichael. “In fact, they’re here in London and have already been to see him.”
“Oh.” Dawn fell back in her chair, clearly a little at a loss to explain his presence.
“I’m sure they’ll be getting in contact with you shortly,” said Carmichael. “I stopped by to ask if you had seen Jack recently?”
“Well”—she ran a hand through her hair, rumpling up her bangs—“not very recently, no. He rang to ask how the girls were doing about a fortnight ago, I suppose. In fact”—she looked thoughtful—“I’ve been meaning to ring him and just haven’t got round to it the last few days. But what has happened to Jack, Chief Inspector?”
“He was shot on Tuesday evening,” replied Carmichael levelly.
Her hands sprang to her mouth again, her lips forming a silent “O,” and he gave her a moment to absorb the news. “Luckily, the attack was not fatal, and the surgeons were able to stitch him up and say he’ll make a full recovery. Though of course he’s not feeling too well just now,” he added.
Her hands sprang to her mouth again, her lips forming a silent “O,” and he gave her a moment to absorb the news. “Luckily, the attack was not fatal, and the surgeons were able to stitch him up and say he’ll make a full recovery. Though of course he’s not feeling too well just now,” he added.
Dawn nodded, her hands falling back to her lap. “I must go round to see him,” she said. “And did you say my aunt and uncle were here? Are they staying at Jack’s, or do you think they’d rather be with me?” A frown appeared between her brows as she struggled with the logistics of putting up unexpected guests in what was no doubt an already crowded flat.
“They’re staying at a hotel nearby the hospital,” Carmichael told her. “It seemed more convenient.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” she said with a little sigh that seemed half relief and half annoyance at herself for not having thought of this simple solution.
“I’m currently engaged,” continued Carmichael, “in trying to discover whether the attack on Jack was motivated in any way by his police work.”
Dawn looked puzzled at this. “But why else would anybody want to hurt Jack?” she asked.
“Well, that’s what I’m trying to find out,” said Carmichael. “It happened in a rather bad neighborhood, you see.”
“Oh.” She sighed again and shook her head. “I’d always heard how dangerous London was,” she said, “but it’s different, actually living here. Lots of the time it seems quite ordinary, but then something happens to remind you … well, I expect you know all about that.”
Carmichael did, but he also knew her scant time in London could not possibly have bestowed on her the worldly wisdom she thought it had. If he was any judge, she was going to have difficulty with what he had to tell her next.
“So you didn’t hear from Jack on Tuesday at all?” he asked. “You had no plans to see him that evening?”
“No.” She frowned, her large eyes looking a little confused. “Did I forget a date we’d made?” she asked. “I’m usually very careful to write everything down …”
“I don’t think so,” answered Carmichael. “I only asked because the incident took place not far from your home. Down in Walworth is where Jack was found.”
As he had expected, she looked quite shocked. “He was shot?” she asked. “In Walworth? And you think it might have been a random crime?”
Carmichael spread his hands. “As of yet, we just don’t know,” he said.
But the worried frown did not leave her face. “I know he didn’t much care for the neighborhood,” she said, half to herself. “But it was so convenient, and the flat was so much bigger than the others I’d seen—I thought it seemed all right.”
Carmichael had every sympathy for her plight, but it was not his business to solve it, nor did he know of an answer offhand. Living in London was often a trade-off unless one was very wealthy.
“Tell me this,” he asked, “is it possible Jack might have decided to drop in on you for some reason?”
She looked doubtful. “He never has before,” she said. “I guess he could have, but I would have expected him to ring first before he came all that way. I mean, what if I were out?”
Carmichael nodded. “But you were at home on Tuesday?” he asked. “I mean, you would have been there if he had rung, or even dropped by?”
“Oh, yes, I was home all evening with my daughters. But we never heard from Jack.”
And that, thought Carmichael, was that.
He thanked her for her help, gave her Gibbons’s room number at the hospital, and escaped, feeling now as if he had wasted his time. His temper was not improved by finding Constable Lemmy waiting outside for him, his navy jumper liberally dusted with powdered sugar as if he had recently finished eating a donut.
“Why on earth didn’t you come in and find me?” growled Carmichael, striding away from the day-care center with Lemmy trailing in his wake.
Lemmy looked startled. “I didn’t want to interrupt anything, sir,” he answered.
“If you’d come straight here from the Yard,” retorted Carmichael, “you wouldn’t have had to worry about interrupting—you’d have been before me. Where the devil were you, anyway?”
Lemmy seemed more perplexed by this question than concerned over his superior’s annoyance. “I came straight along, sir,” he said. “Just as soon as I thought you could get here from Euston.”
Carmichael opened his mouth to reply, and then shut it again with a shake of his head. There was, he thought to himself, really no use in trying.
Unsure whether or not Colin James was fond of dogs, Bethancourt elected to leave Cerberus at home and duly presented himself, fortified by two cups of coffee, at James’s office by 12:20. Early enough, he hoped, not to interfere with lunch.
Having never before been in a private investigator’s office, Bethancourt was surprised to find it much resembled the office of a very well-to-do solicitor. The furniture was all solid oak, highly polished, and the carpet was an expensive, thick oriental. The usual shelves held books on art and jewels rather than tomes of law, and the paintings adorning the walls were more inspired than a law office’s prints, but these things only gave the atmosphere a different accent rather than changing it altogether.
James’s inner sanctum held his treasures. In pride of place hung a small Constable, and in one corner a small Degas sculpture stood on an eighteenth-century tea table.
James himself lounged behind an early Victorian twin pedestal desk, its mahogany surface burnished like satin. He rose to greet his guest and the two men shook hands, amiably taking each other’s measure.
“Sit, sit,” said James, motioning toward a leather-upholstered armchair. “Do you want a coffee or some tea or anything?”
Bethancourt, sitting as asked, declined this offer.
“So you’re young Gibbons’s friend,” said James, resuming his own seat behind the desk. “I was terribly sorry to hear he’d been seriously injured. How is he today, do you know?”
“He was asleep when I rang,” said Bethancourt, “but his mother said he was recovering well. I’ll be popping by there later.”
“Good, good,” said James. “I don’t mind telling you, I don’t look any too kindly on whoever was responsible for this. If it turns out to be connected to the Haverford case, I shall be most distressed.”
“It’s about that that I’ve come,” said Bethancourt. “Not being able to work on his own case is driving Jack loopy, the more so as he’s forgotten nearly all of Tuesday. We spoke of it yesterday and, in comparing notes, discovered that he had apparently come across something in the course of the day which changed his view of the case.”
“Did he indeed?” James was immediately alert.
“We believe so. It might not have any bearing on who shot him, but I thought it worth looking into to start with.”
James took a moment to ruminate before replying, his shrewd gray eyes considering Bethancourt as he did so.
“Did Gibbons tell you about the case?” he asked.
Bethancourt spread his hands. “He outlined it for me,” he answered. “A collection of valuable jewelry belonging to a recently deceased woman was stolen from her house in Southgate. Her heir and his wife discovered the theft.”
“That’s the bare bones of it,” said James. “Did he tell you that the jewelry itself was most extraordinary?”
“He said it was antique, inherited from a grandmother or great-grandmother,” replied Bethancourt.
This answer did not appear to satisfy James, who sighed.
“Did he tell you the grandmother in question was one of the most notorious actresses of belle epoche?” he asked.
“Really?” asked Bethancourt, immediately fascinated. “Who was she?”
“Evony St. Michel,” said James, and when Bethancourt let out a low whistle, he added in some surprise, “You’ve heard of her?”
“Oh, yes,” said Bethancourt. “She and Caroline Otero and Polaire and Lillie Langtry—not that I know a great deal about any of them, but my grandfather liked to tell stories of the old days, mostly culled from his father, who supposedly met Langtry. Didn’t Evony St. Michel used to wear her jewels onstage, or was that Caroline Otero?”
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