Dead to the World: Based on Paul Temple and the Jonathan Mystery. Francis Durbridge
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smelt trouble. Hey, where are you going?’
Ruth gave no answer, but herself took off like a space rocket and disappeared into the betting shop once more. Holt hesitated, then decided not to follow her; she was obviously following a hunch of her own.
A few moments later she came out, radiant, and swung off towards Oxford Street. He hurried to join her.
‘Don’t call a cab!’ she commanded airily. ‘We might be followed! Let’s take the Tube.’
‘Okay, Ruth – whatever you say!’ Holt’s tense features relaxed into a smile. ‘I can see you’ve achieved something by going back into that revolting place. What is it?’
‘Yes, they are depressing, aren’t they?’ she said loftily, deliberately ignoring his question. ‘Fancy calling it “the Sport of Kings”. I’ve never seen anything less royal or sporting in my life! Give me a real live horse race any day, but betting by remote control – well, it’s simply—’
‘Ruth! You’re holding out on me!’
She relented and grew serious. She said quietly, ‘Curly will be at the Brighton Races tomorrow. I’m willing to stake a month’s salary on it.’
‘How on earth do you know that?’ he asked, astounded.
Ruth grinned, and adopting an appalling accent said, ‘I just went in and yelled, “Anyone ’ere know where that swine Curly’s got to? I’ll boil ’im in oil when I find ’im!” – Men like those deadbeats in there are quite used to the sight of a screaming shrew hunting for her bloke. – “Try the Brighton track tomorrow, darlin’. ’E’s bound to be there.” And look, Philip, just to clinch matters, I found this betting sheet on the bench where he was sitting. It lists the runners at Brighton tomorrow. Curly seems to have marked some of his favourites. So, it’s a fair bet, don’t you think?’
‘My word! You really are rather bright at times, Miss Sanders,’ said Holt with amusement.
‘I try to please,’ she answered with an impudent grin.
The rest of the day was devoted to hard work at the Studio in Westminster; Holt in the dark-room, Ruth retouching black and white prints under a powerful desk lamp. It was getting late when they decided to pack up.
‘Get your coat and I’ll drive you home,’ Holt said.
‘No, don’t bother. I can easily get a bus.’
The ringing of the street door bell forestalled any further argument.
‘Who the heck can that be at this time?’ Holt sighed.
Ruth ran down the steep stairs and opened the door to the street. A dapper little man with a neat moustache and a flashing smile whipped off his bowler hat and said with studied politeness, ‘My name is Wade. Jimmy Wade. I must apologise for calling so late, but I wonder if Mr Holt is at home?’
‘Well …’ Ruth hesitated. ‘Is it about a portrait?’
‘No. Oh, no. Perhaps I may be so blunt as to say straight out that it has to do with Vance Scranton.’
There was a pregnant pause, then Holt’s voice came crisply from the top of the stairs. ‘Ruth, please show Mr Wade up.’
A brief pantomine took place in which Ruth tried to persuade Mr Wade to enter so that she could shut the door behind him, whilst he insisted with a series of gallant bows that ladies should go first.
When the visitor finally reached the head of the stairs Holt greeted him a little coolly. He did not offer to shake hands but asked bluntly, ‘Are you a friend of Vance Scranton’s, Mr Wade?’
‘Well, no, not really. But I knew him quite well, in a manner of speaking, and—’
‘Well I never met the boy, so perhaps you’d tell me how you happened to connect him with me?’
Jimmy Wade gave a quick, nervous smile and darted a hand into his breast pocket for his wallet. ‘It’s very simple, Mr Holt. This postcard came to my flat this morning and I took it at once to the Scrantons, whom I knew were staying at the Savoy. They suggested I showed it at once to you. If I may say so, it seemed at the time rather a sensible suggestion.’
‘I see.’
Holt took the proffered postcard. It was addressed to Julie Benson, but was in all other respects similar to the card which Inspector Hyde had shown him the day before, and the message was identical:
HAVING A WONDERFUL TIME.
REGARDS FROM CHRISTOPHER.
The postmark was Harrogate, and it had been stamped on the previous day.
‘Who is this Christopher?’ Holt asked casually.
Mr Wade’s rubicund features creased into an apologetic smile. ‘I only wish I could tell you. Nobody seems to know. The police have given poor Julie a dreadful time, hammering away at her about that wretched name.’
‘How do you know that?’ Holt asked.
Mr Wade blinked, somewhat taken aback. But in a moment he was all smiles again. ‘Oh, I must apologise – I should have explained. Julie Benson is my sister-in-law. I really should have begun there, I suppose.’ He glanced from Holt to Ruth and back again. He had liquid dark eyes like a thrush and all his movements were bird-like – a quick peck at some tasty morsel, a rapid glance to left and right. ‘I married Julie’s sister – or you could say her sister married me. They say it’s generally the lady who really makes the decisions, don’t they?’
Ruth gave him a cosy smile and offered him a chair. ‘May I ask you, Mr Wade,’ she said, at the same time taking his raincoat and hat, ‘is it common knowledge that your sister-in-law is staying with you? Or is this only known to a limited number of people?’
For some curious reason this question, which Ruth had intended quite harmlessly, seemed to throw Wade into a mild state of consternation. His complexion turned even redder, the wallet he was holding slipped to the floor, and he muttered a series of incoherent phrases which totally failed to make a sentence.
Holt came to the rescue. ‘My secretary has a point there, Mr Wade; I can see what she’s aiming at. From what I’ve been given to understand, Julie lives in Deanfriston and works for a Professor at the College there. How did Christopher know she was to be reached at your London address?’
‘Ah! Ah, yes – yes, indeed! Well, you see, whenever Julie’s in Town she stays with me – I mean with us, at Honor Oak.’
‘Where is Honor Oak, exactly?’
‘Just next door to Lewisham – a very different class of locality, if I may say so.’
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Holt soothed in an attempt to dismiss the matter of the area’s prestige. ‘Now, if we can narrow the field down to those people who know Miss Benson stays with you at Honor Oak, then it might help us to run the elusive Christopher to earth.’
Wade blinked rapidly. His hand dived into his pocket and whipped out a silver cigarette case. Everything was done at top speed, and accompanied by a bewildering variety of ingratiating smiles. ‘I follow you, Mr Holt, indeed I do! Oh yes, I’m with you all the way. I only wish I could be more helpful. But the trouble is, if I may say so, that literally scores of people know that Julie is to be found with her sister when she’s not at Deanfriston. Just about everyone at the College, for a start. I’m afraid there’s nothing much to help us there.’
Mr Wade offered his cigarette case. Ruth refused with a smile and, as he turned to Holt, she added sternly, ‘Mr Holt is trying to give it up – aren’t you, Mr Holt?’
Holt gave a brief acknowledgement to Wade and went on, ‘Tell me: what does your sister-in-law make of this postcard from Harrogate?’
‘Julie? Well – er – I trust you’ll pardon my somewhat high-handed action, but as a matter of fact I haven’t shown it to her.’