Birdie looked thoughtful. “There is one danger,” she said. “After hearing how Clive sounds on that recording, is Heckington going to suggest demanding further proof of his survival?”
“He wouldn’t be that heartless, surely,” said Lanching.
“He’s a lawyer,” said Birdie. “Those boys part with money like it was penisectomy.”
“I can’t see that it matters,” Becket said. “Clive was no great buddy of mine, but I don’t fancy making money out of the poor bugger’s heart attack.”
“Not five thousand?” Birdie asked quietly.
Becket puffed his cheeks, then shrugged. “I don’t think we’ve considered the risks properly. God knows what the police will dig up. They’re not fools.”
“What is there for them to dig up?” Lanching asked.
“God, there’s always something. They make sure of that.”
Birdie smiled. “There speaks a man with one foot in gaol. Don’t worry, Bob—you’ll have enough now to pay your fine.” She rose. “I’ll make coffee.”
At a quarter past one, the telephone rang at the bedside of the managing editor of the Sunday Herald. He was not asleep, and told Miss Clemenceaux so in a manner that made her introductory apologies seem an unwarranted reflection upon his sense of duty.
“We have heard from Mr Grail,” she announced. “The call came through about ten minutes ago. We managed to get most of what he said recorded on a little tape machine of mine. Would you like me to play it back for you now? You’ll need to listen carefully; it may not transmit all that well.”
Richardson did listen carefully and with a deepening frown. “And there was nothing after that?”
“Nothing. They just rang off.”
“To me, Grail sounds in a pretty bad way. Didn’t you think he sounded in a pretty bad way?”
Birdie hesitated. “In a sense, yes. But he would be very upset. Frightened, too, I should think. That would be perfectly natural.”
“I heard the word ‘God’ several times. Quite definitely. Didn’t you hear that? I did.”
“At least we know he’s alive, Mr Richardson. We must just hope for the best.”
“I never saw much built on hopes, not in the newspaper business. However, you must let Sir Arthur be responsible for decisions. Is that all you recorded, by the way? Grail’s message?”
Richardson’s woodenly unsympathetic manner was beginning to anger the girl. It also had the curious effect of lending self-conviction to her inventiveness.
“Now look, Mr Richardson, it is easy enough to be critical afterwards, but telephone calls from kidnappers are not day-to-day events that one takes in one’s stride. The Herald doesn’t pay me or my colleagues to be electronics engineers. I suggest that our having got anything at all on tape does deserve a bit of credit.”
“No good going through life waiting to have your head patted, Miss Clemenceaux. What else did these people have to say?”
“They gave instructions,” she replied, coldly, “for the payment of the money.”
There was a pause. “Well?”
“I know what the instructions are. I think that is enough.”
“Miss Clemenceaux—this is not your money.”
Lanching and Becket saw a smile glimmer faintly and die. “The line,” she said, “may be tapped, for all I know. I do have a certain responsibility, Mr Richardson. These people are not playing games.”
“Very well. But remember. There’s one hell of a disbursement involved. I have to account for it. And you will have your share of accounting to do as well.”
With which dour declaration, the managing editor rang off and lay, unblinking, flat and rigid in his single bed. The light remained burning until morning when his wife entered from the adjoining room, switched it off, and called him “dear”.
Chapter Fourteen
“Dear God, don’t tell me that they went off and fought their wretched duel in secret. Where did you say he was found, Bill? A railway station?”
“It was once. Hambourne. Aye, they found him in what used to be the booking office, I understand.”
“Who did?”
“Kids. Parker, the Gosby constable, says they often walk to school along the old track. He doesn’t think the body can have been there long.”
“Where have they taken it? The General?”
“Aye. The PM’s at eleven. Either Heinemann or Spenser. I had a quick look. There are no marks.”
“No, I suppose a hole drilled by His Worship the mayor’s bullet would have been too much to hope for. Never mind, Bill; you get on with organizing the inquest and I’ll send Sergeant Love out to Hambourne. If I hear of any relatives, I’ll let you know, but his paper will probably help you there, if you give them a ring.”
Whereupon Inspector Purbright left Sergeant Malley and sought a brief interview with Mr Chubb. He found the chief constable somewhat bewildered.
“They tell me the man died in a booking office, of all places, Mr Purbright. Is that correct?”
“Not quite, sir. Mr Grail’s body was found in what once had been a booking office.”
“At Hambourne, I understand.”
“Yes, sir. The old Chalmsbury line. He didn’t necessarily die there, though.”
“I hope that terrible Scotchman on the council isn’t mixed up in this. We’ll never hear the end of it.”
Incurring Mr Chubb’s displeasure carried the penalty of permanent disqualification from ownership of a name. Alderman Hockley had earned this verbal neutering many years ago by playing a practical joke (he had substituted a fireman’s helmet for the chief constable’s ceremonial headgear just before an Armistice Day parade, which he regarded as Sassenach mummery) and Mr Chubb had ever since referred to him as “that Scotchman”.
“I shall make full inquiries, sir, naturally. At the moment we know virtually nothing, so you are quite right to discount speculation as to who might be involved.”
Mr Chubb nodded. “You’ll keep in touch, Mr Purbright, won’t you.” And he gave a little wintry smile.
The inspector drove at once to Miriam Lodge. He was admitted by Robert Becket, who led him to the room where Birdie and Lanching were talking to a man in formal morning suit, a long-legged, confident man with a big, handsome head and healthy complexion.
Birdie introduced Sir Arthur Heckington, then said to Purbright: “How flattering to have you back again so soon, inspector.”
He smiled and sat down, after placing his chair so that he could see both the girl and the barrister.
Suddenly Birdie put a hand to her mouth in a gesture of contrition. Whether it was real or mocking, Purbright was not sure.