'That's a dull dump,' she said. 'Aunt Deb approves of it.'
'More sleuthing,' I said.
'All right, then. Got your magnifying glass and bloodhound handy?'
We went into the hotel. Kate said she would go and tidy her hair. While she was gone I asked the young girl in the reception desk if she knew where I could find Clifford Tudor. She fluttered her eyelashes at me and I grinned encouragingly back.
'You've just missed him, I'm afraid,' she said. 'He's gone back to his flat.'
'Does he come here often?' I asked.
She looked at me in surprise. 'I thought you knew. He's on the board of governors. One of the chief shareholders. In fact,' she added with remarkable frankness, 'he very nearly owns this place and has more say in running it than the manager.' It was clear from her voice and manner that she thoroughly approved of Mr Tudor.
'Has he got a car?' I asked.
This was a very odd question, but she prattled on without hesitation. 'Yes, he's got a lovely big car with a long bonnet and lots of chromium. Real classy. But he doesn't use it, of course. Mostly it's taxis for him. Why. just this minute I rang for one of those radio cabs for him. Real useful, they are. You just ring their office and they radio a message to the taxi that's nearest here and in no time at all it's pulling up outside. All the guests use them-'
'Mavis!'
The talkative girl stopped dead and looked round guiltily. A severe girl in her late twenties had come into the reception desk.
'Thank you for relieving me, Mavis. You may go now,' she said.
Mavis gave me a flirting smile and disappeared.
'Now, sir, can I help you?' She was polite enough, but not the type to gossip about her employers.
'Er – can we have afternoon tea here?' I asked.
She glanced at the clock. 'It's a little late for tea, but go along into the lounge and the waiter will attend to you.'
Kate eyed the resulting fishpaste sandwiches with disfavour. This is one of the hazards of detecting, I suppose,' she said, taking a tentative bite. 'What did you find out about what?'
I said I was not altogether sure, but that I was interested in anything that had even the remotest connexion with the yellow shield taxis or with Bill Davidson, and Clifford Tudor was connected in the most commonplace way with both.
'Nothing in it, I shouldn't think,' said Kate, finishing the sandwich but refusing another.
I sighed. 'I don't think so, either,' I said.
'What next, then?'
'If I could find out who owns the yellow shield taxis-'
'Let's ring them up and ask,' said Kate, standing up. She led the way to the telephone and looked up the number in the directory.
'I'll do it,' she said. 'I'll say I have a complaint to make and I want to write directly to the owners about it.'
She got through to the taxi office and gave a tremendous performance, demanding the names and addresses of the owners, managers and the company's solicitors. Finally, she put down the receiver and looked at me disgustedly.
'They wouldn't tell me a single thing,' she said. 'He was a really patient man, I must say. He didn't get ruffled when I was really quite rude to him. But all he would say was, Please write to us with the details of your complaint and we will look into it fully. He said it was not the company's policy to disclose the names of its owners and he had no authority to do it. He wouldn't budge an inch.'
'Never mind. It was a darned good try. I didn't really think they would tell you. But it gives me an idea-'
I rang up the Maidenhead police station and asked for Inspector Lodge. He was off duty, I was told. Would I care to leave a message? I would.
I said, 'This is Alan York speaking. Will you please ask Inspector Lodge if he can find out who owns or controls the Marconicar radio taxi cabs in Brighton? He will know what it is about.'
The voice in Maidenhead said he would give Inspector Lodge the message in the morning, but could not undertake to confirm that Inspector Lodge would institute the requested enquiries. Nice official jargon. I thanked him and rang off.
Kate was standing close to me in the telephone box. She was wearing a delicate flowery scent, so faint that it was little more than a quiver in the air. I kissed her, gently. Her lips were soft and dry and sweet. She put her hands on my shoulders, and looked into my eyes, and smiled. I kissed her again.
A man opened the door of the telephone box. He laughed when he saw us. 'I'm so sorry- I want to telephone-' We stepped out of the box in confusion.
I looked at my watch. It was nearly half-past six.
'What time does Aunt Deb expect us back?' I asked.
'Dinner is at eight. We've got until then,' said Kate. 'Let's walk through the Lanes and look at the antique shops.'
We went slowly down the back pathways of Brighton, pausing before each brightly lit window to admire the contents. And stopping, too, in one or two corners in the growing dusk, to continue where we had left off in the telephone box. Kate's kisses were sweet and virginal. She was unpractised in love, and though her body trembled once or twice in my arms, there was no passion, no hunger in her response.
At the end of one of the Lanes, while we were discussing whether to go any further, some lights were suddenly switched on behind us. We turned round. The licensee of The Blue Duck was opening his doors for the evening. It looked a cosy place.
'How about a snifter before we go back?' I suggested.
'Lovely,' said Kate. And in this casual inconsequential way we made the most decisive move in our afternoon's sleuthing.
We went into The Blue Duck.
CHAPTER NINE
The bar was covered with a big sheet of gleaming copper. The beer handles shone. The glasses sparkled. It was a clean, friendly little room with warm lighting and original oils of fishing villages round the walls.
Kate and I leaned on the bar and discussed sherries with the innkeeper. He was a military-looking man of about fifty with a bristly moustache waxed at the ends. I put him down as a retired sergeant-major. But he knew his stuff, and the sherry he recommended to us was excellent. We were his first customers, and we stood chatting to him. He had the friendly manner of all good innkeepers, but underlying this I saw a definite wariness. It was like the nostril cocked for danger in a springbok; uneasy, even when all appeared safe. But I didn't pay much attention, for his troubles, I thought erroneously, had nothing to do with me.
Another man and a girl came in, and Kate and I turned to take our drinks over to one of the small scattered tables. As we did so she stumbled, knocked her glass against the edge of the bar and broke it. A jagged edge cut her hand, and it began to bleed freely.
The innkeeper called his wife, a thin, small woman with bleached hair. She saw the blood welling out of Kate's hand, and exclaimed with concern, 'Come and put it under the cold tap. That'll stop the bleeding. Mind you don't get it on your nice coat.'
She opened a hatch in the bar to let us through, and led us into her kitchen, which was as spotless as the bar. On a table at one side were slices of bread, butter, cooked meats, and chopped salads. We had interrupted the innkeeper's wife in making sandwiches for the evening's customers. She went across to the sink, turned on the tap, and beckoned to Kate to put her hand in the running water. I stood just inside the kitchen door looking round me.
'I'm so sorry to be giving you all this trouble,' said Kate, as the blood dripped into the sink. 'It really isn't a very bad cut. There just seems to be an awful lot of gore coming out of it.'
'It's no trouble at all, dear,' said the innkeeper's wife. 'I'll find you a bandage.' She opened a dresser drawer to look for one, giving Kate a reassuring smile.
I started to walk over from the doorway to take a closer look at the damage. Instantly there was a deadly menacing snarl, and a black Alsatian dog emerged from a box beside the refrigerator. His yellow eyes were fixed on me, his mouth was slightly open with the top lip drawn back, and the razor-sharp teeth were parted. There was a collar round his neck, but he was not chained up. Another snarl rumbled deep in his throat.