‘Now it is about this coach-driver whose body was found in such a strange situation, and I am troubling myself in my mind that he may not be the only one.’
‘Well, he isn’t,’ said Laura, looking up from the letter. ‘Shall you go and see her?’
‘Read to the end. You will find that I have very little option.’
‘You will remember,’ the letter went on, ‘my telling you of the treasures of Chinese art which Vittorio showed me when I visited his lodging and of the conclusion I reached regarding this surprising and very valuable collection. I also mentioned, I believe, some jade that he had there. Well, jade is always nice; nice material and very patient carving is necessary and takes much time. The pieces he showed me, though, were not very special – jewellers’ pieces I would call them – and some were soapstone, not jade.
‘Mind, I did not let Vittorio know I recognised some of the china he showed me. That perhaps would not have been a safe thing to do; neither, naturally, did I intend to tell him I should advise you not to buy, but, with much caution, I began to make enquiries about him in the trade and some strange things came out.
‘Where County Motors go there are thefts of art treasures. Nobody makes the connection, I think, but me. Now here, now there, I hear of these thefts and because I know Vittorio and your Mr Honfleur are in collusion for Vittorio to purchase antiques – ’
‘Our Mr Honfleur indeed! ’ said Laura indignantly. ‘I like her cheek!’
‘She means no harm. Read to the end.’
‘… to purchase antiques, I ask myself whether this is coincidence or not. I check up the coach tours and it looks less and less like coincidence and more and more like something arranged. You see, my dear friend, when there is a theft the police are told. They cordon off roads and stop cars and perhaps lorries; but who ever heard of police stopping a holiday coach? Even if they did, what would they find? Thirty suitcases of innocent people; souvenirs bought to take home as gifts for friends or as reminders of the holiday; parcels, coats, anoraks and mackintoshes on the racks; everybody able to account for himself. All the same, I think to myself that there may also be one suitcase too many in the boot of the coach. You understand me?
‘But the police do not stop the coaches. In most cases they do not stop the cars either. And why? Because, by the time the thefts are discovered and reported, it is too late. The thieves have got clean away and the coach is staying, so innocently, at a hotel in another county, so nobody gives it a thought that there are stolen antiques on board.’
‘I wonder whether she’s right?’ said Laura, handing back the letter. ‘It sounds a bit too easy to me. Do you think she’s romancing?’
‘That is what I propose to find out.’
‘Do I go with you to Poole?’
‘Yes, I shall need you to take notes. We know already that Vittorio used to take these coach tours. The reason given to us was that he looked out for antiques to sell to Basil Honfleur for his collection of ceramics.’
‘Can’t quarrel with that, can we?’
‘On the face of it, no, except that Honfleur’s collection seemed rather too small to account for these elaborate journeys. Of course it could be that Honfleur was not the only collector on Vittorio’s list of customers. However, we may know more when we hear what Conradda Mendel has to tell us when we visit her.’
‘Considering that there’s already been an attempt on your life, I’m not so keen on this visit. Supposing Conradda is in cahoots with Knight and this letter is a trap?’
‘I shall look to you to protect me.’
‘I might not be able to protect you from a stab in the back. Vittorio was not the only person to be far too handy with a dagger, as witness his own demise, and, if I know anything of the address on Conradda’s letter, Poole harbour might be a nice handy dumping-place for a dead body.’
‘You make my blood run cold.’
‘Not half as much as you make mine curdle in my veins. Look here, how much do we really know about Conradda? Nothing, except that she was a patient of yours. People who need help from a psychiatrist are not always the most trustworthy of friends.’
‘You malign my profession and my clients, and in the same breath, too.’
‘Would you like to make me feel a lot happier?’
‘Your happiness is my chief concern.’
‘Right – although I know that was said tongue in cheek, I want our private dick to go with us to Poole. I don’t like this sudden summons from Conradda. We don’t know for certain that she ever went to America and we do know she had that peculiar linkup with Vittorio.’
Laura, who had often had a boat out on Poole harbour, knew the neighbourhood well and was not mistaken in her idea that the house at which Conradda was staying would be in the oldest part of the town and near the quay. It was in a narrow street behind the Customs House and could have done with a coat of paint. All the same, the steps had been cleaned and the brass knocker in the shape of the Three Wise Monkeys had been lovingly polished until it glittered in the sunshine.
The door was opened by a woman wearing a black shawl over a blue overall. She did not ask their names, but invited the visitors in to a linoleum-covered hall which contained a coat-and-umbrella stand and a grandfather clock, and said,
‘I’ll just pop up and see whether she’s awake.’ Before she could mount the narrow staircase, however, a voice from the top of it called out:
‘Come right up, Dame Beatrice. I saw your car pull in to the kerb.’
‘It’s a bed-sitter,’ said the woman, ‘so I don’t know about the gentleman without he’s a relation, because likely she’ll be in bed.’
‘Of course he’ll come up with us,’ said Laura curtly. Conradda was not in bed. The bed, in fact, was a studio couch and had been converted to its daytime use as a settee. Conradda looked pale and puffy. There was little doubt that she had been ill. She seemed delighted to see Dame Beatrice, who reminded her that she had met Laura at the Stone House when she had been under treatment there. Then she introduced the private detective, not as such, but simply as Richard Ross.
‘Well, ladies,’ said Ross, having decided that the apartment contained no nefarious characters, ‘perhaps I could have a smoke out on the landing.’
‘Oh, please, yes. Take a chair with you and here is an ashtray,’ said Conradda, eagerly embracing this suggestion.
‘And please stay close outside the door,’ muttered Laura in the detective’s ear, as she ushered out him and his chair. As soon as the door had closed behind him, Dame Beatrice said:
‘We take Ross everywhere since an attempt was made upon my life a few days ago.’
‘An attempt on your life? Oh, but no!’ cried Conradda, horrified.
‘No doubt about it at all,’ said Laura, ‘so we take what precautions we can. After all, three men have been stabbed to death and somebody seemed quite determined to lay out Dame B.’
‘Three men?’
‘Yes. The man we knew as Vittorio was the third,’ explained Dame Beatrice. ‘It happened in Scotland in a tiny place just outside Fort William. But we mustn’t tire you with too much talking. Tell us why you sent for me.’
‘Ah, yes, you will be wondering about that. But first – this man Vittorio. Is it known who killed him?’
‘There are two known suspects; the driver Knight tells a strange story about having been assaulted and kidnapped, and then there is a man called Carstairs who has a bungalow very close to the hotel where Knight claims that he was surprised and captured, and it was in this bungalow that Vittorio was stabbed to death.’