Young Higgins was not used to being called “dear,” nor did the icy look he gave Miss Dalyrimple suggest he was inclined to get used to it. Or perhaps what called forth that stony expression was, rather, the request for tomato sauce. He set down the other two plates and turned to the wine cooler.
Melrose and Polly paid no attention to the Pinot Noir being poured because they were back there a beat, with the “whatever comes later” remark. To keep from laughing, Melrose snatched up his glass and gulped. The wine came out his nose. He coughed.
Polly recovered. “Why do you call this killer a sex maniac?” “Prob‘ly he can’t-you know-perform. Wouldn’t surprise me if he’s one of Valentine’s, or one of the others. DeeDee-Deirdre Small, the one got herself murdered-didn’t agree, though. Said he’d probably turn out to be her steady.” Alice giggled and quickly stopped, probably recalling what had happened to Deirdre Small.
Pay dirt! Pay dirt! He could have kissed Alice Dalyrimple, except she’d have him under the table in two seconds flat. “You knew this Deirdre Small?”
“O’ course I knew her. She was with Smart Set, too, don’t forget. Nice girl was DeeDee. It’s such a shame.” She carried on carving up more beef, sans tomato ketchup.
“You knew her well?” said Melrose.
“Oh, yeah. Pretty well. We went to the cinema sometimes, stuff like that.”
“Had you seen her recently?” Polly asked.
“A week ago, maybe.” Alice picked up her empty glass. “Just before she got murdered.” She set down the glass. “She was worried about something…”
“About what?” said Melrose.
“Well, she never said, did she?” Alice looked blankly over the dining room.
Polly asked, “Do you think it could have been one of her… clients, then, that did this? Maybe somebody got jealous of her other men?”
Alice frowned. “You mean you think it coulda been personal?” “Couldn’t it have? I mean, it doesn’t have to be some maniac just killing off escorts.”
“It’d be hard to think DeeDee’d get on the wrong side of anybody, she’s so nice. I don’t know all the ones she dated… Didn’t police arrest her date for that night?”
Melrose said, “From what I read, they only questioned him.”
“If it was Nick, police can forget about it. DeeDee always said he was dull as dishwater. A whiner, too. Whined about his wife, whined about his work. Not much get-up-and-go, you know? ‘My Nick’s not exactly got a steel spine; more like spaghetti,’ she used to say.” She paused. “When I said DeeDee was worried about something… well, it was something she thought maybe she should see police about…” Again her voice trailed away.
Melrose was all ears. “And she didn’t give you any hint at all as to what it was?”
Alice shook her head, played with her fork, looked disquieted. To Melrose she said, “You seem awful interested in the murders.”
“Not him,” said Polly quickly. “Me. Did you ever talk to police? I mean, did you tell them about DeeDee?”
“No. I don’t much like police.”
Then Alice said, “I knew that other one, too, that got her picture in the paper. Calls herself Adele Astaire? Escorts are kinda, I guess you’d say, clubby. I guess we feel we’ve got to stick together. People make it sound like we’re working the curb in Shepherd Market or under London Bridge.” She giggled up some wine. “But it ain’t like that, that’s chalk and cheese, those two jobs.”
Melrose was even more dumbfounded. “You know Adele Astaire?”
Alice’s nod was tentative, as if she weren’t sure she wanted to get into this.
Polly said, “So you didn’t tell police you knew either of these women?”
She screwed up her face. “Why would I? I say let them sort it. Besides, I don’t know anything, really.”
“But tell us,” Polly went on. “What you do know about this Adele?”
“Not much to tell, is there? We was in school together. Adele-what was her real name?-was a cheeky kid. Still was, I bet. Always wanted to be a dancer, she did. I think maybe that’s why she went on the job, thinking she’d get herself the money she’d need to study. I doubt she did, but I dunno. Haven’t seen her in years.” Alice pushed her plate back and now blew out her cheeks as if she’d just run the mile. “What’s the pud?”
Dessert-sticky toffee pudding-came and went, and at about that rate of speed.
Polly put down her napkin and announced she was off to the ladies’ room. This, Melrose knew, was to give him an opportunity to take care of Alice. Melrose did. But not without difficulty. His best excuse was that, really, he and Alice could hardly get together with Polly here. To which Alice acted surprised the arrangement hadn’t been made already and that they could still… No, no, we couldn’t, said Melrose, slipping Alice the money for the evening’s encounter, feeling he had got off lightly; feeling, indeed, twice that sum wouldn’t have paid for the information.
So he paid her twice that sum.
“Polly, you were marvelous.”
“It’s a curse.”
They were finishing up brandies in the Members’ Room. Polly had to make the last train back to Littlebourne.
“You’ve been checking your watch about every thirty seconds, so you obviously want to check in with Superintendent Jury.”
They both got up. Melrose recalled just then that he’d stuffed Polly’s book in between the cushion and arm of the chair and now dug it out. Naturally, he hadn’t read enough of it to say anything halfway intelligent. He held it out. “Will you autograph this for me?”
She looked at the book, then up at him. “When you’ve read it.” Smiling, Polly walked out.
47
Jury put down the phone and sat staring at Wiggins. He was not really seeing Wiggins, only the images in his own mind, his response to Melrose Plant’s telephone call.
“What?” said Wiggins, indisposed because he couldn’t sort out what was wrong with the plug on the flex to the electric teakettle. “What?” he said again.
Jury flinched a little, Wiggins being as far from his mind as the electric kettle. “Sorry. That was Plant on the line. He said the woman he had a meal with last night knows Rose Moss, aka Adele Astaire.”
Wiggins stopped fiddling with the plug. “What did he find out?”
“They’d been school chums years ago. The woman-the one Melrose Plant was with-is one of Smart Set’s escorts.”
“Mr. Plant…” Wiggins snorted. “Can’t picture Mr. Plant-him who was Lord Ardry-in company with a slag.” But apparently he could picture it, for something was putting him in a better humor. He snickered.
“Don’t enjoy it too much, Wiggins. He did it because I told him to. Her name’s Alice Dalyrimple.” Jury smiled at the name.
“But then if she’s with Smart Set… so was Deirdre Small.”
“Yes. And DeeDee, as she called Deirdre, was worried about something, was even thinking of going to police.”
“Is this Alice involved, then?”
“I don’t think so. She was just the one supplied by the agency.”
“Then if she knows the Moss woman, does she-or did she-know Stacy Storm… Mariah Cox?”
“No.”
“Well, then, it doesn’t sound very significant, boss.” He had finally fitted the plug into an outlet. The kettle had water in it.
“But it is. It’s the connection. Look: we assume because three women working for these different escort outfits are murdered, the connection is the work itself-all three on the game. As the newspapers have made bloody sure people would think that’s the connection. But the connection between the three victims could have nothing at all to do with the sex angle, the escort service. It’s the women themselves. Here, at least, are two who know each other. It was reasonable to assume that the women working for these agencies were going with some psychopath who hated girls on the game. That’s what people think.