‘Absolutely.’ He pulled a final finger. The crack sounded very loud in the quiet room. Suddenly the silence seemed to thicken; change character. The doctor was staring at his fingers with some surprise as if he had never seen them before. He looked at Barnaby’s grave features, at Troy and back to Barnaby again. ‘Yes. Absolutely ... that’s right.’ But the certainty had gone. It was no longer a statement of fact. He had the air of a man who knows he’s been rumbled but doesn’t yet know how.
‘The light stopped play at eleven that morning. For the day.’
‘Oh ... well ... maybe it was Thursday I watched. Yes, actually it was. I remember now—’
‘You have your rounds on Thursday. Or so you declared in your previous statement.’
‘Oh yes - of course I do. How silly of me ...’ Sweat beaded his forehead and started to roll, like transparent little glass beads, down his nose. His eyes flickered around the room seeking inspiration from the instrument cabinet, the chrome, rubber-covered examination trolley, the big wooden cupboard. ‘I don’t see the point of this, you know. I mean we all know the old lady died in the evening.’
‘I can assure you our inquiries are very relevant. We don’t waste our own and the public’s time unnecessarily.’
Trevor Lessiter still did not reply. Barnaby was anxious not to give him too much leeway. Already he could see the doctor rolling with the punch of his broken alibi, trying to dredge up a suitable alternative. Time for the frighteners.
‘You would not deny that you have the knowledge and equipment here to prepare an infusion of hemlock?’
‘What! But that’s ludicrous ... you don’t need special equipment. Anyone could—’
‘Not anyone could sign a death certificate.’
‘I’ve never heard such an outrageous ... I was here all evening.’
‘We only have your word for that, sir.’
‘My wife and daughter—’
‘Went out, if you recall.’
‘I swear to you—’
‘You swore to us about your whereabouts that afternoon, Doctor Lessiter. You were lying then. Why should you not be lying now?’
‘How dare you.’ He swallowed, and his Adam’s apple rode furiously up and down as if seeking an escape from his throat. ‘I’ve never heard such—’
‘Can you explain why, when you were the last person to use Miss Simpson’s telephone, no prints were found on it?’
‘Of course not.’
‘What reason did you have for wiping that receiver clean?’
‘Me! I didn’t touch it ... I didn’t.’ Some more nervous gulping. ‘Look ... all right ... I wasn’t here in the afternoon. Now, Barnaby ... will what I’m going to tell you now remain absolutely confidential?’
‘I can’t guarantee that, I’m afraid. Of course if it doesn’t relate to the case there’s no reason why it should ever be made public.’
‘But it will go on record, won’t it?’
‘We shall take a further statement, certainly.’ Right on cue Troy produced his notebook.
‘I’d have to give up the practice if this became public. Leave the area.’ Trevor Lessiter slumped in his smart leather chair. His chipmunk cheeks, now quite deflated, were tuckered grey bags. Then the grey flushed red with panic. ‘You won’t tell my wife?’
‘We don’t “tell” anyone anything, sir. That’s not how we work. Alibis are checked to eliminate the innocent as much as to discover the guilty.’
‘Oh,’ he cried, ‘I haven’t done anything wrong.’
The range of people who thought lying to the police wasn’t doing anything wrong, reflected Barnaby, was widening all the time. He waited.
‘You’ve ... er ... met my wife, Chief Inspector. I’m envied, I know, by many people ... men that is ...’ Here, in spite of his intense anxiety, a shimmer of satisfaction flitted across his features. Barnaby was reminded briefly of Henry Trace. ‘... but Barbara is ... oh dear, I don’t know how to put this without sounding disloyal. She’s a wonderful companion ... great fun to be with but not very ...’ His face looked smaller, shrunk with embarrassment. He forced a laugh. ‘I’d better be John Blunt here, I can see. She’s not too interested in the physical side of marriage.’
So much for the fancy wrapping, thought Barnaby, recalling the painted eyes and heavy scent and the twin peaks that might have caused stout Cortez himself a stagger of disbelief.
‘So,’ continued the doctor, ‘obviously wanting her to be happy, I don’t press my attentions.’ He dropped his gaze, but not before Barnaby had seen a flash of spite and sour resentment in his eyes. The look of a man who has kept his side of the bargain and been sold down the river. ‘However’ - a light-hearted shrug - ‘I have needs ...’ Here his left lid trembled on the edge of a collusive wink, ‘... as we all do, and I ... er ... occasionally, very occasionally, visit an establishment that ... um ... caters for them.’
‘You mean a brothel?’
‘Ohhh!’ No longer John Blunt, he looked almost disgusted at Barnaby’s lack of finesse. ‘I wouldn’t say that. Not at all. It’s very ... refined, really. There’s a little shop which sells all sorts of jolly things. And they put on a little show. And a get-together with one of the young ladies afterwards if one is so inclined. And one usually is inclined. The performances are quite stimulating. Tasteful but stimulating.’ ‘And that is where you were on the afternoon of the seventeenth?’ The doctor nodded. ‘And the name and address of this establishment?’
Lessiter rootled about in his wallet and produced a card. ‘Perhaps you know of the ... er ... club ... ?’
Barnaby glanced at the card. ‘I believe I do, yes.’ He then asked for a photograph.
‘A photograph!’ The doctor gave a horrified squeak.
‘Purely for identification purposes. It will be returned, I assure you. Or perhaps you would like to accompany me ... ?’
‘Good God no.’ He paused for a moment. ‘I’ve just had some passport pictures done. They’re in the study.’ He left the room, returning a few minutes later with four neat black and white squares. He handed over two of them. ‘I think this one ... look ... where I’m smiling is the most—’
‘I just need the one, thank you.’ As Barnaby turned away the doctor added, ‘You must ask for Krystal. She’s my special friend.’
Chapter Nine
The Casa Nova was not easily visible to the casual eye. It lurked in a grubby, unpoetic alley, Tennyson Mews, flanked by a stationery warehouse and a handbag factory. The windows of the latter were wide open, inviting the hot July sun into the already stifling workrooms. The smell of baking leather wafted out together with the jungle drumming of machinery. Troy parked near a peeling magenta door half garlanded with sickly lightbulbs offering ‘10 BEAUTIFUL GIRLS 10’ and, eyes alight with anticipation, undid his seat belt.
‘Casanova eh?’ he sniggered. ‘Naughty.’
‘New house to you,’ replied Barnaby. ‘Although I’ve no doubt the tricks’ll be as old as the hills.’
‘Looks promising though. Ten beautiful girls.’
‘A vulture’s egg is promising, son,’ replied Barnaby, getting out of the car. ‘You can wait here.’ He smiled as he pressed the buzzer, feeling the lance of Troy’s resentment between his shoulder blades. Barnaby said, ‘Krystal please,’ to a squawking voice box.
‘Mind how you go on the steps, dear.’
The flight of stairs was dimly lit. At the bottom one of the ten beautiful girls - ten - stepped forward. She could have been any age between thirty and sixty. The only certain thing was she hadn’t been a girl since he’d been a boy scout. Her hair had the colour and dusty bloom of black grapes. She wore lipstick like vermilion Vaseline and thick makeup journeyed over the eruptions and into the craters of her complexion. You could join all those dots up till the cows came home, thought Barnaby, and never reach the hidden treasure. She wore leopard-patterned shorts, a matching open-ended bra and heels so high that she seemed to be balancing on patent-leather stilts. She teetered forward, held his arm with an expert touch and smiled, showing teeth like pearls from a polluted oyster.