The Players And The Game Page 12

  ‘How about the seller, what’s his name, Makepeace?’

  ‘Over eighty and nearly blind. Non-starter.’

  Paling put his fingertips together. ‘Doesn’t all this strike you as highly improbable?’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘Here’s our letter-writer, looking for a machine on which he can type. He’s also a potential home buyer. He happens to be looking round this house, spots the Olivetti, thinks “Ah hah, an ideal machine for me to use.” And then – what? Is he going round alone, so that he sits down to type a letter on the spot? Or does he keep the key and come back later? Or does he take the machine away with him and bring it back again?’

  ‘The man who made the offer came back three times. His name was Jenkins. He’s a computer engineer, came down to work in Rawley, bought another house now. Married, four kids. Trouble is he doesn’t seem to have any connection with the case. He’s got an alibi for the night Louise Allbright was killed.’

  ‘You see?’

  ‘But somebody typed a letter on that machine.’

  ‘Precisely. So we’re led to the conclusion that the person who typed the letter is the person who knew the machine was there, Vane himself. You say he’s got no record?’

  ‘None.’ Hazleton rubbed the knob of his chin. The sound was like a reaper cutting corn. ‘I don’t know. He put on a good act, that’s all I can say.’

  ‘So he puts on a good act. You’ve seen them before.’

  ‘But it was so dangerous for him.’ He stopped. Paling was shaking his white head.

  ‘Not dangerous. He was unlucky. Why should anybody want to look at his typewriter? He types this letter, and no doubt some others too. Then his daughter says she’d like to have the machine. Marvellous, now it’s out of the house. It’s only the bad luck of her being hard up and pawning it, and then of the pawnbroker being so sharp, that’s led us to him. I think you ought to put a man on him.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And get Sergeant Plender to look into his background a bit. Around the office, where he lived before, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Vane knows Plender.’

  ‘Never mind. Put a few shivers up his spine. I believe he’s our man. It’s a question of pinning it on him.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ Hazleton said, although he did not agree. He had not smelled anything wrong about Vane.

  Pam sat at her desk and read the letter. It was neatly typed on a sheet of typing copy-paper which had been folded over.

  My dear Pamela,

  It was delightful to hear from you again. I had quite given you up. A lot of girls write letters like yours without seriously intending a meeting. But if you are truly serious, then I can assure you I am too.

  For a few minutes after I got your letter my mind was in chaos. ‘There must be chaos in the mind if we wish to breed a dancing star.’ – Do you know who said that? A great man. I thought, shall I reply? And I cannot tell you all the ideas that coursed through my mind, but what I had was a kind of vision of you. A forehead high and noble, eyes of deepest blue, a sweep of fair hair. Was the vision true or false? And are you true or false, Pamela?

  I thought also: is she the kind of girl who is right for initiation, does she know how close suffering is to joy? And that the supreme moment in life is the one when fantasy becomes reality? If you think these things are interesting, then we have a lot to offer you. Our aim is to obtain supremacy over the ordinary things in life. We are not ordinary human beings, my woman friend and I. It is a question whether you have the ability to join us where we live on a higher plane of pleasure.

  I have told you something of myself. You know I am an older man than you. It would not be convenient for me to come up to London, and anyway our meeting-place is in Rawley. You say you might be able to come down. If so, tell me what evening, and I will meet you at 9 o’clock outside a tobacconist’s shop called Eastham, in Station Road.

  The address on the envelope will find me for the next few days. I hope to meet you, Pamela, I hope you can join us.

  Abel.

  An addressed manila envelope was enclosed. The address was: Giluso, Batchsted Farm, East Road, Sutton Willis.

  Pamela showed it to Sally in the salad bar they sometimes used for lunch. Sally shivered. ‘There’s something nasty about it. Do you think he’s mad?’

  ‘I’ll tell you what it sounds like to me, some sort of black magic group. You know, you all dance around naked and then somebody dressed up as the devil screws what’s supposed to be a virgin on an altar.’

  ‘Have you been to one?’

  ‘As a matter of fact I haven’t. It might be fun.’

  Sally read the letter again. ‘Giluso. What do you suppose he is, Italian?’

  ‘Could be. Or Maltese.’

  ‘He’s got your hair right, hasn’t he? And I suppose you do have a high forehead. Not your eyes, though, they’re green.’

  ‘Greeny-bluey.’ Pamela speared a bit of cottage cheese. ‘What do you say we go along together? Then we can jump out on him and say “Boo, Mr Giluso, here’s two girls come to be initiated.”’

  ‘I don’t know, Pam. Perhaps we ought to go to the police. I mean, Louise was killed in Rawley, and she did write to this man.’

  ‘So she wrote to him. I don’t suppose Mr Giluso’s got anything at all to do with her being killed, he’s just a dirty old man getting his kicks. Very likely he won’t turn up at all. But if he does, sweetie pie, we protect each other, don’t we? And if we find out anything we tell the police and they clap hands. How about Friday, can you manage that?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘And perhaps he’s just a lovely sexy Italian with–’ Pam whispered and Sally giggled. Pam certainly made everything fun.

  Plender had asked for an interview with Lowson at the office simply to get background information on Vane. What he learned, as he said afterwards, shook him rigid, and he rang Hazleton at once. The DCI told him to talk to both the girls involved, find out just what had happened and whether they’d received any letters at any time from Abel. The results, as Plender said on the following day, were disappointing.

  ‘Joy Lindley, that’s the girl at the office, all he did was take her out for a couple of drinks. Never so much as kissed her, so she said, and I believe her. The other girl, Monica Fowler, there was a bit of feeling around, and he exposed himself to her, and that’s all, or so she says. Of course you’ve got to remember she was thirteen at the time, and it was four years ago. She didn’t much want to talk about it. Her parents were cagey too. In effect they blackmailed Vane, and he was fool enough to let them. I think they’re feeling sorry they raised the whole thing again.’

  ‘No letters to either of them?’

  ‘None. And they didn’t call him Abel, never heard the name in relation to him.’

  ‘So what do you think?’

  ‘Hard to say, sir. Doesn’t sound like a killer to me, more like the sort of poor sod who fumbles about with little girls behind the bushes. I’ll tell you what Lowson did say, though. Vane’s work has been unsatisfactory lately. I gather they’re thinking of sending him on some refresher course or other.’

  ‘Paul, sit down. This isn’t going to be agreeable.’ Bob Lowson’s voice was unusually muted. ‘I had the police round here making inquiries about you today. A man named Plender, from Rawley.’

  ‘I see.’

  As Lowson went on speaking with this unaccustomed solemnity, his features became more pig-like. ‘The inquiries were in relation to the death of that girl Louise Allbright.’

  ‘Yes. They found a letter which they think was typed on a machine of mine, I can’t imagine how.’

  ‘I don’t want to know the details, Paul. What I have to tell you is this. Plender asked me for any other information – any other information – about your conduct and character. I had to tell them about that girl, the one whose parents wrote to Brian. It seemed to me that otherwise I might be accused of concealing information. I’m afraid they’l
l ask some more questions. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I understand.’ The tic in Vane’s face was working again. ‘I see that you had to tell them.’

  ‘Something else. It’s been obvious to me, and to other people too I expect, that for the past few weeks you’ve been under strain. There’ve been several little things like – oh, that business about the lavatories – where I’ve thought your judgement hasn’t been quite at its best.’

  ‘The cleaning has gone back to the old system. All toilet rolls now present and correct.’ Paul essayed a laugh.

  ‘That was just an instance. There are other things.’

  Vane’s whole body drooped, as though a new, shrunken inhabitant had come to live in the well-cut clothes. Lowson felt personally sorry for him, but such feelings had nothing to do with business.

  ‘Once the police have started digging, I don’t know what they may turn up, what there is for them to turn up. Nothing, I hope.’ The telephone light on his desk flickered. He snapped at his secretary that he was not to be disturbed. ‘It’s been suggested that you should go on one of those courses mentioned at the Job Enrichment discussion, a Jay Burns Lawrence course it’s called. Do you know about them?’

  ‘I know they’re the kind of thing where you play leadership games and afterwards they tell you your attitude’s all wrong. No, thank you.’

  ‘Paul, I don’t think you quite understand the position. I’ve been in your corner, I said to Brian that a man’s private life is his own affair, but with the police coming in we’re past that. You can go on this course. It starts next Monday, lasts for a couple of weeks. Then we’ll reconsider when it’s over. Or you can go on leave for a month, and after that we’ll see.’

  ‘You don’t give me much choice, do you? Who’ll take over my department? Esther, I suppose.’

  ‘For the time being Esther, yes. It isn’t a good idea for you to be around the office at the moment, not for you or for the organisation.’

  ‘Yes, let’s not forget the organisation.’

  ‘Don’t make it too difficult for me, Paul.’

  ‘If I go on the course, what happens afterwards?’

  ‘I’ll do everything I can.’

  Paul Vane got up, and his suit was refilled with his personality as though he were a slack balloon into which gas had been pumped. His smile was the one that Bob Lowson had always found attractive. ‘Thanks. I suppose the thing to do is to do so marvellously on this bloody silly course that even the Brian Hartfords can scarce forbear to cheer. I know where all these ideas come from, Bob, and it’s not from you. Thank you for breaking it gently.’

  Lowson was relieved. He liked Paul when he behaved properly. He moved back a picture to show a safe let into the wall, twirled the dials and opened it to reveal a cupboard filled with bottles. They drank a large whisky to the Jay Burns Lawrence course.

  Five minutes later Joy Lindley passed Paul Vane in the corridor. She was going to stop and say that she was sorry if she’d caused him trouble and that she hadn’t meant to do so, but he went by as though she were not there.

  Paul accepted Alice’s bridge-playing without complaint, although he did say that he thought she might be at home when he came back in the evening. When she asked with controlled ferocity, ‘What for?’ he had no ready answer.

  ‘I find bridge absorbing, it occupies my mind. I used to play when I was in college. You didn’t know that?’

  ‘No. I remember playing with you later on, but I didn’t know you took it seriously.’

  ‘You don’t know anything about me before I met you. I played bridge a lot, and I was very good.’ She glared at him. ‘I provide food for you, what more do you want?’

  ‘Let’s not quarrel. You play bridge.’

  On the night after his conversation with Bob Lowson, then, he was not surprised to find the house empty. A casserole had been left in the oven. He ate some of the stew, and was about to go back to his work on the wine racks when the bell rang.

  Plender said, ‘Good evening, Mr Vane.’

  He stood aside to let the sergeant in, but Plender shook his dark head. ‘Mr Hazleton would be glad if you could come down to the station.’

  ‘To the station?’

  ‘Just to clear up one or two points. He thought it would be easier there. My car’s outside.’

  Plender watched the man. He put up a hand to his throat as though his collar were tight, but showed no surprise and made no objection.

  Paul Vane had been in a police station only once before in his life, to report the theft of his car radio. He was surprised by the casualness of it all, the men standing about and chatting rather as though it were a club room. At the moment he came in the station sergeant was saying to an old woman carrying a shopping basket, ‘So it’s you again, is it, my old duck? And what have we got this time?’ She responded by saying something causing a roar of laughter, in which she joined.

  ‘What’s she here for?’

  ‘Shoplifting. One of our regulars.’ They made a right-angled turn down a corridor. It might be our own offices, he briefly thought. Then Plender tapped on a door and they were inside the room. A room perhaps fourteen-foot square, containing a desk, green filing cabinets, pictures of police sports on the dingy grey walls. Hazleton got up from behind the desk. His face was shiny, his hand hard and hot.

  ‘Good of you to come down. One or two things we thought could best be cleared up down here.’ Looking round at this bare hostile room he wondered what things could possibly be cleared up in a place like this. How could the people who worked here understand the motives of fellow-humans? ‘This is Chief Superintendent Paling.’

  The silver-haired man with refined features and a mean mouth did not shake hands hut nodded to him. He sat away and to the back of Hazleton, conveying the impression of being a neutral observer. Both men looked at him in what seemed an expectant way. He found it necessary to speak.

  ‘I suppose it’s about the typewriter.’

  ‘The typewriter. Yes, let’s start with that,’ Hazleton said heartily. ‘Perhaps you’d like to make a statement saying just what you know about it. What you said the other night, with anything else you can remember. Talk to the sergeant over there. Take your time.’

  Plender was by the door, a notepad on his knee. Paul Vane talked with composure. When he had finished Hazleton nodded. ‘That’s what you said before.’

  ‘There’s nothing else to say.’

  ‘Here’s a photostat of the letter typed on your machine. Mean anything to you?’

  He started to read. ‘This wasn’t to Louise Allbright.’

  ‘I never said it was. It was to the French au pair who’s disappeared.’

  ‘Then perhaps it’s got no connection with the other thing.’

  ‘I didn’t say it had. I asked if it means anything to you.’

  ‘Nothing at all.’

  ‘How about the name “Abel”? Know anyone called Abel? Any suggestions?’

  ‘Only that it’s a French name rather than English. And the girl was French too. I remember a French film actor named Abel Gance.’

  ‘So how did Abel, whether he was French or English, get hold of your typewriter?’

  ‘I’ve told you, I don’t have any idea. I can only suggest it was while it was at the house, before we moved in.’

  ‘Come along now, Mr Vane.’ Hazleton’s manner had changed suddenly to one of sneering disbelief. He looked like a bulldog ready to bite. ‘Are you telling us that somebody looking round your house just happened to spot your Olivetti and thought “How convenient, I’ll sit down and write a letter on this bit of paper I just happen to have in my pocket?” Are you telling us that? Because it sounds to me like a load of poppycock.’

  Vane looked surprised but not frightened. ‘I’m not telling you anything. I said I couldn’t explain it.’

  The DCI pointed a finger like a ramrod. ‘Instead of that poppycock, try this. It was your machine. You typed the letter. Then you took the chance of unloading it o
n your daughter–’

  ‘My stepdaughter.’

  ‘Let me finish.’ He seemed to be in a towering rage. ‘Then you met this girl, and what happened after that? It wasn’t the first of those Abel letters, was it? Supposing I told you we’d got other letters typed on that same Olivetti of yours, what would you say then?’

  Vane’s voice was calm. He even managed a smile. ‘I should say I’d never met the au pair girl in my life, and that if you’d got other letters you’d have shown me copies. And, Inspector, remember I’m used to dealing with people. I know when somebody’s blustering about trying to browbeat me. It’s foolish. And, if you don’t mind my saying so, old-fashioned.’

  Hazleton flung himself back in his chair, so that it creaked slightly. Paling, soft-voiced, took up the questioning.

  ‘When Sergeant Plender came round to see you, Mr Vane – you remember that?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Your wife said you took an interest in young girls. What did she mean?’

  ‘Nothing.’ His smile flashed on and quickly off again like a lighthouse signal.

  ‘Did she say it because she knew about Monica Fowler?’ He watched to see the effect. Vane didn’t like it, but he had been told, he was ready for the question.

  ‘She did know about Monica Fowler.’

  ‘She was a girl of thirteen.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Did you have sexual relations with her?’

  ‘No. I felt affectionately to her like – an uncle.’ Hazleton snorted. Paling glanced at him disapprovingly. ‘They accused me of doing all sorts of things. I hadn’t done them, but I was stupid, I paid some money.’

  ‘Two hundred pounds for their silence. I see you don’t agree, but it was for their silence, wasn’t it?’

  ‘If you put it that way.’

  ‘How would you put it?’ Paling asked pleasantly. ‘The charge would have been indecent assault. You paid and the matter was dropped.’

  ‘They’d never have brought a charge.’ Vane’s face was very pale.

  ‘Then why pay?’ He did not answer. ‘Then her family wrote to your wife.’