the door.
I heard footsteps in the hall, one set, high heels sounding on the parquet. I looked around the angle of the stairs and saw Pamela Ellis drop her keys onto the hall table. I braced myself for her heading towards the stairs and readied myself to make a quiet dash for the single bedroom, which looked as if it hadn’t been used for anything in some time. I’d be very unlucky if she looked in there. Another sigh of relief as she headed along the hall, away from the foot of the stairs. I congratulated myself on leaving Ellis’s study till last. She made her way into the kitchen, where, unless she had some reason for going out through the back door, she would see no evidence of my presence.
Shit. I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth in a silent curse. Shit. Shit. Shit.
The chisel.
I had left the chisel in plain view on the kitchen table.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Once more I measured the distance to the front door. If I made a dash for it while Pamela Ellis was still in the kitchen, there was a chance I could make it out through the front door without her seeing. But the odds were against it and, anyway, her police escort was probably sitting patiently outside and I would run into the welcoming long arms of the law.
I heard her switch on the kitchen light, the sounds of her moving around.
Making sure I didn’t cause a single floorboard to creak, I went up the rest of the stairs two at a time, along the upper hall and into the front bedroom. Easing back the heavy drapes I checked the street. Right enough, the Austin Cambridge was back on sentinel duty. I cursed again. I tried to remember any details of the rear wall of the house, such as any drainpipes that might offer an escape route from the single bedroom; but, skulking around outside in the near pitch dark, I had been too focussed on breaking into the house to check out any ways of getting out of it from upstairs.
I made my way back to the stairs landing. I could hear Mrs Ellis was still in the kitchen. Only a matter of time before a shrill scream or shout brought the two coppers in from the street.
Then, suddenly, she switched off the kitchen light and marched back down the hall, something tucked under her arm, snapping up her keys as she passed the hall stand and walked out through the front door, slamming it behind her. She had forgotten something. That was all. I couldn’t guess how she had missed the chisel on the kitchen table, but she had.
A horrible thought seized me and I rushed back up the stairs and into the front bedroom, again checking through the carefully parted drapes. What if she had seen the chisel and was acting cool until she was out of the house and safe. Now, she could be telling the coppers what she’d found and her belief that the burglar was still in the building.
Instead, she climbed back into the Daimler and drove off. When the Cambridge took off after her, I realized that they had had their engine running all the time she’d been in the house.
I watched for a while longer, ready to sprint down the stairs and out the back door, down the dark garden and over the high wall, broken glass or not, if I saw either car return. After five minutes that passed like five hours, I went back downstairs. I was aware that my heart was still pounding away and I felt sick. I was a pretty cool customer at the best of times, and I had talked, fought or run my way out of a lot of sticky situations, but now the stakes were higher than they had ever been.
I went into the downstairs WC and washed my face, patting it dry with the towel hanging on the back of the door. Easy, Lennox. Take it easy. I went through to the study and decided it was worth the risk of switching on the desk lamp.
The desk was a square, solid job and in no way unusual. Other than the desk lamp, all that was on the desk was an ivory Bakelite telephone, one of the GPO 200 series dating from the Thirties, a clock, address book, a pen and ink set, and a leather-trimmed rectangular desk-blotter. No Tanglewood in the address book. The blotter drew my attention. The otherwise pathologically fastidious Ellis had clearly had a habit of doodling on the blotting paper. Most of the doodles were on the right hand side of the blotter, while the telephone sat to its left. My guess was that the bizarre geometric shapes and curlicued letters had been done absentmindedly while Ellis had taken phone calls. It’s funny the route the unconscious mind takes to express itself independently of the conscious, and I examined the doodles closely. Again, if there was anything significant in amongst the scribbles and doodles, it escaped me.
Then I noticed something unusual. Everything on the blotter had been harmlessly doodled and left; sometimes over-drawn with something else, but never deliberately obscured. Except in one corner, the top right. There, Ellis had scored out something he had written. I peered at it but couldn’t make much sense of it. Something beginning with a T in it, but too short to be Tanglewood. More like initials. I thought about taking my glove off, licking my thumb and trying to rub off some of the obscuring ink, but inking my own fingers to leave prints would probably offend the coppers’ union. Instead I tore the corner off the blotting paper and reshuffled the sheet within its leather holder to conceal my vandalism as much as possible.
There was a bookcase along one wall; from what I could see, most of the books were technical manuals and textbooks, mainly concerning all things related to demolition, but also a few novels — the usual stuff: Hammond Innes, Dennis Wheatley, Nevil Shute. But what caught my attention most was a huge, single-volume English- Hungarian dictionary. I slipped it out from the shelf and took it over to the table. Pamela Ellis had been right about her husband’s obsessive note-writing. The dictionary had several sheets of paper jammed into its pages. Some were small notes with one or two words scratchily scribbled onto them, some with the English translations, some not. Others were full sheets, folded neatly in two, containing hundreds of immaculately copied out grammatical rules, or perfectly declined verbs. Ellis had certainly been serious about learning his original native language. As I looked through the dictionary, I found his dedication admirable. I could speak fluent French, reasonably good Italian and some German, but in each of these languages there was some identifiable commonality, some shared rudiments, that allowed you to build a bridge from one to the other. Hungarian, as far as I could see, was somewhere out there on its own.
I looked through the notes he had made. If there was a significance to be read in any of them, it was beyond my reading. I put the dictionary back.
I spent half an hour going through Ellis’s desk drawers. I did it carefully, methodically. Fruitlessly. There was nothing. I pulled drawers out, upended his desk chair to check beneath the seat, ran my fingers over every surface to find somewhere something significant could be hidden. Nothing. There were plenty of notes, that was for sure, a diary full of appointments, the address book full of contacts, but not a single reference to anything that could not be linked to his business or social activities. The only thing that leapt out at me was how unbelievably dull his day-to- day routine had been. Again the image of the dying man in my office came to mind and I couldn’t bridge the gap between the mundane life before me on the desk and the horror and drama of its end.
I checked my watch. I had spent three-quarters of an hour going through Ellis’s stuff and, although I had made an effort to do so methodically, it would take me another fifteen minutes to get everything back the way it had been. When I left, I wanted to leave no trace of where I’d been, nothing disturbed or out-of-place. The only evidence of a break-in would be the back door.
When I finished up, I felt frustrated. It had been a hell of a lot of effort and twice as much stress — and for absolutely nothing other than a torn-out doodle from a dead man’s desk blotter.
I made my way back through the kitchen, picking up the chisel on the way, and out into the garden. I closed the back door carefully, pushing some of the splintered wood back into place with my pigskin-gloved fingers. Depending on how often Pamela Ellis used her back door, it might be a day or two before the damage was noticed.
A waste of time.
I replaced the chisel in the drawer of the old desk in the garden shed. It was an odd-looking job: dense, dark wood. It had that sort of mittel-European solidity and I guessed it was Hungarian in origin, along with the heavy chest that looked like it had been hewn from the same forest. I wondered if it was some kind of heirloom passed down from Ellis’s Hungarian parents, but that didn’t make sense. From what Archie had passed on from Ferguson, the Eles family, like so many European refugees over the last hundred years, had left all their belongings and half
