'I didn't realize. It's a shame.' Then with a resumption of her previous disapproval, 'I hope they don't let her near our letterheads. We're going to need a completely new one, of course, now that ... well, we will. Which reminds me, I
must ring them tomorrow to cancel our ongoing order or else we'll end up with a stack of unusable sheets.'
She made a note on a pad. Joe said, 'Tomorrow?'
'No of course, it's Bank Holiday, isn't it? The day after.'
'They won't be working today then?'
'No. Like us and most people nowadays, their break stretches from Christmas Eve to January the second.'
'But...' said Joe.
'Sorry?'
'Nothing.' At least, probably nothing. Joe was recalling the messages coming over Naysmith's answer machine. Freeman 's Stationers. Your order is ready for collection. Something like that. But Freeman's was closed for the hols. In fact, he'd known that already from his encounter with the McShanes in Daph's Diner. How many times did he need something pointed out to him? More than the normal detective, anyway!
He said, 'Does Mr. Naysmith have anything to do with the stationery? You know, overall supervision, something like that?'
She looked at him as if he'd asked what kind of cleaner the Queen used to get beneath the rim of her toilet.
'What on earth makes you think that? Do you know how much his time costs?'
Joe wondered whether what had really stung was the idea that a partner's very expensive time could be used on such unnecessary trivialities or the implied reflection on her own efficiency.
He said contritely, 'Sorry. Being on my own, I don't know how these things work in a big office.'
She smiled forgivingly. It really was a nice smile. This was one attractive woman. Then he saw the skin between those intelligent grey eyes crinkle in faint puzzlement as she said, 'So you're a one-man operation, Mr. Sixsmith?'
Implied was, in which case how the shoot you got this job working for Mr. Pollinger?
I've got all the assistance I need,' he said mysteriously. Like one cat and a lot of friends who were sometimes more trouble than help. The cops have finished upstairs, have they? If so, I'd like to take a look around.'
'Yes, they said they were done. They left the place a real mess. I've got the cleaners coming in later. By all means go ahead, Mr. Sixsmith, though I doubt ... just give a shout if there's anything you need.'
She'd been going to say she doubted if he was going to chance upon some vital clue the cops had missed, he guessed. But she hadn't said it. Nice lady. And she was right too. Endo Venera would probably have noticed half a dozen things the fuzz had ignored, but Joe didn't rate his own chances.
He went up the stairs to the next floor, carefully opened the door to Potter's secretary's office, and paused while he recalled his brief and bad-tempered exchange with the dead man. He hadn't known the guy but it still upset him to think the last words he'd hurled at him, perhaps the last words he'd heard anyone say, had been so negative.
He went through into Potter's room.
It was nice in here, had once been a bedroom, he guessed, when the house had been the domicile of Simeon Littlehorn, the Luton Warbler. There was an elegant marble fireplace and a tall sash window with heavy deep-blue velvet curtains looking out over the long rear yard. Around the ceiling ran a gilded cornice, its ornate design picked up in the central boss from which hung a small chandelier, and on the shabbily expensive Persian carpet stood a heavy mahogany desk. Joe took a deep breath. You could smell the money. He compared it with the only other lawyer's office he knew well, which was Butcher's. That was a transport caff, this was Maxim's. If you didn't know it when you went in, you'd surely spot it when you got the bill!
There were paintings on the wall, shepherdesses and stuff. They looked real, not just prints. One photo. He'd seen it before in Naysmith's study. A rugby team. The two biggest men in it standing side by side at the back. Potter and Nay-smith. Fasolt and Fafner, Wagner's giants. Whoever had broken Potter's neck must have been pretty hot stuff at the old martial arts.
He tried to picture what had happened. Potter is in here checking things out on his computer. At some point, his suspicions aroused, he tries to ring Naysmith. Can't get him at the cottage, rings him at home, leaves a message on the answer machine, carries on with his investigations. Some time later, just as he's leaving, I arrive. We have a row. Which is interrupted by the phone. Naysmith has accessed his answer machine by his remote and got straight on to Potter. They make their date. Potter chucks me out. He goes back into his office to finish his conversation. And now something he says indicates to the listening killer oh shoot! let's call him Montaigne indicates to Montaigne that Potter is as good as on to him. But how is Montaigne listening?
Joe looked for a hiding place. The curtains were floor length, and looked full enough to hide a man. He went towards them to check. Failing that there was a door in the wall opposite the fireplace. A cupboard? A closet? Perhaps Montaigne had been in there ... knocked something over and attracted Potter's attention ... perhaps he hadn't intended to show himself and kill his partner but, once discovered ... this was a ruthless man.
The curtains would do at a pinch, Joe decided. But not the best of hiding places. He turned towards the door, then paused, turned back, looked out of the window.
Parked in the yard below was Darby Pollinger's white Merc.
'Oh shoot,' said Joe. He was having one of his feelings that had nothing to do with reason and logic but had served him far better than either of those two shifty customers.
He knew that when he opened that door he was going to find Pollinger's body. Then he'd have to ring the cops. With his luck, he'd probably get Chivers. Then it would be all to go through again. And again.
Much simpler to head downstairs, thank Mrs. Mattison for her coffee, and leave.
