‘You’re sure it was Hartley who was with her?’
‘Yeah; I know the guy well by sight.’
I asked more questions, but he hadn’t any further information to give me that Lydia Forrest hadn’t already told me.
‘Okay,’ I said, getting to my feet. ‘Get off to Creed right away. He’ll be expecting you.’
From Andrews’ office I drove to a drug store and called Creed. I told him Andrews was on his way in.
‘I’ve got something for you,’ Creed said after I had told him Fay had been with Hartley to the Van Blakes’ house. ‘Two years ago, Mrs. Van Blake bought a green and cream Cadillac convertible from Manning and Howland, the San Francisco dealers. She traded it in on August 20th last year, three days after Fay’s disappearance, for a Bentley. Looks like she lent the car to
Royce, doesn’t it? No other car of that description has been sold in Tampa City. It must be the one Royce used in Welden.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Well, we seem to be making progress. I’m going after more witnesses now. I’ll keep in touch,’ and I hung up.
I turned up Irene Jarrard’s telephone number and put through a call, but there was no answer. That didn’t surprise me. She would be at work at this time in the morning.
I turned up the Hammerville Engineering Works and put through a call to Vincent Latimer. After a struggle, I persuaded Latimer’s secretary to let me talk to Latimer. When I told him I had urgent and private business to discuss with him, he said he could give me ten minutes if I called within the next half hour.
At thirty-three minutes past eleven, I was ushered into his office by a dark, cool-eyed lovely who said in a well-modulated voice, ‘Mr. Sladen is here, Mr. Latimer,’ as if he couldn’t see me, and went away, shutting the door as if it were made of icing sugar.
Vincent Latimer turned out to be a large-sized man, bursting with good living and self-importance, whose brick-red face and cold hard eyes put him into the top executive class even without the trappings of a massive desk and a battery of telephones. He waved me to a chair while he went through the standard formula of finishing reading a document, then jerking off his heavy shell spectacles, he stared at me and barked, ‘Well, what is it?’
‘I want your help, Mr. Latimer,’ I said. ‘I’m working with the Welden police. It may be possible you have information that will help solve a fourteen months old murder case.’
That took him out of his stride. For a moment his mouth fell open; then he snapped it shut and glared.
‘What information could I possibly have?’ he demanded.
‘Whose murder?’
‘A girl called Frances Bennett. Maybe you’ve heard of her.’
I could see by his expression the name struck a note.
‘Frances Bennett? That couldn’t be the girl who stood in for Mrs. Van Blake’s portrait, could it?’
It was my turn to stare.
‘This girl,’ I said, handing over Fay’s photograph. He studied the photograph, then nodded. He seemed a little shaken.
‘That’s the one. You say she’s been murdered?’
‘Yes. We found her body last week in a barrel of cement in a lake in Welden. She’s been dead fourteen months.’
He grimaced.
‘I’m sorry, but I can’t see what this has to do with me.’
‘You said just now Miss Bennett posed for Mrs. Van Blake’s portrait. Was that the portrait painted by Lennox Hartley?’
‘It was, but that has nothing to do with her murder.’
‘Any light we can get on the girl is important. Why did she pose for the portrait?’
‘Mrs. Van Blake was always very occupied. This girl happened to have Mrs. Van Blake’s exact measurements. After Mr. Hartley had completed Mrs. Van Blake’s head, this girl posed for the rest of the picture.’
My heart began to thump with excitement.
‘Was Miss Bennett like Mrs. Van Blake then?’
‘Certainly she was. She was extraordinarily like her. Not in features, but in build and the way she moved. As a matter of fact I saw her sitting on the balcony in Mrs. Van Blake’s dress while Hartley was painting her and I thought she was Mrs. Van Blake. It was only when I got close to her that I realized she wasn’t.’
I sat back and stared at him.
So here was the hook up at last!
II
The discreet buzz of one of the telephones gave me a moment to calm down. Latimer located the telephone, snapped into the receiver that he was not to be disturbed and replaced the receiver with an ominous click.
‘How many times did Miss Bennett pose for the portrait?’ I asked.
He seemed to find this an irrelevant question for he frowned impatiently, shot his cuff and looked at his gold strap watch.
‘Three or four times I think. I can’t give you much longer. Was there anything else you wanted to know?’
I knew now I was on the point of breaking the case and I wasn’t going to be hustled away. I played a card I was sure would nail his attention.
‘There is a question,’ I said. ‘Who do you think murdered Mr. Van Blake?’
He stiffened; his fleshy face darkened and he leaned across the desk to glare at me.
‘What do you mean by that? What has Mr. Van Blake’s death to do with you?’
‘Are you aware that Captain Bradley thinks Mrs. Van Blake was responsible for her husband’s death?’
‘Captain Bradley had no right to say such a thing! He had no proof, and he lost his job because he was stupid enough to suspect her.’
‘Do you think Dillon killed Mr. Van Blake?’
He hesitated, then said curtly, ‘How do I know? It’s not my business to be a policeman. The police thought so: what more do you want?’
‘Mr. Van Blake was supposed to have horsewhipped Dillon. Captain Bradley thought this was unlikely.’
‘Of course it was: it was absurd. Mr. Van Blake was always extremely lenient with poachers. I caught Dillon several times on the estate, but Mr. Van Blake wouldn’t prosecute him. Of course it was utter nonsense.’
‘And yet Mrs. Van Blake said he horsewhipped Dillon, and that supplied the motive to the murder.’
Latimer moved uneasily.
‘I know that. I told Commissioner Doonan that Mr. Van Blake would never have done such a thing, but it was my word against hers, and Doonan preferred to believe her.’ He frowned down at his snowy blotter, then went on, ‘Another reason why I thought it was unlikely that Dillon had done it was that he didn’t use a gun when he poached. He worked at night with a flashlight and a catapult, blinding the pheasants with the light and knocking them down with his catapult. In this way, he could work close to the house without us hearing him. Mr. Van Blake was murdered in a clearing beyond the woods where there were no pheasants. Dillon always poached by the summer house on the west side of the estate.’
‘Would that be far from where Mr. Van Blake was killed?’
He got up, went to a filing cabinet and took out a folded map.
‘This is a map of the estate,’ he said, spreading it out on his desk. ‘This is where Mr. Van Blake was shot. Here’s the summer house. It’s a good half mile between the two places as you can see.’
I studied the map.
‘How was it that Dillon could get into the estate? Weren’t there guards patrolling?’
‘We had a guard on the gate and a guard patrolling the gardens near the house. Dillon used to come in through this gate by the main road, up through the clearing, into the wood and down to the summer house,’
