‘So there it was! I had to give Michael and his wife the house. And now, just when another lease has expired-the Prentice’s place – and I’ve at last got an empty house of my very own to dispose of, this wretched girl has to disappear and I have policemen swarming all over the place. How can I impress people who come to look at it with all this going on? You can’t expect our sort of people to take a house with girls vanishing into thin air every five minutes, can you?’
She paused, mercifully, for breath and looked appealingly at Chief Inspector Dover. Kitty Chubb-Smith had been in her youth very pretty in a chocolate-box way, and she was, thirty years on, still fighting to preserve the wide-eyed, girlish innocence which had stood her in such good stead. Naturally the line of the chin was no longer so clear cut, the brow was not so smooth, the cheeks were not so unlined, the waist was not so trim, but, at the very least, she could be awarded high marks for trying. Her clothes were good and expensive, and only a trifle too young for her. And she was liberally drenched in the very latest Parisian perfume. In fact, Dover was finding the whole thing a bit overwhelming. The room was small and a large electric fire pumped out heat on both bars. There were huge vases of flowers everywhere and their scent fought valiantly with whatever seductive preparation Mrs Chubb-Smith was currently paying fifteen guineas an ounce for.
Dover grimly took out his handkerchief and wiped not only his brow but the back of his neck as well. Mrs Chubb-Smith’s smile grew a little stiff. Her first doubts looked like being confirmed. The fat one wasn’t a gentleman – not one of nature’s sort nor any other kind.
Dover belched, softly but audibly, and frowned. His stomach really did feel a bit queer. Perhaps he was going to be ill. They’d have to take him off the blasted case if he was sick. He brightened up at the thought and even managed a flaccid smile. Mrs Chubb-Smith acknowledged it with a gracious flash of brilliant white teeth.
‘We were wondering, madam,’ Dover began, ‘if you could perhaps give us a little help-some general information about the set-up here. For example, the main gates. I understand they are closed at nights?’
‘Yes, Bondy – he’s my caretaker up at the flats – he locks them every night, usually about ten o’clock, not before, anyhow.’
‘And he opens them again? At what time?’
‘At seven o’clock in the morning. The trouble was, er . . . Sergeant?’
‘Chief Inspector!’ snarled Dover.
‘Oh, Chief Inspector – the trouble was that on several occasions last year we had people – couples, you know – driving their cars into the grounds and staying all night. Well, naturally, we couldn’t have that sort of thing going on here so we’ve had to lock the gates at night. Some people have complained about it and I admit it is a little inconvenient, but, as I said to them, “Which do you want?” Anyhow, it’s most unusual for anybody to be coming back after ten o’clock and they can always leave their cars outside and walk up the drive. Michael and Maxine always do that if they’re out late.’
‘Bondy keeps the key, then?’
‘Oh yes, he keeps the key.’
‘Hm.’ Dover digested this moodily and tried another line. ‘Do you know this girl Juliet Rugg well? I mean, are you on friendly terms with her at all?’
‘Friendly terms!’ Mrs Chubb-Smith made a fair shot at an insulted-grande-dame pose and then, because even aristocrats these days have to watch their step, she switched to a sweet, more-in-sorrow-than-in-anger smile. ‘My dear Inspector, I don’t want to appear a snob but she was, or is – it’s so difficult, isn’t it – she is only a servant girl.’
‘But you did know her?’
‘I knew her by sight, naturally, everybody did, and I made a point of saying good morning or whatever it was when I met her. But that was, I’m afraid, the extent of our relationship.’
‘I see,’ said Dover mildly and, much to Sergeant MacGregor’s surprise, left the matter there. From time to time the chief inspector rather fancied a bit of subtlety – it made a change anyhow. He moved on to another line of questioning, skilfully designed to lull poor Mrs Chubb-Smith into a fragile sense of security.
‘I suppose, as ultimate landlord here, madam, you have the right to approve a new tenant when there’s a sub-let or when a lease changes hands?’
‘I have indeed, and I’m very particular, I may tell you.’
‘I wonder if you could just tell us something about the people here. We’ve got the names, but if you could just fill in a bit of background . . . ’
‘Well, I don’t know very much about the people in the flats. They had very good references, of course, but they’re all rather elderly, dull people, you know. They seem to live very quiet, decent lives, retired civil servants and people like that. Bondy would be able to tell you much more about them than I could.’
‘What about the people in the houses? We’ve already met Sir John Counter and his daughter, and Colonel What’s-her-name in the other lodge.’
‘Colonel Bing? Yes, a delightful person, isn’t she? Her bark’s much worse than her bite, I always say.’ Mrs Chubb-Smith tossed this off politely without much conviction. ‘Well, next to her, the first new house up on the other side from here, lives our celebrity, Miss
