The Whip Hand
A REX CARVER MYSTERY
VICTOR CANNING
CHAPTER ONE
NEVER REFUSE A KIPPER
I had my feet up on the desk, smoking and staring at the far wall, going over in my mind the horses for the first race at Kempton Park that day, when my secretary came in.
Hilda Wilkins, spinster, forty-three, living at 20 Circus Street, Greenwich, with her father, a retired ship’s steward, was efficient, intelligent, unattractive, and always right – a splendid secretary, but a non-starter for a gay night on the town. We had a reasonable dislike of each other, and got on fine.
“Ring Duke’s,” I said, “and put a fiver on Moorwen. First race Kempton. What are you doing?”
“Larkspur.”
I gave her a little pitying smile. Of course, Larkspur came up that afternoon.
She put a card on the desk, and said, “The bank telephoned. I said you were out.”
I nodded. No matter how much money I made, and from time to time I made a lot, I never seemed to shake off an overdraft that was a constant worry to Wilkins.
I picked up the card. The edges of the pasteboard were lined with gold leaf. It said – Hans Stebelson, Cologne. A good, big address.
“He’s waiting to see you,” said Wilkins.
I could tell from the tone of her voice that she didn’t like him. But that was no surprise. There were few people who came into the outer office of whom Wilkins approved.
“How do you read him?” I asked her.
She paused for a moment, silently shuffling the categories into order, and then said, “He looks prosperous. But he’s not a gentleman. There’s something flashy about him. Perhaps a little common. He’s not worried – like most of them. I’ve had him there for ten minutes and he hasn’t fidgeted once. His English is better than yours – except when you want to make an impression.”
She wasn’t giving me everything. She always kept a little something back to toss from the door as she went out. She was a snob, of course – particularly about clothes and education. A made-up bow tie could give her a headache for a day, and the one thing she disliked most about me was that I had gone to a provincial grammar school in Devon.
“Divorce?”
“No. I asked.”
She always did because she knew it was something I never touched.
“Wheel him in.”
She got as far as the door, and then turned and looked at me. She had a habit, just before she tossed anything at me, of raising her right hand and tucking her hair back a bit over her right ear. Her hair was red, a kind of dirty rust, and she had the bluest, most honest eyes in the world. Although I could never imagine myself in bed with her, I knew she was a treasure.
“I have a feeling,” she said primly, “that whatever it is, you ought to say no.”
“You have a twenty-five per cent interest in this business, Wilkins. I own the rest and make the decisions.” I’d never called her Hilda in my life, and never would.
Hans Stebelson was a big, fleshy man, with an enormously round, overgrown, unsmiling baby face. His eyes might have been made of brown plastic – and they would certainly never know tears. He sat down bulkily and made the chair creak, and he looked calm and monolithic. He wore a dark-brown suit, probably Italian, and a thin strip of knotted tie against a silk shirt, the tie held by a little gold clip shaped like a hand. He had a gold signet ring, and a fat gold watch on his wrist which was probably nuclear proof and must have set him back a couple of hundred guineas. There were two gold-topped fountain pens stuck in his outside breast pocket, which must have made Wilkins wince.
He rested a large, dough-coloured, regularly manicured hand on my desk and said, “I’m over from Cologne for a while, and I want you to find a girl for me.” His brown eyes dared me to misinterpret this, and he went on, “She’s a German girl who came over here on an au pair job. But she gave that up and went to Brighton. At least she sends cards from there to my sister in Cologne.”
“No address, of course?”
“No address.”
I wondered if they were the usual kind of cards people send from Brighton.
“Is she a friend of your sister?”
“Yes.”
“Then why no address?”
“Because she doesn’t want me to know where she is.”
“Why not?”
“Her father and mother – they’re both dead now – did me many kindnesses when I was young. I feel like an elder brother towards her and try to keep an eye on her. She’s headstrong, irresponsible. But she resents any interference from me.”
I said, “What’s her name?”
“Katerina Saxmann. She’s a blonde, about twenty-two years old. Very attractive. Blue eyes. She came over from Cologne last March. She speaks English, French and some Italian.”
“And what does she do in Brighton?”
“I don’t know. Some job – because she writes to my sister that every morning before work she takes a walk on the pier.”
“In that case it wouldn’t be very hard for you to find her yourself.”
“Maybe, but the moment she saw me she would move on. I would prefer just to know where she is and what sort of life she’s leading.”
It sounded very straightforward, but then it always did when they had decided not to tell you the truth. But the trouble in this game was to spot when they had decided not to tell the truth. For the moment I was not committing myself.
I said, “Where are you staying?”
“Brown’s Hotel.”
“What sort of trouble do you imagine this girl could get into?”
He shrugged his big shoulders. “God knows. She’s young, headstrong, adventurous, a big appetite for living. She thinks she can look after herself. We all do at that age. I just want an eye kept on her for a while. Then, when I know what kind of life she’s leading, I can make a decision.
