‘Who was the murdered man?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘Honest?’
‘Honest.’
‘When was he done in?’
‘Late evening. Day before you got there. What did you or Paulet take from the cottage?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Honest?’
I just winked, and went on quickly, ‘You know the Treasury have an interest in Martin Freeman?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can I go now?’
‘Where did you get that bump above the right ear?’
‘Paris, last night. On the métro. An angry commuter hit me with an umbrella because I wouldn’t give up my seat to a pregnant woman.’
‘That figures. You’re only on your best behaviour with women before they’re pregnant. Thinking of doing more travelling?’
‘I had it in mind—unless you’re going to confiscate my passport. Then I should make a stink. Taking away the tools of my trade. Probably sue for loss of earnings.’
He shook his head indulgently. ‘You can go anywhere you want. Mrs Stankowski wants Freeman, the Treasury wants Freeman, the Ashford police want him and I’d quite like to know where he is. So carry on. Every little helps. You might turn up something, and, if you’re in the right mood, you might be honest enough to let me know about it.’
He was being as bland and easy-going as butter that spreads straight from the fridge. That meant that there was a hell of a lot that he was not going to tell me.
I stood up. ‘It seems to me that a lot of people want Freeman.’
‘You’d be surprised. And because that’s so, and because this morning I quite like you, let me give you a little advice. Just watch yourself on the métro in future.’
At the door I said, ‘What did you get when you ran a check on Monsieur Robert Duchêne—remember, he’s another who wants Freeman.’
He said, ‘The Paris people have nothing on him. No record. Neither have Interpol.’ He grinned. ‘I checked Francois Paulet, too. He’s about to be sued by his wife for arrears of maintenance under a legal separation order. Otherwise, nothing. Help?’
‘Was it intended to?’
‘No.’
I went. Back at the office Wilkins told me that Dimble had called to say there was nothing on the python bracelet and she had paid him five pounds. She then said she was flying to Tripoli the next day and that Olaf was going to meet her there.
I said, ‘Look pleased about it. It’ll make a change from Cairo—and your expenses are being paid. All I want to know is whether Freeman is there, or has been there recently. And anything you can get on this Bill Dawson. Why does that name seem familiar?’
‘I wouldn’t know.’
If we had done at that moment it might have saved us both a lot of trouble.
From my room I phoned Hawkins of the London Fraternal Insurance Society and fed him an edited account of the Freeman affair. He said not to worry because Mrs Stankowski had withdrawn her claim against them and he would send me a cheque for my services.
I then phoned Gloriana and told her to tell her Treasury friend that I had visited Monsieur Duchêne’s flat and had been banged over the head for my trouble, and that I was going to Florence on Monday. I asked her if she would have dinner with me that evening and she said she was sorry but she was going away for the weekend and, no matter where I went, would I please keep in touch with her. I promised that I would.
Then I sat and chain-smoked for a while, wondering why I was getting the feeling that somehow I was being manipulated. It was a strong feeling and—although it was a challenge and fast bringing back that old zest for living which I needed—I didn’t altogether like it. It would have been a compensation if somewhere I could have glimpsed a chance to make some side money for myself. For a time I considered sending Paulet a telegram to say that I would be in Florence, Hotel Excelsior, on Monday evening, but although it was flattering to see myself in the role of a top professional making a tyro’s eyes pop with my expertise, I decided against it. He’d be better off in Paris dealing with his wife’s lawsuit. And, anyway, there are different kinds of expertise and some that pay off in a sounder currency than flattery.
*
Mrs Burtenshaw, Wilkins’s sister, was in the office on Monday morning. So was her basset hound, curled up on my desk chair and defying me with hung-over eyes to do anything about it. I didn’t take up the challenge as I was only passing through on my way to the airport.
I said to Mrs Burtenshaw, ‘Fisk will be coming in every other day in case anything crops up.’ Fisk was an ex-policeman who gave me a hand now and then.
‘Hilda,’ said Mrs Burtenshaw, ‘was very annoyed that you wanted her to go to Tripoli. After all, Mr Carver, a holiday is a holiday and people should be free to choose where they go.’
I said, ‘You think she’ll ever get round to marrying Olaf?’
‘I should hope so. He’s a good, sound, solid, respectable man with money in the bank.’
Practically everything I wasn’t—and that’s what she meant.
I said, ‘If your hound in there gets bored sitting at my desk —and God knows I do at times—just give him a few of the confidential files to chew up. And thank you for coming in to help. I appreciate it very much.’
She fixed me with her steely blue eyes and said, ‘I notice that whenever I do you usually contrive to be away. I think that’s a very suitable arrangement for both of us.’
The air trip produced a fine selection of irritations; fog that delayed take-off two hours, then something wrong with the plane so that we had to be switched to another and then—because of bad weather—a switch
