XIII
The new will was passed over to Gerald Venables, who got in touch with Harold Cohn of Cohn, Jarvis, Cohn and Stickley, and the law began the grindingly slow processes on which it thrives. Charles thought that the whole affair was now out of his hands, and, though it was unsatisfactory that so many questions remained unanswered, at least some kind of justice had been done. Nigel got most of the estate, but would be more than a little embarrassed by estate duty; and provision for Jacqui and her baby would be sorted out in time. If the police persevered they were bound to crack Audrey Sweet’s defence and find out about the family blackmailing business. Then they had only to check through the photographs and the Sally Nash guest lists (which, as the case at the Old Bailey trickled on inexorably, were becoming public property anyway) to find their murderer. Charles even felt a twinge of pity for Mrs Sweet. She was a desperate woman, her incompetent attempts at blackmail motivated only by a desire to get as much money as possible in her new widowhood. It was now three days since Bill Holroyd had promised to bring her ten thousand pounds and by now she must realise the likelihood of his appearance was decreasing.
It was Saturday 15th December. Christmas was coming, but without much conviction in a darkened Britain. The cold shops with their sad gas-lamps were full of Christmas shoppers feeling sorry for themselves, and shoplifters having a field-day. The ever-present possibility of bombs made buying presents even jollier.
Charles rose late and managed to beat one of the Swedes into the bathroom. He returned to his room wrapped cosily in his towelling dressing-gown and sat in front of the gas-fire with a cup of coffee. Now that the excitements of the last fortnight were over, he would have to think again about getting some work. True, he’d got The Zombie Walks coming up, but that wasn’t going to make him a millionaire, and the old overdraft was getting rather overblown. Perhaps the answer was to write another television play. But, even if he could write the thing quickly, all the subsequent processes took such a bloody long time. Getting the thing accepted, rewritten, rewritten, rewritten, rehearsed, recorded, edited, scheduled, rescheduled, rescheduled, rescheduled ad infinitum. Not much likelihood of getting a commission either. Charles Paris wasn’t a big enough name these days. And no doubt, with the prospects of a three-day week and early closedown, none of the television companies would commit themselves to anything.
But as he tried to think of his work (Charles had long since ceased to grace it with the name of ‘his career’), his thoughts kept returning to the Steen situation. There was something fishy about the whole set-up. He tried to think himself into a detective frame of mind. What would Sherlock Holmes do in the circumstances? He would sit puffing on his pipe, Dr Watson goggle-eyed with admiration at his side, and suddenly, by a simple process of deduction, arrive at the complete solution. Somehow Charles Paris, sitting on his own in a towelling dressing-gown, hadn’t quite the same charisma. Or the same powers of deduction.
Reflecting sadly on his inadequacy, Charles rose to get dressed. He opened the dull grey wardrobe and pulled a pair of trousers off a hanger. As he did so, he noticed that there was a dark smudge on the seat. It smelled of petrol. He was about to put his trousers back and take out another pair, when a sudden thought stopped him in his tracks.
The trousers he was holding were the ones he’d been wearing at Streatley the previous weekend. And he must have got the mark on them when he slipped over in Steen’s garage. The scene came back to him with immediate clarity of detail. The enormous bulk of the blue Rolls illuminated by his torch, then suddenly his feet going from under him, slipping in a pool of petrol, landing on a spanner and a piece of tubing.
A piece of tubing. And the Rolls petrol gauge registered empty. Joanne Menzies’ words about the Datsun came back to him-‘It’s pretty good on petrol, but not that good. Might just about make it one way without registering, but certainly not both.’ But what was simpler than to drive the car to Streatley, siphon petrol out of the Rolls into it (possibly even siphon some into a can as well, to top it up near London) and then drive back? Charles decided that a visit should be paid to Mr Nigel Steen.
Joanne Menzies still looked drawn and strained when she ushered Detective-Sergeant McWhirter into Mr Steen’s office on the Monday afternoon. The policeman thanked her and stood deferentially until he was invited to sit down.
The man who made the invitation was very like his father, but without the vitality that had distinguished Marius Steen. Nigel had the same beak of a nose, but, without the dark eyes, its effect was comic rather than forceful. His eyes were blue, a legacy from the English rose whom Marius had married; and his hair was light brown rather than the black which his father had kept, only peppered with grey, until his death. The general effect was of a diluted Marius Steen, ineffectual and slightly afraid.
Nigel was ostentatiously smoking a big cigar to give an illusion of poise. He flashed Charles what was meant to be a frank smile. ‘Well, what can I do to help?’
‘I’m very sorry to bother you,’ said Detective-Inspector McWhirter slowly, ‘and I do very much appreciate your putting yourself out to see me. Particularly at what must be a very distressing time for you.’
‘That’s quite all right. What is it?’ With a hint of irritation, or was it anxiety?
‘I have already spoken to your secretary on the matter and she proved most helpful.’ Charles reiterated his lies about the theft in Pangbourne on the Saturday night.
‘But you see, since I spoke to her, we have had another witness’s account of having seen a yellow Datsun in the Goring area. And they identified your number plate. I mean, you can never trust members of the public; they are extraordinarily inaccurate in what they claim to remember, but I can’t discount anything. All I’m trying to do is to establish where your father’s Datsun was on that night, and then stop wasting your time.’
‘Yes.’ Nigel drew on the cigar and coughed slightly. He was clearly rattled. Not a man with a strong nerve, and certainly on the surface not one who could carry out a cold-blooded murder. He capitulated very quickly. ‘As a matter of fact, I was in Streatley in the Datsun on that Saturday night.’
Charles felt a great surge of excitement, but Detective-Sergeant McWhirter only said, ‘Ah.’
‘Yes. I’d phoned my father in the evening, and he didn’t sound too well, so I drove down to see how he was.’
‘And how was he?’
‘Fine, fine. We had a few drinks together, chatted. He seemed in very good form. Then I drove back to London.’
‘Still on the Saturday night?’
‘Yes. It’s not far.’
‘No, no, of course not.’ Charles was about to ask about the subterfuge of the full petrol tank, but decided that Detective-Sergeant McWhirter might not be in possession of all the relevant facts for that deduction. As it happened, Nigel continued defensively without needing further questions.
‘You’re probably wondering why I didn’t mention this fact before. Well, to tell you the truth, your boys asked me when had I last seen my father alive and I said Friday instinctively, and then by the time I’d realised my mistake, it was all written down, and, you know, I thought if I changed it, that’d only create trouble.’
It sounded pretty implausible to Charles, but Detective-Sergeant McWhirter gave a reassuring nod. ‘Yes, of course, sir. And you’re quite sure that while the car was down in Streatley, the thieves who I’m after wouldn’t have had a chance to take it and use it for their break-in?’
‘No, that would be quite impossible. I put the car in the garage and I’m sure I’d have heard it being driven off. Anyway, I wasn’t down there very long.’
‘No. Oh well, fine, Mr Steen. Thank you very much.’ Detective-Sergeant McWhirter rose to leave. ‘I think I’d better start looking for another yellow Datsun.’
‘Yes. And… er… Detective-Sergeant…’
‘Yes?’
‘Will you have to mention the discrepancy in my story-you know, my confusion about when I last saw my father-?’
‘Good Lord, no. That’s quite an understandable mistake in a moment of emotion, sir. So long as an account’s written down somewhere, no one’s going to fuss about the details. After all, there wasn’t anything unusual about your father’s death. If there had been any grounds for suspicion, it’d be a different case.’ And Detective-Sergeant
