The Dirty Duck Part 6

Jury was afraid for a moment he was going to tell them the story by way of establishing an alibi. "We thought perhaps you might be able to throw some light on Miss Bracegirdle's friends-anyone in Stratford she knew, that sort of thing."

He found his voice long enough to say, "No. No."

"How about on the tour itself?"

Honeycutt was smoking with quick little jabs. "Oh, G.o.d, this is going to be h.e.l.l for the tour. Wait until Donnie finds out-that's my partner. In Atlanta."

Jury wished people would leave off thinking about business. "Whom was she especially friendly with on your tour? Did you know her well yourself?"

That brought a very quick response. "No! I mean, no better than the others."

"When did you last see her?"

Regaining a bit of his composure, he said, "Well . . . yesterday, I think."

"You don't keep close tabs on your clientele."

"Lord, no! Sometimes I don't see them for days at a time. Honeysuckle is not at all the usual sort of tour. For one thing, a person must, quite honestly, be just this side of filthy rich to take it-"

Jury interrupted. "Including Miss Bracegirdle?"

Honeycutt had revived enough to give a little snort of laughter. "Of course Miss Bracegirdle."

"But she was staying at a B-and-B. The Diamond Hill Guest House."

"Oh, that makes no odds. She chose to. That, you see, is another unusual thing about our tour. One thing we do not do is book the whole lot into some perfectly dreadful hotel months and months in advance. Our clientele choose their own place, with guidance from us. And we, of course, do the scullery-girl drudge-work" (he began to twinkle again) "and arrange the bookings. Old Gwen wanted to get down to the rough-and-tumble, wanted to think she was staying with the plain folks . . . well, you know what I mean. In other words, she didn't want the Hilton-much too American, she said. So we fixed her up at that rather seedy little Bed-and-Breakfast." He shrugged. "Yet she was quite rich. Millionairess, unless I miss my guess. Oh. Is that too hideously s.e.xist?" He turned the twinkle on Melrose Plant.

"Hideously."

"Well, all I can say is Gwen had lolly up to her earlobes. One must, as I said. Honeysuckle's nearly as expensive as the QE-Two, believe it or not. We advertise only in quality magazines. Country Life over here. In the States, The New Yorker. Believe me, we're not one of those tarted-up tours where they shove twenty or thirty on a broken-down bus. We have a coach, of course, but a very new one, wide seats and a bar for food and drinks. We offer all sorts of options if one gets tired of being bused about. For example, if one wants to motor from London (or anywhere else) I see to a car rental and make sure the little dear is properly stuffed behind the wheel and point him in the right direction. We have a very personal approach, and I think more of my fellowman than to pretend an hotel that has tinned tomato soup for starters is serving haute cuisine. We're strictly five-star Michelin when it comes to food."

Jury smiled. "Because you think more of your fellowman, Mr. Honeycutt?"

"More of four thousand quid, then," said Honeycutt, returning Jury's smile with a glowing one of his own. "And more of myself than to be always herding this lot on and off old bangers of buses and leading them in and out of museums and galleries, installing them-and me-in roach-ridden hotels where fish and chips const.i.tute the comestibles, or one of those absolutely ghastly islands in the Caribbean where the flies revolve but the fans don't and the only palms are the ones stuck out for tips-no, no, my dear, no thank you. We strive for some balance between dependence and independence for our customers. They are free to spend their time as they like, buying out the shops or spending ten hours over dinner or whatever. The Farradays, for instance-the lovely man is loaded-wouldn't be caught dead without their mod cons and pools and bars-"

"That's another thing. When did you last see the Farraday boy?"

"James Carlton? Umm." Honeycutt studied Melrose Plant as he set his mind to this problem. "I believe it must have been Sunday or Monday. Monday, yes. Why? Little beggar scarper again?"

"You're not surprised?"

He hooted. "He's always wandering off and coming back with his clothes torn as if he'd been doing battle with a school of sharks. He'd win hands down. The daughter, Honey, she's rather a deluxe little piece . . . Farraday hasn't got the police looking for James Carlton?"

Jury nodded. "Last time they saw him was at breakfast on Monday morning."

"It was Monday morning, I think. Early on Sheep Street. Well, I didn't take any special note of him; he's always round and about. Ask his sister, Penny. She's the only one he really talks to. In some language of their own," he added without much interest.

"Had you seen Miss Bracegirdle with anyone, then? What about this George Cholmondeley? As he was unattached-"

"Well, he certainly wasn't attached to Old Gwen, my dears." He bridled at the suggestion. And then added with a bit of a pout, "Amelia Farraday might have been a bit more his type."

"Harvey Schoenberg?"

"My, you have got us all dead to rights, haven't you?"

Jury smiled. "Just asking. How about Schoenberg? He's also got money, I take it?"

"Has his own computer business. Have you any idea how much money there is in computers? Of course, Gwen knew him, but I can't tell you if she was with-" Suddenly he seemed to have twigged it: "Look here, Superintendent. You're not suggesting Gwen was done in by one of our-?" Immediately he dismissed the notion. "Preposterous."

"No, I wasn't suggesting anything. Just casting about." Jury stood, and Melrose Plant gathered up his stick. "But Honeysuckle Tours has some stiff compet.i.tion."

With that comment, Honeycutt pretty much wilted on the vine. The yellow ascot withered, the linen jacket drooped. "Oh, dear."

"Hideous," said Melrose Plant, when they were on the sidewalk again.

"I agree," said Jury. "How would you like to go along tomorrow and see the Dews? They're staying at the Hathaway. I want to talk to this George Cholmondeley."

"Lady Dew," said Melrose Plant. "Why is it I get stuck with the t.i.tled ones?"

Jury smiled. "No less than you deserve. That Honeycutt. Wonder what his partner in Atlanta is like?"

Melrose stopped in the dark street where the little sign of the Falstaff was just visible. "Don't know. But I imagine you could lay them end to end."

11.

Chief Superintendent Sir George Flanders, one of Warwickshire's Division Commanders, was a tall man who towered over Lasko, but not over Jury, although he tried. Sir George refused to sit down, refused even to remove his raincoat, as if these indications of impatience might stir his police forces to taking stronger action, might hurry them along toward a solution, even a spurious one. At least that's the impression he gave, standing there glaring at the huge map of Stratford in the incidents room and talking about the American Emba.s.sy. He had made it quite clear that nearly twenty-four hours had pa.s.sed without Lasko's coming up with a solution. It was not a matter he wanted to have to report back to the American consul.

Two matters. "A murder and a missing child," said the Chief Superintendent for the umpteenth time, as if he might, like Macbeth's witches, exorcise these dreadful occurrences through constant repet.i.tion. "A murder and a-"

"There's no reason to think the boy won't turn up. He's run off before. I shouldn't be a bit surprised if he didn't walk into the Hilton in the next few hours." Lasko checked his digital watch as if to make them all stop here until his prediction proved true. "No reason to connect up the two-"

"Of course not," said Sir George, with a rather dreadful smile at his detective sergeant: "What it might be is two murders." His look was lethal.

Lasko, perhaps in some attempt to match Sir George's own disinclination to undress, was still wearing his bowler hat. It was pushed down over his forehead. "Now it's certainly early days to be-"

"Early days? Tell that to the American Emba.s.sy. These are Americans, man," he repeated, as if Lasko hadn't got nationalities sorted out. "It is only by the grace of G.o.d and the British press that we've kept the d.a.m.ned thing quiet this long. I shudder to think how the American tourists in this town would react-" And he shuddered, as if a demonstration might spur everyone on.

Jury refrained from suggesting that English blood ran just as red and that Americans were no strangers to rape, a.s.sault, murder, and kidnapping, although he had to agree that the American press was spot on and fulsomely reporting these events almost before they happened.

As if reading Jury's mind, Sir George swiveled his head-a very handsome gray-haired and -moustached one-around to Jury. "And after I finished with the consul, I was on the phone a goodish time talking to your chief . . . what's his name?"

"Racer."

"Yes, Racer. You know, we didn't call on your CID for a.s.sistance, Mr. Jury."

"I know," said Jury, smiling. Lasko would have to explain his recent attachment to the Stratford CID.

From under his hat, Lasko said, "I asked Superintendent Jury to go talk to the Farradays because Farraday was raising such h.e.l.l about country cops and where in the b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l was Scotland Yard? They think the only police force in the world outside the FBI is Scotland Yard. They never heard of the French Srete, or the-"

"Yes, yes, yes, yes," said Sir George, his palms raised to ward off a journey round the world's police forces. "Mr. Jury's kindly lending a hand. However-" Again he turned to Jury. "-your chief's a bit upset you're involving yourself unofficially-"

As Sir George went on to report Racer's comments, Jury simply tuned him out, having heard Racer's comments so many times before.

Sir George seemed satisfied with having made it crystal clear that the Warwickshire constabulary could still take care of its own manor. Only then did he give Jury a reluctant nod. "He says you're to make sure you ring him."

"Very well." Jury was not to move an inch without instructions from Chief Superintendent Racer. He would certainly make it a point to call him one of these days.

Glumly, Sir George said, "Of course, there's a connection between this woman's being murdered and this boy. Got to be."

Jury silently agreed.

"Who else was on this b.l.o.o.d.y tour? And who runs it?"

Lasko leafed through the notebook lying on his desk. "Man named Valentine Honeycutt is the director-"

"Good G.o.d, these Americans do trick themselves out with florid names."

"He's not American," said Lasko. "He's British."

Sir George grunted. "Anyway. You talk to him?"

Without even exchanging a glance with Jury, Lasko nodded, and explained the operation of Honeysuckle Tours to his chief superintendent.

"What about the others?"

"Besides the Farraday family-there're five of them-a Lady Dew and her niece, and a George Cholmondeley-"

"Don't tell me they're Americans."

"No. Lady Dew and her niece have been living in Florida-"

"That's where the Bracegirdle person was from."

"Sarasota's not Tampa."

Again, Sir George grunted. "That the lot?"

"Then there's a Harvey L. Schoenberg." Lasko closed his notebook. "He was the one who seemed most friendly with the Farraday boy, but says he hasn't seem him for days. And none of them were particularly friendly with Bracegirdle, that I can tell."

"No evidence turned up so far." Sir George's heavy sigh made it sound as if the body of Gwendolyn Bracegirdle had been found two weeks ago, rather than twenty-four hours. "Except this." He picked up the theatre program. "What on earth could the murderer have meant by this?"

Beauty is but a flower That wrinkles will devour.

Sir George shook his head. "What is it?"

"A poem," said Lasko, wiping his nose with a large handkerchief.

Sir George turned a cold, cut-gla.s.s blue gaze on Detective Sergeant Lasko. "I know it's a poem, d.a.m.nit. My question is, what poem and why?"

Lasko shrugged. "Sorry."

"I don't like it. It looks like a message. I don't like messages to the police."

Neither did Jury. That piece of paper made his blood run cold, because it was a signature-just the sort of little loveletter psychopaths like Jack the Ripper enjoyed writing to police.

The trouble was, such murderers seldom stopped with signing their names only once.

12.

Cyclamen Dew had about her that sham-supernal, self-deprecating air of one who, not born to sainthood, had gone out to get it.

Seated next to her aunt, the Dowager Lady Violet Dew, in the bar of the Hathaway Hotel, Cyclamen Dew (an unappealing, angular woman) had been putting Melrose in the picture-a large tableau filled with separate scenes of anguish, disaster, missed opportunities, and dreams turned to dust, as the result of having been in constant attendance to Aunt.

Lady Violet was a silent, glaring old lady who sat hunched in her chair during this lengthy recital, wheezing in her lace and locket and black lawn dress.

"So as you see," said the niece Cyclamen, with her hundredth sad little shrug, "you take us as you find us."

Melrose knew no other way to take anybody, and hoped her statement was a wind-up so he could introduce his own topic. But apparently not. Cyclamen was merely changing gears.

Another huge intake of breath and she continued: "One small dream of mine was always to have gone into service-"

"You wished to be a waiting-maid . . . ?" asked Melrose innocently.

She fairly tinkled with laughter. "Oh, my dear man, no! I mean, of course, the Holy Sisterhood. But as you see . . ." A small wave toward the Dowager Lady Dew, who kept her own black b.u.t.ton eyes riveted on Melrose. And then Cyclamen perhaps bethought herself, or perhaps thought of her aunt's rather considerable fortune, and changed her tune. "But, then, of course, could there be a Higher Calling than what I am doing for Aunt?"

Aunt made the only sensible reply, Melrose thought, that a person could: "Get me a gin."

"Now, Auntie Violet, you know what Dr. Sackville says about that! You are not to touch spirits. A nice cup of tea, now-"

The ebony stick banged smartly against the table leg. "I don't give a good G.o.dd.a.m.n what that lecherous old fart says-" Here she turned to Melrose. "-he's laid every woman in Tampa-" And to Cyclamen: "I said a gin. Make it a double."

Melrose started to rise with the intention of getting the drink, but Lady Dew fanned him back to his seat. "Never mind; she'll get it. What's your business here, young man?"