Gavin Lyall - Blame The Dead

Of course, the Yard might have told him I'd been carrying a gun when Fenwick got killed, but he wouldn't expect me to admit that sort of thing anyhow.

'What did you believe Steen would tell you? '

I thought about that. 'What it was all about, I suppose.'

'You truly do not know?'

'Something to do with ships – I'd guess. Steen surveyed them and Fenwick insured them; that's the obvious connection. There could be others.'

'Such as getting murdered, perhaps?'

'That, too. By the way – Fenwick was shot with a nine-millimetre Browning, I was told. I don't know what model.'

He nodded appreciatively, shaking a small cloud of moisture from his nose. 'Thank you.' He made a note about it.

I said, 'D'you knowwhen Steen got shot, yet?'

'Doctors never know. He was alive until at least three o'clock. He telephoned to an agency that does secretary work for him. Why do you ask that?'

'A twenty-two isn't a cannon, but it isn't a typewriter, either.'

He nodded again. 'He – they – held up a cushion against the head and fired through it. The doctors found threads in the…, the wounds. I believe it makes a good silencer.'

I'd heard the same myself, though never tried it. And you can't fit a proper silencer on a gun like the Mauser, where the slide comes right to the muzzle.

I asked, 'Did you find the gun?'

'No. And he even took away the empty shells – unless it was a revolver and that I do not expect. He was most careful.'

Friend, you have no idea of just how careful he was. I wanted to ask about the condition of the bullets – could they be matched to the gun? (I doubted it: a lead bullet going through bone isn't going to show many clear rifling marks afterwards). But I'd pushed the talk of guns far enough, even for somebody with my built-in interest.

He asked, 'Have you telephoned to your friends in England yet?'

'I tried. Couldn't get through.'

'How long will you stay in Bergen now? '

'It's getting a little difficult to justify, isn't it? Anyhow, how much work are y ou going to let me do? '

He considered this and then, knowing exactly what I'd meant, asked, 'What do you mean? '

'Talk to people. Like that secretarial service. And his wife and friends. Parents.'

There is no wife. And only his father is alive. He lives near Oslo.'

'You haven't answered me. Can I ask questions without you jumping all over me?'

He swilled the last of the whisky around the glass and gulped it down in a rather formal gesture. 'Perhaps, if the family permits.' Then he stood up. 'But perhaps tomorrow, it will all become very simple. Something will appear from his papers, his private letters – and we need not worry about your strange mysteries.'

'Do you really think so?'

'I do not know. With this murder, there was a very great hatred – or none at all. That careful cushion, the picking up of the shells. I think perhaps you know of the world where one does not need hatred to kill. We will see.'

I shrugged – and shivered a bit, inside.

He picked up his overcoat, gave me one serious but damp look, and went his way.

I looked at the bottle, then decided not. The evening wasn't over yet. So I drifted down to the ground-floor Grill, which turned out to be one of those places with candlelight and wooden pews and all the old chop-house atmospherics. And I'd honestly – or stupidly – forgotten about Draper and Maggie Mackwood until they sat down on the other side of my table.

Draper grinned, yellowish in the candlelight. 'Mind if we share this with you? '

I half got up, awkward against the high-backed wooden bench. 'Go ahead. Nice flight?' – to Maggie.

She sat stiff and upright, breasts jutting towards me, but not as if she were asking me to make her an offer; just the prim attitude of somebody with a good posture or a bad back. That apart, she had on a dark suede skirt and a blouse of what looked like raw sail canvas: all pockets and heavy stitching. Her dark-brown hair was pulled back into a neat bun, her face arranged in a wary but neutral expression, like a good secretary awaiting dictation.

'Very pleasant, thank you.'

An elderly waiter with clipped iron-grey hair arrived and handed out menus.

'And something to drink,' Draper said.

'I'll send the wine waiter, sir.'

'Just send a Scotch and a gin and tonic.' Draper looked at me. 'How about you?'

'Are you buying?'

He snorted with laughter. 'All goes on expenses.'

Maggie put on a forced smile. I shook my head: no drink.

The old waiter said patiently, 'I'll send the wine waiter, sir.' He went away.

Draper snorted again. 'Posh sort of pub, this. Cost you a packet, does it?'

I shrugged and the wine waiter arrived and took the order. Draper pulled out a long thin cigar and the waiter did a fast draw with a book of matches.

But Draper shook his head. 'I'll just chew it a while. Don't last so long if you light 'em – ha-ha!'

The waiter looked at him, puzzled but getting the message that Draper wasn't directly related to Royalty.

Maggie said formally, 'I suppose I ought to apologise for asking Mr Draper to follow you.'

'That's all right. You can send as many as you like if they're no better than he is.'

'Thanks, chum,' he said bitterly. 'Maybe someday I can doyou a good turn.'

I said, 'But what did you expect him to tell you, anyway?'

'Oh…' she fiddled with the silverware; '… just what you were doing."

'You knew bloody well what I was doing. Trying to find out who killed Martin Fenwick.'

She looked up at me quickly. 'Well, that's what yousaid, but…'

'You were worried about what else I might find out?'

Maybe she blushed, maybe not. Damn interrogations by candlelight. 'Well, I don't know… And Mr Mockby said you'd taken the parcel Mart-Mr Fenwick was carrying…'

'That's something I meant to ask you: why was he taking it to France?'

Draper said quickly, 'You don't have to tell. Not a thing, you don't.'

I said, 'I'll get around to you in a moment. Behave yourself until then.'

'Shove it up.'

But just as his employer was giving him a prim look, the wine waiter arrived with their drinks. Both grabbed and gulped, but then Maggie caught my eye and looked briefly shamefaced about it. Probably remembering the last – and first – time we'd met, when she was getting smashed out of her little pointed mind.

'Now let's get back to why Fenwick was going to France.' But then the table waiter arrived to take our orders. Damn interrogations over dinner tables. I took prawn cocktail and half a grilled lobster – after all, we weren't much more than a quarter of a mile from the fish market on the edge of the quay. And Iwas on expenses.

When the waiter had gone, I said to Maggie, 'Well?'

But she'd had too long to work out her reply: it was just a half-shrug, half-shake of her head.

I turned to Draper. 'Fenwick hired some enquiry firm – that was Herb Harris, wasn't it?'

'No.'

'Too fast.' I tried to look reproving. 'The right answer should be "Don't know". You wouldn't know every job Herb took on, would you? And why shouldshe go to him? She doesn't know about private detectives; natch, she'd use the one her boss had used. So now, what were you trying to find out for Fenwick?'

This time it was Maggie looking at him apprehensively. But he just took the chewed-up cigar out of his face, spat a bit off his lip, and said, 'Stuff it up again.'

I shook my head sadly. 'I really am going to have to have a word with Herb about you.'

'I've met some slimy creeping bastards in my time-'

'And now you've met another. Come on.'

He rammed the cigar back in his mouth, glanced at Maggie, and growled, 'He was being blackmailed. Wanted us to find out who.'