M.C. Beaton - Death of a Macho Man

But he found Blair waiting for him, an angry Blair. “I hope too havenae been poking your nose into this case, Macbeth,” he growled.

“Wouldn’t dream of it said.” Hamish, lying with all the true ease of the Highlander. “I am just going through to my office to check the sheep-dip papers. Then there’s that break-in over at Cnothan.”

Blair’s piggy eyes glared at him. The detective chief inspector was impatient to solve this case and prove he had done so without any help from Hamish Macbeth. “I’m surprised you’re still on the force,” said Blair. “But then, you’ve got friends like the Earl of Farthers to speak up for you. Ach, it makes me sick. And you not even a Freemason ermer.”

Hamish bad never met Lord Farmers. He opened his mouth to say so and then shut it again. Priscilla, Priscilla most have interfered. Peter Daviot’s wife would do anything for Priscilla, and Priscilla must have lied about his friendship with the earl. Then he thought of Priscilla and John Glover, “tf ye’re looking for a suspect,” he said, “you might try checking up on thon John Glover.”

“We did,” sneered Blair. “He’s just who he says he is. And at the time of the murder, he was wining and dining with your sweetie-pie.”

“So you know exactly when Duggan was killed?”

Blair scowled horribly. The results of the autopsy were not through yet, or if they were, he hadn’t heard. Nor had he checked or John Glover, but he wasn’t going to tell Hamish n?

Wnen he had left without answering, Hamish went through to the office and picked up the phone. He was sure Blair hadn’t checked on John Glover. Why should he?

He asked directory inquiries for the number of the Scottish and General Bank in Renfrew Street, wrote it down and then dialled it. He asked to speak to John Glover, the manager, and was told he was on holiday. Because of Blair, Hamish did not want to say he was the police. He said he was a friend. Where was Mr. Glover holidaying? Somewhere in the Highlands, jame the secretary’s reply. Mr. Glover never left an address. He said he did not like to be bothered when he was on holiday, so that was that, thought Hamish, replacing the receiver. He tedded to settle down and read Rosie Draly’s book, but then le wondered if the report of the autopsy had reached Strathbane. After some hesitation, he got through to the Bthologist and, imitating Blair’s heavy Glaswegian accent, isked if there was any result yet. “I’ve just sent a report to Mr. Daviot,” said the pathologist crossly.

“I happen tae be the officer in charge o’ this case,” said Hamish in Blair’s heavy, brutal tones. “So will you kindly just give me the facts.”

“Oh, very well. Roughly it’s this. Because of the heat in the cottage, we’re not sure of the exact time of death.” Then followed a boring lecture on rigor mortis. Hamish stared at the rain until it was over. He straightened up as the pathologist said, “He was drugged before he was shot. That much we can establish.”

“Drugged with what?” demanded Hamish. “Is that Mr. Blair?” The pathologist’s voice was suddenly harp with suspicion.

Hamish cursed himself. “Aye, who else?” he demanded trubulently, adopting Blair’s voice again. “We must be careful,” came the pathologist’s prim voice. “Duggan was drugged with chloral hydrate, then tied up and shot.”

“And any idea at all about the time o’ death?”

“Between, say, seven in the evening and ten o’clock.”

“Thanks,” said Hamish and rang off. He picked up Rosie Draly’s book and looked at it thoughtfully. A woman could have killed Duggan. A woman could have drugged him, tied him up, and shot him at her leisure.

But he reminded himself sternly that he had better type out his report an the burglary at Cnothan.

He had just about finished it when John Glover came back into his head. Suppose, just suppose, a man had known that Glover was going on holiday and was pretending to be the banker. He phoned the gift shop and got Priscilla.

“How did Glover pay his bill?” he asked.

“Mr. Glover to you, copper, and he hasn’t paid his bill yet because he’s still here.”

“But when people make a hotel booking, they aye give a credit-card number.”

“Hamish! You should be looking for a murderer, not harassing a perfectly respectable banker.”

“Just checking. When he took you out for dinner, how did he pay?”

“By credit card.”

“You went to the Italian restaurant?”

“Yes, and Willie Lamont served us.” Willie, in the heady days when Hamish had actually been promoted to sergeant had been his constable. But Willie had married Lucia, a beautiful Italian relative of the owner, and had settled happily into the restaurant business.

“Right,” said Hamish. “Oh, and by the way, thanks for putting a word in for me with Daviot.”

“All part of the service, Hamish.”

♦

Hamish made his way along to the Italian restaurant, which was not only popular because of its good food but had a reputation for being the cleanest restaurant in the British Isles thanks to the efforts of Willie, who was a compulsive cleaner. He was down on his hands and knees as Hamish approached, scrubbing the restaurant steps.

“You’re overdoing it as usual,” commented Hamish. “That’s never pipe clay you’re going to use. No one whitens the steps these days. Man, your customers’ll be leaving their footprints all over it in no time at all.”

“Not if I tell them to jump,” said Willie and Hamish thought he surely must be joking, but then Willie never joked about cleaning.

“I need your help in a quiet way,” said Hamish.

“And what would that be?”

“Thon John Glover paid by credit card the night o’ the murder, the night he was here with Priscilla. Any chance of finding out what card it was, what name, what number?”

“Of course. But if it’s to do with this murder, then it isn’t your case, Hamish.”

“Come on, Willie. Don’t be starchy.”

“I don’t want to purvey the course of justice.”

“Pervert,” corrected Hamish. “And you willnae be. Or can I put it this way. You find out those details or I’ll jump in that muddy puddle over there and then jump all over your nice clean steps.”

“You wouldnae!”

“Try me.”

“Oh, all right. But if I get in trouble with Blair, I’ll tell him you blackmailed me.”

“Some blackmail, Willie. It’s pissing down with rain and the pipe clay will get washed away in no time at all.”

“That it won’t. We have the new canopy.”

Hamish looked up and, sure enough, there, waiting to be unfurled over the doorway, was a red-and-white striped awning. “Anyway,” he said, “get me what I want, Willie.” He made to walk up the steps and into the restaurant, but Willie howled at him, “Jump!” And Hamish did, marvelling again at the madness of Willie’s cleaning. Once inside the restaurant, Willie went through to the back where the office was. In a short time he returned and said that John Glover had paid with his Scottish and General gold card; he gave Hamish the number and confirmed that the card had been in the name of John Glover, so that was that. Hamish admitted ruefully to himself that he had only been hoping to find out something suspicious about John Glover in order to pour cold water over Priscilla’s growing interest in the man. How odd, he thought, that jealousy should remain when love had gone.

♦

Priscilla felt relaxed over dinner that evening. She began to wonder if a much older man would, after all, make a suitable husband. And then John smiled at her in the candle-light and said, “Perhaps it’s just as well I didn’t get anywhere with you, Priscilla.”

She raised her eyebrows in query. He gave a self-conscious laugh. “As a matter of fact, I shouldn’t even be having dinner with you. My fiancée arrives this evening. I told Mr. Johnson, the manager, and booked a room for her.”