The Victim in Victoria Station Page 5

  I was grimly amused. Nigel was now trying to convince me we were dealing with murder. “I wouldn’t have thought disposing of a body was a one-man job,” I said, playing devil’s advocate.

  “Oh, no, he had to have help. Two people could drag a dead man through the station and pretend the poor chap was royally pissed. It wouldn’t be easy, but it could be done.” Nigel sounded as though he had some experience, and I supposed he did. Not with the dead, presumably, but with the dead drunk.

  “Well, but the real question is, why would someone want Bill Monahan dead? That’s what we’re going to have to find out.”

  And the argument began.

  “Oh, no, you don’t!” Nigel climbed onto his high horse. “You can’t keep on getting yourself involved in murders. It’s dangerous—haven’t you learned that by now? Look here, did the man on the train, the bogus doctor, know your name?”

  “Well, yes. I told him,” I said in a small voice. “And where I lived. Looking back on it, I suppose it was a stupid thing to do, but I was trying to be helpful.”

  “Then it’s obvious who your burglar was last night. They’ve warned you off. Face it, Mrs. Martin, they came to your house and tried to kill you!”

  I took a deep breath. “I don’t think so, Nigel. No, listen for a minute. I really don’t see it. If these people wanted me dead, I think they’re smart enough that I’d be dead. I think they wanted to scare me, and heaven only knows they succeeded.”

  “Right. If you say so. They wanted to scare you off, stop you pursuing this thing any further, and if I were in your place, I should do exactly as they suggested!”

  “Would you?”

  Nigel’s temper may be hasty and his tendency to make the most of his charm deplorable, but he has some sterling virtues. One of them is that, when push comes to shove, he’s almost painfully honest. His eyes avoided mine.

  “All right, then!” he shouted after a moment. “No, I shouldn’t. I should chase them to the ends of the earth. But I’m not …”

  He looked directly at me then, and trailed off.

  “You’re not an old woman. Is that it?”

  “Look here, I—”

  “It’s all right, Nigel. I understand. You mean well. You’re a kind child.”

  I saw him wince.

  “You see? You don’t like being condescended to, either. Now let’s dispense with the protective nonsense. This is the way I see it. These people, whoever they are, are smart, but they’ve made one terrible mistake.”

  “It appears to me that they’ve covered their tracks admirably.”

  “So far they have, yes. You’re absolutely right. The mistake I refer is their initial one. They killed someone.”

  Nigel glared. “That’s a crime, a sin if you like, not a mistake.”

  “It’s both. It’s the one unforgivable crime. A murderer, even in today’s corrupt society, has the whole force of law and order arrayed against him, for the rest of his life. It’s a formidable force, Nigel—not just the police, but every single individual who respects the law, all lined up in opposition to our murderer.

  “And he knows it. The very first reaction of a murderer to what he’s done is fear and the desire to escape. That, Nigel, is the best weapon we hold, those of us on the other side. The murderer’s fear works for us, because it leads him to do stupid things, unnecessary things, things that will, almost always, lead him into the snare that’s set for him.”

  “‘Almost’ always,” said Nigel, still angry and stubborn. “And what about the other people he kills along the way?”

  “That, of course, can happen. It’s one of the truly frightening aspects of murder, how often one leads to another. But that’s just one more reason to act, and to act fast. Now look.”

  I changed my tack. “You’re worried about me, Nigel, and that’s sweet. I appreciate your concern, I really do. But I think you have the wrong idea about my intentions. I don’t plan to go off in all directions and tilt at windmills. I’m going to be logical about it and use the resources at my command. And frankly, the most important of those resources just now is you.”

  I pointed to his computer. “You have there the most powerful information-gathering tool the world has ever known. I’d heard that said before this afternoon, but I didn’t really understand. Now I’m a true believer. Why can’t we—or actually, why can’t you—use that tool to find out things they—the bad guys, whoever they are—don’t want us to know?”

  “For example?”

  “For example, what’s going on in Multilinks International that made someone kill their CEO?”

  “And how am I meant to do that?” His anger had simmered down to sulkiness and sarcasm.

  Good. That meant all I had to do was flatter him a little more, and he’d capitulate. “Heavens, I don’t know! You’re the one who knows how to make that box turn cartwheels. I hesitate to suggest it to someone of your age and rebellious tendencies, but are you averse to doing something slightly illegal?”

  That did it. He fought hard to hide the grin, but the dimples gave him away. “Meaning what?” His voice was meant to be gruff, his tone sober. He didn’t quite manage it.

  “I want you to break into the Multilinks computer. Hacking, I think it’s called?”

  “Holy—!” He omitted whatever word he’d intended, deferring at the last moment to my aged female sensibilities. “It’s called cracking, and it’s rather more than slightly illegal, you know!”

  “Oh, is it? I thought people like you, computer sharks, I mean, did it routinely.”

  “We-el …”

  “Can you do it?”

  He shrugged elaborately. “Depends. If their internal security is as good as their Internet encryption, no. Nobody could, without a lot of very specialized and high-priced software, and maybe not even then. But it’s rather surprising how often computer companies don’t have good security. The cobbler’s children, you know.”

  “Will you try? Considering that we’re strictly on the side of the angels?”

  “And if I’m caught?”

  “You’ll have to make sure you aren’t,” I said flatly. “But I wouldn’t think it was at all likely. They don’t know you exist, for one thing, which should make it a lot safer. And it’s not as if you were going to steal something. I only want you to nose around.”

  “You know, Mrs. Martin, when I first met you, if anyone had told me you would one day ask me to commit a crime, I’d have wondered what they were smoking.”

  “It just goes to show that first impressions can be deceiving, doesn’t it? And if we’re going to be partners in crime, I do think you’d better start calling me Dorothy.”

  FEELING MUCH HAPPIER now that I’d enlisted Nigel’s aid, I went home to plan the next stage of operations. I was really only one tiny step forward. I now knew who the dead man was.

  At the thought, some of my mild euphoria evaporated. This was a really dangerous situation I’d gotten myself into. Why on earth couldn’t the victim have been some simple tourist who wouldn’t matter much?

  “Dorothy Martin, you should be ashamed of yourself!” I said aloud. Emmy, napping nearby, twitched a whisker but didn’t wake. She was used to hearing her human talk to herself.

  Any person’s death was important. “Any man’s death diminishes me… . I am involved in mankind… . send not to know for whom the bell tolls… .” The venerable dean of Paul’s had it right. I would, or I should, have been concerned, no matter who the victim was.

  On a less philosophical note, if the man in the train hadn’t been who he was, he almost certainly wouldn’t have been murdered. Unless, of course, he was killed simply for his money and passport.

  Oh, right, and then the casual killer is going to remove the body, at great inconvenience, and then try to break into your house. Very good, Dorothy.

  I’m tired, I excused myself to my sarcastic alter ego. I hadn’t had enough sleep, and my leg still hurt. I went out into the kitchen, made myself some coffee, and then c
urled up on the couch and turned back to my real problem.

  Which, oddly enough, was an ethical one.

  Was I going to get in touch with the police again and try to tell them my story, or not?

  I shouldn’t, really, even have asked myself the question. I was a conservative, middle-aged (at least) woman who had been brought up to think of the police as my friends. I was, for pity’s sake, married to a policeman! My respect for the English police knew no bounds. I had information they needed. Of course I should tell them.

  And yet …

  I’d tried to tell them once and had met with nothing but obstruction. Of course, I hadn’t known then who the victim was.

  And you still don’t know. You’re guessing.

  Deducing, I retorted, but that ruthlessly practical inner voice was right. I had no proof that any policeman would accept. Alan, who knew the way my mind worked, would have followed my reasoning and thought it worthy of at least some investigation, but Alan wasn’t a working policeman anymore, and more to the point, Alan wasn’t here.

  It was reasonable to suppose that whoever killed Monahan was connected with his company. If I told the police I was sure he was dead, and they did take me seriously enough to look into the matter, they’d talk first to the London office of Multilinks International. Suppose by some chance they talked to the murderer. Of course he’d deny that Monahan was dead, or even that he was in England. I would be made to look like an idiot, the murderer would be warned, and I’d be in great danger.

  The English police, by and large, are wonderful, but even they can’t be everywhere at once. Could they protect me if the murderer found out I’d talked to them? Especially if they felt I was imagining things, and there was no threat against which I needed protection?

  The police would tell me that they’d keep their source of information confidential, and most likely they would.

  And yet …

  Multilinks was evidently an outfit with money. Money buys many things. It has even, on occasion, been known to buy policemen. Not as often in England as in America, perhaps, but was I willing to take the chance?

  I could report the matter to someone in Sherebury. That person would in turn report to someone at Scotland Yard, who would pass the information up to a superior, and so on.

  Could I be sure that no one along that chain, no one answering a telephone, no one sitting close to someone else’s desk, no one in command, was in the pocket of a rich American company?

  I was being paranoid. All right, I’d continue to be paranoid. If I couldn’t find out anything on my own, I’d talk to the police. But for now I was going to play a lone hand, and be damned to it! If that was a stupid decision, so be it. Having made it, I just had to make sure I went about the thing as intelligently as possible.

  There was one other person who could help me, I decided after some intense thought. Just one who had the expertise I needed and whose discretion I could trust utterly. I picked up the phone and called London.

  “Dorothy! How wonderful! I’ve been meaning to call you! It’s been a hundred years since we’ve seen you and Alan.”

  Darling Lynn! She never changes, never loses that emphatic enthusiasm. It was nice to hear an American voice for a change.

  “It has been a while, hasn’t it? Listen, Lynn, I’ve been thinking about coming for a visit. Alan’s away, and I’m bored and lonesome. Nothing like inviting myself, I know, but—”

  “Don’t be silly. You know we’d love to have you. What’s Alan up to now?”

  I told her, trying to keep my voice casual, but Lynn has known me for a long time.

  “Poor you! You miss him a lot, don’t you?”

  “Oh, I’m all right. It’s just that Zimbabwe is awfully far away, and it seems farther when I can’t even visualize what it’s like. Africa is so different from any place I’ve ever seen.”

  “Parts of it, yes, but some of the cities are very modern, you know. Look, why don’t you come tomorrow and stay as long as you want? Because Tom took hundreds of pictures the last time we went on safari. We’ll show you Africa till you scream for mercy!”

  An open-ended invitation. Perfect. I might be able to get all the information I wanted in a day, but it could take longer. I’d give myself some leeway. “You’re an angel, Lynn. I can stay over the weekend, if you can stand me that long.”

  We settled which train she would meet in the morning, and I hung up and began to think about packing. I’d have to take some of my nicest summer clothes. Lynn and Tom Anderson are delightful people, expatriate Americans like me, but they have a great deal more money than most people I know, and they live in a very fine house in Belgravia. When I visit them, I always feel I have to live up to my surroundings.

  Then there were the cats to worry about. After supper I went across the backyard and knocked on Jane’s door.

  “Wondered when you’d turn up,” Jane growled. “Losing my reputation. Burglary right next door, and I don’t know all about it yet.”

  Beneath the growl there was a twinkle. Jane’s reputation as Sherebury’s one-woman news bureau was perfectly secure.

  “You know as much as I do,” I protested. I was getting a lot of practice in lying lately, and I’d get a lot more, I suspected, before this was all over. But what Jane didn’t know couldn’t hurt her—or me. “The police think it was an attempt at burglary, but he—well, or she—whoever it was—never got in, you know. Those new locks Alan had installed are really good.”

  “Mmm. Dodgy sort of burglar, to choose the oldest, smallest house on the street. A bit off, don’t you think?”

  “I did think so, and I said so to the police. But maybe it’s because I’m at the end of the street, with only you on the one side and the cathedral on the other. My house is less likely to be observed,” I improvised. “Or maybe they thought an old house might have simpler locks. Heavens, I don’t know how a burglar’s mind works! I’m just glad they didn’t get in. It was bad enough that they broke the glass.”

  I was talking too much, explaining too carefully. Jane knows me nearly as well as Lynn does, but Jane is willing to bide her time. She gave me a sharp look, which I ignored, and offered me tea or sherry.

  “Nothing, thanks. I can’t stay. I have to pack before supper, and I plan to get to bed early, since I’ll be up at the crack of dawn tomorrow. I’m going to London.”

  “Again? You went yesterday.”

  “I’m getting to be a gadabout in my old age. No, but yesterday was business. This is pleasure, or recreation anyway. I’m feeling a bit nervy, what with Alan gone and the burglar and all, and I decided I’d go see Tom and Lynn for a while. I wondered if you’d mind looking after the cats and keeping an eye on the house for me? I suppose I shouldn’t leave you with that burden—I mean, with burglars around …”

  I trailed off artistically, hoping to distract her from any further inquiry into the exact nature of the burglars. It worked, too.

  “Hmmph! Suppose you think I can’t deal with a burglar. Between me and the dogs, we’ll cope.”

  I was profuse in my thanks, and Jane, who becomes deeply embarrassed by gratitude, shooed me out the door. “Enjoy yourself. By the way, did you ever find out who your dead man was?”

  “Oh. No. There wasn’t anything in the papers this morning, either. I do appreciate your doing this for me, Jane. I’ll drop off the key in the morning before I go.”

  I got out of there as quickly as I could, aware with every step of Jane’s gimlet eye boring into my back.

  6

  Alan called just as I was finishing my sketchy supper.

  “Hullo, love. Thought I might hear from you last night.

  How did you fare with the doctor?”

  “I meant to call, but it got late before I noticed. I’m free, Alan! No more cane, no more restrictions!”

  “Splendid! No more pain?”

  “We-ell. When it rains. Which it’s been doing all day.”

  “I envy you. It’s unbelievably hot and sunny h
ere. Doesn’t even cool down at night. One enjoys it for a little while, by way of contrast, but I’ve had enough.”

  “So when are you coming home?”

  “Not for a bit, I’m afraid. The conference officially ends on Saturday, but the police wallahs here have asked me to stay on for a few days, to give them some advice on setting up a police college, and I’ve agreed. They’ve no sort of budget at all to hire consultants, you know.”

  What I knew was that Alan was a softie when it came to people needing his help. I admired him for that, but just now I could have done with a little more selfish attitude on his part. I wanted him home; I also needed his help. Of course, he had no way of knowing that, and I didn’t want to explain my problem over the telephone, particularly not an international call. Satellite transmissions aren’t exactly secure.

  So all I said was, “I miss you. It seems like you’ve been gone for centuries.”

  “I know. For me, too.” His voice softened. “If you’d rather I came straight home—”

  “Of course I’d rather, but I don’t intend to be one of those wives who order their husbands around. Not that I think I could get away with it, anyway.”

  He chuckled.

  “So you go ahead and do what you need to do. Just be as quick as you can about it, will you, love?”

  When he hung up, I felt lonelier than ever. A voice over a wire is a poor substitute for a real live huggable husband. And the satisfaction of having kept a stiff upper lip and been a brave little woman and lived up to all the other maddening clichés doesn’t help much to keep one warm in bed.

  The rain, which had moderated to a gentle but persistent drizzle, changed again during the night to a howling thunderstorm that woke me and the cats. I was very grateful for the new roof on my house; the old one had leaked. New windows also helped keep the weather on the outside where it belonged, but nothing could keep out the noise. After a while I went back to sleep, rather enjoying the storm. England’s moderate climate doesn’t often produce such humdingers. I was reminded of my Indiana home, where we used to get storms like this all summer long. The cats didn’t share my enthusiasm. In their fright they snuggled up so close to me they nearly shoved me out of bed.