Cynthia Manson (ed) (40 page)

Bethancourt sighed. “I suppose I do,”
he answered. “I take it by the tone of your voice it’s good news?”

“It is,” Gibbons assured him. “Dick
Tottle’s no longer at that address you got from Mrs. Tyzack—in fact, no one is.
The building was razed to make way for a new block of flats last October. But
Penny Cranston is listed in the phone directory. We haven’t talked to her
yet—she’s out, but it’s only a matter of time. Best of all, Carmichael heard
from the Sûreté this morning. Renaud Fibrier was involved in several brawls,
was convicted of petty larceny, and was involved in another brawl just before
he disappeared. Unofficially, the police in his hometown say that he was once
accused of rape but no charges were ever brought, and that he stole from his
parents as well, who naturally never pressed charges. They’re sure the latter
is true, but unsure about the first, the source of the accusation being
somewhat unreliable.”

Bethancourt gave a low whistle. “Not
a very good record,” he observed. “I wonder how much of that David Bainbridge
knew.”

“Probably not very much,” said
Gibbons cheerfully. “He was likely just told that Renaud was ‘in trouble’ from
time to time. I believe that’s the usual conversational refuge of parents with
problem children. Anyway, Fibrier could well be our man, Phillip. We’re trying
to track him down. Carmichael’s sent out a bulletin on him, and I’m to start
trying to find out where he was staying in London.”

“Starting in Camden?”

“Starting in Camden. Do you want to
come?”

“And spend all day knocking on one
door after another? No, thank you. I’m going back to my nice warm bed with my
nice warm girlfriend.”

“Fine. You’ll be sorry when I find
the place myself.”

“I’ll join you tomorrow. Plenty of
doors left for then.”

“Ha! You don’t know how lucky I’m
feeling.”

“Well, I’m not feeling lucky at all,
and I wouldn’t want to ruin your day,” retorted Bethancourt. “Call me when you
get back to the Yard.”

“Very well,” said Gibbons. “But you’ll
be sorry.” He rang off and contemplated the long list in front of him. It
consisted of all the hotels and bed and breakfasts in Camden and had been
compiled by himself with the help of the London telephone directory.
Bethancourt was right, of course: he couldn’t possibly get through all of them
in one day. Moreover, there was no guarantee that Fibrier hadn’t been staying
with friends. But that line of inquiry would have to wait until the Sûreté had
done their best to find some of Fibrier’s acquaintances and had discovered, if
they could, any English connections.

He sighed, wishing he had been able
to persuade Bethancourt to accompany him, and went forth to do his job.

His feeling of luck soon evaporated
in the cold, damp day and, indeed, he met with no success. It was well after
dark and he was chilled to the bone when he decided to stop for the day. He
found a public call box and rang Penny Cranston’s number as he had at intervals
throughout the day, but once again there was no answer. Sighing, he turned away
toward the underground to return to the Yard and report to Chief Inspector
Carmichael.

The next morning Bethancourt
consented to accompany his friend on his cheerless rounds of lodgings in Camden
Town, with the proviso that they stop at Bond Street first.

“What on earth for?” asked Gibbons.

“Maria’s Christmas present, of
course,” replied Bethancourt. “She is furious with me for letting this
investigation interfere with the holiday festivities, and she will get still
angrier before we’re done.”

“Oh, very well,” said Gibbons. “But
it had better not take long.”

“It won’t,” Bethancourt assured him.
“It need only be handsome, very extravagant, and green.”

Indeed, Bethancourt accomplished his
goal as swiftly as the Christmas crowds permitted, but Gibbons was horrified at
the cost of the emerald and diamond bracelet.

“Surely that’s a bit much,” he said
in a low voice.

“You forget how annoyed she is with
me,” replied Bethancourt. “This will put her right in a minute.”

“It bloody well ought to,” muttered
Gibbons.

From Asprey’s, they proceeded to
Camden Town, but success did not crown their efforts. Moreover, it was a slow,
painstaking business, asking people to remember a young Frenchman who might
have stayed with them last August and then to look up past records. It was the
kind of thing Bethancourt hated, and Gibbons soon found him more hindrance than
help, for he amused himself by trying to charm the innkeepers senseless or,
when that palled, by poking about shamelessly in everything he could find while
Gibbons conducted the interview.

They lunched solidly at a pub, Bethancourt
drinking several pints of Old Peculiar to fortify himself, and then went back
to it under increasingly threatening skies.

“It’s going to rain again,” said
Bethancourt at about four o’clock as they tramped down Anson Road.

“Probably,” agreed Gibbons.

“Must we do very many more? In all
probability he was staying with friends.”

“We’ll stop at five,” said Gibbons
consolingly.

“And get caught in rush hour? Thanks
very much.”

“Here’s the next,” said Gibbons. “And
do try to behave, Phillip.”

A middle-aged woman greeted them
pleasantly and announced that she wasn’t taking any boarders over the holidays.

“Goodness!” she said once Gibbons
had explained their purpose. “Last August, you say? Now that’s difficult to
remember. I’ll have to pull out the books for that.”

“We are fairly certain he would have
checked out in late August,” said Bethancourt with a smile. “But unfortunately,
we’re not at all sure when he would have arrived. We’re working on the
assumption at the moment that he arrived no earlier than the beginning of July.”

“Well,” she answered, setting a
heavy book down on

the counter with a thump, “I haven’t
had anyone staying that long. A two month stay I would have remembered. There
was that American family—they stayed three weeks.” She opened the book and
began flipping through the pages. “And I did have a whole group of Frenchmen
in, but they only stayed a day or two. And that was earlier on, I think. Half a
mo’!” She looked up at them suddenly. “There
was
a young man that
stayed a fortnight or so. Only I thought he was Swiss.”

“Swiss?” asked Gibbons.

“Yes,” she answered, going back to
the book and rapidly turning the leaves. “There was a group—I’m sure the couple
were Swiss. There was another man, too, I think. They all stayed a few days and
then, when the others left, one stayed on and I switched him to a single.” She
bent over the book, running her finger down the page. “I
think
it
was August,” she muttered. “Yes, here we are: 11 August, two doubles. The others
left on the sixteenth, and the one that was left changed rooms. Here he is:
Renaud Fibrier. Wasn’t that the name you mentioned?”

Bethancourt gave a loud whoop of
triumph and, leaning over the counter, kissed her soundly on the cheek. “That’s
it, adorable woman,” he said, “that’s it! We’ve found him, Jack!”

Gibbons was grinning broadly. “When
did he check out?”

“On the twenty-ninth,” she answered,
consulting the book. “The Tuesday after Bank Holiday.”

“That fits,” said Gibbons to
Bethancourt. “He returns from the murder, packs up, and clears off. He’s
probably been back on the Continent for months.”

They thanked her for her help and
left, well pleased with themselves.

There was a call box on the corner
and here Gibbons stopped, fishing in his pocket for change.

“I’m going to try Penny Cranston
again,” he said.

Bethancourt looked surprised. “You
did that half an hour ago,” he said mildly.

Gibbons grinned at him. “I’m feeling
lucky,” he said.

His luck held true. In a moment he
emerged, his grin broader than ever.

“She’s home,” he announced. “We can
go straight over. Let’s grab a taxi—it’s not far.”

Penny Cranston’s bedsitter was small
and rather dirty. There was a pile of clothes on the single armchair, the
carpet had seen better days and had faded to a pinky-brown, and the kitchen
sink was crowded with unwashed dishes.

Penny herself had a slatternly
appearance; her hair was bleached an incredible shade of yellow, revealing
almost an inch of dark brown at the roots. She was thin, but not elegantly so; rather,
she gave the impression of being scrawny except for her breasts, which were
large and swung freely beneath a shiny purple shirt. She seemed suspicious of
them, despite Gibbons’ reassurances and Bethancourt’s scrupulous politeness.
Indeed, the latter appeared to make her uneasy and, as if in reaction, she did
not offer them seats, but only leaned against the little breakfast table,
planted squarely in the center of the worn carpet.

However, she was willing enough,
once their mission was explained, to discuss Renaud Fibrier.

“That one,” she said, and snorted to
show her opinion of him. “I haven’t seen him in months, nor want to, neither.”

“We’re particularly interested in
the August Bank Holiday weekend,” said Gibbons, and waited, a little anxiously,
for her reaction.

But the mention of it did not appear
to stir any deep feelings. “That was when I gave him the shove-off,” she
nodded. “Down in that nowhere place in the country.”

“Just so,” said Gibbons, a little
disappointed, but still hoping. “You went down with your boyfriend?” She looked
blank, so he added, “Dick Tottle?”

“Oh.” She giggled. “Dick’s not my
boyfriend. He’s just a friend.”

Gibbons apologized for
misunderstanding. “Anyway, you ran into Renaud Fibrier?”

“Not exactly ran into. We were supposed
to meet him there.”

“I see.”

Bit by bit the story emerged. She
had met Renaud Fibrier in a nightclub a fortnight or so before that weekend and
they had had, she stated defiantly, a good time. Then he had told her he was
going to Dorset for the holiday weekend and suggested she come along. It would
be awfully dull, he said, but between the two of them, they might liven it up a
bit and he could use the free meal ticket. He couldn’t invite her to stay with
him, but she could stay cheaply in a B&B. They could appear to run into
each other by accident.

“I couldn’t get away till Saturday
evening,” she said. “I was scheduled to work the restaurant, see? So we fixed
up to meet at the village pub on Saturday night. Renaud said he might have to
wait until after dinner to slip out, but I should just sit tight at the pub.
Only then I didn’t fancy the idea of waiting for hours in some dead and gone
pub, and besides, when I rung the B&B, it was more than we’d thought. So I
asked Dick if he’d like to come with me. I told him what was up,” she added. “He
knew it was Renaud I was going to see.”

“So you met Renaud on Saturday?”

Her eyes flashed. “That’s just what
we didn’t do,” she said. “We went to the pub for dinner and stayed till
closing, but he never showed. I was mad, I can tell you. I wanted to go
straight to London, but Dick pointed out that we’d reserved the room for Sunday
and the B&B lady would probably make us pay for it anyway. So we stayed. I
was sure glad I’d thought of asking Dick along—I’d’ve gone out of my mind in
that place otherwise. We went back to the pub the next night—there wasn’t no
place else—and lo and behold, in comes Renaud. And then I see why he didn’t
show the night before because he’s got a real snooty looker on his arm. So I
says to Dick, ‘Let’s get out of here,’ only before we get the chance, Renaud
comes over and is introducing us, and everybody’s sitting down. I didn’t want
to make a fuss in front of that girl, so I sat tight for a bit. And you know
what that nogooder does next?”

“He—er—started chatting you up?”
ventured Bethancourt.

“Chatting up’s not the half of it,” she
replied fiercely. “He started feeling my leg underneath the table, just as if
everything was fine. I tried to brush him off, but he was back in a flash. Like
I said, I didn’t want to make a fuss, but was I ever glad when that girl and
her cousin took off. I gave him a piece of my mind then, I did.”

“And well-deserved, too.”

“I told him just what I thought of
him and his fancy bit, and then I said he could just tear up my phone number
because I wouldn’t be answering calls from him no more. And then I took Dick
and left.”

“Did he follow you?”

She sniffed. “Not him. I meant what
I said and he knew it.”

Gibbons and Bethancourt exchanged
glances, hope waning. If Dick Tottle had left Dorset hale and hearty...

“And you and Dick left by the first
train on Monday?”

“That’s right. I had early shift at
the restaurant, you see.”

“Yes,” said Gibbons, disappointed. “I
take it, in view of what you’ve said, that Renaud didn’t ride back to town with
you?”

“Of course not,” she replied, amazed
at his stupidity.