Trick of the Mind Page 9

  “Chris—call me Chris,” said O’Leary, trying for the smile again. “And of course I don’t think you’re a fool—why, Bob wouldn’t have married you if you had been. It’s just that I’m fair desperate to speak to him. Briefly,” he amended hastily, “very briefly. I’m sure he’d want to help.”

  “Well, I’m not,” she retorted, trying again to close the door.

  O’Leary was just about to give up and stage another attack after she had left the house when a shuffling footstep sounded behind her and a deep male voice said, “What’s all this then?”

  Dora swung round, sprinkling ash down the front of her jumper, and said resignedly, “Well, that’s done it. There’s a young man wants to see you—I tried to tell him you were sleeping.”

  “Well, couldn’t you have told him in a quieter voice? Who is it anyway?”

  Crebbin squinted out at O’Leary over his wife’s shoulder and looked a bit surprised.

  “Hullo,” he said. “It’s Sergeant O’Leary, isn’t it? Here, let him in, Dora.”

  Dora acceded to this with a shrug and abandoned her post at the door. O’Leary swiftly stepped in after her lest she should change her mind, and smiled weakly at Crebbin.

  “Awfully sorry to bother you,” he said.

  “It’s all right,” said Crebbin, yawning. “I can’t imagine you’d be here if it weren’t important. Come through to the kitchen and have a cuppa.”

  Inside, the furnishings were uninspired and the wallpaper in the hall was much faded, but the house was spotlessly clean and comfortably arranged. O’Leary took a seat at the Formica table and waited patiently while Crebbin poured tea from a pot already made on the counter.

  “Milk?” he asked, turning.

  “No, thanks,” said O’Leary, and accepted the mug Crebbin set in front of him, sipping gingerly at the hot brew. It was very strong and bitter, but considering his lack of sleep, O’Leary drank it happily.

  Crebbin sat opposite him and concentrated on stirring several spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee before he tasted it and let out a satisfied sigh.

  “Now then,” he said. “That’ll do me for a bit. What have you come about, Sergeant?”

  O’Leary explained his errand and the reason for it. Crebbin nodded sadly and sipped at his coffee.

  “I heard about the shooting last night,” he said. “But you say Sergeant Gibbons will be all right?”

  “They expect him to make a full recovery,” O’Leary assured him. “Mind, he’s pretty under the weather just now, but they say he’s healing up well.”

  “Good, good. That’s a relief to my mind. I don’t know how you young ones stand all the violence nowadays—it wasn’t like that when I was on the beat.”

  “No, I dare say not,” said O’Leary, cutting off any stream of reminiscence that might be forthcoming. “But you can see how important it is that we find out when Jack left the Feathers that night.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Crebbin. He rubbed his chin and squinted up at the ceiling. “Let’s see, that would have been the night before last, right? Yes, yes, I remember. It was a quiet night, nobody much came in. And I do remember the two of you—you sat at that little table by the end of the bar, didn’t you?”

  “That’s right,” said O’Leary encouragingly.

  “And it was you who came up for the drinks,” continued Crebbin.

  “Yes, I owed Jack one from last week.”

  Crebbin was silent a moment, remembering. “I saw you leave,” he said slowly. “I know that because I was thinking I had best go collect the empties, but then I saw Sergeant Gibbons was still there.”

  “Did you speak to him at all?” asked O’Leary.

  “No.” Crebbin shook his head. “And he didn’t stay long after you left. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes at the most. I don’t know what time it was when you took yourself off, but it was a bit before seven when I noticed the sergeant had gone. I had just glanced at the clock, you see, thinking to myself that the time was going awfully slowly, that it wasn’t even seven yet, and then I turned and saw the two empty pints on the table.”

  “But you didn’t see him go?” asked O’Leary anxiously.

  “No, I’m sorry, I didn’t. But like I say, it wasn’t above twenty minutes after you’d gone, and I didn’t notice anyone come up to talk to him in that time. I think I would have, since your table was so close to the bar.”

  O’Leary nodded acceptance of this. “So he just sat there and quietly finished his pint?” he asked.

  “More or less. I saw him jotting something down in his notebook at one point, I think, but that was all.”

  O’Leary had to be content with this unhelpful information. He thanked Crebbin, apologized again for waking him, and took his leave. He was going to be late meeting Inspector Hollings for the day’s work, but he didn’t care. At least he had found out one thing, however small.

  Hospitals, Gibbons reflected, were very busy places in the mornings. It was a pity he didn’t feel up to investigating what all the fuss was about. He supposed it was good that his parents seemed to be staying on top of things, but on the other hand, it was disconcerting at his age to have his parents know more about his own body than he did.

  There was no denying he was not up to much this morning. He was solidly awake, but that was about all that could be said for him. There was a sharp pain in his abdomen whenever he made the slightest movement, and the tube running up his nose and down his throat seemed even more irritating than it had yesterday. And he was still cold.

  None of the people fussing over him seemed to be addressing these concerns. First had been a young man in pink scrubs who had recorded his temperature and blood pressure and heaven only knew what else. Then had come a young woman in maroon scrubs who had busied herself with changing his various IV bags while talking cheerfully to his parents and more or less ignoring him.

  After that, a pretty red-haired nurse accompanied by a much less attractive assistant had come in. They had ruthlessly ignored his complaints of being cold, thrown back the blankets, removed his dressings, and pushed at his abdomen. This last had been very painful indeed, and Gibbons was grateful that they had shooed his parents out of the room beforehand.

  They had replaced his dressings with fresh ones, covered him up again, and departed, promising to see to an extra blanket, which had still not materialized. What had arrived was a doctor with an inscrutable expression and a deep, velvety voice who asked him questions about how he felt and wanted him to rate his pain on a scale from one to ten. He, too, had inspected Gibbons’s abdomen and had merely patted him on the shoulder when Gibbons mentioned being cold.

  “You’ll feel better once we’ve got rid of the infection,” he said, and joined Gibbons’s parents outside the door. The red-haired nurse returned with yet another IV bag, which she changed with one of the others on the pole, and then replaced his dressing yet again, this time without assistance.

  “Do you think,” asked Gibbons when she was done, “I could have that extra blanket?”

  “Oh, yes, of course,” she answered, pushing back the curtain. “I’ll send Ronnie in with one.”

  His parents and the doctor had disappeared from his view, no doubt to move their discussion out of earshot of the policeman doing guard duty at the door. But they had been replaced by Inspector Davies, who was lounging against the doorjamb and chatting with the uniformed man. He looked up at the sound of the curtain being drawn back and smiled a little hesitantly.

  “Is he ready for visitors?” he asked the nurse.

  “Certainly,” she answered. “He’s all settled for the moment.”

  Gibbons wondered why no one asked him whether or not he was ready for visitors, but felt too listless to voice the question.

  Today Davies’s tie was an elaborate pattern in subtle beiges and grays. Gibbons found it fascinating.

  “Were those your people I saw in the hall?” asked Davies, drawing up the armchair.

  With difficulty, Gibbons drag
ged his gaze away from the tie and focused on his superior’s face.

  “That’s right,” he answered. “My mum and dad.”

  “Well, I hope to meet them later,” said Davies, settling himself. “They must be very proud of you.”

  Gibbons did not feel at the moment like someone anyone could be proud of, but he managed a weak smile.

  “And you’ve amassed quite a collection of flowers,” said Davies, motioning to the bouquets that had been coming in all morning and now festooned nearly every flat surface in the room.

  “Oh, yes,” said Gibbons vaguely, who had paid these tributes scant attention and did not even know who had sent them. “They’re very nice.”

  “So how are you today, Sergeant?” asked Davies. “You look a bit pale, but perhaps that’s to be expected.”

  “I don’t know,” said Gibbons. He did not want to discuss his health; he wanted distraction. “I don’t feel too well so far.” His eyes fell to the manila envelope in Davies’s lap. “Is that something for me?” he asked.

  Davies nodded, smiling. “Yes, I’ve finally brought around those reports of yours—I’m sorry I didn’t send them over last night, but I really hadn’t a chance.”

  “It’s very good of you to bother at all,” said Gibbons automatically. “It’s the report of my interview with the Colemans?”

  “That’s right,” said Davies. “And I added the one you wrote up for the case file on our interview with Miss Haverford’s solicitor. I had actually forgotten that one, until I went to look up the other.”

  “I’ve forgotten it, too,” said Gibbons wryly.

  Davies gave a sympathetic smile. “I rather thought you might have,” he said. “Look, I’ll put them in the drawer here and you can look them over whenever you like.”

  For the first time that morning, Gibbons felt a faint stirring of interest, a slight quickening of his brain.

  “Actually,” he said, “just hand them to me. I’d like to read them over as soon as things quieten down again.”

  Davies looked around, glancing back toward the door. “It did seem rather busy out there when I came in,” he said. He raised a brow. “Not giving them any trouble, are you, Sergeant?”

  “I’m just lying here,” said Gibbons, a little despondently.

  “I can see that,” said Davies gently. “But you do look rather pale. You do your best to get well, eh, Sergeant? No fussing over these reports when you should be resting.”

  “No, sir,” promised Gibbons.

  “All right then.”

  Davies handed over the envelope and rose.

  “I can’t stay,” he apologized. “I’m going to be late at the Yard as it is.”

  “It was very good of you to stop by yourself, sir,” said Gibbons, clutching the envelope to his chest.

  “I wanted to see how you were doing, Gibbons,” he said. “I’ll be back as time permits, and I’ll keep you informed of developments.”

  “I appreciate that, sir.”

  Davies sketched a little salute and left. In a moment, Gibbons heard him speaking out in the hall; he could not quite make out the words, but by the tone of voice, Davies was introducing himself to the Gibbonses.

  Gibbons was simply glad to be left alone. He pulled the printed pages out of the envelope. The words swam on the page before his eyes initially, but some industrious blinking made them settle down.

  He was accustomed to reading through reports rapidly, picking out the salient details and leaving them to coalesce in the back of his mind. He was a practiced hand at it by this time, but he found now he had to concentrate quite fiercely to make sense of the thing, to understand what lay between the lines, unsaid, and yet held the key to everything.

  He was so deep into the first report by the time his parents returned that he did not notice them come in.

  6

  The Jewels

  Bethancourt was awakened that morning by the telephone. He had spent a restless night, waking up more than once with a pounding heart, thinking he must rush to Gibbons’s bedside at once, before it was too late. On one occasion he had actually been halfway to the bathroom before he came to himself and realized his urgency was born of a bad dream.

  Yawning prodigiously in the gray daylight, he answered the phone and was rewarded by the voice of his insurance agent, Becky Rankin.

  “Phillip?” she said. “I’ve managed to track down Colin James for you.”

  “Oh, splendid,” said Bethancourt, trying to read the bedside clock without his glasses; he rather thought it was just after eleven.

  “I think he must be quite interested in your friend’s case,” she continued. “At any rate, he’s agreed to meet with you at his office.”

  She sounded impressed, and Bethancourt propped himself up on his pillows.

  “That’s quite the favor, is it?” he asked.

  “Well,” said Becky cautiously, “Colin James is terribly well thought of. He’s made a fortune out of recovering stolen jewels and art for insurance companies, and at this point he doesn’t really have to bother with anything or anyone he doesn’t care to.”

  “Then I appreciate the compliment,” said Bethancourt. “When and where am I to see the great man?”

  Becky read off an address in the City and added, “He told my contact he’d be there from noon till about one o’clock, and could see you anytime then. I wouldn’t wait until close to one, though; James is well known for liking his lunch.”

  “Righto,” said Bethancourt, stifling another yawn. “I’d best get dressed, then. Thanks very much, Becky—I do appreciate your taking the time.”

  “Anything for my favorite client,” replied Becky with a laugh. “I’m glad it worked out.”

  Bethancourt looked sourly at his dog as he replaced the receiver in its cradle.

  “No leisurely morning for us, lad,” he said. “Up and at’em.” He hesitated and looked again at the clock. “Still,” he added, reaching for the phone, “it won’t take a moment to ring the hospital and check on Jack.”

  It was Mrs. Gibbons who answered the phone rather than her son, but she was able to assure Bethancourt that all was well with her presently sleeping offspring. Bethancourt experienced a wave of relief, despite knowing quite well that his worry had been occasioned by nothing more than a dream.

  Carmichael tracked Dawn Melton down at the day-care center in Southwark where she worked, no doubt the “good job” Mrs. Gibbons had mentioned. He had instructed Constable Lemmy to meet him there, but when he arrived there was no sign of him, despite the fact that the constable had had an easy tube ride from Scotland Yard, while Carmichael had ridden all the way down from Euston. Fuming, Carmichael waited by the entrance, but when five minutes had passed and Lemmy had not arrived, he gave up and went inside to seek out the headmistress.

  Dawn, when she came into the headmistress’s office, turned out to be a pleasant, rather ordinary young woman who bore—so far as Carmichael could see—no resemblance to her cousin Jack. She was a shade overweight with a heavy fringe of dark blond hair and a fresh, rosy complexion. Beneath the fringe, her light blue eyes were large and a little wary, though her smile was sweet. Together, they gave her an air of vulnerability.

  “Oh, of course,” she said when Carmichael introduced himself. “Jack has mentioned you—he admires you very much, you know.”

  “Er, kind of you to say,” replied Carmichael, a bit caught off guard by this artless remark. “Do sit down, Mrs. Melton.”

  She obeyed, plopping down into the chair and looking at him expectantly.

  “Have you come about Jack?” she asked.

  “Yes,” said Carmichael. “Did you know he was in hospital?”

  She looked horrified, her hands going to her mouth for a moment before she silently shook her head.

  “Is he all right?” she asked faintly.

  “Yes, yes,” Carmichael hastened to reassure her. “The doctors say he’ll be just fine.”

  “Thank God.” She breathed, and t
hen seemed to shake off her shock. “What happened, Chief Inspector? Oh, first, did you want his parents’ number? I’ve got it in my bag, though I would have thought …”

  She was already half out of her seat.

  “No, his parents have been notified,” said Carmichael. “In fact, they’re here in London and have already been to see him.”

  “Oh.” Dawn fell back in her chair, clearly a little at a loss to explain his presence.

  “I’m sure they’ll be getting in contact with you shortly,” said Carmichael. “I stopped by to ask if you had seen Jack recently?”

  “Well”—she ran a hand through her hair, rumpling up her bangs—“not very recently, no. He rang to ask how the girls were doing about a fortnight ago, I suppose. In fact”—she looked thoughtful—“I’ve been meaning to ring him and just haven’t got round to it the last few days. But what has happened to Jack, Chief Inspector?”

  “He was shot on Tuesday evening,” replied Carmichael levelly. Her hands sprang to her mouth again, her lips forming a silent “O,” and he gave her a moment to absorb the news. “Luckily, the attack was not fatal, and the surgeons were able to stitch him up and say he’ll make a full recovery. Though of course he’s not feeling too well just now,” he added.

  Dawn nodded, her hands falling back to her lap. “I must go round to see him,” she said. “And did you say my aunt and uncle were here? Are they staying at Jack’s, or do you think they’d rather be with me?” A frown appeared between her brows as she struggled with the logistics of putting up unexpected guests in what was no doubt an already crowded flat.

  “They’re staying at a hotel nearby the hospital,” Carmichael told her. “It seemed more convenient.”

  “Oh, yes, of course,” she said with a little sigh that seemed half relief and half annoyance at herself for not having thought of this simple solution.

  “I’m currently engaged,” continued Carmichael, “in trying to discover whether the attack on Jack was motivated in any way by his police work.”