The Mask of Memory Page 15

Warboys said, ‘There’s no question of relevance so far as you are concerned.’ His eyes came up slowly, and then, surprisingly, he smiled and added, ‘ No relevance, yet, maybe. Not at all, I hope. Go on.’

  ‘In his bedroom on the dressing-table he had left the watch he usually wears.’ He did not have to describe it because Warboys knew it as well as he did, the thin gold watch on a slim gold chain which he wore across his waistcoat or in a small fob pocket below the band of his trousers, the chain anchored to a clip on his braces. ‘He must have worn some other watch.’

  ‘So he wore some other watch. Have you checked the supply department?’

  ‘Yes, sir. He drew a recorder four days ago.’

  ‘And the other thing?’

  ‘While I was there, after ringing the bell and waiting for five minutes, a girl came in. The ringing of the bell was specific; a simple code to give her identity. In the interval before her entry—’

  ‘—You watched from the bedroom window.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Warboys smiled again, but although it carried no approving nod, Quint sensed that somewhere approval had been given, that there was an importance to all this which was forcing some decisions on Warboys, that even someone else might have been sent on this same mission an hour before him, and he and the unknown were now being weighed, judged, on their reports.

  ‘Girl, is that correct?’

  ‘No, sir. A woman. Thirty-odd, dark hair, attractive, heartshaped face, slight possible Slav accent, expensively dressed, mink coat, entirely at home, carried shopping bag full of groceries. No handbag. Clearly expected Commander Tucker either to be there or to arrive this evening.’ He paused, and then – without any transgression of personal loyalties because they did not exist in their work – he went on, ‘I would say his mistress.’

  Warboys sat back and gave a little sigh. Then he stood up, jerked his jacket into place and said, ‘Stay on duty here tonight. If there’s a call or any message from Commande Tucker ring me at my home. If nothing comes in by midnight come over to my flat. While you’re on duty have X1351 sent up to you. Read it. You’re growing up. You’ll find quite a lot about the lady you met in it, hut nothing to make you nervous about her … though quite a lot to respect. Good.’

  The last word dismissed him.

  He went back to his office and rang through for the file and while he waited he felt relaxation sliding through his muscles and the certitude of some triumph moving to meet him. He might never see Commander Tucker’s private file, but to be ordered to read that of his mistress, Tania Maslick, was enough to denote trouble, trouble that – with luck – he would have to make his own. And not, he told himself, before bloody time. The apprenticeship had been long … long and just and necessary.

  Chapter Eight

  The inquest had been at four o’clock. Her solicitor had used his standing with the police and the Coroner’s people to arrange everything as smoothly as possible for her. She had given her evidence and answered the questions which were put to her without any trouble or embarrassment. She had described the quarrel between herself and Bernard quite frankly, saying that their marriage had been in name only for many years and that she had asked, him for a divorce, for the opportunity to go off and make a new life for herself. When the Coroner had asked if there was some other man specifically concerned with her decision she had said there was, and had been allowed to write down his name and pass it to the Coroner. Maxie’s name had already been made known to the police in her second interview which had taken place the day before – the Tuesday. The police surgeon had given his evidence, describing the cause of the death. Several of Bernard’s ribs had been broken and one of these had lacerated his right lung and the lower part of his windpipe. Death had been due to asphyxia caused by the inhalation of blood.

  The Coroner had recorded a verdict of accidental death. Browning, her solicitor, who had picked her up at her, house, had driven her home. In a small case were all the personal possessions found on Bernard at the time of his death. Margaret had asked that his clothes be cleaned and given away.

  Browning stood now, fingering a glass of sherry. Bernard’s personal possessions were on the sitting-room table. They were few; a ring of keys with small ivory dice on a chain as a tag, a silver cigarette case, a lighter, an ebony-backed pocket knife, a leather wallet with thirty pounds in notes, a handful of small change and a slim gold wrist watch on a black leather strap.

  He said, ‘Would you like me to go through his stuff, Mrs Tucker? There will be things I shall have to have … insurance policies, tax papers and so on.’

  Margaret shook her head. ‘ Not at the moment, if you don’t mind. I’ll collect it all for you and let you have it.’ She sipped at her drink, and went on, ‘I suppose there will be a report of the inquest in the local paper?’

  Browning, knowing quite well what was in her mind, said, ‘ You’re thinking of Mr Dougall? No, there won’t be any mention of him. In fact, I doubt whether there will be any report at all because there won’t be any weekly paper. They’re talking of striking in sympathy with the London newspaper workers.’

  He watched her face, wondering what went on in her mind. His experience told him that the probability of anything out of the ordinary was unlikely. Bernard Tucker had slipped on a wet path, his mind no doubt preoccupied with their recent quarrel, and he had had an unlucky fall. The police felt that, and they were content with it. With people like the Tuckers in this town you did not go beyond the obvious facts in the hope of discovering others – that way, if you made a nuisance of yourself and ended up empty handed, lay the road to deferred or lost promotion. The smaller the town, the longer were people’s memories. Though he could guess that when the police had been given Dougall’s name there must have been a moment or two of heady professional speculation.

  He finished his drink and said, ‘I’m sorry I must leave you now, Mrs Tucker, but I’ve a pile of stuff still waiting at the office…’

  ‘You’ve been very kind and helpful. You really have.’

  ‘Well, thank you. And, a little advice, Mrs Tucker. Try not to be on your own too much. I think it would be a good idea if you went away for a few weeks.’ He knew that if she did then Dougall would go with her but that was none of his business.

  When Browning had gone Margaret took the keys and other odds and ends and went up to Bernard’s bedroom. There was a dull lack of feeling in her which gave her the sensation of being merely an observer, watching herself, standing outside all the events of the last few days. Only once in all that time had Bemard been real for her, and then she had wept. Now, she was halted in some limbo, waiting for life to start again. That it would was certain, but for the time being she could raise little response for the prospect ahead. Her body was a stronger element than her mind and just now it was imposing its own imperatives on her. Maybe, she thought, the solicitor was right. She should go away, free herself of this atmosphere, and then there would be an end of all that she had known with Bernard. She picked up the wrist watch from the pile of his possessions which she had put on the top of his dresser. She had never seen it before. It looked very nice and expensive. It would be comforting to think that Maxie would be coming this evening to sit and talk to her. But there would be no Maxie. He had decided quite firmly that he would not see her until after the funeral which was tomorrow. He had said, ‘There’s a right way, and a wrong way, and around these parts if you take the right way, then folk soon forget – but do the wrong thing and they’ll remember for ever. The one thing they stick to about death is decorum. There’s no man easier wronged than a dead one.’

  A stir of ‘pride moved in her for Maxie. He was well-educated though, she knew now, preferred not to show it. But there was, too, a simple, homely, country decency in him which was as strong as his physical strength. In these days, though the need for it was there at times, she knew she could attend the comfort of his presence; real solace lay in knowing that he was there in his cottage on the marsh with he
r in his thoughts always.

  There had been no call from Tucker by midnight. An hour later, at Warboys’ flat, Quint had been briefed fully about the whole affair.

  Warboys, in an old red dressing-gown, running a hand through his lanky white hair, said, ‘ That’s it, Quint, You know everything. It’s your baby. I want Tucker – and I don’t want you to discount any possibility simply because he was what he was in this department. The department’s fallen flat on its precious arse. The PM wants those papers because his future is tied to them. There’s no need for hyperbole. You’ve got your own imagination. Tucker and the papers – your job. You can have access to anything or anybody you want, except – you won’t go near Sir Harry Parks. All right?’

  Quint nodded. He contained satisfaction and pride easily. But it was good to feel them there. Nothing like this had ever come his way before. It marked him now in another class. Sort this one out and he was on his way. As Warboys had talked a list of conjectures had ranged themselves in his mind, possible explanations, alternatives already in the back part of his brain being weighed, judged, discarded, kept floating. Tucker was now no longer his superior, semi-friend, leagued witb him in common professional interest, but Tucker to be searched for or hunted, to be trapped, rescued … but, no matter which, of less value than the papers and reporfhe had taken with him.

  Warboys, standing up, preparing to see Eim out, said. ‘There is no certainty about any human being. That, sadly, is the one certainty that the years have brought me. Always somewhere there is a flaw in the purest marble.’

  A faint turn of loyalty moved Quint and he said, ‘The Commander could be being held.’

  Warboys gave a thin smile. ‘It’s good of you to say so.’

  ‘Or have been run over by a bus.’

  ‘Just bring me the right answer, and quickly.’

  Quint went back to the office and rang for Bernard Tucker’s file.

  He spent the next hour reading and re-reading it. He slept on the office camp bed for three hours. The next morning he made three appointments for the day and left for the first one at ten o’clock.

  He let himself into Tucker’s flat and spent half an hour going over the various rooms again. There was nothing which moved any spark of curiosity or hope in him.

  At half-past ten, without any ring of the bell, the door was unlocked and Tania Maslick came in. She took off her white raincoat, gave him a little nod and said, ‘Would you like me to make some coffee?’

  Quint closed the room door behind her.

  ‘No, thank you, Miss Maslick.’

  She sat down in an armchair, put her handbag by her side on the floor and said, ‘All I know about you is from one brief meeting and a telephone call. I think rather more is required.’

  He handed her his routine identity card. It listed him as an information officer of the Legal Adviser’s branch of the Home Office. It was not strictly true, but the Home Office would never repudiate it if any enquiry were made about him.

  He said, ‘Commander Tucker is my senior officer. If you wish to check it I can give you a telephone number to ring.’

  She shook her head, handed him back the card, and said, ‘No. I accept it. I have a good imagination. My mother came here as a Polish refugee, long before I was born and my father was—’ She broke off suddenly and smiled.

  ‘I know all about you, yes, Miss Maslick. But we have no official interest in you. I just want to talk to you about Commander Tucker – unless you have any objections.’

  ‘They would mean little if I did, I imagine. No I have no objections, Mr Quint.’

  ‘How long have you known him?’

  ‘Just over five years.’

  ‘How did you meet him?’

  ‘I own this block of flats. The lettings are through my agent, but I have always insisted on a personal interview first of all with prospective tenants. That’s how I met Bernard. It developed from there.’

  ‘Did he tell you what he did for a living?’

  ‘He said he was the director of a chemical company with a large export trade. I always ask for two references – a bank and a personal one. He produced a note from the manager of his West End bank, and a letter from a well-known Member of Parliament.’

  ‘How long was it before you realized that he was probably not the director of a chemical company?’

  ‘After about a year.’

  ‘Did you ever ask him about it?’

  ‘No. Bernard and I had a very fine sense of questions which neither of us wanted the other to ask. It suited me.’ She smiled. ‘A little mystery keeps a relationship piquant.’

  Quint nodded, and said, ‘ You must know I wouldn’t be talking to you unless there was at this moment some concern about Commander Tucker. I would have expected you to have asked me right away, perhaps, about that. But you didn’t.’

  ‘No. I am concerned, of course, about anything to do with. Bernard. But knowing him for years has taught me to sit and wait.’

  ‘Did he tell you anything of what his movements were going to be this last weekend … from Friday last?’

  ‘No. I saw him on the Thursday for a drink in the evening here. Then I left. We arranged that I should come and prepare dinner on the Tuesday evening. He said nothing about the weekend.’ She reached over, lifted her bag and found her cigarettes. ‘To avoid you a little embarrassment I should explain that I had no regular nights for sleeping here. If Bernard wanted me and I was free I stayed. I could always tell within a few minutes of walking in here whether he was going to want me to stay. Then, if I could, I did.’ She lit her cigarette.

  Quint said, ‘Commander Tucker was due to keep an appointment at his office yesterday at three o’clock. He did not turn up. More than that I cannot tell you – except, of course, that we want to find out where he is.’

  ‘Thank you for that.’

  ‘You love him?’

  ‘No. Nor heme. We and our individual circumstances happened to suit one another. So, since I have no reason not to want to help you, let me tell you all I know about him. It’s not much. He said he was a bachelor—’

  ‘Said?’

  ‘Why not? Quite a few men who have wanted to sleep with me have begun by saying they were bachelors and, having got what they wanted – though the deed of gift was always in my control – have persisted with the fiction. Bernard said he was a bachelor. I never had reason to doubt him. I knew he had been in the Royal Navy, naturally. We seldom – as a couple – met other people. I know nothing of his friends or relatives, except that he maintained a transparent fiction that he had an old mother living either in Dorset or Wiltshire. He used – deliberately – to get the counties mixed at times.’

  ‘His mother lived in Jersey and died twenty years ago.’

  ‘I am not surprised.’

  Quint felt that she was not going to be surprised at anything. It was clear to him that she had accepted Bernard on exactly the terms she wanted, and whatever she had guessed she had kept to herself. Knowing Bernard, he felt certain that the man would have soon learnt everything there was to know about her, and approved. Otherwise she would not have lasted five days with him.

  He said, ‘ You must have been in this flat many times on your own. Were you ever curious enough to … well, take a good look around?’

  She laughed. ‘ Of course. I know it all, every inch, drawers, cupboards. Even his desk there which was not always locked. So?’

  ‘What impression did your curiosity give you?’

  ‘That the whole flat was the way Bernard wanted it. Impersonal. There was nothing private here. No papers, no letters … a few bills sometimes … nothing. He could have walked out of here at any time without luggage and left only the barest signs of his presence or personality.’

  ‘Did you give yourself a reason for that?’

  ‘But, of course. Because of his work. Because of your kind of work, Mr Quint. Bernard kept no bundles of old love letters, no personal documents … nothing. Always he carried on him w
hatever there was to give some lead to his place in life … like maybe your little identity card and so on. I was sorry for him – though he would not have thanked me for it because he valued his self-dedication. Yes, I was sorry for him, and I am sorry for you. My mother used to talk about your kind of people. She is now long dead.’ She blew a thin trail of cigarettesmoke, and added, ‘But, of course, you know all about her.’

  ‘Possibly.’

  She laughed. ‘See – you cannot commit yourself to a Yes or No.’ She stood up. ‘ I can’t help you, Mr Quint, not the kind of help you want. I can tell you what Bernard liked to drink and eat, what wine, what food. I can tell you how he was as a lover, but not really as a man. One thing I do know is that for many, many years I am sure there had never been any true happiness in his life – somewhere, honour and true pride in himself had been taken from him without his knowing it until it was too late. He is missing. I would not be surprised to hear sometime that he had committed suicide.’

  Quint picked up her raincoat and held it for her. She was, he realized now, the safest kind of person for Bernard to have picked for a mistress, but she had been of very little help to him. Too high a premium was put on ‘true happiness’ in life. It was a will-o’-the-wisp which he had no inclination to chase.

  He said, going to the door with her, ‘Thank you for your help, Miss Maslick. You must say nothing of our talk to anyone. I’ll be in touch with you if the necessity arises.’

  She said coldly, ‘Bernard’s lease of this flat expires in two months’ time. The rent has been paid until then. The furniture and furnishings are all mine. I shall look in occasionally to see that things are all right.’

  He went back, sat down, and lit himself a rare cigarette. Women, he thought, always made too much of everything.

  What the devil had happened to Bernard? The maa, profes sionally, he would swear was as solid as a rock. And Warboys, for all his outward calm, had to be teeming inside with anxiety. A special assignment from Downing Street and he had fallen flat on his face…