A Deadly Marriage Read online

  There was a small pocket to the skirt she was wearing and from this she took a lace-edged handkerchief. Mrs. Cabbot had been so sure of herself that she’d never noticed when that handkerchief was taken from her bedroom at the hotel.

  She dropped the handkerchief to the floor and pushed it under the low shelf on which the shoes were kept.

  At that moment, she thought she heard a car door slam. She stood up and ran across to the window, but there was nothing in the drive. As she stood there, the sweat gathered on her face and neck and rolled down her skin: it was several minutes before she could once more breathe at a normal rate.

  There was one last thing to do. She returned downstairs and left the house, carefully locking the back door. She walked over to the shed in which David kept the gardening tools. Amongst the tools was an old carving knife.

  Catalina telephoned David on Sunday morning. “You’ve got to help me,” she said wildly.

  “See your solicitors,” he began.

  “I swear that if you’ll help me now, I’ll never bother you again. Please, please David, if you once loved me as I still love you, please help me.”

  “I can’t...”

  “It’s not money, or anything like that. I just want advice. I’m...I’m going to leave the country, so you’ll never see me again and maybe that’s the best thing even if I...It doesn’t matter how I feel. You will help me once more, w'on’t you? Please.”

  “All right.”

  “Meet me at the Swan Hotel at six. I won’t keep you and then you’ll be completely free of me. I hope you and Patricia have all the happiness we thought we’d have.” She rang off.

  Mrs. Cabbot sat in her hotel bedroom and thought about her late husband. There was no better way of keeping alive the burning shafts of hatred. There was a knock on the door and she stood up, crossed to the door, and opened it. Catalina came into the room. Mrs. Cabbot shut the door, returned to the dressing-table and picked up a pack of Camel cigarettes. “Well?’ she demanded. Her husband had died in terrible agony because of this woman and only the certain knowledge of what she was doing to his murderer kept her sane. She would never forget how Catalina Plesence had looked as she handed over the diamond necklace.

  Catalina said nothing. Mrs. Cabbot noticed she was breathing very quickly. She held her handbag open and kept one of her gloved hands inside it.

  “Have you got the money?” demanded Mrs. Cabbot.

  “No.”

  “Then get it.”

  Catalina looked down at her handbag.

  Mrs. Cabbot’s voice was shrill. “I’ll make you crawl. I’ll strip you of everything. I’ll...” She stopped suddenly as the other woman suddenly produced out of the handbag a carving knife whose blade had been shortened by years of sharpening. Wildly, she tried to remember where her gun was.

  Catalina mumbled something in Spanish.

  “You can’t threaten me,” said Mrs. Cabbot, a note of frightened disbelief in her voice. “I’ll call the police...”

  Catalina came forward. Mrs. Cabbot tried to scream, but the larger woman, now with the strength of a maniac, gripped her throat with her left hand whilst she struck home with the knife in her right.

  CHAPTER IX

  It was Monday morning.

  Cathart stared round the hotel bedroom, then at the dead woman on the floor. She was a terrible and a pathetic sight. He wondered whether the pathologist, as he took the temperature of the body, was quite as unmoved as he appeared to be.

  The finger-print expert, a detective sergeant, walked up to Cathart. “There’s one passable dab on the hilt of the knife, sir. It’s blurred, but it’s there. Probably the forefinger.”

  Cathart looked down at the knife. The handle was of smooth bone, in several shades of brown and cream. Both the blade and the handle were badly stained with blood. Both had been dusted with a light coloured powder and the detective sergeant pointed with his free hand at the print near the base of the handle.

  If the murderer was an “amateur,” by which Cathart meant unused to handling a knife, it would have been held with the blade pointing downwards — in which case this was almost certainly the print of a forefinger. If the murderer was an expert with a knife, the blade would probably have been held in the opposite direction so that the knife could be used equally easily to stab with or to slash. The wounds suggested not only that the murderer was an amateur, but that he had been in a frenzy. “Anything else?”

  “Enough prints around the room, sir, to keep me busy from now until Christmas. I could do with some help here and when it comes to taking eliminating prints from the staff.”

  “I’ll see what can be done,” replied Cathart, unhelpfully. The police were always short-handed, so overwork should be nothing new to the detective sergeant.

  Cathart pushed his hands into his pockets. This murder had to be directly connected with the earlier murder of Cabbot:to suggest otherwise was to stretch coincidence too far. Yet, as a policeman with a wealth of experience, he had constantly to remember that, when it came to fact, coincidences never could be stretched too far. The contradiction could only be overcome by his checking all possibilities and remaining receptive to all possibilities.

  They had taken photographs, made sketches, tested stains for human blood reaction, sent carpet, bedspread, and blankets away for further tests, and searched the room from top to bottom. They had found a small length of woollen thread, with a red-brown pattern, that looked as if it could have come from a coat or a pair of trousers.

  The knife had a finger-print on it, which almost certainly wouldn’t be the dead woman’s because there were no defence wounds on her hands to show an attempt to struggle. In any case, that point would be decided as soon as the pathologist had completed his job and the detective sergeant had taken the dead woman’s finger-prints.

  Some five minutes later, the pathologist stood up and came across. “O.K., Inspector. She can go off new.”

  “Any immediate comments, sir?”

  “It wasn’t suicide, but you didn’t need me to tell you that. The temperature of the body’s down to seventy-four degrees which suggests something like seventeen hours since death — borne out by the total extent of rigor. The murderer gripped her by the throat with one hand and used the knife with the other, the right hand. She bled very severely, but I can’t say yet which particular injury caused her death or whether it was a cumulation of all of them — that’ll have to wait for the P.M. I can’t go any further than that at the moment.” The pathologist went into the small bathroom, washed his hands, then left.

  Cathart longed for a cigarette, but being in the murder room he could not smoke. He took a stick of chewing gum from his coat pocket and chewed that instead. Mrs. Cab-bot had almost certainly known the murderer, as was evidenced by the fact she must have opened the door — it was a spring loaded lock — gone back to the dressing-table, picked up a pack of cigarettes — found lying on the floor, splattered with blood — and lit a cigarette. She had probably been expecting the caller, who knew which room she was in, since no one had asked for Mrs. Cabbot at the reception desk the previous evening.

  The motive for the murder was not theft as in one of the drawers of the dressing-table were seven hundred and sixty-one pounds in ten pound, five pound, and one pound notes. Where had this money come from? Mrs. Cabbot had said that she and her husband were short of money. True, they had stayed at the Hilton in London, which hardly suggested poverty, but perhaps they’d always intended to bilk. Cathart took a note-book from his pocket and made a note to check on this point. He had a good memory, but experience had taught him that it was both silly and dangerous to forgo the obvious benefits of taking notes when a point came to mind. He replaced the notebook in his pocket. Had there been blackmail?

  The door of the bedroom opened and two men in uniform, carrying a stretcher, entered, followed by Detective Constable Quenton.

  Quenton spoke to Cathart. “I’ve seen all the staff who are available at present, sir. They
’ve confirmed that no one asked for Mrs. Cabbot and no one saw anyone enter or leave this room. The last time she was seen alive was about five yesterday afternoon when she had tea downstairs — the waitress can’t be certain of the time within about a quarter of an hour.”

  “Were there any strangers around the place?”

  “Several, last night, especially in the bar. But the barman says that’s perfectly normal for a Saturday evening. The man on duty at the reception desk says that there was a stranger around during the evening who seemed pretty obviously to be looking for someone. The receptionist was too busy to notice much about him.”

  “Did he notice anything?”

  “He says the man seemed very nervous.”

  “They always say that afterwards.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Description?”

  “Tallish, square shoulders, country suit in light grey, middle thirties, mouse coloured hair, strongly featured face, clean-shaven. It’s not much to go on, sir, but the receptionist says he’ll be able to recognise the man again.”

  Cathart pushed the wad of chewing gum up between gum and cheek. It certainly wasn’t a definitive description, yet it did cover David Plesence. “Get down to the local newspaper morgue and grab hold of a photo of Plesence: they must have some of him. Then get it back for the receptionist to have a look at.”

  Quenton left. Cathart watched the two uniformed men carry the stretcher and sheet-covered corpse out of the room. At the request of the management, they were leaving by the back way and taking the service lift down to road level. Corpses, thought Cathart cynically, were bad for the hotel trade.

  Detective Sergeant McWatt finished sticking the white tape to the floor to mark the position in which the body had been. He stood up, leaned backwards to ease his back, and yawned.

  Cathart wriggled the chewing gum downwards and resumed chewing. He mentally checked that everything was proceeding as it should, then left the bedroom and went down to the manager’s office. On the way, he dropped the chewing gum into a sand-filled ash tray and lit a cigarette. Already, this case bothered him because of certain features. The frenzy with which Mrs. Cabbot had been killed suggested a complete lack of self-control, perhaps even a degree of madness, yet David Plesence was very far from mad. He was an ordinary man in most respects and extraordinary only in that he had had the guts to carve out a business success for himself against the advice of all the experts and then flout convention and live with the woman he loved. Cathart admired the man who said to hell with the Joneses of the world. Wouldn’t Plesence have killed with one or two stabs, not with a dozen or more slashes?

  The manager was very harassed. He said that reporters kept arriving at the hotel and demanding to know what was happening; was there any chance of keeping the whole thing quiet, or at least concealing the name of the hotel? Cathart replied that the publicity would be quite invaluable and there would be a flood of morbid people wanting to stay. He cut short further moans from the other and asked to see certain members of the staff. The manager used the internal telephone to call the men and women up to the office, one at a time. Cathart made a point of having material witnesses interviewed both by other members of the C.I.D. and himself. It was an odd fact, but people remembered more when two different people interviewed them than when the same person did so twice.

  It was an hour and a quarter later when Quenton knocked on the door and entered the office. Cathart stubbed out a cigarette, tried to ease his collar which seemed to be out to choke him, and leaned back in his chair. Quenton waited to report until the waiter, whom Cathart had been questioning, had left.

  “I got the photos from the paper, sir. There was a whole pile of them so I took a right profile, a left profile, and a full face.”

  Quenton was going to make a first-class detective, thought Cathart. He used his intelligence most of the time and it was strange how few people there were who did that. “Did you have any joy back here at the hotel?”

  “The receptionist immediately identified Plesence as the man who was here last night.”

  “Would you call it a certain identification?”

  “Yes, sir. He picked out the photo right away and without any hesitation.”

  Cathart stared at the desk for several seconds, then looked up. “You’d better come out with me to see Plesence. Give it half an hour from now.”

  “Right, sir.”

  Quenton turned and walked to the door. His right hand was on the handle when the detective inspector’s words halted him. “When you’ve time, see the newspaper again and try for a photo of Mrs. Plesence. See if anyone saw her around yesterday.”

  David sat in the downstairs room at Frogsfeet Hall which he used as an office and read through the letters he had brought back with him. He signed them and put them in the stamped addressed envelopes which Miss Bryanstrom had supplied. Then he studied a sheet of paper almost covered with figures. The company’s accountant had drawn up the three monthly simplified financial report, showing the trends in profits, capital investment, and percentage return on turnover. Profits were down although turnover was up. He had been warned that this would happen. To some extent, it marked the change from a small to a medium-sized business. Perhaps with the engagement of more workers, a certain bloody-mindedness had crept in, the same bloody-mindedness that was rampant in so much of English business: why the hell work one’s guts to death just to put more cash in the pockets of the bosses?

  Today, he had decided to give the O.K. to the go ahead with the six prototype slurry disposal units. He wondered, not for the first time, what that would do to the profits?

  Patricia entered the study. “Sorry to bother you, David, but two detectives have turned up and want a word with you.”

  “I’d just about finished.” He stood up and kissed her. “Did I tell you I want to marry you?”

  “Not for a very long time.”

  “Remind me to write a memo.”

  They left the study, once the butler's pantry, and went along to the hall and into the sitting-room.

  David shook hands with the two detectives. “Care for a drink?”

  “I can’t think of anything nicer,” said Cathart.

  Whilst David was pouring out the drinks, Cathart said: “Have you heard the news?”

  “What news?”

  “Mrs. Cabbot was murdered at her hotel last night.” David, about to replace the bottle of whisky, stood quite still. He remembered his wait at the hotel — was it the same hotel?

  “She was slashed to death with a carving knife.” Patricia drew in her breath so sharply that it sounded as if she had gasped.

  “I’m wondering if you could help us, Mr. Plesence?”

  “How can I?”

  “It seems probable this murder is directly connected with the murder of her husband.”

  “I can’t help you. I’ve never met Mrs. Cabbot.”

  Cathart was silent. David, wondering if he appeared as shocked as he felt, slowly put the bottle of whisky down on the cocktail cabinet. He carried the tray of glasses across, served everyone, then sat down.

  “You didn’t by any chance see her yesterday, Mr. Plesence?” asked Cathart.

  “I’ve just told you I’ve never met her.”

  “Have you ever visited the hotel where she was staying?”

  “How can I say when I’ve no idea what hotel she was

  “I’m sorry, I forgot to say. It’s the Swan Hotel, in Waterground Street. D’you know it?”

  “I...I may have passed it.”

  “You weren’t there yesterday evening?”

  “No.”

  “I wonder if you’d say whether you went out at all yesterday evening?”

  “I didn’t. I was here.”

  “Is there someone who can verify that?”

  “Mrs. Brakes was here.”

  Cathart looked at Patricia. She could not hide her shock and she was looking at David in a way that made it all too clear he was lying. “Mrs. Brakes
?” he said. When she did not answer, he repeated her name more loudly.

  She started. “Yes?”

  “Do you confirm what Mr. Plesence has just told us?”

  “Of course I do.” Her voice was high.

  Cathart drank some whisky. He remembered the body of the dead woman and her terrible injuries. “Mr. Plesence, do you realise that the only thing to do is to say right now if you weren’t here all yesterday evening?”

  “I was here,” repeated David.

  Cathart took a silver cigarette case from his pocket and stood up. He offered it to Patricia, who took a cigarette, then to David. As David stretched out his hand, Cathart dropped the case on to David’s lap. “I’m so sorry.” David picked it up, took out a cigarette, and handed it back.

  Cathart with well-concealed care, held the cigarette case by its rim as he offered it to Quenton. After he’d taken a cigarette for himself, he dropped it back into the plastic bag that was inside his coat pocket.

  “Why...why was she killed?” asked David, as he struggled to free his mind of the nightmare fear which the news had brought. He’d been called to the hotel by Catalina. This must surely mean that Catalina was the murderer and that the death of Cabbot had been no mistake or accident.

  “Something wrong?” asked Cathart.

  “I...Why d’you ask?”

  “I thought you looked a bit strange.”

  “It’s just a headache.”

  Cathart finished his drink. “Would you mind if I had a look around the house?”

  It was Patricia who answered. “Of course he’d object.”

  “Why, Mrs. Brakes?”

  “Because he’s every right to object.”

  “Naturally. But I’d rather hear Mr. Plesence take advantage of that fact.”

  Patricia flushed.

  “There’s nothing to see in this house,” said David suddenly.

  “Then can you really have any objection to our looking round?”

  “There’s no reason for me to have my privacy destroyed.”

  “Very well.”

  David tried to remain silent, but the urgent need to know something was too great. “What d’you expect to find?”