The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [217]
“I only wish, Chief, but I’m afraid it’s far more stupid than that. I was driving Ms. Kershaw into town this morning when I had to stop at a red light. While I was waiting for the lights to change, a man crossed the road in front of the car. He stopped and stared at me. I recognized him immediately and prayed the lights would turn to green before he could place me. But he walked back, looked at me again, and smiled. I shook my head at him, but he came over to the driver’s side, tapped on the window, and said, ‘How are you, Inspector Williams?’”
“Who was it?” demanded Donald.
“Neil Case. Remember him, Chief?”
“Could I ever forget him? ‘Never-on-the-Case Neil,’” said Donald. “I might have guessed.”
“I didn’t acknowledge him, of course, and since Ms. Kershaw said nothing, I thought I might have got away with it. But as soon as we arrived back at the house she told me to come and see her in the study, and without even asking for an explanation she dismissed me. She ordered me to be packed and off the premises within the hour, or she’d call the local police.”
“Damn. Back to square one,” said Donald.
“Not quite,” said Williams.
“What do you mean? If you’re no longer in the house, we no longer have a point of contact. Worse, we can’t play the butler card again, because she’s bound to be on her guard from now on.”
“I know all that, Chief,” said Williams, “but suspecting that I was a policeman caused her to panic, and she went straight to her bedroom and made a phone call. As I wasn’t afraid of being found out any longer, I picked up the extension in the corridor and listened in. All I heard was a woman’s voice give a Cambridge number, and then the phone went dead. I assumed Rosemary had been expecting someone else to pick up the phone, and hung up when she heard a strange voice.”
“What was the number?” Donald asked.
“Six-four-oh-seven-something-seven.”
“What do you mean, ‘something-seven’? barked Donald as he scribbled the numbers down.
“I didn’t have anything to write with, Chief, so I had to rely on my memory.” I was glad Williams couldn’t see the expression on the Don’s face.
“Then what happened?” he demanded.
“I found a pen in a drawer and wrote what I could remember of the number on my hand. I picked up the phone again a few moments later, and heard a different woman on the line, saying, “The director’s not in at the moment, but I’m expecting him back within the hour.” Then I had to hang up quickly, because I could hear someone coming along the corridor. It was Charlotte, Rosemary’s maid. She wanted to know why I’d been fired. I couldn’t think of a convincing reply, until she accused me of having made a pass at the mistress. I let her think that was it, and ended up getting a slapped face for my trouble.” I burst out laughing, but the Don and Jenny showed no reaction. Then Williams asked, “So, what do I do now, Chief? Come back to England?”
“No,” said Donald. “Stay put for the moment. Book yourself into the Majestic and watch her around the clock. Let me know if she does anything out of character. Meanwhile, we’re going to Cambridge. As soon as we’ve booked ourselves into a hotel there, I’ll call you.”
“Understood, sir,” said Williams, and rang off.
“When do we go?” I asked Donald once he had replaced the receiver.
“Tonight,” he replied. “But not before I’ve made a few telephone calls.”
The Don dialed ten Cambridge numbers, starting with 0223, using the digits Williams had been able to jot down, and inserting the numbers from zero to nine in the missing slot.
As it happened, 0223 640777 turned out to be a school. “Sorry, wrong number,” said Donald. In short order, 717 was a chemist’s shop; 727 was a garage; 737 was answered by an elderly male voice—“Sorry, wrong number,” Donald repeated; 747 a newsagent; 757 a local policeman’s wife (I tried not to laugh, but Donald only grunted); 767 a woman’s voice—“Sorry, wrong number,” yet again; 777 was St. Catharine’s College; 787 a woman’s voice on an answering machine; 797 a hairdresser—“Did you want a perm, or just a trim?”
Donald