The Anodyne Necklace(11)

 
 

 

"How'd you know what was in hers, Dr. Riddley?"

"She was showing it round, man. Doing, she said, her civic duty." There was a silence as Riddley smoked and turned his lighter in his fingers. The ashtray was already full to overflowing. His fingers were stained with nicotine. He seemed a nerve-wracked young man. Youngish. Jury put his age in the mid-thirties. He wondered if having a surgery in even such a small village as Littlebourne were still a pressured existence. Looking at him, Jury thought it was no wonder women fell in love with doctors, and Riddley would be odds-on favorite for a romantic candidate: unattached, good-looking, probably chauvinistic enough to fascinate. With all that going for him, he might even live down his Irish ancestry-those blue eyes, that copper hair.

In the expanding silence, Riddley tapped ash from his cigarette and said, "Superintendent, I confess in the face of your relentless questioning."

Jury smiled. "To what?"

"Anything, anything. You've asked exactly two questions since you walked in the door. No, three, with that last one. You've simply let me yammer on and on. So what have I said that's going to see me in the dock? Of course, you've read the letter about me and Ramona Wey. All in blue. Writer didn't have much imagination, though, since he chose Ramona as the object of Mainwaring's affections, too. Sort of like throwing darts at a board and seeing which will hit the bull's eye and which fall wide."

"What is your relationship with Miss Wey?"

"Oh, there you go again. Questions, questions. My ‘relationship' with her is doctor-patient. Period. But Mainwaring's-" Nathan Riddley's blue glance flicked away from Jury's eyes.

"Mainwaring?"

Riddley shrugged. "Let the Craigies and the Bodenheims do the gossip, please."

Jury changed the subject. "What about Katie O'Brien?"

That did make him stop rocking his chair. "Katie? My God, I'd almost forgotten. . . . You heard she'd been attacked in a London tube station." Jury nodded. "She's in a coma. Been that way for two weeks and the longer it lasts, the worse her chances. Whoever hit her wasn't kidding around. Landed a terrific blow to her skull. She suffered a tear of the brain stem, sort of thing you might get in an auto accident. Whiplash. And you know, of course, the longer the coma keeps on, the worse the chances of any sort of recovery. We don't see many miracle awakenings, except in books. It's really terrible."

"What hospital is she in?"

"Royal Marsden. It's in the Fulham Road." As Riddley made a jab at the ashtray, the pale red-gold hairs along his wrist glinted in the sunshine. "Mary's taking it awfully hard. I'm really worried about her."

The worry seemed to be more than clinical, Jury thought. He would not have thought of Riddley and Mary O'Brien. Perhaps he was older than he looked. More likely, Mary O'Brien was younger than, at this awful moment in her life, she looked.





SEVEN


"I'LL simply have them kill one another off. That way I can get rid of them faster."

Polly Praed announced her plan to Barney, her cat, who lay like a paperweight atop her manuscript pages.

Polly was not much interested in the motive for these multiple killings-she was only interested in the method. Tap, tap, tap went the typewriter keys, painting a clear image of Julia Bodenheim threading an embroidery needle which she had recently dipped in curare:

"Oh, do be careful, Mummy," said her daughter, Angela, whilst flipping through a fashion magazine. "Remember, you've no thimble."

Of course Mummy had no thimble. Polly smiled. Angela had taken pains to hide it.

Angela was only pretending to read. Actually she was watching closely the flying fingers of her mother as they deftly drew primrose thread round the edges of the hoop. "Oh, Mummy! There, you've gone and pricked your finger!"

Polly shoved the glasses to the top of her head and sat back. Matricide? Would the public go for that? Or would it be rather too sickening? Sophocles, after all-

There was a knocking, like doom, on the door.

She jumped. Then, annoyed at the interruption, shoved her glasses down. Why was someone knocking now, just when Mummy Sylvia was about to die a very painful death? (Clutching her throat? Clawing at the air?) And thinking how she really ought to read up on poisons, Polly went to the window to peek out-

Oh, good God! Him!

Wildly, she turned, searching the room as if she might find a gown of beaten gold to take the place of the dreary twin-set. Why hadn't she put on her blue frock this morning . . . hair, awful . . . no lipstick . . . God! Another knock!

"Ju-ust a mo-ah-ment. . . . " She tried to flute it, but her voice cracked. She ran to the bathroom for a comb.



Humming tunelessly, Jury waited on Polly Praed's stoop and looked over the pleasant prospect of Littlebourne Green. He was wondering when Melrose Plant might get there, was rather surprised he hadn't turned up by now, as he had called him early this morning. Lady Ardry had probably shackled herself to him, and Plant was looking for an acetylene torch. . . . The other half of Jury's mind was looking up and down the street for the girl with the yellow hair. He was sure she was out there somewhere. Um-hm. In the doorway, suddenly, across the Green. That tearoom with "Muffin" in its name-

Sunnybank Cottage's door opened.

The woman looked, he thought, rather newly minted, in the sense of a makeup job that had the stamp of someone about to appear on a film set. Yet, despite the layers of thick mascara and a totally inappropriate green-gold glitter of eyeshadow, he could see the eyes beneath it all were wonderful. Perhaps it was the film-set notion that made him think of Elizabeth Taylor. The face might be otherwise unremarkable, but with those eyes it would take a person of iron self-control even to notice the rest of her. Jury did, however; he was paid to. She was a rather petite, early-middle-ageish woman in a twin-set the color of drabbit. A nice mop of dark curls, apparently untamable.

"Miss Praed? I'm Superintendent Jury, Scotland Yard C.I.D." He flicked his ID.

This seemed to surprise her out of her pose of slinky nonchalance-one hand up the doorsill, the other drooping on her hip. But she said nothing.

"Could I have just a word with you?"

There was a feeble sort of wave of her arm, apparently inviting him in. She cleared her throat, as if to speak, but nothing came out. Jury removed his coat and dropped it on a couch. He looked round the study, or whatever she called it, its small window facing the Green. A battered library table took up what little space there was; an equally battered orange cat was washing its forepaw. Around its neck was a red bandanna, victory flag, perhaps, to mark its hard-won battles with less fortunate cats. "Nice cat," said Jury, trying to put her a bit more at ease.

"Its name's Barney," she blurted out, like an actress cued from the wings.

"Barney looks as if he can take care of himself."

"He's a coward, actually."

Barney seemed to think this estimate called for further explanation and stopped washing. He sat aloof and princely, paws together, tail lapped round them like the robes of state. Barney glared at both of them.

The subject of the cat exhausted, Jury asked: "Could I just sit down a moment? It won't take long."
 
 

 

"Oh. Yes." She turned absently, looking for chairs as if the furniture removers had come and cleaned her out.

"There's a chair just there," Jury informed her. Beside it was a small repast of cheese and crackers on a table. "Did I interrupt your tea, or anything? Sorry." She gave a shake of her head, curls bobbing, and sat down in that chair, nodding him toward another. She offered some cheese and crackers to Jury, who refused.

"How long have you lived in Littlebourne, Miss Praed?" It was going to be rough going with her, he could see. Police did certainly unnerve some people totally.

She bent her head over the single cracker and cheese tidbit she had taken from the plate. How could anyone manage to make a bit of cheese look like a small, dead animal?

"Oh, a long time. Oh, I guess even ten or fifteen years. . . . " A rather lengthy debate with herself followed over how long, exactly, she'd lived in the village. Twelve and one-half years was her final decision. This was submitted to Jury for any possible inaccuracy.

"I understand you're a writer. Mysteries. I guess I haven't read-"

His confession elicited an electric response: "I hope not! I mean, you wouldn't like them at all. I'm sure you'd hate them. I bet most policemen hate mysteries, especially the ones like mine where the lead character's a Scotland Yard inspector. No resemblance to reality-" This rush of words out, she labored over the cracker and cheese again.

"I hope they are removed from reality. Police routine's pretty dull, after all." Jury smiled the smile which had once prompted a seven-year-old girl to insist he have the remainder of her container of Smarties. It had the effect on Polly, unfortunately, of making her reach for a pair of ugly, horn-rimmed glasses with which she promptly covered her eyes.

"I interrupted your writing, I guess. Sorry."

"Don't be," she said quickly. "I've just been practicing murders."

"Practicing?"

"Like scales, you know. I practice on the Bodenheims. I'm calling it The Littlebourne Murders."

"Which of them is your victim?"

"All of them. I've killed off each one half-a-dozen times. Guns, knives, faked auto accidents over cliffs, the lot. Right now I'm into poisons. Curare is nice. Cheese?" She thrust the plate toward him. He shook his head. She took another mouse-morsel of cheese and set it atop another cracker. Then she said, casually: "What'd you say your name was?"