“Those who were privileged to serve under him know how easily the mantle of authority rested upon his broad shoulders.” The individual under discussion is an Army Brigadier depicted in a photograph in a well-polished silver frame. “Some men shirk responsibility. Others have it thrust upon them.” The person delivering the words goes by the name of Major Reggie Dorning. He paces up and down the living room, reading a eulogy from a piece of paper. “A few – just a very few – seem naturally destined for leadership.” Seated, watching him, is Mrs Warboys, a fifty-year-old widow. She’s almost as moved by his reading as he is. Dorning, mid-forties, wears a regimental tie and a dark blazer with a carnation in the buttonhole. “Brigadier Robert Warboys, MC, DSO and bar, was one of the few,” he concludes.
For a moment, no one speaks. Then Mrs Warboys declares, “It’s beautiful.”
Dorning shakes his head. “Inadequate,” he sighs. “Totally inadequate.” He returns the paper to his pocket. “How can you telescope 27 years of dedication, service – love – into two short columns?”
“A lot of people’ll see something in it they recognise and remember,” Mrs Warboys assures him.
Dorning is delighted to hear that. “The amalgamation of the regiments,” he laments, “the loss of the second battalion, the barracks being demolished… There’s so little left and now him!” He looks at the framed photograph. “It’s the end of an era.”
“Robert said the same thing.”
“Maybe the doctors called it thrombosis. But we know better, don’t we?” Dorning diagnoses a broken heart. “That’s what it was.”
“Surely you’re exaggerating,” says Mrs Warboys. “He was sixty, you know.”
“Sixty?” scoffs Dorning. “Nonsense! In his heart, he was thirty.”
“That’s true.”
“I saw him at that last reunion. Looked as fit as I’d ever seen him. The mind was as alert… he might have just come out of Staff College.”
Mrs Warboys frowns. “The last reunion?”
Dorning nods. “November.”
“But he was already confined to bed by then.”
This throws Dorning for a moment. “Surely not?” Then it comes to him. “By George! You’re right. How time goes by! I wasn’t even there myself. Busy time just before Christmas. Must’ve been the previous year.”
This satisfies Mrs Warboys. “Yes, it must.”
“That, unfortunately, dear lady, is where I come into the picture. As you know, my brokerage firm acts as unofficial advisers to the Regiment.” Dorning reaches for his briefcase. “Did you read about your Electrix shares?”
Mrs Warboys shakes her head. “No. I never know where to look. Is it good?”
“They’re going up,” smiles Dorning, eagerly, “like a choirboy’s prayer.” He takes out a copy of the Financial Times. “Now. What was your buying price?”
“You tell me. I’ve no head for figures.”
“It was ten shillings. There or thereabouts.”
“Where are they now?”
Dorning points vaguely at a listing in the paper. “See? Fifteen. We bought five hundred pounds’ worth for you. Profit: two hundred and fifty pounds. Not bad for three weeks’ work.” He closes the paper. “Not that all your deals’ll be as successful as this. Brokers, yes. Magicians, no!”
“Should I sell?” asks Mrs Warboys.
“Sell? Do you need the money?”
“No. I just thought we ought not to be greedy.”
Dorning chuckles. “Charming! I’m afraid you wouldn’t make a businesswoman.”
“I don’t think I would,” admits the widow. Tentatively, she suggests, “Perhaps I ought to buy some more, then?”
Dorning agrees. “That’s better. There’s hope. The City better look to its laurels.”
“I can’t spare more than another couple of hundred.”
“Fine,” says Dorning. “Let’s do it now while there’s still time. Once that report hits the City pages – bingo!”
Mrs Warboys takes her cheque book from her handbag and drops it on the table.
* * *
The cheque book is now on Marker’s desk. He picks it up and reads out the stubs. As he does so, a train rattles past outside. “Pay R. Dorning £250.” Marker turns the page. “Another £250… Another £200.” He comes to the end of the stubs. “So that’s seven hundred in all. Very nice!”
Mrs Warboys, sitting opposite, nods. “Seven hundred. To buy Electrix shares. That’s what he told me.”
“Sounds convincing.”
“Oh, yes,” says Mrs Warboys. “There was such a company – once!” She takes out a newspaper, opens it at the City page and hands it to Marker. The headline shouts, “COLLAPSE OF AN EMPIRE”.
Marker skims through the story. “Official receiver… liquidation… share price drops below par… meeting of angry creditors…” Mrs Warboys tells him to look at the date. Puzzled, Marker turns to the front of the paper. “Last Thursday.”
“Now the date on the City page.”
Marker sees it and nods. “September 2nd, 1961. Smart! So you’ve allegedly been buying shares in a company that went bust four years ago.”
“Precisely. He pocketed the money, gave me a series of phoney reports, then the final bombshell. ‘As surprised as I was,’ etcetera.”
“Surprised he left the newspaper behind. Careless!”
“Wasn’t it? Now, Mr Marker, what can you do for me?”
“Let’s start with the things I can’t do. I doubt if I can get your money back.”
“Why not?”
“He’ll have spent it.”
Mrs Warboys accepts this. “That’s what my solicitor said. He advised me to forget it. Write it off as a bad debt.”
“It’s not bad advice, Mrs Warboys. It wouldn’t be easy to find him.”
“I’ve given you his phone number.”
“He’s probably had half a dozen addresses since then. These men don’t hang around for long.”
The client’s voice takes on a forceful edge. “Mr Marker, within reason I don’t care what it costs. I want that man found, and I want him dealt with.”
“You sound determined.”
“I am,” Mrs Warboys replies. I’ve been made to look a silly old woman. That doesn’t please me.” However, what really riles her is the fact that Dorning traded on knowing her late husband. “He seemed to know so much about him, and the Regiment. Made a complete fool of me.” The Regiment, of course, had never heard of him. Marker asks how they met. “He read about Robert’s death in the paper,” Mrs Warboys explains, “then called at the house.”
Marker nods. “Obituary columns – they thrive on ’em. Have you told the police?”
Mrs Warboys shakes her head, vigorously. “It took two stiff whiskies to get me up your stairs.”
“They’re that sort of stairs,” says Marker. “Well, I can look for him, but ten to one he’s moved. Probably out of town by now.”
“There’s another reason I want him found,” Mrs Warboys reveals. “Perhaps his next victim can’t afford to be taken.”
“That won’t stop him. They’d take the pennies off a dead man’s eyes. Nothing’s sacred.”
“Any theories as to where he’d make for?”
Marker thinks for a moment, then looks at his desk diary. “Getting warmer, isn’t it?” he remarks. Mrs Warboys looks mystified, so he elaborates. “The weather.”
“Yes,” agrees Mrs Warboys. “Quite a pleasant weekend.”
“When are you taking your holiday, Mrs Warboys?”
“End of the month – while it’s still reasonably quiet.”
“Going to the sea?”
“Yes. I always do.”
“That’s probably where he’ll be,” guesses Marker, “the seaside. More wealthy widows than there are seagulls.” He ponders. “Not Brighton – too noisy, too vital. Not the North, either – they’re too canny, too much respect for ‘brass’. Somewhere, say, between Hastings and Torquay…”
* * *
In the coastal resort town of Bournemouth, in Dorset, the Albemarle Hotel is situated a short walk from the seafront. It’s a smallish hotel, with about sixty rooms, and fussy in a way that smaller seaside hotels often tend to be. The interior has a maritime theme – large photographic blow-ups of yachts at Cowes. Dorning, with a couple of well-labelled suitcases at his feet, pings the bell on the reception desk. The manageress, Mrs Eve Fisher, hurries through from the glass-doored office. She instinctively starts to straighten her hair. “Don’t!” says Dorning, turning on the charm. “I’ll take you just as you are.”
At first, Eve is haughty. She is the manageress, after all. “I beg your pardon, sir?”
“Three minutes from the sea,” says Dorning. “That’s what it says on the brochure.” He indicates a stack of them on the desk, and claims to have just timed the distance. “Robbie Brightwell might do it in three minutes, with a following wind, but I never will.”
Eve begins to thaw. “You must be one of those men who don’t read the small print at the bottom of contracts.”
“No, you’re wrong. I’m a great small-print reader. Southern Area Champion.”
Eve smiles. “Then I’m surprised you didn’t see that it was three minutes at the end of your stay at the Albemarle, not at the beginning.” She glances down at the register. “You’re Major Davis?”
“At your service,” nods Dorning. “How did you know?”
“You’re the only ‘single’ arriving today.”
Dorning puts on a pained expression. “‘Single’! You make it sound so pathetic.”
“I hope not. Ours is a friendly hotel.”
“Can I count on it?” asks Dorning, a little flirtatiously. Eve takes up the register and asks if he’d like tea and a paper in the morning. He replies that he’d like tea at 7.45 and a copy of the Financial Times. “You know they ring a bell in the City,” he confides, “soon as they know I’m going on holiday? The Davis Bell. Then they try to whip through a year’s big deals while I’m away.” Eve gives him the key to Room 34. Dorning is disappointed to learn that it doesn’t have a sea view or a bath. He claims to have asked expressly for these things. “My secretary never accepts anything less.”
Eve consults the register. “Well, sir. We might be able to work something out for the first three nights. After that –”
Dorning holds up a hand. “We’ll leave that to take care of itself.” Eve smiles and exchanges his key for that of Room 9. “Excellent,” declares Dorning. “Nine – always a lucky number of mine.” As Eve shows him to the lift, he asks if his Jag will be all right parked out front.
“Yes,” Eve tells him, adding, “You can leave your cases there. I’ll have them sent up.”
Dorning gets into the lift. “Dinner at seven?”
“Yes, sir.”
“See you in the bar at a quarter to.”
As the lift doors close, Eve looks agreeably surprised.
* * *
Back in London, Marker, briefcase in hand, stands at the front door of a much less salubrious hostelry – Dorning’s last known address. A notice inside the window of the door says “VACANCIES”. Marker rings the doorbell. Inside, a dog barks. A voice shouts at the dog. After a moment, the door opens and the landlord, Cameron, appears. Marker bids him good evening. “I’d like to see Mr Dorning.”
“So would I,” says Cameron, sourly.
“Doesn’t he live here any more?” asks Marker, already guessing the answer.
“Scarpered,” replies Cameron. “Three weeks’ rent and two of the wife’s best towels.”
Marker tuts. “Can’t trust anyone today. Didn’t leave any forwarding address, I suppose?”
“Not an address, not a button, not even a rusty razor blade.”
“Mean?”
“Mean?!” The landlord laughs, bitterly. “Wouldn’t give you the parsley off yesterday’s fish.”
Marker sighs. “That’s tricky. You see, I’m from the Pools. Dorning’s come up on the four aways –” Cameron expresses surprise. Marker tells him not to get too excited. “It’s nothing very grand. Only a couple of hundred quid.” He hands Cameron a card. “If you hear anything, give me a buzz. Who knows – he might cut you in for a quid or two.”
Cameron doubts it. “Pigs might fly!”
“Anyway,” adds Marker, “we’d pay you for your trouble.”
Suddenly, Cameron has additional information. “He’s gone to Bournemouth.”
“How do you know?”
“Heard him tell someone on the phone.”
“Thanks,” says Marker. “Hear any more – call me.” Cameron nods as Marker moves away. The landlord stands there, picking his teeth with Marker’s card and looking envious.
* * *
In Room 9 of the Albemarle Hotel, music issues from the radio speaker as Dorning lifts one of his suitcases up on to the bed. He notices that one of the labels to exotic locations has come unstuck. He examines it to see if he can stick it back on. He can’t. So he rips it off, takes another label – Bermuda – from a thick wad of them and carefully pastes it on the case. He then opens the case and starts to unpack. The first thing that comes to hand is an almost complete set of regimental and old school ties. He hangs these – handling them with affection – in the wardrobe. Next come the hair tonics, lotions, vitamin pills and mouth sprays – everything he needs to stay attractive and young-looking. Then he crosses to the radio speaker, turns off the music and flicks the switch to speak to reception. As he does this, he takes out his wallet and looks inside. There’s a single ten-shilling note left. When he hears Eve’s voice, he says, “I wonder if I could order a carnation to be sent up each morning with my tea.”
This throws Eve for a moment. “Er… I’ll see what I can do, sir.”
“Thank you. Call me back, will you?”
“Very good, sir,” replies Eve, obediently.
Dorning flicks the switch back to music and hums happily to himself. Happy, that is, until he finds a corset among his luggage. He pulls in his stomach and tries to look imposing in the mirror. As he’s doing so, he notices a slight fleck in the white of his eye. That really worries him.
* * *
After a few days on the case, Marker reports to Mrs Warboys. “Story is he’s gone to Bournemouth. Then I tried the local haunts. No one knew him. I’ve even made a few under-the-counter inquiries – same result.” Meanwhile, Mrs Warboys has found some photographs of Dorning. She triumphantly empties an envelope of snapshots on to her living room table. Marker shakes his head. “Mrs Warboys, I’m an inquiry agent, not a police force. A one-man outfit. I’m the managing director, the chairman and the office boy. If you told me he had a patch over one eye and blue hair, it wouldn’t make that much difference.”
Mrs Warboys looks disappointed. “But you said he’d gone to Bournemouth.”
“I know. And I could go down there and sit on the front for a fortnight and enjoy it. But I’d be robbing you.”
“I just thought they might help.”
More to please her than anything, Marker looks through the photographs. “Okay. What do I see? A man – well set up, mid-forties… Military blazer… Smart… More front than Southend… Expensive –” He suddenly breaks off, and points to one of the pictures. It shows a white Jaguar, its registration number clearly visible. “This car. Is it yours?”
“No,” replies Mrs Warboys. “It’s his.”
“Good,” says Marker. “It might help.”
“Mr Marker, if what you say is true, it probably isn’t his.”
Marker picks up the telephone directory. “That’s more than likely.” He begins flicking through the pages.
“So what good is it?” asks Mrs Warboys.
Marker explains. “Two years ago, I did a job for a warehouse company. They’re a member of the Road Haulage Association. If I ask ’em nicely, they’ll get their drivers down that part of the world to look out for a white saloon – this registration number. It’ll cost a fiver or two, but…” He indicates Mrs Warboys’s phone. “May I?” Mrs Warboys tells him to go ahead.
* * *
In the reference section of Bournemouth Library, Dorning, with a fresh carnation in his buttonhole, is looking at a faded Jane Austen manuscript mounted in a glass case. Judy Denham, a temporary assistant of about eighteen, comes up to him. They start talking about Austen. Then Judy mentions another writer. “You know, Bernard Shaw –”
Dorning cuts in, wittily. “No, I didn’t have that pleasure.”
Judy gives him a mock-reproachful look. “You didn’t let me finish.”
Dorning still doesn’t. “You’ve got a lovely tan for so early in the season.”
Judy is slightly flustered by this. “Have I?”
“Beautiful. Do you use any oil?”
“No. It’s mainly the breeze, I think.”
“I’m sorry,” says Dorning, “you were telling me about Mr Shaw.”
Judy says it doesn’t matter, but Dorning insists. “Well,” says Judy, “he said that, when he was reading Jane Austen, he could detect where she broke off to have a cup of tea.”
“Amazing!” remarks Dorning. “It’s a good idea, though.”
“What is?”
“Breaking off for tea. I have two lumps and the top off the milk.”
Judy protests. “I couldn’t –”
“Course you could. Who’s to know? Tell ’em it’s a visiting councillor.”
“Well, I’ll try,” smiles Judy. “But I’m not promising.”
“Don’t. And while you’re getting it, where do you file the local papers?”
Judy indicates a shelf. “That’s all this year’s.” Dorning thanks her. Judy asks if he can manage.
“With difficulty,” he replies.
Judy looks worried. “Why? What’s wrong?”
Dorning touches his throat. “So thirsty,” he gasps.
Grinning, Judy leaves him. Dorning collects the newspapers, places them on a desk and quickly turns to a specific section of one of them. He knows exactly what he’s looking for – the obituary column. He slips on a pair of glasses, produces a pencil and notebook, and works his way rapidly down the column. He rejects everything and moves swiftly on to the next paper.
* * *
At the reception desk of the Albemarle Hotel, Marker is being attended to by Eve Fisher. Because he isn’t such a master of ‘chat technique’ as Major Dorning, he’s receiving fairly short shrift. “It’s a nice room,” says Eve. “I’m afraid it doesn’t overlook the sea, but then we’re lucky to fit you in at all.”
“And very much appreciated,” says Marker, effusively.
Eve hands him his key. “Room 65. It’s opposite the lift, but ours is a quiet hotel.”
“One thing,” says Marker. “The car. I couldn’t park it. There’s a white Jag taking up a lot of space.”
Eve smiles, fondly. “That’d be Major Davis. Very naughty!” More businesslike, she adds, “He’s out at the moment. I’ll speak to him.” Marker thanks her and signs the register, glancing over it as he does so.
* * *
Mrs Ames, a widow in her mid-twenties, shows Dorning into the living room of her small flat. The curtains are half-pulled and a stack of condolence letters are on the side. Mrs Ames is in mourning and is never far from tears. A wedding photo – a line of officers crossing swords to form a triumphal arch – is on the mantelpiece. Dorning carries a small briefcase and is soberly, if nattily, turned out. He apologises for intruding on her privacy at a time like this. “Thank you, Mr Donaldson,” replies Mrs Ames.
“I knew your husband,” claims Dorning. “Not well, I’m afraid. That was my loss. He was a man to be proud of. The type – if I might be so bold – that the Army should encourage today.”
“Kind of you to say so,” sniffs Mrs Ames.
“I know it seems senseless, pointless. And Malaysia so remote. But, who knows? If we take a firm stand there, we may keep trouble off our own doorstep.”
“Let’s hope so.”
“Indeed.”
There’s an uneasy pause. Then Mrs Ames asks, “Your business, Mr Donaldson?”
“Yes.” Dorning proceeds with a show of awkward reluctance. “Again, I emphasise that I’d like to disassociate myself from this.”
“You’ve made that clear.”
“I hope so. I asked them to wait. A ‘decent interval’, that’s all I said. It’s not much, but apparently business waits for no man.” Dorning claims to be from Mr Ames’s regimental tailor. “No doubt you know all about us.”
Mrs Ames shakes her head. “I’m afraid not. We weren’t married that long.”
“Of course not. Well… at the time of his… demise… we were making a new set of Blues for him – a new dress uniform.”
“I know,” says Mrs Ames. “I mean, I know what Blues are. I didn’t know he’d ordered a new uniform.”
“Well…” Dorning coughs with embarrassment. “The point is, the work was completed, and, of course, the uniform is no good to us. Made to his specification – chest, waist, inner leg, etcetera – and… well… in short, I’m afraid we need paying for it.”
“I see,” sighs Mrs Ames. “At the moment, I haven’t a lot of money. Perhaps if I could pay over a length of time…?”
“I’m sorry,” says Dorning. “We don’t operate any credit system.” The amount required is £42.
Mrs Ames takes out her cheque book and begins to fill it in. Dorning watches, blandly, without a trace of emotion. “Who do I make it out to?” asks the widow.
“R. Davis and Co,” replies Dorning. Mrs Ames hands him the cheque. Dorning thanks her and folds it away in his wallet. “I’m only sorry it had to be me. I said to Mrs Donaldson at lunch –” He stops as he sees that she’s about to cry. “I’ll leave you.” He moves to the door. “Good afternoon, Mrs Ames.”
After showing him out, Mrs Ames returns to the living room, sits down, works out what money she has left and then finally gives in to tears.
* * *
Back at the hotel, Dorning endorses the back of the cheque. Eve counts out the money on to the reception desk. Without a word, they exchange cheque and money. Then Dorning smiles at her and walks to the lift. Eve looks after him, quite weak at the knees.
For a moment, no one speaks. Then Mrs Warboys declares, “It’s beautiful.”
Dorning shakes his head. “Inadequate,” he sighs. “Totally inadequate.” He returns the paper to his pocket. “How can you telescope 27 years of dedication, service – love – into two short columns?”
“A lot of people’ll see something in it they recognise and remember,” Mrs Warboys assures him.
Dorning is delighted to hear that. “The amalgamation of the regiments,” he laments, “the loss of the second battalion, the barracks being demolished… There’s so little left and now him!” He looks at the framed photograph. “It’s the end of an era.”
“Robert said the same thing.”
“Maybe the doctors called it thrombosis. But we know better, don’t we?” Dorning diagnoses a broken heart. “That’s what it was.”
“Surely you’re exaggerating,” says Mrs Warboys. “He was sixty, you know.”
“Sixty?” scoffs Dorning. “Nonsense! In his heart, he was thirty.”
“That’s true.”
“I saw him at that last reunion. Looked as fit as I’d ever seen him. The mind was as alert… he might have just come out of Staff College.”
Mrs Warboys frowns. “The last reunion?”
Dorning nods. “November.”
“But he was already confined to bed by then.”
This throws Dorning for a moment. “Surely not?” Then it comes to him. “By George! You’re right. How time goes by! I wasn’t even there myself. Busy time just before Christmas. Must’ve been the previous year.”
This satisfies Mrs Warboys. “Yes, it must.”
“That, unfortunately, dear lady, is where I come into the picture. As you know, my brokerage firm acts as unofficial advisers to the Regiment.” Dorning reaches for his briefcase. “Did you read about your Electrix shares?”
Mrs Warboys shakes her head. “No. I never know where to look. Is it good?”
“They’re going up,” smiles Dorning, eagerly, “like a choirboy’s prayer.” He takes out a copy of the Financial Times. “Now. What was your buying price?”
“You tell me. I’ve no head for figures.”
“It was ten shillings. There or thereabouts.”
“Where are they now?”
Dorning points vaguely at a listing in the paper. “See? Fifteen. We bought five hundred pounds’ worth for you. Profit: two hundred and fifty pounds. Not bad for three weeks’ work.” He closes the paper. “Not that all your deals’ll be as successful as this. Brokers, yes. Magicians, no!”
“Should I sell?” asks Mrs Warboys.
“Sell? Do you need the money?”
“No. I just thought we ought not to be greedy.”
Dorning chuckles. “Charming! I’m afraid you wouldn’t make a businesswoman.”
“I don’t think I would,” admits the widow. Tentatively, she suggests, “Perhaps I ought to buy some more, then?”
Dorning agrees. “That’s better. There’s hope. The City better look to its laurels.”
“I can’t spare more than another couple of hundred.”
“Fine,” says Dorning. “Let’s do it now while there’s still time. Once that report hits the City pages – bingo!”
Mrs Warboys takes her cheque book from her handbag and drops it on the table.
* * *
The cheque book is now on Marker’s desk. He picks it up and reads out the stubs. As he does so, a train rattles past outside. “Pay R. Dorning £250.” Marker turns the page. “Another £250… Another £200.” He comes to the end of the stubs. “So that’s seven hundred in all. Very nice!”
Mrs Warboys, sitting opposite, nods. “Seven hundred. To buy Electrix shares. That’s what he told me.”
“Sounds convincing.”
“Oh, yes,” says Mrs Warboys. “There was such a company – once!” She takes out a newspaper, opens it at the City page and hands it to Marker. The headline shouts, “COLLAPSE OF AN EMPIRE”.
Marker skims through the story. “Official receiver… liquidation… share price drops below par… meeting of angry creditors…” Mrs Warboys tells him to look at the date. Puzzled, Marker turns to the front of the paper. “Last Thursday.”
“Now the date on the City page.”
Marker sees it and nods. “September 2nd, 1961. Smart! So you’ve allegedly been buying shares in a company that went bust four years ago.”
“Precisely. He pocketed the money, gave me a series of phoney reports, then the final bombshell. ‘As surprised as I was,’ etcetera.”
“Surprised he left the newspaper behind. Careless!”
“Wasn’t it? Now, Mr Marker, what can you do for me?”
“Let’s start with the things I can’t do. I doubt if I can get your money back.”
“Why not?”
“He’ll have spent it.”
Mrs Warboys accepts this. “That’s what my solicitor said. He advised me to forget it. Write it off as a bad debt.”
“It’s not bad advice, Mrs Warboys. It wouldn’t be easy to find him.”
“I’ve given you his phone number.”
“He’s probably had half a dozen addresses since then. These men don’t hang around for long.”
The client’s voice takes on a forceful edge. “Mr Marker, within reason I don’t care what it costs. I want that man found, and I want him dealt with.”
“You sound determined.”
“I am,” Mrs Warboys replies. I’ve been made to look a silly old woman. That doesn’t please me.” However, what really riles her is the fact that Dorning traded on knowing her late husband. “He seemed to know so much about him, and the Regiment. Made a complete fool of me.” The Regiment, of course, had never heard of him. Marker asks how they met. “He read about Robert’s death in the paper,” Mrs Warboys explains, “then called at the house.”
Marker nods. “Obituary columns – they thrive on ’em. Have you told the police?”
Mrs Warboys shakes her head, vigorously. “It took two stiff whiskies to get me up your stairs.”
“They’re that sort of stairs,” says Marker. “Well, I can look for him, but ten to one he’s moved. Probably out of town by now.”
“There’s another reason I want him found,” Mrs Warboys reveals. “Perhaps his next victim can’t afford to be taken.”
“That won’t stop him. They’d take the pennies off a dead man’s eyes. Nothing’s sacred.”
“Any theories as to where he’d make for?”
Marker thinks for a moment, then looks at his desk diary. “Getting warmer, isn’t it?” he remarks. Mrs Warboys looks mystified, so he elaborates. “The weather.”
“Yes,” agrees Mrs Warboys. “Quite a pleasant weekend.”
“When are you taking your holiday, Mrs Warboys?”
“End of the month – while it’s still reasonably quiet.”
“Going to the sea?”
“Yes. I always do.”
“That’s probably where he’ll be,” guesses Marker, “the seaside. More wealthy widows than there are seagulls.” He ponders. “Not Brighton – too noisy, too vital. Not the North, either – they’re too canny, too much respect for ‘brass’. Somewhere, say, between Hastings and Torquay…”
* * *
In the coastal resort town of Bournemouth, in Dorset, the Albemarle Hotel is situated a short walk from the seafront. It’s a smallish hotel, with about sixty rooms, and fussy in a way that smaller seaside hotels often tend to be. The interior has a maritime theme – large photographic blow-ups of yachts at Cowes. Dorning, with a couple of well-labelled suitcases at his feet, pings the bell on the reception desk. The manageress, Mrs Eve Fisher, hurries through from the glass-doored office. She instinctively starts to straighten her hair. “Don’t!” says Dorning, turning on the charm. “I’ll take you just as you are.”
At first, Eve is haughty. She is the manageress, after all. “I beg your pardon, sir?”
“Three minutes from the sea,” says Dorning. “That’s what it says on the brochure.” He indicates a stack of them on the desk, and claims to have just timed the distance. “Robbie Brightwell might do it in three minutes, with a following wind, but I never will.”
Eve begins to thaw. “You must be one of those men who don’t read the small print at the bottom of contracts.”
“No, you’re wrong. I’m a great small-print reader. Southern Area Champion.”
Eve smiles. “Then I’m surprised you didn’t see that it was three minutes at the end of your stay at the Albemarle, not at the beginning.” She glances down at the register. “You’re Major Davis?”
“At your service,” nods Dorning. “How did you know?”
“You’re the only ‘single’ arriving today.”
Dorning puts on a pained expression. “‘Single’! You make it sound so pathetic.”
“I hope not. Ours is a friendly hotel.”
“Can I count on it?” asks Dorning, a little flirtatiously. Eve takes up the register and asks if he’d like tea and a paper in the morning. He replies that he’d like tea at 7.45 and a copy of the Financial Times. “You know they ring a bell in the City,” he confides, “soon as they know I’m going on holiday? The Davis Bell. Then they try to whip through a year’s big deals while I’m away.” Eve gives him the key to Room 34. Dorning is disappointed to learn that it doesn’t have a sea view or a bath. He claims to have asked expressly for these things. “My secretary never accepts anything less.”
Eve consults the register. “Well, sir. We might be able to work something out for the first three nights. After that –”
Dorning holds up a hand. “We’ll leave that to take care of itself.” Eve smiles and exchanges his key for that of Room 9. “Excellent,” declares Dorning. “Nine – always a lucky number of mine.” As Eve shows him to the lift, he asks if his Jag will be all right parked out front.
“Yes,” Eve tells him, adding, “You can leave your cases there. I’ll have them sent up.”
Dorning gets into the lift. “Dinner at seven?”
“Yes, sir.”
“See you in the bar at a quarter to.”
As the lift doors close, Eve looks agreeably surprised.
* * *
Back in London, Marker, briefcase in hand, stands at the front door of a much less salubrious hostelry – Dorning’s last known address. A notice inside the window of the door says “VACANCIES”. Marker rings the doorbell. Inside, a dog barks. A voice shouts at the dog. After a moment, the door opens and the landlord, Cameron, appears. Marker bids him good evening. “I’d like to see Mr Dorning.”
“So would I,” says Cameron, sourly.
“Doesn’t he live here any more?” asks Marker, already guessing the answer.
“Scarpered,” replies Cameron. “Three weeks’ rent and two of the wife’s best towels.”
Marker tuts. “Can’t trust anyone today. Didn’t leave any forwarding address, I suppose?”
“Not an address, not a button, not even a rusty razor blade.”
“Mean?”
“Mean?!” The landlord laughs, bitterly. “Wouldn’t give you the parsley off yesterday’s fish.”
Marker sighs. “That’s tricky. You see, I’m from the Pools. Dorning’s come up on the four aways –” Cameron expresses surprise. Marker tells him not to get too excited. “It’s nothing very grand. Only a couple of hundred quid.” He hands Cameron a card. “If you hear anything, give me a buzz. Who knows – he might cut you in for a quid or two.”
Cameron doubts it. “Pigs might fly!”
“Anyway,” adds Marker, “we’d pay you for your trouble.”
Suddenly, Cameron has additional information. “He’s gone to Bournemouth.”
“How do you know?”
“Heard him tell someone on the phone.”
“Thanks,” says Marker. “Hear any more – call me.” Cameron nods as Marker moves away. The landlord stands there, picking his teeth with Marker’s card and looking envious.
* * *
In Room 9 of the Albemarle Hotel, music issues from the radio speaker as Dorning lifts one of his suitcases up on to the bed. He notices that one of the labels to exotic locations has come unstuck. He examines it to see if he can stick it back on. He can’t. So he rips it off, takes another label – Bermuda – from a thick wad of them and carefully pastes it on the case. He then opens the case and starts to unpack. The first thing that comes to hand is an almost complete set of regimental and old school ties. He hangs these – handling them with affection – in the wardrobe. Next come the hair tonics, lotions, vitamin pills and mouth sprays – everything he needs to stay attractive and young-looking. Then he crosses to the radio speaker, turns off the music and flicks the switch to speak to reception. As he does this, he takes out his wallet and looks inside. There’s a single ten-shilling note left. When he hears Eve’s voice, he says, “I wonder if I could order a carnation to be sent up each morning with my tea.”
This throws Eve for a moment. “Er… I’ll see what I can do, sir.”
“Thank you. Call me back, will you?”
“Very good, sir,” replies Eve, obediently.
Dorning flicks the switch back to music and hums happily to himself. Happy, that is, until he finds a corset among his luggage. He pulls in his stomach and tries to look imposing in the mirror. As he’s doing so, he notices a slight fleck in the white of his eye. That really worries him.
* * *
After a few days on the case, Marker reports to Mrs Warboys. “Story is he’s gone to Bournemouth. Then I tried the local haunts. No one knew him. I’ve even made a few under-the-counter inquiries – same result.” Meanwhile, Mrs Warboys has found some photographs of Dorning. She triumphantly empties an envelope of snapshots on to her living room table. Marker shakes his head. “Mrs Warboys, I’m an inquiry agent, not a police force. A one-man outfit. I’m the managing director, the chairman and the office boy. If you told me he had a patch over one eye and blue hair, it wouldn’t make that much difference.”
Mrs Warboys looks disappointed. “But you said he’d gone to Bournemouth.”
“I know. And I could go down there and sit on the front for a fortnight and enjoy it. But I’d be robbing you.”
“I just thought they might help.”
More to please her than anything, Marker looks through the photographs. “Okay. What do I see? A man – well set up, mid-forties… Military blazer… Smart… More front than Southend… Expensive –” He suddenly breaks off, and points to one of the pictures. It shows a white Jaguar, its registration number clearly visible. “This car. Is it yours?”
“No,” replies Mrs Warboys. “It’s his.”
“Good,” says Marker. “It might help.”
“Mr Marker, if what you say is true, it probably isn’t his.”
Marker picks up the telephone directory. “That’s more than likely.” He begins flicking through the pages.
“So what good is it?” asks Mrs Warboys.
Marker explains. “Two years ago, I did a job for a warehouse company. They’re a member of the Road Haulage Association. If I ask ’em nicely, they’ll get their drivers down that part of the world to look out for a white saloon – this registration number. It’ll cost a fiver or two, but…” He indicates Mrs Warboys’s phone. “May I?” Mrs Warboys tells him to go ahead.
* * *
In the reference section of Bournemouth Library, Dorning, with a fresh carnation in his buttonhole, is looking at a faded Jane Austen manuscript mounted in a glass case. Judy Denham, a temporary assistant of about eighteen, comes up to him. They start talking about Austen. Then Judy mentions another writer. “You know, Bernard Shaw –”
Dorning cuts in, wittily. “No, I didn’t have that pleasure.”
Judy gives him a mock-reproachful look. “You didn’t let me finish.”
Dorning still doesn’t. “You’ve got a lovely tan for so early in the season.”
Judy is slightly flustered by this. “Have I?”
“Beautiful. Do you use any oil?”
“No. It’s mainly the breeze, I think.”
“I’m sorry,” says Dorning, “you were telling me about Mr Shaw.”
Judy says it doesn’t matter, but Dorning insists. “Well,” says Judy, “he said that, when he was reading Jane Austen, he could detect where she broke off to have a cup of tea.”
“Amazing!” remarks Dorning. “It’s a good idea, though.”
“What is?”
“Breaking off for tea. I have two lumps and the top off the milk.”
Judy protests. “I couldn’t –”
“Course you could. Who’s to know? Tell ’em it’s a visiting councillor.”
“Well, I’ll try,” smiles Judy. “But I’m not promising.”
“Don’t. And while you’re getting it, where do you file the local papers?”
Judy indicates a shelf. “That’s all this year’s.” Dorning thanks her. Judy asks if he can manage.
“With difficulty,” he replies.
Judy looks worried. “Why? What’s wrong?”
Dorning touches his throat. “So thirsty,” he gasps.
Grinning, Judy leaves him. Dorning collects the newspapers, places them on a desk and quickly turns to a specific section of one of them. He knows exactly what he’s looking for – the obituary column. He slips on a pair of glasses, produces a pencil and notebook, and works his way rapidly down the column. He rejects everything and moves swiftly on to the next paper.
* * *
At the reception desk of the Albemarle Hotel, Marker is being attended to by Eve Fisher. Because he isn’t such a master of ‘chat technique’ as Major Dorning, he’s receiving fairly short shrift. “It’s a nice room,” says Eve. “I’m afraid it doesn’t overlook the sea, but then we’re lucky to fit you in at all.”
“And very much appreciated,” says Marker, effusively.
Eve hands him his key. “Room 65. It’s opposite the lift, but ours is a quiet hotel.”
“One thing,” says Marker. “The car. I couldn’t park it. There’s a white Jag taking up a lot of space.”
Eve smiles, fondly. “That’d be Major Davis. Very naughty!” More businesslike, she adds, “He’s out at the moment. I’ll speak to him.” Marker thanks her and signs the register, glancing over it as he does so.
* * *
Mrs Ames, a widow in her mid-twenties, shows Dorning into the living room of her small flat. The curtains are half-pulled and a stack of condolence letters are on the side. Mrs Ames is in mourning and is never far from tears. A wedding photo – a line of officers crossing swords to form a triumphal arch – is on the mantelpiece. Dorning carries a small briefcase and is soberly, if nattily, turned out. He apologises for intruding on her privacy at a time like this. “Thank you, Mr Donaldson,” replies Mrs Ames.
“I knew your husband,” claims Dorning. “Not well, I’m afraid. That was my loss. He was a man to be proud of. The type – if I might be so bold – that the Army should encourage today.”
“Kind of you to say so,” sniffs Mrs Ames.
“I know it seems senseless, pointless. And Malaysia so remote. But, who knows? If we take a firm stand there, we may keep trouble off our own doorstep.”
“Let’s hope so.”
“Indeed.”
There’s an uneasy pause. Then Mrs Ames asks, “Your business, Mr Donaldson?”
“Yes.” Dorning proceeds with a show of awkward reluctance. “Again, I emphasise that I’d like to disassociate myself from this.”
“You’ve made that clear.”
“I hope so. I asked them to wait. A ‘decent interval’, that’s all I said. It’s not much, but apparently business waits for no man.” Dorning claims to be from Mr Ames’s regimental tailor. “No doubt you know all about us.”
Mrs Ames shakes her head. “I’m afraid not. We weren’t married that long.”
“Of course not. Well… at the time of his… demise… we were making a new set of Blues for him – a new dress uniform.”
“I know,” says Mrs Ames. “I mean, I know what Blues are. I didn’t know he’d ordered a new uniform.”
“Well…” Dorning coughs with embarrassment. “The point is, the work was completed, and, of course, the uniform is no good to us. Made to his specification – chest, waist, inner leg, etcetera – and… well… in short, I’m afraid we need paying for it.”
“I see,” sighs Mrs Ames. “At the moment, I haven’t a lot of money. Perhaps if I could pay over a length of time…?”
“I’m sorry,” says Dorning. “We don’t operate any credit system.” The amount required is £42.
Mrs Ames takes out her cheque book and begins to fill it in. Dorning watches, blandly, without a trace of emotion. “Who do I make it out to?” asks the widow.
“R. Davis and Co,” replies Dorning. Mrs Ames hands him the cheque. Dorning thanks her and folds it away in his wallet. “I’m only sorry it had to be me. I said to Mrs Donaldson at lunch –” He stops as he sees that she’s about to cry. “I’ll leave you.” He moves to the door. “Good afternoon, Mrs Ames.”
After showing him out, Mrs Ames returns to the living room, sits down, works out what money she has left and then finally gives in to tears.
* * *
Back at the hotel, Dorning endorses the back of the cheque. Eve counts out the money on to the reception desk. Without a word, they exchange cheque and money. Then Dorning smiles at her and walks to the lift. Eve looks after him, quite weak at the knees.