notebook as if Jury were looking over his shoulder. He gave out his information snappily, too — as little as possible and testing the current of every reply to Jury’s questions. “New radials, cost a hundred apiece, I’ll bet. They would do, with the money this lot’s got.”
As if he’d said too much there, he snapped his mouth shut as he had done the notebook.
“So it looks as if, when Lean came back from London, he parked the car here.”
MacAllister tried looking down his nose; since Jury was nearly six-three and the inspector was five-eight, it presented a logistical problem. “Of course. This is where his car was .” Scotland Yard couldn’t put two and two together. “The ground’s a muck-up of tracks. One of them’s Mrs. Lean’s mini.”
“Oh?”
“They’re old ones. That car hasn’t parked here in some time. Most of them are the Jag’s and the odd lot here and there, could be anybody. If you’re checking the odometer — ” Jury was walking away up the road slightly to where the Jaguar was parked. “— I’ve already done. He kept a logbook.”
Jury had no doubt there’d be a record. The book in which Simon Lean noted mileage was in the pocket on the inside of the driver’s door. He took out a tiny torch, got in, shoved the seat back away from the steering wheel, and ran the torch down over the book. The mileage checked with the approximate mileage between Northampton andVictoria Street. Seventy-five minutes to Euston station by train. In this car, even less if you were an intrepid driver. Jury added on a bit for the traffic, the extra distance to the E-14 postal district. Limehouse was a possibility. The other London entries covered the same number of miles, and had been made at regular intervals.
“Find anything we didn’t?” asked MacAllister, looking up from the cast the two policemen were taking of one of the treads.
Jury smiled. “Well, I don’t know. Who drove the Jag up the road?” Jury nodded to where the car sat about a hundred feet away.
MacAllister’s face reflected the suspicion of a man being led into a trap. “I did. Nothing wrong with that; it’d got a thorough going-over, especially the passenger seat, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Why would I be thinking that?”
“Why? Evidence he had a lady with him. We found hairs, fibers, the usual, but that stuff’s been sent along to the lab.”
Jury lit a cigarette, offered one to MacAllister, who hesitated, then shook his head, as if even that would put him under some obligation. “Why do you think Lean left the car here? I mean, instead of going to the main house.”
“So no one’d know what time he came back, possibly. Or just because he liked to sleep in the summerhouse. According to his wife, he often did. Liked to get away from them, she said.” Given that MacAllister disliked saying any more than was necessary where Jury was concerned, Jury was surprised when the inspector added: “No love lost is my guess. And that wife — widow — cold as hoarfrost.”
Jury asked, “You didn’t move the driver’s seat?”
Perhaps from self-consciousness of his shortness, his no was snapped out. Then MacAllister knelt on the ground again and said, “Of course, she probably killed him, so nowonder she’s not shedding tears, right? You’d think she’d try to fake it, though, wouldn’t you?”
• • •
The voice might have been coming from the marble maiden in the fountain. It said, “I’m sorry,” as Jury was getting into his car.
Hannah Lean came through a thin opening in the high yew hedge, looking about in that undecided way of hers, as if it hadn’t been herself indeed who had said it.
“I wouldn’t worry too much about apologies. Not in these circumstances.”
It was as if he’d thrown it back in her face, the apology. Once again, her face took on that glazed look, one of the things about her that had probably caused MacAllister to judge her. “You mean because
As if he’d said too much there, he snapped his mouth shut as he had done the notebook.
“So it looks as if, when Lean came back from London, he parked the car here.”
MacAllister tried looking down his nose; since Jury was nearly six-three and the inspector was five-eight, it presented a logistical problem. “Of course. This is where his car was .” Scotland Yard couldn’t put two and two together. “The ground’s a muck-up of tracks. One of them’s Mrs. Lean’s mini.”
“Oh?”
“They’re old ones. That car hasn’t parked here in some time. Most of them are the Jag’s and the odd lot here and there, could be anybody. If you’re checking the odometer — ” Jury was walking away up the road slightly to where the Jaguar was parked. “— I’ve already done. He kept a logbook.”
Jury had no doubt there’d be a record. The book in which Simon Lean noted mileage was in the pocket on the inside of the driver’s door. He took out a tiny torch, got in, shoved the seat back away from the steering wheel, and ran the torch down over the book. The mileage checked with the approximate mileage between Northampton andVictoria Street. Seventy-five minutes to Euston station by train. In this car, even less if you were an intrepid driver. Jury added on a bit for the traffic, the extra distance to the E-14 postal district. Limehouse was a possibility. The other London entries covered the same number of miles, and had been made at regular intervals.
“Find anything we didn’t?” asked MacAllister, looking up from the cast the two policemen were taking of one of the treads.
Jury smiled. “Well, I don’t know. Who drove the Jag up the road?” Jury nodded to where the car sat about a hundred feet away.
MacAllister’s face reflected the suspicion of a man being led into a trap. “I did. Nothing wrong with that; it’d got a thorough going-over, especially the passenger seat, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Why would I be thinking that?”
“Why? Evidence he had a lady with him. We found hairs, fibers, the usual, but that stuff’s been sent along to the lab.”
Jury lit a cigarette, offered one to MacAllister, who hesitated, then shook his head, as if even that would put him under some obligation. “Why do you think Lean left the car here? I mean, instead of going to the main house.”
“So no one’d know what time he came back, possibly. Or just because he liked to sleep in the summerhouse. According to his wife, he often did. Liked to get away from them, she said.” Given that MacAllister disliked saying any more than was necessary where Jury was concerned, Jury was surprised when the inspector added: “No love lost is my guess. And that wife — widow — cold as hoarfrost.”
Jury asked, “You didn’t move the driver’s seat?”
Perhaps from self-consciousness of his shortness, his no was snapped out. Then MacAllister knelt on the ground again and said, “Of course, she probably killed him, so nowonder she’s not shedding tears, right? You’d think she’d try to fake it, though, wouldn’t you?”
• • •
The voice might have been coming from the marble maiden in the fountain. It said, “I’m sorry,” as Jury was getting into his car.
Hannah Lean came through a thin opening in the high yew hedge, looking about in that undecided way of hers, as if it hadn’t been herself indeed who had said it.
“I wouldn’t worry too much about apologies. Not in these circumstances.”
It was as if he’d thrown it back in her face, the apology. Once again, her face took on that glazed look, one of the things about her that had probably caused MacAllister to judge her. “You mean because
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