to plan.
“Oh, I shouldn’t think so! Maurice always said that writing wouldn’t keep him in socks. He was rather bitter about it. He said that this was the age of ‘Soap-powder fiction.’ If a writer hadn’t a gimmick no one was interested. Bestsellers were created by the advertisers, good writing was a positive disadvantage and the public libraries killed sales. I daresay he was right. If he had £200,000 I don’t know why he bothered. Except, of course, that he liked being a writer. It did something for his ego, I suppose. I never understood why he took it seriously, but then, he never understood why I wanted my own club. And I’ll be able to have it now. A whole chain of them if things go my way. You’re both invited to the opening night. Bring the whole of West Central with you if you like. No sneaking in on expenses to check on the drinking and see that the floor show isn’t too naughty. No women sergeants tarted up to look like provincial tourists on the spree. The best tables. Everything on the house. D’you know, Dalgliesh, I could have made a go of the Golden Pheasant if only I’d had the capital behind me. Well, I’ve got it now.”
“Not unless you also get a wife,” Dalgliesh reminded him unkindly. He had noted the names of the trustees in Seton’s will and couldn’t see either of those cautious and conservative gentlemen parting with trust funds to finance a second Golden Pheasant. He asked why Maurice Seton had been so anxious for Digby to marry.
“Maurice was always hinting that I ought to settle down. He was a great one for the family name. He hadn’t any children himself—none that I know of anyway—and I don’t suppose he was keen to marry again after the Dorothy fiasco.Besides, he had a dicky heart. He was afraid, too, that I might set up house with a queer. He didn’t want his money shared with a pansy boyfriend. Poor old Maurice! I don’t think he’d recognise a queen if he met one. He just had the idea that London, and West End clubs in particular, are full of them.”
“Extraordinary!” said Dalgliesh dryly.
Seton seemed unaware of the irony. He said anxiously: “Look, you do believe me about that phone call, don’t you? The murderer phoned me as I arrived here Wednesday night and sent me off on a fool’s errand to Lowestoft. The idea was to get me away from the house and make sure I hadn’t an alibi for the time of death. At least, I suppose that was the idea. It doesn’t make sense otherwise. It puts me in a spot all right. I wish to God that Liz had come in with me. I don’t see how I can prove that Maurice wasn’t in the house when I got here or that I didn’t take a late-night walk on the beach with him, conveniently armed with the kitchen knife. Have you found the weapon, by the way?”
The Inspector replied briefly that they hadn’t. He said: “It would help me, Mr. Seton, if you could remember more about this phone call.”
“Well, I can’t.” Seton sounded suddenly peevish. He added sullenly: “You keep asking me about it and I keep telling you! I don’t remember. Damn it, I’ve had a bloody great bang on the head since then! If you told me I’d imagined the whole thing I wouldn’t be surprised except that it must have happened or I wouldn’t have taken out the car. I was dog tired and I wouldn’t have set off to Lowestoft just for the fun of it. Someone phoned. I’m sure of that. But I can’t remember what the voice sounded like. I’m not even sure if it was a man or a woman.”
“And the message?”
“I’ve told you, Inspector! The voice said it was speaking from Lowestoft Police Station, that Maurice’s body had come ashore in my dinghy with the hands chopped off—”
“Chopped or cut?”
“Oh, I don’t know! Chopped I think. Anyway, I was to go to Lowestoft at once and identify the body. So I set off. I knew where Maurice keeps the car keys and luckily the Vauxhall had plenty of juice in her. Or unluckily. I damn near
“Oh, I shouldn’t think so! Maurice always said that writing wouldn’t keep him in socks. He was rather bitter about it. He said that this was the age of ‘Soap-powder fiction.’ If a writer hadn’t a gimmick no one was interested. Bestsellers were created by the advertisers, good writing was a positive disadvantage and the public libraries killed sales. I daresay he was right. If he had £200,000 I don’t know why he bothered. Except, of course, that he liked being a writer. It did something for his ego, I suppose. I never understood why he took it seriously, but then, he never understood why I wanted my own club. And I’ll be able to have it now. A whole chain of them if things go my way. You’re both invited to the opening night. Bring the whole of West Central with you if you like. No sneaking in on expenses to check on the drinking and see that the floor show isn’t too naughty. No women sergeants tarted up to look like provincial tourists on the spree. The best tables. Everything on the house. D’you know, Dalgliesh, I could have made a go of the Golden Pheasant if only I’d had the capital behind me. Well, I’ve got it now.”
“Not unless you also get a wife,” Dalgliesh reminded him unkindly. He had noted the names of the trustees in Seton’s will and couldn’t see either of those cautious and conservative gentlemen parting with trust funds to finance a second Golden Pheasant. He asked why Maurice Seton had been so anxious for Digby to marry.
“Maurice was always hinting that I ought to settle down. He was a great one for the family name. He hadn’t any children himself—none that I know of anyway—and I don’t suppose he was keen to marry again after the Dorothy fiasco.Besides, he had a dicky heart. He was afraid, too, that I might set up house with a queer. He didn’t want his money shared with a pansy boyfriend. Poor old Maurice! I don’t think he’d recognise a queen if he met one. He just had the idea that London, and West End clubs in particular, are full of them.”
“Extraordinary!” said Dalgliesh dryly.
Seton seemed unaware of the irony. He said anxiously: “Look, you do believe me about that phone call, don’t you? The murderer phoned me as I arrived here Wednesday night and sent me off on a fool’s errand to Lowestoft. The idea was to get me away from the house and make sure I hadn’t an alibi for the time of death. At least, I suppose that was the idea. It doesn’t make sense otherwise. It puts me in a spot all right. I wish to God that Liz had come in with me. I don’t see how I can prove that Maurice wasn’t in the house when I got here or that I didn’t take a late-night walk on the beach with him, conveniently armed with the kitchen knife. Have you found the weapon, by the way?”
The Inspector replied briefly that they hadn’t. He said: “It would help me, Mr. Seton, if you could remember more about this phone call.”
“Well, I can’t.” Seton sounded suddenly peevish. He added sullenly: “You keep asking me about it and I keep telling you! I don’t remember. Damn it, I’ve had a bloody great bang on the head since then! If you told me I’d imagined the whole thing I wouldn’t be surprised except that it must have happened or I wouldn’t have taken out the car. I was dog tired and I wouldn’t have set off to Lowestoft just for the fun of it. Someone phoned. I’m sure of that. But I can’t remember what the voice sounded like. I’m not even sure if it was a man or a woman.”
“And the message?”
“I’ve told you, Inspector! The voice said it was speaking from Lowestoft Police Station, that Maurice’s body had come ashore in my dinghy with the hands chopped off—”
“Chopped or cut?”
“Oh, I don’t know! Chopped I think. Anyway, I was to go to Lowestoft at once and identify the body. So I set off. I knew where Maurice keeps the car keys and luckily the Vauxhall had plenty of juice in her. Or unluckily. I damn near
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