didnât take long to find the news. Hugo Mecken had been arrested, charged with the murder of his wife, Charlotte.
And Charles Paris felt is was his fault.
CHAPTER SEVEN
IN SPITE OF logic, the feeling of treachery remained. Charles Paris had deserted his friend in a crisis. Charles Paris had incriminated his friend by his statement.
He had to do something. At least find out all the circumstances, at least check that no mistakes had been made.
He hurried back to the house in Hereford Road, went to the pay-phone on the landing and dialled Gerald Venablesâs office number.
Gerald was a successful show business solicitor whom Charles had known since Oxford. Armed with a boyish enthusiasm for the whole business of detection, he had collaborated with Charles on one or two investigations, starting with the strange death of Marius Steen. In the current circumstances, it was an immediate instinct to ring Gerald.
An efficient, husky voice answered the phone.
âIs that Polly?â
âYes.â
âItâs Charles Paris. Could I speak to Gerald, please?â
âIâm sorry, heâs not here.â
âOh, sod it. Is he on his way home?â
âNo, heâs out with a client, Iâm afraid. He was called down to Breckton mid-morning and heâs been there all day.â
âOh my God, of course. Heâs Hugo Meckenâs solicitor, isnât he?â
âYes. Thatâs who heâs with. I gather youâve heard the news.â
âYes.â It wasnât worth going into details of how he had been the first to hear it. âStupid of me. Iâd forgotten. Gerald sorted out Hugoâs divorce, didnât he?â
âYes. And he was a bit shocked when he discovered what it was about this time.â
âThat I can believe. Look, Polly, have you any idea when heâll be back? I mean, is he reckoning to go back to the office?â
âNo. He rang about half an hour ago to say heâd go straight to Dulwich from Breckton. And asked me to ring Mrs Venables and say heâd be late.â
âWhy didnât, he ring her himself?â Charles asked irrelevantly.
âI think it sounds more businesslike if I do.â Polly replied with a hint of humour.
Yes, that was Gerald all over. âPolly, when he says âvery lateâ, what do you reckon that means?â
âI honestly donât know. He said I was to say ten-thirty at the earliest to Mrs Venables.â
âOkay. Thanks, Polly. He didnât say anything else about . . . you know, the case . . . or Hugo . . . or anything.â
âNo. Well, there isnât really much to say, is there?â
âI suppose not.â
Charles spent an unsatisfactory evening and drank too much. He thought of ringing Frances, but put it off again. Round eight he realized he hadnât eaten for over twenty-four hours.
He didnât feel hungry, but he thought he ought to have something.
Going out to a restaurant was too much effort. He was too jumpy to sit down and relax over a proper meal. He looked round the room. There was an opened packet of cornflakes on the table. No milk. He tried a handful. They were soft, cardboard.
He rooted through the grey-painted cupboard, shoving aside scripts, half-finished plays, empty bottles, socks and crisp packets. All he came up with was a tin of sardines without a key and a tin of curried beans.
The menu was dictated by his antiquated tin-opener, which wouldnât grip on the sardine tin., He slopped the beans into a saucepan still furred with boiled milk from the previous week and put it on the gas-ring which was hidden discreetly behind a plastic curtain.
The curried beans didnât improve anything. He took a long swill from the Bellâs bottle as a mouthwash. Except he didnât spit it out.
Then he addressed his mind to thought. Serious thought. He had been in criminal situations before and he