The Galloway Case Read online

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  Bello is a digital only imprint of Pan Macmillan, established to breathe life into previously published classic books.

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  Contents

  Andrew Garve

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Andrew Garve

  The Galloway Case

  Andrew Garve

  Andrew Garve is the pen name of Paul Winterton (1908–2001). He was born in Leicester and educated at the Hulme Grammar School, Manchester and Purley County School, Surrey, after which he took a degree in Economics at London University. He was on the staff of The Economist for four years, and then worked for fourteen years for the London News Chronicle as reporter, leader writer and foreign correspondent. He was assigned to Moscow from 1942–5, where he was also the correspondent of the BBC’s Overseas Service.

  After the war he turned to full-time writing of detective and adventure novels and produced more than forty-five books. His work was serialized, televised, broadcast, filmed and translated into some twenty languages. He is noted for his varied and unusual backgrounds – which have included Russia, newspaper offices, the West Indies, ocean sailing, the Australian outback, politics, mountaineering and forestry – and for never repeating a plot.

  Andrew Garve was a founder member and first joint secretary of the Crime Writers’ Association.

  Chapter One

  The assignment that took me to the Channel Islands, that Thursday before Easter, hardly rated the boat fare by ordinary news standards. I was sent to interview an elderly financier named James Craven, who’d just published his memoirs. The special interest for my paper, the Post, was that Craven had written some harsh things about a politician who happened to be in the black books of Lord Eynsford, the Post’s chairman, and I was to try and get more ammunition for his lordship’s vendetta. Ames, the News Editor, gave me my instructions with a more than usually cynical grin, and off I went to Jersey. The interview was straightforward—Craven turned out to be a garrulous old boy who was only too eager to expand his criticisms. I phoned half a column on Thursday evening and Ames, in genial mood, said I needn’t come in again till after the Monday holiday.

  That suited me fine. I’d never been to the Channel Islands before and knew nothing of Jersey except that it raised cows and early potatoes and was an income-tax refuge for the retired wealthy. The prospect of doing a little exploring was pleasant, especially as the weather was warm. I fixed up at a modest pub in St. Helier, the capital and only town, and settled down to enjoy the rare luxury of four days off in a row.

  I spent the next morning looking round St. Helier—idling through the maze of little streets, climbing to the huge fort that dominates the town, inspecting the boats in the harbor, drinking beside the waterfront, and listening, fascinated, to the strange babel of English, French and Anglo-Norman around me. After lunch I took a bus along the coast to one of the wilder corners of the island, called Corbière Point, which the guidebook said was worth a visit. There was a lighthouse off the Point, set high above a wilderness of weed-covered rocks, and the book said you could walk round it by going out along a paved causeway that was exposed at half tide. When I arrived the causeway was high and dry, with a quiet pool of sapphire water on either side. I crossed to the lighthouse and climbed a lot of steps and spent some time admiring the view from the lower gallery. Then I returned to the Point and stretched out on a slope of moorland turf to smoke a pipe and wait for the afternoon bus back.

  Quite a number of people came out to the Point in cars during the next hour or so and most of them walked across to the lighthouse. After a while, though, the spreading pools began to lap at the sides of the causeway and the stream of visitors stopped. The tide must have had a tremendous rise and fall for at one moment the pavement was dry and the next it was under several inches of swirling water. I was thinking the place wouldn’t be a very healthy spot for a swim when I saw someone scrambling over the rocks at the foot of the lighthouse. It was a girl, and she was in a great hurry. She reached the end of the causeway, raced along it until she came to the water, and stopped in dismay.

  I watched her for a moment, and then went down to see if I could give her any help or advice. The water was surging over the paving stones in a rather offputting way and there were some nasty-looking eddies, but I knew it probably wasn’t more than a foot deep in the center. The girl began to take off her shoes and stockings. About thirty yards separated us. A moment later she’d set off along the submerged causeway, holding her skirt up with one hand and clutching a lot of impedimenta with the other. As well as her handbag and shoes she had a straw bag with a thermos and book sticking precariously out of the top and I felt certain she’d drop something. I took off my own shoes and socks and rolled my trousers above the knees and went to meet her. There was a lot of weight in the heaving water but no real danger yet. The girl certainly didn’t appear unduly alarmed. She came steadily on, keeping her eyes fixed on the causeway below the surface, and we met near the middle. I took the straw bag from her and helped her over the deepest bit and then led the way back to the shore.

  As we reached dry land she gave me a charming smile and said. “That was very kind of you.’’

  I said it was a pleasure. I’d been too occupied with knight errantry to take in any details of her appearance before, but now I had a good look at her. She was worth it. She had the biggest gray eyes I’d ever seen, a beautifully shaped mouth, and thick dark hair that fell smoothly almost to her shoulders. I guessed she was in her middle twenties.

  “Cutting it a bit fine, weren’t you?’’ I said.

  “Yes—wasn’t it stupid?’’ She squeezed a few drops of water from the bottom of her skirt. “One more minute and I’d have been there for six hours. What a thought!’’

  “I dare say the lighthouse keeper could have put up with you,’’ I said.

  She gave me a quick glance, and smiled again. “I was deep in a book—I wasn’t thinking about the time at all.… You didn’t get too wet, I hope?’’

  I assured her I hadn’t.

  She parked her things and sat down on the short grass, stretching out her legs to dry them in the sun. She had very nice legs. She had a very nice figure, too.

  “Are you on holiday here?’’ she asked.

  “Well, yes and no,’’ I said. “I’ve got the weekend off, but actually I came to do a job for the Post. I’m a reporter.’’

  “Are you?’’ she looked interested. “I see the Post occasionally.…’’ It was the Times, I noticed, that was sticking out of her bag. “Would I know your name?’’

  “It’s Peter Rennie,’’ I said.

  “Then I do know it.… Didn’t you write some articles about hooliganism in schools a litt
le while ago?’’

  “Yes.’’

  “Rather provocative ones!’’

  I grinned. “That’s a nice way of putting it. Some people said they were grossly exaggerated.’’

  “And were they?’’

  “Not grossly.’’

  She laughed. “They stirred up a lot of controversy, anyhow, judging by the letters I saw. I suppose that was the idea.’’ She was very cool and self-possessed and, to me, enormously attractive. She wasn’t wearing a ring, I noticed, and I wondered what was wrong with the men in her part of the world.

  After a moment she said, “What have you been doing here—sleuthing?’’

  “Nothing so exciting,’’ I said. I told her about my interview with the financier, and the reason for it, as she calmly drew on her stockings. The story seemed to amuse her. “What about you?’’ I asked. “Are you on holiday?’’

  She gave me a quizzical look. “Yes and no goes for me, too,’’ she said. I waited, but she didn’t volunteer any more information.

  She had her shoes on, now, but she seemed in no hurry to leave. I asked her if she was catching the bus back to St. Helier, and she said she was. That gave us fifty minutes. I dropped down beside her on the grass and we went on talking and smoking and enjoying the sun. I don’t remember now what we talked about—it was all quite superficial—but we got on very well together. She had a natural, friendly manner and I was in the most cheerful spirits myself and the conversation flowed easily. For me the fifty minutes slipped by like five, and I was quite sorry when we had to leave to get the bus.

  I learned a little more about her on the way back, but not much. She was staying, she said, at the Paragon, which I knew was one of the most expensive hotels in St. Helier. Apparently she was there on her own. She’d arrived in Jersey the previous day, and she was going back to England next morning. That was disappointing.

  It was nearly dusk when we reached St. Helier. Outside the bus, she turned to say good-by. “Thank you again for coming to my rescue!’’ she said. “And for a pleasant afternoon.’’

  “Thank you!’’ I said, and paused. I didn’t at all want to let her go. “Look,’’ I said, “if you’re not doing anything special tonight, would you have dinner with me?’’

  She hesitated, smiling.

  “Please!’’ I said. “I might be able to turn you into a regular reader!’’

  She laughed. “I’d like to very much.’’

  “Then suppose I call for you at your hotel around seven. That’ll give us time for a drink before dinner. Okay?’’

  “Lovely. I shall look forward to it.’’

  “The only thing is, I don’t know your name.…’’

  She smiled again. “It’s a very ordinary one,’’ she said. “It’s Mary Smith.’’

  I called in at the local publicity office to get some advice about a good place to eat, and finally booked a table at the Silver Bay, about four miles outside St. Helier, where they had dancing on weekends. I also fixed up for a self-drive car for the evening. On the dot of seven I drove round to the Paragon and gave my name to the porter. Mary came down in about ten minutes. She’d changed into a slinky black dress and was exquisitely groomed, so that I scarcely recognized the tweedy, wind-blown girl I’d met at Corbière. I restrained an impulse to give a low whistle and just said “My!’’ She looked pleased, and I steered her to the car.

  The Silver Bay turned out to be a spacious modern hotel on the edge of the beach, with a romantic view across the water to the twinkling lights of St. Helier and an atmosphere of great luxury inside. We had a couple of drinks in the bar and went in to dinner just after eight. The dining room was pleasantly full and our table was just the right distance from the band. We studied the menu carefully and settled for lobster cocktails and fried chicken, with a bottle of Château Latour ’43 that couldn’t have been improved upon.

  It was, in all respects, a memorable dinner. Our talk was lighthearted, but more personal than it had been in the afternoon. Mary asked me if I’d always worked on the Post and I said no, I’d joined a paper in Norwich after doing my stint in the Army and served an apprenticeship there for three years covering things like police-court proceedings and rate payers’ meetings and local flower shows before I’d got my chance in Fleet Street. She asked me what it was like being a reporter on a national newspaper and I gave her a caricature of the life, with all the amusing and bizarre illustrations I could think of, that took us through the lobster. She was a most stimulating audience. She said she’d once tried to get a job on a newspaper herself, just for the experience, in one of the colonies, and from there we got onto travel and it appeared she’d been pretty much everywhere. Apparently she’d been all set to go to the university at nineteen but her father, of whom she spoke with warm affection, had whisked her off on a world trip instead. He sounded like a man of means but she didn’t tell me what he did. On the whole, she said, she thought the trip had been more useful to her than the degree in sociology that she’d planned. She was a curious mixture. She had a face and figure that any pin-up girl might have envied, yet she was fundamentally serious—almost an academic type, in fact. I found it an irresistible combination. I probed away delicately and asked her if she lived with her parents, and she said her mother had died when she was a child and though she saw a great deal of her father when he was around he traveled a lot and was very independent and erratic, so she found it more convenient to share a London flat with a girl friend. I asked her if she was an only child and she said she was. It emerged that she was younger than I’d thought, a mere twenty-four. The poise and sophistication had deceived me.

  I asked her if she had a job and she said yes, and I asked asked what sort of job.

  “I’m a secretary,’’ she said, after a moment.

  I remembered what she’d said about her Jersey visit not being entirely a holiday. I said, “Are you being a secretary here?’’

  “Actually,’’ she said carefully, “I came to see someone.’’

  I grinned. “A man about a dog?’’

  “Something like that …’’ She gave me her charming smile. “I’m sorry to be so clamlike but—well, I’m supposed to be a confidential secretary.’’

  “Okay,’’ I said, “I can take a hint.… Would you care to dance?’’

  “I’d love to dance.’’

  She was tall for a woman, but I’m tall for a man so it didn’t matter. She danced beautifully, I danced adequately. I had no urge to talk any more. It was wonderful just holding her in my arms. She seemed to find being held quite pleasant. Once we‘d started we danced and danced.

  It was toward the end of the evening, as we were finishing a slow waltz, that I suddenly said, “Mary, do you have to go back tomorrow?’’

  “I’m afraid so,’’ she said.

  “Not to work, surely?’’

  “No—not to work.’’

  “A sick relative?’’

  She laughed and shook her head.

  “Your father?’’

  “No, he’s busy this weekend.’’

  “A boy friend?’’

  “I haven’t got a boy friend.’’

  “Now that I find quite incredible.’’

  “I had one, but it didn’t work out,’’ she said.

  So that was it!

  “Then why not stay?’’ I pressed her. “We could keep the car and explore the island. It would be a lot of fun.’’

  “You’re rather impulsive, aren’t you?’’

  “Since I met you, yes.’’

  The music started up and I took her in my arms again without having had a real answer. We danced till the band packed up. Then I drove her back to the Paragon. I kissed her good night and she returned my kiss. There was nothing academic about the way she kissed. Presently she said she must go in. I wanted to ask her for her phone number in London, but first I tried again to persuade her to stay. “It’s going to be a wonderful day tomorrow,’’ I said. “I heard the weather forec
ast—fine and warm. We could go up to the north coast, take our lunch, sun bathe. Anything you like.’’

  She smiled. “You’re very persistent.’’

  “But of course. ‘Never say die’ is my motto. Please, Mary …!’’

  She was silent for a moment. Then, to my amazement and delight, she said, “Well, I suppose I could stay one more day. Are you quite sure you want me to?’’

  “There’s nothing in the world I want more.’’

  “Exaggerating again!’’ she said. “All right—look in after breakfast and perhaps I’ll still be here.… Good night, Peter! Thank you for a lovely time.’’ She waved, and went into the hotel.

  I drove off in a romantic haze. Mary’s delicate fragrance still filled the car. I was utterly bewitched. I’d never felt about any girl as I felt about her. I kept saying “Mary Smith’’ over and over to myself and thinking how lovely it sounded. I‘d always liked the name “Mary,’’ but that was only the half of it. I knew I must really have fallen for her because, for the first time in my life, I could see poetry in “Smith’’ too!

  She did stay on next day and—when it came to it—the two following days as well. Every moment with her was an exquisite pleasure for me. I was soon deep in a whirlwind courtship, heady and exhilarating. I had no hesitations, no reservations. I’d fallen in love with her, I wanted her, and I wanted her for keeps. I told her so. She said I couldn’t possibly be sure, as we’d only just met. I said common sense might be on her side but time was on mine and I’d prove it to her. She made no avowals herself, but her actions seemed to speak at least as loudly as words. She’d stayed with me from choice. She was gay and happy in my company. She obviously liked me a lot. For the moment, that was good enough for me.

  We had a pretty active weekend. On Saturday we took the car and explored the island in gorgeous spring weather, picnicking on a cliff top above an empty beach, with wild daffodils all around us and the scent of gorse in the air. Afterward we walked for miles along the deserted sands and in the evening we went dancing once more. On Sunday we walked again, up one charming valley and down another, making love a little and taking snapshots of each other with a small Kodak I’d brought. That was our day of rest. On Monday Mary suggested we should take a small sailboat out and in next to no time she’d arranged it. I hadn’t done much sailing myself but apparently she had—her father, she said, had a boat and they often went out together—and she certainly turned out to be very competent. We had an idyllic day.