Miss Seeton Sings (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 4) Read online

  Miss Seeton Sings

  A Miss Seeton Mystery

  Heron Carvic

  FARRAGO

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 1: London

  Chapter 2: Genoa

  Chapter 3: Milan

  Chapter 4: Geneva

  Chapter 5: Paris

  Chapter 6: London

  Note from the Publisher

  Preview

  Also Available

  About the Miss Seeton series

  About Heron Carvic

  Copyright

  Dedication

  For

  Pamela

  with

  love and gratitude

  London

  THE WORDS—what were the words? Jewels—i diamanti—yes, that was it. Tentatively he began to sing under his breath: “Les diamants chez nous sont inn— sont inn—”

  What was the French for innumerevole? He began to sweat.

  Why, why, why, if he must indulge in this foolishness of singing the words of a song to establish recognition, must the tune be Russian and the words French? When anyone knew that Italian was the only language in which to sing. When anyone understood that Italian composers were superior. And that he—that he—should sing foreign words to strange music must at once raise question in people’s minds as to his nationality—or his taste.

  Elio Mantoni appraised himself as an artist, pure and simple. The adjectives were flights of fancy, for by nature he was impure and devious. He could overpaint an old master or underpaint a modern student with equal facility and reasonable ability. He could, and did, produce an efficient facsimile of any picture he was asked to copy. He could upon demand ghost replicas of genuine old canvases which, discovered in some attic, had been borrowed to determine their authenticity. Should such a painting then prove to be of value, Elio’s effort would be returned with assumed regret to the unsuspecting owner as worthless while the original could be “discovered” elsewhere and sold. To summarize Elio Mantoni’s potential, he was a small man by nature, a painter by profession, an Italian by birthright, a singer by bath rite and currently a courier for the distribution of spurious banknotes by force of crooked circumstances. It was this current occupation to which he took exception. In his youth Mantoni, in common with many aspiring novices in crime, had overlooked the disadvantages of his chosen career. Crime may pay, but the large rewards are reaped by the barons of the industry. For the rank and file work is irregular and depends upon demand. It is a sad comment on the progress in industrial relations that little thought and no effective action has been taken to improve the lot of the evildoer. A man employed in a protection racket himself has no protection. There is no trade union to act on his behalf and should he strike he will be struck down, for society has yet to evolve a law to safeguard the career of the lawbreaker. Elio Mantoni therefore had to do what he was told and, although it was not his trade, he had been acting for the last months as an unwilling commercial traveler. Travel he disliked: in this case it also involved danger, which he detested, and all the mummery of signs and passwords, which he despised.

  Apart from the song—an insult to the intelligence—there was the tie—an insult to art. To have to wear a bow tie was sufficiently bad, but that it should be in black and scarlet horizontal stripes was anathema. In such a tie as that he would not be found dead: but in such a tie as that he had been found by the police. It was the tie—the tie, he was sure of it—which had led the police pigs into searching him. It must be evident even to their dull minds that such a man as he would not wear such a tie—except from some base motive.

  Those pigs of the police, to stop him at Passports and: Would he mind stepping this way? Nothing personal; simply that some passengers, picked at random, were asked to cooperate in a check for drugs. No, it was not necessary to strip; just the coat, the trousers and the shoes would do. Then quick hands patting him to ensure. Apologies. Nothing personal. They were certain that he would understand.

  Yes, he had understood; with his suitcase already there in the room waiting for him to produce the keys; everything unpacked, repacked, his briefcase emptied, refilled and returned, and their pretended lack of interest in himself. Oh, no, nothing personal. How much of a fool did they consider him?

  Elio Mantoni took a deep breath through his nose and expelled it slowly through his mouth to control nerves and clarify the brain.

  Innombrables—that was the word he had forgotten. How ridiculous to disturb himself; to forget that the words of the song were written in his notebook. Impossible to think straight after the shock of being searched. And ridiculous to disturb himself for that: the pigs had been fooled. Had not the search proved him to be innocent? His volatile spirit soared, then sank. Unless they were playing with him—always suspecting. They might still be watching him—waiting. His mind took another plunge and panic swept over him. If they were to see the transfer of the money he would be searched again; arrested. But how could he give warning when he did not know who would do the transfer—or how—or when? It could be any type of man. It could be a woman. Also somehow he must report that he had come under suspicion. They would have to keep him out of England for a time, even though the pigs had proved, could prove, nothing against him.

  Out of England; he began to feel better. No more of this perilous traveling with briefcases full of false money. They would have to put him back to his own, to his proper work, to painting. He drew himself up to his full five foot three and a half inches. He knew—because they had told him—that there were two stolen paintings on which he would soon be required to work. And now, undoubtedly, once he was free of England, that was what they would set him to do. Painting new masterpieces on old. And he would be back in his element. Encouraged, his ego once more self-inflated and his thirty-four-inch chest expanded, Mantoni strutted to the doors of the Heathrow Airport departure lounge and looked around for an empty table. There was none. He chose one at which a middle-aged woman was concentrating on a plate of variegated cream cakes. An hour’s delay. Always delay, and always the excuse: due to the something of the incoming aircraft. And every extra minute would increase his danger. He bought a double whiskey at the bar, took it to the table and sat down, putting his briefcase on the floor beside his chair. He noted the tag on the woman’s cabin-flight bag: GENOVA. A compatriot? He realized that she had stopped eating to stare at him. The cream-flecked mouth curved.

  “Buon giorno.”

  “Giorno.” he replied curtly and turned his head.

  She flounced her shoulders and retreated into her preoccupation with the cakes. Mantoni considered. A country-woman? It could be woman . . . No, he decided, she was not the type to . . . Ma allora you could not know. They were clever, using people who would never be suspected. But then—his thoughts flicked again to fright—he had been suspected. Even now he had the sensation of being watched, was on the point of looking round, when he was distracted by the arrival of a thin, elderly little woman escorted by a young man. The woman settled herself on the chair next to his and the young man announced that he would fetch her tea and biscuits. She protested. He insisted and, placing his briefcase on the remaining chair, went to the counter. Elio Mantoni tensed. The briefcase was not unlike his own; this might be the man. . . . As the young man was returning with the tea and biscuits an older man of whom Elio failed to get a clear view tried to push his way to the table. The young man was overbearing and the other retreated. Elio had started to hum the verse from Rimsky-Korsakov’s “Song of India.” The young man ignored him.

  “If you’ll wait here, Miss Seeton, I’ll come back for you before your flight’s called and
hand you over to a stewardess, so you’ve nothing to worry about.”

  The elderly woman thanked him: he responded with a bored smile, picked up his briefcase and left.

  Elio stopped humming. Covertly he took stock of the newcomer. No, no, no, small and old and gray; even more innocent than the cake woman. But . . . No, ridiculous. His imagination was running away; inventing danger where there was none. He was allowing the pigs, the pigs, the pigs to rattle him. Ma ancora—still, still he felt eyes upon him. In a quick survey of the lounge his glance locked with that of a man at a table against the wall. The man looked away, but Elio knew; knew that the other had been watching. Police? Or . . .? His agitation increased with the sense of being trapped. Once more he would start the signal. He began to hum.

  Three men with diverse interests had watched Mantoni enter the departure lounge.

  One, a Frenchman, sat on a low upholstered banquette beyond the cafeteria. He could have modeled for, had been modeled on, the typical British business executive: bowler hat, dark suit, black shoes and by his side the inevitable rolled umbrella and heavy briefcase. The only incongruous note in the City, though here it was almost obligatory, would have been the carrier bag which held a bottle of duty-free whiskey and a carton containing two hundred cigarettes. He paid no attention to the flight announcements since, as he had explained with a slight accent when checking in his luggage, he preferred to be nearly three hours early to waiting about in town with nothing to do. He held a newspaper at which he glanced occasionally, but for the most part he watched the throng in the cafeteria with an air of indifference. On Mantoni’s appearance it was not so much the manikin he noted as the bow tie with its black and scarlet stripes. He also observed the black briefcase under the Italian’s arm. Waiting until Mantoni was seated, he slowly gathered his possessions and sauntered toward the table. Halfway there he saw that an elderly woman accompanied by a young man might reach the table first and he began to hurry, but his progress was impeded by a family party: a mother, for safety, holding the hand of the eldest child, who, in her turn and for the same reason, held the hand of the next in years, who held the next, who held the next, who held the terminal, a tot who clutched the string of a nodding monkey in a cart. It was this last that proved to be his undoing. Thinking that the cavalcade had passed, he advanced, knocking the cart under a chair, and was set upon by the tot, who wailed, clung to his trousers and kicked his ankles. The family turned on him as one in assorted octaves of expostulation and by the time that he had extricated himself it was too late. He lunged toward Mantoni’s table only to be met by a stiff shoulder and a disdainful stare.

  “I say, old man, no need to shove, y’know. Plenty’ve room for all; ’s matter o’ fact I’m not staying.” The young man collected his briefcase from the fourth chair. “There you are.” He turned to his companion. “If you’ll wait here, Miss Seeton . . .” The rest of the sentence was lost to the Frenchman as he moved away. Flute, that chair was useless. It had to be next to the striped bow tie or to make the exchange would be difficult—too evident. He left his newspaper, carrier and umbrella on a seat at a nearby table while he went to the counter and ordered coffee. He would have to find other means.

  The second man who watched, Detective Constable Haley of Fraud, had hurried to the cafeteria after hearing the report on the abortive search of Mantoni and his possessions. Knowing that the Italian’s flight to Genoa was delayed, he thought it likely the little tick would fill in his time there—would probably be needing something strong for his nerves. If, however, he decided to sit outside by the plate glass windows, the detective constable could move to a spot where he could keep an eye on him. Haley chose a seat at a table in the center against the wall opposite the end of the bar, from which he could watch both sides of the lounge without having to turn his head. He noted Mantoni’s swaggering arrival. Cocky little ass—but under the bluster, he decided, Elio was edgy; his forehead was shining with sweat. What awful gear these Italians went for: purply suit with a blue stripe—more like pajamas; and as for the tie, and a bow to boot, black and red stripes—godawful. Anyway the little jerk’d got himself a whiskey and plumped himself down near a fat woman stuffing herself with cakes. She looked clean enough—hardly the type to pass him the doings—though at that you never knew. Well, if she tried it on he’d have ’em both to rights. When he’d really need to keep his eyes skinned was if anybody joined ’em. The detective constable was distracted for a moment by the sound of shrill vituperation: a mother and her brood had ganged up on some city type and were screaming abuse at him. Seemed the cit’d pinched the baby’s bottom or kicked it or whatever. Didn’t look the type but . . . A movement at Mantoni’s table caught his attention. A youngish character was putting a briefcase down on a spare chair. This could be the chummie—codfish type with a forehead and chin both running off the face like they were ashamed of being there; small blame to ’em. He was with a woman who’d sat herself down next to Elio. Elderly type from the clothes. Come on, Elio, lean back and let’s have a dekko at her; probably the cod’s ma or auntie. Haley watched Miss Seeton’s escort fetch tea and biscuits, have a brief word with a man who tried to push his way to the table, then pick up his case and leave. The cod’d had what looked like a bit of a barge-in with the city type. Anyway the cit’d sheared off and the cod’d scarpered, so he couldn’t be the chummie unless it was the old girl herself. Which would be clever. Mantoni took a gulp of whiskey and leaned back in his chair. Good, now he could see her. . . . Be damned. The detective constable was startled into half rising from his seat. Be double damned. It was Miss Seeton—the Yard’s MissEss. Mantoni swiveled in his chair and for a second the eyes of the two men met. Haley blinked as if coming out of a daydream and deliberately checked the time on the wall clock against his watch. He was nonplussed. Miss Seeton—here? The one the Oracle was always using? Who’d let her in on this, what gave and why hadn’t someone warned him? Had something new cropped up? At a guess he’d guess the Oracle must’ve cooked this up with Fraud. Fair enough, but why? What was the Oracle up to?

  “They,’” said Chief Superintendent Delphick, “are mad.”

  Sergeant Ranger surfaced slowly from the papers spread out upon his desk. If the P.M. report said that it was uncertain whether rape had preceded murder or t’other way about, did you file it under M or R? Better cross-index and put it under both, or even perhaps . . .

  “Yes, sir.” When the Oracle was in that tone of voice, better to agree and find out what you’d agreed to afterward.

  The internal telephone on the chief superintendent’s desk buzzed: he lifted the receiver. “Delphick. . . . Yes, sir, actually I am—or as free as one ever is. . . . Yes, I’ve read it and I . . . Oh—I see. Certainly, sir. I’ll come up straightaway.” He dropped the receiver back into place. “Mad,” he repeated. “Stark, raving mad.”

  “Yes, sir.” Somebody’d got under the Oracle’s wool all right, which meant somebody’d be sorry for something sometime.

  Delphick pushed back his chair and got to his feet. “You agree with me then?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Even though you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Try that for size.” Some stapled sheets of paper fluttered onto the sergeant’s desk and the chief superintendent left the office.

  Sergeant Ranger glanced at the last sheet. It was signed by Sir Hubert Everleigh, the Assistant Commissioner (Crime). Crippen. What had old Sir Heavily dreamt up now that had put the Oracle right offside? Better find out before he came back. The sergeant settled down to read the confidential memo. MissEss—the word seemed to leap at him from the page and he frowned. But the Oracle hadn’t needed Miss Seeton to do any sketches lately, and so far as he knew everything down at her half-pint village was quiet. What went on? Surely she hadn’t started getting up to mischief on her own again. He concentrated on the memorandum: . . . to be seconded for special duties abroad . . . But you couldn’t go seconding
somebody who wasn’t on the Force. And however off you might think it was to have Miss Seeton mixed up with the police, after all she was only on retainer as an artist. You didn’t go bouncing elderly drawing teachers round the world pretending they were policewomen; it simply wasn’t done . . . the Bank of England . . . the Banque du Lac, Geneva . . . forgery . . . highly confidential . . . The Home Office has agreed upon representations from the Foreign Office . . . The F.O.? The sergeant put down the papers in complete bewilderment.

  Sergeant Ranger’s mystification was understandable. Only recently he had spent the day at Plummergen, Kent, the village where Miss Seeton lived, on a visit to his fiancée. He had become engaged to Anne, the daughter of a doctor Knight who ran a small nursing home outside of Plummergen, soon after Miss Seeton’s arrival there consequent upon her having been left a cottage on the death of an elderly relative. Her advent had been coincident with her having been witness to a murder in London which had brought her and her facility for sketching a recognizable likeness to the notice of Scotland Yard. The repercussions of the affair had spread from the village through half of Kent and had entailed a protracted visit by Superintendent Delphick, as he then was, and his sergeant to the local inn before the case was brought to a conclusion.

  But, the sergeant reflected, when he and Anne had dropped in on her the previous Sunday, Miss Seeton had been gardening, with no cloud on a serene horizon. So that gave her exactly four days less the odd hour to become an expert on forgery, to intercept a pass from International Finance and dribble it down the field ahead of half the British government. How in hell did she do it? Why did everything she touched go poopsie? But surely even she couldn’t poopsie half the ministries. Or was the whole thing some pretty off-joke? And “highly confidential”? Miss Seeton? She’d hit the headlines every time she’d waved her umbrella. And as for banking and forgery, she couldn’t add two and two. The Oracle was right, they must be crackers—the Bank of England, this Swiss bank, the F.O. and the Home Office, the lot of ’em—stark, raving crackers. He stared at the memo in disbelief: . . . the Bank of England . . . the Banque du Lac, Geneva . . .