Ronnie nodded. And kept nodding. But— “I don’t remember that,” he said.
“You don’t remember looking for Montrose? After Nigel Hutchison reminded you that he was a reporter and maybe you should go with him rather than let him roam the flat?”
Ronnie shook his head.
“So you have no idea who hit him?”
“No,” Ronnie said.
It might have been the truth or it might not. There was no way to know. He was adamant about it, anyway. We tried in a couple of different ways to approach the subject and get a different answer, but Ronnie kept reiterating, with words and gestures, that he didn’t know what had happened to Montrose. He might even have believed it. In the end, we thanked him for the information he had given us—locations for Gladys Long, Hutchison and Ogilvie, and a way to contact Dominic Rivers—and took our leave. Dobbins was still not back when we left.
CHAPTERELEVEN
“No luck?”Tom wanted to know when we were back beside the Crossley.
“Not in as far as finding St George or Gladys Long.” I made my way into the back of the vehicle as I spoke. “Blanton was the only one upstairs. He said he’s been alone all morning. And incidentally, he doesn’t remember the murder. Or says he doesn’t.”
Tom’s eyebrows arched. “Is that so?”
“That’s what he claimed,” I said, as Christopher fitted himself into the front seat next to Tom. “He was in awful shape. Twitching and sweating the way he did last night, while he was waiting for Dominic Rivers to turn up.”
“Withdrawal symptoms,” Tom nodded, not without sympathy. “He’s addicted to dope, and if he doesn’t get it regularly, that’s what happens.”
That was a load off my mind, actually. Nothing to do with Blanton, but I had never seen my Cousin Francis behave that way, which surely meant that his addiction was far less severe than Blanton’s.
And Crispin had all his faculties, with no shaking or sweating or twitching whatsoever, so I probably didn’t have to worry about him, either. Not as far as that was concerned, at any rate.
Although I was frankly shocked that Ronald Blanton claimed not to remember anything that had happened last night. A murder had taken place in his Mayfair flat, and he didn’t remember it? He had helped carry Frederick Montrose’s lifeless body down several flights of stairs and had loaded it into the back of a car under cover of darkness, with its head wrapped in a towel so blood and brain matter wouldn’t get everywhere, and he said he couldn’t remember it?
“Dope can do strange things to people,” Tom said, when I opined as much. “You said he had just taken a hit when this happened? He might have been in a world of his own, and everything that happened around him took on a dream-like quality. Cocaine is a strong stimulant. It makes the user feel euphoric. All of real life, especially the bad parts, might have taken a back seat to that.”
He turned to Christopher. “Did he know where Miss Long or any of the others can be found?”
“Hutchison and Ogilvie share a place in Kensington,” Christopher said, “next to the Royal Albert Hall. It might be in the Albert Hall Mansions, or it might not. Gladys Long has a mews flat in Belgravia. It’s either Eaton Row or Eaton Mews or perhaps Ebury Mews. Or something else. He thought it started with an E, although I’m not sure how far I trust Ronald Blanton’s recollection. But I assume we start there?”
“If your cousin departed with Miss Long,” Tom agreed, “let’s do. We can always go to Kensington if they aren’t there. But it’s not on the way, so let’s not waste time on a detour there at the moment.”
He turned south toward the river and Belgravia.
I sat in silence a moment, until I couldn’t stand the silence any more. (It didn’t take long.) “Is there a reason you’re worried about wasting time?”
Or to put it more bluntly, when he had told me not to worry about Crispin, that nothing was likely to have happened to him, had Tom been lying and I really ought to worry? Did he think that time was of the essence, and that was why we were haring off toward Eaton Square without stopping in Kensington first? Was Tom afraid of what we might find there?
Tom met my eyes in the mirror. “It’s not because I’ve had second thoughts and believe we’ll find St George dead in a pool of blood, if that’s your concern. If we find him at all, I’m sure he’ll be, as Kit said, doing up his buttons.”
“Dallying with Gladys?”
He nodded. “But the sooner we can put this to bed—no pun intended—the sooner the both of you can stop worrying about him. So we should go there and see if we catch themin flagrante.”
I grimaced. So did Christopher. I deduced he wasn’t any more eager to see his cousin in the act of seducing Miss Gladys Long than I was.
“And if they’re not there,” Tom added, “we’ll try Kensington next. Did Ronald Blanton say anything about where Mr. Rivers might live?”
“Dominic Rivers’s whereabouts are not known to the rabble,” Christopher said dryly. “If Blanton wants him, he rings him up, and Rivers comes to him. The same thing Crispin said. It seems Rivers doesn’t want house guests.”
“No,” Tom agreed, “I wouldn’t either, if I were Dominic Rivers. That way he can control as much of every encounter as possible. If anything spooks him about any of it, he can leave with no one being the wiser. He probably had you under observations at Rectors last night, for a while before he made his presence known.”
He might very well have done. The place had been full of moving bodies, music and noise, and it would have been quite easy for someone to stay out of the way and keep observation before he decided it was safe to approach.
