The Vivero Letter. Desmond Bagley
for a tale,’ I said hotly. ‘This tray has been used in this house for a hundred and fifty years that I am aware of. I don’t see how the devil you can claim ownership.’
He waved his hand. ‘We are talking at cross purposes. Those photographs are of a tray at present in my possession which is now securely locked in a vault. I came here to find out if your tray resembled mine at all. I think you have answered my unspoken question quite adequately.’
I looked at the photographs again, feeling a bit of a fool. This certainly looked like the tray I had seen so often, although whether it was an exact replica would be hard to say. I had seen the tray briefly the previous Saturday morning when Dave Goosan had shown it to me, but when had I seen it before that? It must have been around when I had previously visited Bob, but I had never noticed it. In fact, I had never examined it since I was a boy.
Fallon asked, ‘Is it really like your tray?’
I explained my difficulty and he nodded understandingly, and said, ‘Would you consider selling me your tray, Mr Wheale? I will give you a fair price.’
‘It isn’t mine to sell.’
‘Oh? I would have thought you would inherit it.’
‘I did. But it’s in a sort of legal limbo. It won’t be mine until my brother’s will is probated.’ I didn’t tell Fallon that Mount had suggested selling the damned thing; I wanted to keep him on a string and find out what he was really after. I never forgot for one minute that Bob had died because of that tray.
‘I see.’ He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. ‘I suppose the police will release it into your possession.’
‘I don’t see why they shouldn’t.’
He smiled. ‘Mr Wheale, will you allow me to examine the tray – to photograph it? It need never leave the house: I have a very good camera at my disposal.’
I grinned at him. ‘I don’t see why I should.’
The smile was wiped away from his face as though it had never been. After a long moment it returned in the form of a sardonic quirk of the corner of his mouth. ‘I see you are … suspicious of me.’
I laughed. ‘You’re dead right. Wouldn’t you be in my place?’
‘I rather think I would,’ he said. ‘I’ve been stupid.’ I once saw a crack chess player make an obviously wrong move which even a tyro should have avoided. The expression on his face was comical in its surprise and was duplicated on Fallon’s face at that moment. He gave the impression of a man mentally kicking himself up the backside.
I heard a car draw up outside, so I got up and opened the casement. Jack and Madge were just getting out of their mini. I shouted, ‘Give me a few more minutes, Jack; I’m a bit tied up.’
He waved and walked away, but Madge came over to the window. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘That seems a good idea. What about you, Mr Fallon – would you like some tea?’
‘That would be very nice,’ he said.
‘Then that’s it, Madge. Tea for two in here, please.’ She went away and I turned back to Fallon. ‘I think it would be a good idea if you told me what you are really getting at.’
He said worriedly, ‘I assure you I have absolutely no knowledge of the events leading to your brother’s death. My attention was drawn to the tray by an article and a photograph in the Western Morning News which was late in getting to me. I came to Totnes immediately, arriving rather late on Friday evening …’
‘… and you booked in at the Cott Inn.’
He looked faintly surprised. ‘Yes, I did. I intended going to see your brother on the Saturday morning but then I heard of the … of what had happened …’
‘And so you didn’t go. Very tactful of you, Mr Fallon. I suppose you realize you’ll have to tell this story to the police.’
‘I don’t see why.’
‘Don’t you? Then I’ll tell you. Don’t you know that the man who killed my brother was an American called Victor Niscemi?’
Fallon seemed struck dumb and just shook his head.
‘Didn’t you read the report on the inquest this morning? It was in most of the papers.’
‘I didn’t read the newspaper this morning,’ he said weakly.
I sighed. ‘Look. Mr Fallon; an American kills my brother and the tray is involved. Four days before my brother is murdered two Americans try to buy it from him. And now you come along, an American, and also want to buy the tray. Don’t you think you’ve got some explaining to do?’
He seemed to have aged five years and his face was drawn, but he looked up alertly. ‘The Americans,’ he said. ‘The ones who wanted to buy the tray. What were their names?’
‘Perhaps you can tell me,’ I said.
‘Was one of them Halstead?’
‘Now you have got some explaining to do,’ I said grimly. ‘I think I’d better run you down to the police station right now. I think Superintendent Smith would be interested in you.’
He looked down at the floor and brooded for a while, then raised his head. ‘Now I think you are being stupid, Mr Wheale. Do you really think that if I was implicated in this murder I would have come here openly today? I didn’t know that Halstead had approached your brother, and I didn’t know the housebreaker was an American.’
‘But you knew Halstead’s name.’
He flapped his hand tiredly. ‘I’ve been crossing Halstead’s trail all over Central America and Europe for the last three years. Sometimes I’d get there first and sometimes he would. I know Halstead; he was a student of mine some years ago.’
‘A student of what?’
‘I’m an archeologist,’ said Fallon. ‘And so is Halstead.’
Madge came in with the tea, and there were some scones and strawberry jam and clotted cream. She put the tray on the desk, smiled at me wanly and left the room. As I offered the scones and poured the tea I reflected that it made a cosy domestic scene very much at odds with the subject of discussion. I put down the teapot, and said, ‘What about Gatt? Did you know him?’
‘I’ve never heard of the man,’ said Fallon.
I pondered awhile. One thing struck me – I hadn’t caught out Fallon in a lie. He’d said that Halstead was an archeologist, and that was confirmed by Dave Goosan. He’d said he arrived at the Cott on Friday, and that was confirmed by Nigel. I thought about that and made a long arm to pull the telephone closer. Without saying anything I dialled the Cott and watched Fallon drink his tea.
‘Oh, hello, Nigel. Look, this chap Fallon – what time did he arrive last Friday?’
‘About half-past six in the evening. Why, Jemmy?’
‘Just something that’s come up. Can you tell me what he did that night?’ I stared unblinkingly at Fallon, who didn’t seem at all perturbed at the trend of the questions. He merely spread some cream on a scone and took a bite.
‘I can tell you everything he did that night,’ said Nigel. ‘We had a bit of an impromptu party which went on a bit. I talked to Fallon quite a lot. He’s an interesting old bird; he was telling me about his experiences in Mexico.’
‘Can you put a time on this?’
Nigel paused. ‘Well, he was in the bar at ten o’clock – and he was still there when the party broke up. We were a bit late – say, quarter to two in the morning.’ He hesitated. ‘You going to the police with this?’
I