Read Online Wexford 10 - A Sleeping Life by Ruth Rendell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ruth Rendell
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address them. Then why keep the relationship dark? In saying that there was nothing unpleasant in West’s secretiveness, Vivian had only succeeded in suggesting that there was.
The library was about to close. Wexford went out and made a face at Edward Edwards who looked superciliously back at him. Stevens was waiting for him on the pavement, and together they walked back to the car which had necessarily been parked a quarter of a mile away. He had made a mental note of the name of West’s publishers, Carlyon Brent, of London, New York and Sydney. Would they tell him anything if he called them? He had a feeling they would be cagily discreet.
‘I don’t see what you’re hoping to get, anyway,’ said Burden in the morning. ‘He’s not going to have told his publishers who he gives birthday presents to, is he?’
‘I’m thinking about this girl, this Polly something or other,’ Wexford said. ‘If she does his typing in his flat, which it seems as if she does, it’s likely she also answers his phone. A sort of secretary, in fact. Therefore, someone at his publishers may be in the habit of speaking to her. Or, at any rate, it’s possible West will have told them her name.’
Their offices were located in Russell Square. He dialled the number and was put through to someone he was told was Mr West’s editor. ‘Oliver Hampton speaking.’ A dry cool public-school voice. He listened while Wexford went somewhat awkwardly into his explanation. The awkwardness was occasioned not by Hampton’s interruptions - he didn’t interrupt - but by a strong extra-aural perception, carried along fifty miles of wires, that the man at the other end was incredulous, amazed and even offended.
At last Hampton said, ‘I couldn’t possibly give you any information of that nature about one of my authors.’ The information ‘of that nature’ had merely been an address at which West could be written to or spoken to, or, failing that, the name of his typist. ‘Frankly, I don’t know who you are. I only know who you say you are.’
‘In that case, Mr Hampton, I will give you a number for you to phone my Chief Constable and check.’
‘I’m sorry, but I’m extremely busy. In point of fact, I have no idea where Mr West is at this moment except that he is somewhere in the South of France. What I will do is give you the number of his agent if that would help.’
Wexford said it might and noted the number down. Mrs Brenda Nunn, of Field and Bray, Literary Agents. This would be the woman Vivian had said was middle-aged and with a husband living. She was more talkative than Hampton and less suspicious, and she satisfied herself on his bona fides by calling him back at Kingsmarkham Police Station.
‘Well, now we’ve done all that,’ she said, ‘I’m afraid I really can’t be much help to you. I don’t have an address for Mr West in France and I’d never heard of Rhoda Comfrey till I read about her in the papers. I do know the name of this girl who works for him. I’ve spoken to her on the phone. It’s - well, it’s Polly Flinders.’
‘It’s what?'
‘I know. Now you can see why it stuck in my mind. Actually, it’s Pauline Flinders - heaven knows what her parents were thinking about - but Grenville - er, Mr West - refers to her as Polly. I’ve no idea where she lives.’
Next Wexford phoned Baker. The search of the electoral register had brought to light no Comfrey in the parliamentary constituency of Kenbourne Vale. Would Baker do the same for him in respect of a Miss Pauline Flinders? Baker would, with pleasure. The name seemed to afford him no amusement or even interest. However, he was anxious to help, and in addition would send a man to Kenbourne Green to inquire in all the local shops and of Grenville West’s neighbours.
‘It’s all so vague,’ said Dr Crocker who came to join them for lunch at the Carousel Cafe. ‘Even if the Comfrey
The library was about to close. Wexford went out and made a face at Edward Edwards who looked superciliously back at him. Stevens was waiting for him on the pavement, and together they walked back to the car which had necessarily been parked a quarter of a mile away. He had made a mental note of the name of West’s publishers, Carlyon Brent, of London, New York and Sydney. Would they tell him anything if he called them? He had a feeling they would be cagily discreet.
‘I don’t see what you’re hoping to get, anyway,’ said Burden in the morning. ‘He’s not going to have told his publishers who he gives birthday presents to, is he?’
‘I’m thinking about this girl, this Polly something or other,’ Wexford said. ‘If she does his typing in his flat, which it seems as if she does, it’s likely she also answers his phone. A sort of secretary, in fact. Therefore, someone at his publishers may be in the habit of speaking to her. Or, at any rate, it’s possible West will have told them her name.’
Their offices were located in Russell Square. He dialled the number and was put through to someone he was told was Mr West’s editor. ‘Oliver Hampton speaking.’ A dry cool public-school voice. He listened while Wexford went somewhat awkwardly into his explanation. The awkwardness was occasioned not by Hampton’s interruptions - he didn’t interrupt - but by a strong extra-aural perception, carried along fifty miles of wires, that the man at the other end was incredulous, amazed and even offended.
At last Hampton said, ‘I couldn’t possibly give you any information of that nature about one of my authors.’ The information ‘of that nature’ had merely been an address at which West could be written to or spoken to, or, failing that, the name of his typist. ‘Frankly, I don’t know who you are. I only know who you say you are.’
‘In that case, Mr Hampton, I will give you a number for you to phone my Chief Constable and check.’
‘I’m sorry, but I’m extremely busy. In point of fact, I have no idea where Mr West is at this moment except that he is somewhere in the South of France. What I will do is give you the number of his agent if that would help.’
Wexford said it might and noted the number down. Mrs Brenda Nunn, of Field and Bray, Literary Agents. This would be the woman Vivian had said was middle-aged and with a husband living. She was more talkative than Hampton and less suspicious, and she satisfied herself on his bona fides by calling him back at Kingsmarkham Police Station.
‘Well, now we’ve done all that,’ she said, ‘I’m afraid I really can’t be much help to you. I don’t have an address for Mr West in France and I’d never heard of Rhoda Comfrey till I read about her in the papers. I do know the name of this girl who works for him. I’ve spoken to her on the phone. It’s - well, it’s Polly Flinders.’
‘It’s what?'
‘I know. Now you can see why it stuck in my mind. Actually, it’s Pauline Flinders - heaven knows what her parents were thinking about - but Grenville - er, Mr West - refers to her as Polly. I’ve no idea where she lives.’
Next Wexford phoned Baker. The search of the electoral register had brought to light no Comfrey in the parliamentary constituency of Kenbourne Vale. Would Baker do the same for him in respect of a Miss Pauline Flinders? Baker would, with pleasure. The name seemed to afford him no amusement or even interest. However, he was anxious to help, and in addition would send a man to Kenbourne Green to inquire in all the local shops and of Grenville West’s neighbours.
‘It’s all so vague,’ said Dr Crocker who came to join them for lunch at the Carousel Cafe. ‘Even if the Comfrey