Over My Dead Body (Detective William Warwick #4)(79)

‘I took your advice, sir,’ he said, not wasting a word, ‘and reported my findings to the headmaster, who promised me he would look into the matter.’

‘And did he?’ asked William.

‘He can’t have done,’ said James, ‘because my friend has a study on the same corridor as me, at Harvard.’

‘You will, no doubt, have come up with a convincing explanation for why he ignored your findings.’

‘Yes, but it’s only circumstantial, and wouldn’t stand up in court.’

‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ said William.

‘One of my class, who should have sailed into Harvard, failed spectacularly.’

‘That’s not proof, unless he’ll admit his involvement to the headmaster, with at least two witnesses present.’

‘My friend’s father was chairman of Choate’s fundraising committee, and they had a record year.’

‘Still not proof, but adds to motive.’

‘He was also at Choate and Harvard at the same time as the headmaster.’

‘So were several other people, I suspect,’ said William, dismissively.

‘You’re sounding like my headmaster,’ said James, ‘who, when I finally asked him what decision he’d made simply said, “There was absolutely no solid evidence to back up your accusations, Buchanan.”’

‘And he’s right,’ said William wryly, ‘though I’ll be fascinated to know where your friend ends up.’

‘In prison along with your friend probably,’ said James.

‘While you’ve learnt the importance of gathering irrefutable evidence before you even consider presenting your case. A lesson that will stand you in good stead if you still want to be the Director of the FBI rather than chairman of the Pilgrim Line.’

‘My father’s now chairman of the company,’ said James, who paused before adding, ‘but he’s not my grandfather.’

After William had put the phone down, he thought about that sentence for some time.

? ? ?

Ross was already seated in his place, head buried in the New York Times, when Mr and Mrs Pugh entered the dining room and were shown to their usual table by an attentive ma?tre d’. Pugh was still spluttering angrily to his wife about what had taken place at the bank that morning while she appeared to listen sympathetically. Ross couldn’t help noticing that he didn’t mention the fact that his credit card had been rejected when he tried to buy two boxes of Montecristo cigars.

Pugh tried once again to persuade her that they should open a joint bank account, but Ross needed to catch only the occasional word drifting his way from the next table to realize that she still wasn’t convinced. When he told her he would be returning to the bank in the morning to close his account so the same bank could take care of both of their affairs in future, she nodded, but didn’t comment.

Ross had already decided he wouldn’t be following Pugh to the bank in the morning, but would remain at the hotel in the hope of detaining his wife for a few minutes in order to, in the commander’s words, enlighten her.

The conversation at the next table turned to a proposed visit to the theatre the following evening. Pugh confirmed that the hotel had managed to get them front-row seats in the dress circle for a performance of Les Misérables. Mrs Pugh seemed delighted by the news, and although Ross could catch only the occasional word coming his way, the laughter and clinking of glasses suggested that the atmosphere between the newlyweds had changed. After they had given the waiter their orders, Pugh leant across the table and said something in a stage whisper that took Ross by surprise.

‘Your wig has gone a bit skew-whiff, my love.’

Mrs Pugh rose slowly from her place and said, ‘I’ll only be a few moments, my darling,’ and left without another word.

Ross readjusted the mirror in his cigarette case, and watched as Pugh took a cigar holder out of an inside pocket, which struck Ross as strange, as the Pughs hadn’t yet been served with their main course.

Pugh unscrewed the holder, removed a cigar and placed it on the table in front of him. He looked cautiously around the crowded room, before tipping the tube upside down and emptying some white powder into his wine glass. He stirred the wine with the handle of his fork, before placing the cigar back in its holder and returning it to his pocket. Pugh glanced around the room once again, before he switched wine glasses with his wife’s. The whole deception had taken under a minute.

Ross caught the eye of the ma?tre d’, who was showing some guests to their table. He scribbled a few words on the back of his menu and put a finger to his lips as the ma?tre d’ approached him. He read the message before moving casually to the next table, where Mr Pugh was staring intently towards the entrance of the restaurant.

‘I’m sorry to bother you, sir,’ said the ma?tre d’, ‘but you have an overseas call. If you could go to reception, the caller is holding on.’

‘Did they give you a name?’ demanded Pugh.

‘No, sir. It was a lady. She said it was urgent.’

Pugh quickly got up and scurried out of the restaurant. As soon as he’d left the room, Ross dropped his copy of the New York Times on the floor. He bent down to retrieve the newspaper and, as he stood up, he switched back the Pughs’ wine glasses with a sleight of hand that would have impressed Jimmy the dip.