The Victim in Victoria Station by Jeanne M. Dams Page B

one.”
    The next one was named Vicki Shore. She hung up as soon as Nigel launched into his spiel. Two of the men, Brian Upton and Peter Grey, reacted the same way, Upton with some juicy epithets before he slammed the phone down.
    â€œLearning a lot, are we?” said Nigel.
    â€œMore than you might think. Learning a little about the people, anyway. Try this one again. He’s the one whose phone was busy the first time.”
    This time Terry Hammond’s phone rang, and he was much more forthcoming than the others. The trouble was that he said nothing to the point.
    â€œFine paper,” he said with enthusiasm to Nigel’s practiced opening. “How’d you get a job with sush a fine paper?”
    â€œWell, actually, I—”
    â€œGood job, is it?”
    â€œNot bad. Now, about Multilinks—”
    â€œI’m the bookkeeper. Keep the bloody accounts, don’t I?”
    â€œThen you must have some understanding of the financial position—”
    â€œFinancial pozh—pozhee—money. Not making any.”
    â€œAre you saying Multilinks isn’t making money?”
    â€œHell with Multihowsyerfather. Me! I’m not making enough money to keep myself in drink.” There was the sound of a hiccup. “’Scuse me.”
    Nigel rolled his eyes. “I’ve been told, sir, that Mr. Monahan may be planning a visit—”
    â€œWho’s he? Sounds Irish. The Irish know how to drink, I’ll say that for them. Shay, would you care to come round? Make a party of it?”
    â€œThank you, no.” Gently, Nigel replaced the receiver, rolled his eyes at me, and looked up the next number.
    By eight o’clock we had only two names left on our list. Lloyd Pierce had been polite, but sounded distracted; a good deal of laughter in the background indicated some sort of party in progress. Chandra Dalal refused to talk once Nigel had said he was a reporter. That left the two highest-paid names on the list, the ones I assumed were the managing director and his assistant.
    â€œLet’s go to the top,” I suggested. “Walter Spragge. What have we got to lose?”
    Nigel tried the number. No answer.
    â€œIt’s getting late, Dorothy. Inga …”
    My heart smote me. I, too, was recently married, even if it was for the second time. And I could well remember my first marriage, and being young, and longing for Frank to come home from an evening class.
    â€œThere’s only one more,” I pleaded. “Then you can go home. The assistant manager, Mr. Hugh Fortier.”
    Glumly Nigel punched in the number. Without much hope I put my ear to my phone. It rang for a long time.
    â€œHe isn’t home—”
    â€œFortier residence. Hello, is anyone there?”
    Nigel, caught up short, stammered a reply. “Sorry—sorry. This is—is—” He looked at me, panic in his eyes.
    â€œFrancis Robinson!” I mouthed urgently.
    â€œSorry, swallowed the wrong way. Francis Robinson here, with the
Herald Tribune
. Mr. Fortier?”
    â€œYes.” The monosyllable was not encouraging.
    â€œI apologize for troubling you at home, sir, but I have been unable to obtain any useful information from anyone else, and I have a deadline to meet. I am attempting to confirm a rumor concerning the forthcoming Multilinks stock issue. I believe you are Mr. Spragge’s assistant. Would you have any information about the offering?”
    â€œI might have. What did you say your name was?”
    â€œFrancis Robinson. With the
Herald Tribune
.”
    â€œI see. You say you’ve called other people?”
    â€œNo one who could, or would, give me any answers. Mrs. Forbes refused to talk to me, and Miss Shore and some of the men hung up. Mr. Spragge was not at home.” Diplomatically, he didn’t mention Mr. Hammond.
    â€œIt’s Mrs. Shore, not Miss,” Fortier was saying. His voice had sharpened.