A Gun to Play With

by J F Straker

  But Inspector Bostrell helped to revive it. He seemed impressed by Geoff’s story. ‘You were quite right to come to us, Mr Taylor,’ he said. ‘It may turn out to be a red herring, but we can put up with a few red herrings if we hook a real fish now and again. I’d like you to repeat your story to the detective-sergeant.’

  He led the way out into the passage and through a door marked ‘Court Room.’ Geoff followed. This at least was more like the real thing, he decided, his imagination peopling the wooden benches with dangerous criminals and nervous witnesses, and the dais with stern-faced magistrates. They went out into the open and across a courtyard; and then they were in a bare, white-washed office in which a broad-shouldered man in grey flannels and sports jacket sat writing at a table. The Inspector introduced him as Detective-Sergeant Greenley.

  ‘What did this chap look like?’ asked the Sergeant, after the story had been repeated and he had examined the glove.

  Geoff told him. He was naturally observant, and he had had time enough in which to study the man in the blue suit closely.

  The Sergeant nodded approvingly.

  ‘Good. We should be able to recognize him from that. You say the car was a black Daimler saloon. Did you get the registration number?’

  No, said Geoff. The man had not given him a chance, he had cleared off too quickly.

  ‘What about the other occupant of the car? Did you catch a glimpse of him?’

  ‘No. He —’

  Geoff stopped, puzzled. They seemed to take it for granted that the other was a man. And one paper had described the thieves as two men. Yet he was sure that was wrong. He could not say why, but instinctively he knew that there had been a woman in the car.

  ‘What’s up?’ asked the Sergeant. ‘Remembered something?’

  ‘I think the other person was a woman,’ Geoff said slowly. ‘Don’t ask me why — I didn’t see her, I just got that impression. And it wasn’t because of her voice when she called out; it wasn’t any shriller than a man’s might have been if he were excited.’ He grinned sheepishly. ‘You probably think I’m daft, eh? But I bet it was a woman.’

  The Sergeant considered this.

  ‘It wouldn’t be because this other person stayed in the car?’ he asked. ‘You are probably accustomed to couples pulling up at night, and the woman staying in the car while the man takes the grub out to her. It often happens like that, doesn’t it? So maybe that was why you got the idea last night.’

  Geoff goggled at him.

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course. Two men in a car, and they both get out. But if only one gets out, nine times out of ten the other’s a woman. Or a child. And this wasn’t a child’s voice.’ He felt aggrieved that the other should have rooted out so easily the cause of his conviction — a conviction he had not been able to fathom for himself. Yet realization of the cause discredited the effect. It might have been fear of recognition, not sex, that had made Blue Suit’s companion stay in the car. ‘He might even have wanted to make me think he was a woman,’ Geoff said, explaining the drift of his thoughts.

  ‘He might,’ the Sergeant agreed.

  ‘It said in the papers that the Forest Row crime was committed by two men.’ The detective’s eyebrows lifted, and Geoff added hastily, ‘I was thinking, you see, that that’s who they were.’

  ‘That is outside our province at the moment, Mr Taylor. Speculation will get us nowhere. What we have to do is to pass your information to those who can make the best use of it.’

  When the Inspector returned after escorting Geoff Taylor from the premises Greenley was studying the map. ‘That chap was probably right,’ he said. ‘He —’

  The phone rang, and he picked up the receiver. ‘For you.’

  For a few moments Bostrell listened attentively. Then he began to give instructions, occasionally glancing at the Sergeant for confirmation. As he replaced the receiver, ‘That was Mr Renwick, from Jevington,’ he said. ‘He’s found the Daimler. It was parked on his land some time before six o’clock this morning, and it’s still there. As you heard, I told him to keep an eye on it until we get there.’

  ‘They could have been making for Eastbourne,’ Greenley said. ‘Probably left the main road at Dicker, ditched the car, and did the rest of the journey on foot. However, this is too big for us to handle. I’ll spread the glad tidings around, and then fetch the Daimler in here for safe keeping.’ He laughed. ‘In a few hours from now this place will be swarming with the Yard boys, I shouldn’t wonder. The whole bag of tricks.’

  *

  When Detective-Sergeant Scott, attached to the local division of the Metropolitan Police, reported back to Croydon police station at six-fifteen that same evening he was met with the information that a certain Joseph Landor was wanted in connection with the theft of a Daimler saloon car during the preceding night. Scotland Yard had reason to believe the car might have been used in the raid on a grocer’s shop in Forest Row, in which the proprietor was shot and killed.

  ‘Someone’s pulled a boner,’ was Scott’s immediate comment. ‘Landor may have pinched the car — that’s right up his street — but he never did that Forest Row job. I know him. He’s no killer, and he doesn’t carry a gun.’

  ‘The Yard think otherwise. You find the blighter and get him to talk.’

  Joe Landor was not at his lodgings. He had gone out at nine o’clock the previous evening, said his landlady, and had not been back since. She seemed neither surprised not perturbed at her lodger’s absence. Scott thought he knew why. But he himself was surprised. Car-stealing and breaking and entering were quite in line with Joe’s record. But not violence or murder. Was it coincidence that Joe had been absent from home the previous night, or had he slipped a few rungs lower on the ladder of crime?

  ‘You may find him at Dick’s,’ the woman volunteered. ‘He goes there most evenings.’

  Scott knew Dick’s well. It lay just off the High Street, a mean and dingy cafe where food and drink were cheap and served without frills. Not essentially a rendezvous for the shadier characters of the district, it numbered a fair proportion of them among its customers. Dick Roberts, the proprietor, was from the Southern States; a big man over-burdened with fat, and with the fat man’s proverbial good humour. Scott numbered him among his contacts with the underworld — contacts on which, in common with all detectives, he relied largely for information.

  ‘Evening, Mr Scott,’ Dick rumbled, his voice sounding like the echo of an eruption in his enormous stomach. ‘Ah haven’t seen you around lately.’

  ‘No. Someone in authority blundered. I was given a spot of leave. Cup of tea, please.’

  There were four men in the narrow café, all of them strangers to the Sergeant. Three sat at a table, talking together in low voices. The fourth, a dark-haired, sallow-faced man with a hare-lip and a crooked nose, lounged at the counter. Scott wished him farther away. Dick would talk more freely if they were unlikely to be overheard.

  But the man pushed his cup forward to be refilled, and did not look like moving. Scott decided to risk a harmless question.

  ‘Has Joe Landor been in this evening, Dick?’ he asked.

  The grin froze on Dick’s face as he turned to look at the man with the hare-lip. Scott, following his gaze, was startled. The man’s sallow face was contorted into an even more ugly expression than that with which nature had endowed him. He glared at Scott, the thin lower lip pulled down to reveal uneven, blackened teeth. Then he slapped his cup down in the saucer and stalked out of the cafe.

  The detective watched him go. Puzzled, he turned to Dick.

  ‘What’s biting him?’ he asked. Was it something I said? Or did you forget to put the sugar in his tea?’

  The other did not smile. ‘It’s his sister,’ he said, removing the cup and saucer and mopping up the spilt tea. ‘She’s been missing since last night. He thinks she’s gone with Joe Landor. Ah reckon it was your mentioning Joe that upset him, Mr Scott.’

  The Sergeant leaned forward, his interest thorou
ghly aroused.

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Cathie. Cathie Wilkes.’ Dick nodded towards the door. ‘He’s Nat Wilkes.’

  ‘And he thinks she’s keen on Joe?’

  ‘No. He says she ain’t. That’s what puzzles him, he says. Why should she run off with a man she don’t even like?’

  ‘Why indeed. How old is the girl?’

  ‘Twenty-two, twenty-three.’

  ‘Pretty?’

  ‘Nat says so. Ah ain’t never seen her.’

  ‘Not much family resemblance, then,’ Scott said. ‘He’s an ugly devil. What makes him think his sister’s with Landor?’

  Dick shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘He didn’t say. Nat Wilkes don’t talk much. But he’s looking for him, and I wouldn’t like to be Joe if Nat finds him. Nat’s crazy ‘bout his sister, Mr Scott. A bit wild, he says she is; but seems like he don’t mind that.’

  The message from the Yard had mentioned the possibility of a woman having been in the Daimler with Landor. It seemed more than a possibility now, thought Scott. It also seemed that he had been wrong about Landor. No doubt Landor had persuaded the girl to spend a few days at the seaside with him, and had broken into the Forest Row shop for money with which to finance the jaunt. But why the gun? Why take it, let alone use it?

  ‘What is Mr Wilkes’s line of business?’ he asked. ‘I haven’t run across him before.’

  Dick glanced nervously at the three seated men. ‘There’s others been asking that,’ he said, his voice low. ‘Ah don’t ‘zactly know the answer, Mr Scott, but between you and me ah don’t think it’s legitimate. Ah don’t know as he’s ever been in trouble with the police,’ he added hastily. ‘But there’s talk.’

  The Sergeant nodded. It occurred to him that, even if Wilkes did earn his living on the wrong side of the law, he might at least be prepared to co-operate with the police in finding his sister. Dick had said he was greatly attached to her.

  ‘Where does Wilkes hang out?’ he asked.

  Dick shook his head.

  ‘Don’t ask me that, Mr Scott,’ he pleaded. ‘Ah don’t know for sure, and even if ah did ah dursent tell you. Ah ain’t ‘zactly feared of Nat. But things happen to folk as talk about him. Ah don’t want nothink to happen to me.’

  Scott knew what he meant. The underworld had its own methods of retaliating on those who opened their mouths too wide. A tip-off to the police when something was cooking; an unfortunate accident; the beating up of the squealer or his dependants.

  ‘Okay, Dick,’ he said cheerfully. ‘We’ll find him without dragging your name into it.’

  Again Dick shook his head, his fat cheeks swinging.

  ‘That ain’t no comfort, Mr Scott. Nat saw us together, he heard you asking about Joe. If you pick him up he’ll still think it was me told you where to look for him.’

  *

  Geoff Taylor came home earlier than usual the next morning. He took the stairs two at a time. If Claire didn’t wake of her own accord he’d wake her himself.

  She had not returned from the office before he left for the ‘Dayanite.’ She might have been working late (she practically ran the Eastbourne business, he knew that), or she might have gone to the flicks; but whatever the reason the result was the same — he hadn’t seen her for nearly twenty-four hours. That was no way for a married couple to live. Charlie was right; he was acting daft working so late. He’d see Charlie at the weekend and fix new hours.

  The bedroom was in darkness, and for a moment he hesitated in the doorway; Claire usually left the small standard lamp burning for him. Then he felt for the light-switch and snapped it down.

  The bed was empty!

  He stared at it, unbelieving. It was not until he had searched the house for her and come back to the bedroom that he saw the note on the pillow.

  Sorry, darling, but Mike Watson came over from Brighton and asked me to go to Birmingham for him this evening. He ran me home to pack a few things and to say goodbye, but you had already left for the café. I suppose we were late.

  Must dash now. Mike’s waiting to take me to the station, and there isn’t much time. I’ll be away about three days — back Monday morning, I hope. Be seeing you. Look after yourself.

  Love,

  CLAIRE

  He sat down heavily on the carefully smoothed coverlet and rumpled his hair with his fingers. God damn and blast it! he swore savagely. Married two years — and when did we last spend more than a few hours together? This is the second time she’s run out on me without warning. She swore she’d never do it again, that she’d tell Watson to go jump in the sea if he asked her. But did she? Did she bloody hell!

  He brooded darkly on Watson. Watson was a son-of-a-bitch, a no-good crook; he’d made money too fast to be on the level. A ruddy great mansion out at Hove, holidays in the South of France, a brand-new car last year and another this. Maybe he had treated Claire well; financially, anyway. But Geoff knew the reason for that. Splash enough money around and you got what you wanted. Anything — even Claire. That was Watson’s motto. Only he hadn’t got Claire, and he never would. Claire was too smart to be taken in by a smooth devil like Watson; she’d take what he offered, but she wouldn’t give anything away. Geoff was sure of that. If he hadn’t been sure he’d have put his foot down long ago. As he ought to have done, anyway. As he damned well would do as soon as Claire got back.

  He went down to the kitchen and made a pot of tea, and sat at the wooden table telling himself what he would say to Claire, to Watson, even to Charlie, the next time he saw them. Dawn was breaking when he climbed, tired and angry and frustrated, into bed.

  2

  Lieutenant Toby Vanne, of the United States Air Force in Britain, jerked himself upright and twisted the steering-wheel sharply to keep the Riley away from the verge. The sun was hot, and leaden weights seemed to be dragging his eyelids down. He began to regret his visit to the pub in Alfriston; it had been stupid to put away four pints of beer in the middle of the day, with no lunch in his stomach to act as blotting-paper. In fact, it had been mighty stupid to drink beer at all. He didn’t really go for the warm British variety, though custom had inured him to it.

  He wondered idly what had happened to his appetite; although it was past one o’clock he had no desire to eat. All he wanted was to close his eyes, to relax against the warm, comfortable leather, and doze. He gripped the wheel more firmly, finding the impulse almost irresistible. The best thing you can do, fellow, he told himself sternly, is to find a nice, quiet spot in which to park, and have a nice, quiet snooze. You’ll end up in the ditch, else.

  The road bent sharply to the right, but straight ahead a rutted, grass-grown track led to what in the distance appeared to be a disused barn. With relief he accepted his own advice and, changing down, bumped slowly along it. The barn was still in service, he saw, with bales of hay stacked at one end; but behind it a field of corn had encroached on to the paths and among the crumbling walls. It was quiet and peaceful and solitary. Toby stopped the car, slid into the passenger seat, and was almost instantly asleep.

  He awoke with a stiff neck, a mouth like an ash-can, and a realization that he would have to do something about that half-gallon of beer. Rubbing his eyes in the strong sunlight, he walked round to the back of the barn, the corn swishing against his legs. He had slept, he discovered with surprise, for little over half an hour.

  Low brick walls criss-crossed the area, and, nature assuaged, he was tempted to explore. But he did not get far. As he peered round the first wall he found that he was not alone. A trouser-clad figure lay there on its stomach, arms outflung, its head almost hidden by the corn. Toby hesitated, wondering if the stranger were asleep. It was an odd and uncomfortable spot to choose for an afternoon nap. An uncomfortable position, too; on a slope, with the head well below the level of the feet. He crept a little nearer, and stopped. A shiver rippled down his spine. The corn was red about the recumbent figure, an ugly purple stain disfigured the blue jersey. An
d in the centre of the stain a neat round hole spoke eloquently of death.

  Toby was twenty-five; an easygoing, friendly young man, broad-shouldered and of medium height. Life for him had been easy and pleasurable, a cheerful journey unhampered by financial worries or ill-health. He had never been confronted with a dead body, had not even come close to an ailing one. It is doubtful whether even in the air he had given death more than a passing thought. But now, when the shiver had passed, and with it the momentary impulse to turn away, he went forward and knelt beside the body. He was surprised to find that it was that of a woman. He touched her cold cheek softly with his fingers, and then, very gently, he turned her over. The body felt stiff and the limbs were set, but he felt no revulsion. Only anger, and a deep pity.

  He sat back on his heels to study her.

  She was young and, even in death, very beautiful. Her eyes were closed, the jet-black hair framing the pallor of her face. There was an aura of peace about her, he thought — and felt relieved that death need not, after all, be horrible to look on. Certainly it was not so with her.

  He began to consider what he must do. The police would have to be notified but how? Should he telephone them from one of the houses down the road? That meant publicity; and for a reason he did not try to analyse he disliked the thought of strangers gaping at the dead girl. Her pathetic loveliness, which alive he might perhaps have passed unnoticing, had touched a chord in his heart. All her defences were down now, he told himself. He alone could protect her.

  There would be a police station in Lewes. He would go there.

  As he turned to leave he noticed a small piece of paper among the beaten corn. He had an intense dislike of litter, and mechanically he retrieved it and stuffed it into a trouser-pocket. He fetched his rug from the car and laid it gently over her. Then, with a prayer that she might remain undiscovered until he could return, he set off for Lewes.

  The journey was short and he drove fast, his eyes fixed on the road ahead and his mind on the girl. It seemed inconceivable that any man (instinctively Toby assumed that the killer had been a man) could take life from so lovely a creature. If he could be given the chance to avenge her …