by J F Straker
Mrs Buell was the proprietress as well as the cook. She was a faded little woman, with faded eyes and faded hair and tired-looking skin. But she had tremendous energy, and never seemed to stop working. And she was always cheerful.
She welcomed Toby literally with open arms. ‘I was worried something had happened,’ she said, hugging him. She adored the young American; he was the son she had never had. ‘You said you would be here in time for lunch.’
Since he knew she expected it, he kissed her heartily. ‘I was detained,’ he told her. ‘Has Dave Parrot arrived yet?’
Mrs Buell stared at him.
‘But didn’t you know? He’s not coming; his mother is ill. I had a letter from him the day before yesterday.’
Hell! he thought bitterly. First I go get myself involved in a murder, and then Dave has to walk out on me. What the heck is the good of a fortnight here on my own? Might as well pack it in right now. No, I can’t even do that. Got to stick around for the inquest, the Inspector said.
He had a small table to himself at dinner. The other guests were mostly elderly couples or families with young children, and he could envisage no pleasant companion from among them. There was a dark-haired girl who sat by herself near the window. She was pretty enough, and at any other time his spirits would have soared at the sight of her. But he was not in a mood for girls, he told himself, thinking of that other.
Nevertheless, he looked at her more than once during the meal. There was something about her that reminded him of the dead girl. He even asked Mrs Buell about her later.
‘That’s Mrs Tait,’ she told him. ‘She came this morning. A widow, poor thing — and so young.’ A sparkle came into her watery blue eyes. ‘I’ll introduce you in the morning. It will be nice for both of you to have someone your own age to talk to.’ He protested that he was not interested, that that had not been the reason for his query. But she only laughed at him and bustled away.
He went up to his room to finish unpacking, his mind reviewing the day’s events. Life seemed depressingly flat at that moment. The dead girl’s beauty had stirred the romance which was never far from his soul (he was an impressionable young man); the brush with the police had stimulated his mind. Now there was nothing. And, what was worse, there was nothing to look forward to. Not for fourteen blessed days, if he could stick it that long.
He was picturing the girl again when he recalled something which had puzzled him at the time and had then been swamped by subsequent events. Why had Inspector Kane showed such interest when he had learned how the girl was dressed? And there was something else. Superintendent Herrod, they had told him, was from Scotland Yard. Yet he had appeared on the scene far too quickly to have come down from London. He must have been in Sussex already — yes, and in touch with the local police, or they would not have known where to find him. But what was he doing there? Had there been a previous crime which …
He fished out the morning paper; as yet he had had no time to do more than glance at the headlines. Perhaps there was something there which would explain the Superintendent’s presence.
It was on the front page. He was surprised that he had failed to see it before.
*
The Chief Constable of East Sussex has enlisted the aid of Scotland Yard in investigating the murder of John Caseman, who was shot and fatally wounded when thieves broke into his shop at Forest Row, Sussex, early yesterday morning. Detective-Superintendent Herrod, who was responsible for bringing William Greensmith to trial for the murder of Naomi Cope, the Kensington model, has been assigned to the case.
The thieves, one of whom was described by the murdered man’s wife as being short and slight and wearing dark trousers and jersey, are known to have got away with over £100 in cash. A stolen car, later found abandoned near Eastbourne, is believed to have been used in the raid.
*
Slight ... and wearing dark trousers and jersey …
‘No!’ Toby said vehemently, aloud. ‘I don’t believe it.’ A girl with a face as serenely beautiful as hers couldn’t have been a crook — possibly a killer, at that. Either the police or the newspapers had got it wrong.
He looked down at the paper again. There was more.
*
The police are anxious to interview a man named Joseph Landor, who they hope may be able to help them in their inquiries. Landor, who lives in Croydon, is aged thirty-eight, is about 5 feet 10 inches in height, and of medium build. He wears his brown hair brushed straight back, and the middle finger of his right hand is missing. When last seen he was wearing a navy blue suit and brown shoes.
Anyone having knowledge of his whereabouts is asked to communicate with the Chief Constable of East Sussex, telephone number Lewes 1111, or with any police station.
*
For a while Toby sat on the edge of the bed, thinking about the girl. And Landor. Landor, he presumed, was the man the police held responsible for the shooting at Forest Row. The appeal had been carefully worded, but one did not have to be particularly smart to deduce that.
And Landor had presumably killed the girl as well.
There might be more news in the evening papers. Since the Coniston had no licence he decided to go out for a drink. There was nothing to do in the hotel; he might as well sit in a bar and read the papers over a whisky. It was too early to go to bed.
He had changed before dinner, but he had not transferred all the contents of his pockets. As he fished in his trousers for the loose change he brought out with the money a folded piece of paper. An address was written on it — 17 Cardiff Street, Brighton. It had no significance for him, and he frowned at it, wondering how it had come into his possession.
Then he remembered. He had picked it up near the dead girl.
He felt a twinge of fear. This could be dangerous. The police would never believe the truth — that he had forgotten it, that he had not until now even read what was on it. Already they were suspicious of his behaviour; now they could accuse him of concealing vital evidence, of deliberately impeding the course of justice. What was the penalty for that?
He re-examined the paper. On the reverse side was a roughly drawn map which it did not take him long to recognize as of part of Brighton. The station was marked on it, and the Clock Tower. So too was Cardiff Street, with a heavily inked cross near one end. That, he supposed, indicated No. 17.
How important was it, he wondered. What would the police be able to learn from it? In addition to the address itself, probably the writing and even the paper would provide information for the experts. On the other hand, it might be quite unconnected with the girl. It could have been dropped by someone before the murder was committed; it might have lain there for days. It might be a red herring which would only confuse and mislead.
Toby sighed. That was an argument which did not even convince himself; he knew that he was merely seeking an excuse for not handing the paper over to the police. But at least he need not make an immediate decision. First he would see what the evening papers had to say.
They were all much the same, he found; probably the information had been handed out by the police in the form of a statement. It amounted to no more than he already knew. The body of a young woman had been found by a passing motorist (thank goodness none of them mentioned his name; at least he was unlikely to be pestered by reporters) in a barn near Lewes. And, apart from her description, that was all. Apparently she had not yet been identified.
By the end of his second whisky he was still undecided. He wished he had someone — Dave, or one of his brother officers — whom he might consult. As it was he had to play it alone. Well, there was one thing he could do; he could have a look at No. 17 Cardiff Street. Maybe he would get a lead from there.
It was dark when he left the pub and climbed into the Riley. He did not know the back streets of Brighton well, but he had the map to guide him, and he found Cardiff Street without much difficulty. It was not an attractive thoroughfare; narrow and ill-lit, and flanked mainly by what appeared to
be warehouses and small factories. If Brighton had any association with the crime, he thought, Cardiff Street could be the right place in which to look for it.
He drove the length of the street. It seemed deserted, and he turned and came back, stopping the car round the corner to avoid attracting attention. Then, torch in hand, he went in search of No. 17.
Unlike most of the buildings, No. 17 was numbered. It consisted of what appeared to be a double-fronted garage, with a small door at the side leading to a workshop above. By the light of his torch he could see that the upper windows were cracked and dirty; one of them was boarded up. Tiles were missing from the roof, and the general impression was of neglect and disuse. But not so the lower half of the building. There was plenty of rust and little paint, but the big padlocks were bright and had recently been oiled; the two small frosted windows in each of the doors were clean and uncracked.
He tugged at one of the doors, hoping to move it sufficiently to enable him to shine his torch through the resulting gap. But the door did not budge. There was nothing to be learned that way.
He was moving across to the small door at the side when behind him a car door slammed. Toby jumped and turned swiftly. He had not heard the car approach.
‘Looking for something?’
The man’s voice was smooth but uncultured. He stood by the car, one hand in his jacket pocket. In that dim light Toby could not see his face under the narrow-brimmed trilby. He wondered uneasily if the hidden hand held a gun. In that setting, and with murder fresh in his mind, a gun seemed natural enough.
‘I was looking for some place to garage my car,’ he said, hoping his voice sounded natural. ‘I was told I might strike lucky round here.’
A torch shone suddenly, the beam moving slowly from his feet to his face. Toby blinked and shaded his eyes. The beam left him, moved to the padlocked doors behind, and went out.
‘Nothing here,’ said the man, his voice more genial. ‘You on holiday? Yank, aren’t you?’
‘American.’ And then, deciding it was his turn to ask a question, ‘Does this place belong to you?’
‘Sort of. Where are you staying? We don’t usually get holiday-makers in this part of the town.’
‘That’s my business,’ said Toby, feigning irritation. He would need to know more about his questioner before supplying that piece of information.
To his surprise the man laughed.
‘Sure it is. And those locks you were fiddling with are my business, see? And there’s no garage to let in Cardiff Street. Get me?’
‘Sure.’
A match spluttered and went out.
Another match and Toby saw, as the man shielded it to light a cigarette, that his right hand was heavily bandaged. He caught a glimpse of the upper part of the man’s face before the match was thrown down.
‘Well, I’ll be getting along,’ Toby said.
‘Yes, do that.’ The stranger opened the door of the car, and Toby noticed for the first time that there was another man in the driver’s seat. ‘Enjoy your holiday. But keep down by the sea. It’s not supposed to be so healthy up here.’
The door slammed. Toby waited for the car to move. But it remained stationary, and he guessed that they were waiting for him to leave first. He strolled leisurely across the road, passing behind the car and noting the number. It was a Sunbeam Talbot.
As he turned the corner out of Cardiff Street the car still had not moved. Whatever the man’s business there, he apparently had no intention of conducting it while there were strangers around.
Back in his room Toby undressed and got into bed, and then lay thinking. It had been a queer incident. A disturbing one, too. The man had seemed pleasant enough, had offered no violence; but he had made it perfectly clear that Toby was not welcome in Cardiff Street. Why? Did No. 17 house something or some one that it would be unwise to allow others to see? That it would be dangerous to allow the police to see? Did it, for instance, house Landor?
That, thought Toby, is jumping too far. Even if there is something crooked going on it doesn’t have to be connected with the dead girl. That piece of paper …
He wriggled uncomfortably. Stop trying to excuse your behaviour, you damned hypocrite, said his conscience; of course the two are connected. Either the girl or her murderer dropped that address; it would be stretching coincidence too far to suppose otherwise. So the alternatives are obvious. Either you compound a felony by hanging on to that piece of paper and saying nothing to the police, or you hand it over and take what’s coming to you.
And that will probably be plenty.
The alternatives may be obvious, he answered back, but that doesn’t help me to choose. I’m not all that worried about compounding a felony. Not in general, and certainly not with my own neck in danger. I would cheerfully destroy that damned piece of paper and forget all about it. Except for one thing and that is, that by doing so I may be helping Landor, or whoever murdered the girl, to get away with it. And I’d hate like hell for that to happen. I would rather incriminate myself than feel that I’d betrayed her.
For some time he tossed and turned in the bed, unable to reach a decision. And then, like driftwood to a drowning man, the third alternative occurred to him.
He would catch the murderer himself!
Why not? He knew as much as the police. More — for he alone knew about Cardiff Street. All their resources — their records, their laboratories, their underworld contacts — could not compensate for that piece of knowledge. Landor must be in Brighton (and that was something else they didn’t know), and with one finger missing he should be easy to recognize. If that address had any significance — and if it had not he was completely justified in keeping it to himself — he had only to haunt Cardiff Street, and sooner or later Landor must show himself.
It was as simple as that.
He was drifting happily off to sleep when a new and disturbing thought brought him back to full consciousness.
Landor! A finger missing from his right hand!
And the right hand of the man he had met in Cardiff Street had been covered by a bandage.
*
Mrs Buell did more than introduce them. She put them at the same table.
When Toby came down to breakfast the next morning and found the girl already there he could not decide whether to be annoyed or amused. It did not occur to him to be pleased. Now that he had committed himself to a man-hunt he would have preferred to give it his undivided attention. But since he knew she had had no part in the arrangement, that it was due to Mrs Buell’s overdeveloped strain of romance, he could not blame the girl. Since she was there it behoved him to be polite, if nothing more.
‘I hope you don’t think I fixed this,’ he apologized. ‘It was Mrs Buell’s idea, not mine.’ He blushed, realizing that it would have sounded more gallant had he pretended otherwise. But it suits me fine,’ he added limply.
Her large, dark eyes considered him. His ginger hair, tough and bristly, was cut very short. His nose was broad and flat, his skin freckled, his eyes grey and set well apart. There was a dimple in his chin; his grin, frequent and boyish, was infectious. And when he spoke his Middle West accent was interspersed, in odd contrast, with an occasional unconscious return to the precise phrasing of an English public schoolboy.
‘I don’t mind,’ she said, her voice low. He originated what little conversation there was. But he found it heavy going. Mrs Buell had said she was a widow; since she was so young her husband’s death must have been recent (although she was not in mourning, he noticed), and any probing into her past might cause distress. She did, indeed, impress him with an air of tragedy; her smiles were lukewarm, her voice had the ring of pathos in it. She looked thin, he thought although later he was to revise this impression, for she was slim and beautifully proportioned. But she had obviously lost weight — perhaps through grief over her husband’s death — for her frock was gathered at the waist, and a worn mark on the red leather belt showed that the buckle had not always been
pulled so tight.
When he ran out of general conversation he began to tell her about himself. But since this to him was an unaccustomed topic the silences grew longer and more frequent.
‘It’s a grand morning,’ he said for the third time, after a particularly long silence. And added as a variant, ‘Thinking of going for a bathe?’
She shook her head.
‘No. I’m not a good swimmer, and the water will be fairly rough in this breeze.’
‘A deck-chair and a book, then?’
‘I don’t think so. I’ll probably go for a walk along the front.’
There was no enthusiasm in her voice. Toby felt a sudden desire to cheer her up. He said impetuously, knowing it would upset his plans and accepting the delay, ‘Would you care to come out with me in the car? She’s sort of a relic, but she goes.’
The girl turned to him, leaning forward. The dark eyes shone, her lips were parted to show white, even teeth that would have done credit to a dentifrice advertisement.
‘I’d love to.’
Toby decided that his sacrifice was amply rewarded.
They climbed the steep hill that leads to the Downs, and for a while sat gazing out to sea over the roof-tops of Brighton. Then down to Patcham and along the main road to Pyecombe, where they forked right to Clayton and Ditchling. At first the girl was silent; but soon she was talking gaily and freely (though not, he noticed, about herself), and he mentally congratulated himself on having drawn her out of her shell. The treatment, he decided, must be continued. A few more doses and she would be a different person.
When they reached the long, straight road that crosses Ditchling Common he said, ‘Would you care to take over for a while?’