A Gun to Play With

by J F Straker

  She accepted with alacrity. She leaned slightly forward as she drove, her body rocking gently, seeming to urge the car on. Toby eyed the mounting speedometer needle with some dismay; she obviously had a mania for speed. But she handled the car well, and he had not the heart to check her enjoyment.

  ‘I love driving,’ she said. ‘To me everything about a car is exciting.’

  ‘Even the works?’

  ‘Of course. I’m quite an experienced mechanic, and I don’t mind how dirty I get.’ She took her eyes off the road for a moment to smile at him. ‘What made you buy an English car? I thought all Americans went in for Cadillacs and suchlike.’

  He grinned. ‘The Riley suits me, I guess. I’m an unpretentious guy.’

  Some distance ahead of them a cat strolled leisurely across the road, pausing midway to stretch and shake a hind-leg. Then, as they neared it, it suddenly turned and ran back. Involuntarily Toby arched his back, pressing with both feet against the floorboards. But there was no check to the Riley’s progress, no hurried tug at the steering-wheel. The speedometer needle barely quivered.

  He looked back to where the cat lay dead on the road, and then sideways at the girl. She was gazing straight ahead, intent on her driving. He was beginning to wonder whether she had even seen the animal — until she said, her voice cool and composed, ‘No sense in trying to avoid a cat. Not at speed. It might lead to a serious accident.’

  She was right, of course; although put like that it sounded callous. He knew that had he been driving he would instinctively have tried to avoid the animal; but that might, as she said, have endangered human life. The girl took no such risk. With her it was first things first. She’d be grand in a tight corner, he thought, with grudging admiration. Grudging — because, however unreasonable the thought, she seemed temporarily to have shed some of her femininity.

  On Chailey Common they parked the car and went for a walk. The breeze had dropped, the sun was hot; when they came presently to an invitingly green slope she sat down with a sigh of content. ‘I don’t know why I chose the sea for a holiday,’ she said. ‘This is far nicer.’

  He stretched himself at her side, propped on one elbow, and watched her covertly as she sat, her arms wrapped round her knees, staring fixedly at the distant Downs. Was he fickle, he wondered, in being glad of her companionship? Yesterday he had mooned over a dead girl; was he now falling for a live one? It wouldn’t do, he told himself. He was a man with a purpose, a man dedicated; until his purpose had been achieved he could not afford diversions. Not even such an attractive diversion as Mrs Tait. If he was set on cheering her up he must be careful not to overdo it.

  ‘What’s your first name?’ he asked. ‘If we are to be friends I can’t go on calling you Mrs Tait. Much too formal.’

  ‘Crossetta.’

  ‘Come again?’

  She laughed. ‘Crossetta.’

  ‘Say! That’s kind of unusual, isn’t it? I’ve never heard it before. Does it have any particular meaning?’

  ‘Only to my parents. I think they invented it. Mother said my father had longed for a son, and when I was born she thought he would be terribly disappointed. When he was allowed to see her she said, ‘It’s a girl, dear. Are you cross?’ And he smiled and said, ‘No, of course not. Or perhaps — well, just a little cross.’ So they christened me Crossetta. But shorten it to Etta if you wish. Most people do.’

  ‘I don’t know. I reckon Crossetta might kind of grow on me.’

  ‘I hope it does,’ she said softly. He looked up sharply at that, but her face was turned away from him. ‘I know your name,’ she told him. ‘Mrs Buell practically gave me your life-history yesterday afternoon. She seems very fond of you; she got terribly worried when you didn’t turn up at the expected hour. Why were you so late?’

  He did not answer. He was remembering the cat, and the way in which she had handled the Riley. Yesterday he had longed for someone in whom he might confide. And now …

  Was it a girl?’ she asked, turning to smile at him.

  Toby plunged. ‘Yes, it was,’ he said soberly. ‘Only she was dead, and I found her.’

  The smile left her face. ‘Oh!’ she breathed. And then, ‘Where?’

  ‘Near Lewes. She had been shot in the back. I told the police, of course. Only unfortunately I forgot something, and now that something looks like being mighty important.’ He sat up. ‘I’d like to tell you about it if you reckon you won’t be bored. May I?’

  She shook her head, her eyes intent on his face.

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘It won’t bore me, I promise you that.’

  *

  ‘Well?’ Superintendent Herrod demanded. ‘What luck?’

  Sergeant Wood shrugged. He was not given to words where words were unnecessary. A long, spare man, almost bald at thirty, he was a great favourite with the Superintendent. Herrod valued his tenacity, his refusal to admit defeat. When Herrod looked ahead Wood looked back, in general refusing even to consider a theory until he was certain of his facts. But he did not lack imagination. Occasionally he surprised both himself and his associates by indulging in a wild flight of fancy. It was as if his imagination had rebelled from being kept constantly in check, and had burst uncontrollably through the barrier erected against it.

  ‘Depends on how you look at it,’ he said now. ‘Landor’s prints weren’t on the Austin. Plenty of others, but not his.’

  Herrod swore softly. Superintendent Baker smiled, and pushed his hat gently across the table. ‘You might care to make a start on that,’ he said. ‘Save yours for dessert.’

  The other grunted. ‘Some other time. I’m not hungry now.’ He looked at the Sergeant, and his eyes narrowed. ‘Come on, my lad, out with it. I know you. What have you got up your sleeve?’

  Wood grinned.

  ‘The dead girl’s prints, sir. They were on the Austin.’

  The two Superintendents stared at him.

  ‘But that’s impossible!’ Baker exclaimed. ‘According to the doctor, she was killed around two o’clock yesterday morning. That is, twelve hours before the car was stolen.’

  ‘Before the car was reported as stolen,’ Herrod said.

  There was silence. Then Baker said, ‘Yes. Yes, I see what you’re getting at. If the owner of the car lied about the time and place of the theft — if it was stolen before 2 A.M. then Landor could have driven the girl in it to where we found her, killed her, and then gone on to Brighton.’ He frowned. ‘It’s odd about those prints, though. Landor didn’t bother to wipe them off the Daimler; why should he do so on the Austin? How could he, anyway, without removing the girl’s as well?’

  ‘Hers were on the steering-wheel,’ Wood said. ‘She must have been driving.’

  ‘Were they, though! Clear?’

  ‘No. Smudged, as though gloved hands had gripped the wheel after her. But clear enough to identify them.’

  ‘Landor had only one glove,’ Herrod said. ‘Unless he pinched the girl’s; she didn’t have them when we found her. But I would like to know why the owner — what’s his name, by the way?’

  ‘Waide, sir. George Waide.’ Wood had prepared himself for that question. The Superintendent had a good memory for faces, but he was a little weak on names.

  ‘Why should Waide lie if that’s the way it happened? He couldn’t know his car had been used by a murderer. Personally, I think we’re on the wrong track. It seems to me far more likely that Waide killed the girl. That would necessitate a lie. Landor and the girl could have made for Eastbourne and then separated, and Waide might have picked her up later. In the evening, say. Perhaps they went for a spin, and he made a pass at her — and then, when she refused to play ball, he shot her.’

  ‘A bit drastic, don’t you think?’ Baker suggested. ‘And, in that case, who stole the Austin? Someone must have done so, or Waide wouldn’t have been fool enough to draw attention to himself by reporting it.’

  ‘And there’s the gun, sir,’ Wood objected. ‘The same gun was used to
kill Caseman and the girl. How could Waide have got hold of it?’

  ‘I know, I know!’ Herrod sounded impatient. ‘I can play that game too. If the girl was just an evening pick-up, what are her prints doing on the steering-wheel? She wouldn’t be driving, would she?’ He sighed. ‘Where does this chap Waide hang out?’

  ‘Haywards Heath.’

  ‘We’ll pay him a visit after lunch.’ He turned to Baker. ‘You might warn the local police. I’d like them to keep an eye on the house until —’ The telephone rang, and he picked up the receiver. ‘Who? Oh, yes. Yes, show him up right away, will you?’

  There was a pause.

  ‘We’ve got a visitor,’ Herrod said, his voice a purr of satisfaction. ‘There’s a gent downstairs thinks the dead girl may be his sister. And his name, believe it or not, is Nathaniel Wilkes.’

  4

  Nat Wilkes’s ugliness shook them, as it shook most people when first confronted with it. But he was neatly and unobtrusively dressed and spoke with a cultured accent. Public-school man gone wrong, thought Herrod. Well, with a pan like that he must have found it more than difficult to lead a normal life, poor chap. He’d be something of a liability in office or showroom, and I certainly can’t imagine him having fun with the girls.

  He began to understand why Wilkes had been so elusive. Why, too, he had been so attached to his dead sister. Hers would be the only feminine beauty Wilkes was ever likely to bask in at close quarters or at all permanently.

  I hope he doesn’t take it too badly, Herrod thought.

  The mortuary adjoined the fire station and was only a few hundred yards from the police station. A uniformed sergeant unlocked the door and stood aside for them to precede him into the bare outer room. The walls were lined with white tiles. To the right two coffin shells rested on brackets, and through the gap they could see the shrouded figure of the dead girl lying on the white pedestal slab in the far room. The air was sweetly heavy with disinfectant.

  The sergeant partially withdrew the sheet, and for nearly a minute Wilkes stood motionless, gazing down at the girl’s white face. Herrod watched his hands. Hands, to his mind, were often as expressive as faces. But Wilkes’s hands did not clench angrily into fists, or nervously twiddle the fingers, or clutch emotionally at their owner’s trousers. They remained still.

  Wilkes turned, his face as uninformative as his hands. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that’s Cathie,’ and walked with short, jerky steps out into the sunshine.

  Back at the police station Herrod asked him about the girl. Wilkes was polite, but obviously unwilling to disclose more than he considered necessary. He had returned to their flat late on the Thursday evening, he said, to find his sister missing. She had left a note to say that she would be away for a few days, and a neighbour had seen her go out earlier, wearing jersey and trousers and carrying a small suitcase. He had no idea what had become of her from then on until he read the description in the newspapers.

  ‘You didn’t know she was with Landor?’ asked the Superintendent.

  ‘I thought it was a possibility,’ Wilkes said guardedly, scowling.

  ‘Why? Was he a friend of your sister’s?’

  ‘No. She knew him only slightly. But she had told me the previous evening that he had asked her to go away with him. I told her not to be a fool; Landor was no good, I said. I thought that was the end of it.’

  Herrod tried to probe further, seeking background. But Wilkes, having told the essentials, was saying no more. His attitude seemed to be that they knew who the girl was, and it was up to them to find Landor. He had done his part.

  ‘That’s all very well, Mr Wilkes. But it would simplify our task if we knew a little more about them both,’ Herrod said. It was unpleasant to have to talk sharply to a man whose sister had just been murdered, but he could not understand the other’s attitude. ‘You are sure in your own mind that it was Landor?’

  Wilkes shrugged. ‘Who else?’ he asked, gazing out of the window.

  The man was too calm, too indifferent. Was it a pose, or had the Croydon police been mistaken in stressing his devotion to his sister? Even the mention of Landor’s name appeared to arouse in him no antipathy. Could it be —

  ‘Will you be staying in the neighbourhood, Mr Wilkes?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it.’

  ‘There will be the inquest to attend,’ the Superintendent pointed out. ‘And no doubt you will wish to make arrangements for your sister’s funeral.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course.’

  But it was clear that the thought had not occurred to him.

  ‘The local police will put you wise,’

  Herrod said. ‘I’ll take you along to the Chief Inspector.’

  When he returned to his office he stood for some time staring, as Wilkes had done, out of the window. But his brain registered nothing of what he saw; it was alive with fancies.

  Presently he shrugged, tugged impatiently at his tie, and went out to lunch.

  *

  ‘What do you intend to do?’ asked Crossetta, as they walked back to the car.

  ‘Nothing until this evening,’ Toby said. ‘I’ll have to run over to Eastbourne this afternoon. A guy I know is in hospital there. I said I’d look him up.’

  He felt immensely cheerful. The girl had been wonderfully understanding, eager to help in a campaign which she had agreed was wrong and had then unhesitatingly accepted. He blessed Mrs Buell for having brought them together. By withholding evidence from the police he considered that he had made the pursuit of Landor his duty. The advent of Crossetta Tait as an ally made it almost a pleasure.

  ‘And this evening?’

  ‘Cardiff Street,’ he said promptly. ‘The guy with the bandage — he wouldn’t live there, I reckon, but he must live somewhere. If he turns up tonight I’m going to follow him.’

  ‘Do you think he is Landor?’

  ‘Could be. If not, then I guess he knows where the fellow is hiding.’

  ‘May I come with you?’ she asked. ‘To Cardiff Street, I mean.’

  He grinned. ‘Sure. Glad to have you. But keep out of the way while the bandage is around. I’d say he’s a mean guy.’

  They drove back to Brighton through Plumpton and Falmer. On the way Toby said, ‘I wonder what goes on at No. 17? It’s some sort of a garage or workshop, I reckon — in which case there would be men working there during the day.’ He frowned. ‘A pity I have to go to Eastbourne. I can’t ditch this guy, but I’d sure like to take a look at Cardiff Street this afternoon.’

  ‘I could do that,’ Crossetta said eagerly. ‘I’d love to.’

  The possibility had already occurred to him. But now that she had volunteered he hesitated to accept.

  ‘We don’t know what these fellows are up to,’ he said doubtfully. ‘If they’re hooked up with Landor they’re probably dynamite. I’ll not have you taking risks.’

  ‘Risks are fun. They’re what make life worth living.’ She turned to him, her eyes sparkling. ‘Not that there would be any risks this afternoon. Not in broad daylight.’

  ‘No, I guess not,’ he said, pleased at her eagerness. They would be on surer ground that evening if one of them at least had spied it out beforehand. ‘Okay. But for the Lord’s sake be careful.’

  ‘I find that easier than being good,’ she said demurely.

  *

  Toby avoided the police station as he drove through Lewes that afternoon. He had no wish for a further meeting with Superintendent Herrod. But as he approached the corner near where he had found the girl he slowed. Then, acting on impulse, he swung the car on to the track leading to the barn.

  Too late he realised that others were there before him. Two cars, one a big grey Buick saloon, the other a police car, were parked at the far end of the track. A uniformed constable was standing near them. But there was no space in which to turn, and he drove slowly on.

  Detective-Inspector Kane came from behind the barn with another man, recognized the Ril
ey, and walked over to speak to Toby. He will now be either wittily sarcastic at my expense, the American decided, or damned inquisitive.

  But Inspector Kane was neither.

  ‘This is Mr Wilkes, Lieutenant,’ he said. ‘It was his sister, Miss Catherine Wilkes, whose body you found yesterday.’

  Toby gave a quick look at Wilkes’s face and shuddered inwardly.

  ‘I — I’m terribly sorry,’ he mumbled, knowing it was inadequate.

  Wilkes nodded, saying nothing. He bade the Inspector goodbye, climbed into the Buick, and bumped off down the track.

  Toby stared after him.

  ‘He sure is an ugly-looking devil,’ he exclaimed. ‘I’m sorry for him, naturally, but — well, did you ever see such a face?’

  ‘He certainly hasn’t got his sister’s looks,’ Kane agreed.

  Toby sighed. The dead girl’s image was not so clear now. It was becoming inextricably merged in his mind with that of Crossetta.

  ‘Not very forthcoming, was he?’ he said.

  ‘What did you expect? What does a chap say to the man who found his sister’s body — ‘Thanks very much’ or ‘Pleased to meet you’? Neither of them sounds right to me.’ The detective settled his trilby hat more firmly on his head. ‘Well, I’m off. Wilkes wanted to see where she was murdered. Morbid — but reasonable, I suppose. What brought you out here again, sir?’

  ‘I was just passing,’ Toby said. ‘Then I saw the two cars, and wondered what was going on.’

  When the police car had disappeared round the corner towards Lewes he decided to leave also. He would not carry out his original intention, which had been to take one final look at the fatal spot. It was, as the Inspector had said, a morbid fancy. Better let it ride; he would learn nothing new.

  He spent the afternoon at the hospital, ate a large tea, and then headed back for Brighton. Once in the car again his spirits soared. He told himself it was because he was anxious to get started on his self-appointed task, to hear what information Crossetta had been able to glean. But he had a guilty feeling that it might also be because of Crossetta herself.

  He had intended to return along the coast, via Seaford and Newhaven; but he mistook the turning out of Eastbourne, and found himself once more on the Lewes road. As he passed the now familiar track he glanced down it — and braked sharply.