by J F Straker
A car was standing by the barn.
He got out of the Riley and walked back to peer up the track. He recognized the car; it was the grey Buick in which Wilkes had driven away a few hours earlier. Puzzled, Toby stood watching. But there was no sign of Wilkes himself, and presently he walked slowly back to the Riley. He did not want the man to think he was spying on him. Only — well, why should Wilkes have returned, and without the police? What could he hope to discover there that he or the police did not know already?
Well, it’s none of my business, he thought. But it sure is odd.
He did not see Crossetta immediately on his return to the hotel, but when she came down to dinner she was wearing trousers and a tight-fitting green jersey. Toby winced. Mrs Buell would not approve of such attire, he thought. Neither did he. It reminded him too acutely of Catherine Wilkes.
The girl noticed his disapproving look, and laughed. ‘No good your turning up your nose at me,’ she said. ‘I bought this outfit this afternoon. I can’t help it if you don’t like it.’
She was slim, and moderately tall. He thought trousers suited her better than they suited most girls. ‘I guess I’m old-fashioned,’ he told her. ‘I prefer women in skirts.’
‘So do I. But I don’t intend to explore dirty, cobwebby old buildings in a summer frock.’
‘What old buildings?’
She would not tell him at once, tantalizing him. She was all excitement, and he marvelled at the change wrought in her since that morning. He would have liked to think it was due to him, but he knew it was not. The thrill of adventure was upon her.
Eventually she said, her voice conspiratorially low, ‘There was someone there this afternoon. I didn’t see them, but I heard them working behind those big doors. I thought I might catch them when they left, but they foxed me. They went the back way.’
Toby whistled. ‘I didn’t know there was a back way.’
‘Well, there is. In Smith Street. It runs parallel to Cardiff Street. At the back of No. 17 there’s a big yard; it’s enclosed by a high wall, but the gate wasn’t locked, so I went in and had a look round. There are one or two empty sheds, and a lot of junk. And there is a wooden staircase that leads to the top floor, and’ — here her voice sank even lower — ‘the door at the top is broken. It won’t shut properly.’
‘Say! That’s great.’ And then, alarmed, ‘You didn’t attempt to explore, did you?’
‘No. I wanted to — I even went up a few stairs. Then I realised that once I got above the height of the wall I could be seen from the street, so I came down. Besides, I hadn’t got this outfit then, and I knew it would be pretty mucky up there. But I’m certain about the door, Toby. Can we have a look round tonight?’
He nodded dubiously, not wishing to commit himself.
‘Do you think anyone saw you?’ he asked.
‘One or two men went past as I was waiting,’ she admitted. ‘But I don’t think they had any connection with No. 17. They just glanced at me casually and walked on.’
‘They must have had bad eyesight, I guess,’ Toby said gallantly.
But he was worried about the proposed expedition. It could be highly dangerous. The man who had spoken to him in Cardiff Street the previous evening had uttered a fairly blunt warning that it would be safer to stay away from there. And he did not fancy embroiling Crossetta in a possible rough-house.
‘What did you do with yourself this afternoon?’ she asked.
He told her. Some of the gaiety left her after that, and they finished the meal in silence. When they were drinking their coffee in the lounge he said, ‘What’s wrong? You’ve closed down on me.’
‘I know. It — well, it was all such fun before. But knowing the girl’s name that makes it more real, somehow. It was just a game — and now it’s murder. And then there’s her brother, poor thing. Was he terribly upset?’
‘Difficult to say. It wasn’t easy to watch his face. But he seemed the phlegmatic type. I figured he was more preoccupied than upset.’
‘Preoccupied with what?’
‘His sister’s death, I guess.’
Crossetta shuddered. ‘How dreadful for him!’
But she soon recovered her spirits. They decided to wait in a pub until it was dark, bolstering their courage with alcohol. Not that Crossetta’s courage needed bolstering, he thought. If either of them had the wind up it was he. Not on his own account, but on hers. He was beginning to doubt the wisdom of allowing her to accompany him.
She went up to her room to get ready. When she came down she was carrying a large white suede handbag on which the initials C.T. were embossed in gilt.
Toby laughed.
‘What’s the matter?’ she demanded. ‘What’s funny about me?’
‘That handbag. I guess it’s not quite what the well-dressed burglar is wearing this season.’
She looked at the offending bag and smiled. ‘I suppose it is rather conspicuous,’ she admitted. ‘All right, I’ll leave it behind. I’d forgotten I was wearing trousers. I can stuff the essentials in the pockets.’
After a couple of double whiskies Toby felt fine. He noticed that Crossetta drank little; she made one small gin and tonic last the hour and a half they had to wait. But she was as gay as he when they set off for Cardiff Street in the Riley.
It was a dark night, with plenty of cloud and no moon. They parked the car just before the entrance to Smith Street, and the girl led the way into the yard. Toby switched on his torch, and saw that it was much as she had described it. ‘Don’t shine it up the stairs,’ she whispered. ‘Some one might see it. Come on, let’s go up and have a look round.’
‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘I’m going alone.’
‘But I — ’
‘No,’ he said again. And then, with sudden inspiration, ‘Always guard your exit; that’s an essential. You stay by the gate and warn me if anyone comes. I’ll feel safer that way.’
He climbed the stairs gingerly, feeling his way, not daring to use his torch. At the top a railed balcony ran the length of the building, and at the far end of this was the door. Toby reached it, and felt with his fingers for the gap. Yes, it was there. He put his shoulder against the door and shoved carefully, fearful of making a noise. A moment later he was inside.
‘Crossetta,’ he hissed.
‘Yes?’
‘I’m in. Keep your eyes skinned. I shan’t be long.’
He moved cautiously into the building, leaving the door ajar, and switched on his torch. He was in a large room which, he judged, completely covered the top of No. 17. At one end were piled empty wooden crates and packing-cases, and under the front windows stood several work-benches. Apart from these the room was empty.
No wonder they don’t bother to lock the darned place up, he thought, disappointed.
But he did not leave at once. Stepping gingerly on the rotting boards, he searched the floor for a possible trap-door to the garage below. When that failed he remembered the small side-door that opened on to Cardiff Street. The stairs were in the far corner; they creaked and sagged under his weight, but he went down them and along the short passage at the bottom. There were no bolts on the door, but it was securely locked. Examining it by the light of his torch, he doubted if a key had turned in the lock for many months past.
He went back up the rickety stairs, across the dusty floor, and through the far door. He was halfway along the balcony when Crossetta cried out.
‘Look out, Toby! There’s someone in the yard!’
Her voice came from the gate, but he could not see her. He could not see anyone. For a moment he hesitated, afraid of the danger that might be lurking in the darkness below. Then a gun barked at the foot of the stairs, and a bullet sang upward and past him, burying itself in the projecting roof. He flattened himself against the wall, heart pounding, eyes closed, waiting for the second bullet and the tearing pain that it would bring with it.
But the gun was silent. There was no sound, save from the city outside the yard
. And suddenly his fear was gone, and he knew what he had to do. He could not use the stairs, with the gunman lurking at the bottom; and to retreat into the building would be suicidal. In there he would be completely at the man’s mercy, for there was no other way out.
Nor could he desert Crossetta.
He edged slowly along the balcony, away from the stairs and towards the door he had just left, thankful for each step that did not bring a bullet. It seemed an interminable age before he had reached the far end and could sink back into the recess of the half-open door. For a moment he waited, listening. Then, galvanizing himself into sudden and violent action, he grasped the balcony rail and, flinging himself up and over, landed with a crash on the corrugated iron roof of the shed below.
Pain shot through his left wrist; his whole body was jarred by the fall. But even had he wished he could not pause. The roof sloped steeply, and he found himself slithering helplessly down it. Then he was at the edge, and had dropped with a thud to the concrete below.
Crossetta was outside the gate. He caught her hand, and together they raced for the Riley.
‘Phew!’ he breathed, as the car swung away from the kerb and gathered speed. ‘That was plenty close. It’s the first time I’ve ever been shot at, and I hope it’s the last. It’s not an experience I can recommend.’ She made no comment, and he asked anxiously, ‘Are you okay, Crossetta?’
‘Yes, of course.’ Her voice was harsh, intense. ‘Are you?’
‘Yes. I sprained my wrist when I landed on the roof, and there’s a damp, sticky feeling to my knees which indicates a loss of skin in those parts. But I’m all in one piece, and with no holes drilled in me.’
He felt exhilarated. He wanted to laugh and to sing, to put his foot down hard on the throttle and feel the Riley move. It had been his first experience of acute personal danger, and he knew that he had acquitted himself well. From now on, he thought elatedly, life can be all bullets and bruises and I shan’t care. I can cope, damn them!
‘You ought not to have waited,’ he said. ‘You ought to have cleared off as soon as you’d warned me. The fellow might have taken a shot at you as well.’
Crossetta was silent. Taking a quick glance at her, he saw that her eyes were wet. He pulled in to the kerb, stopped the Riley, and, leaning across, put an arm round her shoulder.
He felt her stiffen and shrink away from him.
‘Sorry,’ he said, removing the offending limb. ‘I wasn’t trying to get fresh. I don’t like to see you upset, that’s all.’
She turned to him then, putting one hand on his arm. Her moist eyes glittered in the lamplight from across the street.
‘You don’t understand,’ she said fiercely. ‘I’m not upset because I was scared, but because I let you down. It was all my fault.’
‘Nonsense.’ Cheerfulness, he decided, was the best cure for what he diagnosed as an understandable attack of nerves. ‘I’d have invaded the joint anyway, once I had discovered the way in. You don’t want to blame yourself for that. But what I can’t figure out is how that guy got into the yard without your seeing him.’
‘That’s just it, Toby,’ she said. ‘That’s what I was trying to tell you. I didn’t stay by the gate.’
‘Oh. Where did you get to, then?’
‘Up the stairs. After you’d disappeared inside I followed you. It didn’t seem fair that you should have all the fun; after all, it was I who had found the way in. But when I got to the top I realised I was being selfish, that I was letting you down. So I went back.’
‘And during that time, I suppose, he slipped in through the gate,’ Toby said thoughtfully. ‘What made you yell? Did you see him?’
‘Not really. There was just a shadow that moved.’ She shuddered. ‘Do you think it was Landor?’
‘Could be. Of course, if we were the police we’d find the bullet and check with the ones that killed Caseman and Miss Wilkes. That way we’d know for sure if it came from the same gun. But the way it is well, we can’t go back and search for the bullet, and even if we managed to find it we’d be no wiser. That’s where we fall down, you and I, on a job like this.’
‘Do you think we ought to tell the police about this evening?’ she asked hesitantly.
‘Sure we ought to. But I don’t think we will. They would want to know what we were doing there, and I would have to tell them about the map. That would get them real mad at me. It’s close on two days now since I found it.’
‘But if someone heard the shooting this evening he’d report it, wouldn’t he?’
‘I guess so. But there’s nothing to connect us with it, and no corpse. I’d say the police would have quite a job tracing it to us.’
They were in Hove when she asked, ‘What do we do next?’
‘We don’t do anything,’ he told her. ‘From now on I’m tackling this on my own hook.’
‘But you can’t drop me like that, Toby,’ she pleaded. ‘I admit I wasn’t much help this evening, but next time I’ll do everything you say. I promise.’
‘I’m not blaming you for what happened this evening,’ he said, warmed by her pleading. ‘It’s just that I don’t want you to get hurt. Anyway, from now on we’re not raiding any more joints. That’s out for keeps.’
*
Inspector Wittering stood smartly at attention as Herrod, followed by Sergeant Wood, bustled into his office at Haywards Heath police station.
‘Nothing to report, sir,’ he said, in answer to the Superintendent’s inquiry. ‘I’ve had two men out there since they phoned from Lewes. No one has left or entered the house.’
‘Good. Let’s get cracking, then.’
At the corner of Havelock Drive the car stopped, and Wittering spoke to the uniformed constable who came forward. Then they drove on to No. 15, an unpretentious semi-detached house with a garage at the side. A curtain twitched as they walked up the garden path.
Mrs Waide opened the door at their knock. She was a big, untidy woman, devoid of beauty and its aids. ‘I’m afraid my husband is out,’ she said, after Herrod had introduced himself. ‘Is it about the car?’
Herrod said it was, and asked when her husband would be back.
‘I really don’t know.’ A small girl wriggled her head between the door and her mother and gazed up at the visitors. Mrs Waide pushed the head back with a large, work-roughened hand. ‘He went off this morning to watch cricket at Lord’s. Or was it the Oval? No, I’m sure he said Lord’s. And afterwards he’s meeting a friend, so he’ll probably be late.’
‘How late?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said again.
‘H’m! A pity. Perhaps you would be kind enough to telephone me at the police station when he returns? I would prefer not to leave it until the morning.’ He smiled, noting her worried expression. ‘There are certain formalities, you know, before we can hand over the car.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, of course.’
Back at the police station Herrod said, ‘I’m going to the Oval. You might contact the Kennington police, Inspector, and ask them to warn the Surrey secretary that Sergeant Wood and I are on our way. And keep an eye on Havelock Drive. I’ll phone you later.’
In the car Wood said, ‘Why the Oval, sir? Mrs Waide seemed fairly certain that he had gone to Lord’s.’
‘Mrs Waide isn’t a cricket fan. Neither are you, apparently. There’s no cricket at Lord’s today.’
The time was a quarter-past four when they entered the ground, and the players were leaving the field for the tea interval. The Superintendent, a keen cricketer, was disappointed. He had hoped to combine business with pleasure.
The secretary was expecting them. Five minutes later his voice boomed out over the public address system.
‘Will Mr George Waide, of Haywards Heath, please come to the secretary’s office?’
They waited for ten minutes, but Waide did not appear. ‘Give him another call, will you?’ Herrod said.
But the second appeal was no more successful than the firs
t, and presently Surridge emerged from the pavilion, and behind him the Surrey eleven. Herrod turned to the secretary.
‘Who’s batting?’ he asked.
‘Carr and Revill.’
‘Oh. Well, we’ll give him a few more minutes.’
But Laker and Lock were bowling with their accustomed accuracy, the Surrey fielding was tight, and run-getting was obviously going to be difficult. At five o’clock Herrod decided he had no reasonable excuse to stay longer, thanked the secretary, and made for Kennington police station. From there he phoned Wittering.
‘No change, sir,’ said the Inspector. ‘He hasn’t come back, and his wife hasn’t left the house.’
‘Right. I’ll phone you again after I’ve been out for a meal.’
The second call had a more positive result. ‘Mrs Waide has just rung, sir,’ Wittering told him. ‘Her husband had phoned to say he would be spending the night in Town. She explained about the car, and he said it would have to wait until the morning.’
‘Where is Waide staying?’
‘His wife didn’t know.’
‘That I can well believe,’ Herrod said, replacing the receiver. And added under his breath, ‘The dirty dog!’
5
George Waide arrived at Lewes on Sunday morning, after first reporting at Haywards Heath police station. He seemed surprised that the Austin was not to be handed over to him immediately, and still more surprised when he was taken upstairs and ushered into Superintendent Herrod’s office.
‘No trouble, I hope,’ he said, panting a little. ‘Found it in Brighton, I understand. Quick work. Any damage?’
Herrod looked him over, and was not impressed by what he saw. Vain, he thought — and mean eyes. And those podgy hands indicated the sensualist. I fancy I wasn’t far wrong in assessing why he didn’t go home last night. These fat men …
Here he remembered his own expanding waistline, and said hastily, ‘We went to a lot of trouble to find you yesterday, Mr Waide. I even got the Surrey secretary to broadcast for you at the Oval.’