by J F Straker
But he had finished with badinage. ‘You come on in,’ he said, and stepped forward to grasp her arm. As he did so the dark figure leapt across the gravel, a fist shot out and landed with a crack on the side of his jaw, and the man went down.
Crossetta laughed delightedly. She stepped up to the recumbent figure, kicked him delicately on the posterior, and as delicately stepped over him.
‘Lovely, Toby,’ she said. ‘You ought to be a boxer.’
‘And you ought to be spanked,’ he said. ‘Come on — let’s get out of here before his pals interfere.’
Hand in hand they ran down the drive. As they neared the gates a window was raised noisily and a voice roared, ‘Hey! What’s going on out there?’ Toby wondered whether a bullet would follow the voice; but it did not, and then they were out in the comparative safety of the road. They slowed momentarily, listening. There were voices on the drive, but no pursuing footsteps. They hurried on to the car.
As they drove back to Coniston Crossetta told him what she had seen and heard. Toby wanted to scold her for acting so rashly, but he could not. She had so obviously enjoyed her adventure. He contented himself with saying, ‘You’d have been in real trouble, my girl, if I hadn’t decided to find out what you were up to.’
‘I could have dealt with him,’ she said.
It was a confident but not a boastful statement. Toby wondered how much right she had to be confident. She had courage; but courage alone might not have been sufficient, perhaps, against desperate men. He remembered the bullet that had missed him so narrowly at No. 17 the previous evening, and shivered.
‘That guy with the bandaged hand did he look like Landor?’ he asked.
‘No. At least, not like the description given in the papers. But the other man, the one I couldn’t see he could have been Landor. He was wearing a blue suit, and his hair was the right colour.’
Toby was puzzled. And worried. The affair was not developing the way he had anticipated. He had expected that Cardiff Street would lead him inevitably to the wanted Landor. Landor would be hiding there, perhaps; alone and desperate, or secretly succoured by one of his crook friends. A few days of patient watching and waiting until he was sure, a word to the police, and that would be that. He had not reckoned on gun battles and slugging matches, or that Landor’s friends (if they were his friends) would live in a fine house and be so well organized. Was Landor concealed in the house they had just left? It seemed fairly certain now that he wasn’t at No. 17.
‘Who are all these guys?’ he said irritably. ‘The papers didn’t mention a gang. There was just Landor and the girl and she’s dead.’ Crossetta did not answer, and after due thought he added, ‘Looks like we’ve bitten off more than we can chew.’
‘You’re not thinking of going to the police, are you?’ she said quickly.
‘I guess we ought to. It was different when Landor looked to be on his own. But with a bunch of hoodlums behind him — well, I’d say we’d be crazy to carry on alone.’
‘They may be nothing to do with Landor.’
‘You think not? Wasn’t it that piece of paper I found by the girl that led us to Cardiff Street? How come these others are so interested in No. 17 if there’s no connection with Landor?’
She made no comment on that. ‘I bet the police take it out of you,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘You’ll make a welcome scapegoat. What’s the worst they can do to you? Put you in prison?’
‘Cheerful, aren’t you?’ Toby said. ‘Yes, I guess so. I’m not so hot on the law over here, but it’d mean jail back home.’
They were in the hall, bidding each other good-night, when she said earnestly, ‘Don’t tell the police, Toby. It would be asking for trouble, and probably quite unnecessary. Sooner or later they’ll pick him up, with or without our help. A man like that can’t just disappear.’
‘Folks do.’
‘Yes, I know. But surely only when they’ve made all the necessary arrangements beforehand? Landor wouldn’t have done that. He can’t have known he was going to kill that shopkeeper.’
‘No. But he may have provided for the possibility. And it looks as though he did. Why else is he still at liberty?’
‘You haven’t given us or the police much time to find him, have you? All things considered, I should say you and I haven’t made too bad a start. Why not give us a chance to finish the job?’
‘I’ll sleep on it,’ he promised.
As it happened he slept very little that night. He was too worried. And when he came down to breakfast the next morning he was still undecided.
Crossetta frowned at him. ‘You look like death warmed up,’ she said. ‘Bloodshot eyes with bags under them. Not feeling nervous about the inquest, are you?’
‘Good Lord, no! Why should I be?’
But he was. Not of the inquest itself, but of once more having to face the police. They would be there in force, he supposed, and Herrod would probably want to talk to him. He wondered if he would be able to answer them naturally, talk to them without arousing their suspicions.
‘Are you coming with me?’ he asked.
She shook her head vigorously. ‘No, thank you. I’m on holiday, and inquests aren’t my idea of fun. Will you be back to lunch?’
‘I hope so.’
The inquest was held in Lewes Town Hall. Dr Eaves, the deputy coroner, was a fair-haired man with a penetrating voice that played havoc with Toby’s nerves. The audience was not large, consisting mainly of Pressmen on the look-out for something sensational.
In this they were to be disappointed.
Dr Eaves, seated at his table, explained to the jury the nature and extent of their duties, and then asked them if they wished to view the body. This seemed to take the jury by surprise. Uncertain and unhappy, they eventually decided that they did.
The coroner’s officer led them from the court.
Toby was the first witness to be called on their return. His evidence, he knew, was only formal; all that was wanted from him was an account of the finding of the body. He was merely a curtain-raiser to the main proceedings. But because of his inward sense of guilt the taking of the oath and the subsequent questioning by the coroner gave him the unhappy sensation of being, not a witness, but a criminal in the dock.
As he sat down again he saw the keen eyes of Superintendent Herrod fixed on him contemplatively. Toby nodded, and after a pause Herrod nodded back before turning his attention to the next witness.
This was Nat Wilkes. A ripple of noise swept through the court at his appearance, and the coroner frowned. If I felt as though I were in the dock, Toby thought, he looks as though he ought to be. It must be mighty tough to go through life with a face so formidable.
Wilkes identified the corpse as that of his sister Catherine, and told under what circumstances he had last seen her. Toby listened to him with interest. Hitherto the girl had been first a body and then a name; now she was taking shape as a person. But not a very tangible person, for Wilkes was brief in his information and monosyllabic in his answers. The coroner became a trifle testy. While anxious not to be harsh on a bereaved brother, he had a duty to perform.
‘It would appear, Mr Wilkes, that there is no direct evidence that your sister left home in the company of this man Landor?’ he said.
‘No,’ Wilkes agreed.
‘Had she ever gone away with him before?’
‘No.’
‘And you can furnish us with no reason why she should have done so on this occasion?’
‘No.’
The questions went on. Gradually a shadowy picture formed in Toby’s mind — a picture of a wayward, spoilt young woman, a beautiful orphan who lived alone with her brother in lodgings and furnished flats, often on the move, with no close friends and little companionship. No wonder she ran away, Toby thought. She must have been bored to distraction.
The medical and police evidence that followed did not interest him greatly. It was all very scientific and formal, and much as he had expected; par
ticulars of how the deceased had met her death, the nature of the wound, and what had caused it. He noticed that Superintendent Herrod made no reference to Landor, or to the shooting at Forest Row; and Dr Eaves in his summing up was careful to point out to the jury that, apart from Nathaniel Wilkes’s unsupported opinion, they had heard no evidence to show that the girl had been in the man’s company. The jury retired for ten minutes, and came back to record as the coroner had hinted that they should — a verdict of murder against some person or persons unknown.
Toby wondered whether he should speak to Wilkes. He was anxious to get back to Coniston and Crossetta, but it seemed heartless to ignore the man. Wilkes, however, showed every indication of wishing to be ignored. He walked purposefully from the hall, stopping to speak to no one. I shouldn’t think he was an easy guy to live with, Toby decided, watching Wilkes’s ugly but expressionless face. I wonder what his job is.
Superintendent Herrod was wondering much the same thing.
‘I understand you are staying in Brighton, Mr Wilkes,’ he said, planting his burly figure squarely in the doorway.
‘Yes. They have my address at the police station.’
‘Will you be there long? How about your job?’
‘Until after the funeral.’ Wilkes ignored the second question, and moved pointedly to one side. ‘Excuse me.’
The Superintendent watched him go. Then he turned, nearly bumping into Toby.
‘Ah, Lieutenant Vanne! Enjoying your leave?’
‘Yes, thanks.’ Toby was struggling with his conscience again. If he were ever to confess this should be the moment. He said, avoiding a decision, ‘You wouldn’t call Wilkes loquacious, would you? He gives very little away. Did you do any better with him than the coroner?’
‘Not much.’
‘I only met him once before,’ Toby went on, still vacillating. By monopolizing the conversation he might keep the other at bay. ‘That was on Saturday, when Inspector Kane was showing him where his sister was killed. But today he completely ignored me.’
‘Really?’ The Superintendent’s eyebrows lifted slightly. ‘And what took you back to that unfortunate spot, sir?’
Toby coloured.
‘Curiosity, I guess. I was on my way to Eastbourne, and a morbid instinct impelled me to have another look at it.’
‘Not engaging in a little detection on your own?’
The young man forced a laugh. To his own ears it sounded hollow.
‘Say, don’t worry about competition from me, Superintendent,’ he said; ‘I’m no sleuth’ — and realised that he had now burnt his boats behind him. The way to confession was closed. Yet it was some relief to have reached a decision, even though it might be the wrong one.
But the detective was still there, still regarding him with a somewhat quizzical look. In an attempt to lead Herrod’s thoughts away from himself he said, ‘Did you know that Wilkes went back again on his own later that same afternoon? It seemed kind of queer to me.’
‘Back to the barn?’
‘Yes. I saw him there on my way home after tea. At least, I saw his car. I suppose he was around.’
If the Superintendent made anything of this he was not giving it away. ‘Mr Wilkes is a law unto himself, I fancy,’ he said, and wondered how far that was true. ‘You mustn’t judge him by your own standards. Going back to Brighton now, Lieutenant?’
‘Yes. After I’ve made some inquiries about the funeral and ordered some flowers. I guess there won’t be many, poor girl.’
He was glad to get away. Despite the Superintendent’s apparent friendliness, one never knew where one was with those fellows. They could be pleasant as what-have-you one moment, he suspected, and snapping handcuffs on your wrists the next. Bluff was part of their stock-in-trade.
Did detectives make good poker-players? He wouldn’t care to risk sitting in at a school with them, anyway.
But as he got out on to the open road his relief evaporated, and conscience began to nag him once more. He was not behaving like a good neighbour. The police were striving to bring a murderer to book, and he was doing his best to thwart them by withholding what might prove to be vital evidence. That might please Crossetta, but it wouldn’t please the police, and he wasn’t sure that it pleased him. And if he had not been such a darned coward he would now be on his way home with a clear conscience.
Or would he? He might well be in jail.
He scowled at the windscreen and trod on the accelerator. The Riley was running well. The exhilaration of speed gradually possessed him, scattering his troublesome conscience with the wind. Perhaps Crossetta was right in believing that Landor was bound to be caught. And at least he was now certain of a few more days of close companionship with her. Maybe in that time their intimacy would ripen, so that it would not die with the end of the adventure that at present sustained it.
The traffic lights were against him as he approached Palace Pier, and he sat admiring the flowers and idly watching the holiday-makers, singling out the prettiest girls and mentally comparing them with Crossetta. Most of them came off second best, he decided.
And then, directly ahead of him, he saw the Sunbeam.
7
It came from Marine Parade and followed the one-way stream of traffic up Old Steine. As the lights changed to green Toby went after it. He had not recognized the driver — a shortish man in a cap — but he thought it was probably the fellow he had knocked down outside the house the previous evening. He was of about the same build. But it was the car, not the man, that was important. As the dead girl had led him to Cardiff Street, and Cardiff Street to the Sunbeam, so the Sunbeam might lead him to Landor. And Landor was the one man who could redeem him in his own mind. His conscience had been temporarily dormant, but it had not died. Only Landor’s capture — and through his own endeavours, at that — could eliminate the stigma of moral cowardice that haunted him.
The Sunbeam carried on past the Pavilion, up York Place, and along the London Road. Toby had no difficulty in keeping it in sight, for the driver appeared to be in no hurry. But once past Patcham and out on the wide arterial road the Sunbeam began to draw away from him. If we’re off on a trip to London, thought Toby, urging the Riley on, I’ll lose him before long.
But just over a mile past Patcham the Sunbeam forked left along the Horsham road. It was not travelling so fast now; and when it turned into the lane leading to Poynings Toby was afraid, as he rounded each bend, that he might find himself too close to it. At the road junction in the village it had disappeared; he turned right and was lucky it was still ahead of him. They went through Fulking and along the dusty lane towards Edburton, with open fields beyond the low walls and hedges, and the South Downs towering away to the left. And then, as the Riley crested a rise, he saw the Sunbeam, some two hundred yards ahead, turn off to the left down a rough track that led to what appeared to be a large barn.
Toby pulled up sharply. There was no cover, either for himself or for the car. The road was straight and level, the hedge almost non-existent. If the man ahead was making for the barn he could not fail to see the stationary Riley when he got out of the car.
Toby did not want to alarm him, to let him so much as suspect that he had been followed. He waited until the Sunbeam stopped in front of the barn and then drove slowly on. As he passed the entrance to the track he saw the man leave the car and, after watching the Riley until it was well down the road, disappear behind the barn. Toby wondered whether the barn was indeed his objective, or whether he was making for the distant farmhouse that he could see beyond it, half hidden in a fold of the Downs.
He drove thoughtfully back to Hove.
Lunch at Coniston was nearly over. Crossetta, who was finishing the remains of a large helping of raspberry tart and cream — she had a healthy appetite — greeted him with undisguised relief. ‘I thought you were never coming,’ she said. ‘I had visions of you eating bread and marge in Lewes Jail. Is everything all right?’ He nodded, and was about to tell her his news whe
n she added, ‘You didn’t tell, did you? About Cardiff Street?’
‘No. But I —’
‘Good for you.’ There was joyous warmth in her voice. ‘It would have ruined everything if you had.’ She waited impatiently while the maid placed cold ham and salad in front of him, and then leaned forward, her eyes dancing. ‘I’ve been busy, Toby. I’ve discovered who your friend with the bandaged hand is!’
‘You have?’ It was obvious that she was too full of her own news to listen to his. That must wait. He said, displaying the approval he knew she expected — and which he honestly felt — ‘Say, that’s great! How did you manage it? Who is he?’
‘His name is Michael Watson. He owns the house we went to last night, and he’s quite a rich man. He has two cars, and a motor-cruiser which he keeps at Newhaven.’
‘Ready for a trip across the Channel if necessary, eh?’ said Toby. ‘Well, I bet he didn’t come by all that honestly. Where did you dig this up?’
‘From various people. I asked the postman first, after I’d managed to locate the house — that took me some time, as I only had a vague idea where it was. All I got from him was the name — but that was a good start. So then I went shopping.’ She laughed. ‘There are more shops in that part of the town than you’d think. I had to buy an awful lot of things I didn’t need, but I got what I wanted.’
‘And what was that?’
‘Information, silly. About Mr Watson. It only needed a little judicious gossip.’
Plus sex appeal, thought Toby. ‘Did you discover what his racket is?’ he asked. ‘How does he make the money?’
She frowned. ‘No one round there seems to know. The greengrocer said he was in business; something to do with exports and imports, he thought. But that’s rather vague, isn’t it?’ The frown vanished, to be replaced by a dimpling smile. ‘The chemist said Watson throws lots of parties, and has a weakness for pretty girls. He hinted fairly broadly that I’d be right up Watson’s street. Nice of him, wasn’t it?’