A Gun to Play With

by J F Straker

  When they reached the hotel she said, ‘Shall I telephone for a doctor? Just to make sure you’re going to live?’

  He flushed. ‘Cut that out, Crossetta. I’m not going to quarrel with you, and I don’t need a doctor. Now go ahead and see if the coast is clear, will you? I don’t want to be caught looking like something out of a casualty-clearing station.’

  He reached his room unchallenged. Crossetta went with him, and took off the handkerchief (his own, he discovered), and bathed his forehead. There was an ugly bruise, and some of the skin was missing; but there was no deep cut.

  ‘It might have been worse,’ he said, surveying the damage in a mirror. ‘But I’m not as beautiful as I was. Maybe that’s why you don’t love me any more, eh?’

  ‘Get into bed,’ she said, unsmiling. ‘I’ll be back shortly.’

  She returned with tea and a bandage. ‘I told Mrs Buell you’d banged your head,’ she said. ‘She wanted to have a look at it, but I talked her out of that. I knew you wouldn’t want her now.’

  ‘I’ll say not!’

  He was aware that for no apparent reason her ill-humour had left her. She was as gay and as friendly as ever, and, for once, womanly in her attention. As he lay enjoying her nearness, delighting in the touch of her fingers on his forehead as she arranged the bandage, he began to wonder about her. What a creature of moods she was! And how swiftly her moods changed!

  ‘You’ve blossomed out quite a lot since Friday,’ he told her. ‘When I first saw you, you looked like you were a timid, sad little mouse that had ventured too far from its hole in the wall.’

  ‘I’m not sure that I like being called a mouse.’

  ‘Oh, but you’re not. That was my mistake. I never guessed that you had such a talent for intrigue and mayhem. I know better now.’

  ‘If I seem different it’s because life has suddenly become exciting,’ she said. ‘I was bored before. And I can’t stand boredom. Danger or death before dullness — that’s my motto.’

  She spoke lightly, but he guessed there was some truth behind the words. She was too vital a person to stagnate.

  ‘It sounds kind of gruesome,’ he said. And then, because it was the first occasion on which they had discussed personalities, he risked a question. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t ask this, but — what was your husband? I’ve wondered plenty about him.’

  He could not see her face, but her voice sounded very far away as she said quietly, ‘He was an airman. That was how he died.’

  She sat with him while he had his tea. ‘Now you must rest,’ she said firmly, picking up the tray. ‘I’ll draw the curtains. I’ll pop in later to see how you are.’

  ‘Not too much later. I shan’t sleep; I never do in the afternoon. Right now I have every intention of coming down to dinner.’

  ‘Well, we’ll see.’

  In a few moments she was back. ‘I’m going to be bored without you, Toby,’ she said. ‘May I borrow the Riley?’

  ‘Sure.’

  But after she had gone he remembered her motto, and wondered if he had been wise to consent.

  8

  ‘If you want to talk things over,’ said the Chief Constable, ‘why not come and have dinner with me this evening? My wife is away on holiday with the kids, but the woman who ‘does’ for us isn’t a bad cook. I’ll ask Baker as well. How about Sergeant Wood?’

  ‘He’ll be busy, I’m afraid. But I’d like to come. And thank you.’

  Herrod liked the Chief Constable, both as a man and as a policeman. He liked the pleasant but firm manner in which he handled the men under him, he admired his air of ‘no nonsense.’ His own efficiency was reflected in the efficiency of his force. Yet he might not go down well at Whitehall, Herrod reflected. ‘Rules and regulations,’ he had heard the Chief Constable say to a somewhat scandalized Inspector, ‘are useful. But don’t be hide-bound. Make them your servants, not your masters. Knowing when to forget is sometimes more useful than knowing when to remember.’ Whitehall might not like that it hinted at the unorthodox. Well, he can be as unorthodox as he likes, thought Herrod, as long as he plays ball with me. As he certainly has done so far.

  The dinner was excellent. At first Herrod had studiously avoided talking shop, thinking that the other two might prefer to wait until after the meal. But the Chief Constable had other ideas.

  ‘Something of a deadlock, isn’t it?’ he said, dissecting with skill the carcass of a plump young chicken. ‘With Waide eliminated you’re temporarily out of work, aren’t you? Landor seems to be the only person who can fill in the few remaining gaps. All we can do now is sit tight and wait for him to be picked up. And I fancy that won’t be done in Sussex. Right now he’s probably back in London.’

  ‘That’s the way it looks,’ Herrod agreed, watching his host with fascination. He knew his own limitations as a carver. But I’m troubled by a nasty, nagging doubt as to whether in fact Catherine Wilkes was killed by Landor. Even with Waide out of it, I’m inclined to think she wasn’t.’

  Baker’s jaws ceased masticating, the Chief Constable laid down his knife and fork. Both stared wide-eyed at Herrod.

  ‘I’ve tried to put myself in Landor’s place,’ the latter went on. ‘He’s thirty-eight, and a man well set in his ways. He’s a crook — not a clever crook, as witness his four previous convictions — who specializes in breaking and entering. Shops and warehouses, mostly. He has never shown fight when cornered, and he has never been known to carry a gun; Scott, who knows him fairly well, says he’s a mild-mannered, friendly sort of chap. And, if one can believe Wilkes, he is — or was — in love with the girl Catherine. Agreed?’

  They nodded.

  ‘All right. Now, it seems fairly certain that he persuaded the girl to go away with him. Since he was usually broke, it is suggested that the Forest Row job was to supply the cash for this romantic interlude. That may be so, but we can’t prove it. And Landor must have known that we couldn’t. Apart from the fact that Caseman was shot, that the money was stolen, we know nothing. They left no fingerprints, no one saw either them or the car. (Mrs Caseman’s evidence was too sketchy to be of real value.) Once they were away there was absolutely nothing to connect them with the crime. The very fact that a gun had been used was, in a way, in Landor’s favour. It was outside his modus operandi. He would not appear on the short list suggested by Records.’

  ‘Odd that he should take a gun with him on that particular occasion,’ Baker said. ‘It’s not the sort of thing one usually packs when taking a girl to the seaside for a holiday. Not, of course, that I know much about that,’ he added hastily.

  Herrod grinned, and then was serious.

  ‘I was coming to that later. But the point I want to make first is this. There can be no doubt that Landor stopped at the cafe near Golden Cross, and there is also no doubt that he was in something of a panic at the time. You have only to talk to the cafe proprietor to know that. And when he went, he went in such a hurry that he left a glove on the counter. He would never have been so careless had he had his wits about him.’

  ‘If he hadn’t lost that glove he might not have left his print on the Daimler,’ Baker said. ‘But thank Heaven he did. Without that print he might never have been suspected.’

  ‘Exactly. But — what caused him to panic? He was an old hand at the game. He must have known that he was clear away, that he had not left his trademark on the job. So — what was it?’

  ‘The gun, I imagine,’ the Chief Constable said. ‘He knew that if he were caught it might mean curtains for him.’

  ‘Perhaps. It makes sense, anyway — though I think there was a further reason. But can you explain why, if he was so very, very frightened’ — Herrod spoke slowly, stressing each word — ‘he should pause in his flight merely to eat a snack at a wayside café? Does that make sense?’

  It was plain, from the look on their faces, that it did not.

  ‘Yes, that certainly takes some explaining,’ the Chief Constable said thoughtfully. ‘I suppose the obvi
ous answer is that he was hungry. But under the circumstances that hardly seems reason enough.’

  ‘Perhaps his girlfriend was hungry,’ Baker said, smiling. ‘That would carry more weight with him. It’s wonderful what love can do, they say.’

  But Herrod did not smile.

  ‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘Yes, I think that is the answer. Though love, I fancy, had nothing at all to do with it.’

  ‘But — you’re not serious, are you? I wasn’t.’

  ‘I know. But I am.’ He paused, guiltily enjoying their unconcealed bewilderment. ‘You see, I don’t believe it was Landor who shot Caseman. I think the girl did it.’

  ‘Good Lord!’

  ‘It makes sense, you know,’ Herrod said eagerly. ‘It explains much that otherwise seems inexplicable. Landor did not step out of his groove. He had planned a simple raid on a village shop, similar to others he had carried out with varied success. But he had no gun, and he didn’t know the girl had one. When she suddenly produced it and shot the old man it must have given him the shock of his life. No wonder he was scared.’

  The woman came in to remove the dishes and to carry the cheese and biscuits from the sideboard to the dining-table. At his host’s recommendation Herrod helped himself to the Stilton.

  ‘After all, what do we know about her?’ he said, when the woman had gone. ‘Damn all! Her brother was as close as an oyster. Well, perhaps he had good cause. Perhaps he guessed the truth.’

  ‘It might be that,’ said the Chief Constable. ‘If he was devoted to her, and if he believes that Landor killed her, he might decide to let Landor take the blame for both murders. And if Landor, when caught, thinks otherwise — well, what then?’

  ‘Who’d believe him — with the girl herself murdered? What proof could he bring? And it is just possible,’ Herrod said, as a new thought occurred to him, ‘that Wilkes may have decided that Landor should not be caught.’

  ‘You’re not suggesting that he would shield the man who shot his sister, are you?’

  ‘No. No, I’m not suggesting that.’

  His answer was significant enough. They did not press him to explain further.

  ‘We’ve wandered a little, haven’t we?’ Baker said presently. ‘You still haven’t told us why you think Landor stopped at the café.’

  ‘Because, as you said, his girlfriend was hungry. She was made of sterner stuff than he — a murder couldn’t spoil her appetite, apparently. And Landor, scared of the possible consequences of what had happened at Forest Row, was still more scared of the girl. Romance, I imagine, had departed from his mind. He had discovered, to his horror, that Catherine Wilkes was a killer. And when they came to the cafe and she told him to stop — he stopped. One doesn’t argue with a killer.’

  ‘You’ve got something there,’ said the Chief Constable. ‘All right. But if we accept your theory — how does it continue?’

  ‘I’m not so clear about that,’ Herrod confessed. ‘In fact, it is what happened after they left the café that I wanted to discuss with you. We know they got as far as Jevington in the car; by side-roads, presumably, since they didn’t pass through a checkpoint. But after that — well, it’s a toss-up. Did they stick together, or did they separate? Did they make for Eastbourne or Lewes? Or Brighton, even? You can take your choice. I have my own theory, of course, but I won’t say I’m sold on it. I’d like to hear yours.’

  ‘Well, we know the girl was in Waide’s car some time later that day,’ Baker said. ‘Or early the next morning, perhaps. And as the car was stolen in Eastbourne I’d say that’s the way they went first. On foot, over the Downs.’

  ‘Yes, I think so too. But what did they do when they reached the town? Stick together? Or separate?’

  ‘I know what I’d do if I were Landon’ said the Chief Constable. ‘I’d lose that young woman just as quick as I could, before she took it into her head to turn the gun on me.’

  ‘And you, Mr Baker?’

  ‘I don’t know. I agree that she wouldn’t be the ideal companion; but, on the other hand, I’d be rather unwilling to let her out of my sight. I’d like to know she wasn’t flashing that gun of hers too freely, inviting the police to pick her up — I wouldn’t trust her, you see, not to split on me. No. All things considered, I fancy I’d feel safer if I could keep an eye on her.’

  ‘It may be that Landor wasn’t given the choice,’ said the Chief Constable. ‘The girl had the gun, she was the dominant partner. What would she want to do?’

  Herrod nodded eagerly.

  ‘That’s the way I look at it, sir. Landor is torn both ways — but not the girl. If Wilkes is right she had no love for the man. She knew he had a criminal record, that he had left his glove at the cafe and, probably, his fingerprints on the Daimler. Once the heat was on, it would be Landor the police would look for; and Landor had a finger missing, something that the most casual passer-by would notice. If she stuck to Landor she hadn’t a chance; alone, she might make it. Unless she’s a nitwit,’ he concluded, heaving himself out of his chair as his host stood up, ‘I say she told Landor to buzz off. And he buzzed.’

  ‘It’s likely enough,’ the Chief Constable agreed, leading the way to a small, comfortably furnished sitting-room, where coffee awaited them. ‘Though she would be wrong on at least one of those premises. Despite his missing finger, Landor is proving a very elusive quarry. Black or white, Mr Herrod?’

  ‘Black, please.’ Herrod held the fragile china in one large hand, added sugar, and stirred thoughtfully. ‘Yes, you’re right there, unfortunately. He’s been too clever for us so far. Yet I can’t understand why he was so damned careless as to leave his prints on the Daimler. Most unprofessional. Why didn’t he give it a rub before leaving it?’

  ‘Too terrified of the girl, I dare say. Hadn’t recovered his wits,’ said Baker. ‘Why do you suppose she went with him, though, if she wasn’t in love with him?’

  ‘Fed up with her brother, perhaps. Anything for a change. We don’t know enough about her to guess.’ Herrod sipped, and put down his cup. ‘And now we come to the sixty-four-dollar question. Who killed Catherine Wilkes? And with her own gun? It need not have been Landor, you see; and it wasn’t our fat friend Waide. Yet the girl was in Waide’s car. Must have sat in the driving-seat, too, since her prints were on the steering-wheel.’

  ‘Perhaps she stole it,’ Baker suggested.

  ‘Yes, I think she did. In fact, I think she was the dark girl who was with Anna Kermode that evening when Waide picked them up in the pub. I hope Mrs Kermode will confirm that when she sees the body.’ He looked at his watch. ‘That’ll be at nine o’clock — I’ll have to go soon, sir. But, even if I’m right, there must have been some one else in the car with her. Either they started off together from Eastbourne or they met on the way. And presumably that someone else killed her.’

  ‘A mysterious Mr X, eh? How do you think he became involved? Accidentally — or on purpose?’

  ‘At a guess, I’d say accidentally.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Simply because our very meagre information points that way. Wilkes insists that his sister knew no one in Eastbourne, had never even been there. That being so, it seems the more likely that, if she did pinch the Austin, she pinched it on her own. But I admit it’s pretty thin.’

  ‘It is, isn’t it?’ The Chief Constable smiled. ‘It becomes even thinner when you follow it to its logical conclusion.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘That a girl, wanted for murder and escaping in a stolen car, took pity on a jerking thumb and stopped to give someone a lift.’

  ‘Well, she might,’ Herrod said doggedly, his face slightly flushed. ‘I’m not saying she did but she might. It depends on what was in her mind. She might have seen some way of making use of this other party.’

  ‘Well, it’s a nice line in theory,’ Baker said. ‘But there’s not much we can do about it, is there?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that.’ Herrod stared fixedly at his empty cup. �
��It’s a long shot, of course, and it would take time. And men. I don’t know how many houses there are between the barn and Polegate — I don’t think we need try farther back than that, anyone wanting to thumb a lift would get out on to the right road before doing so —but —’

  The Chief Constable laughed.

  ‘So that’s it, eh? Damn it, I believe you had this in mind all the evening. To prove something that you agree is a long shot, you want me to put my chaps on a house-to-house inquiry over a stretch of road that must be nearly ten miles long. That is what you’re asking, isn’t it?’

  Herrod grinned, so widely that his ears appeared to move suddenly outward.

  ‘I wasn’t asking, sir. But since you’ve been kind enough to make the offer I’ll accept it gladly. And thank you.’

  *

  Mrs Kermode was plainly nervous. On the pavement outside the mortuary she chattered shrilly, her hands playing with the strap of her bag as Herrod had seen her do at Eastbourne. Occasionally a hand was lifted to pat her hair or finger the imitation pearls round her throat.

  ‘I don’t like it,’ she said again. ‘I’ve never seen a corpse before. It — it’s a horrible thing to ask of me, really it is. I wouldn’t have come if I’d known, Inspector, and that’s gospel truth.’

  So I suspected, he thought, resigning himself to demotion. Mrs Kermode seemed unable to recognize the higher ranks. ‘We none of us enjoy it,’ he told her, ‘but it will only take a moment. Now, if you’re ready ...’

  She advanced fearfully into the outer room, wincing at the coffin shells against the wall. Then, as she caught sight of the shrouded figure in the far room, she paled and turned abruptly, clutching at the Superintendent’s arm.

  ‘I can’t do it, Inspector,’ she wailed. ‘Not if you paid me a thousand pounds I couldn’t do it.’

  Herrod hesitated. Should he appeal, cajole, threaten? He signalled to Wood, and each of them caught hold of an arm, propelling her gently forward. She began to cry, but made no protest in words.