by J F Straker
He was tempted to agree. Had he felt more sure of her he would have done so without further demur, for much might depend on it. But he knew Crossetta.
‘You’re so darned impulsive,’ he told her. ‘I don’t trust you. You’ll sit in the car for a while, maybe; but then if the blond guy doesn’t show up you’ll go peeping through windows again.’
‘I won’t, Toby. I promise I won’t.’ Something in his look told her he was weakening, and she leaned towards him, her lips parted. ‘Please, Toby. And when I get back I’ll come up to your room and tell you everything that’s happened. How would you like that?’
‘I’d like it fine. But Mrs Buell would be shocked, I guess.’
‘Never mind about her. She need not know. Is it a deal?’
She was too lovely, too vital, for a young man as susceptible as Toby to resist. Despite the pain in his head, he once more experienced a strong desire to take her in his arms and kiss her. Her eyes seemed to be inviting him to do so. But because she was Crossetta, and because of that other evening when she had shrunk away from him in the car, he restrained the impulse. I’ll get around to it soon, he promised himself; she can’t keep me at arm’s length much longer. This just isn’t the right opportunity.
‘Okay,’ he sighed. ‘You win. But no tricks, mind, or I never trust you again.’
Instantly she abandoned seduction. It had served its purpose. She gave his arm a squeeze, thanked him and told him he was a dear, danced a few steps out of sheer high spirits, and made for the door.
There she paused. ‘What about when I get back? Do I come up and see you, or don’t I? I will if you like. But perhaps you would rather I kept the news until the morning? I don’t want to spoil your night’s rest.’
‘You come up and see me to-night,’ he told her. ‘I shan’t sleep until I know you’re back. And for the Lord’s sake be careful.’
She laughed. ‘Why? Is it my reputation or yours that you’re worried about?’
‘Neither. I wasn’t referring to reputations, and you know it.’
She blew him a kiss and disappeared. A few moments later he heard the Riley’s engine spring to life, and then the rapid crescendo of acceleration. I hope she’ll be okay, he thought anxiously. She should be — if she keeps her promise to stay in the car.
But Crossetta had no intention of keeping her promise. It had been given as a means to an end, and she was not going to spoil what might turn out to be a first-rate adventure through mawkish sentiment. She also had no intention of walking starry-eyed into the lion’s den. If it should prove necessary to reconnoitre the enemy’s stronghold she would do so. But she would make quite certain that this time she was not caught unprepared.
Delighting in the Riley’s ancient but still virile engine, she hummed contentedly to herself as she drove, as fast as traffic would permit, northward through Hove. As she turned once more into the now familiar avenue she slowed and switched off her headlights, driving past the house in low gear so that she might glance quickly up the drive before deciding on her plan of campaign. The Sunbeam still stood in front of the house. But now a light showed in the hall, and not in the room.
She turned the car and came back, stopping on the opposite side of the road. Then she slipped out of the driving-seat and went across to the gates. As she reached them light flooded out from the now open front door, and she shrank back, uncertain if she were visible. A few moments later she heard voices. Peering cautiously forward, she saw Watson and the fair-haired man at the top of the steps. They were still arguing, apparently, but less heatedly. No doubt some of the steam has evaporated by now, she thought. They must have had quite a session.
She hesitated, uncertain of her next move. If, as seemed possible, the two men were about to drive away in the Sunbeam, they could not fail to see her if she stayed by the gates. In any case they would notice the Riley, parked so conspicuously opposite the house. Did Watson know the Riley? She wasn’t sure.
She ran across the road, climbed into the car and, revving the engine as little as possible, drove away from the house and down the next turning. She turned the car round and, leaving the engine ticking over, ran back to the corner. As she reached it the headlights of the Sunbeam shone out from the drive and swung towards her.
She was back in the driving-seat and sliding the lever into bottom gear as the car passed the turning. There were two men in it. She waited a few seconds, and then eased back the clutch pedal and went in pursuit. The tail-light of the Sunbeam seemed to wink at her, as if in conspiracy. Her spirits soared with the prospect of adventure ahead, and she smiled to herself. Don’t let tonight fizzle out like a damp squib, she prayed to an unknown god. Please, please let something happen!
*
It was nearly eleven-thirty when she tapped softly on Toby’s door. He was sitting up in bed reading, making little headway with the book perched on his knees. During the past hour he had become increasingly concerned for her safety, and in imagination had reviewed in ever sharper forms the possible fates that might have befallen her.
‘Thank the Lord you’re back!’ he said fervently. ‘Where did the guy live? Glasgow?’
‘Don’t be peevish.’ She planted herself daintily at the foot of the bed and smoothed the coverlet with a slim hand. ‘I haven’t been that long, have I?’
She did not look at him, and he thought he detected guilt in her demeanour. She’s been up to some mischief, he thought. Probably snooping at windows again, despite her promise. But he was so pleased to see her that he could not bring himself to scold.
‘Very nearly,’ he said lightly. ‘Far too long for my peace of mind, anyway. Come on, give. Let me know the worst.’
She shook her head.
‘There isn’t much to give, unfortunately. I bungled it.’
She went on to tell him how she had seen Watson and the stranger leave the house, and how she had followed them. ‘I didn’t want him to suspect he was being followed — and I thought he might recognize the Riley — so I had to keep my distance. And then we came to some traffic lights ... and he accelerated just as they turned to amber ... and I got left. I was wild. In fact I was so hopping mad that I’d have disregarded the lights and gone after him if there hadn’t been a policeman standing on the corner. I only just spotted him in time.’
‘Thank the Lord you did!’ Toby said fervently. ‘We’re in enough trouble with the police already. Or we could be if they ever get wise to us. Whereabouts were those traffic lights?’
‘I’m not sure. But I seemed to recognize the road. I think it was the one we took last night when we followed the Sunbeam. So I thought Watson might be making for Cardiff Street. And that’s where I went.’
‘What then?’
‘Nothing. The place was deserted. No car, no Watson, no anybody. I hung around for a while, but nothing happened. So eventually I just packed up and came home. And here I am.’
‘Have you parked the car?’
‘Yes.’ She sat up straight and looked at him sorrowfully. ‘I made a mess of it, didn’t I? I shouldn’t have let the Sunbeam get so far ahead.’
‘Nonsense.’ Her dejection was a spur to his gallantry. ‘I guess you just didn’t get the breaks; being baulked by the traffic lights was plain unlucky. But I’m kind of surprised that you didn’t try the barn after drawing a blank at Cardiff Street. Knowing you, I should have said that was inevitable.’ He paused, and then said slowly, ‘You didn’t go to the barn, I suppose?’
‘No. I might have done so if I’d thought of it, but I didn’t.’ She stood up. ‘Well, that’s that. Now we may never know who he was, or where he lives.’
‘We may,’ Toby said cheerfully. ‘But I guess it isn’t so important at that. We’re way off the ball, Crossetta. We’re getting no place, and you know it. Maybe you’re having a lot of fun; so am I, I guess — though I’m also having more bumps and bruises than seem strictly necessary for amusement. But I didn’t start this for fun; I wanted to get Landor. Well, I haven’t got h
im, and I guess I never will. So I’m handing over to the police.’
‘Really, Toby, you’re impossible,’ she said indignantly. ‘Talk about blowing hot and cold! I’ve never known such a man. You said all this last night, you know. But did you tell the police when you saw them this morning? Of course you didn’t! And I don’t suppose you’ll tell them tomorrow, either. So why keep talking about it?’
Toby flushed. He was not a little ashamed of his vacillation, and he knew that her taunt was justified. It hurt the more because of that.
‘We won’t discuss it tonight,’ he said.
‘It’s too late. But tomorrow — well, you’ll see.’
Crossetta shrugged her shoulders.
‘Don’t expect me to visit you when you’re in prison,’ she said. ‘If you insist on getting yourself jailed you won’t get any sympathy from me. Besides, I hate the very thought of prison. I wouldn’t go near one.’
‘Say!’ He was startled by the vehemence in her voice. ‘You’ll be telling me next you’ve been inside one.’
‘Not in the sense you mean. But there are other prisons besides those made of stone,’ she said cryptically. ‘Good night.’
10
Detective-Superintendent Herrod had slept badly. It was not the fault of the bed; nor, he believed, of his digestive organs. The latter did not always work as they should; but exercise did them good, and during the past few days he had been getting around more than usual. No. The cause of his insomnia, he decided, was due to mental fatigue. The case was getting him worried. He had taken it to bed with him, and it had proved a wakeful bedfellow.
The creases at the corners of his eyes were deeper and more numerous that morning, the eyes themselves less vivid in their blueness; but these were the only visible signs that he had not slept well. He had risen at his normal hour, he looked as spruce and his step was as brisk as ever as he strode down West Street and turned in at the police station. He gave the constable on duty at the reception desk his normal cheerful greeting, and was about to disappear down the passage when the man checked him.
‘The Divisional Superintendent asked if you would see him as soon as you came in, sir,’ he said.
Herrod stared at him, nodded, and walked on. It might mean news of the inquiry that was being conducted along the Polegate road, although he had not expected such an early result. Well, I hope it’s concrete, he thought. This case needs more solidity in its foundations. At present it’s mostly theory.
It was certainly concrete.
‘Another murder,’ the Divisional Superintendent said laconically. ‘At Peacehaven. I thought you’d like to know. It may have nothing to do with your present inquiries, of course. But then again — it may.’
‘And why may it?’
‘Because the man was shot. In the back.’
This is the sort of thing that happens to one on a morning when one is not at one’s best, thought Herrod. As if I hadn’t enough on my plate without this! He had no doubt in his mind that it would be his to deal with, that the murder weapon would prove to be the gun that had killed Catherine Wilkes.
‘Who’s the victim?’ he asked.
‘Unidentified at present. Kane went down there about half an hour ago. I’ll let you have any information he sends through.’
‘It couldn’t be Landor himself, I suppose?’
The other shook his head. ‘Unlikely, I should say. No mention of a missing digit in the report. And by now every policeman in the division could quote you Landor’s description. No, it wouldn’t be him.’
‘I don’t think I’ll wait for Kane’s report,’ Herrod said wearily. ‘I’ll go down there pronto. If it does turn out to be my pigeon — and I’ve a nasty suspicion that it will — the sooner I’m on the spot the better.’
He and Sergeant Wood had little to say on the journey down to Peacehaven. With no knowledge of the victim’s identity speculation was profitless. Instead Herrod leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes; not to doze, but to re-examine in his mind the theory he had put forward the previous evening. Both his listeners had admitted the plausibility of his assumptions, had even been prepared to work on them. So far, so good. But it still remained only a theory, it needed definite evidence to turn it into fact. And without facts he had no case.
Perhaps this latest murder would provide the evidence. Perhaps on this occasion the killer had left some tangible clue to his identity, so that they might go after him as they had gone after Landor. Though with more success, I hope, thought Herrod glumly.
At Peacehaven police station they found that news of their expected arrival had preceded them; a constable was waiting to take them to the scene of the crime. It lay inland, on the very outskirts of the town, at the corner of an unmade road which, flanked on either side by a straggling and untidy hedge, led to where workmen were busy on the foundations of a row of new houses. The usual screens had been erected round the body; police were keeping curious spectators at a distance.
As Herrod stepped out of the car Inspector Kane came forward to greet him. ‘I’m glad you’re here, sir,’ he said. ‘I sent you a message at Lewes, but they told me you had already left.’
‘It’s one of ours, is it?’ Herrod, who had been pounding a beat in London at the outbreak of the Second World War and had seen much — too much — of the blitz, thought how odd his words sounded now. And yet — how reminiscent of death.
‘I think so, sir.’
The body lay on its back on the grass verge, staring sightlessly at the little white clouds lazily drifting across the sky. As Herrod and Wood walked round behind the canvas screens Inspector Kane watched them expectantly.
His expectancy was rewarded. Herrod’s back stiffened, his left hand flew to an ear and pulled at the lobe. (Perhaps that’s why they stick out so, thought Kane.) He looked at the impassive Wood, who contented himself with a brief nod.
There was no doubt in the mind of any of the three officers that this was, as Herrod had said, one of theirs. For the body that lay at their feet was that of Geoffrey Taylor, joint proprietor of the ‘Dayanite’ Café.
The Superintendent turned abruptly to Kane. ‘Let’s have the details, Inspector,’ he said.
Taylor’s body, said Kane, had been found by one of the builder’s men on his way to work that morning. The man had paused to light a cigarette, and had then seen the body in the ditch. It had been partially concealed by the nettles and brambles through which it had fallen. ‘I’ve questioned the occupants of most of the near-by houses’ —and he pointed to the several modern-looking buildings that fringed the area — ‘and two of them recall hearing last night what may have been the shot. Both of them put the time at around eleven o’clock — which agrees with the doctor’s rough estimate of the time of death.’
‘And I suppose neither of these two people took the trouble to investigate?’
‘No, sir. They both claim to have heard a car — accelerating, one of them said, and going in the direction of the town and thought it had back-fired.’
‘Modern cars don’t back-fire,’ the Superintendent said testily. He looked with distaste at the eager spectators, whose ranks were rapidly increasing. ‘Why can’t people show a little natural curiosity at the right time?’
The photographer stood apart, his work done; but the rest of the normal routine investigation which takes place at the scene of a crime went steadily forward. Ditches, hedges, and ground were searched methodically by men trained to miss nothing. There had been no rain for days, and the ground was hard; there were tracks and footprints in plenty, but none had been freshly made. Herrod spoke to the man who had found the body, and to the two residents who claimed to have heard the shot. But he learned nothing new. He sent Wood off to make inquiries farther afield and, after dealing politely but firmly with reporters and local correspondents eager for information, turned his attention once more to the dead man himself.
The arrival of the Chief Constable, accompanied by Superintendent Baker, was preceded by
an undertaker’s van by some minutes. The Chief Constable looked a worried man. Murder was not a commonplace in his parish. This sudden spate of death was becoming a nightmare.
He listened quietly as Herrod told him the little there was to tell, and watched the removal of the body, which was followed by a rapid dwindling of the spectators. Then, after a talk with Inspector Kane, the three senior officers walked across to the parked cars.
‘What do you make of it, Mr Herrod?’ asked the Chief Constable.
‘Something I don’t like,’ Herrod said grimly. ‘Something I wasn’t prepared for. Remember that fine theory of mine that I plugged last night at dinner, sir? Well, you can forget it. It was all so much poppy-cock.’
‘Eh?’ The Chief Constable was startled. ‘How’s that? You’ve dropped it fairly smartly, haven’t you?’
‘It’s dropped me, sir.’ Herrod pointed to the grassy corner on which the dead body of Geoff Taylor had so recently lain. ‘Why do you suppose that poor fellow was shot?’
‘I don’t know. But presumably because he got mixed up with Landor and the girl. Isn’t that so?’
‘It is. It must be. Yet Taylor’s only connection with the previous crimes is that Landor and Catherine Wilkes stopped at his café the night Caseman was killed. Which, to my mind, makes it a certainty that Landor killed him. Taylor didn’t see the girl — and anyway she’s dead, it couldn’t be her. But Landor ...’ He paused, and then said slowly, ‘As far as we know, sir, Taylor was the only man in Sussex who knew Landor by sight.’
‘Yes, I suppose he was.’ The Chief Constable looked thoughtful. ‘You think the two men met last night — by accident, presumably — and recognized each other?’
‘Yes. And that Landor also recognized the danger Taylor represented. That’s why he shot him. They wouldn’t have met here, of course. Some place else — and Landor brought him here to dispose of him. In a stolen car, I imagine.’