A Gun to Play With

by J F Straker

  ‘I have an appointment in Lewes,’ he said. ‘But I’d be mighty grateful if you would call in at Caffyn’s for me and tell them what’s happened. They’ll deal with it.’

  ‘I’m going to Lewes,’ a man’s voice said quietly. ‘I’ll give you a lift.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Toby said, turning to face him. ‘That would —’ He paused. ‘— be good of you,’ he finished slowly.

  He was looking into the ugly, sallow face of Nat Wilkes!

  ‘I was right behind you, Lieutenant,’ Wilkes said, seemingly oblivious of the staring eyes that now switched their attention from Toby to him. ‘I could see you were going to crash, but there was nothing I could do to prevent it.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ Toby said. He wondered if Wilkes had been following him.

  ‘I gather you know this gentleman,’ the bearded man said. ‘That’s fine. And leave me to see about the car. If you’ll let me have your name and address ...’

  The crowd had been growing; now it began to disperse. The show was over. The line of cars halted by the roadside moved off slowly. The bearded man wrote in a little notebook, wished Toby luck, and walked away to his car.

  Toby was alone with Wilkes. Passing cars slowed as they caught sight of the Riley, and then, realizing that they had come too late on the scene, accelerated away. One or two drivers leaned from their windows to ask if they could be of help. Wilkes shook his head. But Toby scarcely saw or heard them. All his attention was concentrated on his companion.

  ‘We’ll get going, shall we?’ Wilkes said.

  The Buick was big and roomy. Toby sat apart from the driver, apprehensive — yet telling himself he was foolish to feel that way. Whatever Wilkes suspected, whatever he had it in his mind to do, there could be no immediate danger. He had not escaped Scylla to be overwhelmed by Charybdis. It was a bright, sunny morning, they were travelling along a main road, and Lewes was only a few miles away.

  ‘Enjoying your leave, Lieutenant?’ Wilkes asked, his eyes on the road ahead.

  ‘I was until this happened.’

  ‘Yes. Most unfortunate for you. You say the steering went suddenly? That sounds as though a nut must have worked loose on the drag-link. Probably a sheered split-pin.’

  ‘Probably,’ Toby agreed. The other’s quietly conversational tone emboldened him to ask a question. ‘Are you staying in Brighton?’

  ‘For a day or so, yes. I have some unfinished business to attend to. I’m looking for someone.’

  Landor or himself? wondered Toby.

  ‘I hope you find him,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll find him,’ came the reply.

  Toby shifted uncomfortably. The conversation had suddenly switched from conventionalities to a more menacing form. Was Wilkes about to tax him with murder? And after that — what? Determined not to be intimidated, Toby decided to attack.

  ‘I saw you last night, Mr Wilkes,’ he said. ‘Outside my hotel. What were you doing there? If you wanted to speak to me why didn’t you come in?’

  The other took some time to answer.

  ‘I’m afraid your very natural curiosity must go unsatisfied,’ he said eventually. ‘Sorry.’

  Toby waited for him to say more. But Wilkes was silent. Perhaps he thought he had already said too much. And as they climbed the long, steep hill into Lewes Toby’s annoyance left him, to be replaced by a feeling of sympathy. After all, the poor fellow’s sister had been murdered.

  And if he thought Toby had killed her, hadn’t he a right to keep an eye on him, to harass him until he knew the truth? Toby wondered whether he should protest his innocence. Yet to do so might be taken as proof of his guilt. Better to express his sympathy, to offer his help.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry about your sister,’ he said, uncomfortably aware of how banal the words sounded. ‘I guess I’ll never forget the way she looked; so beautiful, so — so alone. How could any man come to kill a girl like that?’ He winced as he caught sight of the prison; there, perhaps, stood his future home. ‘The papers hinted it was this fellow Landor who did it, and I’ve been keeping my eyes skinned for him. You’ll have been doing the same, I guess.’ His companion gave a slight nod, but made no comment. ‘I’ll be staying in Hove for at least another week, and if there’s anything I can do to help I sure hope you’ll call on me. You — er — you know where I’m staying.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll bear your offer in mind.’ They were well into the town now. ‘Where shall I drop you?’

  ‘Any place here will do fine.’

  Toby knew that the other did not believe him, that his words had done nothing to allay suspicion. He felt aggrieved.

  Wilkes brought the big Buick to a stop outside the Town Hall. Then he turned to look at Toby.

  ‘May I give you a word of advice, Lieutenant?’ he said.

  ‘Depends what it is.’

  ‘I suggest you don’t spend another week in Hove. I suggest you go back to your unit. Today, for preference.’

  ‘Why?’ Toby was bewildered. He had not expected that.

  ‘Because if you stay here much longer you may never go back at all. Not unless you express a wish to be buried there.’

  He made this outrageous statement almost casually. Toby, angry now, sat up sharply.

  ‘Say, are you threatening me?’ he demanded.

  ‘I’m giving you advice. You don’t have to take it.’

  He returned Toby’s angry glare with a blank, expressionless face. Then, as the young man made no move to leave the car, he leaned across him and opened the door.

  Toby got out, closing the door behind him. Then he poked his head through the open window.

  ‘You can’t scare me, Wilkes,’ he said. ‘I’m staying. If you’re out to get me — well, just try, that’s all.’

  Wilkes nodded, unperturbed.

  ‘Suit yourself. But have a look at that draglink when you get back to Brighton. It may make you change your mind.’

  12

  Shortly after 9.30 that morning the Eastbourne police located the office where Claire Taylor was employed. It was that of the Lester Trading Company, Superintendent Farrar told Herrod over the phone; it employed only a small staff, of which Mrs Taylor was the head. She had not been to the office since the previous Thursday, but had left a note in the letter-box to the effect that she would be away until the Monday. The staff had had no communication from her since then.

  ‘And it’s now Wednesday,’ Herrod commented. ‘Did they seem surprised or worried at her continued absence?’

  ‘I gather not,’ Farrar said. ‘But I haven’t been up there myself. I thought I’d get in touch with you first. Are you coming over?’

  ‘I’ll send Wood. How’s Anna?’

  ‘Definitely subdued. Doesn’t leave the house except for a spot of shopping in the mornings.’

  Taylor had been killed on Monday night; Herrod wondered whether his death might have any connection with his wife’s absence. And was Ellis involved? Both of these were possibilities, but neither explained how Taylor came to be shot by a bullet from the same .25 as had been used to kill Caseman and Catherine Wilkes. Unless Landor had parted with the gun, he alone could have had a hand in all three murders.

  A bare-headed constable knocked, entered, and stood smartly at attention. ‘A Lieutenant Vanne to see you, sir. American. Says he has an appointment.’

  ‘Vanne?’ Herrod said absently. ‘Oh, yes — Vanne. All right, I’ll see him.’

  Toby was nervous. The accident and the clash with Wilkes had unsettled him. He mumbled an apology for his lateness, his eyes anxiously searching the Superintendent’s face. Was the fellow in a good mood or a bad?

  ‘The Brighton air seems to have inflated your ego,’ Herrod said, smiling faintly. But the smile vanished as his visitor gazed at him uncomprehendingly. He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Sorry. That was meant as a joke; I was referring to your swollen head. But forget it. What can I do for you, Lieutenant? You haven’t found another body, I suppose? They seem fairly p
lentiful in these parts.’

  ‘No. I — I have a confession to make.’

  ‘A confession? About what?’

  ‘About the girl. Miss Wilkes. You won’t like it, I guess. In fact, I reckon you’ll be mad as hell.’

  ‘Don’t let’s worry about whether I like it or not, sir. What is it?’

  Toby was right. Herrod did not like it. His expression hardened as he learned of the piece of paper which Toby had found by the dead girl’s body and had concealed from the police.

  ‘One moment, sir,’ he interrupted. ‘You realise, I suppose, that this is a very serious admission? One that may result in an indictment? If you wish —’

  ‘I understand that,’ Toby said. ‘Are you going to warn me? That’s usual over here, isn’t it?’ Now that he had made a start, had confessed what was to his mind the only item he had to confess (there was nothing culpable, surely, in his later actions?), he felt much better. ‘Though I guess it’ll make no difference. I’ve made up my mind to get this off my chest, and get it off I will. And if you like to have one of your fellows write it down, that’ll be okay by me,’ he added generously.

  Slightly taken aback, the Superintendent warned him. With a stenographer in attendance, Toby began again. He described how he had found the piece of paper in his pocket, his visit to Cardiff Street, and his meeting with Watson. He told how he had explored the upper storey of No. 17 the next evening, of the shot fired at him and of his subsequent escape. So far he had made no mention of Crossetta. But as he warmed to his recital he grew careless. He was describing the third visit to Cardiff Street when the fatal ‘we’ slipped out.

  Herrod pounced on it.

  ‘‘We’? Who are ‘we’, Lieutenant?’

  Toby hedged. ‘I thought I said ‘I’.’

  ‘You said ‘we,’ and you meant ‘we’,’ the Superintendent said sternly. ‘Who was your companion?’

  ‘Just a girl who is staying in the hotel. We got friendly, and I told her about this, and — well, she came with me.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Crossetta Tait. She’s a widow. Her husband was killed in an air crash.’

  But Herrod hardly heard the last two sentences. ‘What was that first name?’ he asked, puzzled. ‘Crossetta?’

  ‘Yes.’ Toby spelt it for him. It had become so much a part of his daily life that it no longer sounded strange to his ear. But he realised that the Superintendent had not had that advantage, and proceeded to explain its origin. ‘Little cross — Crossetta,’ he concluded. ‘Cute, isn’t it?’

  ‘Very,’ Herrod said drily. ‘And was this Mrs Tait with you on your previous excursions to Cardiff Street?’

  ‘Not the first. The second, yes.’

  ‘Scrub that, will you?’ Herrod instructed the stenographer. Then he turned to Toby, voice and expression distinctly angry.

  ‘You delayed five whole days, sir, before revealing what may prove to be vital evidence. Five days! And now, as if that were not sufficient delay, you come here and make a statement that is deliberately misleading.’ He thumped the table with his fist. ‘Damn it, man — if you’re going to tell the truth, tell it! But don’t muck about with it!’

  Toby flushed, feeling like a small boy under the stern eye of his headmaster. ‘It was my fault she became involved,’ he excused himself. ‘I figured it was up to me to keep her name out of it.’

  Herrod leaned forward.

  ‘I’m not interested in chivalry at the moment, Lieutenant. It doesn’t go with murder. Now! Do I get the truth — or don’t I?’

  He got it.

  Having been forced to commit Crossetta (and, after all, she really had nothing to worry about, he told himself. The police might want to check his statement with her, but there couldn’t be more to it than that), Toby gave full measure. He omitted nothing. And when he concluded with the accident to the Riley and his subsequent conversation with Nat Wilkes he thought he had made a fairly good job of it.

  He looked hopefully at the Superintendent. But what Herrod thought was not apparent on his face. The creases round his eyes multiplied as he sat hunched up in his chair — left elbow on the table, left hand supporting his chin — sliding a pencil up and down between the thumb and first finger of his right hand.

  ‘It occurs to me, sir, that Wilkes was giving you sound advice when he suggested that you should quit Brighton,’ he said, his voice once more low-pitched and measured. ‘If one includes your lady friend’s attempt to crown you with a brick you have had three narrow escapes from death. You may not be so lucky the fourth time.’

  ‘The brick was an accident,’ Toby said. ‘And, unless Wilkes has inside information, so was the smash-up this morning. Anyhow, I’m not going. I intend to stay and see this through.’

  ‘I hope not,’ Herrod said. ‘Stay if you must, but leave the seeing-it-through part to us, will you?’

  ‘Yes, sure.’ Toby was abashed. ‘Er — what happens now? To me, I mean. Do you charge me and lock me up? Or do I just walk out?’

  ‘I’m not charging you, sir. Not yet, anyway. And for the present you can wait downstairs until I’m ready. I’ll have your statement typed; you can sign it later, if you will.’

  Herrod left his office to visit the Divisional Superintendent.

  ‘This place Edburton,’ he said, pointing it out on the map. ‘Is it in your area?’

  ‘No. West Sussex. You’ll have to liaise with them. Is Watson’s house in Hove?’

  ‘Vanne seemed to think so. Why?’

  ‘It’s rather tricky there. Hove comes under East Sussex, but it’s sandwiched between West Sussex and Brighton Borough. However, Inspector Dainsford at Hove will see that you don’t go treading on anyone’s toes. I’ll warn him to expect you.’

  Back in his own office Herrod got busy on the telephone. He rang the Chief Constable first. Finding him out, he got through to Superintendent Baker, told him the news, and asked him to pass it on to the Chief Constable when the latter returned. He contacted the Brighton Borough police, and the headquarters of the West Sussex Constabulary at Chichester. He was still speaking to the latter when Sergeant Wood returned from Eastbourne.

  ‘Any luck?’ he asked, as he replaced the receiver.

  Wood didn’t think so. The Lester Trading Company’s offices, he said, consisted of one room in a private house; the staff, in Mrs Taylor’s absence, of an elderly woman and a pimply youth. Both the youth and the woman professed to know nothing of Mrs Taylor’s absence beyond the fact that on the Friday morning they had found a note from her in the letter-box to the effect that she would be away on business until the following Monday. As this had happened before, it did not surprise them. The boss had rung up later that morning and had asked to speak to Mrs Taylor, but had made no comment when told she was away. He had called in on the Saturday, however, and had asked to see the note. Then he had torn it up and left — again without comment.

  ‘An accommodating boss,’ Herrod said. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘A man named Mike Watson. Lives in Brighton.’

  ‘Hove.’ Herrod’s eyes gleamed. ‘You mustn’t confuse the two.’ Noting his subordinate’s astonished expression, he added, ‘I’ve been hearing a lot about Mr Watson this morning. I think he would well repay a visit. What does the Lester Trading Company trade in?’

  Wood said he thought it was phoney. The two employees either would not or could not give any details. ‘General dealers, the woman said. I gather they have several warehouses dotted around Sussex, but I couldn’t discover where.’

  ‘I could probably find two of them,’ Herrod told him.

  Inspector Kane joined them. ‘This has just been handed in, sir,’ he said, handing the Superintendent a leather wallet. ‘A small boy found it this morning on the beach near Telscombe Cliffs. Looks like it belonged to Taylor.’ As Herrod took it eagerly he went on, ‘It was handled by the whole family in turn, so we’re unlikely to find any useful prints on it.’

  The contents of the wallet w
ere few. A half-crown book of stamps; the return half of a day return ticket, dated the 16th, from Eastbourne to Brighton; a driving licence; a wireless licence; a football pool coupon; sundry receipts and bills; and a pencilled note signed ‘Claire’.

  A small bunch of keys was attached to the wallet by a thin chain.

  It was the note that attracted most of Herrod’s interest:

  Sorry, darling, but Mike Watson came over from Brighton and asked me to go to Birmingham for him this evening. He ran me home to pack a few things and to say goodbye, but you had already left for the café. I suppose we were late.

  Must dash now. Mike’s waiting to take me to the station, and there isn’t much time. I’ll be away about three days — back Monday morning, I hope.

  Be seeing you. Look after yourself.

  Love,

  CLAIRE

  He handed the note to Wood without comment, and took up the railway ticket.

  ‘Monday, eh? The day Vanne said he saw Taylor — or the man he thinks was

  Taylor — at Watson’s house.’ He remembered that the Sergeant knew nothing of the young man’s visit. ‘I’ll explain about that later. Right now I want to make sure that it was Taylor.’

  Once more they went down to the mortuary. In twenty-five years I never saw a dead body, Toby thought, as he watched the Sergeant unlock the door; and now I am about to see my second corpse within a week.

  He did not look long at the dead man; not because the sight upset him (as it did), but because he had no need.

  ‘Yes, that’s him,’ he said. ‘That’s the fellow we saw at Watson’s place on Monday evening.’

  They left for Brighton as soon as Toby had read and signed the typed copy of his statement; the three detectives in one car, with Toby and a uniformed constable in another. Herrod wanted to be able to talk to his subordinates without the circumspection which the young man’s presence would have imposed.

  ‘We’ll pick up Inspector Dainsford at Hove,’ he said, after giving them the gist of the American’s statement, ‘and then pay a call on this chap Watson. It should prove an interesting visit.’