by J F Straker
‘I don’t get it,’ said Wood, puzzled. ‘If Mrs Taylor’s note to her husband was genuine, then Watson knew she was going away. So why did he try to telephone her at the office the next morning, and even call in there the day after that to read her note? Was he putting on an act of some sort?’
‘Perhaps. But that is only one of the many things I hope he’ll explain,’ Herrod said. ‘Another is, why was that note written at all? If what she wrote to her husband was the truth Mrs Taylor knew before she left the office that she was going to Birmingham. She could have told the staff then, presumably.’
‘There were no currency notes in Taylor’s wallet,’ Kane said, ‘and only a little silver in his pockets. He could have been murdered for the cash he had on him.’
‘He could, of course. But it’s more likely that pinching the money was an afterthought. Intended to mislead us, perhaps. Or it could have been taken by the people who found the wallet. That doesn’t necessarily mean the boy or his family. Someone else could have found it before them, stolen the money, and left the wallet.’
‘This Mrs Tait,’ Kane said thoughtfully. ‘What did you say her first name is, sir?’
‘Crossetta.’
‘H’m. Unusual, isn’t it? And the initials — C.T. Do you think —’
‘No,’ said Herrod, ‘I don’t. I had that idea myself, but I discarded it. I agree it’s a coincidence that Crossetta Tait should appear in Brighton — I beg its pardon, Hove — the morning after Claire Taylor vanishes from Polegate; but I believe it’s no more than a coincidence. Mrs Tait seems to have assisted Vanne wholeheartedly in spying on Watson, and that doesn’t make sense if she is really Claire Taylor. Watson is Claire Taylor’s boss, and apparently the two are on very good terms. We’ll get someone who knows her
Ellis, or that neighbour of hers — to have a look at this girl. But I think you’ll find I’m right.’
‘A pity,’ Kane said. ‘How about Wilkes, sir? Was Vanne mistaken, or is Wilkes really gunning for him? What with him and Landor and Watson on the job, the Sussex air isn’t so healthy these days.’
The Superintendent admitted that he was uneasy about Wilkes. ‘He’s so damned mysterious and reticent,’ he said, with some irritation. ‘I’ve no doubt he’s a wrong ’un, as the Croydon police suggested. But what is he hanging around for? What keeps him here now that the inquest and the funeral are over? He may have doted on his sister, but surely he wouldn’t be such a damned fool as to rub Vanne out just because the wretched man happened to find the girl? There must be more to it than that. The question is — what?’
As they went up the hill to Falmer they passed the Riley. A breakdown lorry had it in tow, and it looked surprisingly whole. Herrod made a mental note to check with the garage about the cause of the accident. If Vanne had reported Wilkes correctly it would appear that the crash was no accident, but a deliberate attempt to get rid of that young man. Someone was finding him a nuisance. And that, thought Herrod, I can well believe.
They were on the outskirts of Brighton when Sergeant Wood, who had not spoken for some time, said, ‘Watson could have killed Wilkes’s sister, Mr Herrod. It seems fairly certain that the note Mrs Taylor left for her husband was a phoney; if she went away on business it was her own business, not the firm’s. All the same, Watson could have been in Eastbourne that evening, and have picked up Catherine Wilkes on the way home. That would explain Ford’s evidence that it was a woman, not a man, whom he heard running after the car. He takes her up that track and starts making advances to her — and she pulls out that gun of hers. Perhaps there was a struggle — the gun goes off accidentally —’
‘There was no sign of a struggle,’ Kane said. ‘And she was shot in the back.’
‘Okay. So there wasn’t a struggle. But somehow he gets the gun from her and kills her. And on Monday, when Mrs Taylor fails to return home, Taylor goes over to Brighton, shows Watson her note, and demands to be told where she is. Watson doesn’t know, and says so. The note’s a phoney, he says. Taylor doesn’t believe him — nor would I — and tells Watson that if he doesn’t come clean he’ll blab to the police about Watson’s racket, whatever that may be. That puts Watson in a spot; with a murder on his hands police inquiries would be more than usually unwelcome. So he has to get rid of Taylor before Taylor can talk. He offers to run him home, and uses the girl’s gun to bump him off en route.’
‘He’d go via Lewes, not Peacehaven,’ Kane objected. ‘More direct.’
‘Is it?’ Wood considered this. ‘Well, perhaps he chose Peacehaven for that very reason. It would appear less obvious that Taylor was killed on his way home from Brighton.’
Sergeant Wood’s flights of fancy were so rare that Herrod never liked to condemn them out of hand; and this particular flight certainly had possibilities, as he at once conceded. ‘But it doesn’t explain how the girl’s fingerprints came to be on the steering-wheel of Waide’s car,’ he pointed out.
‘Watson might have pinched it,’ the Sergeant said promptly. ‘That could be his racket.’
Somewhat doubtfully, Herrod admitted the possibility of this.
Before they reached Hove he had changed his plans. ‘I want to speak to your Mrs Tait,’ he told Toby, as they left the cars at the police station. ‘If Sergeant Wood runs you back to the hotel, do you think you can persuade her to come along here and answer a few questions?’
Toby looked dubious. ‘She’s not sold on policemen,’ he said. ‘I don’t think she’ll come.’
‘I’ll have to visit her there if she doesn’t,’ Herrod said. ‘No doubt she would like that even less. And tell her I’m quite tame. Practically human, in fact.’
Toby promised to do his best.
Sergeant Wood waited outside in the car. Lunch at Coniston was nearly over — realizing the time, Toby suddenly felt hungry — and there was only Crossetta and another guest in the dining-room. His sudden appearance obviously startled the girl. I must be looking a bit grim, he thought, and forced a smile. Unless he treated the matter airily she would dig in her toes.
‘What happened?’ she asked nervously. And then, responding to his smile, ‘You didn’t get a very heavy sentence, did you? Or are you out on bail?’
‘They were pretty decent,’ he told her. ‘Nice guy, that Superintendent. He slammed into me, of course, but I reckon I’ll get away with it. My main concern at the moment is the Riley. The steering went, and I ended up in the ditch.’
He felt gratified by the concern shown on her face. Maybe she isn’t as indifferent to me as I thought, he told himself hopefully. When all this is over I must find out.
‘You — you’re not hurt?’ she asked. He reassured her, and went on to tell her about Wilkes and of his talk with Herrod. Mrs Buell brought him lunch, but he regretfully refused it. There was no time, he said, thinking of the waiting Sergeant. He and Mrs Tait had to go out; he would get a sandwich later.
‘I wish I knew what was going on,’ Mrs Buell said, annoyed and upset. ‘You’re for ever dashing in and out of the place, the pair of you. And you with a lump on your head the size of an orange! Goodness knows what your poor mother would say if she knew. And what’s that police car doing outside? What’s happened to your own? You’re not in trouble with the police, are you?’
‘No, of course not. I had an accident, and they very kindly brought me back,’ he said, inwardly cursing as he noticed the alarm on Crossetta’s face. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not hurt.’
‘And what are they waiting for now, I’d like to know?’
‘I — well, I have to go to the police station to make a statement.’
‘And what about me?’ the girl asked, when Mrs Buell had eventually departed.
‘Why am I going out?’
Her voice was hard, her defences were up. He gave her a watery smile.
‘Honestly, Crossetta, I did my best to keep you out of it,’ he said earnestly. ‘It just wasn’t possible, that’s all. But I told them you didn’t know what it was all about, th
at you only came with me for the fun of it. Only — well, naturally they have to check up on me, make sure I’m telling the truth. And you’re the only person they can ask. But all you have to do is go along to the police station here and confirm what I said. No, wait a minute, please’ — as she pushed back her chair and stood up — ‘don’t run out on me, Crossetta. There’s nothing to be scared of, honestly there isn’t. You’ll like the Superintendent when you see him, he’s a great guy. Oh, yes — he told me to tell you that he’s quite tame and almost human. And it’s true, he is.’
‘I told you before, Toby, I’m not having anything to do with the police.’ He had never seen her angry. It did not detract from her beauty, he thought. She looked magnificent, almost imperial. ‘If you wanted to confess, that was your affair and I couldn’t stop you. But you had absolutely no right to drag me into it.’
‘Say, that’s great!’ He was nettled by the unfairness of the attack. ‘Dragged you into it, did I? Why, I’d no sooner mentioned this guy Landor than you jumped into the chase with both feet and your eyes wide open. Don’t get me wrong I was real glad to have you with me. But don’t tell me now that I dragged you into it.’
‘I wasn’t referring to Landor. I said you had no right to include me in your stupid confession.’
‘I told you, I couldn’t help it.’ But a slanging match was no way to win her over, and he changed his tactics. ‘Come off it, Crossetta. Do as the Superintendent asks — he won’t keep you long. It’s not like you to be scared.’
‘I’m not scared, you idiot. I just don’t want my name in the papers, and all the fuss and publicity.’
‘There may not be any publicity.’
‘Of course there will be. There always is.’
She walked over towards the window far enough to see and yet not be seen and stood for a while looking thoughtfully at the waiting police car. When she spoke again her voice was calmer. Toby sensed genuine curiosity when she asked, ‘What happens if I refuse to go?’
‘They’ll come here. Would you prefer that?’
‘No.’ She turned to him, frowning. ‘I suppose I’ll have to do as I’m told, damn you! But Heaven help you, Toby, if I get dragged into this business. I’ll never forgive you for it.’
It was a silent journey. They had nothing to say to each other in the presence of the police, and Sergeant Wood was his usual taciturn self. Toby hoped fervently that the Superintendent was a tactful man. If he handled Crossetta badly there’d be the devil to pay.
He was not present at the interview. He spent the time in another room, his ears strained to catch the first sound of the girl’s voice raised in anger. But he heard nothing.
When Crossetta eventually returned with the Superintendent she was smiling. Toby stared at her in disbelief of his own eyes.
‘Mrs Tait has been most helpful,’ Herrod said, his voice a purr. ‘Now I wonder if one of you would be kind enough to show us where this Mr Watson lives? You won’t be confronted with him, of course. We’ll keep you out of sight while we talk to him.’
‘Sure,’ Toby said with alacrity. Apart from a genuine wish to help, he hoped that in so doing he might expunge some of the black marks against him.
‘I’ll come too,’ Crossetta said.
Bewildered, Toby looked at the Superintendent in open admiration.
They went in two cars. When Toby had pointed out Watson’s house he and the girl were driven farther up the road to await the detectives’ return. ‘The driver will run you back to the hotel now if you wish,’ Herrod had said. ‘But if you’re in no great hurry I’d like Mrs Tait to show me later where she lost Watson’s car on Monday evening.’
They had declared, almost in unison, that they were perfectly willing to wait.
‘I’m looking forward to this,’ Herrod said, as he and Wood and Inspector Dainsford waited under the porch for an answer to their ring. ‘This is the first chance we’ve had to get our teeth into something.’
13
A man opened the door to them. He was of medium height and wore a blue suit, and Herrod glanced quickly at his hand.
None of the fingers was missing.
‘Mr Watson’s out,’ said the man. Alarm had been plain on his face when he saw the Inspector’s uniform, but he was quick to recover. ‘Care to leave a message?’
Herrod suspected he was lying. But without a warrant they could not force their way into the house. The alternative would be to keep it under observation. That meant delay; and to the Superintendent, now hot on the scent, delay was irksome.
‘We are police officers, and it is important that we should contact Mr Watson immediately,’ he said. ‘Any idea where he is?’
‘Search me,’ said the man. ‘Might be anywhere.’
‘Right. Then we’ll wait here until he turns up,’ Herrod said.
The other hesitated, uncertain whether they expected to be invited into the house or were prepared to wait outside. This was as Herrod had anticipated. He stood close to the jamb. The man could not close the door without first asking him to move; and this, Herrod suspected, he lacked the nerve to do.
Voices came from the room to the left of the hall. Herrod saw his opportunity and took a chance.
‘Mistaken, aren’t you?’ He stepped through the open doorway. Wood and Dainsford followed him. ‘That sounds like Mr Watson’s voice. Tell him we’re here, will you?’
To the frightened man it seemed that he was surrounded by policemen. He had no stomach for further protest. Meekly he turned, and left them in possession of the hall.
Herrod grinned happily at his companions.
They were not kept waiting. A tall, good-looking man came out from the room on the left. Across the back of his right hand an ugly scar, not yet fully healed, glowed angrily. So that explains the bandage, Herrod thought. Looks like a knife-wound and not come by honestly, I’ll be bound.
‘I’m Mike Watson. Sorry you fellows were fobbed off with that hoary old excuse. An excess of zeal on Harry’s part — he knew I had another visitor.’ He spoke genially, the words correct but the accent less so. ‘Come in and have a drink, and tell me how I can help you.’
They followed him into a small study on the right of the hall, but declined the drink. Herrod introduced himself and the other officers.
‘Scotland Yard, eh? Must be important. Well, let’s have it.’
‘We are inquiring into the murder, last Monday night, of a man named Geoffrey Taylor,’ Herrod said. ‘You knew him, didn’t you?’
Watson’s reaction — a blend of surprise, horror, and regret — was just right. If it was acting it was good acting. ‘I only met him a few times,’ he told them finally, ‘but he seemed a very decent chap. Can’t imagine why anyone should want to bump him off.’
‘When did you last see him, sir?’ Herrod asked.
Watson hesitated. Herrod thought he must be wondering how much they knew. But if he had considered a lie he did not risk it.
‘If he was killed on Monday, then I must have been one of the last to see him alive,’ he said. ‘He was here that evening, and I ran him to the station later.’
‘What time was that?’
‘I’m not sure. But I dropped him at Brighton station in good time to catch the ten-something-or-other to Eastbourne.’ In turn he looked at the three unrevealing faces before him. ‘I don’t want to seem unduly inquisitive, Superintendent, but where was Taylor killed? And how?’
‘He was shot in the back, sir. His body was found near Peacehaven the next morning. So it doesn’t look as though he caught that train, does it?’
‘No.’ Watson looked puzzled. ‘But why not, I wonder?’
‘So do I. Why did he come here to see you?’
Again the other hesitated.
‘Do I have to answer that? It was on a personal matter.’
‘You don’t have to answer anything,’ Herrod told him. ‘But I’ll put the question in another form. Had Taylor’s visit to do with his wife’s disappearance?’
<
br /> ‘Oh! So you know about that, do you? Yes, it had.’ And then, in a burst of apparent frankness, ‘He seemed to think I was in some way responsible. It took me quite a while to convince him he was wrong.’
‘But you did convince him?’
‘I hope so.’
It was too much like sparring for the Superintendent. He wanted to get in close.
‘I’ll be frank with you, sir. We know that Mrs Taylor works for you in Eastbourne, and we have made some inquiries at the offices of the Lester Trading Company. That’s yours, isn’t it?’ Watson nodded. ‘We have also seen the note that Mrs Taylor left for her husband. Did Taylor show it to you?’
‘He brought it with him Monday night. It didn’t make sense to me, and I told him so; but if I’d been in the poor chap’s place I expect I’d have been as suspicious as he was. Yet I assure you, Superintendent, that whatever the business Mrs Taylor went on it certainly wasn’t mine. I didn’t know she was going, and I haven’t a clue as to why she went or where she is. So why did she drag my name into it? Why make me the scapegoat for whatever it is she’s up to? I wasn’t even in Eastbourne that evening.’
Watching him closely, Herrod said, ‘You rent or own premises in Brighton, don’t you? In Cardiff Street?’
‘Quite right, I do. I use them for a storage occasionally, though they’re empty at present. But what has Cardiff Street to do with Mrs Taylor?’
‘Last Friday, sir, a girl named Catherine Wilkes was found murdered near Lewes.’ Herrod was looking at the man’s hands, and it seemed to him that the knuckles suddenly showed whiter, as though the skin was being stretched more tightly over them. ‘You may have read about it in the papers.’
‘Yes. But I still don’t see —’
Herrod produced the map that Toby had given him.
‘Did you draw that, Mr Watson?’ he asked briskly.
Watson’s hands shook as he held the paper; there were beads of perspiration on his forehead. He was so long in replying that Herrod said, ‘If you’re in any doubt we could compare the handwriting.’