A Gun to Play With

by J F Straker

  He stopped abruptly.

  ‘Yes?’ prompted Herrod. ‘What about Harry?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Harry wouldn’t help him to prove anything. Harry would say only what the police wanted him to say.

  ‘And how,’ asked Herrod, ‘did you persuade Taylor to depart so meekly?’

  ‘I told him he could search the house which he did. I told him I was as worried as he was about his wife’s disappearance, that I’d do everything I could to help him find her. I laid it on good and thick. In the end I think he believed me. And why shouldn’t he? I was telling the truth, wasn’t I?’

  ‘Half the truth,’ Herrod said. ‘You didn’t tell him —’

  A knock on the door, and Inspector Dainsford hurried into the room.

  ‘Excuse me, sir. Sergeant Wood is here.’

  Herrod’s eyes gleamed. ‘Alone?’

  ‘No, sir. Wilkes is with him.’

  *

  ‘You won’t do that again,’ said Crossetta.

  If her body was steady her voice was not. There was fury in it, and a fierce contempt. The words came jerkily from her lips, as though her breathing was not yet under control.

  Toby did not answer at once. He had almost forgotten the reason for her anger. His eyes were mesmerized by the gun, so small and yet so menacing. And he was trying desperately to think, to understand. With the first glimpse of the gun there had flashed into his mind the memory of the girl he had found lying dead among the corn; Wilkes’s sister. And the shopkeeper. And the man whose body had been found at Peacehaven, the fair-haired man they had seen outside Watson’s house. He had thought —

  No. No, that was Landor’s work. The police thought so, they were still looking for him. Yet why had Crossetta —

  The gun moved slightly.

  ‘No,’ he said huskily. ‘No, I won’t do it again.’

  He could watch her hand, but he would not be able to see her finger tighten on the trigger. There would be no warning. His eyes sought her face, searching it hopefully.

  The girl met his look with a hard, unwavering stare.

  ‘Put that gun away, Crossetta,’ he pleaded. ‘I guess I behaved badly, but there’s no need for this dramatic gesture. I’ve already apologized, and it won’t happen again. You don’t have to threaten me with that.’

  A slight sound came from her lips. It might have been a laugh. Yet could anyone laugh under such circumstances?

  ‘This isn’t a gesture,’ she said. ‘I don’t carry a gun for fun. I use it.’

  She moved a pace towards him. The sweat started on his forehead, his legs felt incapable of supporting his weight. There was a sickness in his stomach.

  For what seemed to Toby an eternity they faced each other. Then anger seized him, momentarily swamping fear.

  ‘Damn it, woman, you can’t shoot a man just because he tries to kiss you!’ he said indignantly.

  ‘Can’t I? I’ve done it before.’

  He believed her. He knew too that it was Crossetta the police should be hunting, not Landor. Or both, maybe. She had killed those people. He did not know why or how, and his mind was too full of his own danger to ponder on it. But he knew it had happened.

  All about them were the sounds of the city. The whines and rumblings of the cars and the buses. Music came faintly from a distant radio, and only a few yards away people were walking and talking. And living. But he, Toby Vanne, was about to die.

  Or — was he? Hadn’t he still got a chance? If he were to rush her, how swift would be her reaction, how sure her aim? Even if she had time to fire, the bullet might not kill.

  Not, perhaps, the first bullet. But there would be others.

  Well, what the hell? he thought defiantly. I’m a dead duck for sure. What have I got to lose?

  The gun moved again, and he flinched. But he needed time in which to nerve himself for the final spring, and he said hurriedly, ‘Say, I thought we were friends, you and I. Remember Cardiff Street that first evening? You saved my life then. Why bump me off now?’

  He was pleased at the firmness with which he had spoken. At least she should not have the satisfaction of knowing he was afraid.

  Crossetta laughed. There was no doubting it this time.

  ‘I tried to kill you, you mean.’

  ‘You did?’ His incredulity was real. ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘Why not? There was no one else in the yard.’

  ‘But you were at the gate! The shot came from the steps.’

  ‘I called out from the gate. That was a precaution in case I missed, and also to make you pause,’ she said. There was no hurry to be done, as there had been on those other occasions. They were alone in a lonely place, and for both of them time was standing still. She had no feeling for him except aversion, disgust at the memory of his embrace. But it pleased her that he should know the truth before he died. ‘I ran to the steps and fired, and then got back to the gate. You didn’t hear me; I was wearing plimsolls.’

  ‘But you seemed kind of upset afterwards. I thought —’

  ‘You thought I was upset because I had exposed you to danger? You’re too simple, Toby. No. I was furious with myself at having missed. It was such a wonderful opportunity to get rid of you. No one knew we were together, no one would have suspected me.’

  ‘But why? Why the heck did you want to get rid of me? I hadn’t harmed you in any way, had I?’

  ‘No. But you were a threat, you had that piece of paper with the map on it. I didn’t want you to show it to the police.’

  He still did not understand fully. But now he was no longer trying to understand. For the first time since eternity had beckoned him he saw a faint gleam of hope. The gun was no longer pointing at his middle; it had dropped. Was that because her arm was tiring? Or was her purpose weakening?

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, his eyes on the gun. ‘I thought you kind of liked me. Quite a sucker, wasn’t I?’

  ‘You’re no worse than most men,’ said Crossetta.

  Her voice fanned the flickering hope. It was calmly conversational. Was she actually enjoying this macabre introduction to death? Or was there now a tiny seed of doubt in her mind?

  He said, trying to sound interested — although all that interested him now was her purpose — ‘And when you knocked me out with the brick that afternoon at the barn — you weren’t trying to hit the other guy, were you? It was me you aimed at?’

  ‘Of course. I should have said it was an accident. And the man wouldn’t have called the police, he’d have let his boss deal with it.’ She shrugged, and the gun dropped further. ‘I was safe enough.’

  You’re wrong there, he thought. You wouldn’t have been that safe. Even if Watson’s men had played ball — and they might not, at that — how would you have explained my non-return to Mrs Buell? She wouldn’t have let you get away with it. She’d have gone to the police.

  But to argue, to cast doubt on the sanity of her reasoning, might anger her. It was wiser to agree.

  ‘I guess you’re right,’ he said docilely.

  Should he rush her now, or should he wait? Better to wait, perhaps, to try first to talk her out of it. Precipitate action might startle her into firing, even though her intention to do so were now less firm.

  ‘It was you loosened that nut on the Riley, I suppose,’ he said. ‘When you parked it last night. You didn’t want me to talk to the Superintendent. It wasn’t Wilkes, as I’d figured. It was you.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t Wilkes,’ she said. ‘I told you, didn’t I, that I was a good mechanic? I hoped you’d break your stupid neck; but you didn’t, you were lucky, you —’ Her voice had hardened, and he tensed himself for action. ‘You’ve had quite a lot of luck, haven’t you? But not any more. I shan’t miss this time.’

  He knew he had lost his chance. As the gun came up he flung himself sideways, so that he collided with a tree and nearly fell. There was a crack, a sharp, searing pain in his left arm. Then he was up and running through the shadowy dark, making for the b
lessed safety of the lighted streets.

  Crossetta fired again.

  *

  Nat Wilkes’s face was as expressionless as ever. But his voice, the tautness of the skin over the knuckles of his clenched fists, the way he squared his shoulders as though anticipating trouble, betrayed the strain under which he was labouring. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep.

  ‘You’ve got nothing against me,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Why have I been brought here?’

  Herrod looked at him.

  ‘False identification will do for a start,’ he said mildly. Now that Wilkes was actually there in front of him he felt happier. ‘You have also connived at murder, haven’t you? Four murders. Caseman, Landor, Claire Taylor, Geoffrey Taylor.’ His voice hardened as he ticked them off on his fingers. ‘That’s a lot of murders for one man to have on his conscience, Wilkes.’

  ‘Who’s Taylor?’ asked Wilkes. ‘The girl’s husband?’

  ‘I’m putting the questions,’ Herrod snapped at him. ‘Why did you identify that girl as your sister?’

  Wilkes glared at him without answering. Through the windows of the police station came the sound of traffic in Church Road, the occasional sharp patter of feet on the pavement, snatches of unintelligible conversation.

  Herrod closed the window. ‘Why did you do it?’ he asked again. And then, as the other still remained silent, ‘Oh, don’t be a bloody fool, man! You can’t help your sister now. Half the police in the district are looking for her. We’ve searched her room at the hotel; we’ve got enough evidence to convict her four times over.’ Wilkes started, clenching his fists. ‘I’m sorry if that hits you on the raw; but it’s the truth, and the sooner you appreciate it the better. Don’t kid yourself that you’ll be allowed to walk out of here tonight, that there’s still a chance you may find her and smuggle her away. You’ll not leave this building until that precious sister of yours is safely under lock and key. We don’t take chances on murder, Wilkes.’

  He paused for breath and to cool his temper. Wilkes said nothing, but his body sagged slightly.

  ‘We’ll try again,’ said Herrod. ‘Why did you identify that girl as your sister?’

  ‘Mind if I sit down?’ asked the other.

  He almost slumped into the chair that Wood placed for him. He’s cracking, thought Herrod, noting the drooping shoulders, the lines that seemed suddenly to criss-cross the man’s face. He waited expectantly for the other to speak. But Wilkes did not speak. He was content to sit

  ‘Playing dumb, eh?’ Herrod said, keeping his anger in check. ‘All right. I’ll tell you what happened, shall I?’

  Wilkes shrugged. ‘Please yourself. I can’t stop you.’

  ‘You’re damned right you can’t. You’re not much good at stopping anyone, are you?’ Since the man was unresponsive to reason, perhaps he could be goaded into losing his temper, into making the unguarded retort that would reveal some fraction of the truth. ‘You let that precious sister of yours prance round the countryside with a gun, shooting at will. And when someone gets killed — what do you do? Help us to ensure that it doesn’t happen again? No. You cover up for her, encourage her to indulge in a little more human target practice. You identified that girl as your sister because you knew we would lay off her and concentrate on Landor. Isn’t that so?’

  ‘It worked, didn’t it?’ said Wilkes.

  ‘Oh, yes, it worked. You gave her a few more days of liberty. She made the most of it, too. If you hadn’t told that lie Taylor would be alive today. Doesn’t that trouble your conscience?’

  ‘Don’t worry about my conscience. It can look after itself.’

  ‘I dare say. No doubt it’s had plenty of practice. Now — would you like to take over? Or shall I continue?’

  ‘Go to hell!’

  ‘I’d rather not,’ Herrod said equably. ‘There’d be too many of the Wilkes family present for my liking. But we’ll drop personalities, shall we? Let’s get down to facts.

  ‘We’ll start with the Forest Row murder. Landor and your sister broke into the shop, and when the old man appeared she shot him. Not in self-defence, mind you; she wasn’t inside the shop, she was by the door. Perhaps she didn’t like the colour of his eyes, or maybe she had an itching finger. Anyway, she shot him.

  ‘They went south. Landor had the wind up — he hadn’t reckoned on a trigger-happy Amazon for a companion. He wanted to get as far from Forest Row as quickly as he could. But not your sister. She was hungry. A little thing like killing a defenceless old man couldn’t spoil her appetite. She made Landor stop at a cafe.

  ‘They moved on when another car approached. They turned off the main road, and when they came to a likely spot they parked. There may have been an interlude for romance (I say ‘romance’ out of delicacy. There are other words), but at some time during the night they started to divide the spoils. And that was Landor’s undoing, poor devil. Miss Wilkes wasn’t going to be satisfied with part of the loot, she wanted the whole damned lot. No half-measures for that young lady.

  ‘So she shot him. Just like that.’

  ‘That’s a bloody lie!’ Wilkes leapt to his feet, fists clenched, eyes glaring. His twisted upper lip was drawn back over the blackened teeth; there were specks of foam at his mouth. ‘She shot him because the filthy rat tried to get fresh with her.’

  ‘Did she tell you that?’ asked the Superintendent, concealing his elation.

  ‘Yes, she told me. But she didn’t have to, I’d have known it anyway. Cathie loathes anything to do with sex. It — well, it’s because of something that happened when she was a kid. Joe Landor wasn’t the first to kick his guts out because he couldn’t keep his hands off her. She drilled a guy once before, only the police never got wise to her. I saw to that.’

  They stared at him, aghast. Herrod broke into a cold sweat. Somewhere in the city Vanne and the girl were together. And Vanne was obviously infatuated. I hope to God the young fool keeps his hands to himself, he thought, fervently.

  ‘Holy mackerel! What sort of a ruddy monster is she?’ said Wood, unable to restrain himself.

  Herrod frowned at the interruption, forcing his eyes away from the clock. Time was not important. There was no deadline in time to the anxiety that plagued him.

  ‘And yet, knowing that, you still let her have a gun to play with?’ he demanded.

  ‘It wasn’t hers, it was mine,’ Wilkes said sullenly. ‘She took it from my room. I didn’t know she had it.’

  ‘H’m. Later we may want to see your certificate for it. But let’s get on. Shall I tell you, or will you tell me?’

  ‘You tell me,’ said Wilkes. ‘It’s your story, I wouldn’t want to spoil it for you.’ He sat down and stared intently at the floor. His arms rested loosely on his thighs.

  ‘All right, I will. She dragged Landor’s body into a ditch, and then drove down to Jevington. She ran out of petrol there; so she abandoned the car and walked over the Downs to Eastbourne. She had packed a frock in her suitcase (That’s not guesswork. We found it when we searched her room this evening), and somewhere on the way she put it on. Perhaps that’s why she wasn’t spotted by the Eastbourne police. That —and the fact that she’d got rid of Landor.

  ‘With plenty of money and no conscience she probably spent quite an enjoyable day by the sea. But something urged her to move on. Maybe she felt that travel broadens the mind; and she had a few cartridges left, she wouldn’t want to waste them. She had deposited a perfectly good corpse a few miles north of Eastbourne; why shouldn’t Brighton have one too? She might even put in a little practice at Lewes on the way. So —’

  ‘Shut up!’ Wilkes gripped the arms of his chair, his face contorted with rage. Or was it agony, agony of mind? wondered Herrod. ‘Shut your damned mouth before I shut it for you.’

  Herrod leaned forward.

  ‘If you don’t like the way I’m telling it,’ he said calmly, ‘you have an alternative. You can tell it yourself.’

  ‘You and your bloody sneers!’ stormed
Wilkes, unheeding. ‘You think you know everything, don’t you? Well, you don’t know Cathie. You wouldn’t understand her in a million years. She’s not like that, she’s — oh, damn you!’

  He slumped forward, his head moving desperately from side to side. For a few moments Herrod watched him. Then he went over to stand in front of him.

  ‘Well?’ he asked quietly. ‘What is she?’

  Slowly Wilkes sat up. He stared at Herrod, tears glistening in his bloodshot eyes. The Superintendent wondered whether the man’s tormented mind had been able to absorb the question.

  ‘Tell me about your sister,’ he said. Wilkes closed his eyes.

  ‘You wouldn’t understand,’ he said again, his voice a groan. ‘I don’t always understand myself. It’s something inside her that makes her do it. She’s impulsive ... she gets involved in things ... she —’

  ‘Other people get involved in things,’ Herrod said. ‘But they don’t resort to murder.’

  ‘I know. But Cathie’s different. She — she doesn’t hold life important. Everyone has to die, she says, so why does it matter when?’ He blinked away the tears. ‘Oh, what’s the use! You’ve never met anyone like Cathie. You just wouldn’t understand.’

  ‘It’s difficult,’ Herrod agreed. ‘But I’m trying.’

  ‘She didn’t set out to kill those people,’ Wilkes said. He was staring hard at Herrod now, pleading with eyes and voice. All his rage and sullen defiance had gone. ‘She fired at the man in the shop because she was excited and keyed up — she didn’t really know what she was doing. The gun was in her hand, and she pulled the trigger. It — it was just an accident.’

  Does he really believe that? Herrod wondered, recalling the girl’s later actions. Or is he trying to kid himself as well as me? But he did not argue the statement. Now that he had at last broken down the other’s resistance he did not want to antagonise him further.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘And Landor — well, I think I understand about him. But there’s still the girl.’