She sat a long time without speaking. I waited, like a criminal for the jury to return. It was a relief to have it said, but too late for apologies.
Then at last: “You’ve thought about it a lot, haven’t you, George!” Still not meeting my eyes. “What strange conclusions you’ve come to.”
“Strange?”
“That you should blame yourself, and wallow all these years in self-pity. George, you’re quite impossible. There wasn’t any point in your coming.”
“It was for you. Obviously, you wanted to discuss it.”
“Oh George, don’t be a fool.”
“I was hoping perhaps you’d forgive ... ”
“Damn you, use your intelligence.”
“I’m not an intelligent man.”
“It’d take some intelligence to recognize it,” she said bitterly. “But you’re clumsy and unimaginative. Worst of all, you’re the most introverted man I’ve ever met. And you’ve grown worse. Think, George, use your imagination.”
I was lost, being attacked from a direction I couldn’t understand. “You don’t have to go on at me.”
“Don’t I? Somebody does. Oh, go away, George. You’re hopeless.”
“Are you sending me away?”
“Wasn’t that what I said? At least you won’t have to believe you ran away this time.”
“Ran away?” I shouted. “It was for you.”
“Oh, get out.” Then she suddenly flared at me. “Get out, damn you!”
“Anne!”
“Go and sort out your problems somewhere else.”
I stood and looked down at her, but she stared blankly out of the french window. The finality was appalling, and I fumbled for words to prolong it.
“I haven’t had time to mention my problems.”
She laughed. It was worse than her tears, amusement cracked by pain.
“What else have we had? What else? Oh God, get away from me.”
There was nothing more to say. Nothing had been achieved and nothing added. I turned, shut the door quietly behind me.
It was bloody-well raining when I got outside.
11
IT was just as well for Randall that he was out. In my present mood I’d have laid it right on the line, given it him between the eyes, and jumped on the first bus out of there.
Running away again.
I snarled at the rain as it lashed the windscreen, cursed the steering-wheel gear-change, looked for anything to abuse, and skidded to a halt outside Randall’s. No lights. It was becoming dark. There should have been lights. Only, as I say, he was out, and when I got round to the garage they told me he’d gone to the hospital. Perversely, really hoping somebody would argue about it, I filled the tank and said charge it. The young lady watched me go with numbed horror.
Then there seemed nothing for it but to go round to the Bedford for a meal, and try to find Randall later. If I really had to I’d chase him to the hospital. What I had to say would resound forcefully from the sterile walls.
It gave me time to think, something to take my mind off the food. I was perhaps in a more reasonable mood when I went out into the hotel lobby.
“Mr Coe. I didn’t know you were in ... There’s a message.”
I flinched. At this point, all messages could mean trouble. He held out a piece of paper on which he’d written:
`Please don’t leave without phoning me.’
I looked up, raised my eyebrows.
“A lady, sir. She said you’d know.”
I grunted, tossed it into a waste basket, and walked out.
Well at least it was milder, but the rain had really set in. I drove round to Randall’s, and this time the lights were on.
“I’ve only just got in,” he said without enthusiasm. “Come into the kitchen.”
That was because he was scrambling a couple of eggs.
“You’ve been to the hospital,” I said.
The fork clattered away. “She’s bad. Real bad. They’ve got her under sedation.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Then try to sound it,” he said wearily. “You say all the right words, but you’re still just an ex-copper. It’s what’s in the book.”
I moved my hat around on his table. “You didn’t take me on to wrap up the fancy words.”
“But I’ve had some of them, too,” he told me. “You’ve got no right to come with your accusations ... ”
“Mr Randall, I’m not accusing you of anything, just telling you the facts. The police are going to lay on a whole bunch of accusations. All I’m doing is getting you prepared.”
He glanced up at me. His eyes were deep in grey, hollow sockets, his lips nothing more than a bitter line. There was defeat in the slump of his shoulders. From somewhere he tried to bring up a trace of defiance. It fell flat, his voice being nothing more than a sing-song, as he couldn’t control the intonation.
“It’s ridiculous for you to talk about stolen cars. What can I know about such things?”
“You sold cars for Dennis Cleave.”
“I deny that.”
I sighed. “Deny it if you like. But the police will be able to prove it. You’ll have had to keep invoices, copies of hire purchase agreements, that sort of stuff. They can trace the owners of every car you’ve sold for the past year. And amongst them there’ll be cars with log books that aren’t genuine. And those log books will show the previous owners, who’ll be interviewed, and they’ll say they wrecked their cars and sold them to Dennis Cleave. It can be checked back, man. They will check back.”
“Then let them!” he cried, pointing the fork at me, egg dripping from it. “But I didn’t have to know they were stolen.”
“Tell it to Bycroft, eh?”
“I didn’t have to know,” he shouted, getting all worked up.
“This is me you’re talking to — George Coe. You’re employing me. So try telling me the truth. How could you sell nearly-new cars from a scrap merchant, and not suspect?”
“I’m not answering that.”
“Don’t be a fool. Bycroft will ask you, and he’ll demand an answer.”
He shook his head and turned away, poured the mixture into a saucepan, then suddenly slapped it down on the table and bent his head over it.
“He’ll ask you why you’ve been snooping round the yard the past week, too,” I told him, piling it on.
He just shook his head stubbornly.
“For God’s sake, you’ll have to answer him!” I shouted. I got to my feet, hoping my bulk would impress him.
“I don’t have to answer to anybody.” He gave me a small, upward glance. “Only, perhaps, to my wife.”
I considered him for a moment. He worried me, that dull voice, the despair lurking behind it.
“Here, give me that,” I said, grabbing up the saucepan. I turned on his gas jet and poised the pan over it. “You having toast with this? Then cut some bread — and hand me that fork.”
I had to get him moving, his mind moving. He handed me the fork, moved towards a cupboard, then seemed to forget where he was going.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You can’t count on ’em feeding you at the Station,” I warned him. “Is it tea you’re having? Put the kettle on, then.”
He managed that. It was going to be scrambled egg on nothing.
“What will be difficult to explain to your wife?” I asked.
“Why can’t you drop it?”
I slapped the plate on the table, slid a chair in front of it, and put both hands on his shoulders to force him to sit.
“Bycroft is going to prove you were selling cars for Cleave,” I told him. I sat down opposite. “He’ll assume you knew they were stolen, and that you were part of the gang.”
“Gang?” he asked. “That’s ridiculous.”
“A partner then. An accomplice.”
“I ... couldn’t help it.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“I just had to do it for him.”
“Not exactly.”
“Don’t tell me, he’d got something you wanted back, something incriminating, and he kept it in that deed box of his.”
“What’re you talking about? There wasn’t anything in the box. Was there?”
“That’s the point. Don’t you see! It wouldn’t be there now. It’s negative evidence, but Bycroft might use it.”
I was only probing him, trying to find the points on which Bycroft might strike lucky. This wasn’t one of them. Randall’s eyes were out of focus.
“Forget it,” I said. “There was nothing on paper.”
“I was frightened of him,” he mumbled. “I sold — oh years ago — just one car for him. Then he came along and said it had been stolen. He was kind of rough. Said he’d be bringing another. And it went on and on. I couldn’t stop it ... ”
He was so pitiful I nearly gave up.
“Then what about Norman Lyle?” I said angrily. “What d’you know about him?”
“I never met Cleave’s associates.”
“But you knew of him?”
He played around with what was left on his plate. “The name,” he said. “Just the name. Cleave mentioned it.”
“So you’d know about the pedestrian he knocked down, about the log book he wanted to get from Cleave. You’d know it was dangerous to all of you ... ”
And once again he said the wrong thing. “Know! Know!” he cried. “You think I know everything. What do I know about his silly log books!”
The murderer had left the gun on top of that log book. The inference was that he hadn’t thought it had any significance. Neither did Randall.
“Then face the facts,” I shouted at him. I slapped the table to attract his attention. “You’ve admitted you knew about Norman Lyle. But Annabelle Lester was killed two years ago, and Norman was Cleave’s alibi. You’re not stupid. The police accepted that alibi, because they didn’t know they even knew each other. But you knew. You wouldn’t accept that alibi, Mr Randall. You’d know Cleave killed Annabelle.”
Then the plate went flying across the room as he swept his arm in a gesture of anger. “That’s enough!” he tried to shout. “You can’t say that. It wasn’t certain. Just because they knew each other ... ” His voice was breaking, and he had difficulty going on. “ ... doesn’t mean it was false.”
“We know it was.”
“Now! Now you know!” he protested, pounding the table. “But I didn’t then. Not to know.”
“Oh, you poor damn fool,” I said, but it came out weakly because I was driving him too far. “Bycroft will say you did. He’ll argue that you knew he killed Annabelle Lester, so that when Dulcie went missing you went down there ... ”
“No, no,” he sobbed.
“But you’ve been hanging around the yard the past week. Can you explain that?”
He didn’t answer.
“Well never mind. But you’ve got to be prepared.”
He was very well prepared. I’d got him neatly trussed, already beaten, just waiting for Bycroft’s gentle touch. And I’d got absolutely nothing out of it I could use to help him.
“I want to help you,” I said.
“It’s too late,” he whispered, fighting for the words.
“But I need your co-operation.”
“It was too late — when he died.”
There was no point in staying. I went outside and breathed in the rain-washed air, and wondered if I could possibly have done worse.
Go, I thought, just leave. Drop the car in at the garage, pay your bill at the Bedford ... go home, you fat fool, and make out your account and send it to Randall. I’d just about have enough left for a stamp.
The Bedford was a dreary, dim light across the square. Down the side road the Station beckoned, its strip-lighting streaming from the vestibule. I drifted along and parked in front, and sat awhile. No doubt there was at least one yellow line under my tyres, but you can’t see anything when dirty water streams down the gutters.
That night, ten years before, I’d parked in pouring rain outside the hospital. The walls then, as now, told me nothing of the drama growing behind them.
They watched me march through, the woman sergeant and two young constables, said nothing, but followed me with sad eyes as I headed for the stairs.
“Well,” said Bycroft, “look who’s here.”
Sprague wasn’t with him. He’d been using a recorder, taping his report for the take-over in the morning. I could see no reason for his cheerfulness.
“Still hanging around, then?” he said. He put down the mike, leaned back, and laced his fingers over his stomach.
The desk was tidy, the cabinet drawers closed. They would need his office. Somewhere in the background of his mind, Bycroft recognized his untidiness, and was ashamed.
There wasn’t anything I could say. Information was what I’d come for, a hint as to developments. But Bycroft was relaxed, watching me with amusement.
“Do you think you should be driving a stolen car?” he asked. “Is that wise, George?”
“To me it’s just a car.”
“Now don’t tell me you haven’t checked.”
I shrugged and looked out of the window. A copper was walking round the car.
“We did,” he said.
“You would. Frank, he didn’t have to know they were stolen.”
“Oh ... come on!”
“Or if he did — duress.”
“If I needed a motive, and I don’t, that’d be a good one. George, it’s hopeless. I’ve got too much on him.”
“But not how he opened the box, and why he left the gun inside.”
His eyes went past me. “I’ve had an idea, George. It might be old-fashioned, but it usually works. Sprague’s fetching him in now, and I’m going to ask him the how and the why. I’ve got all night, and by heaven I’ll use every minute. Sooner or later he’ll tell me.”
“He can’t stand too much — ”
“Then he’ll tell me sooner.”
I went to the door, and paused. “Did Tony tell you anything?”
It had to be a guess that they’d have had Tony in, but of course Bycroft wouldn’t miss any possibility of breaking him on the key business.
He gave me a bleak smile. “Nothing that helps. I was just about to run him home when you turned up.”
“Nobody else knew,” I warned him. “Don’t count on anybody else knowing about the duplicate pouch.”
“Oh, I’m not. It doesn’t really matter, George. I’ve got an idea about that, anyway,” he said smugly.
I’d got the door half open. I looked back. He raised his eyebrows, challenging me to ask. I didn’t.
“Cleave was shot Friday evening,” he amplified. “Not found until Saturday evening. That’s twenty-four hours. A long time, George. Think about it.”
Then his phone rang. It gave me a good exit point, but all the same I hesitated, because he started off, “not at his home?”
Did he mean Randall? But I’d left him there.
“Then try the garage,” said Bycroft. So he did mean Randall. “Oh, you’re at the garage ... Well, he may have gone round to the hospital ... have you thought about that ... ? Right, let me know.”
He slammed down the phone, and looked at me with grim satisfaction. “Skipped. You can bet on it — skipped.”
Oh no! Driven away by me. Scared stiff — by me. But how scared would he have to be to leave his wife at this time? Perhaps she would open her eyes and fail to see him at the bedside ...
I backed out of the door. “Well ... see you around.”
I lifted a hand in salute, and got out of there before Bycroft thought of the one other place Randall might have gone.
A last look round? A last check?
I got in the car, quite ignoring what the young copper was saying, and splashed water over his boots no doubt. I heard him shout, but I was busy cursing beca
use I’d got third gear instead of second.
12
THE rain had set in to a steady downpour. The wipers couldn’t cope with it, because I was driving too fast, but I headed there from memory.
The lane was almost flooded. The Saab crashed and splashed through the potholes dangerously. Down at the scrapyard the lights were not on. The corrugated iron fence loomed over me, and I swung in through the one open gate.
A small, dark car was parked to one side.
I could see no movement. It was quiet when I cut the engine. The silence seemed to press in on me. I got out of the car. Mud was up to my ankles. I stood beside the car. It seemed airless in the shadows behind the headlights.
“Randall, are you there?”
I listened. My shout gradually became absorbed and died away. Then, from the direction of the large empty shed, I heard a sound. It was a metallic sound, hollow and booming, as though a steel drum had fallen to its side. I began to run.
A little light escaped from the shed, the light from an inspection lamp he’d plugged in and laid on the bench. There was enough to illuminate the centre of the main crossbeam, high overhead, so that he could climb up there and tie the end of a length of rope to it. Then he had fashioned a loop. The sound I had heard was the drum being kicked from beneath his feet.
He was swinging and wrenching. At the final second, when his weight had dug the thin rope into his throat, he had comprehended the agony of it, and he had changed his mind. Now he was fighting it. His face was distorted, the mouth wide open but the breath caught, unable to penetrate to his lungs or be expelled as a shout for help. His fingers, already dabbled in blood, were clawing vainly into the flesh, but unable to reach down to the penetration of the noose.
I jumped for him. The first thought was to relieve the pressure. I tried to catch his legs and lift him, but they flew wildly in all directions. He kicked me in the face.
“Randall!” I bellowed. “Keep still.” As though he could!
A Spoonful of Luger Page 11