A Spoonful of Luger

by Ormerod, Roger

  Sprague came back into the shed, looking wet and muddy. I watched him warily. He wiped a hand down his face. There was murder in his eyes.

  “Frank,” I said, “I could walk away from here and you’d maybe never see it. Perhaps that’d be best. But you’ll only wait for my client to recover — you or somebody else — and start on at him again. And I can’t have that. He’s going to pay me, and I need the money. Isn’t it sad that everything comes down to money!”

  “Money!” Bycroft said furiously. “Do you want paying?”

  “Come to think of it, why should I do your work for nothing?”

  “All right!” he shouted, fumbling in his pocket. “How much? A fiver? Ten?”

  I laughed in his face. He flapped his arms to his sides in anger.

  “Then what do you want? How d’you expect me to know?”

  “I don’t, Frank. That’s the point. Everybody always expects other people to know things. It’s been happening to me.”

  There I’d been, assuming she knew, and all the while she was thinking ... Everything backwards — that’s life for you.

  “Here we’ve got a murder weapon locked in a box,” I said. “And the victim had swallowed its key. It was a kind of inversion, the one a contradiction of the other. I thought to myself: suppose the explanation for it all comes from what wasn’t known, instead of what was.”

  “Don’t you think we could go into all this at the Station?” Bycroft asked.

  But I’d got things as I wanted them. “A minute.” I held up my hand. “You see, Frank, once I got on to inversions, it all seemed to get clearer.”

  “When did you get on to inversions?”

  “When I got Randall down off that beam.”

  He grunted disgustedly.

  “Well, it does seem to me,” I went on, “that we started off on the wrong assumption somewhere. The problem was: how did the murder weapon get into the box, which had to be locked because the victim had swallowed the key? There was obviously a fallacy somewhere, and being a very efficient policeman, Frank, you tried to find it. The gun in the box couldn’t be the murder weapon, you said. But it was. So there had to be some other way of opening the box, you argued. But there wasn’t. There couldn’t have been another key made, and the duplicate could not have been used. So you have to accept that there’s only one key that could have opened it — the one that was swallowed.”

  “Now look here, George,” he said dangerously, “if you’re going to come up with some daft theory about it being stuck down his gullet after he was dead ... ”

  He was waving his finger under my nose. I just stood and waited for it to finish. He faltered to an end.

  “Frank, you’re not listening. Think of it again. How could the murder gun have got into the locked box? We’ve removed all the other possibilities, so the answer is that it did not. The box simply was not locked.”

  “But man, man,” he cried, “why would Cleave swallow the blasted key if the box was open? He wouldn’t achieve anything by it.”

  “You’ve just made the basic incorrect assumption,” I pointed out. “You’ve missed out the word voluntarily. That’s what you mean by swallow, and it’s what we all took for granted. But that’s the one word that solves it all. The swallowing wasn’t voluntary, Frank. It was compulsory.”

  “You mean the murderer made him swallow it?”

  “Hasn’t it been giving you an uneasy feeling all along? Would you swallow a key, even a small one like that? Not unless you had to. If somebody stood there and said: get it down, you would. If he was waving a gun at you. And this chap was waving a gun at Cleave. Perhaps he forced him first into opening the box, or perhaps it was already open. But the murderer wanted that key down Cleave’s gullet. Not simply hidden behind a tongue or in a cheek, oh no, he wanted it right down, where nobody could ever say it’d been put after Cleave was dead — as you’ve just said. So, a prod with the Luger under the nose to help it down, and that was one key accounted for. It’d be found — sure to be, because everybody knows that murder victims get cut up. He wanted it to be found. Otherwise —why not simply throw it away?”

  “But what did he gain by it?” Bycroft protested.

  And Sprague put in his rough voice. “Yeah — what?” As though any failure to explain would excuse the outburst of violence for which he was obviously poised.

  I shrugged. “He gained what actually happened. You assumed that that particular key couldn’t have been used to open the box. Obviously, therefore, some other key had, because the murder gun was inside. So you’d assume, beyond any doubt, that the duplicate key had been used. And who had that duplicate in his possession? Why — Norman Lyle had. And who had a damn good motive for wanting to get into that box? Norman Lyle. Frank, it’s obvious. This was intended as a cast-iron frame up.”

  “But you can’t frame a dead man. Norman Lyle had been dead a week.”

  “But the murderer didn’t know that. Norman hadn’t turned up the previous Saturday. There was a chance he’d come this one. The murderer had to assume he would. If he didn’t — well, the frame-up still existed because Norman had the only key to the box, and all that could look wrong would be the log book, which would still be in the box.”

  “There you are then!” said Sprague in triumph.

  And Bycroft said mildly: “George.”

  I ploughed on. “So what does that tell you about our murderer?” I asked. “He had to be somebody — ”

  “George,” said Bycroft, “hold on a sec.”

  “What’s wrong? The reasoning’s valid, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, it’s splendid. You’ve just proved that it had to be somebody who didn’t know Norman was dead. And George, not so long ago you proved — equally conclusively — that Randall couldn’t have done it because he didn’t know Norman was dead.”

  “Now wait a minute. There’s other things — ”

  “And there I was, all convinced by your sad story of Randall suffering because he wasn’t sure. Rubbish, that’s all it is. He was hanging around here the past week — ”

  “To see if anything had come in,” I shouted.

  “Or looking for a chance to get hold of a gun? Oh come on, George, you’ve ploughed him in.”

  I flapped my arms, stared wildly from one to the other, and Sprague laughed nastily.

  “That was different ... a question of motive ... ” I said, aware my voice was faltering. “But I’m obliged for the explanation of how the gun got into the box. Oh yes. And for how it proves the murderer didn’t know Norman Lyle was dead, because I can prove that Randall didn’t know. Cleave wouldn’t have told Mike, wouldn’t have dared, so he’d never have told Randall either. There’s only Tony he could have told, and with his evidence — ”

  “Mr Bycroft,” said Tony.

  We turned and looked at him. He swallowed nervously.

  “I did tell him, you know,” he whispered.

  Sprague growled deep in his throat. I slapped Tony on the shoulder. It was a good try, but he’d never be able to sustain it. I turned, laughing, to Bycroft.

  “You see, Frank.”

  “He’s lying,” Bycroft barked.

  “You can’t touch my client if Tony insists — ”

  “He’s bloody lying!” Sprague shouted, and he threw himself at the boy.

  There was a crash as the two of them fell back against the corrugated iron wall. Tony gave one cry of pain, then he was silent, and I saw, when Sprague straightened, that Tony would have difficulty crying out again. Sprague had both hands clenched into Tony’s collar, the knuckles pressed into his neck beneath the chin, forcing his head up. Tony’s eyes were wide with terror and pain.

  Sprague shook him like a dog.

  “You lying little bleeder.”

  I turned to Bycroft in appeal.

  “Frank!”

  But Bycroft was within three words of success. If he had them he was home, and he wasn’t going to flinch from a little old-fashioned violence at this stage.
/>
  “Come on,” Sprague shouted, “let’s have some bloody truth.”

  He had Tony bent awkwardly so that he was reaching down for support, his hands not available for any sort of defence. Tony’s face was twisted close to the bench, close to where the inspection lamp lay, his features hot in the harsh light. Hard planes of agony were cut into his features. Sprague ground his cheek into the ravaged surface of the bench, and Tony choked.

  “That’s enough.”

  I went at Sprague, jerking at his shoulder, and for one moment he turned his face up, the scar on his forehead, now without plaster, livid with effort.

  “Stay out of this,” he said, his lips back over his teeth.

  But he’d released Tony sufficiently for the lad to speak. It was not much more than a croak.

  “He ... he didn’t know.”

  And Sprague threw him away with casual viciousness, so that his head caught against a projecting vice. He straightened, sneering, wiping his hands down the back of his legs, and I hit him in the stomach.

  Then I think I went mad. I’d realized a lot of things suddenly, from the near view of that fresh scar. Those things pounded through my mind and mounted in intensity, and left me no room for normal control. All I knew was that I had to kill Sprague with my bare hands, and with anything else I had that was part of me. As his face came down with the instinctive reaction to my fist, I kneed him in the mouth. He straightened, staggering, blood pouring from his lips, and fleetingly his face was fully in the light. I saw that he realized that I knew, and that he must keep me silent. He hurled himself at me.

  I’ve learned a lot of dirty tricks in a long and violent life. He swept a fake swing at me, a chop with his poised hand, which I knew was only intended to bring him into position for a kick. I swept aside the hand and caught the foot coming up, and stepped forward onto his other one — and heaved. There was a crack, and he screamed. I spun the foot away from me and he teetered, tried to recover, but I stepped forward and kicked him precisely on the kneecap. He went down, writhing. I fell on him, knees first into the belly, and chopped him hard under the nose. He was almost finished, but I swung down, fist after fist, clubbing into his face, going on long after he was limp, with a haze in front of my eyes. Then Bycroft was dragging me off, shouting in my face.

  I was kneeling on the shed floor, my bleeding knuckles supporting me, head down and panting. Bycroft crouched beside Sprague. I was aware of another hand on my shoulder, gentler, more timid.

  “Mr Coe, I’m sorry.”

  I gulped in huge draughts of air, and looked round at him giddily.

  “Help me ... up, boy.”

  He put a hand under my arm as though I was an old man, and that was what I was right then. I leaned back against the bench, and Tony looked at me anxiously.

  “I had to say,” he said. “I’d have liked to help, but I didn’t tell Mr Randall that Norm was dead. Really I didn’t.”

  “I know.”

  “I couldn’t — could I?” And he gave a twisted, hopeless smile.

  “No son, you couldn’t. Because you didn’t know yourself, did you?”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t know he was dead.”

  I was feeling a little better, but Sprague hadn’t moved. Bycroft came to his feet. He walked over to me.

  “George Coe, I’m arresting ... ”

  “Don’t be a fool, Frank. Didn’t you hear what Tony just said? He said he didn’t know Norman was dead. And all the time he’s said Cleave told him. It wasn’t really likely, was it? But can you remember, Frank, when Tony claimed that Cleave had told him. It was right after he discovered that Norman was dead, when I told him, because he realized suddenly that he’d framed a dead man, and that was the one thing that would keep him in the clear.” I turned to Tony. “Annabelle was your girl, wasn’t she?”

  He nodded limply, then looked up defiantly.

  “They had him in,” he said angrily, nodding at Bycroft, “and he’d got ‘em all fooled. But I wasn’t going to forget it. Annabelle ... ” He bit his lip. “I was dead sure it was Cleave. That’s why I got this job. I just hung around and listened, and I soon knew ...”

  “And when it came to it?”

  “That Norman Lyle, he’d asked me to get him the key. It was just the thing, because he was the one who’d given Cleave his alibi. I could get ’em both, at the same time. Then Cleave went out on the first Friday, and everything was just right, but I hadn’t got anything to kill him with. It had to be his gun, you see. But I waited, and when he came back he cleaned out the pick-up. I didn’t know what he was doing, but by then he’d got the gun in his pocket, and on the Monday he hadn’t, so I thought now’s the chance.”

  “And then you heard Dulcie was missing?” I suggested gently, because his voice had been fading.

  “I knew, just knew. I had to get hold of that gun, but there wasn’t any chance in the week. He didn’t go anywhere until the Friday — and I got the gun. I was going to ram it down his throat and find out what he’d done with her. But when it came to it ... ” He shook his head.

  “You were waiting for him?”

  “He came back. I didn’t know where he’d been. He went into the office and I followed him in. He was just putting the money in the tin. But it wasn’t like I’d thought. It was me got the gun, but I was more scared than him. But I got him to swallow the key. It was all rehearsed in my mind. All I could think was that it’d go wrong if everything wasn’t just like I’d worked it out.”

  “You should have taken the log book,” I suggested softly.

  He shook his head stubbornly. “As far as I knew, there was still a chance Norman would come. He’d take it, sure to, might even touch the gun. Then I’d tell you about Norman getting the duplicate key, and ... you’d have him.”

  But things had gone wrong and Norman hadn’t arrived, and he hadn’t known what to tell and when.

  Tony said: “He went for me. He was crazy. I ... just shot him. And well, I panicked. Last second I decided I’d better take the log book. Play safe. Then daft like I let the lid drop ... and that was it.”

  Sprague was moving. Bycroft looked across at him.

  “You’ll have to answer for it, George.”

  “I had to know that Tony had told a lie about knowing Norman was dead. I had to force his hand.”

  “You’re mad! You didn’t have to do ... that!”

  “I had to, Frank.” I could hardly speak. “You heard what Tony said a minute ago. Cleave was putting the money into the tea tin. He’d been out, and he came back with it. He’d received it. It wasn’t for paying out. And where had he been, last Friday afternoon, when he came back towing nothing? He’d been called out to a car crash, and the reason he didn’t come back towing the wreck was because it was a police car, and they have to be reported on, checked and crosschecked. So he simply towed it back to your yard. Frank, I’m guessing, just wild guessing, putting two and two together. But you can tell me. Am I right?”

  Frank spoke in a strained voice. “Cleave towed the car back.”

  “But isn’t that strange, Frank? Why’d he go out after a car that’d only just been crashed? Nobody parts with crashed cars till they’ve been declared a write-off. But out Cleave went. Why? Because Sprague was there, waiting for him? And Cleave came back with money. Frank, for Christ’s sake, it’s obvious. This racket wasn’t run by Cleave. It’d need more brains than he’d got. And he’d never get away with it without some sort of police cover. Frank, it’s got to mean that Sprague was running it.”

  Bycroft whispered something.

  “And Frank, it means that Sprague must have known, without any possible doubt, that Cleave had killed Dulcie and he saw him last Friday and simply paid him off for a previous job. I didn’t hit him hard enough, Frank. Just let me rest a few minutes ... ”

  Frank said: “I’m going to the office to phone. George, I’m placing Tony in your custody.”

  I grinned at him painfully, and Bycroft walked with stiff legs r
ound Sprague, avoiding him carefully.

  “Tony,” I said, “d’you want to make a run for it? There’s a car out there.”

  “Where would I go to, Mr Coe? No thanks. I’ll go to trial. I’ll be proud.”

  It seemed a long while before I could walk out of there. The ambulance had been and gone. Bycroft had left with Tony, and gradually the voices fell away. There was only me, in an empty scrapyard.

  My brain had ceased working. I went for the car.

  The rain was easing. I walked over to the Saab. My legs felt weak. Hell, did I have to go shaky just from a bit of a beating-up? Was I getting that old? Then I recalled my youth, and I understood. I’d always felt shaky then, when I’d been nervous, going to meet my girl.

  Ten years had rolled away.

  If you enjoyed reading A Spoonful of Luger, you might be interested in Parting Shot, also by Roger Ormerod.

  Extract from Parting Shot by Roger Ormerod

  Prologue

  The cobbles were still slicked with rain, though it had stopped early in the evening. Wind was rattling round the van. Across the end of the alleyway the few pedestrians had been walking head down, not to be diverted, but by midnight nothing was moving. The van sat, apparently empty, and now part of the scenery. Paper had blown beneath its wheels and become trapped. The engine was cold, and one tyre was at half pressure.

  At ten minutes past midnight the rear doors of the van opened and two men quietly lowered themselves to the cobbles. They were dressed in running shoes, dark slacks and black roll-neck sweaters. The woman who slid forward over the bench seat was slim, her face pale, and had her hair tied back beneath a dark blue headscarf. In all other ways she was dressed the same as the two men. She took her seat behind the wheel. The men did not speak to her, but moved away into the darkness, disappearing into a narrow opening between the tall buildings.

  She sat. She waited. There was no tension on her features, because this would not need a fast getaway. The van had been chosen for its derelict and anonymous appearance, rather than for its speed.