Postman's Knock (Inspector Pitt Detective series Book 1)
Page 7
‘I thought Mr Morris had no banking-account,’ said Pitt.
‘That’s right,’ the bookmaker agreed. ‘The crossing was done in error. But Morris won’t have no difficulty in getting them cashed.’
If he ever receives them, thought Pitt, as he made a note of the numbers on the counterfoils.
Mrs Gill, when questioned, could tell them little more about the mysterious watcher.
‘Quite light, it was. About three. He kept walking up and down on the other side of the road, and sometimes he wandered off on to the golf-links. I didn’t know what to do, Inspector. I haven’t a telephone, you see, and I didn’t like to go next door on account of their not being very friendly. But I thought, maybe he’s planning something — I must tell the police. So I put on my hat and coat and went down the road to phone. And when I got back he had gone.’
‘What sort of a man was he, Mrs Gill? What did he look like?’
‘Well, really, Inspector, I didn’t notice. I was so upset, wondering what to do. He wasn’t very tall, anyway. His coat-collar was turned up, and he had a hat on — a trilby, I think it was. I didn’t see his face at all, not even when I went out. And — well, that’s all.’
‘And he was watching just this particular house?’
‘Well, I thought he was,’ Mrs Gill said cautiously. ‘I suppose he might have been watching the others as well. It’s difficult to say, isn’t it?’
He led her on to talk of her neighbours, hoping to pick up some piece of information that might prove useful. Mrs Gill, lulled into a sense of security by his friendly manner, let herself go. But it was not until she reached the Heath family that the Inspector’s interest was aroused.
‘The father was no good,’ she said. ‘In and out of prison, I’m told. Women, that was his trouble. The son’s got an eye for them, too. He’s gone on that Miss Weston, you know. And he isn’t the only one, either. There’s Mr Carrington, at No. 5; he’s sweet on her. And if you ask me, Inspector, he has put Donald Heath’s nose right out of joint. He’s got money, you see, and Dorothy Weston isn’t the type to let money escape her. She’s round at his bungalow all hours of the night. Well, you can’t carry on like that without people getting to know about it, can you? And Donald Heath’s a quick-tempered young man. Very excitable. As I said to Miss Plant only last night, I wouldn’t put anything past him, not even murder.’
At the sound of that last word she paused, remembering her uneasiness in the presence of the Inspector that morning. She must not say things like that, she told herself. One never knew.
‘Of course, that’s just an expression, Inspector,’ she said, with what was meant to be a gay little laugh. ‘You mustn’t take me literally. People don’t murder other people for things like that, do they? In books, perhaps — but not in real life.’
Remembering his resolution of the morning, Pitt refrained from comment. ‘What’s Heath’s job?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know what he actually does, but he works up at Cabell’s. So do quite a lot of other people in Grange Road: Mr Avery, Mr Harris — oh, and Mr Archer, too.’
‘The Alsters, Mrs Gill. The people at No. 4. Do you know them?’
‘Not very well, Inspector. But they seem quite nice. They have two dear little children, and they’re beautifully behaved. So unusual these days, don’t you think?’
Presuming that she was referring to the children’s behaviour, and not that of their parents, Pitt agreed that it was unusual. He said, ‘I’ve called there twice, but they seem to have been out each time.’
‘They’ve gone away,’ said Mrs Gill. ‘At least, Miss Plant — she lives next door to them, you know — she hasn’t seen them since yesterday midday. I expect they are visiting relations for Christmas. And that reminds me — I still haven’t heard from my daughter out at Rawsley. Most annoying. I suppose her letter was lost with the rest of the mail.’
Inspector Pitt was not interested in Mrs Gill’s domestic worries. But he had one more query to put.
‘When you spoke to me this morning, ma’am, you took it for granted that the postman was still missing. Why?’
‘Why, Inspector?’ Mrs Gill was flustered. ‘Well, I — really, what a question to ask! I’m sure I don’t know why. One just feels these things, I suppose. After all, he hadn’t just popped off for an hour or so, or he wouldn’t have left his bicycle there, would he?’
‘Left his bicycle where, Mrs Gill?’ The Inspector’s voice was no longer friendly.
Her fluster deepened. ‘Well, wherever you found it. I’m sure I don’t know where that was.’
‘I think you do, ma’am. I’d advise you to tell me the truth, or the consequences may be unpleasant.’
Mrs Gill shuddered at the implication contained in his words.
‘I didn’t mean to spy on you,’ she said weakly. ‘But I was so upset, what with the postman not calling and then your visit, I thought perhaps a little walk before going to bed might calm my nerves. And then when I got to the corner of No. 20 and saw a light on the golf-links I felt I just had to know what was going on.’ Inspiration came to her, and she brightened. ‘I considered it my duty, Inspector; it might be something the police ought to know about, I thought, and I never was one to put myself first. And I couldn’t know it was you, could I?’
Inspector Pitt looked at her in grudging admiration.
‘No,’ he said gravely. ‘You couldn’t, could you?’
4—Footsteps Behind Us
As Dorothy Weston had told her sister, she was not in love with Jock Carrington. But she was in love with his money, and with the good times and security that his money promised, and she did not mean to abandon these without a struggle. Besides, she liked Jock, even felt a certain amount of affection for him — which was more than could be said about her feelings for Donald Heath.
But could Jock ever be inveigled into matrimony? He was such a solid, down-to-earth character, with none of the irresponsibility one expected from an artist. He would not lose his head over her, not even in the wildest moments of passion. In the months she had known him he had never hinted at the possibility of marriage, had said nothing that promised permanence to their relationship. Was that because he felt so sure of her that a more binding tie seemed unnecessary? Or was it because, as she feared, he regarded her as just another incident in his amatory life?
It was to force his hand — to make him realise that she was no longer willing to continue as before — that she had gone for a walk with him that Sunday afternoon.
Jock Carrington was not fond of walking. Neither, he knew, was Dorothy. But since it was she was had proposed the outing, presenting herself at his front door shortly after lunch — and since his car had gone to the garage for servicing — he could not easily refuse her.
Jock too had his troubles. He was undecided about Dorothy. She was an ideal companion for a night out, and a most satisfactory lover. They had had some good times together, and he saw no reason why the good times should not continue. But he had an uneasy feeling that Dorothy was beginning to take too deep an interest in him; an almost possessive interest, it seemed. If she were considering him as a possible husband, might it not be wiser to drop her? Gradually, of course; he had no wish to hurt her. Or should he tell her bluntly that he was not the marrying kind? Let her know where she stood? If she wanted marriage, there was always young Heath. Dorothy had told him more than once — to arouse his jealousy, no doubt — that Donald Heath would marry her whenever she cared to name the day. Well, let him.
So preoccupied were they with their thoughts that they reached Coppins Point without either of them broaching the matter uppermost in their minds. They talked little. The wind was fresh, and they needed all their breath to fight against it. The going was easier on the return journey, however, and Dorothy tried desperately to head the conversation into the required channel. But Jock, although equally desirous of making his position clear, had not yet found words in which to frame it, and ignored the leads she gave him.
‘Ouch!’ A hand on his shoulder, she stood one-legged, rubbing the injured ankle. ‘It hurts like the devil. I must have sprained it.’
He was all solicitude. ‘I’ll carry you, shall I? It’s not far.’
She laughed. ‘I’m no light weight, Jock,’ she said. ‘I’ll make it if we take it slowly.’
He made her sit down on his raincoat, took off her shoe, and massaged the ankle. It had already begun to swell. ‘Lucky you’re not working,’ he said. ‘You couldn’t dance with that little lot.’
Arms round each other’s waists, they moved slowly homeward, taking a circuitous route to avoid the more uneven going. We must look like a courting couple, thought Carrington; and was thankful for the approaching darkness.
The same thought had occurred to Dorothy. And because she was in pain and feeling somewhat sorry for herself, and rather desperate, she echoed it aloud.
‘And I almost wish we were,’ she added. ‘It must be rather fun.’
This is it, he thought. ‘Of course it’s fun,’ he agreed. ‘It’s what comes after that isn’t.’
‘Marriage? That could be fun, too.’
‘Oh, I dare say it’s all right for some. But you and I — we’re not the marrying kind. It wouldn’t do for us.’
‘It might,’ she said. Ahead of them were the lights of Grange Road, coming nearer with every painful step. There was little time left, and now that the topic had been raised she wanted to pursue it, no matter what the end might be. ‘I used to think that way once. Now I’m not so sure. Maybe I’m getting old, Jock, but dancing in the chorus doesn’t appeal to me anymore. I want something permanent, something more secure.’
‘Marriage isn’t always permanent,’ he answered her. ‘Not always secure, either. But if that’s what you want, then good luck to you, darling. I’ll give you a bang-up reference when you find the right chap.’ He squeezed her waist and laughed. ‘We’re getting morbid; let’s go back to my place for a drink.’
Dorothy did not laugh. It was as she had feared; she would just have to marry Donald.
They had walked some distance in silence when she stopped and turned.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Jock. ‘Ankle hurting you?’
‘Shh!’ For a moment she listened. ‘I thought I heard someone following us,’ she whispered. ‘It’s too dark to see, but I could have sworn there were footsteps behind us.’
‘You’re imagining things,’ he said. ‘Spraining your ankle, and then all that tripe about marriage. It’s enough to give anyone the jitters.’
Reluctantly she obeyed the pressure of his arm. To capture her attention he said, ‘About your birthday present. It’s a damned shame it should be pinched, after all the trouble I took to choose it.’
‘What was it?’ she asked.
‘A brooch. Emeralds, and in a most unusual setting. I must see if the shop has another like it.’
‘Thanks, Jock.’
She smiled up at him in the darkness, feeling behind her to squeeze the hand at her waist. He was a good sort. It wasn’t his fault if he didn’t want to marry her, and she certainly couldn’t accuse him of making love to her under false pretences. She had thought of reproaching him for having cut her on the phone when she had rung him up on her birthday. Now she decided not to. It was none of her business if he had another girl.
As they walked her ears were strained to catch the sound of a soft footfall behind them. It was a creepy feeling, out there on the deserted golf-links with the swish of the waves breaking on the beach coming faintly to her ears. She wished it were not so dark. Why should anyone want to follow them, what could…
Carrington heard it first and wheeled swiftly, disengaging his arm from the girl’s waist so that she had to put her swollen foot to the ground to steady herself. The pain of it made her wince.
Behind them a tall figure moved and then was merged in the dark background. ‘By God, you’re right! There is someone,’ said Jock.
Crouching low, he began to move back along the way they had come.
He was almost out of sight when the girl screamed. She could not help it. The thought of being alone, unable to run, with the unknown watcher near her…waiting, perhaps to strike…
Her scream brought Carrington racing back. ‘What was it? What happened?’ he demanded.
At the feel of his arm about her she regained some control. ‘Nothing happened,’ she said weakly. ‘I got scared, that’s all. Jock! Who was it, do you think?’
‘God knows! I might have caught the blighter if you hadn’t screamed.’ He could feel her shivering, and his annoyance left him. ‘Here! Let’s get to hell out of this.’
He picked her up and began to carry her towards the road. Dorothy, her arms round his neck, would have enjoyed the experience had not fear possessed her. But it was for Jock she was afraid, not for herself.
A light danced towards them across the grass, and two tall figures materialised out of the night.
‘Trouble, Mr Carrington?’ asked a voice.
‘Oh, it’s you, Inspector. Yes, Miss Weston has sprained her ankle.’
‘I’m sorry. But is that all, sir? A few moments ago we heard a scream. We were coming to investigate.’
‘There was someone behind us,’ Carrington said shortly. He did not wish to discuss the incident with the police. ‘Miss Weston got a bit scared, not knowing who it might be.’
‘And would you know, sir?’
‘No, I wouldn’t. Nor why, either. And if you don’t mind, Inspector, I’d like to get Miss Weston indoors. She’s upset, and I’ve no doubt her ankle is painful. Added to that, she isn’t exactly a light weight. So if you’ll excuse us…’
‘He looked a bit shaken himself,’ said Sergeant Ponsford, as they watched Carrington cross the road with his burden and disappear into the grounds of No. 5.
‘Miss Weston’s no sylph, as he said. If he had carried her any distance he had a right to be shaken,’ answered the Inspector. ‘All the same, I wonder…Perhaps a call at No. 9 might not be out of order.’
As they crossed the road a burly figure bore down on them, a torch flickered on their faces. ‘Evening, Sergeant — evening, Inspector,’ said Sam Archer. ‘How’s crime?’
‘The same as usual,’ Pitt answered. ‘Unpleasant.’
The man laughed. ‘Well, you can’t grumble,’ he said. ‘You chose it.’
‘That’s true,’ the Inspector agreed. ‘I must certainly remember not to grumble in future. Have you been for a walk? Too early for darts, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. They’re not open yet.’
‘Keeping the muscles in trim, eh? I’m told it’s a strenuous game,’ said the Sergeant.
‘All right, you can laugh,’ said Archer, laughing himself. ‘But if everyone stuck to darts of an evening there wouldn’t be any crime. No time for it. And where would you chaps be then, eh?’
‘Playing darts, presumably,’ answered Pitt.
Heath himself opened the door to them. He showed no surprise at their visit. ‘What is it this time, Inspector?’ he asked.
There were carpet slippers on his feet, his breathing was regular. ‘Have you been at home all this evening, sir?’ asked Pitt.
‘I have.’
‘You didn’t by any chance hear a noise out on the links about ten minutes ago? As though someone were screaming?’
‘Good Lord, no! But then I had the radio on. There’s not more trouble down this way, is there?’
‘I hope not, Mr Heath. Could I have a word with your mother? She might be able to help us.’
‘Mother’s at the pictures. She’s been out since half-past three.’
It largely depended, thought Pitt, on where Miss Weston had been when she screamed. But she must have been nearer to Heath’s house than to the bungalow; which meant that Heath should have had ample time to get home without undue haste,
change his shoes, and be ready to present an innocent front to any callers.
‘There’s no proof either way,’ he said to the Sergeant. ‘But if I were Carrington I’d watch my step. Mrs Gill may have been right when she said Heath would stop at nothing to keep his girl.’
Dorothy Weston had the same thought; but she dare not voice it to Jock. If Jock even suspected it was Donald who had followed them he would go right along and demand an apology. And anything might happen then.
She stilled her fears with the reflection that in the future Donald would have little cause to complain. Since Jock would never marry her, the sooner their liaison ended the better. She would have this last evening with him, and then it would be over. But she would not spoil it for them both by telling him that now.
I hope to goodness, thought Dorothy, that I’m not getting soft on him now it’s too late!
It was past midnight when she left the bungalow. As she passed No. 9 she noticed that a light still shone from the downstairs front window, and wondered what could be keeping Donald up so late. Had it been he who had followed them on the golf-links? Was he watching for her return? She hurried on as fast as her still swollen ankle allowed, not wishing to be involved in a scene so late at night.
It was as she was letting herself in at her own front door that she heard the noise. If it was a scream it was a strangled scream, cut off before it reached its full volume. It came from No. 14, and was followed by a heavy thud. Then there was silence again.
Terrified, the girl stood listening. Had Miss Fratton met with an accident, or had the sound been indicative of something more sinister? A door closed softly at the back of the house. Or was it a window? Then, after a pause, came a scrabbling sound, as though someone were climbing over the wooden fence that separated Miss Fratton’s garden from the golf-links.