Postman's Knock (Inspector Pitt Detective series Book 1)

by J F Straker

  ‘Oh, nothing. I was day-dreaming again.’ The Inspector picked up his trilby and jammed it on his head. ‘Come on, let’s pay friend Heath another visit.’

  He was still frowning as they left the building.

  The dominant fear in Donald Heath’s mind had been dispelled. Aunt Ellen had coughed up; had coughed up handsomely. The cheque had arrived on Wednesday morning; the borrowed money had been replaced. But he had other worries to brood over, and was no more pleased at receiving a visit from the police now than he had been on Saturday morning.

  ‘Tell them I’m out,’ he said to his mother. ‘Get rid of them somehow.’

  ‘Don’t be a fool, Donald.’ Mrs Heath’s voice was sharp. ‘You can’t treat the police like that. If they want to see you, then see you they will. If not now, then later. And don’t look so guilty. Try smiling for a change; it might suit you.’

  But his smile was a sickly effort. It faded altogether at the Inspector’s first question.

  ‘Who says I attacked the postman?’ asked Heath.

  ‘That’s neither here nor there, sir. The point is — did you?’

  ‘Yes.’ If there had been a witness to the incident there was no point in denying it. ‘At least, not the way you mean. I didn’t hit him; it was he who hit me. That’s how I got this black eye.’

  ‘But you must have threatened him? He wouldn’t have hit you for no reason at all.’

  ‘Well, he may have thought I was going to attack him. But all I did was to run after him. I can’t think why he should have lammed out the way he did.’

  ‘What made you run after him?’

  ‘I was expecting a letter.’ The young man chose his words carefully. He did not want them to probe too deeply into that aspect of the affair. ‘A most important letter. I was all keyed up, waiting for it to arrive. And when it didn’t I…well, I thought the man might have mislaid it. I knew it ought to have come by that post.’

  ‘And what happened then?’

  ‘I called to him from the door, but he said that was all. And then — well, I lost my head, I suppose. Silly of me, I know but I just chased up the road after him. I’m not sure what I meant to do. Ask him to look in his bag, perhaps — something like that. But before I could say a word he turned and hit me smack in the eye.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Well, I hadn’t been prepared for anything like that. The blow sent me flying, and by the time I’d picked myself up and collected my wits he was some way down the road. I thought of going after him. But I’d cooled off a bit by then, and I realised I’d made a fool of myself. So I came home.’

  ‘You are a tall man,’ the Inspector said thoughtfully. ‘The postman, by all accounts, was on the short side. How did he manage to knock you down so easily?’

  ‘Well, he did.’ Heath’s tone was defiant. ‘I ought to know, didn’t I? As I said, he caught me unawares. And come to think of it, he didn’t strike me as being particularly short, either. I never got a good look at him, of course — it was dark, and raining like hell — but I’d have said he was tall. Still, you know best. I’m not arguing about it.’

  When they had left the house Pitt said, ‘Hear that, Dick? Why did Heath get the impression that the postman was tall?’

  The Sergeant laughed.

  ‘If someone knocked you down would you admit that he was only half your size? Of course you wouldn’t. It’s true that neither of us has seen Laurie, but everyone — Templar, Gofer, Mrs Laurie they all say he’s on the short side. So did Bullett. Heath was merely supplying himself with an excuse, that’s all.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Pitt. ‘But, tall or short, it’s an odd way for a postman to behave.’

  Workmen were busy replacing the soil where the ditch had been dug across the U-shaped path of No. 14. As they walked up the other arm of the U Dick said, ‘That would be where Laurie tripped and lost his torch. He would have entered from this side, and wouldn’t know the ditch was there.’

  Miss Fratton was out. The Sergeant danced a pas seul on her front porch, to the amusement of the workmen.

  ‘That’s the first lucky break we’ve had,’ he said. ‘Let’s hope she’s always out, the old so-and-so.’

  ‘We’ll try Miss Weston,’ said Pitt.

  ‘It’ll be a pleasure,’ said the Sergeant.

  It was certainly a change, thought Pitt, to be greeted with a smile. Dorothy Weston seemed almost pleased to see them.

  ‘I suppose you’ve come about Miss Fratton,’ she said. ‘It’s odd about the torch, isn’t it? Why should the burglar have taken that and nothing else?’

  ‘I don’t know, miss. What sort of torch was it?’

  But Miss Weston had no information on that point, and the subject was dropped. Pitt asked after her missing birthday present.

  ‘Oh, didn’t I tell you? I’m sorry. Yes, it was a brooch. It never turned up, of course, but my friend got me another. Absolutely identical, he said it was. Wait! I’ll show you.’

  They examined the brooch, which was of unusual design. When Pitt said so she seemed pleased.

  ‘Yes, isn’t it? But then, being an artist, you would expect Mr Carrington to choose something out of the ordinary, wouldn’t you?’

  So it was Carrington who had given it to her. An idea was forming in the Inspector’s mind. ‘Did he have the first brooch copied?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, no. He had bought it from a firm in London — look, there’s the name on the box — and they happened to have another the same. I think it’s perfectly heavenly. I’m terribly thrilled with it.’

  She did not add that her pleasure was intensified by the fact that Jock had given her the brooch only the previous evening. If he was prepared to go to such trouble over a birthday present did it mean that he was regretting his previous remarks on marriage? Perhaps not — but it was nice to dwell on the possibility.

  ‘I hope you won’t think this an impertinent question, miss, but is there some sort of an understanding between you and Mr Carrington?’ asked Pitt.

  ‘Oh, no, Inspector. At least, he hasn’t asked me to marry him, if that’s what you mean.’

  But you wish he had, thought Pitt. She’s got nice legs, Dick reflected — and asked after her ankle.

  ‘It’s much better, thank you. It still hurts if I put my full weight on it, but I can hobble around.’ Dorothy smiled at him. She liked big men. ‘How about the postman? Have you found him yet?’

  ‘No, miss, we haven’t.’ It was the Inspector who answered. ‘Tell me, did you see Mr Carrington on Friday?’

  ‘No.’ Dorothy remembered how she had hoped he would call. ‘That was my birthday, you know. He telephoned me in the morning, of course, just to greet me. And I rang him up later, after the postman had been. Or hadn’t been, rather. I wanted to tell him his present hadn’t arrived, but he was out. At least…’ She frowned. ‘I think he was out.’

  ‘What makes you say that, miss?’

  She smiled ruefully.

  ‘I was a bit peeved at the time. You see, I heard the telephone ring in the bungalow, and I could have sworn someone picked up the receiver and then replaced it without answering. And as he’d told me he was going up to Town that day — for lunch, he said, and to see a film — I began to suspect he had been fooling me. I thought he had another girl there, and I’m not used to being given the brush-off by my boyfriends.’

  The Inspector replied gallantly that he could well believe that. ‘What time did you phone him, miss?’ he asked.

  ‘About ten to five. You know, I’ve seen him twice since then, but I haven’t liked to ask him straight out if he was at home that afternoon. I told myself I was being sensible; but I rather suspect it was because I didn’t want to risk a possible blow to my self-esteem. Are you married, Inspector?’

  Slightly taken aback by the question, Pitt replied that he was not.

  ‘Ah! Then I can’t expect you to understand women. They’re odd creatures, though I say it myself.’

  ‘I thought she wa
s going to propose to you,’ said Dick, as they left the house. ‘It looks as though she’s got you taped as a possible if Carrington lets her down. I hope you like red hair.’

  But his brother-in-law was in no mood for frivolity.

  ‘Looks like we’re on to something, Dick,’ he said. ‘I know they are an unreliable bunch of witnesses, but everyone from Nos. 9 to 19 says that the postman called shortly before five o’clock. Yet Miss Plant saw him going into Carrington’s bungalow at four-twenty-five, didn’t she? Doesn’t that look as though he spent some time there?’

  ‘There or thereabouts. But doing what?’

  ‘Ah! There you have me. Carrington is supposed to be well off. I can’t see him going into partnership with the postman in order to pinch half a sackful of mail. Yet if it wasn’t that — well, what was it that detained Laurie? Carrington was at home, if Miss Weston’s evidence means anything at all. And why should he bother to establish an alibi if he wasn’t up to some mischief?’

  ‘But what is he supposed to have an alibi for?’ asked the Sergeant. ‘As far as we know, the only person to have committed a crime is Laurie.’

  ‘That may be so. But it’s our job to investigate Laurie’s disappearance, and the driver of that Austin must know something. And if the driver was Carrington I want to know why he chooses to keep quiet about it.’

  ‘Okay. Do we tackle him now?’

  ‘Yes. But I don’t want to alarm him. Just a routine check — he can’t take fright at that. It should have been done before, but perhaps it’s as well that it wasn’t. He will have been lulled into a false sense of security. And if his alibi was at all shaky in places, it will be even shakier by now.’

  But Jock Carrington appeared in no way disturbed by another visit from the police, and readily supplied them with an itinerary of his movements on the Friday.

  If it was an alibi, it was not a very original one. He had gone up to Town by the 10.33, he said, in company with Michael Bullett. They had lunched together with a friend — ‘Alan Scott-Waterton, the critic. I’ll give you his telephone number’ — and had then gone to a cinema. He had caught the 5.47 train home, and was back at the bungalow about 7.15.

  ‘Did Mr Bullett stay in Town with you, sir?’ asked Pitt.

  ‘No. I offered to stand him a dinner after the show, but he had to get back.’

  ‘You didn’t have dinner in Town yourself?’

  ‘No. I’m not keen on eating out on my own.’

  They had lunched at the Grosvenor, he said. He had parted from Scott-Waterton at Victoria after they had seen Bullett off on the 2.21. After that he could not remember meeting anyone he knew.

  ‘Not even on the train coming home, Mr Carrington?’

  ‘Not even on the train, Inspector. I know few people in Tanmouth, and I don’t travel to Town regularly. Why? Don’t you believe me?’

  ‘It’s not that, sir,’ said Pitt. ‘But you can see for yourself how impossible it is to check a statement like that.’

  ‘Why bother to try, then? What crime am I supposed to have committed, anyway? Abducted your postman? Why, as far as I know I’ve never even seen the wretched fellow.’

  Inspector Pitt evaded the questions. ‘We have reason to believe that the postman was picked up farther down the road by someone in a black Austin saloon,’ he said slowly.

  Carrington stared at him.

  ‘And my car is an Austin saloon. So that’s it, eh?’

  ‘That’s it, sir,’ Pitt said laconically. ‘May we have a look at the car now we’re here?’

  The artist picked up a key from the hall table and led the way out to the garage. ‘There you are, Inspector,’ he said. ‘She hasn’t been used since Thursday of last week.’

  There was little they could hope to learn from the car itself, but they inspected the interior meticulously.

  ‘She looks very clean, Mr Carrington,’ commented the Sergeant. ‘Been polished recently, hasn’t she?’

  The man flushed. ‘I beg your pardon — I should have mentioned that. Yes, she went into Atkins’ garage on Saturday for her monthly wash and brush up.’

  The manager of the garage confirmed this statement. Mr Carrington, he said, always brought the car in about the middle of the month for servicing and cleaning; but on this occasion they had collected it from his house. Nor had the mechanics who had worked on the car noticed anything unusual. It was, perhaps, a little dirtier than usual. Mr Carrington did not use the car much in winter, they thought.

  Pitt wasted no time. Early on Friday morning he was in Town. He did not doubt that Carrington’s account of the luncheon party was correct, but he telephoned Scott-Waterton for an appointment and met him at his club.

  The critic was a fussy, supercilious little man. He obviously considered it outrageous that the police should doubt any statement made by a friend of his, but he confirmed all that Carrington had said concerning the luncheon.

  ‘After seeing Mr Bullett off at Victoria, sir, did you and Mr Carrington leave the station together?’ asked Pitt.

  ‘As far as the taxi-rank, yes. I walked across the road to the Underground, leaving him to look for a taxi.’

  ‘And you understood he was going to a cinema?’

  ‘I did. I heard him say so to Mr Bullett, and I had no reason to doubt his word.’ His tone plainly indicated that the Inspector had no reason to doubt it either.

  Pitt’s next visit was to the jeweller from whom Carrington had bought the brooch for Miss Weston. The artist was apparently well-known at the shop, and the Inspector wondered how many other young ladies had been softened by similar gifts from him. He could not believe that a bachelor would otherwise have much occasion to frequent the shop.

  At Pitt’s description the manager produced from beneath the counter a brooch similar to the one Miss Weston had shown him.

  ‘That’s it,’ said the Inspector. ‘I believe Mr Carrington ordered one to be sent to a young lady in Tanmouth. A Miss Dorothy Weston.’

  ‘Yes, I believe he did.’ The manager began to thumb through a ledger. ‘Yes, here is the entry. We dispatched it on the tenth of this month. I have a note here to the effect that the brooch should be posted in time to arrive on or before the twelfth. A birthday present, I think Mr Carrington said it was.’

  The Inspector nodded. ‘Did he purchase a similar brooch a few days later?’ he asked.

  ‘No, Inspector.’ The manager’s tone was decisive. ‘We had six of those brooches in all, and I still have four left. Look — you can see for yourself. And the second one was ordered by a customer for a friend in Ireland. We dispatched it yesterday.’

  It’s working out, thought Pitt. Carrington didn’t buy a second brooch — he didn’t have to, he had the original. Either he got it from Laurie when the postman called at his house (which accounted for its non-delivery to Miss Weston that afternoon), or he took it from the man after he picked him up in his car. But obviously he couldn’t explain this to the girl. For her benefit he had to invent the purchase of a second brooch.

  There was an I-told-you-so air about the Inspector when he confronted his brother-in-law. But Dick Ponsford did not notice it. He had news of his own.

  ‘We’ve found Laurie,’ he said grimly, ‘and he’s deader’n a doornail.’

  8—It’s Murder All Right

  ‘It was as a result of that broadcast for the Austin that we found him,’ said the Sergeant. ‘Fellow named Brown called in here this morning. He lives in Tanmouth but works in Eastbourne, and comes home for weekends on his motorbike. Last Friday he was late. As he was coming over the cliff road at about five-twenty he saw a black Austin parked on the grass near Coppins Point. At the time he thought it probably contained a courting couple; but after hearing the broadcast he decided to report it.

  ‘Even with that lead it took us quite a time to find the body. It was jammed half under the rocks at the foot of the cliffs. It would have been covered by the sea at high tide, and it must have been sucked into this sort of pocket in th
e rocks each time the sea receded. You couldn’t see it from the top of the cliffs. That’s why it wasn’t discovered before, I suppose; and anyway, there’s precious few people get up that way during the winter. We might not have looked there ourselves if the edge of the cliff had not been broken away as though something had been lugged over it.’

  ‘Was he drowned?’ asked Pitt.

  ‘No — strangled. It’s murder all right. His face is a mess, and most of the bones in his body are broken. Some of the damage was caused by the fall — I’m quoting the doctors, of course — and the rest by the sea pounding him against the rocks. We’ve had some pretty rough seas lately, remember. But despite the disfiguration, there’s no doubt that it’s Laurie.’

  ‘Who identified him?’

  ‘His wife and the postmaster. I couldn’t get hold of Bullett.’

  ‘How did Mrs Laurie take it?’

  ‘Badly. At first she refused even to look at the body. When we finally persuaded her she took one peek, screamed, and passed out. And I don’t blame her, either. He was a proper mess. I haven’t got over it myself yet.’

  ‘You don’t think they were persuaded into identifying the body as Laurie because of the uniform? He was wearing uniform, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes. All complete except for the cap. The sea’s got that, I expect. But I don’t think there’s been any mistake, Loy. Templar was shaken but firm — if that makes sense. And although nothing on earth could have persuaded Mrs L. to take a second look, she seemed in no doubt at all that it was her husband.’

  ‘I wonder when they did him in,’ Pitt said. ‘I suppose it is too early to have an opinion on that?’

  The Sergeant looked grim.

  ‘This is going to shake you, my lad. They say he has been in the water for at least a week.’

  The Inspector was certainly shaken. ‘But what about the note he sent Bullett?’ he asked. ‘I know I suggested someone else could have written it, but that was only a shot in the dark to stampede Mrs Laurie. And there’s the money he sent her. How are we to account for that?’

  ‘I know. I said it would shake you, but there it is. I dare say they could be a day or two out; I wouldn’t know about that. And Laurie could have written the note to Bullett on Saturday and have been killed later the same day. That would take care of that. But the money — well, your guess is as good as mine. And I just haven’t got one.’