by J F Straker
‘A dose of bicarb, same as my stomach. That’s what you need,’ suggested the other.
‘Perhaps.’ Inspector Pitt stood up and reached for his hat. ‘Have Heath tailed, Dick, in case he bolts. I’m going in search of that bicarb.’
As the police car threaded its way through the town the Inspector admitted to himself that he had not been entirely frank with his brother-in-law. The idea was not as vague as he had pretended; it was just that he needed confirmation before putting it into words. He must be right — there was really no alternative.
The sight of a familiar figure carrying a shopping-basket caused him to lean forward and speak to the driver. The car drew into the kerb and stopped.
‘Can I give you a lift, Mrs Gill?’ asked Pitt. ‘I’m on my way to Grange Road.’
Mrs Gill was flustered and flattered.
‘How kind of you, Inspector. I’ve missed the bus, and this basket really is quite heavy. And the evenings do draw in, don’t they. It’s almost dark already, and I must say I don’t fancy walking down Grange Road after dark these days. Silly of me, I know. But there it is.’
It was inevitable that they should talk of the murders.
‘Of course, I know it’s none of my business, but I think I’m speaking for the whole road when I say that we’ll all sleep a lot easier when you decide to arrest him, Inspector,’ she said, enjoying the comfort of the car and the sense of importance it gave her. ‘You can’t rush these things, I know. It’s all bound up with evidence and witnesses and suchlike, isn’t it? You have to have a case that will convince a jury, don’t you? But all the same — well, I think you should know that you will have our full support when you decide to act.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Gill. That’s very comforting,’ Pitt assured her gravely. ‘Er — arrest whom? Were you referring to any specific person?’
‘Not by name, Inspector. I’ll not be caught again.’ Mrs Gill’s voice was arch. ‘But I don’t think we need to mention names, do we, to know that we’re talking of the same person? Even to an amateur like myself it’s obvious enough.’
Pitt’s reply was non-committal. He was back to his problem again.
‘How well did you know Mr Carrington?’ he asked.
‘It so happens, Inspector, that he was the one person in Grange Road with whom I’ve had absolutely no contact at all,’ Mrs Gill told him regretfully. ‘Both he and Miss Fratton did not mix with the rest of us. Except, of course, with Miss Weston. They were both very partial to her.’
‘Ah, yes. Miss Fratton. Would you call her a truthful person, Mrs Gill?’
‘I don’t know, I’m sure. Perhaps not. But then, it’s only since these dreadful things have been happening that I’ve really got to know her. I think she exaggerates, certainly. All that fuss about postmen, calling them thieves and liars and goodness knows what else. She can’t really believe it, can she?’
‘It does seem bigoted, certainly,’ the Inspector agreed. He was glad that they were rapidly nearing Grange Road. A little of Mrs Gill went a long way.
‘I stood up for them, of course, when she started on me,’ Mrs Gill continued. ‘They’re always such nice men, I said, and a uniform does something to a man, there’s no denying it. Of course, I didn’t see this Mr Laurie, so I couldn’t argue when she spoke about him. Slovenly, she said he was, with oilskins several sizes too small for him. And Miss Plant, when she passed him outside Carrington’s bungalow, did think he was rather surly. Just grunted at her, she said.’
‘Probably fed up with the weather,’ suggested Pitt, leaning forward to open the door as the car slowed and came to a stop in front of No. 24. Then he stiffened. Still grasping the handle, he turned and looked at the woman.
‘You said they were too small, Mrs Gill,’ he said. ‘The postman’s oilskins, I mean. But you made a mistake, didn’t you? What Miss Fratton actually said was that the oilskins were too big for him. Isn’t that it?’
Mrs Gill was surprised at the tension in his voice. ‘Oh, no, Inspector. She was quite definite. Too small, she said, as though he’d grown out of them years ago. Those were her very words, I assure you.’
He got out of the car and helped her on to the pavement.
‘Goodbye, Inspector, and thank you so much for the lift. It was a real treat,’ Mrs Gill said gratefully, as she took the shopping-basket from him.
Inspector Pitt almost bowed over her hand. ‘Thank you, Mrs Gill,’ he said fervently.
Mrs Gill watched the rear-light of the police car diminish and disappear down the length of Grange Road. Then she sighed and turned to open the gate.
I’ve quite misjudged him, she thought guiltily. He really has charming manners. The way he said ‘thank you,’ it might have been me who’d done him a service.
12—You Would Be the Corpse
Inspector Pitt thought Eric Stilby a rather seedy individual, and hoped he was not representative of his profession. As a schoolmaster the man seemed unlikely to inspire the young. Although he was not much over thirty, his hair was thin and wispy and he walked with a stoop, his body bent forward from the waist. His face was long and lean, and he appeared not to have shaved that morning. He wore a faded sports jacket, frayed at the cuffs; the seams were splitting at the back of the shoulders, and foodstuffs marked the lapels. His flannel trousers were old and baggy, and there were egg stains on the grey pullover. But his hands were clean and well cared for, with long, tapering fingers. Artistic, probably, thought Pitt; although that hardly seemed sufficient excuse for his general appearance.
The name Laurie meant nothing to him. But at the mention of Jane Abbott, Mrs Laurie’s maiden name, he nodded. Yes, he admitted, he had known her in the past.
‘About two years ago, wasn’t it, sir?’ asked Pitt. ‘When you were living in Tanmouth?’
‘I wasn’t living there,’ said Stilby. ‘Had a job there, that’s all. At a prep school. I lived in, of course, but I came home to Guildford for the holidays.’
‘How well did you know Mrs Laurie, sir? Or should I say, Miss Abbott?’
He did not answer this at once. Instead, he said, ‘Why have you come to see me, Inspector? What has Miss Abbott been up to? And what’s it got to do with me, anyway?’
‘We’ll come to that in a minute, Mr Stilby. It may have nothing at all to do with you. At present I am searching for something that may clear up a point which is worrying me, and I’ve come to you because I believe it may be connected with her life before she was married. You knew her then, you say.’
‘Yes. We were engaged; but not for long. She was a damned good-looker, but too flighty for me. Headmasters would have thought twice about giving me a job if I’d had Jane Abbott for a wife.’
At the Inspector’s prompting Stilby told what he could remember of the girl. It fitted well enough with the impression Pitt had already formed. She had been a good-time girl, thinking of nothing but dances and clothes and parties. And men. There were always men, said Stilby; she never seemed to have a girlfriend. Her mother had died many years before he knew her, and her father had married again. Jane lived with an indulgent uncle; although, thinking it over afterwards, the young man said darkly, he had wondered just what sort of an uncle the fellow was. ‘I never met him; but he certainly gave her her head. She could stay out half the night, and never seemed to care what the old man might say when she got in. She never asked anyone back to her home; not to my knowledge, anyway. Perhaps he wasn’t as indulgent as all that.’
‘And how long were you engaged?’ asked Pitt.
‘Oh, not long. Just over a month. I got paid at half-term, and was able to take her out in the car a bit. Taught her to drive, as a matter of fact. That was something new for her, and it took her fancy. Maybe that’s why she stuck to me for a few weeks. And with her being such a good-looker, and sex rearing its ugly head, I — well, I asked her to marry me. And, much to my surprise, she accepted.’
I wonder why? thought Pitt. You can’t have been such a good catch. Schoolmasters are no
t liberally paid, and you’re no Apollo.
‘And then you quarrelled?’ he said.
‘Not exactly,’ said Stilby. ‘It takes two to make a quarrel. I just told her I was through, that’s all. That was at the end of term. And as I was packing up at the school I never saw her again. You say she’s married?’
‘Yes. To a man named Laurie. A postman. You never met him?’
‘Never even heard of him, Inspector. A postman, eh? That was a bit of a come-down for Jane, with all her big ideas. How are they getting along?’
‘Her husband is dead, Mr Stilby. He was murdered nine days ago. That is why I am here.’
Eric Stilby leaned forward excitedly. ‘Murdered, eh? Good Lord! And who did it? Jane?’
‘We don’t know,’ said Pitt. ‘Not yet. I wonder if you can recall the names of any of her previous friends or acquaintances, sir? That may help. I have an idea her husband died because she was mixed up with another man.’
‘I should say that’s a pretty safe bet, knowing Jane,’ Stilby agreed. He rattled off a few names, and then, at longer intervals, a few more. None of them meant anything to the Inspector, but he made a note of them.
‘Of course, there must have been dozens I never met,’ said Stilby. ‘She sort of collected them, you might say. For instance, there was this chap that caused all the trouble. I didn’t think highly of him at the time, but afterwards I realised he had saved me from making an ass of myself.’
‘And who was he?’
‘I don’t know. Neither did she. We just kind of picked him up.’
‘Perhaps I might have the details,’ Pitt suggested.
‘Certainly. It’s a sordid story, but no doubt you’re used to that. We had gone out in the car to some village or other a few miles out of Tanmouth. I was in the money, so we had a good dinner. After that we did a bit of pub-crawling, and then we came across this snake in the grass. Quite a decent-looking bloke — I rather took to him at first. He was propping up the bar, and we had a few drinks together. Then we had a few more, and a few more after that — not Jane; drinking wasn’t one of her vices, I’ll say that for her. She came in about every fourth round, just to be matey — and in no time at all I was pretty near being whistled. No, let’s be truthful — I was whistled. Tight as a drum. So I just settled myself in an armchair and left them to it.
‘I’m somewhat hazy as to what happened immediately after that. I’ve a faint recollection of them shoving me into the front of the car, and Jane getting in beside me and driving off. And then I passed out again.
‘About an hour or so later I struggled back to consciousness to find myself still in the car, which had been parked in the entrance to a field. Jane seemed to have disappeared, and I wondered what the hell had happened to her and what I was doing there. It was raining, too — not the sort of night one picks for star-gazing. But I was feeling lousy, and not too inquisitive. So I just sat there, hoping my stomach would stay where it was and my head wouldn’t split.
‘There was a sort of rustling noise in the back of the car, and after a while I got around to noticing it. Then I heard them murmuring to each other, and I realised what was going on. It hurt like hell to turn my head, but I managed it; and talk about a necking party!
‘They were so engrossed in each other that they didn’t notice I’d come to; and, being somewhat uncertain as to the correct procedure, I didn’t disturb them at once. I couldn’t just say something like ‘Hi, you! Leave my fiancée alone’; it was a bit too late for that, anyway. And I was in no state to take physical action. But I knew I had to do something. To sit there and say nothing would be most undignified. And I’m a great one for dignity, Inspector.’
You’re a great one for talking, thought Pitt. He was getting rather bored with this long rigmarole, and hoped it would lead somewhere eventually. But he had asked for detail. He could hardly grumble now that he was getting it.
‘And what did you do, sir?’ he asked.
‘Well, I sat there a bit longer, trying to think of the appropriate words. Then I heard Jane say, “You’ll have to marry me now,” and the man laughed and said something about not being the marrying type. And at that I made a great effort and turned round and said, “Then you’d better change your type, because it looks as though somebody ought to marry her, and I’m certainly not going to.” Then I managed to open the door of the car and got out — and promptly fell flat on my face.’
The Inspector laughed. He asked, ‘And what happened after that?’
‘Oh, they picked me up and dumped me back in the car, and Jane drove me back to the school. I never saw either of them again. When I looked in the car the next morning the ring I had given her was in an envelope on the front seat. And that was the end of that little romance.’
‘Most unfortunate, sir,’ said Pitt. ‘But if you don’t know the man’s name it isn’t much help to me. Could you describe him, perhaps? I know it means going back two years, and that you only saw the man for one evening. But if you could give me a sort of thumbnail sketch, as it were…‘
Stilby stared at him. ‘Why, yes, Inspector. I think I could manage that.’
*
On his way back to Tanmouth the Inspector had to change at Lexeter.
Michael Bullett was on the platform, waiting for the same train. Pitt was sure the reporter had noticed him; but when the train came in Bullett moved farther down the platform before entering a carriage.
What’s biting him? thought Pitt. He’s not usually so shy. He walked down the swaying corridor until he found his quarry. Bullett was alone in the compartment.
‘Why so coy, Mr Bullett?’ asked Pitt. ‘You don’t usually avoid us. It tends to be the other way round.’
‘I wasn’t avoiding you.’ If he had not known that to be untrue Pitt would have believed it. The man was certainly convincing. ‘In any case, you may recall that our last meeting was rather strained.’
Pitt nodded. ‘I remember all right. As I said at the time — in my righteous anger you acted like a fool. I even dallied with the idea of arresting you for obstructing the police. But we all have our foolish moments. Don’t let it burden your conscience, Mr Bullett.’
The reporter grinned. ‘Thanks, I won’t. How’s crime, anyway? Have you found out who sent that money to Jane Laurie?’
‘Yes. It appears to have no connection with her husband’s murder.’ He was not anxious to enlarge on this, and said hastily, ‘You haven’t given us much of a write-up, Mr Bullett. Carrington’s death was splashed, of course — you couldn’t avoid that, him being a fairly prominent figure in the world of art. Though I noticed you didn’t say outright it was murder. “The police have not ruled out the possibility of foul play,” I think you said.’
‘Something like that. I was trying to be kind.’
‘Kind? Kind to whom?’
‘To you. You and the Sarge. You never want to plump for murder, Inspector, unless you’re dead sure you can make an early arrest. Just hint at suicide. The public lap it up, wonder a bit, and then forget it. But murder — that’s different. They look forward to an arrest. And as the days pass and there’s nothing about it in the papers, they begin to wonder what the police are up to. Soon they start writing to the papers; and I suppose it is about then that the Chief Constable begins asking you awkward questions, eh? No. Take my advice, Inspector, as a man who knows the public. Stick to suicide. They just think you’re extra smart if you turn it into murder later. So you win both ways.’
‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ Pitt promised.
‘My editor thinks that either you or I have fallen down on the job,’ said Bullett, taking up his paper again. ‘If you don’t make an arrest soon we’ll both be in the soup. How about one of those reconstruction scenes they have in books? That would make good copy, if nothing else.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Pitt. ‘They always seem rather pointless to me. One can’t depend on the two chief actors, you see. The corpse is unable to play his part, so you have to get a stand-in
for him. As for the murderer — well, you can hardly expect him to enter into it whole-heartedly, can you? He is far more likely to throw a spanner into the works when he gets the chance.’
‘That’s true,’ Bullett agreed. ‘Well, perhaps the good old-fashioned police methods will bring results in due course.’
For a while, as the reporter read his paper, Pitt ruminated on his interview with Eric Stilby. He knew most of it now, and what he didn’t know he could guess. The difficulty was to prove it. He had a case, of course; but was it good enough to put before a jury? Would he get a conviction?
Presently he said, ‘You know, perhaps that’s not a bad idea of yours, Mr Bullett.’
‘What isn’t a bad idea? I’ve lost the thread.’
‘Sorry. I was referring to your suggestion that we reconstruct the crime. It wouldn’t help us with Carrington’s death we don’t know enough of the circumstances — but we might be able to clear up a point about Laurie’s disappearance that has been worrying me. Something — several things, in fact happened to him while he was in Grange Road. I want to know—’ He looked speculatively at the other. ‘You wouldn’t care to take part, I suppose?’
Bullett raised an arm across his face in mock alarm.
‘I most certainly would not. Not after last time. Sitting at a ruddy attic window with my eyes glued on a blasted pillar-box, waiting for it to be cleared by a postman who had been dead for days. No, thank you, Inspector. Never again.’
‘We didn’t know then that he was dead,’ Pitt reminded him. ‘Anyway, it wouldn’t be like that. This time you would be the corpse.’
‘Oh, would I! Well, that’s different, of course. Promotion — star billing, eh? But the answer is still no, Inspector. I’m not cut out for an actor. Get one of your own bright boys to play the part. What’s wrong with the Sarge, for instance?’
‘Gastric flu.’
‘Really? I’m sorry; I didn’t know. Still, you’ve got a large cast to choose from. Let me know when the play is to be staged, Inspector, and I’ll give you a write-up in the Chronicle.’