Chief Superintendent Hal Yardley’s voice was ominously friendly and quiet. It was the kind of tone a grandparent uses to a small child. Harry knew that it was usually the prelude to one of Yardley’s ‘rockets’.
‘Yes, I would.’
‘Okay. Go on, Dawson.’
‘Well,’ Harry said uncomfortably, ‘as soon as I realised that the car number was the same, I telephoned Newton and made an appointment to see him.’
‘Why?’
There was no answer to that question which would satisfy Yardley and Harry knew it. He was sitting beside his Chief in a car without police markings, which was parked at the side of Linton Close. Barely twenty minutes had passed since he had telephoned Nat Fletcher at Scotland Yard, but the mews was already unrecognisable as the quiet backwater into which Harry had driven at 10.30.
Half a dozen police vehicles had moved into the narrow street. Uniformed constables were keeping back the onlookers who had crowded round the entrance from Kennerton Street, trying to control the photographers and newsmen who had been on the scene almost as rapidly as the police. A brilliant arc-light had been set up to illuminate the area round the Austin 1100. Inside the screen which had been erected to hide the car and its macabre contents the police doctor was just completing his preliminary examination. Fingerprint men and plain-clothes detectives were quietly but swiftly going about their business. The police ambulance was just starting to reverse into the mews to transport the body to the police mortuary where it would be subjected to detailed examination by the pathologist and forensic experts.
Harry knew that he could also say goodbye to his own car for some time. It would be taken away and subjected to as minute an examination as the corpse.
‘Why?’ Yardley repeated his question. It was like the sharp clap of thunder which presages a storm. Harry made up his mind that he was not going to react as if he were an erring schoolboy.
‘I wanted to question him.’
‘You wanted to question him.’ Yardley seemed to have difficulty in believing his ears. ‘You were fully aware that he was under investigation by Divisional CID and yet you took it upon yourself to—’
‘With respect, sir,’ Harry interrupted, staring straight ahead through the windscreen. ‘I was not acting officially.’
‘No? Then how the hell were you acting?’
‘As a son, sir. A son whose father has just been killed. You see, it’s my belief – my firm belief – that Newton in fact knew my father.’ Harry turned to face the Superintendent’s angry stare. ‘I don’t believe my father was killed accidentally, sir.’
‘I don’t know about your father. But we do know Newton was shot in the back of the head by a small calibre pistol.’ The shaggy eyebrows lowered and joined in a frown. ‘The way I heard it, Dawson, you’d been jumping to all sorts of premature conclusions about this character Newton. And now here you are making an appointment to see him this evening without even—’
‘I’ve told you why I made the appointment,’ Harry said with mounting exasperation. Nat Fletcher had emerged from behind the screen and was coming towards the car. He somehow had the look of a man who bears ill tidings. ‘I made that appointment because I was curious. It seemed very odd that my father should have written down the number of Newton’s car, when—’
Harry stopped. He had lost Yardley’s interest. The Chief Superintendent had lowered his window to hear what Nat had to say.
‘Yes. What is it, Nat?’
‘There’s no sign of the gun,’ Nat said. ‘It might still be in the mews but we’ve searched it pretty thoroughly. We’re going up to the flat now.’
‘Okay.’
Nat glanced uncomfortably at Harry and then handed Yardley a slip of paper. ‘We found this on Newton, sir. It was in his waistcoat pocket.’
With another glance at Harry, Nat moved away. Yardley twisted round so that the light from the arc-lamp fell on the small rectangle of flimsy paper. He scrutinised it for a few moments then directed a strange look at Harry.
‘When you spoke to Newton on the phone, Dawson, did he say anything about a letter?’
‘A letter?’
‘Yes.’
‘No.’ Harry shook his head. ‘Why should he?’
‘Apparently he sent you a letter – a registered letter. He posted it today. Here’s the receipt.’
Reluctantly Harry took the receipt. His own name and address had been entered in black Post Office biro.
‘Have you any idea what was in that letter?’
‘No, not the slightest.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Of course, I’m sure!’ Harry snapped in a tone quite unsuitable for addressing a superior officer.
Well, don’t worry,’ Yardley replied with surprising mildness. ‘We’ll know tomorrow morning, Dawson. We’ll both know.’
Harry found it impossible to sleep once daylight had come. He could not take his mind from the thought of the registered letter going through all the processes of the Post Office and probably already in some postman’s delivery satchel Still in his pyjamas and dressing-gown he had cooked himself breakfast and this time had tried to get some semblance of order into the kitchen when he had finished.
At half-past eight he went out of the flat and down to the street door to see whether the mail had come. Registered letters sometimes did not arrive till a later delivery. There was no mail, but the morning paper lay on the mat inside the door. Harry picked it up, opened the door on to the street and left it like that so that the postman could come right up to the flat.
The morning paper carried a ghoulish picture of the murder scene in Linton Close with an inset showing a head and shoulders portrait of Peter Newton.
Harry had just reached the landing when the sound of a heavy tread on the stairs behind him made him turn round. The imposing form of Chief Superintendent Yardley was just starting to ascend.
‘Am I too early for you?’ Yardley said. For such a heavy man he had come up the stairs with remarkable rapidity and ease. Harry assumed that the remark was intended as a veiled rebuke for his still being in his pyjamas.
‘No,’ he said standing aside. ‘Come along in.’
‘Has the post been?’
‘Not yet. It should be here any minute.’
Yardley walked into the sitting-room, his eyes automatically making a professional survey of the visible portion of the Dawson flat.
‘Would you like some coffee? I was just going to make myself a cup.’
‘Not for me.’ Yardley swung round, gazing blandly into Harry’s eyes. ‘But you go ahead.’
‘There was no need to call round, sir,’ Harry said, meeting the older man’s stare. ‘I’d have delivered the letter to you.’
‘Yes, I know that. But I wanted to see you.’ Yardley nodded at the most comfortable of the leather-covered chairs. May I sit down?’
‘Yes, of course.’
While the cushions of the chair sighed under the weight of Yardley’s mammoth posterior, Harry perched himself on the arm of the settee.
‘Go ahead. Make your coffee.’
‘That’s all right. The coffee can wait. I’ve plenty of time. I’m on leave anyway.’
‘Ah, yes,’ Yardley nodded, as if this was news to him. ‘Until when?’
‘The twenty-fifth. What was it you wanted to see me about?’
Again Yardley contemplated Harry for a moment before speaking. His mouth had a curious way of twitching at the corners when he was about to say something.
‘Dawson, you told me last night that you had never met Newton – not until you saw him on the golf course.’
‘That’s right.’
The next question was fired suddenly, like a slow bowler unexpectedly flinging down a fast ball. ‘Then how about a man called Higgs. Do you know anyone of that name?’
‘Higgs? No, I don’t think so.’
Yardley felt in his pocket and drew out his wallet. ‘The full name is Basil Higgs.’
‘Bas
il?’ Harry stood up. He had remembered the name now. ‘I made out a cheque to a man called Basil Higgs yesterday morning.’
‘That’s right.’ Yardley produced the cheque from his pocket. ‘You did indeed, Dawson. A cheque for five pounds.’
Harry took the cheque which Yardley handed him. ‘Where did you get this cheque?’
‘We found it, last night.’
‘Where?’
‘In a drawer in Peter Newton’s flat.’
‘But – I didn’t give it to Newton!’
‘I’m quite prepared to believe that since it is made out to a Mr. Basil Higgs,’ Yardley conceded equably.
‘Yes, but I didn’t give it to Higgs either. You see I – let me explain.’
‘I wish you would,’ said Yardley with feeling.
Briefly Harry described the saga of Zero, how the Conways had seen the advertisement and telephoned to say they had found the dog.
‘I drove over there yesterday morning to pick him up. They seemed very nice people. He’s an invalid. Has to get about in a wheelchair. Anyway, when I was leaving I mentioned the reward and Arnold Conway suggested that I give the fiver to some pet charity of his. He asked me to make the cheque out to the secretary, Basil Higgs.’
‘I see.’ Yardley stretched out an arm to take the cheque. He replaced it in his wallet which he put in his pocket. ‘Then how did Newton get hold of it?’
‘I don’t know.’ Harry shook his head in complete bewilderment. ‘I just can’t imagine.’
The two men were staring at each other in silence when there came a sharp knock on the street door, followed by a peal of the bell.
‘Is that the postman?’ Yardley had begun to rise expectantly from his chair.
‘Most probably.’
Harry went out into the hall and opened the door to the landing. The postman had just reached the top of the stairs and was standing there with a bundle of letters. Against the top one he was holding the registered letter receipt book.
‘Mornin’.’
‘Good morning.’
‘Registered letter for Dawson. Sign here, please.’
Harry signed his name with the postman’s pencil and accepted the long bulky envelope which was handed to him. ‘Thank you.’
‘Thankin’ you, sir,’ the postman replied cheerfully, as the door closed.
Harry put the bundle of mail down on the hall table and, holding the registered envelope in his hand, walked slowly back into the sitting-room.
‘Has it arrived?’ Yardley could not conceal his impatience. ‘Yes.’
Still looking at the long, slightly bulging envelope Harry crossed to the desk and picked up his father’s letter knife. As he inserted the point under the heavily sealed flap Yardley was at his shoulder.
Harry drew out a single sheet of plain notepaper. It bore no address or date. The message had been printed in rough capitals:
‘THIS IS WHY YOUR FATHER WAS KILLED. PETER NEWTON’
‘This is why your father was killed.’ Unashamedly Yardley read the message aloud. Harry handed him the sheet and ripped open the side of the envelope. Inside was an object carefully wrapped in tissue paper. Harry undid several layers of the paper before the object inside was revealed. It was an ornate, beautifully made dog collar.
‘It’s the collar!’ Harry exclaimed.
‘The collar?’
‘Yes. The one that was stolen. The one Zero was wearing.’ ‘Now, wait a minute,’ Yardley protested. ‘You’re sure this was the one that was on the poodle?’
‘Harry turned the stiff leather ring in his hands. ‘Yes. I’m sure.’
‘Then what the devil does this message mean?’
Yardley’s brows met as he frowned over the printed words. ‘Search me. It doesn’t make sense.’
‘All right.’ Yardley laid the message down on the desk and nodded at the collar. ‘Then tell me about that. Where did it come from, originally?’
‘I don’t know where it came from. All I can tell you is that my father gave it to Mrs. Rogers for her birthday.’
‘When was this?’
‘About a month ago. Unfortunately Mrs. Rogers is away at the moment. Her nephew got the ‘flu and she’s looking after him for a few days.’
Harry laid the collar down on top of the message. ‘I wonder what the devil Newton was getting at?’
‘So do I. It looks a perfectly ordinary collar to me. A little ornate perhaps.’
Yardley turned away. He seemed to have come to a sudden decision.
‘I’d like to see you later this morning, Dawson. Could you be in my office at eleven?’
‘Yes,’ Harry said, looking at his watch. ‘I shall be in the building. They’re taking my prints some time this morning.’
‘It’s routine.’ Yardley spoke casually. ‘They’ve been giving your car a thorough going-over, as you probably know.’
While he spoke the bell had been ringing. Not the bell on the street door but the small bell on the door that opened from the flat on to the landing.
Harry slipped past the Chief Superintendent and went to open it. He found Nat Fletcher with his finger poised to give the bell-push another jab. He held a bulging manila envelope in his other hand.
‘Hallo, Nat!’ Harry greeted his friend guardedly. Since last night he was not too sure which side Nat was on. It was reasonable to believe that duty called him to act in harmony with his Chief Superintendent.
‘‘Lo, Harry. Is Yardley here?’
‘He is. He is indeed. Come along in, Nat.’
Yardley was evidently not expecting Nat to track him down to the Dawson flat.
‘Hallo, Nat. What brings you here?’
‘Good morning, sir. I’ve just come from Newton’s place. Things are beginning to look interesting.’
‘Would you like some coffee, Nat?’ Harry offered, hoping to get things on to the old friendly basis.
Nat brushed the invitation aside: ‘No, thank you, Harry.’
‘What do you mean, interesting?’ Yardley demanded.
Nat unbuttoned the showerproof coat he habitually wore.
His face showed the effects of a night without sleep.
‘We were just finishing off at the flat when Jackson found a door behind what we thought was a larder. There was a small room, fitted up as an office. Desk, typewriter, filing-cabinet, all the usual office paraphernalia.’
‘Well?’
Nat was standing close to the desk on which he had laid the envelope. He had spotted the collar lying on the sheet of note paper. ‘We’ve just spent a fascinating half-hour going through the fling-cabinet, sir – to say nothing of the desk.’
‘Get to the point,’ Yardley snapped, irritated by Nat’s suggestive tone.
‘What did you find, Nat?’ Harry chipped in.
Nat looked from Harry to the Superintendent and back again. There was a mischievous smile on his face, like a conjurer who knows he is going to surprise his audience.
Suddenly he picked up the envelope and let the contents slip out on to the table in the centre of the room.
There were about fifty glossy photographs and every one of them was of a different girl. Some were nudes, some were semi-nudes, some represented girls in the act of stripping, others showed them in black suspender belts clipped to black stockings. They had been taken from every conceivable angle and the fullest possible use had been made of light to heighten the effect.
In silence Yardley riffled through the collection. His breathing had become a good deal heavier. Nat stood back, enjoying the effect he had created. Harry picked up a photograph of a girl with a brash face and very well-developed bust.
‘I know this girl. She’s a prostitute. She gave evidence in the Oxford case about six months ago.’
Nat nodded his agreement. ‘It’s my guess they’re all prostitutes, every one of them. There’s over two hundred photos in that room, sir.’
‘Two hundred.’ Yardley was still intent on the selection of fifty which Nat had brou
ght. ‘Our friend Newton must have had a very large circle of friends.’
‘A very strange circle of friends, sir,’ Nat corrected. ’No names, no phone numbers, no addresses, no details, of any kind. Just the photographs.’
Yardley scooped the photographs together and pushed them back into the envelope. He handed it back to Nat.
‘What the hell was Newton up to, Nat?’
The indoor swimming baths had only recently been opened. They had been built to the most modern standards and offered every conceivable amenity. The main pool was on the Olympic scale and lined on both sides by tiers of benches for spectators. At eleven on a normal weekday morning these were almost empty.
Harry Dawson sat on the front row watching the girl who was just completing her third length in a fast racing crawl. The white bathing cap raised a bow-wave ahead of her and the water rushed over her lithe form. In the confined space voices were echoed and magnified. The air was damp and heavy, laden with a faint smell of chlorine.
The swimmer reached the end of the pool, turned under water with the agility of an eel and immediately increased her speed in a racing finish. This time when she reached the end she let her legs sink and stood up in the water. She placed her hands on the side of the pool, levered herself up until she could place one leg on the top. It was a movement as graceful as a ballet sequence. The moisture gleamed on the curve of her back as she reached for the towel on the bench.
Perhaps sensing Harry’s eyes on her she turned and saw him sitting a few yards behind her. She immediately gave him her brilliant smile and walked towards him.
‘Hallo, Mr. Dawson.’
‘Hallo, Liz.’
She was pulling off her bathing cap as she approached, shaking her hair out into its natural shape.
‘I didn’t know you came here.’
‘I don’t normally. Douglas told me this was the place to find you on your day off.’
Her breast was rising and falling as she recovered her breath after the all-out effort of that final length. Harry had never seen Liz in a bathing suit before. He could not help thinking that her well-rounded yet firm and athletic figure was about ten times more seductive than those photographs which Nat Fletcher had found in Peter Newton’s flat.
A Game of Murder Page 4