by John Creasey
“Hook, line, and sinker,” admitted Rollison.
“Why waste time?”
“I’m ready to raid the shop as soon as you like,” said King, “but I don’t think Murgatroyd will play the fool. He’ll know that the game’s up, and let himself be taken without any trouble.”
“Then he’ll act out of character with all that’s gone before,” said Grice.
Rollison winked at King, who hurried out for more men. Grice tapped impatiently on the table, while Rollison thought ruefully on how completely Murgatroyd had deceived him. Only the faintest suspicions that the man might have known more than he professed had entered his head, and they had been completely dispersed in London. King’s acceptance of the antique dealer as a reputable citizen was only a partial excuse for it. He had known that the centre was in the cathedral town, and had accepted too easily Murgatroyd’s glib explanation of his interest in the grandfather clock.
A man burst into the hall of the police-station in a state of such alarm that Grice swung round towards him. The man gasped at the sergeant on duty: “Where’s Mr. King? Murgatroyd’s just skipped out the back way. I couldn’t follow him, my tyre’s flat!”
“Come on!” roared Grice. He grabbed the man’s arm, dragging him towards the door. “What road did he take?”
“Romsey.”
They bundled into Grice’s car. Rollison squeezed in with the two plainclothes men at the back. Soon they were racing out of the town towards Romsey, and towards the Bramley Poultry Farm. Rollison was on the alert for a glimpse of the powerful American car which Murgatroyd owned.
The man next to Grice exclaimed: “There he is!”
They swept over the crest of the hill leading to the bungalow. Outside, close to the gate, was Murgatroyd’s car, but there was no sign of the antique dealer. The car was in such a position that they could not turn into the drive gates. Rollison thought that Grice was going to try, but at the last moment Grice trod on the brakes. His car squealed as it came to a standstill.
Rollison jumped out first. Grice caught his coat in the door, and wrenched it free. Rollison was already half-way up the drive, his automatic in hand.
There was no sign of Murgatroyd, no voices, nothing to suggest that the bungalow was occupied – except the open front door. Rollison would not have been surprised had shooting come from one of the windows, but there was nothing of the kind. He stood in the hall, with the others streaming along the drive, and called: “Alec! Alec!”
There was no answer.
He had looked in four of the six rooms before Grice and the others came in. In a few seconds they realised that the bungalow was deserted. They went through the kitchen and spilled out into the back garden.
At one of the long poultry sheds fowls were squawking, and standing outside, most of them looking towards the door of the shed. Suddenly there came a thud, and part of the wooden wall bulged outwards. Rollison jumped over the box hedge and ran towards the door.
Murgatroyd was on the floor against the wall, with his chin on his chest and one eye already swollen, a cut in his cheek, and his coat torn. Alec was leaning against the opposite wall, gasping for breath, and holding a broom like a club. He raised it as Rollison ducked to enter the shed, and then, recognising him, lowered it. He was too breathless to speak. On the floor between the two men was a heavy Service revolver, and not far from Alec’s side there was a hole in the wood, which had splintered. Murgatroyd was breathing wheezily, and had his hands folded across his stomach.
“Enjoying yourselves?” asked Rollison, and then Grice came in. “There’s our genial northcountryman, Bill. It looks as if Alec had got him served up for us.”
“Be careful!” gasped Alec. “He’s dangerous!”
“Not any more,” said Rollison. “Did you poke him in the stomach?”
“I tried to knock his head off!”
Others came in and pulled Murgatroyd to his feet.
“Take him out,” said Grice, grimly.
Murgatroyd was gaping like a fish, and he made no attempt to resist. He had to squeeze through the doorway, one man pulling him and the other pushing.
“Take him into the bungalow,” Grice called, and looked at Alec Stewart. “What happened here?”
“I’ll tell you—in a minute,” gasped Alec. “Can’t get—my breath.” He looked at the gun. “Thought he’d—got me.”
“You didn’t seem to be doing too badly,” Rollison observed.
Alec raised a hand, leaned the broom against the wall, and limped towards the door. The others went out first, and walked among the Leghorns and the Sussex Whites.
Murgatroyd was already in one of the front rooms.
Alec drank a glass of water, brushed his hands over his hair, and moved to the table. There was a patch of red at the waist of Alec’s khaki shorts, and Rollison noticed it for the first time.
“You’d better let us have a look at that,” Grice said, and Rollison went forward quickly.
“It’s only a graze, I can hardly feel it.”
Alec made no protest, however, as Rollison unfastened his belt and pulled up his shirt. The bullet had just cut the skin; it had bled freely, but seemed to have stopped. “It’s all right, I tell you,” insisted Alec. But Rollison wetted a towel and began to clean the graze, while the younger man began to explain: “I was cleaning out the shed when Murgatroyd appeared in the doorway. If he hadn’t jammed his gun in his pocket I wouldn’t have stood an earthly.” He looked bewilderedly at Rollison. “What the devil came over him? I had just time to jump to one side, and the bullet missed—well, nearly missed. I had a bucket in my hand and slung it at him, and that gave me time to get the broom and knock the gun out of his hand. I’ve never been so glad to see anyone in all my life as I was to see you!”
“Thank Grice for moving fast,” said Rollison.
“What did he say?” asked Grice.
“Absolutely nothing! I saw him pulling the gun out of his pocket. He must have gone round to every shed, looking for me. I thought I heard a car earlier,” he added, “but I didn’t take much notice. What’s Murgatroyd run amok for?”
“Being party to a murder or murders,” said Rollison. “It’s a pity that you don’t know what’s been happening in London. Danny Bond has been released, and the man who actually committed the murders has been arrested. So have some of his associates. We discovered that Murgatroyd was involved, and Grice could not get here soon enough.”
Alec said: “So you’ve got your men.”
“Most of them,” said Grice.
Alec stared at him. “Now what’s on your mind? If you think that I know anything about this, you’re mistaken.”
“Yet Murgatroyd came to kill you,” said Grice. “It must have been because of something you know.”
“It couldn’t have been.”
“I’ll have to ask you to come into Winchester for questioning,” said Grice. “We—”
“I’ve got to look after the farm!”
“That will have to wait,” said Grice.
“I’m damned if it will,” said Alec, angrily. “I’ve a lot to do before dark. Murgatroyd’s your man—ask him why he came. If you must drag me into Winchester for something I know nothing about, make it after dark, when I’ve locked all the sheds up.” When Grice did not answer, he went on: “I daren’t leave the place untended, I can’t be sure whether there will be another raid on the fowls. I lost another twenty last night, someone locked a cat up in with some of my Leghorns.”
“After dark is reasonable, surely,” Rollison said, finishing his firstaid work.
“It’s too late,” said Grice, “I’m going to get this thing finished now, once and for all. I’ll leave two men here to make sure that nothing happens to your chickens.”
“A fat lot of use they’ll be,” said Alec. “Two policemen were supposed to be watching the place last night, weren’t they?” Grice made no comment. “Oh, well, if I must come I suppose I must, but I’ll have to change.” He walked towar
ds the door, and Grice raised no objection, while he and Rollison heard fresh voices outside. Two of King’s policemen who had been keeping watch from a distance had arrived, both of them sheepish. Grice was in a mood when he spared no one, and the men were red-faced when he had finished with them. Then he looked at Rollison, who was smiling, and snapped: “What’s so funny?”
“You in this mood,” said Rollison. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”
“If you had your way, you’d leave Stewart here, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes. I think he’s had trouble enough, and I’m going to make one more effort to find out what he’s supposed to know. May I?”
Grice said: “Oh, I suppose so.”
“Thanks.” Rollison went to the door of Alec’s room; it was ajar. He went inside and found Alec stepping carefully into a pair of flannel trousers; he had already changed his shirt, and was wearing a tie. He frowned up at Rollison, who closed the door.
“You’re all wasting your time and mine,” growled Alec.
“You’re too prejudiced,” said Rollison, “but that’s not surprising. Murgatroyd wouldn’t come here to kill you for no reason at all. You were nearly murdered once before. You take it too calmly, and the police are naturally suspicious.”
“They’d suspect my fowls—they don’t know any better than to call them chickens!”
“Not all the world knows that a chicken is a fowl until it gets to the table. However, we are now wasting time in earnest. Alec, I’m inclined to believe you when you say that you know nothing, but I think you suspect a lot, and that it’s playing old Harry with your nerves.” He took out an envelope, and opened it deliberately.
He extracted the photograph of Mrs. Fotheringay, and held it towards the poultry farmer.
Alec glanced at it, then up at Rollison, and his eyes were blazing. All the colour faded from his cheeks. He would not look at the photograph again, and Rollison said: “That is Mrs. Fotheringay, the woman with whom Danny Bond was lodging.”
Alec drew in a sharp breath.
“You’ve been unfortunate in your parents, Alec, haven’t you? You said your mother was dead, but this is her.” He stared into the man’s unhappy eyes, and went on softly: “You’ll have to face it now. You knew that she was your mother, and suspected her of being a criminal. That was why Danny Bond came to see you, wasn’t it, to tell you what he’d learned about her. Danny is a better friend than you think. He hasn’t uttered a word to make us think that she was involved, even when things looked very black for him. Did Sheila know?”
Chapter Twenty
“Nothing Left To Say”
“No,” said Alec, very heavily. “Sheila didn’t know. Danny found out.”
“Shall we have Grice in?” asked Rollison.
“I suppose so.”
Alec watched Rollison go to the door and summon Grice. He told him the simple truth, and added: “What I don’t know now, I can guess.”
“What can you guess?” demanded Alec, roughly.
“That Mrs. Fotheringay was the prime mover in all that has happened,” said Rollison, “that Murgatroyd was one of her partners and Arnott another, and at some time in his life, Bryan was a third: I mean Babette’s father.”
“I don’t know whether it’s true or not,” said Alec, between set teeth, “but—” He paused.
“Go on,” urged Rollison.
Alec said: “Danny Bond came down here with that package, although he didn’t say he had it. He wanted me to give him shelter. I refused. He told me that if I didn’t he would incriminate my mother.” He drew in his breath, sharply. “He said that she was Arnott’s partner, that she was organising the beastly business at the night-clubs, and I flatly denied it and made him clear out. Is it true, Rollison? He hasn’t named her?”
“He got himself into more trouble with the police for not doing so,” said Rollison. “What else did he say?”
“He said he had been unaware of it until he got fed up with Arnott’s crowd, and they started to get worried about him. He discovered that Arnott visited Mrs. Fotheringay sometimes, and they quarrelled occasionally. He said that Arnott had attacked her because she wouldn’t give him that package—the package Danny had already found. He thought it had been put in his room because that was the last place Arnott would expect to find it. He said that Arnott wanted to get rid of all competition, which was why he planned to murder my mother and get Danny hanged. He knew that there was someone else in Winchester, but as far as I know he didn’t suspect Murgatroyd. I can’t tell you anything more!” declared Alec gruffly. “You’ll have to find out whether it’s true from someone else.”
“I’m afraid it will be true,” said Rollison. He looked at Grice. “Well, Bill?”
“I’ll send in for Mr. Stewart later, if it’s necessary,” said Grice. “I shall have to leave some of my men here for the time being.”
“Just as you like,” said Alec, distantly.
Rollison said: “Get it all over now, Alec. Why did you tell me that your mother was dead, and that she left you this furniture?”
“I’ve always let it be thought that she was dead. She left my father and me years ago, giving me enough furniture to furnish a small house. I got so that I wanted to believe she was dead, and I still wish it was true.” He lifted his haggard face towards Rollison, and added very quietly: “I had only contempt for my father, but I wanted to believe that mother—” His voice trailed off.
Rollison said: “There was a lot of good in Lancelot Stewart.”
“He always swore that he left her because she wanted him to, but I wouldn’t believe him, he was such a habitual liar. He could never resist a pretty face, either. My mother was ten years older than he, that may have been the cause of the trouble.” He swung round. “Do you need any more?”
“No,” said Rollison. “No, thanks.”
He turned away, hoping that he had helped to ease the burden on the man’s mind by encouraging that reluctant confidence.
Grice did not speak as they left the bungalow with Murgatroyd just ahead of them, sandwiched between two big detectives. As Murgatroyd’s car was the larger, Grice and Rollison climbed into it and took the fat man with them, and one of Grice’s men drove while Grice sat next to him and turned to Murgatroyd. The fat man was subdued and sullen, but he did not carry his stubbornness too far. By the time they reached Winchester he had confirmed the truth; Mrs. Fotheringay – alias Mrs. Lancelot Stewart – Arnott and he had been the prime movers in the crimes; and the work among Nato officers out for a spree was but one section of it.
They discovered more before long.
Much of the furniture which Murgatroyd sold was stolen or faked, and he dealt also in stolen jewels. At one time Babette’s father had worked with them but that partnership had been broken up for some time. Because Bryan would not continue to work with them, they had got revenge on his daughter. Babette had told the truth as far as she knew it, but she did not know the real reason why she had been brought into the vicious circle. Nor did she know that at all costs Arnott and Murgatroyd and Mrs. Fotheringay had needed to bring Lancelot Stewart into the orbit of its influence; for Lancelot Stewart had known some of the truth about his wife, and had he not been frightened for himself, he might have disclosed how much he knew.
“So all the ends tie up,” said Rollison, sitting in King’s office, with Grice at his side. “There’s nothing more to say.”
“There certainly isn’t much missing,” said King.
“There’s a package,” said Grice.
“Oh, Murgatroyd will have that somewhere,” said Rollison. “We’ll find it at his shop, and I doubt whether its contents are what Arnott made out. Astonishing that such a tangle can work out, isn’t it? Do you still think that Alec Stewart was involved?”
Grice said: “No. I suppose we can’t blame him for saying nothing.”
“There speaks a humane policeman! We certainly can’t,” added Rollison. “But there are curious things about this business,
Bill, which we don’t fully understand yet. How Danny Bond was driven to desperation and could probably have saved himself from what seemed likely to be a long sentence, but would not talk about Mrs, Fotheringay. And how Babette—I mean, quite a lot of decent people lived in purgatory because of Murgatroyd, Arnott, and the whitehaired lady who started all the trouble. I wonder if we would have found all this if she had died?”
“I don’t think it would have made any difference to you. I suppose Arnott did attack her.”
“Why not get Bond on the telephone?”
“That can wait until we get back,” said Grice. “What we want down here is that package.”
“Let me have a go at Murgatroyd, he’ll probably say exactly where it is.”
“I don’t see why he should tell you when he won’t tell me,” said Grice tartly.
“All right,” said Rollison amiably. “Have you sent a woman police officer to the shop, King?”
“Why, no. Minny Murgatroyd—”
“Probably has that package,” said Rollison. “I can’t imagine any other reason for Murgatroyd to keep silent, unless he hopes someone will profit by it.”
A large policewoman disappeared into Mrs. Murgatroyd’s bedroom ten minutes later, and firmly closed the door. All Rollison had seen of the fat man’s wife was her frightened face. Hardly had the door closed, however, before it opened again, and the policewoman held the package in her hand.
Rollison, Grice, and King stood at a table in Murgatroyd’s sittingroom, while Grice ran a sharp pen-knife along the joins in the adhesive papers with which the package was sealed. No one else was in the room. Outside the traffic flowed by and people were walking and talking, while inside three pairs of eyes were turned towards the package which had caused so much trouble and was at long last in their hands.
It was very securely stuck down; Grice forced himself to work deliberately, and strip after strip of Scotch tape came off. At last there was only the brown paper wrapping, and when that was unfastened they came upon a black leather case.