They went into number five. At first sight, the garage was as empty as the first, but as he walked up the right-hand wall, Welland saw an old and oily rag in the corner. He picked it up and examined it and found underneath an inch-square piece of oil-stained brown cardboard. He turned the cardboard over. There were two bits of printing on this side: parts of either the tops or bottoms of the loops of letters. Because of their proximity, these two letters had to be following each other. What were they? b’s, f’s, g’s, h’s, k’s, i’s… Into his mind came the word ‘Highland’ — MacLaren’s Highland Whisky.
The clerk had been watching his face. “Is that bit of stuff important?”
“It could be,” replied Welland.
“Doesn’t look it,” muttered the other, disappointed by the insignificance of a scrap of oily cardboard.
Welland put the piece of cardboard between two pages of his notebook and held these together with a rubber band. He led the way out of the garage and was about to say he’d finished when he decided he ought, as a matter of form, to check the other four garages — bitter experience had taught him that if he didn’t, Fusil would ask if he had.
Numbers four and three were empty and a Morris Traveller was in number two. The clerk was swinging down the door of number two when a Mercedes 220 drew up outside number one and a man in a fur-lined coat and a very sporty check suit climbed out.
“Afternoon, Mr. Kubick,” said the clerk, in deferential tone of voice.
“Hullo, there,” replied the other loudly. “How’s the world treating you? Have you been picking out all the winners?” He had the air of a man who was pleased to be polite to someone he could really afford to ignore.
“I can’t remember when I last had a winner, Mr. Kubick.”
“Persevere, my son, persevere, as the bookie said when he took the client’s shirt.” He stared at Welland. “Having a look at the lock-ups, then?” he asked, in a challenging voice.
The clerk hastened to explain. “This is a detective, Mr. Kubick.”
“The law, eh? So what’s up? Has someone been a naughty boy round here?” Kubick’s manner changed slightly: some of the bombast was replaced by wary watchfulness.
“We’re just carrying out general enquiries,” said Welland, before the clerk could speak. “Would you know anything about the person or persons who use the last two garages?”
“I wouldn’t. What’s your interest in ’em?”
Welland ignored the question. “You’ve never seen them at all?”
“Can’t say I have… Now that’s a lie. I did see one of the end garages used once. As far as I can remember, a van drove out. No idea when it was — long time ago now.”
“Would you remember what kind of van it was or whether there were any legends on it?”
“Legends? Like Snow White?”
“A firm’s name, that sort of thing,” replied Welland, not bothering to smile.
“Heard ’em called lots of things before, but never that.” Kubick laughed loudly.
“Do you remember?”
Kubick shrugged his shoulders. “It was just a van.”
“Did you see the driver?”
“Gawd knows! I’m telling you, it was a very long time ago.”
Welland took from his pocket the three photographs that he’d been given by Braddon immediately after lunch. He handed over the two of Sharman and Sharman’s van driver. “Could it have been either of these?”
“Now look, I’ve just said, it was a long, long time ago. What’s more it was night and the bloke inside the van wasn’t exactly floodlit. Could’ve been Frankenstein, for all I know.” He again laughed loudly. He was about to hand the photos back when he checked himself. “Here, isn’t one of those blokes Sharman?”
“Who?” asked Welland, and for him it was a wonderful display of absolute innocence.
“Jim Sharman. He owns those cut-price liquor stores — made a fortune.”
“Don’t think I’ve heard of him,” said Welland, as he took the photographs back from the other.
“Well, it certainly looked a bit like him,” said Kubick doubtfully. “Pity. It’s about time he ended up in jail.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I’ll tell you. A couple of months ago, I gave him ten to one Caesar’s Ghost wouldn’t win at Epsom. The old bastard had twenty quid’s worth and the bloody horse came in by half the track.”
From the look of Kubick, thought Welland, he could lose a lot more money before he went broke.
*
12, Madders Road was a tobacconist’s in the centre of a row of depressed looking houses: the living room had many years before been altered into a mean, dingy, kiosk-like shop.
An elderly cripple, with a shock of startlingly white hair, answered Welland’s questions. “I got this phone call one day, see, asking me to ’old any letters addressed to Gresham and ’e’d collect ’em. Ten quid a year ’e promised.”
“What’s happened to the letters?”
“There ain’t been many in all the time and I’ve still got ’em. ’E ain’t been near for ’em. The ten quid’s come regular, though.”
“You’ve never met him?”
“That I ain’t.”
“How come he telephoned you in the first place and asked you to do this?”
“I ain’t no idea, Mister. What’s wrong?” His expression was very worried.
*
Kerr climbed the stairs to the general room and his legs were so tired it seemed they were filled with lead. As he sat down, he sighed with pleasure. It was a piece of unwarranted optimism. The internal telephone on Rowan’s desk rang. He stared at it with dislike. If he didn’t answer, would it be accepted by the caller that the room was empty? Or would the caller be of a suspicious mind and come along to check? Kerr answered and the caller was Fusil.
“How long have you been back?” demanded Fusil.
“Just stepped inside this moment, sir.”
“What about reporting to me?”
“I was on my way in, sir.” Kerr replaced the receiver. Heaven was a place in which, should they ever attain it, senior officers were rendered deaf and dumb.
Fusil spoke the moment Kerr entered the room. “Have you had any luck?” It was clear from the unusual eagerness with which he spoke how tensed he was.
“I don’t think so, sir. The banks all said they’d check their records and ring here if they uncovered the account we’re after. There’s no message so I presume no one’s discovered it.”
Fusil swore. “Have you checked with every bank in town?”
“All except the three in Ascrey Cross. There wasn’t time to cover them.”
“You’ll see them as soon as they open?”
“Yes, sir.”
Fusil stared unseeingly at the far wall. “I’ll swear the bank he used will be a local one.”
There was a heavy knock on the door and Welland entered. He clumped his way over to the desk. “Turned up this, sir, from a lock-up garage in Bookers Road.” He opened his notebook, pulled off the rubber band, and dropped the piece of oily cardboard on to the desk.
Fusil picked up the cardboard and studied it.
“I was wondering if those two bits of printing were the tops of an h and an l. You know, MacLaren Highland Whisky,” Welland explained carefully, as if Fusil would not otherwise be able to understand.
“Anything else?” asked Fusil.
“I discovered that a bloke called Gresham hired numbers five and six lock-ups and gave twelve, Madders Road as his address. It’s a tobacconist and the owner was telephoned way back and offered ten quid a year to hold any letters addressed to Gresham. He’s never met Gresham and here are the only letters he ever got.”
Welland handed them over.
Fusil opened the letters. They contained receipts and the terms of the agreement. He looked up. “Who’d you see at the estate agents?”
“Mr. Brocker.”
Fusil pulled back the cuff of his coat to che
ck on the time by his wrist watch. “Telephone him, explain I must see him and ask if it will be more convenient at his office or home.”
Welland left.
Fusil pushed the piece of oily cardboard over to Kerr. “Get on to the county lab and say you’re bringing it to them, then rush it up there. Find a comparison cardboard case and take that as well. Tell the lab it’s top priority.”
Kerr looked doubtful.
Fusil spoke sharply. “What the hell’s the matter?”
“The lab always moans that everybody’s work is top priority.”
“Spin ’em a yarn. You’re a good liar.”
*
The Sharmans lived in a large house, set in its own gardens, which they rented for fifteen pounds a week. When they had first moved in, the house had been furnished in the usual negative and characterless fashion of let houses, but Mrs. Sharman had spent a great deal of money on buying expensive furniture to make the place more attractive. She liked furniture which looked as expensive as it was.
They were in the sitting room, a long, oblong room with a rather ugly fireplace halfway along the outside wall. They were drinking: he had a whisky, she had a gin and tonic. The colour television was on, but neither of them was watching it: she was leafing through a glossy woman’s magazine and he was checking some accounts. The telephone rang. “I’ll get it,” he said. He stood up, finished his drink, and went out into the hall.
“Hullo there, Jim,” said the caller breezily. “It’s Adrian here. How’s the world with you, old boy?”
For a moment, Sharman couldn’t identify the other: then he realised it must be Adrian Kubick, a pompous self-opinionated windbag of a man. “Evening,” he said, not bothering to sound pleased.
“I thought you’d be amused by something odd that happened today.”
“I’m very busy.”
“It won’t take a second to tell you. I was driving into my garage — got a new car, don’t know if you’ve seen it? Lovely drop of Mercedes.”
“I’ve too much work…”
“Shan’t be a second, old boy. Well, I was just opening up the garage when a large bloke comes over and he’s a detective. Must say he looked to me more like one of those gorillas you see on the telly playing rugger.”
“Go on,” said Sharman, all irritated impatience gone.
“The detective asked me about the two end garages and who used ’em. I said I didn’t know — only once saw a van coming out of one. ‘What did the driver look like?’ asked the copper. ‘Look, mate,’ I said, ‘use your loaf. It was dead dark. I couldn’t see whether he’d got two noses and three mouths.’” Kubick guffawed. “Then d’you know what he did?”
“I can’t guess.”
“This’ll crease you. He showed me two photos and asked if the driver was either of ’em — and one of the blokes looked exactly like you!”
“Well, I’m damned!” exclaimed Sharman.
“What have you been up to, eh? Swindling the Bank of England?”
“That’s right, but not a word to anyone.” Sharman was silent for a couple of seconds. “I wonder who it really was?”
“Not knowing, can’t say, but I’m telling you, Jim, it was a close relative of yours! Tell you something more. The door in the picture looked like the door of your warehouse.”
“Just goes to show the coincidences in life there are, doesn’t it?”
“Sure does. I thought you’d be amused.”
“Funniest thing I’ve heard in years. Thanks for calling.” Sharman rang off.
He took out his cigar case and chose a cigar. Carefully, he snipped off the end and lit it. The photograph had obviously been taken outside the warehouse at a time when he was completely unaware of what was happening. Further, the police enquiries regarding the lock-up garages meant they had traced where the whisky was hidden each time until he brought it into the warehouse. They had made quite a lot of progress.
It was a shock. He had viewed them with the same scorn he had always viewed policemen — they were recruited from low intelligence sources and the only reason that any crimes were ever solved was that many criminals were even more unintelligent. Now, purely by luck, these bunglers had cottoned on to him and he was going to have to abandon the business he had built up from nothing. There would be no great financial loss — the shops and warehouse were all on short leases and he never settled accounts with suppliers until the last possible moment so that almost all the liquor in stock was virtually on credit. But nevertheless the loss to him would be very great. He had built up a highly successful business, he had shown all the so-called clever business men of Fortrow that he was a damn sight cleverer than they, and he hated the thought of having to lose his success.
He swore. How could the police really be on to him? True, the detective inspector had appeared to be sharper than normal, but that was hardly saying much. Wasn’t the whole thing some sort of coincidence? The police might have been looking around the lock-up garages in connection with a case that had nothing at all to do with the whisky. The photograph could have been of some small-time punk — Kubick was enough of a fool to make that sort of mistake.
Sharman slowly massaged his chin with his left hand. He was, he thought, in danger of deluding himself. He loathed the idea of abandoning the business and therefore was trying to twist the facts to prove to himself there was no need: looked at squarely, the evidence suggested unmistakably that by some perverse stroke of luck, the police were slowly uncovering the truth.
Of course, this didn’t begin to add up to failure. Right from the beginning, he’d accepted the fact that things could go wrong from causes beyond his control and he’d naturally planned what to do if this happened. No one could begin to call it a failure when he’d made close on forty thousand from selling the whisky and saved another twenty thousand plus from the business — quite a lot of which was owed to the inland revenue. Even in respect of all this money, he’d proved his cleverness. He’d never left very much in the account, but had bought jewellery.
Jewellery was an international currency. Goddamn it, he told himself, the word failure didn’t come into it.
He went through to the sitting room. Judy looked up. She was really beautiful, he thought. The kind of woman other men coveted: the kind of woman to partner a really successful bloke. How many people could even guess that behind her groomed beauty lay a cleverness and toughness of character that almost matched his? Hadn’t it been she who’d decided Finnigan had to be killed, when he tried to work out how to avoid murder? Hadn’t it been she who’d managed in next to no time to make Finnigan think she was so taken by him that she was panting to climb into the nearest bed with him? She’d handed him the doped whisky and told him that as soon as they’d finished their drinks they’d go for a little walk together — he’d downed his so quickly he’d almost choked. He’d gone out like a light. With Finnigan unconscious, he, Sharman, had come out of hiding and they’d set about getting rid of Finnigan. He’d said they’d sling the unconscious man into the sea with a few lead weights made fast: she’d suggested leaving him in the cellar of the wine shop and setting fire to the place — why not cut down on the competition at the same time as eliminating Finnigan? She’d got brains, no mistake there.
She studied his face. “What’s happened, Jim? Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”
“That was Adrian Kubick. I didn’t know it, but he garages his car in Bookers Road. He was driving into his lock-up when a split came up and questioned him and showed him a photo of me taken outside the warehouse. Kubick had seen the van leaving the lock-up and the split wanted Kubick to identify the driver. It means we’re blown.”
She shrugged her shoulders. “There was always the chance.”
He crossed to his chair, picked up the glass, and refilled it. He admired the casual way in which she accepted the news.
“What are we going to do?” she asked.
“Clear out from here. Go down to the office and burn all the papers, then find a
hotel for the night. Tomorrow morning we’ll draw out what’s left in the bank…”
“Don’t you think it would be better to leave that?” she suggested.
“Hell, no! There’s only a thousand or so in the account but we might as well take it with us.”
“You don’t think the police might be on to that as well?”
“Them? Not those stupid bastards.” He laughed harshly. “They must have had a whole goddamn basinful of luck to get as far as they have, but they’ll never be able to work out the details.”
She looked doubtful, but did not argue further.
Chapter 15
Brocker yawned, hoping his visitor would take the hint. Fusil was not the man to do that. “If you could only remember what bank the cheques you received were drawn on?” said Fusil.
“I’ve already told you, I can’t.” Brocker wondered what his wife, who was in the kitchen, was thinking? If he was five minutes late for a meal she raised all hell: he hated to think how late he was by now.
“Can you say what colour they were?”
“Inspector,” he said plaintively, “I don’t remember anything about them. I probably never ever saw them: the handling of cheques isn’t my department.”
Mrs. Brocker opened the door very noisily. She stared at Fusil with a militant expression. She had a severe face that suggested a character who knew exactly what was right and proper in all things. When she saw that Fusil was not going to be as easily moved as she’d hoped, she left and slammed the door shut.
“Inspector, I’m very sorry but I must…” began Brocker, in some desperation.
Guilt Without Proof (C.I.D. Room Book 4) Page 14