Fusil interrupted him. “This is absolutely vital. Try to remember at least something that could be of help.”
“But I can’t.”
Fusil sighed.
“It was just a small letting,” muttered Brocker. “And it all went smoothly. The money was always paid right on the day, the cheques were always cleared without trouble.”
“And you never stopped to wonder why a man should rent two garages for his company and then scarcely ever use them?”
“But how was I to know they weren’t being used?”
*
In the forensic laboratory at H.Q., an assistant used a razor-blade knife to cut a marked section out of the top of the cardboard case that had contained MacLaren whisky. The section exactly matched in size and shape the one found in the lock-up garage.
He put the two pieces of cardboard side-by-side under an adjustable overhead light. A casual visual examination suggested that the printing was exactly similar.
He used a finely adjustable and slightly modified double-pointed compass to measure the inside and outside thickness of the loops at several different places: the thickness varied very slightly on the control section and these variations were repeated on the crime section. He examined each in turn under a low-power microscope and found a fault in the printing duplicated.
He telephoned Fortrow eastern division H.Q. and spoke to the duty inspector. He said he’d been asked for an interim report as soon as possible: as far as he could tell, there was little doubt the crime section of cardboard had come from the lid of a case of MacLaren whisky, but before he could be positive he needed to carry out long and laborious tests to determine the consistency of the two sections for final comparison. The duty inspector thanked him and said he’d pass on the message immediately to the C.I.D.
*
Kerr arrived at Helen’s house and the door was opened by Mr. Barley.
“Hullo then, John. We’d given you up for lost.”
“I was ordered up to Barstone at the last moment, Mr. Barley.”
“They’re working you, aren’t they?”
“There’s no rest for the wicked.” Kerr stepped inside and shut the door. “You know how things go — the boss-man has to do everything to make certain it’s done right.” He grinned.
“Then you could maybe do with a quick drink to revive you?” Mr. Barley, gnome-like in appearance, stared up at him and winked.
“That’s the best suggestion I’ve heard today. My throat’s like sandpaper. Isn’t Helen around?”
“She went upstairs to wash her hair, seeing as you didn’t turn up, but no doubt she’ll be down quick now.” Mr. Barley half turned towards the stairs. “Helen,” he shouted, “there’s a bloke says he’s come to see you.”
“D’you mean John?”
“That’s right.”
“Tell him I can’t come for the moment. I’ve hardly any clothes on.”
As far as Kerr was concerned, he’d no objection to her coming down as she was: the thought of her in filmy underclothes was enough to dry out his mouth. The last few weeks had taught him that she was far more passionate, when she wished to be, than previously he would ever have imagined possible. He had agreed with her that they should reserve the full act of making love until they were married, but he hoped the marriage wasn’t all that far away.
He followed Mr. Barley into the sitting room. Mrs. Barley was knitting him a jumper and she asked him to stand so she could measure it against him. When she did so, she muttered in annoyance as it was clear that something had gone wrong across the chest. “Dear me! Are you sure you’re the same as last time?”
Mr. Barley laughed as he began to pour out the drinks. “What d’you think he’s done, Mother, grown in the night?”
“But I’m sure I checked most carefully. Oh, well, I’ll just have to unpick it back to here.”
Mr. Barley held up the bottle of MacLaren whisky. “We’ve all but hammered this, John. I suppose no one’s handed out any more free samples?”
“No such luck,” Kerr replied. “I’ve been tramping from bank to bank and not one of ’em’s given me so much as a tenner.” He sat down, after offering cigarettes. He raised his glass. “Cheers. The first today and all the more welcome.”
“Cheers, John.” Mr. Barley returned to his chair. “We went up to the transport exhibition today. They’d five steam engines there: real beauties.”
Kerr half listened to what was said: this engine had been spotless, that one had needed a polish, this one had represented a revolutionary advance in its day, that one had held some sort of record from London to Newcastle.
Ten minutes later, Helen came into the room, her hair dampened down and her face red from the heat and the rubbing. She sat down on the arm of Kerr’s chair. “I didn’t think you were going to be able to get here tonight, darling. Have you eaten anything?”
“I haven’t, no.”
“I’ll cook you some sausages and bacon.”
“That would be lovely.” He sipped the whisky. Just think, once he was married there’d be no more canteen suppers.
*
Sharman woke up. He brought his left hand from under the bedclothes and checked on the time. Seven minutes to seven. They’d breakfast as close to eight as possible, leave the hotel in a taxi, drive to the bank and withdraw the odd thousand pounds remaining, go down to the docks and catch the next cross-Channel boat. He’d naturally got false passports and so there’d be no hope of tracing them — even if the police did stumble on to sufficient evidence to try to arrest them.
He climbed out of bed and crossed to the chair on which was Judy’s pigskin suitcase. He opened it and brought out the jewel case, the key to which was in her handbag. He unlocked the case. Inside was a rope of matched and graded bell pearls, three diamond rings, one ruby coloured, the other two rose pink, and a Mandalay dark red ruby pendant. They were really beautiful and valuable pieces of jewellery.
She spoke suddenly. “What’s the matter? Worried someone’s nicked ’em in the night?”
He turned and looked at her in bed. “I didn’t know you were awake, love. Just checking.” He held the ruby pendant in the palm of his hand. “You won’t like selling ’em, will you?”
“I won’t, but as soon as you’re established again, you can buy me some more.”
She had complete faith in him, he thought. She knew he’d make a success of whatever he did — and with her help, he would. By God! She was a real wife. He replaced the pendant, crossed to the bed, and kissed her.
“Steady on, Jim,” she murmured, after a while. “We’re in a hurry.”
“You’re dead right there,” he answered hoarsely, as he pulled back the bedclothes.
*
Fusil looked through the window in his office and stared up at the leaden sky which promised rain. He lit his pipe. He longed to be doing something active, yet at the moment he could do nothing but wait.
The telephone rang. He hurried to the desk and answered the call. The desk sergeant reported there was a woman below who was complaining her neighbour was always exhibiting himself and what was she to do? Fusil swore and suggested she had a cold bath.
He returned to the window. Just how vital was time? Sharman believed himself so very clever that no stupid hick of a policeman could ever successfully challenge him: but because he undoubtedly was a clever man, wouldn’t he have realised that no plan could ever be a hundred percent fool-proof and therefore it was common sense to make arrangements for a sudden disappearance if circumstances ever warranted it? Did the men out on the case realise the absolute need for discretion?
He looked at his watch. Half past ten. By now, Kerr should have visited all three banks in Ascrey Cross. Suppose the account he was searching for did not turn up in either Fortrow or the county? Should he ask London to make enquiries? If there was no account locally, wasn’t it probably because all his theories were wrong? Sharman would surely want any money very close to hand.
The telepho
ne rang again and this time it was Kerr. The National Westminster in Ascrey Cross had no account that could be Sharman’s: the other two would be telephoning in as soon as possible. Fusil ordered him over to the estate agents to interview the staff to try to find someone who’d a better memory — and more intelligence — than Brocker.
Fusil replaced the receiver. Almost immediately, there was another call for him from Barclays Bank in Ascrey Cross. He identified himself.
“One of your constables, Inspector, came into this bank earlier on and made some enquiries. D’you know what I’m talking about?”
Fusil silently swore. Did the old fool think he was completely out of touch with what went on in the division? “Yes, I know.”
“Well, he asked us to see if we’d an account…”
“I told him what he was to ask you. What’s the result?”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Inspector.”
Fusil stared resentfully at the far wall. When time might be more precious than diamonds, this man had to waffle on and on.
“Are you still there?” asked the caller.
“I’m still here,” replied Fusil heavily.
“You didn’t speak so I wasn’t certain if you’d gone away. I’ve checked up as the young detective asked and have found an account in the name of Mr. Gresham into which fairly large sums were paid at around the dates given. There was one payment in for each date and the sums are roughly equal to the sums your detective gave me, although there are differences…”
“What is the greatest difference?”
“Eighty-one pounds, three shillings and sixpence. That seems to me…”
“The sum’s too small to be of any significance,” interrupted Fusil.
“I wasn’t certain. As the sums don’t exactly match those your detective…”
“What’s in the account now?”
“Nothing.”
“What?” snapped Fusil.
“Soon after each cheque was paid in, most of the money was withdrawn and there was only just over a thousand pounds in the account this morning when Mr. Gresham came in and withdrew everything and…”
“When was he in?”
“I’m not certain of the exact time…”
“Good God! man, I’m not asking for the nearest second. Roughly when?”
“It was very shortly after the bank opened. In fact, he was probably the first customer.”
Fusil swore aloud and there was a shocked exclamation from the man at the other end. “Who paid out the money?” asked Fusil.
“I can’t really say.”
“Then go and find out who did pay him and get the bloke to the phone.”
“But I fail to understand…”
“Never mind what you don’t understand, get hold of the bloke.”
Fusil swore again as he waited. They’d missed Sharman by minutes. Why the hell hadn’t Kerr started at Ascrey Cross instead of finishing there? It was getting on for ten to eleven. Sharman had something like fifty minutes’ start.
“Hullo,” said a man who sounded younger and much more alive than the last speaker.
“I gather you paid out to Gresham the money remaining in his account,” snapped Fusil. “Will you describe him.”
“Well, I’m not very good at that sort of thing, but I’ll try. He was quite big: you know, solid, not fat and paunchy. He’d a round, cheerful face and a square sort of a chin: the kind of bloke you look at and instinctively decide is important. He chatted away and seemed quite pleasant — there was only one thing…” He became silent.
“Well?”
“It’s nothing definite, like — probably it sounds stupid — but I remember catching him looking straight at me and I suddenly thought he was jeering at me. I know that sounds a bit… well, a bit daft…”
“There’s nothing daft about that: you’ve helped me a treat. Hang on at the bank, will you, and don’t move from it until one of my officers brings in a photo for you to look at. Many thanks.”
Fusil replaced the receiver on its cradle. The man had been Sharman — there was no room for doubt now. So the fox had bolted. Why? What had alarmed him? Bolted where? North, south, east, or west?
Sharman was clever. He’d have summed up all the possibilities. He’d work on the principle that the police were close behind him because that way he’d nothing to lose from over-confidence. A really large city, such as London, offered a good hiding place despite all the dangerous publicity there might be if his photograph appeared on television and in the newspapers, because its vastness assured anonymity to the careful person. Yet to a man with money, the Continent perhaps offered the best long-term hiding place. Sharman had been withdrawing the money from the account soon after depositing it and that surely suggested he’d been buying readily cashable securities? This would fit in with the Continental hideout, because money in quantity took up space and on account of the currency regulations the officials at airports and ports were on the watch for the illegal export of money. Jewellery was by far the best bet. Mrs. Sharman could travel with her ‘personal’ jewellery and this would be sold as and when money was wanted.
If they were making for the Continent, they could go by boat, Hovercraft, or plane. More people travelled together at one time by boat than by either of the other services and a large number of passengers meant a less careful surveillance from Customs and Home Office officials.
A really clever man with strong nerves could work out the probabilities as they would occur to a police officer and then do the least likely, in the equivalent of a double-bluff… In other words, hide-up in London. There were many ways and means of minimising the dangers of being identified.
If traffic blocks were set up right now on the two main roads into London, there would still be time to catch him as he wouldn’t arrive at the outskirts of London for at least another half hour. If he was going by sea, was there still time? Fusil crossed to one of the filing cabinets and brought out of it the latest cross-Channel time-table. After a frustrating search that had him swearing aloud as he tried to discover the meaning of certain symbols, he found the next sailing was to Calais at eleven o’clock. The passengers would all have boarded.
He stared at the opened timetable. The situation was quite clear. There was not the time, nor were the forces immediately available, thoroughly to cope with both sea and road travel — let alone all the other methods he had mentally discarded. So he had to decide which method of travel Sharman would be using.
Forcing himself to move slowly, he tapped out the ash from his pipe, then filled the bowl with tobacco. Whatever decision he took would be final.
Exactly how clever was Sharman? That was the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. Fusil recalled how obviously self-satisfied Sharman had been and that decided him: a man who was really clever from beginning to end could never have been so self-satisfied. Sharman would not be carrying out the double-bluff.
*
Sharman stood by the square porthole. Noise was all around: on the dock men were shouting, electric cranes were working with their peculiar twanging, grinding sounds, and fork-lift trucks’ warning bells were clanging, on board there was the muffled tramp of feet from the deck above, while in the cabin the steady hiss of the fresh air ventilating system accompanied the thumping and rhythmical vibration that came from deck and bulkheads.
He looked at his watch and turned. “We’re five minutes late sailing.”
She didn’t answer. She was a very bad sea traveller and was lying down on the lower bunk. She had taken two anti-seasick pills and was praying they would work.
He crossed to the single chair and sat down. It was ridiculous to feel nervous at this point, but he couldn’t hide from himself that he did. He lit a cigar. Why in the hell was he still worrying? Nothing could go wrong now.
From outside there came some shouting. He heard a distant jangle of bells and the rhythm of the thumping vibration changed. He stood up and looked through the porthole again and was in time
to see the crane slide out of view to the right. They were under way.
“Is the sea rough?” she asked.
“As smooth as a pond,” he said, although he’d no idea because it would be some time before they steamed out of the river into the sea.
They swung in the centre of the dredged channel and then steamed downstream. As they passed the Old Docks, Sharman stared at the jumble of cranes, sheds, and ships: somewhere beyond them, the police were still scratching around, trying to find the proof that he’d organised the stealing and selling of the whisky and had murdered Finnigan. Unless they were even luckier than they had been, they wouldn’t find the proof: if, by some miracle, they did, he wouldn’t be around for the discovery to do them any good.
He blew out a cloud of fragrant cigar smoke. He found it odd, now, to reflect on the fact that they’d murdered Finnigan. The episode had for him the same vague unreality of a dream half-remembered: perhaps that was because everything had been so peaceful. Finnigan had been snoring when they left him in the cellar, totally unconscious of the fact that his life had little time to run. A dream-like memory, thought Sharman, but one that gave pleasure. One of the German philosophers had pinpointed the foundation of such pleasure. When a man destroyed another human, he was usurping God.
They passed the shallows, then Tawsey Head, and the boat began to move to the long, but shallow, swell. The bulkheads creaked gently.
“It’s rough,” she moaned. She retched twice. “You told me it was calm. But it’s rough.”
He was sorry for her, but also comforted that she possessed this weakness — he never felt seasick. He rang the bell for a steward and when one knocked and entered, he ordered a bottle of Heidsieck, Dry Monopole.
The champagne came in a tarnished ice-bucket with only a few pieces of ice in it. Sharman complained about the lack of ice, but the steward was sullenly uninterested and merely demanded the money.
After the steward had gone, Sharman offered his wife some champagne. She moaned, rolled over in the bunk, and faced the bulkhead. He filled his glass, raised it in a salute to his success, and sipped the champagne. There was a knock on the door. “Come in,” he said.
Guilt Without Proof (C.I.D. Room Book 4) Page 15