by J F Straker
‘Significant — if true,’ Sherrey said, going back to his desk. ‘You know something, Johnny? Chummy leaves dabs around like a pigeon leaves droppings. That car abandoned in Putney: lousy with ‘em. He must be the complete amateur. Even a schoolgirl wouldn’t be so careless.’
‘True.’ Johnny frowned. ‘Corby didn’t strike me as an amateur. Quite the reverse. I’m surprised he hasn’t got form.’
‘You’ve got a Corby fixation.’ Sherrey picked up a pen. ‘Anything else?’
‘Well —’ Johnny hesitated. ‘How about Knickers, sir? I mean — well, when will the suspension be lifted?’
‘All in good time,’ Sherrey said. ‘Now scarper. I’m busy.’
Johnny scarpered. It was too late to date one of his second-string dollies, and too early to go back to his digs. That would be playing into Mrs Sansom’s hands, or whatever it was she wanted him to play into. But after a pint at the Crocodile he decided that drinking alone was no fun. He took a chance and dialled Carole’s number.
‘Knickers?’ He was relieved it was Knickers who answered. With Carole it might have been awkward. ‘Can you tear yourself away from all that female company and join me in a jar? I’ve got something to tease that tiny mind of yours.’
‘You don’t have to resort to flattery,’ Nicodemus said. ‘Where do we meet?’
They met at a pub in Earl’s Court: a large pub with a large saloon bar, and crowded. He was fond of his mother, Nicodemus said; but he’d been with her since meeting her off the train that afternoon, and enough was enough. He had welcomed Johnny’s call.
‘What’s your problem?’ he asked, emerging from his tankard. He had been a spirits-drinker until Johnny had weaned him on to beer.
Johnny told him what Whitaker had said about the numbers. Nicodemus nodded sagely. ‘Scales of notation, eh?’ he said.
‘You know?’ Johnny was disappointed.
‘Of course I know. I’m educated. But where’s the daylight? They’re still only numbers.’
‘Yes. But different numbers. Or they can be.’
‘Too many different numbers,’ Nicodemus said. ‘They’re infinite. Which does one choose?’
‘Let’s make a list. Start with the binary thing, and work up. We might see a pattern.’
They made a list. When they reached the scale of twenty they stopped. ‘It doesn’t make for an hilarious evening,’ Nicodemus said, ordering more beer, ‘but at least it gives one a thirst. Do we continue?’
There seemed no point to continuing. Johnny suggested the numbers might represent the position of words in a book the fifth, tenth, seventeenth and so on. Nicodemus said it was unlikely that words taken from a book in such a mandatory order would convey what they were intended to convey. And anyway, which book? Wasn’t the scope rather wide?
‘Map references?’ Johnny said hopefully.
‘Could be. But again — which?’ Nicodemus reached for the crisps. ‘Look, Johnny. If there’s anything here which makes sense to a couple of dumb coppers it has to be based on something that limits choice. So chew on that. Better still, forget it. If Roger Diamond salted away a fortune — which I take leave to doubt — he wouldn’t have buried it, he’d have shoved it in a safe deposit.’
‘Don’t be so bloody prosaic. Those numbers don’t read like a safe deposit, do they?’
‘They don’t read like anything.’
‘Well, then.’ Johnny studied the list. ‘How about dates?’
‘How about them?’
‘You said to limit choice. Well, you can’t have more than twelve months in a year, or thirty-one days in a month.’
‘How true!’ Nicodemus took the list from him. ‘Five, ten, seventeen. What happened on the fifth of October, nineteen-seventeen? Any idea?’
‘My mother’s birthday,’ Johnny said promptly. He paused to consider. ‘Well, what do you know? It’s the right year, too. I mean, that’s the day she was born.’
‘Really?’ Lounging against the bar, Nicodemus surveyed the room. ‘Interesting — but irrelevant, wouldn’t you say? Look! Isn’t that Tom Minter over there?’
Johnny looked. Tom Minter was at a table, facing them. He was leaning forward, caressing the hand of the girl who sat opposite. She was smartly dressed, with an enormous pile of black hair. Johnny guessed it to be a wig.
Minter looked up and saw them. The fatuous smile on his sweaty face developed into a grin. He patted the girl’s hand and jerked a thumb in greeting, and the girl glanced over her shoulder to see who had attracted his attention.
Johnny nodded, and turned back to the bar. Nicodemus said, ‘What’s with our Thomas? He’s not usually so friendly. Must be the bird’s influence.’
‘I’ve seen her before,’ Johnny said. ‘I’m trying to remember where.’
‘Don’t try too hard,’ Nicodemus said. ‘You might be disappointed. She looks like brass to me. And it’s your round.’
Johnny ordered. After a while he stopped trying to place Tom Minter’s bird, and told Nicodemus about the afternoon’s conference and Aaron Corby. ‘I asked the Boozer when you’d be back on duty,’ he said. ‘But you know the Boozer. He wasn’t committing himself.’
‘He can stuff himself,’ Nicodemus said. ‘Him and the whole damned Force. I’m thinking of quitting.’
Johnny choked over his beer. ‘You’re what?’
‘I’m thinking of quitting.’
It wasn’t a sudden decision, he said. He’d thought about it a lot during the past week. And it wasn’t simply because he’d been suspended — unjustly, as he saw it, although he admitted that his was a biased view. Suspension had merely crystallized what had been nagging him for weeks. ‘You and I, Johnny, we’re missing the boat. There’s men younger than us earning twice — three times what we earn. I aim to be one of them.’
‘Funny,’ Johnny said. ‘I thought you’d got the bug.’
Nicodemus sighed. ‘Circumstances alter cases.’
It took some time for the penny to drop. When it did Johnny felt sad. ‘It’s the parents, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘You feel you ought to help out. Was that why you wanted the overdraft?’
‘They’re a bit short.’ Nicodemus looked and sounded embarrassed. ‘Drop it, will you? I’d rather not discuss it.’
‘Okay. Tell me about Roger Diamond, then. What sort of chap was he? That might give us a clue.’
‘I didn’t know him well enough to say. But he seems to have been full of contradictions. For one thing, he professed a keen interest in his ancestry — he was compiling notes for a family history but he wouldn’t give a brass farthing to help his brother keep the Court in decent repair. And look at Forest Lodge.’
‘I’m looking.’
‘Well, he was crazy about antiques. Anything ancient, and that was for him. Yet he converts four lovely old cottages into that modern monstrosity. Don’t you call that odd?’
‘Odd for him, perhaps,’ Johnny said. ‘It wouldn’t be odd for me. I like the mod with its cons. What was he like to talk to?’
‘Nothing impressive. He had brains — must have had, mustn’t he, to do what he did? — and he got a first at Oxford. Engineering, I think. But his conversation wasn’t exactly highbrow. Nor was his taste in music.’ Nicodemus shrugged. ‘He must have had a kink somewhere.’
Two beers later Johnny was again studying the list of numbers. Where, he asked, might one find a date that could mark the gateway to a hidden fortune? Presumably it would be in Branleigh, and accessible to Roger Diamond. Perhaps one had been cut in the walls of Forest Lodge. Had Nicodemus noticed? Nicodemus said he had not. All right, then. A memorial of some kind, perhaps — a statue — a tombstone — a monument...
‘A tombstone!’ He was all excitement. ‘Of course! In the Court cemetery. Better still, inside the chapel itself. It’d be absolutely ideal. Dead private, and only a few yards from the Lodge.’
Nicodemus shrugged. Johnny was flogging a dead horse. But it was a welcome change from his personal affairs.
Johnny wasn’t so easily defeated. ‘All right, then — eighteen-seventeen.’ He studied the list of numbers. ‘No, wait a minute! We’re bloody loco. There were four one-oh-ones, weren’t there? So we’ve got to take four numbers, not three. That makes seventeen the century, and twenty-six the year. How’s that?’
Nuts, Nicodemus said. But he agreed that it was the most feasible suggestion yet. ‘I’m going home with Mother either tomorrow evening or Saturday,’ he said. ‘Just to please you, I’ll mention it to Sir John. He’ll think I’m crazy, of course. He’ll be right, too.’
‘It’d help your father, wouldn’t it, if it came off? I mean — well, the money would belong to the firm. And he’s a creditor.’
‘The biggest.’
They were still at the bar when Minter and the girl passed them on their way out. Minter’s gait wasn’t completely steady, and this time he signalled to them — with two fingers, not one a rude gesture — which made his companion giggle. She had a good figure, seductively outlined, and a pretty face marred by too much make-up. Seeing her now in close-up, Johnny recognized her.
‘Rose Waters,’ he said. ‘She was a blonde last time I saw her. That’s what foxed me. But it’s her, all right.’ The swing door closed behind the couple. ‘Well, well! Rose Waters and Tom Minter, eh? Now, I wonder whether I should make something of that.’
‘Tom Minter hopes to,’ Nicodemus said. ‘He wasn’t feeding her double gins just to hold her hand.’
10
Sherrey made a fetish of exercise; unless haste was imperative he walked from Victoria of a morning. He had walked that morning. But he didn’t look as if he had enjoyed it; he was sweating, and his temper was uncertain. When Johnny told him how he had seen Minter and Rose Waters together he listened — the Boozer always listened — but he made no secret of his impatience. Minter was a leader, he said, he wouldn’t have played second fiddle to a man like Dassigne; if he fitted in at all it wasn’t in the actual robbery. Maybe he had had a hand in supplying the get-away car, but so far as the robbery was concerned Minter was out. Whereas Aaron Corby...
‘You were right about that character.’ He began to sort through a pile of papers. ‘The dabs on the glass you collected yesterday are identical with the unidentified set that’s cropped up practically everywhere else. Ah! Here it is. Incidentally, I see there were two sets of impressions on the glass. How come?’
‘The waiter, sir.’
‘H’m! For one inspired moment I thought you’d boobed. Well, go find Corby and bring him in for questioning.’ Sherrey ran a finger round the inside of his collar. He had already removed his jacket. ‘Mr McInnery agrees that we should have first whack. Chronological order.’
‘How about Mr Grant?’
‘All right, all right,’ Sherrey said testily. ‘Grant will have his whack too. Now get going.’
Corby wasn’t at the restaurant. He never came in before lunch, Fred said, and seldom then; the evening was his time. Johnny tried his home address. No, said the woman who opened the door, Corby wasn’t home during the day; not much of an evening, either. No, he didn’t have a regular place of work, seeing as he didn’t have a regular job. Try the local pubs when they open, she suggested. He’ll be in one or other of them.
Johnny tried the pubs. Corby wasn’t in any of them. At one o’clock he went back to the restaurant for lunch. When two o’clock struck and Corby still hadn’t shown he rang the Boozer. Not to worry, the Boozer said. He’d spoken to McInnery, who was putting out a general call. In that case, Johnny said, would it be okay for him to have a word with Tom Minter? The Boozer said it would.
He had to wait until after three o’clock before Minter returned from lunch. It had obviously been a good lunch, for he was in a cheerful mood. ‘Sorry I didn’t buy you a drink last night, Mr Inch,’ he said. ‘But being with a bird — well, you know how it is.’
Yes, Johnny said, he knew how it was. ‘I didn’t know you were friendly with Rose Waters,’ he said.
‘You know Rose, do you?’ Minter grinned lecherously. ‘She’s a great girl. Great!’ The grin weakened. ‘You know Plughole?’
‘I’ve met him.’
‘Yes. Well, Rose is a lot younger than Plughole, of course, and she likes to get around of an evening, see a bit of life. But Plughole, he likes to stay home. He collects stamps. Did you know?’
‘He was out Monday night last week,’ Johnny said. ‘Collecting silver. Did you know that?’
‘Rose did mention he was in some sort of trouble,’ Minter said cautiously.
‘He’s in the nick. On lay-down. With his record he’ll get a five-stretch at least. So you’ll be able to take her out regularly now, won’t you? Perhaps you had that in mind when you shopped him.’
‘That’s a bloody lie!’ Bonhomie had vanished.
Johnny was unperturbed. ‘Whose idea was it? Yours or hers?’
‘Now see here, Mr Inch. You can’t ,
A girl in a white coat was at his elbow. ‘Yes? What is it, Vera?’
‘There’s a telephone call for Mr Inch,’ the girl said.
‘Bloody busies!’ Minter growled. ‘Think they own the bloody place.’
Johnny followed the girl to the office. Sherrey was on the phone. ‘Thought I might catch you,’ Sherrey said. ‘Does the name Eric Galloway ring a bell?’
‘No,’ Johnny said. ‘Should it?’
‘Perhaps not. He’s got form, but it’s small stuff. However, he’s swum into our orbit. One of the numerous sets of prints found on Dassigne’s Mercedes has now been identified as Galloway’s. I got that from Grant. Have a word with him, will you?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Johnny was slightly mystified. ‘Where do I find him?’
‘More or less under your nose, I imagine. He’s one of Tom Minter’s mechanics.’
Johnny went back to the garage. Minter was talking to a customer, and Johnny waited until he was free, watching the two mechanics at work and wondering which was Galloway. Neither, Minter told him, when the customer had left. Galloway had the day off.
‘What do you want with him?’ he asked belligerently. ‘Not in trouble, is he?’
Johnny ignored the query. ‘Did you know Paul Dassigne?’ he asked.
‘The bloke that was murdered?’ Minter’s tone lightened. ‘Sure I knew him. We serviced his car, didn’t we?’
Interesting, thought Johnny. ‘They found Eric Galloway’s dabs on it,’ he said.
You can’t work on a motor without leaving dabs, Minter said, and it was Galloway who had serviced the Mercedes last time it was in. When was that? Oh — Monday. It had gone out the next day. Had Dassigne collected it personally? Johnny asked. No, Minter said, someone had collected it for him. Who? Minter didn’t know; he’d been out at the time. But the note authorizing its collection had been left in the office, and he’d seen it the next morning.
‘Did it give the man’s name?’ Johnny asked.
‘No. What’s all this about, Mr Inch?’ Curiosity had mellowed his tone. ‘You’re asking a lot of questions.’
‘It’s time I had some answers. I want to know who collected that car. One of your men must have seen him.’
Minter shrugged. ‘Hey, Bill! Harry!’ he called. ‘Either of you fellows see the chap that collected the Mercedes Tuesday?’
Both men shook their heads. ‘It was still here when we left,’ one of them said. ‘Must have been Eric.’
‘There’s three of them, see?’ Minter explained. ‘Two goes off at five, the other stays till we close. Six-thirty, that is.’ Minter grinned, enjoying Johnny’s obvious annoyance. ‘Seems like you’re out of luck, Mr Inch, eh? Tuesday was Eric’s late turn. And, like I said, he’s off.’
Johnny made a note of Galloway’s address. The man lived in Camberwell, and on his way there Johnny tried fitting the piece
s together. They fitted pretty well, he thought. But he had no luck in Camberwell. The Galloways were out. They had left early that morning, a neighbour told him, and she had no idea when they would be back. Johnny found that frustrating, but nothing more. Galloway’s evidence would be important later, but it wasn’t urgent. It would merely confirm what they already suspected: that Corby had collected the Mercedes, on authority from Dassigne.
At ten minutes to five he rang Carole’s office. She had left early, his informant told him; something to do with her mother’s visit. He rang the Yard next, with no more positive result. So far as he knew, Sherrey said, Aaron Corby was still at large. If Johnny had nothing better to do he could go over the ground he had tried earlier. Maybe he’d be more successful.
He went back to the Chic Inn. No, Fred told him, Corby hadn’t been in. Not all day. But it was after six now; if he was coming he should come soon. Johnny had a meal, and hung around till seven-thirty. When Corby still hadn’t shown he began to suspect that the man had taken fright and gone into hiding. Had Corby a passport? he asked Fred. Fred didn’t know. Well, did he ever go abroad? Fred didn’t know that either.
Once more he set off round the pubs, calling at Eyton Place on the way; Carole must be wondering why he hadn’t phoned. The flat was in darkness, and he didn’t bother to ring. It was one of those days, he decided, when luck was dead against him: a real croaker. Luck wasn’t with him in the pubs either, and when he looked in at the local nick the duty sergeant told him that the alert for Corby was still on. At nine-thirty he rang Carole again. There was no answer, and he wondered whether she had gone home to Branleigh with Knickers and her mother. It was a Friday, and the office was closed on Saturdays.
By ten-thirty he was ready to pack it in. One more call at Corby’s home, he decided, a final coffee at the Chic Inn — and then bed, Mrs Sansom permitting. No, Corby’s wife said — he assumed her to be his wife — Corby hadn’t been home; a statement which the policeman watching the house confirmed. Fred had long since left when he reached the restaurant. Johnny had a word with the young West Indian waiter and Tom Bass, the proprietor. Neither had seen Corby that evening.