Tight Circle (Detective Johnny Inch series Book 2)

by J F Straker

  Johnny sank into a booth. ‘I’ll have a coffee while I rest the old plates,’ he said. ‘Then I’m for bed.’

  Tom Bass brought the coffee himself. He was a quiet, unobtrusive man, but curiosity was riding him. ‘Why are you so anxious to see Mr Corby, sir?’ he asked. ‘He’s not in any sort of trouble, is he? I mean — well, Fred told me you’re a policeman.’

  Johnny fell back on formula. ‘We think he may be able to assist us in certain inquiries we’re making.’ The coffee was hot, and after one painful sip he put down the cup. ‘Incidentally, you may be able to clear up one little doubt. You knew Mr Dassigne?’

  ‘Very well. He was quite a regular customer. That was a sad business, wasn’t it?

  ‘Yes. Well, he told Miss Nicodemus you know Miss Nicodemus?’ The man nodded. ‘Well, he told her he’d be calling in here last Monday evening to have a word with Corby. Fred said he didn’t see him. But that proves nothing, of course. He could have looked in while Fred was in the kitchen. How about you, Mr Bass? Did you see him? About seven, it’d be.’

  ‘No, sir. I haven’t seen Mr Dassigne for — oh, more than a week.’

  ‘Pity.’ Johnny sipped cautiously. ‘How about Corby? Did you see him that evening?’

  Tom Bass considered. ‘I’m not sure, sir. It was either Monday or Tuesday.’

  ‘Not Tuesday,’ Johnny said. ‘Fred’s positive he didn’t come in Tuesday.’

  ‘Oh! Well, Fred would know.’ He paused, fingering his chin in thought. ‘But Tuesday? He wasn’t here Tuesday.’

  Johnny nodded. ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘No, sir. I mean, Fred wasn’t here Tuesday. Not in the evening. He left about a quarter to five.’

  ‘Oh? Why?’

  ‘He said he was sick.’ He gave an apologetic grin. ‘Myself, I think he had a date with a girl. But I didn’t mind. Fred’s a good worker, he makes it up. Only I wonder how he knew Mr Corby didn’t come in that evening.’

  Johnny shrugged. Quite obviously, Fred hadn’t known. He’d been right, but he’d been right by chance. He’d got the dates mixed. Which meant that if Corby offered the alibi that he’d been in the Chic Inn Tuesday evening as usual, and so couldn’t have killed Dassigne down in Hampshire, there was no one to disprove him. It meant that a link in the chain of evidence had snapped. Only a very minor link, perhaps. But experience had taught Johnny that even very minor links could be important.

  Bass wrote out the check. He said, ‘Oh! I’m sorry, sir, I forgot. Miss Nicodemus looked in earlier. She asked if you’d been in —’

  Johnny got up quickly, banged a knee against the table, and swore.

  ‘She did? What time was this?’ He fumbled for coins.

  ‘About a quarter to nine.’ There was a hint of apology in the proprietor’s voice as he added, ‘Fred left with her. He offered to see her home.’

  Johnny ran most of the way to Eyton Place. It was encouraging that she had been looking for him. Encouraging, too, that she hadn’t gone down to Hampshire with Knickers and her mother; she must have called in at the restaurant on her way back from seeing them off at the station. If Fred had seen her home she would have been more insistent this time that he should go in for a drink. And if Fred had accepted — well, he might have stayed long enough for her still to be up. Or at least still awake. It was only just after eleven.

  Anticipation faded when he reached the flat. No light showed, and continued pressure on the bell brought no response. Either she’s a bloody sound sleeper, he thought, or she’s playing me up. No, she wouldn’t do that. Not if she was looking for me earlier.

  So she’s a sound sleeper.

  Tired, he sat on the dustbin and considered whether to hammer on the window or go back to his digs and bed. Then he remembered the phone call. He had rung the flat at nine-thirty, about half an hour after she should have been home; even if Fred had refused the offer of a drink she couldn’t have been in bed and asleep so soon. Yet if she wasn’t home — well, where the hell was she? She wouldn’t have taken Fred to a pub. Not because she was a snob — which she wasn’t — but because it might embarrass him if she paid for the drinks. And if Fred paid — well, where was the hospitality?

  Puzzled, he got up from the dustbin and rang the bell again. There was still no answer, and as he mounted the steps and walked slowly towards the Cromwell Road bewilderment turned to anxiety. When he came to a telephone kiosk he went in and rang the local nick. Yes, the duty sergeant told him, an accident had been reported: a cyclist had been knocked off his machine by a hit-and-run driver, and had died on the way to hospital. Yes, that was all. Enough, wasn’t it?

  It was enough to ease Johnny’s anxiety, but not to remove it completely. Only Fred might possibly do that — and even Fred was a long shot. Besides, where to find him? In a pub? No — the pubs were closed. At his digs, then. Well, where the bloody hell was that? And could he decently knock the man up at that hour, merely because his girl wasn’t where he thought she ought to be?

  Knowing how Fred felt about Carole, he decided that he could. Even if he couldn’t help, Fred would understand.

  The Chic Inn was still open. Yes, the proprietor said, surprised, he had Fred Potatoes’ address. Was he on the telephone? No, he was not. But it was getting on for midnight, Fred would be in bed; was Mr Inch’s business with him so urgent that it couldn’t keep till morning? Yes, Johnny said, it was. Ah! Curiosity ousted Tom Bass’s occupational discretion. Was it perhaps connected with Mr Inch’s inquiries earlier that evening? He had always felt that there was something — well, mysterious about Mr Corby.

  Johnny said curtly it had nothing to do with Aaron Corby. But as he went in search of Fred, his anxiety slightly diminished now that he was doing something positive, he began to wonder about Corby. Just what had they got on him? For the robbery, damn all — unless someone coughed. James Probert had given them precisely nothing; he had been too drunk even to know that a robbery had occurred. Murder? Well, on the evening of Jill Summerbee’s death Corby had left the restaurant shortly after the girl; he had worked for Dassigne, and there was this suspicion that Dassigne had wanted to eliminate her before she blew his alibi for the robbery. But if the dabs on the glass handled by Corby hadn’t tallied with those on the handbill there wouldn’t have been even the whisper of a case, they wouldn’t even have considered him. Even with the dabs they hadn’t enough to charge him. Not for that. If they charged him at all it would be for Dassigne’s murder. Yet there again there were snags. There was no evidence that Dassigne had in fact authorized him to collect the Mercedes from Minter’s garage, and until or unless the mechanic Galloway identified him there was no evidence that he had done so. All this was supposition, based on Dassigne’s statement to Carole that he would be calling in to see Corby; on the information, again from Carole, that Corby usually drove for Dassigne on long journeys; and on Fred’s assertion that he had not been in the restaurant Tuesday evening. But that last piece of evidence had now gone by the board; and even if Galloway identified him as the man who had collected the car it wouldn’t be proof that he had driven Dassigne down to Branleigh later. So again, the fingerprints on his glass provided the only direct evidence against him. If they had not tallied with prints found on the steering wheels of the Mercedes and the car abandoned in Putney...

  Johnny halted abruptly. For a brief moment he hesitated. Then he turned, and raced back to Eyton Place as fast as his legs would carry him.

  11

  Carole gave a final perfunctory wave, and sighed with relief as her mother’s head and arm withdrew into the compartment. She stood for a moment watching the train gather speed, then turned and made for the Underground. It had been a tiring and a trying afternoon. Her mother didn’t seem to fit into London, and by the time they had had an early meal and had got to the station tempers were becoming edgy. It hadn’t helped that Humphrey had arrived only seconds before the train was due to leave. Carole had lost count of the number of times her mother had complained that he was
n’t going to make it.

  She got out at Gloucester Road and walked to the Chic Inn. Johnny had promised to ring her at the office, but he wouldn’t know she’d be leaving early. If he’d rung after she’d left he might have tried the flat or, failing that, the restaurant. He could still be at the restaurant. It wasn’t much after eight-thirty, and he had to eat.

  He wasn’t there. He’d been in earlier for a meal, Fred told her, but he’d left no message. She wasn’t entirely sorry. She was too tired for love-making, and love-making was undoubtedly what Johnny would have expected. An early night, and she’d be more in tune for the weekend. If Johnny were free, maybe they could go somewhere in the Mule.

  ‘I’ll walk home with you, miss, shall I?’ Fred said. ‘I mean, if you was thinking of taking the short cut —’

  ‘I wasn’t,’ she said. ‘But I will with you. On one condition.’

  ‘What’s that, miss?’

  ‘That you come in for a drink.’

  ‘You don’t need to bother,’ he said awkwardly, following her out to the street.

  ‘It’ll be a pleasure, Fred, not a bother.’

  She was accustomed to seeing him in his waiter’s uniform, moving around the restaurant tables. In the flat he looked different. His face was redder, his feet seemed enormous; she noticed that his jacket was too tight and his trousers too wide. Standing rigid in the centre of the room, he looked out of place.

  ‘Sit down, Fred.’ She hoped he wouldn’t stay long, but she wanted him to feel welcome. She owed him that, and more. She fetched a glass and a jug of water, and put them on the table with the whisky. ‘Help yourself, will you? I’m sorry there’s no soda.’

  He sat down and picked up the bottle. ‘Aren’t you having one, miss?’

  ‘No, thanks. I don’t like whisky.’ When he leaves, she thought, I’ll go to bed and read. I don’t suppose Johnny’ll come now. He probably thinks I’m out on the town with Mummy. ‘Sorry I can’t offer you a cigarette, but I don’t smoke.’

  ‘I roll me own,’ he said, rummaging in his pockets. ‘D’you mind, miss?’

  ‘Good Lord, no!’ She kicked off her shoes. ‘Ah, that’s better! You roll your own, and I’ll go and change. No, don’t get up. I shan’t be a minute.’

  In the bedroom she slipped out of her dress and put on jeans and a loose jumper. It’s not what Johnny would have expected, she thought, recalling the look of dismay on his face when she had appeared in similar garb the previous Sunday. But it was right for Fred. She could hardly don a neglige for Fred.

  His cigarette was going strong when she rejoined him, and burning fiercely with each inhalation. It looked limp and smelled foul. She settled comfortably on the daybed, tucking her legs under her, and pictured with impish glee her mother’s horror if she could see her. Her mother would have kittens. Entertaining a common waiter in your flat, alone and at night! her mother would say. Really, Carole!

  Fred was a disappointment. In the restaurant he was chatty and informative, but now conversation appeared to have deserted him. She couldn’t just sit and watch him, and to fill the silence she began to tell him about her home and her job. She didn’t suppose he’d be greatly interested; but his eyes seldom wavered from her face, and she noticed that they were more circular than oval, and streaked with red. After a while his stare became embarrassing. Somewhat self-consciously, she said, ‘I haven’t got a dirty face, have I?’

  ‘No, miss. Not as I can see. Why?’

  ‘You keep staring at me.’

  ‘Do I? I’m sorry, miss.’ He stubbed out his cigarette. ‘It’s just that — well, seeing you there, I got to thinking about poor Miss Summerbee. Know what I mean? Of course, you’re dressed different, and that, but — well, you know.’

  She nodded. Subtly the atmosphere had changed, and she got up and went to stand by the fireplace, hoping he might take that as a hint to leave. She didn’t want to talk about Jill. But he showed no sign of leaving. He had taken a tin box from his pocket and was rolling another cigarette. His large hands looked clumsy, and the finished cigarette hung limp and irregular from his lips. When he lit it the end flared brightly.

  He put the box and lighter on the table and reached for his glass. To Carole the lighter looked vaguely familiar, and she picked it up and examined it. It was a battered Ronson, with the initials J.S. scratched on the base.

  ‘Where did you get this, Fred?’ she asked. ‘It’s Miss Summerbee’s.’

  ‘Is it?’ He took it from her. ‘Yes, that’s right. I remember she give it me.’

  ‘But she couldn’t have. Mr Dassigne found it on the mantel-piece Monday evening. I lent it to him.’

  ‘Really?’ He frowned, considering. ‘Well, it must have been him give it me, then. Funny. I thought it was Miss Summerbee.’

  ‘But you told me you hadn’t seen him. Not for over a week, you said.’

  Genuinely puzzled, she had spoken without thinking. There had been no intention to accuse. But Fred didn’t answer, and in the ensuing silence she began to consider the implications of what she had discovered. If Paul had given Fred the lighter it would have had to be on the Monday evening — and Fred had denied seeing him then. But it wasn’t the possibility that Fred had lied which disturbed her. It was the conviction that Paul would never have given the lighter away: not to Fred, not to anyone. Not because it would have been wrong ethically — ethics wouldn’t have bothered Paul — but because it would have been wrong socially. Paul was strict on etiquette. Anything borrowed should be returned. He would have insisted on returning it.

  So Paul hadn’t given it away. Which meant that Fred had either found it or stolen it. And that could have happened only on the Tuesday, when Paul...

  Fear gripped her. There was a feeling of emptiness in her stomach, her heart was pumping faster. Oh, God! she thought, why did I start this? Why didn’t I just put down the lighter and say nothing? Why couldn’t I have kept my thoughts to myself? In a little while he’d have been gone, and Johnny could have sorted it out in the morning. Whereas now...

  She cleared her throat before speaking. Calmness was all. He mustn’t guess what was in her mind.

  ‘I — I’m tired,’ she said. Did her voice sound as squeaky to him as it did to her? ‘It’s been a long day. One for the road, Fred, and then I’m going to turn you out.’

  He drained his glass and put it down. ‘You’ve been thinking, miss, haven’t you?’ he said.

  ‘Thinking? How do you mean?’ A tic started in her left eyelid.

  ‘About me. What we was saying. You know — the lighter and that. You’ve been thinking.’

  ‘Oh, that!’ Could he possibly have guessed? ‘Heavens, no! It’s not that important.’

  ‘Well, I been thinking too, miss.’ He poured another whisky. A large one. ‘You know what? It was Miss Summerbee give it me. Not Mr Dassigne. I remember now.’

  ‘But —’ She cut short the involuntary protest. ‘Oh! Well, that’s all right, then, isn’t it?’

  ‘So she must have had two of them, mustn’t she? I mean, if Mr Dassigne borrowed one, like you said.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, she must.’

  She hadn’t, of course. Even if she had, it made no difference; the lighter there on the table was the one Paul had borrowed. Besides, why would Jill have given Fred a lighter? Jill wasn’t prone to giving things away, and certainly not to people like Fred. To Jill, waiters were mere automatons who took one’s order and brought one food. Jill had never really noticed waiters.

  Her eyes strayed to the daybed. It was over a week since Jill had died, but she still couldn’t be in that room and think of her without seeing her body as she and Johnny had found it. Despite her fear she could see the body now, with its staring bloodshot eyes and the discoloured throat. It seemed that Fred had had similar memories. Watching her lounging on the daybed, he had said...

  Fear gripped tighter. How had he known they had found Jill on the daybed? Not from her or Johnny — and it wasn’t mentioned in the reports. A
nd he had spoken as if he knew what Jill had been wearing that night. Well, he might, of course; she had been in the restaurant earlier. Besides, although it was conceivably possible that, given sufficient provocation, any man might kill, only a brute would kill a woman. And Fred was no brute. Quite the opposite, as she had cause to know. On that horrible evening he had been considerate as well as chivalrous. Leaving her outside the flat, refusing the offer of a drink...

  Another memory added to her panic. She would have walked past the flat if he had not stopped her. How had he known where she lived? Was it because...

  ‘Now it’s you what’s staring, miss. You been thinking again, haven’t you?’

  She hadn’t realized she’d been staring. Certainly she hadn’t seen him. Blinking her eyes into focus, she said, ‘I was thinking it’s time you were going.’

  ‘Yes, miss. But it’s — well, it’s a bit difficult, you see.’ He had poured the last of the whisky into his glass, and she picked up the empty bottle, holding it by the neck. It gave her a feeling of security. ‘I mean, I reckon I know what you been thinking.’

  A shiver ran down her spine. She said bravely, ‘I don’t see what my thoughts have to do with it. You —’

  The telephone rang in the hall. She was so startled that she dropped the bottle; it bounced on to its side and rolled slowly across the carpet. For a brief moment she watched it; then she started for the door. But Fred was out of the chair, barring her way.

  ‘Don’t answer it, miss.’ He stood with arms outstretched, his face flushed. ‘Please!’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Fred.’ She wanted to sound imperious, annoyed, but her voice was unsteady. ‘Of course I must answer it. It might be important.’

  She tried to dodge past him, but he gripped her arm and led her to the sofa. ‘Sit down, miss, will you? We got to talk.’

  Seeing no alternative, she sat down. Fred stood by the door, listening to the telephone. Carole gave a sigh as the ringing ceased. That could have been Johnny. What would he do now?