by J F Straker
The sigh changed to a cry of panic as the lights went out. ‘It’s all right, miss,’ Fred said, feeling his way back to the sofa in the sudden dark. ‘It’s just that someone might call. They’ll go away if they don’t see no light.’
The sofa creaked as he sat down — not too close, but close enough. She hooked an arm round the sofa end to keep herself from slipping, both mentally and physically. It helped to get a grip on something solid and familiar. Particularly now that the rest of the familiar was obscured.
‘What on earth’s come over you, Fred?’ she protested. ‘Ordering me about in my own flat, not letting me answer the phone, turning out the light! Why? I don’t understand.’
‘I reckon you do, miss.’
The sad tinge to his voice gave her courage. She managed almost the right degree of tartness as she said, ‘Well, I don’t. So you’d better explain. Otherwise I’m going to get angry.’
‘It’s the lighter, miss.’ The sofa creaked as he shifted his position. ‘I mean, I know what you was thinking. About me.’
‘You do? What?’
He exhaled noisily. ‘You was thinking I killed Mr Dassigne. That’s why I didn’t want you to talk on the phone. I mean, you’d have told them, wouldn’t you? How I was here, and about me having the lighter, and — and —’ Another sigh. ‘That’s why, miss.’
In a way it was a relief to have the accusation voiced, and by him. It had been there, unspoken, ever since she had picked up the lighter, and both knew it had been there. Or had Fred supposed that there was only a vague suspicion, and had suggested that Jill had had more than one lighter in an attempt to kill it? In either event, the telephone had forced his hand. He dared not let her answer. Had it not rung they might still have been fencing.
‘Did you kill him?’ It had to be asked, even though she knew the answer.
‘Yes, miss.’ He spoke calmly, but again there was that tinge of sadness.
‘And Miss Summerbee? Did you kill her too? Was that how you knew where I lived?’
‘Yes, miss.’ Despair was added to sadness. ‘But I didn’t mean to, miss. Not either of them. They sort of — well, made me. You know.’
She didn’t. But the dreadful finality of his confession added to her fear. Until then she had had the faint hope that if she dissembled sufficiently he might be beguiled into leaving. He wouldn’t leave now. He couldn’t. Not until or unless...
Oh, God! she thought. What am I to do?
Presently he said, ‘Shall I tell you, miss? How it happened, like? Or would you rather I didn’t?’
‘If you want.’ It was the silences that were the more frightening.
It had started way back, he said, in a pub with Aaron Corby, when Corby had told him about a man named Roger Diamond who’d been killed in a plane crash. This Diamond, Corby said, had ‘done’ his firm for a cool hundred grand, perhaps more; only he hadn’t had himself a ball with the money, he’d spent it on ‘objay dar — you know, miss, jewels and such’ — supplied by Mr Dassigne. That was how Mr Dassigne earned a living: supplying things for people who weren’t fussy how they were got. Well, now Diamond was dead, Corby said, and he’d left all that lovely tomfoolery stashed away some place. And only himself and Mr Dassigne and Frank Dove knew anything at all about it.
Fred sighed at the memory. ‘It sounded great, miss. If it were nicked, you see, no one would miss it, because only them three knew he’d ever had it. So there couldn’t be no trouble with the law. And it was somewhere in the house, Corby said. Mr Dassigne was dead sure of that; something this Diamond geezer had let slip, Corby said.’ The sofa creaked as he turned towards her. She smelled the whisky on his breath. ‘I expect you knew him, miss, didn’t you? Was he kind of sharp with his hands?’
The calm, commonplace voice helped to take the edge off her fear. He didn’t sound as she imagined a murderer must sound, and he wasn’t talking about murder. He was apparently confirming the rumour they had all hitherto doubted: that Roger Diamond had salted away a fortune. Only that morning Humphrey had told her how Johnny thought he had solved the mystery of the four numbers. Humphrey had been sceptical, and so had she. But now...
‘I think so.’ She was surprised at the steadiness of her voice. ‘I believe he built some of the brickwork himself.’
‘That’s it, then, isn’t it? He could have hid the stuff in a wall, or under the floorboards. Mr Dassigne must have known that, eh? I mean, them being friends.’
‘I suppose so,’ she agreed. This was the way to handle him. Co-operate, behave naturally, treat it like any other conversation — if she could. ‘But I’m surprised Mr Dassigne took the other two into his confidence.’
He’d asked Corby about that, he said; it hadn’t seemed natural. But Corby had explained that the three of them had had a sort of partnership, with Mr Dassigne as organizer and him and Dove doing the collecting. Or some of it. Mr Dassigne had other sources of supply, Corby said.
‘So then he come out with it,’ Fred said. ‘He knew the house, ‘cos he’d driven Mr Dassigne down there. It was in the country, he said: real quiet. And seeing as how the furniture and that had been moved out, there wouldn’t be no one keeping an eye on the place — them not knowing, you see, about the tomfoolery.’
‘Tomfoolery?’
‘Jewellery, miss. And then he says, why didn’t him and me go down there one night and see if we couldn’t find it? A hundred grand split two ways, he said, and we’d really be in the gravy. Well, that was fine, I said. But why me? Why not Frank? That’s Frank Dove, miss. He didn’t trust Frank, he said. Put it to Frank, he said, and Frank might cough to the guv’nor. That’s what he called Mr Dassigne. So then I said, well, if Mr Dassigne knows the gear’s there, why don’t he do something about it? And Corby said he thought Mr Dassigne was aiming to do just that, which was why him and me should get in first.’
‘And did you?’ she asked.
They had tried, he said. But they’d been unlucky. They had broken in through a window and had started to sound the walls when a policeman had turned up on a motor-cycle. They’d had to leg it before he could summon help.
‘We had to belt him one,’ he said. ‘I hit him with me torch.’
‘It — it was in the papers,’ she said, composure wilting at this reference to violence. Why didn’t someone come? Why didn’t Johnny come? All that traffic on the road outside, and none of it stopping. How long before Fred ran out of talk and made his decision?
That’s right, he said. And Mr Dassigne had seen it, and had guessed it was Corby; and Corby had admitted it, and said Fred was with him. But Mr Dassigne didn’t blow his top, like they’d expected. He’d laughed, and said they were a couple of fools, and that they couldn’t treat a job like that as a one-night stand. It might take days, he’d said, they might have to dismantle most of the inner walls. The way to do it, he said, was to buy the place when it came up for sale; move in, and take their time; and then, when they’d found the gear, clear out and put the place up for sale again. That’s what he was aiming to do, Mr Dassigne said, if he could find the money.
‘Well, like Corby said, miss, that’d be fine for Mr Dassigne, but him and me, we weren’t going to get much out of it. So I took a day off — Tom Bass don’t mind, so long as I make it up after — and I went and had another look at the house. And first thing I seen is this notice, saying it’s up for sale. Well, I got a copy from the house agent and showed it to Mr Dassigne, and he read it and give it back and said — so what? But we could see he was worried. I mean, it was only a fortnight to the sale, and we knew he hadn’t got the money. He hadn’t been doing so good, you see. Not since this Diamond geezer copped it.
‘And then Corby says, all right, so why don’t we do a bank?’
‘Which you did,’ Carole said.
‘That’s right, miss. Mr Dassigne didn’t think much to it at first — banks weren’t his cup of tea, he said — but he come round to it later. He knew someone in a bank, he said. Maybe this someone could fix it.�
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‘Did he tell you the man’s name?’
No, Fred said, Mr Dassigne hadn’t told them much about anything: just for Fred and Frank to meet him in the bank entrance at two-thirty sharp. They’d put on their hoods as they’d walked in, and while Mr Dassigne had kept the company quiet with a gun the other two had cleared the tills. Frank had had to clobber one of the bank staff, but otherwise there’d been no trouble. Corby was waiting outside in a stolen Cortina he’d collected during the night, and they’d taken a few turnings and then transferred to another car which Frank had parked there earlier. And that was that. Just over twenty grand, Mr Dassigne said they’d got. He’d doled out a couple of hundred apiece — to keep them happy, he said — and there’d been another five hundred for his stooge at the bank. He’d kept the rest for the house.
‘Once he’d bought the house he was going to hire a bit of furniture, just so’s it’d look right, and move in. The rest of us was to take it in turns to help him find the gear. There wouldn’t be no trouble getting rid of it, he said, and Corby, Frank, and me was to get fifteen grand each. He’d keep the rest. Frank said, suppose the gear ain’t there? Suppose nothing, Mr Dassigne said; it’s got to be there. If it ain’t — well, we’d sell the house and get our money back. It was an investment, he said. We couldn’t lose.’
The sofa creaked yet again as Fred heaved himself up. Carole shrank further into the corner, wondering what was to come. But he was back within seconds, and she heard the scrape of metal against metal and realized he was rolling another cigarette.
‘You remember last week, miss, when Mr Dassigne brought you and Miss Summerbee for supper, and he left early?’ Carole shuddered. That was the evening Jill had been killed. It’s funny, but people don’t seem to notice us waiters, miss. I mean, they say things — personal things, like — like they was alone.’
‘Do they?’ Her head was splitting, and she felt slightly sick. ‘I hadn’t noticed.’
‘Well, they do, miss. Miss Summerbee did — that evening, after Mr Dassigne had gone. She was telling you how she was going to grass to the police, and how she was afraid, and all that. You was both so busy talking you didn’t seem to notice I was listening. I didn’t mean to, miss; I just couldn’t help it. And it scared me proper. What with her being Mr Dassigne’s girl, and them quarrelling every time he brought her — I’d heard them at it, you see — well, I reckoned she was going to shop him. And that meant me too.’
The lighter flared as he lit his cigarette. She had been wondering how late it was, but she was so startled she forgot to look at her watch. She caught a brief glimpse of his red face and his unruly hair. Then the flame was doused, and the dark seemed even darker.
Even had he known where to find Mr Dassigne there wouldn’t have been time to consult him, Fred said. So he had hung around opposite the restaurant until Miss Summerbee had left, and had then followed her home and, after a short interval, had rung the bell. She had been surprised to see him; but he had told her he had a message from Mr Dassigne, and she had let him in.
‘Well, I talked to her, miss. I told her she mustn’t do what she was aiming to do. But she didn’t seem to understand. Told me to mind me own business — proper cool, she was — and what was I butting in for, and — and —’ He sucked furiously on the cigarette, so that the end glowed brightly. ‘She told me to get out, you see. But it wasn’t that. It was her turning her back on me — I wasn’t going to hurt her, I just wanted to make her listen — but she sort of shrugged me off, and when I grabbed her again she screamed, and...’ The cigarette fell to the floor, and he stamped a foot on it. The carpet was so worn that even under normal conditions Carole would have felt only mild disapproval. Now she felt nothing. ‘I never meant to kill her, miss. Honest I didn’t. But she went on and on. I just had to stop her somehow.’
His voice had grown shrill. Now it faded and died. Carole shuddered, recalling again how Jill had looked when they found her. She too would have screamed, she thought. She would scream now if he were to touch her, even though she knew the probable consequences. It was something instinctive in a woman, something one couldn’t control.
It was in the ensuing silence that they heard the footsteps: brisk along the pavement, hurrying down the steps. Before Carole could move or speak or cry out, Fred had leaned across to put a hand firmly over her mouth. His free arm went round her, the hand clutching her shoulder.
‘Quiet, miss!’ he whispered urgently. ‘Keep quiet!’
Terrified, not daring even to nod in acquiescence, she sat rigid, listening to the bell. The ringing persisted long after she expected it to stop. Breathing became laborious, for his thumb was pressing against her nose. It smelled of cabbage water and fried fish.
The ringing stopped, but there were no departing footsteps. The hand at her shoulder moved to her neck, finger and thumb encircling it. There was no pressure, just the implied threat.
‘He’s still there,’ he whispered, his mouth close to her ear. ‘Keep quiet!’
In his need to silence her his hand had clamped more firmly over her mouth. Pressure from his thumb had closed one nostril completely, the other was partially blocked. Desperate for air, she tried to open her mouth; he thought she was about to cry out, and strong fingers gripped her lips, sealing them. There was a surging in her ears, her head felt as if it were swollen to the point of bursting; vivid colours danced across the darkened room. Panic-stricken, devoid of thought or reason, she began to struggle, twisting her body, threshing wildly with her legs, tearing at his hand and arm with her fingers. The pounding in her ears became deafening, the colours flashed like lightning, searing her eyes. Then something exploded inside her head, and she lost consciousness.
She was still on the sofa when she recovered. The darkness deceived her, so that it took time for her brain to function, to tell her she was alive. Then memory returned, and she put a hand to her throat. Her head throbbed, the smell of cabbage water and fish was still in her nostrils. As her eyes once more became accustomed to the darkness she was aware of the vague bulk of Fred Potatoes in front of her.
As she started to get up he pushed her gently back. ‘Better stay still, miss,’ he said. ‘You fainted. Did you know? You give me a proper scare.’ He put a glass into her hand. ‘Would you like a drink?’
She sipped rather than drank, letting the cold water ease the ache in her throat. ‘My head’s splitting,’ she said. ‘Will you get me an aspirin?’
‘Where’ll I find it?’
She decided he wouldn’t. ‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘I’ll get it.’
He followed her into the kitchen. When she switched on the light he did not switch it off. But he closed the door. The visitor had gone, he said, and at that hour it was unlikely there’d be others. Still, it was best to take precautions. ‘If you don’t fancy sitting in the dark, miss, we can stay here. That okay with you?’
She swallowed a couple of aspirins before replying.
‘Please!’ she said. ‘Couldn’t you go now? I’ve had about as much as I can stand.’
He shook his head. ‘I can’t, miss. You know I can’t. Soon as I’m gone you’ll be ringing the police.’
She didn’t bother to deny it. He wouldn’t believe her if she did. ‘Then what?’ she asked wearily. ‘If you’re planning to kill me —’
‘Me?’ He looked and sounded shocked. ‘Oh no, miss, I’d never do that. You’re special, you see. I wouldn’t want to hurt you. I wouldn’t have hurt them others if they hadn’t made me.’
The final sentence took most of the balm from his assurance. What had the others done to ‘make’ him? Jill had rejected his pleading, had screamed when he grabbed her, had tried to fight him. Was that incitement to kill? If so she, Carole, had already incited him. Why hadn’t he finished her then? Was she really so ‘special’?
‘But you can’t stay here indefinitely,’ she protested. ‘You’ll have to leave some time.’
‘Yes.’ He stared at her intently. His eyes were a
watery blue, the whites veined with red. ‘You — you wouldn’t marry me, miss, would you?’
The proposal was so unexpected, so outrageous, that it almost provoked her into hysterical laughter. She had just enough self-control to check it. That might have been an incitement, and strong enough to negate her ‘specialness’.
She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘But — no. Anyway, you’re not in love with me. You can’t be. So why ask?’
‘I don’t know about love, miss. But I think you’re smashing. And a wife can’t give evidence against her husband. That’s the law.’
She smiled; partly from relief, partly from genuine amusement.
‘You want to muzzle me? Is that it? I’m afraid you’ve got the law wrong, Fred. A wife can’t be forced to give evidence against her husband. There’s a difference, you see.’
He nodded, sighing. ‘I guess so. Still, I’ll think of something.’ He paused. ‘I’d like a cup of tea, though, if it’s not too much trouble.’
While they waited for the kettle to boil he told her about Paul Dassigne. She listened because she had no alternative, but she would have preferred another topic; she had had her fill of horrors. He had lied, he said, when he had told her he hadn’t seen Mr Dassigne Monday evening. Mr Dassigne had come in about seven, looking for Corby. Corby wasn’t there, and Mr Dassigne had scribbled a note and asked Fred to give it to Corby, and had said to tell Corby to collect the Mercedes from Minter’s garage the following afternoon, and to be at Paddington station by a quarter to six. They’d be driving down to Branleigh that evening, Mr Dassigne had explained, and would stay overnight to be in time for the sale the next morning. Fred had agreed to pass on the message. But after Mr Dassigne had gone he had read the note. It authorized the bearer to collect the car, making no mention of Corby by name, and it gave Fred a solution to the problem that had beset him. Mr Dassigne had said their twenty grand would be enough to buy the house. But suppose it wasn’t?